Giving a Hoot (photo by Tim Brox)

I've made five new friends this week. At least, I'd like to think that I have.

True, I will never have them over for dinner, never engage them in a long conversation and there's no way I'd even let them in my house. But we are connected, nonetheless.

Like most new friends, these five screech owls--three juveniles and their parents (we live in a very traditional neighborhood)--have utterly delighted me. And now, each night around 9:15, I wander into our backyard and wait for them.

Usually, I know they are close by because the robins (and, yes, even the cardinals, who I am much slower to criticize) can't keep their anxious yaps shut. I should be grateful for their concerned warnings, I suppose, because I know that I'm about to have a wonderful experience.

Tonight's show was pretty unbeatable. Even before I saw the owls, I was treated to an outdoor classical concert in a neighbor's backyard, the staccato of strings set against the ruckus of a pickup basketball game two doors down. And then, because they too were hankering for some attention, a few cicadas joined the choir, signaling, I suppose, the halfway point of summer.

Ah, but this family of screech owls. . . did I mention that Mark and I were in an intense 5-minute stare down with one of the young ones, who was perched in the cedar tree not more than 10 feet from us?

Ten minutes later, when even Hobbes the Hobo dog had abandoned me, my vigilance was rewarded, five fold. I signaled to Eric who, bless his heart, actually remembered to load the dishwasher without being reminded, and he joined me for a top-three bird experience. We quietly moved into our neighbor's yard for a clearer view of the owls, all of whom had swept down off their perches. There, not ten feet from us, four screech owls were perched on our neighbor's bird bath, staring at us.

It was incredible.

That's pretty much how I always describe my experiences with nature, though. Incredible. For me, it is outdoors, in nature, where I feel most alive, most connected. For me, while church often can be swell, even with the occasional and unfortunate foray into Southern Baptist hymns, nature always soars.

If I were God (I know, I know. . . ), I'd limit people's time in buildings and require more outdoor recess.

What a Long, Strange Trip. . .

I should probably invest in Samsonite, considering all the luggage that I've been seeing (and occasionally hauling) these days.

Confession: I've been having these less-than-admirable, private moments lately in which I long for some lighter travel, both for me and for my family and friends. In fact, there are days when I wish I knew only empty-headed zombies, so that the worries of the world would be easier for me to ignore.

--although having zombies for friends would present problems of its own, I suppose. . . . like what to serve for dinner when they come over.

As it is, though, let's just say that a LOT of people I know are getting stuck with extra fees at the proverbial airports of their lives.

And this simple-minded, cheap girl is starting to count her emotional pennies, so to speak.

I am infinitely glad, though, that I have good folks in my life with whom I can share the luggage. In a morbid way, it can be downright fun to "do the dozens" with my buds, each attempting to top the others' list of things that are harshing their mellow.

At one point during yesterday's Scrabblefest, the three of us got a bad case of the giggles, despite (or maybe because of) topics like failed relationships, gender identity, Alzheimer's, and--oddly--school fight songs. Midway through the game, I think Kristie even snorted, the tears pouring from her eyes as she could no longer contain her laughter.

Like I said, I've been known to like me some black humor. It has a way of taking the edge off of life.

And, believe me, I'm hankering for some smoothed-out edges these days.

"Late Night" With Jane Holt!

It's 10:15 p.m. and I'm feeling downright electric!

This must be what people are talking about when they mention the night life.

I started my day as usual, opening my eyes for good at around 4:50 a.m., wondering what it would be like to just drift off again for another two hours--which would still get me dressed and ready by 7. But, alas, that is not my lot in life.

. . . which means that summer nights for me generally are punctuated by the last rays of sun. Yeah, I was that kid already in bed who needed really thick shades to block out the still-shining sun. Never did figure out how to turn a deaf ear to the pickup basketball game at the Asbjornsons across the street, though.

That's why our evening walk was so important to me tonight.

It was our first evening walk of the summer. Not bad, if you are a calendar person, considering summer officially kicked off yesterday. But, for the rest of us, it's pretty pathetic that I've only managed two or three summer nights past 9:30. And, I'll be honest, 9:15 has been a wild dream more than a few nights this season.

