Autumn reflections

Fall fever

When the days are as mesmerizing as the past several have been, the compulsion to linger outside and simply “seize the day” is strong.

The poignant tune “Autumn Leaves” comes readily to mind as trees shed their summer coats like so many raindrops, and the vivid array of colors across the landscape is a constant source of eye candy. Shades of goldenrod, scarlet and rust abound, accents against a sky so blue it can seem as though one is seeing it for the first time. And recent sunsets? Positively awe-inspiring!

One of the loveliest local views: looking south towards Lake Okabena along Whiskey Ditch. But really, almost any direction delivers appealing tableaus.

I’ve been striving to devise a means of drinking in so much of this color that it will, like jars of canned ripe tomatoes and summer peaches, last through the long, white winter that’s bound to arrive, but we know it’s impossible to hang onto this season indefinitely.

How can a person stay inside when today–pick whichever of the last days you particularly enjoyed–could be the last “nice” day before the weather takes its inevitable turn for the worse?

Playing for the Supremes

Sixteen volunteer musicians from the 54-member Worthington High School orchestra, under the direction of Melanie Loy, provided pre-dinner entertainment for the Sept. 30 meal at which the Minnesota Supreme Court Justices were the guests of honor.

Maybe it’s because the orchestra typically garners a smaller, more select audience than the marching band (which by its very nature has the chance to parade before thousands of people during the course of a season), but many attendees expressed delight and were duly impressed with the disciplined group of students serenading them on string instruments.

Among those applauding the orchestra’s efforts were the Supreme Court Justices themselves–notably, Chief Justice Lorie Gildea and Associate Justice David Lillehaug, the latter of whom grew up in Sioux Falls, S.D., and has ties to the Worthington area.

“My father was a band director, so I have a special appreciation for the dedication it takes to become an accomplished musician,” Lillehaug wrote in personal letters Loy said were sent to each participating student in care of the high school after the occasion.

It was an honor–one not likely to be soon repeated–to host the entire Supreme Court of Minnesota in Worthington over a two-day period, and the gracious attention, humility, intelligence and empathy of each Justice was readily on display.

And while the Justices won’t collectively be back in town for awhile, all interested parties may hear the nearly 190 local 7th through 12th grade orchestra students in concert this Monday at 7 p.m. at Worthington High School.

Revisiting Weenie World

Having previously spilled some secrets of a workplace lunchroom and revealed that my husband’s colleague “Todd” is a hot dog aficionado, I wasn’t surprised to receive the following message from “Todd’s” wife–which I thought, given the abundant portion of interest expressed in my “Hot Dog!” blog, many readers would relish reading:

“Just as a point of clarification: ‘Todd’s’ meal today was actually ‘lite’ turkey cheddar wurst–not hot dogs–ha! :) :)  We actually don’t serve regular hot dogs very often, but ‘Todd’ is a fan of brats and Polish sausage, so we let him have those periodically! The rest of the family are not such fans of tubular meats.”

Makes you want to run to W-2′s Quality Meats for a batch of fresh, flavored brats, doesn’t it?

Happy Birthday to Ray!

Yesterday marked the 84th birthday of a Worthington treasure: Ray Crippen. Ray, a former Daily Globe editor and local historian, still contributes weekly columns to the paper, and dozens of people have told me they look forward to his work more than anything else the Globe offers.

And why not, when he is a walking encyclopedia of Worthington and Nobles County people, places and things? His knack for sharing memories in a dryly humorous manner, and for making historical events many would dismiss as boring into episodes of intrigue and inspiration, is exceptional.

In addition, Ray has long been a thoughtful, generous mentor to writers and historians, and those of us fortunate enough to benefit from his experience and friendship couldn’t be luckier.

Thank you, Ray, and best wishes for a much-deserved happy birthday!

Hot dog!!!

One morning several years ago, an extremely simple but highly memorable “Arlo & Janis” cartoon by Jimmy Johnson found its way to our breakfast table and thereafter assumed permanent lodging in our family’s lexicon of private jokes.

In the course of the cartoon frames, Janis scrounged through her cupboards for meal ideas before reluctantly settling on a menu of hot dogs–maybe accompanied by canned tomato soup.

But from the look on the faces of her son and husband when she set the food on the table, you would have thought she was serving caviar, champagne and cheesecake.

