Blog #10 FLTA

"Willst du gerne wissen, was ich zum Fuehstueck habe?" (Would you like to know what I am having for breakfast?) Plopping myself down on the black leather couches located inside the Center for Languages and International Collaboration seems like a waste of the rare sunshine that is shining through the windows. Anna has already been waiting for ten minutes and was finally able to enjoy an 11:30 breakfast. Yogurt, apple slices, Baby Carrots, thin cucumber slivers with Brie smeared onto two slices of airy american wheat bread, 20 oz orange juice. "Oh, and coffee." She raises up her Einstein Bagel Coffee cup. Dressed in a red-pink and white stripped long sleeve and blue jeans, she has abandoned the thought of a lightweight complementary shawl, since the weather is so wonderful. Her black leather boots with gun-metal clasp reach mid calf as she sits cross-legged on the sofa next to mine. Upon first glance, she could be easily confused with a Scandinavian, due to her blonde hair, fair skin, height and sky-blue eyes. But she is disappointed when   Trimet riders cannot correctly identify her with her actual nationality, Germany. Today is a typical day for Anna. "I first get to eat at 11:00," taking a drink of the orange juice. In the morning she wakes up, gets ready to go before making the 1/2 mile walk to the 8:00 German 102 class. At 9:15 she is involved in my course, German 485: Survey of the Roma and Sinti People in Germany. She occasionally attends the second 102 class at 10:30 and finally gets a break at 11 or 11:30. "At 10:00 I get hungry and when I finally get the chance, I eat a lot." Why does she dedicate her time and health at Pacific University, you might ask? She is a Foreign Language Teaching Assistant, or FLTA.

Blog #9 Down the Road

"That's right. My first day of rehab was the last day I used."

What a splendid day it was to ride the Line-57 from Forest Grove to Beaverton Transit Center. The sun would even shine through the dusty windows if it managed to beam through the intermittent cloud cover. Some guy was typing up notes in the seat across the isle from me and the boyfriend girlfriend couple on the back row found nothing better to talk about than cell phones. About half of the seats filled up as we waited at the Hillsboro Transit center and the couple that I was attempting to eavesdrop on decided to transfer. Even from the inside of the bus, the continuous whap whap whap of the diesel engine had been a set back in my conquest.  I even tore paper out to start writing! Drat!
I decided to casually change seats to be behind two new riders who were easily the loudest on the bus. Tara sat on the isle in a gray sweater, jeans and black sunglasses, casually perched on her spiked bleach-yellow hair. As she spoke with her friend, her partial pink highlight put up today in a side part caught the sun's rays but not as much as her hot rod blue eye liner and mascara. Ears flavored with Pac-Man cherry studs and top ring on the right side, she filled the other with an I-phone ear bud. Her neck has a black tattoo of music notes.
"Did you hear about the bombing?" a man in a Beavers ball cap chimes in. He sat across the isle, donning a GET name badge on his olive green collared shirt. He was mid forties, in black work shoes, khaki jeans, blue jacket and eyes. He clutched his black reading glasses in his worn hands has he scratched at his once black now graying facial beard.
"No," said Tara quickly continuing to look at the road ahead.
"In Boston?"
"No."
"There was a terrorist attack at the Boston Marathon," he continued as he adjusted his position on the seat to face his audience. "The Manager of the Forest Grove Dollar Tree was running in it. He called and said he was ok."
"Why does this happen," inquired Kathie, the rider seated next to Tara, taking a swig of her 16 oz Rockstar. Kathie wore not one but two sweaters, a black covered by an army green with one of those annoying fuzzy hoods. Her thick dishwater hair was done up in a black pony tail that didn't cover up her black gauges. As she turned to the man her green eyes catch mine and reveal a lip ring. More metal cover her pointer, index and ring fingers.
"The government sucks," butts in a black haired teen seated in front of the two women.
"Ya, it is Bush's fault," Tara exclaims as she looks back at her I-phone.
"I can't wait for WWIII, WWIV and WWVI," exclaims the teen once again. Even my eyebrows raised.
The Beavers man calmly rebuked the sentence, "No war is cool." He continued on about kids and grandkids with Tara and Kathie as we passed Tuality Hospital. The topic quickly shifted to the Rockstar clutched in Kathie's ringed hand. "I never got into energy drinks." The pink off of the can caught my attention as we turn the curve onto TV Highway and we halted. A large Latino group was about to get on.
Beavers man to Kathie,"If it gets crowded I'm gonna sit on your lap."
"No, I will sit on your lap," she fired back to Beavers man and then to Tara, "and you will sit on my lap."
We whap whap whaped down the road. They ask what each other's names are. Beavers man to Kathie, "you should get a shirt with your name on it." They all chucked.
The teen turns around one last time. "You know what they call me? The guy with the face." Ok.
Beavers man headed out at Murry Blvd and the two women at 185th. "That's right. My first day of rehab was the last day I used," said Tara as they stood up. She is missing a front incisor.
A regular joe takes their place as the ride continues down the road.

