A Wake-Up Call to Action

I am politically challenged. My eyes glaze over at the sight of a candidate on the TV screen. Before an election, I always need to go to the "election for dummies" websites to find out about the people I'm supposed to vote for. To me, politics are as interesting as dryer lint.

But now I find myself smack in the middle of a political catastrophe. The county budget proposal has cut my library's funding. Completely. $2 million plus, boom, gone, just because the incoming democrats promised not to raise taxes. Weeping and gnashing of teeth all around me. And suddenly, I find myself writing a letter to a politician. And wondering what else I can do to effect a change.

Just the other day I was thinking about my job, and how I could be doing the same thing for another 10 or 15 years. I think of work always being there, just like I trust that my car will always start when I turn the key, or that a light will go on when I flip the switch. Now, there's a very real prospect, if the community fails to convince the powers that be that a local public library is crucial, that my place of employment will close its doors. Just when I was starting to feel a part of it, a valued member of the staff, no longer the newbie. My coworkers and I are all walking around a little bit stunned, not knowing whether to trust that our patrons will protest enough to change the commissioners' minds, or update our resumes.

I do not relish the thought of job searching, now that I'm just on the downhill side of 50. It only took me two weeks to get this job, but I came from a library and sent resumes only to libraries, and just happened to hit the right place at the right time. Do I really want to risk this happening to me again? And how many of my coworkers would I be competing against? I know, in this day and age, no job is truly secure. But I tend to think that a non-government job might be a little safer--and probably pay more.

I went through all this just a little over a year ago--trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. Thinking about what kind of job I'd be able to get with my limited education. Wondering if a 9 to 5 office job would be stimulating enough. Worrying that I would get stuck somewhere where my creativity and imagination would not be valued or needed.

Where else can I go where I can do things like building a giant board game? Where I can spend an afternoon looking at craft books and dreaming up projects and programs? Where I am routinely challenged to come up with new ideas? What other job can I get where children light up when they see me, like when I'm sitting in the back of the bookmobile, ready to read to them? Where else can I share my love of reading by recommending my favorite kids' books?

Tonight at work I was straightening shelves and thinking about little maintenance projects that needed to be done to the collection. Then I wondered if it really mattered, if we are merely trying to bail out a sinking ship. I could believe the evil voices whispering in my ear, or I could have faith that right will prevail, and continue to walk through the doors every day with the same optimistic spirit and sense of fun and adventure that I always do. I don't want this heavy spirit weighing me down at Christmastime. I want to keep thinking up new things to do for and with the kids. I want to expect to be visiting the elementary schools in the spring, getting kids jazzed for our summer reading program. I want to look forward to getting my 5-year thank-you trinket from the library director.

And so I shall. Forget the what-ifs, Satan.

But I'm still updating my resume.

Surrender

For the first time since maybe I was a child, I backed down from a challenge.

Throughout my whole life, I have set out to prove to anyone who tells me I can't do something that I can.  And I generally do.  Not that anyone told me I couldn't do this particular thing.  It was, in fact, mastering the playing of handbells with extremely challenging music.  I can play handbells.  That's not the point.  This particular choir of handbells is the "varsity team"--a higher level of playing with harder music that contains intricate rhythms and techniques.  I tried it.  Gave it several weeks.  And I was getting it, but still blundering through.  The people around me, more adept and musically gifted, waited patiently while I struggled.

I thought I was equal to the challenge.  And maybe I am.  But I guess I just got tired.  It was hard, but I never before backed away from hard.  Somewhere in the midst of all this, I felt that I was holding the rest of the group back, that my pride and stubbornness were ruining what could otherwise be a nearly flawless performance. 

And so I suggested to the director that she give me some bells that weren't so crucial to the melody (where my flubs are more glaringly evident).  I'm still on the varsity team.  It's still challenging.  But when I make mistakes (and there are many) they're not nearly as noticeable.  I still feel as if I've conceded defeat.

A friend once told me that I do everything so well.  I told her that I only do things that I can do well.

I thought I did handbells well.  If I worked hard enough, I was sure, I'd be able to succeed with this new challenge.  But then I decided that I didn't want to work that hard.

Does that mean I'm getting old?  Or am I just too busy with everything else I'm doing to devote the energy to tackling this?

