January 2003 Archives

Busy weekend. On Saturday I took two-thirds of the debate team (the other third was taking the SAT) to a tournament in New Kent County, and I must say we had some pleasantly unexpected success. We had eight guys, each double-entered, for a total of 16 entries. Of those entries, 14 were students who'd never competed in their assigned events before. One of the two "veterans" was a ninth-grader attending his second tournament ever; the other was the team captain, who'd done one of his events once before--in February of last year. Despite this extraordinary lack of experience, we earned six places in the finals and wound up taking home more hardware than we have in many months: three 2nd-place trophies, two 5ths and a 6th, good enough for third place overall. The younguns done me proud.

On the way home from New Kent, we pulled over near Richmond's airport and found what must be God's Own Arby's. In addition to the usual array of chicken sandwiches and Beef 'n' Cheddars, they had rotisserie chicken, a baked potato bar, a sundae bar, breads, cold wraps, and even a sides-only plate. As fast food goes, it was pretty astonishing. That one's going on the list for later exploitation.

I'm now in my twelfth year of coaching debate, and I've acquired a pretty good working knowledge of fast food establishments. Some are better for certain meals, some are consistent throughout the day, and some are not to patronized except in emergencies. My own eclectic list:

GOLD TIER:
*Bojangles--As long as you're not trying to dodge fat, this is the place. Cajun chicken biscuit, seasoned fries, and sweet tea, with cinnamon biscuits for dessert. My arteries have never hurt so good.

*Arby's--Even in the non-celestial version, the selection is excellent and you can dodge the fat bullet well. Curly fries are a nice option, though.

*Subway--Sometimes a man needs vegetables, and this is the best fast-food place to get them. The sweet onion teriyaki chicken breast is stellar, but even a simple turkey on fresh bread is a pleasure. It's not really that fast, however, especially when you have a whole debate team along with you.

SILVER TIER:
*Taco Bell--It's not Mexican food, it's fast food. As long as you remember that, you'll do fine. The seven-layer burrito is one of the best vegetarian options in the fast-food biz, and the gordita, god help me, is delectable.

*Hardee's--This gets bumped up a notch for breakfast, since it's the only fast food place besides Bojangles that does a chicken biscuit for breakfast.

*Wendy's--Quality chicken sandwiches, and sometimes I get a craving for Wendy's chili that simply can't be explained. The Frosty, though it's not dairy in the ordinary cow-based sense, is also a treat.

BRONZE TIER:
*Burger King--This one might be higher except that I've eaten there so much in the past eight years; it's our kids' favorite fast-food place, and it has little novelty for me. The chicken Whopper and chicken sandwich are decent, though swimming in mayonnaise. Good fries, middling breakfast.

PARTICIPATION PIN:
*McDonald's--The biggest and most mediocre. Sometimes a Big Mac is all you want. The fries are good, too. Breakfast is a particular weakness.

*KFC--Again, not really fast. Service tends to be slow, no matter where you go. Fatty as hell, but honey BBQ wings are miiiiighty tempting.

*Dairy Queen--I don't need that much Hank Ketcham in my life, thanks. And decent ice cream doesn't really make up for mediocre food.

I look forward to the day when we can stop and eat Thai on the way home from a tournament, but until then, I'll manage.

And yes, I've read Fast Food Nation. Why do you think I avoid Mickey D's?

11:13 PM

NEWS AND UPDATES

First the UPDATES:

If you're one of those who checks out the Journal page but hasn't been around the rest of the site, you may have missed it, but www.petercashwell.com has recently undergone some long-overdue renovation.

The kind, talented, and reasonably-priced folks at quietspace.com have once again done the dirty work of taking my vague indications and turning them into cool-looking webstuff, and you can see their efforts by visiting the other pages here.

In About Peter Cashwell, you'll see some different excerpts from my life list. I've also updated my biography slightly.

In The Verb To Bird, you can see the book's cover at last; this is the Now-Official cover, featuring Grant Silverstein's illustration of a Yellow-shafted Flicker against a field of bold green. On the same page, you can also read the revised and Now-Official version of my first sighting of the Pythagorean Prothonotary Warbler.

In Resources/Bibliography, my Recent Reads have been updated, proving that yes, I do read more or less continuously.

Now the NEWS:

Along with my new best friend, Will from PDB, I'm currently putting together what I hope will be a busy schedule of readings and signings for this spring and summer. I'll post that schedule once I have some idea what it might actually be, but I thought I'd report the first date I've been able to set up:

I'll be appearing at the Virginia Festival of the Book on March 19th, 2003, in Charlottesville, VA.

I don't yet know whether I'll be doing a reading, a panel discussion, or a combination thereof, nor do I know the venue or time; I'm just psyched to be participating, since I've greatly enjoyed the Festivals I've been to in the past. (The Gordon Ave. Branch Library Book Sale is an unofficial but not-to-be-missed part of the Festival, too.) If you're interested and in the neighborhood, swing by.

