We Call Them Melons In America

A few days ago, I was practicing my typical morning routine of sitting on the toilet with my phone catching up on the news. In the middle of reading the latest on Black Ariel and the Blue Bell Ice Cream Licker, I got a message from my wife.

I immediately knew who she was talking about. We've been dealing with this guy for the last few days. Right next door to us, a construction crew has been putting up a new building and we share a gate with that property. So, we cross paths with the workers daily. Every now and then, one of them comes to us to use our electricity or inform us of excess noise that day or the shutting off of our water. It is always a difficult conversation since we do not speak the local language and have to do everything through inadequate translation apps.

However, this particular guy is especially "friendly." He frequently wanders over to make small talk when he sees me outside. This usually involves lots of hand gestures and pointing at the construction site with a big smile. I never know what he is trying to convey, but it seems like it is not pertinent information. Just friendly banter. Until he stepped up his game a few days ago.

He sat on our porch one day, so I grabbed a Pepsi and my phone and went to join him. I like to be friendly most of the time. Through our translation apps, we tried to talk to each other. After a couple of minutes, he asked to borrow my motorcycle. I made an excuse about how we were about to leave so it wouldn't be available. So, he asked to use it at lunch the next day. As I was telling him no, I started closing up the house so Red and I could leave. He then asked me how I secure my doors when I leave.

What kind of creepy question is that?

This made me nervous because he basically lives right next to us until the house is built. They always know when we are coming and going. And now he wants to know how well I lock my doors.

Due to my inability to effectively communicate all we can really do is try to be aware.

Not being able to communicate has been a common theme in my life. When I lived in Puerto Rico twenty years ago, I saw a sign on a counter that said CUIDADO: CALIENTE.

This sign made no sense to me. CITY: HOT
What?

I leaned closer to contemplate the meaning and it occurred to me as soon as my arms contacted the metal counter. Cuidado does not mean 'city.' It means 'CAUTION.'

The Spanish word for 'city' is ciudad. They may look similar, but the meaning is quite different.

As I rubbed the aloe on my forearms, I knew I would never forget those words again.

Living in Beijing, I almost did not get my work permit due to a communication error. I was asked to send off for my official Master's Degree for the paperwork that had to be filed. They told me that it must be sealed when we turn it into authorities. I did as they asked and it arrived two weeks later. I handed the envelope to my boss and she immediately ripped it open. I yelled, "NO! It has to still be sealed when we give it to them." She gave me a confused look as I sat and put my face in my hands. I had dropped a significant amount of money to get this and have it specially shipped. She had just ruined it.

She looked the degree over and asked, "Where is the seal?"

After a frustrating back-and-forth, I learned when they told me it must be sealed, what they meant was it must have the official State of Illinois International Authentication Seal. This seal is what proves to foreign governments that this is an official document.

She thought she had communicated clearly and I thought that I had understood. We were both wrong.

I have hundreds of stories like this, but let's come back to the present.

That 'creepy little dude' is now talking to my wife when I am not present and chooses to comment on her 'grapes.' If you have met my wife then you are probably aware that she is quite gifted in the area under her shirt. And in a culture that is known for not possessing those assets, it is even more apparent. But that does not mean he needs to be commenting on her grapes.

I head downstairs to confront this man and in my head I am running how I should play this. Should I be firm or gentle? Should I confront him in front of the other workers (to help keep him on their side of the wall) or take him to the side in private? I don't want to create too big of an incident. We do have to live among these people and we are the foreigners.

We may be the foreigners here but this cannot be allowed to happen?

I get downstairs to discover that is has escalated to the point that another worker is now involved and talking to my wife in the doorway. I start to step in to put an end to this harassment and I hear her telling the new man (who speaks a little English), he said: "Chau grapes are very big." Everyone (including my wife) laughed.

What is happening?

It turns out the 'creepy little dude' was wanting to plug into our electricity because the work site was having some work done and would be without power for a few hours. He wasn't being inappropriate at all. The Google Translate app just sucks when dealing with Vietnamese.

I even learned the reason he was asking about how I secured my doors a few days earlier was because our water pump was being replaced. When he discovered we were leaving for the evening, he was wondering how they were going to test the pressure once the new one was installed. There was no ill intent. We just don't have the ability to fully communicate. The extra speculation and guesswork about intent was misguided…again.

