Ed and Martha

Over spring break, I lead a dozen Hamline student on a Habitat for Humanity trip to Brunswick, Georgia. Over the course of four days, we put up trusses, three walls, and hurricane straps on a house for Ms. Alberta Lockwood. Ms. Alberta was a spry, elderly woman who stopped by the construction site daily to give us all a hug.

In the evening, Mr. Hicks, the executive director of Glynn County HFH, would take us to the homes of residents on the islands across the causeway for dinner. Our hosts the first evening were Ed and Martha.

During dinner, I sat at a card table in the front sitting room with Martha and the wife of the island's Presbyterian minister. The minister's wife kept prodding Martha to talk about herself. Modestly, Martha talked about being a five-time cancer survivor. She talked about how she met Ed. "I would joke that he was from wrong side of the tracks and he would say, 'That may be true, but I run around with the guys who own the trains.'" Martha talked about how her husband had started off selling peanuts at baseball games and how in college he played with members of the Kingston Trio.

With some more encouragement from the minister's wife, Martha spoke about her work at a maximum security women's prison in Georgia. A few years back, Martha convinced the governor to all Martha and her friends to throw a Christmas party for the inmates. Martha raises $15,000 every summer for the event and uses the money to pay for food, extra guards, and at least 1,000 bags each containing a Bible, comb, brushes, soap, lotion, and anything else Martha can think of.

The entertainment is cheap, Martha said, because she just makes Ed play.

Martha said she could relate to the women in the prison. She told me about her struggles with drug and alcohol abuse and reflected, "I could just have easily ended up in there with them."

Later on, Ed played for all of us in the living room on his four-string guitar. "They don't make these anymore," he said. We sang along to Johnny Cash and the hymns I hummed though I had forgotten the words.

True Currency

"The only true currency in this bankrupt world...is what you share with someone else when you're uncool."

Lester Bangs, Almost Famous

Contributed by Ann.

Money Trees

Does money grow on trees? Have you ever wished you'd find that forest? Sometimes old adages become true! Just believe!

Contributed by Ann.

Emma's Little Lambs

Petite Emma with saucer blue eyes and bristling with curiosity ventured into Uncle Bud's sheep pen Saturday to make the acquaintance of nine newborn lambs. Her neon pink galoshes were two sizes too big and kept tripping her up as she trod pigeon-toed through the straw trying to catch up with the frisky lambs. The ewes parted to let her pass through. She diligently smiled that 100 watt grin and waved to summon the ewes closer then patted their noses greeting them with her boisterous, "Hi!" They'd scatter but the quads found their momma and began nursing. Emma moved in to supervise and tweak their wagging tails. Every once in awhile the barn kitties lured Emma back to the slatted sides of the pen jabbering and pointing at the antics as the kitties scrambled for food. She gave all creatures big and small her parade wave as she was hoisted up on mom's shoulders for her trek back to the house. What a beautiful sight!

Contributed by Ann.

Aiden

A few summers ago at camp I discovered a rare little boy. Though he came to our deaf and hard of hearing session, his disabilities went beyond physical limitations. Aiden was severely neglected for the first ten years of his life, leaving him with no form of communication beyond clicks and gestures.

One day, Aiden ran half a mile to the water front, grabbed a fishing pole, and waved it in the air dramatically. I got the impression that he wanted to go fishing. He and I must have waited on that dock for nearly an hour until, finally, the only living fish in Lake George bit our hook.

Elated, Aiden pulled back on the pole and sent the fish flying into the air. I finally got a hold of the fish and pulled the hook from its mouth. I watched as the boy’s expression changed from excitement to regret. He felt bad for hurting the fish. I held the little sunny up to his face and Aiden grabbed my hands, gave the fish a soft kiss, and then slowly helped me put it back into the water.

That little boy who had never known affection felt driven to show compassion to a fish.

Contributed by Aryn.

Getting Old

On the rare Tuesday afternoons when I find myself motivated enough to immerse my body in chlorine for half an hour of breath control and shoulder pain, I find three inspiring women. All in their early to mid 70’s, these ladies pull on their pink floral bathing suits and 1980’s swim caps to invigorate their sagging bodies every week, twice a week. They flirt with the lifeguard. Each take a separate lane because they can’t quite swim straight enough to share one, and then keep a fairly even pace in the water.

