Peripheral People

Do you have peripheral people? I’m sure you do, but by nature of their role you may not always see them clearly. I attended a funeral mass today for one of my peripheral people, Pat. Patricia Elizabeth Cossins, although I may not have recognized that name had I seen it somewhere out of context. I found out today that Pat had 25 grandchildren and 38 great grandchildren. I had no idea what a bundle of family she had, but even so she gave attention to celebrating the milestones of my children as though they belonged to her, not peripheral attention but genuine, focused warmth.

We got Pat at St. Mary’s, our parish just outside the Snow Globe.  My parents were always front row people at church, and Pat was their front row counterpart just across the narrow aisle. I can’t remember what point in time she began to be there. I just know she was in the family photos of Holly’s baptism and then of Devin’s. I grew up a front row person by association and was ever uncomfortable and self-conscious there. So when Devin, (wiggly Devin who didn’t have a whisper voice whatsoever) was a toddler, I began to look for ways to sit behind the front row people on the outside where I could escape as necessary to give him a good scolding on the back steps (for which I needed to confess my lack of patience during several Advents and Lents).

By the time Treyson’s baptism came around, Pat was not only in the photos, she was more than happy to be his godmother, for which I was grateful. But I was more grateful still when St. Mary’s joined other small parishes to become one big parish and Pat saved me. She became my parents’ front row same side of the new wide aisle companion. Because they had Pat, I didn’t feel like they were lonely when I began sliding in the side entrance with two very busy boys and one teen sister sweetly aloof from their ruckus. By mid-mass I usually had to force my way in between the boys to keep them from laughing and elbowing, and it was always a comfort to look across the way and see Pat and my parents, distant enough to be fondly amused by the shenanigans and sympathetically supportive of me.

While my parents’ friendship with Pat was more concrete, mine was mostly a Sunday kind of deal. We congregated after mass to chat, Pat would catch up on the doings of the kids, and we’d exchange well-wishes for the week ahead. There were Christmas cards sent. I was guilty of needing to call my mom for her address for a string of years because I hadn’t taken time to add it to my address book. We attended her 70^th birthday party with her family. By Devin’s graduation she had mobility challenges, so I didn’t give much thought to her actually attending, but she got herself there early and told a teacher who she was there to celebrate. The teacher assumed she was a grandparent and helped her to a seat in the row reserved for Devin’s family where we found her waiting with a smile. It was a much better spot for her than on the periphery.

Pat was proudly present at Treyson’s graduation and Devin’s wedding. When Devin came to mass for the last time before moving across the country for graduate school, she cried like she was losing one of her own, which took the focus from my own heavy heart and helped me hold myself together. After an illness left her in a wheelchair her daughter Terry began bringing her to church and the brief cheerful Sunday chats continued with another person in the circle, until Pat went through a string of health complications and Terry began to come to mass alone. Then on Easter Sunday Terry invited us to visit Pat at home, where the family had settled her with the help of hospice to spend her last days.

I’m not proud of how much I didn’t want to go. It seemed so intimate and personal, not peripheral at all. I love people, but I’m socially awkward at best so imagine me when things are at their worst. I did go though, and I have never felt with more certainty the value of connection or the divine force that has given us hearts to connect. I can’t fully comprehend why it mattered that I was there, but it did. Pat was not able to hold a conversation but when she said my name I moved to a stool by the bed and she gazed steadily at me, her eyes shining and clear for a long, warm while. I didn’t have words then, and I don’t have them now, but I will never forget that moment. We stayed at the house for just a bit longer to encourage Terry, so brave in bringing her mom home and so fragile in her knowledge of both how long and how fleeting the time would be. When I told Pat “Goodbye, I’ll see you again,” I knew it to be true.

From this Easter parting with Pat I learned you should value your peripheral people. That’s not to say you must bring them into the center of your life; they’re exactly where they belong. But when you meet them, understand that you are seen and heard and more importantly, allow yourself to see and hear. Outside your snow globe the world is vast and impersonal but between you and things beyond that don’t belong to you, stand your peripheral people. When one of them is gone, you’ll feel deeply that the world out there is too big without them, but then you will realize with comfort how much more connected to all humanity you are because they once were there.

