Summer Reading

There's nothing like reading lists handed out at the end of the school year to send the kids screaming for the hills, apparently.Mine have definitely decided to go off the beaten track, this year, even as NY Times columnist Nicholas Kristof strikes a familiar chord in his column on his Best Childrens' Books of all time, and scores over 2000 reader responses on his blog asking for reader's suggestions.
A lot of those mentioned by the readers are old favorites of mine, but my kids have decided on their own favorites for the season.
M, a rather advanced reader for an 8+ year old, has zipped through several of the Ramona books by Beverly Cleary, and is now avidly waiting for the next arrival (reserved and still in the library queue) in the fractured fairytale series called the Sisters Grimm.
She's also hugely fond of a Catholic school series about the Murphy family(authored by a Pittsburgher named Colleen O'Shaughnessy McKenna- whew, and I thought only South Indians had long names!)
S is tired of all the highbrow reading for school coursework and has embarked on a diet of miscellaneous teen/Young adult writers of sci-fi, world war and adventure books for light reading. For heavy reading, he's glued to "Introducing Character Animation with Blender'.
My reading list has been rather sparse. I plodded recently through 'Lulu in Marrakech' by Diane Johnson. Lulu is a secret agent, sort of Valerie Plame meets anti-Mata Hari, and naturally, falls into all sorts of adventures when she heads for Marrakech, ostensibly to meet an old flame.
I delved into the 'Summer World' by Bernd Heinrich, chapter after chapter about the insects, birds and small animals of the summer, sort of Thoreau-meets-research-scientist style of writing which pits incongruous rhapsodizing about the beauty of nature against statistical tables on how the author determined precisely when pupa would sense the lengthening days and start the transition to the adult form. Fascinating, and yawn-inducing.
What's on your bookshelf?

Death of a Pitchman

The world mourns Michael Jackson, but in our household, we mourn the passing of Billy Mays. We were the unofficial Billy Mays fan club, rushing to the TV whenever we heard his stentorian voice booming over the speakers.
No more of that, sadly. Who will sell us the next must-have thingamabob, persuade us to try the amazing Fix-it (not bad for minor scratches on a car's finish- I know, I tried it.), or the Oxiclean bucket which still sits unused except for a spoonful or two since I last purchased it 5 years ago? Can Anthony Sullivan or the Shamwow guy fill his shoes? I fear not.
RIP, Billy Mays.

(Billy Mays and Anthony Sullivan appear on the Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien to pitch their new series, 'The Pitchmen' in this clip.)

In Search of a Guru

It was another of those evenings when I was bored with the blogs, that I typed in the name of the guru who taught me Carnatic music when I was in high school and college. The initial word search pulled up miscellaneous references to the Vechoor cow, apparently the world's smallest, and highly efficient at yielding copious amounts of milk, even on a smaller diet than the more common breeds. Amazing what trivia pops up on these searches!

Next, I tried the full name 'Vechoor Harihara subramania Iyer' and struck gold with this affectionate remembrance of Vechoor sir by a descendant of the Travancore kings, prince Rama Varma, an upcoming musician in his own right.

"Then the Maharani set about checking out matters for herself. She invited dozens of musicians of all sorts to the palace and made them sing in front of her, followed by rapid fire question sessions on the various aspects and intricacies of classical music. Finally it turned out that the very Harihara Subramani whom Semmangudi had recommended proved to be satisfactory in all respects. And thus Vechoor Harihara Subramania Iyer – popularly known as "Vechoor Saar" – was fixed up to teach music to the Maharani's great grandson. The two silent visitors in the Maharani's bedroom on February 3, 1982, were Kumara Kerala Varma (then Principal, Music Academy, Thiruvananthapuram) and Vechoor Saar himself. And the terrified 14-year-old great grandson was me."

So that explained Vechoor sir's regular trips to the Kowdiar palace. Vechoor sir had always been kind enough to offer me a lift in the palace car which came for him, for he knew that it would save me the trouble of switching buses for one part of my journey.

We did have a rather funny experience later when I got my own moped and remembering the car rides, offered to take Vechoor sir riding pillion behind me to a nearby store. He was about double my weight and we narrowly escaped falling when I attempted to balance the moped with him behind me. Vechoor sir got off in a hurry and said he would walk to the store, instead.

