A to Z, part 3

Okay, so it's been a few days since I posted because well, I'm home visiting family and well, Christmas happened so things have been busy. But, here we go. Today is J through M.

J-Jobs. While we were attending the same college, my brothers and I frequently discussed what we called Get-You-Through-School Jobs.

(My brothers and I a few years before college)

These were not the menial jobs we actually had during college, but, rather the jobs we never wanted to be forced to have if we opted to drop out of school and forego an education. See, an education provides choice, glorious choice. For my brothers, Get-You-Through-School Jobs included: construction, roofing, door-to-door salesmen, and anything having to do with manure (shoveling, distributing, burying, hauling, etc.). We had a particularly memorable interchange on the way to school one day in which my older brother declared he didn’t want to have a job that involved pallets in any form: moving pallets, stacking pallets, loading pallets, etc.
For me, it comes down to two main categories of Get-You-Through-School Jobs: Daycare and Sales. Recently, I inserted both feet into my mouth when I made a comment at a social gathering in which I said something like, “You will all know I’m down and out when I’m working at a daycare and selling Mary Kay.” About the time the words left my mouth, I realized that one of the girls sitting there currently does not one, but BOTH of these things. But, as I stammered an explanation that I hoped would lessen the offense I was sure I had issued, I realized this situation just proves the point of the value of an education. She enjoys working at a daycare and she likes selling Mary Kay. She has a college education and is delighted that she gets to do exactly what she wants to do. I have a college education and am delighted that I get to do exactly what I want to do—and I assure you it is not the dream she is living. I love being a speech pathologist. I get to work with people one-on-one. I get to work in education, but with a medical twist to it. I get to learn about science-y things, but not to a crazy detailed extent. It’s the perfect job for me. God bless college.

K-Kittens. See, the problem I have with kittens—although they are unbelievably cute—is that they grow up into cats. We had cats growing up, but they were of the outside-mousing-hissing-scratch-the-heck-out-of-you variety versus the inside-lovable-watch-the-kitty-chase-the-yarn variety. There’s a big difference. I remember one day my older brother and I saw one of the uncatchable kittens (they were all uncatchable kittens) underneath the climbing rope that hung from our swing set. In all of our seven- and eight-year-old stealth, we decided to carefully sneak up on it to lovingly hold it in our arms. We moved ever so slowly towards it, all the more awed as we moved closer and closer without it running away. Feeling pretty proud of ourselves, we observed that the cat’s mouth was open as if it were smiling—like it wanted to play with us. It wasn’t until we got within arm’s length that we first suspected that something was awry with the very still kitty. Even so, my brother reached a finger under the kitten’s paw to give it a jiggle, you know, to wake it up. Upon doing so, the rigor mortis that had already settled into the kitten was quite apparent as it stiffly rose and fell back to the ground.
Looking back, I suppose our response should have been one of sadness, grief and well, at least some emotion. Instead, we both kind of sighed, pronounced it dead, and fetched mom to go and bury it before jumping on the swings and continuing with our play. I’m just not a fan of cats. Maybe this is why.

L-Love. This past August, I moved halfway across the country to go pursue a doctoral degree at the University of Nebraska. A few weeks later, my brother and his wife had a family gathering at their house to have a beard-shaving party (that’s another story…). When my parents pulled up and got out of their car, my brother noted that they were decked out in University of Nebraska garb that they had gotten when they dropped me off at school. When my brother asked my dad if they were now supporters of Nebraska, he replied, “Nope. We’re supporters of Katy.”

(My parents and the two littlest grandchildren-Ben and Emily-supporting Katy.)

M-Mirage. A friend and I were on a road trip to Seattle and the Tulip Festival. As often happens, the conversation turned to the state of our lives and, because she had just had a disappointing occurrence with a particular boy, an aura of discouragement, frustration, and hopelessness had settled over the car. Driving on the fairly deserted road between Hanford and Mattawa, I looked out the window and saw this. Hope. Suspended in mid-air, as if to say, “Hang in there girls, I’m not as elusive as you think.”

A to Z, part 2

Alright, today you get F-I.

F-Festivals. I have discovered that there are festivals for just about anything—Crossworders, Trekkies, Renaissance Faire Enthusiasts, Scrabble-ists, etc. I love attending these festivals as a total outsider and seeing all these quirky people finding others who are quirky in exactly the same way they are. They let go and become quirkier than ever and no one judges them for it. I witnessed such a festival two summers ago when some friends and I went to the International Accordion Festival in Leavenworth, Washington. So much shameless displays of lederhosen, polka, and frilly frocks all in the same place! While we were there, we invented The Accordion Clap. It is done by bringing your hands together back and forth in a very rapid fashion, without your hands ever actually touching, as if you are playing an accordion. It looks like this.

