A tiring day

The lawn seems thicker this year. Some of its plant species are new; I wonder if this is good or bad. I mowed again yesterday and, in one hour, used two full tanks of gas.

This afternoon I gave the first of the two lectures on Alasdair MacIntyre. “You spoon-fed the students,” said my Uncle Tim. “Which was exactly what I wanted you to do.” The broth I spoon-fed them was pretty diluted. My seven-page handout was neither very comprehensive nor very detailed; even so, the writing of it felt like hard labor, and at class-time I was exhausted. So were the students, several of whom fell asleep.

I’m always reassured when students do this. The most gratifying teaching evaluation I ever received said that one half of the semester was “boring but very important”; it told me that I was doing something right.

My cousin Vickie, who has been looking after Samuel during these guest lectures, was unavailable today because she has contracted a disease. Her place was kindly taken by my Aunt Sally. When I got home, I received a report of the many activities that Samuel was encouraged to do.

A lecture

Apparently, now that he’s done a few frolics on the grass, Samuel has learned the word “outside.” I haven’t heard him use it; but my cousin Vickie did, this afternoon, while she was looking after him.

It was the first time in months that both parents were away from him. (He did just fine.)

I was delivering one of two guest lectures in my Uncle Tim’s ethics class, on the topic of “political authority.” (Is the state a justifiable institution? What, if anything, makes it our duty to obey its laws?) It was the first college class I’d taught since 2016 – and the first philosophy class since 2013.

Will these lectures be my swan song as a teacher?

I wonder.

To prepare for today’s installment, I read well over a hundred new pages – and two or three dozen judiciously chosen old ones – and I wrote a seven-page handout for the COVID absentees. Is it unbecoming to say that, sometimes, I work pretty hard?

The first shower

Karin & I held the first of two gift showers for our son. This shower, organized by Mary, was attended by friends and family members who don’t worship at our church. (The church’s shower will occur next month.)

As the gifts were being unwrapped, I realized what a large proportion of the clothes from Karin’s wish list were fox-themed. Our boy also received some Fighting Irish onesies from my Domer cousin, Vickie; some Star Trek-themed Little Golden Books and clothes from Karin’s dad and his girlfriend, Carol, who are die-hard Trekkies; and a few tiger-themed items, including a Cincinnati Bengals outfit (the Bengals are Carol’s team).

Not only have our son’s gender, nationality, and religion – the standard identities – been settled well before his birth, but also, apparently, his mammalian, collegiate, intergalactic, and athletic preferences.

I was the only man at the shower. I tried to watch Manchester City vs. the Potato Tots on my computer, but the flash player wouldn’t work.

A week off

It’s my jobless week in between the spring semester and the first summer term. This afternoon, I’m in a lounge at Notre Dame, hoping that the strangeness of the locale will stimulate me to write.

I lunched with my dear cousin, Vickie, who’s just finished her bachelor’s work at Notre Dame. The poor thing has lost 20 lbs. during her last semester. I asked if it’s because she’s been eating phở in the cafeteria every day. No, she said, she hasn’t been doing that; she’s lost weight because of stress.

She has some jobs lined up for the next couple of years, but eventually she’ll have to decide whether to go to graduate school.

She said that in one of her sociology honors courses, the professor told the undergraduates that she expected all of them to go to grad school for sociology.

I think that’s the sort of expectation that ill serves humankind.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The last two days, I got to watch two fantastic Champions League semifinal games.

On Tuesday, Liverpool defeated Barcelona at home by four goals to zero, gaining a decisive 4–3 lead in aggregate goals and canceling out Lionel Messi’s superb performance from the previous game.

And yesterday, the Potato Tots scored three second-half goals in Amsterdam to edge out Ajax on “away” goals. Lucas Moura, the goalscorer, prayed fervidly at the start of the half, and by the time he put in his second goal, it sure looked like he was receiving divine favor.

Still, I felt badly for Ajax: they’d outplayed the Potato Tots in three of the four halves. And I felt badly for Messi, whose teammates had failed to oblige when, in Barcelona’s home game, he’d set them up to score enough goals to put the series to bed.

The final (June 1) will be a ferocious contest. They’re two very gritty teams, Liverpool and the Potato Tots.

Some visitors from Esmeraldas

Yesterday, Karin & I went to the movie theater. The movie itself cost $6 per ticket – the only good deal in the house. Two popcorns and two drinks would’ve cost about $20. Two bottles of water would’ve cost about $10.

And then, to add insult to injury, the drinking fountains in our section didn’t work. (We did find drinking water at the other end of the building.)

