Tis the Season

“Tis the season”, but what “the season” actually is varies amongst individuals. December is definitely a month in which you reap exactly what you sow. For example, if

you’re a Grinch and decide you hate Christmas and all that goes with it, then you are most certainly in

for a very long, arduous month. On the other hand, if you throw yourself into the holiday festivities with cheer and gusto, there’s no end to the joy you’ll take away from it all.

Personally, the month leading up to Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year. When I was a kid, there was no end to the holiday traditions we concocted, and even now, some of those traditions remain in tact. Mom stills buys a new puzzle or Lego set for us to work on (adults that we now are) on Christmas Eve, while watching Christmas movies and drinking homemade hot cocoa. Dad and I still make vast amounts of Spritz cookies at the beginning of December, just the two of us, filling buckets full of the tiny, Crisco-y delights, which always last until New Years. Icicle boy twinkle lights still hang on the mantel amid our stockings, the only change being that now the quantity of stockings which hang there has joyously grown as we’ve added new members to our family.

Next weekend, Old Fashioned Christmas in Wilmore will take place, which has always been my favorite Wilmore festival. All of the little shops on Main Street hold open houses, encouraging people to come in out of the cold, receive refreshments, listen to live Christmas music, and then venture back out onto the street to repeat the process all over again. Hundreds of Wilmorons walk up and down Main Street, sharing Christmas together as they reunite after not having seen each other in some cases since the festival the previous year.

When I was in Middle school, I can remember my friend Mary and I having sleepovers on the evening of December 22^nd, carrying over into December 23^rd, which we cleverly referred to as “Christmas Adam”, it being the day before Christmas Eve. We would watch as many Christmas movies as our brains could process, working on craft projects as we watched.

Back in the days before my brothers and I got too wise for our own good, we had many questions about Santa Claus. We each had our own personal elf we would write letters to in a spiral notebook, leaving it out on the kitchen table when we went to bed. When we woke up the next morning, our letters would have been answered by our elf friends (mine’s name was Elizabeth), and sometimes a treat or two would be left as well. Once I remember Elizabeth’s handwriting looking particularly like Dad’s, and when I confronted him on this matter, he admitted to being the letter writer that one time, because when he’d woken up and seen Elizabeth had not been to the house to leave a response to my letter, he had not wanted me to feel upset, so he’d intervened.

There was a magic elf that Mom made back before memory, that had green yarn hair, a red elf suit with bells on the toes and a little black belt around his middle, and eyes that remained closed, in a happy, sleepy state. Every year when we’d put up our Christmas tree and unpack our decorations, we’d take the magic elf out of his red flannel sack, and each member of our family sprinkled him with the magic glitter dust kept in a vile inside the bag. After everyone had sprinkled him (including our dog, Lucky), we’d place him under the Christmas tree, and the next morning when we awoke, he would have hidden himself someplace in the living room. Every morning we found him in a new place, and after he had been discovered by all, we’d place him carefully back under the tree, so that he could hide again the next night. This was a daily ritual up until Christmas Eve, when Santa would take him back to the North Pole, and we wouldn’t see him again until the next year.

Back in the days when Dad was the pastor of different Churches, December was a month of wrapping gifts to take with us the nursing home, where we’d sing carols to the inhabitants. One year a lady told Mom that she had the most beautiful singing voice she’d ever heard, and I think that’s when Mom developed a soft spot for crazy, old people. We’d carol door to door in various neighborhoods as well, and I can’t remember ever having had more fun than I did on those cold nights of spontaneous singing.

I have a thousand such memories that I’m sure will never fade, and I suppose they are what make the entire Christmas season such a joy for me. I am looking forward to all of the parties and celebrations that will take place throughout the coming month, and I hope that you are too.

Ape Day

You may find this hard to believe, but the annual Ape Day celebration that my older brothers developed 12 years ago is one of my favorite, most anticipated holidays of the year.

It began as a bit of silliness when Cris and Dusty were attending Asbury College at the same time. They hung around with the same group of friends, and for some reason, they thought it would be a laugh to dedicate an entire Saturday to watching all 5 of the Planet of the Apes movies. Little did they know then that their goofy idea would become the basis for an ongoing, beloved tradition.

Always held the Saturday before Thanksgiving, Ape Day became a major event for the Asbury crowd, each year requiring a bigger venue to accommodate the loyal participants. Of course, after the first few years, Cris and Dusty had finished their time at Asbury College, but the tradition lived on.

Old friends who had helped found this celebration of bad Sci-Fi movies would sometimes travel quite a ways to attend. In some cases, founders that had settled in areas too distant to make the trip hosted their own Ape Day, making it a nationwide holiday.

Each year, new traditions and rituals are added to our bizarre day of fun, including, but not limited to:

- Incredibly violent monkey fights between Scotty and Dusty, in which they put on ape masks, find some grass, and pound each other until one of them can’t take it anymore.

- The Passing of the Sacred Ape ritual, which takes place after every movie, and involves everyone in the room congregating in a circle, clapping and doing their best ape impressions as we pass around an ape statue, wearing a Packer’s uniform, that Dusty painted back in high school. The full extent of this rather terrifying ceremony has developed over time, but if I’m not mistaken, The Sacred Ape was present even at the very first Ape Day.

- T-Shirt making. We don’t do it every year, but at this point, I think I’ve acquired at least 4, each unique and awesome.

- When the remake Planet of the Apes movie came out in 2001, we of

course incorporated that into the festivities. If you’re going to do something, do it right. The first few years we held an Ape Day Eve to watch the new movie, but now it has become a part of Ape day, extending our celebration, which now lasts from 10am until around 9 or 10pm.

