Clair Baring-Schultze didn't know any more about computers than Hazel did. But he had more staff, and younger, better skilled staff that understood all the intricacies of data bases, search engines, and document storage online.
Their conversations, then, usually revolved more around departmental politics and personnel management more than they did on the ostensible subject of internet issues in archival science. She liked the people side of her work, and she liked talking to Clair, even though their conversations often left her feeling like they were just benefiting from the work of others... which, to be fair, they were, but that's what it means to be in charge, she thought.
"So you're going on after you're done here in Chicago to London?"
"That's the plan right now."
"Do you plan to stop by the British Museum, or Dr Williams' Library?"
"I hope so," Hazel smiled, "but that's not the main point of the trip. I'm going at the request of an old school friend, from college. She's a journalist, and has some questions for me."
"She's interviewing you?"
"No, that's not quite it. She's . . . you know, I'm not sure what she's doing right now. She's been in Pakistan for most of the last few years. We exchange e-mails from time to time. But I guess we both don't have many friends. I mean, not where we, here, that is . . ."
"I understand. There's work relationships, collegial connections, and there's friends. I'd call you a friend, Hazel, even if technically we barely know each other. It's a slippery word."
"It should be simple, shouldn't it."
"I don't know why it would be. Any human relationship is tied up in knots with every other, and how to keep track of which one takes priority over another, which person at any given time in more important than someone else . . . I have no idea how to do that. It's a Gordian Knot that's given to the Alexandrian Solution."
"Pardon me?"
"Oh, one of those classical references I drop into conversations too often. Forgive me."
"Well, I'm a librarian. Anything Alexandrian I should know about, but that missed me."
"I'm going back to the source himself, Alexander the Great, for whom the city and the library were named. It's said that, when presented with the original riddle of the Gordian Knot, Aristotle's prize pupil took out his sword and sliced through the knot."
"Ah."
"So, for some of us, he said speaking purely for himself, we cut the cord of close connection. Keep the ties loose and make as few as possible, that way you can keep track of what and who you are supposed to care about."
Hazel was about to dispute this point when it occurred to her that it was descriptive of her as well as it was of Clair, and she sat silently, looking down into her lap.
"The Alexandrian Solution is elegant and effective, but also it leads to the Alexandrian Dilemma."
Looking up, Hazel asked "which is?"
"A dissatisfaction at the things of this world."
They both sat quietly at this for a few moments, enough to establish that they were, indeed, friends enough to be silent with each other without undue anxiety.
Hazel broke the pause saying "You're right about dissatisfaction. I'm not even sure what I'm dissatisfied about these days, except that I like my work, but don't love it; I have a good life, but I don't . . . love it."
"There's a key word there."
"Yes there is."
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Chapter Sixteen
Lake Michigan curved across the lower horizon, with a flatter arc of distant horizon both darker and brighter with sunset approaching.
Hazel's flight swung out over the lake, and looped back towards land, the city, and the airport. The surface of the lake was less liquid than simply featureless, while the grid of Chicago was slowly lighting up below and to the north and south, rigid lines crossing and recrossing, extending out from the cluster of towers and pinnacles along the shore.
How other passengers could stay wedded to their phones, their tablets, the seat backs in front of them, during a landing, she didn't understand. If it was fear and a desire to avoid looking at the circumstances of one's demise, she could make sense of that, but it wasn't anxiety that seemed to keep most of the others seated near her from looking out of the windows. They just weren't interested. Hazel couldn't get enough of it -- the perspective, the occasional surprises of rooftop pools and hidden green patches, the unfamiliar angles on well-known architecture, all of the thrill of being in the air.
She had spent some time, both before they finally took off, back at the Port Columbus terminal, and during the relatively brief flight, communicating with her staff back at Cyrus College and at St. Fiacre's. For her to be gone for a week wasn't unprecedented, but it was normally something provided for well in advance, and usually tied in with funding and development calls, visits to donors (or prospective ones).
But the amount of vacation she had piled up, unused, was not small, and while St. Fiacre's could operate indefinitely without her presence, the college was a different proposition. It should, but it would work hard at not doing so. But after a dozen lengthy e-mails and a few well chosen cell calls, Hazel had opened up for herself a week's respite.
