Home Ownership Lesson #12: If it’s not the painter, it’s a thief

If it isn’t the painter, it’s a thief.

I try to do everything at once. It is just who I am. I can’t just watch TV, I have to watch TV and write emails or read the paper. I can’t just talk on the phone, I have to clean the house while doing it, or play solitaire to try to stay in the moment with the person on the phone. This same nonsense applies to the important things in my life as well.

I decided about six or eight months ago that no amount of new flooring or painted cabinets was going to make me happy in my old (first) house. The location of the house had grown inconvenient for my life and I was tired of not knowing any of my neighbors. I think the latter is a symptom of the welcome to my garage subdivision culture. We pull into our garages, close the doors and never see anyone. So, after months of looking at every house in the sweet little non-cookie-cutter/non-subdivision neighborhood I found my house. It is on the street I’ve wanted to be on and is super close to the nicest park in town. Winning.

Here’s is where the problems start. In the month of July and first week of August, I closed on two houses, moved out of one, started renovations on another, had significant renovation delays and drama, stayed temporarily in another house, took a trip, turned 40, and finally moved into the new house.

Turns out some painting contractors (or maybe all contractors) don’t actually do what they say they will do. This can result in starting 5 days late, doing a sloppy job, sending the same guy back 3 times to fix the problems he created the first time, and finally fixing the problems 3 weeks later. Then we discovered crumbling concrete under the carpet we removed from the basement. I say “we” here but I really mean someone far handier than me. The kitchen flooring had to be reimagined and is now vinyl instead of tile. The master bath shower is unique – meaning waiting a long time for a special door. And I won’t even talk about the half bath faucet that won’t be in for another 28 days.

Despite all of this I moved into the house this week. It is lovely and I am remarkably not annoyed by the paint issues that remain. It must be love.

The first night I slept in the house some friends came over to celebrate. I went to bed, slept great and woke up feeling at home. I started my day with a dog walk and as I passed my neighbor’s house she came outside and informed me that her home was broken into overnight.

Naturally, I went back to my house and locked the door and glanced at my car. It was unlocked in the driveway. Sure enough, the thieves had stopped at my place too. My car was a mess – compartments open, papers everywhere. I immediately noticed my change cup for tolls was gone – $15 dollars or so of quarters.

It instantly felt awful. I have never been robbed before. I let the neighbor know and then continued my dog walk on the phone with the boyfriend. I returned home and called the police to report it, ate breakfast, worked some and then hopped in the shower. A bit later as I was drying my hair it occurred to me that my garage door opener was in the console. I dropped the dryer and ran to the car. It was gone. Along with my iPhone charger. Some random people either have unfettered access to my garage or my garage opener is laying in a neighbor’s yard. I didn’t know which.

I lost it. Whatever tears wanted to come earlier were unstoppable now. All of the time and work, so many houses, the careful planning, the inspections and offers and counters and bargaining, the cleaning and packing and unpacking, rolling with the changes because this was my house on my dream Fort Wayne street, coupled with a milestone birthday. All of that and now I just wanted to feel HOME, to not have to keep on doing everything at once. It seemed totally unfair. I immediately called the garage people and the kind man at Raynor felt sorry for my weepy self and sent someone over the same day to reprogram my garage door openers. Not the welcome to the neighborhood I wanted.

After a day of crying and fixing and praying, I am back to normal. I love my little house and street. I have great friends that helped me to put up all my first-floor curtains, make sure my motion light works, and call/email/text me to make sure I’m okay. And, of course, I’m now locking everything all the time and keeping the car inside the garage. And in the process of the crying, fixing, and praying the house feels a little more like a home and a bit closer to finished. Although, I wish that activity hadn’t been driven by a welcome-to-the-neighborhood theft.

Just when you think you are doing all you can do at once, life throws something else at you.

At the end of this and most importantly I was reminded and will more often think on the truth that “I will both lie down in peace, and sleep; For You alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” Psalms 4:8 (NKJV). I’m grateful for that because if it’s not one thing, it’s something else.

