TMI

From time to time, when I am using a restroom at either of my places of employment--one a state facility, one a county--I think about how I am thankful for taxpayer-funded disposable seat covers.

I'm convinced that money spent on seat covers saves money. And not just because happier employees are likely more productive employees. If someone conducted a study (and maybe someone has?), I believe we'd prove that seat covers help keep restrooms cleaner, thereby reducing the expenses involved in cleaning them.

Regardless, thank you, Utah taxpayers.

A Little Adventure

One of my very favorite things is to step out of the routine of daily life and go on an adventure. Today I had a little one.

After I got home from work and Jack got home from school, I drove to the train station in Provo, hopped on Frontrunner, our commuter rail, and headed to Salt Lake City to meet my dad, who had driven up in his little rented Fiat earlier in the day. Taking a train to the city is far more exciting than taking the interstate. I don't think I'm alone in feeling that way.

After I got off the train, I walked a few blocks to where my dad was parked and we drove to 15th and 15th, one of my favorite corners of the city, to have dinner at Fresco. I ordered agnolotti. Which was delicious. Also exotic enough that I had to google it on my phone to figure out what it was.

After dinner, we went to a reading at The King's English, a beloved bookshop. Melissa Dalton-Bradford, author of a memoir called Global Mom, spoke about her family's joyful and challenging experiences living abroad and how everything changed when their oldest son died in a tragic accident at 18. I was already looking forward to reading her book. Now that I've heard part of her story first hand, it is a top priority.

And another chance to step out of the routine of daily life and go on a little adventure.

Lucky in Love

When we got out of the car to go into church this morning, I said to Jack that I hoped we would hear about love today. It's a message that gets lost so easily.

Boom. All three talks and a congregational hymn that emphasized love.

Can't ask for more than that.

Poster Child

The other day, I wrote about some pending Utah legislation (see post here). Since then, I've had a great e-mail exchange with the sponsor of the bill, which is designed to protect people who call for help when they think a friend is overdosing.

I have a deeper respect now for the gap between the English we can all understand and legislative language. The sponsor assures me that the bill actually will provide good samaritans with immunity from arrest for drug possession and use--not just special consideration in court after being arrested.

"I agree that the language does sound as though a person could be prosecuted and then claim an affirmative defense," she wrote, kindly making me feel better about my misunderstanding. "Legal language frequently baffles me when I, as a longtime high school English teacher, would have written it in a more clear and simple way."

So it sounds like the legislation does have real potential to make a big difference after all. We truly need it. Utah apparently has the "eighth highest drug overdose mortality rate in the United States." Not okay. I am looking forward to spreading the word. It's already passed unanimously in the House; I can't imagine it won't pass in the Senate. Then the law will be go into effect as soon as the governor signs it.

And I am looking forward to the followup discussion I will have with my university students next week about digging deep enough to get to the bottom of something. I will humbly hold myself up as a poster child.

A Night Away

Roger and I are taking advantage of Gramps tonight. He's going to hang out with Jack at home, and we are going to head off on an adventure. It will be an urban adventure as we are combining it with a work project for Roger that involves visiting independent and used bookstores in Salt Lake City. It's a rough life, I know.

Back tomorrow!

Helpless?

I've got my English class reading and watching sources that explore the relationship between our environment and the choices we make. It's always nice when an object lesson presents itself.

The last few class periods, we had construction workers right outside our classroom window. Last week, they were using a jackhammer to break up the sidewalk, but apparently it wasn't enough. On Tuesday they brought in a digger and banged the excavator bucket against the cement. It was louder than the jackhammer, but it still seemed futile. Something eventually worked, though. Today we watched the digger haul away a great mass that had been buried in the earth. We also watched the digger inadvertently slide sideways down the grassy hill and stop when it hit a tree. We wondered if the driver knew he had an audience.

We couldn't help but be distracted. Or could we?

Remembering

I did go today to Sergeant Cory Wride's funeral. It slowly dawned on me that I had met him once. I believe he was in charge of my background check when I got hired by the sheriff's office a few years ago. I remember that he was friendly and kind and set me at ease about the process.

The event was overwhelming on many levels, not the least of which was the sheer number of law enforcement officers from all over the state and beyond who were there to honor a brother.

But two small things stood out to me in particular. Small, but deeply significant.

First, the story a deputy shared about his discovery that after transporting the perpetrator in a particularly difficult domestic violence case to jail, Sergeant Wride had quietly gone back to the house where the arrest took place with bags full of groceries to stock up the family's bare kitchen. Seeing. Serving.

Second, as the bagpiper led the recessional after the service, the cord and tassel on his bagpipes swung back and forth in rhythm to the music and his steps. We could hear the music long after they left. Tradition. Comfort.

In death, we can remember to live.

Nightmare Within a Nightmare

It's been a long, long time since I've had one of those nightmares that I'm registered for a class I don't know about, then discover it the day of the final exam.

Well, the other night I had one again, but with an insidious twist. Per usual, I didn't discover I was registered for a class until the day of the final exam. Then I found out that I had actually been attending all semester without realizing it.

What? What does that mean?!

Watch

A friend of mine just went to Paris this past week and that, of course, reminded me of Paris.

The summer before last, I went to Paris with my sister.

Since I am no longer accumulating too many things in life, I only want to buy truly useful souvenirs. I had recently lost my watch and needed a new one for the trip and for both of my jobs, where I must keep careful track of time but am often without a reliable clock or cell phone. Paris would be a fabulous place to buy a new watch!

On our first day there, we wanted to stay up until night time to beat jet lag. So we walked and walked and walked to stay awake. It was rainy, but we didn't let that deter us. We just ducked inside where it was dry anytime something piqued our interest. Cafés, museum shops, the Ferris Wheel in the Jardins des Tuileries, old churches.

And the Swatch store on the Champs Elysées, where I bought this beauty. Classic and understated. Not crazy expensive. It suits me parfaitement. I wear it tous les jours et je pense à Paris.

