Mail

Anytime I moved to a new apartment in Chicago, one of the first things that I would look for in each new neighborhood was the closest post office. I would sometimes need to mail things, and also apartment mailboxes were so small that I would occasionally need to go to the post office to pick up packages. Generally, the post offices would be within easy walking distance of wherever I was living.

When I moved to Indonesia in 2012, the first thing that I noticed was that no one had mailboxes. It turns out that Indonesia does not have much of a postal system. Most people do not receive or send letters. In my first apartment here in Indonesia, my landlord would text the electric bill information, which would include a bank account number preset with the bill amount, which you would transfer the money to at an ATM. At my new place I at least get a paper bill slipped into the apartment under my door. This is the preferred method of “mailing” things, throwing them into the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. But the electric bill and various flyers from shops in the apartment complex that are scattered on the floor just inside the front door when I get home are the only “mail” I receive. I have no idea what an Indonesian stamp even looks like.

Earlier this week I got a notice that the package that my parents had sent me for Christmas had arrived. But it hadn’t come to the school, I would need to pick it up at the local post office. Apparently postal laws have changed since the last time they sent me a box, and now all international packages are opened, inspected, closed, bagged, and then kept at the nearest post office. I would need to go to Kelapa Gading’s Kantor Pos Indonesia and pay to retrieve it. The fees are figured by a combination of the value of the contents and the overall weight of the package. I had to pay 7,000 rupiah (about 60 cents) for my Christmas box.

I got in line for the package retrieval counter (Loket 14) and stood there for about 90 minutes. I shuffled very slowly forward during that time. Since the post office in general is an underused commodity, there are very few people working there. There was only one guy working the package retrieval line. He spent between 5 and 10 minutes on each of the 12 people in front of me. It was perhaps the slowest line I have ever been in outside of an amusement park. And there was no rollercoaster at the front of the line either, just a surly guy who clearly hated his job.

When he came out with the box, I double checked that it was mine and then had to sign two different forms in three different places verifying that I had picked up the correct box. The ziptied bag that they put the resealed box in actually made it easier to carry, so that was nice at least.

I sort of hope to never need to go to the post office here again.

An Open Letter

Dear News Outlets,

I’m so frustrated by your continued insistence on blowing things up into enormous scare-tactic sized news pieces. This is a prime example of some newspaper reporting that seems a little egregious.

Newspapers seems to be just adverts for fear. "Get your fear here! 2 for 1 fear! Buy terror, get xenophobia free!" pic.twitter.com/86SifZa03y

— Tim Minchin (@timminchin) August 7, 2014

And then there’s this. Now, CNN, I see that you tried here, and I appreciate that. Fox? Could you maybe step away from the horror-filled clickbait headlines? Give it a try, you might find you like it.

via Reddit

In general, folks, it seems like a determination to sell supplants any sense of what actually happened. It’s almost as though you’re saying to the public, “Are you scared about the world yet today? No? Do you want to be?”

And the answer is no. No, I don’t want you to sell me fear and panic with a side of racism and xenophobia about “those people.” Stop it. Also, just in general, stop telling me horrible and unnecessary things about planes and airports. I live a great distance from home and don’t need more to think about when I travel. Thank you for your consideration in this matter.

Sincerely,

Megan

An Open Letter

To the man who shouted, “Hey! I’m 40 years old and I haven’t died yet! Dig that!” as I walked by:

Dear Sir,

Ummm….hooray?

Love and kisses,

Megan Lynae

Z is for Zoos

There is a tendency among some circles to denounce zoos, aquariums, and any other institution that keeps wild animals out of the wild, as the evil of the world that keeps animals from being free. Free to hunt as nature intended and free to roam the great plains. And most of all, free from the tyrannical grasp of humans. There is, so far as I can tell, one major logical misstep in that argument. The assumption that freedom will equate longevity and safety. Free to hunt as nature intended, yes, but with no guarantees that their food sources have been left living in the midst of overhunting and deforestation on the part of humans. Free to roam the plains, yes, but not protected from poachers who really like them some ivory. Tyranny or protection?

This argument also discounts the lasting environmental good that exposing children to different animal species has the potential to do. If a child sees, and identifies with, a particular sweet and fuzzy endangered creature, then maybe they’ll join the World Wildlife Fund, or the Nature Conservancy as an adult. That money saves the animals, the environment, and might make it possible for a few birds to actually live, as they say, free as the bird sings.

