The Mystery of the Open Door

For the last several days, it seems like every time I've come home from work, I've had a door open that wasn't supposed to be open. Or perhaps a makeshift "baby gate" that has been tipped over by a very guilty-looking German Shepherd.

I'm used to her antics in trying to access some baby-gated areas and usually, no harm done so it's not a huge deal (as long as it's not the kitchen!).  Open doors, though, are a different matter entirely!

I had actually been attributing the recent open rooms to my own failure to properly close the doors, and again, neither the bedroom or bathroom had any damage or obvious disturbance, so I didn't worry. After all, my dog isn't a puppy anymore although she DOES on occasion get into things and make a mess simply because (GSD owners say it with me!) ...she's a GERMAN SHEPHERD!

Until last night, anyway, I'd been attributing open doors to my own failure to close them, and this is the cue that I need to give you a little back story.....

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, little new homeowner Adoro adopted a German Shepherd, age 1.5 years, from the local Humane Society. The paperwork and the staffer there told Adoro that her new pet was very very smart and had a long history of an uncanny ability to open doors she was not supposed to open.


Adoro learned this very quickly the first time she tried to kennel her dear GSD, only to come home 45 minutes later to find the kennel door ajar and the dog standing outside of it with a happy waggy tail and a big happy doggie grin. 


The next time Adoro left, she reinforced the kennel with flex ties at all points, even the door, thinking that as she would be gone for only about a half hour, this would be a good test of the new "security" system. 


When Adoro came home, the kennel was completely intact! Yay! The door was still closed and tightly tied shut!


Unfortunately, the German Shepherd was AGAIN outside of the kennel, staring at her, doggie-grinning and happy-wagging. 


Hmmm.....


Well, Adoro gave up on the kennel, at that point realizing that to continue might actually cause her dog to be strangled if she was trapped in an escape attempt and Adoro did not arrive home in time to stop the tragedy. So it was that she invested in a baby gate for the kitchen to prevent counter surfing (for some reason the dog did not desire to jump over the gate), and pseudo-gate the steps at the bottom to prevent the dog from going upstairs. 


Over the years this worked, until the German Shepherd did begin leaping the stair gate. In place of that, Adoro closed upstairs doors, especially after an incident in which her dog had injured herself during the day and cost Adoro hundreds in veterinary bills to prevent her dog from bleeding to death when the clotting factors were thrown off by the injury. 


That system worked very very well  unless Adoro forgot to close the door or simply didn't latch it properly. 

Until....now...

And that's where the story continues to the nearly present day.

Keep in mind that the doorknobs in my house are the round sort that tend to need to be GRIPPED in order to turn and unlatch.

Well, I had begun to wonder about the open doors, wondering if in fact, there was a "mechanical" problem with the mechanism - was it not latching properly even though I had pulled and heard the "click"?

Then last night, I came  home to find that my bedroom door was open and a child-size scapular I bought at the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City in 1994 was lying on the ground, the string in shreds and the miraculous medal lying neatly among the mess.

When I stopped to stare at it in confusion, my German Shepherd circled my feet, ears back, tail tucked with the tip wagging as she "apologized".

I picked up the pieces. None were wet so it happened hours ago. The string appeared to have broken through stress. There was no damage to the door or the knob. The dog was playing "guilty" all over the place, especially when I had the evidence in my hand.

Thankfully, only the string was damaged - the two main pieces seemed fine and perhaps can be used again.

You see, this scapular is one that maybe I had worn (I don't remember) but as it is so beautiful and comes from such a place, I put it on my doorknob as an act of devotion - both to preserve it and to remind myself of Our Lady's protection, her intercession, and of course, what it means to be devoted to Christ.

I guess my dog isn't really into sacramentals even though I've done my best to raise her as a Catholic and she seems to enjoy it when I pray the Liturgy of the Hours with her.

But still.- I couldn't figure out what the broken scapular had to do with the open door! And of course, WHY the scapular was broken!

Yesterday a storm had passed through, and as the years have gone on, I've noticed that my dog reacts more and strongly seeks my company when the thunder cracks. I wondered if perhaps she'd nudged the doorknob in hopes of finding me, or maybe to get as close to me (via my scent in my room) as possible during the storm, and the door just happened to be forced open at her insistence, the knob turned just enough.

Today changed that theory, but first a little more to the story: 

You see, a couple years ago my dog wandered into the upstairs bathroom one evening and apparently closed the door on herself. She didn't make a peep, but because she was often in my room staring out the window doing her GSD-thing, it wasn't uncommon for her not to be with me in the main part of the house.

Well, having not seen her for a few hours and wanting to feed her, I called and she did not come. I knew she was not outside (no fenced yard so she was never outside alone). I went upstairs, saw the door to my room closed and recalled doing that. But I knew she wasn't in my room because I'd ushered her out before closing the door. But why was the bathroom door closed?

I opened it and she exited somewhat sheepishly as I greeted her. I remember being confused; the doggie Houdini-extraordinaire hadn't made a peep up there and hadn't torn the door apart in an attempt to get out!

I thought that perhaps she'd forgotten about her door-opening skill after nudging the door closed during routine sniffing and decided to just wait it out.

Well...no. I was wrong. 

She just hadn't had the proper motivation at the time as she was quite content that evening, apparently, to lay down on the rug and take a nap until I'd opened the door.

Today when I came home, once again I found the bedroom door standing ajar and the dog acting guilty in her rush to pass me in hopes I wouldn't notice that, in fact, I didn't actually have to open the door myself.

I stopped, horrified, staring from the floor to the doorknob. Was my only other scapular from that shrine destroyed, too?

No, no...the ground was bare. I looked at the knob. No, there it hung, although it was a bit more tightly wound. I reached out to grasp the "tag" with the embroidered picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe, feeling the gold threads under my fingers. I tugged gently...and saw the knob turn. The string was just taught enough to rub and pull the knob to the side, releasing the latch!

As the door opened, I rose my eyes to my dog, perched at the window, staring outward, ears forward and twitching according to the sounds reverberating against those huge radars. She stood at the window I always left slightly open in fair weather to let the fresh air waft in, and there she could percept, as well, all the sounds of the neighborhood including the dog the neighbors always allow to roam off leash all day long....

Mystery Solved!

CASE CLOSED!

RESOLUTION:

* close window even while gone
* remove scapular from door and leave nothing to act as "doggie pull-chain"
* more interesting toys if actually affordable?  (donations accepted!)
* get a different breed  NEVER! GET BEHIND ME SATAN!  German Shepherds are as close as a canine can get to being human - must continue to nurture in accordance with St. Thomas Aquinas's hierarchy of Creation as this is clearly an animal present with Adam in the Garden! Must learn to be more like the dog whose thought process is very logical!

OK then!

Operation Deputy Tim

Welcome to another edition of "Storytime with Adoro". Sit back, grab an iced tea or lemonade, and enjoy the ride!

**     **     **

I grew up in two small towns, and the one I grew up in more was bigger than the one I'd grew up in before I'd arrived. So it was that my experience both as a teen and as an aspiring police officer occurred in a mid-sized city in a decent county that gave me both the connections of the small town along with the mysteriousness of a larger city.

