Studying for my test tomorrow:

From there [another marriage] through the immense sky, Hymen [god of love], wrapped in a saffron cloth, departed and headed for the lands of the Cicones [people of Thrace] and was called by the voice of Orpheus for nothing. He indeed was present, but not solemn words, nor joyful expressions, nor auspicious omen did he bring. The [marriage] torch too, which he held, was continuously hissing with tearful smoke and no fires were produced when it was shaken. The result was even graver than this omen: for while the new bride wanders through the grass accompanied by a crowd of naiads, she falls down, having received a bite in her ankle from a trod-upon snake. When the Rhodopeian poet (Orpheus) had mourned her sufficiently to the upper sky, lest he leave even the shades untried, he dared to descend to the Styx through the Taenarian gate and through the insubstantial populace and the ghosts from the grave he approached Persephone and the lord of the shades who holds sway over the unpleasant kingdom and strumming his strings with his song says this:

"O deities of the land placed below the earth, to which we all sink, any who are created mortal; if it is permitted and with the windings of false mouths put aside you allow truth to be spoken: not to here, that I might see shady Tartarus, have I descended, nor that I might bind the three throats, hairy with snakes, of the Medusa-like monster: the reason for my journey is my wife, into whom a stepped-on viper injected his venom and took away her budding years. I wanted to be able to endure, and I will not deny that I tried: Amor defeated me. This god is well-known in the upper world; whether he is so here, I am unsure: but even here I guess that he is, and if the story of the ancient abduction [of Persephone] is not made up, Amor joined you also. Through this place full of fear, through the huge Abyss and the silences of the enormous realms, I myself beg you, reveal the speedy fate of Euridice. All of us are indebted to you, and having delayed a little later or sooner we are sped to one final seat. We all head to here, this is our final home, and you hold the longest reign over the human race. When, mature, she too will have completed her just years, she will be in your power: we ask for use rather than a gift; but if the fates deny this favor for my wife, I am decided to refuse to return: rejoice in the death of both of us."

I've been using bread flour instead of all-purpose flour in my bread recently, just to see if it makes a difference. (Of course, I still use about 25% whole wheat flour, which adds flavor and nutrition.) I've been really happy with the results both times I've done this, though I may have to try once more with a-p flour just to make sure it's not just that I'm doing everything else right, especially since bread flour is a fair bit more expensive...
Anyway, having bread flour around made me think of this bagel recipe, which I'd found long ago and decided to make at some point in the future. Well, yesterday I had some time, so I went for it. It turns out bagels are really easy to make! (At least if you're used to making bread.) I would highly recommend this recipe to anyone wanting to have fun and make tasty bagels, with two quick modifications: first, some of my bagels seemed a bit on the big side, so I might squeeze a good 18 out of the recipe instead of just 15; and second, I wouldn't let the formed bagels rise quite 10 minutes before boiling, because if the first ones rise for ten minutes, then because only a few can be boiled at a time the last ones sit around for a long time (this, I'm sure, contributed to the size problem). Actually, there was one other problem: the bagels got marked up, first from my picking them up off the counter, then from the spoon I used to turn them over in the pot and take them out (I also tried a spatula and a pair of tongs, with similar results), and then possibly from my boiling water (it's supposed to be hardly moving, but it's hard to keep a constant temperature when you keep putting things in and taking things out). But the marks are mostly superficial: except for the bagels I somehow accidentally flattened, they turned out great. Anyway, just for fun, I photo-documented the whole process.


Bagels Rising. Obviously, the ones in front were formed first. At this point, they look perfect: round and pleasantly, rustically lumpy. I knew they'd rise a lot, so I made the holes really big; but to no avail, as they closed up anyway. As you can see, I was also making yoghurt (in the Salton, much easier to make...).


This picture was going to be labelled, "Holy Bagels, Batman!" But they don't look as humongous in the picture as they did in person. These first two, especially, were too big, and squeezed each other a little bit into oblong shapes.