I visited a series of local zoos as a child. We had the Akron, Cleveland, and Columbus zoos to choose from. I think that each of them had their charm, and I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to each of them. I remember watching an orangutan make faces at me through the glass, and wishing I could talk to it.

There is really only one part of the zoo where I have reservations. And that’s the reptile house. Snakes? Fine. Lizards? Fine. Crocodiles and alligators? Oh my sweet jeebus.

Somewhere around the time I was in 3rd grade, I had a series of nightmares about alligators/ crocodiles coming up the stairs of our house and trying to eat me in the shower. For most of that year I took showers with the curtain slightly open, so that I could see them coming and then I’d jump on top of the hamper or something, presumably. My mother would periodically complain about the water on the floor, but I felt completely justified. I was saving my own life. I grew up in Ohio, by the way, which is not particularly near the Everglades. Neurotic much? Ever since then, even after I stopped being afraid that they would eat me in the shower, I have had a thing about alligators/ crocodiles. I am petrified of them. I do not care if they are big or small, and I don’t care if they are behind glass, I do not want to be anywhere near them. To be honest, I even get a little on edge during the parts in Peter Pan where they show the animated crocodile. When confronted by them in real life, I will generally gasp slightly, look away, and then walk off as soon as I can. My father will occasionally exploit this fact for his own amusement. I recall on one particular trip, as I was checking to see if there were alligators/ crocodiles in an exhibit, he came up behind me and grabbed at my ribs. I jumped and screamed. Not funny. I will never be able to go to areas along the coast where they live. I would be in constant terror.

But I do love most other animals. I am obsessed with octopi, as you may know, but I also like some cute and cuddly things.

Like coatis.
And tamarins.

And sun bears.

V is for Valleys

Life is naturally composed of peaks and valleys. The peaks are obviously more fun, but it is in the valleys that you learn.

In January of 2002, I was at the lowest valley that I had ever experienced in my life. I had spinal surgery. The surgery itself was not the deepest part of the valley, I had been through numerous procedures in the past. It was the aftermath that threw me into a place that I didn’t even know existed. Pain, exhaustion, loss of motion, and most distressing to me, confusion. I had at least two instances where I did not know where I was, or why I had tubes in my nose, my chest, or IV needles in my hands. During one of these moments, bereft of sense and on the edge of hysteria, I tried to pull out my NG tube. I yanked at it, and got a few inches out. Then the nurse came in and I realized what I had almost done. The loss of basic cognitive functions just slayed me, right after I regained them. What if I hadn’t come out of the fog? What if I had lost me? I was embarrassed enough about these episodes that I chose not to tell my family about them.

The pain came in fits and bursts. Because I am a woman of routine, this was not what I considered manageable. There were times when I could not breathe, I was afraid to move anything, even a hand. In retrospect, there is no one to blame. Pain management is, at best, a sail between the Scylla of agony and the Charybdis of stoned oblivion. The morphine, specifically, was a handmaiden of Charybdis. I remember asking for some at a time when the pain seemed to loom over me at unsurmountable height, but I have no recollection of anything that went on after I received it. It was as though I was given morphine at 7 p.m. and then all time stopped until 6 a.m. the following day. And then I’d feel all right for a while, until I would suddenly experience a crushing sensation in my chest. If I had had the energy, I would have cried more than I did. I never knew what to expect, and I felt so completely out of control.

It was compounded by the fact that I couldn’t really control anything about my own body. The loss of purposeful motion was more than a little ridiculous in the beginning. I had to have a series of pillows to align my body in the one position that was comfortable *and* did not require any serious contact or weight-bearing on either of my surgical sites. No mean feat, believe me. And it required a little bit of elbow grease on the part of the visiting resident to turn me slightly to look at, God knows, whatever they wanted to see. I was informed that I would be sat up and asked to walk around, “as soon as we get that brace made.” That brace was more or less a bivalve shell with velcro straps. I had vain hopes that it would help hold me up, but basically it just rubbed my left hip regardless of the position I was in and left me trying to force my battered and broken skeleton to hold my weight. The humor of being unable to roll over had lost a great deal of its appeal by this point. And now they wanted me to sit, stand, walk?