The Reluctant Yogi

If someone told me five years ago that I would spend most of my free time in yoga pants, stay a weekend at the ashram, and watch Netflix while in relaxing in supta baddha konasana, I would have laughed. No, I would have rolled my eyes. That is my move.

But all of that is true.

Nearly three years ago, during an intense time for me at work and personally, two friends told me that I should give yoga a try. I knew nothing about the practice of yoga or its philosophy. But I figure if I hear something twice from two different people it’s worth a try.

So, I did what I do, and bought a set of 6 private sessions with the founder, master teacher, and yoga therapist at the local studio. There was no way I was going into a group class, even a basics, without knowing what I was doing. The ego knows no bounds.

Shortly after my first session I knew something was happening. I was reading books and signing up for workshops and within six months I was in yoga teacher training. It was a whirlwind romance.

So what was reluctant about it? I am a Christian of the born again evangelical variety, a fun but pretty rigid lawyer by trade, eatin’ up with common sense, and not very open to woo woo. I had heard other Christians, particularly preachers, criticize yoga as heretical, as though it’s a religion. It’s more common for lawyers to release their stress at the bar, not stretching and Om-ing in bare feet and yoga pants. From the outside yoga seems silly to people like me, you know the people who say that they “aren’t flexible” or don’t need to “just breathe.” I am a sixth generation Appalachian-American we are of the tough-it-out-get-over-it-suck-it-up school of dealing with life. And while I think the woo woo (crazy yoga stuff) speaks for itself – let’s say after three years and nearly 500 hours of training I still don’t know if I believe our bodies are filled with 72,000 nadis (little rivers) that move prana through the body.

But, what I do know is that yoga can make a significant positive change in anyone’s life.

I spent the better part of my thirties becoming a whole person, a real adult, emotionally and mentally. So by the time I met yoga three years ago I thought I had myself together. Turns out I was missing one leg of the stool – having your s&*t together emotionally and mentally is not enough. I had to get out of my head and connect my head to my body – as my teacher says, “our issues are in our tissues.” Yoga is the first practice or activity that allows me to quiet my mind. And not to worry the Christians out there – I don’t quiet my mind to empty it, I quiet my mind so that I can hear what is most important. I have a very active mind – sometimes it crosses from a great problem-solving machine to a worst-case scenario generator. Yoga helps me to keep the mind active and moving toward the positive by focusing and concentrating on what matters – changing my behavior, rather than trying to change my mind. It isn’t magic, it’s work but when something changes it certainly feels magical, productive and, more importantly, healthy.

Of course there are physical benefits to a regular yoga practice – I am strong (I can see muscles now), more flexible, balanced, and I can stand on my head. I love all those things, but what I love most is that my regular yoga practice has allowed me to become more calm, quiet (literally and figuratively), and more focused (on the right things).

I figure that if yoga is for me then it is for anyone, anyone who wants these outcomes. Turns outs you don’t have to believe it all, you really can take what you need and leave the rest. Maybe one day I’ll need to believe in the nadis. Until then my yoga romance will continue because I can’t wait to experience the depths of healthy that I now know are within reach.

 

 

Appalachia Natives: The Mountains Do Not Limit Us, We Do

I recently met with a former coal and gas executive from the Midwest. He used to travel to Central Appalachia – Eastern Kentucky – to supervise mining operations. This is same section of Central Appalachia where I was raised; in fact the mines he visited were within an hour or so from my childhood home.

He shared a couple of great Central Appalachia tales with me – gun-wielding grannies and copper thieves. But the most interesting description he gave was about how he felt in the mountains. He had never been in mountains so steep or been in a place where the sun comes up before you can see it and it disappears behind a mountain before it gets dark.

He said, “I felt claustrophobic.”

This made me think about how those mountains make me feel. To me those mountains are like a warm blanket surrounding, nurturing, and protecting all who walk under them. Keeping the good in and the bad out.

Then I thought about how the landscape of the Midwest, where I live now, made me feel when I first arrived. The word that immediately came to mind was exposed. I felt exposed by the size of the sky, the distance of vision, and the constant wind. I have never been exposed to this much sky for this length of time (thus my fixation with sunrises and sunsets). In the mountains of Central Appalachia the sky is always framed with the jagged edges of tree limbs and mountaintops like a giant living, real-time painting.

