Looking Backward

This week, I got a note on facebook from my high school friend Ashley. It's time to join the group she organized to plan our 10 year high school reunion! This did not sneak up on me. I began to be conscious of the fact that I was a member of "The Class of 2000" around the age of 8 or 9, so I can't not be aware of how many years have passed since we left WLHS.

It did make me realize, though, that I have been going through the PhD application process exactly 10 years after going through the college application process for the first time. I can remember well the anxiety it induced the first time through, and this made me feel a little kinship with my 17 year old self. We're not so different, she and I.

I also began to wonder if I would have been pursuing the PhD had I not had such an overwhelmingly positive experience as a Master's student at UMd. The whole thing feels a little serendipitous. How many people decide to go back to school and find that they have one of the top 35 programs in the country in their backyard? When I returned to classes, I felt like I was drowning for about two weeks. Once I started making friends and getting to know my professors, it felt like a place where I belonged. Two of the three professors I had that first term are still two of my favorite ones. If I'd chosen to get my required classes out of the way in the first year, instead of taking all the classes I thought were interesting and leaving the requirements to be completed this year, I don't think I would have fallen in love with graduate school.

And what about the people?

What if Anne-Marie hadn't sat down next to me in one of my first classes and said something like "I noticed that you're married; when was your wedding?" I have convinced her take a class with me every semester since. After having two classes together that first term, it is hard for me to imagine how I would get through a semester if we couldn't talk to each other about the books we're reading and what's going on in our lives. I am constantly plagued by the feeling that all my classmates are further ahead in their thinking than I am, and Anne-Marie always assures me that I, too, have good ideas.

What if the GA I had to work with hadn't been Katie? Katie once told me that she can summarize our personalities as follows: She is the one likely to walk into the office on fire, and I am the one likely to calmly get the fire extinguisher to put the flames out. What would the application process have been like if she and I hadn't been able to debrief how we were feeling about it almost every single day? I'm not sure she realizes that the one with the extinguisher needs the fire as much as the one with the fire needs the extinguisher.

And for some students, the English graduate student pool is their social network. They work within it, study within it, socialize within it, and date within it. It seems to work for a lot of them, but I know it wouldn't work for me. Some days I just need to GET OUT. Luckily, I get to come home to my little townhome every day, where Billy is interested in how my day went but never utters the words "hegemony," "discourse," "exigency," or "representation." It's refreshing. I need the break. In undergrad, I used to wonder how much better I could do at school if I wasn't worried about "boy drama" all the time. A lot better, it turns out. The semester I was with Billy at Valpo was the only one in which I earned a perfect 4.0. Since then, he has not only offered an escape from the "boy drama" and the "classmate drama," but he grounds me. Without that firm place to stand I absolutely know I could not keep up with all of this precarious reaching.

And all along the way, everyone who knew me long before I was a "grad student" checks in to ask me how things are going. To remind me that I have always found ways to be successful. To tell me they are proud of me. To encourage me to keep reaching. Yesterday, one of my classmates from American Studies had to present his paper, and he brought so many of his classmates with him that our professor called it his "entourage." I mentally pictured my entourage. It's pretty spread out, but it's impressive.

Back in 2000, I was really worried about how everything was going to turn out. At 27, I wish I could go back and tell my 17 year old self: "There's nothing to worry about. Some things will go wrong, but many things will go right. You'll make the most of your good fortune, and you'll make things happen for yourself." And perhaps, most importantly, "The people who have been there for you will continue to be there, and you will continue to find new people to add to that foundation."

I have been imagining my 37 year old self telling me the same thing right now.

(Looking Backward by Edward Bellamy is an "utopian novel." The protagonist lives in 1887 but one day wakes up in the year 2000. In 2000, everything that's wrong with the world has been fixed, so this narrative structure allows Bellamy to offer social criticism of his own time. It's pretty fascinating to think about the "solutions" Bellamy imagines... but a little depressing to realize we are still so far away from that ideal.)

On Writing

3:21am: Oh, hey, Willa. So we meet here again. I know you wouldn't appreciate me calling you Willa, but if you keep coming to me in the middle of the night and waking me up, that's how it's going to be.

