Restocking Happiness

The Community Market, Opelika, AL (43)

The shelves were lined accordingly. The freezers were in place just as you would have expected…just as at any small town market, and the registers were near the doors perfect for easy maneuvering to the car. Bottles of water and fruit juices, and cans of soft drinks spread from one end of the shelf to the next, and organic baby foods and Gerber Graduates Lil’ Entrees covered the metal platforms. Everything was in order just as it should be. Only this wasn’t just a market. This was a market that serves to families in need of a little reinforcement from those willing to help in one way or another. And clearly, with the over 900,000 pounds of food they distributed to almost 7,000 people last year, this market, The Community Market, is serving their community beautifully. And today, hopefully I would be doing so as well.

Is it just me or is everything better when it’s miniature? Mini muffins, miniature golf, miniature sized toilets (I once saw these in a daycare center-talk about wantin’ to give going to the bathroom a shot…these were about the cutest things I had ever seen)…but despite the undeniable urge to skid from one end of the stock room to the other with one foot on the base of the tiny cart and one on the floor, I stayed focused…grabbing pound after pound of 100 calorie packs, Cheerios and Rice Chex, and my basket filled over and over as I moved from room to room watching my cart slowly become empty once again.

After stacking just about everything you could imagine from tiny cups of chunky applesauce to Duncan Hines cake mixes; chocolates, yellows and so on, and then stacking one can perfectly atop another, I’d walk back around to a shelf of utter chaos. And with my personality, you would have thought I would have gotten that “Walking on the kitchen floor after just mopping it” feeling. But I didn’t. In fact, the current state of messiness which I’d cleaned only minutes earlier couldn’t have been more satisfying. The cans with labels upside down and plastic bags turned over this way and that made it undeniably clear that my time had been put to good use, even if it was shown only in the form of cluttered shelves. And after stocking and restocking for hours, the shelves that once were scattered with different types of boxes and containers had become connected with the unending food that filled in every hole, every empty space from before.

Looking around, preparing to make my exit for the day, a tiny, African-American girl, maybe two or three years old, stood closely to her mother. Unusually sure of herself for such a young girl, and wearing a short sleeve shirt with Winnie the Pooh jumping from the center of her chest, she held a box of Quaker Instant Oatmeal more tightly than many children hold their most prized possession from Christmas morning. “Come on Momma” she begged, almost as if she worried someone was planning to snatch the box from her grasp at any given moment. As our eyes met, I could tell she’d already seen a world I’d most likely never know. And yet as she bounced from tile to tile she seemed as happy as any other child I’d met along the way, but with more courage than I quite possibly carry with me today.

Generally for me, a long drive pretty much compares to some kind of torture method complete with whips, stones and an assortment of carving knives. Moving to Dallas, the U-Haul (appropriately coined U-Hell) eventually completely broke down after RJ and I cheered the truck along as it climbed its last hill spewing out smoke and some kind of green junk from the hood. We, along with the pugs sat stranded at a Tennessee truck stop for hours waiting on the light at the end of the tunnel which proved to be a mechanic who explained that the truck was “messed up.” Oh really, I thought…people we’ve got the next Al Einstein on our hands. Then there was the trip home just after moving to Atlanta, when I got stuck on top of a mountain between Knoxville, TN and London, KY where I had to climb the seemingly cotton covered hill to a hotel where I watched the green disappear as the snow fell almost as quickly as the tears shed from my reddened eyes.

But anyhow, this time my travel had proven to be a blessing in disguise. Gazing into the yellow-lined pavement for miles and miles, feeling the inconsistencies of the road I was following…every bump, each piece of tire shed by travelers before me, I thought of the young girl, as I think of her now.

My mom says rather frequently that in any given circumstance, there’s something amazing about the situation in which we find ourselves, even if at that very moment you find yourself pleading to make the moments disappear. For years I’ve often doubted her unsupported wisdom, questioning this bold, but somewhat naive statement I continuously find myself considering. But today, as I drove across state lines something changed for me, and the puzzle pieces fell together as they never had before. I kept thinking over and over about what good could come from families unable to provide the food needed to nourish their young. And then something just clicked and I realized that indeed, as always, my mom was right again. Because these families weren’t facing these times alone. They had found the right places and the right people to nourish their bodies, their minds, and their souls. And their circumstances allowed them to see with what so many of us struggle to find every day…the goodness in the people around them.

Nothing had changed within the four corners that create my small world, and yet the wild flowers held more petals, the branches reaching from the trees waved as if to welcome me home, then bid me adieu, and the sounds echoing below seemed almost endearing…because I now truly understood that each and every road holds its wonders closely, allowing only those who are really looking to see them in their greatest glory.

My Thought

Big Thought, Dallas, TX (42)

Well there I was, deep in the heart of Texas once again. Driving on Highway 183 reminded me of the many times I’d picked up parents, friends and a husband from DFW, and while I’d lived in Dallas for several years, the city felt as though it never had before. The billboards were less familiar, and there seemed to be more signs sending me from Irving toward Oak Lawn. The skyline was taller than I’d remembered, with more buildings against a clearer background, probably because it had been so long since I’d seen it last. But more than anything, for the first time in a long time, I almost felt like an outsider, like a visitor or a tourist. My home away from home now existed only in the memories I’d collected, and surprisingly, I was unbelievably saddened by this new revelation. From the moment I’d arrived in Dallas just over four years ago, I was immediately ready to move back to the Bluegrass State, but sometime during those four years, the yellow rose of Texas had made its way into my heart. So yet another wonderful day was inevitably upon us, and I was ready to once again become acquainted with the Lone Star State that can only be…Texas.

My time in Dallas would be spent at Big Thought, an organization created just over twenty years ago “to make imagination a part of everyday learning.” Fighting against a slew of statistics, including those stating that 85,000 students from ages 5-13 receive no supervision following their school day, Big Thought has been instrumental in creating the programs designed to help young people express themselves creatively. Too often, the value of arts education is underestimated, but time and time again, numerous studies have detailed the importance of the arts, and how it stimulates the brain, encourages independence and increases a child’s sense of self-confidence.

Case in point, as I was being shown around the office, meeting the various men and women working hard to change the course of a young child’s life, a man walked by us, nodded his head, and gave a quick, “Hello.” I later found that this boy, anxious to make a statement, tell his side of the story, used graffiti to tell of his escapades. Eventually, being caught in the act and dealing with the consequences, it was quickly determined that his colorful hobby wasn’t the sign of an unruly teenager or a boy raging against the so-called “machine” of our society, but rather was a way for him to escape from the mundane that absorbed his existence. His art provided the opportunity, the chance to become a part of something extraordinary, something freeing, something good. And currently, his passion and his talent were helping the children at Big Thought, molding their skills and encouraging them to share their voices in the right way, with the flip of a wrist and a much sharper eye.

