guest post: There’s Always a Table for You

Today I’m sharing a short story by my brother Mark Stockslager, centering on the Ship Hotel, a landmark of the western Pennsylvania stretch of the Lincoln Highway. Whether you’re interested in the importance of research to creative writing (WRIT 402 students, take note!) or just love a good story, I think you will enjoy this!

There’s Always a Table for You

A Ship Hotel Story

by Mark Stockslager

“‘Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood

When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud

I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form

‘Come in’, she said, ‘I’ll give you shelter from the storm’”

Bob Dylan

1

              It was 1975, and Elmer was sick of it. Not the year, no, but mostly everything else. His job at Schellsburg’s one and only real estate business wasn’t on life support yet, but Elmer liked to say it was high time for some diet and exercise if the job wanted to see the 80s. His marriage was taken off of life support a few years earlier, and he was still sore about that. Not just sore that his wife up and told him one day that he was boring, he was fat, and he was balding and she wanted out, no — sore that he didn’t have anyone to complain to anymore.

              “And you complain too much, Elmer!” That’s something else she told him.

              Anyhow, the only thing Elmer much cared for anymore was Bob Dylan records and driving his car. He drove when he was annoyed (sick of it) and that was a frequent occasion these days. So it was on this day that Elmer got in his car, popped in the tape he’d recorded of Bob Dylan’s latest LP and started driving.

              “I’m telling you, Bill — Blood on the Tracks is gonna go down as one of his best,” Elmer told the one coworker he could tolerate, and told him again and again since Elmer picked it up in January.

              “Uh-huh,” was Bill’s reply. He’d said the same thing the other times Elmer had brought up Bob Dylan. To Bill, Dylan was just another anti-war hippie Communist who overstayed his welcome.

              It was a particularly beautiful fall day when Elmer fired up the first track “Tangled Up in Blue” and decided he’d point his Chevrolet Corvair west on 30, which Elmer affectionately referred to as “The Old Linc.” The Lincoln Highway stretched over 3,000 miles from New York to California, and was still held in high regard similar to Route 66, but the stretch through western PA that included Elmer’s hometown of Schellsburg wasn’t used by many folks. Not for long distance travel, at least. The PA Turnpike was more preferable to those trying to avoid the mountain, and the novelty of the gigantic teapot on the side of the road had worn off for those who didn’t appreciate the finer things. Like Elmer did.

              Elmer had checked the clock on his stove before leaving his house. It was just getting on 2 in the afternoon, it was a Saturday, and he had no responsibilities today. “The only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keeping on,” said Bobby, and Elmer agreed.

2

              Elmer backed out of his driveway and directly into the side of his neighbor Ellen Grayfield’s sedan. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Elmer barked. Both parties shifted to park and Elmer jumped out of his car.

              “Ms. Grayfield I—”

              “Don’t bother, Elmer. I’m already over it.” She stayed in the car, but her window was rolled down. She waved her hand like she was lazily waving away a fly.

              Elmer slowed in his tracks. “What? You’re serious?”

              “Well, you’re insured aren’t you?”

              He nodded. “I am.”

              She nodded, almost in unison. “As am I. And quite honestly, Elmer, I don’t know if I even see the need for that nonsense. You see any scrapes?”

              As she said it, Elmer looked at her car and noticed it looked almost brand new. “You know, now that you mention it—”

              “Okay and how about yours?” She nodded at his Corvair, and his eyes followed.

              Elmer squatted by the rear bumper and stared. “Nothing. There’s nothing.”

              “Well don’t act like it’s God’s miracle, Elmer, you barely touched me. It wasn’t a head-on collision.” Ellen Grayfield gave Elmer a half smile and waited for his reply.

              “So you want to just shake hands and call it square?” Elmer reached his hand through her passenger window and she shook it, firmly.

              “That’s what I’m talking about, fella. Where you headed on this fine day, anyway?”

              Elmer was so relieved that (a) Ms. Grayfield wasn’t upset and (b) their cars seemed weirdly fresh off the lot with nary a scratch that he laughed and said, “You know, I have no idea. I was just going for a drive to be honest.”

              Ellen Grayfield once again smiled and once again nodded and said, “Great minds think alike. The Linc?”

              “Yeah I — hey I call it that too!” Elmer began to feel a sense of deja vu, but the good kind. Almost like meeting someone new and realizing you were going to be friends. Only, he’d lived next to Ellen for years and had exchanged nothing but quick pleasantries with her throughout their acquaintance.

              “You headed east or west?” Ellen’s car was still running, as was Elmer’s, but neither seemed to mind.

              “I was thinking of going west. You?”

              “East. Not sure why or what, just flipped a coin in my head, I guess.”

              Elmer was leaning over to talk to Ellen through the window and normally by now his back would have protested. He didn’t feel any pain today. “Ha, yeah, same here.”

              What was going on here? Elmer was not good at small talk (the Dylan conversations with Bill were evidence of that), but he all of a sudden wanted to stand here and chat with Ellen for hours. They weren’t even talking, really, just batting niceties around like backyard badminton, but it came naturally and it felt good. Wonder if Ellen likes Bob Dylan?

              “Well Elmer, as much as I’d like to sit here and chat with you for hours,” Didn’t I just think that? “I’ve gotta scoot. The Linc is calling, and I must go.” She looked at him for a couple beats and added, “You gonna be alright there, Elmer?”

              Elmer shook his head slightly, as if to clear the cobwebs, and replied, “Yeah, oh yeah…guess hitting the brakes after bumping you made me feel a little fuzzy. It’s been really nice talking with you, Ellen.” He moved to straighten his back, just a touch, and felt a twinge.

              “Same to you, Elmer. Don’t be a stranger.” She gave him yet another smile and yet another nod, maneuvered to D, and started to roll. “Gravity pulls us down and destiny pulls us apart, Elmer. Or sometimes together. I don’t know.” Her car pulled up to the stop sign just up from Elmer’s, its left blinker signaled her forged path, and off went Ellen Grayfield.

              Elmer, somewhat dazed but feeling good, turned back to his car. “Idiot Wind” was playing now. And what was it Ellen just said? Gravity and destiny? Elmer knew that was one of many lines in the almost eight minute track, but how did Ellen know that was what he was listening to? Elmer didn’t usually crank up the volume until he was out on the main road — out of courtesy to his neighbors of course.

              The sun glared in his eyes as he turned right onto Route 30 (“The Linc is calling,” Ellen had said) and Elmer glanced at the clock on his dash. It was almost four o’clock. “That doesn’t make sense,” he proclaimed to nothing and no one, “We talked for barely five minutes!” It had felt longer, though, hadn’t it? But if they’d talked for almost two hours, why was the tape still on track four?

              “Whole thing musta looped around and started over,” Elmer said with a grunt of a laugh, but that didn’t quite add up either. It was the thing that made the most sense, though, and Elmer left it at that. He turned “Idiot Wind” up and he sang along loudly. It was, for Elmer, the song he liked to sing along with the most.

