banner follow-up

Also, to follow-up on the mention of the abortion banner, here, Michael Bérubé also noted the absurdity of the thing, pointing out with some profundity what I couldn't quite come to grips with. It was also pointed out to me that the banner had been sighted in Pittsburgh a few weeks before. Is it a crusade targeting college students? No doubt in my mind.

have a thicker blanket.

Both yesterday and today the fog's been a morning greeting--this time even at home, not just campus. Yesterday it burned off beautifully, exposing sunshine and warm temperatures. Today it's too early to tell--I can't even see the field behind the office currently.

Yesterday evening as I was exiting the office, I bumped into a lady that works downstairs, with the office that does the programming for our administrative mainframe. Despite being a near-total stranger, conversation started right up--about the weather, of course, that being the easiest thing for strangers in the same geographic area to talk about. Then she brought up how beautiful the moon had been the night before. I mentioned that I hadn't been out to see it--it was full, right? (Knowing full well, as I do these days, when the moon is full--in no small part due to BPAL's release schedule. It's Chrysanthemum Moon according to their reckoning, based on Asian moons, and next month's full moon will be Kindly.) She agreed, then asked me if I was new to the building. I shook my head no and said I'd been here a year and a half (it's edging closer to two now, but I didn't point that out at the time). She kind of laughed, and said "oh, well that's new." And as we parted ways, headed for our respective cars, she waved and said "welcome to [the building]."

And our building is full of long-haulers. My grand-boss has been here for more than 20 years for certain, probably more than 25. Three people off the top of my head are about to retire in our Admissions Services and Evaluation Team. On the other hand, since I arrived in the office, we've hired a dozen people I can think of off the top of my head. I guess that makes for a relatively good balance of institutional knowledge and fresh input. These kinds of things have been increasingly coming to the forefront of my mind as we've been trying to form these committees, which should start their first meetings next week, we hope.

Unfortunately, navigating what they're going to turn out like and how they're going to operate is a lot like navigating the fog this morning--being never quite sure what might pop into view as you travel.

This morning, on the drive in, it was thick, thick, thick, until I hit one patch in the heavily wooded area I drive through, at which point it cleared up completely in this little bubble of stillness. And that was magic. A small kind of magic, certainly, but magic nonetheless: this pure, clear vision as woods pressed close, every detail perfectly visible, but the very distinct knowledge of when you have to enter the dimness again. And it hits in a wall, and then you're engulfed and straining to see clearly once more.

Welcome to the world of office politics.

Welcome to Happy Valley--have a blanket.

Today, the second day of fall classes, dawned dull and cold and spitting. I was amused on my drive in to see a professor-type in suit and bow tie standing beneath a great black umbrella at the bus stop. I was even more amused to see what for the life of me seemed like flecks of snow hitting my windshield along with the sprinkles of rain.

The wall of fog I encountered as I drove toward campus further expanded my delight. Strange, I know, but I think we've covered that about me. In the case, it was a gorgeous, deep fog. Which slowed down traffic, of course, but that's the only down side.

Forget about my view of the mountains: on the way in, I could barely see the watertower I usually pass. On the corner of the intersection the stadium's closest to, I could barely see its struts, and couldn't at all see the other side of it.

Now that I'm in my office, once I look beyond the field and accompanying field house just outside my window, there's nothing beyond. If I crane back to see Pollock Halls, the closest are kind of visible, but the ones closer to the heart of campus are just--gone. Swallowed up. The world has been shallowed, the horizon brought in closer. No sign of Mount Nittany or the range it's attached to, much less the range beyond that.

While a nasty greeting for those from warmer climes, I find this comforting--as if the valley pulled around a nestling blanket for its new residents. I doubt they'll be as appreciative, but I have to admit that I love this.