Setting Things Right

When I was 17, my elderly neighbor had surgery and hired me to help out each morning for a month or so while she convalesced. So every morning I went over to her house to put everything in order for the day.

I gathered up all of the dishes from around the house, washed them and straightened the kitchen. I emptied her husband's ashtrays and picked up newspapers and dirty socks. I wiped the bathroom sink down, made beds and checked on the levels of essential supplies in the cupboards and fridge.

Actually it was a very satisfying job.

Why isn't it like that when I'm cleaning up my own mess?

Let's Not

I didn't know the Utah County Sheriff's deputy who was killed in the line of duty a few days ago, but I'm thinking about going to his funeral this week. I'd like to show my support for his family and his fellow law enforcement officers.

Jack and I were talking about this tragedy as the news unfolded. The officer had stopped to help someone by the side of the road and they shot him.

"When this kind of thing happens," I told Jack, "No matter how rare it is, it has a chilling effect on our society. We lose trust in the goodness of others. Of course, we have to have our wits about us, but we can't stop helping people when they are in need."

What I didn't tell Jack was just how little trust we have in one another these days. How often we assume the worst of people. We don't have much more to lose.

Fear and suspicion will destroy us if we let it. Please, let's not.

Spotlight

Literally.

If you were in the area tonight and happened to see the spotlight drawing people to an event at BYU, just wanted to let you know it was Roger's doing. He has a Very Serious Job, promoting all kinds of fun programs and events. Like BYU Night at the Museums, a progressive dinner sponsored by four of the museums on campus. Initially they were hoping for 200, but more than 2,000 people came!

When Lives Are at Stake

Wonk that I am, it's exciting when something is currently happening in the real world that I can use in the classroom. And in this case I got a two for one!

Our legislative season just started here in Utah. One of the bills I am following is HB 11 Overdose Reporting Amendments, which is intended to encourage people to get medical help if they believe a friend has overdosed. All too often, people don't do that out of fear that they will get in trouble for illicit activity themselves. Thing is, lives are at stake.

Here's the carrot per the bill as it stands today: Calling for help, remaining with the person who may have overdosed, and cooperating with responders will be taken into consideration when it comes to prosecution.

I brought it up with my students at the jail this morning while we were discussing how the political system directly affects them and how paying attention to it can empower them, and I brought it up with my students in my university class this afternoon while we were discussing how to construct arguments to effect change.

The consensus of all of my students, both at the jail and at the university, was that as long as the "good Samaritans" are still subject to arrest, most will not call for help. The bill as written falls short. Not good enough when lives are at stake.

Some of my students were particularly insightful, and I asked them to write up their ideas for me so I can quote them in a letter I'm writing to the sponsor of the legislation.

Can I just say how utterly satisfying it is to employ the rhetorical technique of using input from two of the main target audiences of the legislation (known drug users and college students) and then turn around and use that as an example to illustrate a useful rhetorical technique in a writing class? And can I just say how utterly satisfying it is to not just encourage people caught up in the criminal justice system to get involved, but to actually use their voices?

Yeah, I'm wonky.

Made Up

Jack's friend Gracie sent me these old pictures today. I remember the day Jack came home from her house covered in makeup. He thought it was funny until we had to scrub his face!

Does anyone else miss the old versions of their kids as much as I do?

Rabble Rousers

I just came home from visiting with a 90-year-old neighbor who is determined to live in her own house as long as she can. Tuesday is my night to take off her pressure stockings, one of the few things she can't manage on her own. Mostly, it's a good excuse to hear her stories. She grew up the daughter of the couple who owned the local pool hall and knew everyone in town.

Another neighbor had taken her to spend the afternoon in the Springville High School gym watching the girls' basketball team play. She gushed and gushed about how much fun she had, how many friends she saw, and then reminisced about her years at Springville High.

She had played clarinet in the band, but was tapped to twirl the baton by a new drum major, fresh in from California. The drum major dressed the twirlers in short pleated skirts and cowboy boots, creating quite a stir up and down the Wasatch Front.

She also told me about her late husband who had played the trumpet in school and then well into his adult years, traveling around with dance bands. Sometimes he'd play in Carbon County, through the canyons southeast of Springville. She said it was against the law for bands to play and people to dance on Sundays in Utah then. That meant things were supposed to shut down at midnight on Saturday. But Carbon County, she said, made up their own laws, and people there danced into the wee hours.

I love our neighborhood.

My Wish Today

I wish that everyone who has fought so hard to undermine the implementation of the ACA's private health insurance exchanges could be in the room with me when an inmate at the jail asks about how to sign up. Usually they are dealing with some pre-existing physical condition like diabetes or, more often, an ongoing mental health issue. I pull up the website and start to demystify Utah's marketplace and the options they have now that individuals are part of a bigger risk pool. I watch them become more hopeful as they realize a piece of their intractable puzzle could be within reach.

That is all.

Just Like Tonight

Tonight, I went to Facebook to ask my friends for suggestions on something to write about in this post. All of the topics swirling in my head are complicated and serious, and I don't have the mental energy to think them through right now.

One of my friends suggested writing about the best part of owning an independent bookstore.

As you can imagine, it's impossible to come up with one best part. Something that I especially loved, though, was the stream of people who came in and the conversations we had. I picked up all sorts of news and information and ideas, and often passed them along to other customers.

I went through some serious withdrawal after we closed up. I teetered on the edge of depression for a long time, struggling to find my balance. Feeling so disconnected was one of the challenges I faced.

Something that helped save me? Totally not kidding: Facebook. My friends there are my virtual stream of people full of new and information and ideas that I pick up and often pass on.

Just like tonight.

Carpe Diem, Part Two

I stayed up late last night watching Dead Poets Society to the end. I'm still not sure what moved my friend to tears--there are many possibilities--but I do know what was especially moving to me, watching it at this point in my life.

