forgiveness

I was ready for the fight but not ready for it to take place over the internet. He denied everything and refused to apologize and for the second night in a row I went to bed angry. Thumbing through my Rosary, my mind snagged on the line "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." How could I be forgiven for anything if I wasn't willing to forgive him?

In my head I played out a scene where I yell at him and everybody hears and says "look, dude, she's right." I interrupted it with panicked pleas to Christ to help me forgive him and my mind wandered back to yelling at him. I interrupted it with desperate cries to St. Michael to defend me and my mind wandered back to yelling at him. I was already exhausted when I went to bed and I had no energy for this battle. I was awake far later than I had intended.

I woke up in the morning and opened my Bible and there was Matthew 18.

I fought on the walk to Mass. I fought during Mass. I fought when everyone else got up to receive the Eucharist. And I knew there were thousands of people fighting for me.

I knew where to find him, and I waited there for him. I prayed that I would say the right things and that the wrong things would slip my mind. I prayed that his mind would be open and that he would hear what he needed to hear. I felt a fear crawl up and fidget inside my stomach. I recognized the fear: I must be doing the right thing.

I waited.

He came. He saw me. I apologized.

I told him I shouldn't have gotten into that kind of discussion over the internet. I don't think I said anything that wasn't true, but I wouldn't have said it as harshly had I said it in person. I spoke quietly.

He calmly denied everything I had accused him of.

The silence was awkward. After a minute, he disappeared, I think to the bathroom. I picked up my books and left. Once the adrenaline wore off and I was safely out of his sight, I felt my heart shine. Dance. Glow. Sing. Burst.

I had forgiven him.

I tossed my books on a table and ran outside, laughing. I climbed a tree. Giddy. I called Seth and left him a message.

"Seth, I forgave him, I forgave him. He's still an idiot but it's okay because I forgave him. God is wonderful and so are all the saints and thank you for praying for me."

sovereignty

Thursday in Jackson’s class--the ENG-310 with the horrendously long name: Anglo-Saxon and Medieval British Literature--Dr. Jackson told us something about wills and submission:

1. In order to have submit your will to someone else, you must have a will. (This is a tautology.)

2. Submitting your will to someone else is the greatest expression of sovereignty.

I don't know if he's right or not, but I've been thinking. (For a shorter version, skip to "what I learned.")

examples from literature

Last year in another English class with a horrendously long name--Freshman Rhetoric and Great Books II--we read Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. The book is full of suffering, and toward the end, Svidrigailov attempts to rape Dunya. Sparknotes summarizes the scene (part V chapter V) like this:

Svidrigailov lures Dunya to his room...While Dunya becomes faint with anger and confusion, Svidrigailov offers to help Raskolnikov [her brother] avoid punishment if she will marry him. In horror, she runs to the door, only to discover that Svidrigailov has locked it. He threatens to rape her, warning that he can report her brother if she reports him. She pulls out a revolver, threatens him with it, and accuses him of poisoning his late wife. He dares her to fire, and she does, twice, but manages only to graze his temple. Svidrigailov moves to embrace her but, realizing that she will never love him, lets her go. Putting the revolver in his pocket, he goes out shortly thereafter.

Sparknotes doesn't do the scene justice, and I would quote from the book but it's elsewhere, probably Louisville. Sparknotes misses something key: Dunya drops the revolver. We discussed this in class. Dunya drops the revolver, making herself completely vulnerable to Svidrigailov. A moment passes where nothing happens. Svidrigailov stares at the revolver on the ground, one shot left in it. Silence. Svidrigailov runs out of the room.

Something about Dunya's voluntary, willful vulnerability scared the [feces] out of Svidrigailov, and he ran away.

He threatened to rape her--what better way to assert your will, violently, on someone else? The door was locked and, once she dropped the revolver, there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him. But she was in control of the situation. She submitted her will, and, inasmuch as these things are won and lost, Dunya won.

Something similar happens in the Beowulf movie, and I will tell you and spoil it in order to prevent you from watching the movie. A warrior is about to kill Beowulf (the hero), so Beowulf rips off his armor, piece by piece, walks over and says go ahead, kill me. And the warrior can't do it.

In Jackson's class, we're reading the Canterbury Tales, and today we discussed the Wife of Bath's Tale and the Clerk's Tale.