I just saw my first firefly a week ago. For all I know, though, they've been squeezing their most excellent luminescent butt juices for weeks now, and I just haven't been around to witness it.

Ah, but tonight. THAT'S what this is really about. Fireflies and crickets and no wind and orange streaks in a darkening sky. Tonight's blog is all about a mom pushing her son on the swing at the park and the Latino teens tickling each other next to the volleyball court.

Tonight is about tossing an errant tennis ball back over the fence so four wheelchair athletes--my former student and current friend Eric Kingery among them--could continue their match. It's about Hobbes, smelling new and awful scents in hidden corners at Woods Park, and strangers saying "hello" as they pass each other on the path.

It's about standing perfectly still, only our eyes moving as we watch the park's open field come alive with pulsating fireflies.

For me, tonight was about reconnecting with a world that I have slept through once too often.

And I, for one, am seriously considering putting away my early bird and skipping tomorrow's worm.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News!

No one would ever choose a doctor who works only with the left half of the body. That would be absurd.

Why, then, do we U.S. citizens [seemingly happily] limit ourselves to so few--and such narrow-minded--options, when it comes to our politicians?

Imagine a doctor who focused solely upon only one portion of our bodies—intentionally and happily ignoring the larger picture. Surely, he would miss the big picture, not to mention, go out of business within the year.

“Oh, bummer for you. I’m guessing the cancer is in your liver but I only work with the left side of your body . . . ”

The same can be said for many of today’s U.S. politicians who practically feel mandated to turn a deaf ear to nearly half of U.S. citizens--not counting illegal immigrants, the young or the poor, who, let’s admit it, don’t really count anyway.

If politicians, like good physicians, took a more holistic approach to their “patients,” (i.e., their towns or their counties, their states or their country), surely they would do things differently. Surely, like a wise physician, these politicians would acknowledge (and, I’d like to think, emphasize that acknowledgment with an enthusiastic “DUH!”) the utter stupidity of believing that one could maintain a healthy life (i.e., community) by starving it of the things that otherwise would sustain it and even lead it to flourish.

Starve a cold and starve a fever? Sounds like a lose-lose proposition, if you ask me.

Yet, that’s what most U.S. politicians—Republicans and Democrats—seem hell bent on doing these days.

Some even have the audacity to propose preserving or actually—GASP!—expanding tax cuts to those who are most able to contribute more, all based upon the goofy notion that “If we give it, they will give it back, tenfold, at least!”

Really?

Ain’t NO baseball field in Iowa that turns in those kind of magical statistics! Even God himself could only find one measly investor who managed to reap similar profits.

If you’ve ever been a parent—even a mediocre one, like myself—then you know that the childish utterance “I want it all!” is both an unreasonable and hardly admirable goal for a young person, let alone an older, crankier, more sleep-deprived one.

Here’s a novel idea. What if every political candidate stood at the podium, pointing an indignant, refreshingly wise finger at the crowd, and shouted “You guys are a bunch of FOOLS! What you need is to make do with fewer frills, charge fewer things, and be willing to pay for the quality lives and futures you’d like for yourselves and for your neighbors--even those you will never invite over for a burger!”

For all the tough news that spews from our media and our world these days, Americans are surprisingly timid about taking that news personally.

I, for one, am hungry for some honest and tough talk, even if it means paying higher taxes and practicing lower-impact living.

The More Things Change. . .

Sometimes, change comes rushing at you, like the wind before a wall cloud. Other times, it is sneaky and nearly imperceptible, like the realization that you no longer like Froot Loops or Space Food Sticks.

Maybe it's the gray, cool June weather. For whatever reason, these days I find myself facing myriad changes in my own life. And, while none may be life-threatening, each one is, in its own ways, life-altering, thank you very much.

Like the fact that I might as well rip our phone from its wall mount. (Yeah, we still have a wall-mounted phone, although it is not rotary-dial.) A few weeks ago, son Eric joined our friend Allison's family cell-phone plan, essentially eschewing our land line in favor of (stomach contents, beware!) the wild world of texting.

According to daughter Allison, Eric's a throwback, an almost laughable, one-fingered QWERTY convert, but, apparently, he's good enough that his friends have quit talking to his 'rents (post-modern information-age code for "Mark and me"). That is the saddest shrapnel of this digital conversion--the elimination of Beaver-Cleaver-esque conversations between Kellen and Dylan, Kate and Robert and me.