She also considered a phone call to Nicholas. In part because they had hit it off so well, in part because she didn't want him misinterpreting an extended silence after last weekend, and mostly because she had a nagging concern for his daughter. There was something Susie hadn't told her, and Hazel believed that given time, she would. On the other hand, would it seem forward, somewhat pushy for her to call and announce "oh, I'm leaving town for a few days." She decided it was a call she could make later, if then.
Plus, who knew how long this would take. She might fly to London, have a single conversation with Abigail, and fly back.
Which would still take at least three days after her day and a half here, which meant... well, she might be back by next Sunday's service, which she suddenly realized she had already been assuming she'd attend. With that realization, the announcement to shut off electronic devices and fasten seat belts changed the thoughts of everyone on board to a focus on those last few minutes of descent, and landing, and the scramble for the exits. Hazel shifted her thoughts in those same direction herself, even as she kept glancing out the window to watch the nearing rooftops and streetscapes flash past below.
Hazel's flight swung out over the lake, and looped back towards land, the city, and the airport. The surface of the lake was less liquid than simply featureless, while the grid of Chicago was slowly lighting up below and to the north and south, rigid lines crossing and recrossing, extending out from the cluster of towers and pinnacles along the shore.
How other passengers could stay wedded to their phones, their tablets, the seat backs in front of them, during a landing, she didn't understand. If it was fear and a desire to avoid looking at the circumstances of one's demise, she could make sense of that, but it wasn't anxiety that seemed to keep most of the others seated near her from looking out of the windows. They just weren't interested. Hazel couldn't get enough of it -- the perspective, the occasional surprises of rooftop pools and hidden green patches, the unfamiliar angles on well-known architecture, all of the thrill of being in the air.
She had spent some time, both before they finally took off, back at the Port Columbus terminal, and during the relatively brief flight, communicating with her staff back at Cyrus College and at St. Fiacre's. For her to be gone for a week wasn't unprecedented, but it was normally something provided for well in advance, and usually tied in with funding and development calls, visits to donors (or prospective ones).
But the amount of vacation she had piled up, unused, was not small, and while St. Fiacre's could operate indefinitely without her presence, the college was a different proposition. It should, but it would work hard at not doing so. But after a dozen lengthy e-mails and a few well chosen cell calls, Hazel had opened up for herself a week's respite.
She also considered a phone call to Nicholas. In part because they had hit it off so well, in part because she didn't want him misinterpreting an extended silence after last weekend, and mostly because she had a nagging concern for his daughter. There was something Susie hadn't told her, and Hazel believed that given time, she would. On the other hand, would it seem forward, somewhat pushy for her to call and announce "oh, I'm leaving town for a few days." She decided it was a call she could make later, if then.
Plus, who knew how long this would take. She might fly to London, have a single conversation with Abigail, and fly back.
Which would still take at least three days after her day and a half here, which meant... well, she might be back by next Sunday's service, which she suddenly realized she had already been assuming she'd attend. With that realization, the announcement to shut off electronic devices and fasten seat belts changed the thoughts of everyone on board to a focus on those last few minutes of descent, and landing, and the scramble for the exits. Hazel shifted her thoughts in those same direction herself, even as she kept glancing out the window to watch the nearing rooftops and streetscapes flash past below.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Chapter Fifteen
A new week, and a welcome respite from the close quarters and hot-house debates within Cyrus College, or even the petty politics of the library staff.
Library business was taking her to Chicago, where some colleagues at the Newberry Library had ideas for managing archives in digital form that Hazel wanted to hear about with her own ears, see directly what these interfaces and scanning technologies would look like.
Audrey, her senior archivist, had offered to drive her over to the Columbus airport, but -- on the St. Fiacre's side, at least -- there were funds for travel, including for a car service to come and pick her up and drive her directly to the terminal. The savings in parking fees was not really enough to balance the cost, but the net expense was not out of line with what she knew they could afford, and Hazel liked skipping the whole extra set of steps to get into the terminal and on her way.
Looking up from the files on her lap, she was almost startled to see how quickly the wide square bulk of parking garages and terminals had come to her. Thirty minutes was not long enough to really get into a project.
