Leukemia
Stroke
Death of a parent (x3)
Sick child (x2)
Job loss
Job hardship
Anuerysms
Parental decline (x infinity)
Sexual-identity issues
Mental illness
Alzheimer's
Broken families
Broken relationships
. . .and those are just the ones I can remember.
--Is it any surprise that I chose to go to Boston to be a baked being?!
Like a headful of newly dyed hair, this is a strange season of life, accentuated by both high- and low lights. And, as with all heads of hair--and lives--there are times I struggle with what to do with my roots.
I try to be a good ear to people, but, in the weakness that is mine, when crisis piles upon crisis, my arms can flail in these deep waters, as I crave something simpler, something much closer to the shore.
I dare not imagine how many meals I have failed to make, how many questions I have failed to ask, how many folks I have seemingly let down as they wander through their own deserts.
Truly, it is not a lack of concern that causes me to crack a joke or play a game of Scrabble in the midst of all this hardship. For me, it is something much more serious than that. It is the absolute necessity to find the good when that good seems most elusive.
I can only hope that my own roots, this tendency towards laughter and joy, act as a salve to others in the same way that they have salvaged me time and again.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
There's a Reason It's Called a "Vacation"
Last night, Eric returned home from two weeks in Sweden, where he was traveling alone. He was hairy, tired, happy, and, I am sure, somehow changed. On the drive home from the Omaha airport, he told us about nearly being robbed, about staying in a deserted hostel at the end of an empty block, about wandering a nude beach and about visiting great art galleries.
He also said that he'd probably never travel alone again, because it was strange to have no one to share his experiences with. This from a self-proclaimed introvert.
When Mark was a senior in high school, he and his friends planned a hiking trip in the Colorado mountains. On paper, I suppose, it sounded like a great idea. The carrying out of that idea, though, proved more difficult. For starters, one of the guys packed little more than cigarettes and he lugged them in his Samsonite. . . which he dragged up the mountain.
In a few days, I leave for Boston, my second-ever "girl" trip. The first was to visit my friend, Kristie, in Cincinnati, where she was teaching. While it was exhilarating to abandon family and home for a few days in exotic Cincinnati, it's possible that the highlight for me was buying cigarettes at a local Walgreens.
None of us smoke, but that didn't stop us from buying a pack. Well, actually, we pretty much bullied our friend "Meredith" into buying them, while the rest of us stood behind her, like a bunch of giggling adolescents who'd just lined our pockets with loot. I could not quit laughing as "Meredith" drew closer to the cash register, quietly repeating the words "Marlboro Lites," so that she wouldn't forget them when it was time to talk with the cashier.
Tears pouring down our faces, we somehow managed to make it outside the store, only to discover that, of course, none of us had matches. Like it mattered.
It was the best $4 I'd ever spent on a trip.
I think it's no coincidence that the word "vacation" has "vacate" at its roots. Clearly, we vacate our home spaces when we leave for a few days. But we also vacate our tired selves, too, suddenly and giddily free to reinvent ourselves, if only for a handful of days.
When Mark and I went to Italy two years ago, celebrating our anniversary with friends Barry and Jeanne, I did more than vacate a space. I rewired my brain. My motto for that trip? Just Say Yes. Which is why I ate the eyeball from Jeanne's fish. And the pickled octopus tentacle. And drank the espresso. And choked down the limoncello.
It was the perfect motto for that trip.
As I prepare to head to Boston, where I know that it's more than likely I'll pee myself with laughter, I've chosen the antithesis of my Italian motto. For Boston, my attitude will be: Whatever. I have vowed to read nothing, research nothing, practically pack nothing, leaving myself open, instead, to the whims of my very funny and capable friends.
I'm pretty sure it's the perfect motto for this trip, but I'll have to get back to you on that.
He also said that he'd probably never travel alone again, because it was strange to have no one to share his experiences with. This from a self-proclaimed introvert.
When Mark was a senior in high school, he and his friends planned a hiking trip in the Colorado mountains. On paper, I suppose, it sounded like a great idea. The carrying out of that idea, though, proved more difficult. For starters, one of the guys packed little more than cigarettes and he lugged them in his Samsonite. . . which he dragged up the mountain.
In a few days, I leave for Boston, my second-ever "girl" trip. The first was to visit my friend, Kristie, in Cincinnati, where she was teaching. While it was exhilarating to abandon family and home for a few days in exotic Cincinnati, it's possible that the highlight for me was buying cigarettes at a local Walgreens.
None of us smoke, but that didn't stop us from buying a pack. Well, actually, we pretty much bullied our friend "Meredith" into buying them, while the rest of us stood behind her, like a bunch of giggling adolescents who'd just lined our pockets with loot. I could not quit laughing as "Meredith" drew closer to the cash register, quietly repeating the words "Marlboro Lites," so that she wouldn't forget them when it was time to talk with the cashier.
Tears pouring down our faces, we somehow managed to make it outside the store, only to discover that, of course, none of us had matches. Like it mattered.
It was the best $4 I'd ever spent on a trip.
I think it's no coincidence that the word "vacation" has "vacate" at its roots. Clearly, we vacate our home spaces when we leave for a few days. But we also vacate our tired selves, too, suddenly and giddily free to reinvent ourselves, if only for a handful of days.