I have been putting off receiving official language instruction, but I believe it may be time to change my stance.

Evil Urban Empire

This is NOT the view from my house.

For a little over a month now, I've been living in the big city of Indianapolis. This is the biggest city (844,000) I have ever lived in. I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico for a year, but it only had 400,000.

There are some major differences between living in the country and living in a big city, but I'm proud to say I have always made the transition fairly well. It's true that I can't pee in my front yard anymore. In fact, I don't even have a front yard. Or a back yard for that matter. Also, as much as I don't like people, I have found it very easy to ignore the multitude of them I am surrounded by. Actually, this is easier to in the city than it was in the country.

Growing up, I really didn't give big city life much thought, but there was one thing I knew. All country people and small town folk know.

You just aren't as safe in the city.

Before leaving my hometown (pop. 400), the worst actual crime committed against me involved someone stealing my garbage and dumping it on the side of the road a mile away. I still don't know what that was about, but I cleaned it up while the police watched. I never found out who did it and the police didn't believe it wasn't me.

Years later, on my first trip to San Juan, I got mugged.

Now, I was in a bad neighborhood and we had been warned to stay indoors after dark, but Dave and I couldn't bear our first night in the Caribbean locked inside someone's house. We just wanted to take a walk. It didn't end well.

Years later, when I actually moved there, someone broke the window on my SUV and stole my wife's purse, which happened to have her wedding ring in it as well as all her identification. These things didn't happen back home in small-town Southern Illinois.

When I moved to Indianapolis, (less than 5 weeks ago) it took all of eight days for my apartment to be robbed. They didn't just rob me, they took something very personal. My pet.

That is a python named Dr. Finklerstein that

we have had for over three years.

When I first moved in, I was told the entire complex was getting new windows. Management would send me a note the day before so I could prep my apartment by moving everything away from the windows.  They didn't send me that note. I left my apartment one day to discover they were putting in windows downstairs. I asked if they were doing the upstairs as well and discovered that I needed to go move some of my things. I then left for the day.

Get in the POT!!!

When I came home, I had beautiful new windows, but later discovered that Dr. Finklerstein was not in his terrarium. I searched all through the house as Kirsten cried on the couch, "That dirty Mexican took him." 

I don't know how she became so racist.

"He took him home to eat him! Snake is a delicacy in Mexico, you know?"

Um...actually, I don't know if that's true.

I searched through all the dresser drawers, behind the shelves, in the boxes that were only half unpacked and as much behind the water heater as I could see. He was nowhere to be found. And my apartment isn't very big.

I finally relented and did what Kirsten was begging me to do. I called apartment management.

The immediate reaction of the woman on phone was of concern for a loose python in the building. I gently tried to reassure her that this was not the case. I've had this snake for three years and he has never gotten out of his enclosure. I told her that I didn't want to accuse anyone, but it seemed odd that he just happened to disappear on the day someone was in my apartment. I understood they couldn't really do anything about this, but I wanted to make a report in case others reported things missing. I also told her I would not be letting people in my apartment unsupervised anymore. Apartment employees included.

The snake has never escaped from his cage EVER. It's weird that the one time people are in our house the snake disappears...
— Kirstey Minor (@KirsteyKitten) December 27, 2013

While Kirsten was tweeting her rage, I continued looking. Every day for the next week, I expected to see him stick his head out from behind the water heater. I think I got obsessed with the water heater because it was a heat source. I just expected him to gravitate toward it. I finally gave up. Kirsten must be right. Someone fried him up into python nuggets. Or took him home to give to their kids like I did. We're a strange house.

Almost three weeks later, I discover him sleeping on a pile of clothes in a box I had yet to unpack.

I immediately call management to let them know the snake has been found. She responded, "Great. I'll let your neighbors know."

Wonderful. They notified all my neighbors.

At least we'll have something to talk about in the spring when I actually venture outside.

