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 .

Ridin’ Free

Majestic Hills Ranch, Lakeville, MN (33)

Alfalfa. No not as in the character from The Little Rascals, but as in the hay we feed the cattle and horses at home. I’m not sure there’s anything better than lying in a field on a warm summer’s night in Kentucky, inhaling the air filled with the smells of the Alfalfa rolled into large bales scattered all along the farms. Breathing in, the sweet aroma danced smoothly in the wind, and the wholesome scents of freshly cut hay lingered throughout the entire farm. The kids started rolling down the graveled road just after we’d arrived. They walked slowly, then picked up their feet as they saw the beautiful four-legged creatures show their faces.

I remember reading articles following the Oklahoma City Bombing many years ago. It was nearly impossible to comfort so many of the children affected by the tragedy. There was one child who hadn’t spoken in months. One day she was introduced to a Golden Retriever, and finally, slowly, her recovery began. Talking to the dog allowed her to fully express her fears free from embarrassment. Majestic HIlls Ranch provides a program promoting just this type of rehabilitation. They take horses previously unwanted, and then work, train, and prepare them for a life helping children battling Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy, Autism and numerous other diseases. Riding the horses, as well as interacting with the other animals on the Ranch, encourages the children to communicate with one another, and helps with gaining the confidence needed to flourish in our society.

I watched at first, making sure I knew just what to do. And then it was my turn. Walking beside the large horse, making sure the boy above stayed sturdy, I looked up as young Jess (this horse’s trusty leader) guided him slowly around the field. I wasn’t aware of the disease with which the boy was struggling, and though it was heartbreaking seeing him try to communicate with little success in the beginning, eventually, watching him with this gigantic animal was unbelievably beautiful. Circling the small arena, he stroked his mane, feeling the tough hair between his fingers. And then his words became clear as he begged the animal to “Walk on,” “Step up,” and “Whoa…” Sitting tall, feeling the undeniable strength of the horse below him, his legs moved wildly, then suddenly calmed as he threw the entire weight of his body on the neck of the animal. His arms grasped around him as far as they could stretch, and it was so very clear the connection they had made. The young boy was able to trust in the movement of the animal, was free from the preconceived judgements, and wasn’t demanded to meet certain expectations. He was simply able to ride.

As Jess slid off the back of the horse, his short stature seemed tiny in comparison. He ran to the barn, collecting a cookie to reward his new friend for a memorable adventure. His movements were already softer, as he jumped from mound to mound, floating through the air. His legs had become stronger, his arms moved with purpose. He was happily satisfied, with the tricks he’d completed, and with the smiles on our faces.

My hand moved along the curve of the horse’s body from the top of his head to the tip of his flowing tail. He stood firmly, refusing to falter, and I thought…even the weakest of bodies could feel powerful with the force of such strong legs below them. As his eyes reflected the image of me, I knew there was no way he could ever realize the miracles he was creating, and my admiration of these great creatures grew even more.

Walking with the newly greened grass at my feet, I looked at the horses trotting once again, I heard the rustle of the pigs as they snuggled in the slop surrounding them, and listened to the “Nayys” of the goats begging for my attention. The parents were packing cars, the kids saying their goodbyes. I smelled the Alfalfa once again as I sucked in more air than I ever imagined possible, smothering my lungs with the goodness of nature, and the comfort of home.

Food For Thought

Shopping on the Lake, Vital Bridges, Chicago, IL (32)

