Ordering Indian food for the first time is like, well, other things we do for the first time--pretty scary and intimidating. I had my first Indian dish maybe 20 years ago. By the time the waiter brought my dish to me, I remember wanting to say to him "I think you brought me some diarrhea by accident."
Had me another Chicken Tikka Masala moment this afternoon, only there was nothing for me to swallow today, except my pride and identity.
Came home right after school so that I could take Allison to her first cheerleading meeting, a meeting filled with Allison trying on outfits and me writing out checks and asking questions like "Is that a skirt or a napkin?"
Despite feeling the kind of confusion one feels when perusing an Indian menu for the first time, though, I think I played it pretty cool.
For one, I wore my fancy "school" outfit, the one with the stylish tan pants I snagged off the rack 15 years ago, and last spring's hip-and-with-it two-layered shirt from Shopko. Plus, I've been keggling a lot lately and, frankly, I was feeling pretty dry and mighty.
Then again, it's possible I was just faking it. After all. . . .
. . . there was that perky, pert woman who kept using the word "Varsity" until I finally had to tell her that Allison made JV. Okay, so Varsity is a company, not a cheerleading team.
How was I to know?!
And so it went. In the 90 minutes I was there, in between scratching my so-not-a-cheerleader noggin, I learned that, when a person becomes a cheerleader, said person must try on many, many outfits--perhaps even more outfits than her mom has ever tried on in her life. And her mom is NEARLY 50 YEARS OLD, for Pete's sake!!!
I also learned that there are things called "cheer burgers" made and sold by cheer parents at, well, pretty much every event that takes place at the friggin' school, including PLCs!
But, when I wasn't so busy feeling like Muammar Gaddafi at a bat mitzvah, I started to notice something else. Namely, Allison's satisfied, happy smile. And the easy way she moved from one outfit to the other, her strong, lean body happy in its many color-coordinated clothes.
At the same time I started feeling just a tad dumpy, I also felt a warm glow come over me, much like the same glow I feel after a hot bowl of Mulligatawny. And I got to admit that it tasted pretty good.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Without (plural noun), Life Would Be (adjective).
Every so often, I think about parts of speech and wonder which ones would be hardest to live without. (Hey, I did NOT say that this was a deep or particularly useful activity). My internal debate goes something like this: "Without verbs, we couldn't do anything." "Yeah? But without adjectives, we wouldn't know variety." "Oh yeah? Think about nouns! Where would we be without them?" "I know you are, but what am I?!!?"
One part of speech that I continually overlook in these inane exercises is the conjunction. Foolish me. Because, without something that bridges other things, what's the point of showing up for life?
Humans crave connections, even when we've been hoodwinked into believing that we like to keep separate things separate. Yes, we still build fences like there's no tomorrow. But most fences have a gate or a knothole or a foothold, and how long does it take us to seek out these links to the things that exist "out there"?
My life is richest when I can find a nougat that bridges me to others. Preferably, that nougat--that conjunction--isn't political or religious, but, rather, fluffy and surprising. Those connections--say, the realization that we both love the Talking Heads or bacon--are far more useful and powerful than any geopolitical beliefs we may or may not share.
Why? Because our shared humanity, even in the simplest terms, means that, when really serious differences erupt between us, we ourselves will not erupt, because we have connected ourselves to each other on the most personal level possible. And, in that connection--that love of common music or food--we can find a way to peacefully live with our differences and among each other.
If our relationships were solely based upon meaty connections, I suspect we would never learn the art of compromise or the beauty of diversity. Certainly, there would be no democracy. Or at least none worth calling our own. No. We should meet at the table and share food together. We should pop our heads over the fence and find some silly thing that connects us with our neighbors. We should celebrate the tenuous, most lame conjunctions that connect us and build ourselves a bridge that not even ideology or politics can break down.
THAT is a connection worth making.
(NOTE: Forget what a conjunction is? Here's a LINK to that famous song we loved as kids.
One part of speech that I continually overlook in these inane exercises is the conjunction. Foolish me. Because, without something that bridges other things, what's the point of showing up for life?
Humans crave connections, even when we've been hoodwinked into believing that we like to keep separate things separate. Yes, we still build fences like there's no tomorrow. But most fences have a gate or a knothole or a foothold, and how long does it take us to seek out these links to the things that exist "out there"?
My life is richest when I can find a nougat that bridges me to others. Preferably, that nougat--that conjunction--isn't political or religious, but, rather, fluffy and surprising. Those connections--say, the realization that we both love the Talking Heads or bacon--are far more useful and powerful than any geopolitical beliefs we may or may not share.
Why? Because our shared humanity, even in the simplest terms, means that, when really serious differences erupt between us, we ourselves will not erupt, because we have connected ourselves to each other on the most personal level possible. And, in that connection--that love of common music or food--we can find a way to peacefully live with our differences and among each other.
If our relationships were solely based upon meaty connections, I suspect we would never learn the art of compromise or the beauty of diversity. Certainly, there would be no democracy. Or at least none worth calling our own. No. We should meet at the table and share food together. We should pop our heads over the fence and find some silly thing that connects us with our neighbors. We should celebrate the tenuous, most lame conjunctions that connect us and build ourselves a bridge that not even ideology or politics can break down.
THAT is a connection worth making.
(NOTE: Forget what a conjunction is? Here's a LINK to that famous song we loved as kids.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Is It Hot In Here or What?!
Halfway through yesterday's Scrabble game, Jill and Kristie and I took a brief hiatus and made our way downstairs to our basement. There, just north of the dryer, mounted firmly against the wall, was the newest Holt, an A.O. Smith tankless water heater. Sweet mother, it's a beaut, its sexy brass fittings jutting alluringly from its sturdy and ample chest!! No more will Allison's heat-sucking baths prevent others from a nice, long soak!
I felt like a new parent, showing off my latest family addition. And I'm pretty sure Jill and Kristie left the basement with that oddly bitter taste in their mouths that says "Why can't this be MINE, already?!!" They both certainly finished the Scrabble game with a palpable edge in their voices, each taking pleasure whenever I faltered a bit with my own tiles.
Jealousy really is a green-eyed monster. An evolving one, at that.
So, what things throughout my own life have left me uttering "It's not that easy being green"?! Below, is a decade-by-decade blow of the things in my life that have shaped and shamed me.