And so I walked. And in the beginning I thought it would kill me. It took nearly 15 minutes to walk 15 feet. The pain, good Lord, and the exhaustion afterward did nothing to lift me out of that valley. I stayed in that valley for months, long past the time I went back to school. I wandered in that valley until I realized that walking isn’t everything. Which happened in the spring of 2007.  I am still convincing myself of this today. One day I will no longer question it. I don’t know when that will be.

U is for Underground

I thought that this mole was cute. It lives underground.

T is for Tunes

It was impossible to come up with anything to say for T is for Two. So we have this instead. It is a “First Line Index” of the first 50 songs that come up on my iPod when I hit shuffle. If you can name the song, feel free to do so in the comments. Dad, I blame you for #49.

1. Now somewhere in the black mining hills of Dakota there lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon
2. Nobody could hurt me like I know she could hurt me
3. Chunari, chunari
4. Slow down, you move too fast
5. Well, my temperature’s rising and my feet hit the floor
6. There’s no combination of words I could put on the back of a postcard
7. I didn’t hear you say you’re sorry, the fault must be mine
8. I’ve been a traveler of far away lands
9. Well, I know it’s kind of late, I hope I didn’t wake you
10. I was born to sing a good-time song, you know that nothin’ used to bring me down
11. Basic instructions before leaving earth
12. What do you do with a BA in English?
13. In my mind I’m goin’ to Carolina
14. I read it all, every word, and I still don’t understand a thing
15. It’s been a long time comin’ and the card were stacked
16. I went down to the grocery store, to get in I had to pay a dime or more
17. Just to be loved by you
18. Well, if I had my life to live I sure would live it over
19. Half of what I say is meaningless
20. Oh no, I see a spiderweb is tangled up with me
21. Thíos ag cois na farraige bhí teach ‘g mo mhuinntir féin (Oh yeah, babe. Gotta love Google.)
22. You’re hot as a desert
23. Do you see what I see, or is it all in my head?
24. All of your ways and all your thunder
25. I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone
26. Some stupid chick in the checkout line was paying for beers in nickels and dimes
27. 29 years I’ve been on this planet
28. Right now you are down and out and feeling pretty crappy
29. It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog
30. As the music at the banquet
31. Well, she was standing by my dressing room after the show
32. Such a crime I don’t remember being taken
33. Zumbale el mambo pa’ que mis gatas prendan los motores
34. A fire burns, water comes
35. Mira nena Linda ven que yo te cuento un cuento
36. In this world there’s a whole lot of trouble, baby
37. I had no choice but to hear you
38. You and me were cut from the same cloth
39. Martha my dear though I spend my days in conversation
40. I’m walkin’ back to Georgia
41. Open up with me
42. My name is Francis Tolliver in Liverpool I dwell
43. I need you
44. I don’t want to be second best
45. It’s such a tired game
46. I could have a mansion on the hill
47. And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson
48. If I could take you away
49. Mama’s got a squeeze box she wears on her chest
50. Dark clouds arisin’ thunder bolts arollin’

I read: Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant edited by Jenni Ferrari-Adler (series of essays on dining and cooking alone. Too funny. Especially one about being an Asparagus Superhero.)
Born On A Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant by Daniel Tammet (Autobiography of living with Asperger’s Syndrome. Amazing, I liked the discussion of his synesthesia quite a bit.)

S is for Sisters

In the summer of 1991 I would have been six years old. I had just learned to write. For whatever reason that summer, my sister and I were obsessed with the idea of passing notes. So we took turns sitting in the downstairs bathroom with a pack of crayons and a stack of papers, writing notes and sliding them under the door that had quite a gap between the bottom of it and the floor. Why the bathroom? Well, for whatever reason, it was literally the only interior door in the house I grew up in that locked. And being able to write notes behind a locked door was vital to this game, as far as we were concerned.

Because I was younger, I was usually the one in the corner of the kitchen, as close to the bathroom door as I could get. I crouched on the carpet and waited for a little piece of paper with brightly colored writing to be shoved from behind the butter-yellow door. There was really only one rule: no reaching under the door before the paper was visible.

We would carry on simple conversations on sheets of scratch paper that my mother kept in the bottom drawer of a kitchen cabinet. I remember nothing of what we wrote about, just that I would try to use as many different colors as possible. I would scrawl something out and then wait, nearly beside myself with anticipation, to see what she would write in response.

