Let's Hear It For Cell Phones

I love cell phones! It certainly takes the worry out of all dire thoughts when someone is in the middle of Hurricane Gustuv! Eric's been checking in and he and his AmeriCorps Team evacuated out of New Orleans Sunday to 40 miles North West of New Orleans to Covington, LA to a Red Cross Station. Course, the next best thing is a Kindle that I can send messages to for a dime!



Contributed: Ann

Sunflowers

In the middle of flat land and sunflower fields, our Tourco tour bus rolled by a towering easel highlighted by cerulean skies. Where else would you find a tribute to local economy and van Gogh's art work but in Kansas!

Contributed by Ann

Bucket Punch

A recipe for life...

Ingredients:
compassion, humility, acceptance, humor, love, friendship, dreams, joy, faith, service

In one bucket:
Pour in 1 gallon of compassion
1 quart of acceptance
1 cup of humility
1 pint humor
8 ounces of sparkling joy
3 cups friendship-one each from family, friends, community
dash of dreams
pinch of faith in human kind
squirt of love in each serving glass
sprinkle generously with service

Stir with courage
Serve with a smile over the rocks of shared experiences

Serve in:
reflective crystal
topped with lemon slice or cherries
sprig of the inevitable

Serve hot or cold, 365 days for a century
Sip slowly hearing the sounds of laughter and treasuring nature’s tranquility

Contributed by Ann

Citizenship

My Citizenship Picture (1947)

It reminds me of a number of different emotions. The day of my examination was a day of trepidation. My parents-in-law drove my husband and me to St. Paul. I trembled through the whole trip which took longer then than it does these days, afraid I wouldn’t pass the exam. Marriage for me meant for life so I know I would be in America for the rest of my life so I needed to apply for Citizenship. I took a course by mail at the U of MN and learned all about the workings of the government and what it meant to be a citizen.

I was also asked for my thoughts on different subjects. One in particular shocked me some at the time. It was, “Do you think the standard of education in the South should be on the same level as in the North?” I answered it with my own question, “Why should it be any less?” I am glad I took that route of learning. It was very thorough and I did pass the examination and was pleased to become an American and yet even so, another emotion was making itself felt about the fact I had to give up my British passport and the security it afforded me. But it wasn’t as much about losing the security since my husband had the same values as I did. If we had problems along the way we would work them out but it was like deserting my family, friends, and country, and part of my identity.

But I have been an American now for nearly 62 years and it has been good. I have a good husband and two fine children, five grandchildren, and one great grandson. I look at that picture now and say, “If only you could have seen ahead, you wouldn’t have worried one bit.” I am so glad Great Britain is an ally of the U.S. of A. How could they not be?

Contributed by: Gwynneth Schwanbeck

Hornets

Emma has immersed herself in zoos, touch and feel labs, and exploration of all kinds of habitats this last month. She even practises the "one finger" touch rule in order to pet without alarming nature's creatures.

During a family reunion, the pavilion had some dripping water that collected and formed a puddle. Emma spotted the hornets skimming over for a water break. She eagerly approached the puddle calling over her shoulder, "Me pet bugs Momma." She turned, held up her hand, "Just one finger," assuring mom she knew the rules.

You've never seen so many adults converge on one small girl and swoop her up out of harm's way. Guess this wasn't the same as the turtle, cockroach, sidewalk ants, or python she'd "petted" before she became a rescue mission.

Contributed by: Ann

Summer Snow

Mowing my lawn is a relatively recent development for me. I have now been mowing lawns for 2 years and 3 months. Prior to this other people mowed my lawn. My dad, my grandpa, my husband dutifully mowed and mowed and mowed. For the most part I accept this new task semi-grudgingly and do my best to keep things tidy.

Recently, however, the dandelions in my lawn went on a fantastic growing spree. They were everywhere and they were huge. Fortunately, I live in the country and no one goes crazy when my lawn looks bad. I did finally decide to take care of my dandelions though and set to mowing. As I mowed down my gigantic field of dandelions something wonderful happened. All of the fuzz from the thousands of dandelions in my yard started to float up and around me as I mowed. It was thick, white, and fluffy. In the early summer sunshine I had the most beautiful snow of the year.

Contributed by Sarah.

Awareness

An older man came into the coffee shop today wearing a camouflage jacket and a baseball hat with a moose on it. He came up to the counter with his white five o' clock shadow and asked for an ordinary cup of coffee. I asked him what size he would like, and he replied, "I need awareness, not an epiphany, so small please."

Contributed by Aryn.

List

I keep a list of things I know better than to say out loud. It makes my life easier when people don't know just how quietly crazy I really am. I feel more like a human being than instructive entertainment.

