Excavation

This Martin Luther King, Jr. Day found me doing some more long-overdue deep cleaning in Jack's room, including vacuuming under his bed. There weren't many things--mostly rubber bands and nerf darts from past battles--but, whoo boy, the vacuum sucked up an awful lot of dust, feathers from his pillow, and cat hair.

I may be crawling at a snail's pace, but I will conquer our house and all of our crap belongings. Forward!

85 Linear Feet

No physical feats to report yet. I had something dramatic planned to kick off the project today, but it fell through. I think I will have another opportunity sometime in February to do it, and I plan to take advantage. In the meantime, I need to think of something else to kick things off with.

I don't think today's project--in which I cleaned about 85 linear feet of bookshelves and reorganized nearly all of the books, some of which were stacked two rows deep--is quite in the spirit of the whole thing.

Jack's shelves were beyond full, so I pared them down. I'd long since moved out the board books we read when he was a baby, but his bookcases still held our entire picture book collection. I pulled them all out, culled the books we're bonded with and took them downstairs to put on the family room shelves, then stacked the rest away to sell or donate.

Of course there wasn't room for the picture books on the family room shelves, so they required weeding and reorganizing as well. That darn domino effect.

It turned into a six-hour marathon, and I'm still not quite done. This is why I procrastinate. (And it is also why I am glad there are libraries and Kindles.)

Give Me the Beat, Boys

In between a meeting at the United Way and a shift at the jail today, I stopped to get something to eat at the tasty, offbeat Station 22 Cafe in downtown Provo.

I ordered the Jack Kerouac burger, partly because I liked the name, but mostly because of the melted brie, applewood bacon, and bourbon sauce. 

About 10 years ago, I read Kerouac's On the Road just a few months after reading Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. It struck me that Sal Paradise was Holden Caulfield, only a bit more grown up and with a bit tamer language. Both yearned for freedom from convention, but ultimately both were tethered at their core to a sense of responsibility they just couldn't shake.

I can relate.

As I ate my burger, I read in Andrew McCarthy's Longest Way Home about the time he flew to Buenos Aires and headed south to Patagonia. When he got there, he climbed up a glacier, high enough to look down on the low level clouds. He fantasized about doing flips in the clouds like he did when he was a kid looking out airplane windows. Back before he was afraid to fly.

When I was done, I headed south on the highway toward the setting sun and sang real loud when Bill Withers came on the radio.

Give me the beat, boys, and free my soul

I wanna get lost in your rock and roll

And drift away

Set

I won't lie. I am struggling to get moving.

Maybe January wasn't the best time of year to launch my 50 Physical Feats project, especially with temperatures hovering around zero for the past few weeks. I could also blame my lack of motivation on some ill health. Or on my Seasonal Affective Disorder, which I have self diagnosed but have failed to self treat. Or on my compulsion to watch all five seasons of Doc Martin. Or on the fact that the fabulous kick-off event I had planned to participate in this weekend fell through and I don't have a dramatic enough backup plan.

Or maybe it's what William Faulkner said in As I Lay Dying that describes me so well: "I notice how it takes a lazy man, a man that hates moving, to get set on moving once he does get started off, the same as when he was set on staying still, like it ain't the moving he hates so much as the starting and the stopping."

Apparently I'm just set on staying still.

I will get moving though. I will. I will. And when I do I'll be set on that. I will.

I will.

A Good Thing

After years of trying to figure out how to get in and do it, last week I finally held my first book group discussion at the jail.

Thirteen inmates showed up, and nearly all of them had read the book. I had given them several options, and they voted to read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon, which is told from the point of view of an autistic teenage boy named Christopher. I read the book several years ago and had forgotten many of the details, which I saw differently as I read the book again over the holidays. I wondered, for example, how the inmates would relate to Christopher's unrelenting phobia of communal bathroom facilities.