The Freaks Come Out at Night

In November of 1999, while walking the streets of Cincinnati at two in the morning, I saw a strange sight. About three blocks ahead of us were several dozen people wearing flashing headbands, crazy colored clothes and carrying large boxes. Being the curious person that I am, I ran ahead to see what this group was all about. As I got into the center of the group and was about to start asking questions, one of them reached into his box pulled out a handful of condoms and offered them to me. I was a little thrown off by the gift and wasn't sure what to say. Everyone in the group was carrying these boxes and they were all filled to the top. They had thousands of these contraceptives. In fact, the boxes were so full they were spilling out, leaving a trail behind them so they could later find their way home. I soon learned that I was walking with a gay rights group that was on their way to a local bar. They intended to run in, jump up on the stage with the band and start throwing prophylactics at the patrons. I shook a few hands, excused myself and hurried back to the hotel to share this story with my friends. You don't see something like this everyday.

In January of 2001, I was driving with my family in San Patricio, a suburb of San Juan, Puerto Rico. As I rounded a corner I noticed a few dogs standing on the side of the road growling at something across from them. As more of the street became visible, I was able to see that there was a line of dogs, about a dozen, standing side by side. Every dog was up on all fours, hair raised, baring teeth and glaring across the road. My son, Christian, asked what they were growling at, but our view of that side was blocked by a building. I made the decision to continue on my path and drive in front of them, but had everyone roll up the windows. As we crept forward, we were craning our necks to see what had these dogs so upset. Once we cleared the building, it was like a mirror image of the other side of the road. There was a similar number of dogs on the other side, staring back and doing the same thing. Was this some sort of canine street gang that was getting ready to rumble? We drove between the opposing sides and not a single dog broke his gaze from his counterpart across the street. I still don't know if that was a turf war, a fight over some road kill, or if they were going to serve up some doggy dance moves to settle their differences, but I did know that you don't see something like this everyday.

When you see something that unusual, it tends to stick in your memory. This past Saturday night was one of those nights. I was in the historical St. Louis suburb of University City with my daughter, Kirsten, nephews Gage and Isaac, and our neighbor's kids, Manny and Bryan. Delmar Avenue has several blocks of outdoor cafes, the landmark Trivoli theater, unique stores, restaurants and pubs. The sidewalks are filled with students from the nearby university almost every night. However, the locals were caught off guard by the people out that night.

 There were zombies everywhere. Between 400-500 undead were wandering the streets, chasing civilians down to munch on their brains, and wreaking havoc over approximately a four block area. People sitting in outdoor cafes were stunned when a horde of zombies came lumbering down the sidewalk toward them. People driving on the street were rolling up their windows while others were snapping pictures. There were many mixed emotions observed on the faces of the people and children who were witnesses to this event, but one thing I knew. I loved it. This was one of the coolest things I had ever seen. I am a huge fan of horror movies and I like zombies more than vampires, mummies, or werewolves. Despite the screams of their victims, seeing them in real life like this was incredible. You don't see something like this everyday.

Zombie Crossing Guards

Despite the brain-dead appearance of the zombies, they seemed to be very well organized. They did not disrupt traffic, they used crosswalks, and even posed for pictures. One zombie even had a megaphone, yelling "What do we want?" The horde would chant, "BRAINS!" There were zombie families, zombies in wheelchairs, zombie dogs and zombie babies. They were everywhere.

This event, called a Zombie Walk, was actually organized by a few local college students. They set up a Facebook page and asked people to show up in zombie costumes. They gave a time and place and then just sat back to see who showed up. With close to 500 participants, I think they had a good turnout. This kind of event is also called a 'flash mob.' A flash mob is when a bunch of people unexpectedly show up in a common place to perform some unusual event to surprise or entertain bystanders. In this instance, it was dress like a zombie and walk down the street. It definitely served its purpose. People were very confused. Lots of bewildered looks. Just as many smiles and a lot of people pulling out their cameras to document the story that their friends will not believe when they get back home.

High Society Zombie

Back in August, I created a list of things I wanted to do before I die. You can see that list here. One of the things on that list was to participate in a flash mob. I have now done that, so I can mark it off the list.