A superficial reading of the Wife of Bath's Tale says the tale is about what women want most. The Wife of Bath has had an unfortunate number of husbands and--well, she's very beautiful--she uses sex to get what she wants from her current husband. Meta touta, a knight rapes a maiden and the queen's council sentences him to death unless he can figure out what women want most. He eventually finds the Wife of Bath, who by this time is old and ugly. She tells him that she'll answer his question if he promises to comply with her first request. The knight agrees, the Wife whispers in his ear, the knight tells the queen that women's greatest desire is sovereignty, and the Wife requests that the knight marry her. He does so, reluctantly, and in bed that night she gives him two options: she can be ugly and faithful or beautiful with no guarantees about who she's sleeping with. He lets her decide (giving her sovereignty) and she becomes beautiful and faithful (exactly what he wants).

The Clerk's Tale also deals with the issue of sovereignty. The Marquis chooses the daughter of the poorest man in the poorest village to be his wife. She agrees to obey his every wish (whether he makes her laugh or suffer) and to be always happy and never grumble. They have a daughter and he decides to tempt her: he takes away her daughter and leads her to believe her daughter is dead; she bears him a son and he does the same; he sends her back to her father with nothing; he announces that he's to remarry and asks her to plan the wedding. She doesn't bat an eye, doesn't weep, just lets him do what he wants. In the end he marries her again.

what i knew and what i learned

Marriages work best when the husband and wife both submit their wills to each other.

If both parties go into a marriage selfishly, she she will be either manipulative and controlling or passive and clingy; he will be either abusive or a pushover.

There's a difference between being passive and submitting your will. I can't explain it (I tried and failed), but anyone can tell the difference between a man who is genuinely courteous and a man who is genuinely a pushover. A courteous man will do what the woman asks because he wants to please her; a pushover will do what the woman asks because he's afraid of not pleasing her. Or because he wants something.

Courteous men are wonderful, and the mark of a courteous man is that he submits his will without being passive (I think).

I've been topsy-turvy for at least a year trying to figure out how to be a good woman. Ask me how to be a good man, and I would tell you to go read "If" by Rudyard Kipling and the Boy Scout Law. But nobody writes those sorts of things for women.

But the answer is simple. To be a good man, what you have to do is submit your will. To be a good woman, what you have to do is submit your will.

Submit your will. That's all. It's simply a matter of pride.

Simple, but not easy.

I complain that I can't be "helpful" at Hillsdale but I think I'm really complaining that I can't show off how physically strong I am (not that it's much).

I get really offended at woman jokes, but honestly? that's a matter of pride, too.

I get upset when they need volunteers and they have men move tables and women bring food out. That's completely pride.

Submit your will.

First to God.

Second to other people.

But submit it. Humble yourself.

nothing too exciting

workout

Marcellus, who worked ranger staff at camp, was shocked to discover that I go to college.

"You've got an education and you're still doing physical labor?" he asked me.

I didn't know how to respond. Is education a way to avoid physical labor? Is physical labor lower than white collar work?

Saturday mornings at camp are equipment moves. Nick said "It's like getting paid to go to the gym."

I wonder.

Am I going to grow up and get a white-collar job where I don't have to do physical labor then spend my white-collar money on a gym membership because I sit at a desk all day and get out of shape?

army men photos

how we made the army men

I had a request for army man photos, and they will be here right after I show you our dinner. Bob killed a year-old doe on Monday, picked vine-ripened Byron tomatoes on Wednesday, and we feasted Thursday night. We didn't have any spice, so Bob crushed some pringles and added those. I don't even like tomatoes and they were good. Bob Ferberger is a good cook. Jason Middleton is a good tomato washer.






And as requested, the army men. I haven't had a chance to trim or paint them, so they're still a little rough. If anyone knows where I can find enamel paint in very small amounts for cheap, please let me know. (The duck is from the library's table at the Source.)




I thought the backdrop fitting--the flag is from my great-uncle Nick's casket. A real Army man.





These guys (lying down, below) are a little weird. They only have one leg and foot each. Past their waists, it's sort of like a mermaid except with a shoe instead of a tail.





This guy is supposed to have a rifle, but the end if it broke off, so it looks more like a pistol. Bob, Jason, Mike and I thought the way he's standing to shoot looks kind of funny. The only part of the conversation I'm willing to post online is that Jason (the Marine) said he must be a Navy man.