Only themed snacks are allowed, and you wouldn’t believe how creative we get with this. I for one am responsible for making ape faced cookies, which you can see depicted here. Jen and Sharon have been known to bake different kinds of cakes, either shaped like ape heads, or bearing a creative, series related name, such as “Damned Dirty Cake.” Without fail, Dusty and Sharon always

provide the “Monkey Poo”, which is a giant bowl of crumbled and mashed brownies with the added class of walnuts. Most years Jen makes hot apple cider, and we call it “Monkey Blood.” Every so often, someone will bring monkey bread and bananas. Usually we have a two liter of grape soda around that no one ever drinks, but it sits as a trophy, the letters “GR” scratched out with a Sharpie.

This year, Molly brought a crock of delicious pulled pork, and we had no choice but to call it “Simmering Simian.” One year, Cris made a bunch of beer ahead of time, then spent who knows how long developing labels for his “Ape Beer”, which depicted scenes from the movies. Scotty is famous for his diligent yearly modifications to boxes of Charleston Chews, placing cut-to-size post it notes over the letters “ES” to make them Charlton Chews (and if I remember correctly, he sometimes changes them to “Cheston Chews”) to honor the beloved hero in the series, Charlton Heston. He also revises the word “Vanilla” to “Gorilla” so that the flavor matches the day. Genius.

If you’re not weirded out right now, you probably should be. This is by far the strangest celebration I have ever come across, and I love it dearly. It’s a day of consistency and fellowship. So many things in my life have changed as I’ve grown from a child into an adult, and I don’t mean for better or worse, just different. But Ape Day is for the most part unchanging, and I can count on its silliness to give me a boost as I share these traditions with my family and friends, who fortunately are as goofy as I.

The Crunching Of Leaves

Every Kentucky autumn seems like a miracle to me. Sometimes I get in my car and just drive, no destination in mind, only a longing to see the bright orange, red, yellow, purple, green, and brown leaves hanging from small and massive trees alike. Some people place trees into a single category, but the truth is, trees have as many personality types as people. Some drop a leaf at a time, knowing the time is coming when they can no longer keep what they’ve made and beginning the transition of loss, yet reluctant to give up their entire livelihood until it becomes absolutely necessary. Others jealously guard what belongs to them, keeping each leaf in check until all in one moment, the weight of responsibility becomes too great, and every leaf is abandoned into the breeze.

A friend of mine accuses me of extreme morbidity, because the truth is, I enjoy the dead leaves on the ground just as much as I love them alive in the trees. Making a point to step directly on as many as I can throughout the course of a walk, I am filled with pure joy at the crunching sound released from beneath my feet. There is nothing so simple in life as the crunching of leaves.

Some of my favorite memories are bound up with crunching leaves:

Building fort outlines with friends as a child, the elaborateness of the structures causing my mind to reel even now. The kitchen was essential in order to shelter a teepee stick configuration holding a bucket of dirty water in which we mixed fallen walnuts to produce imaginary stew. Almost equally important was a living room to relax in when the days work had been completed, and though young, we new the importance of prioritizing a space in which a girl could see a man about a horse (theoretically, of course)……

Waiting for that one day of opportunity when my favorite Ginkgo tree on Lexington Avenue would share its spongy, bright yellow fan leaves, giving us an entire afternoon of childhood ecstasy as we wore ourselves out building up piles and jumping in, building up piles and jumping in……

Walking from the bus stop with Kelly sophomore year of high school, both of us stomping as hard as we could, and laughing hysterically……

Rolling my lawn mower over thick leaf accumulation and watching the machine spit out the puréed product in perfect uniformity……

Strolling through my college campus after a fascinating literary discussion, the smell of dried leaves in my nostrils, their resonating rustle in my ears as I contemplated life’s wonders, both big and small……

The anticipation of the Evely family Turkey Bowl on Thanksgiving, played amongst the fallen leaves with a belly full of culinary wonders……

These are the things that make Autumn mine, and now, I’m sharing them with you;)

Turn Up The Heat

When I opened my apartment door this morning, my spirits dropped quite a few percentage points. Not only was it cold, as in, go-back-inside-and-get-a-warm-coat cold, it was also pouring. I sighed, ducked my head, and made a run for my car.

By the time I made it inside my office, I was slightly soggy, incredibly cold, and in a fairly bad mood. I turned the electric kettle on straight away, and tried to cheer myself by anticipating the hot tea that would soon be in my hand.

I drank a cup. Then another, but I couldn’t seem to shake the cold from myself. Finally I realized that the building itself is what was making me cold, as we have not yet turned the heat on this season. It is only the beginning of October after all, and in my family, it’s practically a sin to turn the heat on at a premature date, such as October 14^th. In Kentucky, this is the time of year when you embrace the chill in the air with a sweatshirt, or if you’re bold enough, flannel. But sometimes you have to take a stand, family morals be damned.

So I skulked over to the thermostat on the wall and made the adjustment, instantly gratified by the sound of the unit kicking in. My shame was thick in the air around me, until the smell of memory reached my nose.

You know that smell associated with central heat that comes strongly the first use of the year, then faintly all through the winter? I associate this smell with warmth and comfort, because it welcomes me home when coming in from the bitter coldness of winter. However, that’s not the only meaning it holds for me.

Beginning when we moved to Kentucky when I was 6-years-old, I cannot remember a cold day in my childhood when my brothers and I did not fight over whose turn it was to sit on the heat duct in the living room of the house we grew up in. It was big enough for two if you were willing to squish together, always attempting to subtly ease the other person off to one side. Pulling your shirt wide over the vent made you look like a tent sporting a head.

Our backs and bottoms would roast, but getting up was an automatic forfeit of your spot, so we’d bear it as long as possible. Sometimes Mom would make us take a break when the room itself got too cold due to the deprivation caused by we the heat thieves, but usually we’d rotate turns throughout the school day, working math problems and compositions until we were red faced and hot to the touch.

One by one, my older brothers finished their time in home school, leaving fewer bodies in the rotation, until finally Scotty and I were the last two kids in the house. We didn’t have to fight for our spots anymore, but since there is no fun without competition, we’d struggle to keep the entire vent to ourselves.