The kids and myself had a great time and have decided that we will look for more similar events to participate in. The hard part is learning about them. The organizers of flash mobs want to keep them as quiet as possible for the surprise of the people who will witness it, however, they need to publicize it enough to get participants. It is a fine line to walk, but the results are well worth it. Flash mobs have received a lot of criticism, but when put together well, they are of little disruption and people seem to enjoy them.

I learned of this event a few weeks ago and decided to come check it out. There was no charge to participate. We just had to pay for the gas to get there, a meal to eat while on the road, and a little bit of money for costumes. The entire night cost me less than $30 dollars and we had a great time. Next year, we will plan ahead a little more to create better costumes, but do not expect the expense to be any higher.

This guy never broke character

I have included several pictures. You can click on any image to see it in full size and if you would like to see all the pictures that were taken, feel free to visit my Facebook page. The link will take you right to the pictures.

Love the contacts. Really added to the look.

Family of Zombies

Zombies were busting out everywhere

The horde that I brought

Gage had a zombie related accident

My Remembrance of 9/11

On Friday, I had the privilege of substitute teaching at the Mt. Vernon High School. After working with preschoolers all week, I couldn't wait to get in a classroom with older kids. However, I had not considered that the day would have special significance. Since the 10 year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks falls over the weekend, many of the classes were showing a video and discussing this event and what it means.

I only showed the video during the 7th and 8th hour classes and several of the students exclaimed they had already seen it many times over the course of the day. It was a well made video produced either by the school or one of the students. It mixed various 9/11 footage with different students and teachers telling the story of where they were when they heard the news of the planes hitting the towers.

Afterwards, we discussed our memories and the importance of the event. Since the students were between the ages of five and seven when this history was made, they really did not understand the significance of the event at the time. It is just old history to many of them. The best I can compare to is my memory of Ronald Reagan getting shot. I remember it, but it wasn't that big of a deal to me since I was only nine years old. I did not understand the significance. Despite the fact that I was alive when it happened, it is just another part of history to me. However, I was an adult in 2001 and was quickly aware of what was happening as I watched the second plane hit the tower.

In July of 2001 I accepted a job with a private school in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Therefore, my family had only been on the island for a few months when September came around. I was working in my office when my secretary burst in very excited. She did not speak English and I really did not have a grasp on my Spanish yet.  She was jumping up and down yelling, "Pastor, Pastor, Pastor....Ah....plane, plane grande....Nuevo York....plane...BOOM!" She was saying a bunch of other things, but she was very aware of the fact that I was not understanding her. I knew something was wrong, so I followed her to the radio in her office. I knew enough Spanish at that point that I could gather the general idea of what someone was saying. Since the first plane had just hit a few minutes before, the newscasters were talking very quickly and did not really seem to know anything yet.

I caught that a commercial plane had hit the World Trade Center, so I ran home to turn on CNN. At that point, this was just an interesting news story. Planes crash sometimes, but for a commercial jet to hit the World Trade Center was awful. Once I thought I understood what had happened I stood up to go back to work. As I took a step forward to turn off the television, the second plane came onto the screen and crashed into the second tower. I felt my heart sink. As the announcers were still in stunned silence trying to figure out what to say, I realized that this was intentional. I didn't know what that meant, but someone had planned this. The news anchor then started to say the same thing I was thinking. This was a planned catastrophe.

I then started to record 'CNN en Español' for the teachers to watch in the break room so they could know what was going on. I kept watching CNN and saw the live footage of the first tower coming down. I had taken the tape back to the school before the second one came down, but got to see the footage hundreds of times over the next couple of weeks. The rest of the day I spent in my office glued to the Internet news feeds to hear the latest information, but don't really remember the events for the rest of the day.

Not knowing what this meant for the country was the worst part. Would there be more attacks? Once we realized this had been done to us by a foreign enemy I wondered if we may even see enemy soldiers on our soil. How bad is this going to get? I never wanted to be back home in the States as much as I did during this time. If the fight actually makes it to our soil and we are fighting for our lives, I would much rather be in familiar territory than in this new land we were in. Since Puerto Rico is part of the U.S. and we lived within a few miles of a large naval base, there was concern of an attack on the island, especially since it is a strategic defense position for the East Coast. There was no feeling of safety just because we were so far away.

