My "freshman 10"

Here’s a not-so-top-ten list from Deborah Spinney, executive director for student development at the University of Indianapolis. Any of these sound familiar? I wish I'd seen this list twenty-something years ago.

10 Mistakes Freshmen Make

1. Assuming college is an extension of high school
Many students aren’t prepared for the quantity and complexity of college work, and rely on high-school study habits to get by. A good rule of thumb: Spend the same amount of time studying for a course each day as you spend in that class. If you need help with study skills, seek help from your university’s academic support office right away. Don’t wait until you’re mired in midterms.

2. Saving money by not buying the books
Don’t be penny-wise and pound-foolish. Get the books right away and stay on top of your reading and related assignments. There are many bargains to be had, either in your own bookstore, from classmates who’ve had the class before, or over the Internet.

3. Being overly ambitious
A heavy course load in high school may have been manageable, but it could overwhelm you in college. Set yourself up for success by taking 12 to 14 hours your first semester, and give yourself time to acclimate.

4. Ignoring e-mails
As connected as students are, too many don’t read their e-mail regularly. They miss important messages from professors and other announcements that could make their life easier. Remember that parking ticket you got? Chances are you didn’t see the message about the temporary parking ban.

5. Working too hard
We’re talking about paid jobs here. As important as they are, if they demand too much time away from your studies, you need to reevaluate. For undergraduates, especially first-year students, working more than 20 hours a week while maintaining a full course load is a recipe for D-saster.

6. Looking for help in all the wrong places
Universities offer a wealth of resources for the struggling student—from professors’ office hours to math and writing labs, tutors, and workshops on topics such as study skills. You won’t be the first student who needs help; that’s why these supports are in place.

7. Thinking the professor is God
Their teaching may be divine, but professors really are quite down-to-earth and generally reasonable in dealing with students. But it’s a two-way street. They expect you to let them know when you have to miss a session (be sure it’s unavoidable), come to class prepared, and participate in discussions – in short, go the extra mile for maximum return on your education.

8. Over-socializing
If you’re thinking about parties more than your assignments, your newfound independence may be getting out of hand. Remember: With independence comes responsibility. Don’t jeopardize your long-term goals for short-lived pleasures.

9. Under-socializing
Just as there’s such as thing as too much social time, the other extreme is not wise, either. You’re missing out on the complete college experience if you isolate yourself from campus life. Clubs and volunteer service projects are a great way to connect with others who have similar interests.

10. Choosing the wrong career
Many students don’t know what they want to do when they enter college, and there’s nothing wrong with figuring that out once you get there. However, many declare a major with nary a thought to whether it’s the proper fit for them in terms of their academic preparation or strengths, and they proceed to waste considerable time and money before discovering the mismatch. Your campus career office is a good place to start. It should have resources and tests that can help you narrow the options.

My college experience would have been immeasurably different if I’d managed to avoid some of these mistakes. I struck out in 6 of 9 areas. (It’s only 9 because e-mail wasn’t the factor that it is now. Yes, it's true, I predate the Internet.)

I didn't learn effective study skills in high school, despite earning straight As. My high school prided itself on its college-preparatory program, but I don't recall anyone ever suggesting that college-level work required an hour of studying each day for every hour of class time. I don't know if I would have followed that advice, as a know-it-all 17-year-old.

I took something like 18 credit hours my first semester, because everyone else did. When I found myself floundering in a class, I tried to tough it out. I was too shocked and embarrassed to respond when a professor wrote "See me" on my test paper. I had never failed an exam before.

I let a friend "help" me with a few assignments. If there was a party, I figured I could study later. I allowed friends to talk me into skipping class, then skipped some more because I was ashamed to face the professor.

Things improved a little after freshman year. At the insistence of my parents, I lived at home sophomore year and improved my grades before moving back to campus. I changed majors, got closer to figuring out what I wanted to do, and really found my niche in graduate school. But I still regret the wasted time and energy.

I kept taking higher-level math and science classes, to the detriment of my GPA, even after it became clear to me that a research career was not in my future. I'm not sure why I did this. I was interested in the ideas, to some extent. But part of it was sheer stubbornness. I just didn't want to admit that some courses might be, well, more than a stretch for me.

Most of my college friends majored in sciences or engineering, and there was a pervasive bias at this university against the liberal arts. When I switched majors from physics to English, at least one person commented, "Oh, couldn't hack it, huh?" I spent a few years walking around with a chip on my shoulder before I began to value my own skills.

Shaping these images to make them stay

Muir Woods National Monument, California

An Event

As if a cast of grain leapt back to the hand,
A landscapeful of small black birds, intent
On the far south, convene at some command
At once in the middle of the air, at once are gone
With headlong and unanimous consent
From the pale trees and fields they settled on.