When Mark and I went to Italy two years ago, celebrating our anniversary with friends Barry and Jeanne, I did more than vacate a space. I rewired my brain. My motto for that trip? Just Say Yes. Which is why I ate the eyeball from Jeanne's fish. And the pickled octopus tentacle. And drank the espresso. And choked down the limoncello.
It was the perfect motto for that trip.
As I prepare to head to Boston, where I know that it's more than likely I'll pee myself with laughter, I've chosen the antithesis of my Italian motto. For Boston, my attitude will be: Whatever. I have vowed to read nothing, research nothing, practically pack nothing, leaving myself open, instead, to the whims of my very funny and capable friends.
I'm pretty sure it's the perfect motto for this trip, but I'll have to get back to you on that.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Safe Travels
Safe travels, my son
Wending your way through new lands
Lost in time and in place
in thought and, I hope,
in joy, as well
This space is strange without you
I ponder buying a watch, so that I can count the hours until
you return
Safe travels, my friend
You who has a great chasm to span
life bloods to swap
cancer to beat
a life to keep living
Live it well in that cell of yours
Unimpeded by the bars and whirring machines
Knowing that light pulses within you
Safe travels, my girl
who wakes before cardinal or crow
donning the wear of your work
legs both scratched and tanned
shoes still muddy from yesterday's field
You who are finding your way in this life
and changing its texture
simply by showing up and living it
Safe travels, new spirits
set free from the bonds of this life
scrub us clean as you pass through us
Build us up in love and hope
memory and faith
For we falter in your absence
Uncertain of what to do next
Safe travels to all
who wake each day
putting foot to floor
and moving through life,
despite what you know
and don't know
What courage, to live!
Wending your way through new lands
Lost in time and in place
in thought and, I hope,
in joy, as well
This space is strange without you
I ponder buying a watch, so that I can count the hours until
you return
Safe travels, my friend
You who has a great chasm to span
life bloods to swap
cancer to beat
a life to keep living
Live it well in that cell of yours
Unimpeded by the bars and whirring machines
Knowing that light pulses within you
Safe travels, my girl
who wakes before cardinal or crow
donning the wear of your work
legs both scratched and tanned
shoes still muddy from yesterday's field
You who are finding your way in this life
and changing its texture
simply by showing up and living it
Safe travels, new spirits
set free from the bonds of this life
scrub us clean as you pass through us
Build us up in love and hope
memory and faith
For we falter in your absence
Uncertain of what to do next
Safe travels to all
who wake each day
putting foot to floor
and moving through life,
despite what you know
and don't know
What courage, to live!
Saturday, July 16, 2011
When Is an Elephant Not an Elephant?
It was spring, 1984, and my wardrobe had never been snappier. My mom, who isn't much of a haranguer but is a darned good dresser, made me one of her projects that spring, and part of that project involved my wardrobe.
To think that I'd been talked into plaid skirts, blazers with shoulder pads and even (egad!) a top that had a frou-frou bow on it. . . well, let's just say we both were a little out of our heads at the time.
The other part of my mom's project involved me getting a real job.
Both parts proved to be somewhat painful. Looking back, though, I'd say the clothes were more painful than the interviews. Aside from one.
Mutual of Omaha was looking for a writer. God knows what kind of writing takes place in an insurance agency, but my mom convinced me that it was a job with my name on it. I filled out an application and managed to get myself an interview.
(An aside: while I consider myself to be an independent person, there are portions of my life in which I have so little interest that I am willing to literally stand in the middle of the room, raise my hands over my head and let someone else dress me. Otherwise, I think I'm rather nicely balanced. This is not a story of balance, however.)
Yeah, so my mom dressed me. Yeah, so she loaned me her car which, unlike my Fiat, actually had air conditioning. And, yeah, she even talked me into wearing a dumpy pair of shoes while I drove up to Omaha, so that I wouldn't scuff my fancy heels. What's it to ya?!
I was fifteen minutes outside of Omaha when I had myself a private little giggle. My eyes first scanned the professional pleated skirt, then made their way down my freshly shaved legs, so nicely caressed by full-length hose. Finally, looking down at my feet, the dumpy old leatherback turtle shoes covering them, I thought how funny it would be if I had forgotten my other shoes.
About three seconds later, I realized that it really wasn't funny at all. Never before had I so longed for a freshly-polished pair of high heels. Heck, I was even kind of longing for a purse and a compact, and I'm not even sure why.
Ten minutes to Mutual. I'm panicking so I pull over and call my brother Steve, who lives in Omaha, frantically asking him what I should do. He chuckles a bit and suggests saying nothing unless someone happens to notice the shoes, and then making light of the situation.
Unless someone "happens to notice the shoes?" That would be like walking into a circus tent and happening to notice the elephant in the ring. Let me give you a visual. Remember that Carol Burnett skit in which she's a homely cleaning lady?
Yeah, that was me.
Only I was going for my first "real job" interview and it was at a big company that even had its own TV show.
The next hour was painful, in the way a colonoscopy without anesthesia is painful. I must have joked and cajoled, cleared my throat and "heh heh heh'd" about 20 times during the interview.
I didn't get the job.
No, really, I didn't. But I did learn an important lesson.
Sometimes it's better not to name the elephant.
To think that I'd been talked into plaid skirts, blazers with shoulder pads and even (egad!) a top that had a frou-frou bow on it. . . well, let's just say we both were a little out of our heads at the time.