The thing that amazes me in retrospect is that we would do this for an hour or so at a time. It was a game that we had come up with on our own, and my mother encouraged it. Mostly, I think, because there was never any question of where we were and it was by far the quietest game we played. Not like the time we decided to see just how loud we could play a simplified Star Wars tune from my piano books while Dad was sleeping.

So, here’s to you Sarah. I can’t remember the last time we sent each other notes in crayon. Maybe we should start doing that again.

R is for Red

I do love me a little Google image search. When I put in the word red, this is the first picture that came up. It’s a lovely graceful-looking piece of red algae. It’s not a true red, more of a dark maroon, but just lovely all the same.

In late elementary and during all of middle school, I had a particular dislike of the color red. As I recall, this had to do with a negative comment from a girl who I wanted so badly to be best friends with. She was also the one who mentioned that I shouldn’t wear shorts. I haven’t since, but I can’t blame an 11-year-old for my neuroses. I probably would have self-imposed a shorts ban anyhow. I have never liked my legs. So, let’s continue with less finger-pointing. I simply didn’t own much in that color, clothing or otherwise. It was “too bright.”

Those who know me have some concept of how I feel about brightness and color now. Honestly? I believe the more color and pattern the better. And red is a show-stopper. I have a red bag that I carry with me most every day. I have a big pair of red fish earrings. If I also had a digital camera, I could show them to you. But that’s not really high on my priority list.

Anyhow. I like the way I feel when I wear red. I feel conspicuous but also confident. And who doesn’t like that? I think it has to do with the way the color red is shown in media as bold and striking, but also feminine. Red, bright red anyway, is a favorite of mine. I bought a red dress on sale while I was in college, and it is one of my favorite purchases. Basically, I need more fancy places to wear it. Or failing that, the courage to wear it for no reason. I feel invincible in it. Red makes me feel unstoppable.

And sometimes a little hungry.

I read:
Gentlemen of the Road by Michael Chabon (Scheherazade-style tale of political intrigue and overthrow and rebuilding.)
Swimming in the Monsoon Sea by Shyam Selvadurai (Coming of age and coming to terms with broken relationships.)
Coraline by Neil Gaiman (There’s a world behind the walls! But unlike most YA worlds-behind-walls, it’s a nasty and sinister one.)

Q is for QI

I found QI on YouTube in college. I love QI for a multitude of reasons. It is a show that expects you not to know things and as such, sets out to inform you. But in a funny way, since the panel is entirely composed of comedians, most of them with a background in or current tour of stand-up. They think on their feet and basically talk about everything. I love the randomness and the hilarious-ness. If only it was on American television, I could stop watching it in 10 minute or less segments on YouTube. That would be fantabulous. I’m going to include some quotes here. Basically, the ones I enjoy most.

Stephen Fry: What’s coconut milk?
Phill Jupitus: Tasty!
Stephen Fry: Where’s it come from? What’s it made of?
Phill Jupitus: Coconut cows!

Stephen Fry: If a lion mates with a tiger, you get a…?
Alan Davies: Scandal.

Stephen Fry: Who are the Lords of Shouting?
Jo Brand & Alan Davies: (hitting their buzzers) WE ARE!

Stephen Fry: Do you know what “biscuit” means? What its derivation is? “Bis” meaning…
Alan Davies: Eat, chew…
Stephen Fry: …twice…
Alan Davies: …bite…
Stephen Fry: …twice…
Alan Davies: …sweet, hard, coffee cup.
Stephen Fry: …twice. [laughs] Sweet, hard, coffee cup?
Alan Davies: Cup. Coffee cup accompaniment.

Sean Lock: The huntsman spider is the only spider with lungs.
Alan Davies: So you can get it a birthday cake with a candle on.

Phill Jupitus: How big is it?
Stephen Fry: Vast, is the answer.
Phill Jupitus: Thanks for that. How big is it? [mimicking Stephen] Oh, very. I find to quantify its bigness would be doing it a disservice! Bigly big! The vastly big bigness of the dripping thing!

P is for Pale

Who’s ready for a rant?

When I made this letter list I was using LiveJournal, which did not have a save drafts function. So I set out with bright and shiny intentions, but no notes. And now? Now I am baffled by an unholy number of leftover letters.

P is for Pale
T is for Two
U is for Underground
V is for Valleys
W is for Wonder

And obviously I had no clue what L is for Lamps was supposed to be about.

