And you are?

"I'd say, you have to find what you want and then figure out how you're going to get there."

"Those are two very difficult things."

How Do You Know?

Yes, I watched the flop of a romantic comedy last night with Tera and Bekah.

"I didn't even get half of the movie," said Bekah laughing about the whole bizarre theater experience.

We showed up about ten minutes late, which may have been crucial in order that we understand the movie.

On screen there was a lawyer (or someone) who had lost his job due to his father's scandalous acts (what the father did, we're not sure). So the guy is pretty low in life. But the main character we follow is Lisa, (I think that's her name?) who is a 31-year-old ex-USA softball player trying to figure out which of the two guys she'd rather have, or whether either is right for her. The other guy, her boyfriend, is a super-jock baseball player who throws out dating realm words like "monogamy" and who writes her a deeply felt apology note after she left him the first time: "I went nuts when you left. I broke a lamp" (that part was funny).

Off screen we spotted a couple testing the waters in PDA. They were diagonally to the left, a spot where no one would see them (yep. nope. we saw them). When Reese Witherspoon cried for two minutes with toothpaste all over her lips (I know) the adolescent couple (we determined they were about 16) guaranteed our entertianment. "Oh my! He is really going at it" we whispered to each other. Then fifteen minutes into the movie they were still going, then twenty minutes, then thirty, forty, and so on until the movie was finished. Thank goodness the arm rests move. For their sake. We assumed their story: both their families were home and they couldn't get the privacy they wanted. So they spent $15 (hopefully he paid) to "watch" a movie. There are so many other options. Just saying.

We left the theater laughing. Laughing. Laughing, then when we were on the curb a man in some vehicle yelled at us to stop laughing.

After a rough week in so many ways, it was good to have Bekah and Tera to be ridiculous with.

And maybe it was the character Lisa (?) in the movie. Her great dilemma. What she said about how the girls who just want to be married and to settle down after their softball careers are lying. They don't know what they want.

And this psychiatrist guy tells her to "figure out what she wants, and then work to get there."

Maybe the writer of the movie had a good idea there. "Figure out something." So I may be making goals today and implementing--get ready for it--a plan. That's a big step for me.

Ramona

“She was a girl who could not wait. Life was so interesting, she had to find out what happened next.”
~Beverly Cleary



How much to I love Beverly Cleary? A lot. Because I think she gave me a best friend.

Fifteen years ago I was lying upside-down on a tattered second-hand couch, toes tapping the wall, my hair falling straight to the ground. My reading position. Not only was I in Ramona's world. I was Ramona.

The Ramona books were my first chapter books. "I can read chapter books!" I remember telling Mom over and over. "And next I'm going to read Henry Higgins."

Kearsen who preferred The Boxcar Children and The Babysitter's Club at age 8-12 may have been my inspiration. She read quickly, flipping pages so fast I pretended to keep up with her. Sometimes I would sit opposite her on the couch with one of Dad's western novels--books that were too advanced for me--in my hands, pretending that I loved reading for long periods of time without looking at pictures.

But then I discovered the only other person in all the world who was exactly like me. Ramona Quimby.

The predicaments! I once slept too long one morning, and upon realizing I would be late, I returned to school with the exact same shirt.

"Is that the same shirt you were wearing yesterday?" Whitney asked In my world, Whitney was Susan, hair so curly all a girl like Ramona and I could do was to yank it.

"No!I just have two shirts that are exactly the same. And I love them. A lot. And sometimes I wear them two days in a row, because that's how much I like them," I retaliated.

"Gee whiz, just asking," and Whitney whipped her blond curly hair back around.

And the beautiful Beezus. I mean Kearsen. So confident and sure but worried about her social life. Her hair was shampooed AND conditioned. Mine was short, chopped, and tangled almost in every strand. And she had boyfriends. Many of them. Not at the same time, though, but she did once kiss the TV screen when Casper turned into Devon Sawa. And there were moments of little-sister-mortifies-older-sister-in-front-of-cute-boy.

Like this one:
The doorbell rang, and I had just changed into my pajamas--an oversized T-shirt, one that Dad had bought at a Flying-J restaurant while on the road. It read "Give me all your chocolate, and nobody gets hurt" and a picture of a gun was pointed at whoever read it.

"Somebody get that!" I yelled. The doorbell rang agian. "Fine!" I said, my bare legs flying down the hall. I flung the door open.

It was some tall boy. "Is Kearsen here?" His name was either Nick or Dan, I was never sure. I was struggling to yank down my oversized T-shirt while hiding the lower half of my body behind the door. He glanced at my skinny bear legs and my hands tugging and stretching my shirt.

"Kearsen! It's a boy!"

When Kearsen came to the front door and saw the backside of my pajamas, she ran for the door, closing it half-way and waving at me with her other arm to go away.

Ramona and I truly thought that some things were too important to overlook. Like having friends over.

"Can Megan come over?"

Megan's mom was on the other line. "Is your mother there?"

She wasn't. She was working at the Flying-J and wouldn't be home until 4. "Ummmmm. Yes."

Megan's mother thought for a minute. "May I speak with her?"

"She's taking a nap." Megan's mother continued to ask me when Mom would be awake and other such questions until she said, "Okay. I'll bring Megan over now. I'll talk to your mother when we get there."

Oh no! I thought. Megan and her mother would show up and Mom would be nowhere in sight, and they would know I was a liar!

When they arrived I had thought of a whole story. "Mom is gone, but just for a minute. She went to pick up some milk and eggs and ice cream. The milk and eggs were for dinner, and the ice cream was for Megan, because I told mom how much Megan likes ice cream."

Megan's mother nodded. "Okay, well then have your mother call me as soon as she comes home."
When Mom came home, she called Megan's mom and proceeded to apologize for my overactive imagination and my "unacceptable behavior."
But it was important! I had tried explaining to her. Brandy couldn't play and neither could Carly, and I was all alone.

And Howie was Ryan. Ryan was my first love, but first and foremost a best friend. We walked home together every day, kicking leaves or rocks as we went. "You can come over and we can jump on our trampoline," I told him every day after school.

We used to build woodchip piles and forage for worms.

And I was curious.

I biked to the library and checked out books and shuddered at the creepy downstairs where they placed all the children's books. One time I checked out a book where a little girl and a little boy were best friends. The little girl aways wore a scarf around her neck, and the boy wondered why, but never asked her. Then one day she said, "I'll show you why I wear this scarf," and the little girl untied the scarf and her head fell off! I threw down the book, and ran up the stairs, tripping as I hurried. "Have a nice..." the librarian said after me, but I didn't stop. I pedaled so fast I could hardly contain my breath.
That halloween the third grade class was having a costume party. I tied one simple scarf around my neck, and when asked what it was for, I would not say, but secretly I knew that if I untied it then my head would fall off.

And I was an innovator. "Why are you writing 5's instead of capital Z's?" My teacher asked me.

"Because we replaced Q's with 2's! When lowercase letters turn into uppercase cursive letters, some of them turn into numbers."

I am Ramona. Let that be known.

Thank you, Beverly Clearly giving me a friend who was just like me.

The Beautiful Writing I Read

I've traded hours of filing through used bookstores to the evening hours (that sweep away so quickly)it takes to read my students' papers and general assignments.

But all my mannerisms are the same. I file through, looking at their names, though I probably shouldn't because of the bias that's already in my mind. It's no different, really, than judging a book by its cover, and I believe it is our duty as readers to "judge" that book or that student paper in a positive light. We are doing our research and gathering information on the story/paper, and we are exploring the reasons why the words written are developed as they are. As readers, we not only want the story, we want the context. And as a teacher, I must know my writers.

And most of the time I do not desire a grade be placed. They see themselves on a spectrum with other students, like I'm just hanging them on a clothesline in order of dulls to brights. "You're a C+, Son. You're like a soft greeen. In the middle you go."

So I read these papers and I want to enjoy them, appreciate them, give them the full attention of a good audience, and I can never say enough words to express how I understand brilliance within them that I know is just waiting to burst open.

Instead of throwing out a B, I ought to say, "Your paper right now is the supporting actress of the show. [insert relevant critique to the student's paper]. Make it the lead. Placce our attention on your words, not only on the ideas you present."

I can teacher talk for hours, so I'll stop me here.

What I really wanted to talk about was how God seems to replace all our time spent on one activit with time on another activity. For instance, I used to spend my time at coffee shops and with my nose in a book. Now it's a stack of papers on one side and a pile of text books on the other (for planning).

Or maybe what I really wanted to talk about was how I love reading e-mails from friends and family.

The goings-on of everyday life.

Or maybe it's the Facebook posts. All the little messages sent and wall posts and moments in pictures hanging in the air....

Or maybe it's the Psalm I quickly chose before class began. And as I'm reading, I think, "I've never seen that before," and all I want is for them to care and for us all to stop ourselves in our tracks and humble ourselves for the Lord.

Or maybe it's the Ning where my composition students post their thoughts and ideas in blog-like posts, and as a class we comment and interact with their writing. The poems, unedited, the prose, the raw style.

Altogether, maybe it's the fact that I cannot get away from reading and from paying attention to the world around me. The written word is so beautiful, and I have the utmost respect for it. And maybe I love it so much because with it, God inspired the Word into Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

Get to.

"You're fine."

"Oh, Laurissa, you'll be alright."

"Can't you see the Lord's hand here?"


Right. People have said these phrases over and over and over, and they are beginning to fine a way into my heart.

