January 2010

January 8, 2010


It is no longer January 1, that day already a week old, its details fuzzied by snowfall and a lackadaisical brain. So what, I say. Where is it written that only one date in a calendar year qualifies a life for change? And so I begin today what I hope is a new daily routine—an exercise for my mind. Ten minutes of stretching, pushing, adding weights when things start to feel smooth and easy. I don’t know where it will take me, but I’m intrigued to think of what it might show—written snapshots of where I happen to be at a particular time in my day, in my life. We’ll see . . . .
For now, on this third Snow Day of 2010, I find myself walking a fence between past and present, certain that my childhood was filled with snow-packed streets, narrow, zig-zagging sidewalk paths and endless, unexplored drifts butting up against our back door.

Each time I look outside, I wonder if my memory is true to form or if I’m simply being nostalgic for something I’d read or seen long ago. But the truth is there, right in front of me. Already, it has been a magical winter, transformed by three storms, six snow days and a calendar that says surely this isn’t over yet. I know it’s not very adult-like of me to shout out with joy at the mention of the next big storm. I know I should be worried about missed days at work, people whose coats are thin and whose shoes have holes. I know that wars are raging on, and politicians are spewing partisan poison and that people go without health care and food and love and comfort. These, though, represent the constants of life, the hard facts that, according to history books, won’t go away any time soon.

The snow, though, and the drifts, and the magical 8-foot snow dog on “L” Street? These most certainly will fade with each upward nudge of the thermometer, with each sun-soaked day that manages to break through the flat, grey clouds. These, then, it seems to me, are the things I should focus on for today.

January 9, 2010


I’m thinking about babysitters today. As the youngest of five, I spent most of my youth being watched rather than watching someone else. I remember one of the first babysitting jobs I had, for my favorite 4th-grade teacher, Mrs. Sorensen (whose husband’s name—much to my delight—was Soren). I was in junior high, and received her call with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Her daughter was two or three—big enough for a small bed. I had to bathe her—a first for me—and then put her to bed. When I checked on her after putting her to sleep, I realized she’d peed the bed. I just pulled up the covers, hoping to also pull the wool over my teacher’s eyes. Doubt that it worked.

I also remember occasional short-term hires, being paid 50 cents to play Mother May I with Janie and David Asbo, across the street. I found more success—and less urine—with those assignments. When I was pregnant with son Eric—and pregnant with ignorance, as well—my sister Ann asked me to watch my infant nephew Sam for an hour. She was, I believe, offering me a chance to learn what the heck to do with a baby. I learned later that she spent most of the hour in her garage, at the ready in case of emergency.

I’ve hired many a fine babysitter for my own kids—mostly students or neighbors who were willing to work for pennies in a cable-free setting. My kids can still roll off their tongues the names of these fine folks whose presence became a present—Abby, Metta, Jonna, and Maggie, to name a few.

These days, our house still has plenty of sitters, but they are teens and middle-aged adults, tending to themselves in front of a video game or computer screen, scratching half-guesses onto the crossword puzzle or turning the pages of a book. We still manage to do plenty of sitting in the Holt household, despite the absence of babies.

January 10, 2010


Truth in Advertising: An Interpretive Dictionary for Sunday Inserts

•“Women’s” means “fat,” which suggests that all women are fat
•“Men’s” means . . . “men’s”
•”Target” is called Target because they have you in their sites
•”Total Fitness Made Affordable” means “why exercise for free?”
•”Value Sizes” means “I hope you have room in the garage”
•”Extra Value Days” means “days that end in a ‘y’ “
•”Bailey’s Pt., YMI, Bongo, U.S. Polo Ass’n and UnionBay” mean “jeans that cost more because they include a recognizable logo on the pocket”
•”Girls’ fashion knit tops” means “like spray paint, only softer”
•”Exclusive” means “no need to stop in”
•”While supplies last” means “no need to stop in”
•”Earn Double Points” means “now you’ll HAVE to come back”
•”Sealed Twice for Fresh Taste” means “we have no idea how old the meat is”
•Speaking of having no idea, I have no idea what “A 177 pay-as-you-go QWERTY messaging phone” means

January 11, 2010


Why I Have Confidence in the Future

When people hear that I teach high-school students, often they are quick with a pitying glance. . . and the offer of another beer. I will accept both—mostly because I am self-serving, and often thirsty, to boot—but, truly, I require neither. Indeed, my students and my own children give me great confidence in our future. Let me explain. . .

