If We Loved like Buddy Did

At this moment I have four columns started for the Tuesday’s “Education” page. They each need tweaks I haven’t pinpointed yet, and I doubt all of them will even see print. While writing in the bagel shop this week, I turned to Facebook for a brief distraction and perhaps inspiration. Ok, ok. It was more out of habit and addiction than purpose.

Not much happens among my social network when the weather is beautiful, but my pal Carol’s post stopped my scrolling instantly. “I said goodbye to Buddy today. I held his head, and he went softly.”

I’m glad I’m comfortable in this town and in our bagel shop because my tears flowed freely. I finished my bite of bagel. Wiped my lips. Then my eyes. Then my nose. I needed more napkins for my nose.

Buddy was Carol’s beloved golden retriever. My own golden retriever is about to turn 13 and her sister, my former step dog, will be 14 in August. Both are losing their hearing and sight and have tumors scattered amidst their silvery golden fur. While mowing the lawn or riding my bike, I have found my mind writing their memorials before I even realize where my thoughts traveled. I love these golden girls, but neither of them is as great a dog as Buddy was.

Carol’s post continued, “Buddy was such a beautiful boy. I know why they call him ‘golden’. Buddy served people all of his life. He was a Counseling Dog for 10 years. He sat with kids who were sad or scared. He looked in the eyes of big strong men as they softly told him they had one like him.”

While playing city league basketball a few years ago, I wobbled out of the Hawthorne gym at half time to lean on the drinking fountain. I noticed a clipping from the ISJ on an office door. It was Carol’s office and it was an article about Buddy’s work as a therapy dog. He was handsome on his own but with his signature bandana, he was downright dashing.

The newspaper article talked about Buddy’s work during the weeks after the 2012 Newton, Connecticut school shooting and how he had come to be treasured therapy dog at Syringa Elementary and then at Hawthorne Middle School. Buddy spent time as a calming and welcoming fixture at the threshold of Carol’s office at the top of Hawthorne’s main stairs.

Carol continued, “Buddy was my companion. He loved me always. He was there for me always. He trusted me always. Buddy loved to camp with the girls. Buddy loved going to school. Buddy loved the dog park. Buddy just simply loved.”

He did. He really, really did. I saw him in action a few times and was enchanted by his panting grin. Our world would be better if we loved like Buddy did. If we just simply loved.

Be Wonder Women

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on July 22, 2014

Lynda Carter’s 53^rd birthday is this week. Lynda’s 1970’s TV role of Wonder Woman is credited as being one of the first role models of a strong and courageous woman for girls of my generation. She fought bad guys, solved problems, and worked diligently on her own and with other do-gooders.

No caption needed.

Lynda in concert last fall. I like to let people
know OFTEN that I SAW HER IN PERSON!

A friend of mine, Jessica Owens, is holding a day camp for girls ages 8 to 11 today. She wants it to be one that all of their brothers will envy when often it’s the opposite. She is planning a day of experiments and exploration, instilling a joy in learning something new. She’s going for “uninhibited excitement about the process of discovery.”  I’m sorry, was that 8 to 11? So, I can’t come then?

She wants them to end their day knowing, without a doubt, that science, technology, engineering and math (STEM) can be a rewarding career path. Throughout the day she is sharing thoughts from women whose lives have been enriched by a love of STEM and asked if I might share some thoughts. I’d love to!

I always liked math as a kid because I got it. It was easy and enjoyable until I got to geometry.  That required a different way of thinking for me, and I had to work my brain in new ways, but I did it.

I signed up for Advanced Placement (AP) Physics my senior year of high school. The class was hard. Miserable in fact, and seemingly impossible to balance with student council, volleyball and band.  I petitioned to drop it, but my principal, Dr. Carole McWilliam, wouldn’t let me. During a one-on-one she said firmly, “You are a smart young lady who can handle it, and I’m not going to let you think that when it gets hard you can just quit. Forget it. Now go on because I’m sure you’ve got some studying to do.”

I tell this story all the time and have thanked Dr. McWilliam on numerous occasions. Her encouragement-slash-scolding stayed with me.

A couple years later in college, I was a walk-on for the Idaho State volleyball team while majoring in engineering. At the beginning of my sophomore year, one of my professors told me that I should consider a different major if I insisted on “this volleyball foolishness.”  I didn’t argue with him, complain or take him to the Dean, I went to work. I earned a 98% for my final grade and through that experience I learned how right Dr. McWilliam was.

I AM a smart, young (youngish now) lady and I can handle it.

I graduated with my engineering degree when I was 23 years old, was hired by a company two weeks later and have been in the tech sector since.  I like that I solve problems and puzzles for a living, and it doesn’t hurt one bit that the averages salaries for STEM careers are among the highest.