1961-1970: The Golden Years
In my first decade of living, I was both envied (see "Cap'n Crunch and the Dentist's kids") and envious (see "The Johnsons bought ANOTHER motorcycle AND a goat?!"). Back then, I attended Merry Manor Preschool (home to the world's greatest sandbox), had a purple Schwinn Stingray (which took me to the heights of greatness when I was crowned City Bike Champ in my 10th year), loved my chlorine-damaged green hair (oddly, something some people envied), and built me a kick-butt fort assembled of wood I'd stolen from nearby construction sites. I also had a moody poodle named Ginger (a.k.a., the great balancer). Whatever "cool" Ginger took away from me, though, was regained when she was squished by a car, revealing to me the pure power of pity.
1971-1980: A Hair-Raising Time
Whatever doors my green hair opened in the previous decade were quickly shut when I got my first perm--think "bleach-blond pubis." I remember catching a glimpse of myself shortly after the perm and tasting hot bile in my mouth, picturing myself 35 years old behind the wheel of a wood-paneled station wagon. This was also the decade in which I let my brother Mike cut my hair, using only a rubber band to guide him, and allowed my mom to smear mayo over my mop as a home treatment for swimmer's hair. Really, as I think about it, there was absolutely nothing about my life during this decade that caught anyone's attention, aside from the police, and that undercover son of a biscuit at Sears. Alas, these were slim years in Jane's "cool" department.
1981-1990: The Top Ramen Years
Back in the good old days, college was a time of abject suffering, when a person learned to live on ten-for-a-dollar noodles and refried beans. And the years that chased college's sheepskin weren't much richer. Mostly, this was the decade of great classes, poorly-paying jobs, and a wedding that, while not as fancy as Princess Di's, did draw quite a bit of attention, considering I showed up in a dress and kissed Mark in public. Aside from my momentary fancying up and smooching, then, really, the only thing I had that other people wanted in this decade was my record collection.
1990-1999: Getting My Groove Back
One of my finest decades, this one was productive for me. I made beer, babies (unrelated), and bad dance moves (again, unrelated). And I made them all with unabashed enthusiasm. Occasionally, in the midst of these good times, I did yen for quieter apartment complexes, better pay and a slimmer waistline, but, for the most part, this was my decade that others may have wanted for themselves.
Or so I tell myself.
2000-present: Settling In, and Just Plain Settling
Plenty of good marks this decade of my life. Great house, great neighbors, great family and a job I love. These days, though, the things I yen for possess zero "cool" value, making me grow ever more invisible in the "I wish I were her" arena. And that's just fine with me.
Nowadays, I perk up when the topic is blown-in insulation, Energy-Star appliances, new windows or paid-off autos. And don't get me started on the value of a good bowel movement.
I suppose, then, that I've come full circle, only I've left behind the admirers. As a baby, people oohed and aahed when I ate my first Cheerio, took my first step and made it to the toilet on my own. These days, I'm still grateful that I can eat solids, walk relatively pain free and keep things moving inside. And I've learned to become my own one-woman band, cheering myself on at each small victory. Still, there is a small part of me that misses the times when those things were celebrated by others, as well.
I felt like a new parent, showing off my latest family addition. And I'm pretty sure Jill and Kristie left the basement with that oddly bitter taste in their mouths that says "Why can't this be MINE, already?!!" They both certainly finished the Scrabble game with a palpable edge in their voices, each taking pleasure whenever I faltered a bit with my own tiles.
Jealousy really is a green-eyed monster. An evolving one, at that.
So, what things throughout my own life have left me uttering "It's not that easy being green"?! Below, is a decade-by-decade blow of the things in my life that have shaped and shamed me.
1961-1970: The Golden Years
In my first decade of living, I was both envied (see "Cap'n Crunch and the Dentist's kids") and envious (see "The Johnsons bought ANOTHER motorcycle AND a goat?!"). Back then, I attended Merry Manor Preschool (home to the world's greatest sandbox), had a purple Schwinn Stingray (which took me to the heights of greatness when I was crowned City Bike Champ in my 10th year), loved my chlorine-damaged green hair (oddly, something some people envied), and built me a kick-butt fort assembled of wood I'd stolen from nearby construction sites. I also had a moody poodle named Ginger (a.k.a., the great balancer). Whatever "cool" Ginger took away from me, though, was regained when she was squished by a car, revealing to me the pure power of pity.
1971-1980: A Hair-Raising Time
Whatever doors my green hair opened in the previous decade were quickly shut when I got my first perm--think "bleach-blond pubis." I remember catching a glimpse of myself shortly after the perm and tasting hot bile in my mouth, picturing myself 35 years old behind the wheel of a wood-paneled station wagon. This was also the decade in which I let my brother Mike cut my hair, using only a rubber band to guide him, and allowed my mom to smear mayo over my mop as a home treatment for swimmer's hair. Really, as I think about it, there was absolutely nothing about my life during this decade that caught anyone's attention, aside from the police, and that undercover son of a biscuit at Sears. Alas, these were slim years in Jane's "cool" department.
1981-1990: The Top Ramen Years
Back in the good old days, college was a time of abject suffering, when a person learned to live on ten-for-a-dollar noodles and refried beans. And the years that chased college's sheepskin weren't much richer. Mostly, this was the decade of great classes, poorly-paying jobs, and a wedding that, while not as fancy as Princess Di's, did draw quite a bit of attention, considering I showed up in a dress and kissed Mark in public. Aside from my momentary fancying up and smooching, then, really, the only thing I had that other people wanted in this decade was my record collection.
1990-1999: Getting My Groove Back
One of my finest decades, this one was productive for me. I made beer, babies (unrelated), and bad dance moves (again, unrelated). And I made them all with unabashed enthusiasm. Occasionally, in the midst of these good times, I did yen for quieter apartment complexes, better pay and a slimmer waistline, but, for the most part, this was my decade that others may have wanted for themselves.
Or so I tell myself.
2000-present: Settling In, and Just Plain Settling
Plenty of good marks this decade of my life. Great house, great neighbors, great family and a job I love. These days, though, the things I yen for possess zero "cool" value, making me grow ever more invisible in the "I wish I were her" arena. And that's just fine with me.
Nowadays, I perk up when the topic is blown-in insulation, Energy-Star appliances, new windows or paid-off autos. And don't get me started on the value of a good bowel movement.