Yesterday we discussed Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop in my 20th Century American Lit class. I mostly tried to keep my mouth shut because I was afraid that if I started talking about Willa I might. never. stop. That only happened once, when my professor asked me if Willa did, indeed, write the novel at Mary Austin's home in New Mexico. Short answer: Yes, she wrote several chapters there, though she began to deny it after she and Mary Austin had a bit of a falling out. I'll spare you the long, rambling answer through which I made my classmates suffer.

Reading Death Comes was the perfect antidote for my stalling sickness. It's classic Cather: beautiful, poignant, multi-dimensional, heartbreaking. It is not, however, quite so gloomy as the two texts I've chosen to work with. She wrote it immediately after The Professor's House, and as I thought about this, I realized that maybe Willa had had enough gloom by this point, too. And if she could work her way out of the gloom, I can too.

Also yesterday, I met with my MA project director to discuss my Cather project. I am getting excited about finishing it up, but now that I am working on it again, I realize that the research I've done and the ideas I've developed are much too extensive for a 25 page final draft. How do I know what to say and what to leave out, I asked her. "I'd be happy to read the draft and give you suggestions," she said. There is no draft, yet- it's all in my head, I said. "Then I will tell you what I always tell you: You know you're finished when you've answered the question that began the project." This was helpful. So Willa came to me at 3:21, asking: What question will you focus this paper on? What is this iteration of the paper going to be about? Once you know that, you can begin working with me again.

In my meeting with my director, we scheduled my defense: April 14 at 11am. This means I'll need to submit the final draft of my paper before going to Cleveland for my conference, and I'll defend the paper after I return. A lot of my classmates are nervous about the defense, and I imagine I'll develop some anxiety about it as it approaches, too. At present, though, the idea of sitting in a room and having two of my favorite professors ask me questions about Willa for two hours sounds like fun. Sure, it will be nerve-wracking to know that this defense is what stands between me and my graduate degree... but it's hard for me to imagine them coming up with any question about Cather that I haven't already been asking myself. I've done the work. I'm prepared for the process. Now I just need to get through Zora Neale Hurston and Frederick Douglass so that my weekend will be free to figure out what question my paper is going to devote itself to answering. And when I'm sitting in that room I'll need to answer their questions with thoughtful responses rather than the word vomit that came out of me in class yesterday.

Once I had decided this, and I had tackled Oscar before he could flap his ears and wake Billy up at 5:25, I was back to sleep. 'Night, Willa. I'm happy to report to you that I'm back on my game now. See you again tomorrow.

(On Writing is a compilation of essays and letters that Cather wrote about the practice of writing as well as descriptions of what she was trying to accomplish in some of her own work.)

Fine Just the Way It Is

Life is back to normal here at our house. There is still a lot of dirty, disgusting snow in heaps by the side of the road, but the weather has been conducive to melting for the past few days. I am getting more work done now that I am back into the regular routine of the semester. I thought I would have a lot more free time this semester, and while I do have a little bit more breathing room, I'm still quite busy. One good thing, though, is that my work is pretty evenly spread across the semester rather than being focused mostly at the end. It will be nice to be checking big projects off my list as I go instead of having three 20 page papers looming at the end of the term.

I found out this week that I'll be presenting my paper at the Narrative Conference in Cleveland on Friday, April 9. I was pleased with this development because it means I get to be home for Billy's birthday on Wednesday and my race on Sunday, but I can still attend two full days of talks at the conference. The program is so extensive that I am going to need to sit down at some point ahead of time to map out my plan of attack! My co-panelists are two other graduate students and one Georgetown professor, so that helps to make me feel a little less intimidated. A classmate told me that when she spoke at the same conference a few years ago, one of the people she quoted in her talk was on the panel with her! Three other students in my program will also be attending the conference, so that should also help me feel less overwhelmed.

That Sunday is the Annapolis Striders' Cherry Pit 10 miler, so I am looking forward to running my first race of the season (the Valentine's Day 5k was canceled due to snow). I went to the B&A Trail today in the hopes that it had been plowed, but it hasn't, so I still haven't been able to run outside. They had some plows in the parking lot, though, so hopefully they will get it cleared before next weekend.

