Duck Talk

Neighbor Nancy had already run a huge circle with Labradoodle Teddy when she doubled back to walk with me.  She said Teddy seems to need both speed and time spent outside.  When we were next to the water at the millpond, I heard the low grumble of male mallards.  I told Nancy that my dad explained the males do the grumbling, and the females do the quacking that we associate with ducks.  I did a quiet imitation.   

Nancy laughed when a real duck replied behind me, “Quack!  Quack!  Quack!”   

What on earth do you suppose I said in duck talk?

A Hoot Verified

I heard the big owl while I walked from the village parking lot to the boat ramp. 

“Did you hear the owl?” I asked one of the men who regularly drops by the beach area early in the morning.  I noticed these men when I resumed walking in the village after knee surgery.  They come from various directions, park near the boat ramp with their windows open, and enjoy chatting with each other.

“Sparky said he heard it,” Denny replied. 

I was being careful not to call the bird a hoot owl.  When I first heard that call years ago, I looked in the bird book for a hoot owl and found there wasn’t one.  I distinctly remember my grandmother telling a tale for us children about a hoot owl.  She made the story come alive by imitating an owl sound.  That must have been a standard southern thing to call those nocturnal birds “hoot owls.”  Another is the habit of calling a dog, not necessarily a young dog, a puppy dog.  Kitty cat is more universal.  Why people from the south slow their speech even more with double-named animals is beyond me.  Nothing brands one as a southerner quicker than using puppy dog in a sentence.  I didn’t want to stigmatize myself with colloquial speech any more than I had to.  The accent is bad enough.  Hoot owl would not cross my lips.

Sparky was walking down the ramp to the floating pier.  He joined the conversation saying, “I heard the hoot owl.  I’ve never seen it flying, but it’s got to be a big bird.”

What a hoot!  Sparky called it a hoot owl!  Maybe that’s what everyone says when they don’t know the exact name of the bird!

The first thing I did when I walked in the house was to get out the marvelous bird book husband John bought me.  I played the clip of the Great Horned Owl, which is what I thought I’d heard this morning.  The rhythm wasn’t the same, nor was the range as low.  I played five or six different calls until I came to the one that matched the village bird.  It was a Barred Owl, a common owl living in New York year round.  I’ll have to remember the name is eminently acceptable, not barred from my speech.

Dirt Devil, Aptly Named

In my mind, cleaning is just an exercise in rearranging dirt.  Nothing is everlastingly clean, and whatever you do will have to be done again in an amazingly short time.  I stretch that short time to the limits.  Because the squirrels had been pelting our stoop with beech nut hulls, we tracked in thousands of sharp edged pieces.  Most of them were scattered about the carpet inside the front door, but others made their way to the alcove at the top of the stairs and into my bedroom.  For the past week I’ve swept the stoop once or twice a day to interrupt the cycle, but much damage had already been done.  After my husband and grandsons went to the county park to ride steam trains, I hauled out the little Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner.  It failed at the end of my last session, but husband John got it going again.  I don’t think he did anything to it, except maybe glare at it.  Starting with the dining room, I pushed and pulled the red machine under the table, all around and under the chairs.  I stopped twice, and where I stopped, the machine deposited dirt.  I might as well have been walking a dog!  A dog moves around and makes deposits which you have to clean up, but at least it wags its tail and responds to you.  Moving into sunlight in the kitchen area, I saw there was no dirt in the clear holder.  Great!  Only the dirt held by suction was actually transported to another place.  The rest must have been scattered into the corners, where it will remain unseen because I won’t look.  You’d better not look, either, if you know what’s good for you.  I took the Dirt Devil apart and found the assembly had not been properly seated, undoubtedly because I hadn’t twisted it all the way the last time.

The Devil and I began again in the living room where the real mess was (and is).  Most of the hulls were no longer evident by sight, although I’m sure a bare foot would find plenty to complain about.  I was ready to stop when the vacuum stopped itself.  By hand I picked up the biggest pieces left under the machine and dragged it to the kitchen.  When I unlatched the holder, dirt sprayed in all directions.  I emptied the now full container and saw with dismay that the Devil had dirt in its holder and all over the top.  I turned the whole machine upside down over the garbage and shook it for good measure.  Anger is a great help in times like this.  I made sure the wicked thing was put together tightly.  Plugging it in near the coffee maker, I pressed the start button, hoping to clean up the new mess I’d just made.  Nothing happened.  It wouldn’t go when connected in the dining room, either.  Rats!  I shoved the thing ignominiously under the window and went back to pick up the biggest pieces of hulls and dirt in the kitchen.  And that, my friends, is why I make myself vacuum at least twice a year, whether the carpets need it or not.

