A visitor

Last night, a visitor came knocking [exaggeration] at my door. Actually, he was sloooooooowwwwwly creeping past my door. I don't remember fuzzies being quite so long or big around, and I seem to remember some old saw about the darker the fuzz, the harsher the winter. Hooray! Something to look forward to. By the way, sorry for the fuzziness (sorry, bad pun) of the shot. I'm still trying to learn how to work my new camera. :)

Olympics

My past two weeks have been dominated by the Olympic coverage from China. Last night, for instance, I stayed up into the wee hours (4 a.m. to be precise) to watch the United States win gold after defeating Spain. Since I'm not normally a night owl, I hope this post makes some modicum of sense. If it doesn't, I'm not going to worry about it, because nobody but me pays any attention to it anyway. :)

The media hype the medal count (USA lead with 110, but China had the most gold) and the world and Olympic records broken, like Phelps winning 8 gold medals and setting new records just about every time he dipped his pinkie toe into a puddle. However, I love watching the Olympics not only for these phenomenal feats of determination and talent but also because of the stories.

The Olympics generate such phenomenal narratives--of triumph and defeat. For example, take Henry Cejudo. He's the 21-year-old son of undocumented Mexican aliens (and doesn't that phrase just sound odd?). His father walked out on the family 17 year ago, and Cejudo's mother raised her six kids with help of friends and family, moving from apartment to apartment, working several jobs at a time to keep the family afloat. Cejudo says he wasn't a good student, which is partly his reason for not wrestling at the collegiate level. But he took a chance, deciding to wrestle in the senior circuit, and won BIG. That's a phenomenal story. That's a story that highlights not only the joys of the Olympics but the possibility inherent in living in America.

Or consider Tyson Gay. When he didn't qualify for 100m in track and field, he made no excuses. The interviewer and the commentary guys gave him plenty of opportunity to blame nursing a hamstring injury for not running fast enough to make the medal round, but he didn't take it. He flat out told the reporter, I just didn't get it done (that's not a direct quote, notice the lack of quotation marks). Wow. That's an awesome statement of personal responsibility in this age of celebrities (including athletes) and others who blame everyone and everything else for their own bad behaviors. Gay didn't win the gold (Usain Bolt did without even running full out, a kid-glove slap to those he ran against, but that's another day's posting topic), but Gay did win my admiration. That's a story I'd like American youth to hear. That's an attitude that should be emulated. You rock, Tyson Gay!

Stories like those are what make the Olympic games so dynamic. When watching, I want everyone to win (yes, even the non-USA people) because each one has a story of personal triumph and hardship. But I realize that just by being at the games, they've won already. These athletes have managed to accomplish feats that highly paid politicians cannot: they participate in a global contest with honor, respect, and pride, and manage to do so with little acrimony. The troubles in Georgia served to highlight the phenomenal accomplishments of the Olympic games. It saddens me that the world leaders cannot take a clue from these contestants and strive to live more respectfully with each other.

Yes, I know the Olympics had their problems (the Tae Kwon Do competitor who attacked a referee, the Swedish wrestler who through a fit when he didn't win and was later proven right that a call was especially bad [layers upon layers of problems there], or the Chinese gymnasts whose ages seem a little iffy). Overall, though, the games remind us of the possibilities, they encourage us to strive to be our best, they serve as hope that the future may be brighter than today.

Post script: Just a few minutes after writing the above message, I read the story of Samia Yusef Omar of Somalia. Samia is what the Olympics are really about. I'm not even going to try to retell her story; just read it.

Red Rope

I'm reading Kim Campbell's book Less is More where she talks about using more short texts in teaching than using novels. I finished her chapters on essays and memoirs yesterday. Her discussion of a teaching strategy using candy sparked a memory (isn't that an awesome thing?). This morning after my sister and brother-in-law left, I just had to jot the event down. I've been eying the Twizzlers packages at the grocery story lately, so I'm not totally surprised that this memory popped into my brain.

