Yesterday, before our opening service for school, I was getting my robe and suit coat out of the car when I stood up and there, staring at me was a spider. When I say that it was actually staring at me - I mean that it was actually big enough for it to have pupils. They dilated when it saw me, probably sizing me up for which meal it would be appropriate to suck the marrow from my bones.
Geesh. I hate spiders. I hate them. I understand that they're good for the environment, but they aren't that good when they have the same wingspan as a fruit bat. This little hairy monster sat still as a statue eyeing me up and I did what came most natural for me; I dropped my robe and suit on top of the dirty car and slammed the door as fast as I could. As it was sitting on the frame, I thought the worst possible scenario would be wiping up a gallon of spider guts from the door frame. With sinking thoughts of horror, I opened the door. No spider guts.
Only one gigantor spider leg left like a trophy on the car floor.
Which, when I stopped to think about it meant the spider had two options when the door closed on its leg: to jump out or to jump in.
Gulp and double gulp. Oh God, I prayed, Please let this eight legged camel sized mammal to have jumped out of my car and crawled into the nearest sewer. Please, please, please with all sorts of promises to be good on top of it.
I didn't have time to check the car for Mr. Huntsman spider (so aptly named because it actually hunts humans, probably) so as I walked into the hall to prepare for the service, all that I could think about was it's slavering lips, like Tolkein's great Shelob, waiting to sink its fangs into me and wrap me up for a late afternoon snack.
To make matters worse, I met David Klinge inside the building. David is one of the bus drivers from the school. He is of retirement age, but he likes helping the school out, is really good with kids and is incredibly good at laughing at my foibles. So, David and I stood in the lobby and I told him about what had just occurred hoping beyond hope that just once, an Australian would tell me a story about an animal that doesn't end in the death of a human. No matter what it is, there's always a story where a spider, a shark, a snake, a kangaroo, a jelly fish, a crocodile has killed someone in a freakish way.
"Hey David," I said in my suit and tie.
"G'day, Padre," he responded a delightful grin spread across his face. David is about 6'3 and 175 pounds. Sometimes he wears glasses that only have one arm on them - not when he's driving bus though. Today he had his good glasses on.
"I found a spider in my car today, well, it looked like a spider but it was more the size of a rat terrier."
"Atta boy," David responded.
"I don't think you understand, David. I hate spiders. Hate them with undiluted fury. Bad episode that occurred when I was younger which I won't tell you because you'll bring it up much later."
He guffawed. "What's the problem, Mate?"
I explained what happened and then said, "I think the seven legged spider is still in my car." Visions of any number of horror movies, most of them involving a claw and a set of fangs ran through my head.
David got serious for a second. That's as long as he can be serious though. "You'll want to get that out of your car, you know."
No duh, David.
"I read a story a few months ago about a guy who was driving down the Warrego Highway with his wife beside him. The sun was coming up in his eyes, so he put down the shade and little did he know one of those huntsmen was hunkered down up there. It dropped in his lap as he was driving down the highway, huge, hairy thing, big as my fist." He made a fist. He didn't need to do that. "And then he was so surprised he ran off the road. He survived but his wife..." He shrugged.
Great, so now I'm not only afraid of having my blood sucked from me while I'm driving to school, but I have to worry about my wife's safety also.
"Anyway, spiders like to get to the highest point possible to catch their little nibblies. You'll probably have to check every time you get into the car."
It never stops. I'm surprised my heart hasn't exploded from all the adrenaline that has coursed through it wondering if every time I walk through the grass, a twenty foot brown snake is going to inject venom directly into both of my eyes; or every time we go to the beach there is just one lonely bull shark looking to make friends with my leg, like some kind of wicked shark-like Norman Bates.
"Thanks, David, for your encouragement." He nodded and giggled.
"You're welcome, Padre. Have a great service."
At this moment, Christine approached and as I told her the story, I was cognizant that I could lose her to a huntsman spider the size of Lassie. I shook my head attempting to etch-a-sketch that picture. Christine laughed too.
Australians.
During the service, I sweated, not just because I was preaching to a thousand people that day, but knowing that I would have to go out to my car where one gruesome leg lay still on the mat behind the driver's seat. Somewhere deep inside the belly of the white beast was a seven legged Freddy Krueger.
I loitered as long as I could after the service hoping that the heat would have parboiled the little freak but knowing that spiders are pretty hardy, I knew that I would have to face my deepest fear, not death or public speaking but arachnophobia.
I approached the car wondering if the monster was underneath the car waiting to reach out with one of its remaining paws and suck me under the chassis devouring me whole. With a deep breath, I opened the driver's door hoping even more so to actually see it. An invisible enemy is sooooo much worse than a visible one. No luck. Carefully I rattled the umbrella by the side of the door and jumped back. Nothing.
Then, I looked up. The shade. I was not going to sit in the car to pull that baby down. So, with one swift motion, I pulled it down.
My brain had already decided it was there and I could see it falling. But fortunately, it was not. Or, unfortunately, because now I had to get into the stupid car and drive it twenty minutes back to school constantly checking the rear view mirror for that hairy, dilated-eye-face to arise from over the back seat and latch onto my bald head.
Sitting in the car, I checked under the pedals, moved the seat, even went so far to check the empty cigarette lighter just in case the beast could contort itself into a small space. Nothing. Just as I was about to start the car, I checked my phone. I was going to text Christine to say good bye and to tell her what an amazing wife she has been and that I would miss her when the spider ate my spleen.
She had texted me already. Great sermon. Thanks. Skippy and I checked the car and we couldn't see any spider - we were pretty thorough and rough. Good luck.
Good luck. Wow, what encouraging words when all the fears of the universe are descending upon you in a screaming heap.
It never stops.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Uncomfortable
From Rockford, we traveled in near blackout conditions. The fog was so thick that for most of the last forty miles of driving, Christine followed the white line on the edge of the road. At one point, on the opposite side of the road, there were some orange flashing lights for a stopped vehicle. We weren't driving very fast, so we thanked God that it wasn't stopped in front of us or we would have rear ended it, but we did see that it was an Amish buggy. Strangely, Jedediah decided it was a good time to get some churned butter from brother Ezekiel's house, and was caught along the side of the road in the fog. I think I've seen everything now.
It made me uncomfortable, though, to sit in the passenger seat while someone else - even Christine, who is a good driver - has control of the wheel. There were moments when a corner would mysteriously rise from the mist, and we would swerve quickly to avoid embracing the far bank of the ditch with our front fender. In times of distress and discomfort like this, I can feel my shoulders tense up, my hands clench and my bowels feel as if they are about ready to let loose.
When I'm uncomfortable in a situation where other people are present, I have a technique that I've been practicing over the years to get my mind off the distressing situation. I'm a big New York Mets fan, so I'll do this Mets visualization: I recite the names of the 1986 Mets team. I still remember all of their names and by doing one of these two things, I am able to place my mind in a sufficiently happy place to allow me to make it through the strife.
That being said, there are relatively few things that make me truly uncomfortable. One of them occurs quite frequently here in Australia. In public bathrooms in the United States, whether at sporting arenas, airports, churches etc., the designers of the facilities will place individual urinals designed for privacy with either a modesty divider or at least a high sided toilet. But here in Australia, often public men's toilets will have what I like to call the stainless steel trough. Usually, the stainless steel will reach from ground to mid-chest height, no dividers and they have a grating (foot sized) which men will stand on. It wreaks havoc when one is wearing sandals.
Every time I go into a public restroom and see the stainless steel trough, I cringe - it makes me uncomfortable. So when I'm standing next to a stranger and he's whistling away while his urine is passing underneath the grating under my feet... And now, up to bat, Keith Hernandez batting third...
I was very uncomfortable once on our trip.
After arriving at Rich and Emily Dianchun's (that's not how it is really spelled, but that's how it's pronounced) we ate a wonderful meal with their family and their next door neighbors. Rich is a professor at the University of Wisconsin - Platteville. Rich is a medical doctor but teaches science courses at the university, specifically anatomy and physiology and he had a wonderful opportunity for Elsa who is interested in medicine: the chance to examine a cadaver.
I'm not a squeamish person by nature. I grew up on the farm. Committing duckicide was a yearly event and dissecting poultry was second nature. Multiple times I'd seen my grandfather slice beef into different cuts of meat and none of that bothered me, but someone was going to have to bring Elsa to the University in order for her to get a 'first hand' experience with a deceased person.
I didn't want Rich to see my nervousness and certainly I didn't want Elsa to think her old man was weak in the stomach, so I did what I always do: Rafael Santana picks up the grounder, tosses it to Wally Backman and on to first, Double Play!
Platteville is not a big university in the broad perspective of things, so we entered the science building and found Rich at his desk talking about his exams with students. We had to wait. What's worse than being uncomfortable? Waiting while in the midst of it. Elsa and I walked down the brown brick hallways with sterile tile floor. It kind of felt like a morgue, if you ask me. After a while, Rich came out and took us to the room where the cadavers were. As we entered the room, there were six containers approximately the size of a coffin lined against the wall. Rich smiled and laughed, sniffled like he always does, and then offered me a leftover doughnut from breakfast.
Awesome.
I could tell Elsa was nervous also - her eyes kept straying to the right where the corpses were. These generous people had donated their bodies to science to allow the next generation of doctors the opportunity to inspect how the body systems worked and fit together. As we nervously looked over at the containers, Rich was telling us some of the stories of things that can happen to some of the students who view the cadavers the first time. Some tough kids seem like they are doing well and then all of the sudden they're sitting on the chairs head between their legs. Some find that doughnuts and cadaver viewing don't go well together. Either way, I was half listening to Rich and half wondering how my own body was going to react. Were my shoulders hunching? I loosened my clenched fists and tightened my bowels. I can do this.
"So," Rich said, "If you feel anything strange, don't be afraid to sit down. Everyone feeling okay?"
I was smiling. It was a fake smile, but I had to be tough for Elsa. She didn't seem to be having any problems.
Rich walked over to the cadaver container. "When we receive a cadaver, we have to drain the bodily floods and essentially remove the fat from the body." He pointed to a five gallon plastic bucket. "This is where those fluids and lipids are stored." Aaaaand Mookie Wilson makes a great catch in the outfield. The crowd is going wild.
When Rich cranked open the container, there was a certain odor that was muffled but overwhelmingly present. I won't describe that here, but I was certainly thinking about how great a third basemen Ray Knight was. I could feel my ears start to ring a little bit, my vision started to narrow. I stared at Rich intently, soaking in none of his words but doing my greatest acting job ever, or so I hoped. I nodded.
"The cadaver was a fifty something year old man who died of cancer. The body is covered by a sheet because we have to keep them moist." Not only do I hate the word 'moist,' I had already imagined Darryl Strawberry who is over fifty years old now.
Then, Rich did what he had to do: he pulled back the sheet. I didn't know what to expect, but the skin was off the cadaver and placed at various odd intervals all over the body. What normally covered the chest, was covering the man's legs. He had nipples where his knees were supposed to be. O, Gary Carter, throw that man out at second base.
Elsa was enrapt, and I was just trying not to think about the uneaten doughnuts sitting on the shelf behind me.
"So, we'll just take a look at the extremities first," and he unveiled the arm which still had the skin on the hands and fingernails attached. Kevin McReynolds swats one deep. It's way back, way back... It's Gone! Home run for the Mets left fielder.
"Do you guys want to put on gloves and take a poke around?" Heavens to Betsy, Rich - do you think I'm Roger McDowell? I'm not going to get in there and look for the man's spleen. Elsa put on her gloves and began to probe the vascular system, arteries and veins in the cadaver's arms. If Elsa was going to do it, by Jesse Orosco, I was going to do it. My hands trembled as I put on the blue latex gloves. It was the only time in my life when I wished I had an allergy - to latex - and then I could have left with dignity. Sorry Rich, I'm getting a rash on my throat from the gloves. Gotta go get some Sudafed.
Nope. Rich held up the cadaver's arm and I touched the tendon. Okay, good enough.
"Now let's take a look at the skull." For Ron Darling's sake, Rich.
"So, here is the brain," he took it out and handed it to Elsa. Lenny Dykstra makes an amazing catch. And instead of throwing the ball back in, he runs deliberately, in slow, slow motion and drops it into the pitchers and runs slowly, oh so slowly, back to right field.
We made our way through the chest cavity, which had been numbered for the test. This didn't seem so bad. I was getting used to this now. For certain I could have been a doctor. I could suture, and fix...
Then, Rich uncovered the man's groin. His, well, his, you know... that part... had been bisected, sliced in half to have the parts labeled. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the New York Mets, and their owner, Abner Doubleday, and general manager, Frank Cashen would like to thank you for your patronage.
No more poking around. "Very nice, Rich, thanks for the tour of the human body. I think it's time that my impressionable daughter and I got going."
Unfortunately, Elsa was fascinated by the Achilles tendon and seeing how they work. She and Rich uncovered the face and looked at the muscles and eyes and teeth while I stood back a little bit replaying game six of the 1986 World Series over and over in my head. And the ball goes through Bill Buckner's legs. Mets win! Mets win!
Elsa is amazing and Rich is an incredible professor. He was professional and very respectful of the cadaver. Elsa had a great time writing to her friends to tell them what she was doing on her school holidays. While they were at the beach, riding horses, swimming and doing other activities Elsa was holding a human liver in her hands.
It was great to spend some time with them and even in my discomfort, I find humor in the journey. I hope you all can find humor in moments of discomfort.
It made me uncomfortable, though, to sit in the passenger seat while someone else - even Christine, who is a good driver - has control of the wheel. There were moments when a corner would mysteriously rise from the mist, and we would swerve quickly to avoid embracing the far bank of the ditch with our front fender. In times of distress and discomfort like this, I can feel my shoulders tense up, my hands clench and my bowels feel as if they are about ready to let loose.
When I'm uncomfortable in a situation where other people are present, I have a technique that I've been practicing over the years to get my mind off the distressing situation. I'm a big New York Mets fan, so I'll do this Mets visualization: I recite the names of the 1986 Mets team. I still remember all of their names and by doing one of these two things, I am able to place my mind in a sufficiently happy place to allow me to make it through the strife.