I've reached a time in my life where I'm starting to let go of some of my dreams.  When I don't believe I will achieve things that I thought one day I might do.  Because of physical limitations, decreased abilities due mostly to the aging and settling of my body and my mind.  It doesn't matter how impractical or improbable those things might be (did I ever think I'd try skydiving?), it's depressing to consider that I'm probably beyond a reasonable time in my life when I could accomplish some of them.

I'm now an avid reader of AARP magazine, and I marvel when I read about octogenarians running marathons and running corporations.  This should give me renewed incentive to work toward the things I'd like to do before I die.  My life is far from over, and I can be active and productive for decades.  But there is this slow dawning that time is running out.  And honestly, I'm not sure I want to work that hard anymore.

Maybe I'm just tired.  I can tell myself that for a little while longer, at least.

Who Are You?

I was shocked recently to read that Australia had instituted a third "gender" on their passports: Indeterminate. For those sexually ambiguous folk, mid-transgender, or what have you. Meaning, I guess, that what lies underneath doesn't match what's seen on the surface.

It makes me think of a child who regularly visits my library. Or, more accurately, the adult who brings him. This person is quite apparently his parent, as the facial resemblance is unmistakable. But is that person his mother or father? The parent in question sports a short, spiky hairdo and wears baggy, unisex-style clothing which masks any telling body shape. The voice is most assuredly feminine, yet one day I noticed a five-o'clock-shadow. The name--Shawn--really doesn't nail it one way or another. I am itching to know: Male going female? Female going male? And why is it so important for me to know if this is the little guy's mother or father? Why is gender identity so inherent in our society?

I was raised on a farm, where chores needed to be done no matter who did them. I heaved hay bales, drove tractor, and helped castrate bulls and boars alongside my brothers. Okay, so the boys got to run the heavy machinery, while my sister and I cleaned the house and cooked--it was the 60's, after all. And maybe that had less to do with that being "women's work" and more that my sister and I were diminutive in stature (hard to believe if you could see us now) and physically unable to meet the demands of field work, and Mom worked full time and the house had to get cleaned. During the summers we all made our own lunches, and my brothers could whip up a mean fried hamburger or scrambled eggs all by themselves. (I don't, however, recall them ever having picked up a dust rag.)

So I grew up not so bound by perceived gender limitations as some of my contemporaries had. I never thought there was anything I couldn't do simply because I was a girl. I barreled through life expecting to do whatever I wanted to, no matter what society thought was proper. I was raised to be my own person, and bristled whenever anyone suggested I couldn't do something, working to prove that I could. I was glad that I knew how to run a household, but fully expected my partner in life (and yes, I did play with dolls and expect to be a mommy someday) to share the task.

I managed to marry a man who, while growing up in a more "traditional" household, had a father who regularly cooked dinner and washed the dishes. (He also had a very domineering mother and was used to being told what to do by a woman.) While we fell into the customary patterns of the wife doing the domestic thing and the husband doing the outdoor tasks, my Big Kahuna is not averse to periodically throwing in a load of laundry or regularly scrubbing the pots and pans, and I do the lion's share of the yard work (although he has dibs on the ginormous riding mower, even though at age 12 I was driving a beast three times that size). But never once did he chastise me for installing a new bathroom sink faucet or assembling our daughter's bicycle one Christmas or erecting the backyard swing set. I grunt just as loudly with a power tool in my hand as Tim Allen does. And he has spent dozens of hours waiting outside women's dressing rooms while our daughter has selected school clothes, because he knows shopping is just not my thing.

Yet, despite the fact that I will choose denim and flannel over satin and lace every time, that I'm much more graceful in work boots than in pumps, I am most decidedly, and proudly, a woman. I would be insulted if anyone suggested otherwise.

But what, really, does that mean? Am I proud of having breasts? Of the ability to bear children? Because, technically, I am capable of doing most anything a man does--aside from any physical limitations.

Which brings us to the physical differences between men and women. And is that the sole reason why we need gender identities? I would sure want to know if I were attracted to an "indeterminate" someone. Why? Because I personally desire natural purity. I'm a farm girl. I can't help thinking that a girl physically desiring to be a boy or a boy physically desiring to be a girl goes against nature. On the most basic level, that arrangement can't naturally reproduce. (And, as a bona fide red-blooded female, it gives me the willies.)