I love these vent sitting memories, and when the strong smell of heat hit me this morning, the first of the year, they turned my sour morning into nostalgic comfort.

I think I’ll go make another cup of tea…

Ode To Fall

Sitting on my deck as the rain pours down around me, I am a part of everything. The lightning is mine, visible when I'm not looking. Thunder, a predictable comfort, persists in being heard, even by those without ears to listen.

I watch the new drops as they violently displace the old, forming bodies on the asphalt.

The air around becomes a cloud, the world a blur of colorless vitality.

Dampness fills my nostrils. Sweet, musty dew clings within until I can longer distinguish my body from my surroundings.

My bare toes lightly pummeled by rogue droplets become part of the inconsistent patter. Not a rhythm, but a melody, the notes floating here and there as the rain beats fast. Then slow. Fast. Then faster...

A spicy aroma mixes with the damp as the tea in my hand loses its heat. Quiet tones from my melancholy stereo merge with the full orchestra of the water falling from nowhere; a perfect harmony.

Looking up from the book in my lap with the dog eared pages and care worn cover, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, sighing over my encounter with perfection.

Fall is here.

I Smile Because I'm Happy

There are many things I am oblivious to, though it would be difficult to assess whether my obliviousness makes me the same or sets me apart from the average person. Mostly, I think nothing of minuscule details relating to how people say things, or the body language they use. I don't look for underlying meaning, because usually people are not like characters in books; they are not "clever." Because I don't look for a deeper meaning in the words and physical signals of others, I don't imagine that they are looking for those sorts of things in me either. Perhaps it is the homeschooler in me, but I assume every one's innocence unless I see proof of guilt.

Every once in a while I'll read this thing on Craigslist called "Missed Connections", and when I do, I am always thoroughly entertained, because it is chocked full of people who interprete small actions as being extremely meaningful and life changing. Here's the idea.

A person looks over and sees his/her soul mate. It's usually someone they've never seen before, just sitting in their car waiting for the light to change, or reading a book in a coffee shop. Because the person reading their book or waiting in traffic can feel someones eyes boring holes into them, they look up to see who is so interested in their ordinary goings on. Eye contact is established. Perhaps one or both of the parties smiles. Then the light changes and each person goes their separate way, or neither person has the guts to say "hello", and the reader goes back to their book while the starer walks on.

Instead of forgetting about this person you've never met and getting on with your day, you torture yourself, insisting to your brain that what your heart felt was real. Your soul mate has been found living in your very own city, and yet, you may never come across them again. You blew it.

"Missed Connections" is where these people post their pleas. They describe the situation in which they saw the person and knew they were meant to be together. Forever. "Please", they say, "if you read this, email me. I recognize you as my soul mate, and in the brief moment our eyes met, I could tell you felt it too."

I read an article a few months ago on people who had met their spouses by using this outlet, but let's be honest, for the most part, it just seems kind of creepy and sad. I don't doubt that some couples just see each other and "know," but more often than not, I'm willing to bet that one person sees their soul mate and the other person sees a potential stalker. Maybe they did smile uncomfortably at the person staring shamelessly at them as they went about their day, but that doesn't mean a reciprocated interest.

When I was young, I was taught to be friendly and polite to everyone. Kindness is contagious, so make eye contact, smile, and be attentive to what people are saying. This attitude has always worked well for me. It's true that you reap what you sow, so give a smile, get a smile. Give a kind word, get a kind word, and so on. I've been incorporating this mindset into my personality for so long, it has long since become a habit.

Now, at the age of 23, I'm beginning to discover that the habit of kindness can be just as much a curse as a blessing. I find it being taken the wrong way by single men everywhere, and I start to wonder if I am really the only kind, single girl in this city, or if the guys I encounter just don't get out much.

Guys, here's a tip: if I look you in the eye, I'm probably not hitting on you. If I smile in your general direction, I'm not necessarily looking for a date. If you start a conversation and I participate, this is not an automatic invitation for you to ask me for my number. It's called making human connections, and because I like to smile at and converse with EVERYONE, you cannot assume that my attention means I am your soul mate.

I realize that sometimes there is a fine line between human kindness and dating signals, but are most people so harsh that they won't even laugh when you tell a joke, causing you to assume that when someone does, they are in love with you?

At work, there's a temp that's been working in our shop for the past two weeks or so. He's a very nice, Nascar loving hillbilly type, with an accent so thick that even I, a girl who has lived in KY for more than 17 years, have trouble understanding what he's saying. Every few days, he'd walk up to my desk and talk to me briefly. He told me his troubles and I listened; not really uncommon in my administrative position, which some days is not so very different from being a bar tender.

Because he's difficult to understand, I try to pick out the subject of his sentence, then read his face to see if he is for or against the matter on which he is speaking, then sympathize with his plight. When it comes down to it, that's all most people need to make their day a little brighter.

Sometimes he'd come up to my desk and inform that he was going to "the store" on his break, and would ask me if I wanted anything. I would assure him I was fine, but thanked him for asking. He'd ask me if I was sure I didn't want "a pop or anything." I told him I was sure. I figured this guy was maybe a little off, but very nice just the same.

He came up to my desk the other morning, and we talked for a minute. Then he asked me out on a lunch date. I wasn't taken aback at first, because honestly, I didn't know he'd asked me. As I said before, I'm lucky if I can pick out the subject in his sentences and then nod or shake my head depending on what I think his meaning might be. I understood "lunch", and figured he was just excited about his approaching break. Then I noticed the way he was looking at me and listened as he mumbled a few more sentences, causing me to put all the pieces together. Unbeknownst to me, I was being courted. Gosh was I glad I hadn't accepted the "pop" offer.

What's a girl to do? How can you let the hopeful boys down without hurting their feelings and self-esteem? How do you explain that you recognize that they are interesting, good people, but you're not attracted to them. How do you say, "leave me alone, I think you're a little off" in a nice way? Well it's not rocket science. You lie. There's nothing handier than a fake boyfriend, let me tell you.

