A Lift at MSP

You know how it is. You have to get up at some unearthly hour, like 3:45 AM, and so you don't sleep for fear you won't wake up and you'll miss your 5:45 flight home from Canada.

That was my story last Saturday night.

But I made the flight, got to Minneapolis/St Paul airport, walked around for half an hour or so, found a quiet spot, comfortable chair, pulled out my book, and started to read. Of course, I fell asleep, head down, quite like an old person. But that's okay. I'm very tired, traveling alone, no one knows me. And so on.

Suddenly I hear, "Mrs. Schiess?"

What? Is it a voice from heaven? From dream? From some official someone?

Perhaps you can imagine what went through my head as I became aware of this voice calling my name in a place where no one knows me and I'm asleep--and now embarrassed to be asleep--and I open my eyes wondering what on earth has happened.

I look.

He says again, "Mrs. Schiess."

Now I am awake, able to focus, and see the face is one I recognize. I say, "You're Kip."

And it's true. He is Kip, a former student of mine, about 11 years ago, he says. We chat a few moments, then he says, "We'll probably be on the same plane." That turns out to be true, and we sit across the aisle from each other, purely by chance.

He is a parole officer, he tells me, and he also fetches troubled kids and takes them to a wilderness camp. He's got a Latino kid from New York with him, heading to Gooding, and the kid, says Kip, is worried as we approach Boise because everything looks so brown and desolate. I say something clever, like what does he expect when he hears the word wilderness.

Kip tells me he loves his work. He also tells me he is always glad to see me, which, I have figured out, is twice in 11 years. It's nice to hear.

I tell him he's not as slender as he used to be, you know, he's grown up, filled out. He says, "Guess I'll have to thin up for the next time." I say, "Yeah, me too."

Today

I have loved this day.

The Real

I write about squirrels and other rodents. I write about my lawn. Such things have no consequence, and, of course, I know that. They are froth.

But I do it because I want to take my mind off of what I see happening in this country, for starters, off of the hourly reminders by the news people in magazines, news broadcasts on radio and television, and the internet,and lunches with Cherí, of who's in charge here. It's Barack and Michelle, and we can know of their every breath. It has only been six months and already I am weary, weary, weary of them, of it.

Obama, king of the world, flying off to everywhere--at my expense, by the way--to fix the world, to make sure the people see him. And what a body of liberal gurus he has behind him, feeding him words and plans. How he talks of grand changes and programs and always as if there is never a cost, never a price to pay. I do not know numbers high enough--in the trillions--to speak about this country's budget deficit and national debt, by the way.

He, the king, said in a not very specific, not very convincing, not very moving speech on the 4th of July, that we need to have the same kind of strength and courage that our founding fathers had. He's right, but why? I know why I think we'll need such courage and strength--to live through what his policies will leave in their wake, to stand firm and work for a different change. I think of my children and grandchildren.

I, for one, do not want this country to be a socialist democracy. I believe he does. I am not a Europhile. He is. And so on.

I want to know why this government supports Zelaya, the Honduran president who has "served" the two terms he is allowed by that country's constitution and who is trying to push through a change to the constitution so he can stay in power. Is this the kind of thing Obama may try to do? (I'm just sayin'.) Why do we support Zelaya and thus allign ourselves with Hugo Chavez? Why does the news media call what has happened there a coup when it is not? I think I know why.

I do not want people like Nancy Pelosi doing my thinking for me or Sonia Sotomayor interpreting the Constitution for me. (I know, she hasn't been approved yet, but I suspect she will be.) This is the time to guard our Constitution, I say.

I want to have the right to speak or hear--in public--the name of God in connection with this country, its foundations and its greatness. That is not allowed, you know.

I do not want all decisions to be made by the government. I do not need their help as much as they want to think I do.

I do not believe in the government, or the president, as God.

I believe I speak for many, but we have to be careful what we say now or we will be labeled--Racist with a capital R.

I'm tired of talking of these matters because, for one thing, talk does no good. I have my blood pressure to think about, and I do have the right to think about that. I could go on.

So I write about squirrels.

Yep, That's It

So this is what Ann told me.

Jeremy was reading to the boys from the children's version of the Book of Mormon. (Stories are shortened and include pictures.) They were at the part where Laman and Lemuel are angry with Nephi because he insists they keep trying to get the brass plates from Laban. They're murmuring, and they're trying to do harm to Nephi.

An angel comes, straight from heaven. He stops Laman and Lemuel and gives them a talking to, no doubt. I don't know how much is in the children's version.

Anyway, this angel comes. They, Laman and Lemuel, see him. They hear him. But as soon as the angel leaves, they start in again with their murmuring and their threats.

I don't know if Jeremy asked a question. Ann didn't say so. I think what Charlie said was just his honest and immediate response.

He said, "They don't have anything in their hearts." He's nearly four.

Reading

My fond hope is to find a book that does not have those helpful book group questions at the end.

Rain Rain

Standing on my driveway a few minutes ago, I heard the thunder roll across the whole sky, from right above my house clear over to the airport. I went in . . . for safety. And then, the sky broke apart, I think, and poured rain like we seldom see here.

I went out to the deck and watched and said aloud, "Could it possibly rain any harder?" The answer came within a few seconds, "YES."

Now it's finished. Brief. Violent. Like there was no time for a gentle rain. The sky just had to get it dumped in a hurry.

Still Here

I’m trying not to see the elephant in the room, trying to carry on as if it weren’t there, here. I don’t know if I can. It’s big.

I don’t want to write about the elephant. I wrote a word or two about it in my small hand-written journal last week. Didn’t help. Didn’t make the elephant go away, which is what I want. Life without elephants. Because I have to say that Life, note the capital L, presents sufficient difficulty for me without elephants, without my having to step around an elephant--or plow right into it.

I did take some measured steps towards it recently, touched the actual elephant a couple of times, if gingerly. Maybe it's friendly, I must have thought. But no. The beast was unmoved and remains unmoved. See. I’m writing about it, which is what I did not want to do. But it's still here, and at this moment, I can hardly see anything else in the room.

I wonder if elephants left unattended just go away on their own. Or do they destroy the house? I wonder.