My journalism students give me great confidence in the future because they are so dad-blasted funny and confident and willing to try new things. They give me confidence in the future because, while researching the “important” days of the month, they are joyous at discovering that July is Baked Bean Month. They give me great confidence in the future because the new pieces of technology and software that I fret about learning and teaching to them are absorbed into their systems like chlorine in a pool. So much of their learning—especially when it comes to technology—is effortless for them. And they are gentle teachers of the teacher, when I don’t quite get it right myself. These students give me confidence in the future because, at 16 or 17 or 18, they are smarter than I will ever be, more worldly than I can imagine being, more generous with their time than I have ever been, and more tolerant than 90 percent of the world’s adults.

The students I meet in the library—and they often are a different breed than my journalism students—give me great confidence in the future because they can endure great injustices with both humor and dignity. They give me hope in the future because they let me be silly and still come back the next day to say hello. The students in the library give me confidence in the future because, as different as they may be from one another, they can still sniff out a good friend or two and find a corner in which to relax and laugh—qualities that are vital to anyone who hopes to be sane at the end of the day.

My own children give me great confidence in the world because they are so much better than Mark and I could ever hope to be. They are balanced, funny, kind, smart, hard working and good people, despite their genetic background. This fact alone should make all of us who are parents let out a long, satisfying sigh that, indeed, no one’s fate is set in stone, most of all our own children’s.


January 14, 2010


Ah, and so there are pauses, already, in my attempt to write for ten minutes a day! So be it.

Today was a Finals Day at school, always a bit of a magical day for teachers, despite what might be an extra pile of work on the desk. Despite working with 150 other adults and 1400 teenagers every day, teaching really can be an isolating profession. With five shows a day, the pace, the bells, the whistles, the hustle and bustle can wear away at a person’s psyche. That’s why I’ve always been such an advocate of eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge. It’s a step away from the schedule and cattle calls, and, invariably, it’s a lot of fun.

That’s what the Finals schedule feels like, the freedom of a really long lunch with folks outside of your curriculum. After the kids leave at 11:15, the adults become like 7-year locusts emerging from the ground. We are groggy and a bit confused, temporarily blinded by the sunshine. The absence of bells and teens at once makes us both nervous and giddy and we rush out of our rooms to make contact with others, hoping they are still there.

God knows what our student teachers thought of us today as we giggled, cajoled and hee-hawed our way into each others’ lives again. Julie brought by Ashley, her student teacher, and then it was as though Ashley’s job was to hear about how much we like each other and our peers. We were like friends who’d gone away to college, only to catch up with each other at a local restaurant. And then Chuck walks in, so delighted and distracted when Julie smacks him on the butt that he can’t remember why he came to the library. Instead, he poses and blushes and sputters and makes us laugh until we are crying.

The open fields that are Finals afternoons are like rare gems or hot showers. They invigorate and excite the adults who know that, come next Wednesday, it’s back to five shows a day but, for now, we have each other.


January 15, 2010


There are moments in our lives in which our paths clearly take a turn. Graduation, marriage, birth. . . these are the obvious ones. For me, one unanticipated turning point happened when a woman in my former neighborhood was murdered. Even though I wasn’t in town when it happened and I didn’t know who she was, I was compelled to act. From that moment on, the word “neighbor” became one of the most important words in my vocabulary. Since then, clocking in at least as many failures as successes, I have tried to be a good neighbor to people. I think that’s why the idea of community is so important to me.

Today, almost a hundred people, of varying backgrounds and jobs, belief systems and histories, got together to eat in the school’s library. The mood was upbeat, the food was tasty and the sense of community was hard to ignore. Someone told me today that we have almost 30 student teachers at East this semester, one of whom is working with me.

By the end of the meal, after the last crock pot had been reclaimed and the last bags of chips resealed, I felt the satisfaction of working in a community, where people can like and seek out each other despite everything. And it was this sense of community that I hope the student teachers picked up on. For me, that’s one of the most important lessons these young teachers can take with them. My hope is that they will foster a healthy community wherever they end up teaching. Or living.

I am certain that every job can be a burden. Teaching, even in its best moments, is exhausting. But when a strong community is in place, that exhaustion is only temporary. When a strong community is in place, one woman’s cancer is not hers alone. When a strong community is in place, laughter is more common than anger, and comfort and confidence replace fear.

