What All We Did over the Weekend

I‘ve written on occasion about weekend goings-on for myself and my family, reporting on going out for a wedding anniversary, celebrating my wife’s birthday, going on vacation, or taking a few days off to tool about another town. The weekend just past was another busy one for my wife, my daughter, and me, and a good one; I enjoyed it, and I thought you, dear readers, might like to hear about it a bit.

Put on the show!
Photo by Donald Tong on Pexels.com

On Friday, I took my daughter, Ms. 8, up to the last rehearsal day at her theatre camp. She was wrapping up the second week of the two-week intensive program, and she had already given one performance in Matilda, Jr., at the Hill Country Community Theatre in Cottonwood Shores, so the day was given over to fine-tuning the performance for the remainder of the run and getting a preview of next summer’s show. Ms. 8 reported to me that the day went well and that she is enthusiastic about the coming show, already thinking about what character she’ll try to land. And it seemed to me she had good reason to be enthusiastic; I went and saw her in Matilda, Jr., that evening, one of a number of her family to do so, and I enjoyed watching the performance greatly. It was clear to me that she and the rest of her company had put a lot of work into the show, and I was and am proud of her for it.

On Saturday, Ms. 8 had a matinee performance of Matilda, Jr., so my wife and I took her up to Cottonwood Shores for her midday call-time. After dropping Ms. 8 off at the theatre for her performance (both of us had already seen her show at that point, and so we figured we’d give others a chance at seats), my wife and I headed to nearby Round Mountain, where a cider mill and event space had recently opened. Admittedly, we put in at an off-peak time, such that we were among very few in attendance when we arrived, but other people came in as we remained on site, and it was clear that the place is already gaining something of a following. I’m glad of it, because it’s the kind of place I could see myself visiting fairly often. The taproom setup is of interest, as is the selection on offer through those taps, and I have to note that the doughnuts they have for sale are excellent. The flavor is sweet enough to satisfy without being overpowering, and the texture is solid without being heavy; I could easily eat far more of them than would be good for me. Ms. 8 also appreciated them, as well as the loaf of home-kitchen sourdough we picked up there.

On Sunday, Ms. 8 had a second matinee performance of Matilda, Jr., so my wife and I once again took her up to Cottonwood Shores for her midday call-time. After dropping Ms. 8 off at the theatre for her final performance of the run, my wife and I went to a coffee shop a couple of miles up the highway from the theatre. It was a familiar enough place; we’d been there in previous years in similar situations, and my wife had spent more time there. At the coffee shop, my wife caught up on some of the administrative tasks she had to do for her job, while I thought and wrote and read. When the performance was done and we had collected our daughter, we went to eat at LeSturgeon Seafood, where we found ourselves in the company of several of Ms. 8’s fellow thespians and their families; it is evidently a popular place with the area actors. The food was good, and it was good to have eaten before what we did after: grocery shopping for the coming week.

Altogether, it was a good weekend. I don’t know that it’s the kind of thing I can do often; there was an awful lot of revelry and fun for me, sedate as the weekend might sound to others. I am not a young man anymore, and even when I was one, I wasn’t prone to doing a lot of things that other people thought of as being fun; there’re reasons I learned the words “stolid” and “staid” early on. But all that said, I am glad to have had the weekend, and I do look forward to the next such time. Another is coming up for me soon enough, after all…I suppose I’ll write about it, too.

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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 457: Fool’s Quest, Chapter 37

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series
here.


Commentary from Chade regarding his scrying precedes “Heroes and Thieves,” which begins with Fitz waking in darkness, coming up from the effects of the sleeping draught he had been given. Fitz assesses his experience and surroundings, finding the Fool sleeping next to him. After Fitz rises and dresses, he and the Fool confer about the previous evening, about the Fool’s own shifting personal presentation, and about their long and tumultuous friendship.

Yeah, that’ll attract attention.
Photo by Tara Winstead on Pexels.com

Further talk is interrupted by the arrival of Spark, who attends to the Fool-as-Amber, and then breakfast. Over the meal, Spark notes the high regard in which Fitz is held in Kelsingra, and afterwards, they are conducted to meet with Reyn, Malta, and a number of Elderling families whose children are in need of attention. Rapskal confronts them before their meeting, accusing them and approaching taking them into custody when Reyn intervenes.