When we say we are not ok, are we just complaining? Well for me, yes. Most of the time. Those little tasks I don't want to do, like vacuum or grade an entire stack of papers.

But, how about I look at it this way: I get to. I get to vacuum a floor that I pay rent for, and I get to grade a stack of papers from 27 unique freshmen.

That's it. That's all I have.

Why don't we start saying, "I get to" rather than, "I have to"?

Riddle me that.

Grandma Ham

"Your gradma's name is Fannie Ham!" the entire seventh grade GEMS group stirred with excitement.

In a way I always thought it was funny, that Grandma Ham's name was so silly, not too common, though she tries to be the most normal and common woman that ever was out in society.

Take her closet for example. It was the summer of 2007 and I was working as a nurse's aid in Churchill, MT. Grandma Ham was so proud that she had the luxury of service from her very own great-grand daughter. Surely I would allow her to live peacefully and comfortably, away from the mumbo jumbo abnormalities from other residents she apparently witnesses every day. In her Spring and Fall wardrobe she owns precisely seven slacks, organized in color from white to peach to blue to navy and finally to black. "Seven?" she would ask as I neatly clipped the cuffs to the hanger. "Yes, Grandma, seven."

"Goot." Oh, and Grandma Ham speaks with this articulate, need-to-make-sure-they-know-I'm-Dutch way. The foreign 'r' in "Surrre" or the hacking 'h': "Hhhave a candy." I believe she is third generation Dutch, so her grandmother and mother spoke it.

The bedding must be neat, no wrinkles, no uneven draping. If it lay askew, the loss is hers. She must sit and stare at it all day. As she crochets or reads or reads in her diagonal corner chair, a spot where her bed is so visible, she must remain in the presence of a kitty-wampus bedspread. And while nurses and cleaning ladies and nurse's aides and visitors come and don't do a thing about the bedspread, she must give herself up to an abnormality, to a potential discovery that Fannie Ham may not be as put-together as she desires.

Grandma Ham was originally Fannie Droge. The eldest of seven children, she also assumed the responsibility to clean after her siblings and to help her mother prepare meals. She cleaned while her siblings aided their father on the potato farm.

"So it is true that our family line has been here for over a hundred years,Grandma?" As she explained her history we folded "scrubbie" netting together, she showed the way to fold, how many times to fold the netting, where to pin it, and where to cut.

"Why, yes, hunny. I don't suppose Grandma has thought of that. Our family has been here for over a hundret years." I thought of how people now don't stay in one place anymore. They move, and lineages tied to places are broken often. Bigger dreams, newer places.

"So how did you meet Grandpa Overweg?"

"I wasn't too old, probably your age when I traveled to Warshington to clean for a family. One day I was out for a stroll with a friend when I met him. He offered to buy me ice cream, and I accepted." As we passed pins to one another, she continued folding and securing the netting--a practice she knows well--and she continued. "He didn't have a family. He was orphaned as a young boy and since had lived with brothers or sisters and always grew up very poor. When it came time for me to go back home, I asked my father if he would hire another man. Dirk came to Montana, but Daddy would not allow us to live in the same house, so Dirk had to live in Bozeman. Twenty miles was much further back then, and I rarely got to see him. Daddy bought him working gloves and boots from an old JC Penny that used to exist in Manhattan."

Grandma Ham held the netting while I continued to cut on our marked lines. "So then what?"

"Although it was nice to know he was in Montana, I still rarely saw him. But soon he had earned enough money from Daddy to afford another place to live." And soon Grandma became an Overweg. It was a goot, solid Dutch name.

They had a daughter named Genevieve Ann, and five years later another daughter Delores. They grew up and began their families. Gen's oldest Mike is my father, and here I am. And there I was with Grandma Ham, connecting the generational gap between us.

Grandpa Dirk died young, when my dad was about six or seven, and so Grandma Ham with all her health problems moved into the independent side of the retirement home when she was in her fifties and about ten years later she met and married Grandpa Ham, her name thus being Fannie Ham. Grandpa Ham died when I was six or seven.

She is 93 this year, and each time we see her she says, "This could be the last time..." as thought she is saying, "Well, it's been good to know ya. I'm off."

For all the ways Grandma Ham desires normalcy and expects normalcy from other people, she herself has taken detours and has explored new territories. And although she believes that a bed spread should never be crooket or that there should never be no more or no less slacks than seven in her Spring attire, her name suggests otherwise. Her name says that she has taken chances and has lived.



***Grandma called me the other day to say that Grandma Ham had a dream. She told the dream to Aunt Nell, her sister, sure that the dream was true.

"You must call Laurissa," she said in such a worry.

"Is she okay?" Aunt Nell said to her in confusion, "Fannie, Laurissa is just fine. She is in DeMotte teaching."

"No! She got fired!" Grandma Ham said, "Yes, they fired her because she could not teach in Dutch. But that is okay, because she moved back to Sioux Falls and she is going to marry one of Josh's brothers." Josh is my brother-in-law and he has three younger brothers. I'm friends with all of them. And Grandma Ham desires that I should find a man to marry before she dies, so that she can rest in peace. (Because a single woman off and on her own at 23 is surely an abomination.)

Aunt Nell assured her that no, I was not fired and that no, I was not going to marry one of Josh's brothers and that yes, I was doing just fine and I still had my teaching job.


***Grandma Ham called Aunt Nell in a panic one morning. "They're going to arrest us!"

"what?"

"You and I, we wrote fraudulent checks, and now they are going to arrest us!"

Suddenly, Grandma Ham has difficulty distinguishing reality from her dreams. For a woman so tied to normalcy, her dreams certainly suggest a crazier, more complicated, more exciting, more imaginitive Laurissa-like mind. I believe I am Fannie Ham's great-grandaughter after all.

Fear God for nothing?

This morning, I need to be doing my last minute things--printing handouts, making those final annotations for a Sophomore discussion of Jubilee, planning English 9 after three days of writing (where to go. where to go.), and of course, figure out just what I'm going to do with American Lit.

On Monday, the semi-standing walls I built around the Am. Lit. structure fell apart. Students were overloaded, not sure where to go, wanted less homework, wanted less of everything (but that case didn't last long). Yesterday went okay. Today, things may fall apart, and that's not okay. But maybe it has to happen.

This morning I read in Job. Yes, where else do we go when our most reliable resources in life fall down and shatter around us?

And I was struck by what was said: "Does Job fear God for nothing?" Those words spoken, of course, by Satan. And I wonder the same. Do I fear God for nothing, and so my faith comes easy? When I get the stink-eye from a couple guys wondering if I'll really follow through with what I say, I realize that I fear God for the fact that when my biggest stabilities (a working, breathing, growing classroom) is stripped from under me, He is still the rock.

God is comfort, but he's not a teddy bear; God is love, but he's not a boyfriend; God is peace, patience, kindness, but he's not an Oprah talk show.

This week and beyond, when all my walls and foundations are tumbling down, I need to learn to fear God. As a country and as a people on earth, we must learn to quit looking at God and talking to God and talking about God as though he is the little pleasure-filled things built only around our happiness.

Lord, take those stupid foundations, tear them down, rip them right out from under me, and replenish emptiness with Christ.

Fear the Lord for the fact that he is God.

Are dreams real?

In a dream I cried. I hate crying.

I was crying that it felt lonely on my own, that the rocks I thought were boulders were only sand, which developed the epiphany that I would run away. I began to pack my blue suitcase. I was so good at this--packing I mean. Toothbrush, contact solution, jeans, T-shirts, socks, a few pictures, my Bible. I had done this many times before. My parents moved from one rented home to another, from one state to another, and after high school I moved from Montana to Iowa to Alaska to South Dakota to New Mexico and now to Indiana.

All this so far is true.

My dream continued.

"Why do you suppose that is?" My gradmother faded into the background.

"Why what is?" I was still throwing clothes and books into my suitcase.

She stepped forward. "Why do you think you need to run?"

I stopped.

"I enjoy being by myself." And then, "I'm better off that way."

Then, like only Grandma could, she said bluntly, "You think that running away is your only way to gain independence? You think that being on your own qualifies you for adulthood? You think that stepping away from the pressure of the here and now will make it go away? You think that when you have a job to do and you feel insufficient that Christ can't be sufficient for you?"

I stopped packing.

"What's in your heart, Laurissa? You claim to be independent. You claim adulthood. But you are scared, and you're supplementing whatever you believe is missing with glorified dreams of running away."



Bam.

That Life-Changing Thing

This weekend I did something that could steer my life into one of two directions: #1 Everything would change; #2 Everything could stay just the same.
And here's a mini-lesson on the word "thing."

By inserting words that say "thing" three times into the beginning paragraph of this blog, I create not only the most ambiquous claim, but I avert confessing what I actually did.

When I hate the word "thing":
When students use it for lack of a better person, place, and you guessed it, thing.

When I love the word "thing":
When I get to post a blog that marks the biggest potential event of my life, and when I can't keep it in any longer and need to say "something"


I pray your potential life-changing things actually do happen.

The Ning

"There are two students who want to drop your composition class."
Mr. Oudman and Mrs. Van Zyl explained that various students were still changing their schedules, that it would take about a week for them to determine it. My numbers fell from 8 to 5, then back up to 6, then to five once again.
"I was told that for this class we only had to do one paper a week. That was it," one student said. "I was going to drop it, but I guess I'm staying."