I put the book on the list of possibilities because of some of the themes it explores and that we talk about in the transition skills class I teach: seeing the world through someone else's eyes, trust and forgiveness, and facing fears.

After laying down the one main ground rule (that all opinions must be treated with respect) and the one corollary (that while my opinions should be respected, no one is obligated to accept or suck up to them), the discussion we had was vibrant and full of varying perspectives and insight. Success!

I am going to do this again and again. And I'm planning to expand the list of titles I can offer to my classes. I've started an evolving wish list (click here) in case anyone wants to suggest additional titles and/or contribute books to the cause (zero pressure, though!). The books don't have to be ordered through Amazon, but they do need to be paperbacks and they need to be sent directly to me from whatever store they are purchased from to meet the requirements of the jail. Message me if you have title ideas, need my mailing address, or to let me know books are on their way so I can mark them off the wish list.

This is a good, good thing. And I'm not just saying that because Martha Stewart served time.

Wondering

The other day at the post office, I noticed a man in line ahead of me holding a veteran's ID card and a notification to pick up a missed delivery. I hoped it was something fun, maybe a late Christmas present.

As I watched my clerk stamp and meter my packages, I heard the clerk at the next counter ask a co-worker what he needed to do to release undeliverable certified mail. I glanced over and saw him holding the missed delivery the veteran was there to collect. An envelope with an address handwritten in big loopy letters.

"Oh," the man said softly. "That's what she thought it might be."

No late Christmas present. Just a dead end. Maybe one of many. Who were they trying to find? A long lost sibling? An old friend? Maybe a grown child?

So many people. So many stories. So many ways they might go.

The Beginning

It's dropped below 10 degrees and it's not even 10 p.m. A cold, cold start for my new project. I don't do well in the cold. In fact, once fall turns into winter, I'm inclined to hibernate. So the next few months are going to be a real stretch for me.

When I came up with the idea of doing 50 physical feats in 2013 last summer--when it was warm and I was in better shape--I thought I'd try to hit the ground running on January 1.

But the inclination to hibernate won.

So I need to start out with some conditioning, both physical and psychological. Today I went for an hour-long walk and discovered two things. First, it looks like the city keeps the bike path clear in the winter. Nice. Second, one of the reasons I don't like exercising in freezing weather is being hot and sweaty under my jacket and hat and gloves while my face is so icy cold it hurts. I'll have to experiment with different fabrics and layering and find a good balance.

I will report on my first physical feat the weekend of January 19th. It will be something I have never done before, and I will be very glad when it's over.

Fifty

When my Aunt Jody (pictured on left, and technically my dad's cousin, not my aunt) turned 50, she learned how to roller skate. I was just a teenager and thought it was amazing. Fifty seemed so old to take up roller skating.

Of course, it isn't. Is it? Because I'm turning 50 this year.

To celebrate and to pick up some momentum for the second half of my century, I am going to do 50 physical feats in 2013, and I will tell the story of each one here on my blog. I want to get in shape, test my stamina, face down fears, and have lots of fun along the way.

I'm looking for ideas and, more importantly, partners in crime. To friends and family (including those back east because I'll be coming this summer): let me know if there's something you've been wanting to do and you want some company doing it. I won't say yes to everything (Roger has yet to talk me into a jumping out of a plane for this project, the first thing he thought of when I told him about it). But I won't say no without serious consideration.

Forever

Act One

The summer of 1969, my mother, my father, my brother, and I headed west in our baby blue camper van. After driving across the plains, it struggled mightily to make it up high mountain passes. It took some coaxing and a little extra water for the radiator, but we did make it to our destination: an LDS temple in Logan, Utah, where we were sealed together as a family for eternity. I still hold in my mind an image of my mother, my father, my brother, and me kneeling around the altar together, hands clasped.

