Category Archives: Father’s Day

Where’s the Guy?



All moves are treacherous and require Divine Assistance

March 2010

I moved recently. I don’t know anyone who likes to move, especially during the winter. It’s just a thing you do that isn’t fun, like a root canal. You throw all your stuff in boxes with varying degrees of care, depending on how fragile it is and how much time you have.*  Then you schlep all the boxes and furniture and family members to the new place. You put the stuff away, maybe you find a half-eaten peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich in a box marked LINEN CLOSET, and for a couple of months you can’t find the salad forks. That’s about it… at least, that’s how it used to be.

* TIP: For the best bargains on the planet, stalk someone who has to move in a hurry. During one rushed long-distance move, I arrived at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix with two suitcases, both significantly over the weight limit. I had three minutes to dispose of twenty-five pounds of clothing. Crouched by the luggage scale, I handed out shoes, sweaters, and outerwear like party favors, including two pairs of Levi’s faded to perfection and an alpaca coat from Neiman Marcus. Two middle-aged women emptied out their own suitcases, stuffed half of the contents into a nearby trash can, and snatched up my jeans, shirts, and boots before they hit the floor.

My recent move felt different from the get-go. The minute I started packing, this vague uneasiness came over me, like when you’re at work and you’re going to have company for dinner, you’ve already bought the food and made the salad, everything’s under control, but it feels as if you’ve forgotten something and you can’t imagine what—and then you get home and discover that your cats ate the five pounds of salmon fillets you set out on the clothes hamper. That kind of uneasiness.

Moving is always stressful. I expected some stress, but I figured I’d relax a little when I could see progress—you know, an empty room except for a nice, neat pile of boxes. Instead, the more I packed the more anxious I got. And when I reached a certain point in the packing—the point where furniture had to be dismantled and cast-iron cookware had to be boxed up—I looked around and didn’t see anyone, and I said, “Where’s the guy?” I said it out loud: “Where’s the guy?”

That’s a big, ugly lie. I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t even think it. If I had understood the problem—There’s no guy—early on, I would have rented one for three months. But I didn’t, because there were two factors I had overlooked:

Factor 1: I’m not a guy. I’m independent and healthy and reasonably fit, but if that were the same as being a guy, we wouldn’t need hinges on toilet seats.

Factor 2: I’m older than I was the last time I moved. Most of my friends, male and female, no longer have all their own components. They’re part human, part Erector Set. They probably injured the components that had to be replaced the last time they moved.

Factor 2 became obvious when I started scouting around for help. No one was ever home. They were all at their postsurgery doctor visits or physical-therapy appointments, except for the snowbirds—early retirees still luxuriating in their winter homes in Scottsdale.

Regarding Factor 1, I’ve known for quite some time that I wasn’t a guy, I just didn’t see it as a problem. “Well, it’s just moving,” I told myself. “I’ve moved dozens of times. I can do this myself.”

There’s always been a guy around when I moved: my dad, husband, domestic partner, “special friend,” or, strapping full-grown son.  This time, there was no such person available. My full-grown son, who lived next door, was not, at the moment, strapping. He was of no use at all, in fact, having suffered a compound fracture about two weeks earlier. I’m not sure how he managed it, but the timing, from his point of view, was perfect.

As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve always taken the male contribution to the moving process for granted. Frankly, I thought of guys as a necessary evil when (and only when) it came to moving, and I wasn’t all that sure about the “necessary” part.

I don’t like to clump people into categories and then generalize about them. Men are as different from each other as they are from crabgrass or great blue herons. They come in all sizes, shapes, and colors; they run the gamut of intelligence, sensitivity, athleticism, hirsuteness, fashion sense, dental hygiene, and likability. There are men whose company I invariably enjoy, others I can tolerate for a couple of hours, and a few I’d cheerfully poison after five minutes in the same zip code.