Based on the silence of our phone, for all I know, Eric has no friends whatsoever. . . just like I suddenly have no interest whatsoever in fireworks.

While poring over this morning's paper (itself a dinosaur simply waiting for its own ice age to set in), I happened upon a full-page ad for a local fireworks business. There, in glorious 4-color flash, laid out like pyrotechnic porn, were lusty illustration and scandalous text, each describing the latest in seasonal firepower.

And I was remiss to take notice.

Me, the person who used to calculate how many meals my family could miss simply so that I could acquire more bang for my buck. Me, who used to wake even earlier than usual on the opening day, when each tent flipped up its flaps to reveal that seedy, explosive world inside. Me, who, one fireworks season, actually tipped over a Burley filled with a young Eric in my haste to make it to what I was sure was the best stand in town.

Apparently, I am so over the Fourth, except for the desserts and smoky beans it offers. Oh, and the smoke bombs. I still really like those.

And, considering what I look like in a swim suit, I might even nearly be over the allure of chlorinated water, although I'm slower to make that change, even despite what I look like in my padded "mom" suit.

Indeed, this has been a transformational summer for me, one for which I have mixed feelings, at best.

Truth And Consequences

Woke up sore this morning. This, the end result of spending five hours yesterday walking at a pace that would make a snail look snappy. I knew ahead of time that a day spent looking at antiques along the streets of Walnut, Iowa, would cost me, at least physically if not financially. A bum heel saw to that. But waking up with sore hips and a funny shoulder, too?

Well, it's no wonder that I'm feeling a bit ashamed of myself right now.

While taking Eric to his job at Ideal Grocery just moments ago, I saw the reason for my shame--an abandoned toilet on someone's front lawn. Well, maybe not the reason for my own aches so much as the symbol behind my shame.

Seeing that unhinged toilet (with faux wood seat!) left me feeling a bit unhinged myself. I have no idea who lives at the house--a house that otherwise looks neat and tidy--but I found that I couldn't look at that toilet without knowing some things I really didn't need to know about those people.

Really, we civilized people can only take so much honesty and frankness.

Most days, I tell myself that I'm young and vibrant and maybe even relevant, too. My occasionally limping, achy body, though, has another story to tell. One that may be a little closer to the truth.

Is it any wonder that people aren't particularly enthusiastic about the truth?

Most of us learned this peculiar lesson early on in our lives. Maybe it was in Mrs. Strobel's third-grade class, where you could smell and see the poverty on the classmate with the ill-fitting, dirty hand-me-downs.

Maybe the ugly truth confronted us one night in the form of an open window at the neighbor's house, where ugly words and violence slipped between the mesh squares of the window screen.

I remember a sign at the old Christiano's Pizza place on 56th and South that read "Tip-ping is not a city in China and De-nial is not a river in Egypt." As a kid with nary an extra coin in my pocket, I was comfortable ignoring those important messages.

As an adult with a few more coins in her pocket, though, maybe I should sit up and pay attention to why the truth is often described as "ugly."

My guess is that we're blaming the wrong thing, here. It's not truth that is so ugly. It's our denial of it.

All in Good Fun

Last week, in honor of guitar great Les Paul, Google transformed its logo into a plunky little guitar. As a result, NPR just reported, over 10 million worker hours were lost while people figured out how to play "Smoke on the Water" on their computers.

Ten million worker hours down the drain. Kinda makes March Madness brackets look like child's play, doesn't it?

I, for one, have never wasted a moment in my life, although I suppose there are those out there who would take issue with that claim.

Like, maybe, Morgan or Pat, my former roommates and, I'd like to believe, current friends.

Sometime during our multi-year stint on Elmwood Drive, I bought myself a nifty Casio mini keyboard. In addition to its 32 keys and 16 sound-effect buttons, this puppy also had a recording device with VOICE-ALTERING TECHNOLOGY (emphasis mine)!

And so, I went through a perhaps too-long phase in which, while alone in the house, I would record my favorite phrase ("I know what you're wearing"), transform the phrase into a bone-chilling "Nightmare on Elm(wood) Street" voice and hide behind the big chair until someone came home to our dark and soon-to-be really, really scary place.

