Today, I went to jail. This wasn’t the first time. I had heard the heavy steel doors clank behind me before. The difference was that this time, I was not a tourist at Alcatraz, but a concerned Saline County citizen.
A couple of days ago, a survey about a possible jail expansion dropped in the mail to 4,000 households in Saline County. If you are one of the lucky 4,000 registered voters who received the survey, please fill it out and return it in the postage paid envelope. Your opinions on this matter are important. The random survey is a collaboration of the Saline County Sheriff’s Office and a group of faculty and students at Kansas Wesleyan. The completed surveys will be returned to KWU, where an eager group of students in the Behavioral Science and Human Services Department, under the mentorship of the department faculty, will compile the information and organize it into a report for the Saline County Sheriff’s Office, the law enforcement agency responsible for the jail.
What does all that have to do with me going to jail? I was the person who organized the printing and the mailing of the surveys. This morning, while returning the extra letterhead and envelopes to the Sheriff’s Office, I had the honor of meeting with Sheriff Glen Kochanowski and Corrections Captain Roger Soldan, who generously shared a bit of their time to give me a tour of the Saline County Jail.
Sheriff Kochanowski told me it has been his practice in the fifteen years he has been sheriff, to offer to Saline County citizens the ability to tour the jail. (This was an offer he reiterated when he announced the jail survey at a news conference this past Wednesday.) Sadly, he noted that I was part of but a handful of citizens during the 15 years he has been Sheriff who had taken him up on the offer.
Although we did not mix with the inmates, we did see all parts of the jail. It is overcrowded. With the most recent expansion (1995), the 192-bed jail was supposed to meet the county’s needs until 2025. Sheriff Kochanowski said that by the end of this weekend, the inmate population will be over 230. To further illustrate the situation, the County Attorney’s Office just this week was given permission from the County Commissioners (YEA Commissioners!) to hire another attorney to help with the ever-growing caseload, including 11 cases pending against murder suspects.
Back to the jail…Both the men’s and the women’s units made up for the lack of beds by the use of portable beds, called boats. (They do resemble a sort of flat-bottomed canoe.) Inmates sleep on the floor in these “boats.”
While some will argue that we don’t need to spend more money on additional beds/space for the jail because, after all, these people are inmates, those who make such statements are missing the bigger picture. It isn’t just about providing a bed and not a boat for everyone housed in the jail, it is about creating a safer environment for the inmates and for the law enforcement officials working in the jail. Overcrowding issues can create dangerous situations for those inside the jail, whether inmates or law enforcement personnel. Each day, those law enforcement folk put themselves on the line for our safety. The least we can do is support a jail expansion that will alleviate the overcrowding and possibly some dangerous situations. We also can encourage the County Commission to figure out a way to hire more law enforcement personnel.
So, if you are a Saline County resident, please call the Sheriff’s Office at 785-826-6500 and ask to schedule a tour of the jail. See for yourself.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Flush of Automation
The restrooms on our floor finally reopened after nearly a month of remodeling. They are beautiful. (And no, I did not go into the men’s room. The door was open during the remodeling process, so I got a peek at it as I walked by.)
They also are automated. The toilets flush on their own once they detect the user standing up. Stick your hand under the soap dispenser and out squirts some cleansing suds. Likewise, the water faucet turns on as you move your hands under it.
It occurred to me when I was in the newly remodeled restroom for the first time that while all of those conveniences are very cool in their attempt to lessen the spreading of germs, they also are indicative of a much larger potential problem in our society: not doing for ourselves. I wondered how many people who use our restrooms on a regular basis (the Student Activities Center also has self-flushers and automated faucets) forget to flush when using toilets in other places or get frustrated when the water won’t come on as they frantically wave their hands under the faucet at grandma’s house.
How many of us have absent-mindedly tried to use our vehicles’ electronic keys to open other doors? I know I felt pretty foolish when I clicked on the electronic key for my old Prius (my work keys were attached) in an attempt to unlock my office door. Now I don’t have to worry. With my current Prius, I don’t even have to get my key out. As long as it is within a couple of feet of the car, all I have to do is pull on the door handle and the driver’s side door will unlock and open. But there again, further automation and less thinking and effort on my part.
