The Snake Charmer's Wife

Tropical Steel benefit concert for Haiti

2012-02-19T12:42:00.000-08:00

Today, we all came to church dressed in bright colors and tropical dress (me, and my Kenyan gear) and we worshiped to the Caribbean stylings of Tropical Steel. Our morning included a benefit concert for Haiti's earthquake recovery and I was pleased to be asked to deliver an update. I thought I'd go ahead and post my remarks here, just in case some of you feel moved to further support the effort. Here goes:

Haiti is a tiny country on the westside of a small Caribbean island called Hispaniola. Haiti holds a rich heritageof culture, a long history of slavery, a hard record of poverty, and anincredible hero in the man of Toussant L'Ouverture, a slave who led an unlikely and successful slave rebellion in the late 1700s, mostly by sheer wit and diplomacy.

In modern times Haiti remains acomplicated society and when a magnitude 7.0 earthquake hit in January 2010, itjust got worse. The problem with natural disasters is that they always impactthe poor countries, the poor neighbors, the poor people the hardest – becausethe poor usually live in the most vulnerable constructions and riskylandscapes.

In that earthquake, nearly 250,000people died, some 300,000 people were injured and more than 1.5 million peoplewere displaced. Most are still living in camps.

Our Lutheran human service agencies are at work there, and in a big way. Thanksto the support of so many people like you.

Here’s aquick summary of what the ELCA is doing in Haiti:

· About ten days ago there was a groundbreakingceremony for a new resettlement village that will provide housing for 1,200people

· Thevillage will include the construction of 200 solar-powered homes with indoorplumbing, a "green" sanitation system and community space thatincludes a children's playground and multipurpose community center.

· Women-headedhouseholds and people living with disabilities will be among the villageresidents.

Other work includes:

· Openinga vocational training center that will train in masonry, carpentry, and heavymachine operation and repair

· Thecontainment of cholera and the care for cholera patients

· Increasingaccess to clean water and basic sanitation

· Providingchickens to some 200 farmers to develop egg production coops

· Andplans are underway to build three schools and to train people to prepare forfuture disasters

But it’s not just what we’re doing.It’s how we’re doing it. We don’t just go into Haiti, or any county, as if wehave all the answers. We’re don’t act like we’re “saving” people. Instead, wework through Haitians and Haitian organizations to bolster what they’re alreadydoing. We work together, as if each other’s survival depends on working together.We work with both immediate and long-term needs. We don’t cut and run after media attention subsides.

I’ll close with a quote from JosephLivenson Lauvanus, president of the Lutheran Church of Haiti: "WeHaitians will not be defined by the rubble, but by restoration, for we are apeople of the resurrection."

Thank you.

...

The plate was passed to benefit the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America's Haiti projects. You can still donate online.

The boychild and his peace rally

2012-02-15T20:38:00.000-08:00

So once, long ago when I worked on the 8th floor of 23rd and Park Avenue South in Manhattan, "in the city" as New Yorker's call it, a colleague went out for lunch and returned with an announcement: "I just saw the Dalai Lama." It was one of those New York moments, so casual, yet so, holy crap. I mean, she just took a short lunch break, maybe 20 minutes. And BAM, there's the Dalai Lama. When you live in a condensed population that is the center of the universe, tongue partially in cheek, you just see stuff like that, and it becomes kind of ho hum. (My bro-in-law has a meeting Mother Teresa story that would have you in stitches.)

I thought of that Dalai Lama lunch break today when my 12-year-old son announced that he'd bumped into a pro-Tibet rally with a friend in downtown Des Moines today after school. I'm like, wow, that's so cool. He's like, yeah, just another rally. I'm like, wow, I didn't even know you'd heard of Tibet. He's like, yeah, so what's the big deal. My son is not much of a talker, but wanted me to know that he was there. He wanted me to know that he's heard of Tibet, and he knows they need to be freed. Apparently he knows that, like, I dig that. (And maybe he's still trying to make up for the paper mache' bazooka he made in 2nd grade arts and crafts.)

If you haven't already heard, it's a big deal around here these days because the future prez of China is touring Iowa and a state dinner was in Des Moines tonight. Hense, the pro-Tibet rally. Des Moines is that kind of place -- big enough to be a city, small enough for a kid to bum around after school with a buddy. The boychild's school and Bob's office are both downtown, so the city has become boychild's playground. He's figuring out the public transit, the best place to get a sandwich, the skyways, the public library amenities, and how to best get from point A to B with the least amount of physical exertion. He's figuring out what it means to be free, to be who you are, to fly your own flag.

Wait, stop, I'm sure you're not thinking provincial thoughts about Iowa and Des Moines. That we're all about corn and quaintness. But if you are, I invite you to watch this short video. (Mom, heads up, there's a little bit of language in it.) That was a short diversion.

Anyway, just wanted to shout out to the free Tibet people -- Welcome to Des Moines! Thanks for coming. Thanks for educating my son.

With love, T

Crash landing pad

2012-02-06T20:13:00.000-08:00

There are three ways in which I serve food to my kids. All I ask is that you don't judge me. Anyway, the three ways are the helicopter method, the spaceship method, and the crash landing method. They go something like this:

Girlchild or Boychild: "Mom, will you make me a turkey sandwich?"

Me: "Sure." I make the sandwich. I set it on the kitchen counter top.

Me: "Here's your sandwich."

Girlchild or Boychild, who by the way are probably sitting in front of the TV: "Mom, can you helicopter it in?"

Me: "Sure."

Suddenly the plate arises and makes a fast paced thicking noise and rotates in circles as it makes it's way towards the Subjectchild. All the way across the living room straight to the Saidchild and lands gently onto the lap landing pad.

The spaceship method is pretty much the same thing, except it's called a space ship instead of a helicopter. It kind of rotates like a round flying saucer from Mars. Sometimes the turkey sandwich is served on a platter with other food and drink, napkin and fork. Then, the entire platter rotates across the room, same quick thicking noice.

The crash landing method is a whole other thing. That's when the turkey sandwich, or whatever is being served at that particular request, sets so securely on the plate or tray that it suddenly takes off, runs across the room. It makes a screechy "rrrrrrr" sound like a car that has slammed on it's brakes. And then smashes onto the lap landing pad, still in tact for eating of course.

When crash landings occur, Girlchild and Boychild say: "Mom, that's just weird."

And I take heart in the way that author Mary Karr describes the way her family used to eat meals together in her memoir, "The Liar's Club." They used to all sit on the parent's bed, each facing a different wall, with their backs towards the center of the bed, with their food on their laps, all facing outwards. And it worked for them. I think it sounds kind of peaceful. (Rare moments of quiet in that book, anyway.) The way she writes it, it's hilarious. (Lots of hilarity in this read.)

All for now. Thanks for coming over.

With love, T
.

Busted

2012-02-04T08:43:00.000-08:00

I've been busted. The other day my son, who I shall no longer name lest he shows up on a Google search by his middle school friends, requested access to my blog codes so he could go in and take offline all the pictures of him I've posted over the years. The good, the bad, and the super adorable. Of course I obliged this request, although I think there's still work to do.

Apparently he and his friend were Google searching each other, and apparently my son's name turned up as highly searchable, thanks to me and my darn habit of blogging. Welcome to the big bad world of lack of privacy in which I am a perpetrator.

My son said his friend said that my blog title is stupid. What? Now I'm being evaluated by another 7th grade boy? Yet, I don't want to embarrass my son.

"Oh, so do I need to change my blog name? Delete the whole thing?" I asked.

"No, that's OK," he said.

Nice kid.

Its another example of that harsh reality that your kids have their own separate lives and that they belong to you less and less as they get older and wiser. The days of me posting about my son and daughter as if they are my property, my dolls, my babies, my own -- are over. Or at least modified.

Yet, sadly, as we all know, once something is posted on the internet, always posted. Google search doesn't give their codes out, as far as I know, so you can't go in and delete their material about you and your family. And so I give thanks again that there was no information superhighway when I was younger and dumber. And I caution my kids constantly about what they post. And I caution myself over and over and over again.

It's probably good that I just stick to the liver writing and maybe take up scrap booking.

Wishing you all a lovely weekend.

T

On being replaced

2012-01-30T06:21:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, I have another baby: the book I'm writing about the time Bob's liver failed. (A memoir about illness, healing, authority, submission, faith, and doubt.) This past weekend I started writing about the part where Bob and I both are replaced at work thanks to medical leave. Very easily replaced. I kind of like how it came out:

Bob and I have been away from our jobsone and two months respectively. Pretty much all during seminary Bob coachedbasketball to teenage boys in North Minneapolis, mostly Liberian immigrants onthe edge of trouble. You could say that Bob has a benevolent outlook, and hedoes, but it’s more than that. It’s about this man’s bona fide zeal for sports.In all the modest places we’ve lived in, never a garage, closets or no, wealways made room for his collections of golf bags, baseball bats, basketballparaphernalia, sports theory books, and buckets of assorted balls and gloves. Nomatter how strapped our budget, we always subscribed to the golf cable channel.Sit on any toilet we’ve ever had, you’ll have a stack of sports instructional magazines at your fingertips. I used to think Bob’s clipboard that isa whiteboard with the permanent basketball court lines etched in black, omnipresentin our apartment, was quaint. How cute, an itty bitty gymnasium! But to Bob it’s not just acool clipboard for basketball lovers, it’s a serious tool to diagram plays forthe team. He used it a lot.

Presently, an intern coaches Bob’s team.And he is kind enough to call every once in a while to update Bob on the team’sprogress. I don’t totally get the obsession with sports but I admit its inspiringto see the boys get excited about playing together.

An intern has taken over my job too. Ina way, I’m glad that my tasks are covered. Yet the fact of the matter is, we areboth replaced by 22-year-olds. Sometimes when Bob is in a moment of cognizance,we joke about how exchangeable we 40-50-somethings are. I’ve known for yearsthat my interns are on a faster track to greatness than me. After theirinternships these young people moved on to work overseas, learn languages, makefilms, study law, lobby congress, direct nonprofits, or be theologians and philosophers. Their visions anddreams read like a laundry list of all the things I wish I’d done before I got ahusband, children, and car payments.

Seismic shifts in routine reveal thetruth of what does and doesn’t matter, and it’s usually not what you originallythought. If it wasn’t for the fact that I have other things to worry about,such as my dying husband, I could be bothered by the fact that mytwenty-something intern is now “me” and I’m professionally invisible. But I’mnot bothered. I’ll care about that later.

...

More later! Two years and 131 pages done, about another 100 pages and who know how many years to go. Time to go to my day job.

With love, T

Blown Out Redwing Boots :: Part I

2012-01-25T20:08:00.000-08:00

Do you see the blown out sole?
Just upped and blowed out.

I'm pleased to introduce you to my boots. They are Redwing Boots, purchased from the home store in Redwing, Minnesota.

These babies are ten years old and I love them. When you live in the upper midwest, fashionistas like me wear these things for a good five-six months of the year. I believe these boots have taken on the shape of my feet.

So last December, right before I was about to take off to California, my right boot blew out. The rubber just fell out one Saturday afternoon while I watched Aidan play basketball.

My babies on their better side.

Redwing Boots are patriotic boots.

Made in the U.S.A. No outsourcing. And to make things even better, the company is worker owned. No zillionaire CEO, but everyone shares the profits.

Dang, I should invoice Redwing for a marketing fee, but really all I want are my boots back.

They say that Redwing will replace the soles free of charge. Maybe, maybe not. But guess what, there's a Redwing outlet just a few miles from here so I'll give it a whirl. If I'm successful, you'll be the first to know, my dear blogger friends. I know you'll be waiting for this news and I promise not to let you down, friends. Stay tuned.

Thanks for coming over!

With love, T

The Blues Club that is my Church

2012-01-16T08:18:00.000-08:00

For those of you who were not able to join me at the blues club that is my church yesterday, St. John's Lutheran, I wanted to share this explanation of one of the pieces offered out. the explanation is almost, ALMOST as good as the soulful sound that filled the sanctuary of the space, and the remote crevices of all who were there. This is lifted right out of the service bulletin, and no doubt can be attributed to the amazing Larry Christianson, Director of Music, Worship and the Arts.

Here goes:

Explanation of the "Gloria" sung during today's offering:
In contrast to more lively settings of the "Gloria" text, this piece creates a melancholy mood with the presence of two melodies: Amazing Grace (a British tune entitled "New Britian," and text written by reformed slave trader John Newton) and "Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child" (a mournful African American Spiritual). Even though Old Testament scriptures commented on the tragedy of slavery, Christianity sill inspired both the slaves and the slave owners of the New World. The "Gloria" explores this painful paradox of our history by placing a melody of a slave trader next to a melody of a slave. This piece resonates with the Book of Job by exploring the mysteries of innocent suffering. Latin American cultures were born out of the conflicts and collaborations of Native populations, Europeans and West Africans, therefore, this piece expresses "Glory to God" within the context of their tragic history.

...

With love, T

For MLK Day: "Beloved" by Toni Morrison, annotated

2012-01-15T11:56:00.000-08:00

Read this book and be grateful if you believe in forgiveness
and the potential for Beloved Community.

To commemorate Martin Luther KingDay, I'm pleased to post my annotation of the book Beloved, by Toni Morrison:

Beloved by Toni Morrison is a novel set in Cincinnatithe immediate years following the civil war, centering on a former slave,Sethe, and her family. “Family,” defined by slavery standards as family didn’texist for slaves; would-be loved ones were bought, sold, rented, burned,hanged, or otherwise lost. Sethe’s family was her mother-in-law, her daughter,her new lover who was an old co-slave (for total lack of a better word), hertwo runaway sons, her vanished husband and her ghost daughter, Beloved, whoforms the center of the plot line. The book demonstrates why it was nearlyimpossible for a slave to form bonds of love, and the reader understands howlove could be best shown through infanticide. Yes, read that last sentenceagain slowly. Love through infanticide. I won't give away the spoiler, the method.

I wantedto read this book for two reasons. First to further my quest to read theclassics. In 2006 The New York TimesBook Review deemed this bookas “the single best work of American fiction in the past 25 years.” Theoriginal NYT review was written in 1987 by Margeret Atwood who wrote this aboutToni Morrison: “If there were any doubts about her stature as a pre-eminentAmerican novelist, of her own or any other generation, Beloved will put them to rest. In three wordsor less, it's a hair-raiser.”

Whatwould I give to find a nonfiction story like this to write (and I have tobelieve they exist). Or better yet, I only wish there were no nonfiction stories likethis. This is a story of our American heritage and it’s really hard to read.Just as Sethe and her lover, Paul D., wanted to “unremember” their horrificpast—perhaps they had most severe cases of post traumatic stress—so do we as acountry. Perhaps this book could help serve a national truth and reconciliationeffort, to tell stories of our slave history and collectively heal. Idealism.

Thesecond reason I wanted to read this is to see how Toni Morrison writes thesupernatural. (My writing and research interests include writing nonfiction supernatural.) Morrison writesthe narrative like a conch shell—circling wide with big open holes in the storyand rotating the prose inwards, winding towards a tight ball of tension andproviding details to the circumstances of Beloved’s past and present. Slaveryis horrible, yet is also just a word that cannot in itself evoke thecomplexities of what it did to people, white and black, and to our society.Morrison puts flesh and bones to slavery; not only to its enormous injustices,but also to its tragic nuances. The inwardly spiraling accounts of chronic andsevere abuse suffered by all of the characters seem to beg for a supernaturaltelling as the haunting seems almost as expected as killing your own baby inorder to save it. It seemed a person enslaved lived constantly on the border oflife and death, and so to accept a ghost into your household, to acceptexistence as a straddling of the present world and the next, wouldn’t be out ofthe ordinary.

The bookopens with the supernatural: “124 was spiteful. Full of baby’s venom. The womenin the house knew it and so did the children. For years each put up with thespite in his own way, but by 1873 Sethe and her daughter Denver were its onlyvictims” (3). Yes, indeed, Morrison is writing about ghosts of thepoltergeist-type, including incidents such as “a mirror shattered” and “twotiny hand prints appeared in the cake” (3). Yet the way Morrison writes thesupernatural, it could also be referring to the super traumatic. Would notanyone who murdered their own child be haunted, and thus negatively influenceeveryone around them?

As partof the inward spiraling of the narrative, Morrison tells the story throughdifferent characters in their own voice, in a non-linear fashion. Thedisjointed style of prose emulates the jarring uncertainties faced by itscharacters, yet it all works together to tell a thick, multi-layered story ofattempting to love in a nightmare.

Withlove, T

Teenager Economics

2012-01-13T19:03:00.000-08:00

This is a random RHS cheerleader pic I found on google images.
But I'm pretty sure my favorite cheerleader is the girl in the back right.
Are they adorable or what? xoxoxo

I just spent $5 to get into a Roosevelt High School basketball game to deliver $15 to my daughter who has a $30 public library bill due to go to a collection agency soon. I should have been able to get into the game with my $80 season pass, but we lost it, and so I've chalked that up to putting us into major donor status with the RHS booster club. For whom I recently volunteered in the RHS concession stand. I thought it was cool that I mastered the popcorn machine until the 10-year-old son of another mother mastered it better than me. I paid $5 to get into that game too, just so I could report to concession stand duty and get one-upped by a 5th grader. I kept telling myself that working consessions was an innovative way to network. "So where do you work?" I kept asking other mothers as we sold skittles and walking tacos. A question which experience tells me inevitably leads to a conversation on the topic of rampant job dissatisfaction. Irrelevant to this post, but just saying.

Anyway...

It paid off. I mean, the networking. Not so much professionally, but from a parental standpoint. Because my teenage daughter keeps wanting to hang out with her friends instead of stay home with us. Even on Friday nights! It's uncomfortable, because you always want your babies close to you. But at least I've met some of her friends and some of their mothers, and so it helps.

There was a lot of energy tonight at the RHS gym. The varsity boys were just starting up and the pep band finally got showed up tonight. My goodness, this school has a reputation for it's music and vocal arts program and there's been no dang pep band! So it was great to hear them tonight although they don't seem to be your usual pep band, playing "Louie Louie" and assorted Beatles songs. (I love pep band songs. I keep harassing my girl that the cheerleaders need to come up with little dances to go with the songs. Not that I have strong feelings about it.) The RHS pep band seems to feature bass and electric guitars so you can't easily tell if it's a pep band or a recording. Tonight they played, "Hell's Bells." If that's not a nightmare song from my high school years, but that's another story. ACDC songs seem to be big among RHS varsity sports. They liked to play "Back in Black" during the football game warm ups. It felt so been-there-done-that to me, but the kids thought it was really cool, including my 7th grader. I'm just a lowly parent.

So tonight, after the $5 admission fee I realized there was nowhere for this parent to sit -- and I kind of wanted to stay for a while because there was a lot of energy in that gym, I mean, the whole RHS student section was full of students wearing onesie pajamas. Yes, you read me right. An entire bleacher section of grown children in adult-sized, onesie pajamas standing up in full chant of hell's bells. It's called school spirit, people. And I was feeling it too, but since there was no where to sit, I did my one important thing and then returned home.

My one important thing: I marched right up to the cheerleader section, found my favorite girl, pulled her aside, gave her the money, and reminded her that I had my cell phone with me at all times and that she could call me whenever she wanted to. No matter what.

That's all.

How much did all that cost?

Thanks for coming to the Charmer blog. I wish you all a lovely weekend.

With love, T

My nightmare, their nightmare

2012-01-06T22:42:00.000-08:00

"...motherhood is a series of emergencies..." so writes Debra Monroe in her memoir, On the Outskirts of Normal. In a chapter called "A History of Fear" she writes about all the ways her newly adopted baby could be mortally hurt, due to her imagined maternal inadequacy.

You start loosing your child the very minute you get one. Because every time your child learns something, the child moves further away from dependence on you. The fact that Amanda can now occasionally find transportation with friends is yet another step on that slippery slope of our separation. We still drive her to most places, but sometimes she doesn't need us. (It's probably more accurate to say that her need for us changes.)

"Mom, Katie will take me to the game tonight," she told me earlier today. The game was at East High School. Amanda was cheering for the Roosevelt High School varsity boys basketball team, the away team. (Even though Des Moines'ers know that the two giant-sized schools are separated by just a few miles of I-235.)

Fine. The plan sounded good to me. She'd go with a friend, and I'd arrive by second quarter, watch her cheer, then bring her back home.

But then something happened that scared me. Felt like one of those emergencies you dread. A flash of nightmare.

I was in the kitchen preparing pizza toppings for Bob, thinking I'd have his pizza ready to bake before I left for Amanda's game. (He'd taken Aidan to his basketball practice, where, damn, that coach had Aidan scrimmaging on the "skins" team, I found out later. My son is not a "skins" kind of kid. Had I been there, I would have died inside, or at least embarrassed a couple people, especially Aidan, by talking with the coach.)

What time did Amanda's game start? I forgot. I texted her: "What time does your game start?" I continued chopping onions and slicing garlic.

Amanda texted me back. Except it wasn't Amanda. The text said (exact words), "Your fucking kid lost her phone."

My mind went wild. I imagined Amanda kidnapped. I let her ride with a friend to the basketball game and now she is kidnapped. She's too young to be alone, she's so vulnerable, there's so many predators out there. Of course predators are going to stalk teenage girls at a high school basketball game. A predator has her. They will use her phone to torment me. Wait a minute, calm down. They didn't say you lost your kid, they said your kid lost her phone. Big difference. For whatever reason, some creepy person had my daughter's phone and was texting me. Had I been cyber bullied? Is this what high-schoolers do to each other regularly?

I came so close to texting back my own version of cyber bullying. Fortunately, even in my state of panic, I held it together enough to realize that I was totally at my bully's mercy. Totally. There was nothing I could do but to be polite. Courtesy was my one and only chance.

And so I texted back: "Will u pls return it?" And then I fumbled around with the T-Mobile 800# and disconnected the service, imagining all the apps and ring tones my texter was downloading. Still, it occurred to me that even if my bully texter was willing to oblige my plea, I'd cut off the service before we could further communicate. There was no way to make arrangements to return the phone.

No longer in the mood to finish making Bob's pizza, I got in the car and headed over to East High. I was sure that when I got there I'd see Amanda decked out in blue and white with the silver poms, cheering with the rest of the team. But what if I didn't? What if I got there and she was the missing cheerleader? What if there were five girls bopping around the sidelines instead of six?

I called Bob to tell him about the creepy text. He was weirded out too. "Maybe you should just go right over there," he suggested. I already was on the road. He asked that I call him when I saw her, when I could verify with my own eyes that it was her phone, and not her, that was stolen.

If a child falls in the woods by herself, does the parent hear? Children shouldn't be alone in the woods, but sadly, as they grow older, it's inevitable. Or maybe more sadly, there are far too few chances for children to play freely and safely in the woods. I always like the times when we're all home together, just doing nothing but being together. It seems so secure.

I got to East High, parked the car, winded my way through the sidewalk, ramps, hallways, and stairways to the gym full of screaming, teaming kids. I'd never before been in a high school where the public gathering space felt situated in the bowels of the building. The basketball court and its environs seemed to enjoy its posture of strength, like an enormously sturdy bomb shelter. I found the visitors' section. Looked for the cheerleaders. Counted them, 1,2,3,4,5...6. All accounted for. Amanda was there as if nothing had happened. She couldn't see me as I was just a spec of a bug in the massive section of fans, parents, and students, but I could see her. Her cheer smile beamed all across the auditorium. Her pony tail bounced as though her lost or stolen cell phone was a figment of my thinking. I called Bob to let him know that I could see Amanda with my own eyes.

Maybe she had her phone after all. Maybe her friends were just fooling around with it. That would be awesome, I thought. If this was true I wouldn't even care if her friends dropped me an f-bomb. I just wanted the phone back.

During halftime, Amanda confirmed with me -- no cell phone. She had it one moment, and not the next. It simply disappeared. At this point, knowing that indeed she wasn't kidnapped in the woods, my concern turned away from predators and turned towards lost property. I considered that now we were two for two with lost kid phones. (Aidan had an earlier mishap.) And even Amanda's phone, or I should say ex-phone, was a Craig's list special because she'd lost her original phone.

How can regular folk like us keep up with children's cell phones?

But my laments were minor compared to other parents' because one of the Roosevelt basketball team members got terribly injured. He was pushed somehow into diving position, headfirst to the floor. Landed smack on his temple and just laid there like a human puddle. I saw it happen and it was truly horrifying. The game was stopped for a half hour to wait for the paramedics. A half hour with a gym full of RHS and East High kids, no game, no music, no cheers, and only one fistfight in the bleachers. The police broke it up pretty handily.