This discussion reminded me of a quote from a book I read in college – Salvation on Sand Mountain by Dennis Covington. Mr. Covington writes about his drive from Alabama to and through these very mountains and my hometown of Grundy, Virginia.

All along the highways through Tennessee and southwest Virginia, the signs were everywhere: Crazy Joe’s Fireworks, Jack Daniel’s whiskey, drag racing, turkey shoots, and barbecue. The South they suggested was straight out of the movies – idiosyncratic, lazy, restless, and self-absorbed. And that was what Jim and Melissa and I talked about on the drive, the discrepancy between the South of the popular imagination and the one we lived and worked in every day. But once the road narrowed and entered the mountains, the signs disappeared, replaced by mine tipples, mantrips, and long lines of train cars filled with coal that steamed in the rain. The last motels and hospital were at Grundy, Virginia, a mining town on the lip of a winding river between mountains so steep and irrational, they must have blocked most of the sun most of the day. It is difficult to imagine how children can grow up in such a place without carrying narrowed horizons into the rest of their lives.

But Grundy was an oasis compared with the country between it and Jolo.

He, like my friend, saw the mountains as hard – hard to adjust to, hard to live in, and hard to understand. They immediately saw the limitations of the mountains.

As a child of those mountains it never occurred to me that the mountains were limiting, restrictive, or negative. It never occurred to me that the mountains were preventing me from seeing something more. When I lived in the mountains I never missed the orange and pink glow of the sun as it came up and went down along the horizon. Rather, I enjoyed the light as it slowly lowered down the hillside in the morning and as it retreated up the hillside in the evening. Neither one is limiting, only different.

The mountains were a vast playground of trees, moss, creeks, and rocks – where the only rule was to be back before dark. All of those hills, rocks, crevices, streams, and hollers were a big classroom for learning life skills. These are a few of my favorite lessons :

• In order to walk down the side of a hill without falling adjust your stance, turn your feet horizontally and descend slowly.
• If you want to create an extra source of water for yard work then you dam up a section of the creek, gravity feed the water down the holler, then pump it up the hillside.
• Always make sure your walking stick is sturdy.
• Never kill a black snake, because it eats the rodents.
• Be careful what you do at the head of the holler because it will show up at the mouth – it all runs downhill.
• Respect everyone and things that are bigger, stronger, and/or more powerful than you – the mountain, weather, a loaded coal truck, bears, and water.
• Never kill a mama bear or a deer that isn’t big enough and throw the fish back. If you kill it, then you eat it. No waste.
• Don’t be a wimp. Play when you are hurt, work when you are tired.
• Never forget where you came from or deny your family.

All those lessons live on and color the life we make in and out of the mountains. Just like the mountains, those lessons are timeless. And what we learned from and in the mountains can carry us far beyond and right back to where we started, if we choose to wander.

The mountains don’t narrow our horizons, only we do that.

My Appalachian Accent: You Aren’t From Here Are You?

This week I met a woman who seemed surprised that I still have an accent after living in Northeast Indiana for nearly five years.

Her surprise made me think about the regular conversations I have about my accent and dialect. The following is an example of a typical exchange that occurs multiple times a week, still, with new colleagues, business people, clerks, tellers, and others I talk to as I go about my life (I talk a lot).

Me: Hi, how’re you?

Midwesterner: Fine. You aren’t from here are you? You sound Southern. (It really comes this quickly.)

Me: No

Midwesterner: Where are you from? (Sometimes they guess and when they do it is most often Texas, Georgia, Tennessee, or Kentucky in that order. The people who guess the last two know accents. The first two are way off).

Me: I am from Virginia.

Midwesterner: Really? What part? (As it turns out, many people do not consider Virginia Southern or Appalachian and are shocked that my accent could come from Virginia.)

Me: Southwestern Virginia in the mountains near Kentucky.

Midwesterner: Oh, yeah, West Virginia.

Me: No, but West Virginia is only about 15 minutes from my Mommy’s house.

