I know, I promised no blatant bragging, but I just could not help it. Here are Will in October and Reese in December. Does it get any better than this?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Haunted by the Boy
Having lived in Key West, I am familiar with panhandlers. I was just standing at the meat counter in the back of the Palm Springs grocery store. I was not ready for what happened.
"Excuse me sir, I have never really done this before. I am in trouble. I have a family emergency in Long Beach, and my car is out of gas. I don't have anywhere to turn. (His eyes welled with tears.)"
He then proceeded to ramble on about what I think was a suggestion that I give him the money I was going to spend on groceries. He seemed to also offer to carry my groceries to my car, although I was not sure how that fit in. Apparently, after giving him cash, I could charge my groceries. But this was all very confused. I did not understand a bit of this part of our conversation.
"I am sorry, I don't understand what you are saying."
"I don't know how I could ever pay you back, but I promise to try."
I am pretty much conditioned to just walk away from such people. So I looked down, told him I could not help, and walked away. I assumed that would be the end of it.
Dennis was in another part of the store, and when he got back to our cart, I told him what had happened. He decided that the manager should be told that there was a panhandler bothering people in the back of the store. I soon saw the young man walk quickly out of the store and into the evening haze. I cannot get him out of my mind.
The man was really just a boy. He was barely into his 20's. His clothes were tattered, but he was cleaned up and not offensive in any manner. There was a haunting genuineness in his eyes. He was younger than my own children.
After we had paid for our groceries and headed for our car, I scoured the parking lot but could see no sign of him. I had an all encompassing feeling that I had left something undone; that I had missed an opportunity; that I had significantly departed from some core belief I knew I had, but could not retrieve at the time.
Dennis is still convinced that the boy was on drugs and was looking for money for more. Even that revelation did not assuage my uneasiness. As crazy as it seems, I found myself struggling with some remote boyhood church lesson that I would never again be sure whether this had been my opportunity to help one of God's angels, or even Jesus himself.
I am quite aware that even writing such a thing will get listed in my "I have spent too long in a motor home" column of my life's analysis.
Could all this be coming from my long ago idealism that as a new teacher there was not any young person who I could not help?
If he had been dirty, unshaven and drunk would I have even reflected on the experience? No matter, he was none of those things. Had I missed an opportunity to help someone far beyond an empty gas tank or even a drug problem? How could I have actually teared up during our new President Obama's call for us to do our part to help each other, and still have turned my back on this boy?
In my career, I had argued toe-to-toe with big city mayors and negotiated with the nation's largest cable companies, yet this young man had reduced me to looking at the floor and mumbling something nonsensical about not being able to help. What was the source of this boy's power over me?
What was my hurry? It was not as if I had some urgent appointment to which I had to run. I had failed this boy. I had failed myself.
I may remain haunted by this boy for a long time. As for now, all I do know is that as an individual whose life is so blessed, I plan to no longer just step over those whose lives are not so blessed. I know I can next time respond with compassion, conversation, and even guidance without falling victim to some grand scam.
I know I will not solve any of life's problems. That is not the goal. Dennis and I have changed the perceptions of many people regarding our relationship, one person at a time, by living our life together with integrity and honesty.
I see no reason why embracing the same integrity and honesty in any such future encounter could not also positively effect a life. I will be none the less for trying.
And what about the possibility of encountering one of God's angels in disguise? Well, aren't we each one of God's angels? Aren't we all?
"Excuse me sir, I have never really done this before. I am in trouble. I have a family emergency in Long Beach, and my car is out of gas. I don't have anywhere to turn. (His eyes welled with tears.)"
He then proceeded to ramble on about what I think was a suggestion that I give him the money I was going to spend on groceries. He seemed to also offer to carry my groceries to my car, although I was not sure how that fit in. Apparently, after giving him cash, I could charge my groceries. But this was all very confused. I did not understand a bit of this part of our conversation.
"I am sorry, I don't understand what you are saying."
"I don't know how I could ever pay you back, but I promise to try."
I am pretty much conditioned to just walk away from such people. So I looked down, told him I could not help, and walked away. I assumed that would be the end of it.
Dennis was in another part of the store, and when he got back to our cart, I told him what had happened. He decided that the manager should be told that there was a panhandler bothering people in the back of the store. I soon saw the young man walk quickly out of the store and into the evening haze. I cannot get him out of my mind.
The man was really just a boy. He was barely into his 20's. His clothes were tattered, but he was cleaned up and not offensive in any manner. There was a haunting genuineness in his eyes. He was younger than my own children.
