Graham Crackers

My friend Lisa sent me this email today (this was the whole thing) and I thought it was so great I had to post it for all to enjoy:

I got these No Name graham crackers, thinking they’d be inexpensive replicas of the Mr. Christie brand or whatever the usual brand is. You know, the nice dense crunchy ones that are hard enough that when you dunk them in milk they retain their solidity long enough for you to eat it? How can you go wrong saving $0.75?! So you know how some crackers like Stoned Wheat Thins have perforations to make it easier to break them? Well, these ones are about 2”x5” and the perforation is down the length of them, so I tried cracking one in half and it turns out the “perforation” is fake! It’s just a line they impressed lightly on the surface to fool the consumers and the cracker, being inferior quality, actually shatters and you get cracker crumbs in your keyboard and all over your desk and clothes when you eat it at work! And dunking is out of the question because it instantly disintegrates and falls apart into your milk! So the moral of my story is, don’t waste your time or money on No Name graham crackers. Or Select brand sweetened condensed milk vs Eagle brand, but I won’t go into that story.

Land of the Very Late Night Sun

It is 10:30 as I write this, and the sky is still the deep blue you get just after the sun has set. Although we are not far enough to get the midnight sun, we come pretty close at this time of year. Yesterday morning, when I was awake with my toddler at 3am (don't ask), the sky was a rosy pre-dawn colour. This means that at present we are getting about 5 hrs of night time and 19 hrs of daylight. You can imagine how difficult this makes it to put young children to bed, or to think of going to bed "early" at 10, when it is still light.

My Favorite Recent Kids' Book Anacronism

For those of you who did not have teachers that made you look up and memorize common literary terminoloty in highschool (if you're taking an English degree, boys and girls, learn them. Being able to properly use the term "anacronism" will wow an English prof even more than actually knowing what "nihilism" is. Of course, regularly referring to nihilism will impress your fellow first year students, so I guess it all depends on wether you want university street cred or just good marks.), anacronism means something that is out of context chronologically. For example, Shakespeare has a character who is supposed to be in the dark ages referring to spectacles in one of his works. In this context, I am using it to mean something slightly different -- something that would have been normal in the time the book was written but is out of place when we read the book now. Is there a word for that? If so, someone please tell me and I will eagerly add it to my list of words I now use to impress highschool English students with my scholarlyness (since I obviously can't count on my spelling to do the job).

Anyway, all that to say that we just got a book about trucks from the library yesterday. There is this one page, where a woman is driving a pick up with a plow on the front, and she is driving past the guys who are grating the roads after a snowstorm. In the first picture they are all just driving, pushing snow. In the second picture she is winking, and the guys are grinning. It totally cracked me up. I love picture books from those crazy '60's.

Sunflowers 1

On the May long weekend we planted sunflowers. It was pretty fun. I spent a few days digging up the soil while Andrew followed after me insisting that he needed to "see shed! see shed!" "After mommy digs one more row of dirt we will see the shed".



Then we got out the sunflower seeds and planted them along the edge of the garden. I made holes for the seeds and tried to convince Andrew to put the seeds in the holes. Some ended up in the garden. Some are in the decorative brick that lives mysteriously next to the garden. Some are in the lawn. Some, I am sure, are in the shed. But about 8 are in the garden. Updates will follow when we see some action.

The Shed

My son's latest obsession is our shed. At least twice a day we have to unlock the shed, open up the doors and look at all the tools. We pull out the rakes, the shovels, and the spade and try them all out on the lawn. We identify the clippers, the lobbers, the gas can, the power trimmer and the lawn mower. We once more affirm that the axe is too sharp to be held by 21 month old boys. He pulls out assorted bits of wood and bangs them on things. Then we put everything back, and close the doors. As the doors are just about to be locked, my son stops, turns around and demands "See Shed Again", and we do it all over again. And again.

A related obsession is the one with cutting grass. When my husband mows the lawn, he must be in our sight at all times so my son can watch the power trimmer and lawn mower. If a power trimmer is heard, we must find it. My son is starting to learn that if we can't see it, it is "too far 'way". Any long stick-like object in my house (brooms, poppers, window scrapers) has now become a power trimmer. The other morning, after the lawn had been mowed, we had a lengthy discussion about the process (I have cut out my "yes"es for brevity):

"Dad use power trimmer."
"Dad use power trimmer cut grass."
"Dad put gas in lawn mower."
"Dad use lawn mower cut grass."
"Dad cutting the grass."
"Power trimmer go "voom, voom"".

