Caveat Lector

I thought I saw a green heron while I was walking to work on Friday. As I drew closer, though, I saw that the bird didn’t have a heron’s neck. What it did have was great long toes that it set down with immense deliberation, foot over foot along the metal edge of a pier whose wooden planks had already come up for the winter.

I had to consult with my boss (a notable birder) to confirm my guess that it was a rail. I couldn’t see its coloration at all—on sunny mornings the birds are between me and the sun, so all I can see is their shape—but the length of beak suggested a Virginia rail. I hadn’t ever seen one before, so I went home pleased.

Which was something, because I had had one of Those Days. We all get them, and this one wasn’t anything especially notable or ominous, just a personal defeat that stung worse than bees, because I’d put a lot of effort into a project I’d had high hopes for that came to nothing in the end. Nothing to do but curse myself (sparing a moment or two to curse DSpace for its rigid uselessness as well) and commence unwinding the project’s affairs. These things happen.

In the generational strife one sees written about nowadays, the generation after mine is often accused of demanding undeserved external validation. I can’t really say whether that’s true. I just know what my own yardstick for myself is: tangible, unassailable evidence of accomplishment. I was an inveterate grade-grubber as a child, to the point that it felt odd to be praised for anything else. What else was there? And I would never ask to be validated. Validation comes with accomplishment. How else? If you have to ask, you don’t really deserve it.

Even for me it’s not quite that simple. I’m proud of my part in the Puerto Rico Census Project, though nobody would ever think to praise a data-entry drudge. That was important work, resulting in a dataset that will fuel worthwhile demographic and historical insights. I’m glad I worked on it.

Still, it does mean that institutional repositories, notable for their paucity of obvious accomplishment, or indeed any accomplishment at all, are a hard row to hoe for me sometimes. Friday was one of those times. I did something I hardly ever do—in fact, can’t remember ever doing. I said to my far-flung librarian friends, “I am having one of Those Days. I feel useless. Somebody cheer me up.”

And damn if they didn’t. It is a good thing to have far-flung librarian friends. It is also a good thing to see Virginia rails on the bay.

A great blue heron has been hanging around the bay for about a week, standing on one or another of the boat-dock-things in the water. Unimaginatively, I have been calling it Mr. Blue.

Today Mr. Blue was standing on coverless steel dock-ribs across from that house that has been for sale since we came back to Madison (and is never going to sell at the price they have it at, because two nearby bigger and better houses just sold for $60K less—I’m just sayin’). I stopped across the street from him, whereupon he looked at me suspiciously for a moment, then went back to preening.

A jogger came by, on Mr. Blue’s side of the street. Mr. Blue shook his head, but didn’t leave. The jogger didn’t see him.

Emboldened, I crossed the street and gingerly sat on the park bench. Mr. Blue considered leaving, but didn’t, and after a minute or three I was just part of his landscape and he didn’t mind me at all; he seemed more fussed at the breeze that was blowing his head-feathers into a topknot.

Three or four bicycles passed. Two walkers, one of whom said “Nice lake view, huh?” Several cars. And nobody saw Mr. Blue. I do not understand people, I truly don’t.

I half wonder if he’s just my Mr. Blue and nobody else can see him. More than once, when I’ve stopped to watch him and then gone on, I’ve looked back several steps later only to find he’s flown.

SPARC and the usual suspects (now there’s a band name for you) are sponsoring an Open Access Day on October 14. There will be videos, local events (MPOW has already said it will be involved), plenty of useful gankable marketing materials, swag, and a blog contest which I tell you right this identical minute I intend to enter (if they’ll let me) and win.

Seriously. Beat me. I double-dawg-dare every single last one of you. (No, of course this post isn’t my entry, stop it!)

In the tradition of the Hi-Fi Sci-Fi Library, I am more than mildly tempted to record my Desultory E-Scholarship Philippic, but I don’t know that Paul Simon would approve, so we’ll let it go.

Anyway, I earnestly hope my academic-libraryland and faculty readers will decide to participate in this. Lend a hand to your local repo-rat!

’Twas another car-rental weekend. Yesterday, as I was in the mood for a longer drive, we tooled up to Necedah National Wildlife Refuge to look around a bit.

