by jphilo | Nov 19, 2010 | Out and About
This past Wednesday and Thursday, I went on a short speaking junket. One gig was in Iowa, not too far north of here. But the other was in southern Minnesota – smack dab in the center of where the snow hit last Saturday. Which means I got an unwanted taste of winter, even though according to the calendar winter doesn’t officially begin for a month and two days. But who’s counting?
My clothing choices for the trip indicate I was in denial about the approach of winter.
Fall outfits.
Spring jacket.
No boots.
No winter coat.
No blanket, flashlight, candle or chocolate bar for a survival kit.
The lack of preparedness wasn’t a problem for the first speaking engagement in civilized northern Iowa. They had no snow, the temperature was tolerable, and the sun was shining. But the drive on I-35 in Minnesota, en route was a different story.
About one mile over the border, and snow dusted the ditches. By Albert Lea, little clumpy piles lined the shoulders. A few miles further, and I decided it was time to shop for the item most essential to a winter survival kit: chocolate. Thankfully, the Russel Stovers Outlet Store was between my car and my son and new daughter’s apartment, where I was headed for the night.
The survival kit worked because I made it to their place safely and satisfied.
I had to borrow my new daughter’s winter coat for my walk the next morning. And I wondered if my perky jacket and skirt was wise attire with the outdoor temperature 24 degrees and holding steady on the drive to St. James before noon. But I arrived safely, and the trip home later that afternoon was without incident, too.
Probably because of the dandy survival kit which I kept by my side at all times.
The kit worked so well, I’m not adding anything to it. Why toy with perfection by adding a musty blanket? Or a flashlight? I mean, think of the damage the batteries could do if they burst and acid leached into the chocolate. Come to think of it, what if the contents of the survival kit attract Mickey and Minnie in the night. To be on the safe side, I’ll keep the survival kit in the house. Right by my side. So I remember to put it in the car next time I go anywhere.
You know, I’m kinda looking forward to winter after all.
by jphilo | Oct 18, 2010 | Out and About
Yesterday afternoon the weather was October bright and sunny, perfect for a drive to northwest Iowa. There are plenty of state highways that wind from where I live to where I needed to be, plenty of ways to vary the route. But most of the highways in that part of our state are two lane roads. Which means the speed limit is 55, practically crawling along.
But this time of year, in a state covered with drying soy bean and corn fields ready for harvest, 55 miles an hour is a luxury on dry, sunny, October days. Slow-moving vehicles – combines, tractors pulling grain wagons full or empty, and grain trucks – crowd the highways as the farmers scurry to harvest the fruit of the past year’s labor.
Stuck behind the giant farm machines, I had time to observe the activity in the fields. Combines ate rows of corn in giant mouthfuls, spitting the golden kernels in the wagons following in tandem. In other fields, the bounty already devoured and carted away, farmers steered tractors down stubbly rows, disking the rubble into the black dirt.
Trailing behind lumbering, clanging wagons, I took in the last, mad, magnificent gasp of fall. Milkweed pods were bursting open in the ditches. Blossoming mums created splashes of bright color beside farm houses and barns. Grain dust turned the sunset pink and lovely. Trees glowed gold and red and orange along the banks of wayward cricks and streams. The rustling, crackling ditch grasses swayed in the light breeze.“Slow down,” they whispered. “You move too fast. Got to make the moment last.”
Calmed by their soft whisper, I patiently plied the breaks. Smiling, I hummed a little Simon and Garfunkel under my breath, and relished the drive.
by jphilo | Sep 30, 2010 | Out and About
Yesterday, I swam in waters unfamiliar to this midwestern woman. I flew from Minneapolis to Chicago in the morning, attended a meeting, and then returned to Minneapolis. In some circles, that’s called “flying for business.” In my circles, it’s called “Jolene, don’t you go gettin’ the big head.”
Not much chance of that happening, since I’m still wide-eyed and white-knuckled after navigating the Minneapolis freeway system on my own and riding the light rail train for the first time. None of that would have happened without my big sister accompanying me for a test drive of the route the night before and providing hospitality this week. Since we were raised in the same anti-hoopla circle, she made sure I got where I was going and kept a sharp eye out for any sign of ”gettin’ the big head.”
Good thing she’s around, keeping me from getting too big for my britches, since yesterday’s trip included some hoity-toity traveling companions. To be specific, the Viking Cheerleaders. They’re expensive haircuts, dark tans, French nails, toned bodies and perky attitudes almost rendered the purple proclamation “I’m a Viking Cheerleader” on their tight, skimpy, neon-yellow tee shirts unnecessary. Still, it was good to have the hunch confirmed.
So you know, the cheerleaders traveled in economy seating with the rest of us peons. And they had trouble finding space for their carry on luggage in the overhead bins along with the rest of us peons. In fact, one of them confess this to the stewardess. “We’re going to Iraq to do a USO show for the troops, and the bags have all our costumes and pompoms, in case the rest of our luggage gets lost.”
Well, those words wiped away any smugness I was feeling about not filling the bins with my carry on luggage, beings I was doing a day trip. The rest of the way to Chicago, I tried to reconcile the idea of their skimpy outfits and toned bodies with their destination. I’m thinking they have burkas in their back packs….dark purple emblazoned with the yellow neon proclamation, “I’m a Vikings Cheerleader,” and sporting strategically placed, sparkly pompoms.
Nothing like flying with altruistic Viking Cheerleaders to me keep from getting the big head about my first, and perhaps only, jet setting business trip. same day. Proximity to cheerleaders has always been an effective way to their strengths and my weaknesses.
Some things never change.
by jphilo | Sep 21, 2010 | Out and About
I spent a few days in my home town last week. As is the case whenever I visit, it seemed like nothing had changed – our old house, church, school and neighborhood were comfortingly the same. Then again, everything had changed. I can’t get used to the college being gone or the football stadium sporting red paint instead of black.