3

              Elmer had driven for barely a mile (“Idiot Wind” gave way to “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go”) before his mind forced him back to the weird time jump he had just experienced.

              “Ok, look,” Elmer began (he talked to himself a lot since the divorce, it was easier to think that way), “It must have been later than I thought when I left the house.”

              Was it, though? His mind answered.  You looked at the clock on the stove when you left. It’s in big white block numbers. It said 1:57 pm, and you know it.

              “Alright then…the stove was wrong. Or the car is wrong!”

              Who changed the clocks then, Elmer? You’ve lived on your own since—

              “Yeah yeah, I hear you,” Elmer interrupted his own mind. “Any bright ideas then, smart guy?”

              Elmer’s prying brain seemed not to have any ideas worth noting, so his internal spat came to a quick and unsatisfying conclusion.

              Quick and unsatisfying, you say? Sounds like another reason why you and your wife had—

              “That’s quite enough out of you, thanks!” Elmer shouted at himself. “This conversation is over.” Side two had started and “Meet Me in the Morning” was on. It was a bluesy one, so Elmer turned it up even louder. He didn’t sing, but he beat hell on the drum kit of his steering wheel, dashboard, and doorframe.

              Schellsburg wasn’t much of a town to speak of, so Elmer was out in the country even before he and his mind had started trading haymakers, and Route 30 started its steady climb over the mountain. The sun seemed to be dipping lower and lower like God had hit fast forward on His VCR and the button was stuck.

              The day was almost over and Elmer felt like it had just begun. But it was Saturday, tomorrow was Sunday, and he didn’t have to let some stupid clock issue with his car (and possibly his stove) get in the way of his good time. Which these days consisted of driving and Dylan.

              The steady hum of his car grew to its usual dull roar when going over the mountain, so he turned Dylan even louder to hear it. Let’s face it, Elmer. It’s not about hearing it, it’s about feeling it. Especially when you’ve got the volume this high. Dylan was singing about Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts when the roar of his car gave way to a bang, and a hard jolt towards the oncoming lane.

              “My tire’s blown out!” Elmer yelled to no one. Luckily he was moving slowly, and no one was heading down the mountain, so Elmer corrected himself and his car slowed further to a 15mph crawl as Elmer collected his thoughts.

              “Just find a place to pull over, and we’ll figure something out. Flag somebody down, catch a ride, get a tow. We’re fine.”

              Are we fine?

              “Yes we’re fine. My back hurts and my head hurts but we’re fine.” And frankly, Elmer was proud of himself. The Elmer of the past few years would have been blowing a gasket at this point. The gasket probably would have already been blown after his little run-in with Ellen Grayfield’s sensible sedan, and a flat tire would have ruined the next few days for That Elmer. But This Elmer? He was still riding the buzz from the fact that his and Ellen’s run-in didn’t involve anything other than a pleasant conversation. It was the conversation, mostly. He hadn’t had such a friendly chat in well…

              “When I get up tomorrow, I’m gonna offer to go with Ellen to church. I’m sure she’d love the company. Who am I kidding? I’d love the company, too.” Who exactly was This Elmer? That Elmer — the snarky Elmer in his brain — didn’t recognize or exactly like him. That Elmer loved a complainer. He thought misery tasted good.

              For now, though, Elmer (This Elmer, Our Elmer, if you will) had the matter of his front left tire to worry about, and where exactly he was going to pull off. There weren’t a whole lot of options going over this particular stretch of the mountain.

              There is that old restaurant and hotel joint. The one that looks like a ship?

              “Oh you’re trying to help now, are you?” Elmer chided himself. But That Elmer had a point. It was coming up on the left, wasn’t it? It wasn’t what it used to be, back in the glory days of presidents and celebrities coming to visit, but it was a parking lot, and that’s all Elmer needed at the moment.

4

              It was only seconds after Elmer decided the ship was his best option that the structure loomed around the corner (and not a moment too soon — his tire was thumping loud enough to give up on Dylan). It took Elmer a moment to register two things. Number one — the building was beautiful. It was freshly painted, lit up like a used car lot (but in a good way), and the parking lot was jammed. Number two — the hotel was lit up because it was basically dark. He looked at his dash and saw that it read 5:45.

              “That doesn’t make a lick of sense, but I don’t care. That’s the least of my worries.” And it was true — Elmer hung a lazy left into the small lot and wasn’t sure if he’d find a spot. His Corvair crept along the small strip of parking on the side of 30 (the building was built on the side of a steep cliff on a mountain, after all), and shortly Elmer found a perfect spot. Right in front of the entryway.

              “Hey look at that!” He practically punched the roof in excitement. He eased the car into the space (perfect fit) and hoped the next time it moved was onto the back of a tow truck.

              Elmer sat in the now-quiet car and took a quick moment to close his eyes and collect himself. Yes, his back and head hurt. Yes, he got a flat on a day that seemed to be flying by him, but he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even disappointed, really. This Elmer was trying to take it easy, baby, take it as it comes (Elmer liked The Doors, too, but nowhere as much as he did Bobby).

              Elmer could hear music, but it wasn’t rock and roll. It was big band music, and it was coming from the hotel. “Sounds hoppin’ in there!” Elmer got out of his car (his back gave him a holler, but not as big as he had feared it would) and made for the door. He knew priority numero uno was asking to use the phone to call a tow, but he was more excited to see what was going on inside.

              As Elmer reached for the door, it swung wide for him. The music came into a loud focus, as did the pleasant smells and sights. The first pleasant sight was an older man wearing a suit, a captain’s hat, and a warm smile, who had opened the door for him.

              “Come in, come in!” the captain said (Elmer assumed he ran this ship) and stepped aside to usher in an Elmer (This Elmer) who was feeling that good, good daze from earlier today at about 1000%. “I’m Herb, the captain of this ship. What can I do for you, Mister…”

              Elmer looked up and met Herb’s eyes. They were kind, patient eyes. The eyes of someone who was waiting for an answer but nice enough to give you time to gather your bearings before you answer. Elmer appreciated those eyes. “I, uh…I’m Elmer! I’m Elmer. My car—”

              “Flat tire, huh? That’s not fun at all.” Elmer gave him a puzzled look. How in the world? Herb recognized the look and laughed. “Oh, I heard you pulling in. Thumping like a bass drum, it was.”

              That was good enough for Elmer (maybe not for That Elmer — the music is way too loud for somebody to have heard that, he thought) so he recovered and asked Herb if there was a phone he could use.

              “Why sure there is, Elmer. Anything else I can help with? Hey, you hungry, Elmer?”

              Elmer was, and Elmer wanted to hang out here as long as he could, honestly. At least until the tow truck got here. It was Saturday (night) after all. “Yes, sir, I am, but is there even a table open? This place is hopping!”

              Herb smiled, gave Elmer a nod, and waved his hand towards the center of the small but charming dining area. “Of course, Elmer! There’s always a table for you.”

              Elmer followed as Herb led him to the small table, one chair already pulled out for its next occupant. “I’ve actually never been inside here, Herb. Driven past it all my life, though.” He looked at Herb then, who was smiling expectantly. “Wait, do we know each other?”

