My Commonplace Book

For the instructor who likes to doodle drawings on the board, who often draws flow charts, or even those whose handwriting is so terrible that they wish there was an alternative to the classroom whiteboard, Dabbleboard may be the solution.

Dabbleboard is a free online whiteboard that is incredibly easy to use. I created a simple diagram illustrating the difference between sacred and profane space for my mythology class in just a few seconds. I downloaded the file as a .png file which allows me to post it on the web. I can also link directly to the image.

The best features of Dabbleboard are the ease in creating line objects, line connections, and text. Images can also be incorporated into the drawing. Drawings can be saved online, downloaded, or linked. A Share+Chat button provides a dedicated link to the image and a chat window. One awkward feature is that, in order to save a complex object, each individual element must be selected and added to the whole. However, the key here is to double check before saving.

One caveat: The Terms of Service say that Dabbleboard owns any images created and the concepts contained in the image. If that is an issue, another service might be used.

There is also a Pro version which offers further functionality and more storage.

The best way to learn about Dabbleboard is to see it in action by viewing the online tutorial. Online instructors and those teaching in smart classrooms may wish to consider adding Dabbleboard to their arsenal of resources.

Tonight was the first night of this spring’s Meacham Writers’ Workshop, a creative writing workshop held every spring and fall. The Meacham was established from an endowment by late UTC professor Jean Meacham in honor of her husband, Ellis K. Meacham, attorney, judge, and novelist. The Meacham is unique among workshops of its kind, first, in its emphasis on face-to-face contact between writers and participants, and, second, because it is free. The Meacham is currently hosted at Chattanooga State, UTC, and Rock Point Books.

I have been associated with the Meacham Writers’ Workshop since its inception in the mid ‘80s, first as a graduate student in the English department at UTC and later as a faculty member at Chattanooga State. Over the years, the series has grown, especially on the Chattanooga State campus, where attendance has increased nearly 400% over the last ten years.

Over the years, the Meacham has been an inspiration and motivation to me as a writer, and I have tried to pass that on to my students, and have taken on the responsibility of the Meacham Writers’ Workshop’s web site, which is hosted by Chattanooga State (http://www.chattanoogastate.edu/Meacham/). My goal for the web site, which I began around 2000, has been to both promote the Meacham and to create a repository of information on the many writers who have participated. For the future, I am hoping the site can also serve as a resource for those interested in creative writing and for those who teach creative writing and literature.

Since Bill Teem joined the faculty at Chattanooga State, we have expanded the website to include podcasts of the readings. This year marked a new technological adventure as we audio simulcast the readings in our virtual campus in Second Life (through the efforts and resources of the Chattanooga State Augusta R. Kolwyck library and staff). Eventually, we hope to do even more to make the Meacham accessible and useful, both for those who participate and those around the world with an interest in creative writing and literature.

Not only has the Meacham been important to me professionally, but I have made many friends over the years among the writers who have come. I could not begin to name them all. With that joy has come sadness for those we have lost, including Bill Matthews, Lynda Hull, and recently, Ken Smith.

I only met Bill Matthews once, during my years as a student at UTC. He came to our creative writing class, taught by Rick Jackson, and he and Rick proceeded to engage in the literary equivalent of dueling banjoes.

Ken Smith was my teacher, my colleague, and my friend. Both of us bearded, I often jokingly called him Dad, even though he was only a few years older. I can still hear his voice with its soft undertones and easy grace. Somehow, despite how much I love the Meacham, it always feels a little emptier with him gone, especially on Saturday evenings, which was when he and his wife, Maddie, would fix pasta. One of my fondest memories of Ken took place at the old Cameron Hills clubhouse above downtown Chattanooga, when Ken and his friend and teacher Bob Houston worked behind the kitchen counter crooning old cowboy songs. The Cameron Hills apartments are gone, and Ken is gone, but he still lives on in our memories and in our hearts. Kenny, we miss you.