We settled into our seats. The previews were uninspired.

Clearly, the movie industry is in bad decline …

… except for the Mission: Impossible series, which just keeps on getting better and better, and whose latest installment we’d come to view. (It’s one of the comforts of my old age.)

Mission: Impossible – Fallout is the “Thundergun Express” of movies. Tom Cruise hangs from a cliff, and from a tall building. He jumps out of a plane – in a lightning storm. He pilots a helicopter – in a dogfight with another helicopter, over the Himalayas. And, in Paris and London, he runs, and runs, and runs.

It’s best viewed on the big screen, what Tom Cruise manages to do.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Afterward, we stopped by my Aunt Lorena’s & Uncle John’s house to borrow a book; and, lo and behold, who should be visiting but my Aunt Lorena’s own aunt and uncle, Amparo and René Bermúdez. It’s not often that I see people I knew in Esmeraldas, as a child.

We conversed in Spanish.

“How is Ruth?” they asked, referring to Mary, my sister. “Does she still have asthma?”

“No,” my Aunt Lorena said, “she has diabetes.”

“She has both,” I assured them. We all shook our heads.

“She exercises regularly and watches her diet,” I told them. “She’s in better condition than her brothers are.”

“Ah,” they said. “And little David, who wanted to play for Real Madrid?”

“Married to an hondureña.”

“And young Stephen?”

“To a nicaragüense.”

“And your wife, does she speak Spanish?”

“No.” (Karin later told me that she understood 25% of the conversation – and, yes, the, and other words like those.)

“With whom do you practice?”

“With no one.”

“You speak Spanish perfectly.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “For an esmeraldeño.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Before we took our leave, Karin & I went upstairs to greet my cousins, Annie and Vickie. Annie was in her bedroom with Johnny, her fiancé. Vickie was in her own bedroom.

After we talked to them, we came back down the stairs.

“Was Vickie in her own room?” asked my Uncle John.

“Yes,” I said.

“Annie and Johnny aren’t supposed to be in a bedroom alone together,” said my uncle.

“Well,” I told him, “you’d better go up there and drag them out.”

And then Karin & I left.

Some baby goats

A blustery, snowy day.

Karin told me: This is supposed to be spring. And I said: This is how springtime always has been – cold.

You can tell it’s springtime because of the baby animals. On Saturday, Karin & I went to the Farmer’s Market to greet this quartet of baby goats.

(I’m pretty sure Jasper weighs at least as much as one of these goats.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

My cousin Vickie came over for supper, and she met Jasper and Ziva. Jasper went right up to her and chirped. Ziva hid under the bed, but she came out after a while.

Vickie told us about her podcast, The Trafficking Dispatch. (Just to be clear, Vickie opposes human trafficking.) Then we took her to her parents’ house, and we watched the NHL playoffs with her mother, my Aunt Lorena.

Portugal … ?

Well, who’d’ve thought it? Portugal!

• A team that didn’t win so much as not lose.
• A team whose goalscoring hero wasn’t CR7, but an obscurer striker, Éder. (Not even the most distinguished Éder in the tourney. That striker was Éder the Brazilian; he dressed for Italy.)
• A team whose coach had been employed by Greece during the World Cup, and who brought over the grinding tactics of the Greek team. (Without him, the Greeks finished last in their Euro qualifying group, twice losing to the Faroe Islanders.)

I am glad for my cousins, Annie & Vickie, who grew up in Portugal and are loyal to CR7. After the final they walked around their housing co-op waving the Portuguese flag. I am not glad for CR7, who didn’t play especially well in these Euros; nor for Pepe, who did. I am glad that modest Éder got the winning goal. I am sorry for Moussa Sissoko, the Frenchman who played best against the Portuguese.

Christmas 2012

Christmastime: family, family, and more family. It’s been kind of nice.

I hadn’t expected that Mary & Martin would be here in South Bend — they’d intended to go to Illinois — but on Christmas Eve, Mary got an infection and had to be admitted to Memorial Hospital. I visited her for several hours. It was kind of nice.

She’s out of the hospital now. She’s better.

I spent three consecutive days with my Uncle John, my Aunt Lorena, and their daughters, Annie & Vickie. Today I went to their house for Christmas dinner. At first they were surprised, but then they remembered they’d invited me. We ate spaghetti. It was good. … I convinced my aunt and cousins to read Wuthering Heights with me, one chapter each day. I’ve never read it. My aunt has, several times.

Annie was given a tree for Christmas — a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Here it is:

:) :) :)

Tomorrow is Carlos Muñoz Day.