Sometimes, I would have to wait 30 or 40 minutes tucked behind that chair just to complete my pee-your-pants prank. But it was always, like, soooooo worth it.

Just like it was worth it to go to Super Saver that one night and buy those pig's feet. Seriously, I don't think I've made a better $2.85 investment in my life, especially since the dot-com bubble burst in 2000. Do you know what joy it brought me, scratching at Morgie's cute, little sleeping face, with those things tucked into my plaid shirt?!

Damn, that was funny! And time well spent, too!

I can't tell you how many countless hours I've spent underneath someone's bed, staring up at their bed frames with that half-creepy, wispy material bulging downward, just waiting for the pleasure of reaching up and scaring the crap out of them.

Some cynics (or "adults," as they're also sometimes called) would argue that these events mark great heaps of wasted time in the human continuum.

I, though, would counter their sour comments with actual, scientific proof that shows that 15 minutes of good laughter a day does the heart as much good as 15 minutes of pavement-pounding, heel-smashing, armpit-dampening jogging, without all the fuss and muss.

Unless, of course, you happen to be the victim.

do, re, mi mi mi ME!

Despite being an occasional blowhard, I really do know that it's not all about me, and I relish those times when it's about everything but me. Most days, I'm glad that the world doesn't wait around for me although I'm also glad for those times when our paths intersect.

Consider, for instance, the greatest bike ride I ever took. It was also one of the slowest. That evening, I rode with my friend, Sue, who was an infinitely knowledgeable birder. We made a pact that we would locate each bird we heard while riding on the MoPac. It was a magical ride, as we opened ourselves up to everything that was around us. To this day, I like to stop and find the bird whose song I am enjoying.

I find great comfort in those times when I slow down and pay attention to the details. Just this morning, while wending our way towards Holmes Lake, I was delighted to ride through the sweet scent of Lindens and Honeysuckles, neither of which held its perfumey breath for me. Rather, it seems, I was lucky enough to be inhaling while they were exhaling.

These serendipitous, intersecting moments may be the reason I love Scrabble so much. Each time I reach my hand into that bag of tiles, I can barely contain my excitement over what may be, a notion that dizzies the geek within. More than once, Kristie or Jill or I have commented that, after all these years, we still haven't grown tired of the game. While this fact bodes well for our nursing-home futures, it also bodes well for this very day, a day that, like that bag of tiles, holds infinite possibilities.

While my life and cable TV have intersected only briefly throughout my 49 years, I still recall when MTV began its "Unplugged" series. The tunes seemed somehow fresh and new in their stripped-down versions. In some instances, I found myself loving a tune I'd otherwise ignored or even deplored before.

And that is the real pleasure of being present in our lives--this opportunity to hear with fresh ears and see with new eyes. Neither would be possible if it really were all about me. And so, I shake these pre-Copernican tendencies to turn the focus on me, I resist the urge to frame things around myself. And I breathe deeply, on the off chance that, at that very moment, a nearby Linden is slowly releasing its sweet scent into the air.

On Missing Nostalgia

A few days ago, Mark confessed something to me. While his confession was neither dark nor steamy, it still managed to get my pulse up a bit. Mark admitted that, with Eric on the brink of a new life in other places, he'd been spying that bedroom, imagining it as other places as well.

And, in what is either typical "Raglin" or typical "Jane" fashion, I hopped aboard that train while the heat from the last passengers was still simmering in its seats.

Next to the myriad warm-hearted mothers who carefully crafted life-spanning altars to their recent graduates, I am one ice-cold so-and-so.

I'm not sure why I am so void of nostalgia. Maybe it's because I'm the youngest of five and have the 17 childhood photos to prove it. Or maybe it's because I've always been more fascinated with the future than the past. Whatever it is, I tend to get over stuff rather quickly, which can be a good thing. Or not.

In the days leading up to Eric's graduation, I came down with an unusual bout of nostalgia and felt utterly helpless in its midst. I teared up at teacher conferences, stared at his senior pictures a little too long, and even dawdled over a discarded pair of his socks, hungrily breathing in scents that are best left to the imagination. In those few weeks, I even wondered--if only for a minute or two--whether I should whip together an "Eric" altar for the big day.