Okay, so I didn't document the whole process: they were too ugly to photograph before putting them in the oven. But here's the first batch cooling afterwards. I'll just pretend the obvious spoon marks are a new style... maybe this'll catch on? I'll charge extra for those ones. The two middle ones in the top row are bottom-up from when they were rising, as you can tell from the lumps: those are where I pried them off the counter. (Maybe I'll grease the rising surface next time...) Note Cicero's Somnium Scipionis (Dream of Scipio) and a Latin dictionary in the background. Those, of course, are integral to the cooling process.


The first one to be disposed of. For the True Bagel Test, I had to do half just normally with cream cheese, and half toasted with tons of butter. Both were delicious.


And finally, the Leaning Towers of... Bagels. As you can see, some are unfortunately flat (though they're actually not too overly dense... definitely still edible). Nate, the whole purpose of this post is of course to get you to visit earlier: you never know, I'm already down to twelve, and those could disappear in a week and a half...

I'm not reading the newest Harry Potter book (don't worry, I intend to, possibly on our family vacation), but it seems like everyone I know is. Seems that's also true for someone at a blog I've started reading and enjoy a lot called Language Log, as this person posted here. The neatest part of the post for me was the link to the "notae variorum" ("notes of variations"--I translated that without a dictionary! from "nota, notae" and "vari-us, -a, -um"--there's a bit of a problem, though, in that "notae" and "variorum" are both plural, but the former, like most first declension nouns, is feminine, but "orum" is the masculine plural genitive ending: perhaps it's really "notae variarum?" Or maybe they don't have to agree, since variorum is a substantive genitive, not used to modify "notae." Actually, that's probably it. But why should variations be masculine? I like them better agreeing).

There are some really interesting differences between the British and American editions of various Harry Potter books. From the strange, perhaps attempting-to-be-PC additions:

(from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone)
British: "...three people left to be sorted. 'Turpin, Lisa' became..."
American: "...three people left to be sorted. "Thomas, Dean," a Black boy even taller than Ron, joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. "Turpin, Lisa" became..."

to the strange complete rewritings:

(from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets)
British: "...A second later, Harry spotted something that made him hit Ron over the hand with his pruning shears... Harry was pointing at the ground a few feet away. Several large spiders were scurrying across the earth.... Harry watched the spiders running away."
American: "...A second later, Harry spotted something.Several large spiders were scuttling over the ground on the other side of the glass, moving in an unnatuarally straight line as though taking the shortest route to a prearranged meeting. Harry hit Ron over the hand with his pruning shears... Harry pointed out the spiders, following their progress with his eyes screwed up against the sun... Harry's eyes narrowed as he focused on the spiders. If they pursued their fixed course, there could be no doubt about where they would end up."

(was that one just rewritten to put in more of a "Western" feel with the Clint Eastwood-style "...with his eyes screwed up against the sun... Harry's eyes narrowed?")

and the sections that would have been disastrous without "translation":

(from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince)
British: "...I got off with McLaggen..."
American: "...I hooked up with McLaggen..."

There are a lot of interesting things: "forwards" turning into "forward," "the" dropping all over the place, "which" becoming "that," "a team of healers... is" becoming "a team of healers... are," etc., in addition to all the obvious colloquialisms getting smoothed over.

Had a nice vacation #2 this past weekend. I'd been noticing recently that the water levels in the rivers of southern Indiana had been high for this part of the season, and the weather looked to be terrific, and I felt it'd be a shame to just sit around in a hot apartment in Bloomington. So Sara and I went camping in Southern Indiana, in the Hoosier National Forest. Our site was nice and private for the first night, as our only fellow-campers were over a hill, but there were farms around, and we were awoken by roosters. In addition, something was sniffing around our tent as we went to sleep, and then along with a few friends joined us for breakfast:



They also decided to follow me up the hill to the bathroom before bothering the other campers for a while:



The next morning, we drove to Milltown to go canoeing on the Blue River. Turned out the canoe rental place was a huge operation, but as we opted for a longer trip than most, we had a few miles of solitude, during which we came across a stream that led a few hundred yards to a beautiful (and cold!) spring:



The river was beautiful, and would clearly have been really exciting at Spring water levels. As it was late in the season, we had to get out a few times to let the canoe drift over some rocks, but surprisingly little for mid-July. The only really unfortunate aspect was the popularity of the river on a beautiful day in midsummer. Once we passed the put-in point for the shorter trip, five miles in, we probably passed more than fifty other canoers or kayakers. There was a total of about 30 seconds from that point on when other canoes weren't visible. But it was still pretty, and nice to be out in such beautiful weather.



