Category Archives: deb hutti

Okay Ordinary

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My life is generally . . . often . . . usually . . . quite ordinary. And I have come to the realization that ordinary is . . . okay.

I have a typical home with typical trimmings – front door, back door, kitchen, garage, deck, bedrooms, bathrooms. I own no pets, grow no plants, have no secret passage ways, and no moat. I organize my closet according to color first, then season. I keep all my super secret stuff in a folder marked super secret – because it is so much easier to find super secret stuff that is filed properly. I steer clear of food that comes with expiration dates; and, am an avid collector of nothing other than dust. I make my bed everyday before leaving the house, and my late night snack is cheap, easy air popped popcorn. A most ordinary life.

On work days, I have an ordinary commute – a 14.2 mile / 17 minute one way cruise that includes three stop lights and one stop sign – total. (I could pare those stops down if I took the back roads.) The ordinary commute comes with a routine. Every morning, I eventually meet up with the same car-driving coffee klatch crowd. There is the Dodge Caravan man who gives me the head nod and the lift-the-fingertips off the steering wheel wave . . . the blue Buick lady with the gracious, soulful arm gesture who occasionally touts the horn. And, of course, the crazy-funny college kid in the beater mobile with blaring music, who just turns and smiles. He’s cool – and the coffee klatch knows it. Me? I practice the Queen Elizabeth raise my left arm at the elbow, thump pointing towards my shoulder with a slight motioning of the hand and a randomly added left eye wink. Really, all the second stop light group has to do is to add a little Sister Sledge, and suddenly we would be one big ordinary family.

And the landscape along the way? It’s ordinary with . . . admittedly . . . a chaser of interesting.

First, I live in farm country where there are acres and acres and acres, miles and miles and miles of corn and soybeans everywhere. One month it’s green and growing. A couple of months later, it’s brown and dry. Planting to harvesting, it’s the same each year. Has been for hundreds of years. In the spring, it’s called the green wave – a term of endearment characterizing its ordinary beauty.

However, in terms of ordinary / not-so-ordinary, that doesn’t explain why there is a random, twenty-foot, replica of an authentic Native American tee-pee peeking out on the edge of one of those nearby farms; nor does it explain the meticulously maintained, privately owned – but publicly used – deluxe cement-finished roadside tables, complete with a paved turn-about near mile four. Their use is sporadic, but the folklore factor they add to the commute is all worth it.

Again, it’s ordinary in an unusual way.

Which can also describe the local theater. Near the commute’s five-mile mark, in a large open farm field sits an AMC Showplace 10 movieplex. Surrounded by corn and soybeans, it’s a busy, hometown place with pleasant, hospitable employees, complete with a giant, highly visible SHOWPLACE marquis, an ample parking lot, and a great free refill policy on all popcorn and drinks. A typical, ordinary theater . . . sorta.

Because lately, commuting past the theater at night at the end of an ordinary workday has been a comedic highlight. Whether caused by a short in the system or by a big time Scrabble game on the part of some very humorous employees, the movieplex’s marquis illumination changes daily. Sometimes it says SHOWPLACE and sometimes it says SOWPLACE, or HOWPLACE or OWPLACE or SHOW ACE or my favorite SHOW LACE. An ordinary theater with a crazy-funny attitude.

The Mattoon AMC Showplace Ten

My Local Ordinary Movie Marquis!

Finally, the commute route passes by the local airport – most ordinary at first glance . . . and probably second glance, too. It has hangers, runways, a ten foot protective fence to keep the deer either in or out depending on which way they are jumping, and manicured grounds. Big jumbo jets are a rarity there, with private and charter planes commonplace. The on-site restaurant attracts its fair share of daily guests and serves the famous tenderloin as big as an elephant ear. It’s an ordinary local airport . . . until, that is, July 4th rolls around.

For on July 4th, the airport shuts down . . . completely . . . to prepare for one of the most deluxe fireworks celebrations found anywhere this side of the Mississippi. Town folks use a free shuttle bus system to haul out family, friends, buckets of fried chicken, coolers of drinks, lawn chairs, blankets, and bug spray. Everyone sets up camp on the east runway tarmac hoping for a glorious view of the fireworks exploding on the west runway tarmac. All planes for the day are simply re-routed to other nearby airports, I suppose. I am not really sure. I am also not sure of what happens to potentially stranded passengers. Perhaps they are sent via train to the next nearest airport not hosting a fireworks display. All I know is that planes don’t arrive or depart on July 4th. The airport is on holiday.

And for good reason. It really is the perfect place for thousands of people to gather for late evening festivities. After all, airports are nothing more than giant parking lots with lights. And here in Central Illinois, it is just an ordinary solution for a traditional American celebration.

Living in a house with no secret passageways and no moat, with a commute through corn and soybeans surrounded by tee-pees and cement roadside picnic tables, seeing the movie theater that has entered some type of marquis spelling bee, and passing the airport where I have been part of the runway loungers watching fireworks on the fourth may seem odd and unusual to some, but to me, it’s just a part of my average, run-of-the-mill, humdrum, typical ordinary life. And as I stated earlier . . . it’s okay, really okay!