Midwesterner (usually looking confused): When did you move?

Me: Four and a half years ago.

Midwesterner: Oh. Really? You’ve been here a while. (Looking shocked).

People assume that after five years I would talk differently, less like me and more like them. Sometimes they say it directly and others just offer a surprised “oh.”

This is the problem when you have a pronounced accent and dialect and you don’t do a lot of code switching. Code switching is defined by dictionary.com as the alternate use of two or more languages or varieties of language, especially within the same discourse. Code switching as it relates to Appalachian dialects and accents is discussed in a delightful post on The Revivalist.

My accent and dialect are pretty standard Central Appalachian. I do not have the thickest accent compared some other people from the mountains of Southwest Virginia, Southern West Virginia, Eastern Kentucky, East Tennessee, and Western North Carolina. My accent and dialect have not changed much since leaving home in 1997. Although I have noticed that occasionally instead of saying r-eye-ght I will say right in a more neutral accent and ain’t slips out far less than it used to. My brother-in-law recently called me out for saying “soda” instead of “coke” or “pop.” Otherwise, my accent is pretty static.

When I moved to the Midwest I assumed that people would take note of my accent as it happens quite often in other places, even in some parts of Central and Northern Virginia. I dealt with this in college at the University of Virginia, as I have traveled through the United States and the world, and most recently and intensely in my time in the Midwest.

Most people are nice about it, even though they sometimes point out my accent as though they are pointing out a pimple or a gray hair. They say that they think it is cute or charming. Sometimes this goes too far when I am asked to “talk some more” as though I am a performer. While others, not realizing how personally I take the way I talk, might crack a joke about my family tree or being a hillbilly or redneck, but they are not the worst. There is a small group that I encounter from time to time who judge me immediately as ignorant, racist, or wrong.

My accent immediately gives people information about me and it is always filtered through the listener’s opinions of Southerners, and more specifically Appalachians. Recently, I’ve heard “maybe if you stay here long enough you’ll learn how to talk.” This Midwesterner was teasing when she said it, but I believe, as it has often been said, that there is an ounce of truth in all teasing. Then there was “it’s because you sound so different,” offered as a reason for the people not being welcoming. Right or wrong, it is clear that people have a hard time ignoring or accepting a different accent without question or comment.

When I moved to the Midwest I realized that I could hear my own accent. Everyone else sounds different and it makes my accent audible to me, which was a first. At home I don’t notice, because everyone sounds similar. So, I know what my accent sounds like and I am okay with it. In fact, I love it. I love it because I hear the mountains in my voice. I hear words and sayings that my parents use and things my grandmother said. There is history, heritage, and culture in my accent and dialect. I think it is interesting and special. As the writer in The Revivalist post noted “Appalachian accents are like no other.”

But I have noticed that I am a bit weary of explaining the way I talk. There is a kind of lonely in living in a place where no one talks the way I do. It certainly draws people in and creates conversation, but not always in a comfortable way. And there is a fear that those that ask about it and some who don’t are assuming the worst about me.

Over the years I have heard friends from home say that they hate our accent. Many of those friends moved away and made a conscious effort to change the way they talk. While I will never consciously change my accent or dialect, I understand better now why others do. I will work hard to keep my accent, but my experience in the last five years makes me empathetic for my Appalachian friends and family who made those changes. I get why they did it.

It can be tough living in a place where no one sounds like you.

Fort Wayne Music: The B-Side

Have you ever wanted to hear your favorite band play in your living room? Just an evening with your closest friends and some live music.

You probably can’t make that happen, but seeing a show at One Lucky Guitar’s (OLG) B-Side is your next best option.

The B-Side space is located within the OLG design and marketing boutique. It is self-described as super intimate and urban, seating around 60 people. The mirrored fireplace and generous windows balance the exposed brick and open ceiling to give you the effect of being at home or in the coolest venue in the city.

My first B-Side experience was the most recent show – Rayland Baxter. The show was electric and the acoustics were great. The space, which is lovely, is set up to allow the artist to be as casual and comfortable as possible. There is no stage so the artist is amongst the crowd, which allows for an unusual visual perspective. This and the small size let’s the artist interact with the audience in personal and unusual ways – like a living room gathering of your closest friends.