What is an individual thing? They roll
Like a drunken fingerprint across the sky!
Or so I give their image to my soul
Until, as if refusing to be caught
In any singular vision of my eye
Or in the nets and cages of my thought,

They tower up, shatter, and madden space
With their divergences, are each alone
Swallowed from sight, and leave me in this place
Shaping these images to make them stay:
Meanwhile, in some formation of their own,
They fly me still, and steal my thoughts away.

Delighted with myself and with the birds,
I set them down and give them leave to be.
It is by words and the defeat of words,
Down sudden vistas of the vain attempt,
That for a flying moment one may see
By what cross-purposes the world is dreamt.

- Richard Wilbur, American poet, 1921-
from New and Collected Poems, © 1988 by Richard Wilbur

I was delighted when I found this poem because it states so eloquently some of the reasons why I've kept a journal since seventh grade, and why I began this blog. Capturing an experience in words makes it more real, somehow. At the same time, writing about the event shapes it subtly. Inevitably choices are made, one description where another might have done. Sometimes all I know when I start is that there is something important that I want to remember, to better understand. Often, the act of choosing the words and reading them over reveals what the meaning of the story really is for me.

Lucky day

I wasn’t looking for luck. I was just trying to take apart the place where we’d spent six weeks of the summer, cramming it all into boxes and suitcases. All except the Woosh. The donut-shaped flying disc had landed on the roof a few nights before, to the dismay of my sons.

I couldn’t do anything about the Woosh, but I had to get all of our other belongings across the continent somehow. The deadline was an early plane flight the following day. The luck came in small doses, from unexpected directions.

I arrived at FedEx/Kinko’s with two large suitcases, four large boxes, and two smallish helpers. The silver-haired man behind the counter looked us over stoically and handed me a stack of forms to complete. He was patient with the boys’ hijinks and, to his credit, didn’t bat an eye when I realized midway through the process that I would save some money if I opened a new account. “Well, I’ll have to start over, then,” he said, gently enough.

By noon, amazingly, the packing was complete and the boxes were dispatched. I felt light as air, free to play.

I’d promised the boys a round of miniature golf at a large entertainment complex we’d glimpsed from the highway. The GPS unit was uncharacteristically vague about where to turn. Then it ran out of power before I could examine the map. But when I found a place to pull over, I realized that the golf course was just a stone’s throw away. We laughed about how I’d accidentally managed to go the right way.

I spent the first few holes trying to keep my young partners on the correct green, giving them directions, making them take turns. Then I took a deep breath, stopped expecting them to play by the rules, and started to have fun. E managed a hole-in-one, and C showed some finesse with his shots. They begged for another 18 holes, but one round’s my limit, so I lured them away with arcade-game tokens.

Almost immediately, E scored on a game of chance and won 50 prize tickets, to his delight. C chose another game, trying to make a large superball bounce into the high-scoring slots on a roulette wheel.

I noticed a pair of adults next to us, playing an identical machine. They’d been there for a while, judging from the mound of paper tickets on the floor. I thought some patronizing thoughts about why an adult would spend time and dollars at a mindless game, for trinkets.

Then C hit the “jackpot,” and a stream of paper tickets burst from the machine. C was as thrilled as any Vegas tourist hitting the slots. Our neighbors cheered for him. “One hundred dollars!” C hollered gleefully. “No, they’re just tickets,” I corrected him. But the man next to us said, “It’s a hundred dollars to him.” Of course it is, I thought, sheepishly.

Another man must have noticed the boys’ excitement. He appeared at my side and handed me a huge fistful of tickets, muttering something incomprehensible but clearly gesturing at E and C. The boys stared at him, then whooped and danced and high-fived.

Our benefactor came back twice, solemnly handing me dozens of tickets and receiving our thanks with barely a nod. He seemed almost embarrassed. He was large and round and vaguely threatening in appearance, and I would have avoided him under different circumstances.

Instead of taking home a cheap plastic toy, the boys left the game room clutching large glittery superballs, a ninja figurine, and a two-foot-long, wildly psychedelic stuffed frog.

E said, “I wish we could thank that man MORE somehow.” I explained the idea of paying it forward, and they understood right away. Someday when they’re older, I hope they find a similar way to make another child's day, and perhaps they'll think fondly about a quietly generous man and a fluorescent green frog.

Late that night, I found the wayfaring Woosh on the patio near our front door. A fortuitous gust of wind? A helpful neighbor? Somebody or something came through at just the right time.

