You may have noticed that the ads are missing from my blogs. Initially, I thought my computer was blocking them. Then I checked my blog’s email account and read the following message from AdSense:
After reviewing our records, we've determined that your AdSense account poses a risk of generating invalid activity. Because we have a responsibility
to protect our AdWords advertisers from inflated costs due to invalid activity,
we've found it necessary to disable your AdSense account. Your outstanding
balance and Google's share of the revenue will both be fully refunded back to
the affected advertisers.
I don’t know how any “invalid activity” happened (see Tech Team blog, 12/30/09). I know that I’m not supposed to click on any of the ads, and I haven’t. I was excited to see who was advertising on my blog. There was a biggie from the quilting world, Nancy Ziemann; and on the oyster harvesting blog, Nocona boots showed up. It just figures, I thought I was getting close to earning $50—the minimum needed for them to issue a check.
In the meantime, I’ve filed an appeal. We’ll see what happens. If the ads come back, please continue to click on the ones you’re interested in. Maybe one of my new readers is an online shopaholic, or has an antsy index finger, and clicked too much. Who knows?
If I lose the appeal, then my blog will just look cleaner. Oh well! Thanks for reading me with or without ads!
Since March, I’ve been working at one of my jobs, and stepping out of my comfort zone at the same time. It started four years ago, when I took a seasonal job scoring standardized tests taken by school students across the United States. Each state has its own set of tests for different grade levels and subjects, with their own rubrics. I’ve scored writing projects from 4th through 10th grade.
The scoring takes place in a secret location (not really, but it’s a very secure site with strict confidentiality rules). I sit among hundreds of scorers who’ve passed a series of tests qualifying them to score. Our faces are illuminated by the light of computer monitors, as we read thousands of papers, thousands of stories told by America’s students. It doesn’t really matter what the prompt is, if a student has something on his mind, he’ll work it into his essay. They spill their thoughts and emotions onto the page. Some write begrudgingly, others cathartically. They talk about everyday life in school: special friendships, favorite teachers, and bullies getting what they deserve. They write about family life: sibling rivalry, parents instilling values, and parents getting divorced. They tell tales about first love, dramatic breakups, and winning touchdowns, homeruns and soccer goals. Puppies, kittens, aliens, monsters, video game heroes, princesses, and pop musicians show up regularly.
Scorers squint to decipher handwriting, and silently sound out strange spellings of words. Trained eyes scan for punctuation, grammar, and other rubric requirements. The only sounds are the occasional creak of an office chair, and the quiet clicking of mouses as we scroll up and down, enlarge and reduce, and enter scores. Every once in awhile there’s the snort of a stifled laugh when a funny paper shows up on a screen. And I confess that at least once, I shed a few tears over a particularly heartbreaking story. That was when I found it comforting to be surrounded by other scorers.
This year, for the first time, I signed onto a distributed project, which means I scored from home. I loved the commute, or lack of it, and the flexibility of setting my own hours.
However, after reading a series of sad stories, I missed the camaraderie of fellow scorers. I also missed the supervisors and scoring directors encouraging the group, giving us progress reports, and spurring us on with some good old team competition. I’ve heard about others scoring in their pajamas at home, but I just couldn’t get into a serious frame of mind in my pjs. The other major drawbacks of scoring from my dining room were all the distractions—phones ringing, dogs barking, cats walking across my keyboard, dirty dishes, floors that needed vacuuming, Zumba tempting me to go and workout, etc.
I’m also not sure how well I would’ve done if it had been the first time I’d ever scored. I had the advantage of prior experience. There were many times that I relied on the internalized advice of past supervisors and co-workers who had helped me at the “secret” site. Despite all that, I’m glad I scored a distributed project and would definitely do it again.
The other way I stretched a little this scoring season was by accepting a supervisor’s position at the onsite scoring center after the distributed project ended. It’s been a long time since I professionally supervised anyone, so I hesitated. That cost me the first day of supervisor training. So, in what has become my typical way of doing things, I got to play catch-up.
I made a few mistakes. The worst one resulted in me having to dig through the shredding bins in search of some important paperwork that I unwittingly threw out. I had no qualms about asking other supervisors when I was confused, and they usually had answers to my questions. After a few days, I was able to reciprocate.