People talk about the clichéd notion that “I can do anything!” Maybe, for some, that really is true. For me, though, I need a safety net of strong community. And then I’m much more willing to bet on the future.


January 16, 2010


I don’t think it’s ironic that “dog” is “god” backwards. Honestly, every time I’ve been lucky enough to have a dog in my life, it’s been a better life. Who else seeks out your morning breath as though it were a handful of fresh-picked flowers, gladly breathing it in and kissing you for sharing it? Certainly not Mark or the kids. . .

My friend Scotty used to borrow Rasta the wonder dog to take down to sorority row. I always thought Scotty had enough man bling to haul in the ladies on his own, but he knew better. Scotty knew that a man walking a dog was somehow even more irresistible than just a man walking himself. I noticed that he never stopped by to borrow one of my babies, though. . .

My childhood poodle, Ginger, who was, I’ll be honest, a fickle hound prone to snapping when you got too close to her Ken-L-Ration “beef” chunks, made the ultimate sacrifice for me when she allowed herself to be run over by Mrs. Harris, the school’s attendance-office secretary. For five glorious years, that incident transferred into a full-time “free ride” at school, where I could arrive at my leisure--if at all--knowing full well that I had the golden ticket to freedom.

Hobbes is the current hound-in-residence at our house. This middle-aged Wheaten Terrier has his charms. They just require a little patience to see. We met up with Hobbes three years ago, after a rescue group found him at an Interstate rest stop. Not surprising, because resting is what Hobbes does best. When his hair grows out (hey—we’re cheap!) and he starts to look like a hobo, I am quick to forgive his odiferous bursts of internal air or his indifference to being asked to do something, like move. See, he’s a really cute hobo. And somehow, wired in those laid-back genes of his, Hobbes can manage a burst of energy unseen outside of Three Mile Island whenever I utter the word “walk.” It is as if he is trying out for the Olympic high-jump event. I love holding his chest between these leaps of joy and feeling his pounding heart. It is joy turned cardiovascular.

I believe Hobbes’ job on earth is simply to be loved. He doesn’t do tricks. He’s a terrible mouth breather. He’s not quick to follow instructions. But he can lay down and be loved with the best of them. And his tongue is kind of magically dry, which is good, since he uses it with great vigor and regularity. He makes me realize that being loved is a really important job.


January 17, 2010



Some days, you wake up with a plan that you know is destined to blow up in your face. Yet, you go ahead with it anyway. That was the case this morning. Allison is in confirmation class this year, skimming through with the bare minimums of spiritual exertion. We—well, I, really—gave her a bye from attending today’s day-long exploration of other faiths in Omaha. My reasoning? Really, I just didn’t want to drop her off and pick her up. By last night, though, when her friend Jessie had called for a second or third time pleading that Allison accompany her, I started to doubt my original decision.

By this morning, Mark and I had decided that Allison would spend the day in Omaha. Mark had the good luck of leaving for work long before the sun rose, though, so this would be my grenade to fall on. And rightly so. It was a bed that I alone had made. An hour or so later, I heard Allison sneak across the wood floors upstairs for a quick trip to the bathroom. That’s when I made my move and announced what I knew would be her recreational death knell. Tears and much gnashing of teeth followed. She tried all the classic responses—pleading, begging, threatening, spewing—and I did my best not to blow my cap.

I didn’t need this particular incident to remind myself that I don’t know much about parenting. I’d gone back on my word dozens of other times. I’d snapped angrily at her another dozen times…just this month, I’m sure. When I felt that I no longer had it in me to respond with calm and maturity, I turned to my final weapon—laughter—which proved to be the cooling salve. Beneath her tears and under her clammy tresses that were clinging to her reddened face, Allison struggled mightily not to curve her lips upward. She struggled mightily to spit out one more wicked jab, a final perhaps fatal blow, before giving in to almost imperceptible giggles. And me? In my adolescent ways, I just kept laughing. The absurdity mixed with my love for this feisty child and I just couldn’t help but giggle. Eventually, she gave herself over to laughter as well and, like a pesky cotton shirt that at first resists the soothing heat of the iron, she smoothed out her anger and replaced it with contented acceptance.

Really, I should laugh loudest when I least feel like smiling. Today, it proved to be the ultimate and most forgiving weapon in my clumsy battle to become an adequate parent.