The list isn't particularly long nor exhaustive. I forget large portions of it so, routinely, something inappropriately vulnerable and beautiful slips out and makes an awkward little mess. I apologize, mop it up with a quick joke, dispose of it an off-the-wall conversational shift, and it never comes up again. Life goes on, as it will, so help me God, whether one likes it or not.

There are a few things I've never managed to say to people and I hope, for the ease and comfort of all involved, I never do.

Things like:

I think you're really Jesus Christ dressed up like somebody I would know.

The reason why I'm so uncomfortable around you and most other people is because I am afraid that if I am not careful, I will start babbling on about how beautiful even complete strangers are.

Just say nonsense, Dr. Seuss words, right now. I don't care. I just want a familiar voice to fill up the Big Empty a little while longer.

Research Associate in the field of Child Development ...

A woman, renewing her driver's license at the County Clerk's office, was asked by the woman recorder to state her occupation. She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself. "What I mean is, " explained the recorder, "do you have a job or are you just a ...?"

"Of course I have a job," snapped the woman. "I'm a Mom."

"We don't list 'Mom' as an occupation, 'housewife' covers it" said the recorder emphatically.

I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall. The Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of a high sounding title like, 'Official Interrogator' or 'Town Registrar.' "What is your occupation?" she probed.

What made me say it? I do not know. The words simply popped out. "I'm a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations."

The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair and looked up as though she had not heard right. I repeated the title slowly emphasizing the most significant words.. Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written, In bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.

"Might I ask,'" said the clerk with new interest, "just what you do in your field?"

Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, "I have a continuing program of research, (what mother doesn't) in the laboratory and in the field, (normally I would have said indoors and out). I'm working for my Masters, (first the Lord and then the whole family) and already have four credits (all daughters). Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities, (any mother care to disagree?) And I often work 14 hours a day, (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers
And the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money."

There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk's voice as she completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door. As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants -- ages 13, 7, and 3. Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model, (a 6 month old baby) in the child development program, testing out a new vocal pattern. I felt I had scored a beat on bureaucracy! And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than 'just another Mom.

Motherhood! What a glorious career! Especially when there's a title on the door. Does this make grandmothers 'Senior Research associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations' and great grandmothers Executive Senior Research Associates?' I think so!!! I also think it makes Aunts Associate Research Assistants.

...a friend from Word Weavers' Writing Group passed this along! Enjoy!

Jacqueline

Last fall, I tried writing a children's book for my niece, Emma. It was about a gorilla named Jacqueline who lives in a zoo and the zookeeper is teaching Jacqueline sign language. One day, the zookeeper teaches Jacqueline the sign for "I love you." Excited Jacqueline signs "I love you" to all the animals around her but none of them understand. Not discouraged, Jacqueline tries to sign "I love you" to all the people visiting the zoo, but they all think the gorilla is just doing funny things with her hands. Jacqueline tries one last time and signs to a little girl walking with her parents eating ice cream. The little girl gets so excited that she drops her ice cream cone and rushes down the stairs toward Jacqueline's cage, signing back to Jacqueline.

I like that ending even though it doesn't go anywhere. I don't want it to go anywhere. I want Jacqueline and the little girl to live in that ending. It's beautiful and who the hell am I to take that away from them even if they aren't real?

Children

Children keep us in check.

Their laughter prevents our hearts from hardening.
Their dreams ensure we never lose our drive to make ours a better world. They are the greatest disciplinarians known to mankind.
-- Queen Rania of Jordan

Pearly Whites

As Emma raced to the bathroom to get Gamma's teeth, I scrambled out of the lazy boy in order to be a close second in the race to the sink. Emma is fascinated with my dentures and loves to check them out to see if they'll fit in my mouth. Her mouth opens wide, clinches top and bottom rows of teeth together mirroring me as I slip my pearly whites in my mouth.

It brought back memories of when my sister, Nancy, would pinch my jaw and pop my dentures out as I was getting ready for my date. She'd take off like a rocket and hold them hostage as I awaited my date to pick me up. Of course, she'd be Miss Congeniality getting the door as I was frantically searching for my teeth!
Contributed by: Ann

Life Is Short

...a friend sent this to me...

They say it takes a minute
to find a special person,
an hour to appreciate them,
a day to love them
but an entire life
to forget them.

Contributed by: Ann

Exotic Blue Ivy

As our team walked back to our van after spending the morning at an AmeriCorps symposium in Annapolis, somebody pointed out a sprig of poison ivy growing along the sidewalk. This reminded our team leader, Sarah, of a story she wanted to share.