The quiet work environment on-site is deceptive. Actually, these projects are fairly intense. There are thousands of papers to be scored, accurately, and in a short window of time. As a supervisor, it was like a year of work compressed into three weeks. I started off supervising 12 scorers ranging from retired school teachers to college graduates with diplomas that the ink was barely dry on. Two days later, I had to let two people go because they didn’t qualify to score papers. One quit after landing a permanent job.
The wireless computers in my area went down, so my team scattered, filling in empty spaces throughout the vast room. Then I gathered them up again to move back. One very early morning, 6 a.m., I re-booted all of my team’s computers before they arrived.
I helped scorers navigate on their computers, gave them feedback about their performance, clarified things if they were confused, got them back on track if needed, and encouraged them when they were doubtful. I took attendance, explained and collected timesheets, and told my team when there was overtime. As the number of papers to be scored dwindled, I wrote up my remaining eight scorers’ evaluations.
Today, the computer monitors went dark as we logged off for the last time. We had scored well over 300,000 papers, twice. It felt like the last day of school before summer vacation, but without yearbooks to sign. Nobody knows who will be back on the next project. We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. Some really will keep in touch, others will fade away. But whatever happens in our lives, next spring the monitors will glow again with stories of adventure and love, heroes and villains, written in complete sentences or fragments, and scorers will read them, and score them as best they can.
Laura Keolanui Stark hopes that she has not made any grammatical errors in this blog. She can (or is it “may?”) be reached at starklooseends.blogspot.com.
I was supposed to work today at one of my seasonal jobs, but the materials we were scheduled to work on, didn’t come in. My husband was invited to a work-related function, and asked me if I’d like to tag-along. It was being held on one of the inlets of the Puget Sound. I’d get to see one of the projects he’s been working on to help restore the Puget Sound, plus there’d be a free lunch, so I was happy to join him.
Choosing what to wear was baffling. I wavered between work attire and something more casual that would keep me warm, since we’d be outside. I settled on khakis, a corduroy shirt, a pair of low-cut cowboy boots, and my northwest staple, polar fleece jacket. When we left Puyallup, it was a little overcast.
By the time we got to Lacey, our windshield wipers were getting a workout. Did we bring raincoats? No. Fortunately, I keep two fold-up, water-proof windbreakers in my trunk , just in case. I dug them out and we pulled them over our polar fleece. Then we headed to the welcome table and slapped our nametags on. Our hosts offered us rubber boots. I gladly swapped my cowboy boots for them along with a pair of leather gardening gloves.
Down at the water on the mudflats, they showed us how to harvest oysters. While John and I worked on a few long rows, the showers eased up. The oysters were enclosed in heavy net bags strung on ropes that were anchored down in the mud. We stood facing each other. I picked up each bag, and flipped it over to John’s side of the rope. He lifted it, and shook it to loosen up the oysters.
We also checked for drills, tiny conch shells about one inch long. An invasive species, these mollusks wearing ornate shells, drill lethal holes in the oysters' shells. The drills don’t have any natural enemies here, and apparently aren’t good eating either. If we saw any drills, or their egg masses, we picked them off, and then moved onto the next bag. The hardest part was trying to get my feet to follow my body as we moved down the line. The mud loved those bulky, black rubber boots so much, it was determined to suck them off my feet.
Up on the grassy area, we joined those who were cleaning oysters. Standing at tables with built-in grates, we scraped mussels and barnacles off the oysters, and then dunked them in water to wash the mud off. Nobody else knew what they were, but John and I found a few opihi stuck on the oysters. They are cone-shaped limpets that are considered a delicacy in Hawaii. The clouds had parted and the sun smiled on us as we worked, continuing to play its springtime game of peek-a-boo.
Throughout the day, I kept thinking of a book I’d read a few years ago: The Highest Tide, by Jim Lynch. The story takes place on the shores of Puget Sound near Olympia with its unique marine life playing a key part in the main character’s life. Soaking in the landscape around me, I appreciated Lynch‘s accurate, well written descriptions in the novel. It's easy to tell he grew up by these waters.
