by jphilo | Aug 10, 2011 | Current Events
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.
by jphilo | Jul 28, 2011 | Current Events
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.
by jphilo | Jul 21, 2011 | Current Events
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.
by jphilo | Jul 5, 2011 | Current Events
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.
by jphilo | May 26, 2011 | Current Events
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!
by jphilo | Apr 5, 2011 | Current Events
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.