After we had paid for our groceries and headed for our car, I scoured the parking lot but could see no sign of him. I had an all encompassing feeling that I had left something undone; that I had missed an opportunity; that I had significantly departed from some core belief I knew I had, but could not retrieve at the time.
Dennis is still convinced that the boy was on drugs and was looking for money for more. Even that revelation did not assuage my uneasiness. As crazy as it seems, I found myself struggling with some remote boyhood church lesson that I would never again be sure whether this had been my opportunity to help one of God's angels, or even Jesus himself.
I am quite aware that even writing such a thing will get listed in my "I have spent too long in a motor home" column of my life's analysis.
Could all this be coming from my long ago idealism that as a new teacher there was not any young person who I could not help?
If he had been dirty, unshaven and drunk would I have even reflected on the experience? No matter, he was none of those things. Had I missed an opportunity to help someone far beyond an empty gas tank or even a drug problem? How could I have actually teared up during our new President Obama's call for us to do our part to help each other, and still have turned my back on this boy?
In my career, I had argued toe-to-toe with big city mayors and negotiated with the nation's largest cable companies, yet this young man had reduced me to looking at the floor and mumbling something nonsensical about not being able to help. What was the source of this boy's power over me?
What was my hurry? It was not as if I had some urgent appointment to which I had to run. I had failed this boy. I had failed myself.
I may remain haunted by this boy for a long time. As for now, all I do know is that as an individual whose life is so blessed, I plan to no longer just step over those whose lives are not so blessed. I know I can next time respond with compassion, conversation, and even guidance without falling victim to some grand scam.
I know I will not solve any of life's problems. That is not the goal. Dennis and I have changed the perceptions of many people regarding our relationship, one person at a time, by living our life together with integrity and honesty.
I see no reason why embracing the same integrity and honesty in any such future encounter could not also positively effect a life. I will be none the less for trying.
And what about the possibility of encountering one of God's angels in disguise? Well, aren't we each one of God's angels? Aren't we all?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Just Respectful, Not Lazy
I have not been lazy, just respectful. I knew I did not dare share the desert with all of you while my friends in the northern plains were trying to stay alive in 30 degrees BELOW zero. When your friends' nostrils are sticking together, you do not complain about a sunburn.
Now that Spring has arrived in Minnesota with temperatures soaring into the 20's, I can finally share Palm Springs, California with you all.
Growing up in Shenandoah, Iowa, I never really knew that people actually lived like this. Of course we had television (I am not that old). I saw Lucy move to California and spent my adolescence "California Dreamin' " with the Mama's and the Papa's, but even then I could not imagine spending an afternoon in January napping around the pool.
Don't get me wrong, I cherish my childhood, but that does not stop me from counting the many blessings that have allowed me to escape the morning terror that I forgot to plug in the car engine heater so it might start and get me to work. Palm Spring is beautiful.
Since we arrived almost two weeks ago I do not recall a cloud in the sky. The days are in the 70-80's and the nights cool down to the 40-50's. There seems to be a perpetual breeze, and we even spent a day experiencing the Easterly mountain side of the Santa Anna winds (not as strong on the western side). We have driven the low desert and walked through snow in the quaint mountain town of Idylwild.
No place is perfect, of course. Dennis has a new understanding of how raisins are made as he lathers up with all the lotion he can find to prevent his daily molting of dry skin. My elbows are so rough I could sand wood with them. Even my eyes need lubrication. We are also reminded that it can reach the 120 degree mark in the summer--supporting our escape back to our Minnesota homeland in only a few months. But there is nothing like putting on a tank top in January and sharing some designer coffee on the lawn of our favorite downtown coffee house.
We are settled into the Two Springs R.V. Resort, although I cannot see any evidence of any underground source of water. Our motor coach lot is spacious and surrounded by a six foot tall hedge that provides just the right amount of privacy. We are surrounded by mountains (certainly not the Rockies, but still capped by just the right amount of snow). Once we got used to the huge propeller-style things across the road that use the wind to generate electricity, everything was good.
For those of you who have been to this area, you ahve seen that someone got the great idea to harness the constant wind rushing through the pass toward L.A. by putting up 40-60 foot high white, three-blade windmills. Now, I am the first to support alternative sources of energy, but this particular great idea has turned into literally thousands of these things littering a once spectacular mountain valley with endless, ever-rotating propellers. Surely there was some distant, uninhabited windy space in this endless Western plain where these things could have been placed. I know, I know, it is the eternal "not in my backyard" argument, and we must have alternative solutions, but I pray we find a way to use fewer, better placed, more efficient alternatives to these things (while we stop wasting so much power and other or our dwindling resources).