Over the next few weeks we were pulled over several times and had our car searched at various road blocks. The heightened security was very visible. I don't think we would have experienced that in the Midwest. As much as I was mesmerized by knowing and talking about the latest developments, soon the news services were issuing warnings about the possible damage we could be doing to our children by the constant bombardment of fear, death, images of crashing planes, people leaping out of burning buildings and other bad news. I realized I did need to protect my children's' minds, but I probably needed to do the same for mine as well. That constant state of stress is not good for anyone.

As time rolled on, different people began to have different reactions. Some expressed anger, others felt a deep pride, many signed up to fight in the military and a renewed patriot spirit grew strong. Since then, many things have happened and many things have been said. Some good, some bad.

Now, 10 years later, I don't know how to finish this blog. I want to wrap it up with some deep, insightful statement to leave the reader thinking or give a renewed sense of pride, but I have nothing. I wrote this to project my memory of that day and I know it is something I will never forget, but it is something that no one who lived through it will forget, regardless of what personal conclusions they came to over the course of the next 10 years. Some people applaud the president's handling of the situation, while others condemn him. Some people believe we have captured the people responsible, while others believe we have been chasing the wrong people. I have read about hundreds of theories people have for why we were attacked to begin with.

What have I learned? I am left with the impression of the high school English classroom I was teaching on Friday. These teenagers do not have the same level of interest in this anniversary as their parents. Despite the fact that they were alive when this happened, they were so young, it did not leave the impression on them that it left on me, much like my limited recollection of the Reagan shooting. Listening to the generation before me talk about the Kennedy shooting is entirely different than me reading about it in a history book. Listening to war veteran's recall the adventures and horrors of Vietnam or World War II reminds me that real people lived through these things. These are events that actually happened. Families were deeply affected and lives were changed by these events. Whether we are discussing the events of the Revolutionary War, the attack on the World Trade Center or anything history in between, these are not just facts, names and places to learn for school. They are a part of who we are and shape our identity as Americans.

We must never forget.

It's All About Patience and Determination

I have had the most amazing week. A few days ago, I was thrilled with the events of the afternoon and then this morning, it happened again.  Life does not get much better. Unfortunately, my daughter could not comprehend the gravity or importance of this monumental occurrence, so I have been trying to educate her.

Sunday afternoon, I was pulling into the Wal-Mart parking lot and was immediately reminded of why I need to plan my trips a little more intentionally. We have one of those super Wal-Marts that is bigger than many small towns, and on the weekends and some evenings, the crowds can be quite overwhelming. As I approached the lot and saw the hundreds of cars, I immediately started to reconsider how much we needed the items I came to get. The over-crowded aisles and the long check-out lines would make this a miserable experience, as usual. I need to remember to plan my Wal-Mart excursions for weekdays, but I decided to brave the masses since I was already there. However, first, I had to find a parking space.

Being the middle of summer, I do not want to walk across 300-degree asphalt any further than I have to, so I began the quest for a decent parking spot. I started my usual routine by pulling into the side entrance to drive by the front doors. This is more than just habit, there is a reason for this approach. Coming in from the side gives me a better view of the front spots. I can quickly scan the spots to my left while I dodge the endless stream of shopping carts exiting the store to my right. This foot traffic does pose a serious hazard, but gives me the slow-motion drive-by opportunity needed to find what I am looking for.

If I come in the front entrance and am driving directly toward the front of the store, there are too many parked cars in the way of potential empty spaces located in the acceptable parking zones. Plus, due to this vastly inferior viewing angle, sometimes a space occupied by a sub-compact or a motorcycle is mistaken for being empty, causing me to bypass various parking opportunities while pursuing what gave the illusion of being a better choice. Upon discovering that the spot is not empty and realizing I should have taken the one I passed two spaces back, it is usually too late to back up because of the Jeep behind me who now thinks that is her spot just because I passed it.