So, now you know. I'm a liar, and I believe my parents are to blame. Mom, Dad, I know you guys read these, and I just want to bluntly tell you both that this is your fault for raising me to be kind. I hope you're happy.

Hostile Heroes

It's possible that after this post you'll think less of me, but less is more, right? Okay, probably the person who came up with that saying didn't mean for it to be used in a case such as this, but as a modern American, I've decided to apply for my right to use words out of context in order to feel more a part of my generation. So here goes.

I enjoy the spectacle of passive aggressive hostility. In fact, not only do I enjoy it, I envy those that are able to successfully employ it.

Mind you, I'm not a huge fan of this kind of behavior when it's directed at me. I know what you're thinking: who could ever be angry with Kari? Hard to believe, I know, and yes, it's a rare occurrence, but every once in a while I manage to tick off someone in my close proximity. When this happens, I'm rarely confronted by the person who has taken issue, but I can feel their subtle anger. My coping mechanism? Avoidance. I simply wait it out. Maybe not the most mature course of action, especially when an apology is in order, but it's always worked for me.

However, on the flip side, I must say that I've never been able to hold a silent grudge efficiently enough to make any lasting impact on the offending party. The problem is I've never been mad enough at anyone to remember why I'm mad at them in the first place. Last year I dated this guy for a couple months, and he did some things that made me feel angry and hurt. I stopped talking to him for a week, and when I did tell him what was wrong, it was over the phone. I knew that if I talked to him in person, the concern in his eyes would make me forget why I was angry. You see, I wasn't even really that upset, I just knew that due to his behavior towards me I was supposed to be upset. So I wrote a list entitled "The Reasons I'm Mad At You" and brought them up one by one during our phone conversation. Lame, yes, but I honestly am incapable of holding offences against people for longer than a day, and often that includes even a clear memory of the offence.

That's why I stand in awe of people who are capable of becoming so intensely angry they loudly confront the object of their anger. Even more impressive are those that avoid direct confrontation in order to inflict their wrath subtly.

This morning there was an incident at work, and one of the guys in our shop feels he was unjustly yelled at for something that wasn't his fault. Rather than yell back, or attempt to explain that he is not responsible for the problem he is being blamed for, he remained completely silent throughout the verbal carnage. I'm positive that the accuser will be sorry for the things he said when he realizes the way in which the accused handles this type of thing. The payback has already begun. The wronged man will do everything within his power to make the confronter's job something to be dreaded. Already he has gone around undoing the courteous things he had done to benefit his coworker, from this day forth prepared to help him with only the bare minimum required. No one would want to have this man for an enemy. Considering what I know about him, I'm pretty sure he's never let go of a grudge in his life.

I guess I shouldn't be enjoying the gruesome updates on this matter, but I can't help it. I'm so impressed by both of them that my respect for each has grown. I applaud the confronter for his boldness. I cheer for the passive aggressive for his revengeful determination. To me they're not petty men, but heroes.

Horn Tooting

There's no way he's going to make it. The truck is too big. The driveway, too small.

Where I work, I see the phenomenon that is semi-truck driving several times a week. Situated in a narrow streeted business district, the Hotwork building houses not only offices, but a large work shop as well. You might be surprised to learn that in our own Lexington, KY, tools and machinery used to maintain factories and refineries all over the United States, Canada, and Mexico are tested and repaired, a constant stream of comings and goings as one job finishes and another begins.

Surprisingly, it doesn't take much manpower to unload and reload the humongous trucks that
carry equipment from one location to another. The men employed in these positions are strong and fairly young, not yet to the age of worrying about the potential negative long term repercussions associated with constant intensive labor. They work quickly and efficiently, barely giving the transport driver a chance to use the restroom and stretch his legs sufficiently before he reluctantly assumes his position behind the large wheel awaiting his instruction.

Sometimes the shop guys complain that the truck driver's are annoying, because they talk too much. Often after their departure, everyone talks about how odd they are, laughing about the queer things they say. It's true. They are usually annoying and say weird things, but come on, you've got to cut them some slack. They are alone in a tiny cab all day, every day, driving, driving, driving. When I drive long distances, it's my excited anticipation of the place I'm journeying toward that keeps me sane. In 4 hours I'll get to see Kelly. Just 10 more hours to Green Bay. Without a great payoff to look forward to , I don't know that I'd be able to force my body to sit still and solitary for hours and hours, knowing I'd be doing the same thing the next day. It's true that there are many mundane things we must do to live life. We have to work, if we want food and shelter. I don't know of anyone who's job is so stimulating, they are always eager for more. But it's one thing to be bored, daydreaming about the end of your shift, and quite another to be caged inside a small box day after day, never having anyone to talk to or make any kind of contact with.

There are days I get tired of spending time with my co-workers. Tired of the whining and complaining. Tired of sympathizing with their mundane problems. Tired of their weird habits and odors. Tired. But if I had to choose between working with them or working completely alone, I would most definitely choose the former. Any sane person would. That's why solitary confinement is a punishment, not a reward.

I don't know how truck driver's do what they do. Besides the solitude, they perform miracles. I've seen trucks that seem wider than roads maneuvered to into tiny driveways, then backed up to be unloaded and reloaded for a new task. When I use a mirror, it's for the sake of vanity. When they use one, it's a tool that saves property and lives.

In summation, truck drivers should be admired, even if they are weird conversationalists.

So next time you pass a giant semi on the highway, be sure to smile, wave, and make the universal arm motion for horn tooting; it might be the only contact with another human being they have all week.

Blame The Paper

I'm tired. I'm hungry. Nothing works. Someone's going to pay!