You see...my family was small, followed the law, so didn't get into trouble. On the other hand, we weren't  exactly celebrities or politicians and therefore, we, the average taxpayer-type of family, did everything every other family did. That meant that my best friend from my local Catholic Church babysat for a county Deputy and I was, as her best friend and trusted by her family and a parishioner at their parish also...a substitute babysitter.

So it was that, through my church and social life, while growing up I came to know not just one Sheriff's Deputy, but a lot of them, and when I was old enough, (high school), was able to ride along with them on a shift or so and learn about becoming a cop...city or county. Cops are very supportive to those aspiring in their own footsteps.

Because I babysat for one Deputy's family, I was called upon, as a trusted ride-along and friend, to babysit for others, and their kids were kind when I was as terrified as spiders as they were. But that's a different story. (I think those kid's father is now the Sheriff, but I digress.)

Meanwhile, Back At the Teen's House...

We were plotting. That's what 18 year old teens do: they plot. So we did.

You see, our favorite Deputy, a very reserved gentleman and great Deputy in line for great things was about to have his birthday. Because my best friend and I, both trusted babysitters, could not let this date go by unnoticed in our own advanced ages of 18 and 19, we got in touch with his wife with a completely brilliant plan. We knew that we could engage her own mischievous nature, too.

We had decided that our dear friend, Deputy Tim, needed to smile a bit. We knew him to be a wonderful human being, but he didn't smile a lot so we decided that it was necessary to do something for his birthday that would bring a smile to his face and a bit of ribbing from his co-workers, who hopefully loved and respected him as much as we did.

In a bit of trepidation, his wife gave us the key to the van he was driving on that fateful day, admonishing us  with the dark directive, "Don't do anything to embarrass Tim or damage the van!".

"No problem!" We took the key, grinning at each other, knowing what was to come.

And, actually to be totally honest...as we were 18 and 19 respectively, of COURSE there would be an "embarrassment" aspect to our hi-jinks! Duh!

Tim's wife knew that, but of course she was just asking for some of it to be moderated a bit because anything we did to him would overflow onto her and she'd have to do the damage control. We knew this, too, and respected this limit. We had no desire to undermine the trust and respect we had for her and her for us.

This was a delicate and carefully planned Operation.

On the day it was to happen, when we picked up the key, Deputy Tim's wife gave it to us in an envelope along with his tentative schedule. Armed with foreknowledge, it fell to me as the most credible and criminal-record-free of the two of us, to contact the Law Enforcement Center with our plan so that we would be allowed into the restricted area where the County and City cops parked their personal vehicles.

Having often been there, I knew who worked the day shift, which dispatchers, and of course, the gossip tree that would send every "free" employee of the LEC to the windows overlooking the parking lot while we did our dirty little deed!

So it was that we drove around the block a few times to scope things out and saw, much to our joy, that Deputy Tim had parked the family van at the edge of the lot in full visibility of the main drag in town. SCORE!

We immediately knew where to hang our carefully crafted banner, precisely composed in the alternate colors of our respective vehicles; one of which Deputy Tim would not recognize as I had purchased it only a few days prior.

Oh, yes, we were Geniuses! 

Finally it was time. I picked up the phone and called the non-emergency number for Dispatch, identified myself, informed the Dispatcher that it was Deputy Tim's birthday and explained our plan. I asked permission for us to enter the premises to decorate his vehicle inside and out and invited her to contact his wife to verify our...veracity.

There was no need. She knew who I was, told me exactly where Deputy Tim would be and when so that we would have a perfect hour-and-a-half opening to enter the parking lot to complete our business.

I thanked her very much, hung up, and my best friend and I set to work blowing up balloons and stuffing them into our vehicles so that they would be ready for transfer at the proper time.

A few hours later, we entered the lot which was strangely abandoned, found Deputy Tim's van, and set to work. Very conscious of the fact that any available personnel of the City and County Law Enforcement Departments was watching us both out of mirth and protection of their friend/co-worker, we moved carefully to ensure we would not end up face-down on the pavement with guns pointed at us. Fine if the Investigative Division was taking notes, not fine if it went sour!

As I lifted up the hatch on the van, I whacked myself a good one, quite likely witnessed by the mirthful peanut gallery overlooking the lot from the LEC, and even as I wiped the blood away, I pretended nothing had happened. The LAST thing we needed was an ambulance to respond to Deputy Tim's van!

Not-quite-as-deftly-as-we'd-hoped, we stowed the inflated balloons into his van, hung our sign, and a special message on his rear view mirror, in case he happened to miss the fact that there were 80 or so balloons filling his vehicle.

We fled, returned to my friend's house and spent the rest of the day cruising around in my car since it was the one he didn't know.

 But Wait! There's MORE!

Well, Deputy Jim was no dummy.

He returned to work and was directed by his co-workers to get something from his PV (personal vehicle). Upon returning, he demanded information which was also provided as the dispatchers had my full vehicle information. At some point, my friend and I switched cars and drove hers, so it was that, as we drove through town, we caught the good Deputy's eye and he followed us, everywhere we went, but didn't stop us.

Finally, as we drove out of town and in between the lakes, he turned on the lights and my friend pulled over. It was a warm summer day, our windows were open, and because this was not a formal stop, we got out of the car, too.

Deputy Tim, smiling broadly, cheeks reddened, boomed at us, "How did you get into the van?"

We yelled back to him, laughing, "Ask your wife!"

To me he asked, "When did you get the car?"

"Last week!"

Still smiling, maybe with his trademark smirk, an expression rarely seen, he tipped his hat at us, got back into the squad, and drove away.

Yup. We made his day!

Operation Deputy Tim...COMPLETE! 

To this day, it's one of my favorite memories of growing up. Even though I haven't seen him or his family in years, I hope "Deputy Tim" also remember it fondly. Now having been a cop, even for a very short time, I know why so many never smile, I know why he was always so serious,  and pray that our teen hi-jinks of that day spread encouragement not just to him, but to his colleagues as well. After all, without them as accomplices, we would have been criminals!

In all seriousness, please pray for all who work in Law Enforcement; the Police Officers, Deputies, Dispatchers, Marshalls, Constables, Community Service Officers...and Rookies.

Pray especially for my friend "Deputy Tim" and his family and friends, most of whom are probably retired now, one of whom might actually be the current Sheriff.

Thank you.

The Daze of the Life of Adoro

Where to even start this post?

Perhaps it's best to begin with Mom, who sent me an early birthday gift with the explicit instructions to go shopping for new summer clothing. No, Mom can't afford to send me money, but she did and wouldn't take "no" for an answer, therefore I set out to do as she asked.

First, on Saturday, I went to get a haircut because my mane is way overgrown and resembles something like a worn out mop with weirdly cut bangs. (Hey, I got sick of them and chopped them!)  At best, I get my hair cut only once or twice per year, and because of that I used to "splurge" at a real salon and pay $35-40 plus tip. I figured, hey, for as little as I get it done, why not? That way I knew I had a good cut, they'd style it and I'd look awesome and my hair smelled great all day!

Well, given my financial situation, I gave up my salon "splurges" in favor of the cheap places. Fantastic Sam's did an OK job and I thought to go back to them. But while running errands on Saturday I happened to be directly across from Great Clips. Even though I swore I'd never go back there again, I decided to suck it up and go inside. Once there, I had to pay extra for the hair wash (ok fine), and decided on a whim to take off even MORE hair than I had planned initially. You see where this impulsiveness is going, don't you?

