Snail

Living in the upper plains prepares one for weather diversity and adversity. On the fifth anniversary of one of the worst ice storms recorded for our city, we received an arctic punch that had even the hardiest of folks mumbling and grumbling. It started with thunder and lightning. A crack of lightning in our neighborhood struck a pole nearby, causing electricity issues for some. Then the heavens opened with a rain and ice mix. Not exactly snow. Not exactly hail. We will call it snail.

The snail continued on and off for hours, causing a pebbly-like build up on the streets. Add large vehicles driving over said surface. Sprinkle on more snail. Turn on sixty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Warm it up just enough to partially melt the snail. Keep the snail going through the night so sleep is impossible with the ping-pinging on the windows. Change the snail to full on snow until twelve inches is received. Whip the wind into a frenzy so tree branches are waving good bye. Coat everything with more snow icing. Shut down the interestate highways in two directions. And voila, you have yourself a spring storm, Dakota style.

After two days of being pummeled by the weather, a peek out the window revealed the aftermath. Snow gathered in heaps wherever there was an obstacle in its path. Small branches awaited gathering up. Snow on the streets threatened to swallow up unprepared vehicles. Little rabbit tracks made their way to bushes, indicating the chance for small critters to nibble on the tops of vegetation, rather than the understory. The chug-chug of snow blowers geared up with earnest battle cries, fully determined to shave down the mountains of white stuff.

My long-suffering husband takes care of our driveway and the neighbor's larger corner lot and driveway. Sitting on my ample behind, watching him chip away at operation snow removal seemed beyond lazy, even for me. So I picked up a shovel (the smallest one, I am weak) and hacked away on our deck. To be completely honest, I was probably more concerned about the birds than my husband. We had packed up the feeders before the storm for fear of losing them to the wind and ice. During the storm, I watched the little juncos and sparrows flit about looking for any tidbit left behind. It was like my trip to the store in the wee hours of day two of the storm. The shelves were barren. Time to live off the land and whatever was left in my fridge and freezer. My vision of chicken soup quickly morphed into a pot of beef stew instead. The milk was parsed out sparingly. And the oranges rolling around in my crisper drawer held off scurvy. We lived to see another day.

It is said that you never have to shovel sunshine (smugly stated by those living in warmer climes). I would add that shovels are tools reserved for optimistic realists. We know that April snail brings May flowers. Maybe.

Ode

April is National Poetry Month. I know from experience that poetry is wickedly difficult to compose. Good poetry demands a parsimonious touch with words that my stream of consciousness has never allowed with any success. Therefore, I will not subject you to any poetry penned by my hand.

Many folks seem to have a love/hate relationship with poetry. The little ditties of our youth such as Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Rock-a-Bye Baby are etched into our brains until death do us part. But who of us could name more than a handful of poets, much less recite a poem more than ten lines long? I am guilty as charged.

Surprisingly, I do have a favorite poet and his name is Badger Clark. He was the first poet laureate of South Dakota (1937). He preferred the title "poet lariat" due to his love of all things cowboy. I am not exactly sure when my fascination began with Badger. My best guess is that it happened during a vacation of my youth. My mom was a teacher and my dad had an insatiable appetite for learning so no outing was complete without some sort of educational "event." One year, a trip to the Black Hills included a stop at Badge Hole, the cabin where Badger spent almost 30 years reading and writing. My childhood memory is a bit weak but I remember Badger's signature tall boots lined up along the wall and his many shelves of books. I don't think I read any of his poetry immediately after our visit but his name stuck in my brain.

Fast forward many years later and I had a desire to read a poem or two by Badger. My public library had a nice collection so I checked his books out. I was smitten. His ability to describe his love of nature and the lost art of being a cowboy kept me coming back for one more reading. I am not one who rereads a lot of books but Badger Clark is the exception.

My husband and I had the pleasure of visiting Badger Hole many years after my first visit. My adult eyes soaked up the view of his cabin nestled in the beautiful pine trees. The volunteer attendant at the cabin enthusiastically shared Badger's story as we marveled at his multiple pairs of tall boots and his vast collection of books. It was impossible for me to leave without purchasing a few of his books after gushing away about my love for his poetry. I am quite sure the sweet attendant with the distinctive southern accent knew I was a true believer and not just an out of state looky-loo. As we left the cabin, my husband remarked that I could probably take over the attendant's job someday and I had to admit that would be a dream job for me. We also agreed that a paycheck would sweeten the pot and that was never going to happen.