That being said, there are relatively few things that make me truly uncomfortable. One of them occurs quite frequently here in Australia. In public bathrooms in the United States, whether at sporting arenas, airports, churches etc., the designers of the facilities will place individual urinals designed for privacy with either a modesty divider or at least a high sided toilet. But here in Australia, often public men's toilets will have what I like to call the stainless steel trough. Usually, the stainless steel will reach from ground to mid-chest height, no dividers and they have a grating (foot sized) which men will stand on. It wreaks havoc when one is wearing sandals.
Every time I go into a public restroom and see the stainless steel trough, I cringe - it makes me uncomfortable. So when I'm standing next to a stranger and he's whistling away while his urine is passing underneath the grating under my feet... And now, up to bat, Keith Hernandez batting third...
I was very uncomfortable once on our trip.
After arriving at Rich and Emily Dianchun's (that's not how it is really spelled, but that's how it's pronounced) we ate a wonderful meal with their family and their next door neighbors. Rich is a professor at the University of Wisconsin - Platteville. Rich is a medical doctor but teaches science courses at the university, specifically anatomy and physiology and he had a wonderful opportunity for Elsa who is interested in medicine: the chance to examine a cadaver.
I'm not a squeamish person by nature. I grew up on the farm. Committing duckicide was a yearly event and dissecting poultry was second nature. Multiple times I'd seen my grandfather slice beef into different cuts of meat and none of that bothered me, but someone was going to have to bring Elsa to the University in order for her to get a 'first hand' experience with a deceased person.
I didn't want Rich to see my nervousness and certainly I didn't want Elsa to think her old man was weak in the stomach, so I did what I always do: Rafael Santana picks up the grounder, tosses it to Wally Backman and on to first, Double Play!
Platteville is not a big university in the broad perspective of things, so we entered the science building and found Rich at his desk talking about his exams with students. We had to wait. What's worse than being uncomfortable? Waiting while in the midst of it. Elsa and I walked down the brown brick hallways with sterile tile floor. It kind of felt like a morgue, if you ask me. After a while, Rich came out and took us to the room where the cadavers were. As we entered the room, there were six containers approximately the size of a coffin lined against the wall. Rich smiled and laughed, sniffled like he always does, and then offered me a leftover doughnut from breakfast.
Awesome.
I could tell Elsa was nervous also - her eyes kept straying to the right where the corpses were. These generous people had donated their bodies to science to allow the next generation of doctors the opportunity to inspect how the body systems worked and fit together. As we nervously looked over at the containers, Rich was telling us some of the stories of things that can happen to some of the students who view the cadavers the first time. Some tough kids seem like they are doing well and then all of the sudden they're sitting on the chairs head between their legs. Some find that doughnuts and cadaver viewing don't go well together. Either way, I was half listening to Rich and half wondering how my own body was going to react. Were my shoulders hunching? I loosened my clenched fists and tightened my bowels. I can do this.
"So," Rich said, "If you feel anything strange, don't be afraid to sit down. Everyone feeling okay?"
I was smiling. It was a fake smile, but I had to be tough for Elsa. She didn't seem to be having any problems.
Rich walked over to the cadaver container. "When we receive a cadaver, we have to drain the bodily floods and essentially remove the fat from the body." He pointed to a five gallon plastic bucket. "This is where those fluids and lipids are stored." Aaaaand Mookie Wilson makes a great catch in the outfield. The crowd is going wild.
When Rich cranked open the container, there was a certain odor that was muffled but overwhelmingly present. I won't describe that here, but I was certainly thinking about how great a third basemen Ray Knight was. I could feel my ears start to ring a little bit, my vision started to narrow. I stared at Rich intently, soaking in none of his words but doing my greatest acting job ever, or so I hoped. I nodded.
"The cadaver was a fifty something year old man who died of cancer. The body is covered by a sheet because we have to keep them moist." Not only do I hate the word 'moist,' I had already imagined Darryl Strawberry who is over fifty years old now.
Then, Rich did what he had to do: he pulled back the sheet. I didn't know what to expect, but the skin was off the cadaver and placed at various odd intervals all over the body. What normally covered the chest, was covering the man's legs. He had nipples where his knees were supposed to be. O, Gary Carter, throw that man out at second base.
Elsa was enrapt, and I was just trying not to think about the uneaten doughnuts sitting on the shelf behind me.
"So, we'll just take a look at the extremities first," and he unveiled the arm which still had the skin on the hands and fingernails attached. Kevin McReynolds swats one deep. It's way back, way back... It's Gone! Home run for the Mets left fielder.
"Do you guys want to put on gloves and take a poke around?" Heavens to Betsy, Rich - do you think I'm Roger McDowell? I'm not going to get in there and look for the man's spleen. Elsa put on her gloves and began to probe the vascular system, arteries and veins in the cadaver's arms. If Elsa was going to do it, by Jesse Orosco, I was going to do it. My hands trembled as I put on the blue latex gloves. It was the only time in my life when I wished I had an allergy - to latex - and then I could have left with dignity. Sorry Rich, I'm getting a rash on my throat from the gloves. Gotta go get some Sudafed.
Nope. Rich held up the cadaver's arm and I touched the tendon. Okay, good enough.
"Now let's take a look at the skull." For Ron Darling's sake, Rich.
"So, here is the brain," he took it out and handed it to Elsa. Lenny Dykstra makes an amazing catch. And instead of throwing the ball back in, he runs deliberately, in slow, slow motion and drops it into the pitchers and runs slowly, oh so slowly, back to right field.
We made our way through the chest cavity, which had been numbered for the test. This didn't seem so bad. I was getting used to this now. For certain I could have been a doctor. I could suture, and fix...
Then, Rich uncovered the man's groin. His, well, his, you know... that part... had been bisected, sliced in half to have the parts labeled. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the New York Mets, and their owner, Abner Doubleday, and general manager, Frank Cashen would like to thank you for your patronage.
No more poking around. "Very nice, Rich, thanks for the tour of the human body. I think it's time that my impressionable daughter and I got going."
Unfortunately, Elsa was fascinated by the Achilles tendon and seeing how they work. She and Rich uncovered the face and looked at the muscles and eyes and teeth while I stood back a little bit replaying game six of the 1986 World Series over and over in my head. And the ball goes through Bill Buckner's legs. Mets win! Mets win!
Elsa is amazing and Rich is an incredible professor. He was professional and very respectful of the cadaver. Elsa had a great time writing to her friends to tell them what she was doing on her school holidays. While they were at the beach, riding horses, swimming and doing other activities Elsa was holding a human liver in her hands.
It was great to spend some time with them and even in my discomfort, I find humor in the journey. I hope you all can find humor in moments of discomfort.
Monday, January 19, 2015
The Other's Gold: Part 2 - The Missing
I mentioned this to Christine a couple of times since we've been back: It's a really nice feeling to be missed.
Missing things is not necessarily a good feeling; when you see things on Facebook or via e-mail, birthdays, anniversaries, parties and such, you get that squishy feeling inside as if you want to distort the laws of nature to pop in on the party and say, "Surprise!" Maybe I'm the only one that daydreams about that.
In the missing of people and the missing of events, we find a nice surprise happening to our memories. Slowly the ones we miss lose their sharp edges, they lose their idiosyncrasies (or idiots sing crazies) that make us want to pull out our eyebrows one follicle at a time, like plucking a duck's pin feathers when you don't have a blow torch at hand. When we miss people, we forget that there were things that drove us to distraction (that's a very Australian thing to write) and likely, we weren't altogether easy on their emotional highway either.
Time doesn't just heal wounds, it puts Bandaids on interpersonal papercuts and sutures in relational lacerations. As a pastor at Our Savior's Lutheran Church in Rockford, Illinois, I made so many mistakes, lit too many fires under bridges, that unless a church like that was entirely wrapped up in Jesus' words in the Lord's Prayer "Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us," I would have failed miserably. But always, they helped me grow as a pastor and even when I made mistakes in sermons, missed the first part of worship because of a clock failure on Daylight Savings or said something unintentionally inappropriate, they found a way to hone in on forgiveness in the midst of remembering how I messed up.
OSLC was (is) a fantastic church.
Sunday morning dawned fair. Elsa and I had spent the night at our friends' house. David is one of my very good friends in the world and Elsa's friend, Mary, is his daughter. The girls stayed up talking while David and I went to the liquor store. That sounds bad, I guess, but the liquor store is actually a really nice place with lounge furniture, soft Christmas music and a friendly tender who, after we bought a bottle of wine, allowed us to uncork it and talk for a few hours reminiscing about the past and wondering about the future.
Anyway, David is a golden friend - but another story entirely. Elsa and I walked past our old house on the way to church; it has lost it's shine in the present and only retains some amazing memories that we still have of it. We kind of walked past it with blinders on only stopping to look at the front yard where our beautiful little tree still thrusts upwards. Then, we passed our neighbor's house - Merv and Ruth who used to watch our girls. I wish everyone had neighbors like Merv and Ruth. Sometimes when I'd get home from work, Merv would be on top of my house blowing the leaves from my gutters. Well, maybe not everyone could put up with coming home and finding your neighbor on your roof. When he and I were together, something was sure to go wrong. Especially when I got my thumb near a hydraulic wood splitter. Once again, a different story.
Then, slowly walking up the streets, past houses of people we've long since forgotten their names; we only knew the buildings, the trees, the cracks in the street that still seem to trip us on the memories of late afternoon summertime strolls.
Over the last hill we saw the gigantic church where I used to be a pastor. It's brick façade makes the place seem solid, and it's front windows allow a large perspective into the worship life of the church where the gargantuan organ is perched and the choir loft holds the young and old voices that brought so much good music into the sanctuary.
We entered through the front doors and were welcomed by all the 'old' stalwarts - the same ushers were greeting people and they welcomed me like a long lost brother. It was amazing to be missed. Then, through the end of the service, we went up to communion and there was a whisper as we walked by people, pointing; all those people that wrapped up God's good wishes for us and sent us to the other side of the planet were smiling, and at that point, I felt immensely blessed to be part of their missing.
After the service, it was such a pleasure to see the young couples I'd married procreating and enlarging the church membership one child at a time. We met in the social hall where it seemed like a tidal wave of church members wanted to hear how Christine and I were doing - it was like a receiving line at a wedding except that Christine was on one side of the room and I was on the other. At the end of an hour, many of those in attendance went dutifully into the sanctuary for the next service, but we stayed to talk to a few friends outside.
That's when she showed up. Mackenzie.
In my last year in Rockford, one of the last babies I visited in the hospital was Mackenzie. She was there for a very long time because she was born incredibly prematurely - she weighed, if I remember correctly, just under two pounds. As big as my hand, or, I guess, as small as it. When she finally came home from the hospital, I drove out to the west side of Rockford; it seemed like a long time because I was anxious to see them again, and when I arrived, I was welcomed as an 'old' friend. We were going to talk about baptism for Mackenzie. She was such a beautiful kid.
Five years later, in between services, around the corner comes a beautiful blonde girl, using a walker, pushing her way towards our table. At first I didn't recognize her because, of course, little girls tend to change over five years. She has thick glasses and a smile as wide as Illinois. Her mother pushed her towards me and Mackenzie dragged her walker over and that's when I realized that a miracle was five years old.
I sat on the bench in the back of the social hall just outside the library and she crawled up right beside me, put her hand on mine and began to stroke it as if it were the most wonderful Persian cat. I asked her questions and her bright eyes and mind lit up with quick answers. She had never met me before but it was as if she was a golden, old soul. As her mother came to collect her, she looked up at me with those big eyes magnified ten times, put her arms around my neck and said, "I love you."
She's a heartbreaker, all right. A man could live a thousand years and not find a pure spirit like Mackenzie. She was absolutely amazing. I could have stayed and talked with her for hours, found out about her dreams and frustrations, listened to her tell stories of her parents - and all the time I felt my heart beat with pride: "Hey everyone, I baptized this one!" And as Mackenzie pushed her self away and waved, I thought of all the kids I'd baptized at OSLC, all the weddings that I was part of, all the young adults that shaped how I view family ministry, all the choir members who sang, the librarians who read to my daughters, youth who simply called me 'Reid' and then proceeded to break my teeth while playing ice hockey. All this time in one place.
They're still my family even though I don't call it home anymore.
It was fun to be missed; it is painful to miss them, but somehow God continues to move us all, or to keep us put, as he needs for the greater good of his Spirit in the world. And at each place we stay or go, we sing the song:
Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold.
Missing things is not necessarily a good feeling; when you see things on Facebook or via e-mail, birthdays, anniversaries, parties and such, you get that squishy feeling inside as if you want to distort the laws of nature to pop in on the party and say, "Surprise!" Maybe I'm the only one that daydreams about that.
In the missing of people and the missing of events, we find a nice surprise happening to our memories. Slowly the ones we miss lose their sharp edges, they lose their idiosyncrasies (or idiots sing crazies) that make us want to pull out our eyebrows one follicle at a time, like plucking a duck's pin feathers when you don't have a blow torch at hand. When we miss people, we forget that there were things that drove us to distraction (that's a very Australian thing to write) and likely, we weren't altogether easy on their emotional highway either.
Time doesn't just heal wounds, it puts Bandaids on interpersonal papercuts and sutures in relational lacerations. As a pastor at Our Savior's Lutheran Church in Rockford, Illinois, I made so many mistakes, lit too many fires under bridges, that unless a church like that was entirely wrapped up in Jesus' words in the Lord's Prayer "Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us," I would have failed miserably. But always, they helped me grow as a pastor and even when I made mistakes in sermons, missed the first part of worship because of a clock failure on Daylight Savings or said something unintentionally inappropriate, they found a way to hone in on forgiveness in the midst of remembering how I messed up.
OSLC was (is) a fantastic church.
Sunday morning dawned fair. Elsa and I had spent the night at our friends' house. David is one of my very good friends in the world and Elsa's friend, Mary, is his daughter. The girls stayed up talking while David and I went to the liquor store. That sounds bad, I guess, but the liquor store is actually a really nice place with lounge furniture, soft Christmas music and a friendly tender who, after we bought a bottle of wine, allowed us to uncork it and talk for a few hours reminiscing about the past and wondering about the future.
Anyway, David is a golden friend - but another story entirely. Elsa and I walked past our old house on the way to church; it has lost it's shine in the present and only retains some amazing memories that we still have of it. We kind of walked past it with blinders on only stopping to look at the front yard where our beautiful little tree still thrusts upwards. Then, we passed our neighbor's house - Merv and Ruth who used to watch our girls. I wish everyone had neighbors like Merv and Ruth. Sometimes when I'd get home from work, Merv would be on top of my house blowing the leaves from my gutters. Well, maybe not everyone could put up with coming home and finding your neighbor on your roof. When he and I were together, something was sure to go wrong. Especially when I got my thumb near a hydraulic wood splitter. Once again, a different story.
