I've never thought about or especially liked yellow.
Sunshine is good,but I hate bananas.
Mostly I've just ignored the color yellow until this morning when I saw it in a new light. All of a sudden I love yellow.

Sylvia Randolph is 102 years old and her house is yellow.



She's slowed down a bit since I had dinner with her when she was a much younger 99 but she is still sharp as a tack and welcomed a friend and I into her kitchen for a quick visit this morning as we were leaving Saugatuck, Michigan for home. After working all weekend in a gallery owned by Syliva's daughter-in-law there on the shores of Lake Michigan, I was thrilled to see Syliva again and tell her how much fun I have using the cookbook that she wrote to celebrate her 100th birthday. Sylvia is an artist and the cookbook (as well as Good Goods Gallery www.goodgoods.com) is filled with her oil and watercolor paintings.





Being an painter in Saugatuck isn't remarkable in itself. The town is a haven for artists. Being a 102-year-old artist who still paints most days is, in my opinion, quite remarkable. Despite the fact that she trails a thin little plastic tube that supplies oxygen to her nose everywhere she goes, she manages to get around the place quite nicely and the evidence of her art is everywhere. There are her cans of paintbrushes on the kitchen sill, her boxes of paints scattered around the room and paintings representing her impressions of beautiful Saugatuck and the graceful sand dunes of Lake Michigan on her walls.



Last year her old family home needed painting. No, she didn't paint it herself but she did decide that the dark green shutters against the white wood siding had never reflected her personal taste and ordered the place spruced up a bit and more to her liking. As we drove up this morning, I smiled as I looked at the house in all it's bright, crayon-yellow glory. The shutters are white now and lining the porch rail... a parade of brilliantly painted purple flower pots.
Perfect.

Inside, at her table, Sylvia mentioned to her daughter-in-law Sandra that "this is going to be a busy week for me..." and recounted, day by day, a list of scheduled activities, where each would be held, who was in attendance and why she supposed she should go. Two nights ago she stayed home, but her donated painting was the talk of the charity auction to benefit the local art center and along with a nice cruise along the river and lake, fetched the highest bid of the night.........over seven thousand dollars. She smiled in amazement, told us some stories. And then we came home.

Sylvia cooks, she gardens, she paints. And all her sofas and chairs have handmade slipcovers that she changes to go with the season. (Do you even have to ask?? Yes, of course she made them---and the braided rug on the floor too, in case you wander in and wonder.)

All of a sudden yellow and purple.........and growing old......look different to me.
Thanks, Sylvia.

CAMP DEBBIE MEMORIES JUNE 2007

Oh look! Up yonder in the old dead tree. Is that an immature bald eagle I spy???
You know what THAT means.....................it's time for another CAMP DEBBIE!!!!!



Ok yeah, he's really a turkey vulture.
Just don't mention it to any of my camper girls, they can't see a dang thing without their glasses and he makes everyone feel sorta welcome. Like he's been sitting up there waiting for us since last time we gathered around the fire.






Thanks to the handsome young neighbor who graciously stopped by our camp and offered to take our picture. Say young man..........might you happen to have a single father lurking out there somewhere???? Does he like dusty girls that are fragrant, like a campfire?




The Camper girls surprised Director Debbie with a little graduation party.



I waited 50 years to twirl some tassels.



The best part of Camp Debbie, of course, is the Camper Girls.



And nature class. Here first-time Camper Paula learns more than she ever wanted to know about a woodland toad. Here also, a woodland toad learns more than he ever wanted to know about what happens when one wanders from the woodland into the campsite of a bunch of women on their third tumbler of vodka punch.




First time Campers Lisa and Molly. Molly has a beautiful voice and without benefit of accompaniment, burst into a heartfelt rendition of "Oh Danny Boy" somewhere around midnight. Her beautiful song was met with cheers from surrounding campers when she finished. Unfortunately, traditional Irish melody is apparently the distress call that summons state park rangers.

Frankly, we wondered what took him so long. Traditionally Camp Debbie gatherings are visited by men in uniform long before dark. This ambitious fellow didn't show up until well after midnight and, I must say, was fairly humorless.

Perhaps he was annoyed when one of the Camper Girls asked if he was a stripper cop as he walked up to the fire. In her defense, how was she to know he wasn't??? It was dark. It was late....

At any rate, once he identified himself and showed us the fine emblem on his hat, we listened attentively and sat in wide-eyed and rapt attention as he explained his Strike One, Strike Two, Strike Three policy which would eventually end with us crossing homeplate in handcuffs. (Not, he emphasized, nearly as fun as it sounds)
We thanked him for reviewing the park policies with us so carefully and eventually he went home.