(Spoiler alert.) A student at an elite private school tragically ends his own life. After an inquiry that doesn't uncover the truth, some of his classmates are told to sign a document that puts the blame on their beloved poetry teacher or risk expulsion. They sign it. Then in the last scene, the teacher comes to the classroom on last time to collect his things, and one of the students, who is painfully shy, stands up to defend him, defying the headmaster, bravely proclaiming the truth as he saw it.

Synchronistically, I decided to read the full text of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "Letter from Birmingham Jail" today and came across these passages:

"I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's greatest stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice . . . I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality . . . We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people."

Sometimes I use my voice in the face of injustice, but I fear it is only when the risk seems minimal or nonexistent. I need to use it more often. Carpe diem.

Carpe Diem

Curled up under a blanket watching Dead Poets Society tonight. I've only seen it once before, when I was in my 20s. I went with a friend who cried as he watched it, and not at the points that made sense to me to cry. He never said a word about it afterward, and I didn't know him well enough to ask.

I have no idea why he cried. Now that I'm re-watching it, older and wiser, maybe I'll understand something new. 

And now back to the show . . .

Inextricably Linked

I'm teaching in the Sparks Automotive building this semester at UVU. The school tucks required English classes into pretty much every corner of campus because they have to offer so many sections.

This is my path from the parking lot to the building. On the left, I pass by the entrance bays to the automotive shop where students work on diesel engines and auto body repair. On the right, I pass by campus security and all of its associated vehicles, including one ominous looking tactical incident response truck.

It's awesome that the trades and the humanities are inextricably linked in this space. Because they are in the real world, too. More than people realize, I think.

Out to Lunch

It's very nice to go out to lunch with friends. I do it sometimes. I should do it more often.

Seeing Red

I could share a photo of the bloody knee I got when I stumbled down some uneven cement steps in the dark tonight. But what arrived in the mail today for Jack (bought with Christmas money after months and months of wishing), is way more fun to look at.

We've got a Dr. Who fan on our hands, my friends.

Themes

For my freshman composition classes at Utah Valley University:

I would not give a fig for the simplicity on this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity. - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

For my transition skills classes at the county jail:

The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any. - Alice Walker

Una necesidad no sólo una falta

My sister just recently moved to Coyoacan, Mexico, where my grandmother lived as a child. When I was a junior in high school, my parents, my grandmother, and my aunt Mary went to Mexico. Dad recently dug up some of his slides of our trip to send to my sister.

Here we are in Coyoacan (left to right: Mom, Grandma Jan, Aunt Mary and me). I believe this may be the place my great grandparents taught school.

I need to buy a plane ticket and go visit my sister.

Better Him Than Me

Of his own volition, Jack went camping up the canyon with the scouts last night. Roger and I went out to dinner and a movie with a friend. After the show, we drove up the canyon to see what the thermometer in the car said. At 10:00 p.m. it was in the low 20s and dropping. We drove home and bundled under warm blankets for the night.

Sorry, Jack. Glad it was you and not me up there on the cold, hard ground in a tent full of teenage boys.

Bright Lines

When I arrived at work this morning, I learned about a tragic family murder/suicide involving a former colleague with the sheriff's department. I didn't know him. At most, I crossed paths with him a few times.

Last night, our presenter at the library spoke about the shift in early detective fiction from an assumption that crime is rooted in societal ills to a depiction of criminals being inherently evil. Did the shift result from our wanting to believe that we are always fully capable of rising above our circumstances? That we are not capable of committing a heinous act, only others are?

I call false choice. Isn't it usually some combination of the two? If we put all the blame on individuals, we risk losing our capacity to empathize. If we put all the blame on society, we risk becoming disempowered as individuals.

When a case like this happens--when a law enforcement officer who is held in high esteem by his peers becomes a most heinous law breaker--what do we make of it? Do we draw a bright line and say we are not him? He likely had drawn that very line for himself when he worked with inmates at the jail. And yet, in the blink of an eye, he crossed it.

Raising the Bar

Tonight at the ongoing "So You Want To Read" series at our local library, we hosted a BYU visiting lecturer who talked about the genesis and progression of classic detective fiction. She did an excellent job, but one of her friends set a new standard for the series. She made party favor "Evidence Bags" to hand out, stamped--not even ironically--with a detective's mustache.

Inside the bags:

• A little red notebook with a fortune cookie and a tag that reads "Red - In honor of the Chinese New Year - Brings good luck - Thus, it is elementary a great detective elude the misfortune of bad luck."
• A couple of gumballs with a tag that reads "What kind of gumshoe are you anyway?"
• A little bag full of Swedish fish with a tag that reads "This is fishy!"
• A bag with black and white candy with a tag that reads "It's not always black and white."
• A little bag full of cashews with a tag that reads "Our thief may be crazy! You know . . . nuts!"

Bless the people who are not Pinterest impaired!

Fractured

Just before Christmas on an icy walk home from school, Jack slipped and landed on the corner of his saxophone case. His rib hurt. We told him to keep us posted, but even if it was broken he'd just have to wait it out. The last few days it started to hurt a bit more so I took him to the doctor today. Fractured. And, of course, nothing to do but wait. At least there's an official record now.

In the Morning

Since Winter Solstice the days are getting longer, but the sun still isn't up until after I take Jack to school. This is what we see in the mornings these days: the eastern tip of the highest peak in our view bathed in light, all the rest in the shadow of the mountains.

Tell Us About Yourself

I spent the entire day on a panel interviewing people for a job opening in our community. It's amazing how much stamina that takes. Phew!

Anyway, we started out each interview with the classic open-ended "Tell us about yourself" to see what kinds of things applicants focused on when left to their own devices.

A few years ago when I was putting together the transition skills course I teach at the jail, I went to my then 95-year-old neighbor for some advice. She had spent her entire working life in human resources, and one of her main tasks was to conduct job interviews.

I asked her, "How did people typically blow their interviews with you?"

Without hesitation, she replied, "I hated rambling. On and on and on. Ugh. If I asked people to tell me about themselves and 45 minutes later they were still talking, they didn't have a chance in hell of getting hired."