Fitz, the Fool, and Spark are joined by Lant and Perseverance at the meeting, and proceedings begin. Rapskal, present, does speak against Fitz and his party, to general disapproval. Fitz bows to the pleas of the parents around them, channeling the Skill to amend and ease the changes wrought by dragons upon the children of Kelsingra–including the child of Thymara and Tats, on whom the narrative dwells for a bit. Other healings ensue, and Amber cries out to have Fitz stopped before he expends himself utterly. The surrounding Elderlings plead for more aid, and Lant doses Fitz with elfbark while Amber puts a Silvered hand to him. And at the last, Rapskal cries aloud for their arrest for theft of Silver.

As is not unusual, the prefatory materials on the chapter attract attention. That Chade is able to scry is long established in the Realm of the Elderlings novels; I recall Fitz making mention of Chade trying him on the art, if without success. I also recall that not terribly much is made of it in terms of providing details of scrying’s workings, certainly not to the same degree as other magics at work in the series, whether or not Fitz possesses them–but I will admit that I did not pay particular attention to that aspect of the works. I suppose it becomes another scholarly someday to pore over the works and see how Hobb depicts scrying, at the beginning of the present chapter and elsewhere, and to compare that depiction to others in fantasy literature (Katharine Kerr’s Deverry novels come to mind) and in “real-world” precedents. (If someone’s already done it, please let me know; I’d love to add it to the Fedwren Project, on which I need to do more.)

In the main line of the chapter, I am again put in mind of Fitz as acting something of a Christ-figure. In my remarks on the previous chapter, I noted that healing Phron was not entirely voluntary on Fitz’s part, which, on further reflection, echoes Matthew 9:20-22, Mark 5:30, and Luke 8:45-46 (possibly something I should have included in my 2019 comments about medievalist religion in the Realm of the Elderlings corpus). In the present chapter, Fitz is beset by a group of whom he notes “Some pushed toward me out of hunger and need. Some strove to be first, others only to see what wonder I would next work, and some pushed to try and break through the wall of people in front of them so that they might have a chance to beg a boon of their own” (749-50), even as he continues to heal them. To my mind, as I read again, the scene rings of Luke 6:17-19 (also something I might ought to have included in my 2019 comments). I’m not sure why such passages are on my mind at the moment, though, and I’m not sufficiently skilled a theologian to unpack it further at the moment. But I do think that looking at how Hobb applies the Christ-figure here is something else worth doing–and, again, I’d love to know if someone’s already done that work.

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A Rumination on Academic Dishonesty

As I was chatting with an online group of which I am pleased to be a member, the topic of cheating in academic contexts came up. A number of those in the group are or have been involved in education as a profession, and a larger number have degrees at the undergraduate and graduate levels, so it’s something no few members of the group had experienced in one form or another; as I write this, nobody had admitted to engaging in the practice, but we’d all seen it and its effects. And so I got to thinking about my experience with cheating in and around the classroom.

How lovely a sight!
Photo by Polina Zimmerman on Pexels.com

I’ve not hidden the fact that I used to teach a technical writing class at Oklahoma State University. Given institutional demands, each section of that class taught there while I was engaged in that work followed a common set of assignments, of which one was the composition of a set of technical instructions. The assignment makes sense in the context, of course; a fair bit of technical writing is process documentation, whether as a descriptive thing or as an instructional aid, and most students took it reasonably seriously. They were able to see easily its application to their prospective careers, and many of them had had the experience of being given poor sets of directions, so they knew first-hand the annoyance of receiving them and were therefore inclined to do better than they had been done. (Maybe that’s a Platinum Rule: Do unto those better than they have done unto you. But that would be a decidedly different matter to treat than I mean to here.)