Sometime last year my husband and I were making one of our daily trips to the Walgreens just across from our home in Dallas. I had to stock up on my hourly fix of Sour Patch Kids and Zours, and he was pretty much along for the ride. As the automatic doors slid to the right and we headed toward our car in sight, a middle aged man stopped us in our tracks. Now let me be the first to tell ya’, I know a thing or two about being stopped by homeless people. For some reason, we had the great idea of moving to the center of downtown Dallas after leaving Kentucky in June of 2006. We thought it would be a fabulous scene; very chic, very quick, and very “cross the street in your textured poncho and green stilettos as cabs fly by.” We were to immerse ourselves in the city, the people, the culture in order to truly find the value in this new adventure. Looking back, we probably should have rethought this altogether. From the first day we’d arrived (with my mom visiting no less), as the pugs were making a quick stroll through the courtyard, my eldest pug, Hattan (a.k.a. the regulator), barked at a passerby. He responded with a, “Your life’s better than mine dog.” Fantastic welcome to the city of Dallas (plus, can you imagine the look on my small-town-Kentucky mom’s face?)! Of course to be honest I’m not sure things improved all that much moving uptown. There was the man who asked us if we’d buy him some food, to which we responded absolutely “yes,” but then he felt the need to make recommendations on where we went. First he wanted us to drive to Taco Bell-are you kidding me? We weren’t really up for traveling anywhere and we were only near a store that had snacks available. After reluctantly agreeing, he then wanted to make suggestions. Finally we settled on some Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies, certainly guaranteed to unwrap a smile in this case (Oh, what I would have paid to have been a fly on the phone pole during this conversation). And then there was the man who made his permanent residence in the Porta Potty behind our complex (eventually the company caught on and padlocked the door). He always needed something, and generally, we didn’t mind helping him out.

Anyhow, this time it was different. I immediately knew something was wrong. His thin body was hardly standing, and he spoke quietly as he asked, “Could you give me directions?” Willing to help, RJ asked where he needed to go. He responded by spelling “A-I-D-E-S,” and then said the word, “arms”. We weren’t really sure how to help at first, but then after repeating it back and noticing his uncomfortable demeanor, we realized that he had incorrectly spelled the disease, either for confidentiality or embarrassment… I’m not sure exactly why, but regardless, he was trying to find AIDS Arms, an agency which supports those affected by HIV/AIDS.

Honestly, at first I was frightened. Of which I was aware, I’d never met anyone battling either of these diseases, certainly not to the extent of this man. And then, as I saw the pain in his eyes, my fears slowly disappeared. Compassion was the only emotion overwhelming me. His directions had been given and still he stood in front of us, blankly staring at our faces. Slowly he opened his backpack. Piled only with medications I remember him pleading, “I never do this. I’m trying to get to this organization. I start a job on Monday and I’ve been sleeping behind the fence near the back of the store. Could you please get me some food?” We said yes, and returned from the store with a sack full of food. After saying, “Thank you,” he left quietly, disappearing into the dark.

That story frequently enters my mind. I wonder what happened to the man and if he still lives today. I wonder how I would react now as opposed to then. Though that was my first encounter, I knew it would not be last. I so very much wanted to volunteer with some type of HIV/AIDS organization, and after several failed attempts, Chicago proved to be just the place.

Just over twenty years ago, volunteers gathered throughout the Chicago area to provide food, shelter, education and care to those suffering from HIV/AIDS. Eventually, through work and dedication, Vital Bridges was created. With Chicago being among the highest areas affected by the disease, the organization provides to roughly 2,000 people each year and since their opening they’ve served “more than 10 million meals, 600,000 nights of shelter and 250,000 hours of counseling to over 10,000 clients.” Vital Bridges allows the people they help to learn, live and grow with dignity.

After briefly getting lost (Thanks a lot Pete-you remember my GPS system, though it may have been my fault this time), I saw the small sign advertising, “Vital Bridges” propped against the glass window in a building right near the corner I’d just passed. Turning around and then finding some princess parking (c/o Victoria), I knocked on the heavy door and watched as a friendly face appeared on the other side.

This would be an experience right up my alley. A large number of those battling this disease live right at or below the poverty level. Dealing with the heartache accompanying the disease, attempting to pay medical bills, and maintaining the ins and outs of a home are just some of the worries crowding one’s mind. Finding food should be something easy, so today it would be, as I would be doing their shopping for them…gathering food and home products to possibly make life just a little bit easier.