              “I don’t think we do — we get a lot of people in here these days, but I never forget a face. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing yours before.” A small cacophony of music coming from the slightly cramped stage at the front of the dining room. No one was dancing —not yet — but Elmer had the feeling the tables would get cleared after dinner and this party would really get swinging.

              “Well, Elmer, if there’s anything you need, I’ll know. Somebody will come by to get your order.” Elmer and Herb shook hands, and Elmer sat down as Herb made his way through the room, smiling, nodding, chatting, and overall commanding the room like only those really special people can. Like a captain, for instance.

5

              Elmer had ordered drinks and dinner and was tapping his foot to the music when That Elmer tapped on his brain.

              Say Elmer, what did you come here for? It wasn’t just hopping music and fettuccini alfredo.

              Elmer brought his hand down hard to the table, but no one noticed over the music. “The phone!” He whispered to himself. He’d never called the tow! As if he’d heard Elmer’s whisper, Herb made his way over to him, hello-ing as he went.

              “You ready to make that call now? I figured you’d want to wait until you’d ordered so the timing worked out.” Elmer almost laughed in relief.

              “Yeah! Yeah, that’s good thinking, Cap. I’ll admit, I’d almost forgotten about why I was here in the first place.” Elmer stood up and allowed Herb to lead the way.

              Herb walked in step by Elmer’s side, somehow both of them able to walk comfortably even in the small room. “Oh, let’s say that the dinner and the show was the main reason, Elmer. The car trouble was just the luck that brought you here.” Herb took Elmer to a door off the dining room that led into a small office. Outside the office was a grand (grand for a small restaurant that looked like a ship built on the side of a mountain) staircase that led up to what looked like rooms to rent.

              Elmer laughed and said. “I like that idea, Cap. I like it a lot.”

              “Phone’s on the desk. Take your time, Elmer.” And with that, Herb was back at it.

              Gotta say, I really like this guy.

              “That makes two of us, good buddy,” and Elmer dialed the only tow truck service in town.

              The call was short, and the friendly but slightly stressed voice on the other end of the line assured Elmer that somebody would be out at some point this evening. “But it’s a Saturday night, sir, and it seems like everybody’s driving and everybody’s blowing tires tonight.”

              Elmer wasn’t fazed. “Hey, you can put me at the end of the list if you need. I was able to pull off a nice stop and I’m having dinner, so I don’t mind the wait, truly.”

              “Thanks for understanding, sir. Where is your car located right now?”

              Elmer gave the name of the Ship Hotel (“That old place? Sure, I know it”), thanked the voice, and rejoined the fray.

              As Elmer shut Herb’s office door, he noticed Herb talking to a woman by the front door who looked like she was the main greeter of guests. Herb wasn’t necessarily speaking angrily, but he was more agitated than Elmer had seen him all evening. He wondered to himself what could have the Cap rattled like that.

              Herb broke away when he saw Elmer and instantly flashed him a smile, not betraying that anything could have been bothering him mere seconds before. “Any luck, Elm?”

              “They’ll certainly be here before this party dies down, but hopefully not much before,” Elmer laughed. “Say Cap, everything alright? Not to pry, but you seemed a bit concerned just now.”

              They arrived back at Elmer’s table, his fettuccini just freshly dropped off, and Herb clapped him on the back as Elmer sat down. “Aw now…it’s nothing we can’t handle. Nothing that matters much — it’s doom alone that counts.”

              “Alright, Cap, but if there’s anything I can do….” Herb didn’t reply, but bowed slightly and smiled and off he went.

              Nothing really matters much, it’s doom alone that counts…now where had Herb heard that before? It was right on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t place it. It sounded like a lyric. Like a Dylan lyric, his mind chimed in. Do you suppose the Cap likes Dylan too? Or what do you think is really going on here tonight, Elmer?

              Elmer wasn’t sure how to answer the question, so he decided to tuck into the best fettuccini alfredo he’d ever eaten in his life until further notice.

6

              The combination of Elmer’s hunger and the best fettuccini alfredo he’d ever had meant that he finished fast enough to want another plate, but he was keenly aware that two servings of pasta was a trend he’d better stop subscribing to if he wanted to see his feet anytime soon. So after making the wise decision of allowing his digestive system to work, he settled back to listen to the band and glance around the room.

              The Captain was nowhere to be seen at the moment, so Elmer took in the other clientele. It seemed to be your typical Sunday lunch crowd, folks in church-appropriate suits and dresses. It struck Elmer as a little odd for a Saturday night, in fact the whole setting seemed a bit old school, but it was A-OK by him. Nothing wrong with a little fancy dress and fancy music to break up the monotony of his usual TV dinners and leftovers by the record player.

              Elmer thought back on the events of the day. Or at least he tried to — what time did he get up that morning? What had he eaten for breakfast? Can we remember anything before leaving the house and running into Ellen Grayfield?

              Elmer put his hand to his mouth to disguise his muttering and said, “You know it’s getting real when you start saying ‘we.’” That Elmer had a point, though. Elmer thought hard and couldn’t recall anything before leaving the house in the afternoon to drive — but that’s probably because we had the same boring morning we always do, right?

              “You and I are thinking more and more on the same page, buddyroo,” and then Elmer decided to stop conversing with himself before anyone noticed.

              “How did that alfredo treat you, Elmer?” His smiling waiter appeared out of nowhere, who Elmer hadn’t seen since he’d taken Elmer’s order.

              Elmer took a second to recover. “It was the best I’ve ever had, uh…I’m sorry what did you say your name was?” Elmer wasn’t sure the waiter had given it, but he erred on the side of politeness.

              “It’s Robert, and I’m glad to hear that. You got room for dessert?” Robert produced a dessert menu in the same slick motion of clearing Elmer’s plate, and Elmer didn’t bother to ask how Robert had known his name.

              “I’ve always got room for dessert, Bobby,” and they laughed like old friends. Elmer ordered the cannoli (leave the gun) and hoped his tow truck was hours away. Come to think of it, what time is it anyway?

              There wasn’t a clock on the wall. Like magic, Herb approached Elmer’s table and said, “Glad to hear you enjoyed your meal, Elm. It’s coming on 9 o’clock, I’m surprised your tow isn’t here yet.”

              “9 o’clock! Time flies when you’re having fun I guess!” Yeah, at the speed of sound, and Elmer agreed. “I told them to take their time on the account of having too much fun here to be pried away.”

              Herb glanced behind him to see the greeter making a beeline for Herb and Elmer. “That’s what I love to hear —” She whispered in Herb’s ear shortly, and Herb turned to a curious Elmer. “Phone’s for you, Elmer. Sounds like it’s your tow.”

              Herb ushered Elmer not to his office, but to the small greeter’s stand which had a phone with its receiver sitting face down, waiting for Elmer. “Yeah, this is Elmer.”

              “Sir…I’m sorry to say…having trouble…the place…confirm the address for…” The voice sounded a million miles away with an ocean of static in between.