We launched our new website at work this past week, and while we are still tweaking it, the essentials are there, including a link to check campus email and a link to get to the passworded portion of the site. Yet a number of people could not find those links, despite the links’ prominence on the front page. They were used to seeing the links in a certain place on the old site, and when they weren’t there, rather than look around, people complained that they couldn’t find them.
Are we moving toward being a society so used to having simple tasks done for us that we are unable to think creatively of a solution, should those automations change or go awry? I certainly hope not, for if that is true, the prospects for our future are sad indeed.
They also are automated. The toilets flush on their own once they detect the user standing up. Stick your hand under the soap dispenser and out squirts some cleansing suds. Likewise, the water faucet turns on as you move your hands under it.
It occurred to me when I was in the newly remodeled restroom for the first time that while all of those conveniences are very cool in their attempt to lessen the spreading of germs, they also are indicative of a much larger potential problem in our society: not doing for ourselves. I wondered how many people who use our restrooms on a regular basis (the Student Activities Center also has self-flushers and automated faucets) forget to flush when using toilets in other places or get frustrated when the water won’t come on as they frantically wave their hands under the faucet at grandma’s house.
How many of us have absent-mindedly tried to use our vehicles’ electronic keys to open other doors? I know I felt pretty foolish when I clicked on the electronic key for my old Prius (my work keys were attached) in an attempt to unlock my office door. Now I don’t have to worry. With my current Prius, I don’t even have to get my key out. As long as it is within a couple of feet of the car, all I have to do is pull on the door handle and the driver’s side door will unlock and open. But there again, further automation and less thinking and effort on my part.
We launched our new website at work this past week, and while we are still tweaking it, the essentials are there, including a link to check campus email and a link to get to the passworded portion of the site. Yet a number of people could not find those links, despite the links’ prominence on the front page. They were used to seeing the links in a certain place on the old site, and when they weren’t there, rather than look around, people complained that they couldn’t find them.
Are we moving toward being a society so used to having simple tasks done for us that we are unable to think creatively of a solution, should those automations change or go awry? I certainly hope not, for if that is true, the prospects for our future are sad indeed.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Her name was Mary
A week or so ago, I posted a note on my Facebook about a heartwarming moment my Dad witnessed at the grocery store.
Dad was in line to check out. A couple of ladies were ahead of him. The lady checking out was average and non-descript. The lady in between Dad and the one being checked out was a little old lady of obvious limited means. She was neat and clean and looked to be doing the best with what she had, which didn't seem to be much. She had a few things, but not much, to purchase. When the first lady was done checking out, she walked around the check stand and spoke quietly to the clerk, then handed her a $20 bill. What she had done, Dad said, was instruct the clerk to pay for the second lady's items and then give the second lady the change from the $20. With that, the first lady was on her way.
I noted when I posted the above story that “Angels are all around us. We, too, can be an angel to someone else, if only we stop to pay a bit of attention to those around us!”
Ironically, I had that day been thinking of an encounter of my own, in the grocery section of another store. It was a year or two ago and I was hurrying to get my shopping done and get home. As I rounded the end of the aisle and headed for the eggs, I noticed that most shoppers were very dramatically avoiding the egg section. I thought, perhaps, that someone had accidently dropped some eggs, but when I looked, all I saw was a person looking at the vast array of egg cartons.
As I got closer, I figured out – though I didn’t understand – why people were avoiding the egg aisle. There in front of me was a woman about my height who was horribly disfigured because of some genetic misfire. Her facial features were somewhat askew. Her hands seemed to be claw-like. She was trying to check a carton of eggs for breakage and obviously was having trouble holding the carton and opening it at the same time.
With a tinge of what seemed to be preparedness for rejection, her eyes met mine and she asked if I could help her check the eggs. I gently took the carton from her and opened it so she could see the eggs. Once the eggs had passed her inspection, I closed the carton and set it in her cart.
As I turned back around from the cart, she reached for my hand and said “Thank you for helping me. My name is Mary.” I replied that I was glad to help and that my name was Leslie. Mary held on to my hand and said “Thank you, Leslie, for helping me. I don’t handle these cartons so good.” We chatted a moment and then said our goodbyes.
While we were together, a number of people walked by, some very obviously were aghast that someone such as Mary would dare to be within their eyesight. I wanted to slap them. In that moment, I didn’t feel sorry for Mary, but I did feel badly for how a large chunk of society had treated her. Her physical handicaps were difficult enough to deal with. She didn’t need to deal with all of the emotion crap humans heap on each other as well.
