Everyday Life

Categories Everyday Life

Getting Lost in IL

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This weekend surely was not my time to shine as a Navigational Star. Debbie and I have gotten lost at least once every time we have ventured out alone.

On Friday, we drove up to Cantigny Park in Wheaton, IL. Uncle Steve had printed out MapQuest directions for us to get there–but sometimes MapQuest just doesn’t do the job. Like when you miss a “right turn onto exit ramp for such and such a street” and loop around back to that street and decide to take a left turn onto it so that you’ll still be heading in the same direction. Except that “right turn onto exit ramp for such and such a street” loops you around so that you’re really heading LEFT from the original direction–and taking a left from the opposite direction will direct you in the opposite way! (My main beef with MapQuest is its lack of directions–it always states R, L, etc., but never E, W, N, S.)

Then there was today. We were going into Chicago for the day to tour a couple of museums–armed with a Metra train schedule, a hand-drawn map from Aunt Rachel directing us to the train station, and a Chicago guidebook I’d checked out of the library back in Lincoln. We arrived at the train station in plenty of time for our 9:48 departure–only to be told that since today was a holiday, the Metra was running on the Sunday schedule and the next train wouldn’t be in until 10:48. We walked over to watch the town’s Memorial Day event while we were waiting and made it back to the train station for the 10:48 train.

We arrived in Ogilvie Transportation Center somewhere around 12:30–and I pulled out my guidebook so that we could make our way down to Field Museum–our first stop for the day. Problem was, I was looking at the map that said “Upper Loop” and it didn’t have “Canal Street” anywhere. So I was trying to ascertain our location based only on “Monroe Street” (or whatever that street was) and a vague thought that a river was located nearby. We started walking. The neighborhood became less and less dense–we saw fewer and fewer skyscrapers. We started to wonder if maybe we were going in the wrong direction. Ducking into a Walgreens for a quick restroom break and a chance to regroup, we discovered that we had been heading due WEST–away from the lake. The more comprehensive map in the back of the guidebook got us straightened out and we finally made our way to Field. We probably only added a mile or two to our already long jaunt.

The ride home was a breeze. Take the train back to Woodstock, drive along this road and that until we get home. We took all the right turns, recognized all the roads. It was great. We were on a roll. Until we got to one intersection that I wasn’t sure I recognized. It was a two way stop with a flashing light, and the intersection was set at a bit of an angle. Debbie thought she remembered it so we continued on. We were looking for the turn off to Rachel and Steve’s neighborhood. It couldn’t be that hard, we knew what it looked like. We knew it was on the right side of the road. We couldn’t miss it. So we drove on…and on…and on. We drove past farm after farm after farm–and were almost certain that we were NOT getting any closer to town. We turned around and called Steve and Rachel. “Um. This is Debbie. We’re on River Road and we’re lost.” Turns out their neighborhood was before the intersection Debbie had recognized and I hadn’t–we’d been too busy talking to notice the turnoff when we’d passed it. And the intersection? Well, Debbie recognized it from when we’d turned onto it to get gas on FRIDAY when we’d gone to Cantigny. Go figure!

I’m really not as bad with directions as this weekend might make me out to be. Honest!

Categories Everyday Life

Thanks a lot, Jack

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I woke up yesterday with a dozen things to do–finish my morning routine, empty out my car, take the car down to Walmart to get his oil changed and everything checked, grab some last minute groceries, pack everything into the car (including last minute items), clean out the fridge, turn off my computer, vacuum the dirt from the planted pot I knocked over the night before, take out the trash, lock up the house, and fill the car up with gas–all before 9 am when we would be leaving.

I dropped Anna and Debbie off at Mom and Dad’s house to hang out with the others while I filled up with gas at the corner gas station. I filled up and got into the car. I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. No radio, no lights, nothing. Certainly not the engine turning over. I jiggled the gear shift and repeated. Nothing. I turned the steering wheel and repeated. Still nothing. I called my parents in desperation. Joseph and Daniel came out to help–and discovered that they couldn’t do anything either. Thanks a lot, Jack.