The old gym held us all in check. It hadn't yet reached the ranks of modernization, still ordering the people with its original built-in bleachers, not the kind that nimbly tuck back. The gym roared its own brute strength, simply with the weight of its massive cement walls and levels. The space reminded me of a ginormous cavern you'd discover deep inside a cave. Were we actually underground? I looked for fire escapes. Painted lettering boldly proclaimed "East Side Scarlets." Scarlets was an odd mascot name, I thought. I'd never heard of that before. Red was the main accent color.

Officials scrubbed blood off the floor where the player had crashed his head, while we all waited for the paramedics to arrive. It was the twilight zone.

Many friends had told me that East High has the most robust alumni association of any high school in the U.S., perhaps in the world. The gym was the very same gym that has held all those thousands of former students. I wondered if anyone believed the place was haunted.
It was troubling that officials moved the injured player to a chair instead of stabilizing his head and neck, keeping him warm, and talking to him. The boy was catatonic as he rose and walked to the bench. I hate to say, but I think moving him like that was a bad, bad mistake on the part of the officials. The mistake was made with the scarlet gym and all of us watching. When the paramedics came, they attached a neck brace and wheeled him out flat on a gurney. Everyone stood and clapped. The pointless remaining six minutes of the game commenced.

I'm too old for these 15 hour days. I'm too exhausted for these "motherhood emergencies" although I'm told they never go away. Ever.

The gamed ended in a Roosevelt win (yay?) and the gym erupted into the frenzy of everyone leaving all at the same time. I always just stay put and let my cheerleader find me. Through the commotion I hear an announcement on the loud speaker. "Amanda Speirs, please report to the score desk." Did I hear that right? Did they say my daughter's name? "Amanda Speirs, please report to the score desk." I look down from the bleachers and sure enough, there's Amanda claiming her phone. Evidently, my bully texter had turned it in.

All the way home we tried to figure out how my bully texter knew the phone belonged to "Amanda Speirs." Her name wasn't anywhere. The only explanation we have is that it was someone who knows Amanda and knowingly took it, which is another layer of creepiness. Yet, I want to give a small shout out to my bully texter: thank you for changing your mind. And leave my daughter alone.

How will I ever let this girl go to college?

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog.

With love, T

Liver Coincidence

2011-12-04T19:06:00.001-08:00

synchronicity (ˌsɪnkrəˈnɪsɪtɪ)

— n

an apparently meaningful coincidence in time of two or more
similar or identical events that are causally unrelated

Do you believe in synchronicity? It's basically a fancy word for spiritual coincidence. Tonight I was at a nice little church-related Christmas party. Ok, I laughed so hard my throat hurt, so don't think this a quaint church event. My church is a lot of things, but quaint isn't one of them. I like quaint, don't get me wrong, it's just not us. That's a digression.

Anyway, I met someone who a.) spent a career researching transplant science, b.) engaged in initial conversations about the ethics of transplant, and c.) witnessed the first liver transplant ever.

I thought that was pretty amazing since I am a.) fascinated with organ transplant, b.) writing a book about liver failure and b.) planning to explore liver transplant in my writing.

If the person I am referring to happens to read this dispatch, no pressure, but I think this is really cool and I thank you.

With love, T

The Education of Terri Dee Mork Speirs

2011-11-29T15:28:00.001-08:00

Women do 2/3 of the world's work but receive only 10% of the world's income.

Women's education is the most powerful predictor of lower birth rates.

Of 1.2 billion people living in poverty worldwide, 70% are women.

Women own around only 1% of the world's land.

Women are 2/3 of the 1 billion+ illiterate adults who have no access to basic education.

And yet there is one lucky woman, lucky beyond words, who just might walk away in a few weeks with a Master of Fine Arts Degree. Thanks to willing references, a scholarship from the Women of the ELCA, a student loan, an understanding family, and the good fortune of being born in a time and place whereby she could imagine school in the realm of her reality.

And thanks to her desire to go west. That is the stupider part of the story. Because the only reason she wanted to go west was so to escape the pain she felt when she lost her eastern-bound job. As if going 1,000 miles in the other direction would make her feel better. It didn't. But thinking about it did.

She was so bound and determined to go to Antioch University in Los Angeles that she applied only to that one MFA program. There was no back-up plan. When she didn't get in, she agreed to be put on the waiting list. When she still didn't get in, she applied a second time. When she still didn't get in, she agreed to again be put on the waiting list. And when she finally got in, it was like Antioch had found her.

She was so focused on going west that she hadn't even checked out the fact that Antioch shared her value of social justice. She hadn't checked out its theories on education. During her first writing residency, she didn't know until halfway through the week that half of the instructors were actually students. It turned out to be a place where students and teachers learned together, which, coincidentally happened to be her philosophy of education. There was no hierarchy of the smarter people. She hadn't known that human decency would be valued above all. Which, as happenstance would have it, also matched her way of thinking.

When Antioch found her she didn't know that her cousin-in-law lived three miles from campus, had a spare house, an extra car, another bicycle, and boundless hospitality, thus saving her approximately $7,500 in hotel expenses and gaining her exactly three additional family members for the rest of her life. Not to mention hiking in the mountains and biking on the beach.

She didn't know that writers don't simply get exiled. They write about exile. They don't simply feel deceit, heartbreak, love, and truth. They seek to understand it. Baltimore had spit her out. Los Angeles scooped her up. Des Moines held her tight while she wrestled these real and imaginary demons and angels, for some dumb reason manifested in terms of miles and horizons. She learned that her exile and heartbreak were far less serious than others'.

Now, two years later, she feels all melancholy about it all. About what she put her family through to make this work. About how they happily obliged. About how her husband worked double overtime so she could write. About her kids who didn't get tucked in for about 50 nights. About her student loan and how it will be paid. About the things she's learned and the people she's met. About the fact that Mona Simpson keeps popping up on her Facebook as "someone she probably knows." She doesn't, but apparently nine of her Facebook friends do. She's now two degrees separated through nine lives to this famous writer, you know, not to name drop, but Steve Jobs' sister. About the fact that her mentor, Hope Edelman, is a multiple New York Times bestselling author and one of the most insightful teachers she's ever had. Yes, she now shamelessly name drops.

But mostly, she's infinitely grateful.

And now, she will go back to work on her senior seminar and reading prep, lest this all be a dream that goes puff into the night.

With love, T

Salon Expectations

2011-11-18T19:58:00.001-08:00

Queen Noor

Tomorrow is salon day.

I was reminded of my high expectations when I mentioned the appointment to my 12-year-old son, Aidan.

We were departing his basketball practicee whereby the coach had them playing shirts and skins. (I texted Bob to ask if it's appropriate for boys to play shirts and skins because I thought it was weird.)

"Tomorrow you will have a new mother," I said, after settling the fact that the coach gave the boys a choice whether to be shirts or skins and Aidan had chosen to be on the fully clothed team.

"Oh, what happened to the queen?" he said.

"Huh?" I was confused. Was the tween boy being a smart aleck by implying that my long needed salon appointment was making me an diva mother? Was he making fun of me? Should I cancel the appointment?

"No, remember your last hair-do was that queen," he said, sincerely. He wasn't being a smart mouth, he just had a really good memory. He was right. Last time I went to the salon I took a picture of Queen Noor's hair. Straight the shoulder, layered on top. I was confident that my hair magician could transform me into the former first lady of Jordan whose husband died in spite of long stints at the Mayo Clinic, purple Royal Jordanian Airliner parked at the Rochester, Minnesota, airport for weeks and months. Noor means "light" in Arabic.

"Oh yeah, you're right," I conceded. "I did go for for the queen. I think this time I'll go for the Diane Keaton." A whispy, whimsical bob. You may remember her as the bad parallel parker in "Annie Hall." Bob and I still laugh at the line when she parks in Manhattan and her date, Woody Allen says, That's OK I'll just walk to the curb from here. Bob and I actually say that to each other fairly often, when one or the other of us parallel parks.

"Oh, what's that hair like?" Aidan said.

"I'll show you a picture," I reassured him. I got the feeling that he was afraid that I might actually do something really outlandish.

You see, lately, I've been sporting the recession hair-do. Long, thick, stringy, often pulled into a severe bun. That's when you avoid the cuts and costs of the salon and do the best you can with your cheap shampoo and hot flat iron. If you're lucky, your natural color blends with the color of gray, until your daughter one day discovers your secret.

"MOM! Holy cow, you've got a ton of gray hair!" my Zena-like, statuesque 15-year-old daughter, Amanda, informed me the other day when she hazarded to lift my hair and look underneath. But that's another story. Back to my salon appointment for tomorrow. . .

So anyway, my Queen Noor do worked fairly well for a long time. A loooooong time. I had thought that my next plan would be the Talia Balsam, otherwise known as George Clooney's ex-wife, look. One elegant length, straight the the chin. That's before my hair turned into the recession do, and to be honest, I think it has transformed kinda Michelle Bachmanish. Or maybe it's the serial killer mother eyes. My daughter, who happens to be a varsity cheerleader, says that I tend to evoke serial killer mother in pictures. Sadly, she's right. For some reason when I'm in a picture, I try to present a happy smile and I end up looking menacing, in a middle class kind of way. I get those crazy Michelle Bachman eyes. I'm not crying in my soup about it, I'm just saying all the more reason for a salon appointment.

Diane Keaton

Goodbye recession hair. Goodbye liquid assets for this pay period. Hello high expectations.

I wish my salon medicine woman all the best. You're invited to do the same.

Bob hasn't texted me back yet regarding the shirts and skins dilemma. And just in case you're wondering, this blog post is actually a cleverly disguised yet elaborate procrastination tactic to avoid writing my cumulative annotated bibliography due soon and very soon.

Thanks much for coming over! Hair prayers welcome.

With love, T

Notes from three women

2011-11-02T19:55:00.000-07:00

She told me she needed to interview someone for her community college class on nonprofit organizations. And so we agreed to meet in my office, where I do communications for a small nonprofit that runs a network of 12 food pantries. She was skinny, her voice was gravely, and her face was potholed as if she'd smoked cigarettes since she was a baby. Her hair was overly blond and kinda stringy yet she was well presented with a long skirt and pretty top. I had to listen hard to understand her words because she didn't enunciate like I'm used to; it was almost like hearing a heavy accent, the accent one talks when they've lived hard. I thought stupid, patronizing thoughts like how great it was that people like her could go to community college. She got right to her assignment, pulled out her notebook, and asked me questions.

"What's your mission?" she asked. I answered.

"Who do you serve?" she asked. I answered.

"Where do you get funding?" she asked. I answered.

And on with all the typical nonprofit questions, until she got to this question: "Do you have interns?" Yes, I answered. Not a lot but sometimes, I said. Why don't you send me your resume and tell me about your interests, I said.

And that's when the conversation shifted. She put her notebook down. She put her student persona down. She put her pretenses down.

"I'll tell you what my interests are," she said, looking straight at me, talking with confidence and conviction that she didn't exude a few moments earlier. Suddenly I could understand her very well. I no longer needed to strain my ears to pick up her sentences.

"My interests are women who are doing prison time and who shouldn't be," she said. "I'm not saying all of them, but I'd say at least half the women in Mitchellville (women's facility near Des Moines) shouldn't be there. They are victims. They were defending themselves. They did drugs to escape. They shouldn't be there and there are no services for them when they get out. They get sent to a halfway house but they don't need a halfway house, they need a chance. They need to get back into the world.

"But I can't do anything until I get my education," she continued. "That's what I'm focused on now." She working towards her associates degree, then her BA in Human Services.

The interview was over. We shook hands and she walked out of my office. I'd given her my business card but after she left it occured to me that I didn't even ask her name. For all I knew, she didn't really exist and I'd simply imagined her.

*

She told me she couldn't get food until Friday. It was Wednesday. She was eyeing the leftover food from our weekly dinner at church. It's food that we put in to-go containers for anyone to take home; food that otherwise would be thrown out during clean up. She told me she didn't want to take the leftovers that others might want. I talked her into taking it. My goodness, take it please. I put the food containers into a plastic bag so it wouldn't look so conspicuous that she was taking it. I asked her to wait so I could forage the church refridgerator for more food. I grabbed a gallon of milk and disguised it in another plastic bag. I gave her my work telephone number so we could chat tomorrow about what food pantry to go to. Later I realized that I could have also given her apples and oranges from the kitchen. I could have run to the grocery store for a gift card. I could have told Bob who could have come up with assistance from a church fund to give her. I could have fixed her life right then and there. Except there are a zillion people like her, thank you very much double dip recession and a cold hearted congress. And I can't fix anyone's life. But I tried as hard as I could to not have a pathetic look of pity on my face as she told me that her cubboards have never looked this bare, that she's never been in this situation before. "I'm a giver," she said, "Not a taker." And by the way, she works full time. She works full time and has no food in the house. Explain that. "We're all givers and takers," I said.

*

She told me she's transitioning from a man. I knew that but I pretended I didn't because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Her new name is Rebecca Grace. "I got to pick my own name," she said with the most innocent tone of voice you can imagine; a sweetness hard earned by 50 or so years of utter anquish. My Lutheran friends believe that "grace" is a special word. It means loved unconditionally. It means loved nomatter what. It means loved in spite of who we are, what we do, and where we go. We Lutherans believe that but by grace alone do any of us thrive, survive, die, or stay alive. And for those who are into counting heaven, grace is the direct line in. It certainly has to be hard to transition from Michael to Rebecca. For those who are into counting hell, living in another body might be one way to do it. You've got so many people to freak out -- the wife, the kids, the family, the friends, the coworkers. She said that people at her workplace are scared of her. "All they have to do is talk to me," Rebecca Grace said. "I'm happy to answer questions. I won't hurt anyone."

*

These are just a few of the people I've encountered recently. There are so many more, and I wish I had time to write about them all.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog! Wish you all a good night.

With love, T

Dear Planet Earth

2011-10-31T06:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Planet Earth,

Hello, how are you today? I understand that you are due to deliver the 7 billionth inhabitant today, according to U.N. estimates. That's about double the global population since I was born, a few years ago in 1962. Evidently, there's a bit of concern how you will sustain all these people. How will they all eat? How will they all stay warm? How will they all get from point A to B? How will they all not fight over things such as water and oil on your crowded space?

If you don't mind, I wanted to offer up a simple 10-point, 10-word solution to ensure sustainability for you, dear Planet Earth. Let's call it the 10-10-10 plan. Here goes:

10 ways to ensure global sustainability, in 10 words:

1. Women.
2. Women's rights.
3. Women's safe healthcare.
4. Women and girl's education.
5. Women in key leadership roles.
6. Women who vote, women in charge.
7. Women empowered to make their own decisions.
8. Women who make choices over their own bodies.
9. Women who are not beholden to decisions men make.
10. Women working in tandem with men for a better world.

You're welcome. Happy 7 billionth birthday!

With love, T

P.S. Dedicated to my husband, who gets this. (Love you!)

For my parents' 50th wedding anniversary

2011-10-23T17:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we celebrated my parent's 50th wedding anniversary, hosted by the fabulous folks at United Methodist Church in Dexter, a small farm town in SE Minnesota. My mom asked me to give a little speech and here it is:

Today we’re here to celebrate 50 years of marriage of my mom and dad. Five decades of two people being together. If I did my math right that figures to 600 months of patience. 18,250 days of forgiveness. 26,280,000 seconds of commitment. One half century of ordinary days and extraordinary events. A golden anniversary of love—for better and for worse, as they say.

So what was it like 50 years ago? How many of you remember 1961? (show of hands) Was anyone born in 1961? You know, 1961 was a great year:

President John F. Kennedy established the Peace Corps.

Barbie’s boyfriend, the Ken doll, made his first appearance.

The number one song this week in 1961 was “Hit the Road Jack” by Ray Charles.

Pampers disposable diapers were available for the first time.

The cost of a first class stamp was 4 cents.

The academy award for best movie went to West Side Story.

Fellows styled their hair in crew cuts and ladies styled theirs in bouffant.

Minimum wage was $1 /hour.

A baby named Barak Obama was born.

And two teenagers in a small town in rural Minnesota decided to flirt.

It was a town called Pine Island where a couple of youngsters, 17-year-old Milford Edwin Mork Jr and 16-year-old Diane Pauline Stromback, were hanging out with their friends one summer night in front of the Rainbow Café on main street. These two crazy kids, Jr. and Diane, ended up crammed together in a carful of friends and road tripping to Rochester to buy a jar of pickled eggs. (Not recommended, by the way, for all you 16 and 17 year olds in the crowd! I'd definitely go for the deviled eggs.)

I’m using words like “teenagers” and “youngsters” and “crazy kids” but in reality, even at this tender age my dad had already taken on serious responsibilities of a hard working adult with the full time job as a truck driver. My mom was entering her senior year of high school.

They kept seeing each other to the backdrop of the music of Elvis Presley and country and western. Dad had a ’49 Ford with pin stripes and no reverse so he had to be careful where he parked because there was no backing out. And there was no backing out of this thing he had with my mom. I think it was one of those junctures that happens without even realizing it happened; no one knows exactly when it was decided but during the next months as they spent more and more time together, they just knew they’d eventually be married.

But the day it became real was into the next year. My mom had graduated from high school, finished beauty school, and worked as a stylist in Mantorville. One day my dad brought over an ad for Goodman Jewelers in the Cities. Apparently engagement rings were on sale – and so that was final proof that getting married was their destiny.

One “Starbright” diamond and one payment plan later -- Pine Island had themselves a newly engaged couple.

The wedding was at St. Paul Lutheran Church in Pine Island, Minnesota. The bride wore white. And the groom was late. I mean, getting married isn’t any excuse to skip out on your grain haul. It was October for pete’s sakes, a grain hauler’s busy time, wedding or no wedding, as my Dad’s strong sense of work ethic was already firmly set into the fabric of his character. (Invite crowd to view gorgeous wedding pictures and memorabilia.)

In what surely was the most romantic honeymoon on record, Mom and Dad took off in the truck for the destination city of Oneida, South Dakota, population 37. The truck had no heat but it mattered not to my Mom because she knew there was a special addition to this honeymoon – her father-in-law. Yup, that’s right, they honeymooned with Grandpa. The blissful threesome headed west and when my mom got cold, she ditched my dad and rode with my grandfather, whose truck had a mighty fine heater. This seemed like a pretty strong indicator that this family was going to last.

And so this marriage was off and running . . .and so was my dad in his truck, and so were the babies that were to be forthcoming, and so was my mom in her amazing way of running a household often times on her wits and grits and guts alone.

So, how exactly does a couple stay together for 50 years? I asked our resident experts, my Mom and Dad, and they had some pretty good advice for the rest of us.

Mom said it’s important to keep your individual interests yet to also develop common interests. For example, she nurtured her love for growing flowers by becoming a master gardener and starting her own greenhouse. My Mom enjoyed her yard and her house and her swimming pool and her friends. Yet she also made a specific effort to spend time with Dad by doing things together such as enjoying Nascar and wintering in Arizona. And we all know that she literally learned how to drive one of those big old trucks herself so they could go on the road together.

When I asked my Dad this same question – what advice he would give to a couples – his answer was quite a bit shorter. He said it takes “a lotta love, a lotta dedication, and willingness to compromise.”

Mom grows things and Dad delivers things. Petunias and lily’s. Potatoes and apples. Children and puppies. Humility and hard work. Now here we are in the year 2011, 51 years after that magical night in front of the Rainbow Café, 50 years after that lovely day at St. Paul Lutheran Church – we can see so much of what they grew and delivered.

Gratitude is one of those things that we often don’t think about until we miss something. It’s hard to be thankful for something that you don’t know you have. The air you breath. The legs you walk on. The house you live in. The people around you. For some reason it seems far too easy to focus on the things you don’t have – a better job, a nicer car, more money, more time. It seems that most often family and friends get together for sad occasions, such as funerals or tragic events, and then they wish they had spent more happier times together, or even just more boring times together. For anyone who’s experienced tragedy, you know that boring times are a blessing.

But if you can turn that around and take stock of all that you have, then it’s hard not to be grateful. The old fashioned way of saying it is “counting your blessings.”

And that’s why we’re here today – to count the blessings. 50 years of marriage brings a lot of blessings. Mom and Dad do see what they have. When I asked them about the things that they’re grateful for they listed so many things that I can’t even mention them all, but I’ll tell you a lot of them.

Mom used the word “respect” and how thankful she is that she received so much of it from my Dad and from us kids too. Mom is grateful that she is given the freedom to be creative with her yard and her house, to make it the home she’s always dreamed about. Mom is grateful that Dad was home for every birth and every Christmas – which is quite an amazing feat given the merciless demands of the truck driving industry.

When I asked my Dad about what he’s grateful for, he mentioned work, the fact that he’s had constant employment all these years. And indeed, even now pushing 70, he’s still at it driving truck coast to coast. He mentioned being grateful for good health and for a lotta luck. He said that he’s thankful for his wife, and I quote: “I think I got the best.”

And of course, Mom and Dad see their blessings whenever look at their children, their grandchildren, their greatgrandchildren. And if you’ll bear with me, I’d like to name us all of and ask if family members could please stand when I say your name.

Children - Tom, Trey, Russ, me

the ones who gave them grandchildren – Jennifer, Amy, Julie, Bob

grandchildren – Priscilla, Danielle, Brandee, Mackenzie, Mallory, Ashley, Paige, Aaron, Amanda, Aidan

great-grandchildren – Kylee (Kyle) and Hunter (Jake)

the Strombacks

the Morks

the friends and neighbors

And my parents see their many blessings when they see you all, their dear family and friends. As we look around this room and we see just small part of what Mom and Dad grew and delivered in their 50 years of marriage. And we give thanks for all the blessings.

Thank you. You’ve been wonderful. Please stay. Eat more food.

Before the mommy blogger there was Shirley Jackson, the mother of horror.

2011-10-14T09:20:00.000-07:00

Life Among the Savages

By Shirley Jackson

Farrar, Straus and Young 1953

An Annotation

Life Among the Savages is s sweet mommy-memoir by Shirley Jackson, the same author who wrote a story that has terrified me since sixth grade, “The Lottery.”

As I read Life Among the Savages I couldn’t help but to wonder how her life experience of raising kids in a small town informed her creation of the horror masterpiece, The Lottery, set in a small town with a ritual of annual human sacrifice. Even the title begs the question, who does she mean when she refers to the “savages?” The kids? The townspeople? The parents? And what kind of writer includes the word “savage” in a sweet mommy-memoir title? But then again she titled her second sweet mommy memoir “Raising Demons” so there you go.

The book is full of stories of how it is to raise children, the tender, the frustrating, the funny, and the futile. As one who likes to write about the chaos of my children, I could easily relate to her setting. She opens by describing their house:

“Our house is old, and noisy, and full. When we moved into it we had two children and about five thousand books; I expect that when we finally overflow and move out again we will have perhaps twenty children and easily a half million books; we also own assorted beds and tables and chairs and rocking horses and lamps and doll dresses and ship models and paint brushes and literally thousands of socks.” (1)

She uses the word “and” over and over instead of inserting commas, a stylistic choice that emphasizes the chaos. As the book unfolds she often refers to the white house, its rooms, its pillars, its characteristics; almost as if it were an entity unto its own. She often places household elements as the subject of the sentence, and the people as the object, for example, when describing how the family moved into the house Jackson writes: "One bedroom chose the children, because it was large and showed unmistakable height marks on one wall and seemed to mind not at all when crayon marks appeared on the wallpaper and paint got spilled on the floor" (19-20). Focusing on the house itself is an effective way to tell the story of the people who live inside it, and it inspired me to consider writing my own mommy memoir centered around our big white house, which is a source of as much joy as incredible frustration. Think money pit meets the American dream.

But the other consideration in Jackson’s choice in lifting up the house as a character is knowing that she also wrote a famously frightening book, "The Haunting of Hill House," which I have not read yet but I’m curious if there is a connection in Jackson’s creative process. (This book has been sitting on my shelf waiting for me for months. It's first up after December graduation. :-)

While funny and sweet, Life Among the Savages seems to hint at that part of Jackson’s brain that can concoct the scariest tales ever. For example, she describes her search for a paid mother’s helper, recounting all the reasons why this or that household helper didn’t work out for the job. The mother’s helper, Amelia, who baked a batch of almost evil cookies helps show Jackson’s skill at blending funny and sweet with the slightly eerie:

“Amelia had but one major failing. The second day she was with us – which turned out, coincidentally, to be the last – she made cookies, spending all one joyous afternoon in the kitchen, droning happily to herself, fidgeting, cluttering, measuring.

“At dinner, dessert arrived with Amelia’s giggle and a flourish. She set the plate of cookies down in front of my husband, and my husband, who is a nervous man, glanced down at them and dropped his coffee cup. ‘Sinner,” the cookies announced in bold pink icing, “Sinner, repent.” (98-99)

In this short passage alone, Jackson manages to artfully join words like cookies, joyous, pink, nervous, sinner, and repent. I count her as one of my main influences.