Highway 12, most of the way up. How hard could that be? Alas, I did not take into account that unlike the interstate, Highway 12 goes through the Wisconsin Dells. The Dells look merely kitschy from the interstate. A few oversized waterparks, a few oversized electric billboards—local tourism making good, you know what I mean? No big deal.

As $DEITY is my witness, I will never drive through the Dells again ever. As far as I’m concerned, Highway 12 has a big fat sinkhole between 33 and County J. The Dells are vile. They are giant piles of soul-sucking fake plastic experience marketing. They are the perfect setting for a game of Kill Puppies for Satan (warning: not for the easily offended). They are the worst parts of the Vegas Strip and the Anaheim House of Mouse all incestuously rolled up together. Plus, the traffic is horrible.

There just isn’t enough WTF in the world. Never again. I swear it. And that’s enough of that. Boy, is it ever enough.

We arrived at Necedah without further incident and drove most of the auto trail. We stopped off at the Sprague flowage, where we made the acquaintance of a super-cute green-and-brown leopard frog with a mighty hop. Another frog swam to the surface of the water, but plooped right back down as soon as it noticed us.

Eventually we reached the refuge headquarters, parked the car in the shade, and tore through lunch. A little way away is one of their (few; this is a wildlife refuge, not a state park) official hiking trails, which has a short observation tower and a blind a little way further on. We saw a huge flock of geese, as well as half a dozen trumpeter swans (including one youngun) and two sandhill cranes standing elegantly above the scrum, knowing they own the place.

We then made a slight strategic mistake—well, I did, actually—deciding to walk to the other hiking trail instead of picking up and driving there. It turned out to be a long, dusty walk on a hot (though thankfully not humid) day. The redheaded woodpeckers, didn’t mind, though; they were everywhere, alongside the bluebirds and warblers. Near the beginning of the walk, a doe stopped to watch us, graceful tan body beautifully framed between a tree and tall vines. It was a good ten minutes before she decided she had other places to be and sprang away. We startled a couple of great blue herons out of the marsh and watched them sail sulkily away, remarking peevishly to each other that the neighborhood was going to the dogs. We also interrupted the sun bath of another little leopard frog; we made sure to shoo him off the road before we let him be.

There was a reward at the end of the walk, though we were too tired (and needing to husband water) to actually walk the trail once we found it. Through our binoculars, from the little wooden deck at the trailhead we saw a group of sandhill cranes—and three bright-white whoopers! Can’t complain about that; whoopers are rare, and a sighting much-prized.

David managed to navigate us around the Dells, fortunately for my sanity. A wild turkey in a ditch hunkered down to attempt invisibility when we stopped to look at him. I do love driving through Wisconsin countryside; it’s restful and pleasant and fifty times more picturesque than it has any right to be. I’m a city-kitty and probably always will be, but I do understand the appeal of living there.

I was plenty tired and achy when we made it back to Madison, so we stopped at Noodles and Company for a quick dinner before we reached home. We’d wanted to eat in Prairie du Sac, but it appears the Blue Spoon doesn’t open on Sundays.

There are quite a few state parks up Baraboo way that I have on my list of places I want to go. At this rate, I’ll have to live in Wisconsin the rest of my life to get to them all!

Fortunately, I don’t have any problem with that idea. None whatever.

A goldfinch, bright spot of yellow against the blue bay, clinging tight to a tall thistle swaying in the breeze, little black beak pecking into a purple bloom for seeds and sending bits of thistledown sailing.

Canoeing on Lake Wingra, lake-weeds and pond-lilies hissing against the bow. A kingfisher perches on a dead branch over the lake looking for fish, spiky crest high. A scattered flock of cedar waxwings shrills batlike, as its members flit out over the shallows for insects.

A friendly cat, dirty white with a black-striped gray tail and a few spots of similar shading, trots up to be petted, particularly liking scratches under its collar. “I have to go to work,” I tell it after a bit. It follows me in front of me. “No, I really have to go to work.” Sprawl at my feet, pleading look up. “Oh, all right.”

A rust-brown muskrat chewing on clover in Brittingham Park.

A green heron in its distinctive kiwi-like hunch on a boat launch. It extends its neck for a moment, then hunches up again. Less than a minute later, another green heron flaps by overhead, to the noisy consternation of one of the ubiquitous gulls.

