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.

The Simple Things

This is a piece I wrote that was read at my Grandpa's memorial service years ago. A friend recently commented to me that she had a copy of it and was sad that she'd lost it, so I posted it here to share with her.

Harold Naylor was a builder.  He took good straight 2 x 4’s and nice pine boards and made whatever we told him we needed.  Strong pieces that we still use every day. And while he was building Holly’s bookshelf and grandma’s kitchen cupboards, he was turning houses into homes and folks into a family.

Among the things I’ve come to know by being a part of his family is my understanding that times can be hard, and things can be good even so.  Thanks to Grandpa, I almost feel the dust of a Kansas farm under my bare feet.  I hear the laughter of his brother and sisters as that old billy goat pulled them around in the cart their dad built.  I see the tumbleweed they decorated for Christmas, and feel the mischievous mood that led him and Buddy to go fishing in the stock tank and catch all those goldfish.  

I know about responsibility from a man who took care of the girls in his family when his dad passed away, and kept right on taking care of them later, when his stepsisters were widows and we visited with them while he helped with one project or another around their houses.  They paid in good home cooking and he never wanted anything more. 

I learned about hard work as I watched for him to come walking home in the evening from his job with Union Pacific Railroad.  He wore a bright yellow hard hat and carried his lunch box, and he worked 40 years without a single accident in the heat and in the snow.  Steady and strong was his way, and straight the path he followed.   And things just didn’t get in his way!  When he set his mind to something, we all knew we didn’t really stand a chance of changing it.  We’d roll our eyes and grumble to each other. “Grandpa’s got it all planned out,” we’d complain.  But chances were we’d eventually have to admit that it was a pretty good plan, and the truth was, it didn’t matter whether we thought so or not!

I felt the power of his devotion to Grandma.  Though he teased her about her “suitcase” of a purse, and grumbled about her knick-knacks, he often told us what a sweetheart she was, and if I ever saw him worry, it was about her.  During World War II, the troop transport train he was on just happened to come through Notus.  He was on duty in the kitchen car and he quickly scribbled out a strictly forbidden note to her and threw it out the door.  He was always grateful that the officer in charge said he hadn’t seen a thing, but if he’d gotten reprimanded, it would have been worth it.  He needed to let his sweetheart know that he was okay.   He came home from the war and married her and spent 60 years doing little things to make her happy.

He taught me about family.  My mom was his “babe” even when she was a parent herself, and my dad was absolutely the son he never had, who called him Dad and knew it was true.  He held each of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren in the first hours of their lives, and loved watching the family grow.  He had funny stories about each of us that he could pull out to tease us with around the campfire.  He accepted us for who we were and recognized the best in us.  He said if you loved your kids they were going to be spoiled plain and simple, and though grandma is the spoiler, he often got caught helping her do it.  As I climbed in the get-away car after my wedding, it was Grandpa who snuck the cash into my hand for our honeymoon.

As I worked with Grandpa over the years, raking leaves into nice straight rows, snapping beans from his beautiful garden, painting his house, the size of my task growing as I grew, I began to understand the quiet joy of his simple world.  Grandpa liked vanilla ice cream.  He liked a good cup of coffee just black.  He took pride in his small aluminum fishing boat with a fresh coat of green paint on the inside, and was happy to take it to the same lake every year, where the memories were as good as the fishing.  He took great pleasure in sitting in his yard as a hot summer day cooled into evening.  To see countryside he hadn’t seen before, even if it was only a short drive from home, was as enjoyable as any dream vacation.  In this world we are often working to have more, to go further, and when we get there, we find it’s never quite enough. 

Grandpa understood the value of life’s simple things, and to spend time with him was like finally catching your breath. Of all the gifts he gave me, the one I gain the most strength from, and the one I most hope to share with others, is the gift of contentment.  I have never met a soul more content to walk the path laid before him.  When diabetes damaged his eyesight more than 20 years ago, he calmly turned in his driver’s license--a man who had been a driver in the army and a driver for his railroad crew—content to travel the path of his life without complaint.  His values were straightforward, he knew a good person when he met one, and he didn’t doubt that heaven was at the end of his path.  I don’t doubt it either.  

