Since today is Allegheny College's Run-Out Day (congratulations, all new members!), I thought I would go back in time to my own Run-Out Day, 23 January 1999:
Jen and I got up around 8:45. We got all ready, but as it turned out, they were running late and we were waiting forever. My PX didn't HAVE my name!! I was SO nervous. But when the AXOs came in cheering and singing, they stopped at my door! It was Erin and Kathy and Mich, who I hung out with at Perkins later (and was christened "Pledge Fox"). I was SO overwhelmed: we ran out, got pics, watched songs performed by each class, then bonded with our pledge class. We had a small break then Nicole picked me up at 5:45 to go to the chapter room; had a ceremony in which we got pledge pins & ate. I sat with Janie and Erika. We went to Bid-Day Bash; it was so much fun, especially the karaoke: we sang "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." The dancing was GREAT! Afterward we went to Perkins. I rode with Amanda, Keysha, Jess, and Mich. I had one of the best days of my life. I'm so happy!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
Life in Town
Yesterday my friend Natalie and I reminisced about one of the most appealing features of our summer vacation to the beach: in Rehoboth, you can drive into the charming town, park, and never get in the car again until you are ready to depart. For people who love walking and hate driving as much as we do, this aspect is as paradisaical as the beach itself.
I currently live in a suburban housing plan, a place that is perfect for exercise-walking but very impractical in terms of errand-walking. I sometimes miss living in a place like Saxonburg, my lovely hometown, where I was able to walk to pre-school, the library, restaurants, shops, and eventually my after-school job at a law office. The fact that I currently live in a city of neighborhoods without actually residing in one of these cool neighborhoods hurts my soul just a bit. I am only in my "starter home," so I hope that my "grown-up" house will be in a walking town more reminiscent of Saxonburg (though perhaps a smidge closer to an urban setting).
A journal entry from 1994 reminds me, however, that I did not always cherish the proximity of Saxonburg to, for example, the local grocery store. This excerpt is from an entry describing the annual cards party my mom would host for our whole family the week between Christmas and New Year's Eve. This particular year, as the dramatic tale below suggests, she must have forgotten a CRUCIAL ingredient for the making of the traditional bean soup and potato cakes:
12-29-94
Anyhoo, I was the last to get my bath because -- Mom made me go to the store for Crisco! I'm like "Uh -- I'm in my pajamas here . . ." Meanwhile, Cam's all dressed but "He couldn't find Crisco!" That is one of her more ridiculous statements. So I had to put on clean clothes, try to comb back my greasy hair, and walk in the cold -- all for Crisco. :(
I hope Cam is just as amused as I am by our mother's lack of confidence in his Crisco-spotting abilities. I also enjoy the graphic detail that, pre-bath, my hair was presumably as greasy as the Crisco I so reluctantly purchased.
I currently live in a suburban housing plan, a place that is perfect for exercise-walking but very impractical in terms of errand-walking. I sometimes miss living in a place like Saxonburg, my lovely hometown, where I was able to walk to pre-school, the library, restaurants, shops, and eventually my after-school job at a law office. The fact that I currently live in a city of neighborhoods without actually residing in one of these cool neighborhoods hurts my soul just a bit. I am only in my "starter home," so I hope that my "grown-up" house will be in a walking town more reminiscent of Saxonburg (though perhaps a smidge closer to an urban setting).
A journal entry from 1994 reminds me, however, that I did not always cherish the proximity of Saxonburg to, for example, the local grocery store. This excerpt is from an entry describing the annual cards party my mom would host for our whole family the week between Christmas and New Year's Eve. This particular year, as the dramatic tale below suggests, she must have forgotten a CRUCIAL ingredient for the making of the traditional bean soup and potato cakes:
12-29-94
Anyhoo, I was the last to get my bath because -- Mom made me go to the store for Crisco! I'm like "Uh -- I'm in my pajamas here . . ." Meanwhile, Cam's all dressed but "He couldn't find Crisco!" That is one of her more ridiculous statements. So I had to put on clean clothes, try to comb back my greasy hair, and walk in the cold -- all for Crisco. :(
I hope Cam is just as amused as I am by our mother's lack of confidence in his Crisco-spotting abilities. I also enjoy the graphic detail that, pre-bath, my hair was presumably as greasy as the Crisco I so reluctantly purchased.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Too Creative and Funny
Somehow, during the busiest, most active years of high school, when I was juggling AP classes, dance team, musical, track, homework, church, family, dating, and calling way too many friends each evening, there was time to create an end-of-month reflection with a short summary (usually about three-quarters of a page long) and multiple categories (New Friends, Best Days, Worst Days, Finest Adventure, Best Joke, Funniest Sight, Person I Most Wanted to Knock Off the Planet, Person Who Most Wanted to Knock Me Off the Planet, Biggest Regret, Biggest Disappointment, Scariest Moment, New Year's Resolution Update, Best Songs, and Month on a Scale of 1-10). Sometimes there were stickers.