Then, slowly walking up the streets, past houses of people we've long since forgotten their names; we only knew the buildings, the trees, the cracks in the street that still seem to trip us on the memories of late afternoon summertime strolls.
Over the last hill we saw the gigantic church where I used to be a pastor. It's brick façade makes the place seem solid, and it's front windows allow a large perspective into the worship life of the church where the gargantuan organ is perched and the choir loft holds the young and old voices that brought so much good music into the sanctuary.
We entered through the front doors and were welcomed by all the 'old' stalwarts - the same ushers were greeting people and they welcomed me like a long lost brother. It was amazing to be missed. Then, through the end of the service, we went up to communion and there was a whisper as we walked by people, pointing; all those people that wrapped up God's good wishes for us and sent us to the other side of the planet were smiling, and at that point, I felt immensely blessed to be part of their missing.
After the service, it was such a pleasure to see the young couples I'd married procreating and enlarging the church membership one child at a time. We met in the social hall where it seemed like a tidal wave of church members wanted to hear how Christine and I were doing - it was like a receiving line at a wedding except that Christine was on one side of the room and I was on the other. At the end of an hour, many of those in attendance went dutifully into the sanctuary for the next service, but we stayed to talk to a few friends outside.
That's when she showed up. Mackenzie.
In my last year in Rockford, one of the last babies I visited in the hospital was Mackenzie. She was there for a very long time because she was born incredibly prematurely - she weighed, if I remember correctly, just under two pounds. As big as my hand, or, I guess, as small as it. When she finally came home from the hospital, I drove out to the west side of Rockford; it seemed like a long time because I was anxious to see them again, and when I arrived, I was welcomed as an 'old' friend. We were going to talk about baptism for Mackenzie. She was such a beautiful kid.
Five years later, in between services, around the corner comes a beautiful blonde girl, using a walker, pushing her way towards our table. At first I didn't recognize her because, of course, little girls tend to change over five years. She has thick glasses and a smile as wide as Illinois. Her mother pushed her towards me and Mackenzie dragged her walker over and that's when I realized that a miracle was five years old.
I sat on the bench in the back of the social hall just outside the library and she crawled up right beside me, put her hand on mine and began to stroke it as if it were the most wonderful Persian cat. I asked her questions and her bright eyes and mind lit up with quick answers. She had never met me before but it was as if she was a golden, old soul. As her mother came to collect her, she looked up at me with those big eyes magnified ten times, put her arms around my neck and said, "I love you."
She's a heartbreaker, all right. A man could live a thousand years and not find a pure spirit like Mackenzie. She was absolutely amazing. I could have stayed and talked with her for hours, found out about her dreams and frustrations, listened to her tell stories of her parents - and all the time I felt my heart beat with pride: "Hey everyone, I baptized this one!" And as Mackenzie pushed her self away and waved, I thought of all the kids I'd baptized at OSLC, all the weddings that I was part of, all the young adults that shaped how I view family ministry, all the choir members who sang, the librarians who read to my daughters, youth who simply called me 'Reid' and then proceeded to break my teeth while playing ice hockey. All this time in one place.
They're still my family even though I don't call it home anymore.
It was fun to be missed; it is painful to miss them, but somehow God continues to move us all, or to keep us put, as he needs for the greater good of his Spirit in the world. And at each place we stay or go, we sing the song:
Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
...And the Other's Gold (Part 1)
Make new friends but keep the old
One is silver and the other's gold.
How many people used to sing this song in elementary school? Mr. Kakacek used it as a practice song for us when we were learning to sing rounds. Perfect for learning harmonies and to listen to others' voices.
From this journey, that's what I reflected on most: hearing the golden voices that I don't get to hear very often. It seems like every time I want to call or Skype or message or Facebook or any number of ways that the contemporary world communicates, I find myself distracted by something near at hand - usually the computer itself. The other reason it's difficult for me to contact people audibly is probably psychological. The simple attempt to verbally speak with my golden friends reminds me how incredibly far away I am from them. For the psyche, this is a hard thing; painful, sometimes. And if I know anything about human nature, we will do whatever it takes to avoid pain. For me, that means I don't call as often, or write when I could. Others lie (I do that sometimes), some run away and some will find replacement addictions to fill up their loneliness. Good thing I don't feel lonely, and I probably never will after this golden trip.
Our drive from Grandpa and Grandma Matthias' house to Rockford was nostalgic, not just for the drive's sake, but in the way that Christine and I reminisced about landmarks along the way.
Driving east, through Galena, a beautiful old mining town constricting a capillary of river, we marveled at the beauty of the old brick churches, the colossal bed and breakfasts jutting from the sides of the hills and the quaint coffee shops lining the cobblestone streets. There aren't many places like it and as we drove through, we thought - Why didn't we spend more time here? It was only fifteen minutes from Dubuque?
After leaving Galena and wending our way up the sides of the hills to the flatlands of Illinois, Christine and I began to remember. Time tends to erode memories of places; slowly it brings down what used to be large and intimidating to soft and almost vacant. On the seventy odd miles to Rockford, there is very little to look at other than sparse blocky farm houses situated on miles of stark, dormant landscapes. The beans have been cut off at the ground; the corn is sheared off just above the roots. There is nothing on this drive in December that suggests how vibrant life is during the summer months. Every once in a while we passed some Christmas lights strung haphazardly around various evergreen trees or naked maples, but for the most part we just watched mileage signs that said "Rockford 62 miles," "Rockford 54 miles". That's the way life goes sometimes - you just watch the mile markers, impatiently counting down the time before you get 'there.' But in those times of counting down, sometimes you run across memories like roadkill. You've totally forgotten that you were there.
Like Apple River Canyon State Park in Illinois.
Halfway between Galena and Freeport, this little park sits off highway 20 about ten miles. The name of the park is misleading because normally when I think of canyon, I think steep cliffs, mighty river gouging out the bedrock, white water rapids - you know what I'm talking about. But ARC (Apple River Canyon) is this beautiful little streamlike river that meanders through the green back country. Christine and I went camping there once and we reflected with laughter.
It must have been late September or early October; the leaves were changing, scintillating gold, orange, red and anything in between. In was the best time of year to go camping, really, as long as it wasn't snowing, which in this instance, it wasn't. We packed up our newly purchased pop up camper, one that slept six comfortably, since we were five, it worked out really well. After putting the last of the supplies inside the camper door, we buckled the girls into their seats and sang our way to ARC. When we turned off highway 20, we noticed the beauty of the landscape, harvest ready cornstalks, deciduous trees preparing to unload their stock like some arboreal pre-Christmas sale and acres of grass just beginning to turn crispy yellow.
When we pulled into the campground, we were overjoyed to see that only one other camper was there. A few tents dotted the campground like warts, but we were so proud of our camper. As they stepped out to see who the new resident was, we waved like a king and queens knowing that we'd have the best set up of anyone there. We reversed our camper back into the space set aside for us, erected the pop up, and set our chairs out for a great day in the outdoors. It was cool and crisp so we put on our warmer clothes and then looked around.
Strange. There was one camper and five or so tents, but everyone around us looked to be of Asian descent. I waved to one of them: he didn't shake his head to the side, only looked away quickly. I greeted another - same response. Okay... "Hey kids, let's go for a hike!"
We packed up the kids; Greta was only two at the time so I carried her in the packpack as she called it, then I carried the water bottles, the insect repellent, the picnic basket, four sets of sweatshirts and a chair. Christine put the camera around her neck and said, "Let's go!"
After a few hours of watching the late summer flowers fade, throwing sticks and stones into the stream and laughing uncontrollably at the antics of squirrels fighting over nuts, we headed back to the campsite. I placed my haul on the ground and stretched my back out with both hands on my hips while Christine made sure she secured the camera in a safe place. Aaah, the camping life. But then I noticed something strange. All of our Asian camping neighbors were gone. Their tents were still there, but it was getting dark and certainly they would be back to prepare dinner?
They didn't come back, which was fine, I guess. The campground was ours, but then, somewhere after dinner time I began to hear gunshots - in the dark. First thought - Red Dawn -1984: movie with Patrick Swayze, C. Thomas Howell, maybe you know the one where the Russians invade the United States for some unknown reasons and Mr. Dirty Dancing himself with a band of misfits somehow is able to fight off the entire Soviet Union. I wanted to yell out "Wolverine!" but thought better of it because everyone else had guns and I had, well, I had a pop up camper.
From the woods our neighbors materialized. Each one of them held a shotgun and at least two or three dead ducks. They'd been out hunting mallards on the reservoir, illegally, if you ask me because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to shoot ducks after dark, but who was I to walk up to my new camping friends and say, "Can I see your license please?"
As we, the Matthias five sat outside our camper, our Asian neighbors began to set up shop. In the dim lights of their wiggling and strobing flashlights, I noticed that they were setting up some kind of propane torches. I'm not talking the little kind you hook up to a camping stove, but the big ones that look like you could strap them to the side of a space shuttle. It was good entertainment. I thought that they were going to cook their supper (duck) and head off to bed like we were, but no no, they proceeded to fricassee their ducks. I don't really know what 'fricassee' means, but I remember Daffy Duck complaining to Elmer Fudd about ending up fricasseed. It means to fry, somewhere between saute and stew. But in this case, our campground non-friends were blowtorching their prey.
And it sounded a lot like when a hot air balloon inflates. CHHHSHHHOOOOOOOSHHH. As soon as that bad boy started up, the whole neighborhood came running with their ducks. I don't know where all the people came from, they must have had a village in each tent and their tents must have been magical like Harry Potter's. There must have been fifty people circling the Atlantis space shuttle thruster holding one hundred and fifty illegally shot ducks waiting for their turn to singe the feathers off the poultry corpses. Lots of laughter and shouts in a different language. I wouldn't have felt uncomfortable if they didn't have their guns resting against the trees outside their tents. Fortunately, they were just interested in duckicide.
Well, okeee, I thought. I can probably put up with this for a little while. It's not like I'm going to go over there and tap them on the shoulder and say, 'Pardon me. Would you mind turning off your jet engine at 8:00 so my daughters can go to sleep?'
They kept going until 4:00 a.m. The blowtorch continued singeing ducks at regular twenty minute intervals CHHHSHHHOOOOOSHHH - Greta woke up multiple times asking in her sleep deprived, crying state, "Daddy, Daddy loud fire! Loud fire! Can put it out?"
"No, darling two year old. Daddy is not brave enough to do that. Ask Elsa."
Good times.
Tomorrow, we'll find our way to Rockford, to the golden homes of golden friends who have been kept near. A church experience I'll never forget, and stories remembered that hopefully will not erode again.
One is silver and the other's gold.
How many people used to sing this song in elementary school? Mr. Kakacek used it as a practice song for us when we were learning to sing rounds. Perfect for learning harmonies and to listen to others' voices.
From this journey, that's what I reflected on most: hearing the golden voices that I don't get to hear very often. It seems like every time I want to call or Skype or message or Facebook or any number of ways that the contemporary world communicates, I find myself distracted by something near at hand - usually the computer itself. The other reason it's difficult for me to contact people audibly is probably psychological. The simple attempt to verbally speak with my golden friends reminds me how incredibly far away I am from them. For the psyche, this is a hard thing; painful, sometimes. And if I know anything about human nature, we will do whatever it takes to avoid pain. For me, that means I don't call as often, or write when I could. Others lie (I do that sometimes), some run away and some will find replacement addictions to fill up their loneliness. Good thing I don't feel lonely, and I probably never will after this golden trip.
Our drive from Grandpa and Grandma Matthias' house to Rockford was nostalgic, not just for the drive's sake, but in the way that Christine and I reminisced about landmarks along the way.
Driving east, through Galena, a beautiful old mining town constricting a capillary of river, we marveled at the beauty of the old brick churches, the colossal bed and breakfasts jutting from the sides of the hills and the quaint coffee shops lining the cobblestone streets. There aren't many places like it and as we drove through, we thought - Why didn't we spend more time here? It was only fifteen minutes from Dubuque?
After leaving Galena and wending our way up the sides of the hills to the flatlands of Illinois, Christine and I began to remember. Time tends to erode memories of places; slowly it brings down what used to be large and intimidating to soft and almost vacant. On the seventy odd miles to Rockford, there is very little to look at other than sparse blocky farm houses situated on miles of stark, dormant landscapes. The beans have been cut off at the ground; the corn is sheared off just above the roots. There is nothing on this drive in December that suggests how vibrant life is during the summer months. Every once in a while we passed some Christmas lights strung haphazardly around various evergreen trees or naked maples, but for the most part we just watched mileage signs that said "Rockford 62 miles," "Rockford 54 miles". That's the way life goes sometimes - you just watch the mile markers, impatiently counting down the time before you get 'there.' But in those times of counting down, sometimes you run across memories like roadkill. You've totally forgotten that you were there.
Like Apple River Canyon State Park in Illinois.
Halfway between Galena and Freeport, this little park sits off highway 20 about ten miles. The name of the park is misleading because normally when I think of canyon, I think steep cliffs, mighty river gouging out the bedrock, white water rapids - you know what I'm talking about. But ARC (Apple River Canyon) is this beautiful little streamlike river that meanders through the green back country. Christine and I went camping there once and we reflected with laughter.
It must have been late September or early October; the leaves were changing, scintillating gold, orange, red and anything in between. In was the best time of year to go camping, really, as long as it wasn't snowing, which in this instance, it wasn't. We packed up our newly purchased pop up camper, one that slept six comfortably, since we were five, it worked out really well. After putting the last of the supplies inside the camper door, we buckled the girls into their seats and sang our way to ARC. When we turned off highway 20, we noticed the beauty of the landscape, harvest ready cornstalks, deciduous trees preparing to unload their stock like some arboreal pre-Christmas sale and acres of grass just beginning to turn crispy yellow.
When we pulled into the campground, we were overjoyed to see that only one other camper was there. A few tents dotted the campground like warts, but we were so proud of our camper. As they stepped out to see who the new resident was, we waved like a king and queens knowing that we'd have the best set up of anyone there. We reversed our camper back into the space set aside for us, erected the pop up, and set our chairs out for a great day in the outdoors. It was cool and crisp so we put on our warmer clothes and then looked around.
