Category Archives: Crazy Funny

Oh, Deb!

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“Oh Deb, stop being so naïve!”

Those six words.  Those impactful six words. 

They were mad mumbled many many moons ago.  There I was a relatively new academic administrator at a rural community college.  I was happily dancing in a world of teaching and learning having crazy-fun.  Everything was exciting.  Everything was interesting.  Everything had an air of college importance. I am not exactly sure of my stage of newness. But, I can say that my work world was full of just pure joy at every turn. 

At that point, there was a problem cooking on campus.  It was in my area of responsibility which was a bit large at that time.  The problem was a bit more than challenging and a bit less than catastrophic. Meaning that the world of student learning was not going to come to a screeching halt, but it was going to be impacted enough to bring the challenge to the attention of several levels of leaders . . . including me. My team was up to bat and I was in the line-up.

 As the newest kid on the administrator block, I was armed with a million ideas all of which I thought were tremendous and about a teaspoon full of experience. It was an incredible moment for me and probably a slightly uncomfortable moment for my colleagues.

And my background was coming into play. For . . .  as long as I can recall, in both my work world and my personal life, I have always thought that there is no crisis that can not be solved with a little ingenuity and lots of thought and lots of hard work.

For example, I am often perplexed as to why someone hasn’t invented the flying car, or why energy hasn’t been harnessed enough to end dependance on fossil fuels, or why teletransportation isn’t a reality.  I think that someone somewhere can solve the health puzzle to the point that we all will live a century and beyond.  I think world hunger can be ended, that world peace is possible, and that goodness will win at all times over evil.  Again, all solved with a little ingenuity, lots of thought, and lots of hard work. 

So, as I approached my first big collegiate challenge as a leader of learning on my campus, I was in the land of thinking big and broad, looking at everything that could be if I just put my mind to it.  I am certain that I probably rattled off more than fifty but less than one hundred potential ideas to avert the crisis.  And I am certain that all of the ideas were great however, each one needed resources way beyond what was available and reasonable.   I was certainly standing on the mountain of dream and was ignoring the world of reality completely.

Hence came those six words – “Oh, Deb, stop being so naïve!”

For a moment, the wind was definitely punched out of my sails.  I stopped thinking about what could be with a little ingenuity, thought and hard work.  I deferred to someone who had more experience than me.  I knew it was time for me to listen, to learn, to appreciate and consider solutions to the challenge via whatever the opposite of naivety is.  

Eventually the problem was solved, and to this day, I can’t even remember if it was solved effectively or not.  All I can recall is that for a moment in time, I stopped being naïve.  I acquiesced.  I actually became something new and different, and surprisingly, the world marched on.

It was at that moment, however, that I decided to never again – for as long as I remained in my job . . . for as long as I worked with my colleagues . . . on any project . . . for any reason . .  . to ever again stop being . . . naïve.

I figured out that naïve doesn’t mean impossible.  It doesn’t mean eternally gullible.  It isn’t just pie-in-the-sky thinking.  It isn’t a calamity. 

For me being naïve opens up doors to whatever is beautiful in the world.   It means having the  ability to look beyond what might seem unlikely and improbable – and to looks towards all that happens when people focus on all that is positive and possible.  It is intentionally ignoring potential roadblocks and setbacks and everything that can and might stop great ideas from growing.  It means shutting out negative energy and acting as if it does not exist. It means not only wearing rose-colored glasses, but to love putting them on.

So if in the future, you see me in a flying car or if I randomly teleport to your location,  please thank the colleague who called me . . . naïve.

A line is a line . . . until it isn’t.

IT’S ALL GOOD

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It started out as a regular beach vacation day.  Plans were for all of us to spend the day at the shore, pretty much doing what every family does at a beach – sitting, talking, swimming, laughing, playing games, and anything else that can be done while watching and listening to the beauty of the waves.  Just about mid-morning, we trudged over to the beach with a canopy, chairs, coolers, towels, rafts, and more.  We popped up our tent and claimed our space for the day.  

Matt was along for this journey, so there was a bit more to the set up.   Earlier, we had put him into the beach wheelchair (which we rented the previous evening), pushed him not only down the lane to the nearest handicap accessible beach access point, but also through the fluffy sand until he had reached the family site.  It took a bit of effort, so it was nice to have his sister and a group of his cousins to help.  When Matt and those assisting him reached the tent, they made sure he was in the shade and was pointed towards the water.  All was good, as he would say.  

It was not unusual for Matt to be at the beach. That was something he had done many times throughout his life.  He had not, however, been in the gulf water for a very, very long time.  Without the ability to use his legs and with little ability to move his arms, swimming or just being in the water was quite challenging and a bit scary for him. Anything could happen. Especially when the waves moved the water in all directions.  He preferred to sit in the shade and spend time with all from a stationary and dry location. 

As time passed that afternoon, most of the relatives were out in the ocean swimming, with only Matt, myself, and my nephew, Will, in the shade of the tent.  Watching the others, I asked a question I had asked my son numerous times and assumed the answer would be the same.  

“Matt, would you like to swim in the ocean?”  

I expected him to say no.  As he always did. That he would be fine on shore if I’d like to go swimming. That leaving him in his shaded seat was perfectly A-Okay. That he could be on the shore by himself without problem.  

