I’ll explain more tomorrow. Tonight I am pounding my head against the keyboard attempting to get a 20Below article finished.

Goodnight!

Today I sat in a Eugene coffee shop, hunched over my copy of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, scribbling furiously in the margins.

I really enjoy studying and reading in coffee shops. Somehow the environment is just busy enough to be stimulating without being too busy—it envelopes you in its bustling, warm environment, and because there is so much noise, your ears don’t tend to pick out specific, distracting threads of speech. But sometimes someone else’s conversation will become just a little too loud or a little too interesting.

This happened today.

I don’t try to eavesdrop. And I don’t think it’s a respectful thing to do, on the whole. But when two college girls seat themselves on the quiet end of the coffee shop and start gabbing in unavoidably loud voices, they don’t leave you much choice.

Despite the volume of these two girls’ conversation, however, I did not listen to them—at first. I was concentrating very hard on my reading. But you know that little tape recorder in the back of your head? The one that kind of “hears” things when you don’t really hear them, when your mind is elsewhere, and then plays them back to you when the world slides back into focus?

Well. My little mental tape recorder slowly began to recognize a, ah, pattern in the speech of these two young ladies. They both had a bit of that… certain something in their speech. I will call it “Valley Girl Speak.”

Now, I don’t have anything against individuals who are valley-girl-ish. It’s just that, as a concept, it is rather easy to laugh at. Observe:

I decided to try a little experiment. I identified three key phrases that one girl in particular used repeatedly. Then, for a mere two or three minutes, I left one ear open as I continued to read, and casually recorded a tick mark in the margin of my book any time she said one of these phrases.

And, I don’t bring this up to humiliate or point the finger at anyone, or with any kind of hostility—let it just be known, for history’s sake, that in those two or three minutes, that poor girl used the word “Like” Twenty-seven times.

“Oh my gawd!” and “That’s SOOOO funny!” tied for second and third with a mere Six times each. Practically nothing.

Also, the phrases “Oh my gawd, like, so…,” “That’s like a little like…,” and “That’s SOOO funny… when did he text you that?” were each uttered at least once.

I actually had to bury my mouth in my arm to prevent myself from laughing around the sixth time that she said “That’s SOOO funny!”

But really… TWENTY-SEVEN times?

That takes skill.

Today a friend of mine told me about how she used to be terrified of “the Joker” from Batman, and how her older brother used to hide behind the shower curtain and jump out when she walked into the bathroom, yelling, “The Joker’s got you!” Naturally, this did not make my friend very happy.

Last night, another friend told me about the time her brother and his friend, who were babysitting her and her sister, convinced them that there was a man outside waiting to KIDNAP them. Great babysitters, those.

I think I got pretty lucky in the older sibling department. The worst thing my brother ever did was indoctrinate me with his fallacious beliefs that clear Christmas lights and gravy are evil.

What about you? Any sibling horror stories?

(P.S. I do not really mean to suggest that brothers who torment their younger sisters are not good brothers; both of the friends I mentioned adore their big brothers. Just so you know. )

Thank you for visiting Eugene this evening. You brought some much needed excitement into one girl’s humdrum evening.

Love,

Erin.

(This afternoon in discussion, David, the PRESIDENT of Gutenberg College, told us that if it snowed overnight school would be cancelled in the morning. When we asked him how much it would need to snow before that happened, he said, “Enough to play in.” Let it be known that Gutenberg has the coolest. president. ever. )

So. This afternoon we had our little Thanksgiving lunch/dinner, in which we all devoured turkey and stuffing and gravy and cranberry sauce and rolls (and some of them had mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and green beans as well). It was lovely. I anticipate that the second act, called “eating leftovers instead of spending money on lunch” will be equally as lovely.

AND I even did big, important, helpful things, like stirring the gravy and washing a few dishes!

Perhaps I am not a complete domestic failure after all.

This morning before work, I shuffled into the kitchen and set some water for my coffee on the stove. Then I shuffled into the hallway, grabbed a box of Wheaties from the pantry, and shuffled back into the kitchen to pour myself some cereal.