Blog #8 Randell Cook, Bombardier

After my meeting for Boy Scouts was over, Rebecca, Azadae and I decided to stop at the A&W/KFC on Beaverton-Hillsdale Hwy to take part in the $2 Any Size Root-beer Float deal that is currently being offered there. I had originally planned on asking the late-night cashier what animal he would be after he took my order, but another customer hovered behind me to partake of the services and I decided to wait. I'm very glad I was met this crossroads because I spoke with someone much more interesting. An elderly gentleman sat by himself, two booths away from the door, next to the window announcing the special painted on the windows. He too sipped on a large $2 Float along with his creamy mashed potatoes and 3-piece chicken dinner. He picked up one of the chicken wings and began to gnaw on the meat, freeing it from the bone. I could see his gold filling flash as he took another bite off of the wing, careful not to drop a single crumb onto his plum-colored sweater, on which an American Flag lapel pin was attached. I wandered over to him, unsure how my approach would be accepted. "Excuse me, sir, but may I ask you a few questions for a school project that I am doing?"
"What sort of questions?" the gentleman responded, slightly squinting at me through his glasses as he lowered the wing from his lips.
"Well, a few questions about yourself and if you could be any animal, what would it be and why?"
He fired right back at me with the answer, as if he had been expecting to tell someone all night, "Husky."
I quickly scribbled down the answer on the back of my German thesis that I had been reviewing, "and why?" I prompted.
"Because that is where I went to school. I went to University of Washington." This I hadn't expected. I was looking for a trait or advantage that an animal might have.
I decided to pry a bit more. "What did you do in college?"
A half smile crinkled up his face. "I did a lot of stuff."
Randell Cook is a native to Portland but decided to go to UW for college. While he attended, he was part of the Crew Team. "This is a great sport," he expanded, indicating that I knew little about the art of synchronized rowing. "It is all about coordination and working together. If one person gets off the rhythm, everyone has to stop and restart." This was not the only recreation that Mr. Cook took part in. He was a member of the ROTC at the college and joined the Air Force in June of 1941. Only six months before the bombing on Pearl Harbor during WWII.  During his military time he instructed Bombardiers. "Do you know Doolittle's Raid? I flew after that and helped with the training of bombers taking off from carriers." Mr. Cook did see some action during the war. "I flew in a B-29 on bombing runs over Japan."
"That was the Super Fortress?" I inquired.
"That is correct," Mr. Cook continued. "We couldn't see much of anything when we flew though. Sometimes the clouds would be so dense that we couldn't see the ground. Only the lead plane would be able to see and tell us where we were."
"Wow," I interjected dumbstruck. My page of scattered notes was starting to fill. "I bet you have some amazing stories."
"Oh I do." He said humbly. He then proceeded to ask questions about me, if I was an Oregonian, what I studied in college, how old my daughter was in the car seat. I'm sure I could have spoken with him for hours, about the war, about his job and family after the war, why he was at KFC alone, but I knew that I had to leave. Before I left I brought my daughter over to see him. "What is...oh, I thought that she just had a ton of hair." He was referencing the flower headband that Azadae was wearing as she stared back at him. He continued to eat his meal as we parted. "God bless you," I said to him.
"Did you get enough for your project?" He quickly asked.
"Oh yes, I think I have enough," thinking I probably had far too little. "May I take a picture of you for the project."
"I won't call my lawyer," he chuckled. "Would you like one with me looking right at you or off to the side?"