Those of us who have had the privilege of being part of the Meacham Writers’ Workshop over the years, “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers” and sisters, share a rich heritage and tradition. After all the hard work and preparation, each of us, as the conference ends for the season, looks forward to the next. May we always do so.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

As I was browsing the mythology section at McKay’s Used Books, a woman in her mid-thirties in the aisle with me looked up from where she was kneeling by the stacks and asked me, “Are you Jewish?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, what are you, then?” she said.

“Pennsylvanian,” I said.

I’ve lived in the Chattanooga area most of my life, thirty-seven years now, but I still think of home as Pennsylvania. For a long time, I thought I had lost my Dutch accent. Then about ten years ago, a motorist with a flat tire pulled into my driveway in Ooltewah. I talked to him for awhile, and he said, “You’re from Pennsylvania, aren’t you?” The accent was still there. Sometimes, I’ll hear a recording of myself on the phone, and the voice reminds me of my father’s or one of my brothers’.

A few years ago, I was in a laundromat in Cleveland, TN. Another patron was on his cell phone, and the longer he talked, the more I heard home in his voice. After he finished his phone call, I asked him if he was from PA. “No,” he said, “Michigan.”

“I thought I heard a bit of a Pennsylvania Dutch accent,” I said.

“I did live in Glen Rock, PA, for several years,” he said.

I explained that Glen Rock was just a few miles from where I had grown up.

In the South, people define themselves first and foremost as Southern. I suppose if asked to define ourselves regionally where I grew up, we’d say, Mid-Easterner or Mid-Atlantic, but the question would seem odd. Most of my neighbors were Pennsylvania Dutch, with names ending in -er. Stifler, Olewiler, Bortner, Frutinger, Dellinger, Stover, Kaltreider. And those whose names didn’t end in -er mostly sounded German. Rexroth, Leiphart, Ludwig, Dagenhart, Parr. There were a few generic names, Taylor, Miller, and Robinson, but not many.

When the VW bug appeared in the ‘60’s, the older people at church called it a “Wolksvagen,” falling naturally into the German pronunciation. Even as a child, their voices always had an accent to my ear. And when old fashioned Sunday was celebrated at Windsor Church of God, a member of a Winebrennerian denomination split from the old German Brethren, the song service was in German, my mother, a Methodist from just over the border in Maryland, stumbling over some of the words and surprised at the fluency of my father, who seldom attended church, but had learned the songs as a boy as an Evangelical United Brethren. A few years ago, when my mother was visiting, someone asked her what our background was, and she answered, “Mennonite,” which wasn’t strictly accurate but was a clearer answer than many to my friends in the South who were largely unaware of the rich religious tradition inherited from the German states.

While I seldom eat pork and sauerkraut on New Year’s, or feast on Lebanon bologna, or routinely use words like “nebby” or “doppy” or “fressen,” at heart, I’m still Pennsylvania Dutch. When I think of home, I think of the rolling hills of the piedmont along the Susquehanna River, of cornfields, tobacco fields, cow manure, and dairy farms, of apple orchards and well water, the cluck cluck of pheasant in fall and the foggy breath of deer on a cold November morning.

Much of that world has disappeared in the years I have lived in the South. The pheasant are gone along with the tobacco fields and many of the farms. Clusters of condominiums sit where once were open pastures. The old Dutch farmers have been replaced by commuters from Baltimore and others who like the benefits of open country coupled with easy access to the major cities of the Mid-Atlantic.

But there are still those of us who remember. You’ll find us scattered around these United States, not from around here, sounding like home.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

Published in Being Home: An Anthology, Sam Pickering and Bob Kunzinger, editors. Madville Publishing, 2021, pp. 214-216.