"At the summer camp I worked at, the guy in charge of the grounds decided he was going to mark all the poison ivy so the kids wouldn't get in it. So he sprayed all the poison ivy plants he could find with bright blue spray paint. Only, he didn't tell anybody he did this. So one day, while out on a nature hike, a couple of my kids come running up to me, yelling my name, all excited to show me a bouquet of these exotic blue plants they found. Their parents were not happy." Sarah laughed. "Murphy's Law, right?"

Twinkle, Twinkle

I'm not sure what caused me to wake up, alert, with ears tuned into the noises of the night at 3:30 am.

A soft, melodic melody was coming from the guest bedroom. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star, ..."

I peaked in. Where was Emma? I didn't see her blond head on the pillow but still the song continued. I entered the room and heard the blind rattle. Emma was tucked behind the blind, looking out the window at the stars. She continued singing. I joined in the chorus of Twinkle, Twinkle. "Gamma, dark out. Night time. See the stars."

Millions of stars sparkled in the ebony sky. "Gamma, pretty! Night, night, Gamma." With a kiss and a hug, Emma snuggled down on her Winnie the Pooh pillow nestling with her blue fuzzy blankie, clasping her stuffed elephant from the Shriner's Circus. And me? I closed the door and went back to bed!

Contributed by: Ann

Cool Breeze

Saturday, April 19th, was my team’s last day working with our sponsor, the Academy of Success, in southwest Baltimore. In the morning, we worked with a score of community members and picked up trash in the blocks surrounding the current site of the Academy. For lunch, our friends at the Academy hosted a celebratory cookout for us.

After everyone had taken a seat, Mr. Eddie, the Director of Youth Services at the Academy, bellowed, “Alright, everybody. Stand up! Now, go sit next to someone you don’t already know.” Mr. Eddie grinned. “There’s gonna’ be a prize for the person who knows the most about their neighbor.”

I moved and sat down next to a wiry man who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Academy’s founder, Ben Barnwell. Right away, he went to work trying to win that prize.

“How tall are you, man?” he asked me.

“Five-nine,” I replied.

He tsked. “You’re taller than me. I’m only five-eight.”

What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Sanford Barnwell,” he replied. “And yours?”

“Eric. So you’re Ben’s brother that I haven’t met yet.”

Sanford smiled. “I kept meaning to head out to the site when you all were there, but it never worked out—I do a lot of substance abuse recovery work. I did get up on the roof—I used to do some roof-work myself—and saw what you all did and I ant to let you know that I’m impressed. It looks good.”

“Thank you.”

Sanford forgot me for a moment as he tried to get the attention of one of the young attractive team leaders visiting our site. “Sophie over there is going to be my wife someday.”

Sophie turned her head and started to say something, but I leapt in with, “Congratulations, Sophie. Sanford here is quite a catch.”

Sanford laughed. “Thanks, uh, what was your name again?”

“Eric.”

Sanford smiled. “I don’t mean anything by it. I have short-term memory loss, you see. So, usually, I just give everybody a nickname. Like yours, yours would be ‘Cool Breeze’.”

I laughed. “Why’s that?”

“Because you sit back and observe everything, real cool, calm. It’s refreshing, man, like a cool breeze.”

“Eric,” Sophie yelled from the end of the table. “What’s he telling you?”

“I was just telling Cool Breeze here,” Sanford interjected, “how perfect you and I would be together.”

“I think he’s right,” I said.

Sanford laughed and slapped me on the back. “Yeah, Cool Breeze. Yeah!”

Sharing Spirit

We were off on a grand adventure Friday to the Minnesota Children's Museum. The Sesame Street Exhibit was in its last week. Emma had been watching her boxed CD set of the early shows when Big Bird had few feathers and Oscar wasn't green. As we were getting out the elevator, a lady pushing a stroller asked if we had to buy tickets. "Certainly," I said. "How else would we get in?"

She waved a laminated book size pass and said, "If you don't mind, walk in with me. My pass is good for six tickets and I couldn't find anyone who was available today."

We buzzed by the school groups and followed closely on her heels as she waved her pass and out spewed five tickets! Talk about meeting new friends in your neighborhood! I walked around with this silly grin on my face all day. Why does it seem more enjoyable to get an unexpected free pass? Our thanks to the generous lady on Sesame Street.

Contributed by:Ann

Circus

The circus is coming! The anticipation of the weekend trip to Duluth was not to be denied by the mid April snowstorm dumping 34 inches along with another 10 inches within the next couple of days. Miraculously, roads were cleared, tickets in hand, and front row seats were occupied at center ring.