Yup.

I hate it. I don't mind the length, but I've discovered my hair is now curly and it's terrible because I broke a rule a friend in my past laid down for me. I used to go to her for my cuts when she was at an Aveda Salon where she was trained. She told me to never let anyone, and she meant ANYONE touch my hair with those nasty layering shears (whatever they're called). She said my hair had to be layered with a scissors and the tool would wreck it.

She was right. It looks awful, won't do what I want and now I just look like a worn out mop with the frizzled edges cut off with a dagger of some sort. Although my bangs look better now.

Well, that's what you get for $20.00, I guess. (Interestingly enough I got a better cut for less at Fantastic Sam's, although it wasn't anywhere near salon quality).  *sigh*

Oh vanity, my vanity!

Background info on what is to come....

A few weeks ago I went to the eye doctor for the first time in about 4 years because I received the notice to renew my driver's license. I have terrible vision and live in holy terror that I won't be able to pass the vision test, so I thought it best to stop in at the doc and pay for new glasses or contacts if needed. Coupled with eye strain of late, I was sure I was due for a new prescription. Over $100 later and no real update. Great. And I'm paying most of it, maybe all, out of pocket entirely without hope of reimbursement.

The good news is that instead of getting those nasty dilator drops on a really bright impossibly sunny day, I decided to go for the retinal scan, and that was the COOLEST thing ever! And the doc can see more, and now if I and murdered and disposed of in a weird way my remains can be identified by my retinal scan if my eyeballs are still intact. How awesome is that!?

But I digress....

One of the reasons for my slum-salon visit on Saturday, of course, was this big buildup for my visit to the DMV to renew my driver's license. I figured that if my photo is going to look horrible anyway, I really didn't have to have bad hair, too.

Joke's on me, I guess. Bad pic and worse hair than if I'd just gone in with my self-cut bangs and frizzed out barn mop.

Although I passed the eye test, no problem. *whew* !

Today, and Today Alone

My first stop today was the DMV to fulfill that dreaded task, then on to the rest of my list.

I'm not like other women: I hate shopping with a passion, but I knew I must obey my Mom especially given her sacrifice, so took myself to Kohl's with sincere hope of finding something.

Please allow me to be clear:  I hate hate hate summer-wear shopping with a greater passion than at any other time of the year because the stuff on the racks is tiny, even the things with sleeves are not really sleeves, and, well, let's face it: clothing doesn't look good on me at all. I'm no fashion bug and if I were rich I'd hire a personal shopper/ private investigator  because I'm sure even the highest end stores on the planet wouldn't have anything I could actually wear. In fact, I'm certain they'd forbid me to wear their for fear I might tell someone the name of the store and they'd lose all their business. Designers would flee from me in utter horror.

The only reason I wear clothes is that I'd look even worse without them and more than Designers would flee in terror. They might run then come back with harpoons and throw nets at me while calling me "Moby".

Meanwhile, back at the chain store....grabbing a few items of interest, certain they wouldn't fit but bound and determined to give my shopping experience the good ol' college try, I headed for the fitting room to try them on. Somewhere in the middle of my rejected and soon-to-be-rejected pile, a woman and her daughter came in and entered the stall next to mine.

I heard the daughter say, "Mom, you know that door has a handle."

The Mom: "And how many grimy dirty hands have touched that handle today alone?"

Daughter (pause) "Ew."

The Mom: "Yeah. Exactly."

In my growing irritation and crabbiness I had to bite down hard on my tongue to keep from saying aloud, "Gee, I wonder how many people have tried on these clothing items before we did? I sure hope everyone who comes here showers before trying on clothing, and hope they don't have mites or scabies or lice or syphilis..."

But I remained silent and rolled my eyes at the germophobe instead.

Dang it! Why do I feel so itchy all of a sudden?

So, having no luck at Kohl's, I was cranky and crabby and sad and wanted only to be home reading a book and avoiding people. So I went to Goodwill. It couldn't possibly be a worse experience, right? I had to find SOMETHING, and with my go-to place a bust I needed a shot in the dark.

Well, I did find a couple things at Goodwill and bought them, but they weren't the kind of things Mom had in mind, although they will be useful to me this summer and will probably impress my co-worker with my fashion prowess resulting from her artistic influence. That has limited scope, though, and is not going to pass the Mom-test.

(As an aside: Goodwill is the only place I've ever been where my charm doesn't earn me eye contact and a return in charm from the cashiers. They all behave as though they are working in a naughty store and are ashamed of themselves for working there and for the shoppers who come there. Having been in a naughty store, I can tell you those employees were much more "customer friendly" when they should have been avoiding  eye contact at LEAST as enthusiastically as the people of Goodwill try to do. Just sayin'.)

So after failing once again to charm the mysteriously ashamed employees of Goodwill, [and seriously, even the DMV employees were more joyful and personable - isn't that an oxymoron?] I headed to the Library and nearly tripped on a boy heading back in from the bathroom, carrying a huge key and walking along in shoes at least two sizes too large for him. He scuttled (or galumphed?) past me through the door and I couldn't help but watch his gait in those big athletic shoes, wondering what his mother was thinking by providing shoes like that. He was going to wreck his knees!

Then I just shrugged. Hey! Who am I to judge? I just came from Goodwill with my own version of poorly-fitted clothing!

My last stop was the grocery store. For at least two weeks I've been craving a root beer float but without the ingredients, my hands were tied. I didn't feel like dealing with Dairy Queen, so I looked for a small container of vanilla ice cream. Nuthin'. Seriously the only vanilla I could find was in half-gallon and above! With a sigh I bought the cheap stuff and a small bottle of A&W and paid for that and the other items on my list.

Now I'm back at home, staring at a livingroom covered with cotton from the latest toy to have its innards removed by Apollo the foster dog. I'm looking at stacks of junk mail that needs to go away and old things that need to be shredded. I have a sink full of dirty dishes from the last thing I cooked yesterday morning before I rushed off to Mass and work.

Today, in spite of the fact it's my day off, thanks to my failed and hated shopping expedition, from which I have emerged only to have to explain to Mom that no amount of money in the world will provide a good photo of me well dressed for her, I'm crabby and sad and bitter and angry. Maybe now she'll take back the amount I didn't spend between Saturday and today, and give this up as a lost cause.

I think maybe it's time to put on my worn-out cross-trainers, put new batteries in my CD player, grab some tunes, and go for a long walk while daydreaming all sorts of adventures and impossibilities.

*sigh* 

Sometimes the life we live in our imagination is the only cure for the hardness and bitterness of life under our feet. 

Death on a Stick

A couple weeks ago, Ironic Catholic recollected her novice days in Minnesota, wherein she pondered our seeming obsession with the weather. As she was to learn, "Weather kills you in this state!"

In college, I was on  the Nordic Ski team, and our differing class schedules combined with the individual nature of our sport meant that we all tended to practice when we had time as opposed to a more regulated schedule as demanded by team sports.

So it was that when the temps dipped after a storm, I was all excited to hit the bluffs for a good training session. I was even MORE excited when our University cancelled classes, citing the danger of the -75 windchill, can't recall the actual temps but they might have been about -50.