The other part of my mom's project involved me getting a real job.
Both parts proved to be somewhat painful. Looking back, though, I'd say the clothes were more painful than the interviews. Aside from one.
Mutual of Omaha was looking for a writer. God knows what kind of writing takes place in an insurance agency, but my mom convinced me that it was a job with my name on it. I filled out an application and managed to get myself an interview.
(An aside: while I consider myself to be an independent person, there are portions of my life in which I have so little interest that I am willing to literally stand in the middle of the room, raise my hands over my head and let someone else dress me. Otherwise, I think I'm rather nicely balanced. This is not a story of balance, however.)
Yeah, so my mom dressed me. Yeah, so she loaned me her car which, unlike my Fiat, actually had air conditioning. And, yeah, she even talked me into wearing a dumpy pair of shoes while I drove up to Omaha, so that I wouldn't scuff my fancy heels. What's it to ya?!
I was fifteen minutes outside of Omaha when I had myself a private little giggle. My eyes first scanned the professional pleated skirt, then made their way down my freshly shaved legs, so nicely caressed by full-length hose. Finally, looking down at my feet, the dumpy old leatherback turtle shoes covering them, I thought how funny it would be if I had forgotten my other shoes.
About three seconds later, I realized that it really wasn't funny at all. Never before had I so longed for a freshly-polished pair of high heels. Heck, I was even kind of longing for a purse and a compact, and I'm not even sure why.
Ten minutes to Mutual. I'm panicking so I pull over and call my brother Steve, who lives in Omaha, frantically asking him what I should do. He chuckles a bit and suggests saying nothing unless someone happens to notice the shoes, and then making light of the situation.
Unless someone "happens to notice the shoes?" That would be like walking into a circus tent and happening to notice the elephant in the ring. Let me give you a visual. Remember that Carol Burnett skit in which she's a homely cleaning lady?
Yeah, that was me.
Only I was going for my first "real job" interview and it was at a big company that even had its own TV show.
The next hour was painful, in the way a colonoscopy without anesthesia is painful. I must have joked and cajoled, cleared my throat and "heh heh heh'd" about 20 times during the interview.
I didn't get the job.
No, really, I didn't. But I did learn an important lesson.
Sometimes it's better not to name the elephant.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Beef. It's What's for Dinner.
A cow. A cow, for Pete's sake. The guy drew a cow.
And he drew it well.
It was the first day of my Practicum class and every stereotype we Journalism majors had conjured up for teachers in training had come to pass. What kind of professor would ask her students to draw an animal? None of the crusty souls at the J-School, that's for sure.
. . .but back to the cow, . . . For reasons I could not yet explain, I found myself drawn to its blond-haired, sparkly-eyed creator.
Like the commercials says--"Beef. It's what's for dinner."
And, for the past 25 years, I've had very few beefs with Mark Dale Holt.
Really, there should be an award for a guy who can live 22 years with a girl like me. Religious types would tell Mark that his reward is in heaven. That kind of delayed gratification, though, would probably do little to encourage him.
There is an easiness to our lives together. We laugh a lot and share many of the same dweeby interests. We also are content with the separateness of our interests, as well.
Mostly, Mark and I like the idea of being in the same space together.
When he took the weekend job at Duncan Aviation four years ago, I secretly fretted about our lost time together. But the more rational, less selfish side of me was so very glad he had found a healthy, enjoyable, creative place to work.
Still. . . .
I miss doing the Sunday crossword together. Which is why it's nice that our anniversary falls in the summer, when languorous strings of our days are spent together. This most magical of seasons gives us a chance to hang, long days kicked off with morning bike rides and coffee on the patio (even though I don't drink coffee, even on the patio).
I can count on one hand the fiery arguments we've had in our 22 years of marriage. Heck, I don't even need all five fingers. Not that that is a sure sign of contentedness, though. And yet, we fit, the cow man and me, like hide on skin.
Maybe that professor knew what she was doing, after all.
And he drew it well.
It was the first day of my Practicum class and every stereotype we Journalism majors had conjured up for teachers in training had come to pass. What kind of professor would ask her students to draw an animal? None of the crusty souls at the J-School, that's for sure.
. . .but back to the cow, . . . For reasons I could not yet explain, I found myself drawn to its blond-haired, sparkly-eyed creator.
Like the commercials says--"Beef. It's what's for dinner."
And, for the past 25 years, I've had very few beefs with Mark Dale Holt.
Really, there should be an award for a guy who can live 22 years with a girl like me. Religious types would tell Mark that his reward is in heaven. That kind of delayed gratification, though, would probably do little to encourage him.
There is an easiness to our lives together. We laugh a lot and share many of the same dweeby interests. We also are content with the separateness of our interests, as well.
Mostly, Mark and I like the idea of being in the same space together.
When he took the weekend job at Duncan Aviation four years ago, I secretly fretted about our lost time together. But the more rational, less selfish side of me was so very glad he had found a healthy, enjoyable, creative place to work.
Still. . . .
I miss doing the Sunday crossword together. Which is why it's nice that our anniversary falls in the summer, when languorous strings of our days are spent together. This most magical of seasons gives us a chance to hang, long days kicked off with morning bike rides and coffee on the patio (even though I don't drink coffee, even on the patio).