But that’s not what he said.

“Mom,” he said, “I think I’d like to get in the water.”  

I was a bit stunned.  Matt wanted to swim.  He gave the signal.  And in that moment, I could feel that an adventure was about to begin.  

My response to his request was ever-so-quick and as I soon found out ever-so-funny.   

“Matt, wait here . . . don’t move . . . I gotta go get more help . . . just stay here,” I mumbled.

And in a calm and cool voice with a sense of wit only Matt sitting in a wheelchair could have, and in a most humorous tone, before I could dash off he said, “Mom, if by some miracle I jump up and stand and move, please don’t stop me.”   

His classic sense of humor about himself and his situation gave us a moment to chuckle.   I smiled.  He smiled.  And he then pointed me onward.

Within seconds, I had rounded up all the help he needed to get into the water.  (Side note – it is much more difficult than it sounds for a near quadriplegic individual to get into the ocean.  Lots of logistics come along with making it happen.)

The first step was to get him and his wheelchair to the shore line which required some heavy duty pushing through fluffy sand.  Once we got him to the shoreline and after some conversation, we decided to keep him in the beach wheelchair and push all into the water.   

By that time, looking around at the rest of beach, it was clear that families in the nearby vicinity were watching . . .and waiting.  Pushing a guy in a beach wheelchair into the water draws attention. Clearly, our happy adventure was also turning into their happy adventure.   

Though we should have known it, we seemed to forget that the big bulky wheelchair tires, which were perfect for navigating sand and trenches, were also filled with air.  Which meant once the tires hit the water, they floated.  So as Matt entered the water, he was weaving up and down like a red and white fishing pole bobber.  The event looked like the funniest roller coaster ride ever in salt water.  Eventually using the collective weight of all of his family, he was pushed out into the water until he and everyone else was soaking wet and howling with laughter.

Though the entire activity probably took less than ten minutes, it was as if time stood still.  There we were as a family group, doing something together.  Something easy for the rest of us, but something that required Matt to throw caution to the wind.  He had to overcome a fear.  He had to have a level of trust that the rest of us did not have to have.  And once again, Matt prevailed and  figured out how to participate in a fun summer moment with us. He smiled and we smiled. He laughed and we laughed.  

Many times I think back to that moment.  I learned a lot about a lot that day. I learned about bravery.  I learned about trust.  I learned about family.  I learned more about what is important. And I learned that I must always be ready for adventures.  Because they are worth the effort. 







  • Oh, Deb!
    “Oh Deb, stop being so naïve!” Those six words.  Those impactful six words.  They were mad mumbled many many moons ago.  There I was a relatively new academic administrator at a rural community college.  I was happily dancing in a world of teaching and learning having crazy-fun.  Everything was exciting.  Everything was interesting.  Everything had … Continue reading →
    • 

  • IT’S ALL GOOD
    It started out as a regular beach vacation day.  Plans were for all of us to spend the day at the shore, pretty much doing what every family does at a beach – sitting, talking, swimming, laughing, playing games, and anything else that can be done while watching and listening to the beauty of the waves.  Just … Continue reading →
    • 

  • Aunt Dolly
    On that beautiful, ordinary summer Saturday, my mom, my dad and I were finishing a much over due chore. Aunt Dolly had passed on a few months prior. She had spent 99% of her life in her tiny second floor flat. Clean, tidy, sparsely furnished with her long time keepsakes, Dolly managed to live almost … Continue reading →
    • 

  • Adventure On
    Though it would have been much easier for the four of us young girls to decline the offer, it was an opportunity that gave us pause. There we stood pondering. Thinking. It was as if we could feel the birth of an adventure. We were experiencing that moment that feels like it’s moving in slow … Continue reading →
    • 

  • The Golden List
    Early this spring, I started a new project. I have no idea how or why I thought of this particular idea. It just kinda came to me. I think I was sitting in what my family fondly calls the Big Room in our home – a space that is relatively quiet, on the second floor, … Continue reading →
    • 

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

							

					
Adventure On

					
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Though it would have been much easier for the four of us young girls to decline the offer, it was an opportunity that gave us pause. There we stood pondering. Thinking. It was as if we could feel the birth of an adventure. We were experiencing that moment that feels like it’s moving in slow motion. As if we were standing on the sideline knowing that in a blink, the tenure of our plan would be exploding into something much different than we originally thought. It became a time when talking less meant understanding more. We were barely blinking as our eyes looked from one to the next. And with four ever so slight nods, we knew that we were all in.


Adventure on.


We didn’t cheer. We didn’t yelp. Perhaps because we were equally as afraid as we were excited. We were going into the unknown. A place we liked but feared. Which at age thirteen, was pretty much a norm with every situation. But this time it felt a bit different.


We packed pretty much in silence – speaking only to affirm that someone had grabbed something the others may have not. Flashlights. Hammocks. Netting. Canteens. Rope. Knives. Matches. A flare. We knew there would be no heading back for missed items. Darkness would prevent that. And communication with the rest of our group would be severed by whatever wilderness was between us and them. This was pre-cellphone. So we were just being about our business as we sorted through our need versus our wants.


