I’m a Confederalist

As of late, I’ve been reading a lot of Civil War novels, in lieu of what I should be reading: Victorian period literature (I find I never read WHAT I’m supposed to, WHEN I’m supposed to. It’s the curse of an English Major).

When I was a kid living in Philadelphia, and I first learned about the Civil War, it seemed like a no brainer: of course the Union was in the right. But as I’ve matured, become more informed, and spent most of my teenage years in the South, I’ve discovered there was a lot more to it than the issue of Slavery.

What makes me Federalist?

1. The United States would never have realized its full potential if the South had successfully and permanently seceded: “A house divided cannot stand.”

2. I have tremendous conviction Abraham Lincoln was anointed of God to lead this nation. His push for the Union and his emancipation of slaves, if nothing else, made his cause just.

3. I have two great, great uncles who served in the New York Federalist regiment, and I feel a kinship to them. (Both, incidentally, served in Gettysburg, and both survived.)

What makes me Confederate?

1. I realize slavery was a horrible and unjust construct, and I’m glad the Union succeeded in abolishing it, but I definitely have sympathy for the Confederacy’s resentment towards the Federal Government. The Government, unless there is a strong possibility the laws of God or the Constitution will be violated, doesn’t have the right to control a state if the majority of that state doesn’t believe in what the Government is pushing. For a contemporary example, if 38 States of 50 don’t want socialized medicine, and the Government still somehow pushes the legislation through, there’s a problem. As far as I’m concerned, you want money for schools or for an army? Fine. But when the Government starts ownin’ the banks, people start talkin’ ‘bout socialized control, and I’m told half my paycheck is going to lazy asses with five welfare babies, I start thinkin’ about pullin’ out a HUGE Confederate flag, myself. Charity is for the weak, not for the lazy and weak-minded. (Wow! That went someplace entirely unexpected.)

2. The South is by far the superior culture. PERIOD. Who wouldn’t want to preserve it?
Southerner to strangers: “Hi y’all. Did you eat? Well, come on in. I’m sure glad to know ya.”

North Easterner to family member: “Get the hell off of my doorstep, unless you’re here to give me that money you owe me.”

Maybe I’m just crazy, but I feel sympathy and alliance to both.

Wouldn't Take Nothin' for My Journey

I looked out the window this morning, and this is what "Spring" had for Salt Lakers. Yep. That's my backyard covered in snow.

At first I thought of the Seven Brides for Seven Brothers' song: "June Bride, Reprise."

LIZA, SARAH & DORCAS
March comes in like a lion, what else?
Still the snow never melts.

LIZA & ALICE
April showers will come, so they say.

LIZA
But they don't, and it's May.

Then I could just hear my cousin saying, "That's why I moved back to Florida."

After that, I took another moment, stared at the mountains, breathed in the cold wet air, and I thought to the myself, "Well, Sara Lyn, I'll always wish you were here. But I wouldn't trade these grand peaks of the North or the red rock of the South, if it snowed until August, and I never saw the ocean again."

Wet Cat Day

This picture describes my basic mood, today.

1. I was turned down for a job I really wanted for political reasons that had nothing to do with me.

2. I have interest in a boy who has no interest in me (After three dates, I was left with the distinct impression all I’m gonna get outta of this is another mooching friendship. And just to make it perfectly clear: I am NOT the moocher).

3. My freakin’ motorcycle parts are still on backorder. I’ve waited three weeks for them so far, and I’m told I’ll have to wait another two weeks for the parts to even get mailed. I am NOT pleased: It is warm enough to ride NOW!

4. I’ve got three weeks to write 27 pages. I am so screwed.

5. I have a cavity.

6. I ate ham yesterday. I haven’t had a piece of processed meat in almost three months. I am ASHAMED. If I had been a good girl, I would have cooked the elk steak that’s in my freezer. I know I haven’t discussed this in great detail, but I’ve attempted to maintain a processed meat FREE diet, due to a moral protest I have against the four main meat processors in this country. If you’d like to learn more, watch this video:

7. My Truck is still leaking oil! There’s a crack in one of the engine valve covers, and I’ve already spent $400 replacing two gaskets and an engine electrical cable.

8. The pace and loneliness of my life is starting to leave cracks in my heart. I’m scrabbling to plug the holes, but sometimes I find my heart leaking through my eyes.

Viral Death

It’s That Time of Year

I don’t know what it is about late winter/early spring, but this seems the time of year I’m most susceptible to experiencing what I have affectionately named: The Upper Respiratory Viral Death from Hell.

