Relinquishing the Hoard

I’m taking a hiatus from writing my graduation saga in order to write about another momentous event:  I, Holly Lynn Gruntner, have cleaned out my bookshelf and donated one hundred of my babies to my old K-8 school library.

My bookshelf is a giant, unvarnished, red-brown thing, looming over all of the other furniture in my bedroom at home.  I’ve had it since I was about eleven years old, when my grandparents, knowing my tendency to stash overflowing books in piles around my room, got it for me for Christmas.  The bookshelf was initially supposed to be hidden in the detached garage.  Grandpa had written a clever poem which was meant to lead me to its location.  Unfortunately though, Christmas morning dawned especially cold that year, and my parents thus decided to spare me the traipse outside.  The bookshelf waited beside the Christmas tree instead.

For years, this bookshelf has been large enough to hold all of my books.  Sure, there’s some double layering going on.  Sure, when I ran out of room to arrange spines vertically, I stacked more horizontally on top of the vertical.  But I don’t especially mind having a packed bookshelf: I have a system of arrangement, and I do, contrary to my family’s belief, generally know which titles I own and which I don’t own (and how to find them).  Plus, a packed bookshelf implies literary affiliations.  I feel proud and cozy and like an English major when I gaze upon it.

Today, however, when standing in front of the dear thing, trying to decide what to read next, I tipped back a few titles to peek at the ones behind.  And some of the ones behind, I realized, I hadn’t seen in a while.  And I hadn’t missed them.

I decided it was time to pare the collection down.

I have long thought that if an eleven-year-old girl in possession of familiar bookworm tendencies were to stop me on the street and ask me for a suggestion regarding what she should read next, I would undoubtably pile all of my Gail Carson Levines, my American Girls, my Nancy Drews into her hands.  I would happily pass my books off to someone who I knew would enjoy them as I had.  Why, though, was I sitting like a miser on a mountain, hoarding books I had long outgrown, waiting for the right young prodigy to come along and ask for them?  Surely it would be better to put the books in a library, where they could be paged through and jam-smeared by hundreds.

I quickly had all my books off my shelves and into piles: Classics; Popular But Still Quality; Popular; Teen Fiction I Still Love; Short Stories, Poems, Plays; Reference; Series; Children’s With Sentimental Value (Little House, Betsy-Tacy, Charlotte’s Web); and Donate.

I dusted the empty shelves, and then slowly started refilling them.  I moved my most beloveds to the top, and–vainly–put the classics front and center.  I pulled out the books I plan to attempt this summer and stacked them separately, for easy access.  I bagged up the “Donates,” including A Series of Unfortunate Events.  Perhaps the ban has been lifted since I left middle school?

Mom (a teacher at my old school) placed the bags in her van.  While I’m a little ashamed that it’s taken me so long to pass all of those books on, I’m glad it’s finally happened.  And glad, too, that a little bit of me goes with them:

Holly Graduates from College, Acts I-II

My goodness, I have such a graduation story to tell you!  It has everything: action, drama, ugly robes, copious hugs, celebrities, public speaking, a trip to the ER …

Obviously, then, it’s going to take me a while to write out such a saga.  Bear with me.  It’s a long story.

I’ll be publishing it in parts.  Both for my sanity and yours.

Act I. Prequel

About a month ago, I broke the overhead light fixture in the bathroom in the house I’m renting (with three housemates) from a former UMM professor.  This was bad for three reasons:

1. I’m renting the house.  And the former UMM professor is currently trying to sell the house.  And a bare lightbulb in the bathroom looks kind of sad.

2. I’m renting the house.  And that means I put down a deposit when I moved in to ensure that if I broke or otherwise damaged any part of the house, my landperson could keep the deposit and use it to pay for repairs.  The light I broke may not have been very expensive (not that I know much about lighting beyond my enjoyment of that glowing section of Menards), but it was probably enough to justify my landperson keeping my deposit.

3. The light fixture I broke (not the actual bulb, but the globe that fit over it) was made of glass, which is sharp, hard to see, and generally dangerous.

Knowing this, I swept thoroughly.  I made sure to get the corners, the sink (where the light initially landed and shattered to almost cinematic effect), the tub, even out in the hallway, where I suspected small pieces had flown and were lurking.  Throughout the next week, I swept a few more times, and picked up tiny individual pieces that I had missed.  But by the week after that, I had mostly forgotten about the incident.  There were no more random glitters as I brushed my teeth, no more ominous crunches underfoot.