One Snow Globe Indivisible

I had a discussion yesterday with a Facebook Stranger. The kind of discussion that, even when you enter with good intentions, seems to become agitated and end in a scramble for the last word. Preferably a resounding, clever last word as you attempt to leave the conversation with a self-satisfied feeling you never do quite feel. This discussion ended differently and gave me hope that people can still communicate with one another productively in these divided times across the greater American snow globe.

I commented on the post because the scene it depicted touched me deeply. It also troubled me, because I could imagine how it would play out if it were shot from another angle. The post told the story of two boys from a rough neighborhood, one who was talented at football and ultimately made it to the NFL, and one who was not, who worked at McDonalds and then joined the military. This post is timely in America, as football season comes spiraling into the middle of our mutual playing field. And unless somehow you avoid all contact with people both in your actual presence and on your devices, the words flag and kneel are causing some sort of reaction for you.

Take one of the scene, as posted by a Facebook Stranger: Boy One, the NFL player, kneels in protest before the flag as the national anthem plays. He has no idea how fortunate he is, and he owes it all to Boy Two, the soldier, who once in a while catches a game from a war-torn country far away as he risks his life defending that flag. I watched it unfold with a weight on my heart because it’s true, there is no fair comparison between football and war, and we watch football on Sunday (and Monday, and Saturday, and Friday night, or not at all) because we are free and safe to do so.

I’ve never been one to enjoy choosing sides. As a child I avoided eenie meenie miney mo moments because someone was always going to be You-Are-NOT-It! As a grown up I still want us all to get along in one big happy group. It’s not a realistic wish, but it does lead me to examine the sides of an issue, wanting no one to be dismissed as not it. While my first reaction to the kneeling protesters was to see them as clearly disrespectful, I started searching for what they had to say about their reason for kneeling, which led me to dialogue about it with a Facebook Stranger, trying to defrost the view from my snow globe into his.

I saw take one, and I wanted to show him take two because the weight on my heart presses with equal force when I imagine it: two boys from a rough neighborhood, looking for a way to make their lives better and finding the opportunities frighteningly few. One is handed the idea that his athletic ability can save his life; the other is not an athlete and instead is handed the idea that the military can save his. It wasn’t the life either of them dreamed of, but it was the one available. We see these boys as opposites, but are they really?

I told him about a Netflix documentary series I’ve been watching called Last Chance U, with athletes scouted into a community college football program scratching and scrambling their way toward the NFL. It has given me glimpses into the places they come from, one heartbreaking reality after another. Lingering in my mind was the boy from a small Florida town where people are “going in circles,” who watched his mentor, a junior league football coach, get shot. He held his 3-year-old nephew and looked into the camera, eyes dark with responsibility, “Ain’t nobody moving up, unless I move up." His football story runs parallel to those on a reddit feed full of comments from people found by recruiters and given the military as their way out. Honorable as that choice is, many admit to making it because they didn’t want to fall into dangerous patterns that make ends meet in tragic ways. They have family counting on them and adding to the pressure, the whole country is counting on them too. 

In this land of opportunity, it seems to me there should be many choices that lie between football and war, no matter what neighborhood you’re raised in. True, America is full of opportunities, but how many of us know young people who need to be shown the way, redirected, pulled back, gently nudged forward? My sons had choices and more importantly, they had people to show them how to find and consider the options. People who had resiliency and stability, who cared about them personally, not only as scouts or recruiters care.

Boy One and Boy Two live in this country, but there are many, many more who are Boy Three. They aren’t athletic, they don’t cross the path of a military recruiter, they aren’t good in school, they don’t have adults able to meet their basic needs let alone show them options for their lives. They repeat a cycle. They die needless, violent deaths or trudge in an out of incarceration and the pain of their lives paves roads going nowhere. It’s for Boy Three that Boy One is kneeling. And Boy Two supports him. In an interview with more than a dozen black veterans from WWII to Afghanistan, all of them expressed reverence for the flag they served, and all of them but one said they thought of the kneeling as exactly what they fought for and didn’t feel disrespected by it at all.