As we scraped and cleaned, we could smell oysters and salmon grilling behind us. Of course there were oysters on the half shell for appetizers. John couldn’t convince me to slurp them, but he made up for my reluctance. Lunch was served at just the right moment: geoduck soup, clam chowder, salad, grilled oysters, salmon sliders, and crab cakes. What is it about being on or near the water that always makes me hungrier than usual?
The rain started up again while we ate under the cover of a tent. Speakers talked about the importance of restoring and protecting the Puget Sound. At one point the podium had to be moved further into the shelter of the tent because the wind and rain were whipping up so strongly.
As things wrapped up, I looked out over the water. The tide had come in covering the oyster bags that John and I had worked on. Whether it’s stirred up by a spring rain squall or glistening serenely in the sun, the Puget Sound has always been a vital part of Western Washington and it's definitely worth saving.
Laura Keolanui Stark is putting her hood up, and then pulling it down, over and over again through Western Washington’s typical spring weather. She can be reached at stark.laura.k.@gmail.com.
When Johnny and Sarah were little, every six weeks or so I’d pull a kitchen chair out onto the deck, wrap a towel around their necks and clamp it on with a clothespin. Then I’d cut their hair, telling them to hold still. Afterwards, I’d shake the towel out and leave the cuttings on the deck explaining that the birds would use their hair to build nests with. They always smiled at that thought.
We’re living in a different house now, and our two chicks have grown up, and are testing their wings, returning to the nest only for a few weekends and summer vacation.
Last week as I washed dishes, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a bird zoom into the hanging basket of dead fuchsias that I failed to take down last fall. I got excited thinking maybe it was a hummingbird because we have a feeder right next to the hanging basket.
I sneaked up to the window as quietly as I could. It wasn’t a hummingbird. It was another kind of bird, and all I could see were her tail feathers poking up from the center of the basket. Throughout the day, her tail feathers remained there, so I figured she was sitting on eggs, and only leaving occasionally to grab a bite to eat.
All week I checked on her. Her tail feathers were constantly there. Sometimes they’d quiver in the breeze, but she was a devoted mother. On Friday, John and I drove over to Pullman for Mom’s Weekend to spend some time with our brood. Every once in awhile, in the midst of our family time over there, I wondered if the eggs had hatched.
I didn’t get home until almost 10:00 Sunday night, so I couldn’t check on the little nesting mother until Monday morning. As I ate my breakfast, I peered up and ever faithful, she was still sitting on her eggs. I was glad that I hadn’t missed the big moment.
It’s Wednesday now and early this morning I noticed a lot of activity around the hanging basket framed in the window. Mom and Dad were taking turns feeding their babies. Between their comings and goings, I set a chair by the hanging basket, climbed up, and peered into the nest. At first it seemed empty, but when I tipped the basket a little more, two scrawny heads with wide-open mouths popped up, eager to be fed. I snapped a picture, and softly retreated indoors to give the new family a little privacy.
My next mission was to figure out what kind of birds they were. It was impossible to get a picture of either of the parents as they zoomed in and out to feed their babies. I pulled out our bird books and thumbed through the pages, narrowing it down to three or four possibilities. John would know what they were. He’s the animal expert in our family.
When he got home, he was excited to hear that the babies had hatched. We got only fleeting glimpses of mom and dad. He didn’t want to disturb the nest, but I convinced him to get up on the chair to look at the chicks. I’m not sure why the sight of such ugly babies makes us smile, but it does.
We kept searching through the bird books. The dad has a shiny black head and a distinctive yellow beak with pinstripes on his tail. Was it a Black-capped Chickadee? A Vireo? We’re not absolutely positive, but we narrowed it down and we’re pretty sure that the happy couple are Dark-Eyed Oregon Juncos.
They chose an excellent starter home to for their family, dry under the eaves of our house, too high for cats to reach, and camouflaged from predators by dead fuchsias and assorted weeds with plenty of insects available as a food source. Our house was great for raising our children. I’m sure it will serve them well too. After their babies are grown and the nest is empty, I’m going to look closely at that nest to see if there are any strands of brown hair woven into it.