These were the words running through my head last night as I struggled to maintain sanity after working for 11 hours straight. On a normal week, I set aside one week night after my regular 8-5 job, and go to my second job, where I am in charge of mailing all kinds of marketing brochures. I work until I've finished the tasks set to me, which usually takes anywhere from 2 to 5 hours. Overall, this makes for a long day, but with all of the other activities and obligations I have going on, one night is all I can spare, and that just barely.

Last night was incredibly frustrating, because when I got to job #2 (not having had time to get dinner), I found that the printer I use to print my brochures on is gone, and a new one is sitting in its place. This would have been a good thing since I sometimes have problems with the old printer, except that my computer had not been set up to use the new printer. I tried several different computer functions to try and get my machine to recognize the new device, but as my computer knowledge is fairly limited, I ran out of ideas, having accomplished nothing.

After giving up on the idea of printing new brochures, I figured I could at least get down to business on the ones that had been pre-printed. I worked steadily for an hour or so, loading stacks of paper into the folding machine, combining the various flyer's, cramming them in envelopes and setting them aside. Everything was going okay until for seemingly no reason, when I put a stack of papers into the folding machine, the stupid thing tried to pull about six pieces of paper through at the same time, causing it to jam. Unscrewing this and pulling on that has always fixed paper jams in the past, but this time I was unsuccessful. I prodded and poked at this thing for a while before giving up in frustration, cuts, broken fingernails, and despair.

By this point, the combination of my hunger, tiredness, and anger were becoming an issue. I wanted to leave, but since I didn't know when I would have another free night to work, I figured I should barrel through and get as much done as I possibly could. So I put my head down and began trifolding everything by hand. If you've never folded paper in mass, you may not understand what I'm saying when I tell you it HURT! If someone tells you they got hurt at their office job, you probably assume they mean a paper cut, and you laugh. Paper cuts are a somewhat humorous job risk when you consider someone in the field of construction or some other hard labor profession who has to worry about smashing their thumb with a hammer, or having a brick fall on their head. It's true that I wasn't in danger, sitting in my cushy, hydraulic chair, but that doesn't mean my job wasn't causing me pain. Folding large stacks of paper cuts your fingers in 10 different places each time you make a crease. As you pull your fists along the thick stack of folded sheets to bend them into the proper shape, you get long, carpet type burns . It actually wears the skin off your hand after you do it enough times. This type of folding also requires quite a lot of pressure, so it doesn't take long for your entire hand and wrist to cramp up and become worn out and inflexible.

You're probably thinking that I'm being ridiculous in making such a big deal over something so minute, and probably your right. It's just paper after all. But when you add these afflictions on top of my previously mentioned bodily shortcomings and technological frustrations, maybe you can sympathize as least a little with my building anger. In my head, with every cut and burn I received, I assigned blame. This was my boss' fault for not maintaining the folding machine properly. That was the tech. guys fault for forgetting to hook up the new printer to my computer. The more I folded, the madder I got, and the more irrational I was in my placing of blame. This was my teacher's fault for giving me such a big assignment over the weekend and causing me to lose sleep. That was my friend's fault for talking me into going out to dinner a few nights ago, leaving me with no money to eat out when I'm hungry. This was my friend's boyfriend's mother's dog's fault for...

The thing about placing blame is that once you get started, it's almost impossible to stop.

This morning, after getting a good night's sleep and some Fruit Loops in my tummy, I sat down to read the news. I came across an article about a government subsidized Mexican daycare that burned down, killing over 40 young children. This tragedy has become a large scale political drama, the heartbroken parents and other members of the community claiming that this horrific event (sparked by faulty wiring in an old air conditioning unit) is the fault of ambivalent politicians. Obviously I don't know all the details surrounding this situation, but it seems to me that the deaths of these innocent children are not specifically anyone's fault. Perhaps there is an aspect of neglect in this case, but no one meant for such a terrible thing to happen.

When we consider the past and present, there are certainly instances in which we can place authentic blame on definite parties. However, more often than not, bad and hurtful things just happen, because we live in a flawed world. Attributing blame to one specific person or thing is not incredibly productive, but I suppose it's just human nature.

This is what I know: I am now truly grateful for my usually working folding machine, because I have felt the pain and frustration of folding by hand.

The Unforseen Treasure

Work dinners. Feared. Dreaded. Mandatory.

Shortly after I started working at my current job, I was required to attend a fancy dinner after hours, and I was petrified. Sure, I am with the same people at work, but still being new, I felt it would be awkward to interact on a strictly social level and undergo a communion with them and their spouses, the whole time wearing a face crippling smile. Not only was I new, I was also single, and the prospect of facing a large group of couples made my stomach turn over, so I did what any rational person would do in this situation: I refused to go alone. I asked my best, single guy friend to come along, and most likely hearing the panic in my voice, he took pity on me and graciously agreed to be my date. That's how I made it through the first dinner.

Now that I've been working for the company awhile, I feel much more comfortable and relaxed with my co-workers and do not hesitate to interact with them and their families after hours. After all, once you work with a group of people in tight quarters for 40 hours every week, in every season, you pretty much know their life stories, the horrible things right along with the interesting things. They've become family.

So as I walked alone into the Campbell House for a work dinner last night, I felt nothing resembling trepidation, only hunger and delight at the prospect of having someone wait on me in a fancy dining room, while devouring expensive food, and drinking the beer of my choice. The occasion for this particular dinner was an annual conference which is put on for our customers. This means, mingle, be on your best behaviour, and smile even more than usual. Totally do-able. The first hour was dedicated to drinking, standing around, and or course, talking (laughing was not mandatory but certainly appreciated). I was introduced to a few customers, but mostly I spent the time talking with a co-worker's wife who is from Columbia and is really interesting.

When it was time to sit down for dinner, I walked over to where I saw some of my familiars settling in. However, on approaching the table, my boss, who's in charge of the whole event, says I should mingle with customers aka strangers and give them a good impression of our company. What??? Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself, I'm told that I must leave my comfort zone!! It's true what they say, there really is no such thing as a free meal.