But if you disguised a man as a woman and sent him into a household-moving situation, he’d give himself away in about twelve seconds. That’s because, in my experience, all men—regardless of race, sexual orientation, or nationality; no matter how kind, soft-spoken, and mild-mannered they are in everyday life—undergo an instantaneous and terrifying transformation when they are moving, helping you move, or just dropping by for a beer and watching other people help you move. They

  • curse loudly, nastily, and often
  • curse loudly, nastily, and often, at you
  • insist, no matter what you’re doing, that you should be doing something else
  • insist, no matter how you’re doing something, that you’re doing it wrong
  • send you to Home Depot to buy the three-quarter-inch grommets you should have known they’d need and should have bought three weeks ago
  • send you back to Home Depot because they shouldn’t have had to tell you that only navy-blue grommets will work for your grommet-requiring object, whatever that might be
  • always, inevitably, without fail, put the largest, heaviest piece of furniture directly in front of the only electrical outlet in the room

Honesty compels me to add that farting—publicly, deafeningly, and often—becomes de rigueur when a man puts on his moving hat. Oh, yes; baseball caps are also de rigueur.

I used to advise every woman not to even consider marrying or cohabiting with a man until she has a chance to observe his decorum during a move. She might actually have to vacate her house or apartment, buy or lease another one, and put him in charge of the move, just as a test—a lot of trouble, you say, but very likely worth it. Moving magnifies little flaws that otherwise might go undetected practically forever, like the Pithovirus sibericum pathogen that lay dormant in the Siberian permafrost for thirty thousand years before some French scientists started poking around in the tundra. Once they warmed it up and examined it under a microscope, they discovered that it was as lethal as ever if not more so, and they couldn’t just shove it back under the permafrost and forget they ever found it.

My current thinking, however, is that you should treasure your spouse for all his good qualities and then, when it’s time to move, have someone stand in for you. Your proxy doesn’t need to look like you. Just make sure that all the men involved in your move see you wearing a red jacket in the morning, then give your stand-in the red jacket and go treat yourself to a day at the spa. Your boyfriend or spouse and his cronies—-half-blinded by sweat, testosterone, and beer—won’t miss you as long as they can find a red jacket to curse at and boss around.

It doesn’t matter if you’re five-foot-two and you’re three-fourths Comanche, your stand-in could be John Madden in short shorts and you’d still get away with it, as long as he wore the red jacket. Just be sure to get back home, relieve your stand-in, and retrieve your jacket before your guy’s buddies take off. Without witnesses, he might decide to apologize—unless he’s still annoyed about the grommets or he doesn’t remember the abuse he dished out. (John Madden won’t forget it, though.)

So men aren’t at their best on moving day. So what? I have never been more sure of anything—not even that I have two eyes and two feet and a supernumerary nipple on my left breast (but we’ll let that be our little secret, okay?)—than that I needed a man to help me move. Why was that, exactly?

Well, most men are taller, stronger, and more coordinated than I am. For that matter, the same could be said of most women. But in a moving situation, a tall, strong, physically fit woman can’t take the place of a guy. There are three reasons for this:

First, women are too busy. When it’s time to move, a guy won’t show up late and out of breath, glance at his smart phone, and say, “I can only stay till 1:17. I have a meeting downtown at 1:25, and I can’t be even a minute late because I’m giving birth at 2:30 and Aaron has a swim meet tonight in Guadalajara.”

Second, and equally important, a guy who isn’t Tim Gunn or your daughter won’t critique your wardrobe before packing it. He won’t pick up your favorite linen jumpsuit, holding it as if it might be infested with flesh-eating microbes, wrinkle his nose, and say, “You’re taking this? It’s so dated. It makes you look old.” And there’s this pleading look in her eyes that says, “Mom, please don’t ever wear this, not even in the Himalayas; you might run into someone I know.”

Third, guys’ brains are wired to understand the logistics of moving. They can come in, look around for a few minutes, and tell you how many cubic feet of truck space you’ll need. When your eyes glaze over, a guy will—after heaving a sequence of sighs that go on as long as it takes to let you know how put-upon he’s feeling—condescend to translate the cubic footage into the truck sizes advertised online (15-foot, 21-foot, 90-liter, etc.).

Presented with the truck’s dimensions in linear feet, I’m perfectly capable of figuring out, without a calculator, how many cubic feet it will hold, but if I made a small mathematical error, like putting the decimal point in the wrong place, and I came up with a figure such as

342.286 million cubic feet

…I’d do a little victory dance and call to reserve the truck; whereas guys just know, using the same arcane mathematical skill that enables them to keep track of batting averages and RBI’s and lifetime All Star Game appearances for baseball legends such as Stan Musial and Willie Mays, that 342 million cubic feet would hold Wembley Arena and the Staples Center.