Act Two

The summer of 1990 in the Salt Lake City temple, Roger and I were married and sealed, kneeling across the altar from each other, hands clasped. There were a few glitches. Roger had underestimated the Tuesday morning rush hour traffic and was late. Everyone else was worried, but I wasn't. And then I was held hostage after the ceremony by a conscientious temple worker who insisted we had to leave the temple together even though I knew Roger had already left. There was no way he had taken as long as I had to freshen up for pictures. I was right; he'd slipped out the door unnoticed while the temple workers were changing shifts. The glitches just made our wedding day more perfect, though, because now we have stories to tell.

Act Three

The week of Thanksgiving 1999, we took Jack to the Provo temple to have him sealed to us. Roger and I knelt at the altar with Jack in our arms, hands clasped. I don't know whether the ritual has inherent power or if its power is derived from what is in our hearts and minds. I do know this: his adoption had been finalized a few days before in a court of law, but it was the sealing ceremony that clinched the feeling Jack would always be a part of our family. A true blessing.

A Hard Lesson

When I was in the fourth grade, I won first place in floor exercises during a gymnastics meet at my elementary school.

But no one knew it.

The gym teacher handed out awards for the event, and then discovered that my score was higher than the person he'd given the first place award to. It was nice of him to make me a certificate, but the award ceremony was already over, and he made no mention of it to anyone.

It's not like I could go to school the next day and announce that I, in fact, had taken first place in floor exercises.

No one would ever know.

When I got home I cried and cried. My mom was very understanding as she consoled me. She told me that--whether I believed it or not--one day it would only matter that I had achieved something, not whether anyone knew.

She was right, but it took me a long time to believe her.

Rush. Stop.

Running late, I hurried down the road past the high school to a local nursing home to speak at a midweek church service. And by hurried, I mean I was going 35 miles an hour. In a 25 mile an hour zone.

If it hadn't been raining, the police officer said, he would have let me off with a warning.

I rushed into the nursing home just as they were finishing the opening hymn, and after the prayer, I took my place at the front of the room to address the topic I'd been assigned: inner peace. My heart was still racing.

Everyone saw me come in late, so I figured I'd tell them about the irony of getting a speeding ticket on the way to giving a talk about inner peace. The moment they laughed, I regained my balance.

Indiana Jack

This is one of my favorite pictures of Jack. He's a guy who always knows how to dress the part. And often does.

A State of Emergency

Except for a trip to get our car inspected and registered this morning, I've been holed up indoors watching it snow, snow, snow. It's a cozy way to spend a bit of vacation time.

The biggest snow storm I remember was the blizzard of 1978. Most, if not all, of Massachusetts was declared to be in a state of emergency, and we were forbidden to drive. School was cancelled for at least a week.

One of my favorite memories of that storm was cross country skiing down the middle of Main Street.

Bright

We drove up to Salt Lake City to enjoy Christmas dinner with Roger's sister and her family in the Avenues. On the way home, we passed the governor's mansion all lit up with Christmas lights.

Somehow I ended up attending several gubernatorial events in the 1980s. Studying political science helped, I'm sure. Back then, I hung out with all sorts of movers and shakers on campus and with leaders in the community. It seemed my future was bright!

I remember at least two events at the governor's mansion itself, a dinner with the governor and a small group of students at a hotel in Provo, and during spring my senior year, I had the opportunity to help with the annual Governor's Ball at the Hotel Utah. All we had to do was seat the dignitaries as they arrived, and then we were free to join the other 2,500 people attending the party.

One of my friends had the honor of seating Senator Jake Garn, who was to go into outer space a month later on the shuttle. We ate shrimp cocktail and filet mignon, got interviewed for the society column of one of the Salt Lake papers, and danced until they shut the place down.

I'm less well connected now. I think I'm going to work on that. Not so much to attend fancy parties, but because I've got real stuff I want to accomplish now. Real problems to solve. It may take a while, but stay tuned!

Christmas, with light and love all around, always gives me hope.

Midnight

We enjoyed hosting our traditional pizza on Christmas Eve with Roger's family tonight. My Uncle John started the tradition in Connecticut many years ago, and we have faithfully carried it on here in Utah.