Laura Keolanui Stark is keeping an eye on the chicks’ progress and glad she didn’t clean up the hanging baskets when she was supposed to. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.
Exactly one week after we were soaking up the warmth on a Hawaiian beach, John and I stood 5400 feet above sea level, enjoying the sunshine again, but this time it was reflected by snow. Time had slid by so quickly, that suddenly it was Spring, and we hadn’t broken in the snowshoes we’d gotten for Christmas. We figured we’d better get up to Mt. Rainier before the snow melted and the wildflowers bloomed.
After a morning spent running errands, we rummaged through our winter gear and loaded the car. I cut the tags off the snowboard pants and jacket that I’d gotten on sale and rooted around for gloves and a hat. It would be ridiculous to snowshoe with my purse, so I stuck my driver’s license, cell phone, I-pod, and some cash into a Vera Bradley wristlet, a quilted wallet, and tossed it into the backpack we were taking. We filled up water bottles, and since we were in a hurry, decided against packing a meal, we’d buy lunch along the way. And, we were off like a herd of turtles!
There’s a quaint inn and restaurant fairly close to the gate at Mt. Rainier, in Ashford, that we usually stop at on the way home. But since we’d gotten off to such a late start, John suggested we stop and eat on the way up instead. I agreed. We were both hungry, and would need fuel for snowshoeing. I sent the kids a text message that we were eating at the Copper Creek Inn on our way up the mountain. Sarah answered that she was jealous.
The food was excellent as usual, proven by the fact that when the waitress put a Calzone and French Dip sandwich in front of us, we were both sure that we’d only be able to eat half of what was there. Then we cleaned our plates. Our waitress asked if we wanted some of their famous pie. Our bellies were so full we told her that maybe we’d stop on the way down.
Our Camry climbed up Mt. Rainier non-stop to Paradise. That’s where we suited up and strapped the snowshoes on. It was a glorious, clear, bright, sunny day. Good thing we remembered to bring our sunglasses. We headed up the trail. The new snowshoes were great, much better than the ones we used to rent from G.I. Joes. It didn’t take long for it to become obvious that I didn’t really need the snow pants and jacket, after all, it was about 50 degrees, and I was getting a good work out.
Although we should’ve guessed it, we were surprised at how crowded it was up there. The gorgeous weather had attracted lots of others enjoying what could be a last shot at winter. We snowshoed past a Boy Scout troop busy pelting each other with snowballs. They ceased fire to let us through. On a ridge above us a group practiced sliding down the slope, rolling, and using their pick axes to stop. A German couple asked us to take their picture. We chatted with a friendly group from Louisiana.
We didn’t get as far as we’d gone on previous treks. After about a half a mile, we turned around and trudged back. Other than trying to figure out how to lock the telescoping poles that came with the snowshoes, and a few blisters, it was a perfect day.
Back in the car, coasting down the mountain over wild rivers and through brooding forests, we decided to skip the pie at The Copper Creek Inn. We whizzed on by.
Twenty minutes later, I Iooked for my I-pod in that compact, wristlet wallet. It wasn’t in the backpack or any jacket pockets. I didn’t remember putting it in the trunk, but we pulled over and John called my phone while I listened with my head hovering over the trunk. Silence.
The last time I remembered seeing it was when I texted Sarah. We backtracked to the Copper Creek Inn, hoping that’s where it was, hoping it wasn’t up at Paradise in the snow somewhere. In my mind I tried to remember exactly what I’d jammed in the wristlet when we left home. How much cash had I taken? Was my debit card in there?
When we walked back into the restaurant, the waitresses greeted me with big smiles. “Hey, we found your phone! And we really like your wallet, it’s so cute!” I thanked them, relieved that they’d found it with nothing missing, and glad that we hadn’t gotten all the way home before we realized it was lost.
Then one of the twenty-somethings said, “Yeah, we looked at your contacts and called ‘Home,’ and ‘Mom and Dad.’ You always call the parents because they’ll know how to find you.”
I bit my lip, “You know, my parents are in Hawaii.”