Within what seemed like minutes, but was more likely an hour or two, we were off. We trudged into and through the woods until we found eight suitable trees to hang four barebones hammocks. We set up the sleeping arrangements and quickly created a centralized rock-fenced campfire, put our canteens somewhere nearby and unpacked everything we had just stuffed into those duffle bags. The food we brought could only be described as well less than sub-standard on the nutrition scale. Potatoes wrapped in tinfoil thrown in a fire. S’mores. Maybe apples. Popcorn.


As darkness approached, we settled into those hammocks, threw the netting over us, and speaking for all four of us, were frightened out of our minds from sunset to sunrise. We prayed our flashlight batteries lasted until the light of morn.


Just hours later, we hopped out of those hammocks like four victorious warriors. Though our bravery was due to our inability to return in darkness to the nearby lodge, we convinced ourselves that we had lived a confident night rather than a fearful one. Regardless, we have always rearranged the details of this story to fit a champions’ narrative.


The march back to our origin was filled with chatter. We did it. It was over. Now what.


That’s the thing about adventures. They have beginnings. They have endings. And for me, there is always the hope of what is to come with the next adventure. It is the time after the end of the previous adventure and before the start of the future one that is most interesting.


Without a doubt, there can be a feeling of uneasiness. Which I describe as a free falling, not knowing where or when or how I will land. Will I have another adventure? Do I still have great adventures waiting for me? There is that big vast unknown. I know that I must welcome whatever lies ahead, but I am always a little hesitant. A little resistant. A little scared. Scratch that . . . a lot scared.


But that’s the thing about adventures. I do believe they are endless. Certainly they come in different shapes and sizes and durations. I can see that they are not meant to last forever, and I have a feeling that I’m supposed to experience lots of different types of them throughout my life. Again, adventures always include walking into that giant unknown.


An adventure in my life has just closed. It was one of the greatest adventures of all time – filled with the unimaginable and the incredible. There were moments of great perplexity coupled with moments of unbridled joy. My mind and my body were constantly put to the test in ways that I was rarely fully – if ever –  prepared.


It was an experience that God graced me with and I only hope that I met the challenge. With adventures, I never know. And I truly hope that I can once again experience such joy, exhilaration, excitement, contentment, and exuberance in a future adventure as I did with my previous one.


I have such great hope.


Always wanted to know what adventure my dad was on in this photo! Looks quite exciting!

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

							

					
The Golden List

					
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Early this spring, I started a new project.  I have no idea how or why I thought of this particular idea.  It just kinda came to me.  I think I was sitting in what my family fondly calls the Big Room in our home – a space that is relatively quiet, on the second floor, furnished with all that represents yesteryear including a 1980s plaid sofa, a worn out pool table, several chairs that would fit in no home (including  mine) but there they are in the Big Room. And there I was using one of them when this idea hit me.





On the surface, the idea is simple. Initially I gave myself thirty days to complete it.  I actually  chuckled at that thought as I figured I would have it finished in a day, two at the most.  But as the timeline was going to be self imposed, I kindly allotted myself a month just to be on the very safe side.  





The task centered around my next great writing adventure.  My blog has been chugging along for many years, and I thought maybe it is time to press on to new adventures and new worlds.  Maybe I need to take that big, giant leap forward.  After all, according to Mr. Gretzky – hockey’s The Great One, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” So, not moving my writing forward was much like not taking the available shot.  I will miss out for sure if I never try.





So, the new writing quest began.





Step one of the task at hand has been to identify one hundred words that describe . . . me.  Words on this list could be nouns or verbs . . . or adverbs . . . or adjectives.  All parts of the English language are welcome. The words can be positive or negative, simple, complex or compound.  Slang . . . acceptable!  Onomatopoeia  . . . acceptable! Acronyms and abbreviations – thumbs up! The list can include words that describe my past, present, and/or future as long as each entry somehow tells the story of me.





It seemed so easy when I thought of it.  One hundred words with no holds barred.  A laundry list of what it means to be me.  I wasn’t challenging myself to anything so whoppin’ grand that it was going to take all my might to complete it.  Just a list of one hundred words.  I don’t even have to alphabetize them.  Just jot them down.  One at a time.  Until I hit one hundred.    





It’s sixty days later.  Sixty days.  And I have yet to even come close to finishing.  I’m not sure if I am embarrassed or scared. Or both. What does it say about me to not be able to quickly come up with one hundred distinct words that describe me.  Sadly, yesterday I noticed there was a duplicate, and it was difficult erasing from what was already slim in number.  





As of this moment, there are – count them – a measly thirty-nine words on the list of me. Thirty-nine.  Thirty-nine.





I’ve lived much more than half a century.  I have a family and relatives and friends and a house and stuff.  I’ve done a lot of the usual and some of the unusual.  I’d call it a good mix.  But, there are still only thirty-nine words on my list and it feels like I am permanently stuck there.





To make myself feel a bit better, I’m extending my timeline.  I’m giving myself an additional six months to see if I can broaden out the list.  I may resort to reading the big giant unabridged dictionary that is kindly sitting on the lower shelf in my living room.  Doing so, however, seems to walk close to that plagiarism line.





In any event, though my latest idea may have been a failure in that I have only met a bit more than one third of my goal, it has taught me much, much more than expected.  





I am only unique by a thin margin.  





Measuring differences is difficult.  





Before I can describe anyone else, I had better be able to describe myself.  