Only I wish we had Uncle John's fireplace. And I wish we didn't always miss the Christmas Eve service at the Presbyterian church here in town, which is held at 7:00 p.m., plunk in the middle of our pizza feast.

When I was growing up, my Grammie would sometimes take me to the midnight service at her Presbyterian church, which was all lit up by candles. We would dress in our Sunday best, listen to the angelic choir, hear the Christmas story, and sing our hearts out.

Maybe next year.

Do You See What I See?

As a freshman in college, I took a Water Safety Instructor course. At the end of the semester, the professor called us one by one into his office to ask us what grade we thought we earned. I don't remember what I told him, but I definitely remember what he told me.

"If you came to me for a job teaching swimming, I would not hire you," he said. "You are unenthusiastic."

What did he see of me? I suppose I was unimpressive because I was a bit blind in class. We were constantly in and out of the water so I couldn't wear my contacts or glasses. I guess I don't interact very well with people when I can't see their faces.

-----------------------

A few years ago, our church girls camp director asked me to be in charge of a skit about Esther in the Old Testament, who risked her life to save her people.

"It's important that you take this seriously," she said. "I don't want you to make people laugh."

What did she see of me? I suppose I made her a little nervous because I do have a tendency to, um, try to lighten things up whenever I speak in church. Especially when I am in front of a congregation or class and can see their faces.

Awkward

I lost count of how many dances I went to as a teenager and young adult that ended with Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven." The quintessential last song.

Once in a while they played Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Free Bird," which I loved, even though it was a bit awkward when it shifted from a slow dance to a fast dance part way through.

But that was not anywhere near as awkward as the time a guy I didn't know and who was much shorter than me asked me to dance. I said yes, because I didn't want to be rude. In the middle of the dance, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand without letting go of mine.

When he asked me for another dance, I turned him down.

A Good Moment

I rarely have good clothes moments. You know, when you are wearing just the right thing at the right moment and you feel good. And, well, cute.

One perfect fall day in college, a boy offered to help me write a paper for my French literature class. He met me after school to take me home on the back of his motorbike. I climbed on and we roared down the hill to the old neighborhood south of campus, where I lived in a red brick house with a wide front porch.

I was wearing my black watch plaid kilt, a turtleneck and a navy blue sweater, tights and loafers, so I had to sit side saddle, my arms wrapped around his waist. 

I was living that life, at least for a moment. A good, good moment.

Margy Dreams of Sushi

The first time I tried sushi was in a restaurant full of Japanese people in New York City with a college friend who really knew his sushi.

That spoiled me.

The Gift of the Left Eye

A dozen or so years ago, I volunteered to come up with a story for a white elephant party. This is the game: participants each take a wrapped gift from the pile, sit in a circle, and as the story is read they pass the gifts to the left or the right each time they hear the words "left" or "right." When the story is finished, participants take turns opening or trading the gift they end up with.

Here's what I wrote. Special thanks to O. Henry and "The Gift of the Magi" for the plot. Feel free to use it if you need to liven up a white elephant party this year!
_________

The Gift of the Left Eye

Harold rubbed his eyes with the heel of his right hand and sighed. He looked across the kitchen table at Agatha in despair. "We've managed to pay our bills, but there isn't any money left. This is downright depressing! Especially with Christmas right around the corner."

"Oh Hairy Bear." That was Agatha's pet name for her beloved Harold. "It's going to work out all right. It always does!"

"But Aggie, I wanted our first Christmas together to be truly special. At this rate, we're going to have to eat left-over macaroni and cheese for Christmas dinner."

Despondent, Harold got up, left the table, and headed outside to think things through. He found his baseball and glove right where he'd left them. He put on his glove and started tossing the ball. But it wasn't the comfort he'd expected. Harold lived for baseball. Every year he scraped together enough money to play in an amateur league. This year, he'd hidden his stash in a box in the tool shed.