At risk of imprisonment for copyright infringement, let me leave you with a few lines from Badger Clark's poem, "The Bad Lands".

No fresh green things in the Bad Lands bide;
   It is all stark red and gray,
And strewn with bones that had lived and died
   Ere the first man saw the day.
When the sharp crests dream in the sunset gleam
   And the bat through the canyon veers,
You will sometimes catch, if you listen long
The tones of the Bad Lands' mystic song,
   A song of a million years. 

Fasting

The almighty juggernaut, Facebook, has come under fire of late. I am not smart enough to understand the intricacies of their alleged misconduct. I know it has something to do with the manipulation of data. I know that all of this has an Orwellian flavor to it. I know we have to be idiots to believe the mission of Facebook is solely for the purpose of connecting people with people.

All that said, I am on a Facebook fast. After a bit of reflection, I realized that I have been allowing FB to add layers of perceived demand in my life. Such as:

If I "like" one friend's post, do I need to "like" everyone's posts?

If I "hide" friends' postings, will they find out?

If I never post, will I be considered a lurker? (Too late for me.)

Do I have to post a birthday greeting for everyone?

Do I have to confirm every friend request?

What will I miss if I stay away from Facebook?

All of the above are self-imposed challenges for me. Nevertheless, I am allowing such nonsense to become annoying. I am also spending too much time on FB, scrolling through pages of posts that may or may not be necessary. I am spending too much time descending into rabbit holes of snoopiness. Some of it has been entertaining, but a big portion of it has not been very edifying. FB allows me to be a Peeping Tom without the fuss of hiding in bushes near a picture window.

In addition, I find it awkward to have meaningful conversations with folks who post everything but their booger production on FB. Favorite conversation starters such as "How are your kids doing?" and "Have you been traveling lately?" become silly when I have read and seen pictures of everything on their FB posts. It is like asking someone a personal question when you just finished reading their diary.

Social media is the darling of our fast paced world because it is a quick way to keep up with the world around us. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. But, you get what you pay for. Because I am old, I know that there was a time when I could look up something in a World Book encyclopedia and no one knew what topic I was interested in but me, myself and I. Today, if I google a topic, all my devices are suddenly flashing ads related to my topic of interest, age and political affiliation.

My Facebook fast has been good for me so far. I am turning the pages of real books rather than mindlessly scrolling through computer screen pages. I am watching birds outside my window now that spring is luring them back (sorry, about the recent snows, little birdies). I am enjoying the freshness of conversations with others.

I have no end game in mind. I could go back to FB tomorrow or never. My fast is not about shaming others to do the same. It is a personal decision to be more mindful of my own actions. I want "face" and "book" to be two separate terms.

Hope you can enjoy a cup of coffee with a friend this week. Or send an old-fashioned card to someone you care about. Or belly laugh with someone you love. No data disclaimer required.

One Another

There are many challenges in the world of teaching in a middle school. Students can become ornery, sassy, apathetic or defiant on any given day and at any given hour. Their mood swings are notorious. Girls are often embroiled in whispers of drama and relationship angst. Boys become fascinated with girls but are unsure of how to deal with them. Add to the mix a cocktail of hormones swirling around in their bodies and it is truly the perfect storm.

As they struggle to morph into adults, teens test the waters of maturity. Recent student protests featured in the news focus on this murky process. Administrators across the nation are grappling with ways to allow students the freedom to take a stand without compromising school policies. The fervor of youth can be a tidal wave without boundaries if left unchecked.

I am not smart enough to have the answers to this problem. I do know, however, that there are a lot of good kids who are doing the one thing that will probably make the greatest difference in schools. There are kids who are watching out for one another. There are kids who care.

This lesson was brought home to me by a couple of incidents that occurred at the end of the day outside my classroom. Leah, a young lady who is often hypersensitive to the remarks of others, was once again visibly upset as she pulled her backpack out of her locker. Three other girls were gathered around her, ready to assist. The young ladies represented different races, social classes and degrees of edginess. But all three were united in their genuine concern for Leah. They asked her what was wrong. Leah said she had her feelings hurt by the remarks of another student. Without missing a beat the three girls gave Leah a group hug and continued with words of support. Girl One comforted Leah by telling her she was going to be all right. Girl Two validated Leah's feelings by assuring her that some students are just plain rude.