I can visualize the wide eyed wonder flittering across Emma's expressive face as she spotted two BIG elephants lumbering in with trunks swinging and positioned themselves butt end in front of her. She desperately wanted to see elephants! Chortling at the antics of the trick dog leaping onto the horses' back, she was covered in sticky cotton candy. She was dazzled by the trapeze acrobatics and laughed along with the clown. Her chest puffed up as she rode the pony between acts in the sawdust ring.

What images fill her dreams as she slips into an exhausted sleep relplaying the elephants and the treasures of her first circus? She replays it all treating her dollies to a visit to the circus sharing all the fun she had!

Contributed by: Ann

Road Trip

Thirteen states. 3,500 miles. Spotty weather flittering between rain, sunshine, and gusty winds kept us guessing. Our road trip from Minnesota to Maryland and onto Boston was a once in a lifetime experience. As banker for the toll roads and bridges, I didn’t spot any consistency or pattern in the charges and grew frustrated with our frequent trips to local banks. I just kept doling out the bills, quarters, and coins in varying amounts and wondered if this might become the Minnesota solution to road repair.

Our arrival in Perryville, Maryland found us grateful for the Ramada Inn, open but under going remodeling, with WIFI access allowing us to keep in touch. It became our home away from home. We were amazed at Team Eagle Five’s progress on their renovation project in Baltimore putting in 10 to 12 hour days ripping up tar, patching holes in the roof, and demolition. The personalities and exuberance of the eleven person team was evident. What committeemen and perseverance in hostile weather conditions. A great bunch. America is in good hands with AmeriCorp NCCC!

We did travel on to Boston and enjoyed the historic sights. Using my Charlie subway card to get around, walking the cobblestone Freedom Trail, and pouring over the slate markers in the cemeteries was awesome. We ploughed through the Haymarket seeing fresh fish, fruits, flowers and vegetables offered and bartered. Aching muscles that screamed “100 miles” was actually probably only 3 were soothed in hot soaking baths.

Good food, scenic sights, long visits with relatives, meeting new friends and fascinating people were all a part of our adventure. Thanks Eric!

Contributed by Ann

April Snows!

For those of you no longer in Minnesota, I just wanted you to know that Virginia, MN on April 6 & 7 had 32 inches of snow! Think that's even taller than Emma who took a sled ride around the block Sunday. Think what you are missing--and smile!

Contributed by Ann

Eyepatch

This guy that I work with at Brewberry's decided to celebrate National Talk Like a Pirate Day a few weeks ago. When he saw a woman wearing an eye patch he approached her, leaned over, and let out a "Yarrrrr." Her unamused expression revealed that her eyepatch was not being used to celebrate National Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Contributed by Aryn.

St. Paddy's Day

St. Paddy’s Day 2003: First year of college, threw a ten person party in a two-person room and ended up with five more people when we were all busted for underage alcohol possession. Last notable event before security came in was a 4’9” sophomore girl from Kentucky standing on top of my roommate’s mini-fridge ordering us all around and swearing to beat a sailor.

St. Paddy’s Day 2004: I don’t remember what went down but I heard it was a blast.

St. Paddy’s Day 2005: My sister, a great friend and I went up to Duluth to celebrate our best friend’s birthday. There were Irish car bombs aplenty, singing with all our heart and not a tune, and a little howling at the moon. It was pretty sweet!

St. Paddy’s Day 2006: My two good friends and I went to Bullwinkle’s to celebrate the changes and challenges that graduation from college would bring. Some PBR’s and a few bets, which we left tacked to the ceiling, as well as each other were all we needed for that St. Paddy’s Day.

St. Paddy’s Day 2007: I was in Texas and attending Flight School. I studied and prepped all day for upcoming flights and simulator rides in the week ahead. Not even one Guinness was cracked by me that day.

St. Paddy’s Day 2008: I am in Arkansas now. The majority of my day was spent at my new job. The last few hours of daylight were spent with my year-and-half old son, Boyd. We hiked together to the quarry behind our house, sat along the side with our feet dangling off the rocky face. We threw rocks into the cold grey water in a vain attempt to fill up the football-field size crater. We walked back home, ate some diner, gave Boydie a bath and put the little man to bed.

All in all, not a bad St. Paddy’s Day. It was certainly not as wild as some of the past ones but is nonetheless just as memorable (if not more so than a few others). I talked to my good friend who was with me for more than a few of the above celebrations and he was washing dishes at the time of our talk. He had worked all day and was getting ready for a full week of construction and labor.

When I was finished talking to him, I hung up and pondered life for a minute. A smile came to my face as I thought, “My, have the times changed. What will the next St. Patrick’s Day be like?”

Contributed by Paul.