We're still enjoying the Olympics, and Oscar got to enjoy a visit from his friend Hunter this weekend. He belongs to our friends Kevin and Rachel, and since he is only 2 he reminds us how much Oscar has calmed down since he was that age. He used to run us ragged! Luckily we lived in small apartments when he was that little. After they left, Oscar cried at the window for a long time. I guess we will have to get them together more often!

(Fine Just the Way It Is by Annie Proulx is her third collection of short stories that take place in Wyoming. Her most famous titles are The Shipping News and Brokeback Mountain (originally published in her first Wyoming collection, Close Range). Both titles have also been turned into movies. I really like the way she captures the feel of the West.)

Post Script: If you visit this link and scroll down, you can find Annie Proulx's advice for writing fiction. Also included are fascinating tips from other authors. Including Joyce Carol Oates's "Keep a light, hopeful heart. But ­expect the worst." Want even more? The first set of advice is here.

Olympic Dreams

As a child, I was obsessed with the Olympics. My love for Kristi Yamaguchi knew no bounds. She was so tiny, so good, and the possessor of such enviably perfect 90s bangs. Plus, she grew up in the SF Bay Area, so I considered her my neighbor. I regularly come across articles that suggest it is meaningful for black girls to see representations of themselves in the movies, the toy stores, the White House, etc., and I know these reports are true because Kristi made it okay to be tiny. You think Lizzie is too small for this activity, coach/PE teacher/boys on the playground? Kristi Yamaguchi is on the cover of Sports Illustrated and the Wheaties box. How do you like them apples?*

Watching the Winter Olympics is always a slightly bizarre experience, though, because I know so little about these sports. They're a lot different than the sports I follow, and the athletes' behavior often baffles me. I'd like to share some of the observations we've made at our household so far this Olympic season.

Long Track Speed Skating: Surely, this activity is hard. They look seriously winded when they're finished, and they have skated quite a long way. It's hard to take them seriously, though, when one of their "maneuvers" is to put their hands behind their backs and glide along at a seemingly leisurely pace. It's almost like I expect them to be twiddling their thumbs back there.

Short Track Speed Skating: This feels to me like the Nascar of skating. How can anyone ever be confident that they will win? It seems to depend too much on how other people choose to skate the race. I wouldn't want to get too close to anyone who could slice me open with their razor-sharp skates. I did appreciate the first race I saw, though, where, with a few laps to go, Apolo Ohno came from the very back and blew by everyone. (Sidenote: Why, Apolo, can't you get rid of that hair on your chin?)

Ski Jumping: Why do they have these little pine tree markers in the landing area? Couldn't they spray paint lines of different colors to indicate distance to the jumpers? And if this is some kind of tradition, why doesn't Google know about it?

Nordic Combined: Maybe all cross country skiers do this, but after crossing the finish line during the Nordic Combined, the medalists all lay down on the snow. In distance running, to lie down is the absolute worst thing you can do. I once lay down after running 18 miles and quite literally could not get up for over 30 minutes. If you collapse at the finish line of a marathon, a medic tends to you immediately. These guys just lay there past the finish line, though, like, "Sorry, losers, you can ski around us."

Pairs Figure Skating: Even after we had agreed to disagree about the "Is this a sport? How is it different from gymnastics? How is it different from diving?" debate, we continued to be baffled by all the falling that was going on. Every routine we watched included a fall. The commentators said something about the new scoring system requiring the pairs to attempt jumps that they cannot even routinely execute in practice. Why is this good for the sport? Are the Chinese gold medalists (whom I did not see perform) so much better than everyone else that Ms. Canada just has to hope she can land that triple salchow on a wing and a prayer?** Falling must be the worst. You must know almost immediately that you're not positioned correctly, and then as you hit the deck, you hear thousands of people go "ohhhhhh." And then you have to keep going.