With the economy, or lack thereof, as always, funding for the arts has slimmed. So I spent most of the day working on their “5 Best” segment which had somewhat fallen by the wayside in these desperate times. Big Thought includes the feature on their website so kids and parents alike can easily find the “5 Best” whatevers sweeping through North Texas; “The 5 Best museums to visit this weekend,” “The 5 Best videos on YouTube,” “The 5 Best foods to take on a picnic” and so on.

Typing www. more times than I’d ever thought possible, I scrolled from page to page, taking walks through neighborhoods that had slowly become a part of my home and tasting cups of frozen custard smothered in caramel sauce, chocolate chips and rainbow-colored sprinkles. Escorted from store to store, I was reintroduced to the people who had become a part of my family. I devoured baskets full of chips and queso, and sipped on frozen margaritas as we sat on the patios in West Village listening to the bands and the jukeboxes sounding from the neighborhood bars. I felt the vibration beneath our seats and the breeze creeping in through the rickety windows as we soared through Uptown on the McKinney Avenue Trolley. And pulling the handle to stop at the Nasher Sculpture Center, I stood face to face with Picasso as he molded one square inch of color to fit the curious eyes and silent mouths, creating an entirely new way of viewing, understanding and fighting for the greatness of art.

My “5 Best” had not only shed light on the Big D and all it had to offer, but a stroll down memory lane had once again sparked my imagination…the imagination inspired solely by the nature of great art and all that it requires. The arts don’t just teach us to open our minds to the possibility of something larger, something only we can imagine, but they teach us to be inquisitive, to pay attention to the details relevant to the works we’re creating, and they show us that if we can achieve as artists, we can achieve at anything. Committing every bit of our true selves, no part denied, our anger can inspire
self-portraits of popsicle sticks and the pain can create castles of soda cans and coat hangers. Learning to succumb to the raw emotion that overwhelms us all, the arts teach us to live beautifully, appreciating the simple things that make life so grand…a child’s teddy bear with pulled eyes and hanging threads, cotton-soft pajamas with high necks and covered feet, and the luck of finding the one, reddened tulip that somehow made an appearance in a field full of fallen trees and stabbing thistles. Art, in any form, proves that the life we’re living is worthy of existence.

As the elevator doors opened and I made my way out of the office building, the Texas sun made a path ending at the tips of my toes, with my eyes tearing as the instant rush of heat clouded my sunglasses. I began to drive down Oak Lawn, a road only minutes from the property we still own in Dallas. As I’ve mentioned before, the thought of moving to Texas…leaving my mom, family and friends…at one point left me absolutely devastated. And to boot, I’d never dreamed of living in a place like Dallas…New York, surrounded by the great movement of the city, North Carolina, dosing to the sounds of ocean waves and blowing sand…possibly those I could have managed. But Texas, no…it just wouldn’t work.

Yet after meeting new friends, Texas friends…who love the W. and squeal at the thought of Big Tex, State Fair Corny Dogs, Turkey Legs and Fried Butter…and reconnecting with old ones…Kentucky ones who still maintain that Christian Laettner is the worst thing to ever happen to college basketball, chatting with the Billys, Lillys, Kates and Tods, keeping up with the ten lanes of traffic and the High Five on an everyday basis, and realizing that indeed everything is bigger in Texas, this town of over 6 million created a new way of life for me. And though I still insist they’re not really a part of the south (sorry ladies), there’s something unique and quite exciting about this fare state. While I’m not exactly sure just where their greatness lies, perhaps it’s mostly with the endearing people who’d made me feel welcome here, despite the black cloud of homesick that sometimes hovered over me.

So as I boarded the plane back to Georgia, I realized I was different than when I’d arrived only the day earlier. Oh I still felt as strongly about educating children on the value of arts than I ever had, possibly even more to be honest. But I left Dallas with the kind of appreciation I described above, with more appreciation than I’d ever imagined. And for the very first time, though a part of my past, Dallas really felt like a home to me…maybe not like the farm lands of Kentucky, but definitely a place where I could live again, play again, laugh again, with many more smiles and lots more big thoughts.

Note: To Jill-Beth who truly made me think. To Victoria and Brittany who make every memory worth remembering, and to Ashley, who I miss more and more every day

The Colors of Greatness

LGBT Pride March, New York, NY (41)

Hopping off the subway in my navy blue flats topped with a generous satin bow, I climbed the stairs to the streets of the city. With one foot at the top, my hand still on the railing, I could already see the magnificence that only a Cirque-du-Soleil style production can bring you…well that, and New York City Pride. And though the sun caused my eyes to squint uncontrollably, the sparkle of the glitter and the streamers thrown from lamp post to stair well were impossible to miss. As the Dykes on Bikes soared by, with their motors rarin’ and their leather jackets, bandannas, and black boots disappearing in the distance, I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect on this Sunday afternoon. Someone once asked me why I loved New York so much. Well despite the obvious…the midnight runs to pizza joints on every street corner, the courage to pair silk blouses and red-bottomed shoes with cutoff jeans, the theatre that leaves you breathless, speechless, feeling whole and new, and the
all-encompassing energy of this short, 6-mile island…it’s because of just this…anything that has happened, can happen, or will happen, happens first in this chosen city. And for this “Purpose” that would be more apparent than ever before.

So some of my volunteer experiences have been quite a bit more difficult to arrange than others. With young kids, training sessions, confidentiality concerns, and so on, I completely understand the need to perform background checks, interviewing and whatever other techniques necessary to weed out the common criminals of society. Unfortunately, with my only spending a day in each state, I’ve not been able to work with some of the organizations that have truly spoken to me, at least not in the way I would have really wanted. Every place I’ve served has been phenomenal, but a couple of organizations haven’t made the cut due to the various reasons listed above. But in New York, I was certain there would be no snags in my plan. I would be working with the LGBT Pride March, and that was that. Though unfortunately at first, not everyone agreed, mainly, the organizers of the event. But I am not anything if not persistent, and after the emails, applications, phone calls, oh you know, the usual borderline stalking, my wish was granted. And though I couldn’t be responsible for any of the larger jobs (unable to make the training-wahwahwah), I was in…official…free tee shirt and all.

The tent standing at 36th and 5th was waiting for me as I made my way toward the hundreds of people taping, cutting, hanging and registering, and let the powers that be know that I’d arrived. While there wasn’t too much to do, I was introduced to a lovely man who right away made me feel important. He was in charge of the table organizing the media inquiries. And after guiding newspapers, magazines, networks, and even Bethenny Frankel’s publicity team in the right direction, there wasn’t a tremendous amount of work left to be done. So we were quickly assigned to manage the placement of the infamous podium from which the proverbial ribbon would be cut.