Running Through Baltimore

Three AmeriCorps members and I made the trip into Baltimore on Saturday to help Moveable Feast, a not-for-profit that delivers meals to people with HIV/AIDS and breast cancer, pack up and move to their new permanent location across town. We worked through the morning at the old site and, after a two hour delay caused by a malfunctioning hydraulic lift on the back of the rental truck, we were ready to head to their new facility to unload.

Ted, a forty-something employed by Moveable Feast, rode shotgun in our van to make sure we arrived at their new facility without getting lost. Along the way, Ted pointed out a lean older man jogging down the sidewalk.

"You see that guy running over there?" Ted asked me.

"Yeah," I responded from the driver's seat.

"That guy runs everywhere. I've never seen him walk in all the years I've lived in Baltimore. He's run to D.C., to Annapolis, all over Maryland. The papers here have done stories on him."

"What's his back story?" I asked.

Ted thought while I continued to weave through the unpredictable melee of Baltimore City traffic. "I can't recall exactly," Ted said. "If I remember right, he just decided one day to start running. A Forrest Gump kind of thing." Ted laughed and added, "He's almost entirely lean muscle mass."

"I bet."

Potty Frenzy

I am a survivor of a weekend potty frenzy with my granddaughter. Before her second birthday, Emma was an enthused participant in toilet training but the novelty waned until she was a visitor in her little friend's house next door. Ellie was proudly climbing on her step stool to use the potty and had "big girl panties". The light bulb flickered, and Emma became dedicated to the task.

In case current bibliophiles have scant information on the books available to bring the lesson home, Emma's favorite is Everyone Poops. Course there's one, Potty Book for Girls which has the trainee calling grandma to share the accomplishment. Those potty calls kept me entertained with her squealing, "I went poop grandma, and I got M & Ms", and did brighten my evenings. Course there's also: Too Big for Diapers, Big Girls Use the Potty, Grover Has to Go, and Elmo Goes Potty with buttons giving sound to flushing, hand washing, etc.

The thrones can range from musical chairs that alert the household, a fold-up portable travel seat, or a "On the Go" potty for camping which uses a recycled plastic bag for disposal, to the traditional stool.

Things have changed since my day! Now there are special disposable pull-up imprinted with Dora, Princess characters, Pirates, Cars and Sponge Bob with "triggers" that turn cold to warn the child they're wet.

Hygiene is practiced with a passion with liquid soap pumpers or foaming soap lathered on tiny hands after using Huggies clean team disposable wet toilet tissues. The sticker chart at Day Care honors the amount of times gone along with multitudes of praise, bathroom ditties, and victory dances to commemorate the task.

Another milestone on her life's journey. Where does the time go?

Contributed by Ann.

Filthy Mess

A few days ago, a guest speaker from the Delaware State Parks' Service came to our NCCC all-Corps community meeting. He said something I found to be very moving.

"There are going to be times guys, when you're going to want to go out to eat after a hard day's work and you're going to walk into a restaurant and all eyes are going to turn on you. And then, you're going to look down at your clothes, your uniform, and you'll realize why people are staring; you are a filthy mess."

"You'll be embarrassed. You'll be tempted to just turn around and walk out. I'm here to tell you, don't. Don't walk out. Hold your head high."

"You've earned each one of those stains. The caulk on your shirt from that house you rebuilt in Louisiana. That dirt on your pants from that trail you built in a State Park. That paint from the community center you remodeled. That sauce-stain from those early mornings working in the kitchen at Camp Hope making meals for hundreds of volunteers. That stain, I don't know what you call it, that dingy stain that shows up on your stomach that comes from the months of carrying things--children, lumber, sheet rock."

"You're going to notice all these stains and you're going to want to walk out of that restaurant, that clean and comfortable place. Don't. They aren't stains. They're your badges of service. Hold your head high and walk in and sit down and enjoy yourself. And if they keep staring, smile back."

You Are Beautiful

For the last four weeks, I have been living in a dilapidated two-story hovel. The house, along with the others up and down the block with the identical floor-plan, was built near the end of WWI and has been crumbling ever since. The lead paint flakes off in scales the size of armor plates. Nylon cord has replaced knobs on two of the doors. A large grate in the living room, four-foot square, serves as the house's central heating system.

Adding insult to injury, this shoddy residence shelters seven young males, aged 18-24. It's a good week when Monday's dishes are done by Sunday.

Thankfully, there is a glimmer of the sagacious attached to the mirror above the bathroom sink. Someone affixed a metallic sticker to the mirror that reads "You Are Beautiful". I shouldn't say someone. I know full well who put it there and she told me she picked up hundreds of these stickers from an art cooperative in Chicago.

In the morning, as I brush my teeth, I catch myself staring at the sticker as often as at my own reflection, contemplating just how the two of us ended up together.