I hope and pray that Chapman's Lawn Care is not hereditary.

Masterpiece Picturebook Theatre

You know how when you watch some of those old movies on Masterpiece theatre, you realize how times have changed in the last 40 or 50 years? Well, I'm finding that the same is true of kids' picture books. Let me give you a few examples of classic moments I've discovered in classic picture books.

"Madeline and the Bad Hat" -- what would you think this book would be about? Perhaps Madeline's fashion faux pas? Madeline's adventures shopping in Paris? No, sir. The Bad Hat referred to in the title is Pepito, the bratty son of the Spanish Ambassador who moves in next door. I guess a Bad Hat is someone who misbehaves.

"Madeline and the Gypsies" -- aside from the fact that you would never find a modern book with this title, there is the plot. Madeline and the now reformed Pepito (see above) are kidnapped by gypsies. When Miss Clavel finds out and tries to rescue them, they are sewn into the skin of a lion. Which would be very uncomfortable, impractical and well, wouldn't really work. The gypsies, although not particularly villainish are well, gypsies, and so are simply doing what gypsies do -- steal small children and tour around the country using them as circus perfomers.

"Curious George" -- have you looked at this classic from 1947 recently? I'm amazed animal rights activists even allow it to be reprinted. No only is George stolen from the jungle by the Man with the Yellow Hat, he is then left to roam about and jump off of a steamer ship. When he gets back to the city, he and the Man with the Yellow Hat have a meal (including wine) and a smoke. It seriously says something along the lines of "After some supper, and a pipe, and a good night sleep, George felt much better". After this George creates untold mischeif and chaos in the city (of course) and is then placed into a happy place -- a zoo.

"Curious George Takes a Job" -- after escaping from the zoo (he steals the zookeeper's keys while the zookeeer is -- you guessed it -- lighting his pipe), George finds himself a job washing windows. Essentially, because he is a monkey, he has no need of a scaffolding or safety belt -- instead he just hangs off the sill with a squeegee in one hand and a bucket hanging from a belt around his waist. After getting too curious and doing the George version of "While You Were Out" on a lady's house (he paints a jungle in her living room while the painters go our for lunch) he jumps off the fire escape and breaks his leg on the pavement below. Then when the story breaks in the newspaper, the Man with the Yellow Hat finds him. But not before he has an interesting experience with a bottle of ether (George felt dizzy. Then he saw stars and swirls. After this George felt like he was flying. Then everything went dark.). The Man with the Yellow Hat decided that he has not capitalized enough on his stolen imported monkey, so he signs a movie contract on George's behalf and makes a movie about his life. My favorite picture in this part of the book is one where George sits, blissfully happy and unaware, on the lap of the MWTYH while he and the movie producer smoke fat cigars and smile contentedly.

"Curious George and the Animal Rights Activists" -- oh, sorry, this book wasn't really written. But I'm sure we can all imagine what adventures that curious little monkey could get up to with his new friends, the animal rights activists, who rescue him from his new home, the cosmetics testing laboratory, where the Man with theYellow Hat has put him when he imports his latest pet -- Annie the Lemur -- and pays for his expenses by selling George.

These are my favorite examples of very dated, but still delightful, children's literature. My son LOVES these books and asks for them every time we go to the library. And I oblige him, because I like them better than the insipid childrens' books from the 80s with titles like "Jackie Learns About Sharing" or "The Bully". And after all, the first time I read the Old Testament as an adult, I was way more shocked by what I found than these few tidbits I've discovered in these classics. Seriously, read the whole book of Judges some time.

Kraft Dinner

So, I'm just doing some nutritional slumming today and eating kraft dinner for lunch (for those of you in the US, that would be the inferior non-Kraft brand maccaroni and cheese), and it reminded me of a funny story. I think of this every time I make Kraft dinner.

I used to work at this garden centre, and I was the only white employee there (and the only one born in Canada). The family that ran the place was from Taiwan, and the other employees were all from India. I usually made and ate my lunch in the office with the Taiwaneese family.

One day I was in a hurry, and didn't want to bother making a sandwich, so I grabbed a pot, a box of KD, and a little container with some milk and butter. At lunch time, my boss was curious because I was boiling some water on her hotplate. She became even more interested when I took out a box and dumped some noodles into the pot. By the time the noodles were boiled, she and a family friend who hung out at the garden centre when he was in Canada came to watch what I was going to make. I explained to them that this was the Canadian version of instant noodles, and they ooed and aahed as I took out the butter and the milk, and they watched me mix it all together. I told them I had enough that they could try some, and you could see them getting more and more excited.