January 19, 2010


I have, for the most part, relished these cave-dwelling days of this most powdery of winters. It is good to turn inward, both figuratively and literally. It is a treat to fall into a book, unpressured by the clock or by a to-do list that has been relegated to “won’t happen any time soon.” These snow and cold and fog days have reminded us—whether we want to remember it or not—of the importance of being disrupted.

So many things in our lives have been created for the sole purpose of organizing our lives. Each December, adults ponder which calendar will best serve them in the year ahead. How many divisions per day will aptly suit our needs? Can I really cram all the necessities into a two-inch space? I tend to buy calendars because of what’s opposite the dates—the photos of lush, wind-blown rocks, tickled and formed by turquoise streams that flow through unimaginable parts of Utah, or, as is true with this year’s calendar, the nostalgic, stylized wood-print renditions of the National Parks System, a la WPA.

I like the ceremonial transfer of birthdays from one calendar to the next. It gives me a chance to catch a glimpse of and catch up on some of the notable moments of my previous year. While I slowly turn the pages of last year’s life, I am reminded of a fun dinner at the Johnsons, or an appointment at the dentist for which I’m still paying—there’s gold in them thar hills! I always choose my pens carefully when transferring birthdays, though, invariably, I make a mistake, misinterpreting the single notation “Cathy Wilken” as meaning her birthday is March 15 rather than April 15. The worst that comes of such mistakes, though, is an errant, early birthday card that brings a smile.

And so, I make my peace with this cave-dwelling winter, knowing that I will have time to reconnect with the quieter, slower parts of my life. And yet, I also make a pledge to spend more of my time outside of my cave, in the elements, which feel negligibly noted from my 68-degree quarters. I need to leave more footprints while footprints can be made. I need to tromp through drifts that have, so far, been left to the sparrows and rabbits. These otherwise untouched pieces of my natural world beckon me to get my feet wet, to redden my cheeks with the reminder of what it is to be alive during a most magnificent cave-dwelling winter.


January 20, 2010


"The Unbearable Lightness of Being Silly"
Taking a bath tonight, I found my mind wandering to those most awful/wonderful times when uncontrollable, completely inappropriate laughter takes over, typically at the most inopportune moments.

Angela’s Wedding
As a bridesmaid in my friend Angela’s wedding, I already knew I had a challenge ahead, given that the form-fitting pink dresses had no straps, which meant I would be going braless in public for the first time since fifth grade. Little did I know that my dangling participles would be the least of my worries. Before the first note of the organ would nudge us down the aisle, the other bridesmaids suffered unimaginable offenses to their dresses. One, upon leaving her house, was stunned when a bird pooped directly onto her dress. Another, upon checking her hose, was startled to hear the “riiiiip” of a side seam as it gave way to grander pastures. A third bridesmaid sullied her dress while applying some foundation to her face. The last bridesmaid—aside from myself—decided to sate her thirst with a Coke from the pop machine just minutes before heading down the aisle. I kid you not when I say that the can of pop had a small hole in it, through which the finest stream of Coke showered the front of her dress. Paranoia was running rampant by then.

Our time had come and, as I made my way down the aisle, I could feel everyone’s eyes focused on my sling-free boobies, clutching, as they were, to their ill-equipped taffeta-domed temporary home. By the time the bridesmaids lined up, shoulder to shoulder, in front of the church, I felt like a bomb, waiting for the trip wire that would ignite everything inappropriate that festered inside me. Really, shoulder to shoulder is such a dangerous way to stand when one person gets the giggles, don’t you think?

Within moments, we had done the equivalent of the giggle wave, passing along our gut-busting fits from one to the other of us, until all five of us were uncontrollably laughing. Through some form of mind talk, we all started to act as though our shoulders were shaking with tears of joy, not peals of laughter. I’m not sure we convinced anyone but, about a third of the way through the ceremony, we finally had calmed down.

And then. . . .

And then the minister began to sing the Our Father.

And it had been going so well. . .

Father Forgive Me For I Have Sinned

Mark and I had been ushered to one of the front pews of our church, just a few rows from the pulpit. We had no reason to believe that this would be a problem, though later, that’s just what it became.

It was January, close to MLK Day, and Otis’ sermon focused on racism, a heady and serious topic indeed. Nothing he said was funny, which made the unfortunate unfolding of upcoming events all the more inappropriate. Sitting directly in front of us was an older gentleman, dressed to the nines, as they say. He was wearing a suit that, it turned out, was home to a very active inchworm.