In order to do that, we had to make our way into the streets of the city. That meant moving through the barriers blocking the rest of the public from the course of the parade. Here I was, in the middle of 5th Avenue, trying to arrange a small podium to pull the trigger on this event. It didn’t take me long, and I soon found myself to be in the most perfect position I would have ever thought possible. And as the NYPD walked around patrolling the area, my pink tee shirt was the ticket to a front row show. And all I can say is it.was.amazing! Moving through men wearing luxurious wedding dresses accompanied by their beautifully coiffed four-legged friends, and drag queens with silver bobs, shimmering yellow gowns and high heels that rival Sarah Jessica herself, the screams of pride, friendship and love bounced from one building to the next. To my left stood Governor Paterson, and though his representation of New York state was imminent, it was the lady who stood to my right, Judy Shepard, who’d undeniably become the star of the show. Judy’s son, Matthew, was killed in Wyoming back in 1998 because he was an openly gay man, and his death has since brought much attention to hate crime legislation.

I remembered reading about Matthew when I was in high school and shortly after, there was a movie based on his murder, shown on television. Since that time, I’ve researched the life of this young man, and though it wasn’t perfect, at only 21 years of age he was standing on the edge of greatness, ready to jump at any moment, ready to take on the world. But in less than a week, his life was destroyed, ripped from his grasp, leaving behind family, friends and a slew of unanswered questions. I always seem to do this when I’m confronted with something horrific, something unbelievable. I read every article, watch whatever interviews I can find, I guess trying to make sense of whatever situation presents itself. But unfortunately some things, this being one of them, can in no way ever be rationalized.

And I’m not sure how to explain this without seeming cold or disconnected, but more than the memory of Matthew even, at that moment I could only think of his mother and the heartache she must continue to experience daily. I wondered if she’d collapsed to the floor when she learned that her son had been been tied to a fence, tortured, and left to die. Had the doctors told her that when he’d arrived his face was covered in blood, his skull had been fractured, and the beatings had been so severe that the damage to his brainstem made it difficult for his body to regulate his heart rate and body temperature? And as she stood over his almost unrecognizable body, just after midnight on October 12, minutes before his chest raised for the very last time, did she think about his younger days…the first time he said, “Mom” and “Dad,” the first steps his took, or as he first learned to read stumbling over words like “run” or “animal.” And in the end I mostly just wondered how anyone, regardless of their religious beliefs, despite their political affiliations, could defend such cruelty, such hatred, such evil.

For a moment, I’d forgotten I was serving the great city of New York and then, suddenly I was hit with the force of reality, and this is where I remind you of my previous statement affirming that I couldn’t be responsible for any of the larger jobs. All of a sudden, coming from behind me, I hear a man yelling, “Grab those balloons!” Now I’m assuming he’s confused me with his committee members but I wasn’t there to argue, and this was beyond any part of my colorful imagination.

Before I knew it there I was walking down 5th Avenue in New York City, on a Sunday afternoon, holding one of the strings that lead to the multitude of colored balloons hovering above. And as we held them down, then let them fly free, then gathered our strings once again, they resembled a rainbow, in more ways than one. The finest, most glorious rainbows show themselves at the end of a storm, when the lightning has subsided, the rain has disappeared. They’re nature’s way of saying that for a short while, a peaceful tranquility surrounds us. This rainbow of color was doing just that. The protests of hate, and the laws preventing them from truly feeling a part of our society, were but a distant memory, and on this day, these people weren’t simply contributing to one culture, but rather were a people with a culture of their own.

So we marched as one; some of us rallying for the equal treatment of all, others bringing awareness to those suffering from HIV/AIDS, and some marched simply to share their pride with one another…to show they’re proud of who they are, comfortable with the decisions they’ve made, happy with the life they’re living.

Led by a man in a cherry colored jumpsuit, complete with fishnet stockings and a 60‘s style pink-wigged hairdo dancin’ to the oldies, as we made our way down 5th Avenue, my mind wasn’t on Tiffany, Oscar, Christian or even Mr. Blahnik. But rather, as we passed church ministers and priests offering water, my focus was solely on the footsteps, words and smiles of the people closely bound around me. So much in fact, that as I looked around, my brain seemed to be processing the scene in slow motion. The cheers were muffled, the children sitting atop their father’s shoulders touched the palms of their hands together…back and forth they clapped, again, and then again. The trees swayed as the wind moved us past, and it touched each of us as we watched sons grab the hands of one mother then the other, and I was certain that though the family dynamic was different from my own, love and all it entails was flowing from every ounce of their being. And more clearly than I’d ever seen before, shades of our human rainbow, where men and women of all colors, representing different cities, states and countries throughout the lands of all nations, gathered with flags, boas, costumes and the brightest and best of the city to celebrate the challenged, the beaten, the courageous, and those with more strength than ever imaginable. The spirit of these people enlightened me, their acceptance encouraged my belief in the good of humanity, and their commitment to live beyond the judgement should be a lesson to us all.

We spent a few extra days in the city, jumping from platform to platform, rediscovering villages, shops and the rejuvenated persons we all found ourselves to be. During that time we saw the show, American Idiot. Based on the songs of Green Day, the reviews had been phenomenal, leaving theatregoers on the edge of their seats, dancing down aisles, laughing, crying, snapping and even singing along. I must say, the reviews, be they extraordinary don’t begin to do this performance justice.

During one song, a character describes his existence by sadly explaining, “I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. I don’t know where it goes, but it’s home to me and I walk alone.” I can really relate to these lyrics in a somewhat different way than I believe they were originally intended, but with truly great art usually being left to the interpretation of its audience, these words tell the story of me in a way I at one point would have never really admitted. You see, I’m one of those people who often disagrees with the majority, sympathizes with the weak, and fights for what doesn’t necessarily help me, but rather, for what I find to be right, honorable, and good. Often times I find myself alone, at the end of a very long branch, but comfortable with and confident in the choices I’ve made. Where I differ from the young man in the song is at which point he claims “My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me.” Because, not to contradict my earlier statements, as I do walk alone with many of my thoughts, opinions and beliefs differing from the people by whom I’m surrounded. But, walking beside me, my husband embraces our differences, my mother encourages them, and the rest of my family and friends listen as they learn the most real and intricate details of who I truly am. And on this day there were not hundreds, but thousands of others walking beside me as well, reveling in the differences that connected us all.

Note: To my Mom and dear RJ, who made this trip, and every other one, the best days of my life

Closeted Inspiration

The Caring Closet, Newark, NJ (40)

Our stop in Jersey was sure to be short lived, with hopefully no run-ins with Snookie, Jwoww, or The Situation. And while I’ve heard their housewives are quite extraordinary (yes, I watch way, way too much Reality TV), I gotta be honest, New Jersey (well this part anyhow) left something to be desired. But with our one and only stop being at this fine organization, the day was certain to be fast moving.

So I’m pretty sure no one had visited this clothing closet in quite a while. As the associate opened the door, piles of shorts, shoes, shirts and jackets fell toward us, and the look on our faces was definitely one of those photo worthy shots. The floor was covered with yellows, blues, black and greens, and scattered along the wooden shelves were children’s accessories, men’s sweatshirts and tons of women’s cardigans. The organization of this small room was lacking to put it mildly, in fact, I’m kind of surprised that cow from The Wizard of Oz didn’t fly by. But we were incredibly excited about this undertaking as we were certain our contributions would be much appreciated.