Moguls: First, I love any sport that has its own vocabulary. I would describe their posture as follows: their bodies look like marionettes, and someone is tugging constantly at the strings attached to their knees while their upper bodies stay frozen. Jonny Moseley just says their arms and upper bodies are "quiet."

Also, I noticed a pattern that stayed true for both men and women. If the finisher has nailed her routine, she thrusts her arms up in the air almost before crossing the finish line and then follows it with repeated pole-pumping. A moguler (?) then calms himself to wait for his scores, and he might give a slight pole-pump when he is satisfied with them. If he finds them disappointing, he just gives a slight head shake. When one wins the gold medal, one's face is overwhelmed with a look of disbelief and one stumbles around aimlessly until others start the hugging.

I always avoided sports/activities which are judged. However, watching the moguls made me recognize that I went about my PhD application all wrong. I was pleased when I completed my application because I had worked hard and it was decidedly the very best work I could do. I didn't throw my hands in the air, though; I thought I had to wait until I found out if I got in before I could do that. Now that I'm on the waiting list-- now that I've let someone else determine whether my application was a success-- I'm not sure I'll end up getting the chance to do any pole pumps. And I should have, because I nailed my routine. I am doing some mental pole pumps and arm thrusting right now. I'm also considering that when I have children, maybe I should encourage them to participate in some kind of judged activity. Maybe it will help them develop a different, multi-faceted perception of what constitutes "success."

This brings me to another point. All my life, I have given my mom a hard time about the fact that sporting events make her cry. Those montages they do about the backstories of Olympic athletes are especially effective at getting the tears flowing. Growing up, we always laughed at her. Mom, I owe you an apology, so here it is:

I'd still rather watch the events than the montages, but I find myself getting choked up when people give their best efforts, too. Teaching high school taught me that a lot of people are too afraid of failure to attempt things that are really, really hard. Now that I have given my very best effort at something that was really, really hard, I can appreciate how good it must feel to succeed at something one wants very, very badly. I'm sorry it took me 27.5 years before I realized why you get so emotional about it. I'm glad to know it now. I'm looking forward to getting together to cry at Vickie's graduation.

Back to the Olympics- it's men's figure skating night! Is it just me, or has this gotten a lot less campy than it was in the 90s?

*"How do you like them apples?" is a term that originated during WWI. The soldiers called the shells they used apples (they looked like candy apples), so after a successful shelling, soldiers would shout "How do you like them apples?" to taunt their (presumably dead) opponents.

** We get "on a wing and a prayer" from the WWII song from the UK by the same name. I don't remember where I learned these things, but as a scholar of wartime literature, they are imprinted in my brain.

("Olympic Dreams" is the only piece of written work I have ever had published. I believe I was about 8 or 9 when I wrote it, and somebody told me to submit it to a children's poetry anthology, which accepted it. I don't really remember what it was about, but it rhymed. I think it was influenced by Shel Silverstein though it was serious.)

A Piece of News

Several posts ago, I mentioned this quote by Conan O'Brien:

"Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you're kind, amazing things will happen."

Turns out, he might have been speaking to me after all. I thought I would either get accepted to or rejected from the PhD program, but I received word from my graduate director today that I've been put on the waitlist for admissions this year. This means that a spot might open up for me if the right people choose to pursue their studies elsewhere or if they are able to secure more graduate student funding than they expect. So the waiting continues. I think I will find out if there is a spot for me sometime in March, after the other admitted students visit campus for the "admitted student day" that corresponds with our graduate student conference.

Not great news, but not bad news either. I guess half-good news is appropriate to get on your half birthday.

All day, it has continued to snow. Billy says we have exceeded 18 additional inches in the past 24 hours. I decided it was time to go investigate. I felt compelled to jump off my deck and into the snow (perhaps I've been watching too much Rob Dyrdek). I thought Billy would yell at me, though, so instead I just jumped as high as I could and leaned backwards.

I sat like that for a while, thinking. It was surprisingly comfortable and unbelievably quiet. It occurred to me that if nothing else, being waitlisted assures me that all the extra steps I took to try to strengthen my application were necessary. Without the extra credit hours, extra research, and extra paper, I might have received a straight rejection letter today. Because of them, I might be able to get through by the skin of my teeth.