This was about ten minutes before our neighboring campers brought out a CHAIN SAW.
Yes, a chain saw and you can bet,for a moment all of our minds wandered off in the direction of wondering which of our body parts they would wrap up and mail to our relatives in brown paper when they were done sawing their way through our campsite.

When it became evident we were just neighbors and not prey, we forgot about them and continued with our own little camping party.




And yes, of course.
There were awards for everyones official Camp Debbie necklaces.
Followed by sleep, and eventually.........




Morning.

Playing Tour Guide Again

Last week I hosted guests from Florida. In addition to Michael's opportunity to experience his very first plane ride, it was both he and Charlie's first visit to the Midwest!! Clean slates, they were! Minds for the molding, mine mine mine...allllll mine for two days. As their Iowa Ambassador I took my responsibility to indelibly etch this place into their hearts very seriously! It wasn't from inside a grand old tour bus like I drove one summer in Montana, but I popped open the sun roof on my little car and headed down the road to the place they wanted to visit most --- Madison County, home of the famous covered bridges and the pastoral setting for Robert Wallers romantic best-seller, The Bridges of Madison County.

"It's very GREEN here...." they kept saying.

I hear that alot when I am hosting out-of-town guests. The leaves and grasses are gorgeous right now, hard to convince my visitors that we have been in desperate need of rain.




In the town of Winterset, fans of "The Bridges.." film will recognize plenty of scenes from the story of Clint Eastwoods' Robert Kincaid and how he fell in love with Francesca, the beautiful farm wife played by Meryl Streep. Michael, Charlie and I ate lunch at the counter in the North Side Cafe.



Winterset is your typical county seat in Iowa, with the town square and grand old courthouse surrounded by old business buildings with lots of character, most of which are in noticeably great repair. My guess is that this is thanks to the influx of tourist dollars provided by interest in the movie and the fact that the town can also brag on itself as the birthplace of John Wayne.




Five minutes in any direction, it's wide open space and that beautiful green, green, green. Even roadside ditches can be fun if you know what to look for. I showed the guys how all Iowa kids know how to pull the little tops off clover and suck the nectar out of the flower for a sweet little burst on their tongue.





The stars of the show of course, are the bridges.







Tour guides pray for moments like the one we experienced when driving down a tree-shaded side road just outside of town.



This gorgeous little doe, in all her nonchalant glory, looked up from munching weeds, completely disinterested and for-darn-sure not going to interrupt her lunch as we stopped the car and snapped pictures. All the while a couple of guys from Florida are snapping their shutters and yelling, "No WAY this is a real deer. She's five feet from us. She's mechanical, right? You PLANT these deer in the ditches along the side of the road and when you pass a certain spot, she looks up?? Right on queue??"

Indeed, as if on queue, she looked up, twitched her ear, and went back to munching grass.

Despite Bambi and I's efforts to amaze my visitors, nothing we saw or experienced could eclipse Michael's favorite moment of the day - experiencing his first drive down a gravel road. At this point I might add that I delivered mail on gravel roads for 12 years and have great respect for them. But I also know how to drive them and I told Michael he didn't have to worry.

At 50 miles per hour, he just wasn't so sure.



With deepest apologies to Robert Waller and all due respect to Winterset and the bridges in all of their Midwestern splendor, it seems the gravel dust cloud was the favorite moment of the day.

THE ANSWER IS YES........................

The Camp Debbie staff makes every effort to provide a wholesome educational experience for each Camper Girl in attendance, as well as indulge in fun, frivolity and general merriment. So YES, Camper Virginia. The answer to the question on everyone's mind is....yes, indeed bears DO...............





Ok, well.................most bears.................




No matter WHAT you like to do in the woods, there is a place for you around the camp fire at Camp Debbie. Can't wait to see you Friday night!!!!!!
XO, Director Debbie loves you!!!!

CALLING ALL CAMPER GIRLS

Listen up, ladies!!
Friday, June 15. Rain or Shine and of course, everyone earns a new ring for their Camp Debbie necklace. Patch your tent, shake the dust off your sleeping bag and start saving crisp, new dollar bills for the stripper cop.....we need to get back to the woods!!!!

In addition to consumption of food and beverage we shall engage in the traditional merriment standards established by Camp Debbie's gone by by....

Moonlit Night, Down by the lake....
Late-night girls were trapped in the park, I melted the bottoms off my tennis shoes and a big, hairy man emerged from the dark looking for love in what he discovered were all the wrong places. Awakened by shotgun blasts at dawn, coincidentally, the opening day of duck hunting season.