Used by permission of the author

On Wednesday, January 20, 1982, Air Florida Flight 90 crashed into the Potomac River after striking a bridge in Washington, D.C (Rosenblatt, pars. 1-2). The following week Time carried an editorial by Roger Rosenblatt describing reaction to the crash. He writes,

But the person most responsible for the emotional impact of the disaster is the one known at first simply as “the man in the water.” (Balding, probably in his 50s, an extravagant mustache.) He was seen clinging with five other survivors to the tail section of the airplane. This man was described by Usher and Windsor [the park police helicopter team] as appearing alert and in control. Every time they lowered a lifeline and flotation ring to him, he passed it on to another of the passengers. “In a mass casualty, you’ll find people like him,” said Windsor. “But I’ve never seen one with that commitment.” When the helicopter came back for him, the man had gone under.   (Rosenblatt, par. 4)

In John 5, Jesus tells us “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (KJV, John 5.13). “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain: that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it you. These things I command you, that ye love one another” (KJV, John 5.16-17).

God wants us to be “the man in the water.” All around us, people are drowning. Some are drowning in sin, some, in doubt. Some are drowning in heartache, some in sickness, some in pain. Some are drowning in debt. Some are drowning in loneliness. So many are drowning, believing they are all alone in the water, trapped in the swells, desperate for help.

God calls on us to hold them up. We hold them up in prayer. We hold them up when we give them a shoulder to cry on. We hold them up when we lend a helping hand. We hold them up when we listen. We hold them up when all we can do is hold them.

And when we are drowning, we have the promise that the God of all comfort comforts us in all our troubles, holding us up, so we may comfort those we will find in the water by that same comfort we receive from Him (II Cor. 1.3-4).

_______________

Rosenblatt, Roger. “The Man in the Water.” Time. 25 Jan. 1982. Time, Inc. 4 Feb. 2009 <http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,925257,00.html>.

 © Bill Stifler, 2009

One of the great mysteries of Christianity is the incarnation of Christ. God, who is holy, sacred, wholly other, awful, beyond words or explanations, “was made flesh, and dwelt among us (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father) full of grace and truth” (KJV, John 1.14).

In Exodus 33, when Moses asked to see God, to see his glory, God told him “Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and live” (KJV, Exodus 33.20), and so God hid Moses in the cleft of the rock, allowing Moses only a passing glance (KJV, Exodus 33.21-23).

But, in the New Testament, God is “made flesh” (KJV, John 1.4). In John 8, when asked about the resurrection of the Old Testament saints, Christ says, “Before Abraham was, I am” (KJV, John 8: 58). In John 10, when the Pharisees ask Christ if he is the Messiah, he tells them “I and my Father are one” (KJV, John 10:30). When Phillip asks Christ to “Show us the Father,” he is told, “Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, Philip? he that hath seen me hath seen the Father” (KJV, John 14.9).

In Philippians 2, Paul tells us, “Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus: Who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: But made himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men: And being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross” (KJV, Philippians 2.5-8).

Paul calls the cross the humiliation of Christ. But that humiliation doesn’t end with the cross. On Easter Sunday morning, it wasn’t a divine Spirit that stepped from the tomb to comfort Mary in Gethsemane. It wasn’t a divine spirit that inspired the disciples on the Emmaus road. It wasn’t a divine spirit that confronted Thomas for his unbelief. Christ, who was sent “in the likeness of sinful flesh” (KJV, Romans 8.3), at the resurrection took on once more a physical body.

In I Corinthians 15, Paul takes the Corinthian church to task for doubting the resurrection. He reminds them that, without the resurrection, our “faith is vain; [and we] are yet in [our] sins (KJV, I Corinthians 15.17), that they “which are fallen asleep in Christ are perished” (KJV, I Corinthians 15.18), and that “we are of all men [and women] most miserable” (KJV, I Corinthians 15.19).

But Christ did rise from the dead. Paul tells us Christ has “become the firstfruits of them that slept” (KJV, I Corinthians 15.20). In Ephesians 4, Paul says, “When [Christ] ascended up on high, he led captivity captive” (KJV, Ephesians 4.8). Church tradition says that this refers to the Old Testament saints, that after his death and before his resurrection, Christ led the Old Testament saints out of limbo into glory.