I suppose, then, that I've come full circle, only I've left behind the admirers. As a baby, people oohed and aahed when I ate my first Cheerio, took my first step and made it to the toilet on my own. These days, I'm still grateful that I can eat solids, walk relatively pain free and keep things moving inside. And I've learned to become my own one-woman band, cheering myself on at each small victory. Still, there is a small part of me that misses the times when those things were celebrated by others, as well.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Something's Afoot
Sometimes a girl just wants to wear fancy.
Granted, that doesn't explain my current outfit (a shredded pair of paper-thin tan shorts, one brown sock and a grey t-shirt that reads "i > u"), but--hey--it's not even 6 a.m. yet. And I'm on vacation.
Besides, I'm in pain and pain has no dress code.
Got me a case of plantar fasciitis, which is fancy talk for "I walk like my Great Aunt Irene," which is plain speak for "Sweet mother of mercy! Someone just hammered a nail in my heel!"
I suppose I should take some comfort in the fact that not a one of us in the East High library can walk right these days. Angie, who's like 2 1/2 years pregnant, will probably give birth by the time I finish typing this sentence. And Roxi and Brenda and me? Well, apparently, plantar fasciitist is catching, like a spring cold.
God help the teen who raises his hand for help in our library these days. If he catches the attention of all four of us, he's in for one big eyeful of zombie as we lurch our ways toward him. No surprise that kids seem to be favoring the self-service approach in ye' old library these days. Who can blame 'em?
We come back from a weekend and all we talk about is a new stretch we learned or some new inserts we snagged at the local shoe store.
And shoes! In the library, we talk about shoes the way Imelda Marcos collected them--in great, heaping helpings! Only our shoes aren't those sexy, little numbers that aerate a lawn when you cross it. No, the shoes that get our pulses racing are those clunky, thick-soled numbers that say "I just got back from a clogging competition in Cedar Falls and we got fourth place!"
Even as I type this, at least half of my brain is focused on my left heal--that explains the lackluster writing. I'm trying out a little something my sis suggested--repeatedly rolling an ice-filled water bottle underneath my aching heel.
Just three days into my nine-day vacation, and I'm already anxious to get back to the gals to show 'em my new, sassy inserts and the way they make me walk nearly upright. Boy, are they gonna be jealous!
Granted, that doesn't explain my current outfit (a shredded pair of paper-thin tan shorts, one brown sock and a grey t-shirt that reads "i > u"), but--hey--it's not even 6 a.m. yet. And I'm on vacation.
Besides, I'm in pain and pain has no dress code.
Got me a case of plantar fasciitis, which is fancy talk for "I walk like my Great Aunt Irene," which is plain speak for "Sweet mother of mercy! Someone just hammered a nail in my heel!"
I suppose I should take some comfort in the fact that not a one of us in the East High library can walk right these days. Angie, who's like 2 1/2 years pregnant, will probably give birth by the time I finish typing this sentence. And Roxi and Brenda and me? Well, apparently, plantar fasciitist is catching, like a spring cold.
God help the teen who raises his hand for help in our library these days. If he catches the attention of all four of us, he's in for one big eyeful of zombie as we lurch our ways toward him. No surprise that kids seem to be favoring the self-service approach in ye' old library these days. Who can blame 'em?
We come back from a weekend and all we talk about is a new stretch we learned or some new inserts we snagged at the local shoe store.
And shoes! In the library, we talk about shoes the way Imelda Marcos collected them--in great, heaping helpings! Only our shoes aren't those sexy, little numbers that aerate a lawn when you cross it. No, the shoes that get our pulses racing are those clunky, thick-soled numbers that say "I just got back from a clogging competition in Cedar Falls and we got fourth place!"
Even as I type this, at least half of my brain is focused on my left heal--that explains the lackluster writing. I'm trying out a little something my sis suggested--repeatedly rolling an ice-filled water bottle underneath my aching heel.
Just three days into my nine-day vacation, and I'm already anxious to get back to the gals to show 'em my new, sassy inserts and the way they make me walk nearly upright. Boy, are they gonna be jealous!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
To Cheer Mom: From Cheer Daughter
As my own mother accidentally leaves her "Digital Road Trips" account logged in, I had a wonderous idea cooking up in my old brain...I should write my own blog about something in my life. As many people already know from my mom's Facebook status, I (Allison) made the JV (Junior Varsity) Cheer team at Lincoln High School. Tryouts were very hard, but I managed to get through all the pain and suffering, as did my mom.
Monday, was our first day of 'tryouts.' We learned a cheer. On Tuesday, we learned two chants (which is like a short version of a cheer). On Wednesday we learned a dance, and let me tell you, it was HARD! I came home that night tired and sore.
Friday was the day of tryouts. All day at school I was shaking and worrying about messing up. I knew that the "Raglin Genes" were not in my favor for this, but hey, what can you do?
So after school I rode my bike home speedy quick, and got ready for tryouts. The sponsor, Sally, stated, "A little bit of glitter and mascara never hurts," so I did as she instructed. When I got back to LHS I stretched the bajesus out of me, worked on my jumps, and practiced the cheer, dance, and chants.
When the clock stroke 4:30, we couldn't practice anymore. We were handed name tags with a letter and a number on them. Mine was C9, so I was in the third group. When group B got finished with their tryouts, my group was called.
We marched into the gym and spirited onto the three yellow X's on the ground. My cheeks were already quivering from smiling so much. Then the judges asked us to show them our jumps, the cheer, one of the chants, and the dance.
When I finished with my tryout, it was like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. I was done. I had done the impossible...for a Holt that is.
When every group had finished their tryout, we were handed a slip of paper with a website on it. They said the results would be up at 8 o'clock.
At about 7:55, I eagerly logged onto the computer and refreshed the website page every time I got a chance to. At precisely 8:03 I refreshed it and noticed that the page had changed and saw letters and numbers on it. I frantically looked for my number and couldn't find it at first, but then saw it under the "Junior Varsity" column. It also had a star by it which meant I was a 'swinger' between JV and Varsity.
My mind went crazy, I was a cheerleader for my High School! I screamed at the top of my lungs and ran up the basement stairs to share the news. My parents, excited as well, freaked out with me.
Now my only problem is, is getting my mom ready for all of this.