You’ll definitely need a guy if you’re driving a moving truck halfway across the country. Guys not only understand that the truck has to be balanced, they can tell when it’s not balanced, and they know what you should put in that space above the cab and over the wheel wells, and they know how to tie everything down so that, once you’re under way, your ski poles won’t slip loose and go shooting out the back of the truck and impale the driver of the car behind you. I don’t own any ski poles and I only moved six blocks. Just saying.

When it comes to packing and unpacking—except for your wardrobe, as previously alluded to—I’m not sure there’s a gender advantage either way. My ex-fiancé, whom I’ll call “Riley” because that’s what I called him for the eight years we were together and it’s become a habit, was the consummate packer. Whether we were going away for a weekend or moving out of the Palace of a Thousand and One Nights, he packed everything with the same deft care and innate competence you see in a mother when she’s swaddling her day-old infant. He folds clothes in tidy stacks that look like they just came from one of your swankier department stores. My clothes look like they were folded by a person wearing a baseball glove on each hand.

Alas. For this move, I had no Riley, no Dad, no son, no “special friend.” I had no on-call guy, just several kindhearted friends and in-laws in various stages of spinal disk degeneration. With one day left and nothing packed except underwear and spoons, it became necessary to do the unthinkable—pay strangers to help me move. Guys you know will move your stuff for beer, even if you own three grand pianos and an eight-foot anaconda. Strangers want cash.


I found four college students (two of each gender) who would accept five hundred dollars to take my furniture and packed boxes and throw what wasn’t packed into piles in their pickup truck, drive to the new place and unload everything without regard for logical placement—pressure cooker in bathroom, bottle of bleach on velvet love seat next to bag of onions—and return for the next jumble of piles and lampshades and boxes filled with stuff you’d never move if you’d taken the time to sort, like four-foot stacks of margarine tubs and dried-up shoe polish. They must have made forty-five trips inasmuch as unpacked stuff takes up a lot more room than tidy boxes. I can’t say that even today, more than four months after I was supposed to have all my stuff cleaned out of the basement apartment (and the adjacent boiler room), I actually have all my stuff cleaned out of the basement apartment (and the adjacent boiler room). At some randomly selected point I just decided to be done moving. Nor do I have the possessions that are here, in my new apartment, neatly arranged in their proper places. There are not enough proper places for all my possessions. For all I know, the college students shattered my mother’s priceless Limoges tea set and helped themselves to selected items from my hopelessly unstylish wardrobe.

But it’s summer now, and I’m on the second floor (instead of in the basement apartment adjacent to the boiler room), and I have large mullioned windows in abundance (instead of four small windows mostly obscured by a sloppy trim-painting job), and I even have transoms and lots of old oak. I will never move again, not even if the landlord doubles my rent and forces me to house a pair of pit bulls and a leaky container of plutonium… unless, of course, someone fitting my Guy profile happens along and he wants to marry me and move me into his exquisitely restored Victorian farmhouse. Okay, I’ll say. But I’ll still get the stand-in and make myself scarce until the last half-jar of pickle relish is safely tucked away in the refrigerator.

A final bit of advice if you’re considering a move: Don’t do it, I don’t care if you’ve had two sets of triplets since you moved in to your current place. But if you absolutely have to move, even if it’s just a lamp and it’s going only as far as the next room—start praying immediately. All moves are treacherous and require Divine Assistance in addition to at least one guy and the red decoy jacket. Before you buy one, if you’re in the vicinity, you might scan the baggage check-in area at Sky Harbor Airport.



There was a madness about Mardi Gras… — the music, the masks, the mayhem all crashing together into a desperate sort of celebration … that was both gleefully innocent and rawly sexual. He doubted [that] the majority of the tourists who flocked… [to New Orleans] for the event understood or cared about the purpose of it.  —Nora Roberts, Midnight Bayou

Mangueira Samba School Parade (photo by Felipe Ferreira)

Carnival in Rio: Mangueira Samba School Parade (photo by Felipe Ferreira)

Mardi Gras (French for Fat Tuesday) is the day before Ash Wednesday. Mardi Gras is the final day of Carnival, the three-day period preceding the beginning of Lent, the Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday immediately before Ash Wednesday (some traditions … [consider] Carnival … [to be the] time between Epiphany…  [Twelfth Night] and Ash Wednesday). The entire three-day period [before Ash Wednesday] has come to be known in many areas as Mardi Gras.—Wikipedia

How to Write Poetry and Live Poetically

Free E-Course Lesson 23

Chapter 9: Rituals and Celebrations
Part 2: Rituals and Traditions and Festivals and Customs and Celebrations and Ceremonies and Habits… Oh, My!