As my student numbers rose and fell, I knew the first order of business would be to create the Ning. The Ning is a social networking site, much like Facebook or Myspace. I pay $12 a year for it, but so far it has been rewarding. My students are all independant study. Some of them are with me at random times in the day, and I find that if we are not on the same page soon, they will fall between the cracks. Students are in and out of my classroom. One asks for his homework just when I'm about to begin another class. Throughout the week I kept thinking, "This can't work!"

But then I created the Ning.

Homework assignment #1: Sign up for Ning.
#2 Write a short "About me" blog.
#3 Comment on eachother's work.

As soon as the school allowed the site, and as soon as the students had access to the site, a flurry of blog posts scattered their "pages". "To start with names, mine is --" one wrote. Another, "In our house we own a bird. This bird has the natural ability to call out for 5 miles in the Amazon. I could very well go crazy." And more: "...I have been impedement free for 12 years now." "Everyone loves music (unless you are a 35+ white male republican...)"

For high school students who understand the social networking lifestyle, for students who understand that there are some phrases and words you can write that you simply cannot say, for all these students, I pray the Ning unites us a little more...and sets their minds dancing with stuff to write about.

As for the rest of school, I'm enjoying all 80 or so of my students. They are energetic, they have known each other since kindergarten, and they are unique, creative, caring, and Christ-focused. May God be praised!

"Do you prefer Miss Boman, or Mizz Boman?"

Miss Boman, please. Thank you.

A Broken Hallelujah

It's been three years since the Nieuwsma family reunion last occured. But in the holidays and weddings and funerals in between, we have hugged briefly and cordially greeted each other. We always refresh what we last knew of our cousins, aunts and uncles. "You're im Milwauke right now? How are your kids?" but wherever we are and in whichever sitaion, it never takes long for us to bond all over again.

It's the Nieuwsma traits--the sisters sharing pictures and Grandma's old knickknacks; the uncles always up for a round of golf entertaining each other with dry humor; the guy cousins always up for a game of wet towel; the younger cousins and the older cousins laughing. Always laughing.

I've heard it said that we all have a distinct look about us. Deep inset eyes. A similar profile. A particular vocal tone. Aunt Marianne said it's the upper lip, whatever that means.

At weddings we are the same--joyful and excited. At Christmas gatherings (which my immediate family doesn't attend often enough) and at family dinners we continue our laughs. We are surrounded by a family who cares. Aunt Donna said it most recently: "I don't always like to deal with people in my daily life, but I come here, and there's not one of you that I can say that about. I love you all..."

And even at funerals--there have been two this year--we are still the same.

For a family we so often see laughing, our hearts break even more for our uncles and aunts and cousins and for Grandma, who names each of the nearing 100 of us before she goes to sleep at night. We mourn...deeply, because Uncle Darryl enjoyed seeing us all together, and because aside from Uncle Fred's humor, he was the king of dry humor. Because Brandon would have been playing wet towel with the guys and certainly would have been playing basketball. But deep within all of us, somewhere there is still so much joy, a deeply rooted understanding that we are not our own.

This reunion held a much more somber tone as much as we laughed and asked everyone about everyone and as much as we ate food and played games. We all knew. No Brandon. No Uncle Darryl. And maybe our cousin Missy would have been 8 months pregnant by now.

But imagine them in glory!I kept trying to remind myself.

Imagine Brandon cuddling with his beloved chinchillas. Imagine the jokes Uncle Darryl can make now. Imagine bigger and more caring arms that hold Missy's baby.

What broken sentences I'm writing right now, broken thoughts scattered in between. The greatness of God's love/will/profidence/reasoning/purpose/mind/strength is too much to fathom. So for now I think it's enough to offer a broken hallelujah.

Well, I love you.

"Is this all your stuff?" Dad was wondering how I had accumulated enough stuff to fill the four-foot stacks of bins that were ready to be loaded in Electra (my car).

"Yes. That's all my stuff. There's more in the basement." I also have a bookshelf and two end tables in Kearsen's upstairs, a folding table and folding chairs in the basement, boxes of kitchen supplies in Grandma's garage, and a twin size mattress in Grandma's basement.

I half-smiled. Tyrel began lifting one of five boxes of books. "Lift with your legs, Ty," Dad said. "Just set that there. Laurissa, do you have any odds and ends?" He had loaded two of the bins in the trunk already.

If Dad were to make it into the Guiness Book of World Records it would be Most Tightly Packed Buick. I began unloading a box of random winter clothes.

Soon we were out of large bins to pack. Dad told me we needed more stuff. And from there we stuffed the crevices in the back seat and underneath the passenger side seat.

"There. Now it's tight." He slammed the trunk. "Should only take one more load to move you for good."

That morning I left Sioux Falls for good, and my parents followed behind me until Des Moines where we ate lunch at a rest stop.

"We are so proud of you." Mom was on the verge of tears. Dad patted my shoulder. Mike and Tyrel leaned against the car. "Don't give them too much work to do," warned Tyrel. "High schoolers don't like that."

"Watch out on I-80. Those crazy knuckleheads switch lanes every chance they get."

"If you get tired, well, stop."

"Please, please, please don't talk on the phone while you are driving."

"We are so proud of you."

I feel like I haven't had this type of parenting and just plain family-ness in a long time. Somehow, I've become too independent. As mom pushed my bangs behind my ear she gave me that I-love-you look that I know so well--puppy eyes, lips together, admiration and pure love all in one.

Mom, Dad, Kearsen, Mike, Ty? Well, I love you.

Timetimetimetimetimetimetimetimetimetimetime

Psalm 90

Lately I have been thinking about time and its effects on us. I was talking with Monique not too long ago about how, as soon as we each have something good going, the fact that we are in one big transition phase in life sort of makes our decisions for us.

But transitions are transitions, and we simply have to learn to deal with them. I for one will not settle...ever, hopefully. Hopefully I'll keep moving and keep desiring new phases in life.

Last night I came across Psalm 90, and I read it over and over. I keep thinking the work I do in life is for me and for what makes me happy, but this whole passage reminds me that in all I do and in all I experience, there is joy in just doing what we do for God. (Yes, Laurissa, took you long enough to figure this out.) I'm going to have to keep rediscovering this truth throughout life, I think.



Psalm 90

Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations. Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.

You turn men back to dust, saying, "return to the dust, O sons of men." For a thousand years in your sight are like a day that has just gone by, or like a watch in the night. You sweep men away in the sleep of death; they are like the new grass of the morning--though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered.

We are consumed by your angst and terrified by your indignation. You have set our iniquities before you, our secret sins in the light of your presence. All our days pass away under your wrath; we finish our years with a moan. The length of our days is seventy years--or eighty, if we have the strength; yet their span is but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away.

Who knows the power of your anger? For your wrath is as great as the fear that is due you. Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.

Relent, O Lord@ how long will it be? Have compassion on your servants. Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad in all our days. make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us, for as many years as we have seen trouble. May your deeds be shown to your servants, your splendor to their children.

May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish the work of our hands for us--yes, establish the work of our hands.

Stoplights

It's that moment when that safe color green decides to turn the unsure color yellow, which brings us to the ultimatum--red. And here's my thought process: Green means go. Okay, I'll go, and everyone else will go, and it will be predictable and safe. Oh, okay, yellow. Well do I speed up or do I slow down? What if I slow down too much and I get in a fender bender? But I'm in a hurry. Is it illegal to speed up? Oh, I hate yellow! Okay, so say I do speed up and run through it on yellow? In the middle of the intersection it turns red. Check for cops? Does that technically count as running a red light? Yes? Oh, okay.

"You are legitimately scared of stoplights, aren't you?" Beth once said.

Yeah. I am.

Hair nets

Picture this:

I am an early-twenties girl working at a Casey's gas station. I like the way the bell operates on the doors when customers come and go. Ding. Ding. Dingggg. I like the way Joe says, "Heyyya! How you doing there little lady?" I particularly like the way fountain orange soda tastes at 4 AM (workers get fountain pop for free). I even like my little elastic gloves I wear throughout my shift. They are nice, and they make the hot dish water not so hot.

I don't mind working alone for hours at a time, or the flour that speckles my true red Casey's apron. I don't mind sweeping after my shift or making pizza dough. I don't mind Joe harassing me if the doughnuts are not shelved by 5:30 AM. I don't even mind the visor.

BUT I DO NOT LIKE MY HAIRNET

It wasn't so bad at first. The first time I tried it on, I kind of liked it. It kept my hair all in one place, and not one customer has complained of hair in his pizza. Not one. So way to go, hairnet. The hairnet and I were doing well together until one day.

I was in the middle of making eighteen medium pizza crusts. It was about 6:30 AM. I know this because at that time I always make eighteen pizza crusts--eight for breakfast pizzas and ten for lunch pizzas. After they are baked they get placed in little "pizza boats" and set on a silver platter (not kidding). From there it sits rotating in the pizza warmer. I have a door on my side, and customers have a door on their side.

Once, a little kid and I (the kid was shoving a doughnut into his mouth) stood for a moment with both our doors open. He stared at me. I stared at the kid who had doughnut icing on the corner of his crooked smirk. It was a very surreal experience...the fact that you can stare at someone through a pizza oven.

Well anyway, this time I was making my pizzas, and in between a few pizzas made, I popped one in the oven and continued my process: cook, slice, label pizza boats, place pizza on pizza boats, place pizza boats on sliver platter, place silver platter on rotating pizza oven rack.

I didn't have a visor on that day, so my hairnet was especially visible. I shrugged it off. People won't see me anyway, I thought. And so I thought nothing of it.