Monday, was our first day of 'tryouts.' We learned a cheer. On Tuesday, we learned two chants (which is like a short version of a cheer). On Wednesday we learned a dance, and let me tell you, it was HARD! I came home that night tired and sore.
Friday was the day of tryouts. All day at school I was shaking and worrying about messing up. I knew that the "Raglin Genes" were not in my favor for this, but hey, what can you do?
So after school I rode my bike home speedy quick, and got ready for tryouts. The sponsor, Sally, stated, "A little bit of glitter and mascara never hurts," so I did as she instructed. When I got back to LHS I stretched the bajesus out of me, worked on my jumps, and practiced the cheer, dance, and chants.
When the clock stroke 4:30, we couldn't practice anymore. We were handed name tags with a letter and a number on them. Mine was C9, so I was in the third group. When group B got finished with their tryouts, my group was called.
We marched into the gym and spirited onto the three yellow X's on the ground. My cheeks were already quivering from smiling so much. Then the judges asked us to show them our jumps, the cheer, one of the chants, and the dance.
When I finished with my tryout, it was like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. I was done. I had done the impossible...for a Holt that is.
When every group had finished their tryout, we were handed a slip of paper with a website on it. They said the results would be up at 8 o'clock.
At about 7:55, I eagerly logged onto the computer and refreshed the website page every time I got a chance to. At precisely 8:03 I refreshed it and noticed that the page had changed and saw letters and numbers on it. I frantically looked for my number and couldn't find it at first, but then saw it under the "Junior Varsity" column. It also had a star by it which meant I was a 'swinger' between JV and Varsity.
My mind went crazy, I was a cheerleader for my High School! I screamed at the top of my lungs and ran up the basement stairs to share the news. My parents, excited as well, freaked out with me.
Now my only problem is, is getting my mom ready for all of this.
Saturday Morning, Poolside
It would be hard to vacate more than I did today. For most of the day, I have done nothing. And I haven't even done that very well.
Thank goodness my friend Laura was up early. She's the one who encouraged me to go to the Special Olympics swim meet at Lincoln High this morning. Special, indeed.
The meet was just starting when I wended my way through the crowded stands. I found a spot near an aisle and settled in. First up was a relay and I spotted a few athletes I knew from school. One, Kristen, had just finished her leg of the relay and was splayed out on a folding chair behind the line judges.
She looked utterly spent.
I had no idea Kristen was a swimmer. In some arenas, I suppose she isn't, but here, in the warmth of the Lincoln High pool, she was a silver medalist who had left everything she had in the rough waters of Lane One. As it should be.
I like the rules of a Special Olympics swim meet. In a word, they are "freestyle," in the truest sense of that word. I have never seen so many body shapes or styles of swim strokes in my life. Some athletes paddled, others floated on their backs, still others--the more traditional, less creative ones--stretched one arm before the other, a steady kick guiding their lower bodies.
More than once, when the judge told the athletes to get in the water before the race, someone mistook the direction and took off down their lane. No amount of hooting, hollering and arm waving could dissuade these anxious swimmers, a few of whom put in an extra two laps before their races even began. One man, sporting a nice freestyle stroke, finally got the message after nearly completing his race before it even began. When his line judge finally got him to stop, he looked around, shook off his head and said "I'm sorry," lining up to begin it all again.
One athlete was wheeled to the poolside and lowered into the water for his event. Another--a huge woman in a flowered suit shaped like an umbrella--slowly walked the ramp into one end of the pool and eventually made her way up to her lane, not one of her opponents catcalling the delay.
My favorite event, though, was the 200 Freestyle. Now, I was a sprinter in high school. No surprise there. I have always sought the easy, quick way out of things. The most I'd ever swam in a race was the 100. Four lousy lengths of the pool and I acted like I'd climbed Mount Everest. There were only two contestants in this morning's 200. I was curious how--or even if--they'd finish 8 lengths of the pool
Oh, ye of little faith. . . .
One man's stroke looked painful, as he favored his left side, yet it was oddly effective, each pull propelling him in smooth, long bursts through the water. The other man's stroke was more traditional, right down to his rhythmic breathing. They were neck and neck for the first half of the race. At one point--further than I'd ever swam in a meet--the man with the odd stroke popped his head up to get a lay of the land, eyeing his opponent two lanes over.
These guys even did flip turns, God bless 'em. Loopy, angled, sloppy turns, but turns, nonetheless. Heading into the final lap--one I wouldn't have guessed they'd still be swimming--the two were still surprisingly close to each other. By then, the crowd was whooping, taken away by the emotion of watching a great race.
It was then that the more traditional freestyler pulled ahead a bit, steadily making his way to the finish. He must have heard us screaming and hollering and decided then and there to just himself over to the moment. Why do I think this? Because, when he finally reached the end of the pool, he looked up, took a gulp of air, and did a flip turn and kept on swimming.
Never wavering, his pace strong and steady, he made his way to the other side of the pool, where the meet officials and timers and a few fans were whooping and waving at him to stop. All those sounds, that cheering, the waving and smiles--Well, what's a guy to do but take a gulp of air and somersault his way into one more length of the glory?
By the time he'd finished his 200--a 250, to be exact--the crowd was going wild. When his hand finally touched the edge of the pool, he looked around and joined in, his arms outstretched and victorious.
It was one of those "glad to be there" moments for all of us.
Thank goodness my friend Laura was up early. She's the one who encouraged me to go to the Special Olympics swim meet at Lincoln High this morning. Special, indeed.
The meet was just starting when I wended my way through the crowded stands. I found a spot near an aisle and settled in. First up was a relay and I spotted a few athletes I knew from school. One, Kristen, had just finished her leg of the relay and was splayed out on a folding chair behind the line judges.
She looked utterly spent.
I had no idea Kristen was a swimmer. In some arenas, I suppose she isn't, but here, in the warmth of the Lincoln High pool, she was a silver medalist who had left everything she had in the rough waters of Lane One. As it should be.
I like the rules of a Special Olympics swim meet. In a word, they are "freestyle," in the truest sense of that word. I have never seen so many body shapes or styles of swim strokes in my life. Some athletes paddled, others floated on their backs, still others--the more traditional, less creative ones--stretched one arm before the other, a steady kick guiding their lower bodies.
