Sunday, March 23, 2008

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.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

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."

Thursday, March 13, 2008

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.

Friday, March 7, 2008

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."

Monday, March 3, 2008

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.