(Kendra, Christi, and Elise giving a spectacular demonstration of the accordion clap)

You should know it’s very difficult to keep from grinning like a fool while accordion clapping. It just makes you so happy.

G- Grasshoppers, Shower of. After I moved to Nebraska, I discovered a bike trail near my apartment that goes through the city and out into the countryside on the east side of town.

(my beautiful trail)

One afternoon, I went for a ride and found multitudes of grasshoppers and locusts sunning themselves on the gravel trail. For several miles, as my wheels crunched the gravel and approached the sunning insects, they would suddenly spring up just like popcorn in a popper. I had never experienced a grasshopper shower before.


H-Haiku. I have developed a habit of writing haiku poetry to vent my frustration, irritation, or annoyance at one particular culprit: The Wind. I do not mind a gentle breeze tousling the ends of my hair, but when it whips around my face, blowing my hair into knots and making my eyes water, it just irritates me. And so I create poetry to distract myself.
The first wind haiku was born on a cold winter day as I walked into my job at Richland High School:

nasty blowing cold
hands are freezing hair a mess
sometimes I hate wind

The second one was created on my walk to church:

Shine! Gloss! Kiss me now!
Hair blows wildly sticks to lips
sometimes I hate wind

The next came about as I fiercely fought against the wind and the waves while kayaking on a should-have-been-calm mountain lake:

waves and rapids wild
wind should not be on the lake
sometimes I hate wind

The fourth one, sadly, I can’t remember entirely but was constructed by my sister and I as we sat on the beach at the Oregon Coast with the wind whipping the sand around us and sandblasting our bare legs. Rest assured you probably know the last line of the haiku already.

And finally, the latest was developed to calm myself while being gloriously irritated by riding my bike into a cold and strong headwind for several miles:

gale forces blow strong

almost knocks me off my bike
sometimes I hate wind

They do make me feel better.

Ice, Scraping of. For an entire winter, while I was in grad school and living at home, my younger brother would scrape his car and then mine before he left for school (every morning). When I came rushing out of the house, late, it always made my day to see my scraped car ready to be on her way.

(my little brother, about 15 years before he scraped my car all winter)

This is Me from A to Z - Part 1

So, a couple of years ago, I was introduced to a new favorite book: Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal. For some reason, it totally resonated with me and I highly recommend it. Just a fun read. A few weeks ago, I realized that I was mentally logging particular topics that I would write about, should I ever write such a book. And, thus, this post was born. It is nowhere near the quality of her book, but it is a bit of a random glimpse into the person that is me. Today, I give you letters A-E:

A-Ambidextrous. I have long-wished I was ambidextrous. This desire started in third grade when my best friend and I decided that we were no longer right-handed and, for two weeks, we did all of our class work with our non-dominant hands. That is, until our trusty teacher had, I’m sure, had enough trying to read our quite shaky, quite illegible left-handed scrawls. He kept us in from recess to engage in a memorable interchange. Him: “Girls, right-handed people write with their right hands.” Us: “But, we’re left-handed, Mr. Trautman.” Him: “You are NOT. And you will write with your right hands from now on.” End of discussion. In spite of him, I continued to practice on my own time. And ever after, in slow classes in high school and college and yes, even now, I take notes with my left hand. Although I’m not ambidextrous yet, I’ve gotten pretty good.

(The last two lines on this page were written wiht my left hand. Can you tell?)

B-Bananas. Until we were all in our twenties, neither I nor any of my siblings, were aware that my mom hates bananas. It’s a texture thing for her. I remember the shock I felt when I discovered (in my 20’s!) this startling unknown bit of trivia about my own mother. It was around this time that she made a sudden reference to Alexander the parakeet, a childhood family pet who used to peck at his own reflection in an aluminum ball on their Christmas tree. Nope, none of us knew about him either. Later, my sister and I had finished a scenic jigsaw puzzle, which is something we often do as a family together around the holidays. When mom saw it, her comment was, “Oh, that just looks so bucolic.” She had never used this word and my sister nor I knew what it meant. What the heck? What other mysteries will I yet discover about my own mother?