Rethinking the Interview

Image via Wikipedia

Perhaps I'm thinking too much about it, but for the past few weeks, I haven't been able to get the concept of interviewing off my mind. Now I've been interviewing people for over a decade. You'd think I really know all the ins-and-outs by now. I even wrote articles about how to do an interview for The Writer and Suite 101. But this summer the game (or I) changed a bit.

Am I becoming a Workaholic?


The first inkling I had that something might be amiss was when I, along with my family, was relaxing at a friend's house. I was chatting with an artist who had recently returned from Africa. Fascinating. I reached for some chips and guacamole to keep my hands from grabbing a recording device in my pocket. This was fun. Not an interview. Still, I couldn't stop my flood of questions.

I confessed my dilemma to my husband at the end of the evening when we were home. He laughed and commented that he could see I was struggling. It's those darn interviewing instincts. They just kick in! (note to self - write article on African art from an American perspective so I can follow up with a legit QA session).

Relax - It's Summer


One of my favorite parts of my job is getting to "meet" the people I interview. Sure, it's usually by phone, but I still get unique insight into their lives. Love that.

But I think I'm getting a bit too driven.

A nice conversation has turned into a whirlwind tour. For example, when I get a 15-minute interview, I generally have six questions prepared. In my last two interviews, I was done in less than eight minutes. Self-anaysis time. Why were they so short? I can think of two reasons.

1. The interviewee was not one of my favorite people. In fact, I wondered what kind of drugs were in this person's system. The individual couldn't care less about the viewing audience for the film created, and had no personal opinions. The person didn't even have a dream for what might come next in their working universe. Weird. And a total waste of my time. Good thing I liked the film so I can write more about that.

2. The interviewee was one of my favorite people. I was so excited about interviewing the person and discovered the person was as wonderful in person as I could ever have hoped for. Thanks to my excitement, and the fact that the person was so popular that I knew there was a full docket of interviews ahead in the person's schedule, I rushed it. That 15 minutes of time was allotted to me, and I blew it. And to make things worse, I probably seemed rude in the process because I didn't take time for a bit of chit-chat even when I knew time wasn't of the essence. Rudeness isn't cool.

Proactive Planning

So what did I learn from it all?

I went into the interview from choice #1 knowing the person might be like that, based on my research. Next time I have to deal with that - I'm having at least 30 questions prepared. I'm also going to break the interviewer's rule and ask some questions with yes/no answers. At least I'll get some sort of response I can print.

For interviewees like the second one, I'm going to relax and enjoy the conversation. That was a serious job perk I threw away. Never again.

It all goes to show you live and learn, even after a decade of work. That's a good lesson to remember.

At Least It Wasn't a Worm

I needed to use up the filling I'd made for burritos. 

I said to myself, “Anne, you may as well take this to the office because no one else is going to eat it.”

The tortilla wouldn't fit on the small china plate I keep there, so I found a paper plate in the cabinet.  I avoid using disposables when I can, but I needed a bigger base for the large tortilla.  Everything was fine until I took it out of the microwave.  The soggy filling was dripping all over the counter.  I pulled the china plate under the paper one to catch the mess and took it to my desk.  It would be easy to clean up the china plate later.  It was Friday when we are allowed to eat at our desks and leave early at the end of the day.  All was well until I finished and noticed a small gap in the paper plate.  It was about a quarter of an inch wide and an inch long.  I looked for that bit of paper, but there was nothing left on the china plate -- nothing.  I realized the texture of a tough tortilla and a soft paper plate were identical.  I guess fiber is the name of the game.  At least it wasn't a worm.

Green's Limit

Digital self portrait

Tuna fish salad seemed a good idea for the midday meal, since I didn’t know when husband John would get his lunch break.  We try to have our days off together, but for some reason he was working and I was not.  I prepared the tuna salad, read the newspaper, heard my stomach rumble and ate at 2:00.  That’s when I discovered the limit of green.  The assembled sandwich had a base of one slice of whole wheat toast, topped with tuna salad and a large, crisp leaf of iceberg lettuce.  I crave crunch these days and avoid the satisfying things like potato chips and crackers.  There were two large stalks of celery in the salad, which was overkill to begin with.  The lettuce was not only on top, it was over the top.  My tongue explored each bite, trying to find an identifiable tuna taste.  No luck.  From now on, green will have to fade into the background.  There should be a balance between “good for you” and “delicious.”