Strange. There was one camper and five or so tents, but everyone around us looked to be of Asian descent. I waved to one of them: he didn't shake his head to the side, only looked away quickly. I greeted another - same response. Okay... "Hey kids, let's go for a hike!"
We packed up the kids; Greta was only two at the time so I carried her in the packpack as she called it, then I carried the water bottles, the insect repellent, the picnic basket, four sets of sweatshirts and a chair. Christine put the camera around her neck and said, "Let's go!"
After a few hours of watching the late summer flowers fade, throwing sticks and stones into the stream and laughing uncontrollably at the antics of squirrels fighting over nuts, we headed back to the campsite. I placed my haul on the ground and stretched my back out with both hands on my hips while Christine made sure she secured the camera in a safe place. Aaah, the camping life. But then I noticed something strange. All of our Asian camping neighbors were gone. Their tents were still there, but it was getting dark and certainly they would be back to prepare dinner?
They didn't come back, which was fine, I guess. The campground was ours, but then, somewhere after dinner time I began to hear gunshots - in the dark. First thought - Red Dawn -1984: movie with Patrick Swayze, C. Thomas Howell, maybe you know the one where the Russians invade the United States for some unknown reasons and Mr. Dirty Dancing himself with a band of misfits somehow is able to fight off the entire Soviet Union. I wanted to yell out "Wolverine!" but thought better of it because everyone else had guns and I had, well, I had a pop up camper.
From the woods our neighbors materialized. Each one of them held a shotgun and at least two or three dead ducks. They'd been out hunting mallards on the reservoir, illegally, if you ask me because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to shoot ducks after dark, but who was I to walk up to my new camping friends and say, "Can I see your license please?"
As we, the Matthias five sat outside our camper, our Asian neighbors began to set up shop. In the dim lights of their wiggling and strobing flashlights, I noticed that they were setting up some kind of propane torches. I'm not talking the little kind you hook up to a camping stove, but the big ones that look like you could strap them to the side of a space shuttle. It was good entertainment. I thought that they were going to cook their supper (duck) and head off to bed like we were, but no no, they proceeded to fricassee their ducks. I don't really know what 'fricassee' means, but I remember Daffy Duck complaining to Elmer Fudd about ending up fricasseed. It means to fry, somewhere between saute and stew. But in this case, our campground non-friends were blowtorching their prey.
And it sounded a lot like when a hot air balloon inflates. CHHHSHHHOOOOOOOSHHH. As soon as that bad boy started up, the whole neighborhood came running with their ducks. I don't know where all the people came from, they must have had a village in each tent and their tents must have been magical like Harry Potter's. There must have been fifty people circling the Atlantis space shuttle thruster holding one hundred and fifty illegally shot ducks waiting for their turn to singe the feathers off the poultry corpses. Lots of laughter and shouts in a different language. I wouldn't have felt uncomfortable if they didn't have their guns resting against the trees outside their tents. Fortunately, they were just interested in duckicide.
Well, okeee, I thought. I can probably put up with this for a little while. It's not like I'm going to go over there and tap them on the shoulder and say, 'Pardon me. Would you mind turning off your jet engine at 8:00 so my daughters can go to sleep?'
They kept going until 4:00 a.m. The blowtorch continued singeing ducks at regular twenty minute intervals CHHHSHHHOOOOOSHHH - Greta woke up multiple times asking in her sleep deprived, crying state, "Daddy, Daddy loud fire! Loud fire! Can put it out?"
"No, darling two year old. Daddy is not brave enough to do that. Ask Elsa."
Good times.
Tomorrow, we'll find our way to Rockford, to the golden homes of golden friends who have been kept near. A church experience I'll never forget, and stories remembered that hopefully will not erode again.
Friday, January 16, 2015
The Rising Cost
Part of our journey this time was to encounter a few American colleges for our girls to give them an idea of what higher education was like in the States. Last year, Elsa went to the University of Queensland for a tour on her camp experience. This year it was Wartburg, UW - Platteville and Concordia, Seward.
On the plane ride home, I watched a documentary on post-high school education. It wasn't particularly gracious; the point of the movie was that college education expenses are so out of control, and student debt has mounted so greatly, that most graduated college students will not be able to pay off their debt for years. The rising costs of facilities; more and more professors receiving tenure and then turning over their classes to adjuncts, has created a Hindenburg balloon over our heads - one small flash fire and BOOM!...
The entire 1 trillion dollar school loan debt in the United States will come crashing to the earth.
As I survey the present day college landscape from a distance, I recognize the need for activities: But does a university really need to pay the head coach of one sport eight million dollars per year, simply to be a athletic motivational speaker? Doesn't it seem strange that the only ones paid for athletics are the coaches, not the players? Sure, sure, the students are given an 'athletic scholarship' for their 'university studies' - but more often than not, they are lured by the megabucks of professional athletics.
And the fact that they are treated like gods. Adherents of the university athletic religion rise to their feet, waving their arms, asking the blessing of the athlete. During the college worship services, the games, they dress for the event, sing and chant, long with expectation that their worship will influence the outcome. At what cost? The average athlete will play sports for four years, wreck both of their knees and a shoulder and then consider it awesome that they have a diploma in general studies with which they received a healthy C- average. That's quite a generalization, but too often we only hear the stories of the superstar athletes that invest most of their time for the one year of college as their own promotional, and not the ones that look back to college as just 'the glory days.'
I'm off the track here, but I was thinking about where Elsa, first, would like to go to college. My emotional side thinks that Wartburg College, a small Lutheran college in eastern Iowa, would be one of her top choices. So, a few months ago, I organized through the admissions office a time for a tour and some tickets to go to the Christmas concert where the bands and choirs perform. When we arrived, people were stressed - the admissions person who was with us, a very nice young lady who had chaperoned people before, mentioned to us that it was finals week and we were a nice 'break.' She ushered us around campus at breakneck speed. I felt sorry for her because I knew we were probably an interruption that she didn't need, but she did her best and as we were whisked through the auditorium, and even more quickly through the music building, I thought to myself, "This is where I went to college and either I don't remember, or I don't want to, the stress of finals."
Then I remembered, what stress? Compared to the rest of life, college is an oasis of serenity; classes, learning, socializing, more socializing with a dash of socializing on top, music and then socializing. That's what I paid for. I only finished paying off my degree in finance, ahem, my social degree (as Christine affectionately refers to it), about eight years ago. Now, I imagine, some students are attempting to repay their college loans four times as much as I borrowed. Some of them could have bought a house with theirs.
What's the point that I'm getting at? It came on the third leg of our journey. The new sports complex on Wartburg's campus. It is absolutely incredible. I'm sure that there are many sports teams that would love to have a hall of fame like the Wartburg facility. As the young student ushered us through the doors, it was like entering the Hall of Justice where the Superfriends hang out. You ascend the stairs and what assaults the eyes is a 160 meter hallway of athletic awards that Wartburg has won over the years. It was incredible. Awesome. I could feel the pride rise up in me, even though I had absolutely nothing to do with the garnering of any of these banners or trophies. I wanted to look around at the students who were milling about and say, Yeah, look at me, I'm an alumnus. I made this possible for you. You can thank me now or later, makes no difference.
New basketball courts, a swimming pool (awesome), an indoor track, climbing wall - How does anyone get any studying done when there is a place like this on campus?
I asked our guide how much this had cost. She looked at me with a mixture of sheepishness and pride - "It cost 100 million dollars."
Gulp.
No wonder it costs $42,000 to send a 'child' to college. We've got to repay the debts.
"It's not just the athletic building; we upgraded the cafeteria and the library, the science building and the auditorium."
Well, that makes it all better. I was just about ready to turn our family around and head back to the car but I remembered that we needed to get to the concert that night. Wartburg, how could you have fallen into the temptation of 'trying to keep up with the Jones's? Why couldn't you just offer the same, quality, affordable education that you gave (or tried to give) me? Why turn this place into a theme park?
With a small amount of despondency, we went to the Christmas With Wartburg concert which was in Neumann Auditorium where I used to work on campus. We sat in the balcony with my parents. After stuffing our coats onto a rack, we plodded up the stairs. This musical event was monumentally transforming in my own life when I went to Wartburg and I was glad that I was going to get to share it with my family.
The lights dimmed and an extreme, mid-western voice rolled through the air. The narrator was giving us some directions and then right at the end he said, "This is not a concert, it's a worship service; please do not applaud. We worship for the glory of God."
My jaw dropped. They never said that when I was there. The music began; like ghosts the choirs surrounded and moved in between the audience and a mystical Christmas carol began to evolve and float through the room. The music grew and I looked over at Christine who was already crying because of this Christmas season and the worship of the one born 2,000 years ago and born again in our hearts on that night. I couldn't even sing...
But the guy three rows behind me could - or at least he thought he could sing.
Doesn't matter. When they finished the song, it was all I could do to keep from clapping, shouting; - as an adherent, I wanted to ask the blessing of the benevolent God of the universe to bring peace and goodwill to earth again. It was true worship.
And then I thought to myself at the end of the service, Wartburg, you are awesome! I'm willing to mortgage my existence to send my daughters here for their post high school education. $42,000 for one year of education? No problem. It's only money, right?
Wartburg is a fantastic school. It has a variety of opportunities and services; the students were friendly and enthusiastic; the sports and music programs are accomplished. My last question was:
Where is the hall of fame for the musicians and those that receive academic awards? Is there a night when the crowds rise in unison to scream and shout their joy at their marvelous achievements? I'd really like the world to begin to recognize on a grander scale the incredible achievements of the arts and academics rather than just the athletics.
But that could cost even more money.
This isn't supposed to be a scathing diatribe against Wartburg - it's meant to be an introspective of all college and universities understanding of the rising costs of education. How can we change this? How can we make it affordable again? How can we help to make sure that I don't have to pay off my daughter's college bills when I am in the nursing home?
Donate now if you would like to help out with Elsa's scholarship fund which will begin in two years.
On the plane ride home, I watched a documentary on post-high school education. It wasn't particularly gracious; the point of the movie was that college education expenses are so out of control, and student debt has mounted so greatly, that most graduated college students will not be able to pay off their debt for years. The rising costs of facilities; more and more professors receiving tenure and then turning over their classes to adjuncts, has created a Hindenburg balloon over our heads - one small flash fire and BOOM!...
The entire 1 trillion dollar school loan debt in the United States will come crashing to the earth.
As I survey the present day college landscape from a distance, I recognize the need for activities: But does a university really need to pay the head coach of one sport eight million dollars per year, simply to be a athletic motivational speaker? Doesn't it seem strange that the only ones paid for athletics are the coaches, not the players? Sure, sure, the students are given an 'athletic scholarship' for their 'university studies' - but more often than not, they are lured by the megabucks of professional athletics.
And the fact that they are treated like gods. Adherents of the university athletic religion rise to their feet, waving their arms, asking the blessing of the athlete. During the college worship services, the games, they dress for the event, sing and chant, long with expectation that their worship will influence the outcome. At what cost? The average athlete will play sports for four years, wreck both of their knees and a shoulder and then consider it awesome that they have a diploma in general studies with which they received a healthy C- average. That's quite a generalization, but too often we only hear the stories of the superstar athletes that invest most of their time for the one year of college as their own promotional, and not the ones that look back to college as just 'the glory days.'
I'm off the track here, but I was thinking about where Elsa, first, would like to go to college. My emotional side thinks that Wartburg College, a small Lutheran college in eastern Iowa, would be one of her top choices. So, a few months ago, I organized through the admissions office a time for a tour and some tickets to go to the Christmas concert where the bands and choirs perform. When we arrived, people were stressed - the admissions person who was with us, a very nice young lady who had chaperoned people before, mentioned to us that it was finals week and we were a nice 'break.' She ushered us around campus at breakneck speed. I felt sorry for her because I knew we were probably an interruption that she didn't need, but she did her best and as we were whisked through the auditorium, and even more quickly through the music building, I thought to myself, "This is where I went to college and either I don't remember, or I don't want to, the stress of finals."
Then I remembered, what stress? Compared to the rest of life, college is an oasis of serenity; classes, learning, socializing, more socializing with a dash of socializing on top, music and then socializing. That's what I paid for. I only finished paying off my degree in finance, ahem, my social degree (as Christine affectionately refers to it), about eight years ago. Now, I imagine, some students are attempting to repay their college loans four times as much as I borrowed. Some of them could have bought a house with theirs.
What's the point that I'm getting at? It came on the third leg of our journey. The new sports complex on Wartburg's campus. It is absolutely incredible. I'm sure that there are many sports teams that would love to have a hall of fame like the Wartburg facility. As the young student ushered us through the doors, it was like entering the Hall of Justice where the Superfriends hang out. You ascend the stairs and what assaults the eyes is a 160 meter hallway of athletic awards that Wartburg has won over the years. It was incredible. Awesome. I could feel the pride rise up in me, even though I had absolutely nothing to do with the garnering of any of these banners or trophies. I wanted to look around at the students who were milling about and say, Yeah, look at me, I'm an alumnus. I made this possible for you. You can thank me now or later, makes no difference.
New basketball courts, a swimming pool (awesome), an indoor track, climbing wall - How does anyone get any studying done when there is a place like this on campus?
I asked our guide how much this had cost. She looked at me with a mixture of sheepishness and pride - "It cost 100 million dollars."
Gulp.
No wonder it costs $42,000 to send a 'child' to college. We've got to repay the debts.
"It's not just the athletic building; we upgraded the cafeteria and the library, the science building and the auditorium."
Well, that makes it all better. I was just about ready to turn our family around and head back to the car but I remembered that we needed to get to the concert that night. Wartburg, how could you have fallen into the temptation of 'trying to keep up with the Jones's? Why couldn't you just offer the same, quality, affordable education that you gave (or tried to give) me? Why turn this place into a theme park?
With a small amount of despondency, we went to the Christmas With Wartburg concert which was in Neumann Auditorium where I used to work on campus. We sat in the balcony with my parents. After stuffing our coats onto a rack, we plodded up the stairs. This musical event was monumentally transforming in my own life when I went to Wartburg and I was glad that I was going to get to share it with my family.