Lynda Carter along with Dr. McWilliam were inspiring Wonder Women and so is my friend Jessica. There are Wonder Women (and Super Men) all around to encourage, nudge, and illustrate that we—YOU—can be Wonder Women, too.  

Herman, a Gift from my Dad

I’m having a yard sale this weekend. Peace be with me. 

I’m discovering I might be a packrat. Not the packiest of rats because I don’t really buy a lot of things (except ninja turtle t-shirts) but I do hold on to clothes and keepsakes.  I’ve felt guilt in wanting to part with gifts that I don’t wholeheartedly love or use any more. I’ve felt pangs of failure in wanting to sell jeans that no longer fit or mementos from my past relationship, and good ole sappy nostalgia has stalled the sorting and piling process.

I have six boxes of stuff from my folks. I go through them once a year. Sometimes, I actually make it through all of them, but most times I stop after 20 seconds and tape up the first box while wiping tears and thinking about what ice cream I’m about to have.  I’m forcing myself to go through all of the boxes this week and there will be no comforting ice cream until I’m done.

I surprised myself when I decided to give away one of the only gifts I still have from my dad.  His name is Herman and he is a 14-pound marbled blue bowling ball. I’ve never considered parting with him, but a few weeks ago I went to a BBQ at my friends Barry and Marjanna Hulet’s house. They have a colorful collection of bowling balls all over their yard.  As I came across Herman in my basement, I immediately envisioned him in the Hulet’s yard among the other orbs.

I got into bowling my seventh grade year during Mrs. Atkinson’s Life Sports class. We took lessons at the old Moonlight Lanes on Yellowstone and my mom let me join a Saturday morning league as long as I rode my bike so she could sleep in and enjoy her leisurely Saturday mornings

.

My dad lived in Lava Hot Springs but was making regular trips to Pocatello to see doctors. His emphysema diagnosis was looming. He never paid child support and my mom always had a complaint into the court, but he’d still stop by to give me some ones from the bar that he called my “spending money.” Sometimes in lieu of cash, he’d bring an off the wall gift he procured second or third hand. One time he brought me a mildewy tent. He knew what I tomboy I was and thought I’d like to go camping sometime.

Both of my parents were severely overweight and never camped. Who the heck was going to take me camping? But thanks, Dad.

At age 12 and wanting to enjoy his gift, I disassembled my bed with a monkey wrench, took the frame downstairs, pitched the tent in my room, and put my mattress inside.

Dad got progressively sicker and weaker and on his next visit, I had to go to his car because he couldn’t lift my gift.  In a box in his trunk was a magical blue bowling ball he found at a Garrett Way warehouse sale. Dad didn’t leave me any spending money this time, but I didn’t think twice. He was in tuned to my hobby and even though I could barely lift him, Herman was beautiful!

Now that I had my own ball, Mom was going to have to give up her leisurely Saturday morning to drive me to league. Herman also needed holes drilled and a bag to carry him. Mom couldn’t afford either, so I rolled him into my bedroom tent until her next payday.  She ended up only paying to get the holes drilled and made me use an old piece of luggage to carry him. It worked but it was ugly.

Herman epitomizes how my dad showed his love, how my parents managed their individual relationships with me, and how they fostered my relationship with the other parent separate from their own issues. Dad was so happy to give me Herman, but he paid no attention to how heavy he was, how I’d carry him, how finger holes might get drilled or any of the ramifications the gift would have on my mom.

 

Mom didn’t disparage him, but she did communicate the predicaments his gift and lack of child support put her in. She spoke matter-of-factly of their interpersonal conflicts but simultaneously encouraged me to revel in my dad’s imperfect love and all of his whacky gifts because they were sincere and from his heart.

Herman came from his heart and has a special place in mine. When I asked the Hulets if he could join their spherical herd, they were delighted.  Perfect. I have a sense of peace in passing him on to them and in creating a little more space in my basement.  Herman Hulet has a great ring to it.

Herman and me with his new friends in the background.

The Hulets gave Herman the seat of honor before I left.
Before I left him.
Ice cream, anyone?

The Pink Brick

This past weekend was Pocatello Pride.  The gay pride celebration was held at the Old Town Pocatello Pavilion from 3pm-11pm on Saturday.  I attended the event from about 4:30-5:30 and then headed up to Pebble Creek for their annual Wildflower Festival. The Wildflower Festival is one of my favorite events in Pocatello that combines views of the valley I love, people who love them too, live music, burgers and beer. If I’m in town, I NEVER miss the fest.

My time at Pride was brief but pleasant. I ran into a few members of the local GLBT community that I know well as well as some that I only know in passing. I ran into a number of allies in attendance and also manning various booths. I chatted with my junior high band director and the former art teacher who were helping at the Falling Rock Productions booth. (Falling Rock makes custom t-shirts and I’ve worked with Brandon on my 20yr high school reunion shirts as well as the turbine project commemorative tee’s years ago. The guy rocks!)

