Primary Food

Missing Rachel

2011-09-08T09:39:00.000-04:00

I cleaned my office and organized all the clutter. I may have been inspired by the need to organize around a new flat screen TV at home. That required going through games and DVDs to keep only those that are still played, then returning them to storage neatly stowed beneath the half of the entertainment center we decided to keep. Still, only half the room is actually clean. The rest will come later. My office, on the other hand, is completely tidy. It’s a much smaller space than my house.

Rachel is the epitome of messiness. Her room is a jumble of paper and clothing and art supplies and books and blankets and stuffed animals and make up and knitting stuff. Our conflict over the state of her room is like the war on terror – it will never end because there will always be another attack of stuff. Her grandmother has attempted to bribe her with money and electronics. We told her that she couldn’t go to Paraguay unless she kept her room clean. That lasted until the non-refundable plane tickets were purchased.

What I miss more than anything is stepping into this minefield and picking my way to her bedside and to wake her up. Rachel sleeps wrapped in fuzzy blankets and she always has a sweet, warm sleep smell that reminds me of when she was a toddler and would come to my bed in the wee morning hours to snuggle until we’d need to get up. I miss my baby. I miss my teenager. Tomorrow is her 16th birthday.

From a Train Window

2011-06-07T11:12:00.002-04:00

Riding along through the mountains of Pennsylvania at sunset, I notice that the scenery passes with a certain amount of intimacy that I never really thought of before. There is so much that you can see from a train window that you can’t from a car window and certainly not an airplane. It’s like seeing lost nooks and crannies of creation that are only really seen when they are “looked” at.

Part of my trip was spent watching a movie on my computer or reading, but as the sun began to take on a golden hue and the trees began to dapple the hillsides and rocks beside the tracks, I suddenly found myself compelled to search the scene outside my window for something…what? I don’t know. But what I saw made me feel one with the scenery.

I saw a river running beside the tracks. At some bends, a clear stream rippling over rocks in miniature rapids. At other stretches, a muddy, slow-moving slag of mud that couldn’t reflect the trees even at the height of the sun. I saw little league baseball being played at the small town park and I could almost feel the pride of community coming together on the coach-pitch field while the littlest ones dug their grubby fingers into packets of M&Ms. I saw a levy half dry, factories abandoned in piles of bricks and rebar. Shoots and conveyors stretched across the tracks from the cliff face on the left to the plant on the right. Soaring bridges of modern engineering meant to connect these small towns with the rest of the world.

How easy it would to be able to close the curtains in the coach and shut out the world? How easy would it be to ignore the “wrong side of the tracks?” The abandoned houses, the rotting vehicles, the crumbling factories. How easy would it be to turn my head from the window and only look when the purple blossoms on the hillside or the swaying leaves of the summer lush trees appear? But, I am part of this world. I am part of this creation that has been divinely formed and humanly corrupted, this marvel of brilliant innovation and ruthless natural selection. How can I not look? Here is a soaring steeple reaching to heaven, cross at the pinnacle. Here is a teenage mother, pushing her baby to the local market, learning how to nurture “on the job.”

It’s all part of the world. It’s all part of creation. It’s all part of the Kingdom of God. As a resident, I have a role to play. Perhaps it is to look out the window and “see.” Then, to live as if I have “seen.”

Shades of Pain

2011-04-15T15:31:00.002-04:00

It's hard to classify pain. I told the dentist that my tooth hurt and he asked me if it was a sharp pain or a dull ache. I said both. He asked how much it hurt on a scale of 1 to 10. I said sometimes 7, sometimes 3. Honestly, I don't know how to classify pain. Childbirth was pretty painful. Pulling my peroneal tendons was pretty painful, too, but not in the same way. There is some pain that hits hard, then subsides quickly. Other times, it gradually builds until you are suddenly aware that you've been clenching your teeth to keep it at bay. Sometimes you can identify immediately and accurately where the pain is coming from and other times, the pain travels and you never know where it will hit next.

Emotional pain is similar. It's easy to inflict pain. You don't want to, but you do anyway. Or, maybe you want to and that's why you do it. Sometimes you attack with weapons that you know will strike hard. But, sometimes you use weapons that cause a prickly kind of pain.

I think it's easier to see the fault in hard strikes - whether they are intentional or not. When the pain is obvious, both parties know - and suffer.

It's harder when the attacks are nit-picky. Sometimes neither party knows what's happening until one person has a chronic ache. Sometimes the offender can't see how they are inflicting pain on the other.

Stabbing pain from a wound inflicted hard and swift or pin pricks that drain your essence and energy? Which would you rather have?

Growing Edge

2011-04-01T15:18:00.004-04:00

So Bess, my dear friend, I am going to try to start writing again.

I have been thinking a lot lately about "growing edges." What exactly IS a "growing edge?" I've been using the term frequently in relationship to a difficult situation with which I have been dealing for the last several months. I have been thinking of the "growing edge" as confronting that with which I am uncomfortable or doing something with which I have very little experience. I suppose that is a good enough definition, but I have been wondering where this "growing edge" will take me and when it will stop. How many "growing edges" can I have at one time?

My mental picture of a "growing edge" is like that of caramel or some other viscous substance being poured out of a bowl. It starts with a fall of gooeyness and an edge is present and begins to spread, but as the substance continues to pour forth, layers form, adding more edges on top of or overtaking the bottom edges. Sometimes the top layers remain distinct atop the bottom layer and sometimes they melt into each other to push the outlying edge even further from its original place.

Lately, I feel like there has been a lot of extra goo pouring out of the vessel and pushing my "growing edge" toward the outer regions of my comfort zone. Then again, if I don't get pushed out of my comfort zone, the goo could just pile up higher and higher, bearing down with an enormous weight. I suppose it's better to be pushed out than to be suffocated.

Surprisingly, I do feel empowered by my spreading. Perhaps I am becoming more transparent. I am certainly more vulnerable than if I were to hide under a fortress of layers. It would take extraordinary measures to cut through the piles of hardened stratum to get to the bottom edge that has essentially stopped growing. But, it wouldn't take much to touch those places that could shift the trajectory of my "growing edge." A poke here, a swipe there, and suddenly, I am off in a different direction.

To grow, can I be thick enough not to simply splash against the surface and land on life willy-nilly? Can I be thin enough not to simply pile into a heap and refuse to learn more than I already know? How do I find consistency?

I've been blended into who I am by the ingredients that are my parents. I've been mixed with care by experience. I've been alternately boiled and cooled. And, I am being poured out. Poured out onto the surfaces of my home, my family, my work, my friends, my church. Perhaps on some surfaces consistency depends on where I land. I congeal when I hit a cold spot. I spread wildly when I feel the heat. I settle into contentment (or is it complacency?) when the surface is just right and I can continue to roll forward at a slow and comfortable pace.

What is a "growing edge?" I am.

Storm

2010-06-06T00:35:00.003-04:00

Caught up in swirling
winds whipping rain in
all directions.
Wondering where to find
the tesseract.
And if I find it
where it will take me
this night.

Thunder growls deep within
me wanting to
rumble up through my
throat to release in a
song of longing.
Electricity runs through
me as if I am on fire
tingling with anticipation
burning with desire for
what I don't know.

Wild and primal storm
raging stinging my skin
with raindrops hurled at me
from the sky.
Lifting me up in a cyclone
wondering where I will land
on earth or in the heavens.

And when it is all done
I am left panting and
satisfied for I was
transported to lands unknown
through the invisible
tesseract.

But I don't remember
what was there
only what I feel now.

Walking Past Maples

2010-05-28T08:15:00.003-04:00

Ancient and stoic these trees
Wrinkled trunks
Lopped off limbs
Gaping notches

Home and comfort these trees
Grass padded nests
Woody, flaking skin
Arching canopy

Wise and abiding these trees
Embracing sun and snow
Enduring scars
Propitious and auspicious

Artistry and anguish these trees
Walking slowly
Searching for insight
Longing for silent counsel

Driving Through Pain

2010-05-10T12:28:00.003-04:00

Twisting curves and switchbacks,
Straightaways with hills and dips.

I know these roads so well,
It's easy to let the wheel lead
And become complacent
In life and love.

Engine grinding climbs,
Falling in neutral from mountain passes.

Must I trudge to the top
To know what it is to
Soar on the way down
To life and love?

Pedal down, brakes at the ready
No hands, hovering above 10 and 2

What road will I choose when
I know both are paved with pain.
What road will I travel
To life and love?

Driving in the Rain

2010-05-07T13:02:00.002-04:00

The rain came today and covered me with
Cleansing moisture,
Enough to think that I might grow,
Possibly become.

The sun followed with promises
Signed in the sky.
It will happen, it will come,
With patience.

Grass, velvet and shaggy
I am groomed and wild.
Mature foliage and tender buds
I am strong and vulnerable.

I will be,
I will grow,
Love.

Spring Driving

2010-04-15T18:30:00.000-04:00

Spring Driving

Parallel rows of
Freshly embedded seeds
Wait for sun and rain
To nourish, swell and break
Into life

Blooming trees
Burst with lavish blossoms
Showy pretense of confidence
Seductively dropping petals
To carpet the earth

Driving slowly
Relishing the opening
Of nature, anticipating
It’s growth into
Full summer maturity

I missed the vernal equinox

2010-04-14T19:52:00.003-04:00

I could kick myself that I missed the vernal equinox this year. It was here and gone before I new it! It is a prime signal for me to start opening up again, to explore whatever new things are in my life, to get some oomph back into my life. But I missed it.

Or perhaps I didn't. During that time, I was exploring a new job and low and behold, I actually got it. So, I have been opening up and exploring new things. I just missed the change of season along the way.

I miss spring in Virginia. It's my favorite time of year. Aside from the pollen that covers everything with a fine, sticky dust, I revel in the blooming trees - especially dogwoods and redbuds. There is nothing like driving over Afton Mountain when the dogwoods are blooming. Forsythia, azaleas and blooming spring flowers like daffodils, hyacinth and tulips make me smile, no matter my mood. We have blooming pear trees and magnolias in Indiana, but it's just not the same as springtime in Virginia.

John and I have played tennis a couple of times this spring. I felt a bit rusty the first time out, but the second time was better. I am very competitive...in everything. Tennis, ping pong, volleyball, mini-golf, Scrabble, Dutch Blitz...you name it, I want to win...against John...I don't know why. I just do. The first time we played tennis, I lost miserably, but nearly every game went to deuce. The second time around, I only lost by 2 games and only 2 went to deuce. I was either on or off. No middle ground. I think it was the pink tennis balls.

But, it is spring and it is time to open up again. To come out of my introspective cocoon and begin to feel what is around me and to open my eyes to the possibilities presented to me. I will be starting a new job, building new relationships, visiting new places. I will have a new routine, a new office, new goals and challenges. It's exciting. And, I am terrified. Terrified with the same kind of feeling that I get when I am at the top of a roller coaster and about to hurtle down the first hill. Perhaps that's how the trees and flowers feel when they shoot out their buds and bloom with lavish abandon. It could be risky to bloom. There are wild animals waiting for tender buds to appear. To open up, to break out of comfortable introspection is to become vulnerable, to risk being eaten alive. But, it is also the only opportunity to show your most beautiful parts. It is the only opportunity to contribute to the loveliness of life.

It's time to open up again despite the fact that I missed the vernal equinox.

Winter Retreat

2010-02-02T13:07:00.006-05:00

This past weekend, we had our annual church retreat. Since we are a small church, we take a weekend off and everyone who wants to goes to a camp and hangs out. We have church at the camp on Sunday and the church building remains cold and empty.

This year, we went to Camp Friedenswald, breaking from a long tradition of going to Camp Lutherwald. They're both "walds" so they aren't so different, really. Except that Friedenswald is a Mennonite camp and Lutherwald is a Lutheran camp. I suppose it was time for us to have our own radical retreat reformation and move to the Anabaptist side of things. Either way, we cover at least 5 of the 7 deadly sins when we go on retreat.

There are some people who stay overnight and others who come just for the day. Friday night usually consists of people picking their bunks, playing games, talking and pigging out on lots of junk food. (Gluttony)

Saturday starts slow with people sleeping in and staggering out of their bunks to rustle up some breakfast - for the youth that usually means scavenging the snacks from the night before. About 10:30, the games start up again and the kids and more adventurous adults head out to the sledding hill and tube run. Lunch happens about noon and then people start disappearing one by one to take a nap in their bunk or read and snooze by the fire. (Sloth)

The lodge begins to come to life again in mid-afternoon with people playing more games or traipsing outside. By suppertime, everyone is ready to eat and is well rested for the long evening ahead. The big event is a talent show, with the acts consisting of skits, songs and stories by kids and adults. It's usually good for a laugh or two. Then, the serious game playing begins and lasts into the wee hours of the morning.

Sunday starts as slowly as Saturday and there are usually kids that have to be roused from slumber to make it to "church" on time. Church service at retreat is informal with kids in PJs and adults lounging on comfy couches. After church and lunch, the clean up begins and everyone leaves to go home and take a nap in their own bed.

So, that's what retreat is usually like and this year was no exception. SR,DC (Same retreat, different camp).

