Nearly a month went by without any new posts, despite my recent statements about blogging in earnest. I found that teaching writing classes not only involved lots of time grading papers but also focused my interest on writing. I'm actually writing a lot in various journals and notebooks, but was not focusing in the short run on material I wanted to post here. Finally, in the month of July, I managed to resume my average of one post per day for the month. I plan to surpass that volume from here on out. What I post here, combined with my daily writing in journals, is mostly fine-tuning what I hope to publish in a memoir about my experiences in education as student, parent, teacher, supporter and critic.
Meanwhile, I am still available for guiding local nature hikes. Contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org to inquire about rates and parameters of time, distance, and personal needs regarding matters of health and fitness.
I have been teaching since 1965 and have recently joined the English Department as an Associate Faculty member at Feather River College. Recently taught Nature Literature in America and am currently teaching Interpersonal Communication and Basic Reading and Writing.
I live in the shadow of tall White Fir and Douglas-fir trees, and in mid-winter, I only see the sun through the few openings between branches, and usually only for minutes at a time. Thus, while most of the snow has melted off the south-facing slopes above Chandler Road, we still have over a foot of the white stuff in our yard. That causes a certain amount of transportation consternation, but also results in some great displays of crystalline water. The above photo is of one of those short-lived patches of sunlight which made the day's new layer of rime ice stand out.
These great crystalline displays (be sure to click for a close-up) always remind me of the great displays of rapid-forming rime ice I've seen near the summit of Lassen Peak. Sometimes the rocks are covered with six-inch-tall spikes of ice, and when they are brushed or kicked away, they can form again before our eyes in a matter of minutes. I also have memories of fishermen returning to Plymouth harbor from the Grand Banks with their rigging covered with ice and telling stories of tragic adventures when crews could not keep up with the rapidly-forming ice and were helpless at their fishing boats sank under the weight. My Mom is from Plymouth, still lives there at 93, and when I was a teenager I loved listening to fishermens' stories stories in coffee shops. Their stories were far more interesting than recent coffee shop chatter about gun control.
Our well cover is one of my snow gauges. Snow still a foot thick there. Our snow-damaged birch tree in the background might make it through the winter, but it's destined for the firewood pile next summer.
One last close-up of ice crystals. No signs of wildlife
so far today. But the day is young and it's supposed
to warm up this afternoon. Camera and notebook are