In case anyone thought I had forgotten how much I love this place.

I’m home from Edinburgh, having arrived about dinnertime yesterday. I waded through some of the sleep backlog last night, but I think there’s more to go.

I’m enormously grateful to Robin Rice, Claire Knowles, Les Carr, and everyone else (lots of people!) who helped bring me to Edinburgh and show me such a lovely time while I was there. I hope I lived up to billing.

As I tend to do, I woke up much too early on departure day, killing time downstairs where the wireless works (someday I will remember to have an Ethernet cord with me always, but that day is not this, apparently) until it was time to check out and go. Edinburgh taxis are quick and efficient, especially early on a Sunday morning when hardly anyone is on the roads. (I love that about Edinburgh. Cities that are permanently on the go just sort of depress me, really.) My cabbie on the way into town last Wednesday was a fount of useful, if occasionally dour, information about the city; I didn’t catch him out in a single inaccuracy. (Especially about the new Scottish Parliament building. That thing is a travesty. If I were HRH the Queen, I’d kick up a fuss about such a Fortress of Uglitude sitting across from my very nice palace.)

At the airport, I joined a queue from the Continental desk all the way to the door. No way would they be able to process us all before the 9:20 scheduled departure. This turned out not to be a worry, because the flight was delayed an hour.

I thought I was all right. I thought I had a three-hour window between flights. When I finally reached the desk, I found out this was not so; my window was only two hours. With a one-hour delay, that left one hour only to get through passport control, customs, and another round of TSA Security Theatre. The operative words are “not a chance in hell.” And there wasn’t another flight to Madison until the next morning.

Travel zen came to the rescue. There are, after all, worse fates than a night at an airport hotel, even in Newark. I calmly gave up my original flight for lost and determined on seeing whether the Newark agents could get me to Milwaukee or Chicago, whence I could catch a bus home. Worst case would be that airport hotel.

I am going to try to avoid flying Continental internationally in future, because they don’t make any particular effort to cater to vegetarians. Enough said about that (except that this was my mistake and not my hosts’; I chose the flights). I arrived in Newark hungry and tired, kicking travel zen into a new gear to cope with passport control (quite efficient, actually) and customs (argh). Landed at the bag-recheck area and told the guy that I’d probably missed my flight. He yelled for a check on the flight number, and—travel zen wins! My flight to Madison was delayed an hour. I could still make it!

So I rechecked my bag and checked the monitors for the flight gate. The said flight didn’t appear on the monitors. Yay. So after a Keystone-Kops montage of TSA Security Theatre as well as terminal and gate changes involving trams, buses, and a whole lotta walking, I found myself in a crowded and noisy Terminal A waiting for my flight, which had been delayed another half-hour while I wasn’t looking.

No worries. None. I would get home. That day. Anything else was gravy.

Well, having them lose my checked bag in Newark isn’t exactly, um, gravy. But I was the happiest person in line at Madison to put in my lost-bag claim, I’ll tell you that much!

The bag hasn’t turned up yet. I have a feeling it’s been sent to the wilds of northwest Arkansas or something. But half the people on my flight were in the same case, so I expect it’ll be found.

I have found it. The cure for jet lag. (Well, if you’re able-bodied, anyway.) Works like a charm. Don’t bother with melatonin pills. Skip meals only if you feel like it. No need for nap on arrival.

Just go climb to Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park.

Well, yes, that does require that you come to Edinburgh. What, you thought jet-lag cures came cheap?

My travel karma on the trip out was pretty favorable, all told. Not a single flight was late. I had an entire row to myself on the way to Newark from Cleveland, and while I was booked for a middle seat (ugh) to Edinburgh, I was able to switch to a window (score!) by virtue of agreeing to move so that a brother and sister traveling without parents or guardians could sit together.

I did manage to grab a few winks on the flight, which is more than I usually do; I daresay I’d have slept quite well if the North Atlantic hadn’t decided to bounce us around a bit. Those neck pillows are pretty nice! Only trick is, wear them backward. I arrived in Edinburgh without even a crick.

Passport control in Edinburgh is absurdly simple. Wait in short line, get called up, hand over passport and landing card, “business or pleasure? how long are you staying?” and then they wave you off. They’re very careful to tell you “that’s all, enjoy your stay,” probably because Americans are so used to TSA nonsense it’s hard for us to believe UK efficiency!