It was a brand new, never-before-opened box of Wheaties. As I prepared to break the seal, my sleepy eyes happened to focus on these words, written on the small tab in the middle of the box top: “To Open, Slide Finger Under Arrows to Left And Right.”

This gave me pause.

Now, I realize that American consumers are becoming dumber. Or, at least, that the companies who offer us products to consume believe we are. So I honestly was not all that bothered by the fact that Wheaties felt compelled to tell me how to rip one piece of cardboard off of another piece of cardboard. The thing that really bothered me—that left me standing there puzzling for a full three seconds before actually pouring my cereal—was why they stopped there.

The thing is, opening the box top has never been the problem for me. Anyone who has been alive for more than four or five years knows that opening the bag is the really challenging part of a new box of cereal.

Maybe I am alone in this, but I just find it kind of disturbing that in this age of “do not insert knife into child”-type labels, Wheaties couldn’t take the time to give us poor bewildered cereal-eaters a little direction when it came to opening that darned plastic bag. It wouldn’t have to be anything fancy—a simple “To Open, USE SCISSORS” would probably suffice. Anything to alleviate those few frantic moments of tugging and grunting and teeth-gnashing and swearing at that stupid welded-together plastic.

After I had given this weighty topic its due consideration (and after I had finally managed to open the plastic bag), I poured myself some cereal.

Then, after stuffing the bag back down into the box, I closed the box top. And that’s when I noticed these words: “TO CLOSE, PUSH TAB UNDER HERE.”

…

I’m just saying…

All of the tutors at Gutenberg College are worth getting to know. In addition to being people of substantial moral fiber with a firm dedication to the truth, they are just plain interesting. Listening to our tutors tell stories about their past is a time-honored tradition here at Gutenberg, and is generally considered an excellent way to spend one’s time.

Charley Dewberry is one of those tutors. He is one of the most unassuming people you will ever meet—but behind his friendly demeanor you will find a treasure trove of knowledge and experience.

One of the great things about Charley is that he doesn’t often come out and tell you about himself; he just kind of lets details about his life slip. You might not know when you first meet him, for instance, that he often gets to school by flying his own small plane from Florence to Eugene. But he does. Or you might not know that he spends much of his time as a research scientist, “diving and counting salmon throughout the Pacific Northwest.” (source) But he does. But even once you know those things, you are only scratching the surface of interesting things that you could know about Charley.

But anyway. Every year, Charley and his wife Susie have a tradition of inviting a group of students who sign up ahead of time to come out to their home in Florence the day after Thanksgiving. This year was the first time I was able to go.

We started off our morning by visiting a stream, where Charley pointed out some large, dark shapes swimming upstream in the water: Chinook salmon. Then we took short walk in a drippy, beautiful Oregon forest, while Charley stopped to explain things like “nurse trees” and lichens to us.

After our walk, we were all thoroughly cold and wet, so we journeyed back to Charley’s house for a wonderful warm lunch and some chatting.

In the afternoon, Charley made good on a promise he had made to take us flying! We drove out to the Florence airport and waited our turns in the homey little office building (complete with resident cat) next to the landing strip.

When it was my group’s turn to go up in the plane, I was honestly a little bit apprehensive. I am not, in case you haven’t noticed, a naturally adventurous person. (Last easter can attest to that.) Flying up into the air in a little tiny airplane is the kind of thing that would usually require large amounts of coercion by friends that I really like for me to even consider doing. But, once again, the idea of being able to take pictures in a place I had never been before convinced me. Maybe this whole photography obsession has been a good thing after all.

I think it probably goes without saying that I am glad I ended up going up in the plane. There was something immeasurably thrilling about soaring over the tiny little cars and seeing the waves breaking on the beach far below. After the first few seconds I forgot my fear and was just able to enjoy myself. (And, of course, I took pictures )

Thank you again, Charley and Susie, for opening your home to us and sharing these experiences with us!

If you are a Gutenberg student, and if Charley and Susie offer this opportunity again next year, I highly recommend you take them up on it. You won’t regret it.

I hope all my fellow Americans had a great Thanksgiving Day. I hope all of you non-Americans also had a great day too, actually. But… you know what I mean.