Leah basked in the support of the three girls, none of whom are her closest friends. When they asked her if she was going to be okay, Leah nodded her head and said she was feeling better. As the girls started to leave, Girl Three said, "I promise I will pray for you, Leah."

Two days later, Leah was once again in a state of turmoil at the end of the day. This time two boys came running into my room and said they were worried about Leah and that I should check on her. Mind you, neither boy is known for his stellar behavior in the classroom, but they cared enough to find an adult who could help. As I counseled Leah, another girl passed by and said, "You've got this, Leah. You can be a superwoman."

Most likely, Leah will continue to struggle with self-esteem issues as she navigates middle school roads. Most likely, there will be more rude remarks made to others in school settings. And, most likely there will be students who are too wounded to act appropriately.

Blessedly, there are students who want to do the right thing. They are learning the powerful lesson of caring for one another. It is a superpower, for sure.

Misfortune

Sooner or later, a thief is bound to strike in such a way that the victim's sense of security is sliced open and left raw. It was my turn to be the victim. No, I wasn't robbed at gunpoint in a parking lot. Nor was my home burglarized. The thugs in my case were not brave enough to show their faces or leave a set of fingerprints. They carried out their malfeasance through the nameless, cowardly world of cyberspace.

A few days ago, my bank called to alert me of suspicious charges made on my bank debit card. I immediately checked my account and was shocked to see three pending charges that were not made by anyone in my household. I quickly deactivated my debit card so I could prevent further bleeding. My emotions swirled in fear, anger and disgust. Fortunately, the debits were under fifty dollars but the sense of personal violation knows no dollar amount. And I did not appreciate the inconvenience of getting a new debit card and filing a claim on the unauthorized account charges.

Early Saturday morning, I started the damage control process with a phone call to my bank. My call was taken by a chirpy young lady named Melissa. She sweetly asked how my day was going and I answered with, "Just fine. Waiting for a storm here." She responded, "Oh, you mean thunder?" I laughed and said, "No. We have snow coming our way." She gasped a little and said, "I live in Texas so I don't know much about that. We have bipolar weather right now. Warm one day and cool the next." We both agreed that weather makes life interesting.

Melissa cheerfully helped me navigate the waters of fraud. She skillfully closed out my debit card and issued me a new one. She gave me a verification number for the next step of filing a claim against the unauthorized charges and transferred me to the claims department.

A kind woman named Belinda answered my call. She seemed a little weary around the edges as she asked the tough questions inherent in a claims department.

"Have you ever given your card to anyone else?" No.

"Has anyone in your household used your card number to purchase something on line?" No

"Are you sure the charges you are refuting were not made by anyone in your household?" I burst out laughing on this one. I said, "Maam, the charges were for iTunes. Trust me when I say there is no one in this house who knows how to access such a thing, much less pay for whatever it is they are selling."

She graciously finished her questioning and took care of the charges for me. I thanked her for all her help and wished her a good day.

The experience taught me a few lessons. First, there are nasty folks in the world who spend more time being bad than good. Second, there are kind folks in the world who watch out for us and help us mop up trouble. And finally, I am glad I only know how to order CDs for my music. It made things a little easier this go around.

The Games

Recently, an acquaintance of mine asked me, "So, did you participate in Super Bowl parties when you were growing up?" I was charmed by the question due to the fact that I am almost a decade older than the Super Bowl phenomenon. My reply was perhaps more than she bargained for, as is the case with most of my responses. I explained that I grew up with little or no television interaction. Sports and parties were words rarely used in my household. Our physical exercise fell under the heading of work and Sunday was a day of rest and church. No parties in sight. As time marched on, however, the Super Bowl world did enter my life. After I got married, my husband and I gathered with friends for the big event. I spent my time by the crockpots filled with smoked wienies and my husband enjoyed his time by the television watching the game with the guys (with a plate full of smoked wienies). I can honestly say I did not watch one second of any of the games due to my low sports IQ.

The exception to my no sports rule is the Olympics. The modern Olympic games are actually older than I am by more than a century so the history is rich. I never tire of the parade of nations entering the Olympic stadium for the opening ceremonies. The flag bearer for each country proudly leads his or her country's delegation of one athlete to dozens of athletes. This year's television coverage included a little map with each country's location highlighted as they were featured in the procession. Bonus for me because I can never remember where Eritrea is located. Participants from warm climate countries often inspire back stories during winter Olympics. Case in point, this year there is a women's bobsled team from Jamaica. They are on a quest to pay homage to their Cool Runnings roots. Make Sanka proud, ladies.