Next on the agenda was Marengo Cave. Like the canoeing, a bit pricey, but it really impressed me. I expected it to be touristy, but it was really beautiful.



This was pretty cool. If you just looked down, the quality and stillness of the reflection in the water meant you saw what looked like another, extremely deep room through a hole.



After the cave we headed back to our campsite and worked on a crossword, made a nice dinner, and built a great fire to roast marshmallows upon.
This morning we headed out for a bit of a hike. Unfortunately, the heat and especially the humidity really kicked in today, so we cut it a bit short (also, the stream we hiked to was entirely dry...), but we saw a huge number of these beautiful butterflies all over:



I'd really been hoping for some beautiful views over endless forests on our hike, but that didn't happen. Still, the drive, on both the way there and the way back, gave us the views I was looking for if not at the time I wanted them, and I snapped a shot of one vista (missing, of course, many much better ones). Southern Indiana sure can be beautiful.

Bike number 1 (not ever, but for this story) was, I think, a Giant Boulder. I took it with me to college 6 years ago, and it served me well. I didn't use it that much, though, and a friend sometimes borrowed it. (That is, he borrowed it once with my permission, and I told him the lock combination, and then he'd borrow it at will.) Once I was in a hurry to get somewhere and saw him walking the bike: I was surprised, but with his permission reborrowed my own bike and rode to where I needed to get. There I realized I'd left the lock with my friend. So I left it unlocked, because it was Kenyon. Then I forgot about it for two days, and it was gone forever.
Since then I've gone through numbers 2 (didn't work well), 3 (unreliable, got tons of flats), 4 (worked okay, but I didn't work with it well), 5 (stolen), and two belonging to Grandpa Chenette (he's repaired them both, fortunately); I'm now on to no. 6 in as many years, and it had better work well. For what it's worth, I'm back to the Giant Boulder. It's a cheap bike, as bike-shop bikes go, but it should be reliable and good in the snow, and I bought a nice lock.

To continue the Twin Peaks hike pictures, here's an abandoned mine we found. Click to enlarge and see the fun promised by the sign! You'll also get some idea of the steepness of the trail from the sweat pouring off our faces--and this was a shaded trail at 8:30 in the morning!:



Here's Sister Peak, looking back towards Ouray's valley:



And finally from Twin Peaks, here's Courthouse Mountain, a good 1500 feet higher and a destination of one of our most beautiful group hikes ever, 7(?) years ago:



Here are Dad and Nate at the top (Nate got a good group picture with his camera, but I haven't gotten his pictures yet):





And here's the other direction, towards Mt. Sneffels (we think), one of the area's over-14,000-foot mountains (the famed "14ers," which are spread across only four US states--none of us Chenettes have ever climbed this high, but I think it would be exciting, and I know Dad's talked about wanting to):



Finally, the morning of my departure, the 4th, the celebrations included the "Ourayce," a 10k. Nate pulled in an impressive 8th out of about 160, right after the first woman, who happened to hold the two top women's times for that race. Not bad for one of the few people who usually lives well below Ouray's almost-8,000-feet elevation (Nate, not the woman: he currently resides in Atlanta). Here he is after crossing the finish line:



Since getting back, things have been less good: I left my half-working iPod in Colorado, got dramatically sick last night, and when I went to ride to an appointment with my Latin instructor on Thursday my bike (about a year old) had disappeared. But it's okay: I've got good memories behind me! And honestly, the only really horrible thing in that list is the loss of the bike (which I'm aggressively following up, needless to say: I'm borrowing Sara's bike for the time being, since it beats walking for 20 minutes to get anywhere and she doesn't use it on a regular basis, but there are no gears, and it uses inefficient backpedal brakes, and--well, let's just say I'm anxious to get the old one back or buy a new one!). Just when I thought my horrible luck with bikes was changing...!