I got some work cut out for me

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

							

					
Anyone Can Learn Anything

					
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Just recently I had cause to think about one of my favorite thoughts that I had long since tucked in the back of my brain.  I had heard this particular statement in my past life  from two different, but very noteworthy  sources, both of whom I still admire and follow today.  And throughout my early life, I had kept this idea more prominent in myself than of recent times.  





But due to many lucky moments in my current world, I was brought back to it and am so glad to have circled the wagons around it again. 





The first time I heard this expression, I was much younger and most likely much wiser than I am today.  I was in the heart of my educational journey, off to the races in seeking ways to help students learn.  I was seeking knowledge from all corners of my life and there I sat in the middle of a large conference auditorium for an opening day symposium targeting what I thought was a very intricate, important, and tantamount subject for all learners – that of  . . . . innovation.  The conference itself was called Innovations.  The subject was Innovation.  I was ready to rock and roll forward into an area of learning that I believed, and still believe, fuels everything new and exciting.  Innovation.  (Yet, today, I am not sure that the conference process I used to approach that subject was the best and brightest idea. A topic for a different post.)





I had my pen at the ready, to take notes like a fiend.  I was sitting in the line of sight of the speaker, so I would not be distracted by the comings and goings of the crowd.  I was alert, awake, and enthusiastic – because I knew what I heard was going to be, well, innovative. Game on!





The speaker walked on stage to a cursory round of applause.  He carried a few notes and, of great interest to me, a guitar.  As the crowd settled in, he began to strum and play and sing.  Interspersed between the music, he would stop and chat a bit.  He mentioned that he was going to tell us a few secrets about innovation and students and how to create opportunities for students to be innovative.





Again, game on for me.





And then he matter-of-factly stated his first rule.  To my surprise, it did not seem or feel so overwhelmingly earthshaking in terms of enlightenment on innovation.  It seemed a bit simple . . . or generic . . . or pedestrian.  At the time. 





He said is a bright brief voice that the first rule in setting up innovative learning opportunities for students is to make sure that everyone believed that anyone can learn anything, given the right circumstances.  And he repeated that phrase time after time after time.  Anyone can learn anything.  Anyone.  Anything. He mentioned that the term anyone included everyone including me.  He mentioned that anything included everything that I could ever imagine.  And more.  





Anyone can learn anything, given the right circumstances.  





I jotted it down frantically.  I didn’t want to miss anything.  He spoke passionately about this idea and said that even though he was moving on to another thought, if I only took away one idea, anyone can learn anything should be it.





Fast forward to a few months later, and I was working on a project that needed a tool. And as with most projects, it needed a tool but had to be cheap to free.  As luck would have it, there was someone in the world who had the brilliant idea to create just that tool . . . for free. And as I investigated the tool source, I was more than a bit awe struck.  Not just by the versatility and usefulness of the tool, but by the philosophy behind it. It was a philosophy I had heard before and recently.  It was a phrase that I had heard and perhaps had not listen to as well as I should before and recently.  The spin was a little different, but the essence was the same.





Anyone can learn anything if given the right tools. Anyone can learn anything. Anyone.  Anything. 





I had now heard that phrase twice in a short time frame.  My only flaw was my failure to listen as well as I could the first time and run with that idea.





Though it has been quite a few years since that moment, I recall stopping what I was doing and shamefully shaking my head.  At that moment, I knew that the quicker I recognized that anyone can learn anything given the right circumstances or the right tools, the faster I could become a more useful and helpful part of the world.





It took me a long time to take those words to heart for myself.  There have been many times that my response when facing something new, challenging, difficult, unknown, seemingly impossible, or foolishly difficult has been to think that I am not smart enough, strong enough, wise enough, cunning enough (the list goes on an on here) to succeed.  But then I harken back to those words.  





Anyone can learn anything. 





And I start looking for the the right circumstances and the right tools and once again, game on! 





My early attempts at anything new, daunting, different, ridiculously challenging, whole-heartedly off my comfort chart sometimes have led to grand scale failures. Make that have often led to grand scale failures.  But with each attempt, I learn something and nudge myself closer to my end goal.  I am a learner who has been told that I can learn anything.  What fun!  And the more I focus on knowing that I can learn anything, the smaller the great big world of ours becomes. 





 Without a doubt, I believe that one of the greatest lessons out there for future generations is to become confident in knowing that they are best part of the anyone who can learn anything.  My job for them is to help develop all the right circumstances and the best tools.





Game on. 






I’m working on a colorful quilt that is above my ability.  But anyone can learn anything, so onward I go.







					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

							

					
“Please sir,” replied Oliver,  “I want some more.”

					
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It’s really no secret. It’s just not.





My family knows it.  Most of my friends know it. Mainly because I’ve talked about my trials and tribulations with it.  They know it’s one of my continual, enduring quests. A path that has not yet ended.  It’s always been on my to-do board. Always. And, of course, I have had more losses than wins with it, but the quest continues regardless of failures.  





I guess what keeps me going is the thought that my plan might actually work. It just might. 





Ever since I was a youngster, I have never thought that twenty-four hours was enough time in the day.  For some reason, my get-er-done list has always been longer than my available time.    Every morning for years, I start my day like a rocket heading to the moon.  I look at my list and I’m off to the races.  And every evening, the list is exactly the same length, with what seems like two new items replacing the one item I may have completed. 