What little help I was able to offer Mary was miniscule compared to the impact our brief encounter had on me. We humans, no matter our differences, can come together if we just give it a chance.
I have hoped to see Mary again at the store, but never have. Occasionally, I will think about her and the wonderful, yet brief way she touched my life. Angels are all around us. Mary was one of mine.
Dad was in line to check out. A couple of ladies were ahead of him. The lady checking out was average and non-descript. The lady in between Dad and the one being checked out was a little old lady of obvious limited means. She was neat and clean and looked to be doing the best with what she had, which didn't seem to be much. She had a few things, but not much, to purchase. When the first lady was done checking out, she walked around the check stand and spoke quietly to the clerk, then handed her a $20 bill. What she had done, Dad said, was instruct the clerk to pay for the second lady's items and then give the second lady the change from the $20. With that, the first lady was on her way.
I noted when I posted the above story that “Angels are all around us. We, too, can be an angel to someone else, if only we stop to pay a bit of attention to those around us!”
Ironically, I had that day been thinking of an encounter of my own, in the grocery section of another store. It was a year or two ago and I was hurrying to get my shopping done and get home. As I rounded the end of the aisle and headed for the eggs, I noticed that most shoppers were very dramatically avoiding the egg section. I thought, perhaps, that someone had accidently dropped some eggs, but when I looked, all I saw was a person looking at the vast array of egg cartons.
As I got closer, I figured out – though I didn’t understand – why people were avoiding the egg aisle. There in front of me was a woman about my height who was horribly disfigured because of some genetic misfire. Her facial features were somewhat askew. Her hands seemed to be claw-like. She was trying to check a carton of eggs for breakage and obviously was having trouble holding the carton and opening it at the same time.
With a tinge of what seemed to be preparedness for rejection, her eyes met mine and she asked if I could help her check the eggs. I gently took the carton from her and opened it so she could see the eggs. Once the eggs had passed her inspection, I closed the carton and set it in her cart.
As I turned back around from the cart, she reached for my hand and said “Thank you for helping me. My name is Mary.” I replied that I was glad to help and that my name was Leslie. Mary held on to my hand and said “Thank you, Leslie, for helping me. I don’t handle these cartons so good.” We chatted a moment and then said our goodbyes.
While we were together, a number of people walked by, some very obviously were aghast that someone such as Mary would dare to be within their eyesight. I wanted to slap them. In that moment, I didn’t feel sorry for Mary, but I did feel badly for how a large chunk of society had treated her. Her physical handicaps were difficult enough to deal with. She didn’t need to deal with all of the emotion crap humans heap on each other as well.
What little help I was able to offer Mary was miniscule compared to the impact our brief encounter had on me. We humans, no matter our differences, can come together if we just give it a chance.
I have hoped to see Mary again at the store, but never have. Occasionally, I will think about her and the wonderful, yet brief way she touched my life. Angels are all around us. Mary was one of mine.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Lovin' the 40s
I love my 40s! Really! Of all the decades of my life, the 40s have been my favorite. But as I near the beginning of my 50th year, I’ve come to realize that my 40s are, with apologies to Dickens, the best of times and the worst of times. (And thank you, Jim, for pointing out that when we turn 49, we begin our 50th year!)
Truly, I wouldn’t trade my 40s for the world. Why? Experience and Wisdom.
Now I am neither experienced nor wise, but I have, over the years, gained a bit of each. What that’s given me is a much different perspective of the world than I had in my 20s. Don’t get me wrong…..I had some great times in my 20s, but those times now seem hollow when viewed through the lenses of experience and wisdom.
What I have gained over the years is the wisdom to pick my battles and to know that not everything is a tragedy of epic proportions. Sometimes it is better on the soul to let things (and people) go. While doing so may hurt in the short term, the hurt eventually lessens and life improves.
Probably the most important concept I have come to embrace is being comfortable with me. In my 20s, I was too busy trying to be who everyone else thought I should be. I didn’t have time to get to know me. After struggling for decades with the whole worrying about what others thought and living my life the way others thought I should, I finally came to realize in my mid-40s that the only person to whom I need to prove anything is ME! If you like me, fine. If you don’t, that’s your problem and I am no less a person because you don’t, so get over yourself! It was such a freeing realization…freeing because I no longer let others control my life.