Shopping…I can do. There’s nothing I enjoy more than the feel of the zipper tightening at my waist…the black tulle falling against my legs. The way my toes glide into the tip of the brightly colored, jewel covered heels send shivers up my spine, and the reflection of the bling around my neck sends me with a first class ticket to H-E-A-V-E-N. So it was no surprise that at some point I would find a way to work it into my schedule. As people with HIV/AIDS stood at the counter, I would take their orders, and gather the requested food items into my red-handled shopping cart.

In they came. Their faces were like the ones you see as you walk down the street, through the mall, around lonely corners. They wore tee shirts, khaki pants, track suits, long dresses. Their smiles looked like any others, and their stories were familiar as well.

Standing in front of the cold seeping from the other side of the doors, I grabbed pork chops, cheeses and sliced vegetables. Checking eggs for cracks, and passing through stacked shelves around me, cans of peaches, and boxes of cereals and muffin mix made their way in to my basket. Strolling through the aisles, reaching up and then down, I sometimes got lost in the broccoli and the apples, the stews and the toilet paper. I love the aura of a small grocery boutique. Everything’s fresh and whole, smells crisp, bright, and creamy, and lets us start the week new with fewer problems, and more to which we can look forward.

With the cart full, we’d walk back to the counter, and match the list they’d requested to the food we’d picked. As we read off the chicken and carrots, the peppers, then the milk, they packed their bags, smiling with thanks and relief as they accepted these small gifts. The day had just gotten better, the weeks ahead were promising.

My visit to Vital Bridges left me with a completely different impression than I originally imagined. The people we were helping weren’t people with this terrible disease that inflicts terror into every aspect of their lives. These were people who had a disease, but for much of their lives, it was their decision as to how they would allow it to affect them. For the most part, I saw men and women talking with one another, laughing, playing on phones, listening to music, and facing life as any of the rest of us…with the hope that we’ll be here another day…surviving and thriving in this great big world.

Two Hearts

Interfaith Senior Programs, Inc., Waukesha, WI (31)

We’d spoken on the phone once before. Her voice, while abrupt at first, softened quickly as I introduced myself. Her smile radiated through the phones as we planned our meeting times and places, and I wondered what she would look like, and was curious if she was wondering about me as well. Arriving at the Brewser home was somewhat intimidating. I wasn’t sure exactly what I should be expecting, and though I was pretty much a veteran when it came to throwing myself into new volunteer experiences in unknown regions of America, this would be the first time I would be working directly with a family in need of some reenforcement. The facts: The wife, Carrie was blind. Her husband, Tony, had in recent years become a quadriplegic. Of the causes of either, I wasn’t sure. The local energy company was threatening to cancel the electricity to the home. With Tony being on life support, this wasn’t simply an inconvenience, but rather a life-threatening situation needing immediate resolution.

I parked in the front of the house, and walked the steps to the brass-handled door. Knocking, I heard shouts from the inside welcoming me to the home. Turning the knob, I was greeted by Carrie, who slowly, touching walls along the way, approached me. Her service dog, Packer, ran quickly ahead, ensuring I was a wanted visitor. Immediately Carrie embraced me. And from the door to the kitchen, I felt like we’d been friends for years.

Covering the kitchen counter, a spread completely unfamiliar in my “Purpose” journey sat before me. Homemade chicken breasts doused in a curry based sauce, freshly made potato salad (served with just as many eggs as potatoes ), crunchy pickle slices ,and just out-of-the-oven, melt-in-your-mouth fudge brownies (I totally snuck one before anyone was the wiser). A homemade lunch…completely amazing, ridiculously surprising, and well worth the wait.