So much said, I did always have some smart-alec in the class, whether a student who claimed that the inclusion of new words into dictionaries represented the influence of “troublemakers” or one who decided to provide a detailed and richly-illustrated set of instructions for how to address some critter or another that was coming in to mess with crops or livestock. (That I had grown up in Central Texas was something I let my students know in most every class, and many classes also learned that my family comes from Midwestern farming stock. I don’t know why they thought it would be shocking to me, as seemed to be the case. Ah, well.) And I always had one or more who thought they’d be able to find some process with which I was presumably unfamiliar and simply copy others’ work as their own.

Cheating long predates AI, as the online discussion acknowledged.

One of those last sort of students was a woman I’ll call Trig. In class, Trig presented herself as a much put-upon wife and mother, struggling to earn her own education while caring for one child and pregnant with another while her husband worked long hours away from home in the oilfields. It was a common enough thing, to be sure, and while I sometimes found her in-class comments annoying, it was usually the kind of annoyance stemming from I-just-answered-this-question-for-another-student-why-didn’t-you-listen rather than from some deeper thing. For the most part, I found her pleasant enough to deal with, and although her first major assignment wasn’t done spectacularly well, it was solid and reasonably good. I’m sure an employer would be reasonably pleased to receive it in the workplace, or work on that level of performance.

On the technical instructions, though, Trig decided that she, like many others who sat for that class with me when I taught it, would address herself to firearms. (Maybe they did understand that I grew up in Central Texas and thought the topic would be near and dear to my heart, those students. Trig, though, was not among them, I think.) She decided that she would break down the process of cleaning a sidearm, some model of Sig Sauer pistol or another. (It’s been a few years since I taught the class; some details fade over time even without me eliding others, such as the student’s name or enough information to identify her.) The topic didn’t attract undue attention from me; again, I knew where I was, and it was a common enough thing for a student to address. Nor was it particularly rare for me to see usage errors in the piece as I sat to read and review it. But it was odd to see duplicated periods and some specific comma-splice errors, things I’d not seen Trig have problems with on previous assignments, major or minor.

At that point, I selected a passage from Trig’s instructions, copying them and pasting them into a search–and, lo and behold! they turned up as coming from the arms-maker’s own online documentation, usage errors and all! So did the rest of Trig’s instructions, as reading the two documents side-by-side showed in short order.

Now, I’d already had some experience with grade appeals and the like at the institution, so I knew 1) there were eyes on my classrooms and 2) I had better be sure to follow policy. Fortunately, policy was pretty clear on the matter at that point, and I followed it, documenting everything I’d done, pulling down copies of Trig’s submission and her uncited source materials, and filling out the requisite paperwork. A facilitator was assigned to the case, and a meeting with that facilitator, Trig, and me soon happened.

Trig, as might be expected, disclaimed having plagiarized. She led off with pathos, reminding me and telling the facilitator of her home situation and claiming that she would never do such a thing, that I must be persecuting her somehow because of the differences in our beliefs. She also remarked that “there’s only one way to clean this gun,” and that I should know that.

I was aware of that, as it happened; like I said, Trig wasn’t the first to write on that topic for me. She also wasn’t the first to be sloppy in her copy-work, which I pointed out. “It’s got the same comma-splice errors,” I said, pointing to them on the printouts. “And the same double periods.”

It was at that point the facilitator closed his file folder and turned to Trig, telling her what she’d won: a notation on her transcript for having failed the course due to plagiarism, the inability to withdraw from the class for the term then in progress (thus ensuring the mark wasn’t subsumed by dropping the course), and a requirement to sit for a one course-hour academic honesty seminar for regular cost but no credit. I wasn’t “happy to ruin [Trig’s] life,” as I got screamed at me as Trig left the room; I’d’ve rather not had to deal with any of it. But I also couldn’t let the lie–and poorly-told–slide. I don’t know that I could now, and I’ve mellowed out quite a bit in my old age.