I had an absolutely *terrific* stay in Colorado. I left on Saturday, bright and early, and miraculously met Nate and Mom and Dad in Denver in time to drive the four hours to Aspen and see both Claire's chamber music intermission performance and orchestra concert (first chair!). We had a nice picnic outside of her dorm:



The next day, the four unAspened Chenettes went on a somewhat anticlimactic hike while Claire did her practicing and stuff, then we headed to Ouray in the San Juan range, where we saw lots of Kerns (Mom's side of the family). As always, it was wonderful to see them. On Monday, many of us went on a hike up to Chief Ouray Mine, a hike which started about a block from our relatives' house. Lots of highlights on this hike, including a nice waterfall:



It was a pretty nice view from the top, though I didn't get a good one of the mine itself:



Here are the select few who made it to the mine, minus Annje who must have been taking the picture--the Chenettes (minus Mom), Jeffrey, and Kerry--in front of what was presumably the miners' housing:



And another view of the same building, with more mountains in the background:



Tuesday was my last day, and I asked to do a really neat hike. So Nate, Dad, and I decided to head out early and aim for Twin Peaks (Sister Peak is the prominent peak that's not part of the twins):



This hike started farther away--we had to walk about four blocks to get there (terrible, I know). Obviously, these peaks were not the highest destination in the area, but the trail we headed up was probably the steepest I've ever been on. Dad estimated it was about an average 20% grade. That's including the places where it leveled out slightly. At one of those places, we saw this bird, sitting oddly not ten yards away, in the middle of the path:



After snapping the picture, we headed forwards (the slope was too steep and wooded to get around). The bird finally scampered a little ways up the slope, clucking at us and offering us a view of the treasure she was guarding:



Pretty cute! We stepped over them, and they scampered, but not too far, and we don't think we disrupted them too much. (And considering there had only been one other group on that trail in the entire previous 24 hours or more, they probably had time to regroup.)

The trail also wound through beautiful Aspen forests before climbing steeply again to the top. The views were spectacular, but I'll save those pictures for another post.

"What is home without / Plumtree’s Potted Meat? / Incomplete. / With it an abode of bliss."


"What relation existed between their ages?
"16 years before in 1888 when Bloom was of Stephen's present age Stephen was 6. 16 years after in 1920 when Stephen would be of Bloom's present age Bloom would be 54. In 1936 when Bloom would be 70 and Stephen 54 their ages initially in the ration of 16 to 0 would be as 17 1/2 to 13 1/2, the proportion increasing and the disparity diminishing according as arbitrary future years were added, for if the proportion existing in 1883 had continued immutable, conceiving that to be possible, till then 1904 when Stephen was 22 Bloom would be 374 and in 1920 when Stephen would be 38, as Bloom then was, Bloom would be 646 while in 1952 when Stephen would have attained the maximum postdiluvian age of 70 Bloom, being 1190 years alive having been born in the year 714, would have surpassed by 221 years the maximum antediluvian age, that of Methusalah, 969 years, while, if Stephen would continue to live until he would attain that age in the year 3072 A.D., Bloom would have been obliged to have been alive 83,300 years, having been obliged to have been born in the year 81,396 B.C."


"O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

(I'm done!)

The lack of posts recently has been because I'm trying to minimize my computer use--I'm dead set on healing my wrists as quickly as possible. (I'm also not playing piano at all, which is sad.) But quick update: Latin is good, and I've started reading Ovid, though I have to look up about 9 out of every 10 words in the dictionary; teaching is looking fine, and quite easy (turns out the instructor mainly expects me to show up and do the grading); I start "summer early music ensemble" today, which should include some stunning sacred pieces by Gesualdo; I have fruit flies infesting my African violet, which (the fruit flies, not the flower) I set aside a few minutes every day to hunt down, to no avail; it's hot; I'm swimming pretty regularly; ista decent umeros gestamina nostros/qui dare certa ferae, dare vulnera possumus hosti,/qui modo pestifero tot iugera ventre prementem/stravimus innumeris tumidum Pythona saggitis,/tu face nescio quos esto contentus amores/inritare tua, nec laudes adsere nostras!" (Take that, Cupid!)