In any case, those actual ambient temps were probably the lowest I'd ever known, and I grew up in these frigid states...and wasn't about to be waylaid by mere cryogenics!

Taking my opportunity, I bundled up in a layer or two more than usual and went to the College Center to get the key to the ski room. Looking at me oddly, the freshman work-study student handed me the key and as soon as I had my stuff, I headed out to the groomed trails, recognizing immediately that they didn't make a wax for these temps; the snow was stickier than styrofoam and much....grippier!

Doggedly I continued, though, until, maybe a half mile or so further, I couldn't feel my fingers.Unfortunately I couldn't turn around yet. I was already deep in the bluffs when I finally recognized I was really in trouble.

My entire body had begun to go numb. I kid you not. The headwall was before me, but....could I even make it that far, or would the wind from my descent cause me to freeze in place even half-way down?

I'd never been so relieved to see a turnaround, and realized it had been built for idiots such as me, so I used it without another thought, pulling my mask further up, wishing I'd taken my team-mates' advise to invest in goggles for days like this.

There wasn't another soul out there that day, and even the ubiquitous deer were smart enough to huddle in some shelter...leaving me to realize my utter solitude and very real likelihood of death should I falter at all.

I was truly frightened that day, certain I would freeze to death, shocked at how easy it would be.

In 6th grade as part of a Great Books program, I'd read "To Build a Fire" and wondered when I'd start to feel warm...and knew that if that happened, it was finished. I couldn't start a fire...I had all kinds of wood but no spark and no shelter and no kindling.

As I skied back home, out of the bluffs, I knew I had one choice only: to get back..

I knew I was a total idiot for setting out in the first place!

The warm light of the College Center was a mirage;  I didn't believe it was really there until I'd descended to store my equipment and then turn in the key. I'm quite certain I was very blue or purple by the time I handed that thing over...the girl at the desk stared at me in horror, paused, asked me if I was all right, and let me go on my frigid way.

It took me the rest of the day to warm up.

I never told my coach I went out that day..I'm quite certain he'd have had a lot to say to me about that, but my lesson was learned just the same.

Yeah, we in the cold climates learn to live with it and play in it, and we find all sorts of sticks to play with in the snow...but ultimately, if we forget that this stuff will kill us, then we've lost the game entirely.

As I nearly did that day.

 Take this post as a warning, ya'all. No matter how tough you are, the weather will one-up you every time.

Midnight

In  those long car rides, I remember watching the landscape pass by in a blur, the hours moving slowly, yet I always had a sense of excited anticipation to penetrate through the boredome. I was always ready to “go” somewhere, to reach our destination.

The semis would rock the car sometimes when they passed, and if it was raining the water would spray up on the windows. Whoever was driving (usually Dad) would turn the wipers to “high” so he could see. My brother would look to see what kind of truck it was and what it was carrying. Mom would tell stories of helpful truckers and speak of road "manners" around those huge metal beheamoths.

The sound of tires on the pavement at 55 mph sometimes created a rhythmic cycle, sedating us with the gentle motion and song of the highway lullabye. We’d pass through exotic places, watching exotic signs, rivers, towns. The light would fade from the sky as we passed by Green Bay (which really wasn’t very green from what we could tell), and slowly those wide-open industrial areas would close in with trees, we’d begin to get glimpses of Lake Michigan and get excited thinking we were “almost there.”

But we forgot that Lake Michigan was much bigger than we could fully understand, and eventually we’d fall prey to the tranquilizing darkness and highway lullabye. In the half-sleep I remember hearing the whine of the transmission when Dad pulled off for gas or a “pit stop”. I recall the slamming car doors, opening and closing, Mom and Dad taking turns so one would always be with us as we slept. Sometimes they would wake us to eat something and then we’d return to our slumber, too bored and tired to stay awake, the darkened landscape no longer able to keep our attention – shadows aren’t very interesting to look at when they pass by so quickly.

I’d hear the fascinating familiar-yet-not-familiar names of towns as Mom and Dad discussed routes or remembered past trips together. The musical names like “Menominee” could almost be felt in my mouth, turning over, taking form, only to be replaced with the kid-friendly “Oshkosh (by gosh!)”, leading me to ponder, deeply in my semi-conscious state, the tag on some of the clothing Mom had packed for me. I wondered if we’d ever turn into Oshkosh (by gosh!), and if we did, would everyone be wearing the same thing?

We passed by exits for “Oconto” and “Oconto Falls”, while arrows on big green signs directed us toward “Marinette” (which always sounded like a place for puppets), but first, first…we had to go through “Peshtigo”, and like “Menominee”, I loved the feel of those words in my mouth, so different, so interesting, and in the case of Peshtigo…so historical.

I always wanted to be awake as we went through Peshtigo, as Dad always told us about the great Peshtigo fire, and promised that if we could, we’d stop at the Fire Museum there on the way home. It was one of those big events that, except for Wisconsin and Michigan locals, had nearly passed into oblivion as it occurred on the same day of the Great Chicago Fire…even though the one in Peshtigo had done far more damage and had taken far more lives.

I couldn’t always stay awake, although I recall waking in the darkness of one trip and asking sleepily where we were.

“Peshtigo”, Dad said. I tried to wake up to look around, but the sleepiness and the rhythm of our travel, the whine of the accelerating transmission, the turning of the car from this corner to that, the glow of the streetlights…all were too much and sent me back into my dreams, all aglitter with the backdrop of Peshtigo and the surrounding forest lands and the great expanse of water, water everywhere on the other side.

Finally, we’d arrive at our destination, and my haze of sleep would be penetrated by the changing movement of the car. Mom and Dad would be speaking softly to each other, and slowly, as we entered Escanaba, (where I’d once asked if Eskimos lived), the rhythm from the tires would combine with the emerging rhythm of street lamps, taking us from light into darkness back into light. I didn’t lift my head, too tired to do so, but I knew we must be close as the car was slowing now, taking more turns, Mom’s and Dad’s voices were growing a little louder now, speaking more urgently as pilots must, I suppose, as they approach their landing.

Mom would turn and try to get brother and me to awake.

“What time is it?” I would ask, rubbing my eyes.

“Midnight”, Dad said, turning into Grandma and Grandpa’s driveway.

He’d pull past the steps that led into the house, leaving room for the car to be unpacked. They had already decided whether to perhaps unpack fully that night or tomorrow, so when they got out of the car to greet Dad’s waiting parents, Mom could get my brother and I from our comfortable temporary cocoons and bring us into the shockingly bright light but comfortably warm kitchen with all the decorative Swedish tiles and the slight scent of gingerbread and potroast.

We’d be whisked upstairs, Grandma leading the way to our assigned rooms, leaving Mom and Dad to help us get changed and back to sleep. They’d finish unpacking the car while we went back to dreamland, resting on crisp clean feather pillows in the same place where Dad grew up.

Midnight.

Whirling Dervish

It's not news anymore as every blogger and his brother is writing about it, but we here in the upper mid-west,  depending on where we are, are either experiencing a Winter Storm or a Blizzard. We in "The Cities", as we fondly call the Mpls.-St. Paul area, don't have anything as dramatic as a "blizzard". We are instead being blessed with a "Winter Storm".