I can count on one hand the fiery arguments we've had in our 22 years of marriage. Heck, I don't even need all five fingers. Not that that is a sure sign of contentedness, though. And yet, we fit, the cow man and me, like hide on skin.
Maybe that professor knew what she was doing, after all.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Of Poo Poo Cushions and Monkey-Ball Magnets
Confession: I'm a bit of a shopper after all.
I know, I know. What about all those ridiculous, over-worn clothes I don, each a nod to some long-gone, happily-forgotten era?
Well, I'm not talking clothes.
I'm talking itching powder and poo poo cushions, monkey-ball magnets and inflatable wigs. I'm talking wind-up fire-spewing Godzillas and five-function pens, 3-D cameras and electronic bubble-wrap keychains.
Like I said, this is not haute couture. This is "School of Silly Walks" serious.
It's a love that was fostered long ago on the 1400 block of "O" Street, in a little shop just west of the State Theater. Lincoln's Downtown Joke Shop was like a magnet to all people under the age of 20. There, in its crowded, happy space, with the kind, old woman behind the counter, a kid could find fake cigarettes and magic tricks, monster masks and snapping gum.
It was like porn for preteens.
And I, for one, was very, very happy there.
Just like I'm very, very happy at Avant Card, my hands languishing over the Nancy Pearl Librarian Action Figurine (I already have two, but you never know). There, in that happy, quirky place that even plays great music, I feel. . . not at home so much as in heaven.
Rocket Fizz also scratches where I itch, especially with its massive collection of candies that take me back to my Ben Franklin glory days. There, the sirens that pull me from my mast have names like Chik-o-Stik and Mallo Cup, whose very names are like love songs warming my lips.
I've even managed to find solace online, thanks to places like Archie McPhee and ThinkGeek. McPhee also has a swell catalog, reminiscent of Johnson-Smith's glory years. Why, just yesterday, I was fortunate enough--fortunate enough!--to get free shipping from ThinkGeek because they had $40 worth of stuff that I just had to have. With any luck, by this time next week (alas, "free shipping" is not synonymous with "quick shipping"), a glorious brown box with my name on it will be placed on our side porch, a cornucopia of treasures tucked inside.
By this time next week, when a chocolate craving hits, I'll satisfy it not with an Almond Snickers but, rather, with a quick inhale of my Le Whif Breathable Chocolate Tube.
Like I said, turns out I really am a bit of a shopper. And a darned good one, too.
I know, I know. What about all those ridiculous, over-worn clothes I don, each a nod to some long-gone, happily-forgotten era?
Well, I'm not talking clothes.
I'm talking itching powder and poo poo cushions, monkey-ball magnets and inflatable wigs. I'm talking wind-up fire-spewing Godzillas and five-function pens, 3-D cameras and electronic bubble-wrap keychains.
Like I said, this is not haute couture. This is "School of Silly Walks" serious.
It's a love that was fostered long ago on the 1400 block of "O" Street, in a little shop just west of the State Theater. Lincoln's Downtown Joke Shop was like a magnet to all people under the age of 20. There, in its crowded, happy space, with the kind, old woman behind the counter, a kid could find fake cigarettes and magic tricks, monster masks and snapping gum.
It was like porn for preteens.
And I, for one, was very, very happy there.
Just like I'm very, very happy at Avant Card, my hands languishing over the Nancy Pearl Librarian Action Figurine (I already have two, but you never know). There, in that happy, quirky place that even plays great music, I feel. . . not at home so much as in heaven.
Rocket Fizz also scratches where I itch, especially with its massive collection of candies that take me back to my Ben Franklin glory days. There, the sirens that pull me from my mast have names like Chik-o-Stik and Mallo Cup, whose very names are like love songs warming my lips.
I've even managed to find solace online, thanks to places like Archie McPhee and ThinkGeek. McPhee also has a swell catalog, reminiscent of Johnson-Smith's glory years. Why, just yesterday, I was fortunate enough--fortunate enough!--to get free shipping from ThinkGeek because they had $40 worth of stuff that I just had to have. With any luck, by this time next week (alas, "free shipping" is not synonymous with "quick shipping"), a glorious brown box with my name on it will be placed on our side porch, a cornucopia of treasures tucked inside.
By this time next week, when a chocolate craving hits, I'll satisfy it not with an Almond Snickers but, rather, with a quick inhale of my Le Whif Breathable Chocolate Tube.
Like I said, turns out I really am a bit of a shopper. And a darned good one, too.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Waxing and Waning, Minus the Brazilian Groupon
Come the Fourth of July, my friend Linda already is puckering up her lips to kiss the summer goodbye.
I like Linda. A lot. But, on this point, we disagree.
And yet. . . I can't lie, and claim that I don't feel the subtle pressure Fall is applying. I can't lie and claim that I don't possess faint whisperings of seasonal ADHD, quietly counting how many times more I have to don a swimsuit, grill a hot dog, ride my bike in the early-morning sunlight.
Come evening, it's hard not to notice the cicadas whirring up their sex songs, while fewer and fewer fireflies turn on their "open" signs in the grassy hollows of my yard.
Both, in their own ways, are harbingers of change.
I am not a fan of regret. It is, I believe, a kind of poison, taking our attention away from the here and now and plunking it into the impossibly rigid past. Why, then, does the waning of summer always seem to ride the shoulders of regret?
