On Saturday, we attended Shaina’s graduation. Shaina earned a B.S. in Accounting from the College of Business Administration of the University of Akron. The ceremony was very nice–marred only by the bald-faced politicization of the event by Ohio Senator Bill Harris. We were very proud to watch Shaina cross the stage and receive her degree.

While we weren’t able to accompany the rest of the family to Cleveland for a celebratory dinner, there was time to get a picture of all of the McDonald women together, something that hasn’t been done for several years.

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The big news of the day is that Dad completed his first ever watercolor. Here it is. I think it’s grand, and I especially like how the red really sets off the fish. The best sign is that he already has several ideas for his next fish painting.

This morning, Erin explained to us how to go about writing an absolutely horrible story. If you wish to compose a truly terrible tale, follow these two tips:

1. Be very sure that you know exactly what your story is going to say.
2. People your story with White Hats and Black Hats.

This afternoon was one of the presentations that I was looking forward to all week: Barry Moser and Paul Mariani. They did not disappoint. Barry is a forceful speaker whose presentations are hardnosed, humorous, and illuminating. The two of them together make a wonderful team as it is clear that they are fast friends. Sadly, I was so tired that even with these two dynamos on the podium, I was fighting the Sandman. I was not very happy about that.

Later in the evening, I was pleasantly surprised by the poetry of B.H.Fairchild. His wit and compassion were wonderful. His poem “Rave On” about teens purposefully rolling their automobiles was at once wrenching and fun.

It was gruesome, as on Christmas Eve in an old house a strange tale should essentially be. –Henry James

Last year during the free day, I retreated into my room and the library, and did little but listen to Over the Rhine’s Ohio. The previous year, I accompanied Cindy and Laura out to Chimayo and Canyon Road. This year, Dad and I decided to go to Museum Hill and then into the city for lunch and possible shopping. We woke late (7:15) and ate a leisurely breakfast. Because the museums don’t open until 10, Dad chooses to do some watercoloring; I return to the room and read some stories for tomorrow’s workshop.

We make our way to Museum Hill and elect the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture which is featuring an exhibit entitled “Iconoclash”–an exploration of the use of Indians as icons in American culture. The first piece that you see is a giant butter container emblazoned with “Land O’ Fakes”. Upon entering we are immediately folded into a guided tour of the museum. After spending 15 minutes hearing a description of 3 or 4 pottery jars (and with the prospect of 12,000 more) we peel away from the tour and set out on our own. A large part of the museum is devoted to a tracing of Indian culture that shows the past and present incarnations of Indian culture. For instance, there’s a wikiup in cutaway that shows a traditional Indian home and a kitchen from a modern reservation ranch-style home. There’s an actual school room from one of the Indian Schools. There, I read an account of an Indian boy who was told to pick a religion. Since it was popular, he decides on the Southern Baptists. After a year, he changes as soon as he can to the Methodists because they go on picnics, get dunked in water, and all sorts of the other fun stuff.

We spend two hours in the museum, and by that time we’re hungry and Dad’s sciatic is acting up. We go into downtown where Dad wishes to have a steak. After getting some vague directions that don’t pan out, we stumble into the Sleeping Dog, a hole in the wall bar. Their menu promises steak for $10.95. Dad orders the steak, and I get a burger with bleu cheese, grilled onions, and avocado. (No, we’re not in the southwest…) Everything is excellent. We spend the hour watching surfing vidoes on the TV, eating well prepared red meat, and finding out that our waitress is from the east end of London.

While we’d like to do some shopping, our two hours parking is almost up, and Dad’s leg is really hurting. So, we wend our way back to St. John’s. Dad goes to work on his angel fish, and I run some errands, spending some lovely time in library. After an hour, I notice that the clouds are building and the wind is starting to pick up. I’ve been waiting all week to try out the disc golf course, so I hurry over to get a round in before the weather goes.

While I can say that I’ve thrown plastic in NM, I cannot say that I’ve thrown a complete course. The helpful gent at the gym gives me a very nicely done map that unfortunately seems to have little to do with reality. The thin air causes my throws to rather long and almost perfectly straight. This wouldn’t be a problem except that I wasn’t throwing long flying discs and they were supposed to turn left. After muddling through the first three holes, I absolutely can’t find the tee for 4 although I do find the basket. I almost lose a disc on 5 when a wind gust practically turns the disc upside down and carries over a fence. After a 10 minute search, I shoot at what seems to be basket 6, but which turns out to be 8, at which I point I pack it in. The terrain is very rugged and while there is a map, the reality on the ground makes it very difficult to find anything. Besides, I thought I might have maybe felt a drop of rain.

When I get back to the dorm I look out the window to see a double rainbow carving across the mountain. By now the wind has really picked up and is driving the misty rain sideways. I venture out onto a balcony and snap some shots of the rainbow–hoping they turn out even with the rain getting on the lens. The wind grows stronger throught the rest of the evening.

At 9, I head over to the apartment of the Overstreets who are hosting a little soiree. They’ve asked us all to bring something to read. Given my recent bout with the insanely dense desert brush and my new experience with weeding the community garden, my mind has turned to Annie Dillard’s discussion of “fecundity” in Pilgrim at Tinker’s Creek. Of course, my copy is at home, so I’ve made copies from the library. There’s a good crowd on hand, and we spend a nice evening sharing words and why they’re close to us right now.

