by jphilo | Sep 24, 2009 | Current Events
A recent entry at Justin Taylor’s blog Between Two Worlds almost blew my socks off. He quoted from a blog entry by Stephen Von Worley. Von Worley was contemplating the McDonaldization of America and decided to locate the farthest point from an Mc Donalds in the contiguous United States. Here’s what he found:
As expected, McDonald’s cluster at the population centers and hug the highway grid. East of the Mississippi, there’s wall-to-wall coverage, except for a handful of meager gaps centered on the Adirondacks, inland Maine, the Everglades, and outlying West Virginia.
For maximum McSparseness, we look westward, towards the deepest, darkest holes in our map: the barren deserts of central Nevada, the arid hills of southeastern Oregon, the rugged wilderness of Idaho’s Salmon River Mountains, and the conspicuous well of blackness on the high plains of northwestern South Dakota. There, in a patch of rolling grassland, loosely hemmed in by Bismarck, Dickinson, Pierre, and the greater Rapid City-Spearfish-Sturgis metropolitan area, we find our answer.Between the tiny Dakotan hamlets of Meadow and Glad Valley lies the McFarthest Spot: 107 miles distant from the nearest McDonald’s, as the crow flies, and 145 miles by car! Suffer a Big Mac Attack out there, and you’re hurtin’ for certain! For a coupla hours, at least, unless graced by the tender blessings of “manna from heaven” – that is, a fast food air drop from the Medi-Copter.
So what’s the big deal? Those “tiny hamlets of Meadow and Glad Valley” were part of our old South Dakota stomping grounds. Our personal hamlet, Camp Crook, was about 75 miles straight west of Meadow, much tinier than the McFarthest spot, and didn’t have nearly as many paved roads.
What were we doing for the first three precarious years of Allen’s life, living so far from civilization? Answer: We didn’t know how bad we had it. Like Stephen Von Worley, we thought the most isolated part of the United States was far, far away in the rugged west, not in our back yard.
If we had known the truth, would we have skedaddled sooner than we did? Maybe, but as Hiram said when he read the report, “There we were on the edge of nowhere and look at the support we received from the people.” Maybe they supported us because they weren’t distracted by civilization – McDonalds and movies and shopping malls and inconsequentials – and had time to prop up two bewildered young parents day after difficult day.
Whatever the reasons, when I think of our seven years near the McFarthest Spot and the way the far flung community rallied round us, the truth is evident. During those years we didn’t leave civilization. We found it.
by jphilo | Sep 14, 2009 | Current Events
You may not believe this, but the rodent war, which formerly was confined to our little gravel road, has gone citywide. The invasion began yesterday, on a Sunday morning, if you can believe it, during church. Our congregation currently meets in our high school auditorium, and about halfway through the pastor’s sermon, a mouse joined him on the stage.
The little critter stuck to the shadows as much as possible and didn’t make a sound, stealthily scampering across the stage behind the pastor. But as we all know, cameo appearances can be show stoppers, and this one certainly was. So sermon waited until the newest member of our congregation negotiated his way past the set for the next high school play, jumped over the worship band’s power cords, and made his stage right exit.
Apparently, the little fellow was as impressed as I was with the pastors exposition of Mark 6:33-44, where Jesus feeds the five thousand, or maybe he was really, really hungry. Because a few minutes later, Mr. Mouse joined the crowd seated in the auditorium. Well, as you can imagine, things went a little crazy for a little while, until two valiant men, Mick and Perry, armed with empty coffee cups, live-trapped the little guy into Perry’s wife’s book bag. Wild applause followed them out the building where they released the interloper. By the time they returned, the pastor had ended his live feed, internet coverage of the action and resumed point five of the sermon.
As far as we know, the mouse did not return. He certainly didn’t come forward for communion, which would have been the logical next appearance. I mean think about it, a school mouse subsists on gum stuck to the bottom of chairs, which has to lead to poor nutrition and miserable digestion. The poor little guy must be continually plugged up. Some fresh bread and grape juice would be just what the veterinarian ordered, but then again, maybe the trip in the book bag shook things loose, so to speak. Hmm…I sure hope Perry’s wife did laundry yesterday afternoon.
Anyway, I’m wondering what the high school fall play is. Based on the set and the sneak preview, I’m thinking Of Mice and Men. But if you have another idea, please leave a comment. And keep your eyes peeled for rodents in all the wrong places and keep your book bags open. This could get ugly, folks.
by jphilo | May 4, 2009 | Current Events
Last Friday afternoon, I went to a reunion. Fourteen of my favorite people in the whole world came to the elementary school where we did fourth grade together. We gathered, a few weeks shy of their high school graduation, to open the time capsule they put together about this time eight years ago.
The young men were so tall and deep-voiced, it took a few minutes for me to match them with the little boys who hugged me good-bye almost a decade ago. The young women were poised and lovely, the fulfullment of the promises I had glimpsed beyond their ponytails and the chipmunk teeth that overpowered their nine-year-old faces. Not everyone returned for the festivities. Some I couldn’t locate. Some lived too far away to return for the party. Some chose not to come. Their absence was an emptiness in the crowded room.