I can see that.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

This picture that I posted on Facebook a few years ago just resurfaced today when one of Jack's friends found it and tagged it. The neighborhood kids are taking a break from a water balloon fight on a summer day.

When Roger and I got married, I told him that I wanted to live in a house in a neighborhood so that our kids would have days like this. I had missed that growing up on Main Street, not being able to ride my bike with the heavy traffic until I was older and always having to depend on someone to get a ride to a friend's house.

It's worked out just the way I hoped.

Discoveries

What I discovered on the way to work: The most awesome life size window displays at a plumbing supply store on frontage road.

What I discovered at work: What a "lumper" is. I was meeting with an inmate and showing him the online job search feature on the Workforce Services website. One of the job listings was for a lumper. I said, "I've got to click on that one to find out what it is." He said, "Oh, it's a mover. Loads and unloads trucks. I know because I had that job once."

Every day, something new. It's one of my favorite things about life.

A Plug

The Springville Library presents an

ongoing series for adventurous readers

So You Want to Read
Classic Detective Fiction

Thursday, 16 January 2014, 7-8 pm

with BYU’s Liz Christianson

So You Want to Read
Nobel Prize Winner Alice Munro

Thursday, 20 February 2014, 7-8 pm

with BYU’s Bruce Jorgensen

So You Want to Read 

(Not Your Paul Bunyan) Folklore

Thursday, 20 March 2014, 7-8 pm

with UVU’s Ronda Walker Weaver

So You Want to Read Hemingway

Thursday, 17 April 2014, 7-8 pm

with UVU’s Mark Pepper

Each month we explore
genres, authors or specific works
you may be thinking about diving into.

Let us convince you to go for it!

Poetry and Pose

The other day, my cousin mentioned that her 7-year-old daughter Jessie was learning about personification by studying Carl Sandburg's classic poem.

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Last night, our house was enveloped in fog. Roger bribed our cat Doublestuff with treats to pose for this picture to send to Jess.

A Milestone

Last night's post was my 1,000th post on this blog!

I googled "1,000" to see if there was anything clever to say about it and discovered that Wikipedia actually says this: "1000 or 1,000 (one thousand) is the natural number following 999 and preceding 1001."

As if that would help clarify things for someone who isn't exactly sure what 1,000 is.

Good Omens

After spending the past two days scrambling to deal with some unexpected and aggravating logistical problems with my classes and schedule at UVU, I jumped in the car and drove to The King's English Bookshop in Salt Lake City for a nice change of pace.

My cousin Tracey and her husband Josh are literary agents (Adams Literary), and Josh had decided at the last minute to fly west to help Sara B. Larson, one of their authors, celebrate the release of her first YA novel, Defy. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see Josh and meet Sara.

On the way, I realized that while I'd brought my purse, I'd forgotten my wallet, which was still in my school bag at home. Then I remembered that earlier, I'd noticed a $20 bill had fallen out of my wallet into my purse. It was still there! Which meant that I could buy a copy of Sara's book. With tax, the total came to $19 and some change. Serious serendipity.

I'll tell you, though, it was a bit hellish hanging out in that fabulous bookshop without being able to buy anything else. What is it with me and books? Where did that visceral need come from?

Anyhow, Sara gave a lovely and funny presentation in the art gallery a few doors down. I asked her later if she had intentionally color coordinated her outfit with the cover of the book. She did.

During her presentation she talked about how the genesis of her book was rooted in the illness and death of her cousin's husband. I thought to myself, "I am sitting next to my cousin's husband." But he looks pretty good, no? I choose to take it as a good omen. Here's to a long, healthy life, Josh!

And thanks for the fun, unexpected treat tonight! I'm looking forward to reading Sara's new book, bought with a $20 bill I was darn lucky to have with me. Good omens all around.

Shifting the Lens

When we talk in my university writing classes about coming up with interesting ways to approach a topic that can be more useful than rehashing oversimplified arguments, I use this idea from the text: play a thesis against its antithesis to reveal new angles. Here's an example.

Thesis: We should ban guns.
Antithesis: We should not ban guns.

I ask my students what the underlying motivations are for each position. Someone suggests safety as a primary concern for people in both camps. People who want guns banned want to minimize the chances that firearms will be handled irresponsibly. People who want to own weapons for protection have a vested interest in maximizing responsible handling of firearms.

What could help minimize irresponsible gun ownership and maximize responsible gun ownership? Gun safety education, my students say. And, boom, there's a new angle on the topic.

We dig a little deeper. Why would anyone object to gun safety education? It could be too much of an infringement on the rights of gun owners if it's required. If it's offered in schools, it could entice kids into wanting to handle weapons.

Hmm, I think. Those sound a lot like the objections people have when it comes to sex education and counseling women who are dealing with unwanted pregnancies. Except the camps are typically reversed.

A thesis juxtaposing gun safety education and sex education, shifting the lens through which we view entrenched positions just enough to shed new light? Now that could make an essay worth reading.

Three Bags Full

Extremely pleased that Jack not only finished his Christmas vacation project of "spring" cleaning his room, but that it resulted in getting rid of three garbage bags full of stuff. This was no small feat for a sentimental boy who has a hard time parting with anything.

Percolating

A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

Once in a while I think about pursuing my dream of becoming an architect that began when I took a mechanical drawing class in junior high. I love thinking about how we interact with the spaces we're in, and how valuable good design is whether we're aware of it or not. I even fall asleep at night designing or redesigning spaces. Then I remember that I haven't taken a math class since high school.

I also remember that I'd need to figure out how to compensate for a critical weakness.

When I was in college, I took a drawing class. Sometimes we went on field trips to the agriculture department, where we'd sketch sheep. I had an extremely hard time making my sheep look like they were in proper proportion with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Seeing something in three dimensions and rendering it in two was challenging.

I also took an anatomy class, and every week we'd have a lab period with cadavers. We'd study two dimensional illustrations in our text book, then be quizzed on the body parts the lab instructor had stuck pins into. It was really tough for me to relate the two dimensional drawings I'd memorized with the three dimensional cadavers (though dissected they were actually more like 2 1/2 dimensions).