This also means that the book should (knock wood) be available for sale by March 19th--at the very least, PDB and I will be doing everything we can to make that happen.

Suddenly March is looking like a busy time... maybe almost as busy as January is turning out to be...

4:24 PM

There are times when I wonder about my emotional responses. I'll find myself getting all worked up about something quite meaningless, or having a perfectly calm and phlegmatic response to a life-altering moment. More often, I'll find myself reacting more or less normally, but not to the expected stimulus. Instead, I'll react to something just slightly out of skew.

Case in point: I have on the desk beside me a copy of the uncorrected proof of The Verb To Bird.

I've been working on this book for roughly seven years now. It's been rejected, inspected, neglected, and all those other Arlo Guthrie words on the way to being selected by Paul Dry Books, and it has taken up an enormous part of my time and attention for the better part of the last two years. This early peek at the book's final incarnation is a chance to relieve some of the tension that's been building up since I first contacted PDB in the spring of 2001, and the forthcoming publication is going to be an occasion for serious celebration in the Cashwell house.

But typically, my response at the moment is off-kilter. I guess I was expecting to be staggered by the sight of my own name on a cover, or by the appearance of my words on the page of a bound book. It doesn't suck, let me tell you that up front, but it's not bowling me over, either. There may be a variety of reasons at work here. For one thing, I've known that this was coming for nearly eighteen months, so I've had time to get used to the idea; I've had nearly six months to get used to the specific idea of a cover, though the actual illustration and background color have changed. For another, I've been reading the book's words for a loooooong time, particularly in the two close revisions I've done for PDB in the last year, and I'm thoroughly familiar with them, even in nice computer-aligned and -printed script. It's not that different to see them on these pages.

And maybe there's a certain degree of cockiness involved, too. If I'm honest with myself, I'll admit that I'm not so much surprised to be getting published as relieved. After all, I've wanted to be a writer since elementary school, and have studied writing in academic and non-academic settings almost all my life. I've never quit writing, never quit submitting, and never quit believing that I could write professionally. OK, I've become more aware of where my specific writing talents do and do not lie, granted. But in many ways, this is a moment of satisfaction, not of serendipity. My name is on that cover because I've worked hard to get it there.

But typically, I'm having an unreasonably giddy response to something totally different: my name is on the spine, man!

Right there! In white letters on green, right at the top: it says "CASHWELL... The Verb To Bird... PAUL DRY BOOKS" and has the little PDB logo. When this thing's on the shelf, you'll see it: "CASHWELL." And it'll be right there next to other books! If I put it on my shelf of writers I know, it sits between books by two of my old English 99 chums at UNC, Sharlene Baker's Finding Signs and Randall Kenan's A Visitation of Spirits--I've caught up with them at last! And--oh my lord--if I put it on my nonfiction shelf, it's right between Humphrey Carter's biography of the Inklings and the autobiography of G.K. Chesterton. I'm next to G.K.-freakin'-Chesterton!

The cover is a colorful illustration (a mighty fine one, I should add) of what's already been written and revised and revised again; it's a new bottle for the old wine. But the spine puts me in a whole new context. My vintage is being laid down next to those of all the other writers with spines of their own: Stephen Jay Gould... Katharine Weber... Ursula K. Le Guin... I have to go lie down now.

Am I sick or what?

4:49 PM

A Letter to Samuel Joseph Cashwell

Dear Sam,

Is it OK to call you Sam, at least for the moment? We haven't been introduced yet, since you got here all of five hours ago, but "Samuel Joseph" seems kind of long for a guy your size. (Eight pounds ten ounces isn't small to most people, I know, but you've got to remember that my sons were both eleven-pounders.) Of course, both your names are good ones, and both family names, too. Your mom's father is Sam, and your dad's great uncle was a Samuel; Uncle Sammy had no children of his own, but I know he'd be happy to know that you're carrying his name now that he's gone. And Joseph? Ah, that's your great grandfather, Daddy Joe, and his father before him; Daddy Joe's full name was Joseph Leon Cashwell, II, which we always thought was a little odd, what with his being the second son, after Uncle Jim. Still, "Joseph" is a name I'm glad to see passed along as well. (And I think everyone agrees that it's better than "Leon," even though that's your dad's middle name. Don't tease him about it.)

I married into a big crop of nieces and nephews, but you're the first one I've had from my side of the family, and I'm frankly a little bewildered. I've never really had to learn how to be an uncle before. Your dad is great at the whole uncling thing, by the way. He lets Ian and Dixon, your cousins, come visit him from time to time, and he comes up with all kinds of cool stuff for them to do; they're still talking about the time he took them to a water park in Alexandria and then to ESPNZone, and that may have been before your mom and dad had even met. I'm going to have a hard time living up to that standard, but Aunt Kelly and I will do our best.