Funny, how the little details come back to memory about my first lesson with Vechoor sir. My mother had heard our neighbor Bhama maami sing and inquired about her guru, since my lessons had been left dangling with my earlier guru having gone through a bout of ill-health. Bhama maami had given her the information and the first lesson was duly set up.
He listened to my singing a varnam and a favorite keerthanam and nodded.' We will start lessons next week.'

The next week, my father dropped me off and went to run some errands while I was at the lesson. Things were progressing well enough, singingly, except for an excruciating bout of cramps that struck, without warning. I continued to sing, determined to make it through the session, but in the middle of the song, my brain blacked out to shut out the pain and I slumped to the side like a sack of potatoes.

I came to within seconds, with Vechoor sir standing by in great concern, Maami sprinkling water on my face. They had me lie down for a while till my father returned. I went back home in good shape, though wondering if the incident was a harbinger of how things would work out in future with the new guru.

Luckily, that wasn't the case. I proceeded to learn more under Vechoor sir, continuing under his tutelage for about 3 years, till college classes and exam schedule uncertainties made the relationship taper off. The parting was not without angst. Amma declared "I'm sure it started from when he chose to teach you that song in Varali. It has the effect of leading to a termination of the guru-shishya relationship, in short order."

I didn't think so. It seemed more that I had been floundering long enough with the last few songs that I learned that Vechoor sir might have sensed a loss of interest and decided to gently hint that it might be time for me to stop.

No matter, we parted on good terms. The last time I saw him was at my wedding, where I duly paid my obeisance and received his and Maami's blessings. He had heard that I was going to America and reminded me to always keep in touch with music and continue practicing.

Now, I have a couple of young students of my own, whom I'm trying to shepherd through the basics. I haven't had the opportunity to start on any of what Vechoor sir taught me, since they haven't advanced far enough yet for that. But I do remember my Gurus, all of them- first my mother, then Venkatramanan sir, Vechoor sir, Prof. S.R.J., and Bhaama maami, and silently dedicate my lessons to what they have done for me. After all, that's the best Guru dakshina that I can offer them- to pass on what they have taught me to another generation.

Squirrel vs. Bird Feeder

The other day, a largish squirrel with a black nose stopped by my brand new bird feeder. The old one had a hole that you could drive a truck through, courtesy of said squirrel, who had managed to pry off one of the perching-post assemblies.

This one didn't last 2 hours. Blacknose stopped by, took in a few whiffs, put out her front paws and leaned all her weight on the nearest perch-post.

I opened the sliding door to the deck and charged at her, waving my arms about madly "Scoot! Shoo!". Blacknose scurried away, peering cautiously from behind the oak trunk.

I moved the shepherd's hanging post a little further out, to make it harder for the squirrel to bridge the gap between the deck railing and the feeder.

She waited till I had gone back inside to attack the feeder again. This time, she couldn't reach the feeder easily. Still she determinedly shimmied up the post and attacked from the top, dangling precariously. I decided to come out at that point. She made a mad scramble for a thin branch of the nearest bush and raced away to safety.

I went back inside and about my work. When I next looked at the feeder, it was empty. Blacknose had managed to rip off the perch-post again. It wouldn't do to try and refill it, as all the seed was going to pour out if she so much as tilted it slightly.

My options now are
(1) Try a 'squirrel-proof feeder', for which there is no guarantee that Blacknose won't figure out a way to raid it. Not to mention, the shepherd's hook, while sturdy, cannot hold the weight of the armor that such a contraption would need.
(2) Mix cayennne/chili powder with the seed. This shouldn't harm the birds, I gather, but is unpleasant for the squirrels. In addition, it could be unpleasant for the mixer, according to some bloggers, but there are cultural advantages to my growing up in a home where mixing chili powder for pickles is a routine affair.
(3) If (2) fails, "Try providing squirrels with their own feeding station if all else fails, and give them whole dried corn and seeds that they like."