Grabbing a plate, we sat together and I learned about Tony’s illness. After serving his country in Vietnam and returning home a decorated soldier, he would have the option of undergoing any medical treatments at a VA Hospital. He’d gone in for a fairly common procedure focusing on the discs in his upper back. Following surgery, the couple was told all was well, and though Carrie had stayed the night before, she would be able to go home for some much needed rest. At roughly two o’clock in the morning she received a call from the hospital. Tony had been given a shot of narcotics. Soon after, he asked the nurse for a cup of water. While she was too busy to get a drink, she grabbed a small piece of cantaloupe from the table in front of him. She then left him and returned to find him unconscious, unable to breath from the fruit lodged in his throat. Desperately trying to revive him, his brace was removed as hands pounded against his body still frail from the surgery. Tony lived. But he’d walked into the hospital, mostly healthy. He would later leave unable to move anything below his neck.

Our small group gathered around the dining room table; the multi-talented realtor (who also ran errands, organized bills, etc., etc.), Becky, the gentle case worker of whom I spoke earlier (who considers Carrie friend before client), Carrie herself, and then me. The overwhelming pile of mail sat in front of us while we contemplated exactly where to start. Tearing envelope after envelope, medical bills overlapped one another while letters clarifying insurance inquiries became attached together.

After working through the notes and the invoices, contacting the electric company was top priority. With phone numbers clearly displayed on a yellow piece of paper in front of me, I started dialing. Automated systems are always the worst, and as I attempted to follow directions and push “1“ when necessary, then “8” and so on, eventually becoming frustrated, I ended up with the repetitive motion of my finger pressing “0” until finally speaking to a human being. Then of course I was put on hold, music played, I rolled my eyes and then an actual conversation began.

An extension to paying the bill was the first order of business. I pleaded our case, explaining in depth the situation. The man on the other end of the line seemed to understand, but could only help us after a verbal agreement to engage in a payment plan. While the request was completely reasonable, with just over $800 coming into this home monthly (Tony’s settlement strictly provides for medical care), a $250 electric bill was in no way a possibility. For the extension however, we agreed. June 1, 2010 would be our D-Day.

The next call was to the Public Service Commissioner. The goal was to lower the utility rates provided the extenuating circumstances. Unable to locate the commissioner, we were only able to leave messages which would hopefully result in a returned call sometime very soon.

The last order of business was speaking with Congressman Jim Sensenbrenner. Hold your hats people, I gotta be honest here, I was kind of nervous. I’d never even contacted Kentucky representatives so I wasn’t sure exactly what to say or exactly how to handle myself. But, this was for a tremendous cause, so I was willing to do whatever necessary.

Dialing the numbers, my heart pounding, I was wondering if someone would pick up, briefly yearning for the call to go unanswered. Ringing and more ringing, and then a quick “Congressman Sensenbrenner’s office.” Walking from the noises around me and holding my breath, I somehow briefly described the story of this family of two in a city just outside of Milwaukee. Forwarded to an aide primarily responsible for handling the mistreatment of veterans, I handed the phone to Carrie. Fighting tears, she spoke the sad truths that dictate her life. She begged for a working lift, one that would enable Tony to leave his home, get a haircut, take a walk with Carrie by his side. Nothing extravagant, just the hope of some kind of a future. The talking went on for what seemed like forever, and when I heard the click of the phone behind me, I turned around to a face…tired, exhausted, finished for the day.

Resting my arms on the newly finished railing along the back porch, tossing the yellow tennis ball to Packer, Carrie listened as I described the leaves stretching from every branch, the potted plants with colored flowers just beginning to bloom, and the vines that followed along the fencing. She loved learning of her stone steps that lead to the random grassy areas, perfect for resting on warm evenings just before sunset. I loved looking at her face as she heard about her beautiful home. She was so very proud, and I was so honored to be the one to share in her glory.

Just before leaving, as I raised my camera, Tony leaned over and kissed Carrie’s forehead. Looking at the photograph in front of me, her arm wrapped around him, I thought about these lives as the frame was captured. I thought about my reaction had life as I’d known it been stripped away through no responsibility of my own. I’d mentioned to Tony earlier that his ability to move past the thickness of resentment was heroism beyond in depths of my imagination. His response, a simple “Thank you,” proved his humility as well.