I find one of these women of particular interest, primarily because she is more toned than Madonna (even with her progressed scoliosis), but also because I over hear her in the locker room talking about learning French, her upcoming vacation to Europe, her qualms with the public school system, and “why the hell’d they change daylight savings time.” I hope I’m like that when I get old.

Contributed by Aryn.

February 9, 1952

I'm working on some photo archiving for a family & in with their old pictures was this article printed in the paper about their grandparent's wedding. The part below made my mind wander to that beautiful day.

Excerpts from a well-preserved but slightly tattered newspaper clipping from Saturday, February 9th, 1952:

"A suit of brown gabardine was worn by Miss Lyla K., Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Oscar K., when she became the bride of Minor H., son of Lars H. of the Rushford vicinity and the late Mrs. H., in a double-ring ceremony Jan. 26 at the Lutheran Parsonage. A white Bible on which was placed a lavender orchid showered with white ribbon, was carried by the bride. She wore a corsage of orchids. For her maid of honor the bride chose her sister, Miss Orpha K. who attended her in a black crepe dress. She wore a corsage of red-tinted gardenias and red tea roses."

Contributed by Sarah.

Epiphanies For Breakfast

I’ve spent a good portion of my life in diners. Diners that fill up before noon and don’t empty until eight. Diners with bottomless cups of burnt coffee and waitresses who roll their eyes when I ask for more creamers. Diners with wait staff who know me, not by name, but by the stories I tell more so than by the tips I leave.

On Sundays, I walk down to the Sinclair Broiler. Sometimes I go in fellowship with housemates or friends visiting from out of town. Often, I go alone. I go to carve some sacred space out of my week, chiseling away with a coffee spoon clanging against ceramic walls.

In this sacred space, I mull over my week, my life, and the stress coming Monday. I think about heartbreak and order French toast. I think about loss and change my side order from bacon to sausage. I miss people and make a show of nearly finishing my cup so someone will rush over to fill it. I put my life together—only some of it, never all of it—into stories that help me make sense of who I am.

I think about the people I belong to. I know that’s uncomfortable language, but rugged individualism leaves me empty. Without God, only people and ideas remain to sweep me up. I happily choose the warmer of the two. I would rather belong to particular people than to causes, movements, cities, and nations bound to forget me.

I belong to friends-like-brothers in St. Cloud, Duluth, Virginia, and Texas. I belong to parents living in the suburban flatlands. I belong to a little girl, my niece, who cannot stand without holding my hand. I belong to the waitress checking on me one more time before she ducks out back for a smoke.

While she’s gone I scribble today’s diner sermon on a napkin hiding a wad of chewed gum folded over in its corner. I write about the only two things I’m learning that seem to make a damned bit of difference anyway: humor and love. Humor to sustain me when the living gets lonely. Love to push me when the living gets complacent.

Sustain me to what end; push me to what end, I’m not sure. All I know is that a bill written in Sanskrit has arrived. It’s time to toss my crumpled napkin on the dirty plate and leave an even ten under the coffee cup. I’ve had my fill of epiphanies for breakfast.

Almost to Texas

My great friend Paul moved to Texas last month. He called an hour out from the border and left the following message on my voicemail.

“I am piercing into this heart of darkness. Traversing closer and closer to the borderline that will throw me into the state that still holds every right to withdraw from the union if she and all her constituents so wish.

"With every heartbeat and every breath I draw closer to this behemoth of a land mass that by all accounts is perhaps the last uncharted territory in this mapped out terra forma that we call home. Every second, every grain of pavement that I cross and my tires wear their rubber over, I draw nearer to this misunderstood, misinformed, mis-communicated wasteland of oil and rich people. Strippers that marry incredibly rich, old men. Hold on. I think you’re calling. Let me answer it. If you’re not, I love you, give me a call back.”

A World From Falling

"The longer I worked the more certain I felt that, as improbable as it might seem, there were moments when an individual conscience was all that could keep a world from falling."

--Arthur Miller