Red Rope

Walking down a dirt path, sunrays skipping across the forest floor and mosquitoes buzzing around my dark head, I finally reach the lodge. The screen door screeches a greeting, alerting Sally that a customer has arrived. Inside, the lodge is an oasis of 1970s wilderness décor—dark stained paneling on every wall, rough hewn columns supporting the next floor, and a picture window facing the lake as well as framing poppy red hummingbird feeders.

Sally’s on the phone, so I climb a bar stool, using the foot rest of the counter as leverage to pull my six-year-old pudge onto the faux leather seat. Once atop the ottoman like disk, I push off from the counter and brace my feet against the stool’s legs to circle dizzyingly until Sally can give me her full attention, or until I plop off the stool from vertigo. The click of the plastic receiver against the metal apparatus of the wall-mount clues me to stop spinning and wait patiently for Sally to wrap the mile-long curled cord over the top of the phone.

“And what may I do for you today?” Sally smiles at me, asking a question to which she already knows the answer, but a smile fills my face anyway.

“A rope please.”

Behind me, I hear the tell-tale screech of the door before a familiar voice adds, “Me, too, Sally.”

Stacy ascends her stool like an Olympic gymnast. Her blonde hair falling straight down her back and pink swimsuit complete the illusion.

“Alright, ladies. You know the drill. Do you have permission from your mothers? You don’t want to go getting me into trouble now do ya?” Sally’s northern Minnesota accent belies the Norwegian settlers of the region, though she could pass more easily through the ranks of Ojibwa Sioux native to the area.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stacy says, sliding her eyes at me, a give-away that she’s lying. My shoulders hunch as I flinch back a space, thinking of the plastic-coated metal fly swatter her mother keeps over their rounded refrigerator, her arbiter of punishment.

Sally doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t argue, after all it’s only twenty-five cents. She swings her gaze to me. “And you missy? Do you have permission from Sylvia?”

I pause, considering letting Stacy have my treat to avoid her future punishment, but the memory of strawberry sugar outweighs my friendship. “Yes, ma’am.” Sally again doesn’t look convinced but shrugs and reaches for two pieces of rope. “I suppose these’re to be added to your tab.”

In our haste to escape with our treat, we barely nod, clutching the plastic encased candy and jumping from our perches. The screen door slaps against the door jamb behind us as we skip down the cement steps, heading for the dock. Once there, we spend a half minute playacting jumping rope with our treat, but greed soon overtakes us. The crinkle of thin plastic opening to release strawberry scented sugar rushes through my senses, reviving memories of past treats. My memory sinks like teeth into the chewy roundness edged with a sinuous rill. Lying on the deck, the splintery wood against our backs and bright sun warming our bodies, Stacy and I share stories—some exaggerated, others true—all the time knowing that vacation would soon end, we’d depart for the same city but not see each other until next year. Both of us know the sweet bliss of summertime friendship and the harsh lash of separation. The empty wrappers, long snakes of cellophane, lay between us that day, shiny reminders of life’s fleeting joy.

Lurker pic

A few weeks ago I posted a poem about a mosquito hanging out on my patio door. Well, today one of his cousins paid me a visit, and I just had to get a shot of him. This exercise took a little bit longer than I anticipated and placed me way behind on my agenda for the day. I'm not complaining--he's a gorgeous little brute--but now I must work on my school stuff....and watch the Olympics (a girl's got her priorities--hello, Michael Phelps, anyone?).

No "real" post

I've been out of town visiting my sister in St. Louis this past weekend. And now I'm feeling fatigued and snarky. However, I did have a marvelous time--I always do with Kristi, she's a great listener and fun companion. We went to Fast Eddies in Alton, what a great place! Then, we took the Great River Road back to St. Charles, stopping in the Village of Elspah (must revisit soon!), Grafton, and Meppen (population 150). It was a gorgeous day.