Hastily folding up her work and shoving it into her holdall with tablet and earphones, she was ready when the limo pulled up to her door. Carryon, holdall over one shoulder, into the building, through the ticketing and security and on to the gate, tumbling to a halt at an open seat.
"Delayed" read the gate sign. For the first time, even though they had to have been driving towards it the whole time on the way here, she noticed the dark clouds and heard rumbling through the overhead wide windows, deep and bass and lengthy.
Hazel was not a nervous flyer, and the prospect of turbulence didn't rattle her, but taking off into a thunderstorm certainly made no sense at all. Resignedly, she sat down, arranged her bags at her feet, and pulled out the tablet, tapping it into connectivity with the airport wifi.
Emails, a few messages through other services, posts or tweets or such. One message pointed her back to her phone, and a text message from the college which she quickly handled with a pair of strongly worded text messages herself.
Setting down the phone atop her carryon, she checked the tablet again to see a new email. The address was unfamiliar, but the salutation was from Abigail, a college friend she'd just been mentioning to Susie. Apparently she was working for a cable news network these days, or so the email address would indicate.
And apparently she had a pretty good arrangement going with them, because the email simply said "Would you like to come to London? The network will pay. I need to talk to someone, and you keep coming to mind. If your little library in the Midwest can spare you a week, I've got a big project in mind." Following were the details for making contact if she were interested, and willing.
To some degree, she thought, she was more interested than willing. She was available just now, too, but not indefinitely. This didn't sound open ended, though, and Abby had always been a pretty clear and direct person. What she was asking here was probably what she actually wanted: someone trustworthy to talk to.
For Hazel, another reason to say yes was the opportunity to be that trustworthy person, after so much time in the last year spent with people who never answered honestly even if you asked them what they wanted.
Library business was taking her to Chicago, where some colleagues at the Newberry Library had ideas for managing archives in digital form that Hazel wanted to hear about with her own ears, see directly what these interfaces and scanning technologies would look like.
Audrey, her senior archivist, had offered to drive her over to the Columbus airport, but -- on the St. Fiacre's side, at least -- there were funds for travel, including for a car service to come and pick her up and drive her directly to the terminal. The savings in parking fees was not really enough to balance the cost, but the net expense was not out of line with what she knew they could afford, and Hazel liked skipping the whole extra set of steps to get into the terminal and on her way.
Looking up from the files on her lap, she was almost startled to see how quickly the wide square bulk of parking garages and terminals had come to her. Thirty minutes was not long enough to really get into a project.
Hastily folding up her work and shoving it into her holdall with tablet and earphones, she was ready when the limo pulled up to her door. Carryon, holdall over one shoulder, into the building, through the ticketing and security and on to the gate, tumbling to a halt at an open seat.
"Delayed" read the gate sign. For the first time, even though they had to have been driving towards it the whole time on the way here, she noticed the dark clouds and heard rumbling through the overhead wide windows, deep and bass and lengthy.
Hazel was not a nervous flyer, and the prospect of turbulence didn't rattle her, but taking off into a thunderstorm certainly made no sense at all. Resignedly, she sat down, arranged her bags at her feet, and pulled out the tablet, tapping it into connectivity with the airport wifi.
Emails, a few messages through other services, posts or tweets or such. One message pointed her back to her phone, and a text message from the college which she quickly handled with a pair of strongly worded text messages herself.
Setting down the phone atop her carryon, she checked the tablet again to see a new email. The address was unfamiliar, but the salutation was from Abigail, a college friend she'd just been mentioning to Susie. Apparently she was working for a cable news network these days, or so the email address would indicate.
And apparently she had a pretty good arrangement going with them, because the email simply said "Would you like to come to London? The network will pay. I need to talk to someone, and you keep coming to mind. If your little library in the Midwest can spare you a week, I've got a big project in mind." Following were the details for making contact if she were interested, and willing.
To some degree, she thought, she was more interested than willing. She was available just now, too, but not indefinitely. This didn't sound open ended, though, and Abby had always been a pretty clear and direct person. What she was asking here was probably what she actually wanted: someone trustworthy to talk to.
For Hazel, another reason to say yes was the opportunity to be that trustworthy person, after so much time in the last year spent with people who never answered honestly even if you asked them what they wanted.