As a Christian, I believe that this isn't what God had in mind for us. You may say that God created a person "that way". The jury's still out on nature vs. nurture. All I know is that in all my years living on a farm, I have never observed a gay animal. I think our minds have a lot to do with our physical desires. God allows us free will, but I don't think He is happy with a lot of our human decisions. I can't know the struggles of someone who feels her soul was placed in the wrong type of body. But I do know what it's like to fight against what God has intended for me. It's so much easier to follow our human desires, but deep down each of us knows what is truly right, and I wonder if the "indeterminates" regularly squelch an innate sense of wrongdoing, or if they truly feel at peace with their decision. I'm a big believer in that gnawing internal uneasiness as a moral warning.

For medical reasons, it's important to know true gender. I will never get prostate cancer. My husband will never experience the joys of menopause. If the "indeterminate" Australian person's plane goes down, how can we identify the body? Are we looking for a man or a woman? Bottom line, I think you should go by the equipment you own, no matter how much it pains you.

I'm trying to imagine a future world where gender doesn't matter. Will it ever happen? I think there are too many sirens who enjoy displaying their womanly figures and too many men posturing to win their attention. Too many men in positions of power and too many women content with it that way. On a sexual level, I think we will always want to know. The "indeterminates" will eventually be socially tolerated, because the people who don't accept them will be labeled as rigid, homophobic racists or something and be shamed into silence. But will they be pigeonholed into their own "gender" or mixed in with whichever gender they prefer to identify themselves as, leaving the poor heterosexual purists to discover the truth in an embarrassing and possibly painful way?

As for my little library friend, growing up in a sexually ambiguous household? (And yes, I've seen the other parent, who is undeniably female.) Are the kids really all right?

Aftershocks

I had been at my job as children's librarian when a patron announced that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. How tragic, I remember thinking. A random incident, an unfortunate pilot error. Minutes later, another plane hit the other tower. Not so random. The world suddenly shifted.

Americans could no longer be complacent. For the first time ever, many of us felt fear for our personal safety. We were no longer invincible. Terrorists had struck our Achilles' heel, momentarily crippling us.

Two weeks previously, we had taken my parents into New York City for their 50th wedding anniversary.  We'd taken a bus tour, which took us right under the walkway connecting the twin towers.  My mother took a picture of the towers from the Ellis Island ferry.  My California brother, who'd flown out to join us that day, called me on September 11 to make sure I was okay. We both were reeling from being so recently there, seeing those buildings so sturdy and unshakable, unable to imagine them reduced to dust and shrapnel.

At home, just a 50-minute drive away from New York City, it was difficult to believe such tragedy was happening on a day so serene in my neighborhood. Six local families had lost loved ones. Friends who commuted to the city for work regaled us with stories: The man who stayed home that morning because it was his anniversary. The man who worked in another part of the city who spent the rest of the day trying to get home, eventually walking because mass transit was stalled, until he found a motorist--a stranger--heading in his direction who gave him a lift home. The family who fled Battery Park to rent the house across the street from us.


The worst situations seem to bring out the best in us. 9/11 made heroes out of everyday people. There were plenty of heartwarming and heartbreaking stories.

So what has happened to us in the last ten years? We're at once comforted and annoyed by the imposition of security measures in public places. We do a double-take at swarthy, Middle-Eastern looking men. We wonder if some other covert plan is in the works to take us out. Who is friend? Who is foe?

I think it was good to revisit that day, to remember how our country bonded in those days and weeks afterward. Because time and distance has caused us to forget, a little bit, who we are, how we should be. Even those of us who weren't there that day were changed, and it's good to see how it strengthened us and unified us.

We have moved on. But no, we should never forget.

The Tipping Point

All this excess water in the northeast portion of our country has hit home.  Literally.

I have been seeing tons of photos and videos of my hometown and the area surrounding it, along the Susquehanna River, in the aftermath of tropical storm Lee. That, and my husband tuning in to an ABC special on TV about 9/11, are sucking me into a profound sadness this fine evening of soft temperatures, nearly full moon, and serenading crickets.

So much destruction, so much heartache.  So much hard work ahead of so many people.  I can’t even imagine.  My daughter-in-law-to-be’s childhood home up to its windows in water.  My family amusement park totally washed out.