A playlist is born

2011-10-02T16:40:00.000-07:00

Hello all, how are you? As I mentioned to my MFA discussion group, I am pretty much overwhelmed with always being overwhelmed. I'm guessing you're much the same, although I hope not.

The thought I had for today is the idea of including a play list with my book, the one that's taking me forever to write and that I have to have at least 100 refined pages by November.

The play list sofar:

- Where Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie
- I Will Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie (This, actually, is from where I get my working title so I suppose I'll have to get permission, if I ever get that far.)
- Counting Blue Cars by Dishwalla
- Lullaby by Dixie Chicks
- Audio narration of a story by a friend who's story figure's into my book but who I can't name because I haven't asked him yet. But he has an incredible voice (Caribbean British) and an astonishing story (he conducted an exorcism).

Those are my thoughts for today. Yours?

With love, T

P.S. It just occured to me that my spell check in Word is stuck on the Caribbean English default and I can't figure out how to change it. A sign??? :-)

The Cheerleader in Me Salutes the Cheerleader in You

2011-09-16T19:53:00.000-07:00

We were surprised last year when Amanda, in her freshman year of high school, decided to tryout for cheerleading. I had always imagined my daughter a flute player. Bob imagined his daughter a basketball player. She has the pipes and the height to do both.

"But I want to try out for cheerleading," she said.

"OK, but just be prepared for if you don't make it," I said.

"I will," she said.

"I'll feel bad if you don't make it and become disappointed," I said.

"I'll be fine," she said.

I went out of town the Friday of tryouts, about a year ago. I received a text: "Mommy, I made varsity!"

Huh? We were surprised that she made varsity, cheered basketball, tried out for competition cheer team, made that, tried out for football cheer team, and made that. All in ninth grade.

I seriously never imagined Amanda a cheerleader, but apparently it's her deepest passion at this point. She's super dedicated, and to be honest, her personality is naturally, well, its naturally cheerful. So, I guess she's actually a cheerleader in the purest sense of the word.

As for me, I'm a terrible cheerleader mom. Think opposite of your normal stage mother, who at least gets involved even if it's negative. I try my darndest not to get involved, except to take her to her games and give her lots of money for a wide variety of cheerleading necessities. (And to be fair, she pays a lot herself through her bread store job.) I avoid the drama, the other mothers, the other kids; I pretty much keep my distance. I think it's because I'm overwhelmed, but in truth I'm starting to think it's purely for selfish reasons. Some mothers may want to relive their old cheerleading days, I do not.

You see, I in high school I gave up cheerleading for chicken. It's true. I was a cheerleader, and to be honest I kinda liked it and was pretty good at it. But I turned in my pom poms when I realized that to be a cheerleader meant that I could no longer dash off after school to gut whole chickens, cut them into nine parts -- two thighs, two wings, two ribs, two legs, and one breast -- and bread and broast them. I was true to my schleppy, short order cook job, but I was not true to my school. Why even seek to be cute in a letter sweater when I could opt for late night cleanings of stale vats of french fry grease? When I could enhance my teenage angst with self inflicted acne? And why even think about studying for college scholarships when there are heads and heads of cabbage to be hand chopped in order to make huge buckets of cole slaw? Friends, I have just given you a fairly comprehensive summary of my high school years, where my career in "the restaurant industry" started. Basically, I gave up potential popularity for poultry.

Way back in high school I exchanged dreaming for the good old Midwestern work ethic. Why? I don't know but I do I think I may have a crack at writing my first real essay to figure that out.

In the meantime, Amanda seems to want me to be involved, so that's a good thing right? I do feel sucked into a vortex of a complicated cheer team drama (think high school girls, their mothers, their coach, me, I'll stop at that) and maybe instead of being put out, I should see this as a chance to bond with my daughter. (That's what my friend, Becky, suggests.) Possibly contribute to the school. (That's probably a little far fetched.) My question is how can a woman pushing 50 still be so selfish? (Does it always have to be about me? I'm a mother, for God's sake.) I should just enjoy my daughter's bliss and accept her invitation to be a part of it.

Just because I gave up cheerleading for chicken guts way back then, doesn't mean I need to do it now. Right? The work ethic didn't get me much. (Save that for the essay.) Onward ho. . .

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

What do you do when you love a writer too much?

2011-09-14T21:06:00.000-07:00

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again

By David Foster Wallace

Little, Brown and Company 1997

This is a book of essays, with the title essay, a 100 page long travel log of sorts, in itself worth the price of the whole book. Except if you’re like me, you’d want to read the other essays too. (A great thing to do when your back goes out. That's how I managed all the way through the Autobiography of Nelson Mandela, flat on the floor for three days, during an earlier back outtage.)

These long-winded narratives are addicting. (Addiction and consumption, actually, are among DFW's themes.) He essays are on a broad variety of topics ranging from the psychology of television addiction: “It’s not paranoid or hysterical to acknowledge that television in enormous doses affects people’s values and self-perception in deep ways. Nor that televisual conditional influences the whole psychology of one’s relation to himself, his mirror, his loved one, and a world of real people and real gazes” (53) to thoughts on an overzealous cruise ship toilet flush:

“Yes that’s right a vacuum toilet. And, as with the exhaust fan above, not a lightweight or unambitious vacuum. The toilet’s flush produces a brief but traumatizing sound, a kind of held high-B gargle, as of some gastric disturbance on a cosmic scale. Along with this sound comes a concussive suction so awesomely powerful that it’s both scary and strangely comforting – your waste seems less removed than hurled from you, and hurled with a velocity that lets you feel as though the waste is going to end up someplace so far away from you that it will have become an abstraction . . . a kind of existential-level sewage treatment.” (305)

(It’s really hard to write a simple annotation about David Foster Wallace’s writing that include short quotes. This man is a maximalist [writing voluminous footnotes and punctuating with brackets within parenthesis]).

A reader gets the impression that there’s a lot going on in this guy’s brain.

Actually, I think I’ll go ahead and offer an example of the brackets within parenthesis, a most unusual one because it occurs on the publishing page: “The following essays have appeared previously (in somewhat different [and sometimes way shorter] forms)” (the page immediately before the table of contents). See, it’s even hard to quote this quy because he pulls fast ones on pages that don’t have page numbers. But they make me laugh.

Seriously, a creative nonfiction student really needs to read David Foster Wallace (and by the sounds of it, a fiction student too, although I haven’t read any of his fiction yet) as he seems to have been robustly emerging as the writer of our time, before his sad and sudden death in 2008 (he was born the same year as me, 1962). I’ve heard him compared to distinguished writers like Syvia Plath and Joan Didion*, one who was asked constantly to offer her take on the pulse of the country because of her rare ability to make such an articulation. Surely, there are DFW critics, but I haven’t found one yet, and I’m certainly not one. I’m pretty much a follower. (He used that phrase a lot, “pretty much.” And he also used the word “bovine” a lot, to describe different aspects of the human condition. And he used the phrase “living shit” a lot.)

What to say in such a short annotation? I’ll close with one of my favorite critiques of the book, used as a promotional on the back of the book jacket, offered by Laura Miller, New York Times Book Review: “Mr. Wallace’s Distinctively and infectious style, an acrobatic cartwheeling between high intellectual discourse and vernacular insouciance, makes him tremendously entertaining to read, whatever his subject.”

And yes, I had to look up the definition of “insouciance:” in•sou•ci•ance/inˈso͞osēəns/ Noun: Casual lack of concern; indifference.

*Bob said he was surprised that I would get so into a male writer, instead of a female writer, and I said that I was thinking the same thing. But now it strikes me interesting that I'm hearing him compared with female writers (male writers too, but I'm just not going into that here).

Let me know if you read DFW. Thoughts?

With love, T

In search of the high-end bike seat

2011-09-13T20:09:00.000-07:00

How can a bike seat
be so complicated?

There are two camps when it comes to going to the doctor: those who go right away as soon as some kind of symptom presents, a cough, a sore, a numbness; and those who wait as long as possible, hoping to never go, believing that nature will heal itself, thinking that if you just don't think about the malady it will go away. I tend to be in the second camp, and it tends to work for me.

And I always forget that Bob is in neither camp. I always forget that with Bob, if one day he says that he doesn't feel quite right, doesn't exactly know why, he just wants to sleep, that I, as his wife, should get him to the doctor as soon as possible. Not to the urgent care (no consistency). Not to the ER (overall horrible experience). But make an appointment to his specific doctor, RIGHT AWAY.

Because with Bob, it usually is a big deal, and it usually does not go away.

For example last week, we had a little scare that started with me thinking that it wasn't a big deal when he said, "I don't feel good." Within a few days it turned into a mysterious lump, a fever, and 24 hours in bed. OK, this is not good. Time to call the doctor. Long story short, he got an infection from bike riding. Yes, seriously, from bike riding. (Think bike saddle friction.) And not just any old infection, but one that had developed such a blister that would need to be surgically removed if it didn't go down. In the span of a couple days, we moved from "I don't feel good" to possible surgery.

Of course the best way to get rid of a huge infection is massive doses of antibiotics, and, not to bring up an old subject for some of you, but we had this issue with liver failure in the past with Bob's allergic reaction to antibiotics. But anyway, the clindamyacin, the preferred skin antibiotic, wasn't on his "do not take" list, so we went ahead with it. Day two, Saturday, he started itching. And we got scared. I thought it was interesting that earlier that day I had been writing about the itching that he experienced with the liver failure, by far the very worst side effect. If you don't mind, I'd like to try one of the related passages out here. . .presenting from the memoir I'm working on:

...

Chapter 5

Two changes occurred in the ensuing weeks—even as I continued with the routine of kids, work, and caring for Bob—and the two changes involved putting my hands to work. I started helping Bob more directly during his frequent itching spasms and I started spoon feeding him.

I called Bob “the king of creams” as we experimented with so many different skin products to relieve the itching. Benedryl pill. Benedryl spray. We didn’t even try the Bendryl cream as he’d use a whole tube on just one hand. Norwegian Formula Nutrigena. Sarna lotion. Sarna Sensitive lotion. Sarna Ultra lotion. Vanacream. Ureacin cream and Atarax, two prescription creams. Plus he had two other prescriptions to “bind the bile” that were supposed to help with the itching. Mostly nothing did. The Sarna lotion came closest, but it was cumbersome to apply, sticky, stinky, and short lived. Still, I wish we had owned stock in it because we went through a ton of it. Whenever we were on our last bottle it was considered imperative that I get to the drug store to buy more, as soon as possible.

Along with the itching came a rash, little sores called “petechiae” (pi-TEE-kee-eye). The tiny red scabs opened up during scratch attacks, crisscrossing Bob’s back with bloody streaks. To reach his back, Bob used an extra long white plastic kitchen spoon, the idea being that the curved edges won’t cut the skin with the robust self-scraping. It didn’t take long to discover that my fingernails worked better. Bob tried to spare me of this job, but often I surrender to the vulgarity of it all because I knew it worked best. Plus, it made me feel like I was doing something to alleviate the torture, instead of just watching it. With hands, ten fingers, and long nails, I vigorously raked those sores on Bob’s back where he couldn’t reach and where the white spoon couldn’t sooth, until Bob’s back was red with open scabs, blood, and welts. When the scratch attack was over, I washed my hands hard, washed Bob’s back gently, liberally smeared the Sarna lotion, and washed my hands hard again. Lastly, I applied a cold ice pack to a designated part of Bob’s body—an arm, leg, whatever—and instructed him to focus on the cool sensation. (We did this over and over and over again, night and day, every couple of hours, for the duration of Bob’s illness. Even months later in the healing phase, the itching was the very last thing to leave.)

“You thinking about auditioning for a Mel Gibson movie?” I asked, trying to lighten things up with a dumb joke.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes closed, body parts still twitching. The end of a scratch attack brought both intense relief and powerful dread. Relief that it was over. Dread for the next time it would come.
....

Anyway, we decided to quite with the clindamyacin for the infected blister. How else do you get rid of a big 'ol infection? I dunno. Hot Hipiclens baths are helping (yet another antibiotic). Happy to say that the scare was short lived and Bob's much better. As I write this, he is researching upscale bicycle seats.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog!

With love, T

Rule of the black queen

2011-09-04T20:45:00.000-07:00

Ok, so the boy took this picture to show you all how he held me hostage in checkmate. My white king was beholden to his black queen and his black rook, whatever move I made.

But let it be known that I won the first game, so the Speirs' Labor Day 2011 Chess Tourney now stands as the boy 1 and the mother 1. (And believe me, I'm not trying to lose, it just comes naturally.)

These are the lengths a mother must go to get her son away from all that damnedable screen time. If there was just one friend in the neighborhood, just ONE, that's all it would take to get my boy away from the TV, the computer, the Ipod touch, and out into the real world.

The house next door to us has been for sale and I pray, I pray that you pray, let's all pray that someone moves in who has a 12-year-old-child who has chemistry with my son. Please. I cant' tell you how many problems that would solve; including me losing in chess. (I can't even go into checkers, it just drives me bonkers.)

But hey, it's a three day weekend and the tourney lives on tomorrow so I still have a chance to redeeem myself. Pray.

(I love three day weekends more than you can ever know.)

With love, T

Something about nothing

2011-08-24T12:57:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the power of ice and redosing (two advil every five hours is what my pharmacist otherwise known as me has prescribed) I am here live and alive, ready and eager to blog to all of you, gloriously unchanged for two days in my galabea (fancy word for my Egyptian pajamas that, yes, I do occasionally wear in public).

I'm practicing writing really long sentences after a marathon of reading essays by the amazing David Foster Wallace (RIP), who wrote 100 pages about taking a cruise. One hundred pages about an experience mostly spent on the inside of his minuscule cabin because of his self-proclaimed agoraphobia. It's a fabulous essay and so is the one about the Illinois State Fair, which I mentioned in my last blog. I've never read anything before whereby the author starts out by outright insulting his editors and getting away with it. But they are not gratuitous insults, they are truthful ones. And the editors put up with it (although I notice they got edited out) but still, they paid him and gave him more jobs. Of course he was a brilliant writer, so that definitely helps in the getting away with it department. (Note to my current and potential editors: I promise that I am well aware that I could never get away with insulting my editors in my copy, nor would I ever want to. Code: please give me more paying work.)

So, this is what you do when you are flat on your back in bed. Besides looking out the window at the leaves and trees and noticing how one of the tree branches looks just like a descending snake, a head like that
character on the Jungle Book movie. I would attempt to draw it, but it's hard to draw when you are flat on your back. I could appreciate why Frida Kahlo had a mirror attached to her ceiling, and then painted all sorts of weird things about her perceived and real body deformities, her having to be flat on her back for weeks and months at a time.

When you are flat on your back all your addictive NPR listening habits become heightened. I am now an expert on the Libyan revolution, the East Coast earthquake, and that former IMF guy who was able to forge a consensual relationship with a chamber maid in a mere nine-minutes. (Evidently, he was known for his charm.) Listening to NPR is awesome when you are flat on your back and staring at the ceiling or at the tree branch snake outside the window (or in the car or at work or cooking dinner).

It's hard not to get depressed when you are flat on your back. It takes me approximately three hours to transition from "hey, it's so nice to be still" to "oh my god, they'll have to check me into a nursing home soon." You start thinking about the sick, the invalid, the sad, the lonely. You realize just how close you are to all those things.

And it all started with a simple fluffing of the hair. All I meant to do was bend over (bad idea) and fluff up my newly washed, sprayed, and curled hair to look the freshest I could look on the way to work. And, zing, an electrical charge goes up the back, and the hair-fluffer falls to her knees and that's about it. I think we'll be going back to the flattening iron -- no fluffing involved. Back to the no-nonsense look.

When you are flat on your back you think about all the things that you've been wanting to do like washing the dishes, scrubbing the floor, cleaning out the boy's bedroom from top to bottom and front to back, getting out the press release, updating the website, making extra keys, driving the kids around to endless hours of activities--all the glorious living that you miss so much.

Me and my galabea gotta go. And we thank you so much for coming by and send our apologies if there's anything we did to convey that this blog post had anything substantial to say.

With love, T (et al)

more on David Foster Wallace

2011-08-20T08:21:00.000-07:00

the late (great) David Foster Wallace

It's Saturday morning and I should be reading and writing and writing and writing, so I can qualify for graduation in December, but I can't help but to blog this opening paragraph of an essay by my latest favorite writer, David Foster Wallace (RIP). It's actually the second paragraph and by blogging it, what I mean is quoting it:

"I'm fresh in from the East Coast to go to the Illinois State Fair fro a swanky East-Coast magazine. Why exactly a swanky East-Coast magazine is interested in the Illinois State Fair remains unclear to me. I suspect that every so often editors at these magazines slap their foreheads and remember that about 90% of the United Sates lies between the Coasts and figure they'll engage somebody to do pith-helmeted anthroppological reporting on soething rural and heartlandish. I think they decided to engage me for this one becasue I actually grew up around here, just a couple hours drive from downstate Springfield. I never did go to the Stat Fair, though,

growing up--I pretty much topped out at the County Fair level." --from as essay called: getting away from already pretty much being away from it all, in a book of essays called A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. (Which is also the name of another amazing DFW essay.)

This is how the New York Times described DFW's writing in 2008 (after he died): "...A versatile writer of seemingly bottomless energy, Mr. Wallace was a maximalist, exhibiting in his work a huge, even manic curiosity — about the physical world, about the much larger universe of human feelings and about the complexity of living in America at the end of the 20th century. He wrote long books, complete with reflective and often hilariously self-conscious footnotes, and he wrote long sentences, with the playfulness of a master punctuater and the inventiveness of a genius grammarian. Critics often noted that he was not only an experimenter and a showoff, but also a God-fearing moralist with a fierce honesty in confronting the existence of contradiction..."

Please discuss.

Bye!

Book annotation :: "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks"

2011-08-18T06:14:00.000-07:00

Henrietta Lacks :: superwoman

Written and edited by Rebecca Skloot

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

Random House 2010

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot is a primo example of creative nonfiction. Where science meets setting. Where research meets plot. Where facts meet character. Where anonymity meets humanity. This book contains two stories. One being about a poor black woman’s cells, taken in 1951 without her informed consent, that became one of the most important tools in science. The other story is about a poor black woman’s family, abandoned in 1951, when their mother, wife, sister, cousin, and daughter died of cervical cancer. Her name was Henrietta Lacks, and she was one-in-the-same woman. Superwoman. Scientists know her as HeLa. And her cells defied death.

And yet there’s a third story, the one about how the writer went about covering the first two stories. With about ten years of research, countless interviews, and deep relationships formed with the family, writer Rebecca Skoot has produced a book of epic nature. (In the book she mentioned several times that she supported her work with credit cards and student loans, but I still can’t help but to wonder how she really could support herself and this research project. It seems like that could almost be a fourth story.)

Henrietta Lacks was born and raised in rural Virginia, descendent of slaves and slave owners. When she got sick, “I got a knot on my womb” (13) she moved to inner city Baltimore so she could go to Johns Hopkins Hospital for treatments. These two locations serve as the settings for the book.

The daughter, Deborah, who became Skloot’s key research partner, serves as the book’s main character. Deborah, who might be described as poor and ignorant, is written up with the utmost integrity by Skloot, who positions her as subject, not object (as opposed to how the cells were treated by many scientists). Like Skloot, a reader becomes attached to Deborah.

Admission: I loved this book. One of the many things that captured me was the possibility that it could be categorized as “authentic fantastic,” a subgenre of creative nonfiction that I propose, which has elements that depart into the supernatural. There are several points of authentic fantastic to this book, for example:

1.) Deborah’s belief that the cells contained her mother’s spirit. This is how the author describes it: “I was a science journalist who referred to all things supernatural as ‘woo-woo stuff’; Deborah believed Henrietta’s spirit lived on in her cells, controlling the life of anyone who crossed its path. Including me” (7). Given that the author spent ten years and untold personal resources in researching Henrietta Lacks, it’s hard to say that Deborah was wrong.

2.) The cells themselves – the fact that even to this day, they have not died, which is something that no other human cell has accomplished. They are considered “immortal” even in scientific terms. If, after the considerable research that has been conducted on the HeLa cells, and considering there is no scientific explanation of why they continue to reproduce so strongly, then is that supernatural? Again, the author’s description:

“I talked to many scientists about HeLa,and none could explain why Henrietta’s cells grew so powerfully when many others didn’t even survive. Today its possible for scientists to immortalize cells by exposing them to certain viruses or chemicals, but very few cells have become immortal on their own as Henrietta’s did.” (213)

"Fired!" :: a book annotation (34 down, 6 to go)

2011-08-15T19:16:00.000-07:00

"Fired! Tales of the Canned, Canceled, Downsized, & Dismissed," written and edited by Annabelle Gurwitch :: an annotation (the 34th out of the 40 due by December to be exact)

This book is funny. It is a collection of personal stories of job loss written by comedians, written and annotated by Annabelle Gurwitch, a comedian herself who was inspired to put this book together after she was fired by Woody Allen (who accused her of “looking retarded”), the iconic director with whom everyone would want to work. In fact he’s so iconic, that Gurwitch realized that even being fired by him was interesting to others. Her friend Robert Reich, former secretary of labor, told said: “Annabelle, I’d love to be fired by Woody Allen. Do you how many people can say they’ve been fired by Woody Allen? …There’s a certain cache to the story” (34).

Reich tells his own true stories of being fired and his narrative does what all the others do: puts the one who is fired in the subject role, instead of the object role, which is the traditional role of the one being fired. For example, Reich describes working for an administration that wanted to “get rid of the First, Fourth, Fifth, Eighth, and Ninth Amendments to the Constitution” (34-35). He said he couldn’t get excited about that. Reich and other writers turn the humiliation of getting fired towards the hilarity of the ones doing the firing. Gurwitch admits that the book is not therapy (though she admits to having lots of therapy) but there’s something strangely comforting in reading about the fired and to see how often it’s not they who are the crazy ones—it’s the ones who called for, authorized, consented to, conducted, and enforced the firing.

To further make this point, another contributor, writer Andy Borowitz, shares his story of writing the script for the 70’s TV sitcom Facts of Life about the four sassy girls—the beautiful one, the chubby one, the tomboy, and the sistah—in a boarding school in upstate New York and their sassy house mother, Mrs. Garrett “or, when the girls were in full Fonzie mode, Mrs. G” (2). In his essay, Borowitz lays out the premise of this TV show and just in case the reader does not fully get that he is setting it up as a horrible show, he spells it out, “Oh, and here’s one more piece of Facts of Life trivia: It was the worst television show ever produced’ (2).

Borowitz, Reich, Gurwitch, and other writers turn the tables in this book. The fire-ees are the sane, the fire-ers are the insane. One (especially those who fit in the fire-ers category) could easily dismiss this kind of writing as sour grapes. Perhaps all the contributors were willing to tell their story because they were bitter and wanted revenge. While that may or may not be true, it’s irrelevant because the writers do what good writers do: they provide evidence, they offer detail, they describe the setting, they build the characters, they present direct quotes. These writers don’t tell why their employers were nuts, they show it.

In other words, it matters not if Borowitz simply claims in his essay that the Facts of Life was a terrible show, he shows it was a terrible show, thus making his firing all the more ludicrous. That’s the pattern of this book. Describing the silly job requirments and making the firing seem even sillier. Borowitz describes the warning that he got from his producers that ultimately led to his demise. They told him: “You didn’t get Tootie at all” (4). (Tootie was the “sistah” character who apparently, he wasn’t able to capture in his dialogue.)

Ok, so this book isn’t a therapy book, but if laughter is the best remedy then I disagree because “not getting Tootie” made me laugh out loud and feel better. It could almost be a battle cry for all the absurd reasons people get fired, because most everyone’s job loss story really comes down to their own version of: “You just didn’t get Tootie.” And the upside to being fired is this: you no longer have to “get Tootie.”

Another insomniatic

2011-08-10T20:58:00.000-07:00

This is what the girl's school supplies look like. A color coded binder for day A, day B, and English (yay, a whole binder for English). Inside are loose leaf papers, graph paper, spiral notebooks, folders, and plastic subject separators. Oh, and one has a three ring pencil case inside.

This girl is all ready for tenth grade. Three years until the big transition to something else. Three teeney, tiny, eensy, weensy years, and my baby's gone. Flash.

She wants to go on a college road trip next spring break. Do you think we can get to Rhode Island and back with a detour to Toronto, Ohio, and Illinois in one week?

Scholarships, girl, scholarships. That's what we keep saying. Study. Get A's. Get as many A's as you possibly can. That's your best shot at making your dreams come true. That's your best shot at doing what you want to do.

