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As a way to broaden my scope about world cultures and to spend some summer time in a constructive, air-conditioned manner, I signed up as a conversation partner for the Culture and Intensive English Program at UNI. I made a commitment to converse with my partner for an hour a week and to share my culture as my partner practiced English.

My assigned partner is Gloria, and I received only her name, her date of birth, her country of origin, her level of English ability, and her email. So, I looked up Colombia for a crash course on the political system, which is bicameral like our own, also with executive and judicial branches, the geography, culture, and history. Even with several hours of reading, I felt my inadequacies, which is why this opportunity is so cool for opening me up to more global thinking.

I got to meet Gloria last week, and I learned more about the culture of Columbia and in an hour and a half of conversing than I have in any reading I’ve done, any information I’ve learned in classes, or any news viewing to this point. Gloria, a theater major, with the equivalent of a Master’s, is animated, telling me stories about how people determine their salaries by the month, pay into their pension and health care funds, and how she and her husband got married on their lunch breaks and how she couldn’t remember her wedding anniversary when she applied for her visa.

She is very proud of her city and plans to tell me more about

The TV is unplugged, dusted off, and waiting for its final resting place. It is lying in state on the living room floor, between two speakers, almost like some kind of pagan altar or old world wake.

While I slept, Aaron packed it all away, all of the attachments, cords, plugs, boxs (vcr and dvd players), and the big shelf on which they all used to live. We had a whole shelf of boxes that we sat in front of, staring into fake worlds or depressing news, and at first, I mourned the loss of these boxes, especially the big one. The faces and voices coming into the house used to seem so harmless and even friendly, but now that it has been quiet and just the two of us in the living room, I’ve realized that those people are not my friends and that those lives and voices get in the way of my life and my voice.

Years ago now, before 9-11 when the television stayed on for days, I was without TV, and I was fine with it then. The box sat in the corner, and it was silent except for the occasional vhs. That was also back when I was a vegetarian and more concerned about what went into my body, including crappy television.

Okay, the truth is that I couldn’t afford cable (they shut it off when I told them I couldn’t pay the bill), and the reception was so bad without the cable that I just stopped trying to see through the snow and left it turned off.

The only time I was made to see that my tv-less state was not the norm was when my students refered to a particular show, and when I looked confused, they would say, "You know, on Fox, the ____ show." Then, I dropped the bomb, " I don’t watch tv." Their jaws hit their desks, which woke up some of the sleepers, who even stopped drooling long enough to ask what had happened. They were shocked, too, thinking they were still in a bad dream. Who doesn’t watch tv? They bombarded me with questions: How do I find out about the news? What if something big happened? How could I live without Survivor?  I reminded them of the internet and radio as news sources, and I explained that surviving on my teaching salary was entertaining enough. Through the rest of the semester, they kept me informed about news events and who was still on the island.

There’s no longer that large, noisy buffer between us, and Aaron and I are doing more looking into each other’s eyes and talking to each other without the faces and voices interupting us. Luckily, neither of us has attempted to use the remote control on the other, and I think we’ll be okay.

This weekend, Aaron and I camped with my old college roommate and her husband at Devil’s Lake State Park, in Wisconsin. We hiked on the Balanced Rock, Devil’s Doorway, East Bluff, Grottos, and Potholes Trails (I tumbled in the potholes area and have racer-stripe scratches on my arm). The trails run along beautiful quartzite bluffs and woods full of gorgeous flowers. We saw Shooting Stars, a new flower for me, Columbine, and loads of poison ivy, which I can now successfully identify. The best hike was Parfrey’s Glen, a remote trail (though famous for being the first state Natural Area), and it is stunning. After the heat of the day and the steamy humidity, as we walked along the stream, the temperature began to drop. The gorge rose up around us, covered in moses and ferns, and winding toward the waterfall. Even with others around, this trail is magical. Pictures later.

This morning I baked apricot bars and fixed a colorful picnic. Then, I met Aaron for a picnic at Seerly Park, under the oak trees.

I feel a strong connection to these places in Cedar Falls. Up the street is the Lutheran church where my mom was baptized in 1965. Down the street is the Hearst Center where I worked in the garden last summer. All along Seerly, crab apple trees fill the boulevard, and in the spring, they have luscious pink blooms. Ironically, this is the setting for the novel Sleeping With the Enemy. In this section of Cedar Falls, the houses and foliage in all seasons hold many personal memories, sad and happy.

"River Rushes" by Tom Newport

The misty-moist sky

gathered and let loose rain drops

to grow my flowers

Tender rain seeps down

into cracked dirt and rouses

seeds into sprouting