The lights dimmed and an extreme, mid-western voice rolled through the air. The narrator was giving us some directions and then right at the end he said, "This is not a concert, it's a worship service; please do not applaud. We worship for the glory of God."
My jaw dropped. They never said that when I was there. The music began; like ghosts the choirs surrounded and moved in between the audience and a mystical Christmas carol began to evolve and float through the room. The music grew and I looked over at Christine who was already crying because of this Christmas season and the worship of the one born 2,000 years ago and born again in our hearts on that night. I couldn't even sing...
But the guy three rows behind me could - or at least he thought he could sing.
Doesn't matter. When they finished the song, it was all I could do to keep from clapping, shouting; - as an adherent, I wanted to ask the blessing of the benevolent God of the universe to bring peace and goodwill to earth again. It was true worship.
And then I thought to myself at the end of the service, Wartburg, you are awesome! I'm willing to mortgage my existence to send my daughters here for their post high school education. $42,000 for one year of education? No problem. It's only money, right?
Wartburg is a fantastic school. It has a variety of opportunities and services; the students were friendly and enthusiastic; the sports and music programs are accomplished. My last question was:
Where is the hall of fame for the musicians and those that receive academic awards? Is there a night when the crowds rise in unison to scream and shout their joy at their marvelous achievements? I'd really like the world to begin to recognize on a grander scale the incredible achievements of the arts and academics rather than just the athletics.
But that could cost even more money.
This isn't supposed to be a scathing diatribe against Wartburg - it's meant to be an introspective of all college and universities understanding of the rising costs of education. How can we change this? How can we make it affordable again? How can we help to make sure that I don't have to pay off my daughter's college bills when I am in the nursing home?
Donate now if you would like to help out with Elsa's scholarship fund which will begin in two years.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Just a Shake of the Head
I went for a run last night. It wasn't necessarily fun, but I feel like I have to because I've added another ring on the tire around my waist. Gained seven pounds, I did, in five weeks, which doesn't sound like much, but when you try to run with a decent sized watermelon on your hips, it can take a toll.
So, in my attempt to shed the melon, I decided to go out into the sauna - a. k. a. the outdoors (100 degrees and 100 percent humidity: It's like breathing through a wet paper towel) and run at least five kilometers. Surely after establishing my fitness for the last four years, entering races much longer than five kilometers, I could certainly jog 5,000 meters without stopping.
Wrong.
Something happens to a person when they reach a certain age and weight. It's like standing in the middle of a tide pool, one force is pushing you out, one is pushing you in and you can't move; you just kind of jiggle. But I give myself credit for still making the attempt, even if I'm the only one. So, I donned my long shorts (I still haven't succumbed to squeezing into men's short shorts which are still popular here), a sweat removing shirt (note to self, when you're already sweating when you get into the shirt it doesn't really work) my new shoes that I bought from Weaver's shoe store in 'downtown' Buffalo Center, Iowa - shameless plug for an excellent small town business in North Central Iowa- my Iowa Hawkeyes ball cap and stepped out into the sauna. For a few seconds I just tried to breathe. The heat and humidity is so oppressive it can literally feel as if someone has enveloped your whole body and face in plastic wrap. Then, I did my stretches for seventeen seconds. I'm not very flexible and I'm relatively self conscious about my inability to touch my toes. After putting in my headphones, I started off up the blacktop, turned left down McKay Street and right on Woodlands which is all downhill.
I like running downhill. It makes me feel fastish. I get a sense that I'm moving quickly anyway and when I pass others along the hill, I run faster, impressing them, of course, with the wind that blows by them in the sweatstorm that I bring. Then, when I am safely out of their sight, I slow down again trying to calm my breathing because it feels like I just inhaled a basketball.
I pass other people coming towards me, but the men are the best. Often I will come across a man with a floppy, wide brimmed hat, fluorescent vest, short shorts and tall boots with black socks. These are known as council workers whom I have ultimate respect for. They stand in this weather (standing still is probably a more proper description) for eight hours a day watching other council workers work.
I ran past three of them yesterday, all of them dressed similarly as described above. Coming from the place that I do in Iowa, we greet with a 'hello' or a raised hand, sometimes I'll nod which is a customary greeting. But in Australia, the men, especially, greet me differently. Instead of inclining, or even declining, their heads to say, 'Yes, I see you,' they shake their heads once, quickly to one side as if to say, 'No, I don't understand why you are running in this heat.' But it's always a shake of the head. Disagreeable? I don't know, but I do know one thing...
My Grandma Nacke is the most agreeable person I know in the world. I'm actually not aware of a time that she has ever shaken her head, or at least not to us. Sometimes I have watched her on the phone and I listen to her responses in that beautiful, pinched Midwestern accent: Yah, Okeee, Sure, All right then, Bye now. These are some of her favorite responses for anything, I think. Someone on the other end of the telephone could have said, "Mrs. Nacke, we've decided that we're going to tear down your barn tomorrow night and put in a high rise hotel." Yah, you do that then. Okee, that'll be nice. "Mrs. Nacke, we have some extra nuclear waste that needs to be disposed of, would you mind if we put that in your basement?" Okeee, that's fine then.
My Grandmother is so nice that I would swear that when a mosquito is biting her she actually asks it if it is full before she moves it on.
Granma Nacke has lived on the farm by herself for the last 17.5 years. Her husband, my Grandpa Nacke, died within months of Christine and I getting married, and I remember the time Grandma told me about the night he died. His last words to her as he drifted off to sleep were I love you. She got up in the middle of the night and when she came back, God had welcomed him home. Not many people get to have their last words to their spouse be words of love.
But she stayed on the farm; she still mows the lawn and takes care of the garden. Her own household chores, she does and still is an avid quilter at the church. People call her for her opinion and it's a miracle to watch how her agreeable nature continues to transform the community around her.
We stayed with her a few days. She, too, like my other grandparents, has furniture from the 80's; the carpet is thick shag, rust red; the grandfather clock sits in her dining room chiming away the quarter hours with somber intensity and the cuckoo clock surprises us with her abrupt chirping. Time is always told at grandma's house and when I was growing up, it seemed to go slow there - always time to play cards, to eat cookies, to chat, but now time is faster and when we visit, there is not enough. I wish there was a slow motion button on life - not pause, just slow it down so I can memorize the details of my marvelously agreeable grandmother. She, too, is diminutive, barely five feet tall, stoop shouldered, sandy short hair, wide smile with a big gap in her front teeth. I would guess she has won a few dollars in a watermelon seed spitting contest. She is spry in a ninety-year-old way and even though she has a cane, her mind could still run laps around the old people at the nursing home she visits (who are mostly younger than she is.)
Three years ago, my Grandma Nacke came to Australia. At age 87, she clambered aboard a 747 with my mother and made the excruciating journey over the Pacific Ocean. We had an amazing time; she hiked with us, stayed up late with us, wanted us to play piano (she pronounces it Pie-ano: I love that) and ate all the foods that we did. When she got back to the States, one of the first things she did was to get herself an i-Pad. Up to that point, I'm not sure she even knew how to type and e-mail was something of science fiction. No, my Grandma Nacke now Facetimes, has a Facebook account and is frequently accused of checking her e-mail first thing in the morning.
And every time I see her, she is nodding her head.
Hi, there. It's so good to see you. Yah, I'm good.
She is good.
So, in my attempt to shed the melon, I decided to go out into the sauna - a. k. a. the outdoors (100 degrees and 100 percent humidity: It's like breathing through a wet paper towel) and run at least five kilometers. Surely after establishing my fitness for the last four years, entering races much longer than five kilometers, I could certainly jog 5,000 meters without stopping.
Wrong.
Something happens to a person when they reach a certain age and weight. It's like standing in the middle of a tide pool, one force is pushing you out, one is pushing you in and you can't move; you just kind of jiggle. But I give myself credit for still making the attempt, even if I'm the only one. So, I donned my long shorts (I still haven't succumbed to squeezing into men's short shorts which are still popular here), a sweat removing shirt (note to self, when you're already sweating when you get into the shirt it doesn't really work) my new shoes that I bought from Weaver's shoe store in 'downtown' Buffalo Center, Iowa - shameless plug for an excellent small town business in North Central Iowa- my Iowa Hawkeyes ball cap and stepped out into the sauna. For a few seconds I just tried to breathe. The heat and humidity is so oppressive it can literally feel as if someone has enveloped your whole body and face in plastic wrap. Then, I did my stretches for seventeen seconds. I'm not very flexible and I'm relatively self conscious about my inability to touch my toes. After putting in my headphones, I started off up the blacktop, turned left down McKay Street and right on Woodlands which is all downhill.
I like running downhill. It makes me feel fastish. I get a sense that I'm moving quickly anyway and when I pass others along the hill, I run faster, impressing them, of course, with the wind that blows by them in the sweatstorm that I bring. Then, when I am safely out of their sight, I slow down again trying to calm my breathing because it feels like I just inhaled a basketball.
I pass other people coming towards me, but the men are the best. Often I will come across a man with a floppy, wide brimmed hat, fluorescent vest, short shorts and tall boots with black socks. These are known as council workers whom I have ultimate respect for. They stand in this weather (standing still is probably a more proper description) for eight hours a day watching other council workers work.
I ran past three of them yesterday, all of them dressed similarly as described above. Coming from the place that I do in Iowa, we greet with a 'hello' or a raised hand, sometimes I'll nod which is a customary greeting. But in Australia, the men, especially, greet me differently. Instead of inclining, or even declining, their heads to say, 'Yes, I see you,' they shake their heads once, quickly to one side as if to say, 'No, I don't understand why you are running in this heat.' But it's always a shake of the head. Disagreeable? I don't know, but I do know one thing...
My Grandma Nacke is the most agreeable person I know in the world. I'm actually not aware of a time that she has ever shaken her head, or at least not to us. Sometimes I have watched her on the phone and I listen to her responses in that beautiful, pinched Midwestern accent: Yah, Okeee, Sure, All right then, Bye now. These are some of her favorite responses for anything, I think. Someone on the other end of the telephone could have said, "Mrs. Nacke, we've decided that we're going to tear down your barn tomorrow night and put in a high rise hotel." Yah, you do that then. Okee, that'll be nice. "Mrs. Nacke, we have some extra nuclear waste that needs to be disposed of, would you mind if we put that in your basement?" Okeee, that's fine then.
My Grandmother is so nice that I would swear that when a mosquito is biting her she actually asks it if it is full before she moves it on.
Granma Nacke has lived on the farm by herself for the last 17.5 years. Her husband, my Grandpa Nacke, died within months of Christine and I getting married, and I remember the time Grandma told me about the night he died. His last words to her as he drifted off to sleep were I love you. She got up in the middle of the night and when she came back, God had welcomed him home. Not many people get to have their last words to their spouse be words of love.
But she stayed on the farm; she still mows the lawn and takes care of the garden. Her own household chores, she does and still is an avid quilter at the church. People call her for her opinion and it's a miracle to watch how her agreeable nature continues to transform the community around her.
We stayed with her a few days. She, too, like my other grandparents, has furniture from the 80's; the carpet is thick shag, rust red; the grandfather clock sits in her dining room chiming away the quarter hours with somber intensity and the cuckoo clock surprises us with her abrupt chirping. Time is always told at grandma's house and when I was growing up, it seemed to go slow there - always time to play cards, to eat cookies, to chat, but now time is faster and when we visit, there is not enough. I wish there was a slow motion button on life - not pause, just slow it down so I can memorize the details of my marvelously agreeable grandmother. She, too, is diminutive, barely five feet tall, stoop shouldered, sandy short hair, wide smile with a big gap in her front teeth. I would guess she has won a few dollars in a watermelon seed spitting contest. She is spry in a ninety-year-old way and even though she has a cane, her mind could still run laps around the old people at the nursing home she visits (who are mostly younger than she is.)
Three years ago, my Grandma Nacke came to Australia. At age 87, she clambered aboard a 747 with my mother and made the excruciating journey over the Pacific Ocean. We had an amazing time; she hiked with us, stayed up late with us, wanted us to play piano (she pronounces it Pie-ano: I love that) and ate all the foods that we did. When she got back to the States, one of the first things she did was to get herself an i-Pad. Up to that point, I'm not sure she even knew how to type and e-mail was something of science fiction. No, my Grandma Nacke now Facetimes, has a Facebook account and is frequently accused of checking her e-mail first thing in the morning.
And every time I see her, she is nodding her head.
Hi, there. It's so good to see you. Yah, I'm good.
She is good.
The Wipers
I keep turning on the windshield wipers.
The problem is, it's not raining; it's just my readjustment time to driving in Australia again. I've already attempted to start the car in the passenger seat three times now and as I look around to see if anyone is watching me, I am considerably aware that my brain is still awash with confusion. Not only is jet lag still wrapping her lovely arms around me, I can't seem to remember what it's like to drive on the left hand side of the road.
When we first came to Australia, it took me a decent amount of time to figure out the mirrors, the driving column, the stick shift (yes, we started with a manual car which required that I shift with my left hand) and, certainly, the blinkers and windshield wipers - they call them windscreen wipers here but it doesn't make any sense because the windshield is not porous like the screen denying access to insects in our doors.
Fortunately, the footpedals in the car are the same in Australia as in the U. S. If they were reversed, I'd never be driving, but the windshield wipers (for the most part) are in use for my left hand and the blinkers for my right. So, every time I attempt to turn the corner, I find myself smearing the windshield with the remains of suicidal insects. Then, as I attempt to remember how to push the windshield fluid onto the screen to erase said scattered corpses of butterflies and grasshoppers, I have to pull over to the side of the road. Those smears make it quite difficult to move forward.
The past gets a little smeary sometimes, I think. There are many things that I've forgotten since I've moved here. Well, not necessarily forgotten, just moved to another storage facility. Since my brain has had to rewire and remember life here, things have streaked a little bit. I sometimes forget what people sound like. With sorrow, I try to reach through the fog and hear that whisper on the breeze what my grandparents sound like; I try to inhale deeply in hopes to catch a whiff of what their houses smell like, whether mothballs or mold, cookies or cakes. I want to remember what it was like to be a kid and journey to Grandpa and Grandma's house so that my parents could have a break from the kids.