Blog #7 On Eagles

Driving down the John Day River valley during the winter can be rather depressing. The cold saps the life out of the cottonwoods, looking like bones along the freezing river. The summer hay grass has been mowed down by the horses and Red Angus cows and bulls in an effort to survive the cold snap. Even though the sun is shining, its glare from the snowy mountains is a constant reminder of the coldest months still to come. But sitting among the bones of the cottonwoods, the sun's rays catch another snow cap. Not on a mountain, but on a majestic bald eagle.
Once a member of the endangered species list due to the overwhelming use of DDT in the mid-to-late 20th century, this powerful bird is roughly the size of your average six-person Thanksgiving Day turkey. Who knows, maybe we would have eaten eagle if Ben Franklin had his way and picked the turkey to be the national bird of America. With a wingspan that would be able to dunk a basketball, she is easily seen as it hunts fish, waterfowl, sometimes even small mammals as large as a small fawn. Unlike mammals, the female exhibits size advantages over the males, but she is willing to mate with him for a lifetime, returning year after year to the same nesting area to breed and raise their young. She was taught as an eaglet to tear into the flesh of her meal and to practice flying while she fought off attacks from her brother and sister to be the only survivor of her brood. She found shelter from her parent's wing only in bad weather. At only 72 days old at the heat of summer she was forced by her parents to finally leave the nest and set out on her own adventure, meeting her hawk and eagle cousins on her journeys from Florida to Alaska and California to Newfoundland and Labrador. She will never leave North America, just like her ancient ancestors never did. She has no family on other continents of the world. Beginning a family will not happen until she is four and she will teach her eaglets how to survive, just as she learned.

Blog # 6 On Dinosaurs

Growing up you couldn't catch me anywhere without my Styracosaurus. He would accompany me anywhere, in the car, in the yard, in the pool. I once threw my Styracosaurus into the water of a blowup pool during a particularly hot summer, but instead of striking the water its horny frill of spikes smashed into my brother's face. I couldn't wait to get my hands on more dinosaur toys so that the meat eaters could duel it out with the plant eaters. We would go out and play in the sand box and the Stegosaur would strategically defend itself from the ferocious attack of an Allosaur with its spiky tail and flappable armored triangles which protruded from its spine. When I wasn't outside playing I was watching dinosaur movies and envying the paleontologists like Bob Bakker, Jack Horner and Paul Sereno as they dug up new species. What lucky people, to play with dinosaurs every day of their lives. I wanted to know every species, every discovery. I wanted to find my own dinosaur and name it after me. Dinosaurs kicked butt.

Since their discovery in the 19th Century, Dinosaurs (meaning "terrible lizards") have greatly interested the child as well as the adult world. They were the monsters of the Earth from which only bones and footprints remain. We will never be able to observe them, watch them run, know what color their skin was, or if they would have been afraid of us. The images we see in Jurassic Park film try to portray what we think they may have looked like. Still, the head of the Tyrannosaurus Rex is way too big. Through creativity and science, paleontologists have been able to study these long extinct animals and have realized how bizarre they were, especially in the evolutionary chain. Some of the beasts grew feathers and fossils of Archaeopteryx revealed a winged lizard. These large beasts were considered to be lethargic, sluggish and barely movable. Further research has been done to reveal highly vascular bone structures along with other adaptations to show that these "lizards" were not poikilotherms (or cold-blooded) but were actually homeotherms (warm-blooded).

I frequently stroll through the toy section in Wal-Mart or Target to see what kids are playing with now. Transformers and WWE action figures litter the isles of the boys section. Even those dumb Power Rangers toys still make the shelf, probably on their thirteenth edition. Next to them are the Angry Birds stuffed animals. Where are the T-Rex, or Triceratops, or Brontosaurus? My main question though is whether kids even play with toys anymore or if the only entertainment they find enjoyment in is video games and movies. The LCD screens light up their eyes as they drive with their dorky parents past the Grand Tetons en route to Yellowstone and Bozeman, MT. Their minds will continue to chew on how to beat the next level while being dragged against their will across the Bad Lands, not thinking that a terrible lizard could be buried just below his or her feet. The discoveries that could be made, will they continue to be found by our younger generation, or are digital images the only future for them?