Well, here are today’s thoughts on the word pale.

1. Collins Essential English Dictionary 2nd Edition 2006 refers to pale as:

pale 1
Adjective
1. (of a color) whitish and not very strong: pale yellow
2. (of a complexion) having a whitish appearance, usually because of illness, shock, or fear
3. lacking brightness or color: the pale, chill light of an October afternoon

Verb
[paling, paled]
to become pale or paler: the girl paled at the news

pale 2
Noun
1. a wooden post used in fences
2. beyond the pale outside the limits of social convention: the destruction of forests is beyond the pale

2. I am not very pale.
3. I don’t like to wear pale colors.
4. I have nothing else to say about paleness.

O is for Octopi

I love octopi. I can’t even make it sound like a cool thing. I am a woman obsessed. They are colorful, graceful, smooth, but they have a mean streak too. If I had a choice, I would totally be an octopus. I’d love to have the chance to float unencumbered in the water, swing my tentacles around, and stick my sucker things onto rocks. Or onto unsuspecting divers’ faces. You know, whatever. They move slow, blend in, but can also stand out. And the whole 8 leg thing is just rocking. I also really love the number 8.

A sort of spiky version.

The blue sheen on the maroon is so cool.
Plus the white edging! I’d so wear a dress with these colors.

Look at those black and blue rings. Sexy.

Coming up the coral to get you, my pretty. Bwa ha.

And then there is the octopus stuff that I have been restraining myself from buying on etsy.com.

Look at the silvery goodness!

An octopus necklace with really intricate detailing!

I am in lust after this octopus babydoll-style dress. I *love* it.
Look at the tentacles on the pocket!

I don’t really like open water. But I do love octopi. I watched one at Shedd Aquarium for quite a while. I honestly just love, love, love them.

N is for News

People, I don’t watch the news. I don’t read the newspaper. I don’t necessarily agree with what news media finds most news-worthy. It is categorically negative and often racist. My interest in the latest is pretty confined to stories. I want to catch up on the daily news of everyday people’s lives rather than the sensationalized drugs, guns, and rape version of the world that the news media is most fond of. So, when I see a story about a guy working to clean up the Ganges (title and photo below) I can learn about international environmental causes. Without the drama, drama, drama.

Holy man, secular plan: clean up the River Ganges
Veer Bhadra Mishra, a Hindu priest and former professor of hydraulics, has gained government approval for a pilot program.
By Mian Ridge | Correspondent of The Christian Science Monitor

from the July 22, 2008 edition

Low-key news. That’s what I like. I’m all about human relationships, and most news is all about shocking you rather than connecting you with people and their issues. So when I find an article that explains what’s going on in India from the perspective of a Hindu priest, it interests me.

M is for Mennonites

These can both be purchased online. My greatest amusement was that when I put 606 Mennonite into Google, a picture of Jody’s sister Katy singing came up. I didn’t include it, but goodness the Mennonite world is small.

I read:
Playing for Pizza by John Grisham (Cute, but a little skeezy with the 30ish guy running off with the college co-ed at the end.)
Beautiful Boy by David Sheff (Memoir about his son’s meth addiction. There is no sweet Hallmark ending here. At the time of the book’s release, his son had been addicted 10 years with less than a two year stretch of sober living at any point during that time. Three times in rehab, at least once in jail.)

L is for Lamps

Apparently.

I got nothing, and rather than drag it out, I propose the following.

This is a Tiffany-style lamp. It is beautiful and expensive.

This is the style of lamp that my mother has on her desk at home.

I think that this style of lamp looks like boobs.

K is for Kidron

I have put this post off forever, because I was going to get pictures. And then I was home for a whole week and forgot. So, I’ll be forging on without since it’s my own damn fault. There’ll be a Google image at the end.

Kidron is a very small town without incorporated borders. Whatever that means. So far as I have gathered from 20-some years of living nearby, it mainly means that there is no police department, the fire department is entirely volunteer, and you can’t have a Kidron address if you want your mail delivered to your home. But mostly, it’s where most of my dad’s family lives. I grew up playing around with all of my cousins at my grandparent’s home on Kidron Road (inventive, right?).

One of my best winter memories is from this teeny village. Kidron used to have a place referred to as Jericho Hill. It was a hill, obviously, on the land of an Amishman who lives on Jericho Road. We would go sledding there, until the land was bought by Kidron officials to be part of the new septic system. But as a child we would take inner tubes and go flying down that hill, usually into the fence at the bottom.