Reluctantly, I shuffled to the other side of the room, looking for a table where the occupants didn't look too intimidating. I must tell you that this was not an easy task. The room was filled predominately with men. Business men. Old, grouchy, bizarre, dull, awkward men, many of whom host strange, unpleasant odors. I headed to a table in the corner that was only half full and asked a man sitting there if the seat next to him was taken. It wasn't. I sat down, and providentially, within 30 seconds one of the few women in the room sat down next to me.

She was the wife of one of the men at the conference, and she was amazing. I talked to almost everyone at the large round table of course, but for the most part, I listened to the stories of the woman sitting next to me. Estimating ages has never been my strongest skill, but I'd guess she was in her mid to late 60's. She and her husband met in college, fell in love, and it was obvious to me that they are still deeply in love. They had children and went the "traditional" family route, but they also accomplished highly impressive feats. She started her own company and he a consulting firm, which they merged and now work at successfully together. She's written a series of children's books on teaching manners and respect. They travel constantly, nationally and internationally, and they both have a zest for life (and golf). She used to teach elementary school and she told me stories about her experiences; the exciting and the discouraging. She encouraged me with my future goals as a teacher and told me she could tell I would go far. I've never enjoyed talking with anyone more, and the night flew by. Hours passed and it was time to go home.

As I said goodbye and made my way to my car, I was overflowing with gratitude to no one in particular. How incredible to briefly interact with another person who you know you'll never see again, and to feel you've gained something. When I stop and think about it, I suppose everyone has a story to tell. Although I recognize how rare it is to uncover such a treasure with such ease as I did last night, you never know what stories you might miss out on if you just sit down at the table with the people you know. Dare to venture where you're uncomfortable going.

For a cause...

Whenever I watch movies on the Civil War or Revolutionary War, I am always struck by the significance/insignificance of the flag bearer. One man carries the sacred symbol, representing "the cause" of the entire army. He walks boldly alongside his compatriots, the lone unarmed soldier. I'm sure there are rules stating that opposing flag bearers are off limits when choosing your target, but on a battlefield, chaos overshadows the "rules." Inevitably, the guys in the front are gunned down, and the flag bearer is no exception. When he falls, flag in hand, the man directly behind him or to his side abandons his weapon and picks up the symbol, never considering letting it drop unregarded. This next man will most likely face the same fate as the man before him, someone else will take on the responsibility of carrying the flag forward, and the cycle continues to victory or defeat. I am awed by this kind of dedication to symbolism.


As a human being, I understand the need for symbols to represent complex concepts. In war especially, there is a need to constantly keep in mind what you are fighting for. There is a purpose, a cause, and when your individual fight becomes too overwhelming, and you feel like there's no point in continuing, you recall the big picture, the thought of which can give you strength to endure. In books and stories, this is a very romantic concept. Flags wave, feelings of hope and independence run rampant. But realistically, how ridiculous.

It's one thing to place a flag in a court room to stand as a symbol of all that our nation has endured. It's quite another to turn a soldier into a sitting duck at the most dangerous moment of his life. If two armies are fighting each other, it's not as if one side is going to say, "Hey, who are we fighting and why?" in the event that no flags are present. "The Cause" being fought for is ever present with or without a symbol to represent it.

The only realistic purpose I can see for a flag on a battle field is to help the generals observing the fight identify their army's status. But come on, there are other indications of how the fight is going besides the location of a piece of cloth on a stick.

All this to say that I don't know if I could ever sacrifice my life for the sake of a symbol. When I read novels and notice symbols that can be neatly defined and are romantically displayed, I am moved, sometimes to tears. But in real life, I am hardened to such "foolish" displays. Why get hurt? Why die? It's only a symbol.

Growing up in a Christian family, I was told stories of martyrs. Men and women beaten, sawn in two, fed to lions, all because they refused to deny the truths they believed in. On hearing these stories, I was amazed and saddened. I couldn't help but think, why didn't they just say they didn't believe? Saying it wouldn't make it true, and surely God would understand the situation and look into their hearts to see the truth. There was no need for them to die.

Recently, I read an account of a homeless man from Guatemala (I think?) living in the U.S., and it caused me to reevaluate my feelings on the subject of symbolism in "real life." In his country, he was taken into custody as a political prisoner for belonging to a group dedicated to worker's rights. He was tortured for weeks in really horrific ways, and by the time he was released, his body was a mess, and he weighed around 80lbs, down from 150lbs. He said his captors told him over and over that if he would sign a statement siding with them, he would be released. I can't remember his exact words, but he says something like, My father taught me never to back down from what is right. My father believed in me. It's amazing what a person is capable of withstanding if he knows someone believes in him. I read this and I thought, Wow. Could I ever be that dedicated to representing what I believed to be right? This man had no flag to hold. He himself was the symbol.

And I suppose that's what a flag bearer is actually doing. It's not the flag he waves that represents his cause, it is the man sacrificing all he has for the cause that is the real symbol.

I wonder how many people would be willing to make themselves symbols no matter the cost in this age of apathy. Would you?

An Easter Memory

I'm not sure how old I was when this happened, but I'd guess late elementary or early middle school. Mom, Dad, Scotty and I were visiting Grandma and Grandpa Maynard in Florida. As Cris, Dusty and Chad got older and their social lives became more rooted and involved, they stayed home from family trips, and Scotty and I went with Mom and Dad. It's weird, but I used to feel like I had two families: there was the whole clan, and then there were just the four of us. When I think about certain events, I automatically try to recall which family I was with at the occurrence. It helps me organize memories. But I'm off track. The point is, I was with family number two, which is why my older brothers don't appear in this story.