A minute or two into Otis’ sermon, the inchworm emerged, trudging along the man’s right shoulder, just clipping his hairline. Thankfully, it made its way down the front of the man’s suit, removing it from our vision. We had two or three minutes of completely focused attention to give to Otis’ sermon now, the memory of the inchworm blurring with each passing moment. Unfortunately, the little guy was a persistent fellow, again making his way to the back of the jacket. Like a cheap suit, then, our composure began to unravel. Again, the dangerous shoulder-to-shoulder formation served us poorly as a low fit of giggles began to wrack my body.

All talk of prejudice and hatred had been blocked out by then, replaced with our utter fascination and silent betting as to where the inchworm would again appear. I can only imagine how it looked, this couple, sitting just in front of the minister--during a sermon on hatred, for God’s sake--intermittently breaking into laughter while others shifted uncomfortably, unaware of the mighty trek of our friend the inchworm.


Erin Go Brah-less!

Our fine friends and neighbors the Wilkens often took pity upon us, inviting us for dinner. While bacon often was a theme at these meals (I said they were fine people, after all), this particular meal was in honor of St. Patrick’s Day and they’d extended the invitation to include another good friend Allison. I think, in fact, it was the first time I’d officially had a St. Patrick’s Day meal, despite being almost 40 at the time. Also in attendance was Rob Wilken’s mother, a rail-thin woman with a wonderful head of blonde curls. There was no reason to suspect that she would become problematic as the meal wore on.

While we enjoyed the corned beef, Rob’s mother got into full-blown storytelling mode. Really, it was something to witness. By halfway through the meal, she had thrown back the politically-correct movement by at least 20 or 30 years, inadvertently offending great heaps of humanity, including her daughter in law Cathy. What began as uncomfortable became downright hilarious by the time I’d grabbed a second roll. Soon, our eyes were darting at each other, more shocked and delighted by each utterance, awe struck by the rapidity with which she could tell such stories.

Long before coffee was served, everyone at the table, aside from Rob’s mom, was weeping with laughter, made only worse by her occasional bafflement at our downward spiral. How is it possible that the line “What’s so funny?” is so incredibly funny itself?

Quite simply, it was the most enjoyable meal I’ve ever had.


January 22, 2010


And so, the Democrats have lost their so-called “super majority” now that Ted Kennedy’s empty seat will be filled with a Republican’s bum. Honestly, I don’t know that I necessarily feel all that bad, because I’m not sure that a “super” anything is all that great of an idea, unless we’re talking glue or rubber balls or possibly a really large meat-lover’s pizza.

That said, I admit that I felt great about the Democrats’ super majority for about ten minutes in October. After all, as a Democrat in Nebraska, I had never experienced anything close to a so-called super majority of my party. In Nebraska, a super majority of Democrats is defined as two Democrats in the same place at the same time. Or at least in the same time zone. Besides, Democrats, unlike their more organized and righteous cousins the Republicans, tend to be a motley crew with nary a common thread or organized soul among the bunch. It was probably unreasonable of the Washington Democrats to think that they could all agree upon the same thing anyway.

After my ten-minute shine wore off, I started to think that it seemed a little silly to support an idea in which half the people in the room don’t even have to acknowledge the other half just because they have another label on them. I do feel bad for Ted’s family, though, especially given his lifelong pursuit of a health care plan for everyone. Really, this would have killed him. . .

What mostly kills me now, though, are the playground antics of members of both of the parties in Washington. Frankly, this is why I don’t go to all that many parties anymore—they are loud and frenetic and no one really listens to anyone else. And then the food gets cold and people start saying things they really shouldn’t say.

Politics in Washington is anything but fun, yet too many of the politicians there are content to sink to playground-bully tactics of name calling, grabbing big handfuls of meaningless gravel and throwing it into each other’s faces, until someone finally calls “uncle” and…well, then who knows what happens next. It’s like a testosterone-riddled carnival ride, everyone screaming, no one really knowing where they are, and people privately thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all yet not knowing how to stop the ride and start over again.