The B-Side is a unique space featuring high quality acts, including Lloyd Cole later this month. Can you imagine, Lloyd Cole in your living room?

If you are a music lover in Northeast Indiana you should make seeing a show at the B-Side a priority.

What I’ve Learned from the Sun

I have always loved a sunset, but since moving to the Midwest I have fallen in love with the movements of the sky. I have try to watch as many sunsets and sunrises as possible; in four years I have seen hundreds. I make a special effort to watch them on certain days ­– my birthday, the new year, or when I need a reminder of just what a little speck that I am in this universe or how I am part of a large, unknowable plan.

The first thing I did on the first day of this year was get in my car and drive to my spot, a church parking lot at the edge of my subdivision, to watch the sun come up. In the silence I watched the light glow above the horizon and tree line. Then the sun slowly inched across the sky. As I did I made a list of the things I want to do and do better this year (no resolutions, just observations and promises to myself).

When my list was long enough I stopped and put my phone down. I thought about how long I’ve been walking or driving to this spot to observe the sun. What have I learned from it? Is there anything to be taken from watching the two most physically beautiful parts of the day? It did not take long to realize the lessons and reminders that I can take from observing the sun.

The earth, the divine, speaks lessons and reminders, if we will listen. As I sat in the car, window down and seat heater on, a list of these lessons and reminders came quickly to mind.

Always look behind you.

The sun rises in the east and it does amazing things. But, that is not where all the action is. Look west. There is often something just as beautiful behind me. During a sunrise it is a pale pink glow on a clear day, other times the reflection of the sun’s glow on clouds, and if I am lucky, it’s a rainbow inspired by the morning dew. At sunset it’s the ombre of blue to purple to black layered from west to east. In the morning and night I look to the north and south and see more of that pink glow, carbon trails drawing pictures in sky reflecting the light in different ways, or long flat clouds that seem to go on forever.

I spend so much time looking in one direction – what I want, need, or where I am going down the road. If I’m not careful my laser focus causes me to miss things just as lovely, and important, that are happening in and around me. It is never just about what is in front of me. Situations look different depending on the point of view; sometimes I have to change my perspective to get to where I’m going.

Be patient.

Stalking sunsets and sunrises takes effort. It also takes practice. I can’t just show up at the exact time the weather channel says that the sun will set. I’ll miss it. This is especially true of ocean sunsets, if I look away for a second or stop watching for a moment to mess with my camera I’ll miss it. I have to find my spot and get there early. This might mean getting up early or staying late. It makes me work for it.

Don’t all things worth having, seeing, or keeping take a little (or a lot) of work? The sun might be free, but it isn’t easy.

Embrace silence.

I like to talk. Frankly, I need to talk (my poor mother used to pray for 5 minutes of silence when I was a child).  If I am not talking I am playing music or running the television in the background. The sun, though, does all its work silently. Most of the year it does its work when the world is quiet – no traffic, little work, and before or after most people have gone inside.

The sun in some ways demands silence. I have watched sunsets with people and 100% of the time everyone becomes quiet as we watch. No one says, be quiet or shhhh. Your spirit just knows to quiet itself – to embrace the peace of it, to stand in awe and reverence of the divine.

It is a lovely time – a new day or the end of one – to think, pray, reflect, or whatever I need to do. A time to be quiet and still. A time to listen to that still small voice.

I can’t always see what is next, but I trust it will be good.

Recently a friend died unexpectedly. I found out on a Friday. As it goes with these things, I spent much of the day trying to understand and thinking about my life and its fragility. Understanding did not come, nor did I expect it. That understanding will only come, as Dolly would sing, “farther along.” But the lack of understanding hung there reminding me that I am not in control and I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.