Finding the right spot is crucial in determining the initial mood for embarking on a shopping journey. This concept is held even more dear in other parts of the world. When I lived in Puerto Rico, I was amazed to discover that they had valet parking at Wal-Mart. Being what my ex-wife called ’cheap,’ I never took advantage of this service, but I definitely saw the attraction. These Wal-Marts would rope off all the best spots and then charge the customers to use them. If I wanted to park close, I had to pay for it, however, there was a much greater downside than just having to park further away. Being a major metropolitan area, the parking lot could not accommodate the numbers of cars trying to find a space. So, the people who did not take advantage of the valet ‘convenience’ may not be lucky enough to find a spot at all. However, my frugal nature and sense of adventure would step up to the challenge every time. Because of this, we started to participate in a creepy practice I called ‘shopper-stalking.’ I did not invent this practice and it took a while to understand the unwritten cultural rules for how it works, but the concept was pretty simple.

After cruising up and down all the aisles and determining that there are literally no spots available (not even on the furthest reaches of the lot), drivers start to watch for spots that are about to become vacant. One of the best ways to get a spot is to follow a shopper to their car. This is the creepy part. As an exiting shopper walks into one of the parking rows, if you are swift enough to be the first car behind her, you may be able to get her spot when she pulls out. There are some rules that must be obeyed. The pedestrian, upon noticing that she is being ‘stalked,’ walks on the right side of the lane. The ‘stalker’ stays to the right as well. This allows other cars to pass since the first car has already laid claim to her spot. However, that claim has not been made unless the ‘stalker’ has turned on the right turn signal. Once that signal comes on, it communicates to the other drivers that this spot will be yours, despite the fact that you do not yet know where it is located.

Since these parking lots cover vast spaces, it may take several minutes for the shopper to reach their car and I never did grow accustomed to creeping behind a walking person in my car. It felt so sinister. That is why I called it ‘shopper-stalking.’ Plus, if the person you are following passes between the cars to get at her vehicle in another row, you then have a legal right to race to the next row over and run her down. I only had to do this once, but I did not feel good about it. Her spot wasn’t that good anyway.

Now that I am back in Illinois, I do not have to ‘shopper-stalk’ any longer. My local store always has parking available, even on the busiest days, but I may have to walk for it. I am not doing that. I do not know why I cannot park at the back of the lot, but I just can’t do it. My daughter will get upset because I will spend an extra 10 minutes cruising around the lot to get a spot that is three spaces closer than the one I turned down earlier.

I am willing to trek all over town on foot, so this is not about laziness. Maybe it is male ego or the inability to reject the challenge. I don’t know, but I will not exit the vehicle until I have found what my friend Dawn calls ROCK STAR PARKING. Maybe it is an ego thing.

So, it is a crowded Sunday afternoon and I am approaching the store from the side. I carefully maneuver through the throng of exiting shopping carts, motorized wheelchairs, and leashed toddlers while scanning the spaces. I take the first row right after the doors to look for available spots. The first empty spot is about 15 spaces back. Not good enough. I cut through the row of parked cars to now approach the row right in front of the doors. It appears that there are no close spots in this row either so I will have to go another row over to try my luck. However, as I got close to the end of the row, I saw back up lights come on to my right. This person was pulling out of the very front space! The coveted front space! Only handicapped spaces are closer!

I immediately threw it in reverse to give them room, but someone started honking. There was a car right on my bumper. I couldn’t back up. I quickly reassessed the space between my car and the one wanting to pull out and determined that it may be possible to get out if the driver was very careful and pulled in their trunk. I put the car in park to wait and see how this played out. My daughter exclaimed, “Dad, you have to pull up. They don’t have room.” I let her know I was not going to miss this opportunity. How often does this happen? I will never get to park this close again without a wheelchair. She rolled her eyes, got out of the car, and ran inside the store.

Determined to hold my ground, the driver calculated the extra space he had to work with since he was in the front spot and wasn’t pinned in by cars on both sides. As cars were honking at me and an old woman started tapping on my window, he finally figured it out. I proudly pulled my vehicle into the spot and stepped out of the car with my head held high. The cursing and rude gestures coming at me from random vehicles were not going to bring me down. I knew what I had just accomplished. I don’t remember what happened inside the store or how long it took me to locate my daughter, but it doesn’t matter. The best part had already happened.

Today, six days later, I return to Wal-Mart and am reminding Kirsten of the fantastic experience we had last time we were there. As she pretended to ignore me, I noticed that same spot was just open and waiting for me. I pulled into it with no problem and got to relive the moment again.