Moonlight Night, In the park....
Scolded for noise violations by the friendly neighborhood sheriff who entered our circle and had a hard time convincing you camper girls that he wasn't a stripper hired by The Director. Why he didn't arrest one of us when Camper Ellen asked to see his gun is still a mystery. Who says cops don't have a sense of humor??

Moonlight Autumn Night, under the trees....
The usual consumption and merriment, pastoral by previous Camp Debbie standards until a mole burrowed up from below ground directly beneath Camper Deb's sleeping bag.

Darn Cold Moonlit Night, hmmm...where the heck were we....??
Last night of the camping season, deep into the month of October and cold as hell, good camper girls all believed her when The Director explained it's warmer to crawl into your sleeping bag naked but it made for a chilly sprint to the bathrooms in the middle of the night after all that beer and gave new meaning to the phrase "frost on the pumpkins".

Yet another ccccold and Moonlit night..........gathered round the fire circle at my Dad's empty farm house just before it sold. Sleeping bags covered the floors in every room and we were honored at the presence of a Prom Queen in full regalia. The next morning we all received our Camp Debbie honor and attendance necklaces.

I could go on and on.......there will be plenty of time for that around the next campfire. More info to come, let's start packing.......

Graduation Day ~ May 5, 2007

Having my son surprise me by flying in with my little granddaughter for my graduation meant alot to me. I hope someday, knowing that she was at her Grandma's college graduation, will be important to her. And I plan to be in the cheering section when she graduates, too.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home

In their day, rotating restaurants were the architectural cutting edge of fine establishments for discriminating diners. People would book reservations weeks in advance for a spot on the rotating floor of these restaurants, most of which were located somewhere near the top of (what were then) very tall buildings. In terms of todays wind-generated swaying towers in Dubai and roller coasters that careen off the top of hotels in Vegas, a rotating restaurant on the 15th floor of a modest hotel isn't architecturally remarkable, but they are a delicious little taste of seasons past. The Top of the Tower Restaurant at the Holiday Inn just off the freeway in my hometown was no exception. In it's day, the Top of the Tower was the hot-spot of choice for prom dates, anniversary dinners and (I've heard) clandestine romantic liasons.


How handy....great restaurant, hotel rooms just a short ride up the elevator. You get the picture. Of course I am referring to anniversary dates and romantic liasons, NOT of the prom-kind. It was a kinder, gentler era...remember??
No all night parties and girls who did it on prom night were naughty.

I digress.
Let's get back to the Top of the Tower at the Holiday Inn. No longer a restaurant, the place is now a lovely banquet ballroom, rented out for parties and such. Children of my friends held a beautiful wedding reception there recently, the first time I'd been in the place in many, many years. The bride and the groom were friends of my son, so he and his girlfriend were at the party too, their first visit.

Does it REALLY rotate? They wanted to know. I wasn't sure. The place first opened more than 40 years ago. That's alot of years for a restaurant/ballroom to keep spinning. When we arrived the large elevated circular floor was still in place, just as I remembered, but it was stationary. Maybe the floor didn't move anymore. We toasted the bride and groom, enjoyed our dinner and didn't give it much more thought.

After the cake, I got up from my chair to mingle and visit friends at other tables until the music started and the newlyweds stepped out on the floor for their first dance.

Time for a picture! I walked over to my table to retrieve my purse and camera from under it, where I'd tucked it. Did I consider it a little odd that a man and a woman had decided to take my seat after I'd gotten up? Not really. It was a good spot, right in front of the room by the bridal table and overlooking the dance floor. They probably wanted to move closer to be able to see what was going on.

"Excuse me," I interrupted the couple as they chatted. "I'm sorry to bother you, but if you'll excuse me, could I get my purse out from under the table. I left it under there, right down by your legs."

As I explained to them, I lifted up the draping of the tablecloth and tried reaching past them, under the table.

They looked a little perplexed. "We've been sitting here all night." they explained. "We don't have your purse."

I chuckled to myself. Ok, these folks probably have been enjoying the champagne, trust me people, I'm not trying to play with your legs. "If you wouldn't mind, it's just down under the table by your legs. If I could just get my purse, I don't mind if you sit here. I'll move. It's no problem. Really." I reached for the tablecloth near their legs again, determined to get my purse. Visions of identify theft ran through my head. Is that my drivers license I see hiding under her crumpled napkin on the table.....

"Lady. We got here early." the man said. "We've been sitting here ALL NIGHT. We DON'T have your purse." He got up from the table and with a little more disgust than gentlmanly flourish, pulled back the draping of the cloth. "SEE?? Like we said. NO PURSE."

I thought I was going to cry. Something wasn't right. Have I fallen and can't get up? The room was funny. I felt funny. Who has stolen my purse. Am I still in Kansas? Oh Auntie Em, Auntie Em, where are my ruby slippers.....