I’m staying in an 18th-century manor house, a sandstone confection of a place; my room is reached through a twisty maze of little blue-carpeted passages, all alike. More American hotels ought to have towel warmers, that’s all I can say. To my considerable relief, my room was ready when I arrived despite it being two hours until official check-in time.

So I dumped my stuff, changed into my trail shoes, and toddled off down Holyrood Park Street to Holyrood Park. This is, all the guides will tell you, the “hard way” of getting up to Arthur’s Seat. Maybe so. After you enter the park, you are soon faced with a fork. The right-hand path is, I think, the truly insane way up; I didn’t try it. Go left. Left leads you fairly gently around the saddle and upwards through a profusion of flowers (Queen Anne’s lace, gorse, other yellow stuff, purplish trumpetflowers, other purple things which I don’t know what they are, and of course thistles, this being Scotland), bees, butterflies, and magpies. Then you can pick one of the goat-tracks up to the Seat.

It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t as hard as the climb David and I did in Perrot State Park. Assuming able-bodiedness as before, if you’re not completely sedentary, you can do this the “hard way.” The views on the way up are worth it!

I cheerfully grant that this was an incredibly foolhardy thing to do on an injured ankle, and I advise a good deal of caution on the goat-tracks, especially on the way down. The hill-spirits had mercy on daft American tourists today; I stressed my ankle about to its limit and had one close call, but I didn’t actually injure it. Walked back to my room for a much-needed shower feeling absolutely grand, if somewhat rubber-legged.

Arthur’s Seat. I’m telling you. Kills jet lag dead. Don’t let on or they’ll all want one.

Well, I am sitting in the Madison airport, travel zen having firmly taken hold. Because I am occasionally remarkably absentminded, I printed a bunch of travel documents at work yesterday and… left them at my desk when I went home. No worries; my flight isn’t until late morning, so I just hopped a bus to work with my luggage, picked up the stuff, hopped another couple of buses to the airport, and here I am.

Of course, as I got onto the first bus I realized I’d forgotten my power converter. Hey-ho. This is what airport concessions were made for. I think there’s a Law of Compensatory Cleverness lurking out there somewhere in the world. I thought I was being very clever by packing two bags, checking one, and making sure I have a full outfit in my carry-on in case of lost luggage. I’m guessing my luggage will get through just fine now, seeing as how I stupidly forgot my power converter.

I do have my passport. Does that help?

To add insult to injury, my presenter’s mouse is dead as the proverbial doornail. I’ll try to acquire another one, but if I don’t, I’ll manage… just without some of my regular peripatetic panache. (Though I should probably be careful about wandering too much. I’ve packed heels for the keynote, despite my not-quite-healed ankle.)

(Later…)

There being about a three-hour layover in Newark, I’m springing for some internets while I wait. Road-warrior mini-power-strip duly plugged into the wall, I am multitasking merrily, picking up Flickr photos for a last-minute slideshow for the Fringe, reading my work email, avoiding reading my Gmail because I just can’t cope with DSpace squabbles at the moment, and getting in a few moves in my journal games.

I used to pride myself on being a bare-bones road warrior. No longer. Creature comforts all the way. I’ll never take a lengthy flight without noise-cancelling headphones ever again; they reduce a headache-inducing propeller roar to a tolerable murmur. Right now, my fleece cape is keeping me from freezing to death underneath hyperactive air-conditioning vents, and I’ve a neck pillow and eyeshade in my bag.

Did a mental dry-run through the keynote in the airport in Madison. Adjusted some builds, added some tidbits, the usual last-minute stuff. Deep breath… because I want to be worth people’s time and attention.

Today we tooled up to Kettle Moraine State Forest’s Southern Unit to do a little hiking. On our way out Highway 12, a pair of sandhill cranes swung majestically over the highway just in front of us. Not a bad start!

Signs of the recent flooding in this area aren’t difficult to come by. They must have closed County N in Jefferson County at some point; even now the water in one spot is nearly up to the road shoulder. The Rock River banks are still more than a little flooded as well.