I am aware that the use of so-called generative AI presents issues of cheating far different and far harder to identify and prove than Trig’s little trip. I know that, while the pap it spits out after scraping other people’s work (including possibly this very commentary) and recombining it sounds somehow like every other piece, the word-choice and -order are likely largely new. I know that it “knows” enough to throw in citations, even if those citations are themselves hallucinatory, having less grounding in reality even than Asimov’s thiotimoline. I know about a great many of the problems involved in addressing the fraud of students presenting AI-spewing off as their own work, and I do not envy those who have to deal with them–especially since there is less and less extrinsic incentive to rebuke AI-vomit and more and more to simply let it, and the students who do it, pass.

As I noted to my online group on at least one occasion, it’s probably a good thing I’m more or less out of academe anymore, painful as it still is to have made my exit.

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A Rumination on Some Other Recent Small Sadnesses

Not too terribly long ago, I remarked on some of what my darling daughter, Ms. 8, was leaving behind. In the months since, she’s gotten to have a concert (that I had thought was cancelled; I’m pleased to have been made wrong) and gotten to have a closing ceremony for her elementary school years. She’s also gotten to go to a series of camps (that is not done yet as I write this, nor will it be done when this piece emerges into the world), having enriching and uplifting experiences that I have every expectation will help her as she moves ahead into the next school year and the world outside the classroom.

Hey, Mr. Postman!
Photo by John-Mark Smith on Pexels.com

As happens, my daughter has sent some letters as a result of her camp experiences, trying to retain connections to some of the people she met while away, trying to maintain a network of people that extends beyond the small town where we live and across the state, perhaps to grow larger yet as people move and take on new things. It’s something she has done for years, as she’s been going to camps for a while, and when she gets a letter back, it’s typically a source of delight.

When one returns to her, as happened, that has a postmark from 2023 and was addressed to people she last saw some two years ago, though, it’s not a happy thing.

I know it’s likely that the envelope had fallen into some crack or crevice when it was originally received, lost to sight and thought until some change in administration or furniture moving brought it back to light. I know it’s likely that those to whom the letter was addressed have moved on with their lives, no longer part of the part of the world they shared with my daughter briefly a while back. I know it’s likely that some office-dweller saw a piece of mail meant for someone else and didn’t note the date of the postmark. But I also know the look I saw on my daughter’s face as she saw the letter, saw her handwriting addressing it to friends she thought she had reached out to, saw the “Return to Sender” emblazoned by another’s pen upon it, and it was hard for me to think kindly of circumstances.

I know, too, that it is a small sadness, indeed. There have been and are greater ones about, and not too far from here or too long ago. I am not unmindful of the relative scales of things, not at all. And if it is the case that this is the most that touches my daughter at the moment, I am a grateful man for it. But I can be aware that things could be much worse, appreciating that they are not, and still wish that not even so much had touched my daughter as that.

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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 456: Fool’s Quest, Chapter 36

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series
here.


After in-milieu commentary about selecting Skill-couriers and their practices, “An Elderling Welcome” begins with Fitz making a decent show of diplomacy and learning that he is, indeed, confronted by Rapskal. Rapskal introduces himself brusquely as the local military leader and begrudgingly agrees to conduct Fitz, Lant, and Perseverance to Kelsingra’s rulership. Fitz finds himself somewhat affected by the prevalence of Skill-stone in the construction of Kelsingra, and he contrasts what he sees in his present situation with what he had seen in the city previously, as well as what he knows of Dutiful’s impressions of Kelsingra.

Surely, such a thing can do much good…
Photo by Nihat on Pexels.com

At length, Rapskal leaves Fitz, Lant, and Perseverance to confer with his leaders, assigning a subordinate to see to them. Fitz presents himself diplomatically once again, and he and his companions are provided refreshment. After they attend to themselves, Fitz and his companions confer about next steps to take, and Fitz soon falls asleep.

Rest is interrupted by the arrival of Reyn Khuprus, who greets Fitz warmly and receives introductions as he has Fitz, Lant, and Perseverance follow him to a kinder reception than Rapskal had given them. Malta joins them there, apologizing for Rapskal’s behavior and welcoming them. She introduces Amber, attended by Spark, and Fitz finds himself taken up into the Fool’s performance as Reyn and Malta invite the rest to sit and eat with them. Fitz finds himself somewhat taken aback by the frank discussion of social structures at work in Kelsingra. Questions about Phron and their answers elicit sympathy from Fitz, and as Amber continues the conversation, Fitz is able to fill in more of his knowledge of his old friend.