Architects have to move easily between dimensions in their heads. Of course, nowadays we have computers to help. But I'd still have to catch up on an awful lot of math.

It's pretty doubtful at this point that I will ever go back to school to become an architect. But don't be surprised if I end up scratching that itch somehow. If there is anything I've learned walking the crooked path of my life, it's just a matter of the right dream percolating to the surface at the right time.

Known and Unknown

The other day, I wrote a post about ten books that I read before I was twelve that have stuck with me. I cannot even believe that I forgot to include Harriet the Spy. Seriously. How could I have forgotten about the girl who wrote all of her honest observations in a notebook and then experienced her life imploding when her classmates discovered it? Oh, it was painful. And she only barely started putting it back together at the end of the story.

When I was a teenager I discovered Danielle Steele romance novels. According to her formula, the protagonists are always beautiful, demure women whose lives are tragically imploding when we meet them in the opening pages. And they always wear cashmere sweaters and woolen trousers and strings of pearls. Demurely. And beautifully. After their lives implode, they build walls to keep people out. But there are handsome, good-hearted men who are drawn to them despite their walls. Eventually, patiently and gently, they break through and give the women the hope and joy and love they'd lost.

I couldn't imagine being a Danielle Steele protagonist. I couldn't imagine that if I built a wall, someone would even see me behind it, never mind tear it down to get me. So instead I was an open book. But I had also learned an important lesson from Harriet. You can't write down everything you think on the pages.

(Don't) Give Me a Hand, Please

A few months ago, one of Jack's friends gave him a plastic severed hand. It first showed up in the refrigerator. It made me jump. And made me laugh. Now it's a running family joke. Whoever finds it hides it for the next unsuspecting soul to discover. 

This morning Roger hid it in the sleeve of Jack's coat. Tonight Roger found it peeking out from between his pillows. 

I can't believe it still makes me jump. And laugh.

Resolute

Last year, I thought if I eased up on blogging, I would make more progress on a major writing project. It didn't work. My focus dwindled to making a few notes from time to time.

Last year, I thought if I worked mainly on blogging my Fifty Physical Feats project, I would be more fit and have a bunch of very cool adventures. It mostly didn't work. Yeah, I've had some health set backs that I am still struggling with a bit, but to be honest, I just lacked discipline.

This year, I'm going back to posting something here every day. And hopefully future posts will be more imaginative than this one. Gonna get my groove back.

Ten Titles That Have Stuck With Me

Ten Titles That Have Stuck With Me (narrowed down to books read when I was under 12). And, of course, annotated because I am avoiding grading papers. This is much more fun to think about!

1. Dr. Seuss' Sleep Book (The drawings were packed full of imagination. We always laughed at the creature with a tail so long that he could bite the end of it at night and the pain wouldn't reach his brain to wake him up until morning. My absolute favorites were the creatures who brushed their teeth under a giant waterfall.)

2. Phantom Tollbooth by Norman Juster (I listened to this being read out loud on public radio after school for several afternoons, then read it to myself more than once. It was such a crazy, nonsensical story that totally made sense. When Jack and I read this together a few years ago, we laughed out loud many times and I caught all sorts of great word play and meaning I'm sure I missed as a kid.)

3. Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle (Meg was so courageous! This was another book I got even more out of--especially on a spiritual level--when I read it as an adult with Jack.)

4. Ginny and the New Girl by Catherine Woolley (I so completely related with Ginny, who lacked confidence and had to figure out how to deal with her best friend Geneva cozying up to the new girl and leaving her behind. I read more than one book in the Ginny series, but this is the one that stuck with me most. I'm not sure I applied the lessons Ginny learned very well in my own life.)

5. Hugo and Josephine by Maria Gripe (A wonderful friendship story and a surprisingly sophisticated exploration of what it means to be outside the norm but to be okay. Hugo was poor and quirky and oblivious to what anyone thought about him; Josephine was poor and desperately wanted to fit in. And, Sweden!)

6. The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder (I reveled in how resourceful her family was, I loved the way she knew her own mind, and I envied the way they kept moving on to new beginnings. I often wonder why we are still living in the same house we've lived in for twenty years.)

7. Dr. Doolittle by Hugh Lofting (The talking-to-animals part was okay, but what I really got into were all the far-flung adventures!)

8. The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton (I read this in the sixth grade and it made a huge impression on me, but I didn't remember specifically why until I re-read it this past year with a group of inmates at the jail. I don't know if I loved the book because it reflected my belief that we need to see others as complex  rather than as preconceived stereotypes or if it shaped my belief. Maybe it was a little of both.)

9. Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell (Again, I loved the main character's courage and resourcefulness. I read this book with Jack as well, and was so struck that the tragedy that left her alone on the island might have been avoided altogether if her people had shared an unexpected bounty rather than keeping it all for themselves. I don't remember understanding that when I was a kid, but it may have helped shaped my belief that if we are generous with whatever we have, it will come back to us multiplied, but if we are selfish, we risk losing more than we imagine. Btw, that belief becomes stronger every time I learn it again the hard way.)

10. And last, but not least, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (Louisa May Alcott, aka Jo, was so real to me as I grew up in her neck of the woods. The house we lived was built before she was born. I used to imagine that maybe she'd known the people who lived in our house, and that maybe she'd even visited them there. I utterly adored her independent spirit!

Okay, I can't help but add a bonus title. Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren (Because Pippi.)

Feat #14: Over the River and Through the Woods

And up and up and up the side of a snowy mountain.  

On this most stunning October day, with a bright blue sky and sun shining, Dad and I headed up trail #007 on the back side of Maple Mountain. Eight miles round trip. We didn't make it all the way to the peak due to snow conditions, but we got high enough to see some amazing views.

At the trail head:

Still happy after the first couple of miles.

Then we hit snow. Which wasn't too bad, but it did make the going harder. It helped that the temperature reached into the 50s by afternoon, which was downright balmy for a hike.