The Calf-Path, by Sam Walter Foss

I.

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;

II.

But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day,
By a lone dog that passed that way.
And then a wise bell-wether sheep,
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep;
And drew the flock behind him too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade.
Through those old woods a path was made.

III.

And many men wound in and out,
And dodged, and turned, and bent about;
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because 'twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed - do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf.
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
Because he wobbled when he walked.

IV.

This forest path became a lane,
that bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half,
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

V.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this,
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half,
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

VI.

Each day a hundred thousand rout,
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went,
The traffic of a continent.
A Hundred thousand men were led,
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent,
To well established precedent.

VII.

A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind,
Along the calf-paths of the mind;
And work away from sun to sun,
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move.
But how the wise old wood gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah! many things this tale might teach -
But I am not ordained to preach.

In my last post I mentioned that I'm caring for four different places (a house, two apartments, and a condo), including two cats. Well, today, I biked my whole route, with a stop at the health center for physical therapy (which I just started) for my wrists and a stop at home for dinner. Here, courtesy of gmap-pedometer.com, is a map of Bloomington and my route:

All of the friends who I normally hang out with have left town, as of this morning, and I now have the dubious honor of being not only Master of Music but also Master of Keys to four apartments besides mine, located in all different parts of town, and a few associated mailboxes. So if anyone needs an apartment showing, I've got some contracts, and you can move in anytime this weekend.

Singular, communed the guest with himself, the wonderfully unequal faculty of metempsychosis possessed by them, that the puerperal dormitory and the dissecting theatre should be the seminaries of such frivolity, that the mere acquisition of academic title should suffice to transform in a pinch of time these votaries of levity into exemplary practitioners of an art which most men anywise eminent have esteemed the noblest.
-James Joyce's Leopold Bloom, thinking about the bawdy younger men around him

Kyle needed a ride to the airport last Friday, so Sara and I took the opportunity to visit grandma and grandpa. It was a really nice stay. We took the usual boat ride, and Sara caught a lot of fish. Then the next day we were planning on biking door-to-door from grandma and grandpa's house to the art museum--there's actually a combination of 4 bike paths that would take us the whole way--until about 3 miles in I made the mistake of changing the back gears on my borrowed bike, which promptly stopped moving. The back gear shift mechanism had somehow bent dramatically. In fifteen minutes we'd gotten the wheel to move again, but the gear shifter was hanging off the side, so we walked back and drove to the museum. The museum, fortunately, was wonderful--we toured the whole contemporary art floor and walked around the Lilly House grounds with their beautiful gardens, followed by a trip to Trader Joe's. (Wow, two Chenettes blogged about Trader Joe's in one week.) Then we had dinner with grandma and grandpa and aunt Nancy, which was really fun. This was the third fun weekend in a row: first the trip out to LA for Nate's graduation, then the canoeing trip, and now this trip to Indy. Maybe I'll take a weekend to be lazy next week, but we'll see.

In the meantime, I can't wait for my trip(s!) out to Colorado--first in early July (less than a month!) to Ouray for the Kern reunion and then in mid/late August to camp and visit Claire at Aspen. Both trips sound great. It's been too long since I've seen, hiked, and camped those beautiful mountains!