This year, my children learned how to play poker (Texas hold'em) (Greed). And participated in a game called "Things" in which the buzz words for that particular round were: "impacted colon," "dumb ass," and "rubber ducky ping pong." Not especially uplifting, but the laughter it induced was good for the soul.

The older set played a game called "Quiddler." It's like Scrabble with cards. I played Oh Hell, Dutch Blitz and won 6 of 7 games of ping pong against my husband. Unfortunately, the game I lost was in the tournament, so I didn't advance (Wrath).

John and Loren took a tumble on the tube run. There was a bank at the end of the run to stop the tubes, but they were going so fast, they jumped the bank and landed on their heads on the other side. John lost a piece of scalp and Loren looked quite peaked for the following 36 hours.

I spent time cooking for the group, playing cards, napping and enjoying the company of my fellow church members. The highlight for me was getting to hold babies. I love holding babies and giving them to someone else when they poop, cry or fuss. For a split second I thought about how neat it would be to have another one (Envy), then I came to my senses.

So, retreat is done for this year. It means that January is over and we are in the long slide toward spring. And, I have to buy poker chips for my kids.

Amish Church Day

2010-01-24T12:56:00.008-05:00

The Amish in our area have church every other Sunday. It takes a lot of preparation for Amish to have church. They meet in district members' homes, so in order to host church, a family has to either clear out their living room or make room in the barn. There is a bench wagon that brings benches to the meeting place. Lunch is always served after the three preachers finish and the singing is done. Church is a major undertaking for the Amish, so meeting every other week seems reasonable.

Our route to church takes us along a road traveled by Amish. I noticed today that there was much more horse shit on the road than usual and it was exacerbated by the rainy weather. It was hard for John to avoid the slurry of dung on the way to Bonneyville.

But, that's not what made us giggle on the way home.

The Amish are about as competitive about their horses as we "English" are about our cars. A few have Tennessee Walkers that are like sporty vanity vehicles, but most have either "trotters" that are like dependable, fuel efficient sedans or "pacers" that are like soccer-mom mini-vans.

As we came up on a straight spot in the road, there were three buggies ahead of us and the one in the back pulled into the left lane to pass just as we approached from behind. The passing buggy's trotter made a valiant effort, but the pacer's buggy turned on the juice and the passer had to fall back into line because of a blind spot in the road.

We giggled about this because we had never seen that happen before and realized that the Amish really aren't that different when it comes to "driving." I can only imagine the conversations in the buggies during this course of events...

In the trotter buggy...

Man - I wish Yoder would picketh up the pace.
Woman - Settle thyself, Eli. We will get home in God's time.
Man - But, there is no reason to go so sluggish, except that Yoder's horse has a waddle in her hind end that would mortify the bishop.
Woman - Let it go! It is not as if you are going to watcheth the football game. You will have to wait for the scores tomorrow like every other man in the district.
Man (with a snap of the whip) - Hep, hep. Let's go Elantra. I am going to passeth Yoder and show him what a horse can do.
Woman (under her breath with a sigh) - Schwachkopf.
Man - Would you look at that! Yoder cannot accept my rebuke and has urged his hind swinging nag to her limit. Now I cannot complete my pass because I cannot see-eth over yon hill.
Woman - I knew I should have driven.

In the pacer buggy...
Man - My word, Stoltzfus has been riding my buggy for the past 300 yards. The man does not have the virtue of patience.
Woman - Noah, you must not judge so. He only desires to get home to his chores. Mary always says as how he takes extra care on Sundays as regular chores are not considered work.
Man - Chores, bah! He wants to watcheth the football game on the television in his pump house. What is he doing? Elantra's nose has appeared on my left. Dare he passeth me?
Woman - Oh no he doth not!
Man - Stoltzfus is always degrading my horse. He is only trying to prove his is superior. I will showeth him. Git up, Sedona!
Woman - Noah, stop this. You have nothing to prove.
Man - Please woman! He must be taught a lesson else his pride lead him down the path to hell. See? He has repented and fallen back into his proper place.
Woman - Geistesschwache. He has only done so because he cannot see-eth over yon hill.
Man - I disagree. He has been chastened.
Woman (shaking head with resignation) - I knew I should have driven.

Whadda ya do?

2010-01-23T16:10:00.004-05:00

The kids are at snow camp (or slush camp as the case may be) this weekend and I have had most of the entire day to myself. I knew I would and I had developed some ideas about what I would do. See, with the kids gone, I could go through all the crap in the basement that they have accumulated over the past decade. I could clean my closet and make some substantial donations to the thrift shop. I could shave my legs. I could thoroughly clean my kitchen cabinets. I had all kinds of plans.

I woke at 6 AM with an ear ache, so I tossed and turned for three hours before I decided to get up. When I did, I had a nice, big bowl of Cap'n Crunchberries. I don't usually eat breakfast at home. I have a stash of munchies in my desk at work that usually get me through to lunch. But, today, I had Crunchberries and I loved every minute of it. Except that my mouth felt like it had been scrubbed with steel wool after.

Unfortunately, while I was out of the room, Raz the dog knocked over the box of cereal and ate a good portion of it. I don't think Crunchberries are any more harmful to dogs than they are to humans, but I do believe that Raz got a major sugar high from it. He spent the majority of the morning seeking out unsuspecting blankets and humping them with vigor.

After breakfast, I decided to do something productive. I still had high expectations for myself, but I thought I should start small. I cleaned out the drawers in the end tables in the living room. Then I moved on to the junk drawers in the old Nappanee Dutch Kitchen cabinet. I separated tools, batteries, flashlights, talking Simpsons charaters, pencils, safety pins, staples and other crap into separate drawers and filled a garbage bag. Feeling like I was on a roll, I moved on to the coat closet. I removed the coats that hadn't been worn in years to the "donation" box and tossed out the expired sun block. I found a "fart alarm" in the closet that had been the delight of my son several years ago. When I set it off (by pushing the button!) Raz began to howl worse than when Loren started to play the baritone last summer. The alarm is now set to go off when Loren walks into his room tomorrow. Hee, hee.

Moving on, I folded laundry and put it away, then got really ambitious and fired up the Kirby. Raz is deathly afraid of the vacuum cleaner and it was fun to chase him around the living room. By the time I was done, I was ready to get cleaned up.

I had never showered in our guest bath in the basement and I figured it was a good time to try it out. I found it to be quite pleasant. The water pressure was very good. But, I had forgotten my razor and so the whole shave the legs thing would have to wait for another time.

Once I was dry and dressed in my comfy yoga pants, I settled on the couch for some quality time with Loren's Game Cube. While cleaning up earlier, I decided that I would play a little Mario Party, something I hadn't done in years. I quickly remembered why I hadn't played in years. It was quite boring. So, I changed to tv. I ended up watching Goya's Ghosts. It was...oookaaay.

By the time the movie was over, John was home and it was time to go on our date night. Date night consisted of going to see Sherlock Holmes at 5:00 so as to get the matinee price and picking up Dairy Queen on the way home. Of course, the night is still young. Although, sermon prep and making sign up sheets for church retreat are likely to take precedence.

It was a good day, though. Even if I didn't live up to my domestic ideals.

Half Moon Over Miami

2010-01-16T15:08:00.005-05:00

As I came out of the upper level of Land Shark Stadium in Miami a couple of weeks ago, I was met at eye level with a large half-moon. The odd thing to me was that the bottom half of the moon was showing instead of the right or left half. I don't think I have seen a moon like that before. When I did a little research, I found only two pictures of bottom half-moons. All of the phases-of-the-moon charts I found were vertical. And, I didn't find any information about what would cause a horizontal half-moon. I did take astronomy in college, but it was a night class and the planetarium was dark and...well...you know.

It was striking how large the moon was, or at least the half I could see. It was brilliant, even with all of the light pollution from the stadium. I filled me with a sense of awe and, oddly, warmth, of which I was in desperate need at the time.

John is an avid Iowa Hawkeyes fan and there was some question about which football bowl game Iowa would go to. Since their quarterback, Ricky Stanzi, got hurt during the game against Northwestern and they lost that and the next game, it was unlikely that they would go to the Rose Bowl. Ohio State ended up with that honor. We determined they would go to the Capital One Bowl in Orlando, the Fiesta Bowl in Phoenix, or the Orange Bowl in Miami. On bowl selection night, laptop on lap, we had windows with Travelocity cued up to the various flights we wanted and seats selected at StubHub ready to order. When we found out that we were going to Miami, the flights and tickets were purchased within minutes.

For a month, I was imagining a warm and relaxing vacation after a busy Christmas retail rush at the shops. I needed vitamin D and the return of color to my face that had been slowly leached away by the Northern Indiana gloom. I'll admit, I had built this trip up in my mind as the ultimate getaway - laying on the beach, splashing in the waves, dining al fresco along the boardwalk and working up a sweat while cheering on the Hawks. HA!

It was cold. My cheeks got red from the wind, not the sun. We huddled around a portable heater while eating on the plaza. My swimsuit didn't even make it out of the suitcase. I cursed myself for packing only one sweater and that with 3/4 sleeves. What the heck? This was MIAMI. It was supposed to be warm, if not downright hot.

I was surprised at myself for being so laid back about it all. John and I just went with the flow. We had to from the beginning because of the trouble we had just getting to Miami. We left the South Bend airport in our twin engine turbo prop and skipped over to Detroit with no trouble. Perhaps we should have continued on that plane, because the big one that was to take us to Florida wasn't working properly. Our 10:45 PM arrival time turned into an AM arrival time when, two hours later, we were boarded onto a working airplane.

The flight was surprisingly smooth and, after a four mile walk to baggage claim, retrieved our one checked bag. It was a Land's End, monogrammed, lime green, rolling duffel that my mother had given me for Christmas several years ago and when it appeared on the belt, it was missing the handle. A little investigation revealed that Delta Airlines is not responsible for breaking handles, wheels or zippers on checked baggage. Harumph!

Moving out to the shuttle pick up area, we were hit with the odors of chain smoking sky caps and diesel exhaust from all of the buses picking up passengers who were not going to the Budget Rent-A-Car counter. The Budget shuttle, which was supposed to run every four minutes, stretched their schedule to every 30 minutes. When the bus finally came, there was standing room only for the ten minute ride to the outlot. Luckily, I was near the door. I jumped off the bus, scurried into the rental office and got in line quickly while John carried in our bag. Unfortunately, there was one other customer in front of us and only one agent. Forty-five minutes later, we were on I-95 heading north to Hollywood. When we finally collapsed onto the pillow-strewn, fluffy duvet-covered king-size bed, it was 3:00 AM. (Thanks, Mom, for the hotel points that allowed us to stay in the lap of luxury!)

When we awoke a few hours later, the sun was shining and all seemed right with the world. And, it was, except for the fact that the actual temperature outside was about 50.

We took our time getting dressed and decided to find some reasonably priced brunch (the hotel breakfast menu was a bit pricey for us.) We ended up at IHOP and the service seemed to be following our leisurely attitude. A little more than an hour later, we left stuffed with omelets and pancakes, shopped for a bit, then decided a nap was in order. The sheer luxury of not being tied to deadlines, appointments or adolescent taxi service was worth the hassle of the previous day.

After a nice snooze, we went to the Hawkeye Huddle Pep Rally at the convention center, ate lobster with John's cousin in downtown Miami and then went to a movie. It was one of the most relaxing days I have had in ages despite not being able to lay on the beach.

Tuesday dawned with bright sunshine and chilly temps again, but we were not deterred! We were going to walk on the beach. We made our way to Ft Lauderdale and walked in the waves. The water temperature was warmer than the air temperature, so the waves rushing over my feet felt wonderfully soothing...until one caught me unaware and rushed up my skirt. On the way back to the car, we walked by a marina with fishing boats waiting for unsuspecting tourists to charter them. Of course, we were unsuspecting tourists. And, after a bit of haggling, we chartered one.

After a quick trip to the hotel for dry underwear, we were back at the marina and headed out on the Foxsea with Captain Joe and first mate Pete for a three hour tour. In spite of the wind and chilly temps, being on the boat was quite refreshing. We trolled for bait fish around huge freighters and watched other boats kite fish in the distance. It was okay that we didn't catch anything.

By the time we were back at the pier, it was time for us to head to Land Shark Stadium. We found it with no problem, but when John saw that parking was $30, we pulled into a strip mall about 1/2 mile from the stadium and parked behind a tire store. We waited for about 45 minutes at the Pollo Tropico for supper then walked over to the stadium. I was tempted to make a detour into the Wal-demart on the way, but figured they would be sold out of gloves and scarves already, if they had any in the first place.

By the time the game started, it was 47 degrees and the wind was gusting up to 25 mph. I had on a t-shirt, long sleeve shirt and sweatshirt. John had a t-shirt, sweatshirt and a field coat with a lining. By the end of the first quarter, the concession stand was sold out of hot chocolate and John had taken the lining out of his coat for me to wear. It was cold. We were in Miami. We were not prepared.

Nevertheless, we were treated to Kool and the Gang during half-time (we danced) and Iowa won, so it was all good. And, I saw the bottom half-moon on the way out of the stadium.

It was quite late until we made it back to the hotel, but we didn't have to check out until 11 AM the next day, so we slept in, took a last walk on the beach, and headed in the general direction of the airport. We had no idea of the trouble looming ahead of us.