Of course, I didn't.

And now? Now I can't decide between October Leaf and Spiced Chai, one of which will be his new wall color, come September. Now, as I impatiently wait for him to move out, I wander into his room not to chat about his life but rather to spy the best location for the new lounger and love seat.

I have so moved on, and I'm pretty sure Eric has, too.

He leaves for Sweden in about three weeks. He's traveling there alone, without the aid or annoyance of a planned program. And, while I can be an icy-cold so-and-so, I still have managed to insist upon a few common-sense things before Eric leaves. He must, for instance, have a human contact in each of the cities he will visit. And, by God, he will have photocopies of his passport, license and bank card, stuffed deep into his carry-on backpack (another of my motherly requirements).

I'm not fooling myself, though. I know that, come July 6, when he boards the plane for Svenksa, I will once again feel lost and out of sorts. I know that this trip will represent yet another stage of his life, the one in which he begins to spin his own web, make his own life, find his own way. And I will be left behind in his dust, befuddled and bespeckled, adjusting my glasses to keep him in focus as long as possible.

It's good to know, then, that I'll have a brand-new, exceptionally comfortable and well-crafted leather chair to come home to, cozily tucked into the corner of what was once a young man's bedroom.

Crock of Ages

My elbows hurt. My elbows, for crying out loud. I don't even know what's in them that can hurt.

And I woke up this morning with death breath and a little gas, limping my way to the bathroom, where I might find some relief. After hobbling down the stairs, I realized I'd left my glasses by the bed. Back in the bedroom, glasses in hand, I reached in the dresser and grabbed a pair of socks, so that I might roll my sore foot over a bottle of frozen water--an old trick my sis shared with me.

Apparently, I woke up old sometime this year and failed to even notice.

Yeah, I'm a mess. But at least I'm not alone.

Yesterday's Scrabble game was delayed a good 20 minutes while Jill, Kristie and I reviewed our various aches and pains. Kristie, who'd just returned from two weeks in China, at least had legitimate reasons for her aches. Namely, she ate eel and pooped in holes in the ground. When she could poop, that is. Who wouldn't be aching from those kinds of experiences?!

Jill and I hadn't even been to North Lincoln in those two weeks, yet we still grew a bit verklempt recalling our own bodily travails of late. Between the three of us, our list was fairly respectable, ranging from achy shoulders and hips to ingrown chin hairs and periods more aptly names "commas" or "exclamation points."

Halfway through the game, Kristie excused herself to the couch, for a little nap between turns.

By the time they left, I needed a little nap myself.

Apparently, 49 isn't the new 29, after all.

I Know a Wiener Man, He Owns a Wiener Van. . .

This morning, I finally read my first full article about the asinine antics of Anthony Weiner. Prior to today's article, the most I knew about the N.Y. senator was that someone saw a photo of him in his underwear. Oh, and that his name is kind of funny, considering.

I can practically hear Frah Brucher's horses whinnying every time Weiner's name rolls off the media's tongue.

In this morning's article, Weiner finally confessed to what he'd been denying all week long. Turns out, he really was trying to scintillate some sexy Sadie in his skivvies.

Maybe I just haven't seen enough kinds of men's underwear, but I'm having trouble understanding all of this juxtaposing in one's Jockeys.

What really baffles me, though,--even more than Weiner being too sexy for his pants--is the way in which some people so blatantly lie, despite the facts.

True, I've been that person from time to time. One 7th-grade overnight, in particular, comes to mind. A group of us were gathered in Sharon's basement, playing a casual version of "truth or dare" with each other. When someone asked if any of us had pubic hair yet, I made a face like I'd just smelled the most awful fart in the world. Now, considering we'd all just eaten four Totino's pizzas and three bags of Cheetos, it's possible I really had just smelled the most awful fart in the world, but my face was a diversionary tactic more than anything else.

Later that night, I would add more hubris to my ever-growing pile of lies, claiming that "of COURSE I wash my hair more than once a week! G-YAAAAAHD!"

I shudder to think of the ways in which I would have been outed that night, had such devices as cell phones and Twitter existed in 1975. Then again, we probably could have escaped men's perms and the big-hair '80s if social networking had been around earlier. . . .