Probably because I've been given such heaping helpings of freedom and, suddenly, as the evenings grow cooler, I start to wonder if I've chosen well.
Better that I don't fret such things, though. Better that I simply trust that the things and the people and the idle hours that have filled my season have renewed me, as well.
No, better that I remind myself that, despite the Target and Shopko ads, I still have more summer in front of me than most Americans have weeks of vacation each year.
Soon, I am soothed again, both by the uninterrupted hours I am willing to give over to a book and the utter inability to identify what day of the week it is, more or less the significance of such a day.
Soon enough, the lazy blur of my summer will be pushed aside for the crisp and steady beat of a new season.
Soon enough. But not today.
I like Linda. A lot. But, on this point, we disagree.
And yet. . . I can't lie, and claim that I don't feel the subtle pressure Fall is applying. I can't lie and claim that I don't possess faint whisperings of seasonal ADHD, quietly counting how many times more I have to don a swimsuit, grill a hot dog, ride my bike in the early-morning sunlight.
Come evening, it's hard not to notice the cicadas whirring up their sex songs, while fewer and fewer fireflies turn on their "open" signs in the grassy hollows of my yard.
Both, in their own ways, are harbingers of change.
I am not a fan of regret. It is, I believe, a kind of poison, taking our attention away from the here and now and plunking it into the impossibly rigid past. Why, then, does the waning of summer always seem to ride the shoulders of regret?
Probably because I've been given such heaping helpings of freedom and, suddenly, as the evenings grow cooler, I start to wonder if I've chosen well.
Better that I don't fret such things, though. Better that I simply trust that the things and the people and the idle hours that have filled my season have renewed me, as well.
No, better that I remind myself that, despite the Target and Shopko ads, I still have more summer in front of me than most Americans have weeks of vacation each year.
Soon, I am soothed again, both by the uninterrupted hours I am willing to give over to a book and the utter inability to identify what day of the week it is, more or less the significance of such a day.
Soon enough, the lazy blur of my summer will be pushed aside for the crisp and steady beat of a new season.
Soon enough. But not today.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Ultimate Stay-cation
Vicarious living is vastly underrated. In our goofy, capitalistic way of thinking, something that's cheap or free can't possibly be as good as its expensive counterpart. And so, we often end up trashing second-hand experiences, embarrassed by their second-handedness, I guess.
What a waste. I, for one, will not be swayed by popular thinking (Hey! I still wear my Chic jeans from the late 90s!). Nay, I resist all those naysayers, and find myself deeply satisfied by this, my incredibly cheap and intensely enjoyable "stay-cation" summer. Below are some of my favorite stopovers so far.
STAYCATION #1: READ A BOOK
A well-written tale is an immensely powerful thing--and far cheaper than turning down the AC when you think no one is looking. While I occasionally pick up books to find myself, more often than not, it is the act of losing myself that I love the most. Be warned, though. Sometimes, when you lose yourself, great heaps of time pass you by and you forget such basics as feeding the dog or having a bite to eat.
Earlier this week, while sweat was leeching its way ever downward on my fleshy Midwestern frame, my brain was in the deep freeze, mesmerized by murders in Oslo, Norway ("The Snowman" by Jo Nesbo). Granted, a part of me wished that the antihero main character, Harry Hole, had a less visual name, but I managed to put those concerns aside and instead let myself get swept away by the intriguing storyline. Ice, ice, baby!
I've also had the summertime pleasure of a wild week in 19th-century Istanbul, the delightful eunuch Yashim my able guide ("An Evil Eye" and "The Janisarry Tree," both by Jason Goodwin). And I've even managed to forgive Dan Brown his tendencies toward absurd twists and turns long enough to enjoy Washington, D.C. and its many hidden meanings ("The Lost Symbol").
STAYCATION #2: Eat Some Food
(First, a moment of silence as we pay our respects to the good Lord above, who gave us the creators of Groupon and Living Social. May their lives be as blessed and inexpensive as the lives of those who eagerly follow them.)
It has been months since the Holts have paid full price for a meal. And I say that with both pride and gastronomic satisfaction. Just Saturday, for instance, I was treated to a Thai-inspired meal, redolent with rich coconut milk, tangy limes, spicy sambal oelek and two kinds of delicious noodles--TWO kinds!--, thanks to a 2-for-1 deal at the Blue Orchid. That I showed enough restraint that night to enjoy a repeat performance at lunch the following day is, in itself, a joyful miracle.
In addition to our Thai trip, we've visited the Middle East more than once this summer, thanks to Sultan who, along with his Kite, whips up a mean and most delicious meal of Chicken Tikka or Shawarma.
And one need not travel so far for good food when it is Nebraska in the summer, what with corn stands and tomatoes, zucchini and strawberries all hollering at you.
STAYCATION #3: Encourage Other People to Travel
Warning: This stay-cation is not for the weak-of-heart. It is the true test of the vicarious person to accept the conditions of this choice--which include sending someone whose name does not have the initials "Jane Holt" to far-off lands so that you may enjoy their experiences. Yet, for those who are up to the challenge, the rewards are many.
That is why I so enjoyed my lunch with friend Laurie the other day. For much of it--at my encouragement--she took me through the hills above Barcelona and down the precarious dirt roads of France, treating me to untouched villages and unimaginable vistas, all for the price of an hour and a bowl of good soup.
