Help a Reporter Out (HARO)

Posted on November 14, 2011 by jphilo

Have you ever heard of Help A Reporter Out, or HARO for short? It’s an internet service for reporters looking for experts to interview for stories. Workshop leaders at writers’ conferences encourage authors to subscribe to HARO and respond to queries. Why? Because being quoted in online or print articles is 1) free publicity and 2) raises credibility.

That’s the theory anyway.

But the reporters writing articles about my area of professional expertise, special needs, have yet to pick up on my responses to their HARO queries. However, my one response to a query about a topic where I have only personal experience, parenting adult children, resulted in an immediate contact from the reporter. Apparently, my stint as mother-of two-going through-two-weddings-in-three-months is a bigger draw than author. Or speaker. Or educator.

So much for my professional expertise.

Emily Morman, the reporter, emailed this morning to say her article had been published in southeast Michigan’s MetroParent. She included the link, so I hurried on over and skimmed the article looking for my name (yes, I am that self-centered) among all the names quotes.

And there it was, looking as credible as all get out.

My name was there, along with the names of several people were quoted – a psychologist, a couple young adults, and several parents. Like me. Everybody quoted sounded pleasant. And wise. And real. Even me. Which goes to show that personal experience is as valuable as professional training.

The next query about women married to strong, silent Alaskan natives is all mine.

Untangling My Occupy Wall Street Thoughts

Posted on October 21, 2011 by jphilo

With more and more air time devoted to the Occupy Wall Street movement, it’s hard to ignore the issue. On this morning’s walk, the movement intruded on my thoughts several times. Pretty soon, I was so het up I couldn’t think straight. So I thought about my thinking (also known as meta-cognition, for those of you who are easily impressed by big words) in an effort to untangle them. Once the untangling was complete, only four thoughts remained.

Thought #1
Don’t these Occupy Wall Street people have anything better to do with their time? Why aren’t they doing something productive? Why aren’t they trying to find jobs?

Thought #2
I wonder how long some of the Occupy Wall Street people have been out of work? How long have they been searching for jobs? How many times have they tried and failed to get work? How would I feel in their situations? Hopeless? Like a victim?

Thought #3
Lord, become their hope. Bring your children to walk beside them rather than to condemn them. Show them Christ, the source of true hope to the poor, the weak, and the dispossessed.

Thought #4
Lord, I am so ashamed of my first thought. How can I judge and condemn others when you don’t condemn me? Forgive my judgmental thoughts and attitudes. From now on, make my third thought my first thought. Grant me compassionate toward the poor, the weak, and the dispossessed. Show me how to be Christ to them.

Hopeful Enough to Drive By

Posted on September 15, 2011 by jphilo

Scuttlebutt around town is this. The workplace that was my home away from home for eighteen years, the school where my second family worked for nine months of every year, has been demolished. We all knew Bryant School’s demolition was going to happen. In fact, before the building closed in May of 2010, I went back to say good-bye, took pictures, even blogged about it.

I’ve been avoiding that part of town, ever since the building went down.
One thought of the empty block where Bryant School stood,
one mind picture of the ground leveled and grass growing over the foundation,
and I start crying.
Silly, I know.
But having a significant piece of the past erased (and a piece of my kid’s pasts, too, since they went to school there) is harder than I expected.

But this week, some breaking local news made me willing to confront the present instead of mourning the past. On the first attempt, our town passed a bond issue for a new high school. Pretty amazing since the community has a thirty year history of repeatedly voting down school bond issues, eventually settling on compromise solutions that are than second best.

But not this week.

The bond issue passed with 79% voting in favor of it. When the news came, I thought of something my son said when he was in high school. “Mom, why would I ever choose to live in this town as an adult when the people don’t care enough about kids to build decent schools?” I had no answer, only sadness for the message the voting public repeatedly sent to young people in our town. Today, on the other hand, I am proud of my town for passing this bond issue in the midst of economic hard times.

The bond issue news has me feeling hopeful again.
Hopeful enough to face the ghost of Bryant School.
Hopeful enough to dream about our children’s futures.
Hopeful enough, I think, to visit the place where my home away from home once was.
Hopeful enough to laugh through the tears when I drive on by.