(Squirrel photo from www.freedigitalphotos.net)

Dress Codes

Today, I saw a brand new poster and notice on the lab door. "Dress Code -No muscle T's and sleeveless shirts, no tanktops, no halter necks, no revealing clothes, no holes in clothing or frayed hems, business casual Mon-Thurs, jeans permitted Fridays, etc. etc."
"Are hijabs and abayas permitted or not? You only mention a prohibition against 'revealing clothing', didn't you?", I asked the lab manager, only half in jest. He seemed a bit non-plussed. I'm not sure if I won't see a new sign prohibiting those for being not revealing enough, unlike the halter necks and tank tops.
"Why does that lady look like an elephant?" queried a four-year old S in all innocence, when we shared an elevator ride with a lady in her abaya and laundry basket, several years ago. I shushed him "Don't be rude, S", while I heard the distinct gurgle of laughter from the elephant with her laundry basket nearby.
A few days later, I got to see what she had been hiding with her abaya: I had to knock on her door when a fire alarm went off in the building. She came to the door and opened it for a few minutes as I explained the situation. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, which she promptly covered up with her abaya, as she left the building along with us till the 'all-clear' was given to allow us back inside.
So much for the all-concealing abaya and encouraging of modesty- though it might be very convenient for concealing tatty old clothes and uncooperative hair. My sister-in-law, who has lived in Saudi, swore that she could go to any grocery store even in her old nightgown, under the benevolent cover of the abaya.
I remember my school days, when any hint of nail polish would bring down the wrath of God and of Sister F on all unfortunates, who were ordered to scrape it off. I partly blame my habit of biting nails on that tyranny, and was able to get out of the habit only by assiduously cultivating my fingernails when I reached the 11th grade and moved to a school where there was no such prohibition. There's nothing like a couple of coats of acetone-smelling varnish to keep one from chewing the nails off.
College dress codes were more liberal, at least for engineering students, compared with the medical students, where all girls had to wear saris compulsorily, to convey the required air of professionalism, when combined with the white coats. For us, the only mandatory requirement was that of wearing pants and tucked in shirts on Mech or Electrical lab days, to ensure we didn't get our dupattas or pallus caught in rotating motors and such.
The first office I worked in was still full of old-fashioned fuddy-duddies who looked askance at ladies who showed up in salwar kameez, rather than saris, but I was of a new 'daring' generation and paid no attention to any raised eyebrows on that account. It's now no longer eye-brow raising to wear those. I'm sure halter necks and tank tops wouldn't be acceptable there, even now.
Which brings me back to the current office dress code. With the current Penguins mania and Stanley cup playoffs, I'm sure that an exception will be shortly made for those who wish to dress like penguins, at least until the next game, just as Steelers jerseys were de rigueur every Friday before Super Bowl. We haven't gotten around to dress like a Pirate day ( with fake patches, golden rings in the ears and all), but I'm sure that will come some day, when the Pittsburgh Pirates make it out of the doldrums that they are currently stuck in.

Blogging Doldrums

"Doldrums" has a listless sound. My first acquaintance with the term came as a preteen, as I eagerly gobbled my way through Charles Berlitz's book on Bermuda Triangle and the mysterious graveyard of ships.

It was later that I found out that it meant 'a state of stagnation', as well. I've hit the blogging doldrums over the past week or two. Life can get too busy for spending time trying to think up suitable topics to post on.

What happens to blogs started with such fanfare? Do they go to a graveyard of ghostly ships marooned on a still sea? Not quite, according to this New York Times article.

Or maybe they are just like an Unfinished Craft Object, set aside for another time, while a new baby blog takes up much of the blogger's attentions. (I must admit to having a ton of those in my closet- fodder for a recycled blog post from yesteryear, perhaps.)

Wait, is that a hint of breeze that I feel? A new topic to post on?

Watch this space...

War on Thistles-Part II

Move over 'War on Terror'... we need to expand the war on Thistles. They have taken over the world again, just like last summer.
Or this might just prove to be the solution to the energy crisis. Instead of acres of silicon faces turned sunwards, imagine the deserts filled with the 6 feet tall stalks of giant thistles, shimmering and waving gently in the winds like the seas of golden corn in the prairie.
All we need now is a method to convert the harvested thistles into a thick oozy black liquid that can quench the thirst of our revving engines. Inventors and biochemists, don't wait a nanosecond longer. Off to your drawing boards and on with your 'thinking' caps!
I spent a good hour today in the balmy weather, gloves being my only protection, as our once-trusty Weedhound refused to cooperate after its Winter of Discontent in the unheated garage.
I had a black sackfull of thistles, weighing in at about 30 pounds.
The garden looks clean for now, and my vegetable patch is finally ready for some plantings.
Or perhaps, I shall not bother this year. A few weeks away on vacation, and my precious kitchen garden will look like the final battle of Terminator Thistlenation.