Tony and Carrie Brewser teach us so many lessons; the need to continue through life, no matter the obstacles, to hold one another when it seems things are at their very worst, the benefit of fighting the problem, not the people around you, that kindness must be shown in every action made, and to love, forgive, and laugh as much as we possibly can. Perhaps the greatest lessons are those we learn when the rain pours, the thunders shake, the mountains crumble, and the clouds stay hovered above our every move. In any case, I’m certain that whatever my circumstances, I’ll reflect on the lives of this fine couple and I’ll remember how, despite the difficulties, they’ve led by example flawlessly, inspiring so many…inspiring me.

Note: To Carrie and Tony, for sharing your journey with me, and for allowing me to share mine as well

SmArt

Arts & Scraps, Detroit, MI (30)

Standing in front of a pool at the Holiday Inn North in Lexington anxiously awaiting information regarding the KESDA state speech tournament, a student from another school approached me. Her friend; a blue-eyed, blonde, young man, sent her to find my name. Completely mortified (and wearing a bathing suit and cover up-yes, I’m serious, I was about to take a quick dip before the judging began), I introduced myself, told from which school I hailed, and watched as she returned to a small group of people not too far away. Minutes later, that same friend walked toward me and told me all about who he was; hometown, middle school, competing categories and so on. To be quite honest, I kind of thought he was a dork. I was pretty dorky too, but this guy was a particular breed of dork and was really a lot to handle…a LOT to handle.

Throughout our high school careers however, we kept in touch. During the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college, he called me. After that, we went on our first date, and now, ten years later, I’m still married to that same guy.

Obviously I’m not saying that involvement in the arts will eventually lead to a walk down the aisle, children with pig-tails and puppy dogs, and a happily ever after. I am however saying that exposure to different experiences surrounding the arts, promotes meeting new people, inspires creativity, builds confidence…all of which help us ask questions of ourselves, think about our choices, to determine the sorts of people we want to one day become and the people with whom we want to share our lives. So, at one point I was hoping to work with an organization that promoted our artistic abilities, and I knew just the one.

Arts and Scraps uses recycled industrial materials to teach children that through art, one can live free from boundaries, can visit worlds unknown to others, and can create perfection through paint, cotton balls, sequins and pipe cleaners. Research has shown that children educated by art classes become persistent, learn from their mistakes, make critical judgements when necessary and have the ability to support those judgements. With funding being sliced in half (if not completely) for the art programs in so many of our schools, this organization provides teachers the opportunity to introduce art into their curriculum with incredibly effective materials at wonderfully reasonable prices. Fantastic, so here.we.go!

In my home I always have what’s known as a junk drawer. I’m sure many of you know of what such a thing would consist…mainly junk, but in particular I’m a big fan of tossing in random buttons, batteries, paperclips, and so on. Knocking on the door, and walking into the Arts and Scraps room was literally just like walking into my junk drawer, but in a far more designer-fabulous way. From top to bottom, boxes of blue and black sparkles were stacked, while baskets of cassette tape reel (which I think I last saw sometime in the 80‘s) were scattered from table to table.

Much of what Arts and Scraps contributes is in the way of a kit compiled of different materials that will eventually create beautiful masterpieces. The workings of an airplane can be explained with sewing thread and puff paint, while photosynthesis can be illustrated with styrofoam and yarn. Learning becomes easy, fun and memorable. Today, I’d be focusing on life with gills and swimming from underwater castle to shipwreck, as I measured and cut cellophane for a fish bowl that later would be home to several construction paper critters. I looked around as I chop, chop, chopped away and really loved what I was seeing. They’d successfully found ways to make every piece of junk useful. Plastic Christmas holly represented seaweed quite well, while jewels told stories of wealthy kings and queens with giant gold crowns and sparkling shoes. Surrounded by that which once was destined for a junkyard, I noticed a decorated sign above. Hanging just above the door, “Reality is for those who lack imagination~ Author Unknown,” made me realize that too often my reality dictates my plans. I move from day to day organized, scheduled. Imagining seems but a luxury in comparison to the routine I frequently follow. The words reminded me of how important spontaneity, excitement and the unusual truly can be.