Harold Naylor was a builder, a builder of simple things that last.  Go out for ice cream with your family this summer, and order plain vanilla.  Nothing fancy, just pure and sweet.  In remembering my grandpa, let him remind you no matter what life brings, the simple things are within your reach, and they are good.

 

Crazy Wilma

She’s off her rocker.  Or more accurately, she’s on her scooter.  She makes her way through town, sometimes weaving sometimes zipping, on a bright yellow scooter, her salt and pepper hair saluting in the wind, her long coat soaring behind:  Crazy Wilma.  For the longest time I didn’t even know if her name was really Wilma, but that’s what the kids called her, so I just went with it.  I don’t think there’s a soul in the Snow Globe who doesn’t have a Crazy Wilma story, and I find myself with mixed convictions about it. 

On the one hand, how do you not laugh?  During the time my husband was the Public Works director he had his first Wilma encounter while reading her water meter.  She stormed out of the house in her bathrobe and demanded of him, “Are ya tax collectin’, or gopher huntin’?”  Now call us crazy ourselves, but as he told me the story over dinner, something didn’t sound quite right.  The moment we opened our mouths about it (oh no, small-town gossip!) other stories got loose.  The time she darted into someone’s house unannounced and asked if she could have their doormat; The time she parked her scooter right in someone’s way and when they looked at her through their perfectly respectable glasses she barked, “Get out of my way Four Eyes!”; The time she went riding on her scooter in her bathrobe without anything underneath, so it flapped around exposing things it’s best not to be too descriptive about.  Just yesterday she yelled at one of my daycare clients, a grandmother in her 50’s, “Going home to get your bikini?”  It’s funny, and laughter is good. 

On the other hand, this year as winter melted away and seeped through spring into slow summer days, it became apparent that Wilma is becoming more restless and more bold.  Wilma encounters have been frequent and that can’t help but be a bit worrisome.   I had to address the subject with the children at my daycare as they were sitting around the table having a snack.  The conversation revolved around Crazy Wilma, and how she warned two of the boys to be careful because an “old lady” was watching them.  That could be scary, and scary is bad. 

Or at the very least, scary deserves caution.  I found myself sending up a quick prayer for guidance to compose the right words for explaining mental illness in a respectful manner.  I had to begin by acknowledging that I laugh too.  And then I tried to help them imagine how scary it must be for Wilma herself, to have disconnected thoughts running around in her head much like she runs around on her scooter.  Then I asked them to call her just Wilma, instead of Crazy Wilma, and to be polite if she speaks to them but to stop and talk to her under absolutely no circumstances.

I couldn’t do much more than that, other than to direct them to take any further questions to their grown-ups.  But to be honest, we grown-ups are still working on our own understanding.  Imagine,  if  you will, a small-town committee meeting.  We are discussing Independence Day festivities for the Snow Globe.  And in stroll Wilma and her husband, Mr. Wilma.  We are all caught off guard except  Karen the Postmistress, who is quite aware of the possibility that our evening may be a bit out of the ordinary, due to an earlier Wilma encounter in the Post Office during which she extended an invitation to attend the meeting.

With much helpless shoulder-shrugging and eye-raising we carry on with our meeting:  How many pounds of sausage do we need for breakfast? ; Did anyone remember to remind the Christensen girls that they’re singing the national anthem? ; Do we have a pooper scooper to follow little Hannah-dressed-like-Sacajawea on her horse in the parade?  Meanwhile Wilma behaves herself.  Mostly.  Except for the time she gets up and starts folding Karen’s collar and combing her hair.  “So you’ll look nice for the pictures” she declares as she settles back in her folding chair.  And the time she lays her head on the table and laughs wildly, chortling something about Bingo.  Not to mention the fact that she spends most of the meeting discoursing with herself, or perhaps her other self, about we’re not sure what.