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It’s probably a good thing that tomorrow is a “free” day. The workshop this morning seemed to have it something of a wall of repetition. If last year’s mantra was “conflict”, this year’s is “single point of view.” I think the work of critiquing 45-60 pages a day is also causing folks–myself included–to get more protective of their comments. Actually, I’m feeling more caustic.

Dad is continuing to enjoy the watercolors. Today he was working with some kind of liquid mask and painting an angel fish. That should be interesting to see when he’s done.

Before Robert Clark’s reading this afternoon, I hit the book table for the first round of book buying. In addition to some poetry and fiction, I picked up The Democratization of American Christianity. It looks like an interesting study of how Christianity was shaped by emerging American values.

Tonight was the concert by Over the Rhine. As was the case last year, it was all too short. The brevity was exacerbated by some misbehaving cables which created loud buzzing during “Ohio.” The songs they chose for tonight seemed to focus pretty much on romance and enduring love. They also did “Jesus in New Orleans”

I said the road is my redeemer
I never know just what on earth I’ll find
In the faces of a stranger
In the dark and weary corners of a mind

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Today was the day that the inmates took over the asylum, or at least the chalkboards. I felt the need to share a sentence from Charles Williams in which someone’s nostrils are far off. On a more productive note, Mike B summarized one of Erin’s points with the cartoon pictured over yonder. The one note that I took today was that in a long work, the first chapter acts as a wedge into the story. As such, it needs be simple and clear, regardless of the complexity of later chapters. Or, at least, that’s what I got out of it.

Today the divide between the experienced writers and the inexperienced became quite stark. Fortunately, we like to laugh alot, and, as the grandparents used to say, we can make our own fun.

I had something of a scary experience after worship tonight. I passed Greg Wolfe on the way out of the Great Hall. I was looking at the message board when he asked me if I had played a round of disc golf with Sara yet. Mind, I may have talked with Greg once in the three years I’ve come to the Glen, and the one time I don’t think I told him my name–although there are those nasty nametags. Further, my trolling for golf players consisted of a post on the Image forum under tctruffin and Sara had merely wondered if she was missing the point of the game. As I was sans nametag tonight, I found the fact that he had linked my name, face, and screen name just a tad alarming.

I find that I take fewer notes each year that I’m here. The first year, I had notebook out transcribing whole speeches and scribbling remarks from everyone. Last year, I took fewer notes during the sessions but still wrote copiously during the workshop since there was a new instructor. This year, I’m barely writing anything down at all.

I suppose some of this is because there’s a certain amount of re-iteration, but I think mostly it’s because I’m coming here more for support and energizing than learning. This is not to say that there isn’t much to learn; the notes I’m taking now are less about defending the work than they are about doing the work.

One of the few notes I made today was a comment made by Erin McGraw, fiction instructor, who observed that “Fiction is not a subtle instrument.” Sure, lit professors like to show the subtle development of a shoe on page 4 to a life-changing symbol on page 478 by incremental degrees–and there’s a place for that–but for the writer, it’s nothing like that subtle. There must be conflict, and it must be bloody obvious, or you’ll lose the reader in 20 seconds flat.

She also said that “said” is your friend 98% of the time when writing dialog.

Tonight at the worship service, Over the Rhine opened with “Born” which centers on the line “I was born to laugh.” I’ve been pondering that song ever since it was released, and focused more on it tonight. “I have learned to laugh through the tears.” I’m not sure I have, but I need to.

We closed with a black-gospel version of “Be still my soul.”

Be still my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

For the first time in three years, I had absolutely no problems getting to the Glen: no cars breaking down, no tow trucks, no airline computer failures, no scrambling to make last shuttles, nada. In fact, my flights were not only on time, but I was able to use some FF miles to upgrade to 1st class, an experience I’ve never before had.

The upgrade was a lifesaver on the longer flight from Detroit to Denver, as I apparently got assigned the armpit terminal at DTW.

This past spring Sherry had flown out of DTW and had come bearing tales of smoothies and shopping. I ended up paying $5 for a small cup of yogurt filled with dessicated berry fragments and small cup of the foulest swill that I’ve seen called coffee in a long time. However, all of that was whisked away when, after allowing me the pleasure of cleansing my hands with a hot towel, the kindly stewardess asked if I would care for some scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Throughout the day I was in contact with both Sherry and Dad. He was wending his way to ABQ via Houston. On arriving in Albequerque, I retrieved my bags headed over to the Continental baggage area, and was there for all of three minutes when Dad came walking down the aisle. His bag was practically waiting for him, and we were off to the rental car area.

Hertz counter man Joe took care of our automobile arrangements and tried to entice us with a Mustang for just $9/day more. We declined. Instead we’re driving a Mazda 6 Sports Sedan. We loaded up and zoom zoom zoomed all the way to a Cracker Barrel. After a pleasant repast, we headed on down the road to Santa Fe.

This being my third year, I’m starting to know people. The first minutes of being here were filled with excited hellos and hugs and glad to see yas. Dad did disappoint one friend by not being Sherry. After a short settling in period, we had supper, sat in on the introductory speech, and set up to find a Walmart.

I had homework to do, so when we got back to the room I hopped to it, Dad went to bed, and we called it a very full, pleasant, good day.

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