We arrived at the airport about four hours before our scheduled boarding time. It was a madhouse. I checked us in at the kiosk, but we still had to drop off our checked bag. We got in the line that said, "kiosk check in" above it. Silly me! I thought I was in the right line. Evidently, we needed to be in the line that said, "ticketing." We waited for nearly two hours to drop our bag that didn't have a handle anymore. Then we had to wait in line for security. Then we had to walk four miles to the gate. Boarding actually went quickly and we were settled into our seats in the back of the plane, ready to head to Detroit right on time.

But, no. It couldn't be that simple. We taxied out onto the tarmac, then taxied back to the gate. Next thing I saw was a half-dozen air marshals escorting a man off the plane. Evidently, this man had made threatening and racist remarks to other passengers and crew saying, "I want to kill all the Jews." We had to wait for the crew and nearby passengers to give statements. We had to deplane so the cabin could be sniffed by dogs. We had to re-board and then wait for the luggage crew to find the man's bags in the cargo hold. When we finally left, we were more than two hours behind schedule and our flight from Detroit to South Bend had already left.

When we got to Detroit, we stood in line for over an hour to reschedule our flight and get our hotel and meal vouchers. By the time we collapsed into the lumpy-pillow, stained-spread double bed, it was nearly 2 AM. We were up at 6 to go back to the airport to catch our puddle-jumper back to South Bend. There was a point during breakfast at the airport Fudrucker's where the stress of the previous 24 hours had caught up with us. Scowls were exchanged and eyes were rolled, but once we were safely ensconced in our seats and hurtling through the air, the tension subsided and the prospect of home brought smiles to our faces.

So, even though the trip wasn't anything like I had imagined it to be, it was an adventure filled with lessons in patience, practice at standing in lines, relaxing time spent with my husband and an Iowa victory (although we never had any doubt about that). And, I got to see a giant bottom half-moon over Miami.

Oh Joy

2009-12-29T21:51:00.003-05:00

I had a pretty good day today. The sun was shining. I had lunch with my husband and good friends at my favorite restaurant. And, my assistant manager took care of the puking woman in the quilt room so I didn't have to. You may know, from reading some of my other posts that I have a vomiting phobia. It was with very little guilt that I allowed Linda to have the experience of dealing with this emergency. It was a learning experience...right?

This poor woman is diabetic and started feeling lightheaded while shopping so she went to her car to eat some raisins. When she came back, she started sweating, feeling dizzy and began upchucking in our wastebasket. Linda immediately switched into hero mode and took care of the woman. She moved a recliner into the quilt room, lined it with old sheets because the lady had wet her pants while heaving and called 9-1-1. After the paramedics took the lady away, Linda moved the recliner back into the furniture shop and cleaned up the vomit and urine-soaked sheets. Jewels await Linda's crown in heaven.

A lot of really gross stuff happens at work. Our public restrooms seems to attract people who are excrementally challenged. Luckily, I can refer all complaints to the building manager. Unfortunately, he is often absent at just the right time.

We get bags of clothing or sheets that are matted with pet hair, reek of unwashed bodies and appear to have been used to mop up after a bachelor party. I don't know why people think we want their aunt Elma's uppers or Buster's "man-tee-hose." Recliners that have 25 years of brill cream build up on the head rest and Tupperware that smells like unprocessed deer meat are commonly found on our overhead door step. Aren't we lucky?

Winter Solstice

2009-12-21T13:49:00.002-05:00

I have a habit of becoming melancholy around this time of year. Sure, I like Christmas. But, for a person who works in retail, the holiday season isn't necessarily filled with magic and anticipation. My thoughts about Christmas shopping generally center around the visceral "ughs!" that accompany my mental list. This year, I made donations to a favorite charitable organization in honor of many of the people for whom I would normally purchase gifts. I liked that part.

Until about a year ago, I didn't understand that it is natural for the body, mind and spirit to turn inward during the winter months - at least in temperate, four-season climates. I don't know if it is different for those who live close to the equator. Being a descendant of Swiss-German Europeans, I could be genetically predisposed to shut down during the winter, whereas those descended from people in tropical climes may be differently affected by the passing of time and aligning of the stars.

Anyhow, today, I hit a figurative wall. Suddenly, about noon, my body shut down. I just wanted to crawl under my desk and sleep. I have felt that way before during other parts of the year, but I was struck by the timing of this particular bulldozer of fatigue. It was like autumn had been tooling along at a nice pace and then suddenly winter brought everything to a crashing halt.

But, as I emerged from approximately twenty minutes of near catatonia, I saw opening up in front of me a slow road ready to be walked. I wonder if this has anything to do with being born in the darkest, slowest part of the year. I began my life when things were essentially dead, but as the days unfolded, so did my experience of life. By the time I was sentient enough to make even primitive sense of my world, the earth was also coming to life. Oh, that I could be swaddled and coddled during these first months of the new year, of my new year. Regression has the potential to be very comforting.

Winter has come. And, being the thinking and rational person that I like to pretend to be, I have to recognize that the lack of sunlight, the bitter wind that cuts through my outer layers and the lull in activity will contribute to melancholy. But, it doesn't have to be a negative thing. It could be a time to prune the areas that are too painful to cut when they are in full bloom. Then, new blossoms will appear when it is time to bring them into the light again. It could be a time to search my soul in the way a child searches for that one toy in the bottom of the toy box. I may find delight in discovering lost memories and creative sparks as I sift through the bits and pieces that have been thrown into the box.

I am ready to take a step onto the slow path if I can pull myself up and over the winter wall I hit this afternoon.

Caller ID

2009-12-16T11:14:00.003-05:00

The phone rang a few minutes ago. The caller ID showed that Mrs. P was calling. I had to let it ring a couple of times before I got the courage to pick up the phone.

"Good morning, Depot Thrift Shops, this is Missy."

"Lucy? I don't think I know you."

"No, no. It's Missy, Mrs. P ."

"Oh, Missy. How ya doin' kiddo?"

"I'm..."

"Say listen, do you still have that screaming frog over in the furniture shop?"

"Wel..."

"We have had a lot of break-ins around my neighborhood and I want that screaming frog for outside my front door. I already have some spooky hands for the other doors, but I need something for the front door."

"Um..."

"I'm making some major security changes around my place because these people just don't seem to discriminate about who they decide to rob and I'm hoping to deter them from my particular home."

"Oh..."

"That screaming frog would work well at the front door. And, listen kiddo, do you have any deadbolts? I want to install another deadbolt on the front door because between that and the screaming frog, I should be able to call 911 before they actually get in."

"Wh..."

"You know that electric recliner I bought a couple of months ago?"

"Ye..."

"I have it taken apart, but I think the motor needs some work, so I'm going to take it down to Terry in Nappanee and have him work on it. Until then, I've been using wedgies on my chairs so that I don't have to sit down so far."

"Tha..."

"You see, I can get down, but I can't get up unless I have a wedgie under there. So, do you have that screaming frog?"

"No. Someone bought it yesterday for a white elephant gift."

"Oh shoot. I shoulda bought it while I was there. Okay kiddo, how's business?"

"Going gangbuste..."

"That's great to hear. I bet you get all kinds of business now that the economy is in the tank. You really should exploit that more in your advertising. Let people know you have the best prices in town. You should run an ad that says, 'Best prices in town, come to the Depot for all your clothing and household needs.' And, don't forget to mention the furniture part. You advertise in the Goshen News and Elkhart Truth, right? I'll look for that ad. You need to do an ad like that."

"Thanks for the advice, Mr.s P. I'll talk to you la..."

"Okay. See ya kiddo. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas Mrs..."

Click.

One more thing

2009-12-07T17:25:00.005-05:00

At church on yesterday, during the Advent fellowship time, we were served frozen fruit cups...with banana. I chose not to participate.

When I went to kiss my husband goodbye this morning (I'll admit it was an after thought as I was in a hurry to get out the door), he had banana breath.

When I got to work this morning, the remnants of the peeled banana were still evident on the ground next to my parking space...seemingly mocking me.

When one of my volunteers arrived this morning, he brought with him a shrink wrapped fruit basket as a gift to the management. There were bananas on top. When one of the Lindas opened the plastic to get to the grapes, the smell of banana permeated the office. Not even the peppermint candle could overcome the odor.

Either I need to develop a liking for the yellow buggers or call a therapist because I do believe they are stalking me.

Falling Star

2009-12-07T11:13:00.007-05:00

I saw a falling star the other night as I was driving Rachel home from a concert. We were amazed that we both saw it. It came right down out of the sky in the northeast. Since we were in the country, it was more visible than it would have been had we still been in the city. We both made wishes, but Rachel had a hard time coming up with one. She said she would think of a bunch so she has one ready for next time. The practicality of a 14 year old! Mine popped up in front of me unbidden. It was just there, so I went with it. Of course, we didn't share them because if we did they wouldn't come true, right?

This got me to thinking about darkness, light and wintertime, the seasons of the year and the seasons of life. I have been quite pensive lately...perhaps a result of shorter days. Perhaps a result of the questions I have been grappling with lately.

But, really, in the winter, I generally turn inward, both emotionally and physically. I tend feel the need to focus on the inward rumblings of my tummy. It's important to have a good, insulating layer for the winter, especially in Indiana.

Turning inward emotionally can be a blessing and a curse. I like to think that I live in the light. That I see opportunities, possibilities and that my world view encompasses a broad spectrum. But, there are some things that cannot and will not be seen in the light. They can only be seen because of darkness. Falling stars, for example. It has to be dark in order to see this wonder of nature. This split-second of beauty. This prompt for wishes and dreams. Some kinds of light can only be revealed in darkness. How much am I missing because of the light pollution in my life?

So, as I turn inward this winter, while the days are short, as I indulge in Almond Roca while snuggled in my warm nest of flannel sheets and down filled duvet, I will embrace my inner darkness. I will eschew the artificial headlights I use as blinders to keep the darkness out, that illuminate a clear, well-lit path. I'll allow my inner pupils to grow wide, knowing that there are new things, new illuminations waiting to be revealed. Wishes, dreams, hopes that pop up, unbidden but welcome.

Driving in the Dark

2009-12-07T11:01:00.002-05:00

Focused beams
Illuminate the road ahead,
Nothing more.

Blinders of light
Obscure the fields,
Blocking nature's presence.

A falling star
Opens my eyes
To the heavens.

Some wonders
Can only be seen
In the dark.

A Couple of Things...

2009-12-01T10:45:00.005-05:00

When I arrived at work this morning, there was a whole, peeled banana lying on the ground next to my parking space. Where is the peel?!? Will it suddenly show up under my boot one of these days and take me down? Should I check my backseat before getting in my vehicle to see if some outraged primate is lying in wait for me? I feel as if I am being haunted by the banana gods for maligning their reputation in my previous post. Yikes!

I received a phone call from an outraged customer this morning. She was very upset that I didn't make an exception to our "no hold" policy for her.

When she called yesterday morning to ask me to hold a picture for her, I told her that I couldn't because we have a "no hold" policy. She said she would send her husband to pick it up. I told her explicitly that it was still here, but I would not be holding it for her. When she called later in the afternoon, she said that her husband was on the way to pick up the picture that was being held for her. I told her again that we have a "no hold" policy and that we weren't holding it for her. When her husband arrived, he asked for the picture that was being held for his wife. I told him we have a "no hold" policy and that we had not been holding it for her.

Ironically, the picture sold at some point during the day, so it wasn't available. The husband didn't care. He said she didn't need it anyway and if she wanted it so badly, she should have bought it when she saw it the first time. He left without incident.

Then came the phone call. I don't think I have been so dressed down without profanity before. It was amazing! I had to hold the phone out from my ear so as not to lose burst an eardrum. Evidently, I should make exceptions to the policy for her because she buys $100 items from us on a regular basis and she gave me her word. I, as a business person, am stupid for not making exceptions to our policies. Good thing I'm okay with being stupid.

Lastly, we got an interesting donation this morning. It is a "gun" used to apply boric acid powder to parts feminine. It looks like it is from about the 1940s or 50s. It has a squeezy bulb that attaches to a stainless steel tube that attaches to another part in which a woman would place a pre-measured cartridge of boric acid. She would then insert the tube and squeeze the bulb two to three times to administer the physic.

We get this kind of thing fairly regularly. But, the most interesting part was the paraphernalia contained in the original box. There was the regular instruction leaflet, of course, and a hand-written letter addressed to...Leonard. Evidently, Leonard's wife was the intended recipient of the device, but the writer (also a man) included a picturesque description of the uses and results of the "VG Powder Method Applicator." Also in the box were itty-bitty condom-like things and wrappers about the size that come around embroidery floss that said Trojan on them. It is currently listed on eBay if you would like to purchase it. Our user name is whistlestopthriftshop.

Tests of Friendship

2009-11-30T15:11:00.004-05:00

It's no secret among my family members or co-workers that I will not eat cooked orange vegetables. That includes carrots, pumpkin, certain squash-like veg, sweet potatoes and related orange root vegetables. I just can't do it. I can eat raw carrots; I love them. But, add a little heat and I'll have nothing to do with them.

I get teased about this at our potlucks every week. I don't mind, but I am waiting for some sort of conspiracy among the volunteers where every dish will have a cooked orange vegetable in it and I won't have anything for lunch.