The High Trestle Trail

Posted on September 12, 2011 by jphilo

Hiram was gone last weekend, enjoying the annual guys-riding-motorcycles-on-winding-roads weekend with my sister’s husband. Therefore, I started my annual I-can-do-whatever-I-want-since-there’s-no-one-around weekend with a walk on the recently completed High Trestle Trail not to far from where we live.

The twenty-five mile trail runs along an abandoned Union-Pacific railroad line. Every inch of the scenery along the 3 miles I explored was lush and lovely. The crowning jewel was the half-mile long, High Trestle Bridge across the Des Moines River. The Des Moines River valley is loaded with spectacular views, so I was expecting the beautiful view.

But I wasn’t expecting the old railroad bridge turned walking/biking trail to be a work of art. Yet with lovely twin pillars at each and a canopy created with iron girders turned every which way, the bridge was at the breathtaking center of panoramic scenery.

The beauty was so distracting I forgot to be scared of heights, and that’s saying something for someone who thinks the third rung of a ladder is too far off the ground for comfort. Sure, halfway across the bridge I had the fleeting thought, “This would not be a good time for the New Madrid earthquake fault to act up,” but then the circular pattern of the girders distracted me, and I went back to thinking “pretty” and “shiny.”

My only regret is that Hiram wasn’t there so we could see it for the first time together. Then again, maybe we can trek across this Iowa treasure together when the leaves start turning in a few weeks. In the meantime, perhaps I can pick up a seismometer cheap on eBay and start monitoring Iowa’s earthquake activity. Then again, I could throw caution to the wind and live dangerously.

That sounds a lot easier than the operating manuel for a seismometer, don’t you think?

I Am Such a Whiner

Posted on August 10, 2011 by jphilo

Okay, maybe I’m not a whiner in this picture. But photo search with the key phrase “Jolene whining” didn’t unearth anything. Not because I’m not a whiner. More likely because nobody thinks to grab the camera when I launch into a new litany of what’s wrong with my world.

Sunday morning before church would have been a good morning to snap a few classic, whiny shots. My inner whiner was churning out complaints.

Writing skits for Sunday school.
Getting ready to help with Adventure Club at church Sunday night.
You name it.
I was grousing about it.

Still I went to worship, the chip on my shoulder so big, it was to get through the front door. Somehow, I made it inside, and I made sure everybody knew how hard life has been lately. Then I settled down to listen to a group of women, four of them high school teens, from our church tell about their recent mission trip to the Congo.

They showed pictures of happy children dressed in rags. One teen described the best hospital in the area. “See how the floor is wet?” she said when a picture of the children’s ward appeared on the screen. “There’s no bathroom for the children. That’s urine.”

Two women laughed as they described how hard it was to cook a meal over a fire. Tears came to another woman’s eyes as she contrasted the poverty of the people to their joy in worship and willingness to give.

Tears came to my eyes, and to the eyes of those around me, when another woman listed staggering HIV statistics for the Congo. Thousands diagnosed daily. Children orphaned by the hour. The work being done through Global Fingerprints to rescue the orphans.

What do I have to whine about?
Why am I not grateful for what’s been given me?
Why am I not using it and the energy spent complaining to solve real problems?

God, forgive me.

S’wayzee

Posted on July 28, 2011 by jphilo

Thanks to the four RAGBRAI riders who stayed at our house Tuesday night and sang Happy Birthday to me (per Hiram’s request) on Wednesday morning, my 55th birthday was the hippest jiviest, and g’day-mate-iest ever.

(I know several of you didn’t comprehend a word past “55th” because you’re thinking, “She must be yanking my chain. No way can this woman be 55. She looks so young.” Your astonishment is a welcome surprise, but really, I am 55. And really, you need to track with the RAGBRAI riders story, rather than obsessing about my amazingly youthfulness, so you can become the hippest, jiviest, and g’day-mate-iest person on your block.)

The lesson in hip-ocity began when the last two riders arrived at about 8 in the evening. Now, they were later than the first two women riders not because they were stragglers, but because they rode the 70 miles from Carroll to our fair city, plus the 30 mile loop-of-torture designed for extreme athletes who wanted to add a 100 mile notch to their bicycling belts.

Andrea came to the kitchen first and was assembling her BLT before Matt did. Being both the token male and also the token Australian in the group, maybe he found it helpful to watch the proceedings before eating. Or maybe he was just checking out the cultural landscape. Whatever the reason, he hung back a bit until I said, “This is a self-serve operation. Come on over and get something to eat.”

