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.