I wrote the following anecdote for my daughter, Rachel, a while back. She held a writing contest for friends and family and I won...because I was the only person who submitted an entry. Anyway, the story had to be embellished a bit to make it interesting, but it is basically the true story of how I came to despise cooked orange vegetables...

It all started when I was in high school. Beside the fact that I hadn’t ever liked the taste of cooked carrots, my senior year psychology teacher sealed the deal with regard to cooked orange. Mr. Foutz was a middle-aged hippie who had never really grown up. I suppose he was still trying to make peace with his inner-child, or inner-teenaged delinquent as the case seemed to be.

One Monday morning during second period, Mr. Foutz looked like the weekend had gotten the best of him, and it had. We spent most of the class period talking about the best ways to sober up after an evening of binge drinking. There were the usual suspects: lots of coffee, cold showers and jumping jacks in sub-zero weather. But, his tried and true cure-all happened to be praying to the porcelain god. Evidently, this helped by evacuating the alcohol left in one’s stomach in a more direct way than through the filtering process of the liver and long journey out the other end.

While conversations about tossing one’s cookies has never been a favorite topic for me, the problem was the description of the hurl. He said, “There are always carrots, even if you haven’t eaten any for weeks.” That was the beginning of my aversion to anything cooked and orange. Visions of soup made with Veg-all and the little, perfectly cubed carrots spewed across the bathroom floor did me in. No way was I ever going to eat those things again! Or anything thing orange for that matter.

Now, why raw carrots were immune to the ban, I don’t know. I think it had more to do with the texture of the orange than the actual vegetable. It’s a mystery that will likely never be solved.

Then, years later, while watching the Disney movie “Atlantis,” Mr. Foutz’s theory was confirmed for me and I rededicated myself to never eating cooked orange again. In the movie, the main character played by Michael J Fox, set out to sea to find the lost city of Atlantis. This character is, of course, a landlubber and immediately begins to feed the fish. Much to my amazement, he utters the words, “Carrots. Why are there always carrots?” That did it for me. No more cooked orange.

So, that's the story. But, it has never come between me and my family and/or friends. They tend to accept my aversion but not without some good natured ribbing.

However, when I asked for suggestions last week about what non-pumpkin dessert to make for Thanksgiving, I learned that culinary tastes could possibly be a stumbling block in some of my friendships. There were lots of suggestions for minty desserts. It's not that I don't like mint, I just don't like it with chocolate or in ice cream. I chew mint gum nearly constantly and peppermint lifesavers are at the top of my list of favorite candies. Candy canes are also a favorite holiday treat, but put them in almond bark? Yuck.

Bananas are another food that I can live without. I will eat perhaps 3 per year. I just don't understand the appeal (no pun intended). I have a friend whose favorite pie is banana cream. When I heard that, I was able to overlook it in the interest of maintaining our friendship, but when he suggested bananas foster over ice cream for a Thanksgiving dessert...boy howdy, was I disillusioned with his sense of taste! I actually didn't know what bananas foster was, so I Googled it.

The pictures were a bit disconcerting. Excuse my honesty, but if this doesn't look like a flaccid penis, I don't know what does. Of course, just about everything becomes flaccid if it has been soaked in rum long enough. The reality of Thanksgiving was that, even if I had wanted to make it, I was spending the day with a recovering alcoholic and therefore, it would have been inappropriate to fix it.

But, I try not to let my likes and dislikes come between me and my friends. My best friend thinks that ketchup is spicy, but she will go to El Camino Real #4 with me for lunch. And, I will watch her as she consumes a plateful of glazed carrots from the Hometown Buffet. It hasn't ruined our relationship...yet.

Driving Away

2009-11-25T06:56:00.002-05:00

The mirror reflects
Roads traveled and not taken
Roads closed and detoured
Skies dying in flames of glory
Skies birthing a red hot dawn
Eyes welled with grief
Eyes focused ahead

The customer is always...

2009-11-17T18:30:00.002-05:00

Mrs. B came into the shop one day with a friend. She walked over to the place where we keep the telephones, picked one up and said, "I donated a box of phones about three weeks ago and there was one exactly like this one in the box. Can you go see if it's back there? It should be right on top."

My thought bubble...On top of what? Three weeks ago? WHAT?!?

Me, "Well, are you sure this isn't the same phone you donated?"

Mrs. B, "It's not the same one, I know. Will you go see if it's back there, I know it's right on top. I want it back for my friend."

Me, "I can go look, but we try to get our donations processed within a week, so I'm not optimistic."

Thought bubble...Geez louise!

I walked to the workshop where we test things and looked around and didn't see a box of phones. I walked back to the shop.

Me, "I don't see it back there. If it was donated three weeks ago, I can assure you that it has already been processed. You could purchase this phone for $3.00."

Mrs. B, "Can I go back there and look? I know it's back there. I don't want to buy this one. I want the one I donated back so I can give it to my friend."

Me, "I'm sorry, you can't go into the warehouse. I looked and the box you described is not there. It was probably processed several weeks ago and that particular phone could have already been sold."

Mrs. B, turning to her friend, "There isn't any way it could have been sold. I know it's on top back there. They just want to make me pay for another one."

Thought bubble...WHAT?!? Please. Just leave. Please.

She did.

Then another woman came in...we'll call her Ms. A.

Ms. A, "I am here to pick up my organ."

Me, "Okay....I don't think we have sold any organs lately. When did you purchase it?"

Ms. A, "I bought it last year before Christmas."

Thought bubble...WHAT?!?

Me, "Well, if you purchased it last year, I don't think we have it anymore. We have a policy that all large items need to be picked up within a week of purchase."

Ms. A, "I don't remember that policy. The man who helped me had gray hair and glasses and wrote my name on a paper and put 'paid' on it and put it on the organ. Then he wrote 'paid' on a paper and gave it to me. If you had that policy, I would have remembered because I was a compliance officer at a bank for over 20 years."

Me, "We have had that policy for nearly two years, so the paper you would have gotten would have had the policy written on it."

Ms. A, "Well, that's not what happened. I paid for it right up here at the counter and the man put my name and 'paid' on the paper."

Me, "Ma'am, we haven't had a counter up here for over two years. If you paid for the organ up here, it would have been longer ago than last November."

Ms. A, "No, it was right here and I don't remember the policy. Someone called me in January to remind me to pick it up and I rented a truck, but it snowed and I couldn't get it then. My father was diagnosed as terminal, so I haven't been able to pick it up. I'm in here all the time. I buy lots of things here. I'm sure you have seen me in here."

Thought bubble...I've never seen you before in my life and lady, I would have remembered you!

Me, "So, when was the last time you were here? Did you ask about the organ then?"

Ms. A, " I was here in March, but my father was terminal, so I wasn't thinking about the organ."

Me, "You haven't been here since March? Well, you understand that we can't warehouse items for people for over a year. Your organ was likely resold. Do you have a receipt?"

Ms. A, "I didn't get a receipt. The man wrote my name on the paper and gave me a paper that said 'paid' on it. I don't remember getting a receipt."

Thought bubble...Good Lord, woman!

Me, "The receipt is the paper the clerk gave to you. If you have it, I will gladly refund your money."

Ms. A, "But, I didn't get a receipt and even if I did, I don't think I would still have it. My father was terminal."

Me, "Well, I can't refund your money unless I have some sort of proof of purchase. If you bring in your receipt, I will give you your money back."

Ms. A, "But, my father was terminal. I can't believe you would just sell my organ without calling me about it. I'm in here all the time. I buy lots of things here. I know that man would remember me." Cue the tears...

Thought bubble...Tears mean nothing to me woman!

Me, "Bring in your receipt and I will refund your money. Surely you can understand, as a former compliance officer at a bank, that I have to have proof of purchase before I can refund your money?"

Ms. A, "I can't believe a charity would treat their customers this way!" Cue hostile exit...

Thought bubble...What just happened? Am I on Punk'd? Where's the camera?

The next day, Mrs. B came in. She wanted a tape recorder. Denny helped her, God bless him, and she left. About 30 minutes later, the phone rang. It was Mrs. B...

Mrs. B, "Hello this is Mrs. B. Can I talk to Denny in the furniture shop?"

Me, "I'm sorry, Denny has left for the day. Can I help you?"

Mrs, B, "I just wanted to tell him that the tape recorder I bought works just fine. We tested it in the shop, but I wanted to try it with my own tape at home and it works just fine. I am tickled that I can play my tapes."

Me, "Wow. That's great. I'll be sure to tell Denny when he comes in tomorrow."

Mrs. B, "Yes. Please do that. Tell him it works just fine and I am just tickled."

Me, "Okay. Thanks for calling. Bye."

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rings again...

Mrs. B, "This is Mrs. B again. I want you to tell Denny that I can record from the CD player AND from the radio. All I have to do is press the play/record button when it is set on CD if I want to record the CD or radio when I want to record from the radio. I tried it with both and it works just fine. I have to make sure the tape is wound forward just a little bit because there is that blank section at the beginning, but it works just fine if I do that. I am just tickled. Make sure you tell Denny I am just tickled."

Me, "I will do that. Thanks for calling. Bye."

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rings yet again...

Mrs. B, "This is Mrs. B again. I want you to tell Denny that I was right about the little hole on the front of the tape recorder. I thought it might be a mic and I was right. I put in my tape, wound it forward a little to get past the blank spot and then pressed the play/record button. I said, 'Testing, testing, one, two, three, testing, one, two, three.' Then, I pressed rewind and sure enough, I heard myself saying, 'Testing, testing, one, two, three, testing, one, two, three,' clear as day. I am just so tickled. I can do everything I want with this tape recorder and it works so nicely. Please tell Denny how tickled I am."

Me, "I certainly will do that. Thanks for calling. Bye."

Thought bubble...There went fifteen minutes of my life that I will never get back.

The customer is always...(insert adjective here).

Driving to School

2009-11-09T11:50:00.002-05:00

A sunrise pyre burned low
A grass fire on the prairie
Flaming tongues above the trees

A conflagration rose in the sky
A bonfire on Guy Fawkes Day
Rising flares meeting the Western gloom

A song pierced my memory
A burning for days long gone
Igniting heart-embers that sear with pain

Or joy

Fodder

2009-11-07T19:45:00.005-05:00

That "particular" mid-life mom has struck again. If you don't know who I am talking about, refer to my blog of September 4. This time, she had a Cruella DeVil look going on. She still has the same hairstyle, but it is now white blonde and black - sort of zebra-like. Add to that a stretchy polyester mini-dress in black and white, again cut down to her breakfast, and black suede wedge boots and she was an absurd parody of the teenage girls at the Swingfest performance this afternoon. What is she thinking?

As an aside...I saw some incredible mullets today. One was a Flock of Seagulls type thing on a grandmother and another was a guy who had a ponytail on the back of his that rivaled my Amish uncle's buggy horse's.

I've been thinking about a stereotype that I see on TV and in movies where a very pretty woman who has had two or three kids, but is still thin as a rail, is married to a pudgy, dumpy looking goofball who always gets caught in some kind of embarrassing predicament. What's that about? Why are the less than perfect men on TV always married to beautiful, petite, perfect women who think they've landed the catch of a lifetime?

The unsavory truth of mid-life is that it is nothing like TV or the movies. Real women aren't airbrushed, our wardrobes are 10 years old and we drive minivans.

I looked at the unsuspecting teenagers at Swingfest and grieved for them. Their bodies will be gone before they know it. Their youth will be spent. And, where will they be? In an ambivalent marriage to a man who still pines for his mother's cooking. Their boobs sagging to their belly buttons. Considering elastic waist pants as a viable option. Wearing white Keds sneakers with their mom jeans. Crying, "Oh life! Oh youth! Where have you gone?" Isn't that what we long for? To be young, skinny, sexy and cool again? Perhaps that's what the Cruella DeVil mom wants.

Women, I think, tend to see men as becoming more attractive as they get older. I surely don't mind an exposed scalp, or a love handle above the waistline, or a bit of distinguished gray around the chin and temple. It's quite nice in my opinion.

But, what about men? Do they see women as they age as more attractive or are they always drawn to the young, hot, enhanced bodies of women who have not yet reached a certain age? What about we older women who have sacrificed our bodies for the sake of procreation? We who know ourselves, what we want and how to get it. We who are smart, empathetic, strong and won't take shit from anyone. What about us? Are we attractive, too?

Well, it doesn't really matter does it? Because our culture will likely always dictate what we should like, want and need. Men will like, want and tell themselves they need young, tight women in bikinis. Women will like, want and tell themselves they need a man to make them feel good about themselves. The dumpy guys on TV will always have the cute, little wives. And, teenage girls will eventually grow up and grapple with the same thoughts and frustrations when they are mid-life moms. It's the circle of life.

Fleeing Amish

2009-11-05T16:56:00.004-05:00

The past couple of days have been kinda depressing. I thought my foot was healing well until I tripped over John's shoes laying in the middle of the floor. Then, as I was getting out of the pool after water aerobics, I slipped and whacked my toe against the side of the pool. The pain has been intense, but so has the emotional turmoil that goes along with the setback of re-injury.