These thoughts I shared with a Facebook Stranger, and he told me he believes take two is true. He also stood firm in considering kneeling to be a display of poor character. Any disrespect of our flag is, in his words, a disgrace. He wants instead to see players use their platform doing concrete things to make a difference in the off-season, being an active example for the kids who look up to them. He passionately believes in respect for the flag that flies over our freedom and the sacrifices made to keep it waving there. I believe in it too; In my snow globe I was raised with that respect firmly planted in the secure ground of a safe and happy upbringing. I mourn the shadow that has fallen over my sun bright patriotism, miss the uncomplicated tears that filled my eyes when the anthem played and the flag was raised. It’s so easy to turn away from those who have cast that shadow with their kneeling. But I can’t quite turn away. I still cry when the flag is raised but the tears are complicated tears now because some of them are for the circumstances from which grew what he labeled poor character.

This issue is a raging one, a freezing force across the country, but at the end of my discussion with a Facebook Stranger, I know if the two of us were in charge we would reach a compromise on how to go forward. I thanked him for the discussion, he told me he applauded me for taking the stance I’ve chosen and stated strongly that all voices speaking out on this topic should be heard and respected. We ended with “Good talking to you.” If we can do it, another two and another two can do it. America can do it. One snow globe indivisible.

Perspective:  Let America Be America Again

Hope:  Let's Listen Together

Headlamps

If you happen to be people of the Snow Globe, let me explain a great mystery. Those twin bobbing lights on Notus Road at 7:30 p.m., like headlights but no, too high to be headlights, those are us. Tom and I. Walking at quite a perky pace with headlamps on our heads. He thinks it’s not only practical, but clever. He’s always wanted a reason to buy me a headlamp. Better yet, matching headlamps! His, however, stays nicely in place over his no-nonsense Carhart beanie. Mine struggles to stay still over my busy hair which is covered by a shifting variety of hats from my soft-as-a-cloud crocheted hat to my left-over-from-Halloween cow hat. Usually it is sliding down over my eyes. This is an annoyance I gamely endure to support my Love in his fitness mission. Tom has had heredity hypertension and high cholesterol since high school, like his dad, and then just before Christmas he was diagnosed with diabetes.

He tells people his doctor called him Fatty and told him to get out of his office, which gets a chuckle from most. But what the doctor really said was “take an Aspirin every day so you don’t have a heart attack until we get this under control,” which does not get a chuckle from me. In fact, I swallow a bit of panic every time I hear the bottle of Aspirin chink-chinking in his coat pocket and I have a collection of stashed Aspirin bottles myself, just so one is always at hand.

Walking quickly seems as manageable a way as any to out distance panic, and typical of Tom, we haven’t stopped there. He processed the news himself first, and by the time he shared it with me he had a membership at the YMCA, an appointment with a dietitian and a personal trainer, a Fitbit, and a plan to lure me with new workout clothes. Do you realize how expensive workout clothes can be? Even more so at the beginning of the year, when so many of us have made a resolution involving our health and we need moisture-wicking, figure trimming, support lending, speed enhancing gear to keep that resolution. Apparently, there must be added benefit if said gear is electric green or intensely coral, because to find understated colors in our sizes at any local store or across the world wide web was a pre-challenge to the challenge.

Anyway, we’re finally outfitted and working out, being proactive and positive. I mostly manage to shovel away the feeling of being stuck in the center of the Globe, the snow falling around me in the form of a fear named diabetes. It helps that at the YMCA we encountered a favorite used-to-be employee from our gas station, who now enthusiastically teaches water fitness classes. We also chatted with our former neighbor, a young basketball star from the Globe and recently returned college graduate. She teaches people how to master the fitness machines. They make the YMCA feel down right homey.

I’ve always thought I’d be a good fitness person, after all I took aerobics for college credit. I lost all the baby weight from my first child with a devotion to Cher’s exercise video on VHS. I actually and honestly enjoy yoga, Power Yoga mind you, if only on PBS. I fully expected to be good at working out. This is not the first time I’ve felt smugly more qualified than Tom for an undertaking I was in favor of. I should know by now I am usually wrong, given the skiing-actually-sucks incident and the West Coast Swing tangle up, both things he tried because I begged, only to discover he was infinitely better at it than I. So it shouldn’t have surprised me, three weeks in, to find myself in the closet one morning, having crawled there in determination to start my day only to find I was unable to quite get up off the floor, due to my lower back being not a fan of some unspecified thing I did at the Y the night before.

