Okula gittim.

"I went to school."

Thursday afternoon I went with Marleina to her two wee schools to enlighten youngsters about the glories of the Land of the Galloping Mare's Head (Turkey, duh). I spent time with three classes at the Cave Hill School. I talked a lot. I showed a lot of pictures. I wrote a lot of Turkish on wipe/blackboards. In the end, I'm proud to say that those children went home knowing these things:

1) Turks poop in ceramic holes in the ground, and do so while standing up.

2) There are things older than their parents ( gasp!) in Turkey.

3) They know how to say "elf" in a Uralo-Altaic language.

Of course, the children were flying high on about ten pounds of sugary treats apiece, and there was a hum in the air of eager anticipation and the almondy stench of revolution. There are many of them; so few of us. I learned a few things, too. Children don't want to learn how to diagram a Turkish sentence. Children who live in wee Maine towns called "villages" and whose parents make livings from the sea will not have heard of a weird religion called Islam. But, I also learned to latch on to that one kid in the class, the singular one, who is paying attention and will actually be affected by what you say. I don't know how teachers do it, day in and day out, giving and giving until they could puke coathangers only to have kids ask:

"So, do those people pee in that hole, too?"

Today I have spent most of the day tending to my eye, which looks like I was at the recieving end of a linebacker's suckerpunch. I've showered and eaten but I haven't yet gone outside, which is fine with me. For the first time in a long time, I have been able to sit in front of a television and not feel guilty about it. I've been able to pick up a book that I was not--shrieeeeek!--reading for one of my soul-crushing classes. I've been able to eat without fear of starvation at the end of the week. Further, let us neglect to mention the sordid story of how a ten-pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups passed through my digestive system; it's too much.

A gentle snow is falling over Eastern Maine, and Bangor is hunkering down for a beslaked post-holiday slumber. Well, some of us are. Somewhere, Bangor's only prostitute--a fortyish woman who wears bellyshirts and definitely should not--is dolling herself up and getting ready to walk the Joshua Chamberlain Bridge in scuffed Payless boots. In the darkness of Bass Park, a 39 foot tall fiberglass statue of Paul Bunyan waits for the streetlights to go out to clamber down from his pedastal to kill. Shifting restlessly in the surrounding forests, shiny-eyed undead slaver thinking about that one lonely post-holiday shopper who lingered outside a little too long. And in the canals downtown, gaily colored balloons reflect dully off of the rushing Stillwater, held aloft by a clown who does not have a name. And the man who brought all of these creatures to life shall soon repose, perchance in his cushiony coffin, about twelve blocks from here in an antebellum lumber baron mansion. Well, he didn't make up the prostitute. She's just out there, scary in her own way.

I haven't been out much in Bangor, but I've already started my "Wow, I'm running into you and pretending I didn't hate you with the fire of 1,000 suns in high school/college, and, by the way, have you lost weight?" counter. It's up to two so far.

1) The hussy who caused a scandal at Bangor High School my senior year by getting herself in a "family way" and not being able to adequately name the daddy. She'd had it narrowed down to about four when she left school, gravid and bitter, never to return. With her was a child of no more than three (certainly not the one she concieved during pre-senior summer) and she was looking puffy in the midriff; her litter grows.

2) Well, I don't hate this one. Actually, she was a really good friend of mine from college. In our small department, she'd managed to impress everyone with her top-notch grades, her leadership skills (she presided over the Anthropology Club) and her happy, cheerful demeanor. When I saw her cashiering at the Bed Bath and Beyond, my heart chilled in my chest. She'd dreamt of going on to bigger and better things; fieldwork, a PhD, and professorship. Here's hoping that my stint in the corn will make me, at least, worthy of being an undermanager at a fine retail establishment. Man, anthropology? Turkish Studies? I am going to die hungry.

The Benadryl is kicking in. Off to the bliss of midwinter slumber.

Have a good one, Bangor.

Lumberjack Dom