After grasping the total picture of the space, we’d decided on a game plan that pretty much required starting from ground zero. And with the shelves completely empty, we began our quest, tiptoeing through flannels and taffetas, tripping over boots and laundry baskets. Laughing at the red patent and black leather that reminded me of my 80s heyday, we crossed arms behind arms and folded sweaters again and again. We pulled jeans from underneath wooden slats and grabbed jackets that had fallen to the floor. We smoothed the clothing hanging from bars to what seemed like the top of the ceiling, and as I slid the hangers from left to right, the clothing donned the labels of my childhood; Espirit, Guess, and The Limited. And I thought about my tee shirt pulled to one side with a red scrunchie wrapped around the short ball of cotton near my waistline, and my obsession with tight rolled jeans that forced me to arrive to school early so my friends could help me wrap the denim around my ankle and up my leg.

Grabbing this piece and that, the tiles below began to show their faces as the shelves above were stacked full of clothing, folded neatly, and separated into sizes from small to big, large to larger. What was hanging flowed easily covering the back side of the wall. And the shoes were lined nicely on the floor, in no particular order, with the leftovers piled high in the baskets packed against the wall.

And that was just it. I wish there was more for me to describe, more for me to explain, but what I’ve said was all she wrote…literally. With time, and time, our piles slowly disappeared. The walls of shelves resembled that of a catalogue, and as we put on the finishing touches of our just-like-new shopping haven, I wondered about the people who would choose the green dress with the giant buttons down the middle. Who would pick the brown, leather sandals with the small heel and large buckles? Would they wear these pieces out to dinner, to pick up their child from school, or a job interview for a position they were dying to fulfill? And who would take these pieces, outcast by their original owners, and turn them into something precious, valued and beautiful once again? Would this clothing help them begin a new life, or simply make the old one better? I envisioned each person holding their pieces, staring at themselves in the full length mirror hanging beside us, pleased with how they felt against their skin.

As we looked behind us, the picture was perfection. Not because it was actually perfect, but because we had done it, all ourselves, and it was finished, ripe for the pickin’ for whomever found it helpful. We flicked the switch and the room darkened.

Although I love clothing for its inherent values; its beauty, and ability to show your personal sense of style and grace, perhaps it’s their dependability that has really captured my heart. As I’ve moved from state to state, skipped from job to job, many days I’ll pick through the pieces in my closet, remembering them at their finest moments, and think about the many places they’ve taken me; to the Broadway Shows from which I’ve left dancing and singing through Times Square, and to the Goodbye Party that announced my departure from the great state of Kentucky…to the bar where the chairs were made of saddles and encouraged hobnobbing with Million Dollar Cowboys, and to the dinners where the conversations have forced me to question the beliefs and opinions I’ve held so very close, the beliefs and opinions that have made me…me. The clothing that makes my closet come alive has been with me during the best times of my life, and during some of the sadder moments as well, but all times that have proven to be more memorable than the rest.

I’m not sure who’ll use this closet as their own, but hopefully, whatever dress they choose, whatever shoes become a new addition to their family, will make their boring day a tad more exciting, take them on long walks underneath bright skies, and help them to feel confident with their new threads, and their new lease on life.

Her Success

Dress for Success, Philadelphia, PA (39)

I’m not sure exactly why, but every time I consider the great state of Pennsylvania, I think of Ben Franklin and his, “A penny saved is a penny earned” mentality. Obviously, Franklin was an important member of this northeastern state’s community, but no more important than Mr. William Penn himself. And yet, I always think of Ben and his fluffy shirts and tiny glasses sitting just atop his perfectly proportioned nose as the iconic figure of Pennsylvania. So I wasn’t sure exactly when we would meet, but the encounter was inevitable.

Maneuvering through the city of Philadelphia in the early morning traffic was quite a bit easier than I originally imagined. And I couldn’t help but gawk at the horse carriages gliding along the streets, as they reminded me of the stories I’d read in third grade social studies about the establishment of the United States of America. Finding the perfect parking spot just across the Dress for Success banner was certainly an added bonus and I was sure the day was destined for greatness.

Dress for Success focuses on providing professional attire, career counseling, and the necessary support to help women feel confident in a work environment, as well as independently successful in their personal lives. And I was so happy to be a woman working for women…absolutely tremendous!

We’d arrived just in time to receive a fantastic tour of the biz, and at first glance, I loved how they’d made the entire shop feel very much like a boutique. With shoes lined accordingly and suits hanging nicely to the floor, women walked slowly from rack to rack, worked on computers and spoke with the volunteers making this organization truly triumphant. Though much was happening upstairs, we would be spending most of our time downstairs.

While we weren’t able to actually counsel the ladies on what to wear, we did spend some much needed time organizing the basement full of donated shirts, jackets, pants and skirts. As we pulled each piece from the dozens of shipping boxes and placed them on one of the hundreds of hangers, the fine materials fell across our arms as we noticed the silk lining and the tight stitching along the pockets of dark jackets. Gold beading accented the black collars that set easily above the necklines, and as we dipped our hands in for yet another surprise, I remembered to once again fill the meter with my loose change, and excused myself running quickly to the car. Blocking the sun with my hand raised above my right brow, waiting for the cars to pass, I noticed a shiny white piece of paper just above my windshield. There was no possible way…I mean I’d gotten to the car just in time. Completely dumbfounded, I refilled the meter, walked back inside, totally distracted and tried to compose myself enough to continue my work. I did however, secretly mention the debacle to my mom who stood closely beside, clipping hangers and smoothing down cuffs (She told me to calm down, that all would soon be forgiven).

Going about business as usual, as trained volunteers came in and out of our room, we helped find size sixes and eights, then smalls and mediums. We picked through ornately jeweled broaches and sifted through the remaining boxes of silk blouses, realizing just how important this clothing had become, exactly what it was representing. For these women, it meant preparing for a future in a field with better wages, offices with windows, and happily reporting everyday to a career of their choice, not a job that simply allowed them to move day to day, finding some way to get by.

This organization was not only helping women find the careers needed for a better life, it was instilling a sense of self-worth. Regardless of the reasons these women had found themselves struggling through life, in my experience, I’m finding that so many of the troubles in our society stem directly from the lack of belief we have in ourselves. The people working at Dress for Success provide the clothing and the resources needed to acquire the jobs that make us proud to be contributing members of society. But I think it’s their kind words of encouragement that truly create the confidence making the preparation, the interviewing, and essentially, one woman’s greatness, a possibility. Because with each woman’s doubt in herself, she has a team of people behind her, assuring her that her ideas are original, her abilities are strong, and that she is the most qualified…the best person for the position.

As we packed our things and said our goodbyes, we headed toward the car, and yet another parking ticket. As my face swelled with anger, the tickets were thrown in the car and off we went.