More than once, when the judge told the athletes to get in the water before the race, someone mistook the direction and took off down their lane. No amount of hooting, hollering and arm waving could dissuade these anxious swimmers, a few of whom put in an extra two laps before their races even began. One man, sporting a nice freestyle stroke, finally got the message after nearly completing his race before it even began. When his line judge finally got him to stop, he looked around, shook off his head and said "I'm sorry," lining up to begin it all again.
One athlete was wheeled to the poolside and lowered into the water for his event. Another--a huge woman in a flowered suit shaped like an umbrella--slowly walked the ramp into one end of the pool and eventually made her way up to her lane, not one of her opponents catcalling the delay.
My favorite event, though, was the 200 Freestyle. Now, I was a sprinter in high school. No surprise there. I have always sought the easy, quick way out of things. The most I'd ever swam in a race was the 100. Four lousy lengths of the pool and I acted like I'd climbed Mount Everest. There were only two contestants in this morning's 200. I was curious how--or even if--they'd finish 8 lengths of the pool
Oh, ye of little faith. . . .
One man's stroke looked painful, as he favored his left side, yet it was oddly effective, each pull propelling him in smooth, long bursts through the water. The other man's stroke was more traditional, right down to his rhythmic breathing. They were neck and neck for the first half of the race. At one point--further than I'd ever swam in a meet--the man with the odd stroke popped his head up to get a lay of the land, eyeing his opponent two lanes over.
These guys even did flip turns, God bless 'em. Loopy, angled, sloppy turns, but turns, nonetheless. Heading into the final lap--one I wouldn't have guessed they'd still be swimming--the two were still surprisingly close to each other. By then, the crowd was whooping, taken away by the emotion of watching a great race.
It was then that the more traditional freestyler pulled ahead a bit, steadily making his way to the finish. He must have heard us screaming and hollering and decided then and there to just himself over to the moment. Why do I think this? Because, when he finally reached the end of the pool, he looked up, took a gulp of air, and did a flip turn and kept on swimming.
Never wavering, his pace strong and steady, he made his way to the other side of the pool, where the meet officials and timers and a few fans were whooping and waving at him to stop. All those sounds, that cheering, the waving and smiles--Well, what's a guy to do but take a gulp of air and somersault his way into one more length of the glory?
By the time he'd finished his 200--a 250, to be exact--the crowd was going wild. When his hand finally touched the edge of the pool, he looked around and joined in, his arms outstretched and victorious.
It was one of those "glad to be there" moments for all of us.
Seven Servings of Teens: A Teacher's RDA
A school day is both a beautiful and a horrifying thing. How many other professions have 7 new beginnings in a single 8-hour period of time?
We are not cattle--I get that--but there is something to be said for chunking out a day in 50-minute increments. And for grass-fed, free-range teenagers, but that's another entry...
This "Groundhog's Day" approach to a job can be a lifesaver, especially when something isn't going so well. It can also bring on a bad case of the split personalities, too, depending upon the makeup of your classes.
More than a few teachers have had their "Sybil" moments or days or years, when one class of students has fallen in love while the next is a group who would rather chew off their arms than sit in that room for an hour.
And yet, and yet . . . .
What is a teacher, if not hopeful? Why show up if you don't think that today might be the day when a synapse fires, or a head is lifted from the desk?
On our best days, teachers are the antithesis of Limbo lords, nudging our students ever higher above the poles that we hold before them. Most days, though, we simply hope that, among the 7 chances we are given, one turns out to be a pot of gold. Or silver. Or lukewarm, leftover soup.
On those days, it is important to remember that old Campbell's adage--Soup is good food.
A job filled with do-overs can be exhausting. And confusing. And liberating. The same can be said of a life. As for me, I'll take seven servings of "do overs" over calling "Uncle" any day.
We are not cattle--I get that--but there is something to be said for chunking out a day in 50-minute increments. And for grass-fed, free-range teenagers, but that's another entry...
This "Groundhog's Day" approach to a job can be a lifesaver, especially when something isn't going so well. It can also bring on a bad case of the split personalities, too, depending upon the makeup of your classes.
More than a few teachers have had their "Sybil" moments or days or years, when one class of students has fallen in love while the next is a group who would rather chew off their arms than sit in that room for an hour.
And yet, and yet . . . .
What is a teacher, if not hopeful? Why show up if you don't think that today might be the day when a synapse fires, or a head is lifted from the desk?
On our best days, teachers are the antithesis of Limbo lords, nudging our students ever higher above the poles that we hold before them. Most days, though, we simply hope that, among the 7 chances we are given, one turns out to be a pot of gold. Or silver. Or lukewarm, leftover soup.
On those days, it is important to remember that old Campbell's adage--Soup is good food.
A job filled with do-overs can be exhausting. And confusing. And liberating. The same can be said of a life. As for me, I'll take seven servings of "do overs" over calling "Uncle" any day.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Genesis, the Original Soap Opera
So many men, so few last names. . . .
That's not my take on my college years so much as it is my general feeling about the Bible.
I guess I've never been big on the classics. And nothing says "classic" quite like the Old Testament.
(Did I ever mention that I'm not much of a librarian? Not in that classic sense, anyway.)
Growing up, my exposure to scripture was limited to whatever passages the church had okayed for the priests to share with us that week. I can't recall a Bible in our home, though I'm sure we had one. Probably tucked in near the set of World Book Encyclopedias, part of that dusty "just in case" section of our family's library.
I dabbled a bit in the New Testament when I was a Young Life leader. In fact, the Bible I used through most of those years actually has pencil scratchings and dog-eared pages, signifying my moments of near understanding.
My ignorance, though, is my problem, not the Bible's. And it's not one I've spent much time solving, either.
That's what made Sunday's sermon so interesting. That morning, our minister kicked off his "Seven Great Books of the Bible" Lenten series. Oh, great. And so, he began in the beginning--Genesis. It took a few minutes for my mind to clear, what with Phil Collins' songs filling my head, but, eventually, I grudgingly gave myself over to a lesson in the classics.
Ho hum. Yawn. Twiddle, twiddle, twiddle.
But it turned out to be not so ho hum. Genesis, after all, has a pretty good plot line, what with the formation of the universe and the creation of humans and all. Hard to go wrong with that kind of building action. What I'd forgotten, though, was what a bunch of scalawags we are introduced to in this book. For much of it, no one can seem to do anything right.
And I find that to be oddly comforting.