The mold for this guy didn't work very well. This might be the first successful version of him.





This one isn't a guy at all but she found someone's old Marine BDUs at a garage sale.

fall break part 2: mining

Nick told me he found five pounds in an hour. I didn't believe him: I said "Nick, you're a liar." So I went out and found fifteen pounds in an hour. I came back and said "Nick, you're not a liar, you're a f--kin' slacker."
--Mike Beratta


The rifle range has been open since 1966 (I think) and until now no one has thought to mine it for lead. When kids shoot .22s they have to return the brass casings which are then exchanged for a couple bucks, but when the bullets hit the targets or the birm or the clays, we just leave them there.

Well, not anymore. Mike had over 100 pounds of lead by the time we got to camp, and he took us to the rifle range--about a half mile from the parade field--to mine some more.




During the summer, staffers from shooting and eco-con (when they teach astronomy) tell stories: the rifle range looks like a sandy crater, and gullible campers easily believe that a meteor landed there a few years ago. You have to go down a sandy hill to get to the blockhouse and shooting pavilion, then you shoot right into a sandy birm opposite. (I can't find "birm" in any dictionary, and I've never heard the word outside this context. The birm is the sandy wall you shoot into.) We went to the birm and Mike showed us the mine.

There was no ominous, clanky elevator descent inside the earth, no black lungs, no fog of soot--just a couple pig buckets, a shovel, and a wooden-framed screen.

We shoveled sand onto the screen and sieved it through, leaving rocks, clay pigeon fragments, sticks, marijuana, maple leaves, and bullets.




We did some sorting at the birm--removed anything big or alive. Everything else we dumped into a pig bucket.
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The orange shards are clay pigeon fragments. If you look closely, you can see bullets. Some are smashed; some are not.
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Mike drove us to the shop. During the summer, he gave us talks on limiting the amount of people on a golf cart, but all four of us piled on with our buckets of lead and rocks. Levi came with us.



Bob and Mike rinsed off the rocks and lead while Jason and I drove back to the range to drop off a pan of rocks. When Jason and I returned, we had a table of wet rocks and lead to sort.

It was a Kalkaska October evening, and by the time we were done, our hands were numb. I went to the shop bathroom to rinse off my hands, and Mike called to me over his shoulder:

"Make sure you put the seat back up when you're done."

I had already kicked it back up.
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We had a nice bucket of lead. I had to crouch down and push up with my legs to lift it.
Bob tried lifting it by the handle and it snapped and broke, spilling lead all over the shop floor.
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A handful or two of lead went into the ladle and we melted it with the gas torch. Tapping on the side of the ladle would bring any leftover dirt to the top: the lead, heavier, would sink. Within a couple minutes, we had a ladle of pure lead to pour into the molds.
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The round molds worked pretty well;
the army man molds had to be heated and sometimes they wouldn't work. I used Mike's pocket knife to trim an army man and ended up taking his arm off. We put the broken army men back into the ladle and melted them down again.

Then all that was left to do was trim the edges.

fall break part 1

THE PLAN:

Nathan from Hillsdale drives me to MSU on Wednesday. We get there about four. I hang out with Jacob until Jason is done with LCC class at 6. Jason picks me up at MSU, picks Bob up in Byron, and we drive up to camp. We stay there until Tony picks me up Friday afternoon.

THE EXECUTION:

Reunion

Nathan dropped me off at the bus stop at MSU and drove off before Jacob got there. I set my stuff on the bench and stood looking for him. Not 15 seconds had passed when I heard his voice: "behind you." I went to give him a hug and I was two feet off the ground, in his arms. I'd forgotten how strong he was (how?).

"It's so good to see another staff member," he told me, his smile so wide I thought it would break his face. I knew there were thrills of delight shooting through his body--he was in a Class B uniform and he hugged me without permission. He was giddy when he saw that I tautline-hitched my sleeping bag to my duffel bag with climbing rope.

I forgot how much I missed him.

MSU

The lounge in the student union was much quieter than Grewcock. We chatted for a bit, then I started talking to students about food safety for my "man on the street" story for my journalism class.

The first girl I talked to was a second-year grad student, and I wasn't at Hillsdale.