The freedom brought with it some anger as well. I found that I was angry at others for trying to impose their beliefs and their lifestyles on me. For goodness sake, people, just because I am almost 50 and not married does not mean that I am a lesbian! I’m just much too picky about with whom I want to spend the rest of my life and I have seen too many friends struggle with horrible relationships. Not for me! There are no hidden agendas and I am not fooling myself by staying deep in the closet. (If you’d see my closet, you’d have a much better understanding of why I could not be in it! I’m a Fibber McGee in training.)
The downside of being in my 40s is death and aging. It seems like anymore, someone I know has completed or is about to complete the last season of his/her life. Not a week goes by now that I don’t see a familiar name in the newspaper obituaries. My own parents have aged dramatically in the past few years, very sudden and dramatic reminders that they are much too much closer to passing.
My own body and mind remind me that 50 is just around the corner. Sure you knew that bit of information, they taunt, but it’s gone now! They mock me when I attempt to garden as I did when I was younger, pointing out that I do, indeed, need to stretch before moving pavers and landscaping rocks.
Even with the downside, though, I wouldn’t trade my 40s for any other age I have lived through. Too bad they are almost over. I’ve taken comfort, however, in something a friend said recently: 50 is the new 40. I certainly hope so!
Truly, I wouldn’t trade my 40s for the world. Why? Experience and Wisdom.
Now I am neither experienced nor wise, but I have, over the years, gained a bit of each. What that’s given me is a much different perspective of the world than I had in my 20s. Don’t get me wrong…..I had some great times in my 20s, but those times now seem hollow when viewed through the lenses of experience and wisdom.
What I have gained over the years is the wisdom to pick my battles and to know that not everything is a tragedy of epic proportions. Sometimes it is better on the soul to let things (and people) go. While doing so may hurt in the short term, the hurt eventually lessens and life improves.
Probably the most important concept I have come to embrace is being comfortable with me. In my 20s, I was too busy trying to be who everyone else thought I should be. I didn’t have time to get to know me. After struggling for decades with the whole worrying about what others thought and living my life the way others thought I should, I finally came to realize in my mid-40s that the only person to whom I need to prove anything is ME! If you like me, fine. If you don’t, that’s your problem and I am no less a person because you don’t, so get over yourself! It was such a freeing realization…freeing because I no longer let others control my life.
The freedom brought with it some anger as well. I found that I was angry at others for trying to impose their beliefs and their lifestyles on me. For goodness sake, people, just because I am almost 50 and not married does not mean that I am a lesbian! I’m just much too picky about with whom I want to spend the rest of my life and I have seen too many friends struggle with horrible relationships. Not for me! There are no hidden agendas and I am not fooling myself by staying deep in the closet. (If you’d see my closet, you’d have a much better understanding of why I could not be in it! I’m a Fibber McGee in training.)
The downside of being in my 40s is death and aging. It seems like anymore, someone I know has completed or is about to complete the last season of his/her life. Not a week goes by now that I don’t see a familiar name in the newspaper obituaries. My own parents have aged dramatically in the past few years, very sudden and dramatic reminders that they are much too much closer to passing.
My own body and mind remind me that 50 is just around the corner. Sure you knew that bit of information, they taunt, but it’s gone now! They mock me when I attempt to garden as I did when I was younger, pointing out that I do, indeed, need to stretch before moving pavers and landscaping rocks.
Even with the downside, though, I wouldn’t trade my 40s for any other age I have lived through. Too bad they are almost over. I’ve taken comfort, however, in something a friend said recently: 50 is the new 40. I certainly hope so!
Monday, May 17, 2010
Why I write the way I do
I haven’t blogged recently because I haven’t felt passionately about much of anything lately. I need passion to write well. Not the hot, sweaty, romance novel sort of passion, but the feeling-so-strongly-about-something-that-I-am-compelled-to-write-about-it passion.
Sure, I can put words together and make sentences without feeling passion. We call those news releases and any hack can write them. This blog, however, is my own personal statement about the world… about me…and it needs to be written well, and with my own style and flair.