In proper meteorological parlance, a "Blizzard" is classified by wind speeds of something like 30 or 35 mph for at least 3 hours.  We here in The Cities,  have most definitely NOT experienced those wind speeds, although we have been experiencing very heavy snowfall, high winds (just not blizzard-high), blowing,drifting, and outright miserable road conditions. In other words...we are experiencing a mere Winter Storm. A big Winter Storm, but nothing with the quality of a Blizzard.

Now, don't get all down on people who call it a Blizzard! We Minnesotans like melodrama, which is evidenced by Fish-Stories on the Fishing Opener (yes, really), and Blizzard Tales at any point during a winter snowstorm! (And some of both are actually TRUE! Remind me to tell you of the time I nearly caught a Grandaddy Northern that nearly snapped my pole in half...)

Anywho...no matter what the term that applies, whether country or city, this whirling dervish is doing a number on all of us here in Minnesota and Wisconsin; therefore we do what all experienced upper-Midwestern people do in the winter:  we batten down the hatches and reserve our errands, if we must go out, to local endeavors. That is, if we can get out of our driveways and actually see where we're going!

Venturing into the Whirling Dervish

This morning I did have to run out and decided to do so sooner rather than later. We already had about 5 - 6 inches on the ground by the time I backed out of my garage, and I nearly got stuck where my driveway meets the city-owned Cul-de-Sac, which had clearly been sorta-plowed once, early on.

I considered turning back before I was even a block away; I couldn't see very well, there were random piles of snow created by plow wars between the City and various home-owners association contracts, and the idiots were out in force, fishtailing and driving crazy without actually looking to see if anyone else would be taken out by their stupid antics.

But I digress....

The main streets in my city were well plowed, every 2 cars was a squad car, and most people who had ventured out out were driving slowly and with consideration for other drivers.  I skipped one errand because I didn't think I could turn onto that road without plowing my entire front end into a plow-formed bank and getting stuck there until April.  The rest was fairly uneventful but for the near-whiteout conditions, saved by occasionally chopping ice off my wipers to make them work every now and then.

The REAL Story was this afternoon....

I was supposed to go to Adoration this afternoon and after my morning trek, was almost certain I'd make it.

Almost.

Like everyone else, I watched the conditions. If I had a 4-wheel-drive vehicle, it wouldn't have been in question. However, no, I don't. Prudence must come into play.

I called my hourly coordinator and learned one of the people on my same hour would almost certainly be there, barring sickness. So I waited, watchingthe weather, and when it got close to time to go, I walked down my driveway to assess the conditions. It was as if our own plows hadn't been through at all, and clearly the City had forgotten about our little street.

Sadly, I walked inside and called the gentleman to verify he would be there, and apologize to Jesus for being stuck at home.

I went back out thinking to check mail and further ponder...could I go? I knew that if the city plow came by while I was gone, I'd never be able to get back into my driveway. Then what?  (I'm sure my nice neighbors would help me shovel my car into the driveway).

There, where I'd been not 3 minutes prior, was a car about the size of mine, stuck in the muck of snow. A woman was behind, trying to push it out while the driver spun his tires constantly, actually working against the woman doing all the hard labor. I didn't know them, but asked if she wanted some help?

"Sure!" she responded, catching her breath.  (This is a very normal scene in MN. I've been pushed out by many a stranger, and they wave as I pull away, waving me also forward so as not to get stuck again! It's ingrained in our culture).

I joined her in back of the car and pushed, and the car began to move in spite of the driver's actions. After a couple minutes of not going anywhere or gaining momentum, the woman opened the rear door and told the driver how to hit the gas, not to constantly spin his wheels. I heard him yell angrily at her, and the only word I heard clearly was the f-bomb, at which she flinched, too. She started to respond, shrugged, and came to the back of the car and began to push again, so I joined her again.

Yeah, well, we got him out in spite of himself, I walked away and the woman thanked me. The driver...nuthin'.

But then again, in MN we don't do stuff out of courtesy; we do it because it's right. (Which is also why I didn't pop his tires in response to his obvious verbal abuse of his girlfriend..it wouldn't have been right.)

Anyway...there you have it.

I looked up just as we were getting the guy who didn't know how to drive out of his mess to see a City plow coming down the street. I tellya, these were the big guns, a huge tractor with 2 PLOWS!  The main one and a smaller more flexible extension. It was beautiful to behold, a true artform as he passed through and around our street, moving the snow out of  the way of we decent drivers!

I nearly applauded but by the time he was close enough to see my hands were full of mail and a package I'd ordered.

It was clear, though, that I'd been right to decide not to go to Adoration, as hard as that decision was; I would not have made it through the plow-slough.

God's Will, God's Designs

This weekend, I was originally supposed to go to Wisconsin, and with friends (and hopeful future religious community) attend Mass at the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in La Crosse, WI, offered by the now-Cardinal Burke. There were other very special reasons for this trip, and it was with a heavy heart that, yesterday, in the face of the developing storm, I decided to stay home.

Today I'm grateful for that decision, but sad that God denied me not just that grace, but also the regular grace of Adoration from me.  I still prayed at home, and took the time to work on my Icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. It wasn't lost time it was just...time differently allocated for God.

Although my attitude didn't start out this way, I now I thank God for this storm, for it was part of His plan for us all, and in all it's terrible fury, there is beauty, there is order and therefore there is evidence of God's love, mercy and benevolence.

Daniel 3:52-75

"Blessed are you, O Lord, the God of our fathers, praiseworthy and exalted above all forever; And blessed is your holy and glorious name, praiseworthy and exalted above all for all ages.

Blessed are you in the temple of your holy glory, praiseworthy and glorious above all forever.

Blessed are you on the throne of your kingdom, praiseworthy and exalted above all forever.

Blessed are you who look into the depths from your throne upon the cherubim, praiseworthy and exalted above all forever.

Blessed are you in the firmament of heaven, praiseworthy and glorious forever.

Bless the Lord, all you works of the Lord, praise and exalt him above all forever.

Angels of the Lord, bless the Lord, praise and exalt him above all forever.

You heavens, bless the Lord, praise and exalt him above all forever.

All you waters above the heavens, bless the Lord, praise and exalt him above all forever.

All you hosts of the Lord, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Sun and moon, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Stars of heaven, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Every shower and dew, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

All you winds, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Fire and heat, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Cold and chill, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Dew and rain, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Frost and chill, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Ice and snow, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Nights and days, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Light and darkness, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Lightnings and clouds, bless the Lord; praise and exalt him above all forever.

Let the earth bless the Lord, praise and exalt him above all forever! 

God Loves Single Women

Sit back, relax and have a cup of hot cocoa or something. It's Story Time With Adoro! 

I lived in Minneapolis when I celebrated my 24th or 25th Birthday. Maybe it was my 26th? Who knows?

In any case, I got together that evening with some friends who picked me up at my house in south Minneapolis and we went out to dinner at the Green Mill on Hennepin Avenue in Uptown. (For those not local, that's an area just "south" of Downtown Minneapolis, filled with restarants and nightclubs and to-die-for apartments and homes of high value but no parking. I'm sure it's the Greenwich Village of the Midwest.)

We were a small group, planning to meet a few other people later on that evening at a club downtown. Our plan was to go to South Beach (which would be host to a deadly shooting a few weeks later), and then meet another friend at The Quest nightclub a block or so away sometime around midnight.