The next morning I woke up, threw on my slippers and a jacket over my night-clothes. I drove to my spot to watch the sunrise. It was late fall and the sun had shifted behind a cluster of trees. I would not be able to see the sun itself until it was up and clear of the woods, a quarter of the way up. I waited and watched the light start to glow through and then above the trees. I knew what was coming but I couldn’t see it yet. As I waited I was reminded that just because I can’t see what’s next doesn’t mean it isn’t going to be wonderful. It is so easy to feel like things are not moving fast enough or going where I want them to go. But no matter how I feel, I believe there is something good ahead, just beyond what I can see. I believe it because I’ve seen it before.

Sometimes a memory is all I get to take with me.

My sister is great fun. Once when I was a teenager and she was living at home we had a particularly fun weekend. The following week I told her that I’d like to do it again. She told me it was fun but “those times are like bubbles, they last for a little while and then they pop. You can’t repeat them.” She was right.

Sunset and sunrises are beautiful, sometimes so much so that I can’t capture them in a picture. Even when I try the picture is so disappointing that I just delete it. There is a level of pretty that just doesn’t translate (at least not with an iPhone camera).

There are some things that so are beautiful that I can’t capture with anything but my mind, my memories. I get frustrated with the limits of my equipment and ability to share what I have seen, but that reminds me that some things, people, and experiences are meant just for me, not to be shared. The things that I keep for myself are the most precious.

I try to find something beautiful in every day. On days when I can’t accept beauty in myself, in others, or in the events of the day, I can find it in the sky. Even on a cloudy day. So, as the sun demands, I will stop and listen to what it has to say in its beautiful silence.

Seattle, Washington

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Summer Sunsets

I can’t deny it any longer.

Last week I turned off the air conditioning and haven’t turned on the heat. I do my very best to delay turning on the heat. I am not yet sure whether that is stubbornness, denial or both. But today there is a chill in the air inside the house.

Suddenly, every Saturday morning I regret my choice to not have cable. It is that one time a year when I miss ESPN, or maybe it’s just Kirk Herbstreit.

My white shoes, linen blazer and seersucker suits are dry cleaned and packed away, sadly, for months.

As I type, it is 42 degrees in Fort Wayne. Today’s high is 46 degrees.

It is fall.

In an effort to further my stubbornness and/or denial, I want so share my best of the summer sunsets.

There is not much better than a warm/hot/sweltering walk in the glow of the setting sun in bare legs and short sleeves. I am afraid that there won’t be any more of those until spring.

Indiana Sunsets:

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Lake Wawasee, Indiana

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Fort Wayne, Indiana

Alaska, Arizona and Washington Sunsets:

Northern Pacific Ocean on the Carnival Miracle

Scottsdale, Arizona

Scottsdale, Arizona

Scottsdale, Arizona

Juneau, Alaska

Juneau, Alaska

Seattle, Washington

Seattle, Washington

Why Everyone Loves Notre Dame

One of the things that has always been a mystery to me is the University Notre Dame’s (“ND”) and its fan base. Growing up in the mountains of Virginia most people cheered for one of three college football programs – Virginia Tech, Virginia, or Tennessee. Many people were fans because they or their family members attended those schools (I am a proud Cavalier Volunteer) and others because of their proximity to those schools. The proximity fans I can understand, it makes sense, they love the sport and they pick a Division I team that is nearby. Fair enough.

What I don’t understand is the large number of ND fans that exist in the world. All over the country. Seriously? How does a Catholic school in South Bend, Indiana become the favored team of people everywhere? And when I say favored I mean these people are tattooing the leprechaun on their bodies, flying flags on their cars, and doing all manner of crazy, committed-fan-things. It’s confusing especially when my conversations with these people go something like this:

Me: Did you go to Notre Dame?

ND Fan: No.

Me: Are you from Indiana?

ND Fan: No.

Me: Are you Catholic?

ND Fan: No.

Me: Are you Irish?

ND Fan: No.

Me: Have you been to South Bend?

ND Fan: No.

Me: Then why Notre Dame?

The answer to that last one ranges from “I just do” to talk of “traditions” that the fan has never experienced themselves or something related to the fact that they are always on television. I don’t understand it and I cannot deny that this odd loyalty to ND has, along with the fact that they are constantly on television and over-rated, caused me to dislike ND. I am not a fan.