After dinner, Phron joins his parents and their guests, and introductions are made. When Fitz offers to shake his hand, he is taken by the Wit and the Skill, and something like a Skill-healing is effected, although without intent. Phron is greatly eased, and Malta marvels at what has occurred. Fitz is shaken by the event, but he manages to explain at least some of the changes his magic has effected in Phron.

Amber redirects conversation, relating a version of her exploits since departing Bingtown and its environs. Malta asks for healing for the other Elderling children whose changes are proving difficult or dangerous, and Amber attempts to deflect conversation again by glossing the depredations Ellik and his followers wrought on Fitz’s home, eliciting a strong response. Talk returns to the Elderling children, and Fitz, noting caveats, agrees to assist them.

With gratitude, Reyn, Malta, and Phron retire, leaving Fitz, the Fool, Lant, Spark, and Perseverance to confer. Arrangements are made for the evening, and Fitz is convinced to accept a sleeping draught for which the Fool vouches.

There are several things that attract attention in the present chapter. That the Fool would present as Amber in a company composed of Traders is not to be wondered at, perhaps, nor is the ease with which Fitz fits himself to the presentation (including shifting his pronoun references to the Fool as Amber); he has had practice at it, after all. That Lant and even Perseverance adapt so readily is more noteworthy, although Fitz notes “There was something of Chade in Lant after all” (714), which comes off to my eyes as begrudgingly respectful of the younger man. In all, it is relatively impressive that the Fool’s presentation, and Amber’s narrative, would carry off so well as they do in the chapter. The writer being Hobb, however, good fortune for the protagonist is not to be trusted, especially with what the second volume of a trilogy is typically supposed to do: put the protagonist/s in a bad situation, from which they emerge in the final volume.

Comments about the social structures at work in Kelsingra also attract attention. Reyn comments to his guests that “Even after years of it, king and queen sit a bit oddly with us” [emphasis in original], adding that “After years of the Satrapy extorting money from the Bingtown Traders, we who were raised as Traders still wonder why anyone would think we preferred a monarchy. But it’s a convenient way for the outside world to see us” (714-15). I have opined, and at some length, about the social structure of the Traders, seeing in them echoes of the nascent United States (if with better reactions to some pernicious social problems), which Reyn’s commentary supports. There does still seem to be something of hereditary rule in force in Kelsingra, however; it must be recalled that the Khuprus Traders are outrageously wealthy (note this, this, and this, among others), and that wealth is, by the time of Reyn and Malta, largely inherited. While Reyn and Malta are both capable people, they had the luxury–Reyn more than Malta, admittedly–of developing their capabilities free from the brute-force concerns of “Do I have enough to eat not to die today?” that typify the lives of many of the other residents of Kelsingra before their emigration. That is to say, they began their lives with advantages that they have parlayed into prominence in Kelsingra; they had the opportunities to be first with dragons because their preexisting socioeconomic status afforded them as much. It is not entirely meritocracy at work–although, Traders being Traders, it is conceivable that the Khupruses would be shunted aside in favor of “better” merchants. It bears thought, another scholarly someday.

I note, too, the particularly Tolkienian resonance (yes, I know) of Fitz’s not-entirely-voluntary healing of Phron. I have written before (here) about the ways in which Fitz enacts the warrior-hero trope common to fantasy literature; he moves away from, but is still substantially grounded in, the Tolkienian iteration of the trope, or I understood him as being so at that point in his existence and in my own. (We ought to revise ideas and opinions as more information becomes available. It’s something with which many people struggle, clearly and unhelpfully.) Even with what I have come to believe since, I acknowledge that there is still enough to sustain such a reading, to look at Hobb as existing within the Tolkienian literary tradition although she is clearly drawing from other sources than Tolkien–or than just Tolkien, especially since she acknowledges her debt to him. In the present chapter, in addition to the martial and diplomatic aspects of the warrior-hero Fitz does not seldom deploy, there is something of “The hands of the king are the hands of a healer” (LotR V, ch. 8) about his interaction with Phron. While it is the case that Fitz has participated in Skill-healing previously, and to miraculous effect (something that edges towards Christ-referencing, as I think on it again), the present chapter, where the healing happens, and not entirely with Fitz’s approval, seems more…otherworldly than most of the examples in the Realm of the Elderlings corpus. It’s yet another thing that bears some thought and consideration, yet another scholarly someday I hope I live long enough to address.