"MA!"

I recognize the voice of my son, somewhere in the distance. It has a vague ring of familiarity combined with subtle (?) overtones of impatience. He's rolling his eyes. No, I don't have my glasses on so no, I can't see them. But they're rolling. I FEEL it.

"MA!!! OVER HERE." My own eyes, not unlike those of some startled doe blinded by the surprise of headlights, dart around in the direction of his summons. I'm further confused to find him sitting with all our friends on the other side of the room. When did they move? Why did they move? How was I supposed to know they moved? Are they playing tricks on me? Is it my imagination or is the wind coming up?? Toto!!!??? Toto!!!!!!!!!!???? Find the cellar door......!!!!!

I can see his eyes rolling now as my son walks straight towards me and takes my arm. "It's moving, Mom. The restaurant is rotating. Come here and leave those nice people alone. This is your table over here."

Oh.
Rotating. Well yes, of course. That's it. The room is rotating.
Fussing with the edge of the tablecloth, trying to smooth it back into place, the nice man shoos me on my merry way like some sort of annoying summer bug as I try to explain my behavior in as few sentences as possible.

"It moves, you see. Well, what I mean is........how funny this is, you're going to think this is the funniest thing, I'm sure of it! You see, I was here before, actually. Well, apparently actually not, but......well my goodness it seems you are right. This is your table. And that is mine! How funny is that........I mean about my purse! Of course that's not my license under your napkin, we don't even look alike, what good would it do you.........."

"Mom, tell the nice people goodbye." My son insists, pulling me off in the direction of familar faces and the comforting sight of my own wine glass.

Now I know what Grandma feels like when she wanders off from the nursing home during the attendants afternoon smoke break.

Remembering

Sun-fried and exhausted from a day at a California beach, my aunt handed me the phone and I listened to my mom, on the other end of the line back home in the Midwest, as she told me my best friend's brother had been killed in Vietnam.

1969?? I think. He was a few short days from coming home after a long tour. Wife, new baby. He was the big brother every little sister looks up to. Wild and fun with some fire in his eyes. I helped pack one of the boxes his mom sent off to him every few weeks. Canned cherry pie filling was his favorite. "Don't worry Mom," his last letter said. "They moved me in off the line now since I'm coming home soon. I'm as safe as if I was right there at home with you and Dad."

He came home right on schedule, wrapped in a flag.

Twenty or so years later, I stood on a small town sidewalk and waved goodbye as bus loads of National Guard troops left town, destined for the Middle East and what American History would remember as Desert Storm. It's funny, the one thing I remember about that day was the bright, yellow gloves I was wearing. I stared at them as I waved, knowing that history repeats itself, the timing seemed uncomfortably right. I knew the next time I waved like this, it would likely be at one of my own sons.

As it fell into place, some years later, my son flew out of a military base in California and I didn't get a chance to wave goodbye to him at all. He called me from the airport before he climbed onto the plane that was the start of his journey to Iraq to tell me not to worry and remind me that no matter what happened, he was proud to be an American soldier doing what he felt was right. I remember thinking of all those cans of cherry pie filling as I said goodbye.

At the disconnect of a cell phone began the intolerable echo of defeaning silence, a silence that rang so loud in my ears I couldn't sleep for many nights.

My son came home.
Many did not.
This weekend I will bake him a cherry pie and take time to remember.

Bi-Partisan Lunch

The promise of a melt-in-your-mouth tuna melt seems good enough reason to stand in the door of Francie's around noon, testing out the theory that staring down diners who happened to be smarter than you and showed up early can be shamed into wolfing their lunch, thus sparing you the indignity of public stomach gurgling and fainting dead away while clinging to the hope of impending sustenance.

I shared my stare-down theory with the lady standing next to me last Friday, inviting her to join in the exercise and it didn't take long for the two of us to agree that the key to making people feel guilty is definitely eye contact........and most folks make little of it when dipping fries in ketchup.

"So," I asked her, turning from our research project, "how's life after the big house??"

We'd never met before but I knew she'd recently moved from a pretty impressive home. Folks around here call the place Terrace Hill. Christie Vilsak laughed and said it was really fun, sort of like starting all over.

"We bought a condo and it's alot smaller of course. I used to have an office and now I just have a chair where I pile things. We've got four plates, two or three forks...you know how it is when you first start out?? That's us. We keep bumping into eachother in the hallway."

I'm sitting here looking around my place and I think I need to hold a general election, the term of all this STUFF needs to expire. How long have I been here? Four years. Four years from a little apartment with a few boxes of stuff and I have somehow over the months, in the name of "someday I might need it", accumulated more stuff than one person could ever be expected to use.