One of the organizers encouraged us to stay, but I explained that the sunset from the top of Pebble was a skosh more romantic and calling me. After I left Pocatello Pride, they handed out a few awards.

I later heard that there was a specific award—a painted pink brick—presented to Ralph Lillig for bringing the people of the LGBT and allies together. Mr. Lillig has been the chief opponent of the Fair Pocatello campaign and Pocatello’s non-discrimination ordinance. He is the one who called for the vote recount and either paid the ~$4,000 out of his own pocket or solicited donations through his own “Yes Pocatello” campaign.

I have SUCH mixed feelings about this.

It’s clever. It’s funny. It’s a perfect application of my life-guiding metaphor to see the rainbow amidst the rain. I really did meet some fantastic people throughout endeavors with the ordinance “fight” (I don’t like fighting) and in it all, I became a regular and recognizable columnist in our local paper.  That’s allowed me to get a few things off my chest and share my personal perspective on many topics including and beyond GLBT issues.  I’ll reiterate a phrase there…my personal perspective. So here is my personal perspective on the pink brick.

So wait. Is someone really giving the pink brick to Mr. Lillig?  Please don’t physically give the brick to him. That gesture would bear a whole new meaning that makes me very uncomfortable.

Someone posted a picture of the brick on Facebook. My gut reaction was, “don’t throw it!” Throwing bricks through windows is an intimidation tactic from the civil rights conflicts in our country years ago. That lone brick—even though it’s a pastel pink—in the context of our own controversy, evoked the imagery of bricks through windows and Molotov cocktails and burning crosses.  I found it immediately threatening.

And how would it go? Getting the brick to Mr. Lillig? Would someone show up at his house? Ring his doorbell? How would any member of the GLBT community feel if Mr. Lillig showed up on your doorstep?  It would scare me. I would imagine he wanted a confrontation. It would make me angry. I disagree with many, many of his words and I think his weekly talk show on channel 12 is deplorable, but I’ve not felt physically threatened by him. Showing up at his house would be just that type of harassment, in my opinion, and I would hate to see any member of our community engage.

So, if it’s not hand-delivered then what? Anonymously leaving it on his door step?  Noooooo! [face palm]  That is definitely harassing and threatening. If it were a spray painted trophy or a stuffed teletubby (while still petty and uncool), it would not contain the connotations of a brick.

Are you going to call him? Ask him to meet?  And what will be gained by this? Nothing.  It would only serve as a “poking of the bear”.  The time and effort in bear-poking could be better spent volunteering somewhere in our community or going on a nice walk and taking in the beauty around us rather than focusing on the ugly he wishes to perpetuate.

Whoever has that pink brick now…how about this?  Keep it.  Hold it. Take note of the violence and ill will that it is capable of but also that it could be a piece of something wonderful. A house. A building, A path. A monument.  A memorial. A school. A church. (There are many who welcome the GLBT with open arms, you know.) So many things could be built with that brick, but nothing will be built if it is given to Mr. Lillig.

In choosing to disengage with Mr. Lillig, the GLBT community can be the better person. We need to be the better person. 

Goodbye, Big Orange I

When I was a kid, I engaged in all sorts of dialogue with inanimate objects. They came to life in my busy, only-child mind. I talked to Angel, our Christmas tree topper. I greeted the Abraham Lincoln bust atop our console TV each day with a "Good Morning, Abe." And, when we moved to Pocatello, Mom introduced me to the Big Orange "I." In the days before she enrolled me in ISU's Early Learning Center, she took me to Red Hill and told me the "I" was there to watch over me. Kids are never to young to learn about puns.

Angel is barely held together with a creative kluge of hot glue, nails and a rubber band, and Abe's head fell off in the 90's when he took a tumble off the TV during a wind storm. Mom glued his head back on and tied a Christmas bow around his neck to hide the scar. Abe spent a few years in storage, but I brought him back to the living room a couple years ago. He's such a rich, fanciful and fragile part of my history. So, has been the Big Orange "I"

I've known for years that the "I's" days are numbered. Just like Angel's, Abe's and mine. Angel and Abe won't make it much longer than I do because time is treating them like it treats everything. They are also my traditions and won't be appreciated by next generations. That makes me a little sad, but I don't always need to fix sadness. A lot of times sadness is unavoidable and can only be waded through.

I tracked down some former ISU engineering students whose senior design project over a decade ago assessed the "I". Their conclusion unsurprisingly stated that it was unsafe and would eventually need to be removed. Even my untrained eye could arrive at that conclusion without intense analysis and mind-numbing formulas, but I was curious about their assessment of a replacement.

They explained that the "I" was contributing to erosion as the concrete diverted water and prohibited vegetation that could thwart further erosion around and below it. The surrounding hillside would experience the same erosion over time with another concrete slab. The slope of Red Hill with no vegetation would just result in the same problems with the same risks. Darn.