Taking care of each other is a good idea. It is both human and humane and is a reasonable goal of a forward-thinking country. Saying “no” just say “no” is no more thoughtful or productive or victorious than saying “yes” just to say “yes.” I am not impressed by blind, unquestioning discipleship. I have no tolerance for a system that serves only itself. I would like to see our politicians come to work each day without the labels that weigh them down, bringing, instead, a working list of “what ifs” and maybe some good bagels and coffee so that they can get down to the tough and important work of nudging our country forward. That, to me, is a radical idea whose time has come.


January 24, 2010


About two months ago, my friend and former neighbor Jill called to say that the man now living in my childhood home had found some old yearbooks and a scrapbook in one of the attics. She said she’d swing by and bring them to me, though, just moments after listening to her message, the message itself leaked out of my wandering mind, replaced with something mundane and silly, no doubt. Maybe a shopping list I was comprising. . .

That shopping list was one reason I was so baffled to come home from church one morning to find a shiny yellow bag on our front step, filled with Pius X yearbooks and a scrapbook. I had no memory whatsoever as to who brought these or how they found their way to me. My mind fingered through the thousands of files in its feeble file cabinets, unable to find the connection between these books and their deliverer. And so I was left with the mystery of how this dusty part of the Raglin past had come screeching into the present.

That’s when I gave up and gave myself over to the mystery, sitting down to look through the books. They’d been my oldest brother Mike’s books. Inside each was a chronicle of his teens, a time when I, as his youngest sister, was still mostly concerned with scratching my chicken pox or fiddling with a pile of Legos. Thirteen years older than me, Mike automatically qualified for “mystical hero” status in my mind.

I loved—and still love—all my siblings very much. They are clever, funny, smart, good people—much more so than I am on most days. But Mike. . . lanky, towering, happy-in-his-own-shoes Mike carried his “oldest child” status like a tiara (not really so surprising, given that he was a proud and openly gay man), half human, half god in my eyes. Truly, he was one of the most enjoyable and happiest folks I’ve ever known. With thirteen years between us, though, I knew Mike less long than my siblings knew him. And I suppose that great rift of time between us made him shine just a little more in my mind.

Opening the yearbooks and scrapbook was like opening the antithesis of Pandora’s Box. Instead of being haunted by stuffed-away badness, I was scrubbed clean by the chance to glimpse a time in his life that I knew little about. I read the comments his peers had scratched onto the yearbooks’ pages, looked up all of his photos, and thumbed the pieces of his life that he deemed worth remembering by pasting them to his scrapbook—including all of his detention cards from Pius, as well as the various religious tokens of Boy-Scout-like spiritual hoops he’d jumped through in his teens. I was flooded with new angles and half stories and questions and maybe even some answers about this person who died of AIDS-related cancer at age 46, just two months after my daughter Allison was born. How odd that I, his youngest sister, am now 48 and have now surpassed his entire span of life on this earth. .

I’m glad for the package that appeared on my porch. It comforted and delighted me. And then, in the end, it surprised me by providing an unexpected bridge that screamed forth from the past and connected it to the present. In Mike’s junior-year class portrait, taken in the mid 60s, I found the spitting image of my son Eric, the lean, handsome face, the piercing, happy eyes, the link between two folks I love and adore. And that discovery proved to be the icing on an already fabulous cake.



January 25, 2010


An unlikely symbol of hope and of glorious Spring itself has emerged from the recent thaw—namely, that lowliest of output--dog poop. Saturday, while wending our way through the narrow streets of the Russian Bottoms, with Women’s Basketball tickets burning holes in our pockets, we encountered more dog poop than the floor of a local pet shelter. Like fossilized finds, these putrid piles of perfectly appalling pet ownership littered each sidewalk, sometimes separated by mere feet (both literally and figuratively). I remember scanning the nearby houses, wondering which pathetic pet owner had allowed Fido to drop a fetid load with the same glee and frequency that some people drop the f bomb. And then I tried to imagine the diet of such a dog that was capable of pooping everything third or fourth stride. Honestly, if some constipated consumer had gotten hold of that menu, no doubt we’d have been dodging far more substantive and sullying excremental entities.

Finally, it dawned on me that this wasn’t a matter of bad manners so much as it wsa a matter of meteorology. I know, as the owner of a dog myself, that poor Hobbes has hobbled through this snow-cave season, baffled by where to drop his bombs. I imagine he’s probably toned his calves to enviable proportions this winter, having had to arch and strain to adequately hover over the snowl ine. Either that or he’s the most constipated creature outside of a Veteran’s Hospital.