We decided to go in Dan’s car instead. We transferred all our stuff into his car and pushed my car into a parking spot. Mom called Dad to let him know what we’d decided to do–He said, “Good luck. If Danny’s car dies on the way, leave it there.” If you haven’t guessed, my Dad doesn’t have that much confidence in Dan’s car. Nonetheless, we made it there safely–and even in time for Rachel’s homemade pizza before Aaron’s eighth grade graduation.

I mentioned our car situation at the dinner table, and Uncle Steve’s Dad pipes up: “Well, that could be just a loose battery cable.” I said I hoped so. When it was about time to go to bed and I took out my cell phone to recharge it overnight, I saw that I had missed a call from my mom. Her message said that Dad had gone to look at Jack and that it was just a loose battery cable–so it’s all fixed now. Thanks a lot, Jack!

Not that it’s really been that bad. Debbie and I didn’t end up driving ourselves on the way up–Dan drove us instead. That meant we didn’t get good private girl time–but it also meant we didn’t have to drive, or follow Joseph’s less than stellar leadership (that is, as a leader of a caravan). And Dan’s car does get better gas mileage than Jack does–especially a plus once we reached Illinois, where gas prices range from $4.009 to $4.299 per gallon. Ouch! So I suppose, other than teaching me a bit about humility and flexibility and forgiveness, the switch wasn’t that bad. Thanks a lot, Jack.

Categories Faith, Family & Friends, Reflections

Love Languages

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Looking at “Love Languages” comes and goes in popularity at my church. We hear a bit about it and then hear nothing for a long while before we hear it again. Each of the times it rises again, I take the test again, hoping to ascertain my personal “love language”. Every time, I am disappointed–as with every attempt to categorize myself, I find that I am on the border–or maybe I just want to think I’m different so I intentionally sabotage the results.

Then there are those people you can immediately place into a category–not because they are stereotypical, but because they abound so very much in that certain area. My friend Michelle jumps to mind. I don’t know how anybody who thinks about it could not see that her love language is gifts.

I’ve been helping Michelle move this last week–and as we’ve been packing or unpacking, she’ll find something she no longer wants and offer it to me. Or she’ll think of someone else who could use it. “This will be perfect for…” “I bought this for… but I forgot about it…so now I’ll give it to…” “Do you think … would enjoy this?” She’s so generous with everything–abounding in giving.

She reminds me of the chapter in II Corinthians where Paul speaks of the generosity of the Macedonians “that in a great trial of affliction…their deep poverty abounded in the riches of their liberality. for I bear witness that according to their ability, yes, and beyond their ability, they were freely willing…” (II Corinthians 8:2-3) Michelle is far from rich–she lives on government assistance and disability. She has what she needs–just barely. But even as she experiences want, even as she struggles under huge physical and emotional burdens, she searches out ways to shower gifts on others. She’ll go without so that she can give. That’s just the kind of person she is.

That’s certainly not my love language. I like giving gifts, and I like receiving them. But they’re not a way of life with me. I’m not sure what my love language is. I used to think that it was physical touch. I was always a very physically affectionate child–wanting hugs and kisses and sharing nose juice with Daddy (Eskimo kisses). My brother John’s love language is definitely physical touch–and that hasn’t lessened as he’s grown older. I don’t think my language is acts of service–that’s my Mom’s and I’m nothing like her on that count. I like to do stuff for people–but I generally don’t like receiving acts of service much–or at least, it doesn’t communicate love to me like it does to her. Which leaves quality time and words of affirmation. And those two are hard to determine between. I love spending time with people–I love a good quality chat–a chat of hearts to hearts and minds to minds. I like to do things together–like quilting with Joanna, or scrapbooking with Debbie, or eating lunch with my Dad. But I also really value the words–when someone recognizes something I’ve done, when my Dad compares me to my favorite role models, when I’m told that I matter.