Look Out, World...I'm Back!

When I first started this blog seven months ago, I listed things about myself so my potential future readers could get to know me.  One of the items on that list stated that it has taken me 14 years to get my Bachelor’s degree.  That statement back in October was more speculative than fact, although a week from now, it will be true.  I am very proud to say that I will be a college graduate in one more week.

I never meant for it to take this long.  When I got out of high school, I went to college like most people do.  However, I hadn’t really given it a lot of thought.  I went to college because that is what you are supposed to do after high school.  I withdrew from my classes in the middle of my third semester at Rend Lake College.  I really didn’t want to be there.

I was excited to go to college at first.  I was finally out of high school and it was time to venture into adulthood, but the vision quickly fizzled when I got to RLC.  It took about a month for me to come to the conclusion that nothing had really changed.  I felt like I was still in high school.  College was supposed to be bigger and better, but the only things different were the increased commute time and number of students on campus.  The classes weren’t even harder.  What was the point?  DISCLAIMER:  I want to make it clear that I am not bashing Rend Lake College or any community college.  They have their place, but I expected so much more than what I experienced.

I definitely could have made better choices, but I was 19 and wanted to get on with my life.  I quit school, moved out of my parents house and ventured north to be with the girl I was dating at the time.  We were together for about another year before I moved back to my home town.

Fast forward about ten years and I had reached a point in my life where I knew it was time to get serious.  I was a year into my second marriage, had two kids, had become a Christian and decided I wanted to go into ministry.  The spring semester of 1998 I started classes at Lincoln Christian College (now Lincoln Christian University).  College was a whole different experience this time.

We moved into Married Student Housing and I hit the campus full-time.  This time I wanted to be there and instead of barely making it through my classes, I was on the Dean’s List.  I loved it.  It was difficult to balance the family with school and definitely challenging to find time to sleep, but I pushed through.  With the exception of one semester of part-time studies, I went full-time for three and a half years.

The summer before my senior year I accepted a job as minister at a church in San Juan, Puerto Rico.  The plan was to incorporate this job into my internship and finish my schooling through distance learning.  It may have delayed my degree by a semester or two, but I would be working in my field already.  A small delay would not be an issue.  However, things did not work out that way.

Due to a variety of issues, we were only on the island for seven months.  I will tell that story in a future blog.  None of my schooling had been started yet and we came back to the States.  After bouncing around for months of not being able to find decent work and living with my grandmother, we decided to go back to Lincoln.  We were there one semester before I was kicked out (another story I will tell in a future blog).

Seven years later I start taking classes through distance learning.  Just a class or two per semester.  I even took two classes that were on campus.  Once a week I would drive three hours for a class and then drive three hours home.  I was accumulating more credits, but it was a tediously slow process.  Finally, last November, I started full-time again.  I decided I need to get this finished and finally have it behind me.  I even doubled up on classes to get it done faster.  I took 24 hours this semester; it has been rough.

I have a few more papers due in the next week, but nothing I am worried about.  Last night I turned in a rough draft for a major assignment.  It has had me stressed for the last month, but was the last big assignment.  I have to fix it for the final paper, but the bulk of the work is done.  As soon as I hit the send button to my professor last night, I felt a huge weight fall off my shoulders.

I have opted to skip the ceremony (en absentia - LATIN: see how smart I am now) and just have my degree mailed to me, but I am attending a graduation banquet tomorrow night.  I am not interested in sitting in a stuffy room for hours after spending money for a black robe I will only wear once, but the opportunity for free food cannot be turned down.

I will finally have that piece of paper.  I started at Lincoln in the spring of 1998, so it only took me 13 ½ years, unless you want to count when I first started at Rend Lake, then it makes 21 years.  I will, at long last, be able to say I am a college graduate.  I do welcome any congratulations, but would more appreciate prayers.  I am starting my Master’s Degree next semester and would love to complete it before I retire.