I’ve been thinking a great deal lately about my writing and how I came to make a living stringing words together. Writing has always been easy for me. As a kid, I was one of those unconventional students who craved essay questions on exams; after all, they were much easier than second guessing myself on multiple choice questions. In junior high – back when it was still socially acceptable to call it “junior high” – I signed up for the publications class. In high school, I took as many English classes that pertained to writing as I could. I also took journalism classes and eventually became co-editor of the student newspaper. In college, I worked in various capacities on the student publications staffs and earned a bachelor’s degree with a journalism emphasis.
Over the years, I have found some of the old papers and stories that I wrote in my youth. I cringe when I read them. Youthful lack of experience aside, they are horrid. I used lots of words, but collectively, the stories and papers lacked the oomph, the pizzazz, the passion that good writing requires.
God has blessed me with a number of factors that have gone into my ability to write. Most notably was one of my journalism instructors: Jeanne Lambert. Jeanne was a wise and weathered writing veteran. She had honed her writing and editing skills in both journalism and its cousin on the dark side, public relations. If there was a better way to write a sentence or turn a phrase, Jeanne would know it.
“This is flat,” she would say of a piece I had written for Feature Writing Class. “If you don’t find the passion in the story and convey it to the reader, you won’t compel anyone to read what you’ve written.”
At first, I struggled with the whole write-with-passion issue. With time – and a lot of practice – it became a part of who I am, so much so that I now cannot write well without it.
Jeanne Lambert died earlier this month at the age of 82. She may be gone, but the lessons she taught will live on. Thank you, Jeanne, for teaching me to write with passion!
--30--
Sure, I can put words together and make sentences without feeling passion. We call those news releases and any hack can write them. This blog, however, is my own personal statement about the world… about me…and it needs to be written well, and with my own style and flair.
I’ve been thinking a great deal lately about my writing and how I came to make a living stringing words together. Writing has always been easy for me. As a kid, I was one of those unconventional students who craved essay questions on exams; after all, they were much easier than second guessing myself on multiple choice questions. In junior high – back when it was still socially acceptable to call it “junior high” – I signed up for the publications class. In high school, I took as many English classes that pertained to writing as I could. I also took journalism classes and eventually became co-editor of the student newspaper. In college, I worked in various capacities on the student publications staffs and earned a bachelor’s degree with a journalism emphasis.
Over the years, I have found some of the old papers and stories that I wrote in my youth. I cringe when I read them. Youthful lack of experience aside, they are horrid. I used lots of words, but collectively, the stories and papers lacked the oomph, the pizzazz, the passion that good writing requires.
God has blessed me with a number of factors that have gone into my ability to write. Most notably was one of my journalism instructors: Jeanne Lambert. Jeanne was a wise and weathered writing veteran. She had honed her writing and editing skills in both journalism and its cousin on the dark side, public relations. If there was a better way to write a sentence or turn a phrase, Jeanne would know it.
“This is flat,” she would say of a piece I had written for Feature Writing Class. “If you don’t find the passion in the story and convey it to the reader, you won’t compel anyone to read what you’ve written.”
At first, I struggled with the whole write-with-passion issue. With time – and a lot of practice – it became a part of who I am, so much so that I now cannot write well without it.
Jeanne Lambert died earlier this month at the age of 82. She may be gone, but the lessons she taught will live on. Thank you, Jeanne, for teaching me to write with passion!
--30--
Monday, April 5, 2010
Porches and Angels
I am a firm believer in the benefits of social media. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t live on Facebook, but I am logged in frequently to see what is going on with my friends and family. (And yes, to play FarmVille! I refuse to apologize for that addiction.)
The nuggets of information gleaned from my friends and relatives’ postings, notes, photos, etc., in most cases help to create a stronger, richer connection between us. Don’t get me wrong…those sorts of things in no way replace the warmth of a friend’s hug nor the laughter in the voice of a loved one relating a personal near-clothing malfunction incident. What the social media interactions do provide, however, are more frequent interactions in each others’ lives. Let’s face it: our society has gotten so busy that there is little time for the sorts of interactions that were prevalent in our youth or before.
I miss the days of sitting on the front porch or in the yard, waving to passers by, sharing with neighbors a few minutes of conversation over the fence. In a sense, Facebook has become my front porch. From it, I can congratulate Pastor Jim on a great sermon, thank Polly for the tasty recipe she shared, trade weather stories with Connie, talk football with Cheryl, and swap some good-natured ribbing with Danny. Not one of these friends lives in my neighborhood. In fact, some of them live on different continents.