Through the towering pines!

Sadly, our pictures at our highest point were all washed out, probably because of all the glaring white snow. Trust me, it was spectacular.

And I wish we'd been able to get a picture of one moment during our descent when we were walking through an aspen grove and the wind picked up. All of a sudden we were showered with a magical frenzy of gold and green as hundreds of leaves fluttered to the ground.

Hiking with my 76-year-old father gives me much hope that there will be life in me after 50, though I confess, I had a bit of trouble keeping up with him. I think that means I need to get out there more.

Feat (Lucky) #13: Y?

Nana and Gramps are in town for a visit. Just the excuse I needed to hike to the Y painted on the side of the mountain above BYU. I haven't made the climb since finals week at the end of my freshman year. 

It's not a long hike (only 1.75 miles round trip), but it's pretty steep. An 1,100 foot elevation climb. Nana made a good go of it all the way to the third switchback. Gramps, Jack, and I continued up the trail. Eleven switchbacks in all.

The fall colors were spectacular!

It sprinkled on us part of the way, but the sun was still shining. We did see one faint rainbow, but it wasn't strong enough to get a good picture.

The view out over the valley on the way up as the sun began to set was exactly what we'd hoped it would be.

We made it to the giant Y just after the sun set.

The twilight views on the way back down made the whole adventure just about perfect.

A Sacred Moment

I've debated telling this story for a long time because it is hardly my story. But I feel moved to tell it, especially today. I hope the man in this story, who I will call Tom, won't mind that I have. If he ever finds it here and recognizes himself, I hope that he remembers me well enough to know my intentions come from a deep place within my heart.

Over the past few years I've run into Tom a number of times. The first time I met him was in a job readiness seminar at the Adult Probation & Parole office. He struck me as serious minded, focused on putting his life together. The next time I saw him, he was wearing a jumpsuit, sitting in the class I teach at the jail. Every few months I met with him. He left, then came back again for a time.

One day Tom told me his background.

He grew up in the LDS church, knowing there was something different about him and believing it wasn't okay. He stuffed down his feelings. He went to BYU, got married, had children. Began stuffing down his feelings with food. Gained a dangerous amount of weight. Had surgery. Could no longer stuff down his feelings with food, so he turned to alcohol. Eventually his marriage ended. He was nearly 40 when he allowed himself to accept that he was gay. He'd only barely started coming out to people the year before I met him. He felt his family members were, at best, unsupportive.

Everything fell apart, and then fell apart some more.

We sat in the interview room. His anguish was palpable. He had told me his story in hopes that I could find information about programs or organizations that help people in his particular situation to make a fresh start. We looked some things up, then I asked him if I could show him a short video.

We watched this.



By the end, Tom had tears streaming down his face. He could not believe it was possible. Not that BYU students could make a video like that without repercussions. I assured him it was. And though we didn't talk about it, I imagined he had also not believed it was possible that he could love himself or that the God he believed in could love him.

I have no idea where Tom is now or what he is doing, but I am not exaggerating when I say that meeting with him that day was one of the most meaningful experiences I've ever had. And it breaks my heart that he's not the only one who has lived or will live in that hell.

As my friend Christian says, "Closets are no place for children of God."

Update: In re-reading this, I realize that I inadvertently painted Tom as someone who is always serious or unhappy. The part of the story that is missing from this post is that most of my exchanges with Tom were positive and forward-thinking. He often had a smile on his face, and one of his dreams was to own a small neighborhood bakery. As you can imagine, I'm a big fan of small neighborhood businesses. We had some happy conversations about how he could achieve that.

Please, Let Us In

I'm not sure why Brandon Mull's Fablehaven sat on our bookshelf for so long before Jack and I picked it up to read together. We even have an advanced reading copy that came out before it was published in 2006. We're about halfway through and have found it hard to put down at night.

And I've even met Brandon Mull as I've worked at various events, including a writing conference for kids at our high school and a presentation he gave at our library. Extraordinarily nice person.

When we started reading the book, I remembered an incident that happened when he came to the library. Over the past few years, I've thought about it from time to time, trying to untangle it.

Somehow I ended up standing guard at the front door of the library after we closed that Saturday afternoon. Quite a few people were still inside, standing in line to get their books signed. As a volunteer, I was instructed to turn away anyone who tried to come in. Before I was left alone at my post, a number people showed up to meet Brandon and the library director wouldn't let them in. The line was drawn.

A few minutes later, a mom and her kids showed up. She said they'd been at the event earlier and had to run home to tend to a sick child. I saw her son's pleading face. But we'd already turned people away. It wouldn't be fair to them to make an exception. I also knew first hand what is was like to be at the managing end of an event like this, trying not to impose too heavily on a well known author's time. Brandon Mull was already being gracious by staying much later than planned for us.

So I didn't let them in. (I still hate the feeling I had at that moment.)

Another few minutes passed, and the mother and children showed up with a senior library employee. He let them in, and apologized for overriding my decision. She looked directly at me. I'd like to think she wasn't glaring. I wonder if she knew that I wasn't offended at all. I was just really happy her son would meet Brandon and have his book signed.

As someone without authority, I was following orders. It took someone with authority to make a different call.

I will continue thinking about this incident from time to time, trying to untangle it.

What I Do (When I Remember To)

An average Wednesday of remembering and doing and thinking and forgetting.

Just before Jack and I left for school this morning, Roger calls. Trouble with the Jeep. He's turning around to bring it home. Can I drop him off at work on my way to class? Sure!

Arrive on campus. Park in far-flung student parking. No room at the inn in the employee parking lots. Run into one of my students and immediately feel sheepish carrying the bag from McDonald's that held my breakfast. It was not horribly sinful--an Egg McMuffin sans bacon--but we had recently discussed Super Size Me in class and she had been most vocal about avoiding fast food.