Not a problem really. I’m walking almost completely upright again and he’s doing great at his workout, losing steady weight and feeling so much more energetic; He’s all about earning those fireworks on his Fitbit (although that damn thing has a graph and I seriously refuse to take part in certain activities that create peaks on the graph ever again unless it’s not on his wrist for goodness sake!). I’m certainly not ready to give in and let him buy me my own, try as he might, but I’m glad he has people. In and around the Globe are other people who get it, who can share their experiences and lighten the load.

Other people are one of the Snow Globe’s best features. More than once I have been on the edge of spitefully, hopelessly cooking and drowning in a fat filled cheesy lasagna paired with a whole loaf of butter-soaked garlic bread (oh, the carbs, carbs!) because my mind cannot process one more weird diabetic recipe with obscure ingredients. I mean, only so many times can you follow no less than three Wal-Mart employees around the produce department in search of shirataki spaghetti (low carb, low carb) because the mobile app says they carry it even though no one there has any idea what it’s made of or where it’s hiding. Carb, my friends, is a four-letter word. But some people in the Globe know this. One of them talked me off the edge via Messenger, by sharing how he kicked his diabetes into control with foods I can locate on my own. Another provides a manageable challenge by posting recipe links for the successful low carb dinners she cooks for her husband. If she can do it, then maybe I too can avoid death by lasagna.

Life is too good to let it end that way! Other people in Tom’s online support group are getting on with their good lives, and they're a humbling reminder of how little we have on our plates in comparison. We don’t have to continually prick the finger of a sobbing two-year-old who will live with a damaging disease his whole life. We are not battling physical limitations that make it nearly impossible to exercise, we are not without health insurance or good medical care. When I get angry because despite my best efforts to walk this path with my partner, I cannot share the burden of the nerve pain that keeps him awake at night, I turn to gratitude. I’m thankful for a strong and determined husband; I’m thankful there are people who understand; I’m thankful red wine has only 4 carbs per glass (thank-you, thank-you!), and I’m thankful for matching headlamps.

Smoke

In the news this morning just outside the Snow Globe, in a nearby small town, was a story about a high school principal. For 16 years he's been the principal, and before that he was the town's mayor. He recently disciplined some students with a school suspension. And it seems they burned down his house. I surprised myself by crying while I read the news report. You see, the principal here in the Globe made me angry recently, and I stayed up late tapping off a scathing email to him which my son implored me not to send. I assured him that smoke rising from my keyboard is my personal way of calming myself down. At no point did I consider setting a fire in a plastic trash can in Mr. Principal's driveway while his family slept. Had the daughter of the principal in the neighboring town not gone for a morning walk with the dog and seen the fire in the garage, she would not have woken her parents and called the fire department. They escaped with their pets and a couple of photo albums, to stand outside and watch their home burn down.

The night I was so upset, my son and I talked long in the shadowy living room about the incident, and why we (calmly) disagree with the way Mr. Principal handled it, and then we agreed that Mr. Principal has good qualities to bring to a difficult position and we will continue to extend our respect to him. Though I may have said Mr. Principal is a blankety-blank and an abbity-dabbity-do while I was angry, it was uttered in my jammies on the couch and followed by a retraction. I let my son know I was disappointed in the principal's actions as a professional, but also empathetic to him as a human being and aware that we may approach problems from different places, each with good intentions.

As I read the story about the students in the neighboring town who didn't calm themselves down, and caused such destruction to their principal, I could not for the life of me wrap my mind around it. I especially couldn't get it to make any sense from my kitchen in the Globe, where I've been busy thinking about how it's time to organize the community Easter Egg Hunt for the umpteenth year. How did such a thing happen in a small town, to a man and his family who are long-time involved residents? Five children grew up in that house, in that community, and their memories were so easily turned to smoke surging into the early morning air. It was enough to make me think someone else should stuff all those eggs while I stay in my house and change the batteries in my smoke detectors.

I'll admit to being a bit obsessed with the story, enough to break my own rule and read the comments under the news article. Parents are to blame, it seems. Raising kids like that! My mind went right past parents and straight to Donald Trump, who was also on my mind this morning. Yes, my friends, I'm going to go there. I know politics is not the stuff snow globe sparkles are made of, but it's a little smoky in here right now and I need to air out the sparkles.