From March 1997: In Retrospect
Person I Most Want to Knock Off the Planet: Mr. Barnard; he's a total moron, giving our group a zero for being too creative and funny in the wedding groupwork.
I like the use of the qualifier "too" here, as if the zero were issued ONLY because we were "too" creative and funny -- had our funniness and creativity stopped at an earlier point on the continuum, we would have had a good grade. Meanwhile, the subtext of "creative" and "funny" here is certainly "irreverent" and "ridiculous." I'd also bet money that my use of the phrasing "a total moron" is borrowed from The Catcher in the Rye, which, by eleventh grade, I had probably read about a dozen times.
My recall of the details surrounding "the wedding groupwork" project is hazy at best, but I'm pretty sure it entailed creating a budget for a wedding, along with a justification for what we were spending. (Why would this have been an assignment in an eleventh-grade Health class?) I'm also pretty sure my group, featuring Stacy McCall (now Vernier) and Megan O'Laughlin (now entirely off my radar screen, and I miss her dearly), would have approached this project with a great deal of gusto, though not at all the kind teachers hope for. I can only imagine the bizarre piece of crap we presented to the class. I would pay at least ten dollars to see it now. I bet it was funny (though not to Mr. Barnard, who was also the track coach. I was about the worst member of the KHS track team. No wonder he gave me a zero).
Now that I think about it, maybe this is why I wasn't such a great student in high school: I often, especially in a groupwork setting, devoted mass quantities of energy to making fun of an assignment rather than completing it with any degree of academic seriousness. I felt not only perfectly comfortable, but also completely justified in outright mocking assignments that I did not deem worthwhile. I must have been an absolute nightmare for my teachers. I wonder what I would think of myself as a student. I would probably regard myself with equal parts horror and fascination.
The bottom line is, whenever I encounter a student who makes me want to tear my hair out, it's as though karma is tapping me on the shoulder, being all "Hey, Miss Fox! Remember the wedding groupwork? Here that is coming RIGHT back around."
From March 1997: In Retrospect
Person I Most Want to Knock Off the Planet: Mr. Barnard; he's a total moron, giving our group a zero for being too creative and funny in the wedding groupwork.
I like the use of the qualifier "too" here, as if the zero were issued ONLY because we were "too" creative and funny -- had our funniness and creativity stopped at an earlier point on the continuum, we would have had a good grade. Meanwhile, the subtext of "creative" and "funny" here is certainly "irreverent" and "ridiculous." I'd also bet money that my use of the phrasing "a total moron" is borrowed from The Catcher in the Rye, which, by eleventh grade, I had probably read about a dozen times.
My recall of the details surrounding "the wedding groupwork" project is hazy at best, but I'm pretty sure it entailed creating a budget for a wedding, along with a justification for what we were spending. (Why would this have been an assignment in an eleventh-grade Health class?) I'm also pretty sure my group, featuring Stacy McCall (now Vernier) and Megan O'Laughlin (now entirely off my radar screen, and I miss her dearly), would have approached this project with a great deal of gusto, though not at all the kind teachers hope for. I can only imagine the bizarre piece of crap we presented to the class. I would pay at least ten dollars to see it now. I bet it was funny (though not to Mr. Barnard, who was also the track coach. I was about the worst member of the KHS track team. No wonder he gave me a zero).
Now that I think about it, maybe this is why I wasn't such a great student in high school: I often, especially in a groupwork setting, devoted mass quantities of energy to making fun of an assignment rather than completing it with any degree of academic seriousness. I felt not only perfectly comfortable, but also completely justified in outright mocking assignments that I did not deem worthwhile. I must have been an absolute nightmare for my teachers. I wonder what I would think of myself as a student. I would probably regard myself with equal parts horror and fascination.
The bottom line is, whenever I encounter a student who makes me want to tear my hair out, it's as though karma is tapping me on the shoulder, being all "Hey, Miss Fox! Remember the wedding groupwork? Here that is coming RIGHT back around."
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
What is Ashchives?
Exactly twenty-five Christmases ago, my mother inscribed a gift that would shape my life more than any before or since: "To Ashleigh from Mommy: Hope you enjoy keeping a diary as much as I do!"
It was a red spiral-bound Ramona Quimby Diary, one featuring both fill-in-the-blank segments and lined pages. Over the course of the next year, I would dutifully respond to both the prompts and the blank lines, filling them with many anecdotes about my cat and deep dark secrets like breaking my red headband. (That one was, in fact, such highly priviliged information that I actually wrote it in the secret code provided by the diary's creators.)