Things I Have Long Since Forgotten

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When I put my mind to it, I realize that I have long since forgotten perhaps more than I remember.

. . . the names of the Shakespearean tragedies  . . . the number of elements on the periodic table . . . the distance from the earth to the sun . . . why humans hiccup . . . the Gettysburg Address . . . the Pythagorean Theorem . . .

Throughout my first twelve years of education, rote memorization was a way of life.  If it could be memorized, the good Sisters of Our Lady of Fatima Grade School and St. Thomas Aquinas High School required it.  There wasn’t a week that passed without my brain being stretched in order to set something, usually something I perceived as complicated, to memory.  It seems like I was routinely required to retain and recall all kinds of formulas, poems, definitions, conjugations, lists, songs, instructions, passages, speeches and prayers.

. . . the 44 United States Presidents . . . the Greek alphabet . . . Maslow’s first name . . . the hierarchy of biological classifications . . . the lyrics of almost any song . . . the novels of Mark Twain . . . the Latin roots of the verbs of action . . . the I have a dream speech . . . PI and its uses . . .

When I think back to the laundry list of things I memorized and fast forward to today’s list of thing I have long since forgotten, it’s a little frightening.  In my neck of the woods, what fifth grader didn’t have to recite by heart the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution? What second grader didn’t have their multiplication tables memorized? And what Catholic high school senior couldn’t recite the books of the Bible – New and Old Testament without flaw?   But on some levels, today, I may be hard pressed to ace all that I once knew with ease.

. . . a natural minor scale . . . the names of bones in the human body . . . the rules of probability . . . the expeditions of Ferdinand Magellan . . . the kilometer to mile conversation formula . . . the nations of the United Nations . . . the members of the Dow . . . why there are lunar phases . . .

From 1962 to 1974, my life included many evenings of tough love studying to ensure that not only did I memorized everything aside from the ingredients of the nearby pickle jar, but so, too, did my five siblings.   I can still hear the ‘listen and repeat’ mantra emanating from family and friends – hoping that all that entered my head stayed in my head.

. . . the list of constellations . . . Juliet’s speech from the balcony . . . how to find a square root of anything . . . the NASA astronauts . . . prime numbers up to 100 . . . the periodization list . . .

During my college life and beyond, the time spent memorizing seemed to diminish.  Perhaps I had committed everything that I needed to commit to memory. (It’s a nice thought, but even as I write that one, I doubt it.)  Perhaps higher education was moving me beyond remembering towards understanding, applying, analyzing, evaluating, or creating.  (That’s a lofty thought.)  Or perhaps I just ran out of time (which is the most likely explanation),  for memorizing cannot be accomplished without a generous allotment of available minutes, hours, days.    I know, however, that time spent on memorizing is time well spent.

As evidenced by what occurred on Friday, May 11th, 2012.

As a lifelong educator, I have attended all kinds of graduation ceremonies; and each ceremony has its own flair of the sun . . . its own flash of sparkle . . . its own best moment.  But in all that I have witnessed, nothing has even come close to May 11, 2012.

The pomp and circumstance of this particular ceremony was in full swing.  The National Anthem had been sung, the faculty awards given, the distinguished alumni honored, and the presidential welcome complete.   Next in line was the speech from the young student trustee.  The graduates were poised for listening, but as always, their hopes were for something short and sweet.

Kiersten took the stage with ease, cap and gown swirling around her.  She strode to the podium, and much like all earlier speakers, her prepared notes were waiting for her.  And she did pause momentarily to open them.  Then, with striking confidence, she gazed out into the audience and began her address.  Within seconds, the audience – which filled the field house beyond capacity – came to the realization that those notes were going to go unused, because she had – in preparation for the occasion – committed her entire speech to memory.

And it was stunning.

No cue cards, no teleprompter, no power point, no reading from notes, no magic tricks . . . just Kiersten delivering a speech for the ages.  And as she finished and left the stage, my mind wandered back to the times and moments that folks asked me to memorize something, anything, everything.  I could hear Sister Mary Vincent loud and clear telling a class of eight year olds that even though I didn’t understand it today, in the future, I would see the power of a speech memorized well.  And it may have taken a long time, but on May 11, 2012, I saw just that.

I am no stranger to great speakers.  It has been my privilege through my type of employment to hear a slew of tremendous folks speak – among those:  President Clinton, Senator Ted Kennedy, Governor Jeb Bush, Dr. Mark Milliron, Ms. Eva Mozes Kor, Dr. Freeman Hrabowski, Ms. Erma Bergmann, Mr. Jim Collins, Ms. Jean Driscoll, Mr. Lou Henken, and many, many more.