Chapter Fourteen
In the chief librarian's apartment, Hazel looked out across the Welsh Hills to the south under the moonlight.
Her last few predecessors had not used this suite of rooms, designated in Zula Maud Woodhull's original design as the residence for the head of St. Fiacre's. They had been married, one with children, and chose to live in Upper Sharon or nearby Granville. During those years, the chief librarian's apartment had been used by visiting scholars. For Hazel, this perk meant a savings that was already technically part of her pay package, plus the simple lodgings suited her.
From her usual reading chair, the view to the southwest included a stretch of horizon fringed with treetops, and tonight a squashed orb sinking into view, no longer full but bright enough to keep pulling her eyes up and away from the tablet in her lap.
Setting aside the riddles of data security and password protocols, she leaned back and looked quizzically at the moon. Growing up, about Susie's age, she had gotten a small telescope for her birthday. She'd watched "2001: A Space Odyssey" or something pre-Star Wars like that, and asked to have one to scan the craters and mountains of the moon for herself. Neil Armstrong had walked on its surface a few years earlier, and Hazel began to nurture a dream of going there herself.
Those dreams had included plans to study physics and astronomy, but not one but two dreadful experiences in math classes in a row had pushed that passion aside. Science took a back seat to the humanities, and a love for literature and books bloomed in the bare spot where the earlier dream died. College and library science and experience in public and academic libraries and, in what now seemed like a mere flicker of time, she was chief librarian and director here, looking at the moon from a distance.
The fact that she wouldn't have been able to go to the moon anyhow (since humanity had stopped going for some reason altogether) didn't soften the sudden pang of recollected excitement, the hopes so long forgotten of seeing the glare of unfiltered sunlight across a grey and dusty lunar surface. It was a less exciting vision than, say, riding a sandworm across a desert planet in search of legendary spices, but it had a tang of reality that other science fiction couldn't touch.
So what do I dream of now, she asked herself? If this is, as I've said to so many, my last professional position, do I simply focus my hopes for the future on a pleasant retirement? Many of the friends she'd gained through years in library work were now retired, and they did seem to enjoy the life well enough, even those in southern, summerful lands - Florida, Arizona, Mexico. She got emails or saw Facebook posts from them, shopping and doing water aerobics and . . . shopping.
Retirement wasn't something she was afraid of so much as it wasn't what she was looking for. Leisure, relaxation, indolence (Hazel noticed the touch of judgmentalism in that thought and let it pass) were just not what she planned to anticipate.
But was there any subject or location or activity that she now aspired to? What did she want to . . . do? She really didn't know. Right now, she wanted to get herself a small telescope, and just enjoy again that long-lost dream, and the harsh beauty of the moon's landscape in the eyepiece.
Her last few predecessors had not used this suite of rooms, designated in Zula Maud Woodhull's original design as the residence for the head of St. Fiacre's. They had been married, one with children, and chose to live in Upper Sharon or nearby Granville. During those years, the chief librarian's apartment had been used by visiting scholars. For Hazel, this perk meant a savings that was already technically part of her pay package, plus the simple lodgings suited her.
From her usual reading chair, the view to the southwest included a stretch of horizon fringed with treetops, and tonight a squashed orb sinking into view, no longer full but bright enough to keep pulling her eyes up and away from the tablet in her lap.
Setting aside the riddles of data security and password protocols, she leaned back and looked quizzically at the moon. Growing up, about Susie's age, she had gotten a small telescope for her birthday. She'd watched "2001: A Space Odyssey" or something pre-Star Wars like that, and asked to have one to scan the craters and mountains of the moon for herself. Neil Armstrong had walked on its surface a few years earlier, and Hazel began to nurture a dream of going there herself.
Those dreams had included plans to study physics and astronomy, but not one but two dreadful experiences in math classes in a row had pushed that passion aside. Science took a back seat to the humanities, and a love for literature and books bloomed in the bare spot where the earlier dream died. College and library science and experience in public and academic libraries and, in what now seemed like a mere flicker of time, she was chief librarian and director here, looking at the moon from a distance.