All that extra work exhausted me, and I could not have done it by myself. I owe my most sincere thanks to some of this blog's regular readers: among those of you who visit me here are the people who have given me the support, encouragement, and continued determination that have been necessary to help me get this far. You're also the same people who remind me that whether I end up in the program or not, everything will work out just fine. Those reminders are what keep me on track and make all this anxious waiting tolerable.

I also thought about how the snow that was falling consisted of the same water molecules that have been evaporating, condensing, falling, freezing, melting, and crystallizing for millions of years. That helped me keep in mind that waiting an additional month to make my future plans is relatively a very short time. (It also confirmed that my middle school teachers effectively instructed me about the water cycle.)

Then I decided to stop thinking about all of that to play with the little guy, whose curiosity overpowered his fear of the snow today.

First, he turned the places I had stepped into a worn path for himself. (And yes, the pile of snow behind him is taller than our 5 ft fence.)

He didn't make his path quite wide enough for himself to turn around, though.

When we first brought home baby Oscar, he didn't have all of his vaccinations yet, so we were afraid to take him outside. We lived in an apartment complex and I didn't want him around other dog waste. One day, after a snow accumulation of a few inches, I decided it would be safe to take him out. He had no idea what he was standing on, and he was so light that his feet didn't penetrate the slightly crusty top layer.

As it turns out, when there is enough snow on the ground, he can still walk safely across the top of it.

I still believe Conan is right. All I can do is keep working hard, being kind, and waiting for these amazing things to reveal themselves in whatever form they will take.

("A Piece of News" is a short story about a young woman who does not quite know what to make of the news she receives during a bad storm. Its full text is available here, thanks to google books. The story is written by Eudora Welty, whom my professor recently declared "the first writer to come after Faulkner and not be crushed by him." You might know one of her other stories, including "A Worn Path" (linked above), "Death of a Traveling Salesman," or one of my very favorites, "Why I Live at the P.O." All are available in her Collected Stories. And, if all of that doesn't yet convince you that she was brilliant, she was also close friends with Katherine Anne Porter.)

Willa Cather: A Literary Life

So we meet again, Ms. Cather.

This semester, I only have classes on Mondays and Tuesdays. Campus has been closed both days on account of the snow, and Billy thinks that the impending storm will keep us closed for the rest of the week, as well. My professors have graciously pushed back all of our reading assignments a week, and since I had already completed my homework for this week, I am left with "nothing" to do.

One of the graduation requirements for the MA at Maryland is to complete the Master's Writing Project. Basically, you have to work with two of your professors to revise a paper you've already written. Then they get to sit you down in a room for a couple of hours to ask you a lot of questions about it. I've decided to revise the Cather paper I submitted as my PhD writing sample, and I have already met with both professors to discuss what needs to be done. Both agree that I am onto a great idea but that I need to re-work the entire paper. Rumor has it that when Ernest Hemingway showed Gertrude Stein the manuscript of one of his novels (The Sun Also Rises or A Farewell to Arms, depending on which rumor you hear), she told him to "begin it again, and this time concentrate." This is essentially what my professors have told me.

The problem is, I have been stalling.

I really am excited about the project. I knew that I had to stop sort of mid-way through my thinking to write it and submit it. I know that what I eventually turn out will be the best paper I've ever written. However, the process is fraught because of the way it is tied to my PhD application. It's hard to think about how I can improve this paper without simultaneously thinking about how its weaknesses might have influenced the decisions of the admissions committee. I've been very successful in refusing to allow myself to stress out about this decision. As a sort of coping mechanism, though, I buried Ms. Willa way in the back of my brain. I have been letting these ideas "marinate," as some of us in graduate school like to say. (Sounds better than "procrastinate.")

Now that I am on this weeklong hiatus, however, I have no excuse: I have to get serious about this revision. Unfortunately, this snow is sapping all of my creative/motivational energy. I believe if I could go for a run, maybe I could get myself in gear. Perhaps I will have to dig the treadmill out from the clothes currently draped across it. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow.

P.S. Hope you are all enjoying the new blog design!