Between the fountain pop machine and the sub sandwich fridge there is a little space where people who want to look in the kitchen while they are filling up their 32 oz Casey's cups can look (just in case the workers are yanking out their hair and placing it in the food). I must have been on breakfast pizza #4 or around there when I heard someone filling up a fountain drink. He was tall and had a very long tie on. So polished. So neat. So cute.

Not always, but sometimes I can be a flirt when I want, so while he was watching I took my pizza dough from pizza #4 and began stretching it out, spinning it, flipping it, and forming it true Italian style. You're doing good, I told myself. I stretched that pizza out and placed it in a baking tin. Another pizza was ready, so I pulled it from the oven, sliced it (with perfection, mind you--he was really cute), and placed the pizza on the pizza boats, and placed the pizza boats on the silver platter.

And in one dizzying moment, there this tie-guy was on the customer side of the pizza warmer, ready to take a bite of my pizza! And there I was on the kitchen side of the pizza warmer, ready and willing to give him a bite of my breakfast pizza. And he was so tall. He looked at me over the pizza warmer, and I don't think I could have seen a person with bluer eyes or a tie and white shirt ironed so well before. What is he going to say? Is he going to say, "These pizzas look really amazing...and so do y..."

"Nice hair net." He grabbed a piece of sausage breakfast pizza, ate a bite, and walked away.

After he left, I thought of all the things I wished he knew about me beyond what he had observed of me, that I work here in a gas station in the kitchen and I wear an apron and a hairnet. I thought of a few phrases I should have said, much like all the good comebacks you come up with after an argument. #1 "This is a summer job! I will not be here making pizzas for the rest of my life." #2 "I do have higher ambitions in life. I really do. Why, I will be teaching high school English in a couple months. Oh you don't believe me?" #3 "All the visors were dirty today. The hairnet is regulation." #4 "I can look nice!"

But it was all too late.

The hairnet won.

Miss Direction

"Excuse me, sir? I seem to be at the wrong place. This is the third house on the left on 800, yes? Are you Mr. Mulder?"

A man with beads of sweat dripping onto his cutoff T-shirt tilted his head sideways while his wife stood a few feet behind him, her head down and her foot scraping dirt in a circle.

"Ma'am, you're not on the right 800 street. You see, this here section splits off, but if you take a left onto 200--that street runs north and south--take a left, and go to 700--street runs east to west--take a right. From there you'll come up to another stop sign. There's a shoddy little shack on the corner there. Cain't miss it. Ever'body talks about it all the time. Mmkay, then you're gonna take a right, then a left on the nother 800. Mulders life on that road."

I told the man thanks, and leaned my head to the side to wave goodbye to his wife, too. They stood in the driveway, and I watched them in my rear view mirror as I drove away.

My GPS was saying "Take right at 200. Recalculating. In one mile turn right onto 49. Recalculating..."

I had spent the day listening to my GPS, staying the the correct I-80 lanes through Des Moines and Chicago, taking the correct exit to Indiana, but suddenly I was on tiny little one-lane paved roads trying to find the "Mulder's." Trying to even make sure I was in the right part of the state.

My GPS said, "Now arriving," so I turned into the driveway of the Mulders' neighbors. A lady named Christina opened the door. "Oh! She said, you're staying with the Mulders. Two houses up. I'll see you at the graduation party. Tell Barb we'll be there soon!"

When I knocked I was immediately greeted by Barb, her husband, and son, whose graduation party they were celebrating.

"We are expecting about 150 people. Most of them will want to get to know you. I've got all kinds of people you need to meet!"

Barb and I had been talking for the past few weeks about this trip, and she has been helpful in welcoming me to the area. Others new to the area stay with her, she said.

"Well can I help you set up?" I asked.

Barb had made all kinds of cheesecakes, and apparently it is a specialty. The community gets together on account of those cheesecakes regardless of graduation celebrations.

She had no problem introducing me to everyone who came. I sat at a random table, and suddenly people whose names I knew but hadn't put faces to came and introduced themselves to me. Once they would leave, others came, and this pattern repeated itself a few times. And I smiled a lot. And I said where I was originally from a lot.

"Am I gonna have to make you a photo directory?" Barb laughed when I said I'd never be able to remember all their names.

But the whole time I kept thinking, this is going to be my community. I'm going to be teaching that girl over there...and that boy...and those people will be my colleagues. Last night was just about skimming the surface on getting to know this community.

And the familiarity will come. Until then I'm going to be pulling over asking for directions.

A Moment: (and stuff I don't normally talk about)

There are two people sitting across the coffee shop from me. It is the same shop, but I can see them through two sets of windows. (I am totally creepering, but can I help myself?) I think they are either both deaf, or one is deaf, because they are talking in sign. They are sitting about five feet apart, expressing their words through their hands, mouthing just about everything.

She flips her straightened hair behind her shoulder, and he sips coffee, and their wry smiles never leave.

It’s nostalgic.



It wasn’t too long ago when I sat with one guy at a coffee shop. I was young (or felt quite young), a junior in college—which is really, really young—and I’ll never forget the feeling. It was some bohemian coffee shop on campus, and he had mentioned earlier in a poetry course we were both taking that there was to be a poetry reading that night in the Bean.

“You wanna go?” he asked.

“Mmmm.” I was always incredibly indecisive. “Yes.”

Later that evening he scouted me out in the library. I had my face buried in some British Lit book, a book from a course he was taking as well. (We had three classes together that semester.) He didn’t say anything right away, but stood there for a brief moment, I think, waiting to see if I would notice him. I pretended not to.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“Would you like to go?”

“Yeah.”

We sat in the Bean for what seemed like an eternity waiting for this poetry reading to begin, and in the meantime, I looked around at the people there. My poetry professor sat at a couch in the middle of the coffee shop as he was expecting some of his students to show. He did a double take as we sat down. Apparently it is difficult to realize connections when connections happen right in front of your eyes. But in a small Dutch town...

A few people who knew this guy and a few people who knew me looked at us from time to time, ready and waiting to be the first to claim they knew something had occurred between us. And although we both had a really good time, we let very little of that excitement show. I concealed my happiness with nervousness, because here’s what went down:

“I think you should read one of your poems.” He was placing his hand alternately on the couch and on his knee, and I was looking at that.

“I don’t think so. The poems I own are for classmate ears only.”

“But you’re not too shy to read them to us.”

“Right.” It wasn’t true. I had spent days—weeks—preparing for the poems I read in class, and I read them over and over until even my roommates had them memorized.

“So?”

“No.”

Just then we saw our semi-shy, semi-reserved professor step up to the small wooden stage and slide onto a tall stool.

“This is a poem I wrote not too long ago.” The whole room of literary, earthy, dread-lock sporting people who typified the Bean listened carefully. Our professor had a way of reading and articulating himself in a way very few could. He conformed to his poem, to the moment that led it, looking up when needed. He had once recited a poem he had learned in a grad-level class—the inspiration for all of us to memorize and recite a poem—and it was totally out of character for him. He spoke quickly, impeccably matching the whole tone of the bluesy poem. It wasn’t a speech. It wasn’t a performance. It was a moment.

And so there I sat, with this guy, realizing that I too, was in a moment.

Everyone clapped. A few more people performed, regulars to the Bean.
“Go,” the guy I was with whispered. Without thinking, I dug around in my backpack for a poem I had from class. My class binder was there, so I pulled one out, not really caring which one came.

I went up there during a long break between the go-getters who had already read and those who wanted to but didn’t—like me. And as awkward as the pause was, so was everything about the way my foot caught random chair legs and the ledge of the stage as I stepped up, and so was the way I caught a glimpse of him and then everyone else, me wondering at them who were probably wondering about me—a non-regular Bean goer.

“Um…My poem is called ‘Itinerary’.” I braced my arms against my torso so my paper wouldn’t shake, and just as our professor had done, I tried to create a moment, not a rehearsed speech. Really, there was nothing rehearsed about me up there on that stage reading a poem I hadn’t even proofread.

The poem was about my childhood, about the activity-by-activity moments that guided our Saturdays. Being the children we were, we never premeditated our activities. Our itineraries were guided largely by interest, but dugout mounds and little creeks and dirt piles. Moments.

Like this moment.

Like how this guy had come out of nowhere. Like how the Bean was suddenly my place, not some stereotyped coffee shop. Like the poem I held in my shaky hands. Like life should be.

A moment.

Or rather a series of moments, totally unplanned.



The coffee shop couple two windows away are getting up to leave now. She, with her gorgeous straightened hair, and he, with quite a charming smile, both rise in unison, his hand for a brief moment patting her shoulder.

A moment.

Good Deal

I'm just going to say it straight out: I'm poor. But this is a good thing as it has allowed me to think creatively about the money I spend. Soon (and hopefully very soon) Casey's will direct deposit my wages and I can begin to budget all over again.
In the latest book I am reading, "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Personal Finance in Your 20s and 30s" Fisher and Shelly explain that talking about your finances has become a taboo subject. And now I think I know why:

Step 1: Look for stuff at rummage sales

On Saturday I went with Kearsen and some of her in-laws to see what we could find for my new apartment and for baby clothes. I found a desk for $2. It was sturdy. It was the perfect size. But most importantly, it was $2.

Step 2: Modify the rummage sale stuff to make it yours

That same day I went to ACE Hardware. Now because there are a couple chips along the edges and because the desk is not real wood--covered by a glossy film of wood--my ultimate goal was to paint it white.

Step 3: Purchase the things needed to modify the rummage sale stuff to make it yours.