Then I took out the instant cheese packet and dumped it into the pot. Their faces fell. They were dismayed and a little bit disgusted that I had put powdered cheese on the noodles. I asked them if they wanted any.

My boss shook her head and said, "Ah, Jill, you forget. I'm a good Buddhist. I don't eat cheese." She and her friend walked away, shaking their heads and chatting in Mandarin. So much for intercultural understanding and experimentation.

The Tally

Yesterday, my son managed to waste quite a lot of food. Aside from the food that he requested ("I need 'nanas"), carried around the kitchen and left in unusual places (on the bottom shelf of the fridge just next to the yogurt -- "I need yoegurt"), he also managed to squander food as a result of general toddler curiosity. This peaked during the time I was trying to make supper. He pulled the apple juice out of the fridge and I grabbed it and put it on the counter. Then he knocked his booster seat off of its chair, climbed onto the chair and then onto the table. He emptied about 4 Tbsp of salt onto the table before I caught him mixing it with the juice left in his sippy cup. After I removed him from the table and cleaned up this mess, he pulled a chair up to the counter and, you guessed it, grabbed the juice container and emptied it onto the counter. I took the hand tea towel and mopped up the apple juice. I went to throw the soaking tea towel into the laundry bin in the laundry room (10 steps away from the kitchen). By the time I got back, he had managed to get the eggs out of the top shelf in the door of the fridge, remove two eggs, crack one on the floor and open the top of the other. He was poking the contents of the egg in his hand. He looked up at me happily and said "egg". I removed the egg from his hand, trying to remind myself that he's just being a healthy, curious toddler, and snatched the placemats off the table to mop up the other egg. By the time I had come back he had managed to smear the second egg all over his hands, the floor, and the nearby stack of empty yogurt containers he had tossed out of my cupboards earlier in the day. It was at this point that I decided that I was not making a stir fry after all, but rather baking some chicken, putting some rice and some frozen vegetables in pots to boil, and reading "Richard Scary's Busiest People Ever" for the thousandth time that day. After all, reading about Huckle and Lowly's busy day AGAIN was easier than cleaning up after Andrew's busy day.

Someone Please Explain . . .

I walk by this trailer once or twice a week as I go to the grocery store. And I always wonder: Is this mysteriously cloaked figure death? If so, why is he holding his head in his hand? And how is he looking at it? Or if he is a non-skeletal, etherial death figure, who is he talking to? Is he supposed to be holding the skull in a threatening way? He looks more like he's having an amiable chat. Is this his friend? His cute sidekick, Skully? Maybe he's looking at it in surprise or curiosity. But surely this is not the first skull he's ever seen. After all, he IS death. Perhaps this skull is the missing evolutionary link. Or has gold teeth. Or a particularly interesting eye socket.

In any case, I always have a little chuckle when I pass by this terrifying visage. I think his brother probably drew it for him, or his best friend in highschool. And they had been talking about getting it painted on the side of the trailer for years before they actually had the extra cash to do it. And he's probably really proud of it and thinks its the best thing ever.

Its like those vans with the unicorns and mermaids painted all over them, or the majestic elks staring at the sunset on the back window. You have to wonder: are they for real?

You Thought I Was Joking About the Snow . . .

Here it is. This was two weeks ago. I posted this earlier, but it was consumed by the blogmonster. Its worth posting again, though. And for the record, it was 27 degrees Celsius today. I love Canadian weather.

Steven Burns -- Yes, the Blues Clues guy.

I watch a lot of Blues Clues. In fact, I generally watch one episode a day, after nap time. If we wake up before 6am, I watch two episodes a day. Because I have an theatre background, I often wonder what Steve is thinking. I wonder if he's "on" today because he's flirting with someone in the studio. I wonder if they wrote the episode around such and such a weird thing he can do (tap dance, impersonate Elvis, etc), or if he just added it. I wonder how many of the asides are pre-written and how many he adds as he goes. I wonder how he maintains a personality while interacting with all those non-existent characters in a blue screen bubble. I wonder why he quite the show -- was he bored? were there irreconcilable differences between him and the writer / director? I wonder what happened to him -- did he go on to have a career on broadway? As a character actor? Did he burn out?