Last year I wrote a very funny post on the subject: http://rebekahspeak.blogspot.com/2009_02_01_archive.html

Out comes my usual arsenal:
1. Airbourne—grapefruit flavor (I’m not entirely sure this isn’t a placebo).
2. Orange Juice—at least a gallon
3. Sudafed—the real kind, where you have to show an ID to get it
4. Ibuprofen—generic, by the bottle full
5. Aloe Tissues—sometimes saving the skin underneath my nose is worth the extra money
6. Caffeine—usually in the form of a Sobe or Diet Coke (oooh…with maraschino cherries. Yum!)

What makes you feel better, when you feel like dying?
I’m open to suggestions.

Pepper Potts in the Desert

Last week on Wednesday, I went through my habitual routine of puttering through the KSL ads [online local classifieds] in search of used motorcycle deals. I never really have any intention of buying anything on these excursions. I just like to read and dream about things that will take me years to acquire, if ever.

However, on this particular occasion, I came across something that made my jaw drop and my fingers race for my cell phone.

St. George, UT
USED KLR 2005: $1500
10,000 miles
Sun-faded Fairings [the plastics that cover the bike]
Good Mechanical Condition

Let me put this into a little bit of perspective for you. KLRs from 2004-2007 go for $2,500-$3,000. So naturally, you can see why I was excited.

In spite of my initial worries over impulsive shopping and the possibility of a scam [KSL has recently fallen victim to those kinds of listings], I finally dialed. The ad had only been up for a half an hour, but the owner said he already had a couple of offers. I told him I had cash in hand, but I couldn’t make it down to St. George until Saturday morning. He finally agreed to hold it, when I told him I lived in Salt Lake and was willing to transport the bike myself. We agreed to meet at 7:00 on Saturday morning.

Thus, an adventure began.

Friday night, after work, I got everything ready to go. I packed my sleeping bag, one of my many blow-up mattresses, a brand new mattress pump [thanks, Mom], a lantern [thanks for that too, Mom], a thermos of piping hot tea and oatmeal water [minus the water, Mom also], two boards for getting the bike into the truck [thanks, Professor Cheney], and tie downs for the trip back [Mom]. (Obviously this trip might not have been possible were it not for my Mother and Father’s excellent taste in camping equipment and gear, and their admonishing advice on always coming prepared.)

I left Salt Lake at around 20:00 (8:00 pm), drove four and a half hours, and decided to bunker down about 20 miles outside of St. George city limits. I figured I wasn’t paying for sleep in a hotel, when I could get sleep for free in the desert.

I pulled off at a ranch exit, and as I set everything up in the bed of my truck, I couldn’t help but feel excited. Here I was in the desert, on my way to possibly becoming the owner of my very own KLR. The air was warm; the sky was full of stars; my life felt full of possibility. I took off my shoes, crawled into my sleeping bag, and felt certain that sleep and opportunity were fast approaching.

Then a hoot owl hooted. He wasn’t more than thirty feet from my truck. I was pretty tired, so stupidly, I tried ignoring him. Unfortunately, he didn’t stop until two in the morning. That’s right about the time the coyotes got going. I decided to leave at about 6:00, with a grand total of three hours of sleep.

There’s a lot to be said for “free” sleep.

I arrived at the guy’s house early. Everything in his front yard (camper, cars, the house itself) had a “For Sale” sign on it.
He never said, but the set up reeked of divorce or lack of work. And since he said he would have been at work were it not for the sale, I assumed divorce.

It also didn’t take me long to discover why he was selling the bike for such a small price tag. After looking at it for a few minutes, I had a laundry list of replacement or upgrade to-dos.

Battery $45
Oil & Filter $45
Shift Lever $45
Back Tire $100
Brake Pads $120
Chain $120

It needed roughly $500 worth of “get into fighting shape work.”

I also had a list of things I needed for the bike regardless of how much I had to pay for it.

Lowering Links $200 (KLRs are built for taller people)
Valve Adjustment $200 (For peace of mind)
Doohickey $300-$500 (Kawasaki engineering flaw…I’d have to replace it, anyway)

The idea of getting the bike so cheaply did have a few perks, however. I could afford to license, title, and register it for a much cheaper price. I also realized I could slowly do the upgrades, while waiting for spring, summer and most like early fall to arrive.

It didn’t take much more “thinking about it.” We put her into the back of my truck, and I drove the whole way, wondering how I would make this project work for me.

She’s at the shop right now. She’s still there, waiting for her slew of initial work and aftermarket parts to arrive.

I’ve decided to call her Pepper Potts (Iron Man Reference for you fanboys out there), because she’s red, and she comes from a piping hot desert.

PS The Beast will soon be sold. I’ll be sure to write a solid obituary when she finally goes.

Troubles in Idaho

A few weeks ago I went for a visit to the Utah neighboring states of Idaho and Wyoming. I’d been planning this trip for a little over a month—ever since I found out there would be a Brandi Carlile concert in Jackson, and realized that I could also conveniently check out Idaho State’s English Ph. D. program in Pocatello on the way.