As it turned out, we had to split up because a few people couldn't stay out the whole night, and one friend had to leave around midnight. So my friend who had agreed to meet her boyfriend at The Quest left with our other friend, Heidi, and I walked my friend Marie to her car in the parking garage. Then I headed to Quest and stood in line, hoping to get ID'd in time to get my free birthday drink.

I'm not sure if it's true anymore, but at the time, Quest was primarily a destination for those of African-American descent. It was a very popular and very cool place, they played great music with the unfortunate side effect (as in the case of several Downtown Minneapolis clubs) of playing host to the occasional murder.

We who lived there were used to the street warfare and realized that if we never went out for fear of getting shot, well, we'd never go out. Ever.

Seriously, part of a great night on the town meant risking getting caught up in the warzone antics of a few sociopathic malcontents who like to make city living miserable for their targets and anyone standing anywhere in their vicinity.

So there I was, alone, in line at the Quest. Just to set the scene, I was wearing a short little black skirt and a form-fitting top, both of which revealed my figure and my great-looking legs. (* sigh * I miss them) While I've never been a great beauty, I was quite easy on the eyes at the time, and fit in quite nicely at this dark, bass-thumping nightclub.

Indeed, I came in just in time to get a drink...but there were no birthday deals, so I paid to enter the club and for a rail drink. A screwdriver or rum and coke, I think. It doesn't really matter.

I wandered through the crowds, searching out my friends, who were supposed to be there. I coudn't find them, and was beginning to panic. Was I blind? Where were they?

I don't know why, but I've always had a fear of being left alone someplace, or being "stood up" somewhere. That night, that fear became somewhat of a reality. Although I knew that my friends would not intentionally  abandon me someplace like the Quest, of ALL places! What happened?

At some point, I met a guy who was either there with friends and got bored, or arrived there by himself in hopes of finding some sort of entertainment. He approached me as I was standing alone and clearly searching the crowd, and we struck up a conversation. This man was a complete gentleman, and in fact, helped me search the club for my friends. And no, he wasn't white. I'm pretty sure I was the ONLY white chick in the entire place at the time, which is part of what concerned me with finding my friends...they were white, too. They should have stood out!

This gentleman in his kindness basically became my escort (the good kind!) and talked me into standing still for awhile, with the thought that my friends might ALSO be looking for me. He logically pointed out that if we were all roaming on the opposite sides of the club, we might find each other if one of us takes time to stand still. I saw his logic so stood talking with him for a bit, hoping one of my friends might happen past, at which time I also planned to invite this kindly stranger into our own mix.

When the man left for a moment to either head to the bar for a water or coke or something, I remained where I was, and some gangsta-type guy walked up to me and said in a low voice, "The Brotha wants to talk to you."

"What?"

He wouldn't look at me. He was just a messenger. "The Brotha wants to talk to ya." And he signaled with his doo-rag clad head that I should follow him. 

Whatever

Now, mind you, I was still in a bit of a panic, I'd had a few drinks (although not that many that evening, even though it was my birthday), and in my distracted illogic, I had some hope that this guy was really an emissary of my friends. Never mind that my friends would not send a stranger to bring me to them.

Just the same, I went into a darkened corner with the guy, and there I was brought to the "throne" of another guy who was clearly in charge of the bunch. No one was looking at me. The "Brotha" had his hand partially covering his head in quite the kingly manner, and as I approached, he addressed not me, but his henchman who had brought me to him. He did not speak, just waved his hand in a "shoo-ing" motion.

I was largely ignoring him, instead, looking for my friends. I didn't know who this Loser was, but realized as I was there that I was in the besotted lair of some kind of local gang. The Crips? The Bloods? The Rolling 30's? Who?

Who cares?

In any case, the henchman pawn that led me to his king basically told me I was dismissed, (to give him credit, he didn't seem real thrilled with his role and actually had a sense of sympathy about him,albeit misplaced) and because I didn't really give a rat's ass anyway, I walked away. It wasn't as though they were holding my friends hostage. I wondered how many of those guys were packing heat, though, and how they'd gotten through the metal detectors.

Having left unscathed the pathetic Lair of the Gangsta King, I was happy to find my "savior" waiting for me. 

I told him what had happened, and he just shook his head. It was around that point that I realized I'd just been a sow on display and had been "rejected". And you know...I've never forgotten it. I've come to realize that The Quest was that  particular Gangsta Loser's own personal sow arena.That horseapple in a do-rag was sending his gangsta pawns out to find fresh meat for his approval, and if they didn't meet his image, in other words, if he didn't want to "tap that" then they would be dismissed.

Hi, I'm a cow. Like every other woman in the club that night, according to that jerk. Better a living cow than a horseapple, that's what I always say. 

How I wished I had hooves so as to trample such carrion into the manure they choose to imitate.

But really, never mind. That's an old story that will never die in any age.  The nice guy who befriended me and I both realized my friends weren't there, and so he actually gave me a dime to complete the fee for the payphone so I could call my friend. She didn't have a cell so I called her home number, hoping she'd check messages. She answered the phone!

Apparently, they had gone to Quest, the boyfriend of our other friend wasn't there so they returned to South Beach to pick us up...but Marie and I had already gone!. So she went home, not knowing what else to do since I didn't have a cell and it was plausible that I had gone with my other friend. Well, when I called she agreed to come back and get me, being I was stranded and all, so my new friend and I walked out and stood on the corner, waiting. It was a warm and pleasant June evening, and I was happy this guy really seemed to have no interest in hitting on me. He was legitimately a nice guy.

(How RARE!)

I learned during our sidewalk conversings that he was an Entymologist who had, until recently, lived in Chicago. He told me he was concerned with what was happening at the Quest, because, just after we'd walked out the door, there was a fight and a massive police response. Traffic downtown was gridlock. He said that clubs that catered to the black population in Chicago had been shut down because of crime, and he didn't want to see the same kind of segregation in Minneapolis as that which exists in Chicago. He liked the fact that a woman such as myself, and others of my friends (which I'd told him were also white or varying races) could come and go in such clubs, and that the main clientele of the Quest would come and go in the other Downtown nightclubs as well.

Among my friends, for our part, we thought nothing of it; although there remains a certain amount of segregation in every big city, in my observation, Minneapolis doesn't even come close to what is experienced in Chicago. I regularly hung out with a mixed crowd, and was comfortable in doing so. Perhaps the greatest evidence of this was my presence that night at The Quest; even though I never saw another white face, no one paid any mind to me or I to them. No one cared. Neither of us was "threatening" to another.

So it was that my new friend waited with me until Heidi pulled up in her Jetta. I had his phone number, but never called afterward because I "wasn't the kind of girl to meet guys at the bar". Yet, I have to say, I've never forgotten him, an oasis in a desert of immorality. A gentleman among creeps.

To this day, I believe that God sent this man to me to protect me, to help me get out of a bad spot, and to give me companionship in a place where a woman alone would have been in a very dangerous position.

The Quest is still in existence, and has hosted groups such as the bluegrass-influence group, Nickel Creek (one of my favorites). But I don't know what it's like now on an average Friday or Saturday night. I think, other than attending a concert, that was the last time I visited The Quest.

God looks out for Single women, I am absolutely convinced of that. 