While I don’t often get to see in person many of my Facebook friends, I do interact with them on a regular basis via my cyber front porch. A group of my high school classmates regularly interact with each other on a variety of topics. We’re there for each other. We support, advise, and yes, sometime chide each other, depending on the situation. My friends from college and I reminisce about our adventures and exchange stories about what our lives are like now.
Sharing of “historic” photos from our youth has become a fun part of our interactions. Quite often, the photos are group shots that include people I haven’t thought of in years. I eagerly look at faces to determine whether I remember those youngsters.
Sometimes, I’ll see an old friend with whom I have lost touch and will attempt to re-establish contact. Such was the case this past weekend when a friend from college was tagged in a group photo. The photo showed up in my news feed, so I decided to see who I remembered from her house. In the shot, I saw an old friend.
Janet and I had drifted apart over the last 15 years, but ours was always the sort of friendship that picked up right where it left off. So with that in mind, I decided to see whether she had a Facebook. She didn’t. What I found instead was her obituary. She had died in December of 2007.
My counseling training tells me right where I am in stages of grief, but it does nothing to lessen the shock and the pain I feel. Janet’s passing is a tragic reminder that we don’t know what the future holds for us. God has a plan for each of us. While I don’t know what He has in store for me, I’d like to think that He wanted me to know that even when I am going through some extremely stressful times in my life, there is one more angel watching over me.
The nuggets of information gleaned from my friends and relatives’ postings, notes, photos, etc., in most cases help to create a stronger, richer connection between us. Don’t get me wrong…those sorts of things in no way replace the warmth of a friend’s hug nor the laughter in the voice of a loved one relating a personal near-clothing malfunction incident. What the social media interactions do provide, however, are more frequent interactions in each others’ lives. Let’s face it: our society has gotten so busy that there is little time for the sorts of interactions that were prevalent in our youth or before.
I miss the days of sitting on the front porch or in the yard, waving to passers by, sharing with neighbors a few minutes of conversation over the fence. In a sense, Facebook has become my front porch. From it, I can congratulate Pastor Jim on a great sermon, thank Polly for the tasty recipe she shared, trade weather stories with Connie, talk football with Cheryl, and swap some good-natured ribbing with Danny. Not one of these friends lives in my neighborhood. In fact, some of them live on different continents.
While I don’t often get to see in person many of my Facebook friends, I do interact with them on a regular basis via my cyber front porch. A group of my high school classmates regularly interact with each other on a variety of topics. We’re there for each other. We support, advise, and yes, sometime chide each other, depending on the situation. My friends from college and I reminisce about our adventures and exchange stories about what our lives are like now.
Sharing of “historic” photos from our youth has become a fun part of our interactions. Quite often, the photos are group shots that include people I haven’t thought of in years. I eagerly look at faces to determine whether I remember those youngsters.
Sometimes, I’ll see an old friend with whom I have lost touch and will attempt to re-establish contact. Such was the case this past weekend when a friend from college was tagged in a group photo. The photo showed up in my news feed, so I decided to see who I remembered from her house. In the shot, I saw an old friend.
Janet and I had drifted apart over the last 15 years, but ours was always the sort of friendship that picked up right where it left off. So with that in mind, I decided to see whether she had a Facebook. She didn’t. What I found instead was her obituary. She had died in December of 2007.
My counseling training tells me right where I am in stages of grief, but it does nothing to lessen the shock and the pain I feel. Janet’s passing is a tragic reminder that we don’t know what the future holds for us. God has a plan for each of us. While I don’t know what He has in store for me, I’d like to think that He wanted me to know that even when I am going through some extremely stressful times in my life, there is one more angel watching over me.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Minnesota on My Mind
I've always had a soft spot in my heart for Minnesota.
When I was young, Minnesota had an almost mythical presence in my life. You see, Minnesota was the place my grandparents and uncle went for nearly two weeks every August or September. (With a bit of time spent in western Wisconsin as well.) They would spend a week visiting as many of Grandma's relatives as possible. The other week was devoted to fishing at one of the 10,000 lakes in that grand state.
I remember eagerly awaiting their return for there would be fun gifts and sweatshirts from the lake and surrounding area, summer sausage from a butcher shop in Norwood (I think), and a multitude of photographs of scenery, big fish, and lots of relatives. If there was one thing that side of my family likes to do, it is take photos. (I got my first camera – a Brownie – when I was about five years of age.)