Ready for the Groundhog

We have had some fantastic weather this week. It is the middle of November and it has been in the mid-70’s all week. I have enjoyed walking across town to escort my daughter home from school. The windows have been open in the apartment and a nice breeze has been flowing through. I could hear the sound of children playing outside. This morning, however, I woke up to an overcast sky and a temperature of 38 degrees. I checked the Weather Channel website and it forecasts the high for today at only 52 degrees. The 10-day forecast predicts 62 degrees for one day next week, but 40’s and 50’s the rest of the time. This can only mean one thing, but I really don’t want to admit it. I think winter is coming.

I hate winter. Actually, the word 'hate' may not capture what I want to say; I loathe winter. Despise. Abhor. Deprecate. Detest. You can pick your favorite verb here, I really do not care for winter. I don’t like the icy roads, the constant and very real danger of slipping and breaking a bone, the extra preparation and supplies to keep in the car, the increased utility bills, the snow shoveling, the snow getting tracked into the house, the salt build-up on my vehicle, the need for extra clothing, the increased commute time, and the COLD.

Fresh Snowfall in So. IL (2001)

Many people claim that winter is pretty; that the snow covering everything is beautiful.  I will argue that it is not.  When I lived in Puerto Rico, my brother sent me a picture of his backyard so I could see what I was missing. I don't know what feeling this was supposed to give me, but I don't think it worked.  I really didn't miss it at all.  It didn't bother me in the least that I wasn't there to see it.  While he was having to dig his car out of his driveway and spend money on tire chains, I was less than a mile from the beach and eating mangoes on my front porch.  Can you see the difference?  Do you really think I was upset that I had missed the scenery of the backyard?

Laiya Beach in San Juan (2001)

DO NOT ENTER - TOO PRETTY

Let's make a snowman!

While I can give some (although limited) appreciation for the beauty of fresh, fallen snow; it has some serious limitations.  The beautiful places are generally uninterrupted by people (i.e. open fields, mountains, Antarctica, Zac Efron movies).  However, those are also not places in which people have to function.  When the snow falls where we have to live and work it is not nearly as breath-taking.  It is much more than just not pretty, it is a real hassle to have to contend with.  How many times in the winter have you gone out to your car to leave for work or school just to discover it will take an extra 20 minutes to get out of the driveway because of the previous night's weather?  Or maybe you planned ahead and dug a path in the driveway the night before, but woke up the next morning to find that snowplows clearing the roads had buried the last six feet of your driveway under two feet of snow and rock that is now frozen. Or maybe you are running late for work because your car door was frozen shut.  After fighting Jack Frost for half an hour (or longer) you now have to brave the condition of the roads caused by this beautiful landscape.

NO THANK YOU!!

As if walking in this treacherous, slippery landscape wasn't enough, you must do it with limited mobility due to the extra weight and restrictive clothing required to survive.  To get through the winter we have to wear coats, thermal underwear, nonskid (and waterproof) boots, scarves, stocking caps, earmuffs, gloves and other various miscellaneous items.  A family of four has to get up an extra 90 minutes early in the morning just to get everyone dressed.  

Winter clothing choices cannot be taken lightly.  For example, when choosing gloves you have 2 choices: you can either (a) keep you hands warm, or (b) move your fingers.  It is up to you to decide which is more important.

There is still the worst part of winter to contend with: the COLD.  Some days it is so bad it takes your breath away as soon as you step out the door.  You must dress appropriately if you want to survive your excursion out of the house.  If you go overboard and dress too warmly you will start to sweat.  The perspiration could then freeze and crack your face exposing your brain to the elements.  If you do not wear enough clothing (or choose something that doesn't break the wind, isn't waterproof, or gives easy access for bathroom breaks) then you run the risk of various winter ailments.  You could get hypothermia, pneumonia, frostbite, or Mad Cow Disease.  Midwestern Mothers are always warning their children to wear a hat over their ears because if the ears get too cold they could freeze solid causing them to break off if the child turns his head too quickly.  Every winter numerous fingers and toes are lost to frostbite, not to be found again until the early spring thaw.  Unfortunately, by then they are too soggy to do anything with.

As much as I hate this season, I think I am ready.  I have stocked up on soup and coffee and have signed up for all online courses for my college classes.  I am not leaving this apartment until March.  And that will only be to get umbrellas, raincoats, and a canoe, because it will then be time for the torrential spring rains.  I hate spring.