Your Guardian Angel

Last week I participated in my 6th event with Tourism Cares, on the beaches of New York.  Though the years I have undertaken many *very* glamorous projects, such as painting chain-link fences, pulling out rose bushes, moving artifacts in a museum, and my all-time favorite, cleaning a ditch.  We usually visit an underfunded state or national park that is in need of a little TLC, and swarm in like bees and touch as much as we can in a few short hours.  It is absolutely amazing the amount of work a group that size can accomplish in just a few hours. 

Tourism Cares has always organized each event so we have time to visit with each other, spend quality time working, and to also explore the destination.  Every one of these trips has given me memories of sites I may never have seen otherwise, and days spent with new and old friends giving back to the industry that has given us all so much.  It's a day to embrace the grassroots of our industry, and the local areas that really need our help.

I was introduced to Tourism Cares by a childhood friend, who is now the general manager of a tour company in Sacramento.  As I live in North Carolina, we were lucky to see each other once every other year or two.  My career has always been on the agency side and our paths haven't crossed professionally, though we have both been in the industry for more than 15 years.  He was attending the Gettysburg event in 2009 and asked if I'd have time for a visit since he'd be nearby (it's all relative: it was a 9 hour drive for me but he lives in CA, so sure, I'd be "nearby").  I asked if I could come too and that was it - I was hooked.  We spent my first event in a battlefield clearing "non-historic vegetation" from the perimeter of the property (translation: pulling out rose bushes).  One of my favorite memories was lying in the grass at lunch, imagining what a day in that field was like for soldiers who were there 150 years earlier, in heavy wool uniforms, having walked hundreds of miles from home to fight.

Later projects have taken me to Mystic Seaport in Connecticut (moving artifacts in the museum), Washington DC (where I painted fencing at my favorite monument), Angel Island in the San Francisco Bay (cleaning a ditch of debris and stacking firewood in a fire line of 100 people),  and one of my favorites, cleaning up Gold Rush-era grave sites at the old city cemetery in my hometown of Sacramento last fall. 

This spring's trip was announced for Coney Island and Jamaica Bay a few months before Hurricane Sandy hit the area.  I was already planning to go but once the storm hit I felt a stronger pull to go help the area that saw so much devastation.  My group spent a very sunny Friday at Fort Tilden (on Jamaica Bay in Queens) where our group cleared a road that had been buried in sand, put up fencing to help recreate the protective dunes that were lost, and cleared trash and building materials (nails, roof tiles, bricks) from the sand so that hopefully by the end of summer children will be able to play there again.  Several generations ago my family came to America and settled in Jamaica Bay, so this was a very interesting connection for me, thinking of my tenth-great-grandparents walking these same beaches more than 300 years before.

Once I've visited each of these areas and spent a day helping with whatever task I am assigned, by the end of the day I have a new place that I care about and feel a connection to that area.  I may never go back to any of these places and see the results of the work we've done but I know groups of school kids are probably at Gettysburg on field trips this week, and Mystic Seaport will have large crowds soon, and hopefully Coney Island and Tilden Beach will be fully back in business by the end of the summer.  All of those places were touched by people who cared enough to come help, and didn't ask anything in return except for a sunny day with friends and colleagues.

Next fall we will meet up again at Plymoth Plantation in Massachusetts.  I'll see old friends and make some new ones, and probably spend the day painting or pulling weeds for a few hours.  At the end of the day we'll leave it a little better off than when we arrived and I'll have a new place to care about.  I can't wait.

Just The Way It Is, Baby

When I was little we had a red and white truck and lived off a dusty dirt road.  My father used to let me sit in the steering wheel (with my legs through the holes) and "drive" the car while I held on, screeching the whole time.  He was a police officer then and I was afraid he'd get in trouble.  Even then he was teaching me to make my own rules.

When I was a little older he gave me a job picking up walnuts off the ground.  We are nut growers -- I say "we" because I "worked" too.  I hated that job more than anything because the black walnuts fleshy outsides would rot and turn black and my hands would be stained for days.  I had to wear dish washing gloves to do it but often gave up because they were big and my hands were small.  I got paid $2 a bag and the bags were bigger than me.  My father like to tell the story off looking out to the trees and seeing me, sitting on my little stool, shoulders shaking with sobs because I was so unhappy.  I'd sit there bawling my eyes out instead of just picking up the darn nuts.  Even then I thought he was trying to get me to go the work he just didn't want to do, but I learned something.  I learned that even big jobs can be accomplished if you chip away at them.  And sometimes it gets messy.

We used to go camping in the summers with other families.  My father pushed me to jump off the deck into the water when I was afraid and then grabbed me underwater like an octopus when I finally made the plunge.  He thought it was funny and he was making me brave.  What I ended up with was a lifelong fear of "things" in water.  Even swimming pools.  Good job on that one.