Act II. Or So I Thought

It was the morning of Commencement.  I had slept fairly well the night before, due to the NyQuil I was still allowed to take because of a lingering cold.  I was mostly concerned with not thinking about my impending speech, and so I showered, washed my face, and brushed my teeth with almost zombie-like coolness.  On the way out of the bathroom, I took the same route as usual: I stepped over the threshold and turned immediately left, then left again around the low-walled stairwell, and then turned right into my bedroom.  Somewhere along that route–I suspect not far from the bathroom–I felt a sudden stinging in the bottom of my left foot.  I thought, as had happened before, that a small piece of gravel, tracked in from outside, was stuck to my foot, pressing its sharpness against it.  When I looked, I didn’t see anything but a small cut, which was bleeding profusely.  Strangely, that part of my foot hurt a lot when I put weight on it, which was what initially led me to suspect that there was something in my foot.  I was running a little late, and so didn’t have time to do much besides apply a band-aid and note with satisfaction that my fancy graduation sandals forced me to walk on the middle/inside of my feet instead of on the outside, where the wound was.

Commencement of Commencement

Want to watch me give the student commencement address/graduate from college?  Likely not (that’s okay), but just in case, the url for the live stream is here:

http://www.morris.umn.edu/events/commencement/

The ceremony is tomorrow (Saturday), and starts at 1:30 p.m. Minnesota time.  I should be giving my speech about 10 minutes in, give or take.

Summer Reading 2013

Another short post because, well, it’s 3 a.m., and frankly I just want to drink my Airborne-infused water and go to sleep.

Summer Reading 2013 (an ongoing list):

1. Truck (Michael Perry.  I can’t stop.  I loved Coop so very much.)

2. A Song of Ice and Fire series (George R.R. Martin.  Admittedly, I only just discovered that the books weren’t called “Game of Thrones” also.  Feel free to not comment on that.)

3. Heaven is Here (Stephanie Nielsen.  I am a Mormon Mommy Blog reader.  I am not ashamed.)

4. On the Road (Kerouac.  It’s time.)

Suggestions?

I Love Ya, Tomorrow

To Do Tomorrow:

1. Finish honors capstone project

2. Finish honors capstone project

3. Be a room monitor for the Undergraduate Research Symposium

4. Finish honors capstone project

5. Have [imagined] argument with Woolf about the contents of my honors capstone project

6. Reevaluate my caffeine intake

7. Finish honors capstone project

Awards

The reason why–in the midst of scrambling for meaning in To the Lighthouse, scrambling to find a job, and scrambling for enough sleep to get me (upright) through the next day–I keep plodding on, is because amazing things seem to keep happening, despite my frazzled mental state.

I am receiving three awards from the University of Minnesota, Morris:

Outstanding English Major

Curtis H. Larson (which means I’ll be my class’s student commencement speaker)

Allen W. Edson (for total contribution to campus life)

I’m humbled and excited and so, so happy that the school I adore seems to love me back.

Dark Side of the Moo

After three weeks of mysterious on-and-off nausea, my lactose intolerance has been officially determined.

Note that when I say official, I mean that I conducted several tests on myself including drinking milk and waiting to feel crummy, and eating string cheese and waiting to feel crummy.  The crumminess arrived promptly in both instances, to the point where I am now revolted at the prospect of dairy.  Except for ice cream.  My goodness, what will I do without ice cream this summer?

It seems funny to find out about this so late in life.  I mean, I can think of childhood instances where dairy made me sick, but not to this extent.  My sister also mentioned that it makes sense that I’m lactose intolerant, as I’ve never been a big milk drinker.  I always thought that was just because I don’t especially enjoy the taste of plain milk, but perhaps this preference has roots in me not feeling well after drinking milk as a kid.

Apparently, however, not experiencing any symptoms for a few decades is fairly common.  The National Digestive Diseases Information Clearinghouse says the following:

Primary lactase deficiency develops over time and begins after about age 2 when the body begins to produce less lactase. Most children who have lactase deficiency do not experience symptoms of lactose intolerance until late adolescence or adulthood.

What’s nice, though, is that dairy products in certain contexts don’t seem to bother me.  For instance, I had pizza a few days ago, and didn’t have a problem with the cheese on top.  I thought maybe it had something to do with the cheese being cooked, but apparently not: pancakes made with mix and milk are a no no, as is oatmeal nuked with milk.  It will be interesting to keep experimenting and to determine what affects me and what doesn’t.

Overall, I think this discovery will involve a minimal lifestyle change.  As you can see above, I bought my lactose free milk at the grocery store today, and am looking forward to trying it out tomorrow.

Mostly, though, I’m glad that I’m not allergic to gluten (like my darling sister, who is much more of a champ about it than I would be).  Giving up baked goods would be much more of a blow.