I have been watching a lot of TV over the past several weeks. I tend to have it on whether I am watching or not. I read, do computer stuff and help the kids with homework while it's on. There are some shows I really like - Top Chef, Dirty Jobs, Mythbusters, Project Runway - so I do actually watch those. But, most of the time, I surf the channels, settle on something innocuous and let it go.

There are some movies that I am drawn to whenever they are on TV, even if I already have them on DVD. I don't know why, but I feel compelled to watch them, or at least have them on, when I see them pop up on the guide. Men in Black is one. Also, The Shawshank Redemption, National Treasure, any of the Bourne movies. Oldies like Ghostbusters, Dirty Dancing and Major League are others. The Princess Bride, any Monty Python or Mel Brooks movie will get my attention. There is something comforting about them. I don't know what, but, again, I am compelled to watch.

There are times when I think I will never get back to walking normally. It pains me when we have beautiful days like today and I can't take my walk around the block with Raz. It pains me that city league volleyball will be starting next Monday and I will likely have to sit out. It pains me not to be able to do everything I want to at work (namely drive the tow motor). I know it will come eventually, but it seems like it is taking me forever to heal.

Today, my co-worker, Linda, was driving past the Mennonite-run psychiatric hospital on her way to work. Across the street is a branch of the hospital that treats Amish people. It's called Pleasant Haven. So, Linda was driving along and saw two Amish men scurrying down the road, looking like they were in a big hurry. A ways along, she saw another Amish man duck into a corn field and take off. Evidently, the fleeing Amish man didn't think his stay at the Haven was very pleasant. As we talked and giggled about this, I realized that we all have a fleeing Amish man inside us.

There are things about our lives that are overwhelming or weighty on our souls that make us want to run into the nearest corn field and just leave it all behind. That may be why I am drawn to and get lost in familiar movies. It's a way to escape what I perceive is a heavy life or a burdensome load to carry or an interminable convalescence.

But, we can't live in the corn forever (unless you are in a cult of demonic children). Life resumes when the movie ends, or the bishop catches up with us.

A Ghost Story

2009-10-27T16:26:00.004-04:00

I figure that since it is close to Halloween, I need to share a ghost story.

In 1994, John and I had been married about two years and were living in Iowa City. I had a job with good insurance and we decided to stop trying not to have children. So, I went off the pill. Two months later, I thought I was pregnant, but I wasn't. I was very disappointed and jumped to the conclusion that I likely would have trouble conceiving. So, I let go of the idea and went on with life.

Our lives that winter were very stressful. I was promoted to a new job, we decided to buy a trailer in a park outside the city, so we moved, and John's mother was very ill. During January of 1995, John traveled to Indiana often to be with his mother and we were both extremely busy with our jobs. We didn't have a lot of quality time to spend with each other.

Soon after we moved into our new home, I got a call from my dad. We talked for a while and then he told me that my step-mother, Patty, had a dream. In this dream, my deceased grandmother, Lydia, told Patty things about me. Now, you have to understand that this is my mother's mother...telling things to my step-mother. When my brother got married, the tension between Lydia and Patty was palpable. When I got married, it was a bit better, but they certainly weren't friends. But, here she was, showing up in Patty's dreams, telling her things about me. Weird, huh?

So, Lydia told Patty in a dream that I was pregnant and something vague about the number 2. Well, I told my dad right then and there that there was NO WAY I could be pregnant. It just didn't seem possible, if you know what I mean. I told John about it, we had a good laugh and forgot about it.

Don't you know, 2 weeks later, almost to the day, I found out I was pregnant. Coincidence, right? Well, Lydia showed up again and told Patty that I was going to have a difficult pregnancy and that I should do whatever the doctor tells me.

I felt great when I was pregnant. I didn't have any morning sickness, fainting or extreme exhaustion. I felt energized. Then, just after my first trimester, my blood pressure started rising and it didn't stop. Lydia kept reminding me, through Patty, to do what the doctors said and that I would be fine. So, I went on leave from my job, stayed in the hospital for a couple of days and went on bed rest at home.

Patty wanted to know whether the baby would be a boy or a girl and Lydia wouldn't tell her, but she did say that Patty should practice her smocking (that's a sewing technique used in girls' clothing.)

After six weeks on bed rest, I had to deliver - 6 weeks early. I had done everything the doctor said and gave birth to a healthy but tiny baby girl. A couple of days later, Lydia appeared one last time and said that the next pregnancy would be easier and that I would have a boy. It was and I did.

I know this isn't a scary ghost story, but it is one that makes me believe that there are people who have passed on who love me and want what's best for me. I don't know how I would have reacted if Lydia has shown up in my own dreams, but I am glad she was comfortable enough with Patty to tell her what I needed to know. Thanks Grandma!

One of those days

2009-10-26T12:07:00.002-04:00

It's one of those days at work where I had a ton of things to do when I first got here and now that they are all finished, I am left feeling sorry for myself because I can't really do anything in the warehouse due to my gimpy foot. I could shred credit card reports, but I would have to unclog the shredder first. I may do that later. I could also clean off my desk...except that there is a little plaque on the bulletin board that says, "A clean desk is a sign of a blank mind." Well, I don't want anyone to think that I have a blank mind! Plus, I like the things on my desk.

Right now, I have a cypress knee that looks exceedingly similar to a body part that is not a knee. And a rubber heel rest that looks exceedingly similar to body parts that are not heels. Next to that, I have a 1960s Chesty Potato Chips tin and a pen made from a spent 50 caliber machine gun round that sits in a holder that looks like a cannon. A couple of other bullets are sitting there, too. Then I have a donkey from a nativity set that has the ears broken off. The donkey has C.O.T. written on him. Those are the initials of a peer who is an ass that doesn't listen. I have him positioned so that he looks like he is eating a glass flower. The glass flowers came from a co-worker who brought them back as a souvenir from Italy.

I have a talking Jesus doll - "mint in box" - that recites familiar Bible passages when you press his back. He has pasty white skin, blue eyes and ripped pecs complete with nipples. Moving to the right, there are a couple of mugs with pens and stuff in them. One mug says, "I am the only person here who really knows what's happening." That's just not true, but I like the mug. Next comes a power strip, a speaker and printer. On top of the speaker is a Maxine doll who has a little notebook with sayings in it. It is currently displaying, "Out to lunch. And, ironically so is everybody else around this place." I like Maxine.

A raw emerald is sitting on my printer. It was a gift from another co-worker. Against the printer is a little half-round cup where I keep business cards from vendors and ad reps. It says, "For my half-ass friends" on it. Then there's my phone and a mouse pad with a picture of my family at Glacier National Park.

Notice that I didn't mention any papers or work-type things. Right now, I don't have any on THIS desk. If I were to turn around, I would have a bazillion things on THAT desk that I could work on. I suppose I will get to that eventually. That's the place where I count money, weigh packages and do other bookkeeping tasks. The wall above that desk has all kinds of fun cards and pictures on it. I keep them there to remind me that I have a life outside of work. On the bulletin board is a little hanging thing that says, "World's greatest volleyball player" and a potholder that says, "A plump wife and a big barn never did any man harm." My husband has at least one of the two.

So, it's one of those days. I think I will hobble to the water cooler and fill up my bottle, chat with the volunteer ladies a bit, hobble back and get to work on the shredder. I think I may have to break out one of the six or so pocket knives and switch blades I have in my desk...all confiscated from the sales floor where they shouldn't have been in the first place. Not that there's anything wrong with them...they just aren't something we would sell. Kind of like the t-shirts hanging over my desk chair...Coed Naked Racing and One tequila, Two tequila, Three tequila, Floor. I also have one that says, "I have a ludicrously undersized penis." These just don't seem like the kinds of things we would want to sell in a faith-based charity thrift shop, if you know what I mean.

Time to get back to work.

Fears

2009-10-22T19:58:00.005-04:00

It's not been a good day.

It actually started the night before last when I couldn't sleep. I was up until about 3 am watching tv, tossing and turning. In spite of not having a lot of sleep, I felt pretty good for most of yesterday. Then, I ate Chinese food and things started going downhill. I don't know for sure that it was the food that did me in, because the rest of the family ate it as well and they were all fine. It could be that I picked something up at work. Filthy lucre, you know.

One of my greatest fears is vomiting. I haven't tossed my cookies since April 1989. Not that I couldn't have since then, I just won't let myself. I have a plethora of techniques to suppress reverse peristalsis. Deep breathing, sipping water, coke or sprite, chewing gum, antacids, acid reducers, meditation, prayer, reading for distraction, laying down, sitting up, sheer force of will. Whatever it takes.

I was afraid to get pregnant because I thought I would have morning sickness. I didn't. How fortunate was that? I was afraid to have kids because I didn't want to have to deal with them being sick. I was lucky that my first child only spit up like three times.

Then came my second child. Boy Howdy! Was he a puker! I would be peacefully nursing him in the recliner and next thing you know, BLECH! All over, everywhere. At first, I was totally freaked out, but over time, I got used to it. It was only breast milk. Not like *real* puke.

But, then he got older and my older child started picking up bugs and before I knew it, at least once a year, I was changing sheets, scurrying for bowls and employing all of the techniques above to counteract the reactionary heave.

A few months after we moved to Bluffton, OH, Loren started in with a stomach flu. John and I took turns sitting with him and cleaning up throughout the entire night. By about 5 am, Rachel was also upchucking. John and I were spent, but we had to keep going to keep the kids hydrated and clean. After another six hours, the kids were finally asleep and seemed have emptied their poor little bodies of everything they had ingested in the 24 hours prior.

Then, it was John's turn. I could handle the kids throwing up, but I couldn't handle John's. He was totally on his own. No sympathy from me. No back rubbing or bowl holding. Nope. Besides, I was unable to get up from my seat on the throne. Evidently, my ability to hold it down didn't mean I could hold it in.

That 24 hour period will forever remain burned in my memory. As will that April day in 1989. But, I think I am getting over the worst of my fears. I can handle grown up, or at least adolescent, sick. But, I will not allow myself to bow to the porcelain god. That would be blasphemy, right? Second commandment...don't worship idols and all.

So, last night I was struggling. I got up at 5 am to be at work before 6 for a board meeting. I made my report, swallowed hard, presented my budget, swallowed hard, endured a grilling, swallowed hard. I got money counted and things rolling at work, then headed home, all the while swallowing hard.

I have yet to emerge victorious this evening, but I I think I have things under control. I think. It just really hasn't been a good day.

Bored Work

2009-10-17T19:07:00.005-04:00

I sat in meetings yesterday and today. I serve on two boards and work for one, so I know all about how things go in meetings. We follow an agenda, discuss issues, make motions, second motions, amend motions, re-read motions, discuss motions and vote on motions. At one meeting I attended about a year ago, we voted in about every different way a board can vote. We raised our right hands, said "yea or nay," said "aye or aye (no same sign)," wrote yes or no on a slip of paper, said "affirm, abstain or not affirm" during a roll call, rated our votes on a 1-4 scale. It wouldn't have surprised me if we had been asked to vote by dancing the running man for yes or the cabbage patch for no, but that might have been a stretch for a bunch of Mennonites.

Serving on a non-profit board right now is not easy or pleasant. Unless, of course, you serve on the board for which I work. The non-profit I manage is absolutely thriving and breaking records financially. We don't have significant issues to discuss and infrastructure is being developed that will only continue to strengthen the organization.

The boards on which I serve, however, are facing significant financial shortfalls. The staff has already taken pay cuts. They will be asked to contribute to their insurance premiums. Travel has been restricted. Much of our time was spent looking at hard issues like cutting staff or cutting program and dedicating more staff time to resource generation or constituent education. There are no easy answers.

The funding structure for our particular board comes through a convoluted structure of dividing contributions received in our region with international, national and other regional boards. The sheer tortuousness of the funding scheme leaves us with no choice but to try to anticipate what income may be received in our region and therefore make its way back to us. So, we are faced with choices about how to increase giving in our region.

This got me thinking. There is an income line item for bequests. Bequests can be a boon to a non-profit. It's just that you never know when you are going to get them. So, why not *make* them more predictable? Why not hire a resource generation assassin?

You say with disdain, "Oh, Melissa! What a horrible thought!" Yeah, I agree, but, remember, I had been sitting in meetings for hours on end and my mind simply went there. I mean, really, how would a bunch of Mennonites off someone? Shoo fly poison pie? A barn felling? Shock from insisting that someone actually express their feelings without being passive aggressive? It just wouldn't work. I suppose we will just have to find other ways to raise money.

A Dog's Life

2009-10-14T06:06:00.004-04:00

Since breaking my foot, my sleep patterns have been all whacked out. For the first couple of days, I was exhausted by 2:00 in the afternoon. To the point of being very dangerous as I drove home from work then hopped into bed. I would sleep for a couple of hours, then be awake until the wee hours of the night. After three days, I took some narcotics. That helped me sleep, but left me itching all over. As my cousin said, "It's like taking pantyhose off your entire body." That about sums it up. But at least I was able to sleep. Then it stopped helping me sleep and I was just left itching.

Since Sunday, I have been falling asleep in the early evening because I haven't had time to take naps. I come home from work and crash completely. Then I awake at an ungodly early hour and lie in bed thinking about how much my foot hurts and whether I want to turn on the light when I get up to do my morning business.