The visit to Idaho State turned out to be a huge disappointment. I was hopeful about the program, because it meant that I could stay close to home for my Ph. D. and enjoy the benefits of in-state tuition (Idaho and Utah have reciprocal funding programs).

Alas, it was not meant to be. I was told I was a very viable candidate, but the recession had all but stopped any opportunity for additional funding. Tuition would be around $6,000 (in-state), and living expenses would be about $8,000—$14,000 of debt a year with no guarantee of a job in the Arts after graduation is NOT an option. I would finish the program with approximately $60,000 of debt. To put this sum into perspective for myself, I started to count how many BMW motorcycles (the most expensive motorcycles on the market) I could buy for that kind of money, and the total came to three—two new and one used, fully loaded BMW GS1200 Adventurers.

In addition to the bad fiscal news, I was also told the Ph. D. program at ISU would not even prepare me to teach in a level one research school (BYU, U of U). If I earned my degree there, I would only be able to teach at two-year institutions. I can already do that with my Masters.

Consequently, my future plans in Idaho came to an abrupt end. I am currently considering alternative, slower-cooking possibilities.

Thankfully, to drown my sorrows, I went to the Mangy Moose Saloon, located in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to see Brandi Carlile sing some good old-fashioned folk-rock. It was wonderful.

Even better, the Mangy Moose was euphoric. I’m not sure how many of you know I am a Moose Nut, but I was up to my eyeballs in the gift shop. I got a Mangy Moose shirt, mug, bumper sticker, and even a pocketknife. It was pathetic how little control I had. I was a very happy camper.

However, the most exciting event of the night actually happened on the way back to Idaho Falls, where my copilot and I were staying the night. It was approximately 1:30 in the morning, just as we had driven over Moose Creek, when we saw something huge in the road: a Moose Cow, with baby in tow.

Can you freakin’ believe it? What are the chances? “On my way back from the Mangy Moose, as I was driving over Moose Creek, I nearly ran into two moose, at 1:30 in the morning.” You have to smile at the coincidence of it all. I was tickled pink.

A Face Only a Mother Could Love

When I was a freshman in college, I went through a deep funk. I couldn’t manage to pass any of my classes (One aspect of my life that has definitely changed over the years), and my love-life was a wasteland (Another aspect of my life that hasn’t changed at all).

To console myself in my misery, I decided I would buy myself a rodent friend: a hamster.
So I went to the local pet shop on Main Street in Provo (I think it was called “Jay’s Jungle, and I’m fairly certain it’s still there), in search of a brainless fur-ball. Unfortunately, when I arrived, I discovered three cages full of mice, two cages of feeder rats, and not one blessed hamster in the whole stinkin’ store.

Useless!

Be that as it may, I would not be deterred: I had just purchased a $10 ten-gallon tank from off a Wilk-board advertisement and bought nine-hundred pounds of cedar shavings. I was determined not to leave the store without a friend. So I went back to reexamine the mice and rat selections.

The mice were pitiful, with their blind stares and pink albino eyes. I became totally uninterested.
Then, I looked at the rat cages.

I stared for a long time.

First, I saw two rats licking each other’s faces and cuddling together to stay warm, and I thought how bizarrely endearing they both were, if not somewhat disgusting. Then a little black-hooded boy popped his head up from out of a mass of others eating from a communal food bowl. He was smaller than the others, but he looked curiously straight up at me.

I bought him five minutes later.

I was obsessed with Jackie Chan movies at the time, and I wanted to name him something Chinese. My roommate’s fiancé spoke Mandarin (I didn’t realize at the time, Jackie Chan was from Hong Kong, where only Cantonese is spoken), so we named him “Way-ba” or “tail.”

Wayba was something special. His disposition was sweet, and he was smart. He learned tricks, and he would sit on my shoulders for hours while I wrote papers or talked on the phone. He was the perfect friend, and when I would cry, he would lick the tears from my face. He was not unlike a very, very small dog.

I kept Wayba for two and a half years. During that time, I moved three times. He handled it well. For a while, he even lived at my sister’s apartment, when an unreasonable roommate would not let me keep him in the apartment (Neener, a best friend, would hide him during winter cleaning checks by rapping his cage up like a gift for a day or two).

When he died in the spring of 2003, my heart was broken. I don’t think, with exception of one dog I had, I ever loved an animal more.

I took his little body to the mountains, and buried it in Rock Canyon, after digging a more than adequate hole in the sand stone with a pick axe I “borrowed” from BYU Grounds Crew.

I tell this story, because after two years of being petless, and almost five years of being ratless, I’ve been looking into the possibility of some new friends.