He picked up a plate and said, “S’wayzee!” (pronounced “swaye-zee” with emphasis on the “swaye”) with the hippest, jiviest, and g’day-mate-iest inflection ever.

Hiram and I looked at the other three riders and parroted Matt. “S’wayzee?”

“Australian for ‘so easy,’” one of them explained.

Another laughed. “We say it all the time now, too.”

“Cool.” Hiram grinned. “S’wayzee!”

We practiced the word several times before going to bed,

S’wayzee,
S’wayzee,
S’wayzee,
working on our own hip, jive, and g’day mate inflection, while hoping our 55-year-old Swiss cheese brains would remember the word in the morning.

Our hard work paid off, and we woke up on my birthday morning with “S’wayzee” tripping off our tongues. We sounded almost as hip, jive, and g’day mate as Matt. But after we waved good-bye to our overnight guests, we almost forgot the word during our morning walk.
Between the two of us we eventually remembered. Then we swaggered home as quickly as we could while maintaining our aura of hip-ocity and jivieness. I hurried to the computer and wrote this blog, preserving our new word for posterity and officially preserving my 55th birthday as the hippest, jiviest and g’day-mate-iest ever.

Being 55 is turning out to be s’wayzee…as long as I write everything down.

Don’t call Me, I’ll Call You

Posted on July 21, 2011 by jphilo

Ever since we got home from vacation, the phone has been ringing off the hook. Apparently, it rang a lot while we were gone, if the flashing number on the monitor is any indication.

But the phone calls haven’t been from friends saying they missed us.
Or from enemies who called to ask when we’re leaving again.
No, the majority of the phone calls can be categorized into one of two groups:

They are either from solicitous Southwest Airlines customer service reps reporting on the status of our lost luggage.
Or they are calls associated with the 2012 presidential election which our fair state kicks off with the Iowa caucuses.

Since our bags arrived this morning, and the Iowa Caucus isn’t until January, I’ve further divided today’s calls into three irritating categories:

Robo calls from candidates. Don’t ask what the candidates say in these calls, because once it’s clear the call is taped, I hang up. I wouldn’t hang up if the candidate made a personal call, and we shared an equal sacrifice of time. But until that happens, I’ll keep hanging up.
Robo survey calls from various political campaigns. Don’t ask what the survey questions are, because I realize it’s an automated survey, I hang up. Again, it’s an equal sacrifice of time thing.
Survey calls from real people. Once, I agreed to do one of those surveys. But about ten questions in, I opted out. Why? Because the questions were peppered with emotionally loaded words, chosen to skew the results in favor of one party or another, one candidate or another. The survey’s sponsors weren’t interested in obtaining voter opinions. They were only interested in manipulating them. So now, I say no to those surveys, too.

With January more than five months away, the hang-up-to-chat ratio will be as skewed as a political poll. In fact, I may just turn off the ringer until the caucuses are over. So if you’re a friend who wants to welcome me home or an enemy who would like to wave good-bye again, send an email, a tweet, or catch me on Facebook.

I’ll get back to you. I promise.

Only in Iowa

Posted on July 5, 2011 by jphilo

Only in Iowa is the passing of the State Fair butter cow sculptress a front page story in major newspapers. And the topic of state newspaper columnists. And a lead story on TV and radio broadcasts.

Only in my Iowa childhood was the famed butter cow sculptress’s name worthy of dropping at family and social gatherings. “Norma ‘Duffy’ Lyons?” my mother remarked whenever the opportunity arose. “The State Fair butter cow sculptress? She and Harlan went to Iowa State University together.” The pride in Mom’s voice was unmistakable.

Dad grinned and nodded right along with Mom from 1960, when Norma assumed the mantle of butter cow creator, until his death in 1997. He couldn’t remember his kids’ names for the last 10 years of his life, but when Mom mentioned Norma and her creamy creations, his face lit up with a look that could have melted butter.

Norma wielded her butter knife until 2005 when a stroke ended her long career, and the apprentice she had trained for several years took over. Dad’s former classmate died on June 26, 2011 of another stroke. When I called Mom and told her, she answered excitedly, “Norma ‘Duffy’ Lyon? The butter cow sculptress? She and Harlan went to Iowa State University together, you know.”

“I remember hearing that,” I replied.