I feel so helpless.  I feel so heartsick.  I feel so guilty.  Here I am, dry, safe, enjoying electricity and food and my comfy furniture.  Taking my blessings completely for granted.

I know in the coming weeks I will feel compelled to help somehow.  I will roll up my sleeves, lace up my work boots, slide my hands into my work gloves, and do something, somewhere, for someone.  How can I sit by as time slips past and forget?

Game Over!

Yesterday I dismantled my giant gameboard.

In case you didn’t know, I work in the children’s department of the local public library.  And I built a giant gameboard for our summer reading program.

Blame it on the Smithsonian.

I had been tooling around the internet and noticed an article about a giant chess board at the Smithsonian.  While discussing summer programming with the children’s staff, I said, “Hey, the Smithsonian has a giant gameboard.” And my boss said, “Make it so.” Or something like that.  (Probably more like, “Ooh! Wouldn’t that be cool!”)

So I did.  I made a giant gameboard.

How did I start?  I googled “giant game board”, saw tons of chess and checker boards.  But I wanted a different kind of game, one that could be adapted to our summer theme, “One world, many stories”.  A homeschooling mother had devised a game using cardboard squares spread all over the floor, making a giant die out of a box.  The kids had to answer study questions correctly to move ahead.  A teacher had devised a game using questions from the class study of space.  I needed to use the resources at hand.  I had 60 carpet sample squares, and a theme.  How could I tie “One world, many stories” and the library together?  Books, world, books, world… Each book is a world unto itself, right?  My questions could pertain to the various worlds in various books. 

Next I worked out the mechanics of the game.  I chose travel to be my vehicle—a journey around the board to a destination.  A departure square and an arrival square.  Three squares that sent the player ahead one or two spaces.  Three squares that sent the player back two or three spaces.  Two detour squares—one that sent the player significantly ahead, the other sending the player back.  Six question squares (answer them correctly, move ahead extra spaces).

Eight weeks of summer reading, and I wanted to rotate the questions.  So I wracked my brain to come up with 48 questions, six per week, drawn from books our young patrons might have read.  Curious George—Africa.  Madeleine—France.  Babar—Celesteville.  You get the idea.

All the directions cards and questions were laminated for durability (they had to hold up for two months), and I duct-taped them fast to the carpet squares.  The question squares were a special challenge because I wanted to change them every week.  I put each question card inside a plastic sleeve and left the opening side open when duct-taping them to the carpet squares.  Then I trimmed the answer cards to fit under the plastic sleeve, just peeking out so that the kids could see the “Pull out for answer” I had typed at the top.

Now the fun.  Scrambling around on the floor, arranging the squares.  I made duct-tape arrows from one square to the next to indicate the direction of the game.  Then I walked through, stopping at each instruction to make sure I progressed satisfactorily.  At one point I discovered that one square sent you ahead two spaces, where you landed on a square that sent you back two spaces.  You could be stuck in the game forever!  Rearrange!

I found some square gift boxes, stuffed them with packing paper, covered them with colored paper, and stuck adhesive spots for the dice pips (using a “real” die to make sure the pip positions were in the correct places).  Then I covered them with clear Contac paper for durability.  (In hindsight, I should have covered them with colored duct tape and made the spots out of a contrasting color of duct tape.)

I posted a direction sign on an easel next to the game, and waited for the players.  Once the kids found out about it, it was a hit.  Brothers and sisters, grandmas and grandkids, teenagers, everyone wanted to try it out.  We tried to keep a tally (libraries love stats).  Our best week saw about 100 players.  Solitary players grabbed total strangers to play with them.  Kids tossed me the die when they were finished, saying, “That was a good game.”

It was awesome.

I changed the questions every week to keep the game fresh (after the first time through, the kids had memorized the answers).  While most of our patrons are generally not prolific or avid readers, I noticed occasionally a book which was mentioned in my game going off the shelf.

I’d made three dice.  The first two disintegrated after copious patching (with duct tape), the third badly dented by the end of the eight weeks.  (A few small patrons mistook them for soccer balls, apparently.  Or a good place to sit.)  The gameboard tape was curling at the edges, and the plastic sleeves on the question squares had to be replaced halfway through.  After two months, the duct tape arrows were skewed and twisted.

My game had lived a good life.