So why did Donald Trump come to mind? Because he's all over the place right now, routinely ranting in his jammies. Only he's not in his jammies and he never retracts. He says he'd like to "beat the crap" out of people, that someone who doesn't agree with him should be "roughed up," that he will "bomb the Sh**" out of other countries, that he could "stand in the middle of 5^th Avenue and shoot someone and not lose any voters." He insults people openly and often. Sure he may be telling it like he feels it at the moment; we all do that.  I, an accomplished jammie ranter, understand the appeal. But if we stomp on unapologetically, never restate our thoughts more respectfully when we've calmed down, always rant and seldom consider a different perspective, what kind of example do we set? Perhaps the kind that leads students who don't agree with the reprimand from their principal to go on Snap Chat ranting that they should burn his house down. They were just telling it like they felt it in the moment, and with the boldness of youth it got out of hand.

We blame their parents, but will parents trying to teach empathy and respect have a fighting chance in a country that thinks Donald Trump's behavior qualifies him to hold our highest office? It could be that the principal's suspension of the students was uncalled for.  Could they talk to him about it, Mr. President? Heck no! Rough him up, beat the crap out of him, burn down his house! Ugh. My sparkles were ashes clumped at the bottom of the snow globe.

Children were arriving at the daycare and I had to get started slugging through the ashes and into my day. It was a bit more trying than usual to go about the business of teaching self-focused little people, who are just learning to manage their own wants and needs, how to look outside themselves and understand the wants and needs of someone else. I was saying the usual: Why do you think he hit you? Did something happen that could have made him feel mad? Let's listen and talk. Look at your friend's sad face. Let's talk to her and see if we can help. Oh, you want to build in the block area too? Then don't call their tower stupid; let's see what you can all build together. But I was feeling more like: He said he doesn't like your picture? Well tear his picture up then! She bit you? Bite her back!

I didn't let them go at it because it's been my experience that when one of my children behaves forcefully the child on the receiving end doesn't sit back and submit. Oh no, he responds with equal but opposite force. Pretty soon everyone is crying and I have an intense headache. So I kept trying to help them see one another, listen to one another, give and take, and all the while I was fuming that Donald Trump acts like a child and we want to make him President. My snarky inner voice was saying "Stock up on the Tylenol, America!"

On days like this I'm so thankful for nap time, because today in the quiet I got a chance to read an update on the fire, which told how the community is rallying around the principal and his family. The GoFundMe that’s exceeded its goal, the box of autographed Green Bay Packers memorabilia that arrived when the assistant principal wrote to the Packers about how his co-worker lost the collection of a lifetime. I kicked at the ashes and a few sparkles floated into the clearing air above my sweet sleeping diplomats-in-the-making, as I read about how people really do care for one another.

I know there are people in the Globe who like Donald Trump's approach in his bid for the presidency, people I like. And what's more, I know they don't actually think kids should burn down the principal's house if he doesn't see their side. There are valid reasons why people may respond to Mr. Trump's message. I just feel it would be less of a headache if he stays in his jammies in the privacy of his rant space (or on late night television if he must) while he tosses out insults. If we put him in the block area and he doesn't know how to build with others, towers may topple in all directions. So I know who I won't be voting for. The truth is, regardless of who I do vote for, the biggest difference I might make is right here in the Snow Globe, waving smoke out of the block area and kicking up sparkles with the future leaders of America while they learn how to work together and respect one another. I hope they can look to the leaders of their country to do the same.

 

Scene from a Cold Stone Creamery

I know what joy feels like; I got a sweet reminder this weekend. I felt it bubble from the laughter of a boy and bounce out to tickle the heartstrings of everyone around. He was about 11 years old, with Down syndrome, accompanied by a young woman who was patiently amused, a little embarrassed, and obviously a big fan of his. We were walking across the parking lot together and he wiggled his way to the door ahead of us while his companion, rushing to keep up, apologized with a smile over her shoulder, "He's a little excited."

Inside there was a long line and I worried it would be hard for him to wait, but the ice cream colored world delighted him, glossy posters filled with larger-than-life berries and chocolate chunks, the warm vanilla smell of waffle cones baking, clear containers of gummy bears and coconut and sprinkles. He jiggled up on his toes, clapping his hands and turning in a little circle to take it all in.  