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A Poem I Might Ought to Have Workshopped More

Even in showing utopian futures–
For example
Those shining Starfleet days to come
With concertos played and plays performed
A shining-headed captain tooting his flute–
It is only the older arts that are seen
Unless there is some pop-point to be made
About kids these days and their newfangled ways

Qapla’!
Photo by Kevin Malik on Pexels.com

It must be remembered
“U” comes long after “dys,”
Something familiar from dictionaries and thesauri
No few writers have all too clearly used,
And it’s not likely the lawyers were lonely
Being sent away

Even,
As rarely,
When new arts are made
To feature in those hopeful futures,
Think of where the poets appear
And consider if it is not the case that
Another Chixulub is ready to form

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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 457: Fool’s Quest, Chapter 35

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series
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A brief excerpt from Bee’s dream journal precedes “Kelsingra.” The chapter opens with Fitz and the rest taking such sleep as they can. When Fitz is woken by Perseverance coming off of watch, his Wit-sense responds to the presence of a larger predator that, upon investigation, proves to be a large bear showing the initial decrepitude of age. Fitz directs his companions to minimize the danger to them and reaches out to the bear through the Wit, but the bear attacks. The Fool and Spark flee through a Skill-pillar, while the rest scramble up trees and look on in anguish as the animal destroys their provisions.

An image of an armored lone figure holding a single-edged sword and staring out at a frozen city, predominantly in shades of purple
You knew it had to be…
Frozen History by MeetV on DeviantArt, here, and used again for commentary.

After the bear leaves, Fitz, Lant, and Perseverance take stock of what remains and reestablish their camp as best they can. That done, they prepare to follow the Fool and Spark, Fitz speaking plainly of what might befall them. Steeling themselves, they plunge through the Skill-pillar, emerging to find the Fool and Spark before them and angry dragons in evidence. As Fitz directs Lant and Perseverance to take what little shelter there is, the dragons speak to him. As Elderlings approach, Fitz presents himself formally, beginning to defuse the situation as the arrival of additional forces makes violence an unpleasant option. Arrangements are made to conduct Fitz and his group to Kelsingra’s leadership.

The present chapter is not the first part of the Realm of the Elderlings corpus to bear the name; it follows the fourth chapter of City of Dragons in that. Correspondences between the two chapters are limited, although there are some to be found. I’m not sure that there is enough to make any claims about parallel functions; I rather doubt that there is, although I’ve not done the kind of close reading of the two texts against each other that would reveal whether or not there is in any real sense. It’s another scholarly someday, I suppose, if perhaps a winter day due to the brevity I would expect from such a thing.

There are a couple of other things of interest to me as I reread the chapter. One of them is the reinforcement of the idea, going back to the Tawny Man novels, that the dragons communicate with each other and with their Elderlings through the Skill. The implication that the Skill is some lingering trace of Elderling heritage seems clear to me, although I tend to think that it is something that has grown up as the Realm of the Elderlings corpus has extended rather than something that was planned at the outset–but I’ve made comments about that kind of thing before. And it’s not something with which I find fault; people change, and so the work that they do will also change. Nor yet is it necessary for something to be perfect before it gets going.

The other that stood out was the dragons’ inability to find the Fool, the Elderling blanket serving to conceal him from their sight (although not their sense of smell). The implications of that that emerge for me are significant. That there is a limit to the dragons’ abilities is of import; they are often shown as being super-predators and, while some fight against them seems possible, odds are never good for those who oppose them. That the Elderlings of old seem to have produced materials that thwart draconic senses is also suggestive, prompting questions of factionalism and rebellion among them. There’s not enough in the text, certainly at this point, to do more than make a vague suggestion, and I don’t expect that there is some sort of parallel to The Silmarillion waiting in Hobb’s notes for some future editor or scholar to find that would elaborate on it, but what is fantasy for if not for prompting the imagination?