My Grandparents Matthias used to own the general store in the large metropolis of Frederika, Iowa population 150 give or take 100. Connected to the back of the store is the locker, or butcher's palace, where my dad, along with his siblings, was allowed to have gainful employment as he was growing up. I'm not sure he would have used those words, but kids in the 50's and 60's were given opportunities to work with their parents, which was an offer they literally could not refuse. What I remember about the store was the sound of creaking floorboards, buzzing refrigerators encasing all sorts of dairy products and the wafting smell of dead meat from the palace. My grandfather would come out sometimes with bloody apron on, smile broadly at the customers, ask them what kind of cut of meat they would like. I often wondered what they thought of my Grandpa Matthias, the butcher, as he was short one pinky finger on his right hand. Was this a sign of a good butcher, or a sign of some funky hamburger?
People would come from all over Frederika (probably twelve square city blocks) to purchase their goods from Grandpa and Grandma. They worked that store for many, many years and each time we visited them, it seemed like something new would happen. In the last year of working there, I still remember Grandpa taking me in the back and letting me watch him butcher a cow. I suppose I could say that these were the facts of life, but I don't remember being hungry for a while - especially for ground beef. After each visit, we received a treat - they spoiled us, I know: we could pick one thing from the candy counter whether Tootsie Rolls or Snickers bars. It wasn't really a choice for me; I always went for the same thing...
Grape Hubba Bubba bubble gum. Five big, squishy squares of processed sugar with which we could blow bubbles big enough to stick in our eyebrows.
My grandparents still live in Frederika, in the same house that I remembered as I was growing up. Their house has not changed, really; some new carpet which replaced the old, shag green, black and white that probably still retained the smell of Swisher Sweet cigars my great grandfather used to smoke while we played cards.
We got to stay with my Grandpa and Grandma Matthias this trip. We made sure to spend a few days with them and sure enough, they were ready to play cards. One night I promised Elsa that Grandpa and Grandma would teach her how to play a card game. I wrote down the rules and as we set up the brown, plastic covered card table that was easily forty years old in the middle of the living room, I rubbed my hands with glee. It had been a long time since we'd played.
I looked at my grandpa across the table from me. He looked ancient; like one of those wise sages who sit on top of a hill and dispense wisdom with guarded optimism. His bifocaled glasses made his rheumy eyes look sad, but his smile cancelled that out. Because he doesn't hear much, he generally sits in the background of most conversations smiling as if he has figured out what's really wrong in the world. When he is holding cards, I feel closest to him. My grandmother sat on my left, her legs protruding out from her seat. She is shortish and has a wonderful laugh. Although her hair is much whiter than I remember, her voice is still strong and she most often responds to all my statements: Huh, isn't that something.
It is something to be forty-one and have three of my grandparents still upright, alive and in ownership of full faculties. And as we played cards, it became apparent just how little they had changed - that's a very good thing. After I taught Elsa all the rules, and the regularities of playing the card game, Grandma did exactly the opposite of what I had just told Elsa.
My grandma likes to win.
That was a good night, but even as I write about it, it's starting to smear. It's fading already and as much as I want to hold onto those moments, they will change. We all do and that's okay.
They are amazing people, my grandparents. I'll write a little bit more about my maternal grandmother tomorrow - she won't want me to, but she's too nice to hack my computer.
The problem is, it's not raining; it's just my readjustment time to driving in Australia again. I've already attempted to start the car in the passenger seat three times now and as I look around to see if anyone is watching me, I am considerably aware that my brain is still awash with confusion. Not only is jet lag still wrapping her lovely arms around me, I can't seem to remember what it's like to drive on the left hand side of the road.
When we first came to Australia, it took me a decent amount of time to figure out the mirrors, the driving column, the stick shift (yes, we started with a manual car which required that I shift with my left hand) and, certainly, the blinkers and windshield wipers - they call them windscreen wipers here but it doesn't make any sense because the windshield is not porous like the screen denying access to insects in our doors.
Fortunately, the footpedals in the car are the same in Australia as in the U. S. If they were reversed, I'd never be driving, but the windshield wipers (for the most part) are in use for my left hand and the blinkers for my right. So, every time I attempt to turn the corner, I find myself smearing the windshield with the remains of suicidal insects. Then, as I attempt to remember how to push the windshield fluid onto the screen to erase said scattered corpses of butterflies and grasshoppers, I have to pull over to the side of the road. Those smears make it quite difficult to move forward.
The past gets a little smeary sometimes, I think. There are many things that I've forgotten since I've moved here. Well, not necessarily forgotten, just moved to another storage facility. Since my brain has had to rewire and remember life here, things have streaked a little bit. I sometimes forget what people sound like. With sorrow, I try to reach through the fog and hear that whisper on the breeze what my grandparents sound like; I try to inhale deeply in hopes to catch a whiff of what their houses smell like, whether mothballs or mold, cookies or cakes. I want to remember what it was like to be a kid and journey to Grandpa and Grandma's house so that my parents could have a break from the kids.
My Grandparents Matthias used to own the general store in the large metropolis of Frederika, Iowa population 150 give or take 100. Connected to the back of the store is the locker, or butcher's palace, where my dad, along with his siblings, was allowed to have gainful employment as he was growing up. I'm not sure he would have used those words, but kids in the 50's and 60's were given opportunities to work with their parents, which was an offer they literally could not refuse. What I remember about the store was the sound of creaking floorboards, buzzing refrigerators encasing all sorts of dairy products and the wafting smell of dead meat from the palace. My grandfather would come out sometimes with bloody apron on, smile broadly at the customers, ask them what kind of cut of meat they would like. I often wondered what they thought of my Grandpa Matthias, the butcher, as he was short one pinky finger on his right hand. Was this a sign of a good butcher, or a sign of some funky hamburger?
People would come from all over Frederika (probably twelve square city blocks) to purchase their goods from Grandpa and Grandma. They worked that store for many, many years and each time we visited them, it seemed like something new would happen. In the last year of working there, I still remember Grandpa taking me in the back and letting me watch him butcher a cow. I suppose I could say that these were the facts of life, but I don't remember being hungry for a while - especially for ground beef. After each visit, we received a treat - they spoiled us, I know: we could pick one thing from the candy counter whether Tootsie Rolls or Snickers bars. It wasn't really a choice for me; I always went for the same thing...
Grape Hubba Bubba bubble gum. Five big, squishy squares of processed sugar with which we could blow bubbles big enough to stick in our eyebrows.
My grandparents still live in Frederika, in the same house that I remembered as I was growing up. Their house has not changed, really; some new carpet which replaced the old, shag green, black and white that probably still retained the smell of Swisher Sweet cigars my great grandfather used to smoke while we played cards.
We got to stay with my Grandpa and Grandma Matthias this trip. We made sure to spend a few days with them and sure enough, they were ready to play cards. One night I promised Elsa that Grandpa and Grandma would teach her how to play a card game. I wrote down the rules and as we set up the brown, plastic covered card table that was easily forty years old in the middle of the living room, I rubbed my hands with glee. It had been a long time since we'd played.
I looked at my grandpa across the table from me. He looked ancient; like one of those wise sages who sit on top of a hill and dispense wisdom with guarded optimism. His bifocaled glasses made his rheumy eyes look sad, but his smile cancelled that out. Because he doesn't hear much, he generally sits in the background of most conversations smiling as if he has figured out what's really wrong in the world. When he is holding cards, I feel closest to him. My grandmother sat on my left, her legs protruding out from her seat. She is shortish and has a wonderful laugh. Although her hair is much whiter than I remember, her voice is still strong and she most often responds to all my statements: Huh, isn't that something.
It is something to be forty-one and have three of my grandparents still upright, alive and in ownership of full faculties. And as we played cards, it became apparent just how little they had changed - that's a very good thing. After I taught Elsa all the rules, and the regularities of playing the card game, Grandma did exactly the opposite of what I had just told Elsa.
My grandma likes to win.
That was a good night, but even as I write about it, it's starting to smear. It's fading already and as much as I want to hold onto those moments, they will change. We all do and that's okay.
They are amazing people, my grandparents. I'll write a little bit more about my maternal grandmother tomorrow - she won't want me to, but she's too nice to hack my computer.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
To See Them
The older I get, the more I've come to realize...
There is always one more day to see something new, but it seems like there is always one less day to see someone old.
My parents are old.
For some reason, Western culture, and perhaps most societies in general view that last statement in the pejorative sense, as if somehow naming someone as 'old' is offensive. But, when exactly did advancing age become a bad thing? Why do we cover our mouths as if we have spoken a profanity or say something inane to our children when they look at their grandparents and speak exactly what is on their hearts via their eyes - Why are you so old? Why is being old a profane thing?
In my own heart, saying that my parents are old is like saying they have immense value because they are the keeper of the stories. The old ones are those who retain the knowledge of the past and enlighten the younger generations about golden eras; they are the narrators of history which inform how we live life today.
I love that my parents are old. Let me add one proviso in saying that they are old: Randy Voorhees wrote a book called Old Age Is Always 15 Years Older Than I am ( I haven't read it and probably won't) but I think the saying is true. When I was fifteen and they were late thirty-somethings, - they were old. When I was twenty-five and they were late forty something - they were old. Now that I am almost forty-two and they are mid-sixties, well - same story, but not in the negative, age-means-they-are-worn-out sense. With their age comes an increasing willingness and aptitude to share the stories of their youth, and even more fun for me, stories of mine.
Strangely, when I used to get together with my parents when we lived in the United States, we rarely talked about the early years of my life - usually we'd talk about football, or the weather, my daughters or whatever else was handy, but now that I live in Australia, when we actually are physically face to face, we unveil the building blocks of what made us who we are. My old mother related the story of how she found out she was going to have triplets.
As the story goes...
Once upon a time a young man and woman had been married about eighteen months and she fell pregnant. (I love that saying, as if somehow you tripped over something and voila, I'm pregnant!) . Because it was the early 1970's, ultrasounds were relatively unheard of, and x-rays weren't given until late in the pregnancy, so this young woman, my mother, found herself with child and growing larger by the day. Her Doctor, Dr. Schotzko (I'm not going to type that any more than I have to) mentioned to her in about the eighth month, that she was going to have twins! Oh, how excited the young couple was and the little town in which they lived was thrilled. Both my mother and father were teachers at Rake Community School, and with great anticipation, the staff would ask my father how he was doing. How's Diane? Is she uncomfortable?
Of course my father probably wanted to respond - Duh, of course she's uncomfortable; she's eight months pregnant and carrying multiple bowling balls in her belly. Gleefully, though, he expressed his thanks at their concern and went home each night to work with his wife preparing for the new arrivals.
Then, as my mother went in for weekly checkups near the end of pregnancy, the doctor predictably checked for heartbeats. "Just two," he exclaimed and my mother was thankful for healthy heartbeats. At the same time as she was going in for checkups, there was a story from somewhere near Chicago about quintuplets being born (this was before IVF) - a true rarity. "What are the odds, Dr. Schotzko, that I could have more than two?"
"Not to worry," Dr. S. responded, "The odds are incredibly against it - you go home and do some nesting."
So, my young mother went home to her young husband and they knitted their way into the cold winter nights both dreaming about what their two little angels would look like and be like.
Then, with about a week to go in the pregnancy, my young mother visited Dr. Schotzko one more time and this time she had a question. "Dr. S. it seems strange, but why does it feel like their are so many hiccups at the same time, or arms and legs running across my belly? Are you sure there are only two in there."
He patted her arm. "There, there, Mrs. Matthias, it's perfectly natural to be a little nervous with multiples, but if it makes you feel better, we'll take an x-ray." So, they lined up the x-ray machine on my young mother's womb and within minutes, the doctor came back ashen faced. "I need to show you something, Mrs. Matthias." It was then that he pointed out the spine and head of child one, spine and head of child two and spine and head of child three.
"Congratulations," he said, "Better buy another crib."
My young mother, most assuredly shocked at the recent turn of events, wanted to share the terrifying and exciting news with her parents, but needed to tell her husband first who was working busily at school teaching young minds how to be hippies. So, she took her thirty-nine-week-pregnant body to school, wrote a letter to her young husband and then walked down to the staff lounge where she was greeted by staff members taking a cigarette break. My father, resplendent in yellow shirt, macrame tie and light blue polyester pants welcomed her with a side hug (no front hugs for at least three months) and they sat down.
"I have a letter for you," my young mother said to my young father.
My father opened the letter with a smile and as he scanned the page to the part about being a twenty-three-year-old father of triplets, he face turned white and he began to pace the smoky staff room. As he told his colleagues the terrifying and exciting news, a cheer broke out and after he left, they made bets to when Mrs. Matthias was going to explode.
February 24 my twenty-four-year-old mother moved from the house she shared with her husband to - Blue Earth, Minnesota where she moved in with some friends until she could deliver the bowling balls. A rumor went around town that the deputy sheriff (with whom she was staying) had gotten this poor young woman with child and his wife was kind enough to let her stay with them.
February 27, my mother packed her bags and walked to the hospital, by herself - nine months pregnant with triplets and delivered them naturally.
Those were the old days.
I love the way my old mother tells those stories. Her age, and my father's age, is a recognition of the treasure that they are, and when we arrived in Minneapolis on December 4, we walked into the baggage claim area. I knew that they would be there for us - they always are - that's what parents do no matter how old they are or how old we are. My dad was sitting on a plastic chair in front of the baggage conveyor belt. He was tired, I could tell. And I pointed him out to my daughters who began running to him. But when he saw them, his entire demeanor changed; he became a young man again, like the one I remember when I was growing up. He hugged them hard and then I saw him and my mother and it was like there had been no space between us, no time or nine thousand miles; we simply saw each other again.
I have really cool parents, not hippie-like (I'm not sure they were every hippies) but full of imagination and fun. Those first few days at their house as we attempted to overcome jet lag, it was incredible to watch their treasured older faces light up with the memories of different years. It was great to see them.
We went back to the United States this time not to see new things but to see old people - old friends, old family members, old aquaintences, old teachers. And for each of those 'olds' I could insert the word 'treasured' instead.
That's how I see them.
There is always one more day to see something new, but it seems like there is always one less day to see someone old.
My parents are old.
For some reason, Western culture, and perhaps most societies in general view that last statement in the pejorative sense, as if somehow naming someone as 'old' is offensive. But, when exactly did advancing age become a bad thing? Why do we cover our mouths as if we have spoken a profanity or say something inane to our children when they look at their grandparents and speak exactly what is on their hearts via their eyes - Why are you so old? Why is being old a profane thing?