No, I don't think the guy who befrended me was an angel, but he continues to serve as a reminder to me that God often uses us all to provide protection and comfort for strangers, and we should follow that call.

So I ask you to pray for the man who helped me that evening...may God bless and keep him, and raise up more men like him! He was the very image (spiritually) of St. Joseph. I wish I could meet him again, if only to thank him for his simple assistance to a young woman out of her element and without the protection of her friends.

I continue to believe he was motivated out of true good will, recognizing a woman alone, out of place, and out of her element. I've always felt bad about not calling him back, but at the time I was not looking for a boyfriend, I felt he was too old for me, and, well, I had met him at a bar (never mind we were both sober).

I trust he is likely now happily married and watching out for his own little girls. I hope he didn't feel too slighted by not hearing from me (for some reason I don't hear the earthquake of a breaking heart), but just the same, I remember him well, whoever he was, and hope that all mothers and fathers raise such good sons. He did their parents proud and I will forever be grateful.

My only regret is that he is not a friend of mine today.

Ladies, God takes special care of single women and often sends help even when we don't know we need it.

Gentleman, please look upon this example of how God uses men to protect His beloved.

It isn't rocket science; holiness is pure common sense, willing the good of the other and always living in the light of knowing we find our ends in God alone.

Between Writer's Block and Too Much to Say - Story Time With Adoro!

So, this last weekend I returned to visit the religious community I hope and pray with all my heart and soul to enter as a Monastic Sister (and with their welcome and blessing, should God will it), and in returning home, I had a miraculous adventure involving the Wisconsin State Patrol.

But I don't feel like writing about that tonight. Instead, I'm going to tell you about my re-discovery of 21 Jump Street, a show I used to watch in high school (I think I was in High School...or was I in Jr. High? Dunno).

I remember now why I loved Johnny Depp so much and am really happy he has turned out to be such an amazing character actor. And yeah, I still think he's hot.

(Yeah, I'm gonna be a Nun, God willing, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate His work or that I have forgotten my adolescent hots for a celebrity I'll never meet and would probably be totally disillusioned by meeting the real guy. Because let's face it: most people pretty much suck, being of fallen nature and all.)

Anyway....Tonight's Episode: The Parting of the Red Sea:

Watching this show has brought me back to my High School days.  In my town, we had Jr. High, which ran from 7th through 9th grade, which meant that 9th graders were deprived of Title in our town. Titles began with 10th Grade, the Sophomore year.

What really sucked about that was the fact that the angst of being a Freshman was transferred to the know-it-all-year of being a Sophomore in a new place where swirlies didn't reign anymore and all those who thought they had power actually became members of the homecoming committee just so they could have the dubious honor of having their houses toilet-papered by scantily-clad, overindulged cheerleaders with too much makeup, too many hours in the tanning booth and no imagination.

But never mind all that. I was a band geek, and to make it worse, I was on the Flag Corps because it was more fun to wield an instrument of potential weaponry than to tie a huge unwieldy music stand to my arm and play my flute with a bunch of untalented people who couldn't walk and chew gum, much less play music and walk in step.

OK, that was unfair...I really couldn't do that either and actually, still go down in the record books as the only Flag Corps member to create a disaster out of something for which she advocated tooth and nail.

But that's a different story, from Senior Homecoming. Let's just put that aside, shall we?

Back to Sophomore year...

We were new, we were lost, and we were trying to find our way.

Our fall Homecoming game was wonderful and I loved Homecoming as a high school student, in spite of our weird nostalgic uniforms circa 1970.

By then, we sophomores had been there long enough to realize that not only were we mere amoebas on the relative ecological scale, but that mouthing off to Seniors, especially certain Juniors OR Seniors might well end in death.

At that time, I was a mere mouse of a geek, so far off the scale and so far beyond caring that finally, I was beginning to show a little personality even at school.

After the Football Game that night (American Football, for any readers outside the US, meaning "not Soccer")  a couple friends and I were waiting for our parents to pick us up. I was standing on a cement bench, mouthing off or maybe singing some obnoxious theatrical tune as my friends heckled and "danced" below, all of us laughing and joking.

Suddenly some guy came through the school doors and yelled to me to "SHUT UP!"

I stopped mid-note and, indignantly, shouted back, "YOU Shut up!"

Then I saw him stalking towards us, resolute, passing under the single light next to the flag pole...and I realized who he was: the ONE guy NO ONE talked back to in our school.

He was the football player who walked through the hallways quietly, yet even when it was the most crowded, it parted like the Red Sea.

It was at that moment, as he passed beneath the light, illuminating his personage, that he questioned me in shock, "WHAT!?"

I gulped, realizing I was in for it so might as well make it worth it. I stepped down to be at eye level with him...well...sorta.

"You heard me! YOU shut up!"

My friends stared at me in horror. Two of them were Juniors, fellow band geeks-flag-corps-members.

Yeah...as it turned out, I made a new friend that night.

Rick thought I was cool because I refused to back down. We became friends that very evening.

That following Monday, he saw me at my locker and invited me to walk with him around the school, a typical morning tradition for most students. Think of Saturday Night Cruising...but transferred to a High School hallway. (Lame, I know, but that's what kids without driver's licences did at that time).

Me, the geek, holding my books for 1st Hour, went with him, amazed. He wasn't cute or attractive by any means...but he was powerful in that school.  And for some reason, he wanted to claim me as his friend. That made me automatically cool.

I was almost the Queen Esther of my High School.

So I walked with him, amazed to see the Sea parting in front of us, unconsciously.

Upperclassmen asked me about him, or to speak to him on their behalf.

They noticed.

I was uncomfortable with this. He was nice as a friend, and it was cool to watch the Red Sea parting, but really....I wasn't interested in dating him.

Then he asked me out.

Oh, crap. 

I told him I'd get back to him, and asked the advice of my friends. What I feared was this: retaliation. Would he retaliate?  He was "cool". If I turned him down, what were the repercussions?  If I agreed...um...would I have to ...ick...KISS him?

I learned more than I'm willing to expose here.

Suffice to say my own gut feeling was affirmed by my friends, although they were a bit in awe of the invitation and waited with bated breath my response.

Then one day his recent ex-girlfriend, a girl I knew both from Theater and Band, one of those big-boned girls who carried a lot of her own clout, told me she knew of his invitation and asked me what I was thinking.

I was honest. I told her that I thought I probably preferred to just be friends.  A little sadly, without any animosity, she said, "Yeah...that really is best."

That night when he called me as was his habit, I gave him my answer: I only wanted to be friends, but thought he was a cool guy.

He was fine with that, but our morning walks around the school continued and I therefore continued to marvel at the daily phenomena of the Parting of the Red Sea.

I loved standing at my locker between classes, watching He Who Walks Between The (locker) Rows, the students unconsciously parting before him, leaving him room as he calmly stalked along, looking neither right nor left, giving occasional high-fives and other things to his team members and other jocks.
 
It was like dating-but-not-dating the Mafia.

He graduated, nowhere near the top of his class, and not long after, ended up in the papers in a non-flattering way.

Last I heard he was in prison.

I don't know where he is now, but I am grateful for the friendship we shared and really thank God I turned his amorous proposal down.  I'd say more but I'd prefer he keep his criminal record to himself. He has a right to it.

No matter what, I still remember him fondly and occasionally pray for him.

