there's a problem when...

you're watching a memorial service on t.v. There's a background of choral music. Faces of dead children fade in and out of the screen. Suddenly, the choral music is replaced by a commercial jingle, a half-naked shampoo model replaces the fading children, a truck driving through the mud takes precedence of the screen.  And for 30 seconds an entire nation forgets about the dead children... and maybe uncle rick will decide to buy a truck.

I hope a salesman pays my parents so he can attend my funeral and sell tupperware--preferably somewhere between the second eulogy and the throwing of the dirt.

Vultures

      I have a thing for birds, specifically the ugly ones. Ravens are by far my favorites. One ugly bird that i have never taken a liking to is the vulture. Their bald heads, crooked necks, plus the fact that they eat road kill makes me wrinkle my nose in disgust. The other day, though, I was running on a bike trail when i came across an old lady. She was standing quite still and staring at some telephone lines over yonder. Having just attended cpr class, I stopped to make sure this wasn't a stroke or something when she put out her hand and touched my arm. She pointed to the top of one of the telephone poles, "See those two birds up there? Those are vultures. They're partners...always up there, makin' love." She then winked at me and gave me a big smile. I watched the black silhouettes for a while and she went on,  "I think they may be the ugliest bird in the world, but I sure do like to come out here and watch those two."
   Later I did a little homework. Vultures are incredible. I was a little nervous when I came across headings such as, "Why the Vulture Vomits." As it turns out, though, vultures are pretty cool creatures. For example, their heads are bald because if they stuck their head into some dead animals carcass and it actually had feathers, the rotting animal guts, etc would get stuck in the feathers. Therefore, they're designed to be relatively sanitary creatures. Also, although the thought of eating roadkill is revolting for most of us , vultures actually stop the spread of disease because they eat the dead, diseased meat on the side of the road. Actually, in places where the vulture population has decreased, disease has increased! What a wonderful design, a very important job for the vulture!
    One of my favorite literary references pertaining to vultures can be found in "Extracts from Adam's Diary," a short story by Mark Twain.  Basically, it's a fictional account of creation from Adam's point of view, giving his opinions on Eve, children, naming the animals, etc. It's hilarious and I suggest you read it, not as Biblical truth of course, but just for fun. Plus, it will make you think. [Side note: That's the wonderful thing about Mark Twain. You'll be laughing one moment and then in the next you'll feel as though he's punched you in the gut. Then you'll mumble to yourself..."oh, that's not really funny..."He can do this within a page!!!! ] Well, Adam is puzzled by Eve's care over the animals. At this point in the story she has not yet eaten from the tree of good and evil, but she seems very concerned over the vulture. It seems that his beak, head, entire design, was made to eat carrion, yet there was no death, no carrion for the vulture to eat. Eve is concerned that the vulture will starve.
   Although, Biblically, this is not true, it's interesting to think about. God is so creative in His designs, giving not only weird, creative looks, but also useful functions, even after something as unnatural as death entered the world! Bald heads for cleanliness...huh.

Vulture info found at ecolocalizer.com

Gruel for Breakfast...and Lunch...and Dinner!

I'm all about themes. I have a theme for everything. If a good movie is coming out, I force my sisters to dress up like the characters before we head out. If there is a fun 5k, I often dress up thematically for whatever the title of the 5k may be. During October I only read Edgar Allen Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne and the like. During the winter, the literary preferences are Dickens, Jane Austen, and any other "wintery" authors. Every Monday I listen to Manic Monday. It usually sticks in my brain all day long and I sing it and sing it and sing it until I drive people crazy. This next weekend is Charles Dickens themed. I have a 10k in the morning called "Run Like the Dickens" and then I'm attending "The Christmas Carol" (play) in the afternoon. I plan on eating gruel...whatever that may be, and reading A Christmas Carol on Sunday. Perhaps I'll memorize the description of Scrooge and carry my own temperature. Side note: The other day, I shook a man's hand. He held it for a moment, wondering why it was so cold...I should have quoted Dickens! Though hopefully I don't have so cold a heart that I carry my own temperature. Just a funny thought...

"Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge. a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas."

Well, I wish you a wonderful holiday weekend! God bless us, everyone!

p.s. does anyone else think that scrooge is quite patronizing in the end of the book. He pats people on the top of the head. blech. Could he have swung too far to the other side of the pendulum? oh well, i suppose that's better than being cold-hearted. 

a moment with Lacey

A moment with Lacey

The other day I was sitting at the table coloring with Lacey when a man with a big beard walked by. Lacey pointed out the window and exclaimed, “No! No! You Go!!” I looked at the man and back at Lacey, “But Lacey, don’t you like his beard?!”  She gave me the evil eye, shook her head and once again said, “No!” So I looked out at the man and then back at Lacey and tried again, “Ooooh, I get it…you like your men clean-shaven, don’t you Lacey?” She looked down, wrinkled her nose and smiled, “yea” she said with the tenderness of a mother soothing her baby. 

*names changed to protect privacy

Bill and Lacey:A Humorous Moment

      I work at a home for people with intellectual disabilities. There are only two wonderful residents in my particular home. 