A favorite poem for Friday

Bay Area Discovery Museum, Sausalito, CA

Having evolved from grass

our eyes seesaw green,
go chartreuse into hazel, umber
edged by saffron and dun.

At home our kids
guzzle cloudbursts of milk,
thicken in spurts, at school

wave their arms to become
fields of windblown wheat,
trusting they have the answer,

something of the fluid plant
that enables each of us
to yield, acquiesce without

indignation, be it clippers,
pesticides, the implacable herd...
Most of who we are

does not blaze or spangle,
rarely scatters a redolent brume.
From grass it's understood

what matters most is not
showing off but showing up,
breaching what we can--

asphalt, gravel, brick,
one among so many, this
our constant work and harder.

--Thom Ward, from "Various Orbits," c. 2004

I am SO over Costco

Costco, I've grown weary of this love-hate relationship I have with you. I've come to realize that your appearances are deceiving, and I think it's time we go our separate ways.

Your outsized personality amused me at first. It made me think about lively parties, my house full of friends, occasions at which I might serve heaps of bite-sized crabcakes, sheets of moist carrot cake, and table-crowding platters of cocktail shrimp.

I nodded in recognition when I read news articles about how Costco has become the yuppie Wal-Mart. Yes, I prefer Starbucks coffee to Maxwell House. Why pay department-store prices for designer jeans? I thought you were the store for me.

The food samples at every turn, served forth by cheery ladies in white hair nets, were enough to make a meal. I tried things I'd never considered purchasing: chicken taquitos, "energy drink," canned turkey chili, garlic parmesan dip.

There was always something new to discover, something that made me laugh. I never knew what I'd find -- a jungle gym erected atop a mountain of pallets, a digital grand piano, a moonbounce, a tank full of live lobster, or an entire suite of office furniture.

But after a while, this very unpredictability began to bother me. That fresh-scented body wash I wanted would disappear, sometimes for a few months, sometimes indefinitely. I couldn't be certain that the 12-box pack of white-cheddar macaroni and cheese would always be there for me.

Where once I happily carted home 24 rolls of paper towels, pleased that I wouldn't have to add them to my shopping list for months, I began to feel a bit disappointed that I couldn't get the select-a-size brand, which was really more suited to my needs.

Each encounter left me more confused, with more unanswered questions. Is a 48-ounce bag of dried cranberries a bargain at $6.85, compared with the 6-ounce bag I usually buy? If I want three pounds of barbecued pulled pork for a potluck dinner, should I settle for the six-pound package and hope the remainder won't end up discarded, an icy brick at the back of my freezer?

After a summer apart, my perspective has changed. The bounty spilling into those wide aisles looks less like a wealth of possibilities and more like super-sized excess.

Unless you're stocking a soup kitchen or feeding a family of twelve, who needs a can of tuna fish the size of your head? That generous bag of chopped, ready-to-cook broccoli didn't really help me include more vegetables with my meals, not when I ended up throwing out half of it because it spoiled before I could use it all.

My last visit left me feeling exhausted and somehow let down. The scrum around the serving ladies' microwave ovens seemed ridiculous, grown people grabbing for pinkie-sized bagel dogs and morsels of bourbon chicken. An apple pie the size of an automobile tire was vaguely disgusting. I considered and rejected a fruit platter, a bag of coffee beans, a moisturizer. None of it was quite what I wanted.

Costco, it's not you -- it's me. I'm too set in my ways, too inflexible to adapt to what you have to offer. A case of 27 juice boxes, 100% organic, no added sugar -- what's not to love? Yet all I can see is the pile of unrecyclable trash I'd leave behind. You offer a low price on gallon jugs of apple juice, but I'm thinking about the calcium-enriched brand in my local grocery store.

The truth is, we have different values. I don't want a bargain-priced crate of glossy Gala apples; I want to try all the different varieties at the farmers' market, where I can be pretty sure that they've just come off the tree. A freezer stocked with ground beef and strip steaks doesn't appeal to me. I put together menus on the fly, based on what looks fresh, what I want to eat today. I just can't commit to bulk purchases.

With so many admirers standing in line, you'll never miss me.

This robot is a Big Dog

From the Web site of Boston Dynamics:

This robot was the talk of a science-writers' listserv today. See a video of it in action here:

People describing its movement used words like "eerie" and "creepy." I had the same reaction. Why is that? Is it because the motion of those legs looks too human, or not human enough?

Big Dog is quite graceful, particularly in one part of the video where it picks its way across a rock field. The company's Web site refers to the robot as "the alpha male of the Boston Dynamics family of robots." I guess it wouldn't do to describe a buff, tough robot as "graceful."