We were all behaving ourselves with admirable manners, and then happened a moment that made me very proud of the people of the globe.  You see, Wilma’s husband is a small, quiet man who has lived here for more than a few years.  I went to high school with his computer-geek son and his meekly pretty daughter who I recall sang like a bird.  There was once some intense but now forgotten gossip about his first wife and then she went away, leaving him a single father.  Somewhere along the way he acquired Wilma and evolved to become an apt partner for her, strange himself in a mild way.  Marc, a member of our group recently returned home from his life in a place more densely populated, also remembered the daughter who sang.  And he remembered the part I had forgotten—the father who amplified her talent.  As the rest of us were trying to act nonchalant while exchanging subtle What-the-Hell-Are-They-Doing-Here glances, Marc asked Mr. Wilma, “Do you still have your microphone and speakers?”

Crazy Wilma’s husband, once blond but now balding, once accomplished but now bumbling, was silent and confused.  But finally he broke into a beaming grin and stammered, “Yes….I think in my computer room.  Yes.  Yes I believe I do have an amplifier and a microphone…and I have speakers.  And…you caught me off guard but I could maybe put it all together for you.”  He used to provide sound for our school concerts, where his daughter was a shy but soft shining star.  Wilma beamed too, nodded vigorously, answered a question the rest of us couldn’t possibly hear, and the meeting went on.  Independence Day came and Mr. Wilma did not produce the microphone we needed in order to announce the winner of the Apple Pie Bake Off.  It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that brief moment when he felt included and useful, when a person who shared some of his history remembered who he was.  What mattered was the brand new scooter he and Wilma bought and rode so proudly in the parade.  What mattered was how the rest of us got a glimpse into a life we don’t understand…a  glimpse just clear enough to remind us there is value in that life.  In the Snow Globe it matters because Dana at the gas station has taken the time to figure out  if you address Wilma by her “other name,” she can be coaxed into pleasant conversation, and because Karen the Postmistress saw fit to let Wilma fuss over her hair without cringing.  Because Marc remembered Mr. Wilma has a talent and a daughter somewhere in his past.

I said before that I had mixed convictions, and that’s because I feel strongly both the humor and the sadness in the situation.  Until I sat with my fellow committee members at a Snow Globe meeting I was worried that Wilma would get worse and worse until someone got hurt.  Now I understand that we take care of our own, and that includes Crazy Wilma.  Maybe we’ll do it by staying out of the way of her scooter, or maybe by minding our surprised manners when the two of them show up where they aren’t expected.  Or maybe we’ll have to find help for Wilma on some excessively off-balanced day in our connected future.  In any case, we should learn the lessons put before us.  This lesson is wrapped with humor but in the middle is insight into respect, into that moment we may be called upon to show compassion and responsibility for another, simply because we live our lives in the same small, sparkling place.

Tootsie Pop

I licked my way happily to the center of a red Tootsie Pop today.  I enjoy truffles wrapped in dark chocolate, but sometimes sugar covered sugar filled with the sweet taste of childhood is all I really want.  As I was untwisting the wrapper from this little gift, I was thinking about Bud’s Market.  When I was growing up the Snow Globe had two stores; one was Moore’s Grocery (those of you who know will agree when I say Moore’s is a story all its own, some of which I’m not qualified to tell), and the other was Bud’s Market.

Moore’s was a barefoot bike ride with my friends when we were old enough to go alone.  We dropped our banana-seated Schwinns in the middle of the doorway and skidded into the dimness, where we were allowed to go behind the counter to pick candy if we weren’t afraid of Blake.  Bud’s was way on the other side of the road, a little girl’s summer walk with Grandma.

For the first part of the walk I could skip ahead or linger behind, picking up interesting rocks, bent bottle caps, and other possible treasure.  The sidewalk meandered along, with those tiny purple weeds all little girls know are really fairy flowers peeking through the cracks.  It disappeared entirely for a stretch, went up a slope, proceeded along the side of the neatly tended lumber yard with its drive-on scale (“don't jump on there!"), and reached the corner, where it stopped meandering and marched along bravely next to the Hold My Hand So You Don’t Get Hit By a Car Highway.