It is also why I allowed son Eric to save his pennies and pretend he needed my permission to go to Sweden, where, as I type this, he is probably soaking in a sauna, post lingonberry lust fest. He may think he is spreading his tiny, little adolescent wings, but what Eric really is doing is saving me some big bucks while also giving me the chance to explore the land of his ancestors, all from the comfort of my own home.
STAYCATION #4: Get Lost
Summer is an especially good season to get lost. There are numerous ways to do this, from trying out a bike path that is new to you, to listening for telltale signs of owls out back. Whatever the venue, getting lost is, perhaps, the vicarious traveler's greatest trick.
The point of getting lost is simple--seeing something for the first time. The power of getting lost, though, cannot be overstated. When we let ourselves get lost--whether it's in a book or on a road or in the exotic spices of another land--we give our eyes and our brains, our hearts and our bodies the chance to be born again. Our senses snap to attention when they're exposed to something new, even if that something is no further than our own backyards.
And, really, is there a greater joy than discovering something new in the otherwise everyday worlds we live in? I think not.
Now, go have yourself a new experience. And no grousing about the cheap price tag.
Really, you're better than that.
What a waste. I, for one, will not be swayed by popular thinking (Hey! I still wear my Chic jeans from the late 90s!). Nay, I resist all those naysayers, and find myself deeply satisfied by this, my incredibly cheap and intensely enjoyable "stay-cation" summer. Below are some of my favorite stopovers so far.
STAYCATION #1: READ A BOOK
A well-written tale is an immensely powerful thing--and far cheaper than turning down the AC when you think no one is looking. While I occasionally pick up books to find myself, more often than not, it is the act of losing myself that I love the most. Be warned, though. Sometimes, when you lose yourself, great heaps of time pass you by and you forget such basics as feeding the dog or having a bite to eat.
Earlier this week, while sweat was leeching its way ever downward on my fleshy Midwestern frame, my brain was in the deep freeze, mesmerized by murders in Oslo, Norway ("The Snowman" by Jo Nesbo). Granted, a part of me wished that the antihero main character, Harry Hole, had a less visual name, but I managed to put those concerns aside and instead let myself get swept away by the intriguing storyline. Ice, ice, baby!
I've also had the summertime pleasure of a wild week in 19th-century Istanbul, the delightful eunuch Yashim my able guide ("An Evil Eye" and "The Janisarry Tree," both by Jason Goodwin). And I've even managed to forgive Dan Brown his tendencies toward absurd twists and turns long enough to enjoy Washington, D.C. and its many hidden meanings ("The Lost Symbol").
STAYCATION #2: Eat Some Food
(First, a moment of silence as we pay our respects to the good Lord above, who gave us the creators of Groupon and Living Social. May their lives be as blessed and inexpensive as the lives of those who eagerly follow them.)
It has been months since the Holts have paid full price for a meal. And I say that with both pride and gastronomic satisfaction. Just Saturday, for instance, I was treated to a Thai-inspired meal, redolent with rich coconut milk, tangy limes, spicy sambal oelek and two kinds of delicious noodles--TWO kinds!--, thanks to a 2-for-1 deal at the Blue Orchid. That I showed enough restraint that night to enjoy a repeat performance at lunch the following day is, in itself, a joyful miracle.
In addition to our Thai trip, we've visited the Middle East more than once this summer, thanks to Sultan who, along with his Kite, whips up a mean and most delicious meal of Chicken Tikka or Shawarma.
And one need not travel so far for good food when it is Nebraska in the summer, what with corn stands and tomatoes, zucchini and strawberries all hollering at you.
STAYCATION #3: Encourage Other People to Travel
Warning: This stay-cation is not for the weak-of-heart. It is the true test of the vicarious person to accept the conditions of this choice--which include sending someone whose name does not have the initials "Jane Holt" to far-off lands so that you may enjoy their experiences. Yet, for those who are up to the challenge, the rewards are many.
That is why I so enjoyed my lunch with friend Laurie the other day. For much of it--at my encouragement--she took me through the hills above Barcelona and down the precarious dirt roads of France, treating me to untouched villages and unimaginable vistas, all for the price of an hour and a bowl of good soup.
It is also why I allowed son Eric to save his pennies and pretend he needed my permission to go to Sweden, where, as I type this, he is probably soaking in a sauna, post lingonberry lust fest. He may think he is spreading his tiny, little adolescent wings, but what Eric really is doing is saving me some big bucks while also giving me the chance to explore the land of his ancestors, all from the comfort of my own home.
STAYCATION #4: Get Lost
Summer is an especially good season to get lost. There are numerous ways to do this, from trying out a bike path that is new to you, to listening for telltale signs of owls out back. Whatever the venue, getting lost is, perhaps, the vicarious traveler's greatest trick.
The point of getting lost is simple--seeing something for the first time. The power of getting lost, though, cannot be overstated. When we let ourselves get lost--whether it's in a book or on a road or in the exotic spices of another land--we give our eyes and our brains, our hearts and our bodies the chance to be born again. Our senses snap to attention when they're exposed to something new, even if that something is no further than our own backyards.
And, really, is there a greater joy than discovering something new in the otherwise everyday worlds we live in? I think not.
Now, go have yourself a new experience. And no grousing about the cheap price tag.
Really, you're better than that.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
An In-Between Start to My Day
Some moments are worth waking for. This morning, I savored that thin sliver of time tucked in between night and day, when even the birds still slumber.