You've got your nudist colony of two--Adam and Eve--who can't keep their hands off the apples. Their sons weren't much better, one killing the other over some silly matter or other. There is forgery and fornication, prejudice and impropriety. In terms of breeding, this was not much of a family line with which to start a species.
But God hung in there, which is really pretty amazing. And I work with teens every day, so I know what it means to hang in there.
Thirty-nine books later, when God was out with the Old and in with the New, our ancestors were still driving Him cuckoo. But, by then, God had softened a bit, maybe even having grown fond of this troupe of troublemakers. And so, He replaced pestilence and war with forgiveness and patience.
I suppose I should miss all the breast-beating, cheating and general violence of the Old Testament, but I rather like the new and improved story, still replete with plenty of colorful characters.
And hats off to a God who could've forced them to act in a certain way but didn't. That is a classic storyline you don't read every day.
That's not my take on my college years so much as it is my general feeling about the Bible.
I guess I've never been big on the classics. And nothing says "classic" quite like the Old Testament.
(Did I ever mention that I'm not much of a librarian? Not in that classic sense, anyway.)
Growing up, my exposure to scripture was limited to whatever passages the church had okayed for the priests to share with us that week. I can't recall a Bible in our home, though I'm sure we had one. Probably tucked in near the set of World Book Encyclopedias, part of that dusty "just in case" section of our family's library.
I dabbled a bit in the New Testament when I was a Young Life leader. In fact, the Bible I used through most of those years actually has pencil scratchings and dog-eared pages, signifying my moments of near understanding.
My ignorance, though, is my problem, not the Bible's. And it's not one I've spent much time solving, either.
That's what made Sunday's sermon so interesting. That morning, our minister kicked off his "Seven Great Books of the Bible" Lenten series. Oh, great. And so, he began in the beginning--Genesis. It took a few minutes for my mind to clear, what with Phil Collins' songs filling my head, but, eventually, I grudgingly gave myself over to a lesson in the classics.
Ho hum. Yawn. Twiddle, twiddle, twiddle.
But it turned out to be not so ho hum. Genesis, after all, has a pretty good plot line, what with the formation of the universe and the creation of humans and all. Hard to go wrong with that kind of building action. What I'd forgotten, though, was what a bunch of scalawags we are introduced to in this book. For much of it, no one can seem to do anything right.
And I find that to be oddly comforting.
You've got your nudist colony of two--Adam and Eve--who can't keep their hands off the apples. Their sons weren't much better, one killing the other over some silly matter or other. There is forgery and fornication, prejudice and impropriety. In terms of breeding, this was not much of a family line with which to start a species.
But God hung in there, which is really pretty amazing. And I work with teens every day, so I know what it means to hang in there.
Thirty-nine books later, when God was out with the Old and in with the New, our ancestors were still driving Him cuckoo. But, by then, God had softened a bit, maybe even having grown fond of this troupe of troublemakers. And so, He replaced pestilence and war with forgiveness and patience.
I suppose I should miss all the breast-beating, cheating and general violence of the Old Testament, but I rather like the new and improved story, still replete with plenty of colorful characters.
And hats off to a God who could've forced them to act in a certain way but didn't. That is a classic storyline you don't read every day.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Standardized Tests Give Me A Low-Grade Fever
The night before I took the ACT in 1979, I was attending a prestigious party in a cornfield just east of town. Shortly after midnight, my friends and I piled into the car and wended our way back to Lincoln. Halfway home, someone in the backseat rolled down the window and threw up. It was a vivid science lesson for all of us, one that proved just how hard it is to throw liquid into a stiff, 60-mile-an-hour wind.
Back then, there were no John Baylors or Sylvan Learning Centers. In fact, I'm not sure I knew of one classmate who retook the ACT. And yet, colleges seemed more than happy to take in our warm, flatulent bodies. In fact, for some colleges, those qualities alone seemed to be their only requirements for admittance.
Boy, have times changed.
I pity today's students, who take more tests than a heroin addict in a methadone clinic. And what really chaps my educator hide is the seemingly endless compost pile of ever more standardized tests being heaped upon these voiceless victims.
You'd think that, in a society now bombarded by a bevy of bulbous boys and girls, we'd finally understand that "more" does not mean "better." And yet, I have seen nothing taken off of the "standardized testing" plate; rather, only additional servings heaped one upon the other.
Sure, the public is always free to blame students' failures on incompetent teachers, much as Charlie Sheen is free to believe he has tiger blood and is a rock star from Mars. Still, there's something to be said for spending some time on the front lines.
When, exactly, did the act of spending five hours a week with a teenager and evaluating that teenager based upon that time together get usurped by the idea that a standardized test, mandated by part-time legislators who meet 60 days a year, would provide a better measure of that teen's knowledge?
Worse yet, today's standardized tests require incredibly expensive delivery devices--namely, computers and high-speed Internet access. Gone are the days of #2 pencils and bubble sheets, neither of which had ever crashed or seized up midway through a test. These days, school libraries and labs are shut down for weeks at a time, and class times swell or shrink, all to accommodate the unwieldy way we now test our kids.
Plugged in? Hardly. "Plugged up" is more like it. Show me one thing--education included--that can thrive for long with a backed-up system.
Back then, there were no John Baylors or Sylvan Learning Centers. In fact, I'm not sure I knew of one classmate who retook the ACT. And yet, colleges seemed more than happy to take in our warm, flatulent bodies. In fact, for some colleges, those qualities alone seemed to be their only requirements for admittance.
Boy, have times changed.
I pity today's students, who take more tests than a heroin addict in a methadone clinic. And what really chaps my educator hide is the seemingly endless compost pile of ever more standardized tests being heaped upon these voiceless victims.
You'd think that, in a society now bombarded by a bevy of bulbous boys and girls, we'd finally understand that "more" does not mean "better." And yet, I have seen nothing taken off of the "standardized testing" plate; rather, only additional servings heaped one upon the other.
Sure, the public is always free to blame students' failures on incompetent teachers, much as Charlie Sheen is free to believe he has tiger blood and is a rock star from Mars. Still, there's something to be said for spending some time on the front lines.
When, exactly, did the act of spending five hours a week with a teenager and evaluating that teenager based upon that time together get usurped by the idea that a standardized test, mandated by part-time legislators who meet 60 days a year, would provide a better measure of that teen's knowledge?