So, to satiate my curiosity, I decided to google him. And I found his website: www.steveswebpage.com. Its actually kind of cool and funny. It turns out he's become an indie musician. I guess he can probably live off of the profits of Blues Clues reruns indefinitely, so he can basically do whatever he wants now. And he actually does have the kind of sense of humour and personality that I thought he did. He's the kind of guy I hung out with in highschool. Kind of quirky and off the wall, but in a good way, not a scary way (okay, Benji was scary, but the rest of my friends were just . . . interesting).

The question now is, when I next watch an episode of Blues Clues, will I be more or less fascinated by Steve? I'll have to get back to you on that one.

The People Living Inside My Head

No, this is not the post where I admit that I have multiple personalities. Honest. But despite not having that bizarre and fascinating disorder, I do have a number of people living inside my head. They are the characters that inhabit the worlds inside my imagination. Let me explain.

I have an overactive imagination. Ask anyone who has known me for more than, well, for a while, and they will tell you that this is the case. Some members of my family use this to reinvent reality in truly unique and startling ways. I prefer to use this skill to produce fiction.

Unfortunately, for several reasons I have lost my mometum. I have stopped writing or drawing. I can tell you the reasons for this. One, I have no time. Two, I have no space in my house that is appropriate for my writing needs (in order to write well I must have tea, candles, sheaves of paper coverd in scribbles and sketches and maps, and assorted interesting bits and pieces of debris I have picked up from various people and places that I find interesting. No, really. I do.) and contains a computer (I share my computer space with my husband who can only think effectively if there is nothing on the desk but the computer and the phone). Thirdly, I am discouraged by all my rejection slips. Forthly, I am stuck on a tricky bit of plot in my novel that I have been writing and re-writing since I was 16. Fifthly, I have stopped drawing because someone important to me made a foolish off-hand comment 12 years ago and I took it to heart (as I tend to do).

But the problem is that I haven't lost my imagination, nor have I stopped having new characters pop into my head. So all these people are waiting for me to get my act together and start or continue their dramas. Because I write out of my subconcious and intuition rather than being a plan-it-all-out-before-hand kind of writer, they can't do anything until I figure out who they are / what they are doing / what is going to happen in their story. So they stay there, looking slightly dejected. Let me tell you about them.

There is a middle aged man, sitting in an empty appartment, save for a very impressive leather chair and a phone. He is arguing with him mother.

There is a girl who has just graduated from highschool and travelled from Ontatio to B.C.'s lower mainland. She is about to start a new summer job and discover something surprising in an abandoned goat barn (the suspense of this one kills me. I always want to peek in the barn, but its very dark).

There are the four intrepid heroes stuck in the middle of their quest to recover an ancient relic. They are just about to be attacked and make a daring escape. If I can figure out how they will be discovered. And how they will escape. And how the character that keeps wanting to take over the story who is half way across the island fits into their story.

There are the two pre-teen kids who live in the Luddite colony. They are staring over a newly erected fence at the shiny, white, cube-like house that has been deposited next to their land and throwing leaves at the robotic yard keeper / guard dog.

There is the girl who works in the bazaar in a middle-easternesque part of the world. She is a white woman in a sea of brown, and she is very talented, but has yet to discover that. She just wants to buy a parrot. There is the woman who will teach her to use her gifts, fuming away at the TaleTeller, because he is late. And there is the Tale Teller, trapped in a cave. By who? Where? When? We do not know. But the small creature that is his companion does. Unfortunately, she is trapped in a cage down at the rare animal market on the other side of the bazaar.

The problem is, there is also my toddler, grabbing onto my leg, calling "mommymommymommymommy" whenever I leave his sight. There is my husband, busy with his career, needing a peaceful house. There are my friends to keep in contact with, and a new life to start in this new place. Not to mention all the quilts to be sewn, all the curtains and cushions to be made, and the wood furniture to be painted. These people live and breathe and shift around me. And I need to live in their world, the real world that surrounds me.

But in my head, its getting hard to think a clear thought anymore. The people are all clammering to be written, interrupting my thoughts and life with their assorted dilemmas. I suppose I shall have to write. One day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Soon. Someday. . . . okay, okay, sooner than that, alright?