              “Yeah the address is—” and then the call dropped. Elmer turned to see Herb still with him and said, “I guess they’re having a hard time finding this place, and the call dropped on me.”

              Herb nodded apologetically, “Sometimes the phones are a little wonky here —us being at sea.” A beat passed and Herb and Elmer started giggling like they were two school kids sharing a dirty joke. “But hey, Elmer, looks like the dancing is about to start.”

              The tables had been cleared, and the band had kicked it into overdrive. Still older songs, but this time it was a song Elmer could actually place the title. They had begun playing an instrumental version of Sam Coke’s “Twistin’ the Night Away,” and Elmer couldn’t resist.

              “Well they’ll get here when they get here, won’t they, Cap?”

              “That’s the spirit, Elmer. Get on out there!” Elmer didn’t have to be told twice.

7

              Elmer danced for minutes, or hours, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t a good dancer (he was bad, if we’re being honest), but this crowd didn’t mind. Everyone became instant friends when the rock and roll started to play. The men had shed their suit coats, but even then everyone had a sheen of sweat as they danced to song after song.

              The fettuccini alfredo would have normally given Elmer a serious case of the burps, but Elmer felt better after this meal than he had in a long while. He didn’t even seem to care that his cannoli was long forgotten, but he had a feeling it would turn up at some point. Things just seemed to show up in this place.

              Several songs later, everyone was laughing, panting, and fairly well tuckered out. The band switched back to something smooth and slow and Elmer looked around for the Cap. Herb was on the far side of the small room, leaning on the wall with a content smile on his face. Elmer approached. “You can really cut a rug, Elmer,” Herb said as he pushed himself to a standing position. “I always like to hang back and watch people dance on the weekend nights. People seem so happy and alive.”

              Elmer was still panting a bit when he said, “I can attest to that, Cap. Say, what time is it now?”

              “It’s just now 11, Elm. You might be stuck with us tonight,” Herb once again had an apologetic tone, as if he was being an inconvenience to Elmer.

              “That’s just fine, that’s just fine. They’ll catch me in the morning, I’m sure. I just want to peek out at my car real quick. Is there a room available for me?”

              Herb smiled. “There’s always a room for you, Elmer.”

8

              Outside the air was cool but not cold, and Elmer breathed it in deeply. Elmer was more partial to the fall and winter (“You sweat less in the cold!” he’d say), and he was glad that the summer heat was in the rear view mirror.

              “Speaking of rear views, let’s have a looky at this car of mi—” Elmer blinked as he cut himself off. He blinked again, rapidly, as he stared dumbly at his Chevrolet Corvair. Now he bugged his eyes out as he squatted by the left passenger tire, the one that was a ragged piece of rubber when he’d sailed into this place.

              He didn’t need to squat, could have seen it ten paces away, but Elmer wanted to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. The tire was completely full, no holes, not even any wear on it. Elmer stood up too fast and put his hand on the hood to steady himself.

              “You good, Elm?” Elmer whipped around to see Herb standing in the doorway with a look of concern on his face. “You look a little dizzy.”

              “Just catching my bearings, Cap. But take a look at this.” Elmer stepped aside and Herb approached the car and squatted just as Elmer had a minute ago.

              He whistled. “Look at that, Elmer! That’s fresh off the rack, I’d say!” Herb stood slowly, scratching his stubbled cheek at the unexpected sight of the brand new tire.

              Elmer looked up at the considerably taller Captain. “What are you saying, Cap, they came by and replaced my tire without trying to collect any payment?” Elmer had a thought just as he said it, and checked the wipers to see if a bill had been left there.

              Herb followed his eyes and said, “No bill that I can see. What are you thinking, Elm?”

              “I’m thinking there’s some good samaritans out there, but this would be a random act of kindness of a biblical proportion.’’

              Herb laughed at that and replied, “You’re not wrong, Elmer. There’s ‘paying it forward’ and then there’s this. That’s assuming they did fix it gratis. I guess that means you won’t be staying with us?” Herb had a genuine look of sadness on his face when he asked it.

              “Well, I…I guess I don’t need to now, do I?” Elmer felt that same sadness. He wasn’t ready for the night to end.

              Herb read Elmer’s face and said, “The room’s still on the table for you, Elm. Car or no car, you’re welcome to stay the night. Free of charge.”

              Elmer protested. “Oh hey now, Cap, of course I’ll stay, but you gotta let me pay for the room.” They began walking back to the ship as they talked.

              The door was still open and Herb hung back to allow Elmer to enter. The band was finished for the evening, and the clientele were either making their way to the exit or up the staircase to their rooms. “Elmer, I insist. You’ve become a fast friend, and I like to take care of my friends.”

              “Okay, Cap, I won’t fight you. And I thank you — for everything. This whole night has felt…I don’t know…” Magical, his mind said.

              “Magical?” Herb suggested.

              “Yeah, that’s right.”

              Herb paused at the greeter’s stand to grab a key off of a rack that held several rows of key holders. “That’s what I like to hear, Elmer. You’re in room 14, last of the ‘first class cabins’ that we’ve got. The rooms aren’t big, but they’re cozy enough.”

              Elmer hesitated before going upstairs. “I guess I don’t have any toiletries.” He didn’t say what he really wanted to say.

              “That’s no matter. Check the cabinet under the sink, and if you need anything else come down and holler. We’ll get you squared away.” Herb smiled at Elmer’s continued hesitance, and he stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to have made your acquaintance —no, your friendship—tonight, Elmer.”

              Elmer shook — firmly and earnestly. “Cap, I can’t thank you enough.”

              “Come and back and see us sometime.”

              “That’s a promise.”

              Elmer’s room was indeed small but cozy, and the cabinet did indeed have everything he needed for the night. Almost like they knew, huh?

              Elmer, tired and happy, laid down in his clothes on the bed and sighed. “Yep…almost like they knew.”

9

              He woke feeling more refreshed than he had felt in ages. He sat up and surveyed his cabin on the SS Grand View Hotel. “The Ship of the Alleghenies,” he said to the empty room, and then his heart sank.

              Elmer wasn’t in a small cabin on the ship. Elmer was in his bedroom on Peter Street in Schellsburg. He shut his eyes, held for a moment, and opened them. Still the same bedroom with the same ugly wallpaper he and his wife had chosen together. Elmer threw himself on his back as if to will himself asleep again and gave up immediately.

              “This isn’t right, it can’t be right.”

              I know it, Elmer. It was so real.

              “It was real, dammit!” Elmer stomped out of the bedroom towards the front door. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew he was going to drive right back to the Ship. He was still there in his mind. If he was dreaming, he hoped he wasn’t sleepwalking too.

              Elmer whipped open the door and almost ran into Ellen Grayfield. “Hey, Elmer! I was just about to invite you over for breakfast and — say, where are you off to in such a rush? And still in your jammies, no less?” She looked like she was feigning surprise — like she already knew the answer.

