Good for Nothing

Sullied woman on virgin prairie.

Several years ago, it seems every church in town was offering workshops based on Rick Warren's book "The Purpose-Driven Life."  I don't hear much about the book anymore, although it's pretty obvious that lots of folks are living purpose-driven lives.

Those folks just don't happen to include me.

That photo of me on the left?  I'm laying on virgin prairie in central Nebraska, doing pretty much nothing but enjoying myself.  The photo sums up my typical summer motto: Be good for nothing.  I am thinking of offering workshops at area churches, in which I'd teach people how to be a little more purposeless, how to do a little more nothing.

No, really.

 I think there is something to be said for doing something--or nothing--just because you want to do something, or nothing.  To be honest,  I'm a little leery of people whose every move seems purpose-driven.  The thing about requiring purpose before action is that it infuses every action with an ulterior motive, which feels a little manipulative to me.  And all that purpose power can take away the magic of a moment.  I doubt Warren's book has a chapter called "The Joy of Serendipity."

Mmmm!  Cold beer!

This photo is of the inside of the old Coke machine that we keep in the basement.  Once a year, I fill it with good beer and invite East High staff to come over and have a cold one.  I even provide the dimes!  So much for any ulterior motive of making back my money!  From a purpose-driven perspective, I suppose you could say I offer the free beer as a way of making friends or showing off that I found this machine for only a hundred bucks.  But, really, I just offer the bubbles so that we can get together and have a little fun.  Because it's really intense, working in a school.

Today is the first official day of my summer. and I just got back from my third walk.  Finn's happy about me being in "summer" mode.  That's because he lives a purpose-driven life and has ulterior motives, like extra walks and maybe a bonus treat or two.  But I still love him, despite his goal-laden personality.  I try to see beyond his Type A tendencies, recognizing that he also is a good companion when I am lollygagging on the hammock, or exploring a new trail, or bending down to figure out what all the hubbub is with the ants on our sidewalk.

I think--deep down--Finn knows that a good-for-nothing, goal-free life can be a magical thing, like seeing a deer run across the neighbor's lawn in the middle of the morning.  Had we had our noses to the proverbial grindstone, concerned about nothing more than getting in our steps or increasing our heart rates, we might have missed that strange, wonderful moment when the deer leapt the cemetery fence, joining the Catholic dead and then just disappearing.

I'm not above seeing the irony in this blog entry.  On a certain level, this entry may in fact be purpose-driven.  By writing it, I could hope to cast a positive light on my do-nothing life.   Think what you will.  I can't be bothered with mind reading.  I feel a nap coming on. . . .

No More Business as Usual. . .

Allison, Nick, Jake and Mason--Ideal friends.

Stupid pepitas.  (And who calls pumpkin seeds pepitas anyway?)

If it hadn't been for those blasted seeds, I'd have been at Ideal, like usual.  Chatting it up with Rob the butcher.  Thanking him for fixing Allison's car the other day.  Or asking Rick for a half pound of smoked turkey, thin sliced.  Or joshing with Jake about his weekend plans.

If it hadn't been for those stupid pepitas, the grocery list I'd written would have matched the aisles (--yeah, I'm one of those people). Instead, I found myself aimlessly roaming HyVee, a cacophonous excuse for a grocery store, where I knew I'd find a soulless self-serve container of pumpkin seeds, along with about ten million other items.  By the time I'd wheeled my too-big grocery cart into the too-full line at the register, I felt agitated and slightly paranoid.

"No, I don't have a stupid Fuel Saver card and use paper bags, please."

Several years ago, my friend Annie schooled me on the idea of the third place, a term for those sacred spaces beyond home and work where we seek out the comfort of others and strengthen our sense of community.   Ideal Grocery Store was a textbook third place.

My mom shopped there when I was a kid.  In fact, my parents were good pals with the owners, the Moores, who were funny and easy and welcoming, and who even let the Raglin clan play at their Fremont-lakes cabin from time to time.  And, when I got married and was looking for ways to practice being a contented adult, I turned to Ideal.  It was small and friendly and the people seemed to like working there, which is so important to me.