What does all of this have to do with today’s Tootsie Pop?  Well, when I took off the wrapper and smoothed out the wrinkles, there was the Indian Chief shooting his arrow at a star.  My son didn’t quite understand why I was so smiley about it, so I told him “Duh!  The Indian on the wrapper means I get a free one!”  As I was explaining how I was able to return my coveted Indian Chief wrapper for a whole new Tootsie Pop at Bud’s Market when I was a little girl, I imagined myself swaggering up to the counter at Walmart Customer Service demanding my free Tootsie Pop and felt a twinge of sadness when I realized just how absurd that was.  I began to wonder why the Indian Chief was still there on my wrapper today.  Shouldn’t he be a bygone thing, just like Bud’s?  So I did what all curious folks do these days.  I Googled it.   

It turns out ever since the 1930’s Tootise Roll Industries has been trying to figure out why people have been bringing them their Indian Chief wrappers with an expectant smile, why to this day Indian Chief wrappers come back to them in the mail.  Bud’s Market is why.  Bud’s and many other little grocery stores in small towns across our wonderful, wacky, sweet, friendly country.  According to the company, the pictures on a Tootsie Pop wrapper were orginally meant to depict children at play.  If you unfold one you will still see those same children flying kites, kicking footballs, holding fishing poles, roller skating, hula-hooping, swimming, playing leap frog, racing soap box derby cars, wrapping May poles, playing marbles, pushing doll carriages. And dressed up like an Indian.  The Indian apparently appears on about one third of the wrappers, and he was never meant to represent anything extra special, just childhood which in itself is extra special.

From what I could discover, no one knows where the tradition of giving a free Tootsie Pop to a child who comes in happily waving an Indian Chief wrapper began.  But it is absolutely true that Bud himself gave one to me and to the other children in my town.  And chances were, the only thing I had bought in the first place was a single Tootsie Pop, so there went his entire profit.  Nowadays (shoot, did I actually say “nowadays” like I was my grandfather?), I can’t imagine where you can even buy a single Tootsie Pop.  They come in bags or bundles, with the lucky Indian Chief lost somewhere inside, kind of like me when I’m lost in the aisles of Walmart.

While I shop at places like Walmart, I have mixed feelings about it.  I have such fondness for places like Bud's and I think the world becomes a bit larger and more lost as they continue to disappear.  Like so many of us these days, I live a cluttered life.  I shop for my family and also for children who come to my daycare at every age and stage of childhood, meaning I need to replace the lost 1/2 cup measuring cup, restock the toothpaste and change the furnace filters, grab the iron fortified infant formula, the tropical fish flakes, and a copy of Green Eggs & Ham; Wallyworld saves me time, helping me find everything (and a couple of other things) in one stop.  And it saves me money, helping keep the cost of daycare down for hardworking parents.  It leaves me with just about enough spare minutes and spare change to enjoy a conversation about bygone days and a Tootsie Pop with my baby boy.

Still, I make it a point to follow a meandering sidewalk now and again.  They lead to places where folks put their creativity, their integrity, their heart into what they do.  Places where they never quite get rich but they often find a deeper fulfillment, where they go out of their way to make a bit of childhood magic simply because they know an Indian chief on a carefully unwrinkled red wrapper means they should give you a brand new Tootsie Pop.  Duh.

P.S.  Not all changes make me frown--I do love Google!  I found out the inventor of Tootsie Rolls named them for his five year old daughter Clara, whose nickname was Tootsie.  This made me smile because I often use "Tootsie Pop" as a nickname for the little girls at my daycare.  Everybody say "Awww, how sweet!"

Little White Church

A snow globe should have a little white church with modest but lovely stained glass windows.  Mine does not.  It does however have a red brick First Baptist church with a spacious and carefully tended lawn lying serenely beneath shady trees.  Miraculously, the lawn remains serene even when absorbing the joyful squeals of children, Baptist and not, who congregate there to play football or tag.