              “I’m uh—” He stopped and looked down at his clothes. He was wearing his usual sleep attire—a white t-shirt and boxer shorts. Friday night’s boxer shorts, by the look of it. “I’m, well…” Elmer thought about it and for a second and figured he might as well tell Ellen the truth. They’d connected yesterday and surely she’d understand. He launched into his story — the flat tire, the ship, the Cap, the dancing, the dinner, all of it. He was talking so fast that he wasn’t sure Ellen would keep up, but she took it all in, nodding and smiling at him. She smiled like she was hearing a story she’d heard a bunch of times before.

              “So anyway, I have no idea why I’m here and not there and I just gotta get back to —okay, why are you smiling at me like that?”

              Ellen touched his arm and said, “Elmer, you want to go inside for a bit? We should talk. And you should grab a housecoat.” Elmer had a pout on his face, but nodded and turned to let Ellen in his little living room. He shuffled to his bedroom, and he heard Ellen in the kitchen banging around. He put on actual clothes, washed his face, and brushed his teeth — both to give Ellen time to make them breakfast and him time to collect his thoughts. Let’s go hear her out, Elm.

              Elmer looked at his face in the mirror. “Okay, pal. We’re ready.”

10

              “So you and the Cap became fast friends, huh?” Ellen and Elmer sat at the small dinette set in the kitchen, sipping coffee and picking at eggs and bacon. Well, Elmer was picking. Ellen was enthusiastically enjoying the fruits of her labor.

              “Yeah, he was…he was the best. Ellen…can you tell me what’s going on, please?” After a beat he added, “And thanks for the breakfast.”

              She waved. “Not a problem, Elm. Look, I’m just gonna tell it to you flat and true. Herbert Paulson, the founder of the Ship, died two years ago in 1973, at the age of 99. He died in a bathtub on his beloved Ship, as a matter of fact.” She stopped and looked at Elmer, allowing him time to process and respond.

              Elmer didn’t take any time to process and blurted, “No no no that’s not right! I was there! The Cap is alive!” He was becoming increasingly frantic. “And he was barely in his 70s, surely! Come on, we’re going there right now, together.” Elmer stood up with a jolt and sloshed coffee on the table.

              “Sit down, Elm,” Ellen said softly, which he did, looking like a child obeying his mother.

              Elmer, with his head down so as not to make eye contact with Ellen, murmured, “Are you telling me I’m a liar? Are you telling me I dreamed this?” To Elmer, the dream would be just like a lie. Or is it something worse?

              “I’m telling you that if we drove the 9 miles to the Ship right now, you’d still find it standing. But you wouldn’t find the Cap, and you wouldn’t find the hopping place you found last night. The Ship has seen better days. I’ve seen them myself.” Ellen reached over to touch Elmer’s hand.

              Elmer found it in himself to meet Ellen’s eyes. “Ellen, what day is it today?”

              Ellen smiled a sad smile, like she knew she was about to break Elmer’s heart. “Today’s Saturday, Elm.” That’s when the tears came to his eyes.

              “It was so real, Ellen.”

              “I know it was, Elmer.”

              “It was a dream?” He wanted Ellen to confirm, to slam the nail in the coffin.

              “That’s the closest word to it. I still visit the Cap too sometimes.” Her hand was still on his. “Was it a good dream, Elmer?”

              He choked out a small sob. “The best.”

              Ellen then took Elmer’s hand into both of hers. “Then that’s good, Elmer. That’s real good.” She took a moment and said, “Elmer, I think we’d be good friends. Would you like that? Would you like to be my friend?”

              Elmer smiled then, with tears still in his eyes. “Yes I would, Ellen. I would very much like to be your friend.”

THE END

“Just to think that it all began on an uneventful morn

‘Come in’, she said, ‘I’ll give you shelter from the storm’”

Ditto

my top tips for creative writing inspiration

Writing is hard, even for those of us who claim to enjoy it. I recently had a conversation with a former student who had graduated with a degree in creative writing but was having trouble finding the motivation to write, now that she was no longer required to do so for classes. I could relate, more than I wanted to admit. Though at first I felt like I didn’t have any advice to give her, I gradually–through about an hour of conversation–came up with the following tips. They aren’t magical, and some will suit certain people better than others. If you’re in need of writing inspiration, give them a try and see which ones work for you.

  1. Join a writing group. I recommend this one all the time. Being part of a supportive writing feedback group, online or in person, can bring all sorts of benefits, from lifelong friendships to marked improvements in your writing craft. More to the point of this post, belonging to such a group can work wonders for your writing motivation, both because hearing other people’s work can get your mental gears turning with ideas of your own and because knowing that people are waiting for your next installment creates a healthy, exciting pressure.
  2. Try some writing prompts. A book of story prompts (e.g. “Write a short mystery that includes a mirror, a bird, and Germany” or whatever) was one of the first gifts I gave my now-husband, an avid tabletop roleplayer who is always looking for campaign ideas. But you don’t even need to spend money on a book to do this; creative writing prompts abound on the internet. The constraints of the prompt can be a great antidote to writer’s block, and you can always abandon them once your story gets going.
  3. Set aside a regular time to write. This advice is so common as to almost be a cliché, but most people don’t do it. (Actually, I haven’t been doing it lately either, and I notice the absence of this routine in my life!) For several years, I spent the last half-hour of each of my workdays writing something–a PowerPoint for a class, a page or two of my novel, a blog post. Editing something I’d already written counted too. I was always amazed at how much I was able to accomplish in 30 minutes, five days a week.
  4. Read widely. Once again, this is common advice, but you’d be surprised how many people I’ve met who say, “I’m a writer, but I don’t really read much.” I understand it might not be your favorite thing to do, but if you’re a writer, you should be reading–in your genre, outside your genre, writers whose style you admire, etc. You don’t have to approach it like an assigned task (unless that motivates you to do it), but any reading you do is going to have benefits for your writing in some way, even if you don’t notice it right away.

I hope these tips are helpful to you! Let me know if you try any of them, and please share writing tips of your own!

why giving feedback to students makes you feel tired

I had an idea for a post to write today, but I’m not going to write it. One reason for that is that the topic is better suited to my podcast, so I’m going to save it for an episode. But the main reason is that I don’t feel like I have the brain capacity to write about that topic–which is as abstract and philosophical a topic as I’m willing to touch–right now. I have just spent about two hours answering student emails and text messages, grading assignments, and making Microsoft Word comments on a student’s masters thesis draft. The emails and texts were not just “Received, thanks!” type of messages; they consisted of several paragraphs’ worth of writing advice (in this case, about creating plausibility in a fantasy scenario) and explanations of how to use our learning management system. The grading feedback, while short, got into the topics of primary sources in early American history, tree communication (this is a real thing; there’s a book about it), and parallel universes. The Word comments weren’t of the basic “put a comma here” variety; they involved suggestions for further research, recommendations about elaborating on particular topics, and other macro-level issues regarding this student’s thesis.