     The other day Bill drew a picture. He takes great pride in his pictures. We hang many of them on the fridge and even made a picture binder so people can flip through and admire his creations. He seemed to be working on this particular picture very diligently. He chose the exact colors that he wanted—maroon, and brown. In the end, he slammed his crayon down, looked up, smiled, and laughed his rye laugh. It sounds more like a cackle. I picked up his picture, looked at it, and told him that it was pretty. Then I made a poor choice. I asked him what it was. He pointed at the maroon and brown splotches, “It’s Lacey!” He proclaimed this with great pride. Unfortunatley, Lacey (in a maroon shirt, by the way) did not take his Lacey-esque splotches as a compliment, “NOOOO, NOOO, NOOOO!” After the “no’s” she went into hissing spitwords under her breath. He still looked proud as the ice began to crack under my feet. It was a lose-lose situation. If I told Lacey she didn't look so splotchy, Bill would feel bad. If I told Bill it was beautiful, Lacey would take offense.      

    So I sat and looked from Bill... to Lacey... and back. And Bill sat, smiled, and looked from his picture... to Lacey... and back. And Lacey sat and hissed spitwords at the floor. 

*Names are changed!!

Elmore

I wrote this awhile back. I considered Elmore one of my best friends during college.  This week would be our friendship anniversary and this piece of writing...well, you'll see.  

Last semester a friend of mine died and I found out a week later...on facebook. We've been friends for a few years now and would sit down and talk every few weeks. He was always very sick, a weak heart.  I knew he wouldnt be around forever, the 60 year age gap clued me in, but for some reason I thought I'd be leaving him first, as selfish as that sounds--that I would be off and living in the real world before he left forever. In a way, I suppose I figured I would "die" to him rather than him dying before I was ready, before I had gained enough wisdom or heard enough stories. 

            On November 20th, I logged on to facebook planning to write him a message but there was no need because a closing message already permeated his board. It was from a nephew congratulating Elmore on going to be with the Lord. Obviously an automatic emotion is regret... why did I not visit more, ask more questions, or show him the picture of my sisters that he always wanted to see? Next time, I'll bring it. But what if there is no next time?Or what if the next time is at the cemetery after the visitation and the funeral have already passed?What do you do when a friend dies and no one thinks to tell you because you're 21 and a girl and not a family member, but some completely random college student visiting this 80-year-old man who you have absolutely nothing in common with besides the fact that you're both human and you used to play the oboe like his granddaughter does now, and that one time you made him a Christmas card but unfortunately made it backwards and gave it to him anyway and he laughed saying that he knew we were true friends because only true friends could give each other backwards Christmas cards without being embarrassed? You find out on facebook, pray that it's some sort of mistake, and run out to the cemetery. The fresh dirt confirms the truth that you disliked on facebook and you walk into your dorm two hours later covered in the dirt that covers him.

NaNoWriMo

I took on the challenge of writing 50000 words in a month. November is NaNoWriMo—which, to me, sounds like some sort of high tech space gadget or star wars character. But, as my sister informed me the other day, it actually stands for National Novel Writing Month. You write a full novel in one month, hopefully slaving day after day in the coffee shop of your choice, while attempting to find a new way to describe the mole on the bottom of Aunt Lulu’s foot. Actually, hopefully you’re describing something more interesting. As for me, well… we’ll see what gibberish my pen unleashes! In college I had a professor who studied intellectual disabilities—

Sidenote:” intellectual disability” is the new term coined by Obama to replace “mental retardation” (interesting how different phrases come into use…I’m hoping he soon replaces “cool” with “jiggy”)

Hhmmmm…back to the original subject—In college I had a professor who studied intellectual disabilities in literature. He looked at 8 or 10 different pieces of classic literature, and attempted to discern whether the books dehumanized the mentally challenged characters or whether they humanized them, hopefully giving them a meaningful role in the story.  That’s my challenge this month… to give humanity to people who can’t often speak for themselves or who have trouble communicating these thoughts—not that they actually need me to do this. Anyone who spends any time at all with the intellectually disabled knows that they don’t need my help to be humanized. But if I can make a difference in one person’s views, if some naïve know-it-all (a description of me before I met some of my best friends!) can be humbled by whatever character I may present, well then, perhaps it will be worth it.

p.s. I noticed there was a lot of "they" in the previous paragraphs to describe the intellectually disabled, and for this I apologize. My prayer is to use the novel to turn the "they" into a "we", which may sound cliche...but maybe that's all right. I often think "cliche" is just a word we use in our individualistic pride when we feel as though our thoughts and words are higher than the thoughts and words of the general populace. If it's right to be cliche, then please, by all means, be cliche!!!! 

Heirloom

Someone told me the other day that calling old people, “old people” is rude, politically incorrect, they’d prefer to be called something else. This 25-year-old couldn’t know from experience, but I’ve been trying to procure a reasonable name for the older generation ever since. You see, I usually prefer the company of old people. Old women aren’t judgmental and old men don’t objectify me. They’re patient in the face of my firing questions and are willing to give all sorts of great advice. Lately, I’ve been a regular at this coffee shop that lends itself to an older crowd. Older women run it and are more than willing to give you an extra squirt of caramel syrup if your latte isn’t sweet enough—no charge in a $0.25 per squirt world.  The other day, a group of eight 65+ entered. I recorded a sample conversation:

OM1: I have an old rototiller that won’t start. I don’t know what to do with it.

OM2: Well, why won’t it start?

OM1: I don’t know! Probably because I haven’t run it in 15 years!

OM2: Sits back in his chair, “Vintage. That's what the kids are calling it nowadays.”

OL1:  Brightens and sits tall in her seat, “I’d say it’s more like heirloom!”

 At the end of their meeting, one of the vintage men pulled out all the women’s chairs, and then proceeded to compliment each heirloom as she walked out.