Right now, though, there's not much I can do for you except maybe jot down a few things that I know about your father. You're going to get to know your parents better than just about anybody else ever will, but now that he's a father, some of them may not be as easy to see from where you are. So here are some things I can tell you:

You're going to inherit great hand-me-down clothes from your dad, because he knows how to dress. He's also a really good singer--get him to sing something from "The King and I" sometime if you can. He played the King back in high school. He also played soccer and was better than I was, though I still maintain I was better at basketball. He's been all over the world and speaks lots of different languages, and he may teach you some words in some of them if you ask nicely. He cooks really well (so does your mom), so be careful not to overdo it at the dinner table--your folks are both nice and lean, but there are fat genes in your family. (Trust me, I know.)

Your dad is not much like me in some ways. He's very good at organizing things, and understands money. He used to be able to put his whole fist in his mouth. He's left-handed, and he has very, very neat handwriting. But we have some things in common, too. We both play the guitar, and we both think history is a wonderful subject to study. We've both been teachers and think a lot about education. We both looooooove Carolina. (So does your mom. So does your Aunt Kelly. Don't go to Duke.) Your dad is stupidly in love with your mom; sometimes he gets all mushy about having her around. (Don't tease him about that, either--it's a good thing.) When he proposed to her, he came up with the most precise and elaborate plan you could imagine; I'll let them tell you the story, but trust me when I say it was like the Normandy invasion. Your dad has a real sense of occasion--when it comes to planning parties, anniversaries, celebrations of all kinds, he's the best there is. He gives the best toasts, asks the best questions, and serves the best food. I can't wait to come to your birthday parties, because they're going to be terrific.

He also loves his family very much; he knows all about its history and genealogy, and is always eager to find more. That's why he and your mom gave you the names you have: because our family is important to him, and he wanted to make sure its past generations were remembered. You're his son, and that makes you special all by itself, but you're also part of the continuing Cashwell family, and that makes you special to all of us.

Welcome.

Love,

Uncle Pete

11:11 PM

Report on the FLOGG Winter Meeting, Dec. 22nd, 2002

ROLL CALLED

present:
Perry "Shoat" Cooper of the Fighting Coelocanths: yrs. truly
Red Antower of the Peace Corps: Reed A.
Daniel X. Blodgett of the Mighty Burners: Steve S.
The Rev. Charles L. Dodgson of the Frumious Bandersnatchi: Ken B.
Bug Grunt of the Varks: Mike B.
Morgan Morgan of the Banana Slugs: Nan M. (assisted by Patrick M.)
Dar Novak of the Fighting Novaks: Dan S.
The Ghost of Grantland Rice of Hip-Hip-Hezbollah: Greg H.

in absentia:
A. Spencer Ladd, III of the Screaming Boiled Lobsters
Jim Woods of the Pitt County Pizza

The minutes were accepted as read.

We met chez Grunt to watch the NFL games that corresponded to our semifinals, despite the fact that the Varks had been eliminated in the previous week's Toilet Bowl by the suddenly resurgent Pizza and their heavily Viking-based offense. A mighty repast was prepared, featuring vast quantities of coffee, chips, nuts, and enough smoked salmon to keep me occupied for a full three hours. The lovely Mrs. Grunt and the two adorable Gruntlings kept everyone amused most of the afternoon, especially when Gruntling One showed off her purple princess dress from Halloween. Miz Cooper spent as much time with the Gruntlings as possible, but was also delighted by Mrs. Antower and the newest Peace Corps Volunteer. The Two Little Coops were occupied with Uncle Bug's big, shiny, computer, featuring a variety of games, mostly involving skateboard accidents and motorcycle crashes, that they can't play at home. Dar and Bug have taken great care to show them all the best ways to scrape virtual flesh against virtual pavement for big points.

Speaking of motorcycle crashes, the Ghost arrived on a spiffy new BMW bike, toting a six of Mackeson Stout. He was my opponent for the day, but I forgave him this fault after sampling a bottle, which tasted so good going down I've just about decided never to mess with Guinness again. He immediately set up a banshee wail upon discovering that his starting quarterback, Drew Bledsoe of the Bills, was scoring in the negative, while Kerry Collins of the Giants languished on his bench with a five-TD outing. Before long, the 3H bench had outscored its starters by better than 80 to 8, a margin which required a whole new piece of terminology.

Note on the FLOGG Lexicon: Several neologisms have already been approved for use in the League. To vark a team, for example, is to outscore it by more than 100 points, while to dinkle a team is to double its score. (From the latter flow several logical extensions: to trinkle is to triple an opponent's score, to quadrinkle is to quadruple it, etc.) After consideration of the members, the new term autodekadinkle was accepted for use in cases where one's bench has outscored one's starters by ten to one. The final score of the Coelocanths/Hezbollah game was a lopsided 61-19, but the Ghost was more than happy to settle for a mere trinkling.