The second girl I talked to told me the FDA should do something to keep our food safe, and I definitely wasn't at Hillsdale.

We put my stuff up in Jacob's room--his dorm is larger than my sophomore class--and wandered around campus for a bit. Campus was beautiful. They allow--and even encourage--you to recycle. And I found this:


And as much as I whine about fancy-schmancy donor-schmoozing nonsense at Hillsdale, MSU's bathrooms were kind of gross and I'm glad ours are nice. But, Hillsdale, I can flush the toilet myself.

We got a phone call from Jason and he was on his way. We were going to meet him at the international center.

Reunion

I set my bag on the ground.

I used to tie my toes in knots to prevent myself from running across the room and tackle-hugging when I meet people I haven't seen in a while. I always thought it was annoying--probably because it's a very feminine way of greeting people--but I remember talking to Jason about it and he said he loves the tackle-hug reunion. I believed him. Jason loves women and is kind of a sucker for anything feminine. Few men are completely comfortable with telling any woman that she's beautiful; few men can do so without hitting on her or being creepy. Jason is one of those few.

He was wearing a gray hoodie and his staff hat (cover). He had his eyes down and he walked straight, stoically. It took me a bit to recognize him. And when I did he had two doors to go through and four steps to go up, so the tackle-hug thing didn't really work. I had to pause before going down the steps so I couldn't get enough momentum. I caught him about halfway up the steps, gave him a hug, and sort of walked him back down the steps.

Jacob told Jason to show us his pride and joy, and he pointed: "it's right there." It was beautiful.



Pizza and Ice Cream



Departure

Jacob carried my bag and he was thrilled to have something productive to do. We got my stuff loaded into Jason's car and it was time to go.

Jacob gave Jason a talk on taking care of me. "Watch her," he said.

"Just, not while I'm getting dressed," I added.

I gave Jacob a hug before I got into the car and when we let go I felt like my heart snagged on something came ripping out of my body.

I forgot how much I missed Jacob. I almost yelled after him when he walked away.

Drive

Jason is a good driver. I felt very safe in his car.

Reunion

We didn't have Bob's address, but we knew it was the blue house after the field in the outskirts of Byron. We tried calling him but he didn't get service.

We found his house, said hello, and loaded up his gear.

"You're bringing your rifle with you?" Jason asked.

"I always bring at least one gun with me when I go up north," Bob replied.

Jason looked at me. "I hope," he said.

I called Mike and he said we could crash in treehouses. We wouldn't be at camp until after midnight, and no one else was on camp.

Drive

I looked out the window and saw Cassiopeia--something I learned at camp this summer.

We stopped in Sterling for caffeine. Jason winced when we got out of the car.

"What's that smell?" he asked.

"Look." Bob pointed across the street.

Cows.

Arrival

Jason turned his brights on once we got on the dirt road. Leaves scattered the path--red leaves, I think--and a breeze brought a maple shower onto the car. I thought of a flower girl spreading petals across the aisle for the bride to walk on. It felt like: someone made this path for us and they were awaiting our arrival. We were late, but we were coming home, and someone was waiting for us.

I felt a hush as we drove past the twelve wooden signs on the way into camp: trustworthy. loyal. helpful. friendly. courteous. kind. obedient. cheerful. thrifty. brave. clean. reverent.

We drove around to treehouses 6 and 7. Bob and Jason set up in the Lizard Lounge; I slept across in Robin's Rainbow Room. Their cabiny smell surprised me. I never noticed it during the summer.

I was cold.

Happy to be home.

Morning
I woke up before the guys did and

Sometimes over Christmas I'll wake up early in the morning--just early enough to see the sun sparkle the innocent, fresh new snow that fell overnight. No one else is awake and I feel like this beauty was created just for me. And it makes me feel special and happy and giddy inside.

When I woke up that morning, alone in the treehouse, I felt the same. Everything was beautiful.


I walked around by the boathouse and OA dock then out to the burned area and Three Bs. Everything was delightfully beautiful, but my camera couldn't see much of it.





I knocked on the door of the Lizard Lounge around 10 a.m. We packed our things into Jason's van and we went over to Mike's house.

At Mike's House

Mike offered us instant oatmeal. None of us took the blueberry oatmeal, and he told us afterward he was hoping we would because he didn't like the blueberry.

We chatted.

He showed us the mines.