Two-Face

Last night, I ran into a Corps member from Minnesota I hadn't seen in a few days. He flew out West over the long weekend to visit his mother who is dying of liver disease.

"I don't know if I'm going to be able to finish my year of service," he said. "The doctors say her liver could fail any day and I want to stay in the program, but I also don't want to get a call in the middle of the night, you know?"

I nodded and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You have to do what you feel is right. This program will always be here waiting for you."


"I know." He broke into a sudden grin as we looked at one another. "You notice what I did to my face?"

I studied him carefully and then laughed. "You shaved only half of your face. Why?"

He shrugged. "Just thought I'd do it, you know, and see if anyone says anything."

I grinned. "You look like a comic book character. Like Two-Face or something."

He laughed and we went our separate ways.

The Snails of Irvine

When I drove through America last fall, I stopped in Irvine, California, to visit my friend, Louise. On the night I arrived, we decided to walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

As we walked, Louise said, "Watch where you step!"

"Why's that?" I asked.

"When it gets dark and damp like this, the snails cover the sidewalk. My heart breaks a little when I hear one crunch beneath my foot when I'm not paying attention."

I stared down at the sidewalk and walked lightly, but didn't spot any of Irvine's snails until Louise and I reached the restaurant. I stopped short and pointed it out to her. Louise knelt down, picked the snail up off the concrete, and gently placed it on a leaf of a decorative shrub going along the sidewalk.

"That's one no one will step on tonight," she said.

Mr. Bill's Aurora

When I worked as a banquet bartender for a resort in Two Harbors, Minnesota, I knew a man who called himself Mr. Bill. He was my boss, in a way, and an affable former burnout who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes made with top tobacco.

One night, as I walked into the banquet staging area to grab more bottled beer from the cooler, Mr. Bill waved at me from where he stood, the door leading outside propped open with a rok, smoking a cigarette.

"Come out here, man," Mr. Bill said.

I hesitated. "I've got to get this beer to Josh. We're almost out."

"Don't worry about it. Just come out here."

I sighed impatiently, set the beer down on the table, and joined him out back. "What's going on, Mr. Bill?"

Mr. Bill grinned at me. "Look up, man."

I did and saw the Northern Lights for the first time in my life as they danced dimly above. "It's beautiful," I half-whispered.

Mr. Bill nodded as best he could with his neck craned upwards, puffing on a stub of a cigarette.

Reluctantly, I broke our reverent silence and said, "I should probably get that beer to the bar."

Mr. Bill squinted at me through his bifocals. "That can wait man. You and I might not ever see this together again."

I returned to my place beside Mr. Bill and went back to looking up.

Hand-Holding

I'm spending a week at a camp for people with physical disabilities in California. Today we took a group of people who are blind to a movie theater that offered headphones and gave a play-by-play of everything you see during the movie.

I was seated next to an 88 year old man named Tom who lost his sight at the age of 19. Tom is a brilliant man, successful in business, has several patented inventions, and has been married for almost forty years. About 45 minutes into the movie, Tom leaned over and whispered, "Would you mind if I held your hand for a few minutes?"

I decided, what the hell. So, for the remaining hour of sappy chick-flick, I held the hand of a sweet old man. I'll always wonder whose hand he pictured himself holding, but regardless of what he saw in his mind's eye, I was flattered.

Contributed by Aryn.

From "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"

"It is a completely selfless love: Tereza did not want anything of Karenin (her St. Bernard); she did not ever ask him to love her back. Nor had she ever asked herself the questions that plague human couples: Does he love me? Does he love anyone more than me? Does he love me more than I love him? Perhaps all the questions we ask of love, to measure, test, probe, and save it, have the additional effect of cutting it short. Perhaps the reason we are unable to love is that we yearn to be loved, that is, we demand something (love) from our partner instead of delivering ourselves up to him demand-free and asking for nothing but his company."

--from The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.

Contributed by Aryn.

Since 1981

I took a trip to Washington, D.C., with some other Corps members last Saturday. We saw the usual sights, the monuments and the museums. We also stopped by the White House.

Across the street from the back entrance to the White House, I met an old man in a black-leather biker jacket camped on the sidewalk. He was manning a protest, against nuclear armaments and wars consisting of him, his beagle, a tryptic of hand-painted wooden signs, a camp-stool, a day old copy of the Washington Post open atop a milk crate in front of him, and a large plastic tarp behind him in case of rain.

"How long has this been going on?" I asked.

"Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, since 1981," the man replied.

I whistled in amazement and went back to reading the slogan painted on the tryptic and shaking my head at the graphic photos of survivors of Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

A family of three passed on the sidewalk behind me. I heard the little boy ask, "Daddy, what's he doing?"