And so, the poo-riddled walks now are as much a sign of things that once were as they are a promise of good things to come. By spring, most will have been taken into the soil, with the promise of brighter begonias and more fertile fescue. For now, though, they act as a reminder to those of us who trudge the trails that there once was a time, back in the Winter of 2010 (it’s important to capitalize “Winter” in this case—for posterity’s and perhaps even posterior’s sake), when cars had to find the single sets of tracks in the roads, kids had to stay home from school and dogs had to poop where they could, because that’s the kind of winter it was.


January 26, 2010


I just listened to a few minutes of Cattle Decapitation’s smash hit “Suspended in Coprolite” and I can tell you that I’m not really keen on finding out what coprolite is, mostly because I’m pretty sure it will give me nightmares. Yet, I thoroughly enjoyed its fetid feistiness, too. Such is the pleasure of posing a question to your 17-year-old son: “Say, could you play me the most awful song that you love?” Ultimately, we meet people where they are each day and if cattle decapitations are the things that bring people together, well, then, so be it!

I am getting ready to write a musical love letter myself. My school friend Larry and I were talking about the sassy nastiness of Lady Gaga the other , which, in turn, gave me a hankering to make Larry a mix--my equivalent of a love letter. Driving home today after a school staff meeting, I found my mind wandering in the arena of “music mixes for Larry.” Finally, by the pothole on 42nd and “O” (where many a Mini Cooper has gone missing in the last month, by the way), I decided to create Larry a drive-time mix. The puzzle at that point, then, was deciding whether a teacher desires a pump-up-the-jam kind of feel on the way to school or after it’s all over each day.

By my turnoff, I had decided that the educator’s heart requires the musical equivalent of an EMT's paddles of pumped-up energy at 7 a.m., while delaying the longing for the Quaalude of Contemplation until 4 p.m., when our minds are fried by overexposure to people who listen to Cattle Decapitation CDs.

And so, I will pump up Larry’s jam as he wends his way to East High later this week, filling his head with…well, with the nothingness that Lady Gaga delivers with such sass and frass. The musical equivalent of a BLT, these songs will carry with them no promise of better health or life, but rather the pulsing beat that will fill Larry with the belief that “YES I CAN, DAMMIT! YES I CAN!”

On his way home, when traffic is heavier and his mind is spent, Larry will enjoy part two of his drive-time CD, a spiritual scrubbing, mostly unplugged, that allows him—somehow—to return to East the next morning and do it all over again.


January 27, 2010


Two funerals in one week. It used to be that weddings were what filled my calendar and then I dried up and so did they. Now death seems to be showing up more and more, though typically in the form of a generation older than me. Two friends lost their moms this past week and two ministers who hadn’t known these women in life somehow managed to put together moving, personal portraits of these women.

When I attend a funeral in which a minister has no real relationship with the person who died, I hold my breath, fearful that it’ll be another Spiritual Mad Libs, in which the person’s name is inserted in various blanks throughout the text, leaving me feeling empty and a bit sad, wishing someone had been able to honor this lifetime of stories now relegated to the past tense. Yet both of these ministers this past week were really wonderful. It was obvious that they’d spent time with the family and paid attention to their stories. And both, it seemed to me, kind of wished that they’d known these women, both of whom had a snappy, vivacious side to them.

It’s such an intimate thing, to share stories about someone we love who has died. I’d never met Chuck’s mom, but through the stories and the images that appeared on the screen, through the music choices and the tears of her survivors, I left with a sense of someone special. Of course, I do know his mom, through Chuck. In the photo footprints that walked us through her life, I could see his eyes, his feistiness, his zest for fun in the image of his mother. That was a gift for me, though it did break my heart to hear Chuck finally let loose with all of the grief and loss that wracked his body, his sadness leaking out in great gasps of love.

I did know Jennifer’s mom in life. Marlene had one of the most wonderful, scratchy, irresistible voices I’ve ever heard. Oddly, though, I didn’t really know the mother mentioned at the funeral. I kept waiting for certain touchstones that didn’t appear. That probably was good, though, because her mom had a tough time of it in her last few years. She’d lost her zip and her flair, had grown rather closed in and closed off. For me, her funeral seemed almost more foreign to me than Chuck’s mother’s funeral. That’s fine, though, because I got to meet a new Marlene at her funeral. This one was lighter than the one I knew, someone who loved to throw parties and cook for big groups of people. This Marlene loved to socialize and garden and touch base with and look out for all the neighbor kids. It was good for me to hear about the joys of Marlene’s life, and to meet her all over again.