In my own heart, saying that my parents are old is like saying they have immense value because they are the keeper of the stories. The old ones are those who retain the knowledge of the past and enlighten the younger generations about golden eras; they are the narrators of history which inform how we live life today.
I love that my parents are old. Let me add one proviso in saying that they are old: Randy Voorhees wrote a book called Old Age Is Always 15 Years Older Than I am ( I haven't read it and probably won't) but I think the saying is true. When I was fifteen and they were late thirty-somethings, - they were old. When I was twenty-five and they were late forty something - they were old. Now that I am almost forty-two and they are mid-sixties, well - same story, but not in the negative, age-means-they-are-worn-out sense. With their age comes an increasing willingness and aptitude to share the stories of their youth, and even more fun for me, stories of mine.
Strangely, when I used to get together with my parents when we lived in the United States, we rarely talked about the early years of my life - usually we'd talk about football, or the weather, my daughters or whatever else was handy, but now that I live in Australia, when we actually are physically face to face, we unveil the building blocks of what made us who we are. My old mother related the story of how she found out she was going to have triplets.
As the story goes...
Once upon a time a young man and woman had been married about eighteen months and she fell pregnant. (I love that saying, as if somehow you tripped over something and voila, I'm pregnant!) . Because it was the early 1970's, ultrasounds were relatively unheard of, and x-rays weren't given until late in the pregnancy, so this young woman, my mother, found herself with child and growing larger by the day. Her Doctor, Dr. Schotzko (I'm not going to type that any more than I have to) mentioned to her in about the eighth month, that she was going to have twins! Oh, how excited the young couple was and the little town in which they lived was thrilled. Both my mother and father were teachers at Rake Community School, and with great anticipation, the staff would ask my father how he was doing. How's Diane? Is she uncomfortable?
Of course my father probably wanted to respond - Duh, of course she's uncomfortable; she's eight months pregnant and carrying multiple bowling balls in her belly. Gleefully, though, he expressed his thanks at their concern and went home each night to work with his wife preparing for the new arrivals.
Then, as my mother went in for weekly checkups near the end of pregnancy, the doctor predictably checked for heartbeats. "Just two," he exclaimed and my mother was thankful for healthy heartbeats. At the same time as she was going in for checkups, there was a story from somewhere near Chicago about quintuplets being born (this was before IVF) - a true rarity. "What are the odds, Dr. Schotzko, that I could have more than two?"
"Not to worry," Dr. S. responded, "The odds are incredibly against it - you go home and do some nesting."
So, my young mother went home to her young husband and they knitted their way into the cold winter nights both dreaming about what their two little angels would look like and be like.
Then, with about a week to go in the pregnancy, my young mother visited Dr. Schotzko one more time and this time she had a question. "Dr. S. it seems strange, but why does it feel like their are so many hiccups at the same time, or arms and legs running across my belly? Are you sure there are only two in there."
He patted her arm. "There, there, Mrs. Matthias, it's perfectly natural to be a little nervous with multiples, but if it makes you feel better, we'll take an x-ray." So, they lined up the x-ray machine on my young mother's womb and within minutes, the doctor came back ashen faced. "I need to show you something, Mrs. Matthias." It was then that he pointed out the spine and head of child one, spine and head of child two and spine and head of child three.
"Congratulations," he said, "Better buy another crib."
My young mother, most assuredly shocked at the recent turn of events, wanted to share the terrifying and exciting news with her parents, but needed to tell her husband first who was working busily at school teaching young minds how to be hippies. So, she took her thirty-nine-week-pregnant body to school, wrote a letter to her young husband and then walked down to the staff lounge where she was greeted by staff members taking a cigarette break. My father, resplendent in yellow shirt, macrame tie and light blue polyester pants welcomed her with a side hug (no front hugs for at least three months) and they sat down.
"I have a letter for you," my young mother said to my young father.
My father opened the letter with a smile and as he scanned the page to the part about being a twenty-three-year-old father of triplets, he face turned white and he began to pace the smoky staff room. As he told his colleagues the terrifying and exciting news, a cheer broke out and after he left, they made bets to when Mrs. Matthias was going to explode.
February 24 my twenty-four-year-old mother moved from the house she shared with her husband to - Blue Earth, Minnesota where she moved in with some friends until she could deliver the bowling balls. A rumor went around town that the deputy sheriff (with whom she was staying) had gotten this poor young woman with child and his wife was kind enough to let her stay with them.
February 27, my mother packed her bags and walked to the hospital, by herself - nine months pregnant with triplets and delivered them naturally.
Those were the old days.
I love the way my old mother tells those stories. Her age, and my father's age, is a recognition of the treasure that they are, and when we arrived in Minneapolis on December 4, we walked into the baggage claim area. I knew that they would be there for us - they always are - that's what parents do no matter how old they are or how old we are. My dad was sitting on a plastic chair in front of the baggage conveyor belt. He was tired, I could tell. And I pointed him out to my daughters who began running to him. But when he saw them, his entire demeanor changed; he became a young man again, like the one I remember when I was growing up. He hugged them hard and then I saw him and my mother and it was like there had been no space between us, no time or nine thousand miles; we simply saw each other again.
I have really cool parents, not hippie-like (I'm not sure they were every hippies) but full of imagination and fun. Those first few days at their house as we attempted to overcome jet lag, it was incredible to watch their treasured older faces light up with the memories of different years. It was great to see them.
We went back to the United States this time not to see new things but to see old people - old friends, old family members, old aquaintences, old teachers. And for each of those 'olds' I could insert the word 'treasured' instead.
That's how I see them.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
The High Dive
I used to have a fascination with Acapulco, Mexico. Not sure why this was - perhaps it was the constant mention by Captain Stubing of the Love Boat as a final destination, or it could have been ABC's Wide World of Sports and their coverage of cliff jumping back in the 1970's. I guess we, my brother and I must have watched a lot of it, because according to my mother, when we were very little, we asked an African American waiter at a restaurant if he was in fact a resident of Acapulco.
There is something entirely amazing about those divers who scale the cliffs in the early morning air, stand hundreds of feet above the ocean floor, toes over the edge, arms raised in the air seemingly scraping the clouds and think to themselves, "Yeah, it's a good idea to jump off this rock wall. This is why I graduated from high school." So we watched them tumble head over heels, descending rapidly, hands pushed over their heads and surprisingly, the cameras never picked up their screaming.
The high dive is kind of where my own security level is. I don't have a fear of heights, not yet, anyway and I remember one of the first times I ascended the 'high' diving board at the Buffalo Center pool when I was younger boy. This was before all pools deconstructed the high dives because of wayward belly flops and landing on top of unsuspecting small children fifteen feet below - causes for lawsuits, of course. I remember the feeling of being challenged by someone, some unknown face of a friend who uttered those words that every young person hopes to never hear: "I double dare you." Now double daring is way worse than just a dare. A double dare scrapes away the opportunity to actually decline the thing being dared. It's like pushing all the chips in while playing poker. You either do it, or else...
I don't know what the 'or else' is - no kid ever does; probably something to do with a few moments worth of shame and a weekend of being called a chicken. Chickens have feelings, too. Anyway, the lifeguards always had one eye on the high dive because if anything is going to go terribly wrong, that's the place - like a black hole of pain. Under the watchful eye of the lifeguard, I ascended the stairs one step at a time. From the ground, the high dive doesn't really look that high, kind of like a small leap off the sofa, but each consecutive step made the height look like we were moving to the top of the Sears Tower (now called the Willis Tower - after Die Hard Bruce Willis I'm sure.).
When I actually reached the board, my little peg legs were starting to shake and I could see my faceless friends in the far reaches of the shallow end of the cold arms covering their cold chests, shivering with glee at my discomfort. They pointed and I tried to wave at them, trying to make them see how brave I was and then the board bent a little bit and I grabbed the railing again. The people behind me were not incredibly supportive: lots of "C'mon, jump already" voices as if I was one of those people who climb out a window onto the ledge prepared to jump seventeen stories. Even though the heart is willing, the brain is weak. Everyone ahead of me had survived the leap, but there's always that chance...
So, I crept to the end of the board one eye on the lifeguard. I kept hoping that she'd get a circle of well wishing adults to tread water below me, to catch me when I fell, to bring me to the side, to tell me what a brave boy I was, but how dumb would that be? To actually put people below me in the water? Try catching a sixty pound bowling ball from fifteen feet?
No one was there to catch me and as my toes inched out over the edge, I prayed a little: "Dear God, life is short, but it shouldn't be this short, and if I die from this height over the water, please give my baseball cards to my brother." And then I just did it. I meant to jump out - leap fearlessly into the void over the water, but at the last minute, by brain had second thoughts and tried to reel my body back to the board and instead of going feet first, it was head first - Acapulco style.
I don't remember much about the .3 seconds that it took for me to hit the water. Probably equal parts exhilaration and terror, but at least I took a breath, a big one. Then smack - wow, that hurt, but I was still alive and even though the water might be cold, there is something incredible about navigating in the depths - a sense of quiet that you don't get on land; a muffled sound with only my own thoughts streaming between my ears.
It takes a little while to surface, and as much as you enjoy the underwater experience, sooner or later, lungs starting to ache a bit, you must come up for air: you must go break the plane of the aquatic existence to do it all over again.
I think the high dive experience is what I go through every time I leave the U. S. to come back to Australia. The first time we left, I crept to the edge wondering if there was going to be anyone to catch me, but soon, I was smacked in the face that this new world was not like the one I just left and even though the precipitous fall was both exhilarating and terrifying, I double clutched. Then, hitting the water, swimming in the new place, navigating the muffled sound, enjoying the mystifying life in a different country and culture, I found myself recognizing that I needed to come up for air - to go back for a little bit.
But I was unprepared for how different the voices sounded. As we reached Canada after twenty-four hours of in transit activity, I was unprepared how different North Americans sounded - the pinched vowels, the hard 'R's, somewhat nasally reproductions of sounds. After four years in Australia, long vowels, sort of mellifluous sentence structures (that might be going overboard a little bit with as much slang is slung here) I was taken aback and actually laughed a little bit. "Do I actually sound like that? Is that the way Australians hear me speak?"
So as we entered the airspace of the North American dialect, I prepared myself for the inevitable: "Hey, Reid, you've got an accent."
Which is probably the case to a certain extent - Christine and I have both talked about this before: it's one of the hardest things to hear - my accent is part of who I am; it is a reminder of the place that from which I come. When that is challenged, I found myself trying harder to sound more North American. I didn't want anyone to think that I had 'gone native,' even though it's a very good thing to be able to be understood in the country in which you live. During the five weeks I was there, I compared and contrasted Australian and American culture and language and incessantly I found I was trying to protect my American heritage even though I am very fond of my Australian culture also. Perhaps that's why biblically speaking, the patriarchs always wanted to be buried in their homeland, or why people who have lived away from their home church for ninety percent to of their life still want to be interred at the 'home' cemetery.
Your birthplace never gives up its grip.
So, this trip felt like my foray into high diving: a mini version of cliff jumping in Acapulco. I was returning, coming up from underwater to hear my friends praise me for my heroism and bravery and when I finally did hear their voices, they sounded funny. Maybe I sound funny? Maybe I'm different? Didn't someone say that time and experience change everything?
This five weeks was an excellent high dive experience. Looking forward to sharing the next phase tomorrow: going home.
There is something entirely amazing about those divers who scale the cliffs in the early morning air, stand hundreds of feet above the ocean floor, toes over the edge, arms raised in the air seemingly scraping the clouds and think to themselves, "Yeah, it's a good idea to jump off this rock wall. This is why I graduated from high school." So we watched them tumble head over heels, descending rapidly, hands pushed over their heads and surprisingly, the cameras never picked up their screaming.
The high dive is kind of where my own security level is. I don't have a fear of heights, not yet, anyway and I remember one of the first times I ascended the 'high' diving board at the Buffalo Center pool when I was younger boy. This was before all pools deconstructed the high dives because of wayward belly flops and landing on top of unsuspecting small children fifteen feet below - causes for lawsuits, of course. I remember the feeling of being challenged by someone, some unknown face of a friend who uttered those words that every young person hopes to never hear: "I double dare you." Now double daring is way worse than just a dare. A double dare scrapes away the opportunity to actually decline the thing being dared. It's like pushing all the chips in while playing poker. You either do it, or else...
I don't know what the 'or else' is - no kid ever does; probably something to do with a few moments worth of shame and a weekend of being called a chicken. Chickens have feelings, too. Anyway, the lifeguards always had one eye on the high dive because if anything is going to go terribly wrong, that's the place - like a black hole of pain. Under the watchful eye of the lifeguard, I ascended the stairs one step at a time. From the ground, the high dive doesn't really look that high, kind of like a small leap off the sofa, but each consecutive step made the height look like we were moving to the top of the Sears Tower (now called the Willis Tower - after Die Hard Bruce Willis I'm sure.).
When I actually reached the board, my little peg legs were starting to shake and I could see my faceless friends in the far reaches of the shallow end of the cold arms covering their cold chests, shivering with glee at my discomfort. They pointed and I tried to wave at them, trying to make them see how brave I was and then the board bent a little bit and I grabbed the railing again. The people behind me were not incredibly supportive: lots of "C'mon, jump already" voices as if I was one of those people who climb out a window onto the ledge prepared to jump seventeen stories. Even though the heart is willing, the brain is weak. Everyone ahead of me had survived the leap, but there's always that chance...
So, I crept to the end of the board one eye on the lifeguard. I kept hoping that she'd get a circle of well wishing adults to tread water below me, to catch me when I fell, to bring me to the side, to tell me what a brave boy I was, but how dumb would that be? To actually put people below me in the water? Try catching a sixty pound bowling ball from fifteen feet?
No one was there to catch me and as my toes inched out over the edge, I prayed a little: "Dear God, life is short, but it shouldn't be this short, and if I die from this height over the water, please give my baseball cards to my brother." And then I just did it. I meant to jump out - leap fearlessly into the void over the water, but at the last minute, by brain had second thoughts and tried to reel my body back to the board and instead of going feet first, it was head first - Acapulco style.
I don't remember much about the .3 seconds that it took for me to hit the water. Probably equal parts exhilaration and terror, but at least I took a breath, a big one. Then smack - wow, that hurt, but I was still alive and even though the water might be cold, there is something incredible about navigating in the depths - a sense of quiet that you don't get on land; a muffled sound with only my own thoughts streaming between my ears.