In her poem “Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell,” Denise Levertov describes this moment, but the focus of her poem isn’t on the rescue of those Old Testament saints. Instead, she turns to the resurrection, the re-incarnation of Christ. But unlike Paul, she offers a more human motivation for Christ’s return to “mortal flesh.”

living, dying, descending to rescue the just
from shadow, were lesser travails
than this: to break
through earth and stone of the faithless world
back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained
stifling shroud: to break from them
back into breath and heartbeat, and walk
the world again, closed into days and weeks again,
wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit
streaming through every cell of flesh
so that if mortal sight could bear
to perceive it, it would be seen
His mortal flesh was lit from within, now,
and aching for home. He must return,
first, in Divine patience, and know
hunger again, and give
to humble friends the joy
of giving Him food–fish and a honeycomb.
                    (Levertov, lines 21-38)

______________

Levertov, Denise. “Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell.” The Best American Poetry 1990. Ed. Jorie Graham. Series Ed. David Lehman. New York: Collier Books, 1990. 121-2.

© Bill Stifler, 2009

I read the stories about Hercules and Theseus in grade school. In high school I read about the Trojan War in English class and learned about classical history in World Civ. and Latin class. I read comic books whenever I went to the barbershop, and my favorites were Superman, Green Lantern, and Thor. By 8th grade I was reading The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. I read many other science fiction and fantasy writers, some of whom incorporated mythology into their stories.

I went to college with the intention of returning to PA and working at a home mission there modeled after Youth for Christ. That organization, Teen Encounter, had had a major impact on my life, and I wanted to give something back. Unfortunately, the organization changed its focus and opened a summer camp in mid-state PA. I still continued to study theology, but I began to have questions that I couldn’t find answers to, and that I often felt I could not ask in the conservative environment where I attended school and church. So I bracketed my questions as unanswerable and tried not to think too much about the spiritual issues that troubled me.

A year ago, the teacher who taught the mythology classes retired.¹ Because of my background in biblical studies and my skills at online learning, I was offered the classes. I thought, then, that I knew a great deal about mythology, but it didn’t take me long to realize I knew very little.

I began reading works by Joseph Campbell and Mircea Eliade. I read Bettlehiem and Raglan and others, and I continue to read these and other writers as well as reading primary sources in the myths themselves.

Mythology appeals to me because of its roots in multidisciplinary levels of understanding. I liked literary criticism in grad school, and many critical approaches to mythology parallel the studies I did in literary criticism. I’m also drawn to archetypal approaches to literature. I had read Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism while in grad school, and his approach appealed to me even though I was becoming more adept at applying a variety of critical approaches to my reading and understanding of literature. I am still at the novice stage in that endeavor, but mythology gives me a new opportunity to hone those skills and also to engage in discussions with students on those topics.

Mythology offers me a forum for discussions that ranges across several fields of study of interest to me: sociology, psychology, science, literature, literary criticism, philosophy, and others. It stimulates me to make more connections between these disciplines and also engage students in the same dialogue. I’ve also found that my study of mythology is leading me to re-evaluate and re-formulate those questions I have about the traditional Christian view I had been taught, and I began to see the possibility of answers and resolutions in the critics I was reading.

In addition, mythology permeates our culture. It can be seen in fantasy and science fiction. It appears in mainstream shows like Joan of Arcadia or movies like Adventures in Babysitting and Mannequin. And mythological thinking and mythological ways of viewing the world continue to have a major impact on how we see ourselves and how we define the world. For instance, much of the rhetoric applied to the current Iraq war is expressed in mythological terms.

As I learn more about mythology, I become increasing interested in learning even more, and it is my hope that my students find mythology relevant to their lives, and that it opens up an expanded awareness of the world in which they “live, and move, and have their being.”

[This article was originally posted on my MySpace blog, Sunday, October 2, 2005.]

¹ Linda Reaves, retired Associate Professor of English and Humanities, and the instructor of the mythology classes before me, passed away early February 2009. She is missed and remembered by all of us. Selected works by Eudora Welty as well as several Newberry Award books are being placed in the Augusta R. Kolwyck Library at Chattanooga State as a memorial for her service to students and the college.