There is a spirit about the Olympic games that is contagious. Rather than looking for ways to criticize and besmirch one's country, participants and fans rally around their athletes and homeland. Tears of joy are often seen streaming down faces when a country's national anthem is played during the awarding of medals. Most athletes know better than to "take a knee" or derail an acceptance moment with a verbal anti-patriotism rant. Most athletes also realize they are participating not only for their own personal achievement, but as a tribute to the country they are representing. There is a selflessness that is mirrored in that kind of loyalty. Celebrating what is right about a country feels better than looking for everything that is wrong.

It is foolish to believe that countries do not have problems and, certainly, people have the right to speak out. But, please, oh please, take a clue from the world of kindergartners. Find a way to play nice in the sandbox. Share your baggie of teddy grahams with a new friend. Accept your blue ribbon without telling others how you thought you were mistreated by Ms. Preschool Teacher. Don't steal your desk as a kindergarten souvenir. Get back up if you fall down. Learn something new. And wear your school colors with pride.

Go, Team USA!

Timothy Tick-Tock

The power of a good book is timeless. Whether it is a book recently enjoyed or a book from our childhood, emotions are stirred in with the words on the pages and we are left with fond memories. I was blessed to grow up in a home of books. We didn't have a lot of money to buy books but we sought out local resources. When a little country school down the road from us was closing (Rhoda Township #3, to be precise), my parents procured a large cabinet of books. The treasure trove was set up in our attic. I loved to take the creaky stairs to the top floor of our old farmhouse, breathe in the dusty smell of stored antique items and make my way to the library collection. Sometimes, I took the book back down the stairs to my bedroom on the second floor. Other times, I sprawled out on the ugly old pseudo-couch in the attic, hoping my mother wouldn't find me and assign another chore or two before I finished the book.

The poem titled, The Moo Cow Moo, gave me assurance that I wasn't the only farm girl who was afraid of cows. The classic poem, Oh Captain, My Captain, never failed to capture my attention with its beautiful turn of words. The Flicka, Ricka, Dicka book series shared the tales of three little Swedish triplet girls. Growing up with four sisters, I could relate to their adventures. The book entitled, Walter the Lazy Mouse, fueled my guilt vortex with reminders that lazy children always face dire consequences.

One book stood out, however, for its longevity in our family. The book was not flashy by an means. It had a burnt orange cover with an odd little stick figure on the front. The head of the figure was in the shape of a russet potato and the character's hands looked like little mittens. The illustrations in the book were done in black, white and the same burnt orange as the cover.

The main character's name is Billy and he is grumpy about always being told it is time for something. Time to go to school, time to go to bed, time to take a bath. He is sure his clock, named Timothy, is the reason for his distress so he hides the clock. As expected, his life becomes chaotic and he finally begs Timothy to teach him how to tell time. And, therein, lies the power of the nondescript little book. The book finishes with several pages of teaching the reader how to tell time. Minnie-The-Minute-Hand is long and goes fast like a rabbit. Howy-The-Hour-Hand is short and goes slowly like a turtle with short legs. The final page of the book shows Billy being tucked into bed after his Daddy reads him a story. "And Billy dreamed a happy dream about his new friend Timothy-Tick-Tock, who had a time for everything." The End.

One by one, my siblings and I used this book to help us tell time in the days of analog clocks. I still have the original book and am unable to part with it. Last week, I brought the book to my mother so we could share a memory together. Despite her dementia, she immediately recognized the book and exclaimed with sheer joy, "Timothy Tick-Tock!" My niece was visiting at the time and she asked Grandma to read the book while we sipped our tea. My mother took the book in her wrinkled hands and read each page with all the love, animation and expression of her youth. She beamed with accomplishment as she gently closed the book after the final page.

Further investigation revealed that most of my siblings made their mark on the book, literally. My oldest brother attempted to write his name in cursive inside the front cover. One of my younger sisters added our last name to my brother's name, also practicing her cursive. Clock pictures in the book had clock hands added to them and the back cover had my youngest sister's name written in it, practicing early manuscript (particularly amusing to my niece as it was her mother's handwriting.)

Timothy Tick-Tock once again reminded me that a good book is more than just words on a page. Time spent reading is time well spent.