Garage Sale Season

This weekend was the season opener of garage sale season. The Catholic, Anglican and United churches all had rummage sales (ie: whole church garage sale) and there were about a dozen garage sales happening around town, as well. Now, I'm new to the whole garage sale curcuit, so I don't know if this is normal, but the competition for cheap crap is fierce in this town. There are three open air bulletin boards for people to post their garage sale notices on. On late Friday afternoon and early Saturday morning you can see people lurking around these boards with little notebooks. I am sure they then sit in their car with a map of the city and strategically plan their route. Then as soon as a site opens and the balloons are placed on the street corner it is swamped with cars -- seriously, cars down the street. If the sign says "4 pm", and you want to get anything good, you'd better be there at 3:30. Otherwise its stained baby clothes, musty sweaters, well used footwear of every description and tacky housewares for you.

I did have one woman set aside some Fisher Price Little People stuff for us, which Andrew has been playing with all weekend. And I got a bunch of farm animals and a wooden pounding set for .50 cents. My best score of the weekend: an ochre cannister and bread box set, circa 196?. After I finish scrubbing years of kitchen grease off them, they will be beautiful.

Adventures Bowling in Saskatchewan

I decided to organize an afternoon of bowling for the people in our church. I phoned the bowling alley several weeks in advance to check when they were open, and the owner said they were open from 2 - 4 for non-leauge bowling. When only about 10 people were talking about coming, I didn't worry too much about making reservations. I called once on Saturday, but no one answered, so I just let it be. I figured there would surely be two lanes open.

When I got to the bowling alley at 2 pm on Sunday, everyone from the church was sitting in their cars outside the bowling alley. This was because the bowling alley was LOCKED. After a few moments, one of the women who knew the owner phoned him up to see what was happening. He said that he would be there in about 15 min. or so. I thought I must have got the time confused and was feeling a bit anxious. No one else seemed worried.

At about 2:30 the owner arrived to open up the bowling alley. He told us he was busy putting a roast on the barbeque. He didn't seem to worried. Neither did anyone else. One man said, "oh, you know how it is. It happens". To which I responded (before my internal censor kicked in) "Around here it does".

Quilt Top

Here it is, my finished quilt top. I still have to get the backing and filling and quilt it, but that has to wait until Dave's next paycheque. As you can see, it looks kind of cool. I'm pretty happy with the final product when I see it in a picture, even though its sort of a weird colour combination. I think I'm going to call in "Saskatchewan Gothic".

Don't blink or you'll miss spring

In some parts of Canada, spring slowly, sensuously unfolds over the months of March to May. The West Coast of British Columbia is one of these places. The temperatures gradually increase, the rain slows, the days become a little bit more sunny and bright. The forsythias and crocuses bloom, then the cherry blossoms and the rhodedendrons, and the tulips and so on and so on for months at a time. The leaves langourously stretch themselves open. You can actually watch the leaves uncurl from day to day. It is a long, beautiful process.
Not so Central Saskatchewan. One day there is snow. A week later there is none. A week later people are wearing shorts, cutting their grass and getting bitten by mosquitos. April 4: Notice the snow.
Today, two weeks later, Andrew and I went walking in shorts, because it was 22 degrees C. We saw a ladybug and a butterfly. Tonight I got my first mosquito bite. Summer is here.
















Well, okay, until we get a surprise snowstorm.

Happy Canadian Novels?

I recently finished reading The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields. I read it because i was looking for something interesting and well written that might sweep me up into a different world. Well, it did sweep me up into the life of Daisy Goodwill, orphan, whose tragic first marriage ends on the honeymoon, whose second marriage is to a man 20 years older than her who was sort of her uncle, and who ends her days realizing no one has ever told her that they love her. It was not a good time for me to read such a novel. I have felt achingly depressed and lonely all week, and it is in part because this novel was so well written and so sad.

This left me asking that age old question: Are there any happy Canadian novels out there? Was the first half of this century really THAT depressing? Did everyone, especially women, really live lives that were as terrible, depressing and soul killing as all that? I don't think I have ever read a happy novel written by a Canadian woman. Seriously. The Handmaid's Tale? No, I don't think so. Stone Angel? Apparently Hagar finds some redemption at the end, but happy is not a word I would use for it. Fugitive Pieces? The haulocaust was not a particularly happy subject, so no. Concubine's Children? Nope.

I suppose there are a few happy novels out there. Robinson Davies' satires are pretty funny. And there is this B.C. author . . . Jack Hodgins, whose book The Macken Charm was happy, but also had a suicide in it. And Will Fergeson's Happiness. But all of those books are written by MEN.

I am a Candian woman, and my life is not that bad. I have a sense of humour. Why don't the rest of the women living in Canada share this with me? Why are we all so busy feeling sorry for ourselves? Its like a bad hangover from the early feminist movement or something. That's it. I have decided that it is my patriotic duty to start writing a happy, uplifting novel about a woman in Canada. I'll let you know how its coming as soon as I get out of this funk and think of something happy to write about . . .