Problem #1 - Yes. I am a pack rat. I can take a clean space and fill in the corners with stuff. I love stuff. I must. No one else is hauling it in the front door.

Problem #2 - Once I have stuff, I forget that I have it. Frequently I find myself purchasing stuff I need, only to discover a short while later, I now have double stuff.

Problem #3 - Well of course, someday I might need it.

Old dogs can learn new tricks. Debbie can learn a thing or two from a Democrat. Christie is onto something. If the former governor/presidential candidate and his wife don't need more than a couple of forks, what am I doing with a whole drawer full of them??

Extracurricular Activities

 

All work and no play makes Debbie a dull girl.
Thus I agreed to visit a nearby casino and learn the fine art of playing BINGO. Thinking it would put some sort of cosmic odds in my favor, I bought the Elvis-Themed four-pack of dot-dobbers. Sadly, I went home empty-handed, but my spent bingo-sheets had enough fuschia and orange dobs to make a fine 70's sort of wallpaper.

Graduation Day

On the day I graduated with my business degree there were cameras flashing all day long. Eventually I will sort all of the photos out into some sort of sensible order. My little 3-year old granddaughter flew in to surprise me for the ceremony that day. Always and forever, this will be my favorite memory.

This age thing....

Perhaps repeated attempts by the AARP to recruit me into their fold like some sort of aged, greying ewe should have been a solid clue but until this evening I really have not felt like a woman of 50 years, much less what many young people call folks my age..........OLD. Well, I'm feeling it tonight, all right.

I live in a neighborhood of automatic garage doors and nameless, faceless people who drive in and out of them. I've joked many times but it's true--Osama Bin Laden may very well be hiding out in any one of the townhouse units in my block. No one would ever know. He could be coordinating the entire network of his bad-guy crew from a laptop in a living room just across the driveway while I'm standing at my morning stove making oatmeal. The only time I learn anything about my neighbors is when they move out. Or they move in, as is the case this evening.

Even as I watch the NCIS coroner dissect some poor, murdered fellow on my evening tube, I see from the corner of my eye activity beyond my window where the contents of a large livestock trailer are being unloaded into the vacant townhouse across the street. In the drop of a tailgate, the crash of a set of box springs this peaceful, idyllic and oh-so blissfully anonymous life as I have known it, is passing before my eyes. It appears that the boys from Animal House are moving in.

Somewhere from way back in my Sunday School years I remember a Bible verse instructing me not to judge my neighbor by the condition of their cattle trailer, but seven guys under the age of 25 unloading a truckload of personal belongings............all neatly smashed into drawstring trashbags....worries me just a tad. Even as a fight the impulse to pull out binoculars and sneak upstairs for a much closer look, I fear the quiet spring nights of falling asleep to the comforting sound of the croaking frogs in the nearby woods, will soon be but a memory.

Neighbors!!! Hey you, yes YOU over there living in the other units. Are you peeking out YOUR front windows, too?? Do you SEE what's going on here?? Are you worried?? I see KEGS in our future, people!!! Kegs and kegs and more kegs. Tell me you're worried, too!!!

They're wearing ball caps. BALL CAPS!!!! And they're talking loud. Really loud. And wearing NFL t-shirts. And one of them is leaning out the upstairs window shouting at the others. (Didn't I see this scene, this VERY scene, in Animal House II: Nightmare on Brook Run Drive??? Hey!!! Wait just a minute, I LIVE on Brook Run Drive!!!) And they're all GUYS, have I mentioned that. All guys. There must be hundreds of them. Oh THERE GO MY QUIET NIGHTS OF PEACEFUL SLEEP..........

I remind myself to get a grip.
Wait a minute, Deb. Things could be worse. They could worship Satan or something.
Oh. My. God. THEY COULD WORSHIP SATAN!!!!!! OR SOMETHING!!!!!
Worse yet, they'll play loud music. At all hours, no doubt!! Dear Lord, tell me those are matching dressers and not stereo speakers they are dragging across the lawn and in through the front door.

The trailer just left. The front door closed and the garage door went down. All is quiet.
Ok, well maybe they'll fit in.....

Listen to me. When did I start worrying more about my good nights sleep and less about whether any of those boys might have single dads?

Age. Now I know.
It happens. Gradually and ever-so- slowly. But it happens.

Wednesday Night / Class Night

Sunday on the plane home from Denver I leaned into the headrest, eyes closed, and thought ahead to the coming week. Ok, I'll get home tonight around 11, tomorrow is Monday....that's the night I meet with my study group, do I have my part of this week's presentation done?? Was I supposed to email PowerPoint slides to Molly?? Quiz?? Do I need to study for the qui.......................heyyyyyyyyyy!!! Wait JUST a minute...........I'm done with school.