With boxes full of packaged sequins I’d just sealed, crossing the street and pulling the handle to the store door, I was immediately mesmerized at the sight just ahead. Colors radiated from every corner with massive buckets full of lids, compact discs, lush fabrics and golden bells. Ribbons streamed from one bucket to the next, while toilet paper rolls became rocket ships and vases. With nooks throughout cleverly named such as “Treasure Island,” the prizes were everywhere. Old baby dolls, pictures of someone’s memories, fake candies and tiny golden baskets were begging to become a part of the next big project.

For my task I would need to channel the creativeness inherently within me, as I would be developing a kit of my own. Already, there were flowers with large petals, masks with beady eyes, and long, hippie style headdresses with which I’m sure accompanied a wonderful lesson on 1960’s America. Creative isn’t really something I can just turn on. I mean com’ on, no one here claimed to be Mrs. Picasso. I’ve got to be in the mood to be creative. So in trying to evoke my creative side, I started thinking about what interested me now, possibly spanning the ages, bridging the gap between a first grade student and me. Then it hit in the form of a dot, dot, bubble. What had the power you ask? Wizard extraordinaire, Harry Potter no doubt. So I got to work creating all that is Harry, Hermione, and Ron Weasley. Deciding what most certainly defines the fab trio for me, a cape and wand would definitely be in the near future.

As I was choosing my materials, I began thinking about five year old me sewing (with a needle and a thread-no machine) a wizard costume for my doll, Molly. She had a cape and a pointed hat made from the same fabric; red cotton with stars of all sizes covering it. I thought I was some kind of fashion icon, and let’s just be honest here, we all know it was absolutely terrible. The stitches were a million miles apart, the cuts were jagged at best. It was really, just not good…much like the time I made soup for my mom and brother, Russ, out of water, pepper, some of those bouillon cubes and cabbage-look guys, we’ve got a regular Julia Child on our hands.

Anyway, I’d grabbed red material once again, this time with blue polka dots however. And as I walked up and down the bucket-lined aisles, foam cutouts, plastic tops, pink fabric, pipe cleaners and letters joined me. Standing above the random pieces, cutting and taping, sticking and measuring, slowly my cloak began to form. With my red and silver sparkled wand in hand, I gently touched shelf after shelf, pretending these are my fine pupils, congratulating them for a job well done. The process had landed me right back in my childhood, and oh, what great memories I have.

I’m absolutely giddy over the entire concept surrounding this organization. Not only are materials reused, materials that would have at one time congested a landfill somewhere, but they’re used to broaden horizons and free oneself from the mundane that often, is life. I’ve mentioned this before, but I can’t help but reiterate the importance of art, all forms of art, and what it can provide for us all. The songs, the photography, the poems, the paintings, the movies are much of what remains after we’re long gone. The scenes depicted in these creations are merely what prove our existence and the legacy we’ve chosen to leave behind. They’re signs of our time. They show the short skirts and the rolled jeans, the Warhol paintings that lead the pop art movement. These pieces draw the emotions, the disbelief of all Americans as we lost sisters and friends on September eleventh, and the way the world reacted when our first African American president was called to action. They tell of our accomplishments, our mistakes, the progress we’ve made, and the changes that should have stayed the same. They show as wars divide our country, and as a world comes together in the aftermath of a Haitian disaster.

Simply put, our lives are less important without the words, the music, the pictures…the art that pays tribute to them. Without these pieces, our memories, our stories would eventually disappear from existence. Artistic creativity frees the mind and the soul. It brings purpose when needed and gives perspective to lifestyles and cultures different from our own. It makes us laugh loudly, stand quietly with sadness, breathe heavily with anger, and leaves us completely bewildered. It encourages talking with one another, a sense of community, and a feeling of friendship and love. And who knows, at the end of the day, you may just find you’ve snagged yourself a husband.

• January 2012
• December 2011
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• September 2010
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• December 2009