I have tried rising earlier and staying up later. And though I did seem to have more time for awhile, eventually I ended up being too tired to complete anything successfully, happily, or coherently.





So after much pondering, I concocted one of the most glorious, crazy-funny plans to combat the dilemma of not having enough time in the day that I have ever concocted.  This plan is the type that has kept me way too engaged in activities that could have been considered monotonous or boring, but now I consider them whole-heartedly challenging.  





I call it my find-the-time plan.  And I have, indeed, found new, additional time with it.  In fact, one day I found nearly fifteen new minutes.  I recall spending those new minutes as if I were on the greatest of all holidays.  They were fleeting minutes, but they were fun.  I supposed it was just the idea that I nearly met the quest . . . of finding more time in a day.





How you may ask?





Well, the plan actually has two parts.  The first part is simple.  Well, it sounds simple.  Let’s double well that. Well, it is simple until and unless something goes wrong during execution, then it actually causes a loss of time.  But, in its origin, it is simple.  





Just do the ordinary faster!  Just do the ordinary . . . a lot faster!  





For many years, I made my son the same breakfast each morning.  Three eggs, scrambled.  Two pieces of bacon.  Two pieces of toast, buttered.  For the first few years, that particular breakfast took me ten to fifteen minutes to prepare.  I’d get to the kitchen, waltz around, get out the food, prepare it, dilly dally a bit, clean up a bit, and voila, it was fifteen minutes later.  





But as I started my find-the-time quest, I found that I could actually sail through this breakfast much, much faster.  Think Martha Stewart meets Usain Bolt. I learned to race to the kitchen,  crack those eggs while feeding the bread into the toaster. I flung bacon into the microwave, lathered butter on bread, supersonic scrambled those eggs, and tossed everything on a plate in record times. I found time that I had previously lost.  I was actually so amazed that I found this time that I really didn’t use the time I found too well. 





Doing the ordinary faster works great if there are no errors.  But the days that I burnt the toast, dropped the eggs, or flung the bacon on the floor by mistake actually took me more time to clean up and repair the damage than had I just leisurely made breakfast. 





So on to part two which is more failsafe, usually.





The second part to the plan is comically fun almost all of the time.  All I have to do is . . .double up.  Just double up on the regular and ordinary. Doing two unique things simultaneously saves a boatload of time . . . which fits so well in the find-the-time quest.





During find-the-time quest part two, I have learned to brush my teeth and make my bed . . . at the same time, a two minute save.  I have figured out how to dry my hair with two hair dryers instead of one, cutting a ten minute chore into five.  I clean my car while filling my gas tank. I think lots of us do this one!  Another two minute save.  When I take my shoes off, I make sure I am standing in my closet.  I only save a few seconds, but it’s still a save.  





I have dozens of double up wins and I also have a few double up losses.  If I lose, I give myself kudos for the attempt. 





My favorite moments are the times that I keep track of the double up minutes saved and it add up to nearly a half hour. What a bonus world to have thirty additional minutes in my day.  It’s magical. 





My find-the-time quest clearly is more trivial than earth shattering.  It’s definitely a personal day game that keeps my life in the groove.  





Yet, as trivial as it is, I have learned a great deal from it.  





I have learned that anything can be joyful. Really, just anything can be.  Brush my teeth, make my bed, fun.  Scramble eggs at the speed of light, fling bacon frantically, fun.  Fritter away found time, fun.  





Such a simple quest has taught me that the mundane is only so if I let it be that way.   How I frame my life is how my life will be.  With a little effort, the ordinary, the normal, the usual becomes anything but. 





I pray this quest never ends!





Found a few minutes to be outside today.   🙂 

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
200 Duquette Lane

			
						

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October 29th, 2011 at 200 Duquette Lane was an interesting date.  





My father was sitting in the kitchen dressed in what can be described as his everyday wear –  a favorite pair of very old khakis half cinched by a favorite old, slightly fraying black belt, topped off with a mostly intact Fruit-of-the-Loom white t-shirt.  It wasn’t exactly company wear, nor was it pajamas. It was everyday wear.  The kind where he knew company was coming, but there was no need for his clothes to make a big deal about it.





He was perched in his kitchen chair, pen in hand where he had both finished the Jumble correctly, found all the words in the Word-search, and written my mother’s name a thousand times a thousand times down the margin of the previous day’s newspaper.  His half filled cup of coffee and his no-frills AM clock radio were the only other items on the table.  





He was waiting.  He was in it for the long haul, for the duration.  If he was tired, it was unknown to the rest of the world. Looking back on it, I think his goal was to make it look like all normal eighty year old dads would be doing the exact same thing, sitting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, finishing word puzzles and writing his wife’s name, waiting patiently.   Going to bed wasn’t even on his radar.  





Nearing Duquette Lane, I reminded my daughter that no matter how excited we might be, it was late and Pop may be asleep.  We needed to temper our over the top behavior quickly and appropriately.  Our lifetime experience could wait until the morning to share.  It was time for us to be polite, think of others and pull out our best manners. After all, there was no need to wake him up. Everything could wait.