When my parents got divorced my father moved away and that's where our story gets complicated.  I can only imagine how difficult it is to parent a child from across the country.  What I'm an expert in is being that child.  The child who misses phone calls, missed her dad at her graduations, and had her step-father intimidate her teenage boyfriends and teach her how to change a tire.  The distance really did separate us in every way for a very long time and even with my amazing step-dad stepping into the void, I had a father-shaped hole in my heart.  It took a long time but I think I understand it now and we are in each other's lives again.  It was hard fought and can be prickly and complicated, but it's always just been that way.  

Now my father is sick.  It's sudden and surprising and I don't have any idea if it's something he'll suffer with for a long time or if I'll be able to be thankful for him seeing next Thanksgiving.  I just don't know.  I find myself bursting into tears a few times a day, sometimes just because a random thought went through my head.  It struck me that this story I've got in my head about how the relationship that has defined so many others may soon have an end.  I am so grateful that we found a way to be important to each other again.

Here's what I do know: this is something everyone faces and it's just my turn.  I've lost two very significant people in my almost-forty years.  Just two.  My grandparents are all gone but they lived long lives and we were grateful for the lives they lived.  This is different.  Maybe he gets to teach me one more thing.  Maybe it's time to let go of the past and the hurt and the scorecard.  Maybe it's time to practice grace and compassion.  And maybe even learn to say goodbye.  

Lookin' for a Good Time

I’ve been away a while.  I still think in posts but just hadn’t sat down to write one in, well, two years.  I can’t believe that much time has passed, in really just a blink.

In the last two years I...

• Learned how to play fantasy football (but still don’t know the rules for actual football)
• Completed 4 more classes towards my MBA.  I’m 40% done.
• Made new friends.
• Flirted with a boy or two.  Made a total fool of myself at least once.
• Traveled.  So much traveling it will sound like bragging but I saw so many cool things and people I care about.  Just this year there was Miami, Orange County, Las Vegas, Maine, Las Vegas again, Virginia, New York City, the beach, Las Vegas yet again, with many more places yet to come.
• Went to 4 plays, at least 5 concerts, ran in 7 races and spent a day at a theme park going Upside Down on roller coasters.
• Lots of hockey in the winter and spring (on hold now until the lockout ends).
• Sweated through a baseball game with my dad and cousins in 100 degree heat; saw slightly cooler football with friends.
• Acquired a bicycle.  (I’ve actually ridden it 3 times!)
• I went out with new friends one spontaneous night and danced and danced.

What I’m trying to say is I’ve lived.  Sometimes in the day-to-day-ness of work and chores and trying to exercise and whatever else is on my to-do list, I forget to notice I am living my life and having a pretty good time.  

I have more adventures planned this year -- and maybe a few things to say about a long-term house guest -- so I plan to be back.  Hopefully it won't take 2 more years.

Sunrise, Sunset

Everyone has a favorite teacher or two growing up. I have a handful of gems that I look back on very fondly. People who treated me like they saw something special in me and wanted to help me achieve great things…

Mrs. Little and I shared our favorite books after school. She was my 5th and 6th grade teacher. I recently visited my old elementary school in Woodland and it looks more or less the same, just smaller like everyone always says. Wandering around the empty campus on a Friday afternoon I was stopped by a current teacher who appeared to be close to my age. She questioned why I was wandering around an elementary school and I explained I’d graduated from there 25 years ago. She got very excited and wanted to show me all the new things, the amphitheater that was flattened and the new multipurpose room in its place, the tetherball courts they are taking out this summer (no!) and the new soccer field. I only wanted to know what had become of Mrs. Little. I learned she is now teaching in another city nearby. That made me happy. I believe one of her sons still has a library book of mine that is seriously overdue.

Mrs. Castle was my core teacher in 8th grade. I was a new kid at a new school for the second year in a row and wasn’t making friends easily. She purposely pronounced my name wrong every day for a week until on Friday a girl named Aimee exasperatedly said, “Mrs. Castle, it’s not that hard, her last name is Mac-in-tire. Really, it’s not hard.” Mrs. Castle winked at me, agreed, and never got it wrong again. Neither did anyone else. She encouraged us all to write and gave us some of my favorite assignments. My most memorable was a movie review of the Gregory Peck classic, To Kill a Mockingbird (which I recall I titled “How To Kill a Book” and upon further review, I’d like to issue a retraction).

In college my favorites were Dr. Madison and Dr. Merrifield (Andy, really), and they both made my little world a lot bigger. Dr. Madison taught me that a dot on the map (Burundi?) is just as important to its people as any in the largest empires. Everywhere is home to someone and home is always worth fighting for. Andy was just Andy, the sounding board for all of projects, my path for my future and biggest critic of the pajamas I wore to his morning classes. My only regret there is not being more open and expressing myself more because I think he was interested in what I had to say, but my shyness won every battle. At graduation he told my parents that I’d been a wonderful, thoughtful student but that I was too quiet and hadn’t found my voice (for the record my step-dad couldn’t have disagreed more about me being quiet).