Even though he lived for baseball, Harold had never had enough money left over to get the right kind of glove. You see, left-handed Harold had a glove designed for right-handed players (it was a hand-me-down from his older brother). That meant he had to wear his glove on his left hand and throw with his right, instead of wearing the glove on his right hand and throwing with his left. What he really needed was a left-handed glove that he could wear on his right hand. It may sound confusing, but Harold knew it was the key to improving his game.

As he tossed the ball, Harold had a sudden realization and headed right to the tool shed. He found the box, opened it, and stared down at the money that he'd carefully saved all year. "Tomorrow I'm going to take this money and buy just the right present for Aggie."

Meanwhile, Agatha was getting ready for bed. She always made a point of going to bed right at 9:45 every night and getting up right at 6:45 every morning. And she always went through the same exact routine. First she'd brush her teeth, then she'd wash her face, and so on. She always did things in the same order, and she never left out a step. She believed in living a very orderly life.

But tonight was different. A couple of days earlier, she'd lost the contact lens for her left eye. So she had to wear her glasses instead. She hated wearing her glasses. She supposed the only benefit was that she didn't have to take her contacts out to clean them, first the left one and then the right one. So she skipped that step and went straight to her moisturizer. First her left leg, then her right, and so on.

As she climbed into bed, Agatha thought about her contact lenses. It seemed she'd waited her whole life to get them. She'd finally saved up enough money to buy them in time for her wedding. And now she'd have to dip into their precious bank account to buy a replacement lens for her left eye. While they were paying bills, Harold had insisted on setting aside just the right amount of money for her to visit the eye doctor the next day.

"Of course," she murmured to herself as she drifted off to sleep. "I know how I can get a present for Hairy Bear."

The next day was Christmas Eve. Just before Harold and Agatha headed off to work, they promised each other that they'd come right home and have a candlelight dinner to start the holiday off right. Candlelight always made their peanut butter sandwiches seem more romantic.

Harold got home first and started getting things ready. He hummed Christmas carols to himself as he hung a string of lights on a potted plant, carefully wrapped his gift for Agatha with the comics from yesterday's paper, and left it under the plant. Just as he was lighting the candles, Agatha came through the door. He swept her into his arms and kissed her right on the mouth. He noticed that she was still wearing her glasses. Maybe she was just waiting to get home before putting her new left contact lens in.

The gloom they'd both felt in their hearts the night before had left. In its place the spirit of Christmas grew. They talked about how happy they were as they ate their sandwiches. When the last crumb was finished, Agatha spied the package Harold had left under the potted plant.

"What's that?" Agatha asked.

"What do you mean?" Harold said innocently.

"That package." She pointed. "Right there!"

Harold picked up the gift and looked at it. "It must be for you. It says so right here on the tag."

Before he could hand it to her, Agatha jumped up and ran into the next room where she'd left Harold's present when she sneaked home at lunch time. Breathless, she plopped it into his lap and said, "You go first!"

Harold grinned from his left ear to his right as he tore off the wrapping, and then stared at her with amazement. Gently he lifted the new glove out of the box and put it on his right hand. It fit perfectly. So what if he'd have to wait another year to test it out in a league game. She had given him just the right gift.

He thanked her, kissed her right on the mouth again, then said, "It's your turn!" He couldn't wait to see her face.

Agatha carefully opened her present. First she took off the bow. She undid the tape on the left side, and then on the right. Though Agatha's orderliness was something Harold loved about her the most, he got impatient. "Hurry up!" he cried.

She pulled the paper away and found a beautiful pair of new sunglasses. "You can wear them now that you have contact lenses," Harold explained, beaming. "By the way, why aren't you wearing them?"

A tear trickled down Agatha's left cheek as she looked into Harold's eyes. In an instant he knew where she had gotten the money for his baseball glove. As they kissed right on the mouth in the glow of the potted plant, they both knew in their hearts they had married just the right person.