I guess it isn’t so important that I know my own as it is that I know others–after all, what good does it do to know my own love language? A Love Language is something that one speaks involuntarily. I don’t need to learn how to speak my own language. Instead, I must seek to learn others’ languages–so that I can translate the love that I might easily speak in my own language into a language they can understand.

So tell me, what’s your language?

Categories Everyday Life

Home Depot or Menards? You Choose

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The north side of Lincoln has two big “lumberyards”. They’re located right next to each other with nothing but a Shopko separating them. Home Depot and Menards? It’s a hard decision to make. After all, they’re right next to one another–location certainly can’t be a deciding factor.

So which do you choose? When you need to buy, say, a ten foot length of conduit, where do you go?

[If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m asking for feedback ;-) For those of you who are new to this whole “blogging” thing, that means you click on the “comment” link at the bottom of this post and say something!]

Now, because I’m an honorable sort of journalist, I will declare my own biases. I have made my decision largely based on the jingles of each respective store. “Save big money, save big money when you shop Menards”–it’s repetitive but catchy. And it appeals to my base inner frugality :-P Home Depot’s on the other hand–“You can do it, we can help”–
seems to be trying at empowerment. But it strikes me as a bit patronizing.

My choice for when I need to buy a ten-foot length of conduit? See for yourself.

conduit in car at Menards

So what about you? Which do you choose?

Categories Family & Friends, Reflections

Stories from Korea

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One of the things I love best about going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house is the stories I know will greet me there. Some I will have heard before–Many, in fact. But with each retelling, I hear another detail, another glimpse at the history of my grandparents. I’ve learned to keep a notebook handy so I can jot down pertinent details of the stories so I won’t forget them.

This trip was rich in history–both because of the stories Grandpa told, and because of the mementos and photos I found in the basement. Grandpa talked quite a deal about his time in Korea–and this time I got most of it down on paper.

Grandpa was drafted not long after he and Grandma were married. He went away to Basic training, then to mountain school in Colorado. After that, he was sent away to Japan to be a Mountain climbing instructor.

When there were a whole mass of casualties on the front line, Grandma says, they needed more cannon fodder. And Grandpa was sent to the front to be that cannon fodder.

Grandma was at home, teaching school and listening for every report on the war. When she heard that the 25th Division Baker Company had been annihilated–it was the worst news of her life. Grandpa was in the Baker Company of the 27th Regiment, 25th Division. There was no way of knowing whether he had been among those killed. It was the end of the school year, with only the end of the year picnic to go, and Grandpa’s mom had heard the same report. Great-Grandma rushed up to comfort Grandma–or maybe to grieve with her. It took 13 days, 13 long days of uncertainty before a letter reached Grandma–a letter dated after the report.

Grandpa talks of how the war was mismanaged by Harry Truman–how they had no bulletproof vests, and several groups of Korean troops were assembled but had no equipment with which to fight. He says that when “Ike” became president, the first thing he did was get the troops bulletproof vests and equip the Korean troops. Grandpa says that he remembers pulling shrapnel out of his bulletproof vest–and not even wanting to think of how deep that same shrapnel might have gone if it hadn’t have been for that vest.

Perhaps the saddest story of all of Grandpa’s war time stories is how he describes the North Koreans. Grandpa said that there was a valley that was no man’s land–it was good rice land–and while truce talks were going on, North Koreans came down into that valley and started planting. The government said that was a Chinese trick–that they were trying to advance their soldiers by masquerading them as farmers. But Grandpa spent an afternoon watching one old man through his scope–and that was no soldier. It was an old farmer–and he was hungry. Grandpa almost always tears up when he tells this story–and when he speaks of the condition of the North Korean’s even today. The North Korean’s were hungry–and they still are, to this day.

The soldiers got “points” for their service–one point for a safe place like Colorado, one and a half points for Japan (if they were married), and four points for combat zones. There were two and three point zones too–but Grandpa says he couldn’t find a three point zone. Apparently, if you accumulated a certain number of points, you had fulfilled your service and could go home early. Grandpa accumulated quite a few in his stint as “cannon fodder.” And he had the additional advantage that several men in line in front of him had to stay in Korea for treatment of venereal diseases.