She smiled, “Well, we thought so, because their answer machine said, ‘Aloha!’” Then she asked, “Hey, would you like some pie after all?”
We asked her to box up two slices to take home, but when she told us it was still warm, we parked ourselves on stools at the counter. Freshly baked, warm blackberry pie and cold vanilla ice cream after a day snowshoeing—it doesn’t get much better than that!
When we got home, I called my parents and explained. It’s been a very long time since someone called them about me. They were glad that there was a happy ending, and amazed that in the space of one week we’d gone from the balmy beaches of Hawaii to the snowy mountaintops of Washington.
Laura Keolanui Stark is planning the next field trip. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.
This seems to be my year for short, fun-packed vacations. My tan has not faded from our Spring Break visit to Hawaii and neither have my memories. It was a vacation and a mini-family reunion all wrapped up together like lau lau in a ti leaf.
My brother Bob and his wife Kathleen flew in from Maui. They had us cracking up constantly. My sister and her husband Bruce cooked a delicious meal for all eleven of us, and helped me add to my teapot collection at their favorite antique store. Mom and Dad led the two-van caravan for the around-the-island tour that included stops to be awed by high surf at Sunset Beach and Waimea Bay, to see Dole’s pineapple fields, and check out where LOST was filmed. Before our trip to the Bishop Museum, my Dad reviewed our extensive family genealogy with us, giving us clues to look for at the museum and helping the kids get back in touch with our Hawaiian culture.
We also got back in touch with the warm Pacific Ocean spending many hours boogie boarding at the same beach where my brother learned to body surf, and where my father saw a barracuda latch onto a body surfing classmate’s calf during his boyhood days. John and the kids also surfed at Waikiki while I soaked up the sun and a Chi Chi, too relaxed to bother to walk a few feet to watch the St. Patrick’s Day parade march down Kalakaua Avenue.
We savored the almost endless list of special local treats we crave from Hawaii: malasadas, Chantilly cake, saimin, crispy gau gee on cake noodles, mixed plate lunches, green tea ice cream, and shave ice. My son and his girlfriend managed to catch the bus to a luau at the last minute after being stuck in an excruciating, traffic jam on H-1, part of everyday life in Honolulu. We all got to giggle while holding onto our clothes and hair at the Pali Lookout, and take in the spectacular view of the Windward side between gusts.
We re-lived family memories that covered a century, so many relatives, so many places infused with significant family history. We caught up on what aunties, uncles and cousins are doing now, and learned about some serious family health problems. The absence of some of the things I used to always do when I visited made me a little sad. None of my grandparents are alive, and a favorite auntie and uncle have passed away. No more calling out “Hui!” as we climbed the steps to visit them anymore. I missed them. My grandparents’ beach house in Hauula where my parents honeymooned, and where later my mom, brother, sister and I lived when my father was in Vietnam is gone. The mango and avocado trees at my house had to be cut down. The missing reminded me that time passes, and that the Hawaii I grew up in is gone.
John and I pointed out to the kids our first tiny, cramped apartment in a rough neighborhood where we spent a lot of time circling the nearby blocks in search of a parking space because we were too poor to pay for one at the apartment. The sagging family-owned store, built in the 1930s, that we’d walk to to pick up some bread or eggs was still there, jammed between other apartment buildings. We showed them the bike-lane that John rode his 10-speed bike, and later his mo-ped on, to get to the University of Hawaii. Then we pointed out the high-rise building that we ended up in, on the sixth floor, with a parking space, a block from the Ala Wai canal with a view of Diamond Head. There’s no way they could appreciate what an accomplishment that was for us.
But back to the present. Even though there were lots of funny moments, including my mother substituting a wooden calabash on her head for a hat, I think I accidentally provided the funniest vacation moment. It happened at the Dole Pineapple Center. After our long ride, we got in line to buy soft-serve pineapple ice cream cones, to be exact, four waffle cones. The girl behind the counter, obviously very experienced, deftly handed all four cones into one of John’s hands. Four cones in one hand! It made me really nervous!
While my family and other customers looked on, I anxiously tried to be helpful by taking two of the cones. John, sure that he had all four cones under control, apparently wanted me to take only one. Looking like two lumberjacks on either side of a saw, we pulled back and forth. After a few urgent tugs, I managed to pry two cones away from his unwilling hand.