My Latest Harebrained Scheme

As I spelled, rather than said "harebrained" scheme, I wondered: Does that refer to it being an idea that a rabbit would think was clever? If not, what exactly DOES it mean?

That, however, was not my scheme. So, this is my new idea: I have now met a number of stay at home type moms who have young kids. It seems to me that a lot of these women are in the same situation as me -- they spend a lot of time by themselves at home with their infant / toddler being bored. But I am really terrible at actually phoning people up and inviting them over. I especially hate the pressure of having to think of a "fun" thing to do with them, or a reason to invite them over.

What if, instead, I just had a drop in morning. I just told everyone that I would love to have them come over and visit on, say Friday morning between 9:30 and noonish. I will have coffee on, and if they hit me on a good week, I might even bake something. Then people can stop by when they have the chance, and I have made a general invite. I think it might be a fun way for me to get to know people, and for other people to get to know each other, too.

But it seems like a kind of odd thing to do, you know? Like I'm trying to start some sort of club or organization, but I'm not actually associated with any club or organization. Will people think I'm crazy? Will it work?

So, I actually expect some responses. Especially from all you local Saskatchewan lurkers (I know you're out there -- I have sitemeter). Make it anonymous. Just tell me if you think its a good idea or not.

Death's Sandbox

Those of you who are familliar with Terry Pratchett will know that in his books the anthropomorphized figurehead "Death" has a house, a yard, and a garden. He also has a grandaughter (by adoption) who has inherited some of his skill set. When regular humans come to his house they see it in a scale that makes sense to them, and they think that everything is "human" sized. But Susan (death's grandaughter) sees that there are actually vast, empty voids around the edges of all the rooms becuase try as he might, Death doesn't really understand human things like dimensions.

Our sandbox is like this. When our parishoners (who own the house I live in) put up the fence, they also decided to build a sandbox. The sandbox is 10' X 10'. It is a vast and measureless void of sand. It is Dune in minature (minus, I hope, the large carnivorous worms). I placed my 19 month old toddler in it today, about a foot from the corner. He sat with his little shovel and pail and dug up all the sand around him. He put it in the bucket. When the bucket was "too full", he stopped, and asked to be removed from the sandbox. In his own little world, he had fully experienced the sandbox. In reality, he hardly left a footprint in the savannah.

Assumptions

On "As it Happens" tonight they interviewed an evolutionary who stated many times that the theory of evolution was science, but the theory of intelligent design was pseudoscience. His rock-solid evidence included the fact that there are chairs in evolution at universities (thus it must be scientific), that there are no supernatural assumptions made in evolution (thus making it scientific) and that a judge in the US has declared the theory of intelligent design to be a pseudo science.

The thing that bothered me the most was not the CBC would never interview a Christian or Moslem who was equally certain of their belief system without accusing them of fundamentalism. The thing that bothered me the most was that the scientist was not showing all his cards. He was saying that intelligent design must be wrong because it incorporates elements of philosophy and faith as well as science into its theory. But that evolution was true, hard science because it only looks at natural phenomenon. But he never actually states that there are two assumptions underlying this assertion. The first is atheism. The second is naturalism. And these are, I hate to tell the man, philosophic stances -- they are belief systems. Thus, his evolutionary theory is based on certain philosophic assumptions, just as intelligent design is based on certain philosophic assumptions.

One of the things that aggravates me about much of modern thinking is that we have put science ahead of philosophy. The reason why Philosophy is the Queen of the Sciences and academic disciplines, is because all other disciplines rely on unspoken, mutually agreed upon philosophic assumptions. If these assumptions are not examined and understood, we take things for "truth" based on the narrow perspective of our own academic discipline or belief system without really knowing why we do so. This creates narrow thinking and aggressive fundamentalism of all kinds. Including the evolutionary kind that will neither listen to nor allow any theory that differs slightly from their own.

The thing I find most bizarre in all of this is that the theory of intelligent design does not claim to be a science, nor is it in particular conflict with evolutionary theory. It is simply a way of allowing what modern scientist have found to be evident to co-exist side by side with what thousands of years of humanity has found to be equally evident -- that something greater than ourselves exists somewhere within and/or outside of the universe, and may have been involved in the process of creating the universe. Perhaps if the evolutionist was less of an atheistic fundamentalist he would have been able to see this critical point.