And let's not forget the stories. All Lake Woebegone jokes aside, I was in awe of what wonderful relatives I had in Minnesota. Why judging from the stories my grandparents and uncle told of their excursions to Minnesota, my great-aunts, great-uncles, and cousins were quite wonderful, indeed!
My first trip to Minnesota (at least the first one I remember) was the summer I turned eight. I was a little bummed because we wouldn’t be home so I could have friends over for a party, but I was getting to travel to magical Minnesota, so that made up for it. Three things stand out in my mind from that trip. The first was that no matter the time of day, when we went to someone’s home to visit, we had to eat a little something or risk offending our host/hostess. And regardless of whether it was breakfast, a mid-afternoon visit, or a bedtime snack, there was ALWAYS chocolate cake, which to this day is my favorite! The second thing I remember vividly was that my Great-Uncle Oswald’s birthday was the day before mine. We happened to be staying on his farm at that point, so of course, we had to have a big birthday bash for the two of us! The third memory was of all the kittens on the farm that I played with, even though I was horribly allergic to cats at the time.
The next time I was in Minnesota was when I was a senior in high school. My folks and I had gone to Des Moines, Iowa, to check out Drake University. (I had some strange notion that I wanted to go there, but it was much too snooty and elitist for me!) Once we were done with the tour, Dad decided that since we were so “close” to Minnesota – everything is relative…no pun intended – we should pop on up on a Saturday afternoon and visit. He called my Great-Aunt Emma, who invited us to stay with them for the night. Even though we were last minute guests, the chocolate cake mysteriously appeared at the eating of a little something before going to bed! The next morning, we were on our way back to Kansas, but I was filled with all the warm fuzzies that my Minnesota relatives always seemed to provide.
I don’t believe I went back to Minnesota until well after I was out of college. After all, I was busy getting my career started and enjoying the freedom of living on my own. My grandparents had already passed and my uncle had quit going on the visiting and fishing excursions. So in the early 1990s, we all – my parents, my uncle, and I – decided that we should head north and visit the kinfolk. We visited all over the Arlington-Glencoe-Gaylord area. We visited the Twin Cities. We visited Hudson, Wisconsin. We even visited River Falls, Wisconsin. I even have a cheesy photo of Mom and I standing in front of the sign at what was at the time the Kansas City Chiefs’ summer training camp site.
I’m so glad we made that trip. The next year, my uncle passed and the family got a bit smaller.
During that trip, we heard that the Minnesota relatives had started having family reunions. We got on the list for the next one, which was a couple of years later. So with the exception of last year, every other year was our trip north for the family reunion and more visiting. Sadly, we’ve also started going to Minnesota to pay our respects to loved ones who have passed, which brings me to the present.
Last Thursday, my parents and I loaded luggage, beverages, and snacks into Red and once again headed for the Land of 10,000 Lakes. This time was for my Cousin Carol’s memorial service. You see, Carol died a week ago – just a few days shy of her 68th birthday – after a very brief, yet intense battle with cancer. Blessedly for her, she didn’t have to suffer long, but for those she left behind, her last days with us were much too short.
No matter the situation, Carol did her best to help others feel a little better about themselves. When I was a little girl, Carol would always try to make me laugh. As I got older, I found Carol to be a wealth of family history. A couple of years ago, when just off the road we walked into my cousin Eleanor’s visitation at the funeral home, there was Carol, identifying distant relatives for us and trying to ease our sadness a bit with stories about which relative was doing what these days. She also was quite proud of her children and grandchildren always gave us updates and showed us photos.
I thought about all of this as we were driving back to Kansas late Saturday afternoon after the memorial service. It always makes me a little sad when we drive past the “Thanks for Visiting Minnesota” sign at the southern state line. The sadness was a little deeper when we drove by it after Eleanor’s funeral a couple of years ago and again on Saturday after Carol’s memorial service. Maybe the sign should read “Thanks for Visiting Minnesota and Leaving a Piece of Your Heart Here.”
When I was young, Minnesota had an almost mythical presence in my life. You see, Minnesota was the place my grandparents and uncle went for nearly two weeks every August or September. (With a bit of time spent in western Wisconsin as well.) They would spend a week visiting as many of Grandma's relatives as possible. The other week was devoted to fishing at one of the 10,000 lakes in that grand state.