Kidron is a hit with tourists because people like to see the quaint and “unchanged for 60 years” sort of life. There is an old-time hardware store, an animal auction, flea market, quilt store, and so on. People come to see “those Amish people.” Which, whatever, it’s what people do. But, I can’t envision driving miles to look at a guy in a hat. Not when I could drive miles in another direction and get to the beach.

 

Look, the man on the sign is putting up the sign! Cool!
Never made sense to me.

J is for Jewelry

How I love jewelry. I make a lot of my own stuff. Mostly because I want it to look a certain way and because it’s a creative outlet. I often work with beads that are bigger than they need to be. I love the overstated stuff. When I make things for other people, especially my mother, I have to remind myself to scale back. I have fallen in love with large and simple. I have several bracelets that are just one type of bead the whole way around. But the color and size variations! I love the subtle changes and differences even though it looks like a uniform pattern. Beads are sort of a passion. And they have become a Christmas and birthday thing. It’s safe to buy me beads, because I will use them, and I will be excited about them. My family is so utilitarian when it comes to gift-giving. We want to know, will they like it and will they use it. Sometimes we don’t even allow for it to be a surprise, because it’s easier to just be sure that they want it.

I have always loved to wear jewelry. Usually I wear at least a pair of dangly earrings, sometimes a necklace and a bracelet too. I feel sort of naked without it. Besides, since I make my own stuff, it’s an inexpensive way to add color and pattern to whatever I’m wearing. Lord knows I believe in color and pattern whenever possible. The more the better. And I leave you with three pieces I found recently on Etsy.com, which is the coolest handmade products website ever.

cserdan’s Wandering the Souks – Purple and Orange
sudlow’s Silver Peas in a Pod Necklace
MStevensonDesign’s Baby Leaves Pale Blue

I is for Independence

The world is your oyster. But I wouldn’t recommend taking the Red Line after a baseball game. Someone drunk will probably try to stand on you, or at least much too near you for comfort.

H is for House and Home

Time was when I could have told you that H was for Hysterical Hamsters and you would have wasted a great deal of time scrolling, clicking, and muddling around in an attempt to prove me wrong. And now, it is a simpler process and as such, it keeps me honest. When I made this list, I had grand plans for each letter and its accompanying word. After all, the whole thing was originally referred to as “Le Grand Plan.” Dear, gentle reader, I must confess to you in shades of horror and embarrassment that I have no earthly clue as to what some of those things were going to be. H is for Home is one of them. So it will be changed to encompass House and Home, and this will not be splitting hairs. Of this I can assure you. And we’re off. By the way, did anyone else notice that it’s nearly June and I have not even done ten “letter posts?”

Things I know to be true about my Ohio home:

1. It is in Ohio
2. It has fun people in it
3. It has two living rooms (one of them being cleverly referred to as a family room)
4. It has a bunch of trees and a fairly large backyard
5. I don’t live there much

Things I know to be true about my Chicago home:

1. It is in Chicago
2. It has fun people in it
3. It doesn’t have any grass in the back yard, and it has a tree/ bush-ish thing
4. It has my stuff in it
5. I’m always there

And now, pursuant of a conversation I had with Sarah on Facebook (did anyone else know that Facebook has an instant messaging function in it? That webpage is poised to take over the world.) I am listing a few things that I have learned about myself from watching House, MD. Particularly the title character. It bears saying that there are obviously points of disconnect since I am not a 45-year-old male with a medical degree. But the human spirit tends to desire, mourn, and rejoice in recognizable patterns despite that.

1. It’s natural to grieve loss of mobility
2. The grief process will involve testing where the new limits are
3. There are deeper depths to fall to than the ones I have experienced: a). Drug addiction and b). Refusal to interact socially
4. Mobility issues can be, and usually are, overshadowed by a person’s abilities in other areas
5. Belief in something beyond yourself, without the expectation of any physiological miracles, is a positive thing

It is not my intent for these five point lists to sound flippant. There are multitudes upon multitudes of things that I love about both of my current homes (and my old Goshen one too) that I didn’t get into here. Home indicates safety to me. And not just physical safety, but emotional as well. Having havens of rest where I (for the most part) do not feel obligated to put on a show of some sort, are vitally important to me and I am sincerely grateful to the people in my life that work together to create these spaces.