That's our best shot at giving parental advise. To be honest, I'm blogging to blow off ten minutes because she's at a pool party that lasts until one a.m. I am wondering if we are the only cheerleader parents who work in the morning? The thing is all the other cheerleaders have their own cars, evidently, so they're not getting picked up. Amanda agreed to be picked up at 11:30ish, and bleary eyed me and Bob are going together to keep eachother awake. Oh what the hey, since it's so late, the boy will come with us too.

This is one cheerleader who is getting picked up at the pool party by her entire family. How's that for being cool.

Five minutes yet to burn.

Last night I had some nasty insomnia and so I researched the writer, David Foster Wallace, who died too young and whose book I'm reading (when I have spans of time longer than five minutes). Tonight I have to think of something else tonight before going to bed (if I ever get there) so I can will myself to not awaken at three a.m. Insomnia, cheerleading parties, and mourning David Foster Wallace are not good ways to get sound sleep.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog.

With love, T

Homecoming

2011-08-06T11:57:00.000-07:00

Bob and Amanda come home today. Aidan and I have been home alone and sometimes we got scared. One night, just before going upstairs to bed Aidan was sure he heard someone walking outside the window, standing in the landscaping rocks by the back deck.

Of course I couldn't tell him that he was creeping me out. Instead I said, "It's probably just the cats, but let's go out to see." So we went outside to look, and sure enough, no prowler. I didn't suggest that we look in between the bushes and walk all the way around the house. Instead I took the cell phone, and we went up to bed.

"Is the side door locked?" Aidan asked the next night. I double checked. Yes. Aidan re-checked the other doors. I told him about the time we moved into a house in Baltimore (after living in apartments) and how I heard a loud noise in the middle of the night, our first night. I laid frozen in bed, Bob was going to investigate with, yes, a baseball bat. And then we realized that it was the automatic ice maker in the refrigerator. It had just dumped it's first batch of ice cubes, a sound we were not accustomed to.

"Isn't that funny!" I said to Aidan, after we had rechecked all the doors. He wasn't so amused.

I can see why single women get big dogs. I've told Bob that I'm going to hang one of those signs that says: "Beware of dogs" to frighten off potential prowlers. He thinks that is hilarious and can barely stop laughing as he recounts the "All in the Family" episode were Edith (I think) uses a sound recording of a dog barking to ward off intruders. I'd like one of those recordings.

I don't know why we worry about personal security when we are alone in the house -- if someone wants to invade, they could do it just as easily if every one's home. Maybe it's all the quiet. Maybe it's one way we miss someone when they're gone. Maybe that's why it's good to take trips, so that everyone can realize how much they love each other. You get a glimpse, just a very small one, into what it would be like to be alone. You think about the people who are. You know you will be one day too.

Last night, when Aidan and I were locking up I said, "Hey, don't forget that we have protection outside." He perked up at that. "Yeah, Jamesies." (James is our cat who likes to sleep in my books, see photo on right panel.) I hoped the joke would lighten things up, at least for me. "Let's go out to pizza tomorrow, then a movie." How does a mother make a lonely 12-year-old boy less lonely? There are so many times, lately, when I miss not living more closely to extended family. (Although I'm so very grateful for friends who offered to help out with Aidan this week, while I worked.)

"When's Dad coming back?" Aidan asked me just a few minutes ago. He's asked a couple times. Today, I said...again. Aidan says he doesn't miss his sister, but did ask if they could go school shopping together, sans parents. "We shop better without you," he explained. It's true.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog.

Love, T

He ate. She ate.

2011-08-03T17:11:00.000-07:00

The 12-year-old boy and I were home alone for dinner tonight and we chose different paths to satisfaction.

Ok, so this is what I had. A sort of Mediterranean quesadilla. A grilled tortilla with this inside: fresh garden tomatoes (thanks to a colleague), sliced garlic, diced onions, chopped spinache, feta cheese, and fresh herbs from my pathetic herb garden.

Why is my herb garden not growing?

And this is what Aidan had. Fried chicken, tortilla chips, home made quacamole (confession, I had some of this too, it turned out really good if I do say so myself), apples (at my insistence), and his all time favorite food: fake cheese that's been heated in the microwave (I made him a deal--he bikes and/or walks and I let him eat a dish of fake cheese), and water (yay!).

Mother-of-the-year, here, getting ready to enlist the boy in joining me to wash three days worth of dirty dishes.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog and I hope you are all doing well.

What did you have for dinner?

With love, T

Tie a Yellow Ribbon

2011-07-23T17:57:00.000-07:00

Everyone on our street today was singing that old Tony Orlando song as someone had tied a yellow ribbon around every tree that lined the boulevard. Our household was gone in the morning and when we returned mid afternoon - wala, neighborhood beautification. A note was attached to the outside of our front door with masking tape: "Hello Neighbor, We tied a yellow ribbon on your tree for my husband's homecoming from Afganistan on Sunday the 24th. If you are opposed to having it on your tree, feel free to throw it away."

It is now almost 8 p.m. and I've noticed no yellow ribbons removed.

When I went out to take these pictures, two women in an SUV stopped to ask me what's going on. Their children were in the backseat. They said they lived around the corner. Events like this are amazing and wonderful to me, events whereby we chat with neighbors, because our neighbors tend to keep to themselves. Due to the fact that I was the only pedestrian on the street, I suppose I looked like the best authority on the yellow ribbons, yet, I assured the women in the SUV that I only knew what had been taped to my front door.

"Is this your house?" the woman further inquired, in a friendly manner. "I love this house, I always admire it when I drive by.

"Thank you!" How nice for a neighbor to talk to me AND offer a compliment.

"You need to get yo-self some grandchildren, you need grandchildren runnin' round that front yard," the friendly neighbor continued.

"What you talkin' about? Grandchildren? Are you kidding me? Do I look like a Grandmother?" I didn't say this out loud. The woman had a point, but seriously, did I really look like I am ready for grandchildren? I suppose after 10 straight days of a zillion degrees above human capacity to maintain make up and a decent hair do, I probably do. Lordy.

As a small gesture of support, Bob, Aidan, and I delivered a patio pot of impatiens wrapped in a yellow ribbon over to the house listed on the note attached to our front door. She was a young mom with two young kids. I felt how brave she must be to raise those kids by herself with perhaps a lot of support, maybe not so much. Who knows. And I felt honored that this family invited the whole neighborhood to share this momentus homecoming event with the public display of yellow ribbons.

Tonight I'm thinking about our military families, the people fleeing Somalia, and that gorgeous, peaceful country of Norway, tonight deep in grief.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog.

With love, T

I'm Glad You're Here

2011-06-20T05:19:00.000-07:00

We sat around the dinner table and talked about veterans, four classmates and I. We are all in the Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program at Antioch University in Los Angeles. Gathered together this week for the biannual writing residency. Gathered together last night for dinner, hosted by one particularly hospitable classmate who served baked chicken, sweet potatoes, salad, chocolate cupcakes and beverages of choice.

Gathered together to celebrate that one of us has a new job, writing. Writing. For a living wage. Writing. To pay her bills. Writing. As an earned living. Writing. Because of artistic expression. To remember. To heal.

Who needs writers anymore? Apparently, the veterans do, or people who wish to understand and support veterans. Or at least one fine artist in L.A. who saw what my classmate was doing at the local Veterans Administration (teaching writing as a healing process) and then hired her to write a musical about veterans. If that isn't all around beautiful and inspirational, I don't what is.

I chatted with a job coach once, who said to me, "It's not like you're curing world hunger." This was back in the days when I thought I was. It seems silly now. When you see yourself as fixing the world, it can be easy to overload the importance of what you do, believe that you are some kind of force that has come to save the people. And somehow that makes you better. Maybe that's what the job coach was getting at. Maybe she was telling me to get over myself. And in hindsight, it was good advise.

My classmate who is writing the musical about veterans, a veteran herself (Air force), said that she can easily recognize PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Gathered at the dinner table, we considered another classmate's dying brother-in-law, also a veteran. This classmate talked about all the other veterans, mostly alone, who she saw when she went to visit her dying brother-in-law in the hospital. It wasn't so much her family member full of cancer that was so sad to her, but all the aloneness in the VA. Apparently PTSD leads to being alone.

A musical about veterans. Only in L.A.? Yet, if a writer can transform loneliness into art, move lost souls into communities, assure veterans that "I'm glad you're here, no matter what happened," and make a living at it, maybe the MFA has a use after all. Maybe writing is a better way to fix the world.

Thanks for stopping by my blog.

With love, T

Just Like a Star :: the story of a bad mother and a high school choir concert

2011-05-20T20:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I simply was not cut out to have a kid in high school. Take tonight for example. If it weren't for the mandatory choir concert we would have been at the mandatory soccer practise. And if it weren't for the rain out, we would have also had the mandatory baseball game. We being me, because Bob had a meeting. Triple insurance to keep my marathon run of 16 hour days in tact. (I know it sounds like I'm complaining, but just bear with me.)

My attitude was bad tonight, at the Roosevelt High School choir concert in Des Moines, Iowa. If you saw the mother high up in the bleachers with her face in her not-so-smart phone, cleaning out her email account, from 3,874 messages to about ten less, something she does when she is at the depths of boredom, that was me. Plus the heat and humidity suddenly shot up from hades and the whole gym full of parents and students was melting with sweat. (High school kids + perspiration = let's just say smelly misery.) And then when they started showing the senior video -- the schmaltzy montage of the seniors' baby pictures and all the good times they had in show choir -- ugh, I thought I would die of wishing I wasn't there. For god's sake, enough with the retrospect.

Isn't that terrible? And my own daughter was in the choir, and in spite of what it seems, I really did want her to succeed. Yet, I seriously did not want to be there.

I think I was just really tired.

So in between choir sets they geared up for the solos and I thought, lord, no. Please, let's just get this program up and over. Forget the dern solos. Get me out of here, please, God. Get. Me. Out.

Corinne Bailey Rae.

Then it all changed. The last solo student sang Corinne Bailey Rae's "Like a Star." And she sang it goood. She was so mellow that I felt the tension drip off. And then, you wouldn't believe it, but the music blew out. Nothing. No accompaniment. That girl just kept on singing. Just like a song in my heart, Just like oil on my hands, Honour to love you. A capella. And then -- don't tell my daughter -- my eyes welled up with emotion. The kids in the bleachers all started clapping and stomping to the beat, to keep the songstress going, and her voice and body worked right into the rhythm. Just like a star across my sky, Just like an angel off the page. The girl could sing like the next best thing to Corinne Baily Rae herself.

It brought me back to just after we moved to Baltimore, when Aidan was newborn and Amanda was two. The four of us were practically drowning in loneliness when, low and behold, it turned out that we visited a church that had people from Bob's Brooklyn neighborhood in it. (Shout out to the Rosa's if you see this.) It was like an apple pie had been placed in our hearts, even though I had never before met these people. We went to their daughter's elementary school concert and just as soon as those little voices started to sing, Bob and I just started to cry. I think we were just so sad about our predicament of moving with little kids and no family, and the children's choir sounded so beautiful. Maybe that's an antidote to depression: go to a local public school music concert.

The high school story gets better.

So the girl was singing a capella and she didn't know that the choir director, Mr. McNear, had quietly stepped up to the piano on stage. (Well, actually behind the risers, but you know what I mean.) Effortlessly, without missing a beat, quietly, subtly, he started rifting chords on the piano to back her up. It was like in the movies. When she heard the piano the singer-girl was a little startled. She looked behind her and saw her accompaniment had returned, and she moved into the song even more.

It was gorgeous and I was so full of the pure joy of honest-to-goodness music that I was holding back the weeping, lest I be completely embarrassed. Or maybe it was the fatigue. I was tempted to wipe my nose on my shirt because I didn't have a tissue. Then the Varsity Show Choir rocked us out and kept us entertained and yes, friends, I laughed. This tired, beat up old mother with a horrible attitude laughed. Amanda recorded a video of the choir which I'll post for you later, if we get that far. The video also records the audio of her friend screaming on the cute boys in the choir. Like we were at a Justin Beiber concert. Agreed -- they were adorable.

But for now, I'll leave you with the real Corinne Bailey Rae and her song that moved me tonight, "Just Like a Star."

With love, T

A Full Body Wrap for Mother's Day

2011-05-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

Remembering Mother's Day 2007

I suppose because it's mother's day, I thought of an old blog post I wrote about a woman named Miss Kim, from our church in St. Paul, Christ Church on Capital Hill. (Site of the dancing wedding youtube craze that some of you may remember from last year.)

Wo be the introvert in that congregation because sharing of the peace lasts for about ten minutes and everyone generally rounds the whole sanctuary with greetings for all.

On Mother's Day 2007, Miss Kim, who survived the Vietnam war, shared the peace with me by giving me a full body wrap. (See the post.)
It was so cute! She is literally about half the size of me. It really got me to thinking about how complicated Mother's Day is. About mothers who lost their children. Mother's who couldn't have children. Mothers who left their children (in this church, there were enough refugees to hear stories of children separated by war). Mothers who are astray from their children. Mothers who wanted children. Mothers who didn't.

About mothers who mother others.

About mothers who are forced to bear too many children. And the ones who die in childbirth. (See recent column by my guy, Nicolas Kristof.)

And then there are the "Motherless Daughters," as my current writing mentor, author Hope Edelman has coined in her researc, writing and networking for women who have lost mothers at a young age. She has built an amazing community of love and support and today she posted a lovely blog to commemorate lost mothers.

Bob and I count ourselves lucky to both claim living, lively, lovely mothers -- both who are here and now, yet sadly, so far away. And so we send out our love to Diane Mork of Dexter, Minnesota and Martha Speirs of Brooklyn, New York. I will admit that distance is really the pits. I really miss living in a place where we can participate in family gatherings. And yet we are so grateful for people like Miss Kim and everyone who offer us a full body of wrap where ever we are.

I write this blog and send it out to all of you who care for the children, who care for eachother. Happy Mother's Day.

With love, Terri

My Take on the Death of Osama bin Laden

2011-05-03T20:01:00.000-07:00

What? No comments to my previous post, Seminary Xtranormal? People, it's an amazing 2.5 minute animated film! Talk to me.

I've been trying to come up with something clever and wise to say about the recent turn of events in the war on terror. Or non-turn of events, probably. I don't know what to write, to the detriment of my poor husband who gets to receive all my random thoughts when I am unable or unwilling to blog. (Gold stars for Bob on this one.)

How about if I just summarize the death of Osama bin Laden in bullet points, and you can all be glad that you're not Bob and didn't have to listen to this on the phone, at the little league game, in the car, in the bed, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, for the past 24 hours:

I wish people would quit with the celebrating.
This is a story of deepest tragedy.
And for Christians this is a story of complication, because we're suppose to forgive.
Although, apparently, not all Christians agree with their leader.
I'm glad Osama bin Laden is dead.
But I don't agree with killing.
And I certainly don't agree with rejoicing in killing.
Yet it would be complicated if he was taken alive.
WWJD?
And I hope President Obama (please, let's not be like Fox news and accidentally confuse with "Osama") can take the credit.
Seriously, Rush Limbaugh is praising Obama? Since when did he go by facts.
Sarcasm.
Thank God for President Obama. My goodness, he is a thinking man.
I hope intelligence and military personnel can feel some sort of victory.
Yet, does this not negate the past ten years of two useless wars?
Which, for the record, I have never supported.
But, to be clear, I support the troops.
And furthermore, we owe our troops a huge debt of gratitude and restorative assistance.
So why are the Republicans so against public assistance?
For the record, Ayn Rand, who Republicans tout as their economic god, who preached against public assistance, for the record, she needed public assistance before she died.
If the tea partiers are so against government, why don't they just go somewhere where there is no government? (Say, Afghanistan, Somalia, pick your failed state.)
That's another story.
I'm not against Republicans, but I am against hypocrisy.
And I am against inaccuracy.
Surely, the Pakistanis had to have been in on this or how could the helicopters had all that air space?
I wonder if the Pakistani government (not the military) must claim ignorance for their own cover.
How do I get that Abottabad twitter guy's account name?
OMG, what was it like for those women and children in the compound?
Or maybe it's not at all what we imagine.
Most of my face book friends -- and I pride myself with having a diverse group of face book friends -- seem to agree that celebrating is not in order.
So what?
I hope that mainstream American's will realize that Osama bin Laden did not, repeat, did not, represent mainstream Muslims. (He killed zillions of Muslims.)
Just like I try to tell my Athiest friends that I am not represented by fundamentalist Christians.
Idealistic.
I propose that we just all live together peacably.
For those of us who pray, let's pray for President Obama and the enormous plate of responsibility that sits before him.
For those of us who don't pray, let's seek to be kinder and gentler. Seriously, ten years of wars,s,s,s, and for what?

There's more, but I think this is quite enough. It's really just all equally amazing and frustrating. And to be real honest, I'm so glad I live in Iowa.

And if you feel extra sorry for Bob about now, I completely understand. He's suffered 17 years of this. He's mostly happy when the Mets win.

With love, T

Seminary Xtranormal

2011-04-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

This morning I pulled out a couple of my Lutheran projects, including the chapter I'm writing for a book called "Stories of Keeping the Faith in Spite of Seminary." I'm just thrilled to be invited to work on this project that is meant to encourage potential seminarians, and disillusioned seminarians. My chapter will be about living in student housing.

As a way to warm up the writers of this anthology, the editor (shout out to Ellie Roscher) provided us all with this short clip, Seminary Xtranormal. It is hilarious, clever, and spot on. Please take three minutes to check it out. (Click on the black box.) What do you think?

I'm also thrilled with the response I'm getting from my other Lutheran project, which also relates to this short film. (See my facebook page.) And this morning, I got to interview the fabulous Barbara Lundblad.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. Wishing you all a lovely Saturday.

With love, T

P.S. Another shout out to my friend, Melba, from Birmingham. She's safe, but sheesh, what a terrible disaster. Here's one way to support the recovery efforts in the South.

Something Exciting

2011-04-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

A "wow" location of last night's networking event
with the wonderful ladies of the
Association for Women in Communication,
The Lagniappe, http://www.thelagniappe.com/

Hey, everybody, guess what. My new project is being profiled on another blog, Unemployed in Des Moines, a local network that is committed to getting people back to work. Yay for back to work. I'm thrilled with how the writer, Crissanka Cristados wrote this up.

I met Crissanka just last week when I attended another networking event with a group of neat ladies at the Association of Women in Communications. (Lately, I've decided to take my own advice and stepped up my own networking. I have not been disappointed.) You know, if you can swing the time, networking is actually a lot of fun. Usually, if you are networking with a networking group, that means they want to network too, which means they tend to be just very pleasant people to be around. Networkee people want to help each other.

Anyway, in the profile Crissanka describes my new project--The Bad Asset Club--better than I do, so I hope you will please check out the profile. Pass the word. Send me your submission. I'm convinced that there is already a ton of wisdom to be gained from this great recession. And that wisdom is inside all of you, the people who are living it. I think it could all be a lot more fun (bearable?) if we shared it. I'm really excited that already two submissions have been posted (thanks Ellen! thanks Mary!) to The Bad Asset Club blog. And more are in the works. Lots-o-recession lessons coming our way.
I love the way Crissanka ends the profile: "Submit your story. Read others' reflections, and just take comfort in knowing that you aren't the only bad asset around town." Ha! You gotta have humor. Love it. Thanks, Crissanka, if you're out there!

With love, T

On Piano Lessons

2011-04-26T16:42:00.000-07:00

Piano: Paid for.

Piano tuning: Needs.

Piano teacher: Prima.

Parental desire: Confirmed.

Parental willingness to sacrifice for lessons: Check.

Parental mutual agreement: One of the few.

Parental joy in hearing their children play piano: To the moon.

Children's passion: Missing. Sadly. Why.

Parental thoughts on allowing children to quit: Utter grief.

Parental strength in making children do what they don't want: Wavering.

Generous, unaffordable, ridiculous bribery plan: Hope.

Piano recital: May 1. Pray for us. All of us.

With love, T

The Miracle of Tonight

2011-04-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

Hello dear Charmer Friends and let me start by saying thank you for coming over to my blog. Happy Easter to you all. And if you do not celebrate Easter, happy spring. Happy rain? How about happy freezing cold icy rain? But I'm not complaining because when it rains that means my kids' spring sporting practise gets cancelled, which makes my evenings just a little bit easier. I like my kids in sports, but just saying.

Speaking of cancelled sports outtings, tonight's edition of relentless rainfall brought us a miracle. We ate dinner together. A real sit-down family meal. (Table, chairs, plates, etc.) We are usually not the sit-down family meal types, what, with all the TV's and computers around here, we usually just scoop up a plate and find a screen. Separate but equal is how we eat. If we're even home, that is. It's not very reverent.

Tonight we were home (thank you, rain), we cooked, we ate, and we even cleaned up together. No, we did not leave desperate dishes around for a few days until we had some spare moments to get to them. (Or more like until it's Thursday night, which is like Bob's Friday night, and then he can get to them.)

Dinner discussion. Yay for dinner discussion. I wish we could always have dinner discussion. You know what yesterday was? The 17th anniversary of the first day of the Rwandan genocide. I know that because it happened the week before Bob and I were married (April 30, 1994) and we are about to celebrate our 17th anniversary. The Rwandan genocide was my first real international emergency, with all the press releases and phone calls and how to donate and how not to donate and all that. Not that all emergency's are like that, because, sadly, many emergency's are not emergency at all. They linger on unnoticed for years, decades. But the ones that mainstream news pick up on are the ones that people care about, and this one was my first.

The reason it came up is because Amanda watched "Hotel Rwanda" in her social studies class and so was telling us about it at our miraculous dinner discussion. Right before Aidan read aloud a chapter from his new book, "The History of Farting." (Blame it on the Easter Bunny.) I'm not much for genocide movies so I have not seen this movie, but her description of it made me think that we should all see it together. Talk about that tricky thing of forgiveness.

The miracle of dinner discussion. All because we were not at the ballpark. I love the ballpark, but sometimes I just want things to slow down. So we can think. Chat. Be together.

Tomorrow night I'm a parent volunteer for a zillion high school choir members. Pray for me. I keep hoping that the icy rain is going to get me out of that.

With love, T

Marina Medina from Argentina

2011-04-19T20:20:00.000-07:00

A batch of heartbreaking poems found me and so I picked them out of the kitchen garbage. They were written by Amanda who was in third grade at the time. She had the most amazing teacher, Señora Medina. Marina Medina from Argentina. The woman could teach. She had a knack for getting parents involved. You just couldn't say no to her and her warm smile and kind eyes and pretty face. Since she was from Argentina she didn't so much abide by the "no touch" rule in school. She hugged students all the time. She hugged us adults. She had all the parents involved, including me and Bob, in leading small groups for math and reading. The woman also picked the best books: Bud, Not Buddy and Esperanza Rising and Walk Two Moons. Señora Medina didn't do worksheets and movies. She had the kids reading rich, wrenching novels and then discussing in small groups. Marina Medina was a brilliant teacher and to this day Amanda and I think she's the best we've ever had.

The only reason I can tell you about the poems I found years ago is because I'm pretty sure my daughter does not read her mother's blog. I won't include the poems here (I do have some discretion) but they seemed to be a sign of distress. They seemed to be proof positive that my third grade daughter was the object of mean girls at school and I was horrified. I really couldn't stand it and took three days of vacation time so I could monitor recess time. I told Señora Medina that I was available to volunteer more for these days. Other times I simply sat in my car in the parking lot and spied through my windshield.

The drama of an elementary playground can be awful. I watched Amanda, as she watched the group of girls who wouldn't let her play with them. There was a whole school yard full of beautiful children, many of them friends from her class, and yet she could only focus on this little group of girls who were pointedly excluding her. There was one ring leader and the other girls followed. She just stood there and watched, longing to be with them.

After school, of course I gave her my unsolicited advise. "Amanda, forget them, play with someone else. Go with your other friends. There are so many other kids to play with." Yada, yada, yada. I can't even remember what her response was to me, probably something like, "Ok." And then the next day that same pattern would ensure all over again. It was killing me. It went on all year and into the next year. Friends played hot and cold. (I'm sure she was a steady innocent in all the drama.)

It seems so childish, yet, sadly, I think there is a basic human instinct that makes you want to focus on the people who reject you. Even as adults. Remember that Groucho Marx quote that goes something like: "I wouldn't want to join a club that would have me as a member." Ha! Love that.

The good news in all this is that my daughter did just fine in spite of her mother's meddling (ineffective meddling, thank goodness). We still have fantasies about going to Argentina with Señora Medina, as if her whole family would invite us into their home as warmly as she did her classroom. Like they would happily adopt us as their very own tourists. We would form reading groups on the patio. Discuss Che' and Evita. We miss her.

I don't have any wise words to wrap up this blog post. Just writing. . .