Grandpa wrote a postcard–one that I foolishly failed to take a picture of this time. In large block letters, he wrote on the back of the card: “Darling, ON MY WAY HOME. MORE LATER, MAYBE. Ron” He said he wrote it big enough that his mother, who was the postmistress, couldn’t help but hear the news too. It was the happiest news they’d received in a long time. He was on his way.

A few years back, at the 50th anniversary of the end of the Korean conflict, Grandpa received a collection of medals that he shows us grandkids every so often. One from the US with three bronze stars for meritorious conduct. One that indicates that he came under fire–served in active combat. One from the UN that acknowledges his service. One from South Korea that thanks him for his service.

He didn’t talk much about Korea for many years. Wounds from there and wounds from those here who took his service lightly while they played politics to get out of serving themselves took their toll on him. Grandpa was an angry man for many years over some of the experiences there–and from the response of his countrymen here. But God has been gracious, and has allowed that anger to soften a bit–and we hear in Grandpa’s stories the compassion of a man who did his duty. He fought in a war that he considered unjust, that he felt was mismanaged, that ultimately accomplished very little. But, even as he longed for his own home and his own farm, he looked through the scope of his gun and saw the person he was told was his enemy–farming in no man’s land because he was hungry–and Grandpa had compassion on him. The same compassion that I see every time he tells his stories.

Categories Everyday Life

Heading Out

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You won’t be hearing from me for a few days–I’ll be heading up to my mother’s fatherland immediately after work.

After I get back, maybe I’ll tell you about my day as a football player–or maybe I’ll have some great stories from the fatherland to share with you.

Have a great weekend!

Categories Family & Friends

Anatomy of a Nerd

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It’s finals week for the students–so it’s Spirit Week for workers. And today is Nerd Day.

Hair-put up in bun per guidelines–but with bumps all along due to not combing after showering

Glasses-nerd glasses compliments of Dad–they were his first pair. I just happen to be able to see through them (having apparently inherited his eyesight.) You probably can’t see the “geek fix” blue wire holding one earpiece on–but that’s an original invention of my dad’s.

Glasses chain-utilitarian nylon rope bought by myself for our family trip to Yellowstone last summer.

Mismatched shirt and sweater vest-my own shirt with my brother Dan’s sweater vest. Note that the vest is tucked into my pants.

Frumpy, too short pants-compliments of my sister Grace, these suckers have me in a perpetual state of painful wedgie. (Sorry, that was probably TMI.)

White Tube socks-stretched out and stained, these tube socks came from the box of socks my brother Tim just can’t stand to throw out.

Gray Velcro hold shoes-another offering from my Dad. He loves the velcro closure for mowing lawns and the like–makes them easier to get off with dirty hands. It just so happens they’re only a size too large for me.

Okay–so now you know our secret. My entire family is composed of nerds. But, at least we don’t (generally) wear all this stuff together. Apart from his sweater vests (which he doesn’t tuck in), Daniel is generally well dressed (for a nerd). Despite his velcro shoes, my dad no longer wears huge glasses with blue wire holding them together. And Grace actually fits the pants she lent me (although I don’t think she wears them often, the waistline being a bit funny.)

We actually tend to look somewhat normal. Well, except maybe me–but that’s another story altogether.

Categories Everyday Life, Politics

I’m trying to decide whether I’m excited to receive my economic stimulus payment

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I received a letter today from the IRS announcing that I would soon be receiving my economic stimulus payment. I checked my bank account and discovered that it had been deposited last week. I was really hoping I wouldn’t get it–so that I wouldn’t have to decide what I thought about it.

I think it’s a great idea in one sense–and an awful one in another. I am all about putting money back in the hands of the people–and spreading it out over a lot of people at that. The economic stimulus package does that. It’s a better plan than an alternative that might have the government artificially interfering with the economy. In general,my thought is that the closer we can get to a free market, the better off our market will be. Better that the money (and thereby the control) be in the hands of the people than in the hands of the government.