"Protesting," the father said, smiling at me.

How Free Being Naked Can Be

On our ride to the University of Delaware on Thursday morning, some members of my AmeriCorps team got to talking about the things you can do for free if you're naked.

"There's a place in Washington where, if you bungee jump naked, you can do it for free," Seth said.

Tracy, a quiet and tall blone chimed in from the back seat of the van. "A friend of mine, she went skydiving in the southwest, somewhere, and they told her if she jumped naked, they'd only charge her half-price. So she did."

Delaware City

On Tuesday, my AmericCorps team piled into our twelve passenger government van and headed to Delaware City. Our assignment was to explore this small town on the Delaware River and talk to its residents.

I met an older man as he closed up his antique shop on Main Street. He ducked back inside after I said hello to grab a pamphlet on the history of Delaware City.

"These were printed a few years ago," the old man said, "but they're still good."

I smiled and glanced through the brochure. "History doesn't change much, right?"

The old man smiled back. "No. I guess not."

"How's business?" I asked.

The old man sighed. "Bad. I might close down and try again someplace else. Things around here are getting better, though, but when you get to be my age, you can't wait around forever."

A stray cat jumped from a nearby fence onto the sidewalk and cozied up to the old man's leg. He reached down to pet it.

"Friend of yours?" I asked.

"Sure. This one's Nessa."

I squatted down to try and pet the cat and she shied away.

Don't take it personally," the old man chuckled. "She's a little skittish around strangers. I hardly ever see her in the summertime."

Another cat crept out of the alley and circled the old man.

"Another acquaintance of yours?" I asked.

The old man nodded. "That's Inky."

I smailed. "You seem to know every cat in town."

The old man laughed. "Everyone around here does. The postmaster in town, keeps her cat, Lucky, in the post office. Lucky will just lay up there on the counter all day, everyday, except Federal holidays, then she gets to stay home."

I laughed. "Thanks for the brochure. It was nice talking to you."

"You're welcome," the old man said, shaking my hand. "Come back in the summertime, if you can. That's when they start running the ferry to the Civil War prison. There's more to see then."

"Will you still be here?"

The old man stroked the cat, Nessa, again. "Oh. I imagine so."

A Million Acres

While stuck in O'Hare International Airport for nine hours last Tuesday, I struck up a conversation with a man from Wyoming. Ten minutes in, he made the following proposition.

"I tell you what, if you're interested, I'm looking to sell off a million acres."

I laughed. "That's a hell of a lot of land."

The man shrugged. "It's not so much. Folks in Wyoming call that a farmette."

"How much for a million acres?" I asked.

The man from Wyoming reclined in his chair across from mine. "A dollar an acre," he announced. "A million dollars."

"I'm going to have to pass," I said.

The man cracked a rueful grin. "Fair enough. It's not good land, anyhow."

Perspective

A few years ago, I was driving down Hewitt Ave, and trying to make a left turn into one of the all-too-small parking lots on Hamline's campus. I waited patiently as a car came towards me in the opposite lane. The opposing car inched along, barely moving. With each nano second I became more and more frustrated with his pace.

I was running late, knew I would likely not find a parking spot even here, and just wanted to make my damn turn. As the car came nearer, the driver rolled down his window--I was nearly irrate now, ready for whatever he might say to me. He leaned through the open window and shouted, "You're beautiful!"

I've never felt my perspective on an incident change so quickly.

Contributed by Aryn.

This Modern Age

The poet Derek J. Rhodes called me from a pay-phone in Roswell, New Mexico, last night.

"You're leaving soon, aren't you?"

"I fly out to Maryland bright and early Tuesday morning," I replied.

"Good. It's about time you get to work. You remember our agreement?" Rhodes referred to a pact to do what we could to make people feel less lonely, made at a strip club in Duluth.

"Yeah," I said. "I'll try my best."

Rhodes cursed. "Do or do not. There is no try."

I paused while I tried to figure out where I had heard that adage before. "Yoda from Star Wars said that, didn't he?"

Rhodes laughed. "I guess he did. If there's one thing I've learned from my time here in Roswell, it's that this modern age is desperate for wisdom. We've got to take our sages where ever we can find them."

"Think you'll be heading to the East Coast anytime soon?"

Rhodes hemmed and hawed. "Maybe. I'll let you know if I do."

"Fair enough," I said. "Until then."

"'Till then," Rhodes said and hung up.

Selections from "On Writing"

Below are selections from a piece I wrote a few months ago called "On Writing."

[...] I am not subtle in my motives. I come to this page with all the finesse of a tractor-trailer barreling through a red light and you, Dear Reader, are the unfortunate soul in the midst of a left-hand turn. I cannot promise to leave you un-dented.