(P.S. I hid the poems.)

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

Circling Saturday

2011-04-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

A mad little league mother with long stringy dirt blond hair is banging on my Toyota window, "Move your car!" She is mad because I am double parked behind her illegal parking space, at the front row of the little league team picture session. The problem is, I am not in the car because I am urgently pleading with the team coach to take my son for a half hour so I can drive my daughter to work. The same daughter who is sitting in the passenger seat of our double parked car, bearing the brunt of the angry baseball mom. It is a 30 degree spring day with an icy wind.

Welcome to my Saturday morning.

But it didn't start like this. It started as a glorious sleep in to 9 a.m., after happily defying my body's natural urge to wake up at 6:30 a.m. And withstanding the neighbor cat, who we call Crazy Cat, who has been in heat lately and insists on yowling outside our window every morning, as if we have something to offer. The first morning this happened I was worried that there was trouble with our cat, James, who likes to prowl around all night in spite of our best efforts to keep him indoors.

And so I jumped out of bed at 6 a.m. in my pajamas and bare feet and roamed around the yard, following Crazy Cat's yowls because it seemed like she was trying to tell me something. I imagined my poor James suffering after a fight and that he needed me. I called out: "Jamesies! Jamesies!" I searched all over the yard and no James. My flannel pajamaed husband, who says he doesn't like our pet cats, was standing at the front porch also calling: "Jamesies, Jamesies."

Crazy Cat started to saunter across the street while turning to look at me, beckoning me to follow, like I was a character in a Edgar Allen Poe short story called, say, Crazy Cat, about a white cat who lures fragile women into a secret suburban torture chamber. Just in the nick of time, Bob found James under a tree by the porch, but James obviously did not want to come back in the house. Crazy Cat hadn't bothered him, apparently, and he was eating a baby bunny, probably. I went back to bed for15 more minutes of sleep, wishing I had taken the two seconds to put my slippers on before wandering outside in the breaking dawn.

Three days later and we now ignore Crazy Cat who is apparently still in heat because this morning, again she yowled like a hungry baby outside our window. If you look outside, from our second story bedroom window, Crazy Cat looks back up to you, making eye contact.

In spite of Crazy Cat, this morning, glorious Saturday morning, I slept in until 9 a.m. My MFA creative packet for this month is done and I emailed it to my mentor last night, which is always a huge relief. I have a freelance project to work on, yet I decided today is Saturday and I'm going to relax. Make pancakes for the kids. Clean the house. Organize shelves. Exercise. Make coffee. Listen to the birds.

In the first minutes of my glorious Saturday morning my husband, who is scurrying off to church for his own meetings, informs me of the schedule. Aidan has to be at little league pictures at 10:30 a.m. (which I didn't know) and Amanda has to be at work at 11 a.m. (which I did know). Opposite sides of town. Impossible logistics. Must defy laws of physics. People, we have two kids, it shouldn't be this complicated. Other families have three kids, four-five kids, and they seem to do just fine. So why is it so hard for us? Goodbye my Saturday morning. Hello frazzled taxi morning.

"You need your driver's licence," I say to Amanda. By now the three of us are in the car and speeding towards the little league field, on this lovely wintery spring day. Aidan in his baseball uniform in the backseat. Amanda and her bread store T-shirt and Ugg boots in the front seat. Me and my large sized coffee mug driving. I'm not sure how this will work out because team pictures are notoriously off schedule and I can't wait around.

"Tell Dad that," Amanda says to me. We both sigh. My husband, as you know, is from New York City and he believes that no one needs a driver's license until they are age 26, when he got his driver's license.

"Bob, this is not New York; here people need to drive." This is what Bob's colleagues have been saying to him. (And we thank all of you.) I suggested to Amanda that maybe we should get some other, braver dads to counsel Bob on the subject of teaching teen daughters to drive. We could ask Chuck R., teen dad who is also a radio sports commentator which gives him lots of credibility in Bob's eyes. We could ask Jeff S., who makes a mean batch of BBQ pork, also giving him lots of credibility in Bob's eyes.

"Both of those guys have already talked to Dad about it," said Amanda. "Everyone has talked to him about it."

We get to the baseball field. It is complete chaos with no parking, a zillion parents, an icy wind, and I don't even know where to dump off Aidan so I can get Amanda to work. Wait a minute, I see the coach. Let me work this out. I double park the car and run out quick to make arrangements with the coach to hang on to Aidan while I drive Amanda to work. He's glad to do it.

"Move your car!" the mad little league mother screams to my daughter, sitting in the passenger seat.

"But I don't even have my driver's permit," says my daughter, sitting in the passenger seat.

Why is a lady, who is illegally parked herself, yelling at my daughter? Yet, I understand. She is probably working her own impossible Saturday morning.

Afternoon, glorious Saturday afternoon. It is approximately two hours before I need to pick up Amanda from the bread bakery. Two wondrous hours.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog! I am working on some surprises so I hope you'll come back.

With love, T

Instead of writing my 25-page critical paper, I'll write this

2011-04-09T14:11:00.000-07:00

3 a.m.

"My big toe hurts," said the wife to the husband sleeping on the other side of the bed. It's the middle of the night. The room is dark. The neighborhood is quiet. "I know that sounds weird, but it's throbbing. I can't sleep."

Yes, folks, that's the state of being married for 17 years. You awaken the husband from his own blissful state of happy oblivion to inform him that your big toe hurts.

"Wiggle it," said the husband in the dark. "Maybe it needs circulation. How long has it been like this? Maybe you dropped something on it. It could be twisted. You may have stubbed it. Is it black and blue? Let's keep an eye on it." The husband is always up for solving a problem.

Two advils and three minutes later the conversation is over.

There are so few people in this world who would tolerate sleep deprivation to give toe-pain counseling. Bob is one of them.

With love, T

(P.S. The critical paper is almost done, in case you're wondering. I am crawling on my hands and knees to the finish line. This is how writers procrastinate: they write about other stuff.)

Soccer Mom v. Mustache Dad

2011-04-05T19:46:00.000-07:00

Sunday afternoon was Amanda's first soccer game of the season. We were the away team playing at the Vision Soccer Academy fields in Waukee, Iowa, about ten miles outside of Des Moines. Take the last gravel road on the right and park next to the 360 panorama of corn fields and the biggest blue sky since last October. Sunshine all over the place. Glorious.

Me, my lawn chair, and my book (my usual soccer game fair) approached the field and searched for a place to settle down for one and half hours of no moving, no email, no thinking, no nothing but for to sit and be. About 99 percent of the time Bob has other stuff going on so he can't go to Amanda's Sunday soccer games. But I don't mind because me and my personal time do just fine together.

"Mom, did you see me make that awesome move or were you reading your book?" asks my daughter, often, after any given game.

"You did great! I saw some of your moves." But she and I both know that I mostly read my book at any given game.

On this past Sunday, I looked for a place to settle and since I was the last parent to arrive the whole parent side of the field was filled up. I had to start the second row and it occurred to me that I had no idea which side was "my" side. I didn't know who the opponent parents were and who my people were. I looked and looked and seriously, I didn't recognize anyone. You may think that Des Moines is just another small town in Iowa, but it's big enough so that we don't know anyone. People in school, in church, in soccer, in baseball--they don't mix. They are all completely different sets of people. I'm sure it's not like this for our opposing, host team, Waukee, a true blue small town in Iowa, where everyone really does mix and match. I don't even see the one family we do know to a small degree, our car pool family.

So I picked a random spot close to the center line and settled into the peace of the afternoon and my book. Suddenly, interrupting my la la land with all the fervor of a Budweiser commercial, Mustache Dad emerged from the line of parents -- standing, pacing, and sweating about ten feet in front of me.

"YOU'RE CLUMPING! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP GIRLS! SEPARATE! LET'S GO WILDCATS!"

To be honest, I didn't know what our team name was, but I was pretty sure it wasn't Wildcats. I was sitting in the opposing parent section. And I was in a beer commercial with Mustache Dad and a selection of mom's with an usually high ratio of long red hair.

"HEY WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? NICE KICK! QUIT STANDING AROUND AND LOOKING AT THE BALL! BE A LEADER!"

I considered moving, but I was already cozied in and besides, where would I go? I didn't know which way was my people. All I could do was pull out a scrap paper from my purse (a crumpled envelope with my rumpled wages for 2010, which I was supposed to give to our tax man) and start scribbling down all the things that Mustache Dad was screaming into my ears. They say that no one is safe when there's a writer around.

"DON'T BACK OFF! NICE JOB! OUTSIDE! KICK THE BALL! GET IT OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP, GIRLS!"

The one percent of the time that Bob has joined me at soccer games, he is tempted to be like Mustache Dad, feeling that urge to coach from the parent section. Coaching is a vocation that comes from deep within, apparently. I just can't take it. I tell Bob he absolutely cannot yell instructions from the side. It makes me feel bad for the real coaches. Or maybe I'm just a prude. The ref did tell Mustache Dad to cool it, but there was some kind of explanation that I didn't catch wind of to the effect that Mustache Dad continued with his high decibel drill sergeant act for the entire game.

At half time two of the red headed mothers kindly befriended me. "Hi! Are you Amber's mom?!"

When they looked at my confused face, they knew what I was going to say before I said it. I knew that at that point, they didn't care who's mom I was. I thought it best just to say a polite, "Oh, no, I'm from the, um, other side."

"Oh," they said, with dropped faces. "Well, it's nice to see you anyway!"

"Your soccer field is really pretty," I said.

"It's rustic," they said. "Thanks."

"I love the cornfields," I said.

They could not have known that I was reading Shirley Jackson's memoir, Life Among the Savages which chronicles the maddening minutia of being a mother, wife, and citizen of a small town. The more I read it, the more I am convinced it forms the basis of her chilling short story, "The Lottery." (Which by now you surely believe I'm obsessed with.) And after being haunted by that tale since sixth grade, I now wonder if the protagonist--that poor woman who got stoned to death by her neighbors--was actually her, the author, Shirley Jackson. Because sometimes you feel like everything and everyone is coming after you, even when you're just trying to get your kids dressed and breakfast on the table and your daughter to school and your son to piano lessons and yourself to work and your deadlines met and your coffee cup to not leak all over the inside of your car. Maybe she wasn't making a sweeping social statement, but instead just conveying the experience of an extremely overwhelmed and harried mother. Maybe she's just telling the story of a woman who can't get any peace and quiet.

"WOW, WHAT AN AWESOME KICK! DID YOU SEE THAT KICK? GREAT KICK! NOW GIRLS, QUIT YOUR CLUMPING! THEY'RE NOT SEEING HOW THEY'RE CLUMPING."

It got to 87 degrees on Sunday. (Back to 30 degrees on Monday.) And so Amanda and I stopped for ice cream on the way home from Waukee. I forgot the score.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog and I would like to especially thank my friend Marty for making my day by asking for The Snake Charmer's Wife. And while I'm on tributes, I'll offer one up for my husband too, who listens to me drone on and on about this and that frustration. I'm starting to think that God is just plain and simple gratitude.

With love, T

A Giant Man. Remembering The Rev. Robert Nervig.

2011-03-06T13:33:00.000-08:00

l to r: Pastors Robert Nervig, Bob,
Rachel Thorson Mithelman, Harry Mueller at Bob's ordination, 2007

"I had a dream about you."

That's what Pastor Robert Nervig said about 25 years ago to Bob (my Bob), who was then a happy bachelor making a good living fitting and fabricating prosthetic limbs and orthopedic braces. Enjoying a peaceful life in Brooklyn, where he was raised.

"I had a dream that you would be the youth director here at church." The church, Trinity Lutheran, was situated on 45th Street in the Sunset Park neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. A community positively teeming with thousands of residents, and hundreds of kids with not much to do and no space to do it.

"Why would I give up a good job to be your youth director?" asked my Bob, who rather liked his quiet, bachelor life, and lucrative paycheck.

"Because I think you'd be good at it," said Pastor Bob Nervig with a gleam in his eye. "And just think of the possibilities. . ."

And many of you know the rest of the story. Pastor Bob and my Bob still keep (kept) in touch with the rascally kids who joined their youth group in that era, who are now lovely adults serving in their own ways as teachers, social workers, doctors, and entrepreneurs. Recently, at age 55, my Bob became an ordained minister and is joyfully serving his first call at St. John's Lutheran in Des Moines, whose people love him back one hundred fold. In some ways it seems so far away from 45th Street Brooklyn. And in other ways, it is a completely natural path for my Bob; yet one that he could not have imagined for himself if for not the dream of a mentor.

Who needs a good salary when you got this?
Seriously, here's the youth group, all grown up,
with Pastor Robert Nervig (making rabbit ears)
at Bob's ordination in 2007.
Photo courtesy of Emily and Janeen, front row left and middle.

Pastor Bob Nervig imagined possibilities with not only my Bob, but so many other people. You can read the numerous tributes with your own eyes on his Caring Bridge site. "You changed my life" is a common theme. And now so many of us don't know quite what to make of the fact that he died today at about noontime. Apparently, peacefully and with many family members around him. Bob was blessed to see him twice in the past two weeks.

I can't even begin to say in this blog post what Pastor Robert Nervig has meant for my dear in-laws, the Speirs Family, indeed who are my in-laws because of the influence of Pastor Robert Nervig who one day, about 18 years ago, suggested that "Robbie" (my Bob's Brooklyn identity) take in a continuing education conference in the Black Hills of South Dakota (where I happen to be working at the time, and the rest of that is history).

It so it is a melancholy day here today. We think about the influence of one giant man on our lives, and in so many others. And we are so deeply grateful.

Is there really a God? Maybe, maybe not, but if you knew Pastor Robert Nervig, you would be certain that there is a God, and that God is generous, now and forever.

With love, T

But Who Will Clean Up the Projectile Vomit?

2011-02-20T20:54:00.000-08:00

"Mom, I barfed."

I was happily sleeping, comfy in bed, middle of the night, when my 11-year-old son came to me with this news.

Admittedly, this is an abrupt change from the Egyptian revolution at the Snake Charmer's Wife. By the way, I thank all of you for your comments and support and prayers for my dear friend Heba and her family. And I thank Heba for the first hand account. I hope we can continue to foster this kind of global understanding at The Snake Charmer's Wife through personal accounts of real people.

Heba, habibi, my dear, if you're there -- thank you. From all of us -- thank you. I'll post your writing whenever you want. Just send it to me. You have a fan base here in the U.S.A. :-)

You may know that Heba and I became friends and Luther Seminary, where our whole families intertwined for several glorious years. I'm thrilled that I've been invited to write a chapter about family housing at Luther Seminary. That's my next project and I'll chat more about that later. But what you saw from Heba here on this blog, is just a sampling of the amazing friendships we made with people from all around the world at student housing.

But back to the barf.

That's Aidan's word. Barf. I prefer vomit or even throwing-up. But if I may be so bold as to offer advise to people who are seeking a partner in life, let me offer this wisdom: seek to partner with someone who will clean up the barf.

"Can you go tell Dad?" is how I responded to my sick son. I am still asleep and I so do not want to get out of bed and into the cold night air of upchucked food. (Our old house has a little heating issue, but that's for another dispatch.)

"Sure," my son said. I rolled over, snuggling into the flannel sheets. He told Bob, who was still up (nocturnal DNA), and who tackled that projectile vomitous carpet with the voracity of an athlete. If you are going to choose a spouse, choose someone who will scrub a 4 X 6 section of beige rug, splayed of brown colored stomache bile, like he really cares. Like he cares so much that he doesn't make you feel guilty for not taking this on. For sleeping through it. For not even mentioning it until two days later when you remember to say:

"By the way, thanks for cleaning up the vomit."

He's so intense about it that he doesn't even say you're welcome. Instead he tells you about all the strategies for getting up the stain, for getting out the smell. Like basketball plays. Or football maneuvers. Or baseball spring training. Projectile puke, surrender!

People, let me tell you, that is the kind of domestic partner you want. If it's too late, I'm so sorry, Maybe you can draw some comfort in the fact that there is one lucky woman in Des Moines, Iowa, who never has to clean up her children's body emissions. Be happy for my joy.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, Terri

Guest Post: Heba's Reflections on the Revolution

2011-02-16T15:21:00.000-08:00

The Snake Charmer's Wife's favorite photo
from the revolution, courtesy of the Atlantic Magazine.
A protestor kissing an anti-protester police.

I asked (begged) Heba to send me her reflections on the revolution and I'm so honored that she did. We would both be mighty grateful if you posted your comments of support. Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

...

"Do you think it's time to leave the country dear?" I asked Magdi anxiously.

"Honey, If I was out of the country, I would come back to be in Egypt during this difficult time" answered Magdi thoughtfully. I couldn't say a word. Magdi, to those who do not know him well, is very Egyptian.

"Take the kids with you tonight so they do their share in protecting the neighborhood and the country." I didn't realize how very Egyptian I am too until we were going through all this.

It is so hard to describe how my feelings were. There is alot in our lives we take for granted, one of them feeling secured. The horror we went through assured to us that our security is not in the government, the police, our properties or wealth because all this can change within a day and night. It is in GOD the only one who can protect us.

We all learnt valuable lessons. This revolution brought out the best in the Egyptian people. We never realized how much we love our country, or how civilized we all can be. The Muslim-Christian relationship was rediscovered again we learnt that there is a better way. We are stronger than what we think and can do better than what the old regime was trying to convince us with.

Before Jan. 25th I used to chat with those youth on Facebook. I realized how aware they were, but no one imagine the scenario of this revolution, not even the youth themselves. Mobarak was always late and his words were always provocative to everyone. On Tuesday Feb. 2nd everyone thought that his promise that neither him nor his son will run for elections again andthat he will reform the regime should be enough and finally we have a little hope, But Wednesday morning was the last straw when the young men and ladies were beaten to death for no obvious reason. Everyone was confused. This took the whole matter to a different detour, and the rest of the event you probably know.

I went to "Tahrir" square on Wednesday the 9th and saw a huge spectrum of people. It was so wonderful to see such diverse people gathered together for one cause, Bread – Dignity and Freedom. Some were cleaning, some were singing, some were looking after protestors needs, some were treating the injured ones, some were throwing jokes, but many were shouting protesting sentences. I joined the last group under the big flag circling the square.

On Friday Feb.11th Mobarak stepped down (most probably the military forced him to do so) celebration filled the whole country streets, songs, dancing, and fireworks. We have never seen Egypt celebrating in such way not even when the national football team wins one of the world cup matches.

This revolution was very healthy because it clears up many things, but this needs another blog my dear friends

We see Egypt now with new eyes. Even the air smells different.

Love to all,

Heba

Hippo Spotting

2011-02-12T11:07:00.000-08:00

I'm so grateful to LivingLutheran.com for posting my story, Hippo Spotting. And I *LOVE* the image that they came up with go with the story. It's perfect. Come on over. . .

Hippo spotting - Blogs - LivingLutheran.com

"The spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words to express."

2011-02-03T18:35:00.000-08:00

Once I heard a pastor preach that if you don't know how to pray it's Ok, because we all have things we're good at and things we're not. I always remember that because I do not consider myself good at praying. To be perfectly honest, I don't believe in it. I just plain don't see how human pleas can advise an almighty God of the universe. Plus, the outcomes seem so random.

And yet I am calling on you to pray.

Don't call on me to make sense, I'm just doing what my friend asked. Heba asked me to ask you to all pray. To enlist your prayer chains. To organize your prayer groups. To make your conversation with God, with Jesus, with the Holy Ghost. To call upon the spirits. To generate the positive energy. To caste out the demons.

In recent weeks, I have been saying the Lord's Prayer a lot. Over and over. The repetition relaxes me. The hope reassures me. And if it does unleash some kind of a supernatural power for good, well that would be a bonus. Maybe I'm just tired and I don't know how else to resolve my daily thinking but to repeat a mantra.

It's actually ironic that I hold such doubts about prayer because I'm basically writing a book about it and the surprising ways I have utilized it. My book, that I attempt to write a half hour a day. (Not lately, though.) We were seriously living on a prayer when Bob was sick (I keep bringing that up lately) and even though it was a true blue miracle he survived, how can I say it was due to prayer given all the people who do not survive tragedy? I can not. But I can say this -- prayer always made me feel better. It made me feel better when I was alone with an evil presence. And it made me feel better when neighbors came and prayed on our behalf.

Will prayer assure a peaceful resolution in Egypt? All I can say is that question is not mine to answer. And it is not my call to ask you to pray. I ask because Heba asks. And Heba believes in prayer with all her heart, mind and soul.

Today I actually panicked and took my recent posts offline. I deleted all my facebook references. I asked my editor to remove my post on LivingLutheran.com. I worried that my words would implicate friends. I envisioned myself as fanning the violence. Only after triple checking with Heba that it's OK, did I put it back online. She said that this blog is "a great support." But it's not because of me--it's because of all of you, dear Charmer Readers.Thank you for coming here. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for promoting peace.

Pray for Egypt.

With love, T

The Spirit Intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words to express. Romans 8:26

The Fantastical and Tonight

2011-02-02T19:36:00.000-08:00

I keep thinking about the Egyptian men and boys doing night patrol to protect their neighborhoods. It's about 4:30 a.m. in Cairo as I write this, and I can't wrap my brain around the idea that two boys, Rafi and Wasim (see pics two posts below), are doing night patrol along with their father and other boys and men.

I think about when 4th-grade Wasim first knocked on our door to invite 2nd-grade Amanda to ride bikes together. He was so polite and smiley and elementary-school-handsome, it made us instant believers in the merits of an arranged marriage. It was the first time we let Amanda outside without parental supervision because there is a quality about Wasim that makes you trust him. They rode bikes a lot that summer, the first taste of independence and freedom. The two rode around the perimeter of family housing: through the playground, across the parking lot, up the hill, behind the building, and then circling the same route again. It was almost like their legs peddled in sinc. When I think of the two bike riding together, it plays slow motion in my mind, with a sappy happy soundtrack. It's how you imagine the perfect kind of childhood.

I think about Rafi and Aidan potty training together. Not that it was purposefully together, but we just spent a lot of time together and it happened to be that time of life for both boys. We used words like poo poo, pee pee, poopie or some other brilliant parenting phrase. Rafi's word was kaka. So we also heard that word and in fact, Aidan used all these words interchangebly. But it gets better. Our next door neighbors were from Tanzania and so Swahili was spoken in that household, where Aidan also spent alot of time. Apparently, the Swahili word for brother is--you guessed it--kaka. Aidan thought this was fantastical! How could one word be so naughty yet so nice? And perfectly acceptible to say in front of adults. So Aidan got to work with his bilingual skills, trying out linguistical tricks with his friends such as, "Where is your kaka? Do you have a kaka? Can I see your kaka?" and you get the idea. He considerred himself clever, and to be honest so did I. Still, we instructed him that he could only use words in a way that made sense to the family he was with. "Oh," he said.

If you know me, you know I don't understand how prayer works, why it seems to work sometimes and not other times. I can't help but to ask why would an all powerful God needs human advise to do the right thing. Yet I lean on prayer when I don't know what else to do. Heba and Magdi are full believers in the power of prayer. When Bob's liver failed, they were already back in Cairo, and they told me later that when they heard the news they instantly got down on their knees and prayed for healing.

Tonight, I don't know what else to do. But I do know that I don't like the idea of Wasim and Rafi doing night patrol. I don't like the idea of what could happen tomorrow, given the violence today. And so I pray that Mubarrek would accept a dignified and speedy departure from his position. That this country can start to rebuild. That the forces of goodness will prevail in the short run, the long term, tonight, tomorrow and forever.

And I give thanks for all of you who join me in this call for peace.

With love, T

Heba and Magdi ask. . .

2011-02-02T07:28:00.000-08:00

Just heard from Heba and Magdi. . .

First I wanted to thank everyone who has asked about them because today when I got a suprise phone call (evidently the internet is back on in Egypt) it was wonderful to tell them that "everyone is worried, everyone is praying, everyone is asking about you."

Our connection was not clear at all, but I wanted to convey what I heard from Heba:

They are OK.

The seminary is OK.

They are very worried with how this situation will resolve.

The kids are scared and they're trying to avoid watching too much news.

They are holed up in their apartment and running out of supplies.

Yet they have received deliveries of food and blankets. Heba says she has no idea who is providing these supplies and how they are making deliveries. (>>Please see Heba's clarification in the comments section.)

Magdi and the boys join the men on night patrol to protect the building.

Evidently, Mubarrek is telling people that they must go back to work tomorrow. (I believe Heba is an English teacher and also a host to visitors from outside the country.) She's worried because her commute is through the square and things have turned violent. (Mubarrek has called out his thugs--my words, not hers.) She's trying to decide what to do. Mubarrek says that people who don't report to work will be docked pay.