It's hazardous to hobble to the bathroom. Since I haven't had the mobility to pick up stuff for the past week, I have created a sort of obstacle course for myself between my side of the bed and the loo. It incorporates a few books, an ottoman (that goes with a chair that has a basket of clothes, purchases from Egypt, clean sheets and my guitar on it), a bench at the end of the bed (that has crutches sticking off it in various directions) and various shoes on the floor (all for the right foot only). While it is still dark, I have to rely solely on memory to navigate and I have been known to say unsavory things under my breath when I don't remember the exact location of the items I left on the floor.

I am hoping to get into a workable sleep routine soon. I would like to just be back to normal - wake up at 6:45 ish, watch the news, get around, drop the kids at the bus stop at 7:50, get to work by 8:05, work all day, get home, make supper, do evening things, head to bed by 9:30, watch tv, read, fall asleep during the Colbert Report and not budge until 6:45 the next morning. I liked that routine while it lasted. Perhaps it will come around again.

Routine is a good thing. Summers are always a challenge with the kids because they don't have a lot of structure. Now that they are back in school, life is much more predictable, the kids are better behaved and we are all much happier. Except that now my routine has been shot to hell.

Raz the dog works best on routine as well. He knows that he eats in the morning when John has breakfast and after we are done eating supper. He knows that he gets a "pee treat" before he goes out to do his morning constitutional. He knows that when I put on my running shoes that we are going for a walk. He knows that when I pick up my purse that I am leaving and he goes to his cage. Raz likes his cage. He spends time there when we are gone and at night. We have tried letting him stay out at night, but he goes there anyway. Cage training Raz was the best thing we did when we got him. He likes it and we don't have to worry about our house being destroyed when we are gone.

Raz has suffered tremendously since my accident. He was used to taking long walks every evening. Now, he has to be content with a little frisbee play with John. When Raz can't expend his energy, it gets redirected into bad dog behavior. He has taken to scratching on the bedroom door because he wants only to be with me. You may think that is sweet...that we have some sort of symbiotic connection, that he feels my pain. Wrong. When he comes into the bedroom he pounces on me, sticks his nose in my face and pants at me with a goofy "look at me, look at me!" smile. Ugh. When I push him away, he thinks I am trying to play and then he gets all excited. Like, you know...excited. Like, he gets that crazed "I want you baby" gleam that is so disconcerting because he is a dog. Then he grabs my broken foot and starts humping to beat the band. Needless to say, I have become adept at kicking him soundly with my good foot. Unfortunately, I think he likes it. I have a perverted dog.

Otherwise, Raz has a pretty good life. He has a family that loves him. A routine that suits him (most of the time). And, a comfy cage. He has a roomy yard to run and do his business. A nice loveseat to prop himself on to look out the window. A convenient dog door so that he can go in and out as he pleases (except in the winter). Yummy food and treats. He can do a little salad tossing and self-stim without being reprimanded (but blanket humping is strictly forbidden).

Today won't be a routine day, but perhaps I will get closer to some semblance of order. I know I can count on rubbing raw spots under my arms and fighting with the stall door in the restroom at work (I refuse to use the handicapped stall). I know I will answer the phone all day, work on the budget for next year and do general office work. I suppose that's enough to put a routine together for at least the next 24 hours.

Driving West

2009-10-08T07:32:00.003-04:00

Venus followed me to work this morning.
For a little while she ruled the roost
Playing house with the friends
She gathered from the heavens.

Big sister chased her from the sky at dawn.

She will be back tomorrow
To play behind the coming clouds,
Making the horizon a puppet theater
That mimics and mocks my life.

Please Wash Your Hands

2009-10-07T10:52:00.007-04:00

It's flu season. One would have to be a hermit not to be aware of that. Of course, if one was a hermit, it likely wouldn't be an issue.

When I went to the bank today, I noticed that they had installed two hand sanitizer dispensers in the vestibule. Really? Why not outside the doors, where you have to grab a handle to open the first set of doors? And, why not inside the second set of doors, too, so that you can disinfect your hands when you come out of the bank after handling all that dirty money? Perhaps it's just the bank's attempt to limit their liability or appear to be concerned about the health of the community.

I have considered putting signs inside the stall doors in the women's restroom at work requesting that people wash their hands before leaving. I have watched customers, volunteers and other tenants walk out without washing for over four years now and it truly grosses me out. I have a particular routine that ensures that I will not touch any surface directly between the time I come out of the stall and I walk out the door. I realize that I am being overly sensitive about this, but there again, I have a general misconception about what is actually dangerous and what it not. Germs and unseen fecal matter are deadly.

When I returned from the bank, I had a vintage "basal temperature thermometer for determining time of ovulation with basal thermometergraph" on my desk, put there by one of my well-meaning assistant managers. I think it must be about 40 years old from the packaging, directions and "patina." The thing that made me throw up a little in my mouth was the fact that the package said in large letters "DO NOT WASH IN HOT WATER." Really? How in the world is this thing supposed to get clean after spending time up one's as...um, rectum? I suppose alcohol would do the trick, but there's nothing like scalding water to kill the nasty critters lingering on the tip.

My mother is a clinical specialist for a company that makes sterilization equipment for endoscopes. She knows all about the residual crap that stays on scopes after being used to check out people's colons. In fact, she brought my children stuffed clostridium difficile toys (named "Diffy") from a GI conference and told them all about the evils of "high level disinfectant" as opposed to sterilization. I really don't ever want to have a colonoscopy, but if I do, I will make sure the facility where it happens has the right cleaning equipment and access to hot water.

During a conversation with my daughter, I learned that they are required to watch a video every Monday about common sense disease prevention. It goes over the basics like washing your hands for as long as it takes to say the alphabet, never using the same tissue more than once and coughing and sneezing into their elbows instead of their hands. It has gotten to be a source of entertainment for the kids at her school. Whenever someone coughs or sneezes they rate their disease prevention technique on a scale of 1 - 10.

My father is a germophobe. I grew up with him constantly washing his hands, so much so that his colleagues nicknamed him "Raccoon." He had all kinds of collections of raccoons, but has sort of let that slide in the past twenty years or so. But, just because the collections have gone by the wayside, doesn't mean that he has stopped his obsessive behavior. It's still there. But, it could be that hand washing has become a more widely accepted disease prevention tool in recent years and my dad's ablutions don't seem quite so quirky.

I have a pen on my desk that "talks" when I push the cap. It has Peter (the dad) from The Family Guy on it and cycles through about six different sound bites. One of them is "Hey wait, that sign in the bathroom about washing your hands...that's only for the staff, right?" Oh Peter...and everyone...please wash your hands.

I Can Only Blame Myself

2009-10-06T12:55:00.006-04:00

I was on a high from playing volleyball last night. I also played well on Friday. The advent of the indoor season looked promising until about 9:45 this morning.

At my job, I generally don't ask my staff or volunteers to do anything that I won't do myself. And, there are some things that I would never ask my staff or volunteers to do because they shouldn't be subjected to the nastiness or danger of certain tasks. For example, several years ago, I was in my office working when I heard, "Help me! Help me! Somebody help me!" coming from the hallway. When I went out, I found an elderly woman at the front door. She continued to yell, "Help me! Help me!" as I walked toward her and then she said, "I have to go to the bathroom! Help me!"

Oh boy. In my compassionate and caring way, I helped her to the wheelchair in the corner and told her that I would take her to the restroom. She didn't stop talking, repeating over and over, "Help me! I have to go to the bathroom. Where are you taking me? I have to go to the bathroom!" My inward thoughts were running along the lines of, "Oh shit. What do I do now?" But, I got her into the women's room and took her to the handicapped stall, where, to my horror, she said, "What do I do now?" Okay. Alzheimer's. Got it.

Oh boy. In my compassionate and caring way, I helped her out of the chair, helped her pull down her slacks and got her situated on the toilet. I told her I would be right back if she needed more help. My goal was to close the stall door, have a little freak out and find some latex gloves should I need to help her in a more intimate way. I barely got to the restroom door when she started calling out, "Help me! Help me! I'm stuck in the bathroom! Help me!"

I will wrap up this story by saying that I didn't end up needing the gloves, thankfully. As I wheeled her out of the restroom, and was preparing to call the police, this woman's caretaker showed up. Evidently, she heard the woman calling, but decided to ignore her because she had used the bathroom shortly before they left the home. I was not feeling very compassion and caring at that point, but I was happy to be done with the whole imbroglio.

That's one of the nasty stories. The dangerous stories normally end up quite benign. Climbing pallet racking, bracing bales of textiles and loading appliances can be potentially hazardous, and I do all of those things because I don't want anyone else to get hurt. This morning, I was loading a truck.

We have an abundance of computer parts and components that have been donated to the thrift shop over the past several years. There is a volunteer who rebuilds some of the computers for sale, but he has not been able to keep up with the volume passing through our door. Luckily, there is a local job-training organization that will recycle the ones we don't want. Twice in the last week we have filled two loads of gaylords (big cardboard boxes on pallets) with computer scrap. I planned to make our second delivery this morning and pick up more gaylords.

The gaylords have to be loaded onto the tommy gate of our panel truck, then pushed back between the wheel wells using empty pallets. There is about 1/2 inch clearance on each side between the wells, so the pallet has to be lined up perfectly in order to fit. It works best to have one person on the forklift (that was Terry), one person shuffling the empty "pushing" pallets in the warehouse (that was Cecil) and one person in the truck, lining up the pallets (that was me).

Last week, I learned that I could brace myself with my back on the wall of the truck and my feet on the pallet to help push the gaylord one way or the other to line everything up. Of course, I figured I could do that again this week. Unfortunately, as I was doing that this morning, my left shoe got caught on the pallet and was taken along between it and the wheel well as the forklift pushed the gaylord forward.

Needless to say, I was surprised. I retrieved my foot and called out that I was okay. I tend to down-play pain when I know that I have just gotten hurt doing something really stupid. So, I kept my weight on my right foot and finished up the loading job. When, after about three minutes, I got tunnel vision and was short of breath, I knew that I had sustained a more serious injury than I initially thought. But, I still didn't want to let anyone know because Terry already felt badly about the accident. I hobbled to my office, put my foot on my desk and decided to call my doctor.

I didn't know that I had broken anything, but I figured I should get it checked out. I eventually ended up in the ER, had pictures taken and was placed in a stylish black shoe that I will be wearing for about the next six weeks. I see the orthopedist on Monday. Until then, I will be building upper body strength, watching other people play volleyball and allowing my staff and volunteers to attend to old ladies in the restroom.

On the road again

2009-09-29T20:51:00.004-04:00

Raz the dog and I were back to walking this evening after about a week off due to illness and a bum leg, both of which were mine. There was a smizzle of rain flying and everything was damp. When the wind blew, the trees gathered the mist on their leaves and smacked me in the head with their huge droplets. All in all, it was an enjoyable walk.

I made some allusions to conditioning in my last post. I have been trying to train Raz to wait to relieve his bowels until we have exited the neighborhood. There are only two places in the three tenths of a mile from my house to the county road that I will allow Raz to go #2 - a "natural area" (read undeveloped lot) and the tree lawn of the "party house" that is currently up for sale. Raz prefers to go anywhere BUT those particular places. He would love to leave his pile on the neatly manicured lawns of my neighbors, but I won't let him because I am too lazy to carry a scoop and bag.

Because Raz is normally a leash length ahead of me, I have a clear view of his back end. Raz is a mostly black dog, with a brown muzzle, eyebrows, bow tie and paws. He looks like a mini German Shepherd. However, his mother was an Eskimo Spitz and her genes are evident in his abnormally thick fur and the pure white stripe that runs from the spot where his manhood once resided, up his backside, to the tip of his fluffy, curly tail. The white stripe accentuates the only form of egress for his colon. I know, as we walk, that I have to be aware of the aperture of this particular spot in order to discourage or encourage its functioning.

I have, by walking in the middle of the road, been able to keep Raz from inappropriate elimination. I don't know if he has actually been trained not to go until we get out of the subdivision, or if I have been trained to keep him from going. It's sort of like what happens with children when toilet training. Kids who train early, in my opinion, are more a result of their parents being trained to catch the clues of their children than the children knowing their bodies' clues. I say that as a parent who allowed her children to waddle around in diapers until they were three and a half. It was easier than putting forth the effort to actually "train" the kids (or myself). I will say, though, that when they decided to take off the diapers, they came off with nary a subsequent accident.

Raz was tempted on the way to the road, but didn't actually find a spot once we were "in the open." He did find a slurry of brown and green horse shit that he started to chow down on before I could yank him away. I don't know what is so appealing about manure on the road, but Raz seems to think it is a delicacy. There is plenty of it to go around in our part of Elkhart County.

My Amish great uncle Christ (pronounced Chris) told me that he has a buggy horse named Missy. When he is ready to hook her up to the buggy, he turns her out into the pasture, she does her business and then trots clean on the road. He told me that Missy has never pooped while pulling a buggy. I assured him that I have never done that either.

I have two living Amish great uncles left. Christ and Noah (pronounced Noh-ee). I see them at the Joe B Miller (pronounced Joe B Miller) reunion in Shipshewana every couple of years or at family funerals. I don't know about the bowel habits of Noah's buggy horses.

It was good to be out walking again this evening, even if the weather and musings were crappy.