I am, I suppose, an optimist, preferring to find good even when a 5:30 a.m. cheerleading practice looms. This morning, though, the good found us.
The air was thick and still when Allison and I walked to our car. For once, I was glad that Eric hadn't closed the garage the night before. It meant we could walk in silence, not puncturing the early morning with the groans of a garage-door opener that was long past its prime.
There is something slightly mysterious about leaving your house, pre-dawn. Even the sight of a neighbor's headlights catches you off guard, as you wonder aloud what they are doing up so early. We stare into their window as we pass each other, sharing a silent bond that briefly ties us to each other.
Allison and I crack our windows, letting the world ease in, and we are treated to a sleepy chorus of cricket chirps. The sky ponders pink as its color of the moment, slowly pushing away its nighttime blanket of black.
It is a short car ride to Lincoln High. The lights stay mostly green, unwilling to go through the efforts of other colors, but we are in no rush to hurry through them.
We pass a lone bicyclist, water jug balanced on his handlebars. He is making his way to the Work-A-While building, once home to butterscotch malts and chocolate sundaes. Even at this hour, a line forms in front there, as determined men quietly jockey for a day's wages.
We are grateful that the light at Capitol Parkway yawns red, giving us extra time with the crickets, who are rallying for the sweeping chorus, their dewy legs humming from the creek.
And then--just like that--it is changed. A cardinal's song carries daytime onto the scene, and pinks stretch back into gray. Traffic picks up, the crickets fall silent, a walker's limbs grow warm from the rhythm of his movements.
But I was there, just moments ago, a witness to that magical in-between time. And I am comforted to have known it this day.
I am, I suppose, an optimist, preferring to find good even when a 5:30 a.m. cheerleading practice looms. This morning, though, the good found us.
The air was thick and still when Allison and I walked to our car. For once, I was glad that Eric hadn't closed the garage the night before. It meant we could walk in silence, not puncturing the early morning with the groans of a garage-door opener that was long past its prime.
There is something slightly mysterious about leaving your house, pre-dawn. Even the sight of a neighbor's headlights catches you off guard, as you wonder aloud what they are doing up so early. We stare into their window as we pass each other, sharing a silent bond that briefly ties us to each other.
Allison and I crack our windows, letting the world ease in, and we are treated to a sleepy chorus of cricket chirps. The sky ponders pink as its color of the moment, slowly pushing away its nighttime blanket of black.
It is a short car ride to Lincoln High. The lights stay mostly green, unwilling to go through the efforts of other colors, but we are in no rush to hurry through them.
We pass a lone bicyclist, water jug balanced on his handlebars. He is making his way to the Work-A-While building, once home to butterscotch malts and chocolate sundaes. Even at this hour, a line forms in front there, as determined men quietly jockey for a day's wages.
We are grateful that the light at Capitol Parkway yawns red, giving us extra time with the crickets, who are rallying for the sweeping chorus, their dewy legs humming from the creek.
And then--just like that--it is changed. A cardinal's song carries daytime onto the scene, and pinks stretch back into gray. Traffic picks up, the crickets fall silent, a walker's limbs grow warm from the rhythm of his movements.
But I was there, just moments ago, a witness to that magical in-between time. And I am comforted to have known it this day.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
There's a Reason It's the FIRST Amendment
Most people have their favorites--favorite colors (yellow), favorite numbers (a tie between 2 and 4), favorite foods (hmmm, let me get back to you). I also have my favorite words in the English language.
"FREE BEER!" --nope.
"SNOW DAY!" --nope.
"SARAH PALIN'S RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT!" --nope.
Actually, I have 45 favorite words:
"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."
If I want to feel patriotic and empowered, while it's true that I could run a race carrying the U.S. flag, for me, there is nothing more patriotic or more empowering than the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.
It is, I believe, the most radical document written in at least 2,000 years. And to think that it was written by the people in charge...well, that just about floors me every time.
Can you imagine if today's Congress were in charge of writing the First Amendment? Pretty sure they'd skip right on to the Second one, nervously feeling for their sidearms, in case anyone happened to notice.
When it's all about getting re-elected, encouraging things like practicing or not practicing a religion, speaking one's mind, protesting perceived injustices, and staying out of the way of journalism definitely will NOT get you another term.
That's what's so stunning about the First Amendment--there's so little in it for those in charge and so much in it for the rest of us.
You remember the rest of us, right?
In many ways, the First Amendment is a living thing--a breathable document whose interpretations reflect the times we live in. Sometimes restrictive, sometimes utterly freeing, always exhilarating and occasionally exhausting, the First Amendment is the radical idea that free people have free minds and that free minds are better than penned in ones, even when it means that things will get messy.
I, for one, am all for the mess.
"FREE BEER!" --nope.
"SNOW DAY!" --nope.
"SARAH PALIN'S RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT!" --nope.
Actually, I have 45 favorite words:
"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."
If I want to feel patriotic and empowered, while it's true that I could run a race carrying the U.S. flag, for me, there is nothing more patriotic or more empowering than the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.
It is, I believe, the most radical document written in at least 2,000 years. And to think that it was written by the people in charge...well, that just about floors me every time.
Can you imagine if today's Congress were in charge of writing the First Amendment? Pretty sure they'd skip right on to the Second one, nervously feeling for their sidearms, in case anyone happened to notice.