I remember eagerly awaiting their return for there would be fun gifts and sweatshirts from the lake and surrounding area, summer sausage from a butcher shop in Norwood (I think), and a multitude of photographs of scenery, big fish, and lots of relatives. If there was one thing that side of my family likes to do, it is take photos. (I got my first camera – a Brownie – when I was about five years of age.)
And let's not forget the stories. All Lake Woebegone jokes aside, I was in awe of what wonderful relatives I had in Minnesota. Why judging from the stories my grandparents and uncle told of their excursions to Minnesota, my great-aunts, great-uncles, and cousins were quite wonderful, indeed!
My first trip to Minnesota (at least the first one I remember) was the summer I turned eight. I was a little bummed because we wouldn’t be home so I could have friends over for a party, but I was getting to travel to magical Minnesota, so that made up for it. Three things stand out in my mind from that trip. The first was that no matter the time of day, when we went to someone’s home to visit, we had to eat a little something or risk offending our host/hostess. And regardless of whether it was breakfast, a mid-afternoon visit, or a bedtime snack, there was ALWAYS chocolate cake, which to this day is my favorite! The second thing I remember vividly was that my Great-Uncle Oswald’s birthday was the day before mine. We happened to be staying on his farm at that point, so of course, we had to have a big birthday bash for the two of us! The third memory was of all the kittens on the farm that I played with, even though I was horribly allergic to cats at the time.
The next time I was in Minnesota was when I was a senior in high school. My folks and I had gone to Des Moines, Iowa, to check out Drake University. (I had some strange notion that I wanted to go there, but it was much too snooty and elitist for me!) Once we were done with the tour, Dad decided that since we were so “close” to Minnesota – everything is relative…no pun intended – we should pop on up on a Saturday afternoon and visit. He called my Great-Aunt Emma, who invited us to stay with them for the night. Even though we were last minute guests, the chocolate cake mysteriously appeared at the eating of a little something before going to bed! The next morning, we were on our way back to Kansas, but I was filled with all the warm fuzzies that my Minnesota relatives always seemed to provide.
I don’t believe I went back to Minnesota until well after I was out of college. After all, I was busy getting my career started and enjoying the freedom of living on my own. My grandparents had already passed and my uncle had quit going on the visiting and fishing excursions. So in the early 1990s, we all – my parents, my uncle, and I – decided that we should head north and visit the kinfolk. We visited all over the Arlington-Glencoe-Gaylord area. We visited the Twin Cities. We visited Hudson, Wisconsin. We even visited River Falls, Wisconsin. I even have a cheesy photo of Mom and I standing in front of the sign at what was at the time the Kansas City Chiefs’ summer training camp site.
I’m so glad we made that trip. The next year, my uncle passed and the family got a bit smaller.
During that trip, we heard that the Minnesota relatives had started having family reunions. We got on the list for the next one, which was a couple of years later. So with the exception of last year, every other year was our trip north for the family reunion and more visiting. Sadly, we’ve also started going to Minnesota to pay our respects to loved ones who have passed, which brings me to the present.
Last Thursday, my parents and I loaded luggage, beverages, and snacks into Red and once again headed for the Land of 10,000 Lakes. This time was for my Cousin Carol’s memorial service. You see, Carol died a week ago – just a few days shy of her 68th birthday – after a very brief, yet intense battle with cancer. Blessedly for her, she didn’t have to suffer long, but for those she left behind, her last days with us were much too short.
No matter the situation, Carol did her best to help others feel a little better about themselves. When I was a little girl, Carol would always try to make me laugh. As I got older, I found Carol to be a wealth of family history. A couple of years ago, when just off the road we walked into my cousin Eleanor’s visitation at the funeral home, there was Carol, identifying distant relatives for us and trying to ease our sadness a bit with stories about which relative was doing what these days. She also was quite proud of her children and grandchildren always gave us updates and showed us photos.
I thought about all of this as we were driving back to Kansas late Saturday afternoon after the memorial service. It always makes me a little sad when we drive past the “Thanks for Visiting Minnesota” sign at the southern state line. The sadness was a little deeper when we drove by it after Eleanor’s funeral a couple of years ago and again on Saturday after Carol’s memorial service. Maybe the sign should read “Thanks for Visiting Minnesota and Leaving a Piece of Your Heart Here.”
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