But, because I pride myself on being fair and trying something before I say I don’t like it, I took myself to South Bend to watch the Fighting Irish play Michigan State. I committed myself to doing it right – seeing all the monuments, experiencing the traditions, and being open-minded about it all. This also allowed me to check another Big Ten stadium off my “to visit” list.

The game was a hot mess. There was not one sustained drive until Michigan State started the second half. The Irish won, but not impressively.

The experience, however, was far more impressive than the game. The ND fans are friendly, passionate, and interesting. For example, my neighbors by my seat were super friendly people. To my left was a Catholic couple who went to Michigan State, were cheering on the Irish because their son teaches there. The sweet wife immediately struck up a conversation and about religion in which she educated me on how the Catholic church marginalizes women and how Pope Francis’s admonishment of the church’s wrongs was too little too late. To my left was a large man who loves ND. He did not attend ND and he’s not Catholic or Irish, but he lives in Northeast Indiana so he gets a proximity pass. He loves ND so much that he has 5 tattoos celebrating his team, including a giant Leprechaun tattooed on his back (luckily, I did not see this but I believe him) and the college’s logo on his ankle (which I saw).

I was also the happy beneficiary of help with campus navigation by friendly ND fans and ND staff. There were lots of smiles and hellos all day.

The stadium, however, is not as nice as the fans. It seems that there isn’t a bad view in the stadium, but the bleachers aren’t much to sit on. The stadium bleachers are wooden 2x6s bolted to the risers. Not comfortable, not wide enough, and they have crammed too many “seats” into a row. I was shocked and disappointed to say the least. My high school’s bleachers are more comfortable. My other issue with the stadium is the score board. ND doesn’t have a jumbotron. Seriously? Can you really consider yourself a world-class Division I program without a jumbotron? I need to be able to watch replays. I am a spoiled UVA and Tennessee fan, both have jumbotrons. The athletic department, donors, and administration at ND need to step it up here and join the 21st century.

Then there is the matter of Touchdown Jesus. I have to say I was not fully comfortable with it. It is a beautiful piece of artwork, definitely, but calling it Touchdown Jesus doesn’t seem right. I mentioned this to my neighbor in the stadium, the Catholic feminist to my right, and she quickly responded “well it is no different then calling a pass a Hail Mary.” True, and I had not thought of that (I am very Protestant), but still, it seems somehow disrespectful coming from a religious school.

The ND band was definitely a high point. The band is only one fire baton short of being fabulous. Really. In the South the marching bands have fire batons and that is my standard for greatness, so, the Irish just missed it. The band’s performance was great. However, I was most intrigued by the Irish Guards. I had no idea theses guys existed in the world. I enjoyed their inspection drill and their halftime marching performance. Very neat. I also loved that the band sits on the field. Initially, I thought this was awful, because it appeared that they had to stand the entire game, but when I realized they could sit down I found the proximity better for hearing and somehow more collegiate than having them in the stands. I do love a marching bad.

The grand traditions are also worth loving. Visiting the dome, the basilica and the grotto were alone worth the trip. It must be lovely to have such grandeur on your campus, although I imagine more than one 20-year-old has taken it for granted. I watched the band concert and the march to the stadium. No detail is ignored at ND it seems. The reverence and respect paid by ND to its traditions and buildings is something worth experiencing. It is also very Southern. The South loves and is often hyper-focus on tradition and pomp and circumstance and there is definitely an air of that at ND. It is grand and I enjoyed it very much. I even bought a shirt (gasp!).

All in all, it was a good experience. The campus is beautiful, the people are nice (and if not, they are at least entertaining), and the tradition is a lovely and grand one.

But, make no mistake, I did not leave South Bend a fan. I still think they are the media’s pet and annually overrated, but I do understand a little better now why they are beloved by the masses.

Indiana Winter: Cold, Flat, & Windy, Part II

It seems that I’ve been fooled. My first winter in Indiana, 2011-2012, was incredibly mild. Not only was there not one single large snowfall there was not much snow at all. Additionally, the temperature, while cold, was not consistently and continuously bitter. Oh, and I lived in an apartment with a garage. So, I never had to encounter snow directly: no shoveling, no sweeping, no cleaning off the car. All I had to do outside was walk the dog.