Heba asks this: She asks if we would all pray. If we could arrange prayer groups and prayer chains. I told her that I would convey this message.

Thanks so much to all. If you'd like to leave a message here that shows your support, I know it would be greatly appreciated.

Peace . Love . Joy . Blessings . Change . Do the right thing . Be kind . Help one another.

Love, T

Heba, Habibi

2011-02-01T13:49:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago I got lectured on my facebook wall by my friend, Heba. It was after the church bombing in Alexandria, Egypt, and "you usually call to check on me in such times and you did not call!"

She was right. I didn't call. And I almost started facebooking back all my excuses, I'm very busy, I'm really stressed, I'm so sorry. Lame. All I wrote was, I'll call you.

Heba is Egyptian. Raised in Sudan as the daughter of Christian missionaries, she now lives in Cairo as the wife of an Old Testament scholar. But Heba is a force all unto herself and I must be careful in the stories I tell lest the revolution be over and she gets back on the internet and reads my words. :-)

Heba was the family housing administrator at Luther Seminary and ran that place like she lived there forever. Heba's kids and my kids are the same age so we potty-trained together, we picnicked together, we vacationed together, we cried together and mostly, we laughed together. (photo left: lifted from facebook, taken while in seminary--adorable!)

When they departed Minneapolis, we drove them to the airport and madly helped repack their bags at the baggage check in desk thanks to newly changed poundage limits. Actually, my job was to run after Rafi and Aidan who were playing tag in the terminal. The airline gatekeeper gave Heba and her family the third degree for "having one-way tickets to Egypt." (Um, its called going home.) Bob implored the airline worker that he didn't understand, he was talking to a Doctor of Philosophy and his family. Leave them alone.

Heba has a phone number that connects overseas like a local phone number. And so I was determined to keep my promise to call her, lest I get publicly whip lashed on facebook again. Keep in mind this was all before the popular uprising started last week. Keep in mind that she commented right here on this blog just one day before everything broke loose.

So, a week before the revolution, Heba and I played phone tag and when she finally got through to me I was driving through a snow storm and couldn't pick up. "Call me again same time tomorrow," I facebooked her. And then Mubarrek had to go and shut down the internet so I have no idea how she and the family are doing. It's kind of nerve wracking.

But today I got a sign. The news coverage said today that people of all sectors are showing up to the protests. Teachers, professors, "they're bringing their children," said the coverage, "They're bringing food."

That's it, they're OK, because that's what Heba would do. She would bring food. She always served food. When we went places we would squish into our minivan, which was one seat short of our two families. This made me crazy as I am a firm believer in one-person, one-seatbelt. No, we gallivanted around the Twin Cities, Cairo-style. I saw bloody accident scenes in my mind's eye. I saw red lights of law enforcement in my mind's rear view mirror. I saw lawsuit papers in my mind's mailbox.

And what did Heba see? Food. She pulled out a tray of Middle Eastern delights and passed it around the van--front seat, middle seat, back seat, another round. I kid you not.

I sat stiff with the assurance that we would crash and die. Everyone else just sat and ate.

"Got any baklava?" Bob asked Heba, as he scarfed down the hummus, pita, feta, cucumbers and what have you, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Oh Bob, I sure do!" and Heba pulled out a party plate of sticky, sweet, flaky treats.

I offer just this one story of Heba's hospitality.

Apparently, according to the news coverage, people are bringing food to the revolution.

I pray everyone is OK. I pray they are safe. I pray for Egypt, for democracy, for peace, for the people who watch over each other. I pray for change.

Heba, Habibi, if you read this, please call.

With love, T

Slicing of the Throat

2011-01-30T21:18:00.000-08:00

The fact that I am posting this picture is proof positive that I have no pride. It is also proof that my babies are growing up because I was informed that I do not have permission to post this full picture which includes my son, who I had to crop out. He was in bedtime story position, a wonderful memory of mother-son posture.

Gone are the days when I can freely blog about my children and they plain don't care.

The mommy blog evolves.

This remarkably awful photo of myself breaks the first rule of blogging: only post self-portraits you consider reasonably attractive. Yet I am posting this because it shows my neck scar of May 2007 and I think it's awesome. It actually looked a lot ruddier and raw right after surgery. Instead of staples or stitches, they used glue to close it up, which gave it a gooey, oozy look. Now I'm kicking myself for not photographing for that extra coolness factor.

I like to say that I got my throat slit, and while it's true, Bob says I shouldn't say it like that. He is probably right. It sounds ungrateful. And actually, I am very grateful. But I still got my neck slashed. When it was all over, I felt so relieved for so many reasons. It happened right after Bob's liver failed and regenerated. That's probably why I was relieved. We all wondered if it was my body's way of recovering from Bob's fickle liver.

When I had my follow up appointment with my surgeon, who I fell in love with, which my friend, who is a professional therapist said happens, I asked him if it was possible that he removed a ball of tension when he removed my thyroid. I was serious, but he laughed. He said if he could do that he'd have a long line at his surgical table. A few months after my surgery, Bob would go to his heart surgery rehab and see my surgeon in the hospital lobby. Bob was tempted to ask my surgeon if he'd be willing to say hello to me, just so I could get over the silly crush. I still think it is amazing how surgeons can cut people up and then go out for lunch.

These days I wonder how I might like to be a yoga instructor, but I don't think I could talk for an hour straight, as yoga instructors must. It may be hard to believe, but my vocal capacity diminished with this surgery. Glory hallelujah to the world, as I now realize, in retrospect, that I talked far too much in my previous life. Now I write too much and I wish I could write more.

Today I still wonder about the mind body connection. I wonder how I could have healed the cancer naturally. I wonder about my dependence on a daily thyroid replacement pill and what would happen if I could no longer get my monthly supply. One time, I had to go without it for four weeks to prep for my radioactive treatment -- another thing that sounds cool to me, reporting to the nuclear medicine department. (Sick, I know.) By week three my thinking was all haywire. But can you die from haywire thinking? Or do you become disabled? What happens with no thyroid? I should probably look that up someday in my spare time.

"Maybe I shouldn't have had that surgery," I say to Bob, sometimes. Now you see the value of less talking from me. He insists it was the right thing to do, even though the cancer was slow moving and a generation ago we did not have the technology to detect such a cancer. Medical ethics.

"But what if I can't get my pill? What if the Chinese invade? What if there's a nuclear holocaust? What if Walgreen's goes out of business?" I ask Bob. Now you know how he hones his excellent counseling skills and why I am banning Cormac McCarthy books from this household. Until the next time I teach composition.

I think the reason I felt so relieved after my throat was slit, was because of all the love and support that continued to shower upon us. I love this picture of me and my Mom and all the cards and gifts that came. I wore a scarf for about a month after surgery, even in the summer, even during my yoga classes, because I didn't want people to be creeped out by my Dracula looking neck, which I now love. This was also a time when Bob started the interview process with St. John's and so it seemed kind of like a magical time. Like waiting for a baby to be born. Like you know a new life is coming soon.

I'm not one to say that bad things happen for a good reason. I never say that and I will never believe it. I'm not saying anything except thank you.

With love, T

Standing in the Need of Purity

2011-01-18T16:42:00.000-08:00

On our best mornings, the kids and I pile in the car and we listen to public radio together as we drive in the dark, through the cold, on to school. Of course the kids would prefer if I let them listen to their own radio station but I explain to them that in that early hour when I'm still half asleep, I need a soothing voice to tell me about the war and strife that happened the night before.

Sometimes I give in and I let my kiddos pick the station. For example today, when I was driving Aidan home.

Pure Pleasure is a great way for you and your girlfriends to get together for a night of fun!

This is what I get. You can imagine about as much as I can, exactly what kind of tupperware is sold at Pure Pleasure parties.

"Mom, you should have a Pure Pleasure Party," my 11-year-old son suggests, sitting in the passenger seat as I'm dodging 5 o'clock rush hour traffic. He's serious.

"The problem with having a party is that you have to clean the house," I explain. "Who will clean the house?"

"They will," Aidan says, logically.

"Who? My guests? I can't have guests cleaning the house." Although I start thinking this one through as a potential viable option; my networking group might go for this. The traffic is terrible, there must be an accident.

"No, the Pure Pleasure People will," my son explains to me.

I am not worried about the power of pure pleasure--I am worried about the elixir of advertising.

"From now on, there will be no radio stations with advertising," I lay down the law. I get off the next exit and take the streets. "They just want you to buy stuff. They want your money."

You and your girlfriends will love the romantic products from Pure Pleasure!

"Mom, everyone likes advertising," I am informed. It is interesting to me that there is absolutely no curiosity what-so-ever what Pure Pleasure is. Thank God.

The best thing about listening to the morning news on the way to school is that I have a ready made audience--my kids--who are trapped in the car, beholden to my raves and rants in response to the calming effect of the news. Do you know what a martyr is? Let me tell you the qualities of a martyr. Why do people expect President Obama to fix eight years of disaster in two years? I'll tell you why. How does decreasing taxes for the rich help our economy? I'll tell you why it doesn't. Repeal the healthcare law? Repeal YOUR healthcare. How long is a term for a supreme court justice? I'm quizzing you on the separation of powers.

"Take that with you to your current events discussion today," I say to Amanda most every morning, before I drop her off.

"Mom, we don't have current events discussions," she says.

I shake my head in despair.

I guess it's understandable why my son would believe a Pure Pleasure Party might be a good thing for his mother.

With love, T

In the Name of Love

2011-01-17T08:35:00.000-08:00

This comes courtesy Mary Hess, Associate Professor of Educational Leadership at Luther Seminary in St. Paul. I lifted this from her blog, http://www.religioused.org/tensegrities/archives/6123.

Wishing everyone an MLK Day full of gratitude.

With love, T

Just Sayin'

2011-01-16T05:51:00.000-08:00

Martin Luther King had a 50% approval rating among his own constituents when he was killed. Of course his popularity overall was even lower.

Last week in southern Sudan, there was a 80% voter turn out in the referendum for independence.

Last week in the U.S.A, individual purchases of high capacity semi-automatic ammunition dramatically increased.

The family of the little girl who was randomly killed a the Safeway in Arizona is donating her organs.

The term "blood libel" is a loaded term that in truth, refers to the false accusation that the Jews killed Jesus. (To be clear, the Roman's killed Jesus and still you could say it's not that simple. For example, let us not forget that Jesus *is* Jewish, and the Roman's were military occupiers who killed a lot of people. Theologians say that we all killed Jesus. You know what. . .I say let's not throw around the phrase blood libel--it's far too complicated. Let's just love one another.)

These are just some of the things I heard this past week.

With love, T

Why Can't We Get Along?

2011-01-13T07:43:00.001-08:00

Once again, I give thanks to Living Lutheran for posting some of my thoughts. Please come on over and share yours.

Why can’t we get along? - Blogs - LivingLutheran.com

Passion in 30 Minute Intervals

2011-01-12T20:37:00.000-08:00

In the flood before last, the one in 2008, our first summer in this house, our basement was trashed. Our lovely downstairs with the big guest room, extra play space, Bob's office, a promising bathroom and a glorious miscellaneous closet, all went to mold in a handbasket.

We did not know that we could afford to renovate it back then.

We did know that we could not afford to renovate it nine months later, when I was laid off,.

I did not know, the entire year I was unemployed, how to write a book.

I do know now--now that I'm working, volunteering, going to school and playing the roles of supermom and wonderwife--now I know how to write a book.

Could someone please explain to me how timing works?

This is how I understand my life's clock: 30 minute intervals. How to write a book when you can't write a book is to write for a half hour a day, which averages out to about 3.5 hours a week. If at all possible. You have to make it possible because it's all inside your head busting to get out. I wish I could say I invented the half-hour-a-day method of writing a book but I give all the credit to my first writing mentor, Terry Wolverton.

And that's how you renovate your basement when you are working, volunteering and playing the roles of superdad and holyhusand. You take a half hour each night and hack away at the mold with bleach, paint, and fresh insulation. I wish I take credit for the half-hour-a-day method of home renovation, but I give it all to my husband, Bob, who is working away downstairs even as I write this blog, and not my book.

I've decided that my book is like Bob's basement. It will get written. And it will get renovated.

And everyday I will remember for what I'm thankful and I will make my kids roll their eyes when I ask them who they will thank today. "Thank for what?" they ask. But I don't play madmother because there are plenty of times when I ask the same dumb question. I remind them about gratitude so I will remind myself.

And tonight I will close--because I will regret this 6:30 tomorrow morning--with words from the fabulous Burt Bachrach, as performed by B. J. Thomas: ". . .cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining, because I'm free."

With love, T

Praying for Rep. Giffords. Calling for Civility.

2011-01-08T20:34:00.000-08:00

I don't know what else to say.

With love, T

On The Road With Mom and Dad

2011-01-03T20:33:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone, I just wanted to let you know that my parents have embarked on their 4th annual escape winter to the Arizona wonderland pilgrimage. My Mom writes a wonderful blog and if you want to know what it's like when professional truck drivers transform into personal car riders, follow along: http://www.ontheroadwithmeldiane.blogspot.com/

Wishing my parents an awesome three months!

With love, T

Cute Asian Man with Magic Bank Cylinder

2010-12-30T17:17:00.000-08:00

I wish I would have showed that man push how the green button for himself.

It just occurred to me how fun it would have been if I let the man at the drive up teller station at the bank push the green button for himself. The button that the swooshes the plastic cylinder up and over the automobile drive-through and into the the bank building.

Let me back up. My last duty before this New Year's three day weekend--yay three day weekend--is to bring the deposit to the bank for my work. Because for a non-profit this is the busiest donation week of the whole year--yay donations. Anyway, so I am sitting in my car at the commercial drive through lane and since the deposit is large--yay donations--I turn my car off and sit to listen to the radio while I wait for the deposit receipt. It takes about ten minutes to count all the checks and cash.

I sense a presence beside me. There is a man outside my door and I'm kind of creeped out. A human being is standing between my car and the bank. Not only does this person not have a car, but he obviously does not know drive-through bank etiquette.

The bank teller is trying to talk to him through the speaker. "Go to the next lane," she says. She's using big gestures to point to the next lane through the big bank teller picture window. The man goes to the next lane, but he does not understand the magic cylinder transaction tunnel. I finally see his face for myself and he's not scary at all.

He is adorable!

He is a tiny Asian man who does not have a lick of English but does have a smile as big as the ocean that he crossed to get here. No doubt because of some war that I've lost track of and hopefully didn't pay for. He is staring with much confusion at the magic bank cylinder machine. Oh, I want to help him but my car is too close to the building so I can not open my door to get out. Would it be weird if I climbed out the passenger side? He returns back in between my car and the building, utterly perplexed. The bank teller continues to point and speaks garble to him over the speaker. I also try my hand at pointing to the next lane. No use--it makes no sense to the man.

"I'm really sorry," the bank teller says to me.

So am I.

The tiny man continues to smile as wide as the ocean, completely confused with the nuances of the outdoor teller tunnel. He is so darn cute, and I feel so dang bad for whatever happened to him that caused him to have to leave his homeland and be here. Now. This very moment. I am so sorry for what happened to you, is what I want to say to him in his language that I don't know.

My transaction is complete--yay donations. I pull my car forward and park off to the side. I get out and wave to the cute Asian refugee man with a smile as big as the ocean. I beckon him to join me in the next lane. I show him the plastic cylinder container. I put his white enveloped bank transaction into the container. And I push the green button and SWOOSH! it jets up and over the lane.

"Ohhhhhh!" He exclaimes! We make eye contact in jubilation. He motions something to me but I absolutely do not know what he is trying to say. I wave to the bank tellers in the picture window and then drive off.

And now, sitting in my house, savoring the first hours of a glorious three day weekend, I think back to this moment that took place just a couple of hours ago. And I consider how awesome it would have been if I hadn't been so hasty to help and instead would have just pointed to the green button and let him push it himself.

Thank you for coming over to the Charmer blog.

With love, T

Home

2010-12-28T19:22:00.000-08:00

So my family is all bummed out because I told them I would make chicken pot pies for dinner tonight, but when I got home from work I noticed that one of my books had arrived in the mail.

Sastun, My Apprenticeship with a Maya Healer by Rosita Arvigo.

Needless to say, dinner didn't happen.

"Wouldn't you rather have leftovers?" I say when asked about the pot pies.

"How about a peanut butter sandwich?" I suggest.

"An apple? An egg? Cold cereal?"

No, don't be silly, I did not suggest those terrible dinner ideas. I did not suggest anything. I simple sat in my red velveteenesque chair and read about traditional healing and medicinal plants in Central America. For example, here's from the book: "Fewer than one-half of 1 percent of the planet's 250,000 species of higher plants have been exhaustively analyzed for their chemical composition and medicinal properties. From that one-half of 1 percent, some 25 percent of all our prescription pharmaceuticals have been discovered" (xvi).

And then I made my kids grilled cheese sandwiches. Bob actually made a huge pot-o-chili last night, so I'm serious when I suggest leftovers.

"Basil: Albahacar: Ca Cal Tun: Ocimum basilieum: A wild and cultivated spice also prized for its use to ward off evil spirits and break spells" (185).

Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. Thanks to my mentor for suggesting this book. Thanks to a year which comes to us soon, ready or not.

With love, T

Rejected by Santa Claus - Blogs - LivingLutheran.com

2010-12-24T05:57:00.000-08:00

Another Santa blog by yours truly, with thanks to Living Lutheran for posting:
Rejected by Santa Claus - Blogs - LivingLutheran.com

Happy Christmas Eve!

My Son the Santa

2010-12-22T20:08:00.000-08:00

My 11-year-old son has decided to take on the role of Santa Clause this year.

"Where's a good hiding place?" he asked me today.

"That depends on who we're hiding from," I responded. And then I got all mommy schnarky. "For example if we were hiding something from you we would put it next to your toothbrush."

"Mo-om," with the rolling of the eyes.

"So tell me more," I said. "What do you want to hide?"

And then he told me about his plan, on the night before Christmas, to hide the dozen or so wrapped gifts presently under the tree. So he could then get up in the middle of the night to put them back under the tree, eat the cookies out for Santa, drink Santa's milk, and take in a little television before tip-toeing back to bed for a long winter's nap. I suggested the front closet as a viable hiding place.

My son wants to be Santa Clause because his parents have miserably failed. The only reason there are a dozen or so gifts under the tree right now is because he pleaded for them.

"Mom, can we please have some presents under the tree this year?" he asked over and over, starting at about Thanksgiving time. My usual MO is to take the kids to Target, give them a $50 spending limit, hide the stuff they pick out, and then put them under the tree for Christmas morning. (Or more like Christmas afternoon in a pastor's house.)

Suprise! I'm terrible at surprises. Anyway, so this year I've tried to honor my son's wish for "presents under the tree." And now he wants to hide them.

Well, someone's gotta be Santa around here and it may as well be the sixth-grader of the house.

As for the mother of Santa, she has her own quirky take on Christmas coming out this Friday, otherwise known as Christmas Eve, on the livinglutheran.com site. Don't worry, you'll be reminded. :-) For the die hards, come to St. John's Lutheran Church on Sunday morning and hear for yourself the Christmas sermon from the pastor of the house. And if you're only interested in pure sheer oozing beauty, come to St. John's on Christmas Eve. You can't even decide which service -- the adorable kids service with a real baby, the stunning candle light service, or the late night full choir and orchestra service. Pity the children whose mother wants to attend all three.

Are we a bunch of nerds or what?

I give thanks for you. And I give thanks for my awesome kids for all the ways they make up for my many parental deficincies. Love you, babies! xoxox

With love, T

My New Mentor

2010-12-14T21:17:00.000-08:00

Meet my new writing mentor, Hope Edelman.

I'm thrilled! And equally terrified. First packet due January 15.

And I'm not piling up my book annotations this time. :-) Ten more titles, here I come.

My book list so far:

The Situation and Story by Vivian Gornack

Speak, Memory by Vladmir Nabakov

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (this is the discussion I'm leading--yay)

The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston

And six more titles to be determined by Friday.

Residency is totally delivering. I wish all my Antioch classmates a terrific next stage. I offer deepest thanks to my generous hosts in beautiful Culver City, Marty and Elaine. And I'm homesick, as usual. I miss my babies, my Bob and my freezing cold house in Iowa. Four more days to midnight in Des Moines.

And I'm thanking Hope Edelman in advance.

Time to write my residency report.

With love, T

Learning and Teaching as One

2010-12-10T19:35:00.000-08:00

Gratitude. Last night was my last class of teaching community college composition and since I am in L.A. a substitute teacher handled the class for me. So today in between my M.F.A. seminars, I've been stopping in the computer lab to read the final assignments that my students emailed to me last night.

How incredible is incredible?

Yes, imagine. In between my own learning about writing, I am reading what my students learned about writing. I am learning how to be a student and a teacher, which I've always believed are one in the same. Or should be. And I really didn't expect my students to be so nice in the way they expressed what they learned. Or so detailed, or honest, or earnest, or surprising, or beautiful.

If you're my student and you happen across this blog posting: thank you.

Day one of residency three has been awesome. One of my classmates even expressed his gratitude for his student loan "for making this all possible" and to be honest, I had never thought of a student loan in that way. I mostly think of my student loan more along the lines of "what a stupid thing I have done." And yet it's true, I'm so grateful to participate in this program of thinking, feeling, communicating, and storytelling.

In less than one year into this M.F.A. program, it has opened up the door of teaching to me.

Ode to my hosts. Originally I thought I'd be handing over my credit card to a hotel to finance my lodging during the five required residencies of this program. But no. Two Santa's to the rescue. Literally. I am met at LAX airport with two people in red furry hats--Bob's cousin Elaine and her husband Marty--who put me up in the best bed and breakfast ever. Three miles from my school. No kidding. And just in case you don't believe, Rudolph with a glowing red nose awaits in the front yard, so when I get lost driving in a dark neighborhood at the end of the day, I look for the red nose.

Gratitude.

And I have not yet mentioned my husband and kids who make this all possible.

I'm starting to gush.

Gotta go.

Thanks for coming over.

Tomorrow = Tobias Wolff. Tonight = sleep. Glorious, glorious sleep.

With love, T

What Not to Pack

2010-12-09T08:04:00.000-08:00

One of the many great things about living here is that instead of standing in long airport lines you can do other things. So, for example, even though my flight boards in approximately 90 minutes, I am blogging and my taxi driver is taking in a dental appointment. The Des Moines International Airport may be small, but it's awesome. And now I've just cursed my departure.

Airlines? That's a whole other story. Of course my airline will not give me a meal nor honor my frequent flyer account. And worse, they want to charge me $56 to check one bag. How many better ways to spend $56? I am far FAR too cheap to give this cheesy airline company $56 and so I re-strategized my packing to carry on. Blue jeans, check. Black t-shirt, check. Black sweater, check. Couple sets of unmentionables, check. Hair straightener, check. Huge bag-o-make-up, check. Everything else, nope. I won't be winning any best-dressed student awards at my MFA residency.

One of the many great things about my MFA residency is that nobody cares about how I will be dressing. Least of all me.

One of the many great things about my husband is that he's managing everything all by himself while I'm away. We have discovered the secret about teenagers: they need a ride to everywhere, everyday. It's lots-o-logistics and during this high holy season when a pastor is at his most busy time--he's doing all the piano lessons, cheerleading, 4-H, cats, friends, shopping, cooking, school, homework, etc, etc, etc--as his wife dresses badly while doing her favorite things for 10 solid days in sunny California: reading, writing and running.

Thanks to all our friends in Des Moines who have offered to give Bob a hand.

Gotta go. Time for an airport line.

With love, T

And I Want You For All Time

2010-11-26T17:07:00.000-08:00

The problem with listening to Jimmy Web is that you end up playing Wichita Lineman over and over. And over again. You don't even listen to the other tracks such as By the Time I Get to Phoenix or Galveston.

You think how you could probably get the Glen Campbell versions of all these songs, Glen being the singer who made the songerwriter Jimmy famous. But you know that even with Glen Campbell you would still end up playing Wichita Lineman over and over again. And you don't care about Glen Campbell's scuffles with the law and his humiliating mug shots -- for heaven's sake, are we not all human? Even those of us who have recorded and performed Wichita Lineman?

The reason you put in Jimmy Web is because your kids are sick and tired of Burt Bachrach and all the accompanying lessons. Such as:

"Marilyn McCoo, now singing One Less Bell to Answer, was a singer with the group The Fifth Dimension who made famous Would you like to ride in my beautiful, my beautiful balloon?" you sing the last part to your kids as they are forced to chop vegetables for the turkey pot pie in progress. Your kids roll their eyes in disgust so you don't push it further to educate them on the genious of Aquarious.

"This saxaphone part is amazing," you further teach, as the interlude of Dusty Springfield's The Look of Love plays. Whatever. Justin Beiber might be the subject of a near future Glee episode, you are informed.