We had a nice, though low-key, day. Mom and Dad and I started off our day by watching the end of the Macy’s parade and the subsequent dog show, and then we played Myst V together. Dad made a delicious, creamy pasta dish for dinner—not because we had any sentimental notions of sparing a turkey, but because we are saving our real Thanksgiving dinner for Sunday evening, when my brother and his wife can be here. Then we will be having Turkey and stuffing and gravy and rolls and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie yum yum yum.

I would love to expound on some of the many things for which I am thankful, but I have to get up at an unholy hour tomorrow morning. (I’ve never gone shopping on Black Friday before, but I saw some very inexpensive compact flash cards advertised at Circuit City and I want to try my luck at getting some.)

So I will leave it at this: I am thankful for the fact that God is in control of my life, and that He is a good God. I am thankful that I can trust Him through the twists and turns my story takes, and I am thankful for the blessings He has given me in this world (my family, my school, the things I enjoy) and the promise He has given us for the next. Most of all, I am thankful for the mercy He extends to us all.

The Scene: I and two of my friends are walking back to Gutenberg in the steady, blustery, gray rain that has characterized the whole day. I’m enveloped in my puffy blue raincoat (be quiet) and clutching my hood, which keeps threatening to blow back off my head.

(Paraphrased)

N: I think we might actually have a white Christmas this year!

Me: Oooh, I hope so.

J: I talked to my mom last week. She said it was 93 degrees back home.

Me: Wow!

N: We went to Disneyland around this time last year, and they were already getting ready for Christmas. They had these Christmas caroler characters wearing wool coats and scarves out in the bright sun.

J: Yeah… that’s why, in California, we don’t sing “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” we sing, “It’s beginning to feel a lot like it should be Christmastime.”

We all laugh as we continue walking. J and N both have soaked wool coats. Their hair is dripping wet, too. I’m still clutching my hood. You’ve gotta love Oregon.

Wes, our art teacher, started class off on an unusual note today.

“Okay, class,” he said, “I want you to get out a piece of paper. Now I want you to write down one to three words that describe an idea, a belief, or a feeling that has been really important in your life recently. Either something you’re struggling with, or just something that matters to you.”

We were all a little bit bewildered by this.

Wes left the room to let us ruminate. I pulled out a piece of paper and almost wrote down “photography” before I stopped myself. Wait, no, I realized, That’s something that matters to me, but it’s not the kind of “matters” that Wes is looking for. Besides, it’s not an idea, a belief, or a feeling.

Then I got to thinking about what I have been struggling with recently. Images of the mornings that I am always late for school, of the nights when I just can’t get ready for bed, of all the countless times that I just refuse to say “no” to myself flashed through my head. I wrote down “Self-control.”

Five minutes later, Wes walked back in carrying two large brown paper bags. “Do you all have your idea? Good.” He grinned as he began pulling packages of modeling clay out of the bags. “Alright. Now I want you to sculpt that idea.”

So we cleared space on the classroom tables, and for the next half hour or forty minutes we all plied our clay in quiet concentration.

At first, I did not know how to capture “self-control” in clay. But all of a sudden, this image popped into my head: A person standing in front of some larger than life, tempting object blocking his path. I wanted to capture a thin, teeter-tottering slice of time that would leave you wondering: Is he going to move towards the object? Is he going to move away from it? Is he going to reign himself in or let himself go? And I did not want the piece to give any indication as to the answer. As I envisioned it, it would be like a balancing act—a stare down between a person and the decision he has to make.

Now, I don’t pretend that this is the greatest piece of art that ever existed. We only had a limited amount of time, and I am no sculptor. But here is what I came up with:

Part of our assignment in class was to talk about our piece after it was finished. I stumbled through my explanation, feeling frustrated because I did not think I really got across the gist of what I was trying to say.

Classmate Joel, who was sitting across the room from me, spoke up: “From this angle it looks pretty funny.”

“Why?” I asked, worried that he couldn’t see the perspective correctly, and ready to move the figures so he could see them better.

“Well, it just looks like he’s thinking, ‘Man, there’s that damn apple again.”

We all burst out laughing, and my tension was immediately relieved. I couldn’t have put it better myself.