[...]I write because I am a depraved and lonely human being. I crack jokes on paper because I want to smile. I say disconcerting things because I fear my own apathy. I write insufferable characters because I want to better love my fellow human beings. I do this for your entertainment. I am an exhausted vaudevillian looking for companionship in our small conspiracy.

[...]But I do need you, Dear Reader, though you may think I doth protest too much. I need you here, perched on my shoulder, like any self-respecting god or demon, to give shape to my days. I need you to remind me to write people as they are, not as how I wish them to be complete with romantic endings and snappy one-liners. I need you to scold me when I dare to think of dressing up Ideas, Themes, or Motifs in three-piece suites or hip-hugging jeans so they can strut around your imagination, pretending to be People You Know. I would be lost without you.

[...]Let me say something brilliant and I feel like I kissed the Homecoming Queen. Let me write something mediocre and I feel like I went home from the dance all alone, knowing I didn't have it in me to say anything worth saying. I'm at home on pieces of paper. Everywhere else just feels like a stage-set from a made-for-T.V. movie.

[...]I warned you before, Dear Reader, I am a liar of the worst sort. I am willing to say anything to set my soul right.

[...]I tried quitting, once. I tore up a half-dozen notebooks, tossed my pens in the garbage, and bought pencils so I wouldn't have to live with my mistakes. It was miserable. I would make it a week and then find myself hammering out lines on cocktail napkins, linen tablecloths, or bathroom stalls. It was a holy mess. They don't make a writer's patch. I've checked with my local pharmacist.

Silly Poem

I received another postcard from the poet Derek J. Rhodes recently. The postmark indicates he sent it from a town in Nevada, just twenty miles from California. I've been there and the town doesn't have much going for it except a hole-in-the-wall, called The Horny Toad Saloon, with a grandmother for a bartender who drinks shooters of Tabasco to keep herself regular.

On the reverse side of the photo of a sunset over the Sierra-Nevada Mountain, Rhodes scribbled the following poem:

Oh, witch's broom, take me higher
and burn brightest of all tinder
in the heretic's fire

Perkins off 169 North

I go to Perkins off 169 North late most nights to write and drink coffee. The staff knows me well enough to always seat me somewhere near the back and are kind enough to never hold me to three dollar minimum purchase and two hour maximum stay.

One night, near the end of her shift, a waitress bustles over to my table to drop off my ticket. She hesitates then says, "Hey, you want a donut? We've got some back in the kitchen."

I smile. "Sure. That'd be great."

A moment later, the waitress appears with a glazed donut on a small plate. I thank her and she says, "Don't mention it. We worry about you, you know. None of us have ever seen you eat. Just coffee and water."

I laugh and assure her I'm not it a bad way, or anything, and that I appreciate how she and the rest of the staff look out for me.

The waitress smiles. "Enjoy the donut. It's good."

Much later, I head up to the register, two dollars in hand for a ticket that always comes to $2.01, and panic when I see the penny dish is empty. I explain my plight to the young hostess, how I don't have the penny I need to settle up.

The young hostess smiles. "Don't worry about it," she says.

"Thanks," I say and, calling upon my best Tennessee Williams drawl, I continue with, "I've always depended on the kindness of strangers."

The young hostess laughs heartily. "You're welcome. Have a good night, now."

Nothing's Fast and Easy

I know we've all seen the credit card commercials that portray plastic as the fast, easy means of paying for things. The perfectly synchronized fast-food customers succeed one other in a flawlessly flowing line, each swiping their credit card and then getting on with their merry way. Well today I was in Noize Music buying cigarettes and sparked up a conversation with the clerk. He commented on how time-consuming it was for him to run credit cards, saying that one morning he spent half an hour simply selling cigarettes as a constant line snaked to the door, slowed down swiping cards and waiting for receipts to print.

Contributed by Louise.

Holy Ground

One of my favorite lines in American literature comes near the end of J. D. Salinger's Seymour: An Introduction. The narrator in the story, Buddy Glass, concludes his biographical sketch of his dead older brother, Seymour, by saying:

"Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he never wrong?"

Induced Labor

I met up with my friend, Dan, for a dinner of gyros at a small Turkish restaurant off Snelling Avenue. He is a pre-med student at North Michigan University. He gets riled up easily about over-prescribed and possibly unnecessary medical procedures.

"Something like a third of all labor is artificially induced in this country," Dan said. "And, who knows, most of them might be necessary. But odds are, some of them aren't. Like my brother. My mother's doctor induced her early so my brother would be born early enough so my parents could claim his as a tax deduction for the full year." Dan laughed. "I doubt that was necessary."