Slightly disturbed, oh who are we kidding, almost unable to drive, heart palpitating, completely seething mad as I traveled the streets of Philly, hysterically trying to locate a place to park in traffic much heavier than earlier that morning, I finally was able to squeeze into a teensy tiny spot…in China Town…complete with rickshaws and all. As my mom and I jumped out of the car, we started walking block after block to wage our war on the traffic violation station.

As I removed my keys, my cellphone, and watched them sort through my handbag, I stepped through the metal detector and walked toward the counter. I was full on mad and ready to make it known. The conversation went something like this, “Hi, my name is Anne and your officers ticketed me even though I’d paid for my parking spot and my time had not elapsed and I have all of the parking passes with the correct times to prove it. And here are the recorded times that your officer claimed I was in violation, which clearly overlap with the allotted time period my parking was allowed. Consequently, I should not be charged with this crime” (No breaths, and a subtle huff and puff here and there). To which she replied, very calmly, something to the effect of, “This is a citation for an expired inspection, not a traffic violation.” To which I exclaimed, “And this is a rental car, so it is not my fault, is it?” Her response, “I don’t think so.” My response, “Nope, I’m sure it’s not. Thank you (insert her name that I politely asked)!”

And then I ran out with my mom in tow and we began taking pictures of me standing in front of the building that had housed my victory, at which point, an officer approached us and explained that because we’d acted as if we’d beaten the system, we were formally being charged with public disturbance and we were needed back inside. Our mouths totally dropped, and as my mom pleaded my case assuring him, “She was just so excited because we don’t break the law, and this is the proof,” then handing him our paper tickets, slowly his scowl became a crooked smile, and he quietly began to chuckle. He’d thought his joke was pretty funny, and though we weren’t thrilled by it, we kind of agreed. After a smile for the camera, my mom and I left abruptly and headed for the car in China Town.

We’d decided to spend the rest of the day visiting the great sites in Philadelphia. We strolled along the streets, walking over bricks that provided not only the foundation for the paths between the yards, but also, formed the foundation on which our history is based; hard work, timeless commitment, and tireless effort. The streets had seen battles that freed us from our oppressors, and felt the footsteps of the Continental Congress and greats such as Thomas Jefferson and John Hancock. We passed buildings where the laws of our nation were determined, and the character of a country and its people became the standard for the rest of the world. We stepped up stairs that first heard the notes of an anthem defining a nation, and the words of our independence declaring, “that all men are created equal,” with rights to “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” And alas, along a somewhat vacant street, peering through a set of bars of the Christ Church cemetery, we smiled as we saw the pennies strewn across the gravesite of Benjamin Franklin himself.

Then, after waiting in a line that extended out the doorway, finally we walked into the hall, and there hanging in front of a wall of windows with the sun peering in all its glory, was the Liberty Bell. When I think of one landmark, site, item that shows who we are to the rest of the world, I’m not sure why, but I think of the Liberty Bell. Maybe it’s because it rang at a birthday party for George Washington, the man who first presided over this great nation. Maybe it’s because regardless of the massive crack that runs down one side, we still value its symbolism of the goodness and the purity on which this country was founded. Or maybe it’s because of what the Bell represented to early America, that we ban together, that we fight together, so that we can live together.

Leaving Pennsylvania, I remembered a quotation I’d read earlier in the day. Katherine Ruschenberger so eloquently asserted, “The original Liberty Bell announced the creation of democracy; the Women’s Liberty Bell will announce the completion of democracy.” Having spent a portion of the day working with strong women at Dress for Success, this quote meant more than I’d originally thought. Our country has made amazing strides with the way its people view those of different races, religions, and the equality of men and women. However, we should and will continue to improve the way our society views each of its members. And that’s just what the people at Dress for Success are trying to do…enhancing individual lives by training, supporting, improving one person’s image, to better who we are as a whole. This organization’s goals aren’t just admirable, aren’t just commendable, but their goals change lives. They don’t simply Dress for Success, they encourage, believe in, and define success.

Just Me and the Crabs

Delaware Coastal Programs, Dover, DE (38)

So my writings have been pretty traditional. I tell you about where I’ve been, the organizations with whom I’ve been working, and added, what I’ve hoped to be a few interesting, maybe even inspirational, thoughts. But I wanted to try something a bit different for this entry, something beyond the usual train of thought to which most of us have become accustomed. I think you’ll definitely find a certain flow to the piece, but that’s just it. The story should just float along, be read easily, pausing when you deem necessary. Only use my punctuations as a guide, not as an absolute. You should feel the sand as it slips between your fingers, the heat as it radiates from your skin. The experience was so moving, I just couldn’t write in single, declarative thoughts.

So, from the beaches, here we go…

The sun was bright, the waves were tumbling, and into the sandy grounds they fell. The living beings swam with hope, hope that they’d reach the shores again soon. The winds were strong but also soothing, and holding your tongue in the air, you could almost taste the salt as it floated past you in the breeze.

The name “horseshoe crab” made me laugh at first. Being from Kentucky, the only horseshoes we would ever see were on farms, at the race tracks, or oddly enough, on the hooves of a striking Thoroughbred as it gallops across the farms scattered throughout the Bluegrass state. But these crabs aren’t like the ones you pick up in your just-around-the-corner pet store. Horseshoe crabs are unlike any other; uniquely shaped, unbelievably determined, simply magnificent in their own right. They’ve been around for roughly 250 million years, and though they’ve changed very little during that time, their endurance is something to be admired. Through ever changing weather, they each continue on with their hardened shell, the kind of shell that lets one move uninterrupted through the ages.

The light from the sun was dimming, and our counting was about to begin. We would be determining the current status of the crabs along the Delaware coasts. We’d count our steps…one, then, two, three and so on, and then we’d look to find the crabs below us. They may be mating, they may be tagged from an earlier human encounter. If they were struggling to turn themselves upright, we’d lend them a hand.

The sky was now much darker, with only the full moon above guiding our steps. The heavy water filled my shoes, the sand gently scratched at my feet, as we began to walk…in long strides, splashing loudly into the shell-covered beach below. Our first several stops left us with no action from the species, and though we’d seen several mating as we traveled from one destination to the next, the count was meant only for the calculated stops. As we continued along the shore, it was hard to concentrate with the harmonious sounds of the waves folding into one another, crashing against the shore from which they’d just escaped…sounding almost like a roller coaster as it attempts its first slope, but without the terrifying screams, the fluttering butterflies in your stomach.

We’d paced for miles, measuring our steps perfectly, but unable to count even one crab as a part of the completed survey. Though I considered myself somewhat of a bad luck charm, the experience was one that will remain with me forever, and beyond; the night air, the smells, the sounds, and the backdrop to this beautiful “Purpose” makes me smile as I write, and laugh out loud as I consider this life-changing opportunity.

The night had just ended. And yet, just as I was grabbing the flashlight I’d been wearing, I saw a horseshoe crab circling, upside down, digging himself further into the sand. Grasping my hands around his tough exterior, his legs flailing about, I turned him over. And though his shell had a dent or two, he would definitely live a day longer.