Turning onto the street, everything looked as it should with houses buttoned up dark and tight for the evening. The only light shining at the beginning of the lane came from our car’s two headlight beams. Everything else was pitch black.  Every house up and down the entire street blended calmly and wisely into the dark evening sky.  That is every house except for 200 Duquette Lane which was, of course, our destination.  





200 Duquette Lane was glowing.  Porch lights on.  Living room lights on.  Dining room, bed room, garage lights on.  And for those who know me and my family, the ever present indoor Christmas lights around the ceiling of the living room, dining room, family room and kitchen all on.  My daughter looked at me and I looked at her, and at that moment we knew that the adventure that we had assumed had ended had actually not yet begun. 





Forgetting decorum, we stormed into that house and it was easy to do because neither the screen door nor the front door had been locked, another sign that crazy fun was going to ensue. 





And there in the kitchen at 200 Duquette Lane at 2:00am on October 29th, 2011 sat my dad in his everyday wear, with his newspaper and pen and coffee and clock radio. 





His first words at that moment were few but they still make me smile, “Well, whatdidya think?”





My daughter and I both began babbling. Blah blah blah blah Pujols.  Blah Blah Blah David Freese.  Blah Blah Blah Yadi.  Blah Blah Blah Allen Craig.  Clydesdales, Confetti, Fireworks. People.  Cardinals, Cardinals, Cardinals!  We could not stop talking and he could not stop listening.  I can’t remember if he asked any questions at all.  I can only remember that we rehashed each and every play for each and every inning without stop. At one point, he asked us if we wanted a beer and though it would have been odd for him to ask me that question on any other day, on this day, it seemed appropriate, and we obliged.  By that time, he had turned that radio on and we were now rehashing the game with the experts at KMOX, comparing their version to our version.





We did arrive at 200 Duquette bearing a gift. We had purchased several of the World Series Daily, an immediate newspaper publication available the moment the game ends from makeshift newspaper stands in front of the stadium exits.  He read it.  We read it. And by 4:00am, the three of us had officially decided that we all agreed with the Daily’s version of the events. And as we finished our beer and my dad clicked off the clock radio, we knew the adventure was soon coming to a close. 





In the morning, my dad, my daughter and I went to his breakfast hangout and continued our conversation.  When we returned to 200 Duquette Lane, I noticed that though all other lights had been switched off, the indoor ceiling Christmas lights were shining bright.   





Looking back, I can see that my daughter and I did have a great adventure by going to Game 7 of the 2011 World Series won by the St. Louis Cardinals.  But the greatest adventure of all was created by an 80 year old man who had the sense to click on the indoor Christmas lights, sit at his kitchen table and patiently wait for hours and hours just to have a conversation with his daughter and granddaughter. I’ve said it before – my dad and my mom were masters not at the extraordinary, but at doing the ordinary extraordinarily well.   





If someone asks me today the play by play at that ball game, I can’t remember. I don’t know who pitched, who homered, who played or didn’t play. I know the Cardinals won, but the rest is one big blur.  But, if they ask me what my father was wearing, where he was sitting, what he was doing, and what lights were on, I can describe that in minute detail.





Somethings are worth remembering.






					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
You’re On Your Honor

			
						

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Those were the words. One simple statement.  Five little words. Spoken quickly and directly.  First a brief hug, followed by a look that recognized that adventure was going to abound, then some kind of glare that probably meant I was going to be missed, and finally just as my foot would reach for the first step towards leaving, he would lay it down . . . “You’re on your honor.” 


My mind would have been filled with the promise of high jinx, with plans of spending time not so wisely, in the greatest of crazy-funny ways, with hopes of avoiding all rules and breaking those that accidentally cropped up.  And then he would add, “You’re on your honor.”   


He didn’t tell me to behave.  He didn’t tell me to make good choices.  There was no lecture and reminders of rules and such. He went for something  subtle and crafty.  He went for the big picture, using tiny words that I could easily remember.


You’re on your honor.


Honor wasn’t foreign term to me.  In fact, it was something that had been a part of my culture starting at a very early age. First, growing up in a large Catholic family, lots of time was spent talking about whether or not I honored my father and mother enough or in the right way. Like most kids, I was amazingly imperfect and caused my fair share of ruckuses. So, the term honor popped up regularly.


After all, honoring thy mother and father was and still is one of the big ten. I must ashamedly admit that it was one of my favorite venial sins to report in my weekly confession sin list because A) most likely I had done something to dishonor my parents within the past seven days, and  B) reporting that sin was better than reporting some of the other nine. At one point in my life, I distinctly remember a moment when my father looked at my heap  o’trash-  (with freedom at the heart) – filled bedroom and quizzically asked me, “Is that how you honor your mother? Clothes everywhere, bed not made, school work – dishes – and trash on the floor.  I’d say this is the definition of total dishonor, young lady.”   


The term honor also popped up at my childhood home when it was our family’s turn to house the traveling statue of Our Lady of Fatima. The OLF statue made its rounds throughout the entire OLF parish.  As the parish was quite large, the statue made its way to my family home  only once every few years.  But when it did, my mother was a force in teaching me what it meant to honor the life of Our Lady of Fatima.  We read her biography, said appropriate prayers, talked about why she should be honored, cleaned and polished the statue, and in general acted honorably for the period of time that it resided with us.  It was natural for me to equate the term honor with the term respect. 