What about a large-scale design modeled after the Price is Right game Plinko? Rock climbing holds could be scattered all over the face which would be perfect for diverting water and double as an excellent outdoor climbing wall. Put me on a committee, ISU, and I can come up with many more insurance nightmares enshrined in school spirit.

I try not to be one who complains about a problem without bringing a solution to the table, but I don't know that there is a solution as visible and bold as the "I."  So, I guess I'm not complaining here. I'm just wading through my own sadness in saying "goodbye" to the Big Orange "I". Thank you for watching over me all these years.

Three F-words for Success

I meet young people all the time who express an interest in sports but think because they didn’t have a pair of cleats to complement their diapers or because they didn’t play with a club or league, it’s too late. It is NEVER too late to try!

My most inspirational and influential coach is Century High School health teacher Alice Heberlein.  Alice was inducted into the ISU Sports Hall of Fame in 2008 after being a standout volleyball player from 1980-1984. She was my coach in 1990 when Poky won the state volleyball championship and then for two years later when I played at ISU. I got to coach alongside her at both Poky and Century, and my years with her in the gym, on long bus rides and at the receiving end of hundreds of her serves, sets and spikes led to my conclusion of three F-words for success: fire, fundamentals and fitness.

The most successful athletes posses a mighty measure of all three, but at a middle or high school level, students can get their foot through the door and onto the court or field with any two.

First there has to be a fire. Alice got cut from the seventh grade team when she was a kid and didn’t try out again until she was a junior. During her first year playing, she made the all-state team in California! She had skipped a grade, so she was only 15 years old, but she had a fire in her heart for the sport.

What does a “fire” mean?  It means getting up early to run, lift weights or do sit-ups. It means riding your bike to the batting cages if you don’t have a ride. It means finding ways through odd summer jobs or keeping your room clean to earn money for equipment or camps that can help, and finding time to work on dribbling with your non-dominant hand or tossing a football with someone. Coach Alice always said, or rather yelled, “You gotta want it!”

The second F-word is “fundamentals.” I am a naturally athletic person. I can catch and throw and run and jump and have always had a natural court or field sense. I’m not talking Olympic-quality natural ability. I’m talking enough athletic fundamentals to be confident when I try a new sport and I have a great time playing.  So what if you don’t quite have a natural flair, but you still want to play? Fundamentals can be developed with practice and that fire I was just talking about.

The final F-word is “fitness”.  A lot can be accomplished with a strong core, stamina, speed and agility. Run, jump and play!

 Other F-words like financing and fundraising will come later but fire, fundamentals and fitness can all be enhanced over a summer. Light that fire, refine some fundamentals, and get fit! The fun will follow.

The Summer Session

My only experience with summer school was a US Government class in ’92. I remember the year because it was an election year and we discussed the candidates ad nauseum and because I was on academic probation needing an A to keep my scholarship. That summer session was stressful and intense.

Although our school system runs formally for nine months of the year, students still learn when they aren’t enrolled in a summer session. So do I.

A few days ago, my friend, her two young sons, and our dogs went to ISU’s Bartz Field to enjoy the setting sun and let the kids and canines run.  The boys bickered and played. The dogs bickered and played, and it was a picturesque scene of summer bliss.

When all energies were amply drained, we loaded the drooling parties into the truck bed and got the boys situated in the back seat. The youngest uses a booster car seat and it takes him longer to buckle. I always pull away before his seatbelt clicks and his mom always reminds me to wait. I need to remember that things take longer with kids. I learn it over and over.

It took him a few tries that night, but by golly I waited before hitting the gas. When I heard the click, I hit it. And then BAM! I slammed right into one of the boulders lining Bartz field. With the shock of the impact, I started swearing up a blue streak.

My parents were good at cursing. I learned that it was something suitable for adults only and should be used sparingly and appropriately. This seemed like an appropriate time.

I got out to assess the damage and could hear the boys in the back seat antsy to see. I realized their mom wanted to throw herself between her sons and my rage, so I took a deep breath and said, “It’s fine. I’m fine. They can get out.”

They were more enamored with the swarm of ants under the dislodged boulder and wanted me to “look, look, look!” So, I quit looking at my dented, soon-to-be old bumper and crouched with them by the ants until they were ready to leave.

Thankfully, the truck was drivable, and as we drove down the hill and into the sunset, I told the boys I was sorry if I scared them. The eight year old said, “Yeah. You did. The crash scared me but your swearing was even scarier because you don’t usually behave like that.” Ouch.

I learned that swearing really upsets this kid so when I got the bill, I swore privately. I hope he learned not only that I sometimes swear but that apologizing is possible and important and that I care about his feelings.  What will you and the kids in your lives learn from each other this summer session?