The problem is–it’s even better that the money be in the hands of the people that earned it. And that’s not me. I didn’t pay taxes last year. I earned money. I filed taxes. But I didn’t pay taxes. So the money that just got placed into my bank account? It came from somebody who paid taxes–likely someone who needs it as much or more than I do. It came from somebody who was working for a wage they didn’t get to keep. I kept all my wages.

It’s not fair, it’s not just. It’s government as Robin Hood–stealing from the “rich” and giving to the “poor.” Except that I’m much richer than many of the “rich”. I make enough to live comfortably–to give, to satisfy my needs and many of my desires. I have very little debt–which makes me pretty rich among Americans. If I don’t have enough money, one person goes hungry. If someone else doesn’t have enough, an entire family may go hungry. But I qualify, on the basis of an income bracket and a semi-random lottery, to receive $300 that someone else worked for and was forced to hand over to the government.

But what can I do? I can’t right the injustice. It was deposited into my bank account. I can’t just rip it up as I might have been able to with a paper check. I can’t return it. And I don’t want to. After all, better that the money be in the hands of the people than in the hands of the government. It’s just that it doesn’t belong in my hands. I already earned my money–and I got to keep it all.

Well, Lord, injustice or not, I have received this money. Help me to use it in a way that would bring honor to Your name.

Categories Everyday Life, Reflections

Unabashed Packrat

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I’ve been a packrat since my earliest childhood–saving everything, generally for the sake of “projects”. I could throw away those little boxes that the decongestant comes in, but who knows? I might need them for a project someday. I could throw away those panty hose with runs–but there are lots of projects that could use them. So I keep almost anything.

I’ve started to get a little better about throwing things away–pantyhose, for example. I’ve discovered that I don’t really end up using the pantyhose for anything. It just sits in my drawer making me have to sort through everything to find a pair without runs.

Other things, though, are still hard. I save the boxes the decongestant comes in–and recently used six of them to create a divided pencil holder/storage thing for my bookends (that I made from corrugated cardboard salvaged from work). I save toilet paper tubes–and use them to keep stray cords manageable–or to hold the plastic sacks that I get from Walmart. I stuff the sacks into the toilet paper tube and drop the whole tube into the bottom of my trash can. It keeps the sacks contained and available to use as trash can liners whenever I take out the trash.

And then there are the things that I go out of my way to collect. I do a fair bit of laminating at work, and at the top of each sheet of lamination is a 10×30 inch strip of clear plastic that doesn’t have anything inside of it. I felt loathe to throw it away–especially when I noted its similarity to transparencies. I use transparencies on occasion when I’m scrapbooking, but they’re pretty expensive to use regularly. This on the other hand…it’s free, and I’d throw it away otherwise.

So I have a paper bag full of laminating waste.

I haven’t done much scrapbooking since I gathered it, so it’s just been sitting in my closet. I considered throwing it away, but decided not to–after all, you just never know when it might come in handy.

Then recently, I’ve been reading Marla Cilley’s (the FlyLady) book Sink Reflections. She talks about her “Control Journal” inside and recommends that readers make one of their own using a 8.5×11 three ring binder. She talks about putting your routines inside page protectors so that you can use a dry erase marker to mark off each step as you complete it. I like the idea, but abhor the thought of using that large of a notebook for my Control Journal. I prefer using half sheet notebooks for anything that I’m going to be carrying around with me regularly. Besides which, my planner (which I will begin using again when life demands–when I get back to being a student after my brief respite into the leisurely life of the working woman ;-P) uses a half sheet, and it’s much easier to let everything be consistent.

But, as far as I know, there aren’t page protectors for half sheet binders. Or if there are, they’re bound to be pretty expensive. As I puzzled over this issue, the thought struck me–“Why don’t you make your own using the laminating stuff? Brilliant idea.

So I cut the laminating stuff into 8.5×11 sheets, folded them in half and punched three holes along the open edge. There you have it–page protectors for half sheets. At no cost.

I begin to think that being a packrat really does pay off.