by jphilo | May 11, 2011 | Out and About
Last night my sister and I went to the Minneapolis Guthrie Theater production of the comedy classic, Arsenic and Old Lace. You know, the one with the two little old lady maiden aunts who take in lonely, old men as borders. Once they determine the denominational affiliation of the boarders, they offer them elderberry wine laced with poison. Then, they bury the bodies in the cellar, after conducting a funeral service in keeping with the deceased religious leanings. The aunts and their nephew, Teddy, call the cellar Panama. Cause Teddy believes he’s Theodore Roosevelt and obediently digs graves in Central America whenever the aunts turn up another yellow fever victim.
Of course, the Guthrie’s production was just a wee bit better than the high school and community theater productions I’ve seen. The Guthrie troupe added an extra dash of excitement when the loudspeaker system aired a tornado warning part way through the first act. True professionals, the actors finished the act without missing a beat. The audience members stayed in their seats, as instructed by a loud speaker announcement once the actors left the stage. I don’t know why the others didn’t head to lower ground, but the penny pinching roots my sister and I share kept us in our seats. We intended to get full value from our discounted, rush seats, by golly. Periodically, reassuring updates came over the loudspeaker.Once in a while my sister said, “I want to go to Panama.” Other than that and a vigilant watch for airborne old ladies riding bicycles, we weathered the storm with great dignity. Once the storm passed, the performance resumed, and a good time was had by all.
At least until I remembered my previous theater-going experience in April. During a performance at our daughter’s college, we heard rain pounding on the roof. Then my cousin received a text from her husband at home 20 miles away: Tornado warnings & hail all around. Check weather before u come home. The bad weather missed us, but I see a disturbing trend developing here? So what do you think?
Should I warn people who invite me to the theater?
Or should I deflect bad weather by suggesting we skip theater and rent Red Box movies?
Or should I register as an early weather alert system?
I could notify the nearest National Weather Service any time a theater performance is on my schedule. Then they could issue a tornado warning and suggest that everyone immediately seek shelter in Panama.
It has possibilities, don’t you think?
by jphilo | Apr 7, 2011 | Out and About
Every time I travel by airplane, my empathy for the Plains Indians grows. Those of you scratching your heads, and wondering what air travel and the Lone Ranger have in common probably didn’t teach social studies to third and fourth graders. I’ll explain so you can go back to believing you’re smarter than a fourth grader.
Third and fourth graders read lots of legends. One describes how the nomadic life of Plains Indians was limited by how much people could carry from place to place. Some enterprising tribes hitched sled-type carts to dogs to haul more stuff. But for the most part, New World travelers were limited to the indigenous equivalent of one personal item and one carry on item, with all three ounce bottles of gels and liquids in zippered plastic bags, when they were out and about.
The more I travel by air, the more I feel like a blonde Indian squaw packing for a trip across Ioway or the Dakotas. First I pack every single thing necessary for a delightful and profitable trip:
- Scentless soap root, youth-enhancing mud facial masks, dried fruit for regularity.
- The five sets of quilled buckskins picked up at Eddie Bauer’s 70% off sale.
- Slip on/slip off moccasins for security check in.
- Dressy moccasins for speaking engagements.
- Comfy, fur lined undergarments.
- A generous supply of soft leaves and cattail fluff for hygiene purposes.
- All the latest technological communication gadgets – firewood for smoke signals, blades of grass for whistling, dried gourds filled with seeds and the like.
- A variety of sharp sticks so I can trace promotional copy in the dirt along the way.
I try to lift my luggage.
Impossible.
Reality sets in. I unpack and repack, unpack and repack, discarding treasures until I’m able to tote that barge and lift that bale. Then off I go, traveling light with the clothes on my back, and two pieces of luggage containing a handful of dried fruit, a bundle of firewood and one sharp writing stick. Talk about limiting my business prospects!
The Plains Indians’ prospects didn’t improve until Old World shipwrecks, sailors, and soldiers unleashed horses in the Americas. Once the Indians tamed Trigger and turned him into a pack animal, life started looking up for the Sioux, the Cheyenne, the Crow, and other tribes.
I’m thinking the horse solution will be a hard sell to the airlines. They could say no immediately, even. So my career advances at a snail’s pace thanks to air travel luggage restrictions. The slow down gives my inner squaw plenty of time to appreciate the New World amenities that rendered soft leaves and cat tail fluff obsolete.
Now, your average fourth grader has no idea of what I’m talking about. On the other hand, you are growing increasingly thankful for toilet paper, Kotex, and Depends the more you think about soft leaves and cat tail fluff.