Sometimes I get to the end of several hours of this kind of communication and wonder why I feel like I can’t have an intelligent conversation, or why I don’t want to talk at all. Maybe you’ve felt the same way. I know why: It’s because those individualized comments–whether they are written in red pen on a paper, typed in a comment box on Canvas or Blackboard, or spoken to a student in a face-to-face or phone conversation–are perhaps the most important thing we give students. I would venture to say they are more important than grades or lectures or materials. And if you take your job seriously and care about your students, you’re going to bring your best to writing (or speaking) those messages. So it’s no wonder they wipe you out in a good way. They are not peripheral–they are your work. Teacher, you are a writer (or a speaker, and not just a lecturer). Own that!

It’s Lit Time! with Dr. Tess

I’ll keep this brief, but I want to let you, my blog readers, know that I started my podcast! It’s not the education podcast I envisioned when I posted about this a few months ago, but rather a show about stories of all kinds–books, movies, and anything else with a story arc (though, as I hope I showed in this first episode, that term “story arc” is a bit slippery). I’ll keep my ruminations about online teaching and learning here on the blog, and my observations about literature on the podcast–though there may be some crossover from time to time. If you like stories, listen to Episode 1 and let me know what you think!

https://asynchronous.podbean.com/e/its-lit-time-episode-1-what-is-a-story/

Well…CRAAP! Is it time to SIFT the CRAAP?

Today we have a guest post from one of my brilliant graduate students, Miriam DeCock, who wrote this post for an assignment in my class. If you’re a teacher or student, especially at the college level, you may have heard of the CRAAP test for evaluating sources, especially websites. In this post, Miriam introduces us to the SIFT test, a sort of pre-screen that helps researchers determine whether a site is worth the time it takes to go through the CRAAP test. I had never heard of SIFT before reading her post, and I’m excited about this new tool for helping students become literate consumers of information–one of my passions. Even if you’re not a teacher or student, the principles of SIFT can help you sort through the piles of information that get virtually dumped on you every day.

What follows is the text-only version of Miriam’s post. If you’d like to see her original version, which takes you through the process using examples from a real website, you can find it here. The title of this post is Miriam’s too!

Credible, reliable sources…in this crazy, high-tech, low accountability digital age, how do you know what stays and what goes?

We all know that source credibility is paramount to a successful academic or professional paper.  How do you determine if your sources are credible?  How do you teach your students to determine source credibility?  What is credibility, anyway?

A commonly-taught method of determining source credibility is the CRAAP (Currency, Relevance, Authority, Accuracy, Purpose) test, designed by librarians at the University of California, Chico.  Of course, these elements are important to consider when evaluating sources.  A problem, however, is that this checklist is geared towards print material; in today’s digital age, it is imperative that we can quickly, carefully, and accurately evaluate online sources.  In light of this new digital age we are in, Mike Caulfield has developed a tool, referred to as SIFT (Stop, Investigate the source, Find better coverage, Trace claims, etc.) to help quickly determine if an online source is worth digging into deeper, or moving along and leaving it in the dust.  

Both tools are valuable and both are worth learning about.  Just like any tool, though, we must understand when each one should be used, and how it should be applied.  

Let’s focus on the SIFT test.  The SIFT test is designed to quickly (60 seconds or less!) evaluate an online source.  If the source passes the SIFT test, then it’s time to run it through the CRAAP test (but that will be a post for another day!)

What is the SIFT Test?

STOP: Is the site familiar?  What reputation does it have?

INVESTIGATE: What authority does the author have?  Are there “affiliate links” or page sponsors that might indicate a bias? 

FIND better coverage: Look for a trusted source to confirm the claim.

TRACE claims to the original source: Where did the information originate from? Can you trace the claim to its origin to “get the full story”?  If you are already looking a the primary source, you can search for another source to verify the claims; if you are looking at a trusted source, this step is not absolutely necessary.

Note from Dr. Tess: This is where Miriam takes you through the SIFT process using a real website in the full version of the post, which I highly recommend!

For further reading…  

Want an in-depth look at the SIFT evaluation method?  Make sure to check out Mike Caulfield’s site at https://hapgood.us/   

Caulfield provides an excellent, free, mini-course to learn how to implement his system in various settings.  For more about the CRAAP test, visit https://library.csuchico.edu/sites/default/files/craap-test.pdf

Sources Consulted and References

California State University, Chico, (2010 September 17). Evaluating information: Applying the CRAAP test. https://library.csuchico.edu/sites/default/files/craap-test.pdf   

Caulfield, M. (2019 June 19)) SIFT The four moves. https://hapgood.us/2019/06/19/sift-the-four-moves/

Sawchuck, C. (2017 August 23).  Test anxiety: Can it be treated? Mayo Clinic. https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/generalized-anxiety-disorder/expert-answers/test-anxiety/faq-20058195  Vaiana, D. (2020 February 12).  How to overcome test anxiety: 5 strategies that work.  College Info Geek. https://collegeinfogeek.com/test-anxiety/

        

What if I started a podcast?

I do a lot of writing in my work life (emails, course announcements, more emails, course revisions, more emails) and my regular human being life (planner, Bible study notes, text messages, social media posts, and the occasional non-work email). When I am writing, I constantly, reflexively revise, which both slows down the process and makes it more mentally taxing than it would be if I could manage to do the kind of one-shot, pristinely untouched writing that proponents of “silencing your inner editor” seem to be envisioning. I enjoy writing, I think writing is important, and I will never stop writing. But I’ve noticed lately that writing can burn me out in a way that talking usually doesn’t (the exception is teaching in front of a classroom, which, though I love it, can be draining for me).

So lately, I’ve been finding ways to substitute talking for writing–sending a Marco Polo to a friend when a text would be too long and complicated, video-recording grading feedback for online students so they can hear and see me and know that I’m not mad at them, etc. This has got me wondering what it would be like if I started a podcast.

So I’m thinking about it. I have a topic (it would be essentially the same as that of this blog, maybe a little wider-ranging) and a name (keeping it secret to increase the hype–actually, the truth is that I’m not sure if I like it yet) and am working on a logo. Beyond that, I got nothin’, except a mug I prematurely bought that says, “Proud to be a one-woman show,” with a little microphone on it. (I figure it can apply in a broad, metaphorical sense even if I don’t start the podcast.)

I should make clear that the podcast would not replace this blog. I’ve maintained this blog for 10 years as of this past December (most of those years it was called Penelope Clearwater), and I see no reason to fold it now. I would probably alternate blog posts and podcast episodes, or do what the influencers do and create coordinating sets of posts and episodes (and Instagram stories–I need to learn how to make those).

I’d like to ask for your help. Would you answer the few questions below to help me figure out how a podcast could best serve you, my readers? (And if the answer is by not existing, that’s okay!) I appreciate your help. You can also feel free to make non-anonymous suggestions in the comments down below.

our teaching and learning preferences

The idea for this post came from a confluence of three factors: 1. I noticed that several of my new students started following my blog after I shared the link (welcome!). 2. I had a Twitter conversation last night with a former student about the conditions for a good discussion in an English class. 3. I am working on my goals for 2021 and have been thinking about ways to be more available and approachable to my students.