C-Confession. A couple of summers ago, a friend suggested I give backpacking a whirl. Truthfully, the thought had never crossed my mind because I was pretty sure it would kill me. But, with some encouragement, and the fact that I just wanted to see if I could do it, I consented. So, off we went into the Goat Rocks Wilderness near Mt. Rainier and Mt. Adams and I began trudging up the mountain. Twenty-four hours later, we descended and I was proud of what I had accomplished. The next summer she suggested we go again. I consented because, heck, everyone loves backpacking and I’ve only gone once—I should go again. So, again, we began hiking up the mountain for a 3-day trip. On the afternoon of the second day, I was leaning up against a log while everyone else had decided to go exploring when I had the guilty thought, “I don’t like backpacking.” I remember feeling like I’d committed some unpardonable sin because I admitted (to myself) that I didn’t care for this amazing experience with nature. In time, I began to realize that there is no sin in not liking backpacking. There are plenty of other nature-y things that I have tried and loved. I simply don’t think its fun to climb a million feet in elevation and I don’t enjoy sitting in dirt instead of a camp chair. Ahhh, It’s nice to get that off my chest.

(proof that I did actually make it to the top--I look thrilled, yeah?)

D-Dark, Playing the Piano in the. One of my favorite things to do is to sit at a piano in complete darkness and play and play and play. There’s something magical about creating music out of a seeming nothingness. I don’t need to see the keyboard to know which notes are right, my fingers know where to go and my ears confirm they are correct. And I love the utter silence that comes from a dark room as the last note fades away.

E- Elementary School. I loved Elementary School. I remember it as a very idyllic, sheltered time where I was obliviously to little else besides what was going on in my immediate surroundings. Here is a highlight from each grade:
Kindergarten: I have to go to the bathroom and knock on the door of the in-classroom bathroom although I know it’s Pablo Rivera in there because he is singing—loudly. I knock again, to no avail. I know that my bladder is approaching the point of no return and urgently hope he will come out soon. At the end of his song, he finishes his business and I hurry in, shut the door, and feel my muscles release before I get my pants down. I am mortified and try to decide what to do. I casually walk out to the classroom and sit down at the reading table where my teacher, Mrs. Nichols, is sitting and working with another student. When she finishes, she kindly turns to me and asks what I need. I’m so embarrassed I can’t find the words and say nothing, but look at her with what I’m sure are big, worried eyes. She asks some probing questions, none of which I respond to, before I loudly cry, “I wet my pants!” She walks me to the office, mom brings me dry clothes, and I glare at Pablo for the rest of the day.
1st-grade: My teacher, Mrs. Pfeiffer has a piano in her classroom, which I am very impressed by. Sometimes, she lets me play it—even during class. I feel special because my student number is 6, our class is in Room 6, and I am 6 years old.
2nd-grade: Our class has our first spelling bee, for which I’m very excited because I’m good at spelling. When it’s my turn, my teacher says: “Piece. I want a piece of pie.” I spell: “Piece. P-i-e-c-e. Piece.” “Wrong”, she says. I am aghast. I know I’ve spelled it correctly. At my look of bewilderment, she says, “You spelled the wrong kind of piece. You spelled peace, as in “we hope for peace on earth”.” I start to refute, but she gives me a look that quiets me and I sit back down. This is my first experience with blatant injustice. And the first time I know with certainty that I am right, and my teacher is wrong.
3rd-grade: It is early afternoon just before recess, and our teacher is nearing the end of a lesson he’s teaching. Jenny Warner raises her arms over her head and yawns with a loud sigh. Quite loud, actually. Mr. Trautman turns and yells at her for rude behavior and makes her sit in the hall for the rest of the afternoon. From this point on, I am careful not to yawn too loudly in public settings.
4th-grade: My teacher, Mrs. Mayer, makes the advanced reading group read multiple books I do not like including: A Wrinkle in Time, Summer of the Swans, and A Door in the Wall. I look longingly at the other groups reading Little House on the Prairie, How to Eat Fried Worms, and Ramona Forever and wish we could read the fun books.
5th-grade: I wear a bra for the first time to school, but by about ten o’clock in the morning, find it so itchy and uncomfortable that I go into the bathroom and take it off. I stuff it into my pocket and casually walk back to my classroom past my teacher, Mrs. Mitchell’s desk. I nonchalantly walk past my desk to the back of the room where our backpacks are hanging on clusters of hangers and ever so sneakily pull it out of my pocket and bury it at the bottom of my backpack and move on with my day—feeling much better.

Alright, more to follow...

No joke

It is the end of the semester. How do I know? I took notes on the very last page of my spiral notebook today. I'm out of paper. That's it. I shan't be learning anything else.

I wish it always worked like this.