I watched the smile spread from him, to the family in front of him, to the girls behind the counter, to us. It's delicious to smile that big. While we mulled over the choices, he already knew he wanted nothing but chocolate, so as he waited he turned to shake hands with my son Devin. Then he took Devin's hand in one of his and reached for the young woman's hand with the other and pulled their hands together, insisting with an award-winning grin that they shake hands too. "I'm sorry," she giggled, "He likes people to meet."

I have a friend on Facebook who posted an ultrasound photo this week of the grandson she's waiting to meet. They just found out he has Down syndrome. Friends began posting positive and encouraging comments that were heartwarming to read, and each of those comments were illuminated for me in the light of joy radiating from this boy, reflected in the smile of his care-giver and igniting a merry little warmth in each of us who were watching.

I know this boy's life is not always oozing joy, and this young lady who loves him sometimes hurts for him, from the challenges Down syndrome certainly brings to their days. But for that handshake, for the open, uncomplicated gift of it, she had no reason to be sorry! I can't think of a single thing more joyful than people who aren't strangers anymore because their hearts met over ice cream.

If People with Down Syndrome Ruled the World

A Birds' Eye View

As winter shuffles along, the days close in on us. In particular, the Snow Globe sits in a valley often shrouded by cold air trapped in a dreaded "inversion." The brilliant blue sky does little to brighten us because glimpses of it are elusive. A repetitive fog is thick morning and evening, and lingers stubbornly through the day. In my home-sweet-daycare filled all day with my littles, I don't usually find it to be a somber time. I enjoy bundling them in a rainbow of mittens and beanies to play briefly outside, warming their tummies with alphabet soup, reading snowman stories squished together on the couch. But some days I feel subdued. Like a very little voice in a noisy, closed space. Because even on inversion days the littles aren't still or quiet for long. They light up like sparklers, flying in all directions. Some days I struggle to make myself heard above the sizzle as I shield my eyes from the sparks.

This morning the playroom carpet cowered under the debris of items selected and discarded in the creation of their grand display. A paper on the art table was covered entirely in puddles of purple, the hand bells were being chimed without ceasing while voices disagreed in the loft and the dishes in the play kitchen clattered. The only person who seemed put on edge by the clutter and discordance was me.

I opened the back door and stood in the doorway, lifting my eyes to the upper branches of the big old tree in my neighbor's yard. Gray branches against the gray sky through the gray fog. The chill was a relief to my flushed cheeks and I breathed deeply letting the noise drift out around me and dissipate in the misty air. Movement drew my eyes to the gathering of birds resting companionably at the tip of the tree. They were graceful silhouettes, one occasionally fluttering away, another arriving momentarily. They settled their wings with a leisurely ruffle, stretched their necks toward the heavens, sat still for long moments like birds in a painting. The whole scene seemed entirely purposeful and natural.

And it was blissfully quiet from below, though truth be told birds are not long quiet, so in reality they were likely squawking away up there in an echo of the clamor from inside. I turned back to the playroom and peered with my bird-watching eyes at the busy littles. The hand bells still chimed, but I heard the notes being repeated in an experimental song. There was debate in the loft, but the voices alternated in a give and take of talking and listening. The dishes in the play kitchen were lined up for a birthday party, imaginary candles lighting happy faces. Everything looked entirely purposeful and natural. As I stood there a dripping purple paper was pressed into my hands. "It's for you," said a proud voice, "do you want to hang it up?" I looked down and saw a field of lavender on an early summer day. I guess I just needed a birds' eye view.

 

The All-State All-Star Football Game

The Snow Globe got dumped upside down, and everything fell to the top and stuck there. And no one turned it back over. So there didn't seem to be any sparkles in the air. Here's what happened: my husband Tom is on the city council in the Globe, and if you have ever been involved in small town politics, I probably don't need to say more. If you haven't, you should. Because you will find out really fast how not glamorous it is and you will understand once and for all that changing the world must be a doozy of a job if you can't even pass an ordinance saying Dick's dog shouldn't chase Jane's kid down the street and into the corn field, because if you try Dick will defend his dog with threat of force and his third cousin the lawyer. It gives you a great deal of respect for people who, amazingly enough, do change a little bit of the world every day in all different ways.