© Bill Stifler, 2005

Tonight I took my first ballroom dancing lesson.¹ I’ve wanted to learn to dance for some time. I remember watching the young actor Patrick Dempsey dance in a movie, and he looked so smooth and graceful–Fred Astaire always seemed all sharp angles when I watched him as a kid. I’ve never been graceful or particularly at home in my body, so I had some nervous reservations about the class. At the same time, I thought the class would be very valuable for me. I have trouble with my balance–an inner ear problem–and I thought the class might help me develop coping skills. I lack coordination, and I hoped the class would help with that. Also, I’ve had a problem with assertiveness in social situations involving the opposite sex, and I reasoned that the dynamics of social dancing might help with that. It looks like I may have been right on all counts.

Our instructor Bill Rader is clever. He had the guys line up on one side of the room and the gals on the other. Most of the people there were married couples, but there were a handful of us who are single. I watched the single women match themselves opposite us. Fortunately, I have a high tolerance for rejection and wasn’t bothered that I seemed to be the “last man standing” as the gals sorted themselves out.

My first partner Barbara is about my age or a bit older and married. Her husband can dance but travels, and she wants to learn to dance for him. Bill had us begin by standing facing each other palm to palm. Then, using a gentle pressure, the guys “pushed” the gals around the room. The goal is to build a sense of rapport and “body connection” between the partners. The interesting things was that as long as Barbara and I just chatted, the rapport worked well. We only had problems when we started thinking about it.

I have a weak left arm, and I was concerned about how that was going to work. Barbara decided to pair up with the young fellow beside us, and I ended up with Teresa as my partner. I’m guessing Teresa is several years younger than me. While Barbara is very meek, Teresa tends to lead, which actually helped me at first because she was quicker at picking up the moves. What I realized, however, as we continued was that I needed to lead, and the most effective way for me to do that was to focus on her, feel the rhythm and my balance, and then just move in the way that Bill showed us.

We began with a simple four step that is less about steps and more about shifting balance from leg to leg. Then we added a scissoring motion with the arms that pulled our partners to us. Next he showed us how to spin our partners. That was a challenge for me because of my weak left arm. Bill showed me a right handshake technique, however, that works for me, and soon I was spinning first Barbara and then Teresa. Next we learned a turn for the guys, which was the easiest thing I did. Before our session was over, we were actually dancing. Then Bill had us swap partners, and I again realized how much of what we were doing was about connecting with our partner.

The key lies in balancing with your partner. The guy has to plan his moves in advance, then execute them smoothly. The gal has to be ready for whatever the guy does, and move with him. She can’t anticipate him because if she does she moves out of their balance. I also found that so long as I focused on my partner instead of on myself, the dancing was easier. I had to move with her, and then as we gained balance, gently shift the balance and move into the new pattern.

And isn’t that what the dance of the sexes is all about. We learn to step outside ourselves and connect with our partner. At any moment, only one can lead while the other follows, and if both are in sync, neither will do something that the other finds uncomfortable. I envy the married couples in the class who will go home this week (or I hope they do) and practice. Barbara had to leave before the last dance, and I tried doing the moves by myself, but without a partner to balance me, I couldn’t get into the rhythm.

So if you are married, or if you have just begun a relationship, you might consider ballroom dancing. In addition to great exercise and good clean fun, you might also find that the dancing adds a deeper dimension to your relationship and helps the two of you discover that balance that is at the heart of any good and healthy relationship.

¹ This article was originally posted on my MySpace blog, Friday, September 30, 2005.

P.S.  This article led to my meeting my wife.  While dating, we took a ballroom dancing class together.

© Bill  Stifler, 2005

I have been considering a blog for some time.  My initial forays into social networking sites with MySpace was, in part, to explore blogging and to push myself to write.  Much of my time has been consumed by my school and classwork to the detriment of my writing.  My hope is that this site will give me the opportunity (and the motivation) to explore and develop my writing skills. 

This blog will serve as my commonplace book, not so much a place to collect fragments I find as a place to create my own commentary on the various topics that interest me.  I hope that my readers find the space valuable to them as well, perhaps as a source or motivation for their own “commonplace book.”