The fact that she wouldn't have been able to go to the moon anyhow (since humanity had stopped going for some reason altogether) didn't soften the sudden pang of recollected excitement, the hopes so long forgotten of seeing the glare of unfiltered sunlight across a grey and dusty lunar surface. It was a less exciting vision than, say, riding a sandworm across a desert planet in search of legendary spices, but it had a tang of reality that other science fiction couldn't touch.
So what do I dream of now, she asked herself? If this is, as I've said to so many, my last professional position, do I simply focus my hopes for the future on a pleasant retirement? Many of the friends she'd gained through years in library work were now retired, and they did seem to enjoy the life well enough, even those in southern, summerful lands - Florida, Arizona, Mexico. She got emails or saw Facebook posts from them, shopping and doing water aerobics and . . . shopping.
Retirement wasn't something she was afraid of so much as it wasn't what she was looking for. Leisure, relaxation, indolence (Hazel noticed the touch of judgmentalism in that thought and let it pass) were just not what she planned to anticipate.
But was there any subject or location or activity that she now aspired to? What did she want to . . . do? She really didn't know. Right now, she wanted to get herself a small telescope, and just enjoy again that long-lost dream, and the harsh beauty of the moon's landscape in the eyepiece.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Chapter Thirteen
Hazel and Susie walked down the stairs from St. Fiacre's to the campus of Cyrus College in single file.
Over her shoulder, Susie in the front said "I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."
"I hope we talk again. Maybe just over good things, like your college plans, or just about life."
On the one landing between the blufftop and the terrace level where the college buildings stood, Susie turned and smiled at Hazel. "I don't really like plants much; is it okay if I don't want to go to Cyrus College?"
"Honey," Hazel said, smiling even more broadly, "I don't even know that I would have wanted to go to Cyrus College."
They walked more companionably on down the last flights of wooden stairs to the broad level creekbank openness where the college lodges stood, in two rows facing each other across The Range that ended, to the west, at the mounded foundation of the four story Old Main.
Susie said, in an apologetic tone: "It all looks kind of seedy and decrepit."
Hazel replied: "I'm just loving that you know the word decrepit."
The two women walked across the graveled path of The Range, and then to the footbridge across Auter Creek. Before they stepped onto the bridge deck, Susie said to Hazel: "I hope it makes sense, I mean, to you, that this stuff isn't really anything I want to make a big deal of."
"If we can keep talking about it all, I'm okay with that. But if you get more of this sort of treatment online, is it okay if I get some other adults involved?"
She thought for a moment, and then said to her on the bridge "Sure. I can work with that."
Hazel added, as they began to finish the trip across the water: "Let's just hope that it all winds down with the school getting involved and going after those kids. Once they know it's not something they can get away with, that should make them stop and think."
"I hope so, too," said Susie. She looked up at Hazel with a crooked smile. "Except, they think they did get away with it. Which they kinda did."
Then she turned and walked on across onto the opposite shore, as Hazel stood frowning.
Over her shoulder, Susie in the front said "I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."
"I hope we talk again. Maybe just over good things, like your college plans, or just about life."
On the one landing between the blufftop and the terrace level where the college buildings stood, Susie turned and smiled at Hazel. "I don't really like plants much; is it okay if I don't want to go to Cyrus College?"
"Honey," Hazel said, smiling even more broadly, "I don't even know that I would have wanted to go to Cyrus College."
They walked more companionably on down the last flights of wooden stairs to the broad level creekbank openness where the college lodges stood, in two rows facing each other across The Range that ended, to the west, at the mounded foundation of the four story Old Main.
Susie said, in an apologetic tone: "It all looks kind of seedy and decrepit."
Hazel replied: "I'm just loving that you know the word decrepit."
The two women walked across the graveled path of The Range, and then to the footbridge across Auter Creek. Before they stepped onto the bridge deck, Susie said to Hazel: "I hope it makes sense, I mean, to you, that this stuff isn't really anything I want to make a big deal of."
"If we can keep talking about it all, I'm okay with that. But if you get more of this sort of treatment online, is it okay if I get some other adults involved?"
She thought for a moment, and then said to her on the bridge "Sure. I can work with that."