Dennis claims I get more "crotchety" every day. The re-reading of that last paragraph surely supports his theory. But boy, do I feel better getting that off my chest.
I recommend the desert. It is a very close toss-up between my love of Key West and this new found oasis (did I mention NO mosquitoes or "no-see-ums"?). There are so many magnificent places right here in our own American backyard, and Dennis and I look forward to discovering them all.
Now that Spring has arrived in Minnesota with temperatures soaring into the 20's, I can finally share Palm Springs, California with you all.
Growing up in Shenandoah, Iowa, I never really knew that people actually lived like this. Of course we had television (I am not that old). I saw Lucy move to California and spent my adolescence "California Dreamin' " with the Mama's and the Papa's, but even then I could not imagine spending an afternoon in January napping around the pool.
Don't get me wrong, I cherish my childhood, but that does not stop me from counting the many blessings that have allowed me to escape the morning terror that I forgot to plug in the car engine heater so it might start and get me to work. Palm Spring is beautiful.
Since we arrived almost two weeks ago I do not recall a cloud in the sky. The days are in the 70-80's and the nights cool down to the 40-50's. There seems to be a perpetual breeze, and we even spent a day experiencing the Easterly mountain side of the Santa Anna winds (not as strong on the western side). We have driven the low desert and walked through snow in the quaint mountain town of Idylwild.
No place is perfect, of course. Dennis has a new understanding of how raisins are made as he lathers up with all the lotion he can find to prevent his daily molting of dry skin. My elbows are so rough I could sand wood with them. Even my eyes need lubrication. We are also reminded that it can reach the 120 degree mark in the summer--supporting our escape back to our Minnesota homeland in only a few months. But there is nothing like putting on a tank top in January and sharing some designer coffee on the lawn of our favorite downtown coffee house.
We are settled into the Two Springs R.V. Resort, although I cannot see any evidence of any underground source of water. Our motor coach lot is spacious and surrounded by a six foot tall hedge that provides just the right amount of privacy. We are surrounded by mountains (certainly not the Rockies, but still capped by just the right amount of snow). Once we got used to the huge propeller-style things across the road that use the wind to generate electricity, everything was good.
For those of you who have been to this area, you ahve seen that someone got the great idea to harness the constant wind rushing through the pass toward L.A. by putting up 40-60 foot high white, three-blade windmills. Now, I am the first to support alternative sources of energy, but this particular great idea has turned into literally thousands of these things littering a once spectacular mountain valley with endless, ever-rotating propellers. Surely there was some distant, uninhabited windy space in this endless Western plain where these things could have been placed. I know, I know, it is the eternal "not in my backyard" argument, and we must have alternative solutions, but I pray we find a way to use fewer, better placed, more efficient alternatives to these things (while we stop wasting so much power and other or our dwindling resources).
Dennis claims I get more "crotchety" every day. The re-reading of that last paragraph surely supports his theory. But boy, do I feel better getting that off my chest.
I recommend the desert. It is a very close toss-up between my love of Key West and this new found oasis (did I mention NO mosquitoes or "no-see-ums"?). There are so many magnificent places right here in our own American backyard, and Dennis and I look forward to discovering them all.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Magic of the High Desert
We are a couple hours out of Palm Springs. We left the interstate and are traveling along a paved, secondary highway. It is amazing.
Of course I am not driving, but Dennis is not complaining. I sleep while he drives. He groans and gasps at each gust of wind when I drive.
I recall when I assisted teaching in a summer program at Nebraska Wesleyan for gifted high school science students from across the country. The emphasis of the program was environmental study. One day I was taking a car load of students about 60 miles west of Lincoln to look at some remaining original prairie. We came over a hill, and one young man from the back seat started yelling for me to pull over. There was no traffic, so I pulled over. He bounded out of the car, went up to the fence line and spun all around a number of times. He was a young man from the inner city of New York.
I asked what he was doing. He responded, “I have never in my life been able to see the horizon in every direction.” I stopped for a moment and realized that I had grown up in a very special part of America. I don’t think until that moment I had ever really made special note of the endless horizon that surrounded my youth. I wonder now what effect that might have on a person’s life-vision. I recall hoping at that moment that I never lose the wonderment of my young friend from New York. But, I had lost much of it.
Somehow today it all came into focus once again. Wherever I look I see the rugged high desert of southern California. In every direction I see the outline of mountains—not the imperial mountain peaks of the Rockies, but beautiful subtle purple peaks in the shadows of the afternoon sky.