What is a Burt Bachrach? Your daughter asks. You thought she'd never ask.

"So, Burt Bachrach is a songwriter who got a bunch of different singers to pefrorm his songs," you explain to your kids because they should know this. "But even with all those different singers, his sound and style remained distinctive."

There is a distinctive aroma in the kitchen and it's not chicken broth. Someone did a "bieber." And it's not you. You are not a Justin Beiber fan but even you don't think it's fair that an undesireable bodily function should be named for an unsuspecting human being. Your children think its hilarious.

Your children laugh as they continue with the required veggie chopping, fighting over the biggest and sharpest knife. You tell your husband you need more big, sharp kitchen knives.

You tell your kids to keep cutting carrots and melting butter and measuring flour and powering up the team effort. Together you have come up with the most amazing turkey pot pie concoction you can imagine. You bake half of it, you freeze the rest (photo).

Burt Bachrach takes a rest and you get out the Jimmy Web CD. Oh my goodness, could someone please call Dr. Sigmund Freud to figure out why Wichita Lineman is so mesmerizing, so sad, so lonely, so get-me-the-anti-depressents and you play it over and over again.

"Mom, I can't stand this song," your daughter says, exasperated as she tweets her Bieber twitters, while Wichita Lineman repeats the sixth or seventh time."Enough!"

Just one more time, you say. It's thanksgiving. You can only listen to it once a year.

I am the lineman for the county. . . and I drive the main road. . . searching in the sun for another overload. . . and I need you more than want you. . .

Thanksgiving in the Sun

2010-11-26T11:36:00.000-08:00

I wanted to eat when it got dark so we could light all the candles and lamps and really be moody. But the kids were so excited (and hungry) that we served up a few hours early in the afternoon sun.

Basting a turkey in apples and onions has been on my to-do list since last June when I read my classmate's essay while on an airplane. She is a food writer and had written in detail all the different ways she's experimented with thanksgiving turkey. Meanwhile, I was exhaling recycled air and inhaling a cruddy bag-o-pretzels. I don't have a lot of principles, but I stick by my vow to not pay an airline for a stale sandwich. I'd rather starve. And I was starving while smashed in an air carrier, and reading pages and pages of all the ways to ensure juicy meat.

Hungry.

So yesterday, I basted our turkey in the juice of apples and onions. And of course garlic. Confession. The turkey was pre-cooked and pre-seasoned from Trader Joes. And yet I still basted it in apples, onions and garlic. I just wanted to. And it delivered! It was so delicious. We even served it up whole, well actually half because our pre-cooked, pre-seasoned turkey was also pre-cut in half. Perfect size. Still, we got the full thanksgiving joy of Bob carving the turkey at the table with all of us watching, just like Chevy Chase did on Christmas vacation.

Aidan set the table with great care and I didn't mind about the mismatched place settings. To him it was very fancy. Amanda brought home the bread, as she works at a local bread bakery and one of the perks is that she brings home a lot of rolls, buns, and loafs. Dangerous. I made the kids apple swirl french toast this morning. Yesterday it was cinnamon swirl french toast. I save the savory breads--cheddar garlic, pesto parmesan, and such--for me.

I can't even remember the last time we all sat together to eat. The last time we cooked a meal. The last time we cleaned the kitchen. Everything is so busy. Lot's going on at my job, Bob's call, kids activities, our life. It's all good, and yet I am so thankful that we could stop for one day and roast a pre-cooked turkey together. Bob preached earlier in the day and regrettably, I missed church with all it's choirs, friendships and refinery at it's best. I wish I could live two lives at once. Or nine.

Time to grade 14 papers on The Road and make pot-pies and put up the tree and run a mile and watch more Glee episodes and do laundry and sort papers and tidy shelves and tie up lose ends and toss out everlasting regrets. I love you, four-day weekend.

Wishing all of you a lovely holiday. Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer blog.

With love, T

Annotation #9. This one is personal.

2010-11-21T10:49:00.000-08:00

By Sherwin B. Nuland

The Wisdom of the Body

Published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, 1997

There is something exotic about a surgeon, a mere mortal who can slice into other mortals for the purpose of healing. One who can saw into the flesh and bones of human beings in order to cure them. A surgeon’s work is paradoxical, harming a body to heal it. A surgeon is like a spiritual leader for our physicality. A medicine man. A miracle worker. A witch doctor. Yet,in western medicine, doctors are often relegated to the pure scientific aspects of their work. The stats, the numbers, the labs, the black and white of medical practice. And western medicine often relegates healing to a reactive role, instead of a preventative role.

In his book The Wisdom of the Body, author Sherwin B. Nuland writes about the gray areas of his life’s work as a surgeon. He writes about the significance of the spirit of the patient in healing. He writes about the ambiguities of a doctor’s role in healing. Not your ordinary book about the body, health and medicine, Nuland gorgeously blends scientific language with philosophical prose. He writes where soul meets body. Take a look at a few of his chapter headings: The Will to Live; Sympathy and the Nervous System; Biology, Destiny, and Free Will; The Blood is the Life.

“One of the refreshing aspects of the book is the ability of the author to express his empathy for his patients as well as his respect for all members of the heath care team,” writes Audrey Shafer, in the Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database, October 30, 1997. In her review, Shafter goes on to write, “Hence the roles of all hospital care givers are described with respect--nurses, technicians, midwives, transplant coordinators, as well as other physicians, such as intensivists, pathologists, obstetricians, and anesthesiologists.”

But this book is not just all touchy-feely, strength of the human spirit kind of stuff. It treats the reader to meticulous lessons about how the body works, in language that is not full of insider jargon. Chapter 11, for example, entitled A Voyage Through the Gut, gives the reader a general overview of how the digestive system works. Based on personal experience with a failing liver, this annotation writer is especially interested in the role of bile in the digestive process. Here’s how Nuland describes it, “The total effect is to regulate digestion by providing precisely the proper amount of flow of note only the substances already mentioned but of bile and pancreatic juice, as well. Bile, for example, is manufactured by the liver but concentrated and stored in the gallbladder. The gallbladder is nothing more than a cul-de-sac off the tube carrying bile from liver to duodenum, the common bile duct” (290)

This reader is left curious, wondering how Nuland would describe a failing liver that produces poison bile. A failing liver that starts to shut down every other vital organ. A failing liver that takes its host body to the brink of death. A failing liver that turns around and heals itself on its own time and for its own reasons. A failing liver that changes into a perfectly healthy liver, transforming a virtual corpse into a perfectly healthy man. A liver that didn't need a surgeon to heal. How can a writer who is not a doctor describe such a liver?~

photo: failing liver, healthy liver

Annotation #8. A fun one about a book written by my current mentor.

2010-11-21T08:39:00.001-08:00

Annotation #8. A fun one about a book written by my current mentor at Antioch.

By Sharman Apt Russell

Anatomy of A Rose, Exploring the Secret Life of Flowers

Published by Perseus Publishing, 2001

Anatomy of A Rose by Sharman Apt Russell is a lovely little nature book that beckons the reader to come inside with a stunning image of a saffron colored rose on the cover. Inside the book is packed with scientific information about the lifecycle of flowers. If the first chapter title in the table of contents, The Physics of Beauty, doesn’t grab a reader’s imagination, certainly the fifth chapter title—Sex, Sex, Sex—will. A reader may choose to simply start with the chapter five. The book is part textbook, part memoir, part tell all, and fully satisfying in revealing aspects of a flower that previous to this book, were indeed secrets.

The prose is written in first person present, yet it occasionally moving into second person with ease, lending a more intimate feel to the flowers. For example, in chapter five (of course) the author explores the sexuality of flowers and the reader learns that 80% of flowers are hermaphrodites, both male and female. And so they could easily pollinate and fertilize themselves. “Most don’t,” the writer says which begs the question: “Why have sex at all?” (50) After detailing theories of sexual preferences, the writer turns the reader into the flower with the use of second person: “These are only theories. But you’re convinced. You decide to be sexual. And you decide to cross fertilize” (51).

Who knew that science could be so fun? Perhaps that’s the other secret revealed in this novel. Russell writes science for the non-scientist. She writes in plain speak, yet with reverence for the intricacies of life’s mysteries. This book is the essence of creative nonfiction, writing factual truth in a way that reads like a novel.

And the prose uses schnarky humor in its use of metaphors to explain the science. For example in chapter nine, pollen is described as a traveling man: “Pollen has itchy feet. Pollen has a job to do, going down that long, lonesome highway, bound to leave, bound for glory. You can’t hold him back. Hit the road, Jack. Pollen is a travelin’man” (91). Further developing the traveling man metaphor, here’s how the author describes pollen landing on its destination stigma:

“A sailor reaching land.

A pilot touching ground.

A traveler wearying of traveling.

Cold, lost, the wayfarer knocks at the cottage door. There is a light in the window. There is a smell of home.” (96-97)

The textbook aspect of this book is further fulfilled by 12 detailed illustrations of flowers such as Helianthus, Spectrum, Passionflower and one illustration dedicated to the anatomy of a flower, which indeed, vaguely resembles human sexual organs. The book tops off with a detailed selected bibliography, notes and index for the readers who are interested in using this book for research, and not just purely for the sex.~

Annotation #6. In honor of my composition students.

2010-11-15T19:19:00.000-08:00

Annotation #6 by Terri Mork Speirs

By Cormac McCarthy

The Road

Published by Vintage International, 2006

The Road by Cormac McCarthy is a post-apocalyptic novel about a father and his ten-year-old son navigating a road in the gritty gray of an entire world burned, dead and cold. The road is their guide to safety and also their giveaway to danger. The road is what they follow and what they avoid. Is the road their path to salvation or their highway to hell? The reader doesn’t know and neither do the characters, but they follow it anyway, probably not knowing what else to do. Just like the reader follows the copious white space in the pages of the novel, not exactly knowing what McCarthy wants to convey nor why he insists on not using grammar or quotation marks in the dialogue that follows throughout the entire book. Perhaps in this post-apocolyptic world there is no need for comma’s or even long sentences. Since most objects are things of the past, things that the 10-year-old boy has never experienced firsthand, then perhaps words and language are obsolete. McCormac has written judgment day right into the style of his prose. This is what happens when the world ends: there is nothing to communicate and no reason to have a means to communicate.

And yet the living plod on, like the walking dead. Bumping into scorched human carcasses, desperate human beings, and fearsome human predators. This book is not a happy read, but it makes for terrific material to teach community college composition. It provides for all the elements to teach setting, character, style, theme, point of view and all qualities of creative writing. It even provides a foil for how not to submit an academic paper (aka, lack of punctuation). Students get a vision for how an experienced writer can exude a unique voice; how a writer can get away with breaking the writing rules, even if the students nor the teacher cannot. Yet. Plus, what student wouldn’t want their required reading available as a major motion picture available at any local Red Box. Sarcasm.

Of all the chilling scenes, this one offers a most frightening commentary on the potential for human nature to go awry when there is no rule of law. The father and son hide off the road as a ragtag, madmax army marches by:

All wearing red scarves at their necks. ... Carrying three-foot lengths of pipe with leather wrappings. ... Some of the pipes were threaded through with lengths of chain fitted at their ends with every manner of bludgeon. They clanked past, marching with a swaying gait like wind-up toys. Bearded, their breath smoking through their masks. ... The phalanx following carried spears or lances tasseled with ribbons, the long blades hammered out of trucksprings. ... Behind them came wagons drawn by slaves in harness and piled with goods of war and after that the women, perhaps a dozen in number, some of them pregnant, and lastly a supplementary consort of catamites illclothed against the cold and fitted in dogcollars and yoked each to each. (89-90)

And the truly chilling thing about this passage is that there are plenty of places, here and now on this planet that exist without rule of law. While McCormac writes fiction, the truth shows itself in the current events of places with no functioning government such as Sudan, Somalia, Afghanistan, Iraq, the Congo, rural areas of Colombia, Mexico, American prisons and. . .OK, we shall stop.

But wait, there’s more to the chill factor in this book. A new word for one annotation writer. “Catamite.” It is from the quoted passage and could easily be skipped over if you don’t know its definition. You look up the word and shiver as you realize it points to the most vulnerable population in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, past, present and future. Is this what we create when no one is watching?~

To my dear composition students: Thanks for everything you taught me this semester.

Please See My Posting on Living Lutheran

2010-11-12T08:07:00.000-08:00

Thanks so much!!!

http://www.livinglutheran.com/blog/2010/11/found-in-translation.html

Goo Be Gone

2010-11-08T18:57:00.000-08:00

All I can say is that if you have a teenage daughter who accidently puts an ink pen in the clothes dryer on high heat for 40 minutes, be thankful that your husband has an extra tube of goo-be-gone.

The ink marks all over an entire load of laundry actually look kind of artistic.

"You're in highschool," I say. "You can get away with wearing that."

"No," I am informed. "There will be no ink stained clothes in highschool."

Sheesh, whatever happened to the '60's? Free love and all that. I can't afford respectability.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog.

With love, T

Wishing for Another Time

2010-10-27T20:47:00.000-07:00

I know this is what you've all been waiting for--the slide show of our summer vacation. I had hoped to do the right thing and make a proper scrap book for my kids, but this is probably the best I can do. Anyway, I think I'm just dreaming of time off and thought that somehow, posting this would help. My editor friends at LivingLutheran.com were kind enough to include this on my posting about this week, about an unlikely reunion with a long lost friend. And how oftentimes the church gets it so wrong, and sometimes so very right.

If you watch the slideshow be sure to set it to show the captions, which of course are the best part! So put on your hippie jeans and watch my home-made, shameless promotion of Outlaw Ranch.

Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. xoxox

With love, T

California Show Your Teeth

2010-10-25T20:22:00.000-07:00

I think I told you that the amazing author Tobias Wolff is teaching at my next MFA residency in December. We just got our residency schedule and he's not exactly teaching. He's not presenting anything, but he is doing a two-hour Q & A. Apparently that's what you can do when you are a renowned writer who gets recruited to teach at a writing residency. You just sit there and let people ask you questions. And then you probably just say what you want to say anyway.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all complaining. I will most definitely be a person sitting in that seminar and I feel sorry for whoever else is presenting at the same time. Or maybe I feel happy for them, however you want to look at it.

And if at all possible, I will try to read other stuff by Tobias Wolff before that session in December. California, rest in peace, simultaneous release, California, show your teeth. For now I will recommend "This Boy's Life," which I mentioned earlier this year in this blog. It's an easy read and an example of memoir that he is somehow able to mostly write in his ten-year-old voice. I mostly want to forget how I thought when I was younger than last year, so I admire anyone who can delve into what they were thinking at ten. That's what you call painful honesty.

Gotta go. Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

The Big Dipper on Her Face

2010-10-23T17:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I looked in the mirror and found the big dipper on my right cheek.

"Mom, you're not supposed to have zits," said my 14-year-old daughter. We are both standing in the bathroom together, sharing a hair hot flat iron, and trying to make up for the extra 15 minutes of sleep that we seem to take every morning even though we cannot afford that time gap.

"I know, YOU'RE supposed to have the zits," I say. "And here I wake up with a constellation on my face."

"The big zipper," Amanda laughs, impressed with her word play.

"The big zitter," I continue, but zipper sounds better.

Women on the cusp of the other side of their lives are not supposed to have teenage pimples. Believe me, I have had my share in my time. And it didn't help that I spent most of my tender years in the greasy food industry.

So why this now?

Stress. Could it be that I am in over my head and I'm so not enjoying it? I mean, I'm not working for nothing at a machiladora, and I'm not an indentured sex slave, and I'm not chopping up pigs at a meat packing plant. I have no right to be completely over dramatic about my utter lack-o-leisure time, reading time, or writing time. Family time, cooking time, sleeping time. Yet if you will please just allow me some melodrama -- I have no life. All I do is work. And I don't like it.

Hence, the facial blemishes.

That's my going theory anyway.

Sadly, I've decided that I cannot teach next semester, even if they invite me back. And you should have heard my students discuss "The Road" last Thursday. I mean, I think they're really getting it. We talked about how the cannibalism scene demonstrated the writer's development of setting, character and style. And they got it. They got how a.) the word cannibalism wasn't even used and b.) how setting was illustrated by the food preservation method and c.) which character had correct instincts about the locked basement. Touche' my dear students, touche'.

Next week is my week to lead my MFA group book discussion. Have I read the book? No. Do I own the book? No. Can I buy the book fast? I dunno. So I broke down and ordered through the evil empire Amazon.com and I signed up for a deal to get free 2-day shipping. Can someone please remind me to unsign up for that next week so I don't get charged $79? The book is "The Forever War" by Dexter Filkins. It's about the Iraq war and no, I, the political science nerd, did not intentionally sign up to lead this book. But I'm really looking forward to it. (For the record, I order all my school books through Beaverdale Books, a local independent book seller. I'm a support-your-local-business geek.)

If I can figure out when I can read it. And when I can read the other two books I must read before "The Forever War" comes. And go to my day job and my night meetings. And if I can write the 10, ten, TEN annotations that I still have to write.

OK, this is getting pathetic on and so I'll stop. I believe I may have possibly given you all cause for your own surprise batch of red dots on your own face, if you have even made it this far in this dispatch. I won't blame you if you quit reading after the first mention of pimples. And I won't mind if you, like my daughter, are amused with the state of my complexion.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. I wish you all the very best. Pray for me.

With love, T

Googling Glee. Longing to Blog.

2010-10-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

Gosh, I just deleted ten spam messages from my blog comments. How nice to be so popular. I hope none of you got to read any of them because some of them included rather unpleasant visions. Reminded me of the time I had to search for a diaper image for work--an image that we could properly credit for publication--and in the process of searching for "diaper image" you get to view some images that you would rather not have implanted in your brain.

It's like what Cormac McCarthy says in "The Road": You remember the things you want to forget and you forget the things you want to remember.

Speaking of "The Road," I have no business blogging now because I am still working on my lesson plan for tomorrow night plus I'm being observed by the Assistant Dean of Arts and Sciences. So I should probably figure out what not to wear too, besides jeans and a t-shirt which seems to be my favorite dress up these days.

The upshot is that there is no fun way to teach simile and metaphor. I can't even figure out how to incorporate an episode of Glee. Although, come to think of it, I'm sure the Sue gets lines that compare unlikely objects. Hmmm, maybe I can do Glee again.

Excuse me, I gotta go and google something.

Thanks for coming over to my flailing little Charmer Blog. Somewhere over the rainbow I will get this site back up and running again. (Metaphor)

With love, T

Thinkers and Tinkers

2010-10-08T15:54:00.000-07:00

On this 48th year of my living life, I would like to give thanks to the Living Lutheran website for featuring my dispatch, Lutheran Pastor Doubles as Sugar Daddy. Come on over and see all the good stuff they have posted from many thinkers, and others like me, who tinker with ideas about religion.

Thank you Living Lutheran editors!!! xoxox

With love, T

This Tobias Wolff, Baby

2010-10-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

I'm quoting myself from the January 21 Snake Charmer posting:

Plus, reading the Tobias Wolff book about his sad boyhood makes me want to lift all the rules and just let us all live on love. Here's his ten-year-old voice rendering of his mother's childhood in his book, This Boy's Life:

"My mother had faith in me. She didn't have faith in discipline. Her father, Daddy, had given her plenty and she had yet to see the profit of it" (59).

Of course he's talking abuse, not discipline. The adult has the power to call it whatever the adult wants. I wish I could jump into the book and tell the mother that she doesn't need a husband, she doesn't need a boyfriend, she doesn't need a man to take her paycheck and be mean to her son. She and the boy can live a lovely life together on their own.

End quote.

The book, This Boy's Life, was later made into a movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio, which I have not seen.

. . .with apologies to the MLA format, which blogspot does not support. (The quote should have been indented 10 spaces, which is partly what I am grading students on for next paper. Don't do what I do.)

ANYWAY, my point is -- The Tobias Wolff, this author, of this book, which this writer loved -- is slated to teach at this next Antioch MFA residency in December. Uh, huh. Yessss. Sign me up.

This is why people like me go into debt. Who wouldn't take out a student loan for this?

With love, T

Out of Editing Purgatory

2010-10-02T16:47:00.000-07:00

I would like to thank Living Lutheran for posting my blog posts and not letting me wallow in editing purgatory. That's the great thing about handing off your writing to another blog -- that means you are done with it no matter how long and windy and wordy and wonky it is.

And now I invite you to visit the Living Lutheran website everyday, sign in, and post lots of comments on my blog postings, so they say, "Good heavens, we really must ask that wordy woman to submit more!"

One promise: future Living Lutheran blog postings with be shorter.

With love, T

She Will Rise

2010-09-30T21:27:00.000-07:00

10:16 p.m. Earlier this evening.

The mother is hovering over the can of black beans she just poured over the broth and onions in the pan on the stove. She's making her supper. She's still in her work clothes because she just got home from work, and she works the day shift. Don't feel too sorry for her because she gets to wear jeans to the office, and the classroom. But do feel partially sorry for her because she's had another 16 hour day. Actually, feel really sorry with violin and all.

Her cell phone rings because the mother previously disconnected the household land line due to the recession. Queu the violin.

"Hello?" she answers the phone, stirring the beans.

"Mom, can you tuck me in?" her daughter is calling from upstairs on her own cell phone. In this household, tuck-in's are handled with great seriousness. And the children are both now signed up for cell phone lines due to a bad economy special.

"Yes, I'll be there soon," responds the mother.

"You'll be here by 10:18," demands her daughter, getting all uppity.

"I have food on the fire, I can't come now," the mother explains. There's no way she can do the tuckin in two minutes.

"Let little brother watch the stove," suggests little sister. Um, no, thinks the mother to herself.

"I'm in bed and I need to be tucked in," emphasized her daughter.

The mother gets the beans and broth off to a good start, and then heads upstairs leaving an unattended live stove top. The mother starts the tuck-in. She hears how the patterned tights will not work for homecoming and how they really must get another style of tights by Saturday. The mother finishes the tuckin which is basically a light massage and a prayer.

Speaking of prayer--any of you out there know how to pray? If so, could you say one for the mother and her teaching techniques? Because she's not feeling so good about how her writing prompt went tonight at the communty college; and by the time she realized it was going to the wrong way it was too late. If you pray, could you please pray that maybe her class did some extra thinking that they had never done before? That no one was hurt. That she does better next week. That everyone's OK. That maybe, possibly, a light was shed on human decency. She really can't tell, and she's afraid it went the other way. And so if you pray, this would be the time, because the mother always talks to God when she doesn't know what else to do.

The beans and onions are delicious. One child is tucked in. Another one to go.

They take tuckin's very seriously.

11:22 p.m. The mother is still up.

6:14 a.m. The next day. The mother will rise.

More violins, please.

A Bodyguard in the Neighborhood

2010-09-29T20:37:00.000-07:00

There was this problem in that I have figured out how to jog and although I barely get to because I'm often working 'til midnight (I know, cry me a river). But when I can jog it's at night and it's dark and to tell you the truth I get creeped out. Even if I jogged in the morning, it would be dark and I would get creeped out. But I would probably never jog in the morning. I'm a night jogger. All five times, sofar, of my jogging career.

I figured it is roulette until I bump into someone from the 3% of the population that is said to be psychopathic, to be melodramatic. My son suggests that I use the treadmill and tune my clock radio to the "summer night" sound function. Good idea, but it's not the same. Jogging outside is like sailing. With the crickets and the moonlight, I don't even use my ipod. Jogging inside is like, it's like, it's what you do only if you can't go outside.

So what to do? Get a dog? I wish. Carry a can of mace? Cumbersome. Quit jogging? Probable. But friends, I found something better: my own personal bodyguard. Bob. He agrees to ride his bike alongside me and we both agree not to talk. Just jog and ride together. It's actually very sweet.

Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog, which shouldn't even exist because it's 10:36 p.m. and I still have a ton to do.

With love, T

My Students and I

2010-09-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

How much do I love my students? I love them in so many ways. Imagine -- a sandwich counter worker, a scrap metal worker, a flooring worker, a windmill factory worker, a hospital worker, a Wallmart worker, two nursing mothers, a mortuary science student, one married couple, two sets of boyfriend/girlfriends, and sisters who are both single mothers --all this amazing opportunity in my Thursday night Composition I class.

In a way, we go together because they're all beaten down from jobs, kids, and school. And so am I. Beaten down may be an overly melodramatic way to put it, but my point is I think we get each other because we're all trying to do it all. Why else would anyone teach or take a three hour night class?

By the time we reach the final third hour, I know we're getting to the end of every one's brain power, including mine. I try to keep the three hours interesting with small groups, class participation, audio/visual diversions, and a plentiful supply of hard candy strewn across the center of the table around which we sit. I dismiss at about 8:45 pm and my students dart out of the room like rockets. I don't blame them. They still have 30-40 minutes of driving in the dark. They return to homes in all directions, north, south, east, and west.