My former students looked different, but their chatter was the same, as they watched the videos of their fourth grade year. Squeals of laughter and little screams filled the room as they found photographs of our Halloween party, field trips and playground fun. They read the stories they had written, full of their perfect penmanship and childhood wishes. “I don’t remember much of fourth grade,” several confessed. But by the end of the afternoon, they did – the broken clipboard, the multiplication songs, our class fundraiser, science experiments, social studies presentations, and one book they said impressed them: a true story written by children’s author Peg Kehret about her childhood battle with polio.
Eight years ago when these kids entered my classroom, they wormed their way into my heart. They’ve been there ever since. As they came up one by one to open the little token they placed in the time capsule, I marveled at the young adults they’ve become and rejoiced to hear of the dreams they have for the future.
Nothing dimmed the magic of the afternoon. For an hour, the soon-to-graduate seniors were fourth graders again, and I was their teacher. And I prayed that the memories of childhood and the sweetness of our days together will be one small, link in the chain of events that holds them up and carries them into the future. In that future, I hope they will experience one of the greatest privileges I have ever known: to watch a youngster discover the potential he’s been given and then use it to give to others.
by jphilo | Apr 28, 2009 | Current Events
One of our favorite people in the whole world ate supper with us last night. Adrian, a Romanian foreign exchange student who lived with us for several months in 2001, was back in Iowa for a week before starting his new job in Singapore. He walked in the kitchen, and it was as if he’d never left, as if we were still an integral part of his life.
The best things about Adrian remained unchanged – his enthusiasm for adventure and travel, his love for his family and his delight in the people who have been part of his life. But, as we caught up on each other’s lives, we could see how our boy has changed. His story of landing his first job showed us how determined he’s become, how serious he is about contributing to society, how sober he is about the present financial downturn.
Allen’s attitude on the phone last weekend was a duplicate of Adrian’s. He was serious about life, grateful to have found his dream job in a down economy, responsible and optimistic, apprehensive about the future, but determined to move forward.
I reflected on their similar attitudes and realized what has happened to them since 2001. In spite of the times, or perhaps because of them, our boys have become men. Unless I am mistaken, they will be fine men, the kind who not only make the world a better place, but also find joy while doing so, even when times are hard.
Our boys are men, and my heart is glad.
by jphilo | Apr 7, 2009 | Current Events
Seven inches of snow fell Sunday, the wet heavy kind that weighs down a shovel and burns out a snowblower’s engine if the person using it isn’t careful. Thankfully, Hiram was careful, and what we couldn’t scoop away is melting fast.
The storm threatened to destroy my good humor, since the only reason I have any good humor this time of year is the hope of spring being just around the corner. In a desperate attempt to maintain a good attitude, I made a what-the-snow-is-good-for list while I walked: the flowering trees are less likely to bud early and be destroyed in a late frost; ditto for the tulips, daffodils, and other spring bulbs; the moisture is good for the farmland; spring fever among students of all ages won’t start so early; it’s easy to see the cardinals against the snow.
I reached the bridal wreath spirea hedge that borders the north edge of our property about when my Sister Mary Sunshine attitude started to wear on me. The bushes were bent nearly double under the weight of the snow, just like they bow beneath the splendor of their thick, white blossoms each May. Two years ago, I remembered, a late frost robbed the hedge of it’s white May crown. But two days ago the snow lay, sparkling and white, a foretaste of what is to come.
My good humor restored, I finished my walk. Who can be grumpy after finding spring’s crown buried under seven inches of hope?
by jphilo | Apr 3, 2009 | Current Events
Bill Bryson packed the house at Drake University last night. My friend and I, along with a whole lot of other Iowans, crowded into the Knapp Center so we could see the home town author who made it to the big time. We arrived a half hour early and were among the last to find chairs in the original seating area, though we had to divide and conquer to do it. I found an empty chair three seats in from the aisle. Getting the attention of the occupants of the first two seats was a challenge. The gentleman on the aisle sat with his head bowed, eyes closed, and his fingers in his ears. The woman beside him, I presume his wife, was intent upon the book she was reading.
Three loud “Excuse mes” and a tap on the shoulder later, I got their attention and squeezed past them to take my seat. The man returned to his meditation, the woman went back to reading, and I peeked at her book. The chapter title was “Sex and Other Diversions.” Then I saw the book title, The Life and Time of the Thunderbolt Kid. She was reading Bryson’s growing-up-in-Des Moines memoir, specifically the chapter where he spends years trying to get into the peep show at the Iowa State Fair. A hilarious read, but the woman never cracked a smile.
That changed when Bryson took the stage and told his stories. He had everyone laughing at his “You Know You’re an Iowan If…” list. His affectionate memories of life as a child in 1950s and 60s Des Moines had us crying, and the excerpts he read from his books held us spellbound. The whole evening was a giant family/school roast/reunion, a complete delight. For me the highlight of the night came during the open microphone Q and A time at the end. An elderly gentleman came to the mike, corrected an error in Bryson’s memoir, then revealed his identity. He had been Bryson’s Roosevelt High School English teacher.
The evening was magical and memorable, totally unique. I can’t recreate the experience, but I can enjoy more Bryson humor in his wonderful books. You can, too. Pick up his books at the library or the book store. Start reading and start laughing. And you’ll wish you’d start wishing you’d grown up in 1950s and 60s Iowa with those of us who did.