It's been one week since our last class. I wonder how Jolene's new job is going. Has Paula gotten back out on the dance floor yet? Shaylon's girls have to be happy to have mom home on Wednesday nights and I hope Kelli keeps sending me pictures of baby Makenna. Jerry is udoubtedly suntanned and smiling on his beach holiday, while Molly is kicking up her heels in Vegas to celebrate her graduation. I'm sure all us girls wonder what on earth Todd is going to do now that he is no longer the Dude surrounded by team chicks, I understand Alisha and Heidi stayed out half the night singing karaoke and Paula still has another couple of classes to go, having missed a couple when her mom was so sick. No doubt in my mind Nick will be a Fortune 500 bigshot one of these days, Brian and his wife are hoping to start a family.

These are the only people that will really understand. We sat together in the same classroom every week for over two years. Here is how I described it in my final paper about the experience:

I arrive early most Wednesdays, often the first to drop my books and bags next to the chair where, not by any instructor direction, but simply by habit, I sit every night of class and have for the past two and a half years. Often Paula arrives first and I walk in to find her eating her dinner, cruising the Internet. The third floor room is quiet for a few minutes and then my classmates begin to wander in, carrying not only their computers and books, but the burdens of a full work day and life they must try and leave at the door for the next four hours as we learn.

I’ll bring my camera next week. Chances are I’ll not run into these people again, at least not often. Despite the fact that most of us have lived in the same city for years, I met each one of them for the first time in this space.

“Hi, my name is Jerry. I’ve been with Qwest for over 20 years.”

“I’m Jolene. I’m a paralegal and I also work as a home respite caregiver.”

One by one, we introduced ourselves that first night. Name. Occupation. Ambitions. We are a diverse group of men and women and one by one our stories have unfolded over the months. Kelli and Kristi had their babies. Molly lost her job. Shaylon kept working on her business plan. How quickly the months have passed. Friends say to me, “I can’t believe you’re almost done, it seems like just yesterday you were starting school….”

Others understand just exactly what a long haul it’s been. Nearly every Sunday, 48 weeks out of the year, spent at Barnes and Noble, drinking Starbucks all afternoon as I struggled over algebra and accounting with my little calculator has taken its toll on my social life. I ran into a long-lost acquaintance just yesterday afternoon. I hadn’t seen him for years,
“Are you remarried yet??” he asked.

Oh please. Make me laugh. My divorce was final three months before I enrolled in school and my head has been in books ever since. Remarried?? Seriously??? With the only likely candidates the mohawk’d barista that brews my Mocha Latte and the guy who occasionally has to locksmith me into my house when I forget and leave my keys at school (in my car, in my desk at work, on the counter at Target…) the possibilities have been remote.

It’s almost over. When I walk about of this building for the last time, my classmates are the best memory I will take with me. We’ve been through a lot together. Looking back, I almost quit before I really got started…..

“You’re going to be on academic probation for the first six months because of your low high school GPA.” My advisor sat across the table from me and refused to listen to my explanation of the arcane grading system that the Des Moines Public Schools used in the 60’s and 70’s. Report cards bestowed 1’s, 2’s and 3’s instead of A’s, B’s and C’s with “1” being the “A” of my graduating class. Thus, my GPA of 1.3, which indicated a spot of honor in the upper 20% on the day I received my diploma, didn’t impress the nice folks at William Penn. Even when they received my transcript and it revealed that I was ranked 72 in a class of over 800---they laughed when I pointed out that their logic meant that over 700 of the graduating class of 1973 at Lincoln High School…..were failing. The people in the CWA office said they called the Des Moines Public Schools and were told I was wrong. My advisor pretty much called me a liar. I almost quit right there. It was a bad way to start out.

My first classes at William Penn left me wondering what I’d gotten myself into. They were easy. “Is this college?” I wondered. It was just too easy, easier than I expected. How could I be learning anything??? Maybe I’d chosen the wrong school, I wanted to learn---not just skate by four years for a piece of paper.

Of course, the classes got tougher. Eventually I realized those first courses, and a number of them to follow, were fairly easy for me because I’mreasonably smart, I read alot and I’ve been in the business world a long time. I’m sure, had I been a traditional-aged student experiencing the same courses, they would have been tougher. After a year or so I realized that raising teenagers, serving on community boards, supervising employees and even raising funds for the volunteer fire department are learning experiences in themselves. In truth, I never stopped learning. I’ve been a student since the day I walked across the stage and received my high school diploma. (In the upper 20% of my class, I might mention again, but seriously I’m over it.)

As I complete my studies in this program for working adults I now have the advantage of retrospect and I find that I have learned a tremendous amount, not all of which can be quantified by the completion of a course or the earning of a grade.