Much like my thirty-three-year-old self, my eight-year-old self both admired and adored my mother, so naturally I welcomed the chance to emulate her own diligent recording of lifely happenings. Therefore, I did keep my New Year's Resolution for 1988 to "keep a diary and write in it. I promise."
Although I broke many, many promises to myself that year and every one thereafter, something else happened. The practice -- or, rather, art -- of journalling and diary-keeping became firmly, unflinchingly entrenched in my core being. I graduated from fill-in-the-blank diaries (I also had, two years later in 1990, the Judy Blume version) to calendars cataloguing what I wore every day and everything funny anyone said at school. I filled composition books and spiral notebooks with musings on friends, family, futures. I wrote down goals and tracked my weekly progress toward them. I confessed secrets and fears. I detailed the daily happenings. I recorded end-of-month reflections featuring categories like "Best Day," "Funniest Moment," "Person I Most Wanted to Knock Off the Planet," and "Person Who Most Wanted to Knock Me Off the Planet." I rated months and years on scales of one to ten. I compared and contrasted boys and later men. I wrote down the best one-liners from the literature I was encountering in English classes at Knoch High School and later Allegheny College. I admitted things that should only ever be said to therapists or God (but probably none of the above). In short, I was preparing, I thought, for my career as a writer, one who would be lucky enough to have decades worth of material.
Today, my life as a high school English teacher features the exact same sad irony of nearly every high school English teacher: I love to read, but I am busy reading what they're reading, so I never read anything I want to read. Additionally, I spend my spare time reading enough student writing that my own writing is not only on the back burner, but not actually in the kitchen anymore. Lately, I'm sure, it might not be in the same house or even the same zip code. I am officially what one would call "rusty" (as that poor kitchen metaphor conveniently illustrates). My girlhood dreams of being "a real writer" seem to fade more with every passing school year, and when I glance at the twenty-five years worth of collected journals and diaries on my shelves -- and also consider the hundreds of pages worth of electronic fodder from various blogs from the past ten years -- I feel like I have failed in a very fundamental way.
Why aren't I doing more of this thing that I was once very certain I was born to do? I chose my college major (English), my minor (psychology), and my teaching career all very strategically: I would read the great works of literature so I would have a model for creating my own. I would study human behavior so I could inject realistic attributes into my characters. I would stay connected to reading and writing through my day job, one that would afford me all summer to write and maybe one day publish.
Well, though I loved both my major and minor -- and (this is for you, humanities skeptics) I'm proud to say that I use them both daily in my work -- I can't say that my plan to write in the summers has materialized at all. There are, as there always are, excuses: I had to write a Masters thesis. I had to recharge. I had other things to do.
One of the things I've always found time to do, though, is continue the joy of writing down my soul word for word. Though much of my writing these days takes place in the form of a facebook status or a tweet, I maintain both paper journals and blogs, and just this evening my boyfriend and I created a detailed written record of our first Christmas break together. This is still what I do and who I am, and though I may never see my name splashed across a novel cover, I do think the writing I've done thus far in my life might be worth sharing with a small audience of family and friends.
Therefore, "Ashchives" -- Ashleigh's Archives, name courtesey of Kendra Stanton Lee, one of the best bloggers I know (see why here) -- is born on January 1, 2013, exactly twenty-five years after I started my first diary. I will, each day, feature an excerpt and a reflection on how silly, sad, wise, foolish, hypocritical, or crazy I was at age twelve, eight, twenty-five, seventeen, thirty-one, eleven, or last week. Entries will be chosen at random, and they will be appropriate for an audience that could include my mother, my boss, or my students. (To be fair, my boss is very liberal, my students are nearly adults, and my mother is completely to blame for starting this whole thing, so maybe that's not saying much.)
With a nod to the fact that it's a new year of new beginnings, I want to feature this entry about a particular new beginning for my third-grade self. From September 1988 (spelling, capitalization, and punctuation are all preserved in their original form):
Mommy FINALLY Painted my room! After years of just talking about it she did it. She is a VERY good painter. She thought It would be a pale pink, but it was bright once she got it on the wall. I hardly have any toys left! But I'm glad. I don't miss anything except my jump rope. I don't know what happened to it.
In my current mindset of always having someone or something to miss -- my grandmother, size 7 jeans, being an undergraduate, believing in Santa Claus -- I long for the days when the only thing I missed was a jump rope. I also long for the time when a jump rope would have been a recreational activity and not representative of a way to squeeze oneself into size 7 jeans.
Happy New Year, all. Hope it's painted with bright pink surprises and lots to jump for joy over.
It was a red spiral-bound Ramona Quimby Diary, one featuring both fill-in-the-blank segments and lined pages. Over the course of the next year, I would dutifully respond to both the prompts and the blank lines, filling them with many anecdotes about my cat and deep dark secrets like breaking my red headband. (That one was, in fact, such highly priviliged information that I actually wrote it in the secret code provided by the diary's creators.)