Anyway, back to weiner man, . . .

Politicians, in particular, have become practiced liars. Practice, though, doesn't make perfect, a fact the truth always proves. Frankly, I don't know of a pair of jeans that could endure the spin cycles these people's stories go through every day. And I have never once respected someone more when they finally come clean from all their lies. In fact, Weiner probably could have saved his hot dog some trouble simply by fessing up immediately. Surely, the public could forgive a weird undie fetish more easily than they'd forgive the propensity for repeated lying.

"I messed up."

"I'm sorry."

"I lied."

"I was wrong."

We don't hear these words enough in our language anymore. My own children know that their troubles will only deepen if they ever frame their mistakes in polished explanations. I don't want them to explain their mistakes. I want them to own them.

Surely, a capitalistic society like ours would be open to such ownership.

. . . And the Livin's Easy

When I was 12, I wore the same three t-shirts all summer long. And I seldom washed my hair, since I was spending every day happily dive bombing old ladies at East Hills Swimming Pool.

I suppose I should be embarrassed by such things.

Even now, though, a half day into my 49th summer, I am wearing the same clothes that I wore yesterday. And I have been on two bike rides since then. This morning, I have yet to run a brush through my happily matted hair, even though I took Allison and a friend to cheerleading practice an hour ago.

(It's possible there is something of a haute-couture rebel inside me, a person who actually wants to get caught in wrinkled, stained clothing.)

I'm also kind of glad our air conditioner is broken, because there's something terribly sad about going into a hermetically-sealed home, with all of that nature trapped on the outside. Sure, it'd be nice not to put on deodorant just before bed, but there's also something mighty nice about the 5:22 wake-up call from Mr. Cardinal just outside the window each morning.

Frankly, I was glad Mr. Cardinal called this morning, because I was having a bad school dream, one in which I was cussing, nonstop, regardless of the topic or the audience. I was like Ralphie's dad in "A Christmas Story," weaving strings of profanity from one end of the school to the other. And I was pretty sure I was about to get a talking to.

Who can explain dreams, really? And why do we continue to ask Freud, who worked with decrepit people and used them as the basis for normalcy? He would say that all that swearing was really, really sexy. Granted, I'm sweating, but it's the humidity, man!

Even the big, lumbering fly that just snuck through my open door can't harsh my mellow today. He and his B-52 butt can enjoy a freebie in this normally no-fly zone of mine.

That's just how good this infant summer already has been.

Ephemera Rising

Last night, some friends walked over to LPSDO, joined by a hundred others who, like them, were trying to make sense of such devastation. A breeze picked up and, with it, a thousand fluttering scraps of human history took to the air. One wafted its way to my friend's feet, so she reached down and picked it up.

Most of a name and half a social-security number greeted her. And it made me wonder what other burnt offerings were making unexpected landings in new and exotic places.

Welcome to the strange domino-toppling world of disaster, a world filled with illegible notes to self, half-melted photos of strangers and smoke-infused bits of colorful cloth.

I first read about the word "ephemera" while preparing to write my master's-thesis essays. Defined as "collectible memorabilia not intended to last long," ephemera becomes surprisingly important in the midst of disaster. Oddly, there is even a genus of mayfly called "Ephemera," not surprising, considering the lanky-legged insect's short life span.

I actually witnessed such insect ephemera one warm summer night in upper Iowa, just miles from the birth place of the Mississippi. An evening of burgers and pool eventually ended, and we poured out onto the town square, where newborn Mayflies huddled around street lamps like Husker fans at the gates on opening day. It was impossible to avoid the mayflies, dozens of which stuck in our hair and shirts or flitted clumsily across our faces. I suppose they were horny as heck, driven by the desire to make more of themselves. By morning, the streets were thick with their carcasses.

"Carcass" seems an appropriate word at this time as well. It's impossible to drive by the LPSDO site without slowing down, your eyes morbidly drawn to the smoking, skeletal remains, your mind racing to memories of walking through that mazed building. It is impossible to be unmoved by what you see. And what you don't.

And now, like desperate mayflies, the ephemera of all those lives--past and present--floats upon the breeze, lodging on our clothing and in our minds. And we begrudgingly agree to become accidental keepers of these fragmented stories, hoping they can be told once again.