Oh no! One started to topple! I wasn’t about to let it hit the floor! So, I lunged, and bent backwards like I was doing the limbo. The now empty cone remained in my right hand. The ice cream plopped, cold and sticky, onto my right boob.
So, I did the only thing I could do. I shot an accusing look at John, like it was his fault. He boomeranged that look right back at me. My daughter shook her head, called us immature, and took the intact cone from my left hand. My brother snickered, “Nice catch!” I started laughing as I took the empty cone, and scooped the ice cream off my chest back into the waffle cone where it belonged. There was no argument over which cone was mine. I swabbed my t-shirt and hair off with a napkin, and ate my doubly refreshing pineapple ice cream cone surrounded by laughter. My new family nickname is “Pineapple Boob.”
Six days full of family, fun, food, Hawaiian beaches and sunshine flew by. It wasn’t easy getting on the plane to come back to Washington, leaving so much behind. It never is. But I know that we’ll go back again. And I can still smell the fragrant ginger, plumeria, and tuberose leis scattered throughout my home here.
Laura Keolanui Stark is still thinking of more things she wishes they’d done in Hawaii. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.
When my husband goes out of town on business trips, without fail, weird things happen at home. This time, the dogs spent the early hours of the night barking viciously upstairs while I was trying to get some quilting done downstairs. They take their jobs seriously when John leaves telling them to protect me and guard the house. At midnight I decided to go to bed. The dogs settled down for the night.
At 3:30 in the morning, I felt someone breathing heavily on my face and looking at me. T-Bone, our Labrador/German Shepherd mixed dog was sitting beside the bed staring intently at me through the darkness. His little buddy, Suzy the dachshund was with him, but since she’s short, she wasn’t breathing on me. She just kept shaking her head to get her tags to jingle.
I’d like to say that my dogs are like Lassie, trying to warn me of an earthquake or other impending danger, but the last time T-Bone did this, it was because my cell phone was beeping as the battery went dead.
Before I could switch the light on, I heard a little chirp. That meant it wasn’t my cell phone dying. It was a smoke detector, one of seven in the house, or the carbon monoxide detector. Great! Why don’t these things die in the daytime? Why is it always between two and three in the morning when the batteries start to fizzle out? I stumbled around in the dark, fumbling for lights. T-Bone pranced and smiled proudly following me.
Another chirp, ok, the culprit was downstairs. The dogs followed me down, acting like this was the most exciting thing they’d ever done, maybe a milk bone would be forthcoming. I stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting for another chirp. Chirp!
It wasn’t the carbon monoxide detector. Of course not, that was plugged into an electrical socket and easily accessible. It was the smoke detector up on the ceiling. I pulled a chair up under it, climbed onto the chair and reached up. I couldn’t reach it. I’m sure John would’ve been able to.
I looked around and spotted a bar stool. I clambered up on top of it, noting that it probably wasn’t the safest plan. I’d left the cushion on the 9” circle where you normally sit. I was sleepy, and now I was wrestling with the smoke detector over my head. I warned myself not to be startled when it chirped again in my hands. As I twisted and turned, losing circulation in my arms up over my head, struggling to get the cover off, it dawned on me that if I fell, my husband wouldn’t be home to find me until dinnertime. It occurred to me that the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” commercial didn’t seem so stupid now.
I was getting impatient. Lefty loosie! Why wouldn’t this stubborn thing come off??? And then it did. But not the way the manufacturer intended. The whole thing came off; plastic anchors, ceiling plaster and all. Then it chirped again, cheerful to be free. I got off the precarious stool, not gracefully, but successfully. I pried the dead batteries out and left the whole mess, guts and all, on my sewing table.
The dogs were satisfied that they’d saved me from the mysterious chirping, almost like when Helen Keller’s dog saved her from a fire in her house. I read an extra chapter in my book trying to get back to sleep. My husband will get to try out the new drill that he got for Christmas. It’s a win-win-win situation.
Laura Keolanui Stark still appreciates smoke detectors, even though . . . She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com