You really are smarter than a fourth grader.
by jphilo | Apr 4, 2011 | Out and About
Okay, okay, so the title doesn’t pack the alliteration punch of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. But, Starbucks and cherry blossoms were the two big disappointments of this trip to DC. The weather was too darn cold, wet, and gloomy to ride the hotel shuttle to the Metro station and catch a train to the Tidal Basin. By the time the sun came out and the weather warmed up, I was worn out from the conference, in no mood for a solitary adventure. So my camera never saw daylight, my hopes of wowing you with a picture of cherry blossoms are dashed, and the only picture that came close to the subject is this one of cherry pie.
My search for Starbucks (a big treat for this small town girl) was nearly as futile as the blossom failure. When there was time to get a cup of coffee, no shop could be found. When there was a shop on every corner, I didn’t have time to stop. Time and access finally converged while I waited for my flight at the Dulles Airport. Delicious!
So the Dulles Airport gets a thumbs up for Starbucks, another thumbs up for long open terminal where middle-aged women obsessed with exercising can do laps, but a thumbs down for no free Wi-Fi. Either middle-aged women obsessed with exercising get a smart phone so they can check Twitter and Facebook without paying a small fortune for airport internet access or they confine their travels to Omaha and Phoenix, which offer the service for free.
Of course, this trip wasn’t really about cherry blossoms and Starbucks. Those would have been icing on the Accessibility Summit cake. But the cake was wonderful without them. Temple Grandin’s keynote was fantastic and watching her interact with fans was fascinating. (Fantastic, fans, and fascinating in the same sentence. Take that, John Steinbeck!) John Sheptock’s story and singing were sensational (more alliteration), and I actually walked past him in the hotel and at the Summit a couple times. And in the conference exhibit hall, several people made beelines to my table and made comments like, “This is the book I wanted to get,” or “My friend bought a copy, read a few chapters, and said I needed to get it, too.”
I met so many people passionate about improving the lives of individuals and families dealing with special needs. I gained so much knowledge at workshops about resources for families, churches, and caregivers. I matched names to faces and made new friends.
But the highlight of the trip was the response from parents and pastors at my workshop about grief and guilt in parents of kids with special needs. I didn’t think anyone would attend such a Debbie Downer, but people did. Not only that, they nodded through the whole thing. Pastors thanked me for giving them insight. Parents thanked me for talking about the forbidden subject. “You know how we feel,” they said with tears in their eyes. “You know.”
So forget the cherry blossoms and Starbucks coffee. This weekend was all about pastors learning to minister to wounded families. It was a place for parents to salve their souls with the balm of Gilead. It was a time of hope of healing.
And that, John Steinbeck, packs a powerful punch.
by jphilo | Apr 1, 2011 | Out and About
Just so you know, this post is not an April Fool’s joke. I really am in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia (just outside Washington DC) for the Accessibility Summit at McLean Bible Church. To be accurate, the Summit begins later today, and I’m hanging out in the hotel business area because a new heater and AC unit is being installed in my room. My theory is that the CIA has hidden cameras in all hotel rooms in these parts, so they decoded my mutterings when the noisy heater woke me repeatedly in the night. Who says our government isn’t responsive?
The longer I sit here and people watch, the more glaringly apparent it becomes that I’m not in Kansas (yes, I live in Iowa, but please work with me) any more. Even though I read plenty of David Baldacci thrillers, Lisa Scottoline legal mysteries, Mrs. Pollifax CIA romps, and other fiction set on the East Coast to prepare me for this culture shock, it didn’t work. This midwestern gal is jaw-droppingly agog at the accents (this morning’s mix included British, Australian, Jersey, New York, and perhaps German), not to mention the fashion show that began in the Chicago airport yesterday and shows no sign of ending any time soon.
The most noticeable fashion statement thus far is the knee high, calf-hugging boots with three inch heels. Sported mostly by younger women who don’t yet realize “Bunion Builders” is the CIA code name for these boots, they look – well – really expensive, uncomfortable, and positively anti-midwestern.
The second most noticeable statement has been skin tight leggings, sometimes worn with bunion builders, sometimes under baggy, flowing shirts, and sometimes with short shirts and presumably thong underwear since no one had unsightly pantie lines. Apparently, fat jiggles are not considered unsightly in this neck of the woods. This is also anti-midwestern. In that part of the country, there are more fat jiggles per capita, but their owners tend to keep them well hidden.
I’m coping with the culture shock as well as can be expected. So far, I’ve resisted the infrequent urges to buy a pair of bunion builders, squeeze into leggings, or purchase thong underwear. Quite a feat of self-control for this midwestern, former school teacher who holds the door open for strangers, wears flat shoes and khaki pants, and knows better than to hug a Lutheran.
Just to be on the safe side, I’m making a list of anyone who looks like they work for the CIA, starting with the guys installing the heater in my hotel room. Once I get back home, I’ll mail it to the agency with an instructive note about how to make their spies blend in a little better, possibly by hiring midwestern women with sensible shoes, contained cellulite, sensible underwear, and absolutely no accent.