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On the Recent Flooding in the Texas Hill Country

First, let me report that my family is safe and I am safe. Second, let me say that I am not asking for anything for me or mine; we are safe, and we are well, and we are not those in need at the moment. But there are many, many people in and around the town where I grew up who are, because, early on 4 July 2025, a strong storm dumped a whole lot of water in a very short time on the headwaters of the Guadalupe River. The sudden rainfall triggered a flash flood of historic proportions; estimates I’ve seen put it at the second-highest levels of flooding on record, and reports I’ve seen indicate that the flood and flow meters that monitor such things were knocked out of commission by the flooding. Footage I’ve seen puts the river over roads that I don’t recall ever seeing go underwater, and pictures I’ve seen tell of damage that will take years to fix–in those cases where it can be fixed.

This #KerrvilleStrong image comes from Scooty Garrett.

Because it is also the case that there have been dozens of lives lost in this–unlike the flood of my own experience in 2002, which somehow managed to spare people. No few of them were children camping along the banks of the Guadalupe River as they have for decades, whose cabins were ripped from their foundations in the pre-dawn hours by waters that rushed in before there was time even to gasp in surprise at their arrival. No few others were holiday goers, in and around Kerrville to celebrate, staying in RVs beside the water and waking to terror when they had gone to sleep in idyllic peace before. And there are few if any words of comfort that can be found in such days; such as there are surpass my ability to speak or write them.

I have done what little I can do, which is all too little against the demand. What else I can do, and what I do do, is to point out that donations to a local relief fund can be made here: https://cftexashillcountry.fcsuite.com/erp/donate/create/fund?funit_id=4201. Another is here: https://www.kerrvillechamber.biz/foundation-kerrville-area-rebuilding-recovery-fund/. Please give if and what you can to help the folks in my hometown and both up- and downstream from it. I’m familiar with the Community Foundation from my nonprofit work; they’re local folks and have been in town for a good long while. I expect that giving done through them will get where it needs to go to do what the community needs.

Another Rumination on US Independence Day

It is somewhat odd to me that, as I look back over this webspace, I’ve only had one prior post come out on this date, and that relatively recently. Given how calendars tend to work and that I’ve got more than ten years posting here, I’d’ve expected to have marked the occasion more than once before–but such hasn’t been the case. Some, I’m sure, will accuse me of anti-patriotism or anti-Americanism for it; it wouldn’t be the first time, and I’ve my doubts it will be the last. After all, how many people who have bedecked themselves in red, white, and blue, draped themselves in flags, and shouted their jingoism with full throat are themselves thusly accused?

Someone’s having a bang-up time…
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This is not about that, though.

I believe I’ve noted before that holidays–not just this one, but the fact of the holiday today invites reflection on holidays generally–are…difficult for me. I’m not a celebratory person by nature or habit (which is the case is not entirely clear); I am…wary of revelry and the indulgence that often accompanies it, certainly for myself. And it’s not, or not just, and issue of wanting to maintain appearances; were I more concerned with how I look to others, I would make a point of being out more among the day’s festivities than I have yet been. I’ve put in appearances, now and again, but rarely; I’ve attended the big Fourth of July event in my hometown exactly once, for example, and I’ve never made it to any of the other major area events for the day. Instead, I’ve either worked the day, or I’ve kept more or less to home–although that’s not really different from most other days for me; they find me working or home, rarely “going anywhere” or “doing anything.” But that’s not a new observation for me, either.