Ouray:



from the Bridge of Heaven:

I wanted to take advantage of Memorial Day, so last week I tried to plan out a canoeing trip with some friends. The water levels across the state were getting a bit low, but late in the week it became clear that it'd rain over the weekend. Unfortunately, that rain (and thunderstorm) chance got pushed to Monday, and then it turned out that we'd get charged for a 2-3 day rental for each canoe from IU Outdoor Adventures because they weren't open Sunday or Monday, but we still picked up the canoes on Saturday and got together at my place on Monday morning at 8 to figure something out. Involved were my friends Ben and Christy:



(pictured here paddling, perhaps somewhat quixotically, upriver--but hey, it was their first time ever)
Mitch and Tali:



(okay, well, you can see Tali at least)
and Sara and I:



We decided to head out despite the rain and gray skies, and to head for the West Fork of the White River, which was at a relatively average (for this time of year) water level and only a half hour away. So we got in our respective vehicles and headed to Martinsville, where we got out at the bridge and tried to find the entrance to the water. The book I'd checked out recommended the "SE corner of SR 39 bridge." There was indeed a road there leading to the water, but it came off of what was clearly someone's very long driveway and appeared to be marked as private property. I walked down to the water and it had clearly been used as an entry point into the water, but I called Dad, as an experienced canoeist, to ask his advice on what to do. He recommended we ask the farmer if we could use it, as the polite thing to do. So Sara and I drove down the driveway a ways until we saw a sign, "NO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES PAST THIS POINT." So we parked the car and walked a few yards until suddenly three fierce, muscular dogs sped at us from the direction of the house, barking ferociously and clearly threatening. We were pretty scared--I thought they might actually attack--but as long as we kept moving back towards the car they just growled. Well, we got in the car and backed out of there pretty fast.
So we drove en masse to a motel across the road, to ask someone's advice. There was a janitor outside looking at us suspiciously, and I got out of the car and had a conversation with him:

Me. Hi, we'd really like to canoe this river, and I was wondering if you have any advice on how to get to the water.
Him. Well, that guy over there, he don't want no one on his property. He'll shootcha. I know him, and he'll do it.
Me. I see. Well, do you have any suggestions?
Him. Well, I don'know. That guy over there, he definitely don't want anyone on his property. It's all signed and everything, he's got security cameras.
Me. Well, I guess he has his right to his property.
Him. Yeah, he's, well, you'll excuse my language.
Me. Of course.
Him. He's a bastard.
Me. Huh.
Him. Yeah, I mow the grass over here, and he's come over and tol' me if I need to get on his property I can do it, but if I see anyone else on there, I have his permission to shoot'em right there.
Me. Wow. Well, do you know where we could get on the river?

The conversation was longer than I would have liked--the guy definitely didn't want us to get away without the impression that we'd get shot if we went on the other guy's land, and he also definitely wanted us to know (several times) about the nearest places in either direction where we might get to the river. He also mentioned that we might be able to use the road I'd originally walked down to the river, but oddly enough we weren't too excited about being anywhere near the property in question. I think I won him over with my Iowa farmboy charm, because by the end of the conversation he was wishing us a fun trip, and to take care of ourselves now, because he knows if he'd get in one o' them canoes he'd definitely get wet, and he's 68, so he doesn't get around much any more. We thanked him and headed downriver to Paragon (pronounced PAIR-a-g'n, and ideally with a strong southern Indiana accent) and took a small road a few miles to the river. There were some people fishing there, and it seemed otherwise pretty deserted and pretty safe.

So we unloaded the canoes, accidentally breaking Ben and Christy's sideview mirror in the process, and Tali, Christy, Sara and I all drove down to Spencer, IN where there was a public access. We headed back in Tali's green Windstar (a good van if ever there was one) to find that as Ben and Mitch had been pulling canoes down to the river, the fishermen/women had left and so had their cooler. They were understandably upset and, I think partially just to vent, filed a police report. Apparently the Paragon sheriff's reaction was, "Yeah, people'll steal anything around here."

This whole time, the sky had been completely overcast and threatening, and it often rained, occasionally hard, though generally just for a few minutes at a time. We expected to have to pull over occasionally for such outbursts. However, by the time we had worked all this out, it was 11:30, and, though the sky continued to look threatening, it didn't rain once (!) after we got into the canoes. So there was one thing that went very right!