(Willa Cather: A Literary Life is James Woodress's biography of Cather. He devotes a chapter to each of her major works and what was going on in her life when she wrote and published them. It's as big as a brick and I have been carrying it around in my bag and my brain for almost a year now.)

Snow Falling on Cedars

The snow has finally stopped! To show all you out-of-towners how much snow 2+ feet is, I thought I would put together a little comparison montage.

Looking out the front door Friday afternoon. Some of Tuesday's snow was still on the ground.

Looking out the front door this morning. Billy had been shoveling all night, but you can hardly tell!

Front of the house in the summertime:

Front of the house today:

Patio furniture Friday morning:

Patio furniture Friday night during some of the heaviest snow:

The deepest measurement on the table after it stopped snowing was 23.5 inches. Taking fresh measurements every 6 hours, Billy calculated a total of 27.7 inches.

The Dads playing washers in the backyard:

No one playing in the back yard:

Chilling in the yard:

Chilly in the yard:

Our pond in the summer:

Our pond today:

Relaxing on the deck in the summer:

Shoveling the deck today:

Billy snapped this pic of all the snow on the roof. Somewhere under there is a DirecTV dish, but luckily we don't use it, or we probably wouldn't be seeing the Super Bowl tomorrow.

I had to stop helping with the shoveling once the snow pile got taller than my head. I couldn't throw the snow on top anymore.

Now the snow pile we created is so tall that we can't even see the cars from the front step!

I took advantage of my time indoors to finish preparing for my presentation in class on Monday. I don't feel too optimistic that class will be meeting on Monday, though!

Hope everyone is staying warm! Curious about the storm system that created this mess? Billy has written a summary on his Maryland weather blog.

(Snow Falling on Cedars is David Guterson's first novel which, like Inada's Legends from Camp, deals with the aftermath of the Japanese-American internment during WWII. Things I like about this book include: it takes place in the Pacific Northwest, it has a character named Chambers, it addresses issues of war, it has scenes in a courtroom, and it relates to the newspaper industry. Also, it made me desperate for strawberries, and if a book makes me physically hungry, I know it has touched me. Check it out. Snow Falling on Cedars has also been turned into a movie, which I haven't seen though I love Ethan Hawke. Incidentally, I don't know if we have cedars here in Maryland. I only know cedar by smell, not by sight.)

The Shovel People

Yes, you've heard right: we're experiencing a record-breaking snowstorm here in the B/DC. For information about the weather, check out Billy's Maryland Weather page or the corresponding Maryland Weather blog.

It started snowing heavily yesterday in the early afternoon, and it hasn't stopped. Billy's measurements at 6 hour intervals have now surpassed 2 feet of snow. The snow itself measures at about 21" deep, but it's a heavy, thick snow that is compressing on itself.

The other day, Billy picked up a new shovel, which meant that I got to help out with the shoveling this time. I'd like to share with you a few things I've learned about shoveling:

1) A snow shovel should have a second handle sticking up from the pole near the shovel part (blade?). Then you could grab that to lift the shovel up instead of grabbing the pole.

2) Shoveling wouldn't be so bad if you only had to move the snow once-- but when you live in a townhome community, there's nowhere to put the snow except back into your own yard. You end up moving the same scoop of snow at least 3 or 4 times to get it there.

3) Once you've shoveled a path, it operates as a doggie run. The snow is about 3 Oscars high, so he spent quite a bit of time running back and forth along the paths we had shoveled.

4) This is one of the things I am really, really bad at (which reminds me that these things exist). I don't know where to stand. I don't know where to put the snow. I become fixated on how I could design a better snow shovel that would allow me to get better leverage (see #1). I turn around and see that Billy has cleared 5x as much snow as me.

5) The Nike jacket my mom bought me back in 2000, when I was off to Valpo, is great for shoveling. You would never know it is 10 years old, except that it has a special compartment to hold your portable CD player. This includes an elastic band setup designed to keep the CD from skipping. That winter, she also bought me the Nike Air Dri Goat shoes to keep my feet dry. They worked perfectly until water started leaking in the bottom after I had literally worn through them. I wish I had another pair right now (half for their functionality, half for the freshman year memories seeing that picture stirred up).