January 29, 2010


There is a certain, unbeatable joy that comes from making fun of myself. Or maybe I’m making a fool of myself. I’m not really sure if there’s a difference, though I think one implies more control than the other. Regardless, after a month or two hiatus, today the lunchtime dance song returned to the library, much to the delight of just about everyone there.

Genny, my noon-time media peep, is good for our school and for our souls. She is spunky, funky and comfortably chunky and we make a good spunky-funky-chunky team together. Last year, while managing the zoo animals (and really, during lunch, that’s what the kids tend to become when they come to the library), we decided that we should at least entertain ourselves while rounding up the beasts, and that’s when we started doing one dance at 1 p.m., every Friday. The kids responded remarkably well, either ignoring us respectfully, dancing along with us clumsily or rooting for us sarcastically. Some even seemed to look forward to the weekly three-minute carnival.

I like a noisy library, which, I know may seem a bit ironic. They really have changed since 1979, when I was invited to not return to our own high school library because I laughed too loud and fell over in a chair. Now, though, they hum with electricity, both human and digital. Come in at lunch sometime and you’ll see a hundred kids, some playing UNO, others kicking homemade “footballs” with their fingers, still others reading at a table or behind a book shelf, and many just sort of hanging out and relaxing. As nutty and noisy as it is, I’m glad to provide them a happy home.

I also know for a fact that this generation of media specialists and librarians has left behind the three-piece suits and shushing fingers of yore. I know this because I know Pat and Mary and Becky and Nicole and Susan and Jodene and Marty and Mary Kay (still in the embryonic stage, but. . . ) and dozens of other crazy talented folks who are at the helm of some mighty fine libraries these days.

I’m glad to provide our students with a little entertainment, as the need or desire arises. Yes, Genny and I truly were a bit pathetic as we shook our booties to “Pants on the Ground.” But the kids laughed and clapped and we giggled and snorted, ourselves. And then I did the moonwalk, as a sort of encore, an hour later for a class that was writing papers in the lab. Really, it was a day of smiles and foolishness and, perhaps, even some work well done. And we all left glad to have spent time together.

That tiny "adult" voice in me says I suppose I should worry from time to time about the stories that these kids might bring to the dinner table some nights. Then again, what parent would believe a story about a dancing librarian?!


January 30, 2010


I swear I’m not morbid, but I really can’t pull my eyes away from the obituaries each day. Inevitably, a joyful, full, well-lived life comes forward with each scan. This week, for instance, I kept coming back to one man’s announcement. Eighty-six-year-old Kazuo “Kaz” Tada died Sunday. Back when the federal government’s policies were wrapped in heaping shawls of shame, Tada and his family were “deported” to a U.S.-sponsored Japanese internment camp.

With a name like “Tada,” though, I shouldn’t have been surprised to read that, upon his release, Kaz found it in himself to apparently not only forgive his government for this despicable act, but also to go on and live a full and giving life—much of it spent working for UNL as an artist and photographer. In his retirement, according to the obituary, Tada also “designed and built equipment for students with disabilities so that they could find jobs.”

I consider this man’s life story to be a great testament to the sometimes ill-conceived notion of manifest destiny. Quite simply, a person can’t be born into this life with the glorious, magical name of “Tada” without the yellow-brick-road opportunities that such a name affords him. I imagine him emerging from his time of living in a compound bound by fear and a fence, hands thrown in the air, shouting out “ta…DA!” as though he had just performed a magic trick of unimaginable proportions. Indeed, given the generous life he went on to live in the country that so clearly had mistrusted and let him down, I don’t consider this imagined scenario to be far from the truth.

Don’t we all live for and relish those “ta..DA!” moments of life? There’s a heap of hope that comes from the times when we realize we can still forgive, move beyond, amaze, delight and celebrate in the magical moments of living. “ta…Da!” is a flag we wave despite everything, one that says “I made it! It really happened and isn’t that just fantastic?!”

I think I’ll try to find or make a few ‘ta…DA!’ moments myself in the winter months that remain, because what better thing could we bring to these dark and frigid times than the white light of magical hope, played out with youthful joy, confident that the fence and the darkness and the mistrust aren’t, after all, permanent fixtures, but, rather, just things to move beyond?