Every weekday morning, when I was in high school, I woke, at precisely a quarter to six, to the crisp click of my dad’s Zippo lighter, signaling the first cigarette of the day, the beginning of his morning ritual, through which he moved, brisk but unhurried, with a precision that made timepieces unnecessary.

teenage_girl_bruthsing_teethDad would smoke his cigarette, don his terry-cloth robe, fetch the newspaper from the front porch and take it into the downstairs half-bath… from which he would emerge, 11.37 minutes later, to climb the stairs and take his shower in the upstairs bathroom. The shower water shutting off was my cue to get up, brush my teeth, wash my face, put on my clothes (this often involved a couple of trips to the clothes drier in the basement and sometimes a hasty ironing job), find my books and my homework, experience a moment of anxiety about the homework left undone, and skip breakfast if I wanted to be ready when Dad left for his downtown office, so that I wouldn’t have to take the city bus to school and could maybe finish my homework in Dad’s car.

Living poetically: an orderly life

Dad’s morning routine illustrates one of the great benefits of ritual and an essential ingredient in living poetically: maintaining order. If one is going to live poetically, then one must be efficient whenever possible, thus allowing oneself the liberty of being artistically inefficient at predictable times.

This is a lesson I was slow to learn, which is why, when I was working full time at an 8-to-5 job, my daughter, Marian, usually ate her cereal in the car on the way to day care.

travel_driving_on_country_road_istockFor purposes of this lesson, I’m going to fudge the boundaries of words such as ritual, custom, festival, celebration, ceremony, and tradition. Sometimes the words can be used interchangeably, sometimes not.

It is the custom (and the law), for example, in the U.S. to drive on the right side of the road and to GO when the stoplight turns green. Some over-the-road truck drivers customarily flick their headlights to let passing cars know that it’s safe to return to the right lane. Back when most highways were only two lanes wide, it was customary to tap on the horn as a signal to the car in front of you that you were about to pass it.

These are practical customs, adopted to make driving safe and efficient. You could, I suppose, consider them traditions, but they are hardly rituals or ceremonies or celebrations. The custom of driving on the right side of the road quickly becomes a habit — something you do automatically, without thinking. Imagine the chaos if every morning, when you got into your car to go to work, you (and the rest of the drivers in your community) had to make up your mind as to which side of the street you wanted to drive on and what to do if you encountered a green stoplight.


On the other hand, it is customary and traditional for children to wear costumes and go trick-or-treating on Halloween. Few children, however, are aware that Halloween

…has roots in the Christian holy day of All Saints and the… ancient Celtic festival known as Samhain — a celebration of the end of the harvest season in Gaelic culture, …sometimes regarded as the “Celtic New Year.” Traditionally, the festival was a time used by the ancient Celtic pagans to take stock of supplies and slaughter livestock for winter stores. The ancient Gaels believed that on October 31, now known as Halloween, the boundary between the living and the deceased dissolved, and the dead became dangerous for the living by causing… sickness or [damaging]… crops. The festivals would frequently involve bonfires, into which the bones of slaughtered livestock were thrown. Costumes and masks were also worn at the festivals in an attempt to copy the evil spirits, [to hide from them], or to placate them. Wikipedia

pumpkin_fieldAs was often the case when a civilization became “Christianized,” missionaries finessed Christian holidays into traditional pagan celebrations. The name Halloween is a shortened form of All Hallows’ Eve (or All Hallows’ Even), because it falls on the eve of All Hallows’ Day, now called All Saints’ Day, which in Christian theology commemorates those who have died and, presumably, gone to Heaven.

As Halloween symbols, skeletons and jack-o’-lanterns have ancient meaning as well, but, for most kids, Halloween is just an excuse to dress up, get together with friends, and eat a lot of candy. Without being aware of it, they are participating in an ancient and multilayered ritual.