The list about House, MD? That’s for me, not for you, and as such will get no further explanation. So there, blog reader. Ha.

G is for Granola

Granola is one of those words that people use to disparage radicals. Which I am not, really, granola or otherwise. I think-and we’re going to go with that, because I don’t want to mess around on Wikipedia right now- that it dates back to the 70’s when radicals were hippies with love beads, broomstick skirts, and apparently ate granola. Likely smoked weed too, but we won’t go there. Except that we already did. Oops. Moving on.

Granola is essentially *cereal.* That American culture got to the point where it could be used as a derisive term for a human being is sort of weird. Weirder yet, that I would be taking the time on my blog to discuss any sort of cereal, since I don’t really eat breakfast. The times I do are when it is expected in one way or another, but never voluntarily when left to my own devices. So, this is actually a series of musings that happen to have a little bit to do with granola in one way or another.

When I lived in the Dominican Republic for a summer, it was one of those times where I was expected to eat breakfast. It had to do with the whole “she’s a guest” thing. So, for three months I had breakfast, and sort of skimped on other meals because I wasn’t used to it. To my great amusement, my host mother in the country sent me back on the bus to Santo Domingo at the end of service with a bag of chips for breakfast on the last morning. Which, you know, whatever. I had them with my sandwich for lunch. Cereal was more or less a lost art in the DR, so far as I could tell. So, anyway, when I was buying gifts for my family, I got a bottle of Dominican vanilla. It was inexpensive and I managed to bring it back and it didn’t explode all over everything, which was nice. The vanilla has been mostly used for my dad’s homemade granola. He uses about twice what the recipe calls for and the whole house smells amazing. I don’t know that I’ve ever helped dad make the granola, but I feel partly responsible for it, having bought the vanilla.

The MVS House that I live in now makes granola too. I sometimes help with it, but it is usually Jenny that makes it. Generally, the granola recipes we have used have come from the More-With-Less cookbook. One of the texts of Christian radicals, if you will. Some of the granola that we’ve made helped us go to retreat. Yay for fund-raising granola, which was fairly plain in comparison to the stuff that we usually made, what with not having raisins or peanut butter in it. But good nonetheless.

Someone at Bluffton College told me once that listening to Public Radio was really “crunchy granola.” He used a scoffing tone which I am sure was meant to make me question my years of sitting in the car on the way to the Dari-ette or home from my grandparents, all the while listening to Garrison Keillor sing about the piano from down the avenue, but it just annoyed me. Those weren’t granola moments; those times were all about twist cones or Werther’s candies. Granola had nothing to do with it. Besides, I think it bears saying that Public Radio is simply good reporting, rather than anything that should be considered the realm of those of any specific cereal persuasion. As a further side note, I recently signed up for Writer’s Almanac daily e-mails, which means I get a poem in my inbox every day. And if I want to, it’s linked so I can hear Garrison Keillor read it. That man has such a restful voice. One of the poems that I got last week while I was in Colorado seems fitting to describe some of what it felt like to get there and back, so go read it over here. It’s lovely, to boot. And also? There are lots of good books at the bottom, the spoils of 42 hours in the car, I guess.

 

I read:

Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman (African trickster tale of Anansi the Spider brought into modern day. Amazingly sweet and well written.)

Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman (Collection of short stories. The one called Chivalry, linked in the previous post, click the gray button, is worth the price of the whole book. Really, just the section where Mrs. Whitaker and Sir Galahad discuss the sword Balmung is worth the price of the whole book. Classic.)

The Snapper by Roddy Doyle (Irish family dealing with unplanned pregnancy. The dialogue was beautiful.)

Holy Fools by Joanne Harris (Set in an abbey in 1600’s, the nuns are dealing with deliberately destructive leadership because someone is bent on revenge… oooh. It was well-written and not melodramatic as I made it sound.)

The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch (“Ronald you are a bum.” That’s right girl, you tell him.)

The Pig Did It by Joseph Caldwell (Irish story about an unsolved murder. I just couldn’t like it. Really couldn’t. Yeesh, it annoyed me.)

Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos (It was a complicated story, managing to be double-perspective without being double-voiced, which I found a bit frustrating and a bit fascinating at the same time. All about the devastation that mental illness can cause and the love that can save you.)