One of the best recent changes in Le Mars is a new coffee shop, Habitue. It meets trio of travel requirements: great coffee, relaxing atmosphere, and free Wi-Fi. Friday, I spent a comfortable and delicious morning at Habitue. When I left the shop after a couple hours of productive work, the building across the street caught my eye. In the olden days, it was the Spurgeon’s Department Store. For the past few years, it’s been an antique mall, but these days, the front and side walls are hard-pressed to remain upright.
“What happened?” I asked my cousin.
She explained that Wells Blue Bunny (yes, my home town is also home to Wells Blue Bunny Ice Cream) purchased the building to house an ice cream parlor and museum. “But when they gutted it,” she went on, “the roof and the back walls collapsed. Now they’re in litigation, trying to determine who’s at fault – the engineering firm that said the structure could safely be gutted, or the contractor for doing the work incorrectly.”
For some reason the building, propped up with the help of wooden braces and trees visible through the glassless second story windows made me happy. This evidence of man’s intentions gone wrong comforted me to no end.
See, lately my inadequacies have confronted me daily – even hourly. Book sales are dismal and nothing I do boosts them. That means the parents who need the encouragement the book gives aren’t being encouraged. They are struggling alone, which breaks my heart. I have failed to complete the work God gave me to do.
But the building says that I’m in good company. Wealthy men and women in charge of big companies, with access to large sums of money and the advice of experts fail, too. Their dreams collapse. Their best efforts aren’t good enough. The building, working so hard to stay upright on main street in my home town, reminds everyone who walks by that someone tried. Someone took a risk. Someone tried to effect change.
“And so did I.” I whisper while opening the car door and placing my computer bag on the passenger seat. “So did I.”
by jphilo | Sep 15, 2010 | Out and About
Last night, I sat at our monthly writers’ group, barely able to stay awake. After two days of traveling to speaking engagements, exhaustion weighing on my shoulders and eyelids. Finally, too tired to follow the conversation and critiques, I excused myself and went home.
A spirited internal debate kept me awake for the drive home. The government side proclaimed, “Traveling was the right thing to do.”
The opposition sliced that argument to bits. “The trip was a waste of time. Monday night’s engagement was poorly attended.”
“Only because of bad weather,” the government countered.
The opposition ignored the outbreak and continued. “And Tuesday at the lunch meeting, all the women were over the age of 60. Not even the right audience for you book. For effective marketing, you should focus only on potential readers. Stop wasting your time.”
I steered the car up our driveway and declared the opposition the winner. My efforts over the last two days had resulted in a fog of exhaustion, nothing more. What was I doing, frittering away precious days like this?
A good night’s sleep didn’t improve my outlook. Discouragement dogged my steps as I began my morning walk. So did the faces of two women who’d introduced themselves after I spoke.
“Thank you for telling your stories,” one said. “I lost my husband earlier this year. And today’s been a bad day.”
“How long were you married?” I asked.
“62 years.” Tears filled her eyes. “I hoped to make it through the meeting without crying.” She squeezed my hand and hurried away.
“This is the first time I’ve been here since my husband died two months ago,” the other woman confided.
“How long were you married?” I asked again.
“67 years. And I’m not complaining,” she added with a smile. “I’m not worried about where he is. Over and over he said he knew where he was going.” Tears wet her smile. “But he didn’t tell me how lonely it would be without him.”
I blinked away tears and looked around, orienting myself before walking any farther. Ah, the soybean field. Then I did a double take. The plants were gone, the field harvested. The vines and lovely purple flowers twining up the bean stalks and captured by my camera a few days earlier were no more. To think I had almost walked past them on Monday. If I hadn’t retraced my steps, the picture would have been lost.
My eyes spied a puddle of purple in the bean stubble. I pulled out my camera, and in the viewfinder saw the faces of two women. Perhaps, I thought as the camera focused, the opposition hasn’t won the debate. Perhaps the trip was not a waste of time.
by jphilo | Aug 7, 2010 | Out and About
Even though I’m really good at secret code words (ask Anne’s bridesmaids and Kailen’s bridegrooms about the dandy ones I invented during wedding week), and even though I’ve read all the Mrs. Pollifax books as part of my training to become a little old lady CIA agent, and even though I have collected a closetful of disguises and costumes over the years, the sad truth is this: I would make a terrible spy.
This truth became abundantly clear while I attended the International MOPS Convention. It was held at Kissimmee, Florida’s gigantic resort, the Gaylord Palms. The huge atrium is decorated according to theme regions like St. Augustine, the Everglades, Key West. Every area features water falls, fountains, fake lakes and tiny streams. No matter where I went water gurgled and spouted and bubbled and dripped continually. After about two days, I was ready to grab the Gaylord employees by the collar, shove ‘em against the wall, and snarl, “You want to live to see tomorrow, buster, you turn off the water and do it now.”
That’s when I realized I could never be a spy. Two drips into Chinese water torture and I’d be singing like a canary, spilling the beans, crying like a baby, divulging state secrets. You chose the phrase. I’d be doing it.
I had prepared for poor book sales at the MOPS Convention, but they weren’t too bad. I was prepared to forget everything I’d prepared for my workshop, but remembered it easily. My expectations for networking opportunities were modest, but several doors opened.
However, giving up my dream of being an old lady spy is a sore disappointment. I’ll be in mourning for a good, long time…unless the bathroom faucet is dripping at home. In that case, I’ll be grabbing my poor husband by the collar, slamming him against the wall, and snarling, “You want to live to see tomorrow, buster, you fix the faucet and do it now.”
Not a pretty picture, is it?