Hazel added, as they began to finish the trip across the water: "Let's just hope that it all winds down with the school getting involved and going after those kids. Once they know it's not something they can get away with, that should make them stop and think."
"I hope so, too," said Susie. She looked up at Hazel with a crooked smile. "Except, they think they did get away with it. Which they kinda did."
Then she turned and walked on across onto the opposite shore, as Hazel stood frowning.
Chapter Twelve
"You really don't have to talk to me."
"No, I don't mind, really."
"This is probably awkward for both of us."
"No, I'm fine."
"It's just not the sort of thing you can talk about and solve."
"I'm sure you're right about that."
"It's nice of you, but my dad is kind of all worked up, because he assumes I'm upset because I'm not upset. You know?"
Susie was sitting very upright and stiffly. She and Hazel were in the two chairs off to one side of the desk that were where most of the business of this office took place. Across the desk, only formal interactions occurred. To one side, in the two chairs, almost knee to knee, Hazel had received donors, expelled students, and talked to weeping staff members. Right now, she was talking to a new friend's youngest daughter about internet bullying, and it felt harder than trying to get a major gift out of a disaffected alumnus.
"Susie, I had a friend in college. Her name is Abigail. She would take on challenges and do things that people would think were kind of crazy, and what really upset her was that they'd be mad at her for not reacting the way they thought she should. She said that if guys were calm and under control, they got complimented, but if she stayed cool when everything was coming apart, people treated her like she was the weird one."
For the first time in their conversation, Susie smiled, and relaxed a bit more like a teenager into the wide upholstered armchair.
"That's what I mean, exactly. I want to be like Abigail, and no one wants me to be anything other than a teenager. Or what they think a teenager is. 'Ohhhh' and 'Ohhhhh' and all kinds of stupid 'I don't know what to dooooo' kind of whining. This is something I can handle."
Hazel leant forward in her chair. "What is the something, if I can ask?"
Susie sat, silently, then squinched further sideways, looking up into the coffered ceiling of the chief librarian's office. "It's not the guys, it's the other girls. Some of them just like making fun of girls who don't run with them. I know that. I know that. And I'm not going to. But they want to make sure I know I don't belong, and so they make me think I'm one of them. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think I do."
"They can call me a slut, or tell their skanky boyfriends to call me a slut on their web pages and stuff, and they think that will make me, like, go 'waaaaa, stop it' and honestly? I don't care. What they think, what anyone thinks that's not my friend? Which is like five people? So what. So what. That's what I think."
"I understand exactly what you mean."
"No, I don't mind, really."
"This is probably awkward for both of us."
"No, I'm fine."
"It's just not the sort of thing you can talk about and solve."
"I'm sure you're right about that."
"It's nice of you, but my dad is kind of all worked up, because he assumes I'm upset because I'm not upset. You know?"
Susie was sitting very upright and stiffly. She and Hazel were in the two chairs off to one side of the desk that were where most of the business of this office took place. Across the desk, only formal interactions occurred. To one side, in the two chairs, almost knee to knee, Hazel had received donors, expelled students, and talked to weeping staff members. Right now, she was talking to a new friend's youngest daughter about internet bullying, and it felt harder than trying to get a major gift out of a disaffected alumnus.
"Susie, I had a friend in college. Her name is Abigail. She would take on challenges and do things that people would think were kind of crazy, and what really upset her was that they'd be mad at her for not reacting the way they thought she should. She said that if guys were calm and under control, they got complimented, but if she stayed cool when everything was coming apart, people treated her like she was the weird one."
For the first time in their conversation, Susie smiled, and relaxed a bit more like a teenager into the wide upholstered armchair.
"That's what I mean, exactly. I want to be like Abigail, and no one wants me to be anything other than a teenager. Or what they think a teenager is. 'Ohhhh' and 'Ohhhhh' and all kinds of stupid 'I don't know what to dooooo' kind of whining. This is something I can handle."
Hazel leant forward in her chair. "What is the something, if I can ask?"
Susie sat, silently, then squinched further sideways, looking up into the coffered ceiling of the chief librarian's office. "It's not the guys, it's the other girls. Some of them just like making fun of girls who don't run with them. I know that. I know that. And I'm not going to. But they want to make sure I know I don't belong, and so they make me think I'm one of them. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think I do."