6) If Billy was hoping I would soon warm up to these kinds of winter storms, allowing me to help with the shoveling was a bad idea. Not just because it's hard-- mostly because I hate feeling utterly helpless while trying to be helpful.

Instead, Oscar and I are planning to warm up to the couch, our new Oregon blanket (thanks, Dad!) and our Glee DVDs (thanks, Mom!).

It's still snowing. We're not done shoveling. I'll probably have another snow post if only to plug another book I like, the title of which includes the word "snow." Stay tuned. But for now, I'll leave you with "The Shovel People," a poem from Oregon resident Lawson Fusao Inada's collection, Legends from Camp. (You might remember me mentioning this collection here or here.) I love this poem even though I don't normally like poems. And I love the feeling it gives me about shovels even though I no longer like shovels.

I'll tell you, Mr. Inada: after the time I've spent shoveling, I too will now have a greater appreciation for "everything around me that doesn't need shoveling"!!

(This poem also reminds me that when we were kids, Krista's dad (pictured here, holding Clara), who is an otherwise kind and calm man, killed a possum with a shovel. Or maybe it was a raccoon. Either way, it learned its lesson!)

The Swiss Family (Robinson)

I've had several interesting conversations over the past couple of days about Roger Federer. Even those who are not big Federer fans can agree: He's an exceptional tennis player. He's fairly humble about his talent. He works hard and performs well under pressure. His excellence has undoubtedly improved the level of men's tennis across the board. My dad says you can see the greatness in his eyes, and I agree.

I also see greatness in the eyes of Mirka, his wife. Have you ever watched her during a match? She's intense. When Roger plays a point poorly, she doesn't bury her head in her hands or looked crushed, which all the other wives/girlfriends seem to do. She stares at him with a look that says, "You can do better than that." When he plays an unbelievable point, and the camera pans to her, she doesn't jump out of her seat or pump her fist. She gives a solid clap and wears an expression that says "I knew you could do that." I don't doubt that when he looks at her during a match, her eyes tell him, "You are going to win because you have worked hard to be the best."

She's pretty private, Mrs. Federer. We know a few things about her: She also grew up in Switzerland. She and Roger met when they were both playing tennis for the 2000 Swiss Olympic tennis team, but a persistent foot injury ended her career in 2002. After that she began traveling with Roger, and she's his business manager/PR agent/everything else. Sometimes she hits with him, and some people speculate that she also operates as a sort of coach. (Roger has been without a coach since his life-long coach died in a car accident in 2002.) Sports writers pointed out that she didn't leave her seat once during the entire 4+ hour Wimbledon final last year, despite the fact that she was only a few weeks away from giving birth to twins.

I believe that there is no "16 time Grand Slam Champion Roger Federer" without Mirka. He won his first Grand Slam in 2003, not long after Mirka started traveling with him. In Open, Andre Agassi reflects on the moment when Pete Sampras told him he was engaged. Andre says, "I hope he cares about his place in her heart as much as he seems to care about his place in history" (332). I believe Roger does, in regards to Mirka. After he won the French Open last year, his victory speech included a thank you to his "lovely wife who is pregnant!!" It was the most unfiltered comment I've ever seen Roger make.

That was my favorite Roger Federer moment. I'm glad they had twin daughters. The world could use more Mirkas, I believe.

Roger was released from Swiss military duty because of a weak back. I think this is a contentious issue for some in Switzerland, since it it never seems to affect his tennis game. Luckily for Roger, a strong spouse is like a strong spine. They support you. They help you stand tall. They stabilize you. Their flexibility allows you to bear burdens. They protect your most sensitive parts.

I'm fortunate enough to know about this first hand.

(The Swiss Family Robinson is a book by Johann D. Wyss, but I've never read it. I would guess, from the title, that it's about a Swiss family. To me, the Swiss Family Robinson is the Disney movie that begot the treehouse I loved as a child at Disneyland. If Roger hires me to write his autobiography, maybe I could convince him to title it The Swiss Family Federer.)