Anyway, it was getting close to Easter, and Grandpa liked to pretend that the Easter Bunny was lurking around the house in the days leading up to Easter Sunday. Everywhere Scotty and I would go, we'd find random chocolate eggs lying around, and when we'd go to pick them up, Grandpa would say, That Bunny is at it again. It was silly and fun, and Scotty I loved hunting for new eggs, knowing Grandpa was behind it all, but playing along with the Easter Bunny joke.

One morning, I woke up on the pullout couch next to Scotty, who was still asleep. I usually sleep on my back and make absolutely no movement throughout the night. Scotty on the other hand is a flailer, and by morning is positioned face down, deeply snuggled into his pillow. As I propped myself up, rubbing sleep from my eyes, I noticed chocolate eggs placed next to my pillow, just waiting for me to wake up and start eating them. I smiled to myself, thinking, That Bunny is at it again. As I started to get up, I looked over at Scotty and noticed the Easter Bunny had visited him too, but the Bunny hadn't counted on the inevitable flailing that would occur throughout the night. Chocolate was everywhere! The pillow was smeared brown, not to mention the top part of the sheets. I don't remember if I woke Scotty up right then, or if I waited for him to wake up on his own, but in any case, when he did wake up and lifted his head, there was chocolate inside his ear! I hollered for everyone to come see, and Dad I and laughed really hard. Scotty was a good sport and thought the whole thing was really funny too. He and I asked Grandpa why he would put chocolate in bed with us, but Grandpa denied it up and down. He always maintained that it had been the Easter Bunny.

Addiction

I'm reading a book called "Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Addiction" by David Sheff. I'm nearing the end, and I have to say, it's really got me thinking and wondering about a lot of things, including the nature of addiction and the make-up of an addict.

In the book, Sheff is writing about his son's drug addiction, looking for answers to the question why. Why is his son addicted to drugs? When did the addiction begin? What did he as a parent do wrong? How can he help his son get better? To find answers, Sheff has done all kinds of research on the subject, and the facts are startling, because frankly, there aren't a lot of facts. It is becoming apparent through studies that drug addiction is an inherited disease, and though it is true that drug addicts make conscience choices to do drugs, they cannot be held completely responsible for their actions. For someone who is "programed" for addiction, not doing drugs can be almost impossible through shear will-power alone. Like metal to a magnet, addicts are incapable of staying away from the drug they seek. One doctor in this field of study compared a drug addict staying away from drugs to a person stepping in front of an oncoming train; pretty much impossible for someone in their right mind.

Again, it is not really known how these addictive traits are passed down, seemingly at random. Drug addicts come from all over the race/background/socioeconomic spectrum. Those of us without addiction are in no position to judge those who have the disease, because we have not all started out on an equal playing field, no matter how similar our backgrounds are to theirs.

Commonly, I look at situations involving drug and alcohol addicts and think, what a shame; thank God that's not me or anyone in my family. But now my outlook is beginning to change. Addiction is not specific to drugs. Addiction is everywhere.

Eating disorders, depression, close mindedness, violence, fear of failure, impulse shopping, need for love, need for answers. All of these things along with a thousand others can be destructive addictive tendency's. As human beings, we naturally tend toward lifestyles of routine. Fear of the unknown dictates how many of us live our lives, because that's how we're wired. Addiction then is an extreme version of routine.

These are just some of my initial thoughts on addiction. I'm not a doctor or psychologist, just a muller-over of information brought to my attention. However, my reading and thinking has led me to a few conclusions for change in my own life. Just as humans are wired for routine, we are also prone to judging the people around us. Even though I try to keep an open mind, I am not above the practice of judgement. Often when someone I know is constantly depressed, I think, Geez, get over it! Nobodies life is perfect, therefore you have no rite to be any sadder than anyone else. However, this type of judgment is cruel. I believe depression can be a form of addiction, and some people struggle with it more than others simply because it is in their genetic make-up. The depressed person doesn't deserve judgement. What they require is extra understanding and attention.

The same goes for people with anorexia or obesity. Addictions concerning food are both genetic and environmental, and people who struggle with them need attention and encouragement, not judgement.

Violence is one of the more difficult addictions for me to wrap my mind around. Some people are naturally prone to acting out violently, and from accounts I've heard/read, rage often takes over these people and they temporarily disconnect mentally from what they are physically doing. These people cannot be held completely responsible since violence is an addiction they do not choose to have, and yet, their actions hurt others. Yes, these people are dangerous and should not be aloud to continue living in regular society, but to what extent should they be punished? Should their life end or be contained in an unseen place for committing an act that they may not have been able to control?

One more thought before I stop. My dad/Pastor has been making a lot of interesting points in our Bible study concerning free will and predestination, and so I've been thinking a lot about the ideas he's presented. I believe the Bible teaches that God will ultimately save all people. All will be reconciled to God at the end of ages, though many will not accept Christ in this lifetime. My thoughts on addiction seem to tend toward the argument that our decisions in this lifetime do not dictate where we will spend eternity. The fact is, we are not all equal when it comes to our ability to make good/bad decisions. Some of us are more prone to get involved with destructive things than others, not because I am better than you, but because I am genetically different than you. If God truly is a God of love and fairness, how could he judge all people the same, not taking into consideration our different backgrounds and make-ups? The outcome for the individual is too important to exist outside a perfect system of Divine Judgement.

A Different Kind Of Morning

Last week I started looking for volunteer opportunities online during a slow period at work. I'm tired of my own selfishness and decided it'd be nice to do something for someone besides myself. My attention was caught by an organization in Lexington that helps homeless people called the Hope Center. From what I could tell, they provide three meals a day, places to sleep, classes & programs to help people who've lost everything get back on their feet, and probably a bunch of other things that I'm not aware of. They seem like they're really doing a good thing, and they need volunteers. So I emailed the lady in charge and asked her to sign me up to help with breakfast.

I had no idea what this would mean. What kind of help did they need? Should I be worried? After all, a single woman is suppose to be careful where she goes and who she spends her time with. And here I am, female, 23 years old, driving across the railroad tracks in the dark for I didn't know what purpose.