It takes a little while to surface, and as much as you enjoy the underwater experience, sooner or later, lungs starting to ache a bit, you must come up for air: you must go break the plane of the aquatic existence to do it all over again.
I think the high dive experience is what I go through every time I leave the U. S. to come back to Australia. The first time we left, I crept to the edge wondering if there was going to be anyone to catch me, but soon, I was smacked in the face that this new world was not like the one I just left and even though the precipitous fall was both exhilarating and terrifying, I double clutched. Then, hitting the water, swimming in the new place, navigating the muffled sound, enjoying the mystifying life in a different country and culture, I found myself recognizing that I needed to come up for air - to go back for a little bit.
But I was unprepared for how different the voices sounded. As we reached Canada after twenty-four hours of in transit activity, I was unprepared how different North Americans sounded - the pinched vowels, the hard 'R's, somewhat nasally reproductions of sounds. After four years in Australia, long vowels, sort of mellifluous sentence structures (that might be going overboard a little bit with as much slang is slung here) I was taken aback and actually laughed a little bit. "Do I actually sound like that? Is that the way Australians hear me speak?"
So as we entered the airspace of the North American dialect, I prepared myself for the inevitable: "Hey, Reid, you've got an accent."
Which is probably the case to a certain extent - Christine and I have both talked about this before: it's one of the hardest things to hear - my accent is part of who I am; it is a reminder of the place that from which I come. When that is challenged, I found myself trying harder to sound more North American. I didn't want anyone to think that I had 'gone native,' even though it's a very good thing to be able to be understood in the country in which you live. During the five weeks I was there, I compared and contrasted Australian and American culture and language and incessantly I found I was trying to protect my American heritage even though I am very fond of my Australian culture also. Perhaps that's why biblically speaking, the patriarchs always wanted to be buried in their homeland, or why people who have lived away from their home church for ninety percent to of their life still want to be interred at the 'home' cemetery.
Your birthplace never gives up its grip.
So, this trip felt like my foray into high diving: a mini version of cliff jumping in Acapulco. I was returning, coming up from underwater to hear my friends praise me for my heroism and bravery and when I finally did hear their voices, they sounded funny. Maybe I sound funny? Maybe I'm different? Didn't someone say that time and experience change everything?
This five weeks was an excellent high dive experience. Looking forward to sharing the next phase tomorrow: going home.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Just a Dream
I woke up this morning, fully awake and fully groggy at the same time. At 5:00, I was not sure where I really was. It had been five weeks since I had slept in our bed, and as I approached something near consciousness, I heard the pet ducks next door quacking away, picking up their bits and pieces from the ground, snuffling through the grass for bugs and other such delights. The problem was, when we left, there were no ducks next door, there was no grass - well, that's not entirely true; there was grass, but it looked like an acre of toothpicks sticking up at odd intervals around the backyard - it had been so dry, there was very little humidity...
And now, everything is different. Our next door rental neighbors are from Singapore (instead of four young women from Queensland), the grass does not pierce the soles of my feet; it's a lush shade of green, and the humidity? Well, I became aware that breathing actually makes me sweat. So, it feels like a dream, surreality. Is this place that I live the dream or was the five weeks that just occurred? I can't even begin to describe how strange it was to drive to Minneapolis in a blizzard and wake up forty-two hours later in Australia to be welcomed by the screaming cicadas, the palpable, pulsing heat of Queensland and the smell of summer. But the trip home will be described later...
For now, I think I'll just wander through the American adventure that we just experienced; some laughter and a few tears, lots of food and drink, hours of conversations and a cosmic lack of sleep that finds me contentedly exhausted and ready for a new year.
Here are some of the numbers:
10,200 - number of miles flown one direction on the worst travel itinerary experienced in this young traveler's life.
3,142 - number of miles driven in five weeks in the wonderful car we mistakenly rented at the airport. To put that in perspective, we drove the equivalent of traveling from New York to Los Angeles.
244 - number of conversations that lasted far into the nights. I didn't really count, but I'm sure it was at least this much. I'm not known for exaggerating. At all.
169 - number of books Elsa, Josephine and Greta read while on the trip. I think I heard them speak once, I can't remember - it might have been a dream.
37 - number of times Christine proclaimed "Far out!" when the turbulence from the air streams made her believe our plane was going down over the Pacific.
17 - number of movies watched on various flights over land and above the ocean.
12 - number of different beds we slept in.
5 - average number of hours per night I slept. Haven't done that since college.
3 - number of college visits and tours for our daughters.
Infinite - number of memories inserted into my brain for future rumination and enjoyment.
In the months preceding our trip, Christine and I carefully planned the itinerary. When I say 'Christine and I' what I mean is that Christine, in her amazing organizational sense meticulously directed our trip and accommodation and I grunted in approbation. We wanted this to be a very special opportunity to catch up with family, old friends, newish friends, schools and remembering the things that made us who we are. In the next few weeks, I'll pick out various events and people, some of you who are reading will find their names in these missives; I promise to be objective - ish. The odds are I will exaggerate and add a few words to your mouths, but my guess is that it will bring a smile to your lips and if you want to sue me for libel, it's okay; I've got thirteen dollars left.
The expectancy leading up to the trip is very much like my understanding of advent. Conveniently, we were leaving the United States during the first week of advent, the beginning of the church calendar year, and a period of expectant waiting and hopefulness. Of course we'd been ready to go, packed for days and excited to get on the plane. But there is something truly wonderful about the preparation for the journey. As one sits in the midst of the groundcover of clothes, the shrubbery of suitcases and the forest of expectations, mighty trees that seem daunting by their inability to be encircled by one's brain, it is easy to be overwhelmed. But I didn't feel that this time, and even though the last days of school can be busy, I always had something for which to look forward.
On our journey, we had planned to catch up with my parents, my grandparents, friends from Rockford, friends from college, siblings, former Youth Encounter team members, friends from seminary and a fantastic selection of people who have supported us through the years. Knowing that we'd be in vastly differen Burroughs' Center of the Earth like place, we packed accordingly- Vastly different in December is the midwest of the United States than Queensland, Australia. I'm not writing that to be cheeky, this is just the landscape we faced when we were trying to pack. Here is a sampling of the conversations that occurred during this beginning phase of our week before the trip.
Christine: What would you like to pack, hon?
Reid: (Grunt)
Christine: I don't know what that means.
Reid: It means, 'I'm sure you'll do a great job of packing for me.'
Christine: Don't think you are getting out of this, mister.
Reid: (sighs) I'll pack some socks and shirts, probably some pants.
Christine: No underwear?
Reid: Do I need that?
Christine: Ha ha. I know you don't want to do this, but help me out here.
Reid: I do want to do this, I just am not sure what I should be packing. You're so good at this, wouldn't you like to feel a sense of accomplishment by finishing it yourself?
Christine: Reid....
Reid: Okay. What are the girls taking?
(Both Reid and Christine look around to where their girls have ceased packing clothes of any kind and are staring intently at book shelves intending to trim down their idea of carrying their whole libraries to only fifty or so books.)
Reid: Girls, aren't you supposed to be packing the important stuff? You know, shirts, shoes and things that might help for a winter journey?
Greta: These are important, Dad. (speaks without looking at me) It's a long trip to be without any mental stimulations.
Reid: Who is going to carry all of these books?
Josephine: You are, Dad.
Reid: Very funny.
Elsa: We don't want to take a step backward in our educational journey by neglecting our literary opportunities. You have the broadest shoulders and the largest biceps of any homo sapien on the planet so we'd love it if you'd carry the books and we'll carry the back pack. (she didn't really say that, but it was implied, I'm sure.)
Reid: Are there any other non-negotiables that I'll be carrying on the trip?
(As he said this, Reid noticed that Christine was packing the 'outdoor' suitcase which carried four sets of snowpants, five winter coats, various sweatshirts (jumpers), snowboots (?!!) and even little pouches that are used as hand and footwarmers. No one has ever accused Christine of being underprepared. That's one of the best things about her.)
Reid: Are you sure we're going to need a jackhammer?
Christine: Very funny. We don't know what to expect from the weather. If it is anything like when we used to live there, we could encounter blizzards, tornadoes, sun-bathing episodes, tropical rainstorms - anything could happen in the midwest in December.
Reid: I'm just not sure we need to pack the entire house.
Christine: You'll thank me.
I did. In this dream of mine, we found all sorts of things that continue to make me incredibly appreciative that I married Christine seventeen years ago. She is a constant, joyful companion capable of countless hours of conversation and experience. We traveled to a distant place and were prepared for all sorts of things.
But we were unprepared for one thing.
I'll start there next time.
And now, everything is different. Our next door rental neighbors are from Singapore (instead of four young women from Queensland), the grass does not pierce the soles of my feet; it's a lush shade of green, and the humidity? Well, I became aware that breathing actually makes me sweat. So, it feels like a dream, surreality. Is this place that I live the dream or was the five weeks that just occurred? I can't even begin to describe how strange it was to drive to Minneapolis in a blizzard and wake up forty-two hours later in Australia to be welcomed by the screaming cicadas, the palpable, pulsing heat of Queensland and the smell of summer. But the trip home will be described later...
For now, I think I'll just wander through the American adventure that we just experienced; some laughter and a few tears, lots of food and drink, hours of conversations and a cosmic lack of sleep that finds me contentedly exhausted and ready for a new year.
Here are some of the numbers:
10,200 - number of miles flown one direction on the worst travel itinerary experienced in this young traveler's life.
3,142 - number of miles driven in five weeks in the wonderful car we mistakenly rented at the airport. To put that in perspective, we drove the equivalent of traveling from New York to Los Angeles.
244 - number of conversations that lasted far into the nights. I didn't really count, but I'm sure it was at least this much. I'm not known for exaggerating. At all.
169 - number of books Elsa, Josephine and Greta read while on the trip. I think I heard them speak once, I can't remember - it might have been a dream.
37 - number of times Christine proclaimed "Far out!" when the turbulence from the air streams made her believe our plane was going down over the Pacific.
17 - number of movies watched on various flights over land and above the ocean.
12 - number of different beds we slept in.
5 - average number of hours per night I slept. Haven't done that since college.
3 - number of college visits and tours for our daughters.
Infinite - number of memories inserted into my brain for future rumination and enjoyment.
In the months preceding our trip, Christine and I carefully planned the itinerary. When I say 'Christine and I' what I mean is that Christine, in her amazing organizational sense meticulously directed our trip and accommodation and I grunted in approbation. We wanted this to be a very special opportunity to catch up with family, old friends, newish friends, schools and remembering the things that made us who we are. In the next few weeks, I'll pick out various events and people, some of you who are reading will find their names in these missives; I promise to be objective - ish. The odds are I will exaggerate and add a few words to your mouths, but my guess is that it will bring a smile to your lips and if you want to sue me for libel, it's okay; I've got thirteen dollars left.
The expectancy leading up to the trip is very much like my understanding of advent. Conveniently, we were leaving the United States during the first week of advent, the beginning of the church calendar year, and a period of expectant waiting and hopefulness. Of course we'd been ready to go, packed for days and excited to get on the plane. But there is something truly wonderful about the preparation for the journey. As one sits in the midst of the groundcover of clothes, the shrubbery of suitcases and the forest of expectations, mighty trees that seem daunting by their inability to be encircled by one's brain, it is easy to be overwhelmed. But I didn't feel that this time, and even though the last days of school can be busy, I always had something for which to look forward.
On our journey, we had planned to catch up with my parents, my grandparents, friends from Rockford, friends from college, siblings, former Youth Encounter team members, friends from seminary and a fantastic selection of people who have supported us through the years. Knowing that we'd be in vastly differen Burroughs' Center of the Earth like place, we packed accordingly- Vastly different in December is the midwest of the United States than Queensland, Australia. I'm not writing that to be cheeky, this is just the landscape we faced when we were trying to pack. Here is a sampling of the conversations that occurred during this beginning phase of our week before the trip.
Christine: What would you like to pack, hon?
Reid: (Grunt)
Christine: I don't know what that means.
Reid: It means, 'I'm sure you'll do a great job of packing for me.'
Christine: Don't think you are getting out of this, mister.
Reid: (sighs) I'll pack some socks and shirts, probably some pants.
Christine: No underwear?
Reid: Do I need that?
Christine: Ha ha. I know you don't want to do this, but help me out here.
Reid: I do want to do this, I just am not sure what I should be packing. You're so good at this, wouldn't you like to feel a sense of accomplishment by finishing it yourself?
Christine: Reid....
Reid: Okay. What are the girls taking?
(Both Reid and Christine look around to where their girls have ceased packing clothes of any kind and are staring intently at book shelves intending to trim down their idea of carrying their whole libraries to only fifty or so books.)
Reid: Girls, aren't you supposed to be packing the important stuff? You know, shirts, shoes and things that might help for a winter journey?
Greta: These are important, Dad. (speaks without looking at me) It's a long trip to be without any mental stimulations.
Reid: Who is going to carry all of these books?
Josephine: You are, Dad.
Reid: Very funny.
Elsa: We don't want to take a step backward in our educational journey by neglecting our literary opportunities. You have the broadest shoulders and the largest biceps of any homo sapien on the planet so we'd love it if you'd carry the books and we'll carry the back pack. (she didn't really say that, but it was implied, I'm sure.)
Reid: Are there any other non-negotiables that I'll be carrying on the trip?
(As he said this, Reid noticed that Christine was packing the 'outdoor' suitcase which carried four sets of snowpants, five winter coats, various sweatshirts (jumpers), snowboots (?!!) and even little pouches that are used as hand and footwarmers. No one has ever accused Christine of being underprepared. That's one of the best things about her.)
Reid: Are you sure we're going to need a jackhammer?
Christine: Very funny. We don't know what to expect from the weather. If it is anything like when we used to live there, we could encounter blizzards, tornadoes, sun-bathing episodes, tropical rainstorms - anything could happen in the midwest in December.
Reid: I'm just not sure we need to pack the entire house.
Christine: You'll thank me.
I did. In this dream of mine, we found all sorts of things that continue to make me incredibly appreciative that I married Christine seventeen years ago. She is a constant, joyful companion capable of countless hours of conversation and experience. We traveled to a distant place and were prepared for all sorts of things.
But we were unprepared for one thing.
I'll start there next time.
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