Worse yet, today's standardized tests require incredibly expensive delivery devices--namely, computers and high-speed Internet access. Gone are the days of #2 pencils and bubble sheets, neither of which had ever crashed or seized up midway through a test. These days, school libraries and labs are shut down for weeks at a time, and class times swell or shrink, all to accommodate the unwieldy way we now test our kids.
Plugged in? Hardly. "Plugged up" is more like it. Show me one thing--education included--that can thrive for long with a backed-up system.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
And The Earth Swallowed Them Up
A springtime saunter through the neighborhood is always a revealing venture. The mere presence of the sun seems to call forth the most sluggish of cavemen, luring them into front yards, garages and gardens, where even the prospect of a mindless project manages to quicken the pulse.
And so, yesterday, as Hobbes and I explored ever more places to snoop and sniff, I reconnected with neighbors, pets, perennials, each just now peeking out, seemingly convinced that the last icy grip of winter had become nothing but a vague memory.
Hey, it never hurts to dream.
A half block down from my house, I also discovered that most revered of urban archeological digs--a recently-purged pile of household items hugging the curb. Back when I lived in the Near South, these piles often proved to be the sources of both refurbished living rooms and revamped closets.
More than once, Mark and I would anxiously haul a beefy discard to the curb, betting on how long it would remain there, knowing that the garbage man most likely would never even get his hands on the item. We seldom were disappointed by the local scavengers, most of whom seemed to require nothing more than the irresistible absence of a price tag.
Still, there are other, darker tales to tell from a discarded pile of goods. Yesterday, that fact became painfully obvious to me as I wandered past the duplex three houses down from my place. Like a scar laid out for all to see, sometimes discards speak of grief or shame, laid bare for the world. That the door of a newly emptied and unusually tidy garage was wide open just iced that bitter cake for me.
Someone had abandoned the place they'd called "home" for the past three or four years, with nary a neighborhood barbecue or handshake to mark their new absence. They simply disappeared, and that pile by the curb took on a heartbreaking role in this chapter of their lives.
For the past three or four years, this quiet Muslim family had made Woods Avenue theirs. The father, a lanky, quiet black man, was cordial if not overly talkative. The same could be said of his foreign-born wife, a Middle Eastern woman swathed in her hijab, a warm, shy smile often breaking the plane of her somber face. Ah, but their son Hudson, with the energy and focus that only a 10-year-old can possess, treated the extra-long stretch of unbroken sidewalks as a kind of frenetic runway, the starting point of more than a few adventures.
He was the fireball of the family, always chattering with himself, holding wildly fantastic conversations with whatever character he'd created for the moment. He could jump like a jack rabbit and run like a cheetah, tapping some unseen source of endless energy.
And then, one day, he was gone. Just like that. Taken away by a birth mother who, after 8 or 9 years (most of his life, certainly), had returned to the scene, now certain of her need for a son she'd previously neither known nor tended to.
How is it possible that a child can simply disappear? How is it possible that, one morning which seems so much like all the rest, can bring with it such devastating change? How can it be that a string of unfamiliar cars filled with unfamiliar faces can pull in your drive, knock on your door and take away that which is so essential to your being?
These are the questions that haunted me yesterday as I made my way by the pile next to the curb. And I could not bear to scan the evidence of lives forever altered, the physical signs of resignation and grief.
I could only wonder if, indeed, it is possible to make a new life in a new place without the patter of 10-year-old energy, without the soundtrack of a voice you'd come to love and listen for.
For now, I have lost my taste for the things by the curb. They simply are too painful for me to consider.
And so, yesterday, as Hobbes and I explored ever more places to snoop and sniff, I reconnected with neighbors, pets, perennials, each just now peeking out, seemingly convinced that the last icy grip of winter had become nothing but a vague memory.
Hey, it never hurts to dream.
A half block down from my house, I also discovered that most revered of urban archeological digs--a recently-purged pile of household items hugging the curb. Back when I lived in the Near South, these piles often proved to be the sources of both refurbished living rooms and revamped closets.
More than once, Mark and I would anxiously haul a beefy discard to the curb, betting on how long it would remain there, knowing that the garbage man most likely would never even get his hands on the item. We seldom were disappointed by the local scavengers, most of whom seemed to require nothing more than the irresistible absence of a price tag.
Still, there are other, darker tales to tell from a discarded pile of goods. Yesterday, that fact became painfully obvious to me as I wandered past the duplex three houses down from my place. Like a scar laid out for all to see, sometimes discards speak of grief or shame, laid bare for the world. That the door of a newly emptied and unusually tidy garage was wide open just iced that bitter cake for me.
Someone had abandoned the place they'd called "home" for the past three or four years, with nary a neighborhood barbecue or handshake to mark their new absence. They simply disappeared, and that pile by the curb took on a heartbreaking role in this chapter of their lives.
For the past three or four years, this quiet Muslim family had made Woods Avenue theirs. The father, a lanky, quiet black man, was cordial if not overly talkative. The same could be said of his foreign-born wife, a Middle Eastern woman swathed in her hijab, a warm, shy smile often breaking the plane of her somber face. Ah, but their son Hudson, with the energy and focus that only a 10-year-old can possess, treated the extra-long stretch of unbroken sidewalks as a kind of frenetic runway, the starting point of more than a few adventures.
He was the fireball of the family, always chattering with himself, holding wildly fantastic conversations with whatever character he'd created for the moment. He could jump like a jack rabbit and run like a cheetah, tapping some unseen source of endless energy.
And then, one day, he was gone. Just like that. Taken away by a birth mother who, after 8 or 9 years (most of his life, certainly), had returned to the scene, now certain of her need for a son she'd previously neither known nor tended to.
How is it possible that a child can simply disappear? How is it possible that, one morning which seems so much like all the rest, can bring with it such devastating change? How can it be that a string of unfamiliar cars filled with unfamiliar faces can pull in your drive, knock on your door and take away that which is so essential to your being?
These are the questions that haunted me yesterday as I made my way by the pile next to the curb. And I could not bear to scan the evidence of lives forever altered, the physical signs of resignation and grief.
I could only wonder if, indeed, it is possible to make a new life in a new place without the patter of 10-year-old energy, without the soundtrack of a voice you'd come to love and listen for.
For now, I have lost my taste for the things by the curb. They simply are too painful for me to consider.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Hello, World. It's Been Awhile.
One day.
One wide-open, crystal-clear Spring day.