I learned the most from my classmates and our weekly interaction. From all walks of life, with experiences as diverse as our ethnic and cultural backgrounds, I couldn’t have anticipated the wealth of knowledge I would gain from knowing my classmates. Over the months we’ve shared our home lives, our backgrounds, our work experiences, our opinions, our hopes and our dreams with one another. We’ve questioned and coached one another, we’ve troubled over problems and presentations, assembled power point presentations and delivered innumerable speeches in front of one another. When one of us was struggling with algebra, another of us who was a math whiz stepped up to help us along. When the math folks stressed over compositions and written papers, those of us who can spell in our sleep edited papers. Of all the elements required to complete this program, meeting regularly with a study group troubled me the most. I have never liked committee work, team work. I have always preferred to work alone. From the first day in class I dreaded having to work as part of a team, realizing now that I’m a bit of a control freak and I didn’t want to hand over any of the controls to anyone else.

I have learned, as a result of this requirement, to collaborate and realize now that this is a valuable skill in today’s world. I still love to work alone. But I now understand the importance of being able to function as part of a group.

I have also learned a tremendous amount from the variety of instructors that visited our classrooms. Not all of them were what I would consider to be competent. Not all of them were interesting. A few of them were not even nice. But I have come to understand that competence, a great personality and an entertaining manner of delivery are not critical elements and I learned something from every one of my instructors. The majority of them were wonderful and I felt they really invested themselves in helping us learn. In particular I remember Dave Hudson’s ability to pull his chair into the center of a room and tell us stories about history in a way I’ve never experienced it. No podium. No PowerPoint. No video. Just one man’s ability to deliver his personal fascination with history into the minds of people who had already been up for 12 hours and worked an 8-hour day in the simplest way. I wished his classes had lasted for a year. Every time I walk past a classroom and see Dave inside with another class I still think to myself how lucky they are to be learning from him.

Earning my bachelors degree is a personal accomplishment of which I am immensely proud. It took courage for me to start school and perseverance to stick with it. I’ve done a lot of things in my life and the only thing that eclipses this experience in terms of personal achievement would be raising my kids. Raising babies is not for the faint of heart. And for sure, neither is starting college when you’re 46 years old. I'm so glad I've done both.

All I have to say at this point is...................bring on the homework-free weekends!!

Trunk Show / San Fran

A very tall, very handsome guy took pity on Holly as she struggled over the to-go order I sent with her to read aloud at the Starbucks counter and ended up adopting her, well I'm not sure that's what you'd call it.........adoption.....I think the police and America's Most Wanted have another name for it. Nevertheless and needless to say a very tall, very handsome guy followed Holly out of Starbucks, back across the street and into the gallery where we were working on Friday.

His name was Mark and have I mentioned that he was very tall and while I am, on occasion, given to pontification and amplified description, I would like to note such is not the case this time, the guy was absolutely H O T. But of course he was a stalker so it would be in poor taste for either of us to have entertained his attention or acknowledged the temperature of his appeal.

Even though he was very tall and very handsome-hot.

We'd been in the San Francisco area all of maybe three hours and Holly is very young and very cute and I am very not-young and definitely on the weathered and slightly worn side of cute........well, you can see where this is going....so to have a very tall and handsome-hot Mark not only follow Holly back to the gallery but invite us both to hook up with him later, after we were done for the evening and "make a memory out of this weekend" was something of a surprise as this sort of thing hardly ever happens at my Starbucks on Fleur Drive, ok there I go again with the dramatic amplification of the truth, no, the truth is this sort of thing damn well never ever happens at my Starbucks on Fleur Drive.

We graciously declined the invitation, mostly because it was the wise and proper thing to do and when you're on-the-clock and working for someone, the wise and proper thing to do is what you mostly do, but we probably should have let our hair down, pulled on our naughty shoes and followed him down the street for what undoubtedly would have been alot less trouble than we feared and alot more fun than we imagined. Sigh. Next time.

But I bring up the story for a reason. Just before Mark left the store he turned to Holly and as he said goodbye, he touched her wrist in a very deliberate way sort of as if to tag her and say "you're it!" and then he chuckled and said to her, "There. That'll give you something to talk about when you tell everyone in Des Moines, Iowa about your big adventure in California." The voice, the look on his face, the chuckle.......we knew exactly what he meant. Mark was black and he was implying that it would be a big story to go back to home and tell people she'd not only TALKED to but had been TOUCHED by a black man. (Incredibly tall and handsome-hot, have I mentioned?)