This brings me to the big one; the teacher who taught me the most about myself and probably wasn’t even trying. Mr. Schroeder was the band director at Loara High School for as long as anyone I know can remember. This is a man who was able to make hundreds of kids arrive early for 6:45am practice, in the misty fog on a cold morning (ok, in So Cal so it wasn’t that cold). There were days we stayed after school until the stars started appearing the sky. We marched in the blazing sun, in the dirt, in the mud, in high heels (!), in the most uncomfortable uniforms ever created (we were rarely cute and the Zorba getups were the absolute worst), and we gave up every weekend for the priviledge to do so. With a very few exceptions we never came in first, always took home the little trophies (if we took one home at all – and court doesn’t count), and still we gave him hours and hours of our precious adolescence. We rode in busses to competitions all over Southern California and to this day I still remember secrets I learned on the ride to Mount Carmel in my sophomore year. In a time in my life when I didn’t have a well-developed father figure in my daily life, Mr. Schroeder was always there. He was my conscience (that man had some serious rules!), and he forced me to make decisions about what I really wanted, pushed back when he thought I was making the wrong decisions, then commended me for sticking to them. I still have a bond with every BG I’ve found since then that comes from the shared experiences and how much we loved every bit of it, even when we hated it. There really were blood, sweat, tears, a separated collar bone, and a concussion that knocked me out of AP English my senior year – and it was all worth it.

Mr. Schroeder retired last week and over 100 former students showed up at his retirement party (with a little warning I would have flown across the country to be there). I really can’t imagine how he can be leaving as he was in his 40s when I knew him and I’m still a kid, aren’t I? Realizing almost 20 years have passed is harder than I thought. Seeing what that means to that school, the program, those kids – that really made my heart hurt a little bit. I have no idea how the new generation of BGs have fared because like everyone does, I grew up and moved on, leaving Mr. Schroeder right where I left him to watch over the new kids, the practices, the initiations, the uniforms, the run-throughs (let's do it again!), the camps, trips, competitions – the next waves of BGs. I was lucky to have him in my life and know those kids lost something last week. I congratulate him on a career of actually reaching kids and making them care about something bigger than themselves, and more importantly, each other. Thank you Mr. Schroeder, from the bottom of my 17-year-old heart.

Car Crash

I’m wide awake and so alive…

Every once in a while I feel more awake in my life. Sometimes it can be something as simple as taking a walk and smelling someone cooking in their yard, or hearing a song I love while driving with the windows open. It reminds me that I’m living my life instead of just waiting for it to start.

I went on a trip a couple of weeks ago and everything was just so normal. Just the same things I do every day and everything that I had planned. I did a few things that scare me (like standing on glass 110+ stories up in the air) and took a little time to appreciate where I was, notice my surroundings, and spent time with a very good friend. But still...

I want to feel the car crash
'cause I'm dying on the inside
I want to let go and know that I'll be alright, alright

It was so nice to be me, somewhere else. Maybe that’s why I love traveling so much. I get to try out a different life. Feel what it’s like to be a different version of me.

When I come home, I’m the regular me again. The one who is still waiting for whatever is next…does anyone else feel like that? At some point do you feel like you are just living instead of waiting?

Your Song

Today I feel like singing. It doesn't happen often (singing in the car doesn't count). I usually feel like singing when I have something to say but feel like I need someone else's words to help me get out whatever it is on my mind. What is strange this time is that I'm not really sure what it is I'm trying to say.

This space out in the universe where no one really pays attention used to be my place to get things off my chest, but for months now I've ignored this side of me. I felt like no one was listening and I felt like everyone could read my thoughts, all at the same time. With so much percolating right there under the surface it feels a little dangerous, putting stuff out there. This spot, that's all my own, was someting I avoided because I was afraid of what I'd say.

So where have I been lately?

...growing into my responsibilities and learning that I don't always have to be the good guy. I don't like being the bad guy in any given situation but as long as I try to stay fair, things usually work out.

...completely alone in a crowd of people. I'm able to have a lovely time with friends but still end up feeling like no one needed me to be there. I'm just an extra in everyone's movie and my name doesn't even make the closing credits.

...like a work in progress. So the next act is unwritten, but is anyone working on the first draft? What happens next?

...hopefully I've been a good friend and daughter. Most days I'm not really sure.

So back to the singing...I have all these things bottled up and no way to get them out, so I sing when no one is listening. I search for songs that say what I need to say and hope that just thinking the words is enough. I'm not sure that it's working tonight.

I'll have to get back to you on that.

Sick Cycle Carousel

I can't write now because I am afraid I will say something I shouldn't. I tend to put my heart and thoughts and wishes right out there and I'm suddenly afraid they'll be seen. I tend to be too quick to tell people what I think and believe and feel -- and more than once I've been completely wrong, and look back just days later with a laugh and realize how silly I was.

I think I know what's in my heart, but my heart is always wrong. Maybe the problem is in those first two words: I think. I'm not the kind of person who can stop thinking. I wish I could be impulsive and reckless and...what was it Shelley and I used to be? Spontaneous. Back then, spontaneous was driving to the beach without a blanket, or heading to the mall when we were supposed to go to the library.

I could take a leap.

...or a chance.

...or....spend another year without a hand to hold.

It never stops. Sigh.