So, here's the magic. Last Thursday I returned their first batch of graded papers, essays that I was terrified to grade. I got some advise from a dear professor friend on how to set up the next assignment; but for this one, I just had me to go on. Grading essays is almost as terrifying as being a parent--you just don't want to shut anyone down. Yet you want the grade to be fair and academically useful. And so I decided to make up for my inexperience by giving each paper a lot of consideration. I went over each student work three times and wrote tons of comments including what worked well and suggestions on where to stretch the writing.

Yes, the magic. And so it was 8:45 p.m. and time to dart out the door. I returned their graded papers and excused the class. . .and. . .where's the darting? No one darted. My students just all sat there in their seats and poured over my comments, unique to each essay. And so who darted? I did.

It's a moment when you realize the power you have over others. And it's frightening. Yet I understand, because I do the same thing when my monthly packet is returned from my mentor. When I see that red, white, and blue postal priority mailer arrive I drop everything and immediately rip it open. On the spot, I read all the comments front to back. No matter what. I read my mentor's suggestions over and over again. And then I put them somewhere special knowing that I will probably read them again in the future.

My writing mentor is always extraordinarily kind and useful. I have great teaching role models.

Why am I blogging when I should be reading, annotating, writing, preparing my class, participating in the book discussion board?

Because I am.

Thanks so much for coming over!

With love, T

Date Night

2010-09-25T19:58:00.000-07:00

You might think that going to a wedding reception for people you don't know is a bad idea.

Bob and I call it a date.

And if you're a writer, it's a goldmine.

Here's the deal. Bob conducts a wedding. We get invited to the reception. They're always really nice with a lovely setting, good food, yummy appetizers, and plentiful wine (aka Jesus' first miracle).

And so, what's not to like?

Absolutely nothing.

Plus, if you're the pastor and wife, they always seat you at the proper table, with the the most pious aunts and uncles, so basically you get the whole wine bottle assigned to that table to yourself.

And, as pastor and wife, you get a front row seat for the dollar dance, the bouquet throwing, and the garter belt ritual, whereby the best man digs up the fluffy white bridal gown and searches for the garter belt with his mouth, disco lights twirling tiny little balls of color on the walls and ceiling. Bad to the Bone playing on the sound system. I'm sure the D.J. had no idea that this is the ring tone for the Pastor's cell phone. Oh, what a rebel.

And yes, I admit, even I got choked up when the father of the bride got choked up during his speech, which also choked up the bride and even the groom.

Um, well, the maid of honor, when in her toast she referred to this being one of many firsts, as in the bride's "first wedding." I'm not sure how that made the groom feel, but I laughed a long with everyone else. Since I don't know them, I figured there was probably some inside story of which I was not aware.

Seriously, as I am witnessing these wedding rituals front row, first hand, I am also thinking how ironic it is that I also spent this very afternoon at the bridal shop agonizing over my daughter's homecoming dress--which she wants desperately and of which I am so sadly ambivalent.

Help.

That plea is for both my daughter and me.

As for me, I am very happy with my $29 black cocktail dress from Marshalls, and a reason to wear it. And I'm thankful for the uncle of the bride who did well during the recession and also gave a soulful perspective of the beauty in raising kids, even when you don't know what the heck you're doing, he said.

All this over loud music, chicken parmesian, and a room full of people we didn't know.

Clink, clink, clink, kiss.

It's so nice to have a few hours "alone" with my husband. I thank the couple for a fabulous dinner and wish them a wonderful marriage.

With love, T

Saturday Morning Niceties

2010-09-18T11:57:00.000-07:00

Golly, I haven't checked my blog for so long that I have three spam comments to delete. Usually, I catch those buggers right away. But hey, shouldn't a lowly blogger be happy that at least the spammers pay attention?

The reason I am here is because I'm procrastinating the commencement of "Family Housecleaning Fun Day" which will start as soon as this dispatch is written. At this point I can't even use homework as an excuse because you can only do so many hours of computer work before going bonkers and cleaning the house actually seems like recreation. Seriously, in my entire present life, I think I am setting records on hours spent at the computer. :-(

And so why this blog?

Because.

Because I watched Food Inc. a second time with my students last week and am now even more depressed about the mean and nasty Monsanto, who bullies farmers with hench men inspectors who search for evidence of "saving seed" so that Monsanto can sue the living daylights out of these poor farmers. Have you ever heard of seed being privately owned, and not by the farmer who purchased, cultivated, and harvest it? And so now I can't even eat my new favorite thing, protein rich edamame (photo), without getting sick on the idea that I am supporting Monsanto. I asked the Pastor if we could plant edamame in the St. John's Community Garden. That is, if Monsanto doesn't deploy its paramilitary unit to our backyard.

Of all the troubling things that the Food Inc movie depicts, the Monsanto part of all bothered me the most.

And on that happy note, it's time to move on to nicer things such as cooking and cleaning. And getting rid of my headache.

Thanks so much for coming over the Charmer Blog. I promise one day, I'll get back to writing that has more substance. Or not. Please pray for me.

With love, T

Return of the Bad Asset Cats

2010-09-13T19:40:00.000-07:00

If I flunk out of grad school, this is why. My cats do not sit by me, near me, nor next to me. My cats insist on sitting directly on top of whatever it is that I need. Aka, this picture, taken a few minutes ago when I dared to walk away for a few minute's break.

Pictured here is Poppy, named for a teenage vampire from a book series of which I am unfamiliar.

Earlier today I was meeting in a restaurant with my networking group and I thought is was so nice to hear the piped music play Alicia Keys. "Hey, that's my ring tone," I'm thinking during the conversation. What a nice coincidence. What a nice song to go with such a nice group who I enjoy.

Wait, that is not the music, that is my cellphone. It really is my ring tone. I check my phone, sure enough, a text from Amanda informing me that I am 15 minutes late in picking her up. Could someone please put that on my gravestone -- She was 15 minutes late for everything. Kidding, I don't want a gravestone. My body goes to science or to transplant or to whoever will take it for cheapest. No kidding, let it be heard here and now that I don't want no grave stone and I don't want no coffin. (With all my love to my dearest mortician friend who prayed over me in church on Sunday.) Although my family has already heard my death instructions a hundred times.

Off topic.

What exactly is the topic?

O yeah, the list of excuses I'm compiling for when I decide I really can't get the MFA work done.

But hey, let's all look on the bright side. Tonight I finished my five-page critical paper by the light of the commercials to "Everybody Hates Chris," the favorite TV show of me and Aidan. That program has the greatest soundtrack. And the mother cracks me up. Aidan and I exchange knowing glances on all the lines we like, including the mother's rant: "I don't need that, my man's got two jobs!"

And what the hey, since I've already turned into the crazy lady who blogs about her cats, I may as well show you James' latest favorite napping spot, the basket that is supposed to hold the newspapers. The main principle by which our household operates is this: develop a system to make things neater so that it can be immediately dismantled.

That bad asset cat is just as guilty as the rest in curling up on the exact paper that I am presently editing--not an old paper, not someone else's paper, not an irrelevent paper--but exactly the paper that I need to get through the next minute. The other place James insists on sleeping upon is my chair. I just counted 18 chairs, three beds, and two sofa's in our house. But no, none of those will do. James must sleep on my chair--where I attemp to write on the laptop that Poppy sleeps on.

Again I ask, why am I blogging? I'll tell you why. Because I need a good ten minutes of not multi-tasking one dang thing.

Charmer friends, I thank you so much for coming over and I wish you a fantastic week. Say a little prayer for me. I say a little prayer for you. I love Burt Bachrach. My prayers usually don't work as intended, so how's about you say a little prayer for one another.

Gotta go -- one child needs her hair braided; the other needs to be tucked in. Single tasking time is officially over.

With love, T

The Problem with Having it All

2010-09-12T16:37:00.000-07:00

Shall I run quick to Wallgreens and get a bottle of wine? Or not? For any of you who may happen to not live in Iowa, be assured that you can get a decent bottle of wine at Wallgreens. And I've been trying to cut down, but such a lovely Sunday night needs a glass of merlot.

Shall I run? Or not? Another amazing thing, I started to run. Or should I say jog. More accurately, whatever you would call the next notch up from fast walking. That thing you do when fast walking is too painful and it actually feels better to put a spring in your stride. That thing. I started last week.

Shall I enjoy the new recipe I concocted? Twisted Tuna Casserole has lemon and edamame, but it has no cream of mushroom soup. Aidan and I have decided that when the rest of the household is at Sunday night confirmation, we will do culinary fun night. Tonight, I experimented with the tuna. Aidan choose a real stunner recipe from the Betty Crocker cookbook: Hot Fudge Cake. Both are in oven now.

Shall I help Aidan with his piano practice? Finish my creative packet and mail it to my writing mentor? Wash clothes? Clean the kitchen? Watch "Everybody Hate's Chris" with Aidan? Read my assignments? Prepare my lesson for Thursday? Catch up on emails?

Shall I bask in the amazing week we had with church friends? (photo: baptism today at church, and guess who got asked to be godmother!! Gulp.)

You see my problem. . .I want to have it all. I think a week on a solitary beach somewhere sounds pretty good.

Timer's beeping. Looks like the Twisted Tuna Casserole is ready to get out. Laters gators.

With love, T

What Does Moonlighting Do?

2010-09-10T18:07:00.000-07:00

I wish I could say more but admittedly, my new moonlighting situation, aka working two jobs plus kids' activities and volunteer gigs, have all put me over the edge.

Please say prayers for my creative packet, which is at the bottom of the priority list and of course the most expensive ticket item on my to do list. Thank goodness for cartoons. Here's what I did today in my day job. This so-called pastor lunatic in Florida is driving me crazy, and so is all the media attention he's getting. Enough, already.

Over and out.

Walking Taco Tuck In

2010-08-26T21:09:00.000-07:00

Whenever I hear our neighborhood owl "who," for some reason it translates to me: you're in the right place. It's good that you're here. Most times I hear it in the middle of the night, waking from sleep. Lately I've been hearing it in the evenings before I go to bed. Last night I stepped out onto the front porch and tried to "who" in response.

I hear the owl right now. Who, who. Who, who, who.

The owl in the neighborhood seems to give me the right to be here. As if, even though I'm not from here, I still belong. Even though I've moved so many times in my life, this might be considered home.

As of tonight, we now have a new tuck-in procedure called the Walking Taco Tuck In. As you may remember, my kids have very strong tendencies to require me to tuck them into bed before they can sleep. I half joke that they will call me when they are 50 years old and ask me to tuck them into bed. Tonight it went to a new level. It was the first day of school for all of us, so maybe that's why.

Tonight, we didn't tuck into bed. We did the Walking Taco Tuck In. That is when the tuck in starts in the kitchen (Amanda) or the front room (Aidan) and I literally escort them up the stairs and to their rooms and into their beds. Then some debriefing of the day--when I am most tired and they are most chatty. "They" meaning individually "they." Walking Taco Tuck In's and all Tuck In's are not group processes, but individualized events. Amanda wants some skirts and Aidan likes his new teacher. Good night. Lights out. At least for tonight, there were no tacos while walking to bed.

And me? I am basking in my first real batch of students, 15 lovely human beings with amazingly complicated lives who have all signed up for Composition I on Thursday nights with the Des Moines Area Community College. I thanked them a thousand times for coming and for their respect and for their participation. And then I assigned them to read and annotate the essay "Entering the Conversation" by Mike Rose, UCLA writing prof. We will peer edit next week. Respect is the bottom line, I said.

And I give thanks for my husband who listens to my ravings about my new students. Community College teaching just might be my nirvana. These students are motivated and I've detected no silver spoons. Most of my students work full time and many have regrets. I didn't go into my schpeel about regrets--that's a whole other class. I told them that my cell phone policy is that they need to be shut off, unless they have children home alone. That seemed like a good teaching objective for myself: I only want to teach at a place where such a cell phone policy is relevant.

All of The Road books are gone from the bookstore. Many of the students brought them. We are going to have great discussion.

Gotta go to work in the morning. Good night. Thanks so much for everything.

With love, Terri

Cannibalism and Chocolate as Teaching Tools

2010-08-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

If you were to a student in my English 105 class at the Des Moines Area Community College, this is what you would get.

My family got all excited thinking that I had brought home a stash of junk food. "No, not for you," I said. "For my students."

All my family got was fresh asparagus stir fried in butter and topped with goat cheese. I couldn't resist the goat cheese because of the book I'm reading, and bought a little chunk today. Yum.

Anyway, when I chatted today with the English Dept chair and she told me the previous teacher had used the book, The Road by Cormac McCarthy, to teach writing.

"You probably don't want to do that," she said. "You don't have to. I've already told the book store manager to send that book back."

Are you kidding?! I basically insisted that we keep that in the course. Bob and I read the book during spring break. Depressing, yes. Super depressing. But a great book and it will be so fun to use it as a teaching tool. I asked her to tell the book store manager to stock the book after all because I'm requiring it. We'll discuss writing cannibalism while munching on chocolate kisses.

Don't you wish you could be in my class?

Thanks for all the encouragement. I may be a nut, but I'm very excited! And now, I'm off to type up my syllabus.

With love, T

Finding Charlotte's Web

2010-08-21T19:45:00.000-07:00

The bad news about a horribly hot Saturday is that all you can do is lay in front of a fan.

The good news about a horribly hot Saturday is that all you can do is lay in front of a fan and read.

Which is mostly what I did today. Reading pick: Goat Song by Brad Kessler, another Antioch adjunct teacher. So, a book about goats does not seem so dynamic, but I'm actually really enjoying it. And now I'm totally salivating for chevre cheese. I feel like I want to try the French restaurant in Des Moines.

I know what you're all thinking. You don't have air conditioning?! And I know what you're really thinking. You guys are seriously nuts. Let me just say that it's a long story and it's not by choice. We'll leave it at that. At this point in this ridiculously hot summer it's rather embarrassing to admit that we don't have air conditioning. Here's a short answer: the recession. We'll just blame that on everything, like everyone else does. But I will clarify that I am most definitely NOT blaming President Obama, God Bless this man.You can't create a recession in one year, even I know that.

Back to topic. Even though my blogs tend to not have topics.

I give my husband five gold stars for keeping our swimming pool crystal blue clear. It's really beautiful and with a lot of work on his part. I told him that he can't get sick or die because that pool would quickly turn to murky green and our house would turn to a haunted mansion. But I've told myself not to think about a husband sick or dying because that would work itself out.

Anyway, we've decided to heat the pool through September so we can swim on cool fall nights. If cool fall nights should ever come. Tonight we discovered Charlotte's Web along the entire width of the poolside pagoda. I forbade anyone to touch that web so that mama spider can lay her eggs and die in dignity. It's Ok, Mrs. Arachnid, we won't hurt you, I said before stepping into the pool.

"Mom, you're talking to her like she's one of the cats," Aidan informed me.

"It's nature," I said. "I love nature and I think we should all leave nature to it's own process."

That spider and that ginormous web are gorgeous. Leave. It. Alone.

And by the way--I have an opportunity to teach community college composition 101, which I totally want to do. But I don't know if I can swing it because I am maxed out. But I want to. So, if you're the praying type or if you're the type whose prayers are answered, if you could please pray about this. If I should. If I can. If I do. Having a group of my own students sounds just lovely to me.

Time to go back to Goat Song. Tomorrow is blessing of the backpacks at church and I haven't seen my friends for three weeks. Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

photo: Spider, downtown Des Moines sculpture garden

Empty Nester Prequil

2010-08-20T17:25:00.000-07:00

Ouir kids are out with friends. Bob and I get a movie for us, Crazy Heart. We settle into the family room.

Do you know how to turn on the DVD player?

No, do you?

No.

Bob calls both kids for instructions. He is attempting to follow them.

Friday Night Lessons

2010-08-20T15:37:00.000-07:00

Hello My Dear Snake Charmer Peeps,

It is Friday night and what a lovely time to blog. Because I have nothing to say and a few minutes to say it, which is the perfect blogospheric pressure. Small glass-o-wine in hand. And vomit clean-up lessons in process. The second activity is taking place among the men folk of the house. A father and son moment. Since Bob is a pro at cleaning up throw up, he is passing the gift down to his son.

Me? I simply blog.

O yes, and now with the barf jokes among the men folk. Don't you wish you were here? I would be happy to serve you a glass of merlot to go with the live entertainment. I have a whole box. That's right, I'm back to the box-o-wine. It brings back good memories of seminary.

Finally, the question that you are surely all asking: so whose vomit was it? One of our beloved pets, a bad asset cat.

Speaking of pets, I still want a dog. You may remember that I went through a Basset Hound stage last year. Now I'm on a rescued Greyhound kick. How can you go wrong with a retired race hound who only wants to sleep?

But who will clean up the dog vomit?

This is the quetion Bob asks. I can't be bothered with such pracicalities. I drink wine from a box for heaven's sake. And I have virtually no free time, but I'm not complaining because all you have to do is listen to five minutes of news to realize that things could be a lot worse.

To sign off, I give you a preview of my next dispatch--why the ground zero mosque is not a mosque and what happened to the great American values of facts and freedom?

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. I wish you all a fantastic Friday night.

With love, T

Shower the People

2010-08-12T09:53:00.000-07:00

Cathedral Spires, otherwise known as the Needles, can be seen from almost anywhere at Outlaw Ranch. To the right on this picture, you can barely see Harney Peak, the highest point east of the Rockies. All of the Black Hills is beautiful, but here, it seems sweeter than the rest.

While it is gorgeous here, apparently in Iowa, the weather is wet, hot, and dreadful. My dear friend Wanda called today to say how she and her husband plan to wet vac our basement before we get home. How does anyone deserve such good friends?

Aidan had his first overnight campout last night, in a tent with another 11-year-old boy, next to a tent of middle school girls, and chaperoned by a group of enthusiastic counselors who slept under the stars all night to tend the fire. The counselors said the all-night campfire was to keep the mountain lions away, but I think they slept there because there are so many stars and it is really great to sleep under them with your friends. Being a camp counselor is one of the precious few meaningful roles that the church offers young adults. Especially those of us who wished we could have been hippies.

Peace. Love. Joy. Stars. Guitars. Fire. Friends.

Speaking as a former young adult camp counselor and a present nervous mother of an 11-year-old boy who has never before camped in the woods in a tent, I say thank you to the counselors a thousand times. Especially to Tyler, who is six months away from being a chemical engineer. Could some of that please rub off on my son? We like Tyler because his "uncle," Potato Creek Phil, took Aidan gold panning the other day. Again, this nerdy mother watched in astonishment as her son--who is mostly unimpressed with everything--waded through French Creek, panning for gold under a clear blue sky, instead of playing video games in front of the television which is our home alternative.

While Aidan camped overnight out around the hill that felt far away, Amanda, Bob, and I joined another family at the edge of the cliff that shares the same view as this picture and watched for meteors. We saw the hugest one you can imagine. A white streak painted across the sky. Like in a movie, but it was real. I layed on the ground in my hoody sweatshirt and thought about the planetarium in Des Moines where you lay on your back on the carpet and stare straight up. But this was a real planetarium.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. I'll sign off with a suggestion from the James Taylor song we heard peformed live last night. Shower the People You Love With Love.

With love, T

In Addition to This

2010-08-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

Why am I blogging instead of going to bed? Because I'm exhausted, yes, but there's more. It's because I've been swamped with homework for heaven's sake. And so, if you please, may I expound.

They trick you in this MFA program. They intentionally start it slow so you don't get psyched out. The whole first project period (what Antioch calls semesters) you think, this isn't so bad, not a big deal, I can do this. Then the second project period comes along and all of a sudden there's more to do. Evidently, it continues to build.

So, for now, in addition to writing 20 pages per month -- which is the crown jewel project which I wish I could everyday all day, but usually it comes in half hour chunks here and there in wee hours before work. In addition to that and the two book reading with annotations per month.

In addition to that is the five page critical paper on a nerdy literary topic where you have to proove that you know MLA formatting. The purpose is to prepare for the 25 page paper next project period, for which I have absolutely no idea on what and when I will accompolish this.

In addition to that is the ten week translation seminar, where we translate one poem per week, comment on other people's translations, then revise, then comment more. Presently we're on week 6. In theory, it's a very cool idea and the teacher is amazingly attentive in the online setting. In reality, it's hacking out poems when you're not a poet, and hacking out foreign languages, when you're not multi-lingual. In the dead of the 100 degree summer with no air conditioning. (another story)

In addition to that is the monthly book discussion. Again, which in theory is cool. Actually, in reality it is cool too. We are presently discussing the Eula Biss book I keep mentioning.

In addition to that is my new writing contract, baby. As in getting paid to write. Yay. I submitted my first two blogs and the third one is in the works. Watch for the new Living Lutheran website soft launch on August 12. Big hoopla launch on September 2. As much as I understand it, it focuses on Lutherans on the ground, not so much about Lutheran dogma or admin. To be honest, it's the easiest kind of writing for me and I'm so thrilled so be able to blog for this project. I hope people like it.

But first, I've got websites to develop, ants to exterminate, and a regular early morning date with my office to keep so I gotta go.

Pray for me, even if you don't pray. I need your prayers, even if I don't understand how it works. Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

Going to God's Country

2010-08-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

This is how I learned to ride a horse, on the open prairie with a big sky. Where a full moon night lights up enough that you can still lope on the back of your animal up and over the rolling hills. It spoiled me from ever enjoying horseback riding in any other setting. Yes, I am a horse snob, so I don't ride horses when we go to the Black Hills where there are trees and trails. But still, we're going to the Black Hills and I'm so excited!!

Should we drive through Rapid City or through Pine Ridge?

Will we have enough time to see the Corn Palace, Wall Drug, and the Bad Lands along the way?

Does that little town still sell natural mineral baths for $2?

I am calling for all my Snake Charmer peeps to take some time out this week to view the movie, Thunderheart, starring Val Kilmer, so you can join me in the savoring the mystique of my spiritual home, South Dakota. Or, you could catch Dances With Wolves, starring Kevin Coster. Both excellent portrayals of what I love about this state. And there's even so much more. Like, for example, dear friends.

By the way, Sioux is a French word meaning "enemy." The indigenous name for Sioux is Lakotah which means "friend."

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

The Nuclear Option

2010-07-29T20:24:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year when I go nuclear. As in report for duty at the nuclear medicine department at Mercy Hospital. There's just something cool about getting phone calls from nuclear medicine. They give me two radioactive pills that makes my insides glow and then put me through a scanner to look for thyroid activity. Which we don't want to see because my thyroid was removed in 2007. It's done dog gone.

I didn't tell anyone that there was radioactivity going on inside me, because they said it was safe. Still, I just thought there was a cool element to that. Being radioactive.

So, I got to park in a "for cancer patients" parking spot, received two preceding injections, one blood test, the glow pills, the scan, and I'm good. Honestly, besides the $500 deductible (thank you very much insurance that doesn't cover this, yet whose execs are rich, yet whose reforms are controversial) it's not a big deal. Thyroid cancer is the easy cancer. Yet, your mind does race when you get a voice mail instructing you to call your doctor's office. You pinch yourself and remember how good it is to hear that your tests show clean.

My doctor is Indian and she's the only endocrinologist in Des Moines. Whenever I see her, she laments that it's been so long since we've seen each other. I can't exactly tell if she's referring to my lack of ability to keep track of appointments, or if she's referring to this American system which keeps doctors and patients as far apart as possible. I asked her if we could stagger the scans every two years, instead of annually so I could save the $500.

So today when I was done, my appointments and test are always short, I was on the elevator and saw "transplant, floor 5." I just had to go there. So I pushed up, instead of down, and wandered around the transplant unit. A staff person saw me looking around and asked if she could help. "I am a writer and just looking around," I said. I thought how amazing it might be to just roam from hospital to hospital, from transplant unit to transplant unit, and find what I find. And talk with people.

The nice lady introduced me to the floor receptionist, who also happens to be on the cusp of her third kidney transplant. I'm more interested in liver, and found out they don't transplant liver's in Des Moines.

"What I like about the liver is that you can cut it apart and it grows back," I said.

"So does the lung," the lady said. I didn't know that. She told me story of how a young girl got killed in a car accident and the rescuers were able to keep her alive long enough for her mother to say goodbye. The mother then choose to donate her daughter's organ, forgot which one, and now the mother does the transplant advocacy speaking circuit. I saw a picture of the mother and late daughter and they looked alike.

She told me another story and showed me pictures of a man who befriended the family of his liver donor, who died. She told me how families make the decision to donate the organs of a suddenly dead family member. But I had to get to work.

"Good luck with your kidney," I said as I headed back to the elevator.

"Good luck with your writing," she said.

Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T