Josh told me he had a sander and I would just need to buy coverings for it. Oh, and I would need primer and paint. Oh, and brushes, too. He told me ACE Hardware was probably my best option. I walked up and down a few of the aisles, just looking. The paint lady was helping someone else, so I filed through about fifty types of white and settled on Cloud White, hoping it wouldn't clash with any other type of white wall it may sit against.
The paint lady finally saw me. "I just bought a desk at a rummage," I began, "and I want to paint it white...and I think I want cloud white. Anyway, it has a glossy film of wood covering over a type of ply wood, I think, and I need to sand it. What do you think would be best?"
She was thinking that this was definitely a newcomer to home improvement. And I was--am. (But I like to think I know a thing or two)
"Okay, first of all, you're going to need to sand it. Go find some coarse sandpaper. Aisle 7. Then I'll get you a quart of primer. Now this primer is oil-based so you're going to need to throw the brush you buy for it away unless you wash it out with gasoline. Then I'll get you your Cloud White paint. You're going to need a different brush for that. I'd say sand it down good, put on a coat of primer, then about two coats of your Cloud White paint. Don't forget to let it dry between each layer."
She proceeded to find my paint while I grabbed my sandpaper ($8). Then I searched for the cheapest brushes I could find (2 for $6). She finally gave me the primer and paint ($12).
"Don't forget," she reiterated, "you need to throw away that brush after you use the primer."
"Thank you." (To tell the truth I already knew half the stuff she "educated" me about. I only couldn't find my way around the store. So take that paint lady.)
Anyway, my total was about $30. So add that to the $2.

Step 4: Ask advice from home improvement professionals (ie. my sister who works at a flooring store and has put a lot of work into their house) about further improvements.

"Would you suggest anything else?" I was putting on my first layer of Cloud White paint.
"Maybe some desk handles."
"Are those expensive?"
"No, they're really cheap."
So today, as my second coat dried, I ran to ACE yet again (and asked a different guy) to find some desk handles. They all said $2.50 and up. I had to buy four. So I took the cheapest ones, after pondering for a long, long time.
When I went to check out the lady asked me if I would like an ACE rewards card.
"No, I don't shop here much."
She frowned. ($10)

Step 5: Put your masterpiece together.

This desk was definitely not $2. More like $42+labor.


I think I like the idea of renovating rummage sale material...beyond the fact that I get laughed at by ACE employees. It makes the artifact mine. But is it the cheap way? Well when you compare the percentage of what you spend to the money you still have left in your bank account, I just don't know.

I want more camels...

"Your sister may have all the looks, but personality-wise, you two are about equal."

Yes. This is my brutally honest grandmother speaking. I gave her the link to this blog, so I'm just hoping for the best. I don't think she knows how to navigate her Facebook yet, much less mine, so we'll see if she can navigate her way here. (bites fingernails)

She said this during a long car ride to New Mexico, and with so much thinking time, I of course thought about family things...about how I always thought Kearsen was so gorgeous, and freckles just didn't cut it when people saw the two of us together. Kearsen is shorter, she has beautiful thick dark hair (which she complains about often, but I don't see what's so bad), has a good style, and you wouldn't guess it, but she rarely goes shopping. Her dark skin. She would give me the stink-eye at my mentioning that she looked Venezuelan. I said so because of a South American foreign exchange students my aunt and uncle hosted when I was little. I thought they looked more like sisters than me and her. I have no idea how she does half the things she does. But it is apparent we all adore her to pieces in our family. She'd probably blush or defend herself if she read this, which she probably will, so I should bite my tongue a little harder...

Anyway, like I was saying, I was thinking particularly about the two of us--so different, yet sisters, best friends. Wherever one lacks in persona(or "swag" as my students in Rehoboth would say) the other picks it up. For some reason, I craved Grandma's input on this one. I wanted her to affirm what I always believed--Kearsen and I are two different puzzle pieces, shaped nothing alike, but fit together perfectly with an equal weight.

"Grandma, I once read this story about how two sisters traveled to Morocco with their family. A man offered to marry the older daughter in exchange for 10,000 camels. When the father said no, the man looked at the younger daughter..." The narrator is the younger daughter who obviously has the same complex as me... "and offered 100 camels for her." I turned to her.

"I'm pretty sure the younger daughter is me."

"Listen," Grandma said, "..." and you know the rest.

So, let it be?

Grandma's brutal honesty to be continued...

Casey's Aristotle

Tomorrow morning at 3:30 am, I make my first original batch of Casey's doughnuts. Bet you're jealous of my summer line of work. I'll wake up at 3:00, fumble around for my khaki pants and some kind of red collared shirt, tie my tennis shoes, put my hair up, grab my keys, and run through the darkness of the night to my car.

While America sleeps, I will be making them doughnuts. Hot and fresh, ones I'll never try because I made a bet with Kearsen I wouldn't eat one while I worked there. I'll fry them and cool them and ice them and sprinkle them and box them and date them and rack them.
Wish me luck....rather, pray for God's providence.

I'm following some of the greatest doughnut makers Casey's has ever seen.

Like the Plato and Aristotle of doughnut making.

Doughnuts

I now know how to make doughnuts.

The lady who taught me is named J. She doesn't wear a bra, but she does wear a hair net and a collared shirt in either red, white, or black.

"People depend on these doughnuts." She was wiping down the pizza counter. "Marcia comes in on Thursdays and gets six white cake doughnuts with cream cheese. Brad comes with his kids every day, and he gets glazed ones."

I was listening really close because her smoker's voice was quiet, and I think she was intentionally mumbling a little bit.

And when we moved on to frosting the doughunuts:

"Did you put glaze on those apple ones?"
"Yes."
"Those get caramel!"
"Well should I make other ones?"
"No, Bill is just going to have to be disappointed today."


To be continued...

Black fingernail polish. The Great Gatsby. My new bike. A table at an outdoor diner on Phillips St. That was in the mix today.
I was sitting comfortably and cozy, sipping on an iced caramel latte, reading, and every so often I'd look up to see people minding their own business. A young man in a suit coat with his colleagues, one older guy leaning over to say a few words to him. An intern, for sure. A napkin flew by them, and none of them bothered to pick it up. Ladies dressed in black, colorful scarves tied neatly around their necks. Three girls in dresses crossing the street, arms linked.
But mostly I had my face buried in The Great Gatsby. I was up to the part where Daisy says, "'And I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool,'" and I was thinking about it for a minute, searching for all its meaning in a blank gaze through the passing cars and the people around me, when a young woman came up to me.
"Excuse me." She was dressed nicely, had a little identification card pinned to her jacket. "I am a reporter for the Argus Leader, the newspaper here in town. Would you be willing to answer a few questions about outdoor dining here in downtown Sioux Falls?"
"Okay."
She looked at my salad (the cheapest thing on the menu) and said, "Healthy eater."
"You bet."
"What is your name?"
I proceeded to tell her my name and how to spell it.
"Well that is just unique!"
"Thank you."
Then in shorthand, she started writing down everything I said as she asked me questions. "What is your favorite thing about eating outside on Phillips Street? Do you come around often? How old are you? Do you meet up with friends here? Do you notice any differences here this year?"
For some reason I couldn't help but be distracted by her shorthand. Oh no, I thought, what if she actually writes that phrase down. I wanted to tell her to erase it, to wait for me to say what I wanted to say perfectly.
Soon she was finished and before she left she said, "This article will appear in the Life section on the Sunday Argus Leader. Have a nice day."

This was a fascinating moment for a couple reasons. #1 I was a little paranoid still about the shorthand. It's like the time I videoed myself teaching a lesson. My actions (and in this case my words) could not be erased. #2 They must target people who watch other people.

Okay, no epiphanies here, but certainly a day filled with the interesting world of simply noticing people, things, and places. We'll see how that article turns out.

Turn Turn Turn

I strongly encourage you to love this song, if you don't already. Because there is a time for everything. So, listen, relax, enjoy.
http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/forrestgump/turnturnturntoeverythingthereisaseason.htm


Turn.
My room is spotless clean, as clean as the furniture my brothers, sister and I dusted before Grandma would come over for Sunday dinner. Tidy like Grandma Ham's closet, which you better believe has thirteen hangers for eight shirts and five pairs of slacks. And that's just my room. For some reason, the soma of getting things done makes me feel like I should smile like Mr. Clean, chest out, arms folded, bald headed. That's right

Turn.
I'm going to be an aunt! I knew from the time we were kids that Kearsen would always be the mother, and I would be the cool aunt who travels and sends pictures from Europe and brings back exotic gifts. I've resorted to calling her baby "the little duffer" and the name will stick. I'll call that baby "duffer" until the time he/she graduates high school.
Duffer, I cried when your mother told me about you. I'll cry when I see you around December 25, and you bet I'll cry at your kindergarten graduation. How about a trip with me to Yellowstone sometime?

Turn.
A real job. Teaching English. Teaching English at a small Christian high school. That's right, I got the job. And God is faithful, just so you know. And as of now I am reading just about anything and everything about teaching English you can imagine. Penny Kittle anything. Kylene Beers anything. I'm taking suggestions.
And of course, I am researching some of the greatest English teachers in history and on TV. (Mr. Coolson, Mrs. Freedom Writers, Mr. Dead Poet's Society, Hogwarts teachers, etc...)