Hang out in the faculty room in the library. Consider using my time wisely. Make a hopeful start by printing an article I need to re-read and annotate for class later (which I wouldn't have had to do if I had remembered the copy I left on the printer at home). Then get distracted by googling a high school English teacher that had been the subject of a freaky coincidence this week. Find his email address, so of course I write to him to thank him for influencing me for good. Have to proofread the email multiple times before clicking send because, well, high school English teacher. Hang out online until it's time for class.

First class. Finish up the second half of a two-day presentation full of song and dance about grammar, punctuation and exciting things like easily confused words (such as affect and effect) and active vs. passive voice. Got extra credit points from my students for showing the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timblerlake hashtag bit (#evolvingusage).

Back to the faculty room to read the article we are going to discuss in my next class. I have to be done by noon because I've got a committee meeting for an upcoming conference on writing for social change. The article is mostly about the history of and issues with Skinner's behavior modification theory and partly about the development of apps to help people lose weight. While I make physical notes for class, I also make mental notes about how to move forward with the possible development of an app to help people who have been caught up in the criminal justice system.

Finish up by noon, but I forget about the meeting and head straight to my classroom. I walk in and none of my students are there. Another instructor is at the front of the room. I am all disoriented. I look at the clock. Oh, right, noon. Meeting.

Head to the meeting room. No one is there. Check my email. Meeting cancelled. Found time! I get a few things done. Check email for my other job. Discover a meeting at the county commission office is re-scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. I definitely don't want to miss it. Not sure what that means for the plans I have with my parents, who will be in town then. Hang out online until it's time for class.

Finally, class. Good discussion from the few who participate. Hopefully the rest listen, because they've got to write a paper, synthesizing the ideas presented in the documentaries we watched and the article we read. We talk about the balance between our environment and our own free will. We talk about the role individuals, parents, business, and government play in shaping environments. Stories emerge that help us illuminate the issues. School lunch changes at Spanish Fork High. Fast food restaurants surrounding Provo High. Selling alcohol at the Walmart in Cedar Hills. Owning backyard chickens in Springville.

Hike to another part of campus to meet someone in the placement office to invite him to a meeting I'm attending tomorrow about organizing a job fair to help people with a criminal record find work. I've been meaning to do this for at least three weeks. Decide to walk up four industrial-size flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator because I don't think I'll have time to exercise later. He's nice. He will come to the meeting and share his expertise.

Hike the long distance back to my car. Good. Another bit of exercise. In fact a little more than I expected because I can't find the car straightaway. Call Roger while I'm searching to keep myself entertained. He tells me he's made an appointment to get the Jeep fixed on Monday.

Drive to the bank to deposit checks that have been sitting on my desk since July. True story. Our bank just isn't convenient. Our account pre-dates our move to the town we live in and we don't have a local branch there. But we like our bank.

Stop by the Volkswagon dealer to have our coolant topped off. The dashboard panel has been sending warnings the last few days. The service department is extremely nice. No charge. Use the time to make notes for an essay I am writing about chickens. Well, not chickens exactly. But chickens will illustrate the point I really want to make.

Decide that since I had already missed being home when Jack got home from school like I usually am, I'd run a few more errands. Call Jack. He's fine.

Stop by the Stouffer's outlet to stock up on cheap, easy frozen food. Sadly, no French bread pizza for Jack. But, mmm, Asiago Cheese Tortellini? Yes, please.

Stop by to see an elderly neighbor. I was supposed to go last night to help her take off her pressure socks, which she's not supposed to sleep in. I completely forgot. Wanted to apologize in person. She just laughs. Luckily someone else helped her out. I promise her I will not forget next Tuesday. She laughs again.

Finally get home. Jack's hanging out with friends. I tell them they need to empty the trash if it's so full the lid doesn't close. (I do say hi first.) I take care of the sink full of dishes while my cheap, easy frozen dinner is in the microwave and my organic frozen whole green beans that I buy in a giant bag at Costco are steaming in a pot.

Check stuff online while I eat dinner. Decompress. Engage in Facebook conversations about stock market investments and about the impact of e-books on the publishing world and about chickens. Create an event page for next week's "So You Want To Read" lecture at the Springville Library that I will host. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Can't wait to hear what our presenter says about the book.

Talk to Roger in passing when he gets home from work. Head to a shift at the jail. I always think I can make it there by 6:00, but never do. Check inmate messages. Meet with inmates about planning for their release. We talk about everything from applying for student aid to finding 12-step meetings to finding food to eat.

Get home pretty late. Enjoy the fact that I don't have to set an alarm tomorrow because it is Fall Break. Chat with Roger. Eat an apple. Read to Jack. We love the book we're reading together right now. Think about writing a blog post about it. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow I will likely procrastinate grading papers just like I do today.

Stay up far too late writing this. Roger should be asleep. He had to set his alarm. No Fall Break for him.

A Lesson

My bike ride on the west side of Utah Lake the other day turned out to be more than just a bike ride.

I was planning to spend the time thinking about a lesson I was preparing to teach the following day for the teenage girls at church. The lesson was about becoming more like Jesus--to learn about who he was, how he moved through this world, how he engaged with people, and to emulate that.

Nearly 30 miles of road stretched before me. Plenty of time to think, I thought.

Instead, I was distracted by a few steep hills, trying to pace myself and breathe evenly, negotiating curves, a strong headwind, passing traffic, sun in my eyes. I also didn't want to miss the spectacular views of the lake and the mountains beyond.

Then, about 20 miles in, as I reached the southern end of the lake, the road straightened and flattened. The best views were behind me. I found myself inside my head. "This ride," I realized with sudden epiphany, "Is a metaphor for so many of the things I want to talk with the girls about tomorrow."

The road I was following in the hope that I'd have the wherewithal to finish was the path Jesus modeled for us. The hills and curves he dealt with in his own life revealed his capacity for empathy and compassion, for understanding the challenges of others. The strong headwind was the opposition he faced, the willful misunderstanding, and the weak faith of even his most faithful disciples, all requiring patience and diligence. The cars and trucks I had to share the road with were the throngs of people who wanted to hear him and be blessed by him--people his disciples often tried to protect him from, but of whom he always charitably said "let them come" or "let them stay."