One day and, suddenly, I'm right with God again.
Sure, I still woke long before 5 a.m., but I was not nudged from bed by thoughts of yearbook deadlines or sack lunches. Even the same old time feels new again when the day is all yours.
I took my time heading downstairs, stretching out in bed and getting lost in "Moon Over Manifest," a mighty fine book that's taken me to other times and places.
Just like today.
I love my family dearly, but the chance to spend a weekday just with Mark, a man who makes his money on the weekends, is a chance I will always take. A mild crosswords war, some time spent with the "Victory Garden", stretching out on the floor alongside Hobbes, swimming in the sunlight that pours through our front door.
We lollygag about, winding our way through Woods Park, our time alone punctuated by meandering strings of passing geese, frustrated flickers flitting from tree to tree, the empty pool that I can almost imagine filled up again, and Hobbes off his leash exploring invisible scents I wish never to know.
A free day turns ordinary things into extravagant gifts, seen with fresh and appreciative eyes. A half dozen young squirrels have been playing tag in our backyard all day long, fat with their first winter and anxious to say they've made it through to the other side. Choirs of chickadees warm up their chit-chit-chitting voices in the warmth of this spring day.
It is as though we all got the memo--the birds, the dog, the garden, the chickens down the block--and none of us can quite believe it, happily pinching each other and committing our hearts and tongues to the words of Spring.
Like my car, now dripping in the driveway, its winter skin slinking its soapy way down the sidewalk, I have come clean on this, a perfect and free Spring day.
One wide-open, crystal-clear Spring day.
One day and, suddenly, I'm right with God again.
Sure, I still woke long before 5 a.m., but I was not nudged from bed by thoughts of yearbook deadlines or sack lunches. Even the same old time feels new again when the day is all yours.
I took my time heading downstairs, stretching out in bed and getting lost in "Moon Over Manifest," a mighty fine book that's taken me to other times and places.
Just like today.
I love my family dearly, but the chance to spend a weekday just with Mark, a man who makes his money on the weekends, is a chance I will always take. A mild crosswords war, some time spent with the "Victory Garden", stretching out on the floor alongside Hobbes, swimming in the sunlight that pours through our front door.
We lollygag about, winding our way through Woods Park, our time alone punctuated by meandering strings of passing geese, frustrated flickers flitting from tree to tree, the empty pool that I can almost imagine filled up again, and Hobbes off his leash exploring invisible scents I wish never to know.
A free day turns ordinary things into extravagant gifts, seen with fresh and appreciative eyes. A half dozen young squirrels have been playing tag in our backyard all day long, fat with their first winter and anxious to say they've made it through to the other side. Choirs of chickadees warm up their chit-chit-chitting voices in the warmth of this spring day.
It is as though we all got the memo--the birds, the dog, the garden, the chickens down the block--and none of us can quite believe it, happily pinching each other and committing our hearts and tongues to the words of Spring.
Like my car, now dripping in the driveway, its winter skin slinking its soapy way down the sidewalk, I have come clean on this, a perfect and free Spring day.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
It Ain't Broke, But I'd Kinda Like to Fix It
So, my body is beginning to betray me.
Or maybe the betrayal has been underway for years and I'm just now getting the memo.
One might ask how it is possible to ignore the ever-mounting evidence (though some of that evidence no longer mounts so much as it crumbles). How could I miss the long-ago freckles now transformed into age spots? The heels that moan with each early-morning shuffle? Can a person really overlook a belly and breasts that sag like the pants of a teenaged poser? And, just now, as I type this, there are the gently falling flakes jarred loose from my right eyebrow.
Ah, a rose by any other name. . .
Alas, it seems I am the the star of my own "Spinnin' Wheels" revival, where what once went up now goes down. . . And, like a parent, my brain is the last to know.
The sound of that slow realization is money to a marketer's ears. Nowadays, when I walk into Walgreens, I dawdle in the Beauty aisle, haphazardly picking up things with the name "Revivalist" or "Rejuvenating" or "Tightening" on them. And, long before I finally land upon the candy aisle, I have scoured the vitamins and sleep aids, the whiteners and wetteners.
What, do I think the cashier is an idiot? That she won't be able to cull my true purpose from the cleverly padded pile in my basket?
Eclipse Gum--99 cents. Bic Pens--$1.25. Oil of Olay Regenerist--$19.95. Suave--$1.29 (costs a little less, but I'm worth it). Excedrin PM--$10.99. Udder Balm--$3.25. Depends...not just yet, but why not plan ahead?
I sneezed about 5 minutes ago and wet myself in the process. Well, not really in the process. More like down there. And so, I will keggle my way through the rest of this piece. Squeezing and releasing. Squeezing and releasing my way back to something that resembles my drier, tighter past.
Or maybe the betrayal has been underway for years and I'm just now getting the memo.
One might ask how it is possible to ignore the ever-mounting evidence (though some of that evidence no longer mounts so much as it crumbles). How could I miss the long-ago freckles now transformed into age spots? The heels that moan with each early-morning shuffle? Can a person really overlook a belly and breasts that sag like the pants of a teenaged poser? And, just now, as I type this, there are the gently falling flakes jarred loose from my right eyebrow.
Ah, a rose by any other name. . .
Alas, it seems I am the the star of my own "Spinnin' Wheels" revival, where what once went up now goes down. . . And, like a parent, my brain is the last to know.
The sound of that slow realization is money to a marketer's ears. Nowadays, when I walk into Walgreens, I dawdle in the Beauty aisle, haphazardly picking up things with the name "Revivalist" or "Rejuvenating" or "Tightening" on them. And, long before I finally land upon the candy aisle, I have scoured the vitamins and sleep aids, the whiteners and wetteners.
What, do I think the cashier is an idiot? That she won't be able to cull my true purpose from the cleverly padded pile in my basket?
Eclipse Gum--99 cents. Bic Pens--$1.25. Oil of Olay Regenerist--$19.95. Suave--$1.29 (costs a little less, but I'm worth it). Excedrin PM--$10.99. Udder Balm--$3.25. Depends...not just yet, but why not plan ahead?
I sneezed about 5 minutes ago and wet myself in the process. Well, not really in the process. More like down there. And so, I will keggle my way through the rest of this piece. Squeezing and releasing. Squeezing and releasing my way back to something that resembles my drier, tighter past.
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