As we walked toward the fence separating us from the real world, looking back, into the distance, the water was peaceful. And with the light from the stars and the moon reflecting on the ocean, a seagull glided just above the nearly motionless water. As he curved this way, than that, his wings dampened…and he lifted, soaring wildly, freely, into his future.

The Book of Me…

Baltimore Reads, Inc., Baltimore, MD (37)

According to my trusty pal Pete (you remember, the GPS system) we were almost three hours from the next stop of Baltimore. No worries as our car was great, the drive looked relatively simple, and my mom was along for the ride. A couple of hours passed and no trouble. We’d chatted, Pete veered us around this curve than that one, and then suddenly, our wheels slowed. I wasn’t so nervous at first. After all, despite the terrible northeast traffic we’ve all heard about, things had been pretty great. Honestly, I was kind of starting to chuckle at the horrific stories you always hear about on the news. And I mean, things were going quite wonderfully…..until I looked over and yelled, “Holy s***, there’s the Washington Monument.” Pete, What.Has.Happened? Now, to be fair, the signs declaring that indeed “Downtown Washington” was in our midst, had been abundant. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d seen at least four or five of them in a two-mile radius (as had my mom, I later found out) but I never, ever considered Pete would attempt to take me through DC. So I dismissed the signs as, I don’t know, decorations maybe.?.? I mean I thought we’d all established my lack of driving skills, even Pete. Clearly not the case. So as we passed Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, the National Cathedral and the gosh dern Pentagon, I pretty much considered myself a goner. I was breathing hard, then harder, my knees were shaking, and a thin layer of perspiration had set up camp just above my right brow. Literally, I counted the seconds as I made my way along crowded streets, around bicyclists who clearly consider themselves to be various forms of Lance Armstrong, and through roundabout after roundabout. My stomach was in knots, my head was pulsating and my body was absolutely exhausted, but finally, somehow, DC was literally behind us. And I have to say, of my experiences thus far in life, I’m most proud of this accomplishment…not when Hattan or Aston finally became potty trained, not of Graduation Day at Transy, and not of the interview that secured my first job…but this day, proves to be of what I am most proud.

I guess I should have mentioned as to how I came about this drive to Baltimore and exactly what I would be doing for this particular purpose. My third grade year of school remains to be lost in a haze of babysitters…Stacey, Dawn, Kristy, Mary Anne and countless others introduced me to the great love that is reading. While I’d been read to all my life (and with my mom being a sixth grade reading teacher), it wasn’t until I became a part of the acclaimed babysitters club that I truly fell in love books. In recent years, my reading has unfortunately somewhat dwindled, however, my love of books has not. So obviously, a book bank would definitely be in the near future.

Baltimore Reads, Inc. is an organization that focuses on eliminating illiteracy among adults. They teach classes and counsel students on the reading skills needed to work in society. In addition, they’ve created a book bank that collects books to distribute to local schools, clinics and families…an incredibly important task as it has been determined that those who grow up surrounded by books are more likely to stay in school longer, as well as more easily decide what types of careers into which they want to eventually enter. Thus far, 1.3 million books have been provided for teachers and disadvantaged families throughout the Baltimore area. While we weren’t exactly certain as to how we would help our fellow book lovers, we were tremendously excited.

Introducing ourselves, and making our way into the building, we found shelves beyond shelves with books lined from end to end. The sections were titled…“Young Adult,” “Fiction,” “Mystery” and so on, and the authors were alphabetized…Blume, Cleary, Paulsen and Tolkien. Walking through the aisles, I caught a glimpse of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Maniac Magee and books from the Berenstain Bears series, and yet again, my childhood was but steps away. Unfortunately I had to focus as there was much to do.

We’d begun the day sorting through the donated books, and then worked on labeling them with stickers assuring all that “Baltimore Reads.” Working through classic novels, Disney books and bedtime stories, the boxes full of new additions slowly slimmed down as we made room on the already stuffed shelves. Every now and then, I’d open the front cover of something familiar and read slowly, remembering whatever memories immediately came to mind, whatever memories the words once helped me create. These words had rocked children to sleep, calmed us as we paced slowly in hospital waiting rooms, and shared their adventures as we sat curled in front of a fire as the snow stuck easily to the panes of our windows. The smells of cracked papers thickened as each page became the next, and though some of the books were older, even a bit musty, the lingering scents made their uncertain histories even more endearing. I wondered what child had learned to read from the pages before us, what parent had sounded out the difficult spellings of “rhinoceros” or “geography.”

And, as I moved my fingers along the edge of each book, I realized that at one point or another, I’d said goodnight to the mouse, the house and the moon…I’d sailed the treacherous seas as a wild thing…I’d fought yellow-spotted lizards and rattlesnakes while melting away in a sun that seemed only feet from my face…and I, along with Holden Caulfield, had decided that indeed, most people are complete morons, myself included.

Each time, I realized books allow us to experience opportunities we may have never thought possible. They open our eyes, our ears, our hearts to the different, the exciting, the previously unexamined worlds we all yearn to one day see. They introduce us to new people with quirky personalities, wild imaginations and extraordinary gifts they’ll hopefully share with us all. Books teach us to dream about the lives we hope to lead. The pages turning, the stories told, we take small steps walking in another’s shoes, and we read the words that provide us the strength to one day change our world, along with the world of so many others.

Boaz or Ruth?

Boaz & Ruth, Richmond, VA (36)

To be quite honest I’ve been postponing this writing for quite a while. It would be the very beginning of my very last week long trip through my 48 state journey. After nearly completing the goal having consumed much of who I’ve been for the past year, I’m not sure exactly what I’ll do next, where I’ll go from here, if I’ve in fact, found my purpose. More than anything however I have to say I’m most sad to see the trip, the actual day to day reality of this endeavor; turning through pages of testimonials and stories of survival, the phone calls greeted with confusion, yet intrigue, as I describe the unbelievable path I’ve been allowed to follow throughout the past year, the writings that have opened windows to who I am, who I want to become…rapidly approach its end. This dream, which has become an incredible reality, is something from which I’m slowly waking. I can only hope that the treasures with which I’ve been graced throughout this journey will continue to affect me greatly. And though I’m quite certain they will, perhaps that’s what saddens me the most…that something that’s been so rewarding must inevitably come to an end.

But eleven states still remained to be seen, so I couldn’t count my chickens just yet. And my frown had to be turned upside down, as Virginia was calling my name!

I’ve worked with a lot of different organizations by now. There have been events with white tablecloths and tall glasses of wine, and then there were the parks and fields with flowering trees, blue birds gracefully floating by, and the breezes that literally take your breath away. Browsing through the many volunteering opportunities, I’d read an article regarding the importance of reaching those who’d at one point been imprisoned, and this was one group of people with whom I’d had no involvement. I looked into working with “Books to Prisoners” and other organizations but finally, I came upon the perfect place. Boaz & Ruth, is an organization that focuses to “rebuild” the lives of those who were once incarcerated by providing jobs and training them for a better future, “empower” a community by restoring buildings, attracting businesses and creating new jobs, and “connect” the people as they strive to eliminate the racial, economic and geographic barriers from one area to the next. Not only would I be working with people who’d experienced some of the greater struggles in our society, but I would be able to see them as they were making the most of their lives, on their way to the best part of who they would soon become.