Whenever I could, I looked out across the lake. Sometimes I was rewarded with the perfect reflection of snowy peaks on the glassy surface of the water. Glimpses of heaven.

Once, when the road turned and I was heading directly into the sun for a few miles, I had to concentrate hard to follow the white line along the shoulder. The blinding sun became the anger and hurt that keeps us from truly seeing ourselves and others in a way that enables us to forgive, to love with the pure love of Christ. Finally, another bend and I could see clearly again.

The last 10 miles, when the road became straight and flat, was my time in the wilderness. My mind was stilled, and I gained spiritual clarity. But I was also getting tired and hungry.

"And he was there in the wilderness forty days, tempted of Satan; and was with the wild beasts; and the angels ministered unto him" (Mark 1:13).

Just over six miles to go, and I saw Roger and Jack parked by the side of the road waiting for me. "Oh, please," I hoped. "Maybe they will ask me if I want to stop and get a ride." The idea was sorely tempting. Instead, Jack pulled his bike out of the back of the truck and joined me. My ministering angel.

But becoming more like Jesus isn't just about following a road, peddling so many miles, or climbing so many hills. It's about transformation. About being different. About seeing more.

Later that evening as I drove to work, the sun was setting. Brilliantly orange clouds stretched over the mountains to the west, the length of the lake. In my eyes, none of it was the same as it had always been and it would never be again.

Feat #12: The West Side

When we were car shopping last spring, we met a guy with a Lamborghini. We chatted a bit, and I asked him what his favorite road to drive was. He said, "The road on the west side of Utah Lake." The seed was planted. I started to formulate a plan. Finally today, all of the pieces fell into place and, with Roger and Jack as my trusty support team, I biked that road--nearly 30 miles from Saratoga Springs south to Elberta.

After tackling a few hills, I settled in to a steady pace (not anywhere near as fast, of course, as I would have gone in a Lamborghini).

This. This is why I wanted to do this ride. Spectacular!

 

About 6 miles outside of Elberta, Jack pulled his bike out of the back of the truck and joined me. The last stretch was tough. Was it ever going to end? Jack's company made all the difference.

I kept going until I finally reached a stop sign. I stopped.

[Insert Cliche about Keys and Hearts]

My brother Robbie would have been 53 today.

This flip flop keychain was a gift from the Waswa family--his family, really--when my sister and I visited Nairobi last summer. It means a lot to me. Not just because it was a gift from people my brother really cared about and who have become a part of my life, but because it was so thoughtful.

The first member of the family we met was sister Rose. We connected at a coffee shop in a mall, which I think was on the outskirts of town. (Since someone else was always driving, I never got my bearings in that city!). We talked for hours about all sorts of things. My brother, her family, our family, Kenya, her environmental work, my sister's writing, school, my work, travel. On and on we talked.

The next day we met up with the rest of the family at sister Esther's apartment, mostly to pass on my brother's ashes to sister Miriam, his love. But also to come to know one another, to share a meal, and to share memories of Robbie. Toward the end of the afternoon, we exchanged gifts, including gifts to take home to our parents and to Roger and Jack.

After the day was over and my sister and I were on our own again, talking about everything that had happened, and exclaiming that the gifts they had chosen for us suited us so well (okay, maybe the fertility statue for Roger was a bit of a mystery, lol!), we realized that Rose must have been carefully taking mental notes during our conversation the night before. Sandals, beach, how nice it would have been to have gotten to the coast on that trip.

Smart woman, that Rose. Thank you, and Miriam, and Esther, and the rest of your family for loving my brother and for taking us into your hearts as well. I think of all of you and him every day as I carry my keys.

The Dream

I watched MLK's I Have a Dream speech twice today with my students, and the part about people being judged by the content of their character, not the color of their skin struck me a little differently.

Usually, I interpret it as people being seen for who they are--especially in terms of positive attributes--rather than being dragged down by negative racial stereotypes.

But it cuts another way, too.

When someone who is white commits a heinous act, I--as a white person--feel the pain the way humanity feels the pain, but I am not expected to feel the guilt or the shame or to bear any responsibility because I share the perpetrator's skin color. In fact, I do not have to worry that his or her actions will reflect on me in any way.

That is my privilege.

This is my dream: That one day all people who commit heinous acts will be judged by the content of their character and not be used to judge others who share the color of their skin.

Stranger Than Fiction

Not long ago, I read in a novel about the murder of Leon Trotsky, which happened in the study of his own home. He met his end after a hatchet was lodged his skull. Soon after, my sister--who was spending a couple of months in Mexico City--posted a picture of the very study in which Trotsky was killed. She had just visited the house. We figured out there was a decent chance I had read the account of his death at about the same time she was at the scene.

This is a pretty dramatic example of a phenomena that happens to me all the time. I read something and soon after I experience something that reminds me of it in real life. Or I experience something in real life and soon after I find myself reading something that reminds me of it.

Another example, not as dramatic. A couple of days after the Trotsky incident we discovered a huge beetle on the bathroom windowsill, thankfully on the outside of the screen. Not even an hour later, I settled into bed and started reading. And, no kidding, this is the second--the second!!--sentence I came to: "Here is a strange beetle, trapped inside the window near the desk."

Today it happened again.

I'm in the middle of a memoir of a woman who is currently recounting some of her experiences during the civil rights movement in 1960's Georgia. After we finished our dentist appointments this morning, Jack talked me into taking him to the store so he could spend some of the money we owed him for allowance and mowing the lawn. I didn't have enough in small bills to pay him, so I sent him in to break a $100 bill I had leftover from our vacation. We joked about whether the cashier would be suspicious.

I stayed in the car to read.

Jack probably hadn't even made it into the store before I came to this line: "I learned that Charles had gone to the junkyard to buy a part for one of the old cars we used, and he'd tried to pay with a hundred-dollar bill. The junkyard dealer had called the police, and they'd taken him to jail."

All. The. Time.