Much like my thirty-three-year-old self, my eight-year-old self both admired and adored my mother, so naturally I welcomed the chance to emulate her own diligent recording of lifely happenings. Therefore, I did keep my New Year's Resolution for 1988 to "keep a diary and write in it. I promise."
Although I broke many, many promises to myself that year and every one thereafter, something else happened. The practice -- or, rather, art -- of journalling and diary-keeping became firmly, unflinchingly entrenched in my core being. I graduated from fill-in-the-blank diaries (I also had, two years later in 1990, the Judy Blume version) to calendars cataloguing what I wore every day and everything funny anyone said at school. I filled composition books and spiral notebooks with musings on friends, family, futures. I wrote down goals and tracked my weekly progress toward them. I confessed secrets and fears. I detailed the daily happenings. I recorded end-of-month reflections featuring categories like "Best Day," "Funniest Moment," "Person I Most Wanted to Knock Off the Planet," and "Person Who Most Wanted to Knock Me Off the Planet." I rated months and years on scales of one to ten. I compared and contrasted boys and later men. I wrote down the best one-liners from the literature I was encountering in English classes at Knoch High School and later Allegheny College. I admitted things that should only ever be said to therapists or God (but probably none of the above). In short, I was preparing, I thought, for my career as a writer, one who would be lucky enough to have decades worth of material.
Today, my life as a high school English teacher features the exact same sad irony of nearly every high school English teacher: I love to read, but I am busy reading what they're reading, so I never read anything I want to read. Additionally, I spend my spare time reading enough student writing that my own writing is not only on the back burner, but not actually in the kitchen anymore. Lately, I'm sure, it might not be in the same house or even the same zip code. I am officially what one would call "rusty" (as that poor kitchen metaphor conveniently illustrates). My girlhood dreams of being "a real writer" seem to fade more with every passing school year, and when I glance at the twenty-five years worth of collected journals and diaries on my shelves -- and also consider the hundreds of pages worth of electronic fodder from various blogs from the past ten years -- I feel like I have failed in a very fundamental way.
Why aren't I doing more of this thing that I was once very certain I was born to do? I chose my college major (English), my minor (psychology), and my teaching career all very strategically: I would read the great works of literature so I would have a model for creating my own. I would study human behavior so I could inject realistic attributes into my characters. I would stay connected to reading and writing through my day job, one that would afford me all summer to write and maybe one day publish.
Well, though I loved both my major and minor -- and (this is for you, humanities skeptics) I'm proud to say that I use them both daily in my work -- I can't say that my plan to write in the summers has materialized at all. There are, as there always are, excuses: I had to write a Masters thesis. I had to recharge. I had other things to do.
One of the things I've always found time to do, though, is continue the joy of writing down my soul word for word. Though much of my writing these days takes place in the form of a facebook status or a tweet, I maintain both paper journals and blogs, and just this evening my boyfriend and I created a detailed written record of our first Christmas break together. This is still what I do and who I am, and though I may never see my name splashed across a novel cover, I do think the writing I've done thus far in my life might be worth sharing with a small audience of family and friends.
Therefore, "Ashchives" -- Ashleigh's Archives, name courtesey of Kendra Stanton Lee, one of the best bloggers I know (see why here) -- is born on January 1, 2013, exactly twenty-five years after I started my first diary. I will, each day, feature an excerpt and a reflection on how silly, sad, wise, foolish, hypocritical, or crazy I was at age twelve, eight, twenty-five, seventeen, thirty-one, eleven, or last week. Entries will be chosen at random, and they will be appropriate for an audience that could include my mother, my boss, or my students. (To be fair, my boss is very liberal, my students are nearly adults, and my mother is completely to blame for starting this whole thing, so maybe that's not saying much.)
With a nod to the fact that it's a new year of new beginnings, I want to feature this entry about a particular new beginning for my third-grade self. From September 1988 (spelling, capitalization, and punctuation are all preserved in their original form):
Mommy FINALLY Painted my room! After years of just talking about it she did it. She is a VERY good painter. She thought It would be a pale pink, but it was bright once she got it on the wall. I hardly have any toys left! But I'm glad. I don't miss anything except my jump rope. I don't know what happened to it.
In my current mindset of always having someone or something to miss -- my grandmother, size 7 jeans, being an undergraduate, believing in Santa Claus -- I long for the days when the only thing I missed was a jump rope. I also long for the time when a jump rope would have been a recreational activity and not representative of a way to squeeze oneself into size 7 jeans.
Happy New Year, all. Hope it's painted with bright pink surprises and lots to jump for joy over.
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