 I’m not a member of the congregation that gathers inside the church walls, but I’ve always felt it belongs to me just the same.  It was the site of my bus stop on brisk back-to-school mornings long ago, and today I often take the daycare children there to romp in the Crayola green grass.  But during the week leading up to Easter Sunday (Holy Week if you’re Roman Catholic, which I am), I was forced to examine the possibility that maybe I shouldn’t consider it mine.

This sad thought came to me after a conversation with my youngest son. “I don’t have a problem with anyone else’s religion Mom, so why do people have to have a problem with mine?” he asked me after school one day.  Apparently a friend has been asking him questions about his faith, but when he tries to answer the questions his answers are dismissed as wrong.  This friend fervently believes in the teachings of his own religion and has an admirable understanding of those teachings.  In fact, it’s a sincere desire of mine to have a better understanding and respect for the spiritual beliefs of others, and I don’t think I’d hesitate to ask this youngster to give me the official low-down on his.  What I wouldn’t do, however, is ask him to explain mine to me.

Having grown up Catholic in the snow globe, I’m not surprised by the usual misinterpretations.  I can even understand where they come from.  My son was caught off guard though, a little upset to be told he’s not a Christian (huh?) and can’t pray directly to God (say what?), far more upset to feel suddenly different and distanced from his friend.  We had to have a string of long talks. 

Don’t worry—I’m not going to dust off my copy of the Catechism and give you a lesson as well.  You don’t need it because you have your own beliefs, and while they may offer a clearly marked road for you to follow, as mine do for me, the truth is we’re all going cross country on this journey.  Sometimes we get lost, sometimes we take the long way by clear-eyed choice, sometimes the road is uphill for miles and miles.   Sometimes we rest where the water sings and the sun dances.  My son is walking next to his not-Catholic friend and sometimes on the path the wind is nudging them shoulder to shoulder and sometimes it’s blowing them apart.

The important thing to me is that simple fact--we are walking together.  We have formed our beliefs from our life experiences, from the influence of people we love, as protection against things that have hurt us.  The Catholic faith came to me through generations.  My tiny but bold Italian great-grandmother crossed the ocean alone at the age of fourteen and I’ve no doubt she was holding her Rosary close the whole way.  Brief personal experience and family lore have made it clear I wouldn’t have wanted to mess with her or her religion but that aside, my faith holds a comfort for me beyond debating and on a level deeper than any controversy.  And yet, I feel blessed to live right here next to those who believe differently, about religion, no religion, or which religion, beer or wine or caffeine-free Diet Coke, Chevy or Ford, Broncos or Vandals, and any number of other things large and small.

After this week of talking and praying my son through confusion and hurt feelings, I had to ask myself, why exactly do I feel blessed?  Simply because when I meet someone along the path and make a connection with them the feeling I get leads me to believe we are meant to connect.  That connections are made with people who believe differently than me assures me without question that we are all in this together.

Here in the snow globe it could be said there are so few of us floating around that we can’t avoid connecting.  True enough.  And sometimes it’s much more like colliding. Which is why it’s a blessing that we can’t help but be called upon to work together, and so we do.  When my son and his friend help the school counselor carry boxes of food to the food bank together, when I’m forced to acknowledge the great idea of the PTO member who usually annoys me,  or I share a laugh over an everyday thing with someone I’ve been uncomfortable with since 8^th grade, that’s when the sparkle happens.

We don’t have a little white church in my snow globe, but we do have a First Baptist church.  I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided it does belong to me.  I walked there yesterday with my granddaughter.  I showed her how the seed pods from the trees twirl gently down like tiny helicopters when you toss them in the air, just like they did when I was a little girl.  We waved at the folks who live across the road.  We took our shoes off and wiggled our toes in the grass, delightfully cool in contrast to the unseasonably warm spring evening.  It’s a resting spot on our journey, just as it is for the believers who sit in the pews on Sunday mornings, and I can’t help but believe we’re most likely headed in the same direction. 