The road is just fine, but not the flat, forever forward road of the Interstate. The dips and hills in today’s road remind me of simpler summer days when my Uncle Merlyn would rev up his old Buick with my cousins and I in the back seat. Off we would go, taking the gravel hills and dips in the back road near our Minnesota campsite at Potato Lake. There was never a roller coaster that could put my young stomach in my throat like those long ago summer rides.
Today there is a single rail track running parallel to us. The black and white gravel rail bed is raised five feet or so from the desert floor. For at least the last 40 miles on our side of the raised bed we have seen a continuous amazing array of “I was here” art and phrases created with this gravel. People (I assume young people) have taken the black and white rocks and have left their mark on the raised sand of the desert. “Abbey loves Mark”, “Class of ’83”; “Benjamin”; “Peace on Earth”; “Billy Sucks”; etc. There is not a house visible in any direction. Who are these people? Where did they come from? How did this tradition ever start? It all has a complex, mystical impression on this passer-by.
We pass a “For Sale” sign for 3,250 acres of this flat desert. Dennis wonders out loud what anyone could ever do with the land. Of course that is the logical question, but perhaps this is just land upon which the “doing” of something has never been the point. Such observation no doubt limits the market for such land, but I cannot help but wonder why anyone should ever own this land? A property law professor once observed in class that no one ever owns land. His point was that we simply hold real estate for our lifetime. As long as land is perpetual and we are finite, we can never really possess it. At times like this, I ponder his insight. I wish to hear again the order to “pull over” so I can walk to the fence line and with outstretched arms take in the magnitude and majesty of it all.
I think in the future we may avoid wherever possible the sterile Interstate. Of course this all assumes I can talk my driver into sharing my momentary existential real estate experience, and that I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it all.
Of course I am not driving, but Dennis is not complaining. I sleep while he drives. He groans and gasps at each gust of wind when I drive.
I recall when I assisted teaching in a summer program at Nebraska Wesleyan for gifted high school science students from across the country. The emphasis of the program was environmental study. One day I was taking a car load of students about 60 miles west of Lincoln to look at some remaining original prairie. We came over a hill, and one young man from the back seat started yelling for me to pull over. There was no traffic, so I pulled over. He bounded out of the car, went up to the fence line and spun all around a number of times. He was a young man from the inner city of New York.
I asked what he was doing. He responded, “I have never in my life been able to see the horizon in every direction.” I stopped for a moment and realized that I had grown up in a very special part of America. I don’t think until that moment I had ever really made special note of the endless horizon that surrounded my youth. I wonder now what effect that might have on a person’s life-vision. I recall hoping at that moment that I never lose the wonderment of my young friend from New York. But, I had lost much of it.
Somehow today it all came into focus once again. Wherever I look I see the rugged high desert of southern California. In every direction I see the outline of mountains—not the imperial mountain peaks of the Rockies, but beautiful subtle purple peaks in the shadows of the afternoon sky.
The road is just fine, but not the flat, forever forward road of the Interstate. The dips and hills in today’s road remind me of simpler summer days when my Uncle Merlyn would rev up his old Buick with my cousins and I in the back seat. Off we would go, taking the gravel hills and dips in the back road near our Minnesota campsite at Potato Lake. There was never a roller coaster that could put my young stomach in my throat like those long ago summer rides.
Today there is a single rail track running parallel to us. The black and white gravel rail bed is raised five feet or so from the desert floor. For at least the last 40 miles on our side of the raised bed we have seen a continuous amazing array of “I was here” art and phrases created with this gravel. People (I assume young people) have taken the black and white rocks and have left their mark on the raised sand of the desert. “Abbey loves Mark”, “Class of ’83”; “Benjamin”; “Peace on Earth”; “Billy Sucks”; etc. There is not a house visible in any direction. Who are these people? Where did they come from? How did this tradition ever start? It all has a complex, mystical impression on this passer-by.
We pass a “For Sale” sign for 3,250 acres of this flat desert. Dennis wonders out loud what anyone could ever do with the land. Of course that is the logical question, but perhaps this is just land upon which the “doing” of something has never been the point. Such observation no doubt limits the market for such land, but I cannot help but wonder why anyone should ever own this land? A property law professor once observed in class that no one ever owns land. His point was that we simply hold real estate for our lifetime. As long as land is perpetual and we are finite, we can never really possess it. At times like this, I ponder his insight. I wish to hear again the order to “pull over” so I can walk to the fence line and with outstretched arms take in the magnitude and majesty of it all.
I think in the future we may avoid wherever possible the sterile Interstate. Of course this all assumes I can talk my driver into sharing my momentary existential real estate experience, and that I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it all.
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