Turn.
Graduation. I didn't cry at all, but my sister did. I hugged my friends goodbye and even patted one of Dordt's red brick walls. "Atta Dordt." I'll miss my professors and aspire to be like them, poised and collected, hunched over and ponderous, quicker with brilliant thoughts than brilliant speeches (except you, of course, Dr. James Schaap), and joyful...joyful because of what Christ has done. And Education professors, I'm going to keep bugging you for resources. I'm not completely gone.
I'll miss my best friends from Dordt because you always wanted to play volleyball and you read books and you're easygoing and funny. That's why you're my friends. But you know the party has just begun.
If anyone wants to go backpacking in the summers, I'll be there in an instant.

Turn.
Moving. On my own. Uncle Milt gave me all his old furniture and kitchen stuff. SCORE! Plus, I have a few things of my own: a bookshelf, two dressers, a twin size bed, a purple chair, a few DVDs, a LOT of books, some mixing spoons and a can opener. All set. I'll update you on the apartment when we figure out the living situation.

Turn.
I'm attending a church on my own. A small one with some big personalities. Thank the Lord for his goodness.

Turn.
Finances are my new topic of inquiry. Here's the book I'm reading: The Complete Idiot's Guide to Personal Finance in Tour 20s & 30s (Fourth Edition) by Sarah Young Fischer and Susan Shelley.


I find it all so amazing that just a couple weeks ago, none of this was on my mind. Life can change in an instant, but God, as the rock we all know him to be, will always stay the same.

Drill Day

Today we had drill day.
This means leading 1000 student safely out of the building and walking them up the street to St. Mary's church. This is in case of a fire.
Favorite happenings of the day:
"Miss Boman," said Chris. "Do you mind if I walk with you?"
"No that's fine." I kept watching students. "Get off the grass guys. Off the grass. Josh, where are you supposed to be?"
"Off the grass, so I'm stepping from rock to rock."
"Miss Boman, do you think I would ever walk on the grass?" Chris was walking quickly with his arms swinging wide.
"No, Chris, you would never."
"Whoa, look at my water bottle! There's dots all over it. I'm pretending it is a cell phone. 'Hello, is this search and rescue? Hurry, hurry! Our school's on fire!'"
"That's nice, Chris."
"Miss Boman, did you know I love dragons?"
"Yes."
"I'm pretending that it's the dragons who are setting our school on fire."
From behind us, Nick says, "Chris, our school's not actually on fire. We've been doing these drills since first grade. And your shoes are untied."
"Dragons breathe fire, Nick. They breathe it!"
"Dragons aren't real, Chris," demanded Nick.
"Yeah, Chris. Dragons aren't real," repeated Josh.
"You know, Chris," I said a little later. "If dragons were real, I bet they would have breathed fire on our school just to give us an adventure."
"Yeah," he said. "They're pretty cool."

"I hate boys. I've hated them since second grade." ~Kendra (overheard)

"Don't walk on the grass, Nick."
"I'm not; I'm running on it!"

"Your pants are very brown. And look, your shoes are brown. Whoa, so's your tank top. And your hair is, too. Miss Boman, what's your favorite color?" ~Camille

"Here's a secret just for you. Michelle and Grant are b/f and g/f, aren't you just ROFLing?" ~Hayley

In British accents: "Miss Boman, would it be alright if the three of us stayed outside all day? We'd like to have a chit-chat with nature."

"There's a rock in my eye! Get it out! Get it out!" ~Hayley

I conclude that fire drills are fun. Students enjoy them, and teachers don't let students see it, but we enjoy them just as much.

We also practiced a lock down in which we all had to cram into the corner of a class and keep silent until told to do otherwise. Of course, one of the boys always has to fart in a moment like that. After lock down, we practiced a tornado drill. Students file out to the halls, and they kneel on the floor facing the walls with their hands covering their heads, almost in hindu prayer position. My Math team teacher leaned over to me and said, "We call this our plumbers convention."

So that's drill day.

Name Learning

As I went into student teaching in the 7th grade language arts position, I had a goal: learn all 103 student names. I familiarized myself the seating charts, but when Mrs. Bultena switched the seating arrangement their names were all jumbled up again. Two weeks ago I began a poetry unit and in this unit I required students to write some more personal poetry. When they finished each polished poem, they had to check them off with me. It was a lot of work on my part, but each time I saw Emma, I thought of how she lost her sister to a gun shot wound and how she aspires to be a forensic scientist, or when I saw Bailey, I thought of her I Am poem, explaining she's lived in a "posh" lifestyle for most of her life, or I thought of Andrew who memorized his poem (and also had a birthday today).
I suppose it was when I personally decided to look at the face of each student who came to check in these poems that it all connected. I think about a list of names, and they are just names on paper. But now I see that behind the list is a whole group of interesting, fascinating individual seventh grade students. They are each unique. Furthermore, I praise God for knowing them before they were born and for counting the hairs on their heads. How great is He for loving our students long before we learn their names!

Since when did goodbyes become incremental? First you say "Goodbye," truly meaning to let that person go. Then you delete the messages and the texts, the the contact from the contacts list, click "Remove contact" from Facebook, and you "unsubscribe" from Blogger.
Why is it so challenging to let goodbye be goodbye at goodbye?


One of the best songs. Loved it from the time I was seven, listening to Country Gold Saturday Night with Dad in the farmhouse.

How Can I Help You to Say Goodbye?
Patty Loveless

Through the back window of a '59 wagon
I watched my best friend Jamie slippin' further away
I kept on waving 'till I couldn't see her
And through my tears, I asked again why we couldn't stay
Mama whispered softly, Time will ease your pain
Life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same

And she said, How can I help you to say goodbye?
It's OK to hurt, and it's OK to cry
Come, let me hold you and I will try
How can I help you to say goodbye?

I sat on our bed, he packed his suitcase
I held a picture of our wedding day
His hands were trembling, we both were crying
He kissed me gently and then he quickly walked away
I called up Mama, she said, Time will ease your pain
Life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same

And she said, How can I help you to say goodbye?
It's OK to hurt, and it's OK to cry
Come, let me hold you and I will try
How can I help you to say goodbye?

Sitting with Mama alone in her bedroom
She opened her eyes, and then squeezed my hand
She said, I have to go now, my time here is over
And with her final word, she tried to help me understand
Mama whispered softly, Time will ease your pain
Life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same

And she said, How can I help you to say goodbye?
It's OK to hurt, and it's OK to cry
Come, let me hold you and I will try
How can I help you to say goodbye?

How can I help you to say goodbye?

We're headed where?

What's Eating Laurissa Luanne? Wouldn't be a bad name for a sequel to Peter Hessel's What's Eating Gilbert Grape. And here's why, I think: I have no idea where I am headed.
Of course, my goal is first to find a job, and that's a milestone by leaps and bounds. I haven't had a real job for....well....never. I have never had a "real" job, one that I have worked with from year to year and pulled in forty hours a week. But then I think about it further, and I realize, okay it is only a job. And then what? I find an apartment. I find a church. I meet more new people. Again. (Stressful. If you didn't know already, meeting new people is stressful for me). I find a good running route. I set up my bookshelf. I buy a used couch; I buy used everything. I eat cheap. I call home once a week. I visit some friends. I go to a bazillion weddings. I watch the news at night. I read a little. I lesson plan and lesson plan and lesson plan. I continue to write more blogs about the simple everyday life I live and observe. I do all these little things, and I do them because it doesn't take a whole lot to develop a routine and to be who you always were. But when do the big things happen?
Some days I think I'm years behind my developmental level--a developmental level measured in big things. Some days I'm 40, with a developmental level measured by little things. And I have to gauge myself because I have no idea how 22-year-olds ought to act. Or maybe I do, and the fact that I don't understand it all shows that I am truly 22.
I need to get going--do something big for a change. I could say this harshly, and I think I will. I am going crazy in my comfort.
I take a look at the life patterns of those before me, and I ask two major questions: 1) Does life happen to a person? 2) Does a person make life happen? If at my age I were to have lived in the 1930s and 40s like Great Grandma Fannie Ham, my life would have been planned out before me. It seems like everything happened clear out of the blue for her. I suppose if one rule was that by 22 you ought to have been married, those plans would fall in your lap, too. Great Grandma Fannie Ham was married by 22. Grandma was married by 21 (but she was more of a go-getter anyway), and Dad was married the day he turned 19 (!!!). And that's simply marriage. Then you've got the whole kids thing. What comes after that? Oh, professional development. And then? Sending your kids off to live the same life patterns as you. Because we can talk about our husbands and wives and children and grandchildren like every event is a surprise. And just imagine that people who live in these patters and enjoy it never quit caring.
Maybe that's where I have become callous. And I have to ask it seriously: Have I become callous to the goings-on of others?
All I know is that I am on a path that leads nowhere near Great Grandma Fannie Ham, Grandma, or Dad's way of life. I'm busting out something completely new, and maybe not knowing where I'm heading is half the fun. And then again if in years to come, I look back in regret, wishing I had done it their way, I suppose I will have to consider what becomes of the life I ended up living anyway. All these questions make me want to circle them in red and make arrows to a comment that says, "Too many questions. Express as inquiry." But the grammarian inside of me can't mess with the biggest question I have:
Who really knows where he or she is going?

If this is teaching...