Backseat Driving

While on our recent vacation in Disney World, my friend and I decided to go with the kids ( two teens and two 8 year-olds) to the Boardwalk near the hotel. As we sauntered down in the blazing sun, the kids caught sight of the Surrey bike rental place and were all clamoring for a ride.
"Drivers must be at least 18 to steer and control the brakes", said the rental guy.
"Good thing that I'm 19, I can definitely be a driver", averred S loudly, as my friend A filled in all our correct ages in the rental form. It was all I could do to not grin at his chagrin as his bluff was called.
I took the controlling seat, with the all important brake, being the only adult with shoes adequate to the task- A had her sandals on, not having anticipated the bike ride.
We started pedalling our way around the backwater, while I watched carefully, ready to brake at the least sign of a pedestrian strolling casually ahead.
Soon enough, an elderly couple came into sight as we moved along at a dizzying pace. I braked.
"You're so slow, Amma. We're driving like elderly people", yelled S. His friend concurred, loudly indignant: "What's the point of having all of us pedal if we are going to go so slow?"
"Did you know that teens are better drivers than 80 year-olds?", chimed in S again, attempting to impress us with their credentials. We harrumphed at the idea: "Teens have zero judgment. Elderly drivers, zero reflexes. We're neither."
"OK, guys, here's the time to show off your pedal-power, we've got an upslope to conquer", said A.
The bike came to a total halt, as the two rebels behind decided to reverse pedal and cause the front pedals to lock up.
After another round of altercations, we finally made it up the slope with much huffing and puffing, passed easily by another more harmonious team of bikers, all adults and evidently not arguing among themselves.
"When we get our driver's licenses, we won't drive like you. Cars are meant to be driven fast", this while attempting to get our speed up high enough to crash into the family in the swimsuits about 10 yards away from us.
"That's not going to happen anytime soon, if you behave like this. At this rate, we won't let you get your student driver's licenses until you reach the age of 30."
Only a threat to stop after one round elicited some grumbly cooperation and peace from the incessant backseat driving tips. I was never so relieved to set my feet down on firm ground as when our half-hour rental was up!
Some day, I'm sure S is going to be scolding me for driving too fast, but I'll be a 'little old lady' by the time he catches me at it, and he a nagging 40-something.