The 'Canths/3H game was the first of two games between teams that had lost in the first round of the playoffs; the other game in the consolation bracket was the Bandersnatchi/Lobsters matchup, which went to the Bandersnatchi in a shootout, 84-81. (The Rev. Dodgson was the only member whose opponent was in absentia, but as he is used to addressing invisible beings as an article of his employment, he had no great difficulty talking smack in Ladd's absence.) The Mid-West semifinal matchup also provided a good deal of drama. Much to Dar's horror, the Saints were managing yet another loss, sending his QB, Aaron Brooks, to a low-scoring day; by contrast, since Morgan (whose fetching black boots were a subject of much admiration) was getting a career day from Amani Toomer (39 points all by himself), the Slugs ended up on the high side of a 111-79 victory. The East semifinal, alas, was no contest, as Red backed into the double-edged buzzsaw of the Burners' Michael Vick and Eagles defense, the two of which combined for 70 points in a 107-37 near-trinkling.

The League has considered expansion but has made no commitment to new teams. Ownership of one franchise may be transferred during the off-season, but final determination of the new location and owner has yet to be approved by Commissioner Dick Dinkle. Formal portraits of the attendees were taken, though the newest Peace Corps Volunteer insisted on a visual record of his attendance.

A good time was had by all.

ADDENDUM: In last week's Super Duper Bowl, game officials and statisticians spent several days scrambling for data before making their final determination of the winner: the Banana Slugs over the Mighty Burners by a score of 50-48. I myself had the satisfaction of managing the second-highest point total of the week; unfortunately, I was playing against the Bandersnatchi, who had the highest point total of the week. I did end the season with the consolation prize of scoring the greatest cumulative number of points during the season, though a 1-2 playoff record takes the shine off that prize somewhat. The 'Canths, Burners and Slugs all finished with 12-5 records, and all three coaches are now sifting through draft reports for next season.

5:10 AM

The line between inheriting something and receiving it has always been a little fuzzy for me. I think it's because I have a family that is both very generous and clothing-intensive. Though I'm the first-born child in my family, I've actually acquired quite a few hand-me-downs over the years because my father is a) about the same size as I am, and b) a serious clothes-horse. He'll get tired of something long before it's worn out, and when he does, I'm usually the one who gets the right of first refusal. (My brother, who is at least as much of a dandy as Dad, is less willing than I to adopt other people's stylistic choices, but he is also, alas, too tall and too slim to wear most of Dad's stuff even if it met his exacting standards.)

In fact, I'm sitting here wearing other people's purchases. This pair of jeans I got from Dad. He also gave me this lightweight black merino sweater. The t-shirt I have on under the sweater was a gift from David. I hasten to note that the socks and underwear are my own--I do have some standards--but my wardrobe is very much influenced by my family.

And this should be no surprise; my family has influenced me on a biological level and a psychological level, so why not on a sartorial level? Sure, many of my preferences are unique in the family--no one else is a big fan of Frank Zappa or Neil Gaiman that I know of--but man, there are plenty of my favorites that were given to me. The eight-track tape player in the family Oldsmobile gave me my original exposure to such artists as Chuck Berry, the Beatles, Janis Joplin, and Paul Simon. My mom was the one who insisted I read John McPhee's Oranges,, while Mama Lou, my dad's mother, bought me a copy of The Silmarillion for Christmas one year. I learned to love Aaron Copland, Sergei Prokofiev, Camille Saint-Saens, and the Kingston Trio by playing my parents' records over and over and over. Heck, for all I know, my tastes in music and literature may be genetically determined in some fashion.

The thing is, though, that what is passed down to us doesn't really belong to us. It's just stopping with us for a while on the way to the next generation. My father inherited a Walther from Uncle Gordon, and it may well someday end up in the hands of my brother's children, just as we got Dad's brown eyes. But Uncle Gordon died a few years back, and David's first child is still unborn. Dad, David and I are the only ones able to follow that line of inheritance directly right now, but others will come when we're gone and see their own segments of that long, long line. And doubtless, when they see one point on that line disappear and another appear in the other direction, they'll be moved to think of these same matters.

My great aunt, Jessie Cashwell Boney, the oldest member of our family, died on December 30th; she would have been 100 years old this Saturday. In all likelihood, the newest member of the family will arrive in the next week. It's a time of transition, a time when one generation is boxing up its packages for the next. We will wear what we can, buy what we need, and pass it all along to those who come after us. They'll appreciate it, you can be sure. Besides, we never wear that thing anymore anyway.

"Hail and farewell, as always."
--Roger Zelazny

6:14 AM