for lunch. Could I help myself to something in the
fridge? I pulled open the double doors and did a quick assessment.
There weren’t any left-overs, I knew that because I hadn't made anything large
for dinner since last week’s chicken and I’d already used that up. Surely
Mr. Hunter wouldn’t miss an egg or two, but I only found three in the egg bin,
and thought he might need them for his breakfast tomorrow. Some
afternoons I would find dirty dishes in the sink and could tell that he
occasionally made himself eggs for either breakfast or lunch. Finally I
settled on an apple as there were plenty in the produce bin. I sliced a
bit of cheddar off a large block and found some crackers in the pantry.
He couldn't begrudge me any of this, I thought, as I sat my little plate next
to my laptop and got to work.
Working on my paper for the next several hours was
frustrating. While I thought I’d found a cohesive base of data on which
to build my thesis, I was beginning to second-guess my assumptions. The
data just didn’t fit with what I was trying to say, no matter how many times I
rechecked my sources. I finally pulled on my hair in frustration and got
up to do the laundry, hoping a small break would help clear my mind. No
luck. What was supposed to be a fairly easy day of putting on polishing
touches was turning into a nightmare of misinterpreted statistics. What
was I going to do? I was basically back at square one with this project
and it was due in two days. I laid my head down on top of my arms and
willed myself to find a way to fix this.
“Not going well?”
How did he always do that? I didn’t hear the car, the garage
door, or anything. I lifted my head and shook it, not having the
wherewithal to answer him.
He put a pizza box on the counter and stepped closer to me.
He must have easily recognized my state of total panic and dismay because he
took one look at me and raised his hands to my face. Smoothing his thumbs
over my cheekbones, he said, “My dear Miss Lane. You look exhausted.”
I closed my eyes, partly to enjoy the feeling of his fingers on my
face and partly to ensure that no tears slipped out in reaction to his kind
words. What he did next surprised me even more than touching my
face. His hands moved up to my hair and I felt his fingers comb through
where I’d pulled it out of its pony tail. My eyes were still closed when
he leaned down and said quietly, “I know you can do it. You are one of
the most resourceful, persuasive, argumentative and inquisitive people I know.”
I couldn't help but smile as I recognized the words he’d used in
my interview. I opened my eyes to look up at him and his returning
expression was full of confidence. I merely nodded to indicate that I was
okay, and he let go of my hair.
“Are you hungry?” He asked, turning toward the pizza
box. “I thought I’d spare you having to cook dinner tonight as well.”
“I’m starving. And I don’t think I could boil water right
now if my life depended on it. Thank you.”
We ate the island, together. He asked me about my paper and
I tried to explain what was going wrong.
“So basically the data you’re using doesn’t support your thesis.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly the problem.”
“And it’s too late to find new data.”
“There’s no way. It took me all term to collect what I
have.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to change your thesis.”
“Change my thesis? How do I that? These are the ideas
I’ve been working on for months. I can’t just turn around and start
arguing something else.” But even as these words were coming out of my
mouth, I recognized that this is exactly what I would have to do. It was
basic Anthropology 101, the data must support the thesis. “Ugh,” I
moaned, pulling on my hair again in frustration. “You’re right. I have to
change my thesis.”
“Will you be able to do that in two
fridge? I pulled open the double doors and did a quick assessment.
There weren’t any left-overs, I knew that because I hadn't made anything large
for dinner since last week’s chicken and I’d already used that up. Surely
Mr. Hunter wouldn’t miss an egg or two, but I only found three in the egg bin,
and thought he might need them for his breakfast tomorrow. Some
afternoons I would find dirty dishes in the sink and could tell that he
occasionally made himself eggs for either breakfast or lunch. Finally I
settled on an apple as there were plenty in the produce bin. I sliced a
bit of cheddar off a large block and found some crackers in the pantry.
He couldn't begrudge me any of this, I thought, as I sat my little plate next
to my laptop and got to work.
Working on my paper for the next several hours was
frustrating. While I thought I’d found a cohesive base of data on which
to build my thesis, I was beginning to second-guess my assumptions. The
data just didn’t fit with what I was trying to say, no matter how many times I
rechecked my sources. I finally pulled on my hair in frustration and got
up to do the laundry, hoping a small break would help clear my mind. No
luck. What was supposed to be a fairly easy day of putting on polishing
touches was turning into a nightmare of misinterpreted statistics. What
was I going to do? I was basically back at square one with this project
and it was due in two days. I laid my head down on top of my arms and
willed myself to find a way to fix this.
“Not going well?”
How did he always do that? I didn’t hear the car, the garage
door, or anything. I lifted my head and shook it, not having the
wherewithal to answer him.
He put a pizza box on the counter and stepped closer to me.
He must have easily recognized my state of total panic and dismay because he
took one look at me and raised his hands to my face. Smoothing his thumbs
over my cheekbones, he said, “My dear Miss Lane. You look exhausted.”
I closed my eyes, partly to enjoy the feeling of his fingers on my
face and partly to ensure that no tears slipped out in reaction to his kind
words. What he did next surprised me even more than touching my
face. His hands moved up to my hair and I felt his fingers comb through
where I’d pulled it out of its pony tail. My eyes were still closed when
he leaned down and said quietly, “I know you can do it. You are one of
the most resourceful, persuasive, argumentative and inquisitive people I know.”
I couldn't help but smile as I recognized the words he’d used in
my interview. I opened my eyes to look up at him and his returning
expression was full of confidence. I merely nodded to indicate that I was
okay, and he let go of my hair.
“Are you hungry?” He asked, turning toward the pizza
box. “I thought I’d spare you having to cook dinner tonight as well.”
“I’m starving. And I don’t think I could boil water right
now if my life depended on it. Thank you.”
We ate the island, together. He asked me about my paper and
I tried to explain what was going wrong.
“So basically the data you’re using doesn’t support your thesis.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly the problem.”
“And it’s too late to find new data.”
“There’s no way. It took me all term to collect what I
have.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to change your thesis.”
“Change my thesis? How do I that? These are the ideas
I’ve been working on for months. I can’t just turn around and start
arguing something else.” But even as these words were coming out of my
mouth, I recognized that this is exactly what I would have to do. It was
basic Anthropology 101, the data must support the thesis. “Ugh,” I
moaned, pulling on my hair again in frustration. “You’re right. I have to
change my thesis.”
“Will you be able to do that in two
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