So while taking his turn on the council, because somebody has to do it after all or we'll be buried in unmentionable stuff because no one waded their way through fixing the infamous sewer problem, Tom has angered the town's small hornet nest. Mostly they just buzz. Sometimes they sting. This time one winged his way into Larry's Caribou Lounge and started a stinging rumor. Then I got a message; my dear childhood friend said our mutual friend said that his step-dad said that the hornet told everyone in the bar, all four or five of them (blank ugly rumor) about Tom and I. Ouch. Add to that a long, scathing, half-informed opinion piece in the local newspaper (I use the term newspaper with hope in the possibility rather than belief that the current publication deserves that title), saying not-nice things about Mayor Pastor and Tom. Mayor Pastor is a thoughtful, mild-mannered, intelligent man, a former Nazarene pastor new to the position of mayor who has quietly but firmly become a hornet exterminator.

I wanted to forget about the whole situation and go about my little business, but stuff that wasn't sparkly kept coming in the door when other people came to my daycare, and so I was feeling uncharacteristically grumpy about living in the Globe. In fact, I spent some time in the Pretty Little City over the weekend and couldn't stop thinking about how much I liked it there, chatting with strangers in the elevator, being pressed into a cheerful crowd at an outdoor concert, seeing people of many varieties, feeling blissfully anonymous. I'm a loyal and loving fourth generation resident of the Globe; I don't actually want to live anywhere else. It's just that a series of downer small-towner things, combined with my own 40-something issues, led to my admittedly bad attitude. I had begun to gripe. I don't know if y'all gripe in other places, but we've got it down around here, and I'm susceptible; once I start I have trouble stopping.

So I was going with Tom every evening to take the dog on his walk (armed with pepper spray against Dick's damn dog), and alternating between the type of happy conversation married people who like each other and are raising a family together have, and griping. On an evening last week the conversation was about our son Devin and his invitation to play in the All-State All-Star Football Game. The invitation came with a need for him to find a sponsor to pay $400 for his participation in the game. We were wondering about how to make that happen since we also needed to send in the payment for "this," had "that" coming up, and couldn't forget about "the other thing." The walk ended with me thinking we had to solve the sponsor problem right way because the deadline was just over a week away. A couple days later I paused on my way to the same son's district basketball tournament to make a quick Facebook post asking if any of my friends knew of a business that might be willing and able to be his sponsor.

That's when the Globe started to be gently tilted towards the upright position, and a couple of sparkles drifted down. One friend commented on my post, "What about individual sponsors?" and I joked that maybe we should get 80 sponsors at $5 each and say Dev is sponsored by his community. By the time we got to the game, the magic of social media had cast its spell and our fellow basketball fans greeted us with hugs and, well, with cash! The Globe was firmly on its base and sparkles were floating down in a blizzard of good feelings.

Send Devin to the All-State All-Star Football Game took on a life of its own. The treasurer of our community events committee made plans to coordinate the whole effort over coffee with the long-time school secretary/extra mom to years' worth of graduates. From all across the community people were reaching out to help. Like the person at church who handed me $10 and a note saying she had once helped a young man get to Hungary for a wrestling event, which taught her "it takes a village" to get a kid to Hungary…or to the All-State game. There was the science teacher caring for a husband who can no longer care for himself, who says her job teaching in the Snow Globe saves her and that she loves her students, especially my son. There was the former high school football star from the Globe who is clear across the country getting ready to embark on his training as a Green Beret, calling to ask Devin how much he needs, because he understands the importance of that All-Star moment. There was the coach who doesn't work in the Globe anymore, but continues to coach his players long-distance whenever they need him, because small town ties are the kind that stretch but don't break. There's my friend in Seattle who once visited the Globe and became a lifetime fan; she says Devin is now sponsored by the "Greater Northwest Community."

Now, at first I felt embarrassed. In fact, I planned to delete the post but it took off without me and I couldn't catch up. It's not like this is a grave illness, a tragic accident, or the opportunity of a lifetime. People in the Globe have faced all of those things and more, when helping was the only right thing for all of us to do. But as I peeked in at the Facebook conversation thread, folks making arrangements, extending good luck wishes to Devin, joking with one another, telling us how loved we are, the embarrassment settled away. Yes, given a little more time we could have stretched our budget to send our son to the game ourselves. But the spirit of community sparkling in the air we could never have created on our own. It swirls around me, shining soothingly on stinging rumors, clarifying small-town politics, warming up my attitude, and illuminating all the reasons why I am right here where I belong and right-side up again.