Now don’t get me wrong, the organizations have all been beyond amazing. Their missions are strong, necessary, bettering who we are as a society. But I must admit, the best part of this journey has most definitely been the people I’ve met; the ones who make these organizations work for the people, speak to the people, change the people…and just would be the case once again, here in Richmond.

I’d decided to work at one of the businesses under the colorful umbrella of Boaz & Ruth, Firehouse 15, a quaint restaurant that at one time was a working fire station, but in recent years had been transformed into a lovely gathering place for those enjoying a quick lunch break as they talked business, perusing through the latest briefs, bills and contracts. Square tables were scattered throughout with soft table cloths and small flowers peeking from tiny vases. Having never served in the restaurant industry, you can imagine my inability to immediately join in on all the fun. But the entire staff couldn’t have been more understanding. The ladies slowly explained each and every aspect of what my job would entail, talked with me about my ambitions in life, and constantly chuckled with a laughter that shook their entire bodies. The men, thankfully, were patient and quite eager to make me feel welcome. And though there were a few mistakes (like completely forgetting to ask white or wheat-total gasp), overall things were golden. And as the day progressed, so did I, and filling containers with sugar and Sweet’N Low, pouring lemonade and sweet tea to the tops of glasses held by small hands, and whipping up the washrag that hung easily from my bright purple shorts as I wiped away chocolate chips and cookie crumbs, made me feel like a real waitress… apron, pad, pencil, and all.

Different times throughout the day, I considered the story of Boaz and Ruth. She was but a poor widow, caring for her mother-in-law, working on the farms, gathering the grains left behind by the harvesters to feed her small family. He was the wealthy farm owner. Seeing her, realizing the kindness she had shown to her mother-in-law, he requested she stay and enjoy the wealth of his land. Eventually, over time, the two married. In the story, she was a woman with very little, but because of who she was, with her strength and her kindness, he who was able to give, chose to give to her.

I thought about this over and over, and each time, I decided I was one of them, only my decision was always different than the one before. No, there were no great riches, no grains in the open fields, no in-laws…but there were characters, and on this day, I was playing both of them; the one who needed…a definite direction in life, and the one who was able to provide…cleaning, serving, and a friendly face. Of which I actually was on that or any other day, or if I somehow fell in the area between the two, I’m not sure. I kind of think we all find ourselves asking exactly who we are…what role we play. But you know, I’m pretty sure that’s just it for each of us. We’re not just one person. In any given circumstance, we can often find ourselves to be an incredible strength, with unending weaknesses…a person who follows and a person who leads. In any case, no matter who we decide to become, greatness within may soon follow.

With the shadow of Fire House 15 looming in the rear-view mirror, I’d come to the conclusion that my day had begun as Boaz, the one willing to share time and effort. But I left as Ruth, the young lady who was shown such kindness, compassion and generosity as she searched for her place in the bigger picture of life. With each character, there had been lessons learned…the value of humility despite ones enormous successes, and the importance of sharing one’s particular gifts, and how that sharing can grow into something unimaginable…where prisoners become leaders, neighborhoods are revived, and children can walk along streets easily, with smiles, friends, free of judgement, free from harm.

In the future, I’m sure, just as in Richmond, I’ll play the part of two people at one time, and I’ll be proud of how important each character is to us all, how they should inspire who we are as one group of people, as we are as one society. And though I’m certain I won’t do Boaz or Ruth justice, I will try…to be kind, to appreciate what’s given me, and to humbly help others when possible, happily, while expecting nothing in return. This is my story of Boaz and Ruth… and, this is the story of me.

Note: To Jodell, who made visiting Virginia, just like visiting home, and to Raymond, who made it absolutely delicious…London style!

Red Hair, Clear Windows

Ronald McDonald House, Fargo, ND (35)

I remember two commercials from my childhood. There was the one proclaiming “I don’t wanna grow up ‘cause baby if I did, I wouldn’t be a Toys “R” Us kid,” and then there was the McDonald’s commercial with the little girl nervously performing “Fleur de Lis” at her piano concert. To distract herself from the eyes of the audience, she imagines a trip to McDonald’s with her, “big chocolate shake, a cheeseburger, and also, whoops, and also fries.” I used to trot on into our living room where I would no doubt, impress the masses, and sing those very lyrics while tickling the ivories, with absolutely no direction whatsoever. My beats pretty much resembled those of a frog on the run in a music store, but nonetheless, at the time, I thought I was pretty amazing. Since that time, my love affair with McDonald’s has only grown, far surpassing my expectations on so many occasions. From the perfectly proportioned cheeseburger, to the generously M&M’d McFlurry, my heart and stomach feel whole once again after I sink my teeth into that first heavenly bite. So a trip to the Ronald McDonald House seemed inevitable, and quite tasty I might add.

We’d arrived in Fargo, and having just watched the movie (research and all), I was definitely prepared for the “Darn tootin”s and the “Oh yeah”s. Everyone was sure to be abnormally nice and pleasant which I found to be quite true the minute I stepped in to the Ronald McDonald House.

As I’ve mentioned before, volunteering is about doing what needs to be done. In this case, washing windows, was our North Dakota calling. I’m a Windex girl myself, so at first somewhat confused, all the while whispering to one another, as neither R.J. or I had ever cleaned windows with water and ammonia, I was a bit concerned as to the streaks consuming the newly scrubbed windows. Wouldn’t they be everywhere? Surprisingly, I’m here to tell ya’ the answer is no. Works like a charm, no streaks, no cloudy film. I was beyond impressed.

So there we were, washing windows, inside and out, from top to bottom. Ringing out the excess water and moving up and down stairs from floor to floor, our teamwork once again paid off. I began with my wet rag, cleaning every bit of glass from seal to ceiling, while the husband rushed to wipe the remaining drops from the window. Kneeling, bending, reaching and jumping became routine as we repeated steps 1-2 over and over, time and time again. Continuing cleaning, families passed through from room to room, leaving, visiting their children, their sisters, their brothers, their nieces, their nephews. Uncertain as to the circumstances they may encounter at the hospital not too far away, I wondered how they slept through each night…moved beyond the tossing and turning, the counting sheep, the warm glasses of milk that refused to work their magic, and somehow found the way to pick themselves up in the morning, to start a whole new day.

After several hours of work, our job had been completed. We’d finished in the kitchen, where families from different cities held hands as they learned of one another’s heartache, a heartache not to different from their own. The sun shone brightly through the sparkling glass in the living rooms where tears of joy and sadness had been wiped away time after time.