So I’ve decided to open up a discussion, in which I hope you will join me, about your teaching preferences (if you’re a teacher) and your learning preferences (if you’re a human being, because we all learn). I’ll start with a few observations; then I’ll ask some questions and give my own answers to begin the conversation.

Observation 1: The idea that there are three learning styles–visual, auditory, and kinesthetic–seems to have been largely debunked, or at least marked with a large asterisk noting that the concept pigeonholes students, is overly simplistic, and isn’t research-based. Anyone can learn in any of those three ways, and the dominant style may have more to do with the world we live in than with an inborn disposition. (For example, I meet few people today who call themselves auditory learners, but if we take this concept anachronistically into the past, I bet there were a lot more auditory learners back in the 19th century when people where accustomed to listening to long political debates.) When folks in the education field talk about how students learn today, they look at a whole constellation of factors that may include cultural and language background, classroom environment, sensory processing modes, past learning experiences, personality factors that may influence when and under what conditions a student will speak up in class, etc. But the best methods for finding out how a student learns are still pretty old-school: observation (which is harder in an online classroom, but not impossible) and asking the students themselves.

Observation 2: Teachers tend to choose their teaching methods based on their own learning preferences. For example, I usually enjoyed the wide-ranging, open-ended discussions we had in the literature classes I took in college, so I often attempted to conduct these types of discussions in the classes I taught. This isn’t a bad starting place, but good teachers are willing to try different methods when they see that the ones that worked for them as students, or even the ones that have worked with previous classes, aren’t working with a particular group of students. (Of course, this doesn’t mean giving up the first time a method is met with dead silence or confused looks–the students might need time to figure it out and warm up to it.) Also, a technique that works for most of the students in a class may leave out a few students who, for various reasons, can’t get into it. Teachers often talk about “teaching to the middle,” and sometimes that’s what you have to do in a live classroom setting, but that doesn’t mean neglecting the students who fall outside that average clump.

So, here are my questions: How do you prefer to learn? What classroom conditions (online or in-person) make you most likely not only to meet the learning goals of the class but also to enjoy yourself while doing that? What do you want teachers to do to help you learn and enjoy learning? (The answer could be “just leave me alone, thanks”–that’s a legitimate learning style.)

If you’re a teacher (and this could include a Sunday school teacher, a tutor, someone who gives private lessons, a parent, etc.), what are some of your favorite ways of delivering content and connecting with students? Why do you think they’re your favorite?

I realize this post is getting long (I say that a lot, don’t I?), so I’ll just give two quick examples for myself. First, as a learner, I find it hard to concentrate when I’m doing nothing but sitting and listening. I prefer to be doing something with my hands or feet (taking notes, washing dishes, walking) while I’m learning. I think I’ve always been like this, because I have this embarrassing memory from fifth grade: One time I was doodling during class; I don’t remember what we were learning about, but I’m positive it wasn’t a music class. And I raised my hand and asked my teacher if he could show me how to draw a treble clef. And bless his heart, he stopped what he was doing and drew one for me on the board.

As a teacher, I’ve had to adjust my methods since I’ve moved to teaching fully online, but my favorite part about teaching is still connecting with students one-on-one or in small groups. (I used to be a writing tutor, and I loved that because it involved some of my favorite aspects of teaching and none of my least favorite–grading.) I love it when students reach out to me by email or phone, whether they have a question or just want to chat. I’ve said this before: in the online learning environment, it can be really difficult for students and teachers to think of each other as real people, not just writing machines. So I seize on any opportunity to make sure my students know I’m a real person and to learn about them as real people.

Okay, it’s your turn. Go back to those questions in bold and tell me what you think!

What’s your metaphor?

Several years ago, when one of the universities I teach for asked me to design and serve as the subject matter expert (SME) for a research class in the professional writing master’s program, I immediately thought, “How can I possibly be an expert in all of the subjects that my students will need to research?” (By the way, I can’t be the only person in the curriculum design world who always pictures Captain Hook’s sidekick Smee when I see the acronym SME.) True, one could argue that I wasn’t being asked to prove my expertise in all the topics someone might research, but instead in the process of research itself. But even research itself can look vastly different depending on the researcher’s field and the genre, audience, and purpose of the writing. So it didn’t take me long to decide that I didn’t want to create “talking head” videos for the course, in which I would simply share from my own research experience–which, while it isn’t to be discounted, has mostly been in one small corner of a field that most of my students aren’t even going into. Instead, to give my students a broader picture of what “research” can mean in a variety of career fields, I decided to conduct a series of interviews in which I would talk to a nonprofit fundraiser, a biologist, an education professor, and a pastor about the research and writing they do in their work. So my students are seeing me in the videos, but mine is not the main voice they’re hearing. I’m the interviewer, whose role is to ask good questions to draw out other people’s expertise.

Ever since reading Helen Sword’s Air and Light and Time and Space, I’ve been thinking about how metaphors shape the way we do our work. Her book has a whole chapter about writerly metaphors–for example, you’re going to approach writing very differently if you think of it as a voyage of discovery as opposed to an uphill slog–but I’ve been thinking about metaphors in the realm of teaching. And I’ve come to the conclusion that the best metaphor for how I approach teaching, especially with my graduate students, is that of an interviewer. Because the focus of my course is a process–research–rather than a body of information, I allow my students to choose any topic for their major project, with very few limitations. Occasionally, students will choose a topic that I’d actually consider myself an expert or semi-expert in, like composition education or, that one wonderful time, Charles Dickens. But usually, they’re researching and writing about things I have no clue about, like family law or urban foraging. So I can’t pretend I know more about the topic than my student does. Instead, I find myself once again in the role of an interviewer, asking good questions to help the student access his or her own expertise. Most of the time, when I ask my grad students, “Would this be considered an authoritative source in your field?” or “Would your intended audience know the definition of this word?,” I’m not playing that old teacher trick of asking a question I already know the answer to (although I usually have a suspicion one way or the other–otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked). Instead, I’m gently pushing the students to access their own developing expertise.

I’m not downplaying my work here. Being able to ask the right questions is a genuine skill. But I’ve found that approaching my work as an interviewer, at least with these graduate students (a lot of this applies to my upper-level undergrad creative writing students too), keeps me from overstepping my boundaries and doing more harm than good–and losing the students’ trust–by trying to act like an expert in something I’m not. My job is not to look like the most knowledgeable person in the (online) room on every topic; it’s to help students access and build their own knowledge.