Such ruminations, such reflections, are typical of my holiday experience. I fail to feel what those around me do, and instead find myself living largely in my head. (Again, that’s not really different from most other days for me.) I don’t much feel connected to the traditions being honored, which I will stress is an issue of me more than it is of them; I am not owed outreach in this regard, and I am not complaining that I do not receive it, but am simply observing that I do not and that I do not seem to have it in me to reach out, myself. While such things as the cookout happen with me–I do enjoy doing so, but that’s another thing that’s not different from most other days for me, and I keep in mind Robb Walsh’s comment in one or another of his cookbooks that there’s a perversity in heating your house while you’re trying to cool it off–I don’t necessarily understand why so many of the other surrounding traditions have grown up or continue, and they don’t speak to me at this point in my life. Fireworks are pretty, yes, but they’re also expensive, and neither pets nor people with many forms of PTSD do well with them. Parades are neat, yes, but I’ve marched in enough of them to know they’re also markedly uncomfortable. A day off is nice, for those who can get it, but a whole lot of those who can make things an awful lot worse for those who can’t–and I’ve been one of the ones who can’t pretty often in my life.

I suppose that’s moving toward an actual point, here. Celebrate what you celebrate, sure, but keep in mind as you do that what you do still affects others. That it’s a holiday doesn’t mean you should be a jerk.

But that’s yet another thing that’s not really different from any other day.

Help me keep doing this by having me write for you–all human-done, no AI!

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A Rumination on #Kzoo2026

That I have done and still do academic conferences is not a secret; I’ve mentioned it more than a few times. That I have focused a lot of that doing on the International Congress on Medieval Studies, held on the campus of Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo, Michigan, is also not a secret; in this webspace, I’ve written for or about it here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here, if not also elsewhere, as well as referring to it in my About page, my reported Abstracts, and my too-slowly-ongoing Fedwren Project. It should not be a surprise, then, that when the Tales after Tolkien Society, of which I remain a member and an officer, posted its initial call for papers for the 2026 iteration of the Congress, I took note.

I have stared out at a lot of these…
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I had known about the sessions that are on offer for the 2026 Congress; I was involved in drafting the texts of the proposals and discussion of what and how to send them out. I was somewhat surprised to see that three sessions got accepted; the cosponsored one is not unusual, but that there were two paper sessions in addition was. Tales after Tolkien does not often do so well, but I guess, given the alignment of the three sessions (all of them treat adaptation more or less explicitly, each focusing on a different aspect of how the medieval gets re-presented to current-contemporary audiences), that there’s an expectation of papers to fill the sessions. (If you have an idea, send it in to them; it’ll be nice to have the company.)

I’ll be doing my part, as might be expected. One of the things about having so many scholarly somedays as I have is that I can easily pull on one or another of them for such purposes, take the opportunity the demand to produce provides to develop an idea I have had in passing. Given how many such somedays I’ve pointed out–most frequently with reference to Robin Hobb, as might be expected, but not exclusively with reference thereto, I don’t believe–I should have no trouble looking back and finding one thing I can pitch for a roundtable and another I can pitch for a paper session. (Congress rules prohibit presenting in more than one of each kind of session, with one notable exception that I’ll not get into here.) A roundtable talk generally runs five minutes or so, with discussion following, and that translates into something like 750 words; my normal blog posts run around 500 words anymore, so stretching to half again that much is not too much of a struggle. A conference paper is more variable; for me, such things run from around 2,600 to around 3,900 words, depending on how many other people are in the session–eminently doable for work I care about and that will necessarily have some citation and quotation in it (meaning I don’t have to come up with the whole text; I just have to identify what text needs to be present, which is its own challenge). I’ll have things to say, to be sure.

Determining just what my topics and approaches will be will take some doing, of course. So, too, will deciding whether or not I will attend the Congress in person or only remotely. The latter has been how I have done things in the past several years, not only because of COVID-19 dislocations but also because of my own attenuation from academe and, frankly, financial concerns. Getting from central Texas to Michigan isn’t easy or inexpensive, after all, and time away from my family is not always good for me. (That said, time to myself is not always bad for me, either, and it may well be good for them to have some time with me away…) I’ve got time to make some of those choices, though, and I look forward to putting in the thinking time of making them–as well as the time and effort I will spend on putting together my presentations.

Somehow, even after all the time, even after the disappointments, I still enjoy doing this kind of work.

It’s not just conference-writing that I do, though I do that. Maybe you could use some help with yours? I definitely do that.

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