“Her maiden name was Stong,” Mom went on. “So Norma and Harlan were seated alphabetically in class. Stong, then Stratton.”

This was new information, and a new and elevated level of name dropping, to boot. What’s more, Mom’s facts were confirmed in a newspaper story in the Des Moines Sunday Register which says Phil Stong, the author of the novel State Fair, was Norma’s uncle. I marveled at Mom’s ability to recall facts, especially in light of our shopping trip last week when she had to ask three times about who would receive the anniversary cards she’d picked out. (The answer is me & my sweetie and Anne & her sweetie if you’re wondering.)

Only in Iowa would the name of a butter cow sculptress revive memories in minds ravaged by multiple sclerosis and Alzheimer’s. Which reinforces a belief that grows dearer the longer I live in this small, rural, unpretentious, sweet-as-butter state.

Only in Iowa is where I want to live.

Make Camp Crook a Household Name

Posted on May 26, 2011 by jphilo

The weather’s been in the news lately, garnering almost as much attention as Oprah’s farewell.

The tornado devastation in Joplin, Missouri.
Followed by more tornadoes in Oklahoma City.
Preceded by the tornadoes in Birmingham, Alabama and other southeastern states.
Not to mention the annual watch on the Red River near Fargo, North Dakota.
The watch on the Mississippi River as the swelling waters head south.
And the floods in a bunch of little towns in southeastern Montana.

Say what? You haven’t heard about the last one?

Well, it did make NPR’s national news broadcast over the weekend. But, it’s not in a high population area (unless you’re counting antelope and jack rabbits), and its annihilation scale won’t reach that of Joplin, Missouri (for which I am thankful), so the reporters have been busy there. And with Oprah, of course.

But at our house, the Little Missouri flood on the South Dakota/Montana border where we used to live, is big news. People have been evacuated. Officials were worried the bridge into Camp Crook would give out. There was talk of cutting the road to keep that from happening.

The flood pictures I’ve seen don’t do the situation justice. Most of the time, the Little Missouri is a tame, winding river. A sorry excuse for a river, really. When we lived there, its sluggish flow and scummy side pools made it good for nothing except breeding mosquitos, which it did with a vengeance. And that was in the wet years.

To see more pictures and even a short video, visit the Harding County FaceBook page. If you aren’t on FaceBook, sorry! They haven’t posted the video on YouTube. If you are on FaceBook, would you do me a favor? Pass the link along to your friends. Maybe it’ll go viral, and Camp Crook, South Dakota and the Little Missouri River will the talk of cyberspace.
Maybe even bigger than Oprah.

Not gonna happen you say? Well, in the early 1980s no one thought a young woman with an unusual name would become a talk show maven, a media mogul, and a first name phenomenon, now did they?

So go ahead. Pass it on. This could be the start of something big!

Almost Spring – Recycled

Posted on April 5, 2011 by jphilo

It’s almost spring, and I can hardly wait for it to arrive. A look back at previous early posts shows this longing for spring is an annual event. This post shows that the spring of 2009 was full of almosts, spring surprises, and good friends.

Almost – Recycled

It’s almost spring, the calendar says, but the weather’s cold again today. Through the garden debris, the columbine are almost ready to unfurl their leaves. The peony tips are visible, almost pushing through the black dirt.

My life is a reflection of my flower garden. Mom’s house is almost sold, we’ve cleared out almost all it’s contents, and I’ve almost figured out her finances. I’m almost done going through the editor’s suggestions for A Different Dream, the mystery manuscript is almost done, and I’m almost ready for a speaking engagement. My house is almost in order, the bathrooms are almost clean, and I almost have the weekend menu planned.

The problem is, just like spring, I’m stuck at almost. As soon as I almost finish something, something more serious arises and I have abandon what’s almost done to address the other. Almost finished projects are piling up so fast they’re almost drowning me.

All I can do until April 10, when we close on Mom’s house, is make peace with the almosts. My friend came up with a perfect way to do it. We’re going to hear the author Bill Bryson speak at Drake University tonight. He’s a Des Moines native who lives in England and almost never gets back to Iowa. The talk will be an almost perfect ending to an almost winter day in what claims to be spring. And to think, I almost missed the opportunity.

Thanks for inviting me, Cindy.

Down the Gravel Road www.jolenephilo.com

Category Archives: Current Events