"They can call me a slut, or tell their skanky boyfriends to call me a slut on their web pages and stuff, and they think that will make me, like, go 'waaaaa, stop it' and honestly? I don't care. What they think, what anyone thinks that's not my friend? Which is like five people? So what. So what. That's what I think."
"I understand exactly what you mean."
Chapter Eleven
Susie was due to come by Hazel's office at 5:00 pm. Nicholas would drop his daughter off, then drive back around the long way to the west across the upper bridge and back through the village to the Lunchbox. Hazel and Susie would walk down from St. Fiacre's through the Cyrus College campus, across the Range, and on the footbridge across Auter Creek where they'd meet Nicholas and the two older girls for dinner . . . if the Lunchbox was open for dinner. If not, they'd come up with a Plan B.
The stacks of structural reports on the Old Main's 1859 timbers, the accreditation review portfolio, all the board memo compilations and complications went back into their folders and into or atop the file drawers across the office. They weren't resolved Friday night, and they could begin Monday morning unresolved as well. This young woman's situation intrigued Hazel, even though she was fairly certain she knew less about social media and the challenges of being a teenager than the girl's father assumed.
Smart phones and online tools were part of her daily life as an academic and administrator, but she didn't use them much for conversation and friendly communication. Truth be told, she didn't think of herself as having all that many friends, period. That was perhaps a natural outgrowth of being in an executive position, where those with whom you have the most in common are always those who have the most they need to get from you, and to whom you most need to be able to say no.
Students, even in such a small and theoretically close knit place as this, didn't try to become friends, and it was easy enough to not even have many conversations with them. That's what was so unusual for her about the encounter at the old Indian Mill on Saturday with the mediation circle, and the morning spent down at the Salvage Yard. She had conversations, where things were shared and said about lives and choices and decisions, and it was uncomfortable to realize how entirely unusual it all was. The last twenty-four hours probably included more direct communication with students than she'd had in her two years here to date.
She'd had friends in college, and none of them had kept in touch. Various career and scholarly tracks all led off in directions divergent enough that there was no point of intersection. Off to one coast or another, working abroad or returning to hometowns for marriage and family.
The worship service, if that was the right phrase for it, didn't quite make sense to Hazel. It wasn't what she was used to, insofar as she still had patterns of remembered religion to which she was used; it didn't really give her a feeling of religious insight or personal ecstasy or cosmic communion . . . but for more than just a few moments there in that warehouse, she felt like it was a family to which she belonged.
The stacks of structural reports on the Old Main's 1859 timbers, the accreditation review portfolio, all the board memo compilations and complications went back into their folders and into or atop the file drawers across the office. They weren't resolved Friday night, and they could begin Monday morning unresolved as well. This young woman's situation intrigued Hazel, even though she was fairly certain she knew less about social media and the challenges of being a teenager than the girl's father assumed.
Smart phones and online tools were part of her daily life as an academic and administrator, but she didn't use them much for conversation and friendly communication. Truth be told, she didn't think of herself as having all that many friends, period. That was perhaps a natural outgrowth of being in an executive position, where those with whom you have the most in common are always those who have the most they need to get from you, and to whom you most need to be able to say no.
Students, even in such a small and theoretically close knit place as this, didn't try to become friends, and it was easy enough to not even have many conversations with them. That's what was so unusual for her about the encounter at the old Indian Mill on Saturday with the mediation circle, and the morning spent down at the Salvage Yard. She had conversations, where things were shared and said about lives and choices and decisions, and it was uncomfortable to realize how entirely unusual it all was. The last twenty-four hours probably included more direct communication with students than she'd had in her two years here to date.
She'd had friends in college, and none of them had kept in touch. Various career and scholarly tracks all led off in directions divergent enough that there was no point of intersection. Off to one coast or another, working abroad or returning to hometowns for marriage and family.
The worship service, if that was the right phrase for it, didn't quite make sense to Hazel. It wasn't what she was used to, insofar as she still had patterns of remembered religion to which she was used; it didn't really give her a feeling of religious insight or personal ecstasy or cosmic communion . . . but for more than just a few moments there in that warehouse, she felt like it was a family to which she belonged.
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