When it's all about getting re-elected, encouraging things like practicing or not practicing a religion, speaking one's mind, protesting perceived injustices, and staying out of the way of journalism definitely will NOT get you another term.
That's what's so stunning about the First Amendment--there's so little in it for those in charge and so much in it for the rest of us.
You remember the rest of us, right?
In many ways, the First Amendment is a living thing--a breathable document whose interpretations reflect the times we live in. Sometimes restrictive, sometimes utterly freeing, always exhilarating and occasionally exhausting, the First Amendment is the radical idea that free people have free minds and that free minds are better than penned in ones, even when it means that things will get messy.
I, for one, am all for the mess.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Death Becomes Him
Carey Dean Moore is a man of his convictions, literally. Convicted of murder in 1980, Moore has been on Nebraska's Death Row since then. He was supposed to die--again--on June 14 but his execution was stayed when questions arose about the supplier of Nebraska's latest batch of execution drugs.
I've never met Carey Dean Moore, but he and I wrote letters to each other for about a year and a half, following a request made to our congregation by our then-pastor, Otis Young.
I wanted nothing more than to ignore Otis' request. After all, two former students of mine had died violent deaths at the hands of convicted murderers. Who would think that, in the two short years I taught at Pius, Candy Harms and Teena Brandon would enter my life, only to leave it a few years later?
I am still haunted by the details of Candy's death that a State Patrol friend of mine gave me. And I will always remember the moment when a jury reached a decision in the trial of Roger Bjorklund, one of two men who took Candy's life. I was behind the wheel of my Fiat, almost at the intersection of 27th and Capitol Parkway when friend and former KFOR workmate Dale Johnson broke into morning programming to announce the verdict.
Guilty.
I was both paralyzed and shaken by that single, definitive word. A flood of emotions filled me as I tried to remember just how to drive a car. Or live a life.
Brandon's life and death were muddied by a sexual identity that many people could not understand. His suffering, I imagine, extended over years, rather than just the last minutes of his life.
I have always considered myself to be against the death penalty. That belief, however, was purely academic until Bjorklund and Scott Barney killed Candy. It is not hard to imagine the strain this belief has endured since then. And yet, it is, I believe, still there, this conviction that the state should not kill its citizens.
This does not mean that I rested easily when Bjorklund died of a medical event while sitting on Death Row. No, truth be told, I had wished something more painful and exacting for him.
So, why did I start writing to Carey Dean Moore? I guess I felt called to do it. It was a way to put a face on a criminal, a way to attempt to heal the wounds within, to face truths that were larger than myself.
Our letters were neither poignant nor particularly memorable. I wrote about my life, my work, my family. He wrote about his life and his faith--another of his convictions. For a year, I shared his letters with my Newspaper students, seeing it as an opportunity for us to hear from a person whose personal stories often go untold. Carey even had a one-time stint as a guest editorialist for the student newspaper.
Even though our letter writing waned in its second year, I can no longer read an article about Carey Dean Moore without seeing his face and knowing a bit of his story. It is, I believe, the price we pay for being consciously human--to bear witness to the lives behind the stories, as complicated as those lives and stories may be.
I've never met Carey Dean Moore, but he and I wrote letters to each other for about a year and a half, following a request made to our congregation by our then-pastor, Otis Young.
I wanted nothing more than to ignore Otis' request. After all, two former students of mine had died violent deaths at the hands of convicted murderers. Who would think that, in the two short years I taught at Pius, Candy Harms and Teena Brandon would enter my life, only to leave it a few years later?
I am still haunted by the details of Candy's death that a State Patrol friend of mine gave me. And I will always remember the moment when a jury reached a decision in the trial of Roger Bjorklund, one of two men who took Candy's life. I was behind the wheel of my Fiat, almost at the intersection of 27th and Capitol Parkway when friend and former KFOR workmate Dale Johnson broke into morning programming to announce the verdict.
Guilty.
I was both paralyzed and shaken by that single, definitive word. A flood of emotions filled me as I tried to remember just how to drive a car. Or live a life.
Brandon's life and death were muddied by a sexual identity that many people could not understand. His suffering, I imagine, extended over years, rather than just the last minutes of his life.
I have always considered myself to be against the death penalty. That belief, however, was purely academic until Bjorklund and Scott Barney killed Candy. It is not hard to imagine the strain this belief has endured since then. And yet, it is, I believe, still there, this conviction that the state should not kill its citizens.
This does not mean that I rested easily when Bjorklund died of a medical event while sitting on Death Row. No, truth be told, I had wished something more painful and exacting for him.
So, why did I start writing to Carey Dean Moore? I guess I felt called to do it. It was a way to put a face on a criminal, a way to attempt to heal the wounds within, to face truths that were larger than myself.
Our letters were neither poignant nor particularly memorable. I wrote about my life, my work, my family. He wrote about his life and his faith--another of his convictions. For a year, I shared his letters with my Newspaper students, seeing it as an opportunity for us to hear from a person whose personal stories often go untold. Carey even had a one-time stint as a guest editorialist for the student newspaper.
Even though our letter writing waned in its second year, I can no longer read an article about Carey Dean Moore without seeing his face and knowing a bit of his story. It is, I believe, the price we pay for being consciously human--to bear witness to the lives behind the stories, as complicated as those lives and stories may be.
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