Where I was and Where I Wasn't

Yesterday where I was, was in the high school gym at the National Honor Society blood drive.  And during the time I was oh-so-calmly giving blood, I was focusing and breathing deeply; focusing on the gym and breathing deeply the memories of things I have done there.  I remember dreaming there.  An avid-reader child born to avid Pirate fan parents who never missed a game, I read in the stairwell during basketball games with the noise of the crowd a distant backdrop to whatever story I was lost in, dreaming about places yet to go and things yet to do.

I learned to appreciate skilled labor there.  That back-to-school shine on a gym floor does not just appear; someone painstakingly puts it there.  I learned from my father, who gave me my first summer job.  He took pride in his work and was very good at it.  The big bully of a scrubbing machine didn’t run away with him; He didn’t slip around in the soapy water.  When he poured the thick bead of golden seal down the floor the line was straight and when he spread it with the special mop pad, there were no bubbles or blotches.  He never accidentally stepped in the wet seal and then went to the bathroom leaving shiny footprints all the way there.  We finished despite my help, arms aching, eyes stinging from the fumes, and stood together in the doorway to survey our work.  I could see him remembering what it felt like to sink a perfect shot from a shiny gym floor.

During high school I learned perseverance there, running lines and stairs until I almost threw up on the first day of volleyball practice.  Doing the cheerleaders’ dance routine to Baby I’m a Star over and over until I wasn’t terrible.  I experienced unity, entrepreneurship, and risk-taking while singing the fight song with Pirates young and old, selling Jolly Ranchers, and defying death on the rolling yellow scaffolding in order to hang blue and white posters declaring “We’re #1!”

All kinds of life moments can happen in a small town high school gym, where I flirted, frantically finished homework during late games, was called beautiful by the last boy I expected it from.  Where I met my husband; He was the DJ hired to play music at the Tip-Off dance and I was the Pep Club officer in charge of locking up after he finished loading out his gear.  It was from a podium there that I learned how heartbreaking and exhilarating life’s transitions can be, as I gave a soft-spoken, teary-eyed Valedictorian’s address and walked out on shaking legs into the arms of my friends and the rest of my life. 

And my life led me, eventually, back to my high school gym, where I attended an assembly in honor of my dad’s retirement, watched my daughter cheer, saw my son sink his first perfect shot.  Where I cried with my town at the largest memorial service I have ever been to, because when someone has impacted the lives of an entire community, there’s nowhere else we’ll all fit when we come to say good-bye.

Yesterday where I was, was giving blood for the American Red Cross in my high school gym, and it’s a good place.  But at the end of my day I found myself thinking about where I wasn’t, which is Morocco.   Because right before bed I opened my internet homepage and my eyes settled on a headline which read something like “Peace Corps Encourages Middle-Aged Volunteers.”  Clear back to the time when I was reading at basketball games, I’ve wanted to travel into the world, so I clicked on the article and then on the Peace Corps website, and then on some YouTube videos by Peace Corps volunteers, and then on some information about Morocco, and then back to the article.  

The article talked about the valuable life-experiences older volunteers bring with them to their Peace Corps positions.  I was filled with the possibilities!  I’m older.  I have life experiences.  Don’t I?  I guess not really.  Doubt slowed the pulse of excitement and I logged off and went to bed.  But as I rested my head on my arm, the tender spot beginning to turn lightly yellow and purple reminded me of giving blood.  My memories mingled with thoughts of where I wasn't, images and words from the blogs of Peace Corp volunteers in Morocco.

I most likely will never join the Peace Corp; I have things yet to do right here.  But if I did go, I would indeed have valuable life experiences to take with me, simply because I’ve spent time in a small-town high school gym.  Where I learned how to dream, how to make every task you are given shine, how your heart can help your legs keep on running when your mind wants you to quit.  I learned how to get all of the day’s assignments done even when it isn’t convenient, how to give proud support whether winning or losing.  How to begin a lifelong love, how to say good-bye, how to move on, and how to stay.  How to appreciate both where you are, and where you aren't.             http://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=learn.whovol