I was debating whether or not to post this one. But here goes...
Some of my students live sad lives. It is not that they all go home to alcoholic and abusive parents, it's not even that they have no emotional support beams, and I doubt that their problems come from economically unstable homes.
In fact, they have everything. Every classroom has a Smartboard, their textbooks are updated, they are stocked full of resources. And students have been accustomed to technology and new things because the fact is they live in a place where they expect to be provided for. Most students can expect a meal when they go home. Many can afford to pay the cafeteria full price. Students have cell phones and i-pods.
In light of all their securities, something I noticed from day one, the students in these classes have an overall personality. They are sad.
I know this sadness because they have told me.
One says, "I need to see the counselor," and later, "I'm just depressed, okay!"
Another says, "I can't remain positive writing this 'I AM' poem. I am not happy."
One girl can hide behind her book all day. One young man can crack jokes and punch through doors almost within the same day. One girl's name is Happy, but we know that she isn't happy. One girl never smiles but studies her best. One boy can find the good in others, but never himself. Three girls find it necessary to be mean to one who sits in front of them.
You may say, "So what? They may just have an off day," or, "They're in seventh grade," or, "They'll come around."
But I see them every day. And every day I see the same student in his or her same state. And I don't know all that constitutes each student or whether they are loved or hated, but I see indifference and I see apathy and I see that they are unhappy.
Who are they?
What is my duty toward them?


Yep. Depressing.

I Am poems

Next week students are preparing for standardized tests, so to ease their minds I am planning a poetry unit. I realized that if I am going to make them write this poetry, I need to write it, too. (Obviously, Laurissa, obviously). Here is the first one. It turns out a little fragmented, but I like the concept. I think the point is for students to take ownership of what they write.

I Am Laurissa

I am a friend junkie, a person infatuated with smiling
I wonder why we have memories--connective, story-driven memories
I hear whistling winds pushing through the windows
I see Mom's crinkly wrinkly eyes, bright and sparkling stars in the night sky
I want to read two books at once
I am a friend junkie, a person infatuated with smiling

I pretend to like Grandma's sweet potatoes
I feel God's resuscitating pump of my heart when it fails
I touch the glossy cover of new books
I worry about my choices
I cry over injustice
I am a friend junkie, a person infatuated with smiling

I understand A Saving Grace
I say, "Mountain peaks are the best places in the world"
I dream I'm shrinking while everyone else is growing
I try to like politics and to keep an open mind simultaneously
I hope that traveling, teaching, and loving is for me
I am a friend junkie, a person infatuated with smiling


When I was in eighth grade, my English teacher had us write a poem much like this one. She gave them back at graduation. Special.

"They just keep going until they hit something"

"Oh you'll have fun with seventh grade students. They just keep going until they hit something," said Tim Pikaart, the resource teacher at Rehoboth High School. And from my first two days' observation in my new school, I have found it to be true.
I sit at a little makeshift desk in the back of the 7th grade English classroom at Patrick Henry Middle School. Students walk by me all the time, mostly to throw away little things that can't wait until after class or to sharpen their pencils. They keep their eyes down until they think I'm not looking and glance up through loose strands of hair, and then, almost expecting it, they kick a leg of my desk or fling their arm into the wall. I think I'd like to see P.E.
They wiggle and smile crooked smiles and and have adult size feet. And they can sit in rows and act all "high school" but then I ask their favorite color, and instead of looking at me like I'm uncool, they eagerly say "Blue!"
Thus far, I have been given a smoothie, a sucker, a mint, a note that says "WELCOME," and half a pie for Pi day.
So, I know I'll miss those juniors and seniors, but bring on the seventh graders.

Highschool+Culture=Twilight

Student: Miss Boman, have you ever been to a concert?
Me: Well....yes.
Student: Which ones?
Me: Um, there's this thing called Lifelight in South Dakota. It's actually pretty good.
Student: Well who was there?
Me: Don't say Chris Tomlin...not Barlow Girl, either. And you better not say Superchick. Probably shouldn't say Leeland. Um...Family Force 5?
Student: [Severely unimpressed and continues working for a while]

Student: Miss Boman, have you ever partied? [Other students begin to pay attention]
Me: Uh...
Student: You know, gotten it down, 2001 style?
Me: Student, I was thirteen in 2001.
Student: Oh
Mr. Weidenaar: [Bent over laughing]

Yeah, I have no idea. But I also get this all the time:

Student: Miss Boman, have you turned on your swag today?

Or this:

Student: Miss Boman is a balla'!!

Or this:

Student: Say it! Say it!
Me: No.
Student: Come on, say it. "Tree-fitty." Say it!
Me: No.

And these are my first experiences with high school students, people who understand every possible passing fad and every popular expression under the sun. And all the while I have to make them believe I have no idea about modern trends, otherwise we'll have an hour-long discussion on how the Jews for Jesus chapel sound guy looked exactly like Alan from The Hangover.

So do I not respond? Do I redirect these pop culture literate people toward something else? I think the best I've done was relate romanticism to Lady Gaga....Taylor Swift to Emily Dickinson...Forrest Gump to Huck Finn.

I'll leave you with one more:

Me: Put that phone away.
Student: It's not a phone.
Me: Put that i-pod away.
Student: It's not an i-pod.
Me: Put it away!
Student: Ahh! That's what she said.

I give my biggest thanks to The Office for making "that's what she said"s popluar. (Beth, if you're reading this, you understand, right?)

High school.

Sunny days, taking the...clouds away.

I think the presence of sun has a lot to do with perspective. Call it natural force or whatever, when the sun comes, so do the smiles. Let me put this in perspective for you. I am sitting at my after school job, monitoring Rehoboth's new weightroom, and about half the walls are windows. Right now the sun is at its brightest. It's at a height in the sky where it shines full force into every western facing window, and all I can think about is an everpresent reality: you're leaving in a week. I am leaving in a week.

Suddenly I feel like my time here at Rehoboth has been cut short, like I need another half a semester. Who knows, maybe it's the sun that's doing it to me, but I want to do more hiking, I want to continue to develop those relationships I have begun, I want to go to the flea market another time, and I want to drink coffee at Camille's. I want to see the Grand Canyon, I want to hike in the Hogsback hills, I want to climb Pyramid Rock, I want to be here when track season starts, I want to keep playing volleyball on Thursday nights, I want to keep teaching that awesome 6th hour class, I want to see Janelle's brilliant essay that will be published soon, I want to see the talent show, I want to see the boys' and girls' basketball teams go to state. I want to have just a few more weeks.

So why has my perspective changed so much from the first week? When I first got here, all I could think about was going back to Iowa and South Dakota, going back to live with Kearsen and Josh. I didn't know anyone.

Then the days just got cloudier and I got to experience life in a New Mexico blizzard. That should never happen. I got over my full-time section of student teaching, and now that I'm comfortable, I have to go.

And now that the sun is here, I have to leave it.

It's going to be a long Spring.

And you're going to have to bear with me...

Because the further and further I step out of Rehoboth, the greener and greener it looks to me.

I want. I want. I want.

Tomorrow students are supposed to come to school dressed in all maroon and gold...or red and gold and black. Actually, I'm not entirely sure what the colors are anyhow. Something of the sort. Apparently teachers around here dress up, too, so I'll have to see what I can find. That's right, if you haven't guessed yet. It's homecoming week. We had superhero day. Sarah dressed up as Darth Vader, and Jules dressed up as Marge Simpson (don't know if that counts). Then there was jersey day, and there was celebrity day. I was going to go as Katy Perry, but realized I own no Katy Perry clothes, I don't have dark, Betty Boop hair, and I can't walk in heels...or sing "I Kissed a Girl" with my conscience still in tact.
Today I had students working on a predictions worksheet, but a few of them were talking, so I said "shhhhh." And they did. Like good students. But one girl said, "BUT IT'S THURSDAY!" "Yes," I said, "and tomorrow is Friday." She'll be fine. Nobody panic.
And tomorrow is Friday. I will be ready for 30 minute class periods, because we have to include a pep rally and chapel, oh AND school, too. So we're reviewing some of their most creative hypothetical endings to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and laughing. Should be fun.
Today I observed the senior dance for Rehoboth's Got Talent. Colby is coreographing the dance, and they're dancing to Kickin'.
I was going to buy Valentine's candy for all my students...but then I saw chocolate covered cherries and bought those instead. I realized that I have over a hundred students, and that would be a lot of candy to pass out. So I might draw a big heart on the board that says something like , "You're sweet." Maybe.
Anyway, this is choppy writing, and I'm suddenly very tired. Good night, and if I don't talk to you before then, Happy Valentine's Day. (I will not be seeing the movie).

Oh, this might work. But then again...