The trip was pretty uneventful. It was a good beginner's river (which was good for Christy and Ben)--the water level was plenty high, so we didn't have trouble with shallow water, but the current was still not overly powerful, so even if one was pushed up against something, one would not be capsized. However, it was unfortunately not a good beginners' distance. I was thinking of the previous trip Sara and I had taken, which was 8 miles and too short. So rather than the canoeing book's suggested route from Gosport to Spencer, which it claimed was 8.6 miles, I had us get in at Paragon (suggested by the janitor). I figured that added about 2/3 again of the length of the trip, putting us at about 13 miles. Well, google maps begs to differ (it looks like the book is wrong, and keep in mind that this route shaves off a lot of curves):



We got on the water around 11:40 and took out around 4:50, and Ben and Christy were looking pretty worn out by the end. (To be fair, between circles and zigzags, they had probably gone a mile or so farther than the rest of us...) It didn't help--at least in this way--that about an hour into the trip the sun actually came out and the sky started getting blue, and then bluer, and by the end it was really hot. In fact, the day had been so gray and rainy, and forecast to continue in that way, that most of us hadn't even considered bringing hats or sunscreen or tons of water. Fortunately, we had enough water to barely get us through despite the cooler theft, and Mitch and Tali had brought sunscreen. Still, by the time we realized it was necessary, it was too late, and we're all burned to one extent or another. Ah well.

To close, here's a picture of the whole group before setting out:

Parts of Andrew Lloyd Webber you probably never wanted to hear about.

Would I like a noun and an adjective?

NO!!!!!


Sorry, I've got a Latin quiz tomorrow and I've been practicing declining my nouns and adjectives a fair amount this afternoon. As you can tell, I've gotten pretty good at it. Among other things, I've declined "great sister" (you choose whether great means "awesome" or "large" or both):

A great sister (nominative): soror magna, plural sorores magnae
Of a great sister (genitive): sororis magnae, pl. sororum magnarum
To/for a great sister (dative): sorori magnae, sororibus magnis
A great sister (accusative): sororem magnam, sorores magnas
from/in/with/by a great sister (ablative): sorore magna, sororibus magnis

Other great phrases I've declined are "happy rock" (saxum laetum? no thank you!), "beautiful voice" (vox pulchra? uh-uh), "happy love" (amor laetus? not a chance) and "eternal father" (pater aeternus? well, maybe--okay, no.).

There are lots of fun options. I still need to get to "ancient fire," "harsh mother," "pious brother" (clearly, I'm just going through my family members), "gold mountain," "true light" (ooh--that's a good one, but I think the answer will still be no), "honest foot."

Some nice Latin sentences. First from our first exam:

Femina mala cum nautis pugnavit magnis cum insidiis, sed viri non deleti sunt.
The evil woman has fought the sailors with much treachery, but the men have not been destroyed.

Magnum est periculum poetae bono, sed si magna cum diligentia scribet, magna bonaque faciet ut turba non timeat.
Great is the danger to the good poet, but if he writes very diligently, he will do great and good things that the crowd will not fear.

Si de periculo cogitabunt, incolae multis taedis et saxis magnis pugnabunt, ne inimicis superarentur. Mali enim poenam dabunt.
If they think about the danger, the inhabitants will fight with many torches and large rocks, lest they be overcome by the enemies. For evil men will pay the penalty.

And demonstrating the efficiency of Latin (as, really, have all of these sentences), conveying in two words what we'd convey in five:

Amari opto.
I want to be loved.

Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always find out this equal to that, symmetry under a cemetary wall.... Musemathematics. And you think you're listening to the ethereal. But suppose you said it like Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirty-five thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on account of the sounds it is."
-Leopold Bloom, thinking about music in Ulysses by James Joyce

I have one of those shirts that says "Where the hell is Grinnell?" on the front and "Who the hell cares?" on the back. It's a funny thing: I'm always worried that it will be noticed only by people behind me who will presumably think I'm some angsty guy with a bad attitude. However, I've gotten more grief about the front: it offends a surprising number of people! Just yesterday I wore it to a choir rehearsal, and a fellow member, upon seeing it, looked offended. "Sue and I grew up in Iowa, you know," she scolded. "I grew up in Grinnell," I informed her, and that was the end of that, but it's still funny. Surely if I didn't have a connection to Grinnell, I wouldn't care about it enough to wear the shirt?