Mardi Gras in Mobile, Alabama, 2006

Mardi Gras in Mobile, Alabama, 2006

Mardi Gras

Worldwide, the carnivals that precede the forty-day sacrificial season of Lent traditionally comprise several days of extravagance and self-indulgence — in sharp contrast to the ensuing (partial) fast, which is meant to

…[prepare] the believer—through prayer, penitence, almsgiving and self-denial—for the annual commemoration during Holy Week of the Death and Resurrection of Jesus, which recalls the events linked to the Passion of Christ and culminates in Easter, the celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. —Wikipedia


The official wedding portrait of Princess Grace and Prince Ranier III of Monaco

The official wedding portrait of Princess Grace and Prince Ranier III of Monaco

Associated with weddings are rituals, celebrations, ceremonies, and customs, all rolled into one series of traditions — from bachelor parties and bridal showers to Catholic masses and chivarees. During the wedding, the bride is supposed to wear “something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue” (often a garter), though nobody remembers why. 

According to Wikipedia, “exchanging rings may be the oldest and most universal symbol of marriage, but the origins are unclear. The ring’s circular shape represents perfection and never-ending love.”

Why rituals matter

Rituals and ceremonies often mark transitions — seasonal, cultural, and individual. Weddings, baptisms (if you believe that baptism is necessary for salvation), wakes and funerals, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, quinceañeras, even “divorce parties” are ways of delineating a change in status… of indicating unequivocally that before the ceremony things were one way and after the ceremony they are another way.

An 1883 print depicting an Irish wake

An 1883 print depicting an Irish wake

I had always thought that wakes and “viewings” of the deceased were unnecessary and even macabre, until my mother died without warning in 1974. At the age of 62, she had a massive stroke at home; Dad rode to the hospital with her in the ambulance, while my sister, Pipi, and I followed in my car.  The three of us sat in a waiting room, watching television as Richard Nixon announced that he would resign the presidency the next day, August 9. Periodically, some medical person would appear with an increasingly gloomy “update” on Mom’s condition. We were finally allowed to see her, though she was practically unidentifiable behind flanks of machines and forests of tubes.

Late in the evening, the machines and tubes were removed, Mom was declared dead, and we were asked if we wanted to see her again. Our unanimous reaction was, “Ugh,” whereupon her body was donated to the Nebraska Anatomical Board, a sort of clearinghouse for cadavers that would be used for medical research. We held a memorial service, but of course there was no viewing, no cemetery burial, not even an urn for her ashes.

Tulips (Floriade canberra); photo by John O'Neill

Tulips (Floriade canberra); photo by John O'Neill

Well, it was a mistake, at least on my part. Somewhere in my psyche there was persistent denial: I had not seen her dead, therefore it was possible that she was not dead. I had this recurring dream that she had gone to Japan and would be back any day. During my waking hours, I experienced depression, panic attacks, even hallucinations.

I spent a lot of time with Dad in the home he and Mom had shared, helping with laundry and sewing buttons on his shirts. I watched Mom’s tulips and perennial herbs cleave the thawing earth in the spring. I don’t think I actually “went on with my life,” as they say, until Marian and I moved to the Washington, DC, area almost a year and a half later.

When Dad died, eleven years after we lost Mom, I was not about to make the same mistake. He had been ill for some time, and his death was not unexpected, but I arrived at the hospital (in response to a nurse’s phone call) minutes after he died. When I entered his room, held his cold hand, kissed his ashen face, I felt an enormous sense of relief. “He’s not here,” I thought. “This isn’t Dad. He’s gone away.”

Rituals and celebrations connect us with each other, nudging families and communities together. Researchers have found that “social” people, who regularly spend time with their families and friends, are happier and live longer than people who are comparatively isolated, even by choice.

A Campbell family picnic in Des Moines, c. 1946

A Campbell family picnic in Des Moines, c. 1946

When I was growing up, none of our relatives lived in Omaha, and, as the youngest of my generation on my dad’s side, I found our rare family get-togethers tedious in the extreme. As an adult, though, I discovered to my surprise that my older cousins were funny and interesting, even though it was usually a funeral that brought us together. We have had two non-funeral-related family reunions in the last twenty years, and both have been delightful, with copious sincere expressions of regret that we don’t see each other more often. If one of the other Campbells were to plan a reunion and send me an invitation, I would eagerly attend. But, however fine a time we have at our reunions, we return to our comfort zones and follow the path of least resistance, and to date no additional reunions have been planned, which is a pity.

child_with_posy_for_momTruthfully, now… would you give your mother flowers or take her out for a champagne brunch if there were no such thing as Mother’s Day or if we, as a culture, didn’t traditionally celebrate birthdays?