And that's the kind of thing we run into all the time.........misperceptions about the Midwest.
If my experiences in various cities around the country are any clue, I'd guesstimate that 3/4 of the people I meet think that I ride a John Deere tractor to work and would plum fall right off that big thing and rip my britches if I ever saw a real live negro in my neighborhood. Sometimes it is annoying, sometimes it is amusing and sometimes I just play along. Why do I care if complete strangers think my back yard is a hog lot and I have to push aside stalks of corn to get to the clotheslines where my dungarees and red-check shirt hang??? Does it matter that they haven't a clue that my next-door neighbor is black, his wife is white, the baby is a fabulously gorgeous combination of both............and their color is the last thing anyone notices or cares about when we're all out in our yards planting spring flowers???

This weekend I stood talking to a mother and college-age daughter about Sticks furniture and they asked where it was made. "Des Moines, Iowa," I repeated for them, like I'd shared with a dozen customers before them that morning. "Iowa," said the daughter, turning to her mom, "Where is Iowa?"

"Kind of North," her mother motioned into the air with her hand, indicating that it was a long, long way and at the same time assuring her that it didn't really matter. (Note to Schwarzenneger: Buy those kids some geography books!)

So that's how it goes. We say we're from Iowa and people always say, "WHY???!!!!"
Why??? What kind of a response is that??
Whyyyyyyyyy??????? Well, why not?

I've yet to come up with an answer that I like. "Because that's where we live." How boring is that?? It's too honest, too easy.

I'll come up with a better answer one of these days, perhaps it will come to me in the middle of the night. Or maybe as I'm coming in from slopping the hogs.

In the meantime, I'll be careful to clean off my boots before I walk on the gallery floors. And will start to look around for a bit of trouble when I'm at Starbucks and say yes to making great memories.

Crawling out from under my rock..........

Greetings and academic salutations, the loud thunk you are about to hear is the sound of my bookbag being tossed onto the bedroom floor for the last time. After cloistering myself innumerable Sunday's at my favorite table at Barnes and Noble, hoping that White Chocolate Mocha really is the key to a deeper understanding of Accounting and Production Management, I'm trading in my Student I.D. card for a flowing, bathrobe-y sort of outfit, accessorized by a blue and gold tassle which I will wear once and turn into a pillow in a few years when I get to the nursing home. Maybe several pillows, and I'll thank you to buy one at the home's annual Holiday Handmade Crafts Sale..........because I will be writing checks for student loans long after most of my contemporaries are dead, your pennies will help.

You see I will not be allowed to die like the rest of you. Nosiree, I believe I have stumbled onto a Fountain of Youth none of the rest of you people had even thought of: Go to college late in life, take out student loans and pay them into your old age. You think Uncle Sam is going to let me die before he gets his last nickel?? Doubtful. I envision special legislative sessions to authorize funds for feeding tubes and ventilators. (Can we let her go now??? Not yet!!!! She's got 400 more payments to make!!!!!!) Feel free to give me notes. I'll hand them to your great-great grandchildren when their class makes a field trip to see what a 175-year old woman really looks like.

Yes, it's all but over. I have one more class this week. I have to turn in a couple of papers, give a short presentation, thank my teacher and head off to the bar with all my classmates where we plan to celebrate en masse as soon as he says, "Class dismissed."

What now?? You're all asking. I'm not sure I have an answer. Grad school?? Yes, I'd love to....but please refer to the previous paragraphs. Being alive to witness Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's great-grandchildren grow old just doesn't appeal to me. While I reserve the right to change my mind should I A) win the lottery B) meet a sugar daddy or C) graduate school becomes free..........I'll reconsider. For now I am in search of the social life I lost somewhere along the way.

It's true. A few weeks ago I lifted up the edge of this academic rock I've been living under and took a peek outside, only to realize that I've completely lost connection with my friends and family over the past four years. You all think I've either died or gotten really boring, don't you.

Hello!!!!!! Hey!!!! Down here!!!! I'm still here!!!!!! No, I haven't died. Perhaps I am boring...... you'll have to be the judge and I hope to give you the opportunity soon. Let's have lunch! Dinner! Drinks! Let's email! Road trip! Camp! Go places! Dance! Do things! See people!!! When was the last time..............oh my goodness, but it's been too long.

ATTENTION WORLD : I am back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Special Note to Camper Girls: I put this page together last fall, especially hoping to reconnect with you. I got as far as composing the page.........where does the time go?????? Anyway, I miss you. Let's gather. Soon!

Calling all Camper Girls

It's time to meet in the woods.

Calling All Camper Girls

Perhaps it is the promise of impending sweatshirt weather in the air that reminds me how much I miss my Camper Girls?? I am thinking of them today, scheming an evening beneath the stars before snow falls. Must check dates and review social calendar with Princess Janie.