Of Concerts and Congressmen

We had been to the local upscale shopping mall, the kind that draws more restaurant-goers than shoppers. M and S were performing at the annual piano recital that their teacher holds. Things went swimmingly well. M didn't freeze up while playing, while S managed to fudge his way through his big piece, nailing at least all his glissandos without missing a note. All the pieces played by the 20 odd students sounded quite charmingly well-crafted and precisely enunciated, varying in genre from modern to jazz and swing and classical.
As we left the store and headed down the escalator, S pointed out a booth at the center of the acres of gleaming tile, sporting a banner with the name of our local congressman. "Do you think that's him?" I peered at the tall man bending over a sheaf of papers as he talked to a lady in pantsuit. "I'm not sure...Yes, it's him." My husband promptly walked over and introduced himself to the congressman, and insisted on introducing us as well. A few pleasantries later, he asked S what his dreams were, and S mentioned "Making movies."
"Bollywood style?", asked Mr.M.
"More along the line of action and effects, like ILM," I pointed out.
Wondering if I had said too much, I then stood aloof, feeling faintly uneasy as they went on talking. This was not who I had voted for in the last election, though my husband had voted for him.
After getting handed a couple of mini-copies of the Constitution and a booklet about The Flag, we walked away and back to our car, before we realized that lunchtime was slipping away and we hadn't had lunch.
So it was back to the mall for a short eat-in. Just as we were finishing up, Ben N. kept stopping by, industriously asking if I needed extra croutons on my soup, and offering to clear away our plates, even though we would have done it ourselves. It felt faintly weird to be the honored recipient of too much customer service training. Or maybe it was just my dangly earrings that Ben wanted to check out, like a mesmerized toddler.
As we went back to the car, M and S decided that they wanted to go 'bug the congressman' again, just for bragging rights with their friends. So off they went with their father, while I stayed in the van.
This time they chatted with him for another 15 minutes, quizzing him about what he did and why he didn't make more public appearances. He said that he had been out all morning, milking a cow at a local farm, and had to change from his boots because of the cow manure that spattered them. Clearly, an eyebrow-raising fundraiser of sorts "Get your Congressperson to Milk a Cow" or some such.
(I can't put my finger on it precisely, but there is something similar in the effusive attention from the eager employee at the eatery and the (busy?) congressman milking cows and schmoozing with the public. Strange times indeed, when people who normally wouldn't bat an eyelid at your approach, start treating you like long-lost friends.)
"What do you like to do in your spare time?", asked S, the ever-professional interviewer (He's had practice interviewing a teacher who was a veteran soldier, and watches too much Colbert who also likes to interview congressmen and put them on the spot).
"Jogging, playing the guitar", answered the congressman.
"And now, let me guess your favorite activities. You like to vacuum your room and your brother's", he suggested to M, who squealed in mock indignation.
S said, "I play the piano and violin. We just had our piano recital a little while ago. And, I have a concert with my orchestra this evening, too."
S named the pieces they were playing, on inquiry by Mr.M. "Oh, the Firebird Suite, that's one of my favorites."
"Ha...is it really, or are you just acting like a politician?", S jabbed a finger at him.
"No, I really like that piece", and he hummed a few bars. Touche.
My husband detailed all the events after he got back to the van, and we had a good guffaw at M and S's attempts to 'bug the congressman'. They had been bugged by their intended victim, instead. It's hard to get past a congressman who is also a trained psychologist!

Almost a Kindle-kinder

My husband bought the new Kindle about a month ago. It was to be primarily for his use, but I got my chance to try it out while sitting in a hospital waiting room. Inspite of the extra features, like being able to surf webpages (horribly slow, and the pages formatted for PC screens look messed up on the 6 inch screen.), it shone primarily as an e-book reader. When I searched for tried and tested classics of literature, I could find them really cheap ( about 50 cents to a dollar) on the Book search feature. But it still left me feeling vaguely dissatisfied- couldn't they be easily accessible from free sites like Project Gutenberg?

A week later, both of us had a new competitor for Kindle-time. M showed every sign of turning into a serious Kindle addict. She insisted that we purchase a couple of her favorite authors' books on the Kindle (and at $10 a pop, we ended up on the lookout for older children's literature, like the complete set of Wizard of Oz books or the Wind in the Willows, which were definitely much less expensive.).

She sat with it every night at bed time, reading to herself, or trying out the 'Read aloud' electronic voice, which had her in fits of giggles at its attempts to pronounce even some simple words. (Apparently, it can't pronounce President Obama's name correctly, either.)

My husband did some more research and unlocked the goldmine of free e-books. The MOBI format on Project Gutenberg was all that we needed. We could download what we wished in that format, email it to our Kindle account and presto! We had access to lots of free classics of our choice at the press of a button (or two).

For now, the signs of M turning into a Kindle-kinder are on the wane. She's discarded it in favor of the library's used book sale Nancy Drew hard covers, and her other favorites which are either unavailable or too expensive on the Kindle.

Though I believe that someday when she is ready for them, Jo, Meg, Amy and Beth, Anne of Green Gables, Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer will be waiting for her button-press to bring them to life again, probably on a trip when space for books is limited.

I wish that all of S's textbooks could be available on a Kindle. It would save him from having to carry 40 pounds of books in an increasingly tattered bookbag, and the bad posture induced by bending double to carry them. The newer Kindle is even headed that way, and at least for college textbooks, it could be a lucrative market for students who have to have the latest editions of their textbooks and not much use for those once they graduate and enter the workplace.

Note:

I'm using the suffix 'kinder' in the sense of
"German : Kinder, genitive pl. of Kind, child (from Middle High German kint, from Old High German kind; see gen- in Indo-European roots) + Garten, garden (from Middle High German garte, from Old High German garto; see gher-¹ in Indo-European roots).]

-http://www.thefreedictionary.com/kindergarten