Finally, my childhood put me in routine contact with honor as all of my gal pals who moved with me from Brownies to Juniors to Cadettes to Seniors during the 1960s/1970s can attest.   For at each gathering, whether it be a weekly meeting, a special activity, an overnight event, or a multiple week long camp, we Girl Scouts would proudly recited the promise which put us in a state of honor at all times:


 “On my honor, I will try to do my duty to God and my country, to help other people at all times and to obey the Girl Scout Laws.”


Through thick and thin, I pledged to do all that . . . on my honor.  This type of honor was still about respect, but it was also about something a little bit more.  We – my girlfriends and I –  were respecting the world and everything that was in it.  We were promising to give it our all to improve what we could, fighting for all that was right.  We were placing trust in each other than whatever the situation, we would behave in a way that brought pride to ourselves as individuals. We did not want, nor did we need anyone standing right behind us to tell us the best way to behave.  We were on our honor to just know what to do and we expected each other to do it. I was being held accountable by no one other than myself.


Hence, when my father told me that I was on my honor, he wanted me to remember that there were rules in the world and that some of them – for sure the big ten – needed to be followed.  There was also a belief when he mentioned those words that I would be able to recognize that there are individuals out in the great beyond that have lived lives that deserve honor. Some people show leadership during times of great hardship.  Some people lead saintly lives that should be remembered and revered.  They have done things that I can only aspire to.  Lastly, being on my honor meant that  I understood and respected the basic rules of society that can lead everyone to the greater good. And that someday there would be no one other than myself to make sure that I led an honorable life. 


Currently, I am on my honor. But, I am not exactly on my ordinary honor.  Instead, it feels like I am standing on a tiny ledge on a high mountain in a vast world of what it means to be on my honor.  I know that it is not the time for me to step outside the lines of my honor right now.  It is important for me to look beyond myself in all of my actions.  I have a duty to assess the simplest of actions in order to honor society appropriately.  Honorable and dishonorable actions have so much more consequence today than they did a mere few months ago. 


With so much unknown in the world, I am very thankful. 


I’m thankful that I was sent out to practice being on my honor so many moons ago.  It becomes important when it’s no longer practice. 


Flowers
Nature is always honorable!

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
To Every Thing

			
						

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He was always there . . . 


He was always there.  Winter, spring, summer, fall. There he was.  As a child, I would see him each week, and though we never chatted or discussed it, I suppose he would have seen me each week as well.  Always wearing a brown three-piece suit.  Always had a hat.  Always happy.


He sat on the St. Joseph side while my family and I sat on the Mother Mary side.  Both of us walked halfway down the aisle every Sunday and scooted into a pew that was nearly a dozen shy of the front of the church.  In essence, we were ‘peripheral parallel pew partners’.  Always.


Oddly enough, the week, the month, the year did not matter.  From the earliest that I can remember to the time that Our Lady of Fatima Catholic Church on Washington in Florissant closed, he was always there.  If I was in town for a visit and attended the 10:00am Sunday mass, he was there.  It didn’t matter how many people were with me or what the occasion.  If it was Sunday at 10:00am, I would lean forward in my pew, peer down the row, and there he was.  Always. 


His name eludes me, but his personality does not.  He seemed to be a man of great faith, a man with a great smile, a man with friendly eyes and a confident step.  He also seemed to be a man who valued consistency, at least on Sunday.


________________


Consistency is an interesting concept, and at moments, has some type of attraction for me.  Call it a routine.  Call it a habit. Call it a custom or a tradition.  Regardless of the term, there is something about things that are the same over and over that catches my attention. 


However, consistency has its detractors.  Just ask Mr. Oscar Wilde, a nineteenth century Irish poet and playwright, who contends that “(c)onsistency is the hallmark of the unimaginative.”  There are many different buckets that I placed myself into, but I shudder when I think about being plunked down into the unimaginative one.  Not a place I want to exactly go. 


Still, I like waking up at the same time everyday, hopping out of bed and knowing that the first fifteen minutes of my morning are going to be spend exactly like the first fifteen minutes of yesterday’s morning.  In fact, the first sixty minutes of my day is highly, highly consistent. And that most unimaginative time seems to give me a wondrous opportunity to think and ponder and dream, often times bringing that which isn’t mundane out of the mundane. 


Per Ecclesiastes 3:1, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Thus, I claim that consistency has a greater purpose than what Mr. Wilde concludes. 


Take parenting.  I often link good parenting with consistency.  It seems like a natural partnership.  I can readily recall my children having been justifiably angry with me for being wrong as a parent and making related missteps because I was wrong as a parent, but they were never mad or disappointed with me for being consistent as a parent.  Case in point: they may not have liked the food I prepared for dinner week in and week out (I have never claimed to be a great cook – sorry gang), but they seemed rather appreciative that some sort of meal would show up on the same table at the same time with the same characters in the same seats each night. 


On the flip side, I relish the moments that are truly inconsistent, the times that I have no idea exactly what is going to happen next, and am aware of that feeling in my stomach that tells me that something very unknown is happening.  Mary Poppins, in Mary Poppins Returns, says is best when she leads the Banks children into a mystical and magical moment, and states, rather firmly, “We’re on the brink of an adventure, children. Don’t spoil it with too many questions.” Consistency is being damned at this juncture, sent away, chided, and left behind.  All jets are set to go, and imagination takes over.