Dog Drool

2009-09-28T22:33:00.003-04:00

Every time anyone eats anything at our house, Raz the dog is present and accounted for. He loves carrots, apples, popcorn and organic beef bones. He waits patiently under the dining room table while I prepare supper, then in turn, lays his head in each person's lap while we are eating. It is a pathetic scene to which most of our family has become immune. Rachel still squeals, "aaaawwww!" on occasion.

Tonight, as I was eating an apple, Raz watched with an intensity that would rival that of a starving coyote. Before I knew it, tendrils of drool began slowly dripping from the corner of his mouth. It was so disgusting that if I didn't laugh, I would have likely gagged. I probably shouldn't have reinforced Raz's unrefined behavior, but I did eventually give him the apple core.

As the daughter of a rather prominent behavior mod expert, I am keenly aware of my own conditioned responses. It took me years to get over my craving for M&M's every time I used the toilet. Now, I simply do the act appropriately for the satisfaction of being able to wear the same step-ins for an entire day.

Autumnal Equinox

2009-09-23T09:43:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the autumnal equinox. It is one of the two days per year on which the daylight hours and night time hours are exactly the same. From here on out, the days get shorter and the nights get longer. I realized last week that I was endangering myself by leaving for a walk at 7:30 in the evening and not making it home before dark. I am going to have to change my exercise/dog walking habits soon.

Yesterday was also the first time that I had that "fall feeling." It has been unseasonably warm so far for September, so I didn't really think about the change of season until I saw my first combine in a field near my house. Immediately, my sinuses clogged, my eyes started watering and I was sneezing to beat the band. I think it is a Pavlovian response, because I was fine until I saw the chopped corn flying through the air.

The bean fields are ripening and look similar to bad 1970s shag carpet - green, yellow and brown. There are some things that are beautiful in nature, but shouldn't be used as inspiration for home decor. Bean fields are one of those things.

I got my last pedicure of the season yesterday. I don't anticipate wearing open-toed shoes much after the next few weeks. It's time to put the piggies away and break out the sensible shoes. The same goes for shorts. I am looking forward to being able to wear cozy sweaters and comfortable jeans again.

I changed the sheets on the bed to a warmer variety, although it was still quite muggy last night and it made for restless sleep. Raz the dog likes the flannel bedspread and cozies up on it in the mornings to watch me and John get ready for the day. Soon he will be coming in from his morning business to pounce on me and will be carrying the chill of the day with him, warm under fur that is chilly to the touch.

Our crab apple tree (Crabby) is full of berries. Our birch tree (Birchy) is starting to yellow around the edges. We brought Birchy with us from Bluffton 4 years ago. One of the kids brought him(?) home from school on Arbor Day. We planted him in a pot on our deck until we moved, then installed him permanently on the West side of the house to shield our bathroom window from onlookers. He has thrived in Goshen. Which I suppose is a hopeful sign. Although we miss our friends and life in Bluffton, we are thriving here as well.

So, it is officially autumn. I will begin to turn inward, slow down and contemplate the meaning of life, but the pace of life will stay the same. It will likely get even busier as we approach the retail holiday season. But, I will automatically become more introspective because that's what happens in the fall. That and allergies.

Driving to Work

2009-09-18T06:21:00.000-04:00

The clouds decided to abandon the heavens
And cover the earth in a milky-white murk,
Waiting to swallow unsuspecting beings,
Infiltrating the nooks and crannies
Of their clear minds and warm souls.

But I thwarted the misty cover when I saw
The heavens brilliant with penetrating points of light
Proving to me the hope of a new day,
Their delegate to earth waiting beneath the horizon
To burn the mist, clear the mind, warm the soul.

Walkin'

2009-09-16T21:31:00.001-04:00

Raz and I went for a walk this evening. I decided to walk west, into the sunset. There was one spot of bright orange light on the road that came through the trees and I was hoping to walk fast enough to reach it before it disappeared, but I didn't make it in time.

I walked past the mansion and the white goose was gliding smoothly across the water. All of her friends have left for the most part. The water was clearer due to the rain we had recently, so her house was in good order. A heron stood in the shallows, not bothering anyone.

Raz is not a bloodhound nor is he very bright. He likes to sniff his way around the shoulder, jump through the long grass and mark the places he thinks are important along the way. He noticed some kitties at one of the houses and I am sure he would have liked to check them out. But, he was oblivious to the portly groundhog scurrying across the feed lot at the farm on the hill and the spindly-legged doe that stood forty feet from us.

We turned around at County Road 27 and walked back east. As I came over the hill, I had a bucolic view of cows grazing against a backdrop of ripening corn. It made me happy to be living in the Midwest.

The annoying thing about this particular walk wasn't that Raz was trying to eat all the carrion along the road, or that my right hand ached so that I had to hold the leash in my left hand or that most of the drivers tried to decapitate me with their vehicles. No, the problem with this walk, lovely as it was with the views and wildlife and the time to reflect, was that it was accompanied by a sound track running through my head. One that had been with me all day long.

Human League - Don't you want me. Geez! Could there BE a more annoying song? Did you know that you can walk at different paces depending on which part of the song happens to be cycling? Do you know how bizarre it is to be staring down a deer and hearing "Don't you want me baby?" in your head? There is payback coming to the person who introduced that song into my subconscious this morning...but, I don't know how to exact revenge at the moment.

CSI Bonneyville

2009-09-13T22:34:00.000-04:00

As I was driving up to Bonneyville Mills Park on Saturday morning, I narrowly missed an opossum snooping around on the road. He looked quite sluggish, like he had been up all night...which he probably had been given the nocturnal habits of opossums.

About a quarter mile up the road, I encountered more animals, only these were laying in positions only death could choreograph. One adolescent raccoon was splayed on her back with her mouth open in a look of perpetual surprise. The other was on his side, curled in an attitude of bleak resignation.

It occurred to me that something terrible had happened. What could have led to this tragedy, this loss of young mammalian life? Were they in trouble at home? Perhaps the young male refused to wash his hands before, during and after supper. Perhaps the young female strayed to the "other side of the creek" to meet this bad boy without her parents knowing. Did the opossum have anything to do with what happened? Did he talk them into a death pact, relying on the whole Harlequin-forbidden-love-scenario to dupe them into a reckless act of violence? Or, was it a murder-suicide?

We will never know what really happened. It could simply have been their misfortune to step out in front of a one-ton Dodge dually pick up truck.

September 9 - An Overview

2009-09-10T10:02:00.001-04:00

I woke up on September 9 (yesterday), remembering what it was like, 14 years ago, to be in labor. I had been on bed rest for about six weeks when I was told by my doctor that my body would be forced to expel the growing child within for the sake of both of our health. Obviously, I hadn't been training for the event. It was an exhausting act of love that I will never regret. I have a healthy, beautiful daughter who is delightfully witty and smart. And, on her birthday, she learned that she made the show choir at school. What a treat.

Yesterday, I ended up in labor again. Albeit a different kind of labor. The Labor Day weekend must have inspired the general public to clean out their closets, basements and attics because we have been swamped with donations this week. But, that wasn't the half of it. During a weaker moment on Tuesday, I agreed to pick up some furniture from a couple whose parent passed away. They needed to return to Ohio this week and wanted to get everything out before they left. I figured they would take most of the "good" stuff and leave a ratty chair or two for us.

Best friend, Karilyn, and I pulled up to the condo and soon realized that they wanted to give us EVERYTHING - 3 love seats, a lift chair, an overstuffed chair, 2 complete bedroom sets, 2 sets of tables and chairs, a china hutch, 12 lamps and an inversion table among other things. We had to make two trips. Everything was in excellent shape, but unfortunately smelled of cigarette smoke.

But, the thing that I was most surprised about was that the husband of this couple stood and watched while Karilyn and I lugged all of this stuff down steps, through narrow hallways and into the truck. At one point, while we were bringing a 5 foot tall, solid wood wardrobe down the stairs he said, "Wow, that looks heavy. Be careful." It's not like he was old and decrepit either. He was likely in his mid 40s and seemed to be a firefighter from what we could tell. I know what it is like to lose a loved one. I've been there. But, I didn't sense that his grief so intense that he couldn't at least bring the sofa cushions out to the truck.

When Karilyn and I finally left, we were physically spent, filthy and could have participated in a wet t-shirt contest because we were glistening from the efforts of our labor, similar to how I felt 14 years ago only without the surreal sense of pride and accomplishment.

When I got home, I was giddy with exhaustion and made a wonderful supper of pork chops, grilled vegetables and couscous. When Loren commented that he didn't think the meat looked like pork (they were boneless loin chops) I told him they were actually tofu. He believed me. As did Rachel. They said it tasted just like pork and wasn't too bad, but Loren did say he preferred real pork chops. I never did tell them differently. I suppose they still think they ate tofu.

After supper, I took a much needed shower and sat down to relax on the bed. Before I knew it, Raz the dog was laying next to me with his little head propped on my chest. We usually go out for a 3-4 mile walk depending on how we are feeling and what he has to investigate. He whined pathetically and looked at me with his big, brown poutty eyes, but I was just too tired. My labor wiped me out.

Target

2009-09-08T21:36:00.000-04:00

I went to Target tonight with the kids. They each received gift cards for their birthdays. On Saturday, Loren said, "Are we going past a Target on the way to dinner?" On Sunday, Loren said, "Is the baseball field near a Target?" On Monday, Loren said, "Is small group anywhere near Target?" So, tonight I said, "Loren, I have to go to Meijer. It's next to Target. Wanna go?"

I had to go to Meijer because I had to buy pop (or soda, or soft drinks, or Coke, depending on where you live) for Bonneyville Days. Bonneyville Days is a celebration of all things old and pioneer-y at the Bonneyville Mill Park. Since our church sits across the road from the park and is called Bonneyville Mennonite Church, we participate in the celebration by selling food and leading the community worship service. The event takes place all day Saturday and Sunday and we clear several thousand dollars during the weekend. Our specialty is ham and bean soup prepared in a big black kettle over an open fire. And, of course we have pie. I am in charge of drinks - pop, coffee, tea, water - and this year, we will have Blenheim's ginger ale, courtesy of Kenton Miller.

The kids were very helpful at Meijer, so I felt it was okay to set them loose in Target. It gave me a bit of time to look around by myself. I am a sucker for a clearance rack and I found a couple of nice items in the intimate apparel section. Then, I looked at the shoes and coveted some polka dot wellies. Perhaps I could justify purchasing them in December, but not now. I rounded the corner into housewares, made my way to the "grocery" section and found a nice bottle of wine that I may want to enjoy with John once the chaos of Bonneyville Days is over.

I told the kids I would meet them in the snack bar, so I checked out, settled into a table and ate my dill pickle flavored cashews (mmmm). Then, I started thinking about what the clerk may have been thinking as I checked out and became somewhat mortified.

When I get to clerk in the thrift shops at work, I often ask people what they will do with the items they purchase. For example, a woman bought a package of 50 blank award ribbons and I wanted to know what she was going to do with them. She said she was going to use them as incentives for her kids to do chores. But, when a gentleman purchases ladies' "foundation garments," I discreetly ring them up, place them in an opaque blue bag and bite my tongue.

So, what in the world was the clerk at Target thinking when I showed up at his station with a sexy tank top, matching boy shorts, a bottle of wine and peppermint gum? I suppose he could have been thinking the same thing Rachel said to me when she asked what I bought..."Whatever you have planned for those things, I don't want to be a part of it!"

Mid-life Moms

2009-09-04T06:54:00.000-04:00

I was at the "Green Carpet Gala" the other night. It was basically an informational meeting for choir parents about the upcoming year (volunteering, fundraising, etc). It was held in the newly finished auditorium at the new high school. Very impressive.

I love watching people and since the meeting wasn't satisfying my entertainment needs, I had to look around a bit. I figured that roughly half of the moms there had to be slightly older than me and about half slightly younger, so they probably ranged from about 35 to about 45. (This conclusion didn't come from any quantifiable research, it just suited my situational needs at the time. How's that for postmodern?)

Some of the moms there were what I would call "cool moms." They are thin, wear hip clothes and have trendy hair styles. Then there are the "mom-jeans" moms. They are generally pear-shaped, wear jeans that come up to their ribcage with flowery t-shirts and white sneakers. Their hair is usually limp and mousy. I fall somewhere in between. I'm not thin, but I don't succumb to the mom-jeans. (I try not to embarrass myself or my kids, but I probably do anyway.)

One particular mom was a sight to behold. She had the leathery look of someone who has spent a good portion of her life under ultra-violet lights. Her hair was cropped in an asymmetrical style with alternating bright blond highlights and deep brown low-lights. Her eyes were accented with black liner that encircled her entire lid. (I'm sure she thought that made them "pop.") If she had been wearing a pair of Old Navy capris and cap-sleeved graphic tee, she might have been able to pull off a facsimile of a "cool mom" look, but that's not what she was wearing. She had on a halter dress that was cut down to her breakfast and short enough to show her mus'n'touchit should she decide to bend over. Her 5 inch macrame platform wedges anchored the outfit.

Who was she dressing this way for...the14 year old boys? Did she come straight from work...at the corner of Lincoln and 3rd St.? I was so fascinated by this woman that I caught myself staring at her like a slack-jawed yokel. When I came to my senses, I said a little prayer of thanks that I had at least *some* common sense.