Blog #5 On Kale

Walking down the produce isle I come across the leafy greens. Lettuce in both green and red, spinach bagged or unbagged, green cabbage and red cabbage. What sounds good today? As I peruse a curly evergreen colored leaf stands out and don't recognize this plant. I look at the price tag. Kale. So this is what it normally looks like.
Brassica oleracea is a close relative to cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, rapeseed  and collard greens, which all share a common ancestor, the mustard seed. It is coarse to the taste and some people find it non-palatable. Kale is well known for the large amounts of nutrients that it contains. Not only does it contain large amounts of Vitamin C and beta-carotene, it is rich in Vitamin K and calcium. It can be eaten raw, steamed, stir-fried, microwaved and even frozen. Freezing is actually said to make this somewhat bitter leaf into a sweeter plant. For this reason it is normally harvested after a frost. In Germany it is called gruenkohl, green cabbage, and in the Netherlands it is called the farmer's cabbage, boerenkool. 
The first time Kale turned up on my plate was in Heide, Germany and came from a big pot. It had the appearance of canned spinach, shriveled and green olive in color. Its smell hung around the house. The family that I was eating with excitedly passed the white dish around that contained this slimy vegetable. I thought no one would notice if I didn't dish myself. But that was rude, being invited to someone's home and not eating what they had prepared for us. I felt a shiver creeping up my back as I plopped the gruenkohl onto my plate and passed it on. I dished two sausages out with it. Maybe these would help me enjoy it better, I thought to myself. Slowly scraping some onto my fork with my knife, I breathed slowly before I took the bite. Almost instantly, my umami taste buds flew off the scale of taste. It was not course nor slimy, but braised to perfection in what I later learned to be pig fat and stewed for at least a day with the pork cut of your choice. The longer it is stewed, the better it tasted. This quickly became my favorite dish in Germany, not the classic bratwurst or schnitzel. I never saw the plant in its original fresh cut form and didn't learn its name in English until shortly after my return to the States. When I go back to Northern Germany, this will be on my menu.

Don't pick my tomatoes!

<p>One beautiful summer day I was sitting at home, having just spoken with some tenants. The sky was crystal clear blue and the sun was beating down on my vines of peas and tomatoes. A rare day in the northwest. I could hear the children frolic outside on this glorious day. I relaxed inside but I could here a ruckus for the back side of the apartment. I swiftly moved to the back sliding screen door suspecting the worst.<br>
My wife had informed me only a few days before that the young children of the complex found a great deal of enjoyment out of plucking off my newly emerging green tomatoes. Once this fruit was in their hands, they would proceed to either sample the bitterness of the tomato or commence a squishy game of dodgeball. They had managed to obliterate my crop thus far with the exception of my largest prize tomato of the bunch. I had missed the first encounter but I was not about to let another massacre take place. <br>
Sure enough, as I came up to the screen door, I saw three little boys crowded around my tomato plant. I could not see what they were doing, but I couldn't let them rip off any more of my tomatoes. I threw open the sliding door with a bang and yelled, "No, don't pick my tomatoes." <br>
The ringleader in a Cars t-shirt and shorts stood amongst the knee-high squash and radishes in my garden, thrusting his fist into my tomato plant, hoping to grab a dark green beauty. His head quickly snapped in my direction to see who was disrupting his concentration. The noisy chatter from the boys died as I announced my presence from ten feet away. His beady black eyes met mine for a half second. Realizing that it was me, he sprang out of the box-garden and tried to make a hurried getaway with his comrades already a few steps in from of him. <br>
"Wait," I called out to them and they stopped moving their tiny legs. " I'm not going to hurt you. I want you to understand what this means for you to steal my tomatoes." They politely listened as I explained to them that I had been working really hard to make this garden grow, that it was something of great joy to me to see a seed grow into a plant, spout flowers and produce precious fruits and vegetables. "Please do not take any more of my tomatoes, otherwise I will be very sad," I concluded calmly. They were just being curious, adventurous.
But even so, I couldn't let this continue. Luckily, my largest tomato had not been plucked. It remained hidden under the dense layers of leaves growing from the plant. Though I had intervened this time, there were other boys on the property that would try their hand at ripping away my tomatoes. I had and would continue to protect my garden from those who would damage it, knowingly or not. </p>