The beginning of a full-time student teaching schedule has brought about a whole new dynamic to teaching. Suddenly, my greatest ideas are just good thoughts and my most prized lesson plans wouldn't cover the smallest of what goes into one class period of American Literature in one day.
Take a groupwork activity, for example. There are thirty students zoned into a time and a place called seventh hour on a Monday. This group activity should take no more than 25 mintues. Students will read a chapter out loud and answer the questions, no big deal. Nice idea. In college education courses I would write it down like this:
Groupwork. Students will read chapter out loud and answer questions. (took me 10 seconds to write)
But in a real classroom with real students and with real considerations, maybe I should have written this in college education classes:
Groupwork. Before students are assigned to groups, make sure they understand the assignment. Be prepared to explain it four different times in three different ways and to write directions on the board. Oh, and don't forget to explain that the group with four guys should keep reading together, and the group with two giggly girls can't possibly think Huck Finn is so hilarious, and the yardstick should NOT go down a student's shirt: "what are you doing anyway?" I ask. Be prepared to redirect ten different conversations and to be sociable without distracting the students. Be prepared for those students who haven't read the chapter and for those who haven't read but pretend like they have and for those who have read but won't talk and for those who have read and want to talk all the time. Be prepared for interruptions: "Miss Boman, can we...." "Miss Boman, I have to use the bathroom" "Miss Boman, what does this have to do with anything?" "Miss Boman, you going to the game tonight?" Be prepared for those who put the worksheet in their bag and say they'll do it that evening. Be prepared to have created a lesson, complete with all worksheets, projects, assignments, assessments, main questions, etc, that in no way matches the amount of time students use these artifacts.
So if that's one 25 minute lesson, what the heck am I teaching for?
Oh yeah. Did I mention my students are amazing and I can see potential rising up out of each one of them every time I see their faces in the halls or grade one of their essays or quickwrites or worksheets?
And it's a give and take situation, because in the midst of that one 25 minute lesson, I'm thinking a hundred different things a new teacher should think.
And don't forget about introductions, connective and integrative concepts, and conclusions. And don't forget about the fact that in two weeks, they might not remember this groupwork lesson.
So as I think again at those merciful college professors, who said my ideas were great and were sure to challenge students, I realize now that an engaging lesson does not come with a one-sentence "Have students do this..." plan. It requires so much more.
So much so that I probably shouldn't be writing this right now at 10 pm when I have a whole day to plan for tomorrow.
Ephesians 4: "I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love."
So is this life worthy?
I hope so.

Unlearning

"What makes you different from anyone else is that you are prepared," Gail said. "No one can do what you can do at that moment." Gail, my Rehoboth supervisor, said this because I was having major doubts. Because the moment I see thirty pairs of eyes looking me over, making sure I'm legit, I question my ability. The first day of school I was entirely too nervous--nervous smiles, nervous waves, nervous words, nervous hands. Nervous.
So now, two weeks into student teaching, I have been thinking about truly preparing myself. And here's where I say that I have to unlearn all my college ways. Procrastination is no longer an option.
Not in life.
So I am now going to quit procrastinating tomorrow's lesson plans and get going.

Hiking, anyone?

I have discovered that when life begins to drone on, all a person really has to do is find a way to step out of routine. I remember Dad's lengthy trucking trips, ones where he would be gone two weeks at a time and how my family could spend time normally without him. But when he came home, there were those moments, when the bills were still unpaid, when the garden was still not weeded, when the house needed desperate attention, that Dad would say, "Alright, tomorrow morning we go fishing." And with my brothers, my dad, and me, all scattered down the shore of Canyon Ferry, we cast our lines and sat around in lawn chairs, embracing the grace in getting away.

Somehow, in the midst of studying with my nose in a book for the past three and a half years, my life has drastically changed its course. I am much more used to spending time studying than exploring the outdoors. But because of this new direction, I have grown to love two things: living life and reading about living life. I suppose that if I could read and hike and enjoy God's gorgeous New Mexico sunsets, I would.

This weekend, even though I had only spent one whole week in school, a getaway sounded like the perfect chance to see another side of Rehoboth. A person would never believe the kind of natural monuments that bulge and poke out of the New Mexico brush. The sandstone is jagged and fierce in some places and in others flows and glides with the land.

The Crevice was our first hike. Majestic towers of burnt red sandstone surrounded us on three sides. Jalynn and Ben guided us. The group climbed over big boulders and through shrubs and through snow at some parts. At the very end of the hike is a part where two walls of rock begin to form a canyon. We descended down into the canyon, following flash flood trails toward The Crevice. "Okay, you guys," said Jalynn, a native to this area and an expert rock climber, "You just rest your back on this wall and push your feet on that wall and shimmy your way over." And we did. We shimmied and scooted and looked down nervously at the long drop in some parts. This counts, I thought. This place is unlike any I have ever known. And I'm sure Dad would approve.

Church Rock we hiked last night, and we spent the better part of the trip bushwacking through the brush to find our way. It's amazing how these seemingly small towers off on the horizon are really large and daunting. But we made it, all of us. And the hike was beautiful. And it makes me more excited to keep exploring and to keep stepping out of routine.

Anyway, I met all kinds of people here who make Rehoboth the place it is. Mike and Gail De Young. Aleke. Jenna, Erin, Hannah, Megan, Jalynn. Rachael and Sean. All the teachers. Carol. These people are who make enjoying the hikes and the school and the town worthwhile.

I suppose that my Dad and brothers were the ones who made those Saturday fishing trips worthwhile.

So, I guess this week step out of routine with people who make life important. Thank the Lord for them!

A Three-Day Roadtrip with Grandma

"I'm driving with you to New Mexico," said Grandma.
"I can drive by myself," I reassured her. "I drove back to Sioux Falls once with out-of-date perscription glasses."
"You're not going by yourself."
And that was it. Apparently I wasn't going by myself. She had already planned her course of action before I had the opportunity to turn her down. We were going to take Grandpa Fred to Salt Lake so he could visit his daughter (my step-aunt), and we were going to stay there a night. Monday night we would be to Moab, Utah. The next day we'd be in Rehoboth. Grandma would stay with me that night and catch a Greyhound to Phoenix to visit friends the next morning.
This morning before I sent her off, I said, "If he comes from the back, headbutt him. That'll break his nose. Then stomp on his foot with your heal. That should do it." Self defense for a 67-year-old woman is very important. She simply nodded her head and patted my shoulder.
"There'll be no problem. You know I sleep with one eye open."
"I know."
And with that she hugged me and kissed my cheek, leaving bright red lipstick smudged across my freckles. "I love you," she said.
"I love you too, Grandma."
Watching Grandma board the bus, I breathed a sigh of relief. Kearsen and I had breathed the same sigh of relief when Grandma left after a two-week stay in Sious Falls. She was always up at seven, dressed, primmed, awake, and ready to go. When Grandma left, Kearsen and I collapsed on her couch, exhausted. But there she went, the woman who took her twelve-year-old granddaughter white water rafting in Yellowstone the summer after Grandpa died. The same woman who put up all her Christmas lights this Christmas because, by gum, she could still do it. The woman who fed thirty people throughout this Christmas vacation. She is the most independant woman I know. So the past three days, Grandma toted me along through the mountains and canyon lands of Montana, Utah, and New Mexico (and a little bit of Arizona) reminding me of life's responsibilities a little at a time.
Here's what I learned:

1. Grandma loves Johnny Cash. Of the CDs I own, I own about two Christian praise and worship CDs, and about four CDs with absolutely no swearing. I played and replayed those ones, something like WOW Worship and the Roby Family hymns, but there she sat, somewhat contented. The last CD in my case was this $5 Johnny Cash top hits from Wal Mart. Couldn't hurt, I thought. I popped it in and at the first note of Mr. Cash's baratone voice, Grandma said, "Hoh! Now this is what I like!" She knew every word. She knew every note. She tapped her fingers and bounced her head from side to side.

2. Grandma will listen to rap if it means spending time with her grandchildren. "Why is this guy wanting to skip stones?" "Just feel the beat, Grandma." "He's not gonna let what go? He was talking too fast." "Nothing, Grandma. The words don't matter." "Hmph."

3. Utah is a Mormon state. Grandma detests what they believe. "Look at those dirty old cold temples. That statue! Look at that statue. Dumb idols, they worship."

4. I've known this before, but my great great grandpa was a Mormon polygamist. He had four wives and two of them were sisters. They each had eight or more kids. He separated with one of his wives but still sent money to her and the kids. Ugh, 32 kids (at least!). Anyway, I'm reading this book The New York Regional Mormon Singles Dance: A memoior by Elna Baker. Our ideas on life are completely different, but she's wickedly funny, and I'm probably related to her. As Grandma and I were driving I thought about Mormanism a lot and what justifies their belief system. In Moab I looked in the hotel drawyer and saw the Book of Mormon. I opened it and began reading and thought, Who are these people? and other thoughts like, Who is this God they believe in? and Do they really believe they can be Gods someday? But I thought of all this because my Grandpa Boman (Grandma's first husband) grew up in the Mormon tradition, and he said he felt deceived; his young adult life was filled with regurgitation. Not all that different from some of Christianity. We regurgitate answers and we act the part of a stewardly Christian without truly living the part, but the underlying understanding of God is worlds apart. Is it about us, or is it about God? Anyway, this is something I'm thinking through, and I want to know all I can.

5. I like to be quiet until I like to talk. Grandma likes to talk until she likes to be quiet. Interesting mix.

6. The canyon lands of Utah look like those mirage books you get from Scholastic book orders. You can't really tell how deep they go or where they stop, and defining their shape is useless.

7. Novel ideas in naming historic landmarks are probably not so novel. Observe exhibit A:
Observed: Big, beached whale-looking boulder
Me: "Look Grandma, that boulder looks like a big beached whale!"
Grandma: "Wow, it really does!"
Sign: Whale Rock
Me: [Frown]
Grandma: [Laughs]

8. Grandma likes to feed people, namely her granddaughter.

9. Grandma and I are both stubborn. No examples necessary.

10. New Mexico can have snow, too. Good thing I didn't only pack shorts and T-shirts. We were ready to get out of the car and stretch our arms in the nice, warm air, but all we did was shivver. Right now I'm cold, but if you live in Montana or South Dakota you're probably colder :)

Grandma's crazy, but so am I. I have a lot to learn, but so does she. Grandma's stubborn and frustrates me and my pride sometimes, but I do the same. But we had a safe trip and a good time all around. I love her very much.

I'm ready to be by myself, doing my own thing.

I guess I haven't looked in a mirror yet today. I should go rub that lipstick off for good.

Red lipstick kisses to you all,
Laurissa