We had meant to try the Emma Carlin trails this time around, but we took the Ice Age Trail in the wrong direction. Not feeling any driving need to correct ourselves, we simply kept going. Word to the wise: if you’re going to do this, take serious bugspray, because the mosquitoes are just evil with all this water about.

But it was a nice walk through attractive woodlands, though I could have done without the pop-pop-pop of whatever godforsaken firing range that is thereabouts. Eventually, shortly after crossing 59 near S, the trail opened out into prairie… and that’s where I turned my right ankle first. Okay, it hurt, but no big deal, I kept going. Glad I did, too, because we would have missed the Northern Harriers sailing low looking for edible rodents.

Shortly before the trail hits County N, I turned the same ankle again and colored the air blue with my commentary on that occurrence. Still, I could walk, and the ankle’s range-of-motion wasn’t too impaired, so on we went down the County N shoulder, stopping off at Paradise Springs trails (which are misnamed; there really aren’t trails there, just trout fishing and basic amenities like pit toilets and water fountains, the latter of which was quite welcome). N deadends on 59, which we walked down to pick up the trail back at County S, through the mosquito-ridden woodlands and a few spots where the trail is rock-strewn and I—yeah, you guessed it, turned the ankle a third time.

It’s pretty much sprained, ordinary ankle inversion sprain; it appears to be “moderate” on the mild-moderate-severe scale. Still, it drove me home without much complaint, and I can walk on it if I’m careful. May take the bus to work tomorrow; we’ll see how it feels.

No regrets. I can live with a sprained ankle for the sake of sandhill cranes and Northern Harriers.

Because (remarkably) both the article due next week and the Repo Fringe talk are in moderately decent shape, I took a three-day weekend so we could do the car-rental thing. (Enterprise has nifty half-off weekend specials, but you have to rent for three days.)

So I says to myself, I says, Self, you are doing your very first keynote ever. This is not a small thing. It will not kill you to buy a new dress for it. I knew what I wanted, and a few minutes’ looking around online yielded the apparel stores’ name for it: “jacket dress.” I don’t look good in these things, because I don’t look good in anything, really, but I look as good as I’m gonna. I knew I wanted it in a summerweight fabric, as my wardrobe is (understandably, but even so) oriented toward wearability in the Frozen North.

Coldwater Creek came up dry; their designers have moved a little way away from my preferences, though I can still sometimes find something I’ll wear from them. Other usual suspects, likewise. So I went to… the mall. Let me tell you, greater love hath no woman for a conference than this.

Sears had nothing even slightly suitable, but I hadn’t really expected them to. It was Boston Store that really set my eyebrows climbing. The 1970s were not a sterling era for American women’s fashion, especially considering its colors and prints. Why, why, why do they seem to be making a comeback? Is it the economy? What? Because ugh, stuff I wouldn’t wear on a dare, even on Halloween.

And then there’s the prevailing wisdom that goes something like this: Fat Women Do Not Want Pretty Clothes. Seriously, that’s all I can figure, because whoa the ugly, it burns. Ugly colors. Ugly prints. Ugly cuts that flatter no one. These stores, they take their ugly seriously.

I did see one dress that I could have bought. It wasn’t a jacket dress, but it was in a tasteful plum with a subtle print in gold and olive, and it would have traveled well, and it was okay. I made note of it in case all else failed.

I then walked past all the morons who had hours to burn waiting in line for a new iPhone into JC Penney. Penney’s and I have a history, which is why I saved it for last; someone in their buyer’s department seems to know what I’m desperately looking for and won’t find anywhere else, everything from a honeymoon nightdress to my fleece cloak to… well, let me tell it.

The women’s department actually had jacket dresses, but I didn’t really like their selection. Sigh. I was walking out, reorienting myself so I could find the exit, when I saw it. Jacket dress. Short-sleeved, summerweight georgette. I’m washable, proclaimed a tag on the sleeve (I avoid dry-clean-only clothes when I can). Muted greens and golds in an abstract pattern on an olive base, very tasteful. Well, look at that, not made in China. And it was the last one on the rack.

No way. No way is it my size. Two up or two down, that’s the rule for these things.

Go figure. It was in my size. Tried it on, liked, ganked. And it cost about half what the purple number at Boston Store woulda.

I hope the Repo Fringe folks are grateful, though. I have SHOPPED for you people. Sheesh.