That guy had issues most students never knew about and when the news broke, I'm quite certain he was disowned by even his own family.

Someone needs to pray for him. Might as well be me, not that my meager efforts mean anything, so I'm asking YOU to pray for Rick, too, wherever he is.

Everyone needs and deserves prayer, no matter what they have done. Our Lord died for them as well as for us.

I never said this was an interesting story. I only claim it as mine and hope the moral is apparent to me as it is to you.

There you have it.

God Loves Stupid Teenagers

It's time for "Story Time with Adoro"! Today's story is especially inane, so grab a cuppa-somethin', sit back and join me on a trip through memory lane.

Back in high school, although my best friend was sometimes a little wild, we really weren't bad kids and really didn't get into a lot of trouble. (Seriously, as an aside, she wasn't even with me the night I almost got arrested by the cop most kids called "Dick the pr*ck". And on that night, we were all the bookish-type kids who NEVER got in trouble. Um....Mom STILL doesn't know about that night. Or the story I'm about to tell. Both are filed under "stuff Mom doesn't need to know. Ever.")

So, anyway, now that we've established the fact that we were pretty normal kids, one beautiful Saturday afternoon, tired of staring at our own streets, we decided to head out to one of the nearby lakes. I was probably 16 at the time, she would have been 16 or 17, and had her license and her own car. Without telling anyone where we were going (other than "the lake) we headed the few miles out of town to Lake Mazaska. Because the beach was sure to be crowded and annoying, we decided it would be fun to hang out at the dock and watch the activity there. We really didn't care about swimming; we just wanted a place to hang out, talk, and maybe get our feet a little wet in the cool water.

Before long, we were helping boats in or giving them a friendly shove-off, joking with people here and there and just having a great time in general. One particular family came in to gas up and refill their cooler, and while chatting with them as they waited for their dad, they asked us if we liked water-skiing.  Both of us had recently learned how to ski and of course, loved it. Upon learning this, they invited us into the boat for an afternoon of skiing.

My friend looked at me, eyes shining at the prospect.  "Should we?"

Me, just as excited, said back, "SURE!"

As I recall...I'm not even sure I was wearing a swimsuit that day, not planning to swim. But what I had on was fine for the water and of course, this family insisted we wear our life jackets at all times. No problem; we'd been raised that way, too.

It was a wonderful afternoon of skiing, crashing, and near-drowning. I think I actually lowered the level of the lake a few inches because of all the water I took in that day. The oldest daughter on the boat, in helping me in after a particularly-bad crash, asked me, "Thirsty?"

"Not anymore!"

I agreed to sip on a pop (as we call carbonated beverages here in MN) anyway, if only to get the taste of the lake out of my mouth.

Late that afternoon, we returned to the shore, helped them pull their boat in and thanked them for inviting us to water-ski with them.  They told us that they'd be back the following Saturday (weather permitting) and we were welcome to join them again, about the same time we were there that day.  Again we thanked them and said we'd try to be there next Saturday, too.

As we returned home, my best friend commented how nice those people were, and she thought it was cool they weren't drinking or anything. They didn't have anything harder in their cooler than a Pepsi!  That very fact had made us both much more comfortable with the arrangement.

After awhile she asked me, "So...how do you know those people?"

"What?"

She glanced at me with a weird look on her face and turned her attention back to the road.  "How did you know those people? Did you  know they were going to be there today?"

"Um....I didn't know those people! I thought you did! I've never met them before today!"

This time we exchanged glances that were a mixture of shock, horror, and happy surprise. (Try doing THAT one in a mirror!).

"So..." she said, musing, "We just got into a boat with perfect strangers...."

"Yeah."  I mused silently on our stupidity.  "That was dumb."

"I thought you knew them!"

"Well, I thought YOU knew them!"

Hilarity erupted.

And, of course, we were back at the dock that following Saturday to join our new friends in one of the best summer sports on earth.

I think God loves children and stupid teenagers.

The End.

Disclaimer:   Kids, do NOT do what we did, although we only did what we did because we mistakenly thought the other person knew the strangers in question. We got very very lucky. No one knew where we were and if these had been bad people we would have probably ended up dead and washed up in a river somewhere.

Story Time with Adoro - Inanity

Since all of my 4 readers (God bless you!) have asked me to continue with "Story Time with Adoro" I thought I would indulge them this evening.  This post was originally published back on April 4, 2007 but I think it would be just as happy now in July of 2010.  

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One of the things no one knows about me is that I was once interviewed on the radio. In the studio. I'm certain that no one I knew actually heard me so this is knowledge only the DJ those present happens to have, and they've probably all long forgotten about it.

On the day we graduated from Firefighter training and were sworn in in a ceremony in which no one in my life other than my boyfriend at the time, himself a Firefighter for same city, cared to be present,  we "cadets" had a small gathering in a restaurant in downtown Minneapolis. We just had some drinks and appetizers, and then a few of us decided to hang out before the party in the evening, so we ran a few errands, picked up some beverages, and we ran out to my friend's part-time job (might have been volunteer): the B-96 studio in Minneapolis.

We all went in with her in order to get a glance at the inside of the biz, and she greeted the on-air DJ joyfully as they knew each other well, being fellow DJ's an' all. She told him that we'd graduated/were sworn-in that day.

He paused, appraised us all for a moment, and said softly, directly to our friend, shaking his head, "Aww...you KNOW I gotta put you on..." He smiled at us all, thrilled to be able to provide something other media sources didn't know anything about.

I can still hear the melodic tone of his voice; the man was born to be on the airwaves.

We found ourselves presently in a small conference room that could maybe fit 10 or fewer around the table. We all had microphones in front of us, corresponding with each chair. I wondered if I was suddenly cast onto the set of "Frazier." Was a Jack Russel terrier about to bound into the room barking? Was Roz going to enter making some sort of snide comment, with Frazier retorting in his high-falutin' over-educated, under-intelligenced manner?

No...this was a small radio station established off of Olson Memorial Highway in Minneapolis, home to the proud DJ's of urbandome.

Our friend was in her element, clearly comfortable. The rest of us just stared at each other and her with mixed emotions; excitement, trepidation...fear we would say something completely stupid and the whole world would have a front-row ear while they drove home from work.

When our friend got the signal, she started in with a typical trendy radio introduction, obviously her regular opening line. I'd never seen her happier. She explained the context of our sudden presence on the airwaves and went into "interview" mode, placing herself both as a DJ they all knew and as a participant in the accomplishments we'd shared in training.

I can't remember the exact question she posed, but I think it had something to do with our biggest challenges faced as women in firefighter training.

What an opportunity! What a moment! To be able to speak for and encorage women everywhere!

We went around the table, introducing ourselves as directed. I think we gave our ages (we were all in our 20's), and then we answered "the question."

I said something to the effect that I "learned to face and overcome a lot of fears...and I'll always take that with me."

So there it is. My one-liner which will never go down in history. My moment in the spotlight...and the ultimate reality of inanity, forever disappearing into the deepest inaninty of history, forgotten, buried, never to be heard again.

(Please do not flood B96 for requests of our interview on that fall morning late in 2001.)

So! I invite you into the inanity...I challenge all my readers to provide their own moment of inanity, and nothing is too inane! (This post should serve as proof of that....)