Now, as always, I turn the question over to you. Whether you’re a teacher or not, what metaphor(s) do you use to characterize the way you approach your work? If you’ve never thought about this before, think about it and let me know what you decide!

home: the new co-working space

Yesterday afternoon, I took a break from folding laundry and replying to students’ discussion board posts to make myself a cup of tea. I looked outside and saw a chickadee in our birdfeeder. Chickadees are harbingers of colder weather and new birds to look at, and besides, ever since a small stand of trees near our backyard was cut down a few months ago, we haven’t seen any birds at our feeder besides the occasional mourning dove that plants itself there for hours and doesn’t do anything but poop. (Sorry, mourning doves. At least you have a pretty voice!) So, the arrival of the chickadee was an exciting event, and I hollered to my husband, Jordan, who was working in his home office, to come out and look. As if they had been waiting for his arrival, a flurry of birds suddenly appeared, including more chickadees, some cute little brown guys (look, I never said I was a real birder), and even a couple of Eastern bluebirds—my favorite songbird but one that I rarely see. For about fifteen minutes, they flew around the backyard, alighting now and then on our feeder, the neighbors’ fence, and the scrubby bushes on our property line, even daring to get as close as our patio picnic table. Then, shortly after Jordan went back to his office, they were gone, and they haven’t been back (though I’ll be on the lookout around 2:30 this afternoon).

I shared this story because moments like this are among the blessings of working from home, especially with someone you love. This year, millions of people around the world started doing what fully-online professors (and those in an increasing number of job sectors) have been doing for years: working in the space where they also sleep, eat, do chores, and spend time with those they love. Working from home comes with its share of challenges (e.g., distractions, guilt over unfinished tasks, the difficulty of establishing a quitting time), and those challenges are compounded for those with children at home. I don’t want to minimize those challenges, but in this post I am focusing on the joys of working from home, as well as a few of the practical considerations.

Jordan, an engineer, started working from home in March, like many people did. He already had a home office with a pretty sweet computer set-up (powerful processor, big monitor, headset, etc.) because he’s an avid gamer. With a few adjustments (purchasing a second monitor, downloading the primary software he uses for work), he was able to set himself up to work basically the same way he did at the office, with one major difference: his co-workers aren’t here.

Sure, he can and does email, call, and ping them on Microsoft Teams. But if he wants to get up and stretch his legs and decompress after a stressful meeting, the only person in his physical space is me, and I’m not much use in a conversation about solenoids. (They’re little magnetic parts that open and close things. I’ve learned that much.) But then again, maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe what Jordan needs in that moment is both a cup of tea from a real teakettle (which I know he can’t get at the office) and a conversation with someone who’s doing something totally different, like grading English papers.

I think we all know that siloing is a major problem with the way our culture treats work, especially in the higher education sector. We specialize in one thing, starting with our undergraduate majors and getting increasingly narrower as we move through the levels of education and professional development, and while there’s certainly nothing wrong with getting really good at one thing (like making solenoids), I fear we are neglecting skills and character qualities that transfer from one situation, context, or career to another. Perhaps we are losing the ability to have meaningful intellectual conversations with those in other fields.

That just got really philosophical. But I went there because I’ve been thinking about the relatively recent phenomenon of co-working spaces. You’ve probably heard of them: they’re buildings (or floors) where anyone who needs a space to work—freelancers, private practitioners, telecommuters looking for a change of scene or some peace and quiet—can rent a room or cubicle alongside others who are doing the same thing. Though I’ve never worked in one of these spaces myself, I can imagine that one of the benefits—besides having someone to split a lunch order with—is that you get to have conversations with (and possibly eavesdrop on) people who are doing very different work than you are. Maybe you learn something from them, and maybe you even come up with ways you can partner with your cross-disciplinary co-workers. I wonder how many new businesses and community services have been hatched out of these almost accidental partnerships.

During this year’s pandemic, many couples, families, and roommates found themselves in a co-working situation with people they already knew and loved, but had never worked alongside. For Jordan and me, who just got married this year, this has been basically an unadulterated blessing. It has allowed us to spend almost all day, every day together during the formative early months of our marriage. It has allowed us to become familiar with each other’s work habits and given me a peek into Jordan’s relationships with his co-workers, who I know are very important to him. We have been taking an hour-long lunch break together, which gives us time to prepare and eat healthier meals. (And as a side benefit, we’ve gotten through all the seasons of Friends and most of Avatar: The Last Airbender during our lunches.) And sometimes, we get to share special moments like the bird-stravaganza of yesterday afternoon.

The only thing we’re still trying to figure out with regard to working from home is where my space will be. This was Jordan’s house before we got married, so I didn’t already have a workspace of my own as he did. I started out working on the dining room table, which had its benefits (good lighting, plenty of space, good view of birds), but I felt like I had to clean up my stuff at the end of every workday, and I wanted a more permanent area. So lately, I’ve been working in the bedroom. Next to one of the windows, I’ve set up a small, brown and green vintage metal table that I bought at an antique shop a few years ago. My laptop sits there all the time, along with my planner and a few other items. A chair doesn’t quite fit underneath the table, so when it’s time to work, I pull over a vintage wooden chair reupholstered in a bird print (another antiquing find) that usually sits in another part of the room. So far, this setup is working pretty well, but I’d also like to try setting up a little work corner in our living room. Jordan and I have talked about sharing the home office, but we don’t think this would work very well for meetings, and I’m happy to let that be his space since my work is more mobile than his.

I’m still figuring out my space, but trying out different spots is more fun than inconvenience. I’m thankful that I get to work from home, and even more thankful that I get to do it alongside my favorite co-worker.

What does your workspace look like? Who are your co-workers, in both senses of the word? What are some of the challenges and benefits of your work setup? I’d love to hear from you!

Imposter syndrome: You probably have it.

Today I’m writing to you about something that’s so central to my experience of being a teacher and an academic that I considered calling this The Imposter Blog. (I decided that might be confusing.) Imposter syndrome has become a widely documented phenomenon in the fields of psychology and education. It simply means feeling like everyone else in your group (whether that’s a class, a doctoral cohort, a department at work, or even a group of gaming friends) belongs there, but that you’re an unqualified, inexperienced imposter–a poser, as people my age used to say when we were teens. If you’re a teacher, have you ever though as you approached your students (whether online or in front of a classroom), “I don’t know enough about this topic to be teaching other people about it?” If so, you’ve experienced imposter system. (If not, are you lying?)

One of the strongest triggers of imposter syndrome in my life has been joining the faculty of the university where I earned my first two degrees, coming to teach alongside professors who once taught me. Besides the perpetually awkward conundrum of what to call them (there are some whose first names I’ll never be able to bring myself to use), I have a really hard time shaking the feeling that I’m just the annoying kid who tags along with the adults. Although it’s been a few years and I’ve started coming into my own as a colleague, there are still situations that send me straight back to being a shy nineteen-year-old sitting in my first British lit class. These include having to express disagreement with one of my former professors, serving on a thesis committee with them (especially if I’m the chair), and being asked to share my expertise on something (gut reaction: what expertise?).

Instead of giving you my five steps to overcoming imposter syndrome (as a matter of fact, I don’t have those), I’d like to ask you to share your expertise, or at least your stories. In what situations, if any, have you felt imposter syndrome? Is there anything you can do that helps? Is there anything your colleagues or administrators have done that helps, or that you wish they would do?

Thanks for being part of this community! Next time, I won’t make you wait so long for a new post.