Rituals connect us with our history and our ancestors. I have heard of Jews, descendants of those who fled one of the numerous European Inquisitions, growing up in Mexico and the American Southwest, practicing customs such as ritual handwashing and candle-lighting without knowing that such traditions were relics of their ancestors’ “Jewishness.” These are people who had no idea that they were descended from Jews… but their rituals outlasted their theology. (See Hidden Heritage: The Legacy of the Crypto-Jews, by Janet Liebman Jacobs)

Rituals, traditions, and customs lend structure to our days, weeks, months, and years. As mentioned above, a lot of things just aren’t worth the effort that would be needed to continually make decisions about them.

Take the Christmas tree. The custom of cutting down an evergreen tree, taking it home, hauling it into the house, setting its trunk in a bucket of water, and decorating it with garish balls and beads, probably originated in pre-Christian times as a reminder that living things can thrive even in the dead of winter. The modern tradition, in which the trees became associated with Christmas, seems to have originated in northern Europe some five hundred years ago.

Christmas-tree ornament (photo by Kris De Curtis)

Christmas-tree ornament (photo by Kris De Curtis)

If you decorate your house for Christmas, you probably have a Christmas tree. It might be a fir tree of some sort, or something that has been assembled in a factory to resemble a fir tree. You probably have your own family ritual that determines how and when the tree should be decorated. You might have been horrified, after you got married, to learn that your spouse’s family has one of those aluminum-foil-type trees and hangs only pink satin ornaments on it. Perhaps there were arguments about when the gifts should be opened: on Christmas eve or Christmas morning.

You could flout tradition and bring in a small sycamore tree, or maybe a palm. You could hang your ornaments and stockings on a coat rack, or you could pound a bunch of nails into the wall and drape tinsel across them. It would be odd but certainly not illegal. But why bother, when stores and parking lots are crammed with pines and spruces, and when you have a collection of beautiful Christmas-tree ornaments, some of which are family heirlooms?

Rituals of all kinds are exceedingly tenacious. When I was growing up, we opened the presents under the tree — those that came from distant aunts and uncles, and those that we gave to each other — on Christmas eve. My sister, Pipi, as the eldest of the three of us kids, got to hand out the gifts, and we opened them one at a time, in an orderly way. We wouldn’t have dreamed of opening a gift while someone else was opening hers.

victorian_family_christmasThe presents from Santa Claus — filled stockings and wrapped boxes beneath them — were, naturally, opened on Christmas morning in a sort of frenzied free-for-all — except that everyone had to be there. My brother, John, and I would roust Pipi and Mom and Dad out of bed so that Christmas Day could begin.

John and I insisted on maintaining this ritual even when we were in high school and Pipi was in college. To this very day, I’m uncomfortable opening a gift — any gift — while someone else in the room is opening one… unless its Christmas morning, which is, as mentioned, exempt from the one-gift-at-a-time rule.

Rituals revisited

Kids in Halloween costumes (photo by Charles Nguyen)

Kids in Halloween costumes (photo by Charles Nguyen)

Some traditions have become totally severed from their origins. We no longer dress up at Halloween in order to protect ourselves from evil spirits, nor does Halloween have any religious significance except, perhaps, to Satanists. But we continue to observe Halloween for valid social and cultural reasons.

The tradition of hazing originated as a test of manhood — a rite-of-passage ceremony associated with an organization or a society. While it might have been a useful way, at one time, to “separate the men from the boys” in preparation for battles or hunting expeditions, hazing has, among some groups, degenerated into a sadistic display of boorishness.

Assignment 23.1

Prepare a three-column table. In the first column, list the most important customs and traditions you observe. In the second column, summarize the origins of those customs and traditions. In the third column, indicate the relevance they have for you today.

Please e-mail your assignment to I will not grade your work, but I will comment on it and return it to you.

Next: Advent — What Are You Waiting For?

Aztec Mask of Xiuhtecuhtli, c. 1500 (photo by David Monniaux)

Aztec Mask of Xiuhtecuhtli, c. 1500 (photo by David Monniaux)