Now, for my next trick…

Could be a giant maze made out of duct tape.  Or a giant jigsaw puzzle (I have a giant cardboard box propped against my desk for that).  Or maybe an igloo made from milk jugs…

Stormy Weather

It’s a dreary, rainy evening and beef barley soup is bubbling on the stove, garlic bread toasting in the oven.  The forecast for the week is more of the same—storm clouds every day through Sunday.

A week ago we emerged into sunshine after bracing for Hurricane Irene’s wrath, which hit us not nearly as violently as we’d anticipated. Unfortunately, my New England friends were not so lucky. Some folks from my old neighborhood went powerless for almost a week.  School was delayed from opening for three days.  But it’s the Vermonters who bore the brunt of the storm in the least prepared way.  Sure, Jersey flooded, but Jersey always floods.  Nothing new there.

A VT stream during quieter times.

For over 15 years I’ve attended writers’ workshops in central Vermont.  The sudden view of the mountains as I cross the border into the state never fails to take my breath away.  It is at once green and rocky and rugged and tranquil.  Pennsylvania is a beautiful state, but there’s just something different about Vermont.  I spent the summers I didn’t make it up there yearning for it.

So now as I listen to the rain on my window, I think about those Vermonters who are still stranded in their mountain homes, or cleaning up their flood-ravaged properties.  The other day I found a website that showed where roads were closed and bridges washed out.  The road that runs through the picturesque little hamlet of Chester, the route from the Vermont Country Store to my workshop—closed.  The road leading to the Weston Priory—closed.  I can imagine the industrious monks on the mountain, like a busy hive of bees, repairing and restoring their compound.

The Katrina debris we cleared

I want so much to be there, to help somehow.  I itch to clear debris, tear out drywall, install insulation.  After Hurricane Katrina, I made four trips to the Gulf Coast for cleanup and recovery.  Surely there’s some relief organization somewhere that’s organizing work crews for Vermont.  From what I can ascertain by scouring the internet, the biggest problem are the roads—or in some cases, the sudden lack thereof.  I guess once outsiders can get in, maybe groups of recovery workers can help.  That may take months.  Even years.

I’ll be waiting.  In the meantime, if anyone knows what else I can do (besides pray), I’d be glad to hear it.

Am I Crazy??!

People have been suggesting I start a blog for a long time.  So, here it is.  Now, what exactly should I put here? I don't have a product to peddle, a service to broadcast, or a cause to garner support for. But I do have a lot of interest in a lot of different things, a lot of curiosity, a lot of questions, and a lot of opinions. I'm still the new kid on the block in my neighborhood (we've been here for 15 months) so I don't have a lot of social outlets. I spend entirely too much time lurking around on Facebook, vicariously keeping up with my old friends in New England, wishing for more new friends, both online and in-the-flesh. Is it too creepy to seek out strangers to become my virtual friends?

This is the gal whose maid of honor was her pen-pal--back in the pre-PC snail mail days.  (Let it be noted that I did meet her in person several times before I asked her.)  This is either an indication of my level of sanity (or lack thereof), my real-life social ineptitude, or my keen ability to attract kindred spirits through my engaging written word.  Stay tuned and you can figure that one out for yourself.

I find it at once intriguing and a bit scary to think of people I don't know reading something I've written and approving of it, and even agreeing with it.  I don't regularly follow other people's blogs (except my son's--exfandingyourhorizons.com, in case you're interested) but on the occasion when I stumble on one when I'm searching for an obscure recipe or trying to identify a mystery plant in my yard, I am fascinated by their creators.  They don't even know I'm there, eavesdropping on their lives.  Obviously they don't mind, because they've put their stuff out there for me to find.  Just think--I found someone else who planted Fairy Tale eggplant!  Someone else who tweaked a recipe for pickled green beans!  Someone else who wanted to create a giant gameboard!  It's reassuring to know that there is someone else in the universe who shared an experience with you, even if you've never seen her face, heard her voice, or know her address.

Fairy Tale Eggplant

So, I guess that's why I'm here, writing this right now.  Maybe to feel a little more normal, a little less eccentric.  A little less lonely.  I've always felt more comfortable behind a keyboard than with a phone pressed against my ear.  It's easier for me to break the ice with text than with small talk.

You, reading this right now:  Why are you reading this?  Who are you?  I'm curious to find out.