From that particular list, I can remember not only the essence of their oration, but their presentation style as well – each one having a different type of appeal, a different type of approach, evoking a different type of emotion.

What was common, however, is my impression that all of them had memorized their entire presentation.  Moment for moment, word for word, they had it memorized.  Some spoke at great length.  Some were humorous.  Some were aided by technology.  Some were asked to speak at the very last moment, but regardless seemed to be totally prepared.  One took my breath away.

Today, I thank my lucky stars on two levels:  one that my life has been filled with opportunities to memorize more than i can ever remember, and two that I was among those in attendance on May 11th, 2012 – where I witnessed excellence.

As you can see, I was truly having a great time at Graduation 2012! Many thanks to all who made it so . . . memorable!

On My Honor

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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 Law. – The Girl Scout Promise

I was a Girl Scout.

That’s right.  An all American, rock and roll, crazy-funny, dippy nerdy Girl Scout.  My troop number: 972.  Our motto: live, laugh, love.  My active scouting years:  1961 to 1974.  And not only do I still know the Girl Scout Promise by heart, but I am also quite familiar with the Trefoil Pin . . .  and the difference between a brownie, a junior, a cadet, and a senior . . . and the ten Girl Scout Laws, with the fourth (a Girl Scout is a friend to all and a sister to every other Girl Scout) being my personal favorite.

And I was an all-in Girl Scout.

I made, owned and used a sit-upon.  I proudly wore my uniforms from the brown Brownie dress and brown Brownie beanie to the green Junior jumper, keenly accessorized with a green badge-covered sash.  I read my handbooks cover to cover, making appropriate notations in the margins to ensure that I completely understood each and every Girl Scout rule.  I took pictures at my Fly-up Ceremony, was proud of the day I became a Senior Scout, and to me, the best thing to do on March 12th is celebrate World Girl Scout Day.

In my mind, the world of Troop 972 could only be described as the best type of crazy funny living that ever happened to me.  There was nothing better than me and nineteen of my closest Girl Scout friends sleeping in a lodge with no electricity and no running water in the middle of a cold Missouri January.  I can recall watching the snow shower down around us – hoping and praying for more.

As an eleven year old, the same group of twenty young ladies spent a week building primitive teepees, and a week living in them, again, no electricity or running water within a five-mile radius. Showers were built out of water-filled recycled Clorox bleach bottles tethered high enough to splash our faces.  At night, tin mess kits and battered canteens were kept in ditty bags and hung from trees, along with all food, far from the camp as we had no desire to encourage visits from nearby raccoons.

From eighth grade and throughout high school, Troop 972 bailed on lodges and teepees and took up hammock camping somewhere in the hills of Troy, Missouri.   And just before exiting high school, the gang decided that there was really no need for hammocks, as sleeping bags on the ground worked just fine.  Of course, transistor radios, flashlights, pocket knives, and rain tarps were must-have items.  Everything else was just something that had to be carried.

Throughout my Girl Scout years, I learned to tell the difference between a clove hitch and a bowline, cook anything in tinfoil packets, build fires quickly and efficiently, clean clothes in nearby streams, fend off spiders, and sleep in the great outdoors.  Though all insignia that we wore indicated that we were Girl Scouts, our hearts told us that we were more like modern American pioneers – discovering, inventing, creating, and surviving.

Today, as I look back on my scouting years, I am very aware that what I did as a young Girl Scout in the late 60s /70s would be impossible to replicate today.  For good or for bad, it just wouldn’t be allowed. It just wouldn’t.

Today, no one would allow a group of eleven year olds to winter camp, each of us carrying and using a hatchet to chop wood for the fire which warmed us and fed us for a week.  No one would allow twelve-year olds to live in teepees for two weeks without any access to any type of modern amenities including plumbing, electricity, and/or outhouses.

No one would ever allow thirteen year olds to hang handmade hammocks between two trees – the ultimate test of knot knowledge and skills – and sleep in them.  Truly the score was danger ten, safety zero.  And certainly no one would allow fourteen to eighteen year olds to march out for miles into the forest, throw down sleeping bags and set up camp in the middle of nowhere – with no functional means of communication to any parent – for seven to ten days.

Looking back, we were at best living on the edge and at worse, putting ourselves in the middle of many, many dangerous, age-inappropriate situations.  But we were Girl Scouts.  We were a group – a gang – of renegade young ladies, bonded together through scouting, learning to become the women we are today.  We didn’t really think about what could have happened to us.  We only thought about the next moment, the next challenge, and the next great adventure.

The good news is that we all survived.  We lost no one and encountered nothing that toppled Troop 972.  I am quite sure that I have long forgotten all of the awkward, anxious, and most likely, idiotic times that put me and my GS friends in some type of peril and only recall those that paint the rosier, heartier, and more captivating version of our history.  Today, I can see that had the troop been active during this century, its history . . . its story . . . its life would have been completely different.

And I can only think that it would be even better.

I still am a Girl Scout.

A Remnant From My Early Brownie Days