And again, to every thing, there is a season.


I honestly hope, in the deep recesses of my heart, that I understand the difference between the beneficial consistency and the non-beneficial consistency, and  know when to use the appropriate bucket.  Certainly the turn of a new year gives me plenty of opportunity to work on it. 


And if there is ever a moment, when my childhood church reverts from its current status as an offsite location for a regional university back to Our Lady of Fatima Catholic Church, and I show up at 10:00am on a Sunday, I know exactly who I will see on the St. Joseph side of the aisle! 


img_6343
It’s a tradition for my daughter and I to consistently stand on the same side when being photographed. Just sayin’


 

					

		
		
	


				
					
	

		

						
What Happened to That Girl?

			
						

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It was Tuesday.  At 11:00am. In my kitchen.  I was standing over the sink, lamenting the countless water spots that littered my stainless steel sink.  With absolutely no hesitation, I reached under that sink, pulled out my Weiman’s Stainless Steel Cleaner and Polish plus two fresh reusable, recyclable dishrags and began to earnestly polish that puppy.  In no time, the sink was more shiny than glitter in the sun.  Job finished . . .But then my eyes caught something else . . .  those pesky streaks stretched across an otherwise clean and uncluttered countertop. I began to pull out the homemade vinegar/water spray bottle solution and more dishrags, when I just stopped.  I just froze.  I stood.  I stared.


And at that moment . . . the light went on and time seemed to be moving backwards.  It was as if the bulb not only was turned on, but had somehow maxed out its ability to shed one more ounce of  light.  There I was, in the kitchen, holding my Weiman’s, at age 61 and 1/2, looking at a glistening kitchen, recognizing that I had successfully and honestly turned into my mother.  I was Izzy.  It finally happened.


Now, don’t get me wrong.  I love my mother, God rest her soul.  She was everything to me.  A great, great mother.  A great mother.  And I miss her dearly. And Isabelle Washford Greiner spent a large chunk of her life . . . in the kitchen.


The kitchen happened to be in the center of my childhood house, and was on the small side.  In that crazy tiny kitchen, she cooked up a storm in there, clinking and clambering those pots and pans until she produced a meal.  And as the family finished eating, Isabelle would be cleaning that kitchen with the gusto of a race horse in first place headed for the finish line. Tidy in and tidy out, morning, noon, and night, each and every day.   And now, I was doing the very same thing, in much the same way, as my mom had long ago done.  Holy transformation, Batman!


Really – as a youngster, no one accused me of being neat and tidy.  In fact, I was just the opposite.  My clothes never saw a closet they liked.  My bedroom floor was too littered with junk, trash, and other assorted sundries to ever be seen.  Pencils, pens, paper, books, dishes, laundry, etc. were piled high. I am sure that even bugs detested the quality of life in my room and scampered away. But, I was one happy camper there.


My mother’s kitchen was perfection.  My room was beyond a catastrophic failure.


And all I could think was . . .What happened to that girl?


I looked at my kitchen at that moment and began to think way more deeply than I expected.


What happened to that girl who was so sure that she could solve poverty . . . eliminate hunger . . . end war?  What happened to that girl who protested for change . . .participated in every sit-in in the near metro vicinity . . . fought for social justice.  What happened to that girl who listened to hard rock music full blast, wore clothes that represented the meaning of the 70s, jumped off cliffs, slid down mountains, and in general approached life by taking risks without ever thinking about potential consequences?


What happened to that girl?


Never in my wildest dreams in my youth did I ever think I would own a kitchen, let alone have one with granite, stainless steel, hardwood, and recycled crown moulding. I had no idea that I would be married for forty years, have four children, and spend a lifetime working in education. I had no idea that  there would be so many twists and turns to my life and that there would be so many choices to make in so such a short amount of time.


What happened to this girl was the same thing that happened to my mom.


We grew up.


And in growing up, we both learned similar lessons in very different generations.


I have learned that world change comes slow.  I may want it to be faster than the speed of lightening and more powerful than a locomotive, but it still comes slow.  I have learned that fights worth fighting won’t fall off my radar.  I’m still out there doing my part for poverty, hunger, and war.  I’m just not as dramatic or over-the-top about it.


I have learned that there are ways to protest beyond carrying a handprinted sign and marching through the streets, that sometimes what we don’t say or do is much more powerful than too many words and too much action.  I have learned to love more than one category of music and one type of apparel.  Luke Bryan and flannel shirts are my friends.


And finally, I have learned that it is very important for all of us to continue to take risks, every day . . . in every way. Growing up doesn’t mean settling. Not at all. Today, I may be unable to jump off roofs or ride a bike with no hands or backflip off the trampoline into the swimming pool, but I can still be a risk-taker.


We can step forward even when it is uncomfortable.  We can work for those who can’t work for themselves.  We can walk on the edge of life and feel that wind on our backs.  And we can spend everyday anxiously anticipating the next adventure that lurks around the corner.


My phrase can’t be “What happened to that girl?”  It must be “The ride of her life is going to happen to that girl.”  Let the crazy fun continue.


deb hutti
Waving on the ride of my life