The Ronald McDonald House is a place where families are able to find comfort in knowing that they’ll forever have somewhere to stay while the children in their lives battle the diseases keeping them from the everyday routine of their childhood. But it’s not just a hot meal, a warm bed, a roof to protect one from the storms. It’s a place that keeps families within minutes of their children, allowing them to return to a haven with a group of people who’ve watched their young boys and girls face the same piercing needles, the nearly unbearable stomach aches, the sweats, the chills, and the wondering if they’ll ever leave. For so many, the Ronald McDonald House is a home…the place where friendships will be realized, prayers will be made granted, and where lives will forever be changed.

I must admit, McDonald’s holds an entirely different place in my heart now. Each time I make that delightful ride to the drive-thru window, the bucket hanging requesting donations for the Ronald McDonald House, won’t go overlooked. It will surely rattle more, will definitely hang more heavily.

The commercial with shakes, cheeseburgers and fries will continue to be a part of my cherished younger years. But I think now, what I’ll remember most fondly about the McDonald’s name, will be the faces I saw looking back as I opened the door to leave the Ronald McDonald House. The eyes were filled with kindness, with hope, and with the strength to start another day.

Wildly Familiar

Great Plains Zoo & Delbridge Museum, Sioux Falls, SD (34)

His name was Oliver. Darker skinned with a hint of white here and there. Rather short, but quick on his feet and willing to please in just about any way necessary. A man of few words, far more concerned with gentle nods of approval and soft sounds of encouragement. I’m not certain, but pretty sure R.J. has some real competition. I may have just found my new main squeeze. If you haven’t figured out just yet, my new love is none other than penguin extraordinaire, Oliver, a key player at the Great Plains Zoo in South Dakota. I don’t know just how, but clearly the stars were aligned, the clouds had separated, and it was my day. I’d finally come toe to toe with my true love, my soul mate…the penguin.

~Just for fun: When R.J. and I first started dating he told me a story about some family friends. The parents had recently taken their young boy to SeaWorld. At some point during the day, he was separated from his parents. Obviously, panic struck the great lands (and waters) of SeaWorld, and the park was closed down, visitors ushered out as staff members searched under rocks and between waterfalls to find the boy. Eventually, he was spotted fraternizing with the penguins in their ice hut heaven, after being reprimanded from leaving the sight of his parents, the family left for their hotel. The boy was immediately sent to the bathroom to clean up before bed. With the door cracked, barely showing the light from the other side, unusual noises, splashes even, crept from the small room. Quietly the parents pushed the door inward, and there, with water flying through the air, dripping down the walls, was their child and his new penguin friend. Much to their surprise, the small boy had secretly smuggled out the penguin in his now evidence-ridden knapsack. The penguin was rushed back to SeaWorld pretty immediately, and I’m assuming lived the rest of his days plunging, sliding and waddling around.~

Now I don’t like to play favorites with my volunteer experiences, but I must say, this one was particularly special. Each year the zoo plans an enrichment day for all of the animals. I’d never heard of anything like it before, but basically it’s a day focusing solely on providing entertainment for the rhinos, the monkeys…all the animals living at the zoo. So we would be creating an animal out of edible art supplies that would eventually end up in the cage of its predator. I mean is there anything more up my alley? I’m here to tell you, the answer is no. This was beyond yummy…

So here we were (R.J. was riding passenger’s side today) deciding on the perfect animal to be clobbered as it unfortunately fell prey to the almighty food chain. Normally it’s pretty difficult for me to face the reality of the casualties of nature, but today would be harmless. No real bodies, no ears missing…things were lookin’ up!

The surprises just kept comin’ in. Apparently, these zoo animals love the junk-food delicacies created with the human touch. I’m not referring to the sausage links or the hamburger patties…I’m talking about the Kool-Aid powders and the instant oatmeals. I’m not so sure how they were originally introduced to such random tastes, but they were, and the word around the street was they couldn’t get enough.

So in front of us sat the containers of peanut butter, the bags full of oatmeal and the small paper packets of grape, strawberry and lemon-lime Kool-Aid I don’t think I’d seen since my backyard lemonade stand days. There were bottles of paint, boxes galore, rafia… staring at us, waiting to be poured, cut…created into an outstanding piece of art. The antelope was the mammal of choice, and though it would soon be torn to shreds by the almighty cheetah, we were determined to make this the best antelope possible.

Our first concern was the body, so R.J. grabbed this huge square box (never mind that the actual shape of a body is round, unless of course you’re Spongebob or one of those Letter People from my kindergarten class at Eastside Elementary. Work with what you got, right?). Anyhow, our square body was in need of a head, so the obvious choice would be another box, only this time smaller. While R.J. located the perfect legs, I concentrated on recreating the beautifully sculpted horns. With empty egg cartons, I cut through the paper separating each cup from the other. Then, with the rafia, I strung each cup to the next, forming lengthy horns with plenty of curve.

In the meantime, poor R.J. is over in the corner, struggling with his boxes, tryin’ to think outside the box (hahaha…that’s funny). Obviously, everything had to be 100 percent edible for the animals…no tape, no staples. So there he was, sewing boxes together with a really big needle and some super duper string.

Eventually we’d constructed this antelope, and with the exception of the legs constantly stretching toward the four different corners of the room, and the horns never feeling at one with their body (the Elmer’s Glue was about as effective as Brittany after she married Kevin), things were looking pretty amazing I must say. So it was finally time to add the pizazz. Mixing brown paint with creamy peanut butter, our square body came to life. The thick paste smeared from edge to edge as the smells of our childhood surfaced once again. Clumps of moist oatmeal became the ruffled fur, and the air filled with remnants of grape powder as I poured the envelopes into the paint filled bowls. From toes to nose, every inch of our man/woman made antelope was fruity, grainy and buttery. And to boot, on the actual day of enrichment, a hole would be cut in the butox of our antelope and fresh meat would be stuffed in, giving the cheetah even more fun. I tell ya’, there’s nothing better than having your artwork stuffed with loads of raw meat…totally worth the trip to South Dakota !

Before leaving we strolled along the concrete paths. The trees swayed above us as the quacks and caws sounded not too far away. The monkeys came to bid us adieu. Swinging from branch to branch, mommy, daddy and baby peered through the bars, reaching for our hands, but touching my heart. It’s amazing how insightful these animals are, so similar to the human race…and yet so many continue to question the value of our animal friends.

I wish we lived in a world where these animals were able to roam wildly, free from captivity in their native lands…some close by, some so very far away. Unfortunately, many value their tusks, their furs, the hunt…rather than for their natural beauty…the eloquent black lines complementing the white stripes, the swift move of the legs running across a vacant field, the flap of a wing flying against the sun. Though my wishes have yet to be granted, these animals do tread safely, free from harm, but on slightly smaller plains .

• September 2010
• August 2010
• July 2010
• June 2010
• May 2010
• April 2010
• March 2010
• February 2010
• January 2010
• December 2009