The Eel River frozen up to the falls.

Everyone I’ve talked with about the weather (which is nearly everyone) told me not “get used to it.” I am afraid I did.

This winter is different. There have not been any giant snows, but we have had more snow and the temperatures have been way (at least it seems to me) colder. Days and days of temperatures under 20 degrees. Wind. Constant, cold wind with wind chills repeatedly below -10. Oh, and I now have a driveway to shovel, a walk to sweep, and neighborhood streets to try to navigate safely.

Geese walking on water.

Where is the salt?

The partially frozen pond.

I have prided myself on the fact that I can handle cold weather and drive in the snow. I was raised in the mountains! It does snow in the mountains and it does get cold. However, it doesn’t stay this cold for this long, the snow doesn’t hang around for weeks from one storm, and it doesn’t snow this often. And, there is no wind there, at least not constant, extremely cold, and sustained winds.

This has been much more of an adjustment than I am comfortable admitting. It is not in my nature (or raising) to concede weakness or discomfort. Every time I walk out into the piercing cold wind I cringe. I long for some mountain cover. The question – why do I live here crosses my mind. Regularly. If I missed home when it was warm here, I miss home 1000x more now.

Luckily, I had the chance to escape the Midwest winter briefly. I spent part of the last week in Puerto Rico, where it was sunny, warm, and, like Fort Wayne, windy; there the wind blows warm. It was a much needed break even though I worked most of the trip. But that trip taught me a very important lesson. I now know the key to surviving a Midwestern winter. Take a break.

Seasons change and I have access to airplanes. So, my new vacation window is going to be January to March, just in time for a nice break from the Midwestern winter.

Puerto Rican sunsets are somehow different from Midwestern sunsets.

At 7:00 a.m. you get the beach to yourself.

A tribute to my Dad, who had taken many a picture featuring his feet.

La Mina Falls Hike

The rainforest is the greenest thing I’ve ever seen.

It is a rainforest, I guess that explains the wet.

My favorite shot from the PR trip.

View from the Tower in the El Yunque Rainforest

Home Ownership Lesson #11

The amount of the subdivision annual assessment is directly proportional to the effort expended to treat the subdivision’s streets. In this instance less is not more.

In the mountains, more specifically the holler, there was no “authority” responsible for treating the roads when it snows or is icy. There are no subdivisions back home. You either live on the mountain or near the river. Flat land is at a premium. Usually, Cousin JW would whip out the four-wheeler with a snow blade and clear off what he could. The road to my family’s house is one-lane between a steep hillside and the creek. When traveling it Daddy’s advice was “ah, go on, just go slow and aim for the ditch line, not the creek. You can only slide so far if you are going slow.” So we went.

Here in Indiana, the flattest place on earth, subdivisions are the rule. So, for the first time I am living in one. When I moved into my soul-less garage with three bedrooms in suburbia I knew that I was responsible for my driveway (and that is another lesson altogether). However, I figured that my annual assessment would cover a scraping and little salt for the streets in the subdivision. It, after all, is around $200. That should cover some salt, right?

Wrong.

Two weeks after the last snow fall we still have a few inches of ice on the primary roads of the subdivision. I have slid to a stop at the turn for my street several times. When passing a vehicle going in the opposite direction cars nearly have to stop to do it safely. Not cool.

At the time I bought the house, I specifically remember thinking that the annual assessment for my little starter neighborhood was very reasonable. Some other neighborhoods with more expensive homes had much higher assessments. Now I realize that the more you pay, the more services you receive. I am not sure how this got by me. This was my first time, cut me some slack. Lesson learned.

I regret that I feel a little bitterness when I drive by the grown-up neighborhoods and see their nice clear and dry streets. Sad. However, I am somewhat comforted by the fact that most other folks I have talked to are dealing with the same thing. It seems that my situation is the rule and not the exception. Of course, that does not stop me from being annoyed and indignant about it.

It looks like until upgrade one day, I will be driving slowly through my neighborhood. As you know, you can only slide so far if you are driving slowly.