It's hard being middle age. I sometimes long for the days when I could wear sleeveless tops without worrying about my arm flaps waving hello to everyone. Sometimes I see the person in the mirror and wonder where that skinny, carefree girl went. Then, I accept the fact that I am of a certain age, that my fashion requires a certain amount of decorum and that my solid frame is the result of 40 years of life experience. I am who I am. My husband still finds me desirable. And, it's okay to be an average mid-life mom, as long as my jeans stay slightly below my belly button.

Driving Home

2009-09-02T20:59:00.000-04:00

In the East
The man in the moon
Rises with full frontal brilliance

In the West
Mother nature stretches out
Fiery arms and purple-orange fingers

Ghost horses
Graze in fields
Of rising mist

Caught between cold reflection
And warm refraction
As the earth releases her evening breath

Boomhauer Lady

2009-09-02T16:37:00.000-04:00

I had a customer this afternoon from Louisiana. She was with her husband in the furniture store and, as far as I could tell, wanted to purchase a dressing table for $18.00. The problem was that her manner of speech was so convoluted that I really couldn't make out individual words as she was speaking. It reminded me to no end of Boomhauer from King of the Hill. I could swear that she actually said, "dang" several times.

Goose-like Hospitality

2009-09-02T15:43:00.001-04:00

Almost every morning, I drive past a large estate with a large house that sits up on a hill quite far from the road. The property is fenced and gated. The lawns are immaculate. But, down close to the road is a "natural area" and pond. I pass it occasionally on foot depending on which route I take when I walk.

I have seen lots of wildlife around the pond like blue herons, hawks, wild turkeys, and a bunch of generic bird-type creatures. I saw a red fox cross the road and run into the corn field once. Ground hogs, chipmunks, frogs and turtles are often squished on the road, making me think that they likely lived around there, too, but didn't quite make it home.

There is one white goose that I have seen at the pond year-round ever since moving to Goshen four years ago. In my first week of commuting on County Road 20, I had to stop twice to let the goose cross the road. It has become a ritual for me to look for the goose every time I pass. If I don't see her for several days, I start to get worried. Did she freeze to death? Was she hit by a car? Is she in the pot in the house on top of the hill?

The thing that strikes me about this goose is her sense of hospitality. Each year, dozens of Canada geese stop at the pond in the spring and fall and she is always there to welcome them. A mating pair spend the entire summer at the pond and raise their goslings with the white goose as a nanny. She is always with them. (I wonder if she is a third wheel to the pair, but they keep coming back because of the readily available chick-sitting.) I imagine sometimes that she works all winter to "hold down the fort" so that when the mating pair comes back, all is well and ready for them.

This summer, especially in the past month, we have had buckets of rain that caused the pond to overflow its banks and spill across the road. The water has become quite brackish and algae has blossomed into green mats around the banks. The goose could be concerned about the state of her house, but she seems to be welcoming the gaggles of migrating fowl with her standard savoir faire, swimming in their midst and herding them to safety when Raz the dog gets a hungry look in his eye as we pass. She swims with dignity, her bill in the air and her wings folded securely by her side.

I'd like to have goose-like hospitality even when my house is flooded with clutter and mats of dust are collecting around the edges.

Pirates & Mafia

2009-08-30T15:21:00.000-04:00

I have been suckered into playing Mafia Wars and Pirates:Rule the Caribbean (is it kah-rib-ee-an, or kare-i-bee-an?) by a friend on Facebook who sent me a "gift" from each of these games. I have been the recipient of other "gifts" for other games as well, but I decided last week that I would have to give them up because of time constraints.

It takes a lot of time to maintain my status in the underworld and my swashbuckling sea legs. If I don't log into the the games at least once a day I lose money, energy and health. I had to give up Farmville because when I left my farm for more than a day, my farmer ended up bald and naked, standing amongst a bunch of withered strawberry plants. I couldn't handle it emotionally, so I deleted the application.

Mafia Wars has actually been kind of cathartic for a pacifist like myself. Doing virtual violence is sort of liberating. It's not like I can actually "see" the thugs being roughed up or the coppers getting kneecapped in the alley. I just "do the job" by clicking a button and I end up with several thousand dollars. Easy peasy.

Pirates has been somewhat the same, but it took me a while to realize that other people were feeding and petting my "dog" Arrrrchie for me because I wasn't taking care of him. It broke my heart and now, I can't help but visit him several times a day to make sure he has food and is 100% happy. I've been taking care of other people's pets, too, because I feel sorry for them. ("This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be!...This is an ex-parrot!") I tried to pick a fight with Crackers the parrot one time last week and I was so devastated about winning that I fed and petted Crackers to bring him back to his full vitality afterward.

Obviously, I don't do well with the fighting aspect of either of these games. I like doing the missions, maintaining my island and improving my characters, but I'm not the offensive type. I just can't pick on people I don't know (or virtual pets that I do know). I am likely a detriment to the other people in my mafia and pirate crew, but I try to do my part. 'Cuz it's fun.

Cornbread & Jazz

2009-08-28T22:37:00.000-04:00

Tonight I went to a remarkable event. It was held in a 100 year old building in downtown Elkhart that houses an art gallery, boutique and framing shop on the first floor and a partially finished upper level that will serve as the owner's living quarters when it is finished. I wondered more than once what the fire marshal would say about this event. There was one form of egress from the upper level because I can't count the elevator. As long as I distracted myself from these thoughts, I was fine

I did almost die in the elevator. John, our two friends, another woman, the "elevator girl" and I piled into the 4-person lift, then a young man plopped a huge amp in as well. The elevator girl, who was the granddaughter of the building owner, pressed the button to go to the upper floor. We moved about 8 inches and the thing stopped dead. It was rated for 1000 lbs. We were over the limit. We couldn't go up. We couldn't go down. She began yelling, "GRANDMA!" at the top of her lungs over and over. At this point I was thinking that if I took deep breaths, I would be able to self-soothe enough to avoid the pending freak-out. But, after what seemed like 30 minutes (which was likely only about 30 seconds) I was ready to push my way to the iron gate, wrench it open with my adrenaline-stoked, hulk-like strength and Bruce-Lee-kick the door open. We ended up having to go all the way to the basement (because we definitely couldn't go up) and then walk up two flights of stairs to get to the action. Stairs are good.

The purpose of Cornbread & Jazz is to provide a place for people who are unemployed or underemployed to gather for a meal and entertainment, share their artistic and creative talents and network with people in the community. This was the third event of the summer (the first I have attended) and it has grown to be quite popular. Organizationally, it was a homely sort of disaster - not enough chairs, no one seemed to be in charge, people milling all over with no sense of what was supposed to be happening. I loved it. The room was partially dry-walled and there were exposed cellulose insulated studs and loose electrical wires. But, in every nook and corner, and on every wall, there were works of art, candles, and decorations. There were elaborately adorned tables and some with simple drapes.

We listened to smooth jazz for a while and then traipsed downstairs to go through the potluck line. I wondered what the health department would say about this, but it didn't bother me. You see, being trapped in an elevator will kill me, but eating lukewarm chicken wings won't.

As we ate, we heard poetry recited, Motown karoke, and a gospel group. We mingled with people of various shades of brown and pasty white skin. We talked with friends and met new people. It was wonderful. It was comforting. It was inspiring. I won a door prize. And, I bought a great hat.

Danger Shmanger

2009-08-25T20:25:00.000-04:00

As I was out on my walk this evening, I saw a hot air balloon on the horizon. It must have been about 10-12 miles away. It was a clear evening and the clouds were just starting to go orange in the west. The air was quite still, too, so I am sure it was a nice evening to be up in the balloon.

It got me thinking about my first and only hot air balloon ride and how I can't always distinguish real danger from perceived danger. It's fairly common in people with anxiety disorders...although, I would like to think I am perfectly normal.

My first and only hot air balloon ride was when I was about 14. My dad got the whole family tickets to ride in the Boar's Head balloon. My mother and brother went together one evening and had a wonderful 45 minute glide over the hills of Green County. Several months later, I arose at 4:30 am to go out with my dad. We met at Chris Greene Lake, watched the balloon inflate while the sun was rising and prepared to hop in the basket. Evidently, it's quite dangerous to be in a balloon if the winds are gusting more than about 20 mph. I didn't know that. I had the time of my life as we were whisked across the memorial gardens on Rt. 29 North and unceremoniously plunked down into a scrubby field. Everyone was breathless and ooo-ing and aah-ing while I was pouting because our ride only lasted 10 minutes. Evidently, we were in grave danger (is there any other kind?)

While John and I were in the midst of house hunting, we got a call from our realtor in Goshen telling us that the offer we placed on one house had been rejected, but that another house that we liked had come back on the market. We needed to get to Goshen right away to look at it and make an offer. What were we to do? It was a 3 hour drive from Bluffton. The kids were in school and we knew we couldn't get home before they finished if we drove. Coincidentally, the man who bought our house in Bluffton was a pilot and said he would fly us to Goshen and back. What luck!

What we didn't know was that there was seriously inclement weather coming in from the west and while we were looking at the house, our pilot began to get nervous. We tried to wrap up our conversation with the builder as quickly as possible, but we knew we wanted to be able to pick out our cabinets and counter tops before leaving. The design center was next to the airport, so we made a quick stop, picked out the necessary items in about 10 minutes, then went to the airport. Unfortunately, as we pulled up, the skies opened up and we had a few more minutes to finalize our offer.

Now, I must say that our pilot was VFR rated, so rain was a problem. As soon as the sun peeked out, we were up and flying home. We could see two massive thunderheads towering on either side of us and a clear stretch down the middle. I was delighted. I was seeing lightening and rain and hearing thunder all around me. It was great. When we finally landed, our pilot was shaking and laughing nervously, saying that he never wanted to do that again. Evidently, we were again in grave danger (is there any other kind?)

I was oblivious and still am at times. I've crossed 6 lane streets in Cairo at an Arab, lady-like saunter. I've intruded beyond the barrier at the Cliffs of Mohr. I've ridden on the bow of a deep-sea fishing boat in a storm without a life jacket. All fun!

But, if you make me sit in the middle of the row at the Cadillac Theater while watching the Lion King, I will be terrified. If I have to ride an elevator to the top of the tallest building in Chicago (formerly known as the Sears Tower), I will want to run out screaming as soon as the doors open. If I ever get stuck in traffic atop the bridge to Canada again, I know I will die. These are the times when I fear that I am in grave danger.

Go figure.

Primary What?

2009-08-24T15:27:00.000-04:00

You may be wondering what primary food is. I sometimes wonder myself, but I will try to explain what it means to me.

Last year, I engaged in an intentional regime of health and wellness with my former college roommate and friend, Andrea, as a guide. She and I spoke twice a month about food, feelings, exercise and stress over the course of six months. She sent me all kinds of resources to read and recipes to try. It was a great way to connect with her on a regular basis and I miss talking to her, although we keep up on Facebook.

Anyway, one of the main topics of our conversations was primary food. Primary food has to do with the emotional/mental/spiritual nourishment that we get from ourselves and others and if we are satiated with primary food, our cravings for secondary foods (the kind you ingest) diminish. So, to put it simply, if I am missing sweetness or joy or emotional satiety, I may crave chocolate or ice cream. If I am missing intellectual stimulation or feel unfulfilled, I may crave chips or popcorn.

This summer I was struck by how much primary food was missing in my life and how much I was avoiding actively looking for satiety emotionally, mentally and spiritually. It is so much easier to wallow in self-pity or eat a Big Mac than to live an examined life!

One way that I hope to satisfy my primary food needs is to write, thus the name of the blog. Other needs have already been fulfilled through old and new relationships, long thoughtful walks and working with a spiritual director. It takes work to hunt and gather primary food, but I think it's better than relying on Ruffles and peanut butter milkshakes.

Shampoo

2009-08-23T21:49:00.000-04:00

Bless his soul, my husband, I think, has finally given up hope. I found a new bottle of shampoo in the shower this evening that I know had to be purchased based on scent alone.

About 10 years ago, I started cutting my husband's hair with a clipper - the shortest guard attached. He had resigned himself to the necessity of this when the comb-over started looking like a viable option. However, all was not lost in his mind. There was still a glimmer of hope dwelling deep in his follicles. Every shampoo bottle that came home with him was labeled "volumizing," or "strengthening" or "body enhancing." I admit, I snickered every time I stepped into the shower.

But, tonight, the new shampoo was simply labeled "ocean mist." It feels like the end of an era, a turning point. Perhaps, the next hair cut won't even require a guard.

Recliner Man

2009-08-23T20:17:00.000-04:00

I had to refund $40 to a man today because he determined that the recliner his wife purchased needed to be "rebuilt." In the process of inspecting said chair, he sat in it, reclined it fully and tipped it over on its side. He said he could probably use parts from his *other* recliners to rebuild this one, but he didn't think it was worth it.

This made me wonder, how many recliners does this man have at home? Does he have them up on blocks in his living room? Perhaps he has one of those mechanic's scooter boards to lay on so that he can work up under them. He probably has his TV sitting on a Craftsman tool chest in the corner and parts hanging from pegboard on the wall. His wife was a portly woman. I'll bet he has a hydraulic lift so that he can make sure the recliner is working properly while occupied.