Through the years, Ideal and its staff confirmed over and over again the rightness of my decision to become a customer of theirs.  I will never forget Tall Bob knocking on my door just after I'd given birth to Eric, plant and Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch in hand.  Or the Ellenwood twins talking movies and musicals with me, and--every so often--calling me "Sally" instead of Jane, which, if you know my mom, is just about the highest compliment a girl can get.

I tried my first (and only) Parisian barbecue sauce at Ideal, after a customer had requested it and Tall Bob had to buy a case to fulfill the request.  Got some swanky tonic water there, as well. And incredible sharp cheddar cheese, and a glorious slice of very fancy ham.  All free of charge, simply because I'd shown an interest.

One morning, I left with a handful of Phish CDs, after a previous conversation about music with Brad.  And more than once, Nick--who was still friendly even after being assigned management of the toiletries aisle--sent me home with new outdoor adventures and locales to whet my nature-nerd appetite.

Ah, but this thing I had with Ideal wasn't just about what I got out of it.  Both of my kids spent a half dozen years working at Ideal.  Learning about excellent customer service, even when faced with that one crabby woman who always came to the store five minutes before closing and wanted her lone apple wrapped separately.  There, my kids learned how to manage money, how to bag groceries really well, how to cut produce expertly, how to work through exhaustion and frustration.  And they made friends there, as well.  Friends they've creeked and camped and longboarded with.  Friends who've shown up at graduation parties and musical performances.

Both Mark and I were awakened by the wailing sirens the other night.  We had no idea, of course, that they were going to Ideal.  When I got word early the next morning that it was gone?  Well, I can't quite bring myself to believe it.  Can't drive by and face that particular truth.  All these good people, scattered to the winds.  And I wonder if I'll see them again. . . .

Damned pepitas.

Dead Men--and Women--Talking

Yesterday, my friend Biking Bob dropped off an article written about my dad shortly after his death.  The newspaper was tucked carefully between two pieces of cardboard, its contents identified by Bob's loopy, unmistakable handwriting as something we might like to have.

I read through the article this morning,  and learned a thing or two about my dad that I'd either forgotten or had never known in the first place.  First--and most surprising--was his age when he died.  I thought he was 67, but the article said he was 68.  Had I shortchanged him a year or was it a typo?  I'm not really sure.  And I didn't realize he'd taught journalism in Ohio, as well as to prisoners in Nebraska.  Joe R. Seacrest, his former boss at the Lincoln Journal, was quoted in the article as saying how funny my dad was, and what an advocate he was for the First Amendment.  These things, of course, I already knew.

I didn't know Allen McCutcheon, the 66-year-old former UNL professor who died in a swimming pool the other morning.  But I read the story about him this morning, and was moved by accounts of how much he had lived and loved in this life of his.  A workmate described him as someone who connected well with others.  His daughter spoke of a man who loved traveling, cooking, life.  A master swimmer, people were taken aback that he'd died in water.

I imagine the water as warm and calm and quiet. Womb-like.  And I hope that's what it was like for him. Full circle, in gentle, ever-widening arcs.

Ghosts, it seems, have been a theme for me this morning.  Mary Kay's met me halfway up the block, as I eyed the chalk marks in the middle of the street, appalled that young kids had laid down and drawn outlines of themselves in a space reserved for traffic.  We had a good laugh over that one.

Then Andrea's whispery fingerprints showed up all over my library office this morning.  Two crocodiles stared at me, while the weird-looking bookworm--another gift from her--curled up at the edge of my desk.  And, for some reason, my hand was drawn to the middle drawer, where I ran my fingers across a package of Sharpies bequeathed to me by Andrea in her final days.

I am surrounded by the ephemera of lives lived and loved and not quite lost just yet.  By the comforting swirl of warm waters and the surprise of cackling laughter.  By the sight of a familiar gait in a stranger and old stories finding new light once again.

Life is messy and beautiful, complicated and simple.  Usually, all at once.  It is the opposite of linear, a fistful of stars scattered wildly into the night sky.  And I must look like a fool sometimes, with my eyes wide open and my mouth agape, gulping it in as fast as I can. Quenching this thirst to remember.