After signing up, I started to have second thoughts. I would have to wake up around 5am in order to get ready for work beforehand, since I would have to go straight to the office after breakfast. I'm not great at waking up any earlier than I absolutely have to, and was this necessary? I mean, The Hope Center has been operating for many years, and they've come this far without any help from me. How much help could I really be?

If there's one thing I know about myself, it's this: when my alarm goes off, all I need is one flimsy excuse to put off whatever it is I'm suppose to be doing, as long as it's not mandatory. And since no one was going to be holding a gun to my head at 5am, I knew I needed a follow through plan. So I told my mom. I knew she'd be excited about the opportunity and would be anxious to question me afterward. If I flaked out when it was time to get up, I'd have to confess to it when she asked me about my experience, and the lameness of my excuse would be too much to bare. No, I didn't help the homeless like I promised I would, because I was too tired to leave my clean, warm bed, with the silk sheets and down comforter. When my alarm went off this morning an hour and half earlier than usual, these were the words in my head, egging me on.

Getting ready for a normal day at the office when you know you'll be spending time with homeless people first is not as easy as you might think. Should I take a shower, or would that be like rubbing it in? Was it okay to curl my hair, or was that too pretentious? I decided to go ahead and dress and style as usual, thankful that my normal work outfit consists of jeans, a polo, and tennis shoes. But the shoes could be a problem. I recently bought a new pair, and they're still incredibly white and, well, new looking. I decided to wear my old gray pair so as not to draw anymore attention to myself than I needed to. Looking back at that decision now makes me chuckle, because no one was looking at my feet.

I left the house later than I meant to, spending too much time eating breakfast and reading the news. I knew roughly where I was going, but still, when traversing to a new place, it's always a good idea to leave time for wrong turns. I found the street without incident, but after turning onto it, I realized that I didn't even know what to look for, or what side of the street the building would be on. I passed a promising looking building to my left, so I pulled into a parking lot to turn around. Pitched black and narrow, I navigated through the entrance, and low and behold I spotted a large van with the words Hope Center printed on the side. This was it. Wondering where I should park, I drove slowly forward, and as I strained to locate a space in the dark, silhouettes became visible. As my eyes became more accustomed to the dim light, I looked around. There were men everywhere. Men standing in groups. Men walking toward the building. Men sitting alone. Men waiting.

My breathing quickened as I located an empty parking space and turned off my car. What now? I hadn't thought to ask where I should go once I got there. Where was I suppose to be? Who was I supposed to report to? What was I doing here?

Getting out of the car, I felt a hundred eyes on me. Ashamed of my shiny car and my clean hair, I began walking toward the entrance, feeling pretty certain that I was the only female in the bunch. My father used to tell me that when a musical note exceeds my singing range, not to avoid it, but to sing louder. As I self-consciously made my way to the front doors, I held my head up and met the stares directed at me, smiling and saying an enthusiastic Good Morning as my heart raced uncontrollably in my chest.

Just as I began to seriously wonder what to do in 5 seconds when I reached the closed entrance, a man greeted me as if he'd been given my picture and was picking me up from the airport. He told me to follow him and led me through the front doors. Once inside, he introduced me to another man, who walked ahead of me through hallways full of men, telling them to make way, MVP coming through. They were smelly and dirty, clutching backpacks, talking and laughing. Everyone was staring at me, the new comer. The woman. The "MVP". I continued my "sing louder" strategy since it seemed to be working. I was greeted with smiles and hardy welcomes.

In the kitchen, there were men preparing food and washing dishes. Two girls stood idle, looking just as out of place as I felt. Kyle, apparently the supervisor, directed us into the serving area and gave us our jobs. I was granted the role of milk & coffee server at the end of the line. The food line works like this: you get a plastic tray, are offered one scoop of rice, one piece of toast, sugar packets, a cup of milk and a cup of coffee. At 6:30am, the doors were opened and breakfast began. I'm not gifted in the art of estimating numbers, but judging from the number of cups I opened, there were well over a hundred and fifty men partaking of breakfast. Almost every man there gave me a smile as I handed him his beverage, asking me how I was doing, and thanking me enthusiastically for being there.

I've worked many retail jobs, some of them in the restaurant industry, and I've never in all my experience served such friendly and enthusiastic people. These men had gotten up early and waited in line for who knows how long in order to receive fairly disgusting food that probably wasn't enough to fill them up, and would have to last them until...

At the coffee shop I used to work in, when I would hand people their piping hot, half-caf, no-foam, white-chocolate carmel cappachino with whip cream, I would smile and tell them to have a good day. More often than not, I was not even acknowledged with a grunt, let alone a reciprocal verbal pleasantry. However, when I handed these men small 3/4 full cups of cheap, weak, plain coffee, they smiled brightly, asking me how I was and telling me thank you. When I asked them how they were, every single one told me he was doing great, ready to face to the day. Some of the men sleep at Hope Center and are in recovery & educational programs there. The majority however do not know where they'll be sleeping when they lay down to rest tonight. If asked, most likely they wouldn't be able to tell me where and when their next meal would take place, but for the moment, their possessions strapped to their backs and a tray of sustenance in their hands, they were thankful for what they had.

I spoke with the other volunteers and people working in the kitchen, all of them incredibly friendly open. Kyle, the supervisor I mentioned lives and works at Hope Center and is currently taking classes to become a councilor for teens. Sue, the head of the kitchen, has worked there for over 15 years and is quite obviously loved by many of the men there. One of the guys cooking and washing dishes who looked to be the same age as me is in a recovery program at Hope Center, kitchen duty being one of his mandatory jobs. The two other girls there are college students at UK, there for the same reason as me.

I'm excited to go back and get to know these people better, and help out however I can. How refreshing to be in a place where so much good is being done. Hope is not an easy thing to find, and after all my church visits around the city, I never expected that the one place I'd find it would be among the homeless.