It worked for Mrs. Pollifax.
It could work for me.
Ya, shure, you betcha!
by jphilo | Mar 25, 2011 | Out and About
One look at the snow on the ground this morning, and I was ready to kiss my daily walk good-bye. Though convinced I had several good reasons to indulge in an old-fashioned pout – a headache, tired from traveling, sun-starved, long winter, worn out from book writing – something held me back.
Instead of complaining, I bundled up for the weather and walked early, before I could talk myself out of it. Of course, the temptation to grinch and grouse remained. The only way to shake it was to think of a reason to smile each time temptation reared it’s ugly head.
I’m a gifted complainer, so the list was embarrassingly long by the end of my walk. But, I pared down the list down knowing you don’t have time to read the whole list. Plus, with me being so humble, I don’t want my amazing talent as a complainer to make you jealous. So here are the top ten reasons for smiling on a snowy March day.
One look at the snow on the ground this morning, and I was ready to kiss my daily walk good-bye. Though convinced I had several good reasons to indulge in an old-fashioned pout – a headache, tired from traveling, sun-starved, long winter, worn out from book writing – something held me back.
- The snow didn’t keep the cardinals from singing or the robins from flying around.
- I saw a bald eagle swoop down to catch it’s prey the other day. Not in Alaska, not by a river, but in a ditch beside an Iowa farm field. Never thought that would happen in my lifetime.
- On the second half of my walk, the snow was starting to melt.
- This week I stayed overnight with Anne and her husband. They are so happy, were
happy to see me, and openly share their hopes and dreams.
- Before I spoke to a MOPS group yesterday, a young mom told about how A Different
Dream for My Child ministered to her after the birth of her daughter.
- On snowy days, there’s no need to step around the dying earthworms that litter the
ground on rainy days.
- At the same MOPS meeting, I met the aunt of a college classmate. We’ve now
connected on Facebook.
- Sioux Center (where the MOPS meeting was held) has a really good coffee shop.
Hooray for The Fruited Plain on Highway 75! Anne, her husband and I went there for
spaghetti night Wednesday. All you can eat for $6.99. Only in Iowa.
- The final edit of Different Dream Parenting may get done today. Which means the
manuscript will beat the April 1 deadline. Yahoo!
- I am 54 and able to walk several miles a day. The path is lovely and safe, the air is
clear, and the birds sing even on snowy days.
So, what’s making you smile this wintery March day? Please add to the list!
by jphilo | Feb 22, 2011 | Out and About
This morning, I was feeling sorry for myself, stuck in Iowa for the entire winter, slogging through the rewrites of my new book, day dreaming about February of 2009 when Hiram, my sister, and I went to sunny southern California for a long weekend visit with an elderly relative. This post from February 27 of that year shows that the trip was not the completely idyllic interlude of my recollection. It also reminds me of the parents who found comfort in my first book, A Different Dream for My Child, and who want to read the second one, Different Dream Parenting.
It’s also the perfect segue into a reminder for readers. The Readers’ Choice Awards contest is still on, and A Different Dream for My Child is one of five finalists, presently in third place. The hot and heavy voting continues, and you can vote once a day, every day, through March 8 at about.com. Thanks!
Waiting for the Ocean View
Okay, go ahead and laugh. We’re not in California and won’t get there until this evening since our morning flight to Minneapolis was delayed (mandatory rest for crew) so we missed our connecting flight. Our new flight doesn’t leave until later this afternoon, so Hiram and I are enjoying a day in the Omaha airport. Guess we can check that one off our Bucket Lists.
My sister, who drove to the Minneapolis airport through the snow, made her connection just fine. And to think that last night we were congratulating ourselves for picking the cheaper Omaha flight and missing the Minnesota snowstorm we would have driven through to fly out with her. She’s a really good sister. She didn’t even say “I told you so.”
But to wet my ocean whistle, I found this photo I took a few years ago. My friend, Helen, and I had a great afternoon, walking on the Atlantic beach and wading through the warm August ocean. After visiting Helen for a few days, I went to a writers’ conference near Boston. At that conference I hatched the idea for A Different Dream for My Child with the woman who advocated for my book and Discovery House Publishers and is now my editor.
This morning, we chatted with our linemates as we inched toward the ticket counter. We talked about our jobs and my book came up. One man asked how he could buy the book. He and his wife have one child, a five-year-old son with severe autism. I directed him to my website and gave him my business card, wishing the book was already published. Suddenly, the line moved. He went one way, we went another.
Afterwards I realized I didn’t know his name. But his son’s a beautiful, brown-eyed boy named Conner. And Conner’s dad said what every parent who needs the book says when they hear its title. “That’s exactly what it is,” he said. “A Different Dream, not a bad one.”
His attitude put one less day at the beach in perspective. It’s a different dream, not a bad one.