“Oh boy! Hot dogs again!” enthused Arlo with a huge smile, much to Janis’ chagrin.

So it goes with hot dogs. Remember that old car commercial, “Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet?” Hot dogs are a top 10 “All-American” food, which is not to say they are exactly the healthiest choice.

The National Hot Dog and Sausage Council euphemistically reveals that hot dogs are made from “specially selected meat trimmings,” but no one wants to think very hard about a hot dog’s origin, composition or overall nutritional ranking.

For better or worse, hot dogs are an apparent staple of the American diet. The above-referenced organization says U.S. consumption runs at an average of 60 hot dogs annually per American, with 155 million hot dogs eaten on July 4 alone.

More than 60 of that July 4 count is downed by one man–Joey Chestnut, the reigning U.S. champion since 2007 in the annual Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. His personal record: 69 hot dogs (don’t forget the buns!) in one sitting.

Last July, he chowed 61 hot dogs, but that was plenty to top the second-place finisher (poor guy only ate 56). Plus, Chestnut had other things on his mind that day, like proposing to his longtime girlfriend (also a competitive eater) right before the contest began.

She said yes, by the way–and why not, when the Money issue of ESPN magazine noted that Chestnut’s competitive eating skills helped him earn a 2012 income of $161,400. Not bad–if you like eating hot dogs.

Which, apparently, many people do. My husband is one of the certified hot dog fans.  Like the cartoon character Janis, I always feel guilty when resorting to a “meal” centered on hot dogs (other than during the summer grilling season).

But just last weekend I produced a boiled hot dog for him–accompanied with a bowl of homemade vegetable soup, in an attempt to balance out the preservatives–and he seemed thrilled.

Me? Not so much. I’ll eat a hot dog when I have to, and I think eating one is mandatory when attending a Minnesota Twins game, but whether it’s dressed up as a Kramarczuk’s sausage or decked out in a cornbread coating at the Great Minnesota Get-Together, it’s still not my ideal bite.

Beyond baseball, hot dogs are ubiquitous at concession stands, whether they be for hockey, swimming, football, basketball or at the beach. They’re cheap, easy to heat and fit ever-so-neatly in those tasty but equally unhealthy white buns that sell for 99 cents–in packages of eight. (So why do hot dogs typically come in packages of 10? Hold that thought!)

 Then there are people like–let’s call him “Todd,” a colleague of my husband’s, who may thank me for assigning him an alias. It’s difficult to know if a week ever passes without him  chomping down at least one hot dog–but more often, if he eats one, he eats two. Todd has been known to eat three hot dogs, expeditiously, for lunch. If pressed, Todd might be able to give Joey Chestnut a run for his (considerable) money.
But everyone has a weakness.
Over the weekend, my daughter posed this to me: If you could push a button and receive $6 million in exchange for eliminating all pizza from the face of the earth forever, would you do it?
“No way!” I answered. “I can live without millions of dollars, but not without pizza.”
Touché, tube-steak lovers.


Learning from “Senor Billy”

Although the lyrics to John Lennon’s wistful ballad “Imagine” are considered sacrilegious by some, a different view of its phrases such as “Imagine there’s no countries…and no religion too,” might be that they are simply a broader exemplification of true Christianity.
In remembering Bill Potts, who died in Worthington last Wednesday at 90, those lyrics sprung to mind.
He didn’t care if you were two years old or 75, a Guatemalan immigrant or a college-educated Minnesotan, a Mormon missionary or a fellow Protestant–to Bill, you were simply a human, and therefore you were worthy of his time, his interest, his entertainment, his birthday greeting.
Bill was a friend of mine–but then again, didn’t everyone think Bill was their friend? You may chuckle, recalling a special moment or memory you shared with Bill, only to realize now that most people around town had their own moments with and memories of Bill.
When my then-young family came to Worthington over 19 years ago, we happened to join the church where Bill had long been a presence and participant, and due to our common musical interests, our paths crossed early and often. A few years later we moved to the central Worthington neighborhood Bill and his “bride” (his common reference to his beloved wife Colleen) occupied, and we saw him even more frequently.
Rare was the day we didn’t spy Bill either biking or walking past our house, and he often stopped to chat, resting his arms on his bike’s handlebars. Or, he might ring our doorbell to alert us of a natural phenomenon he’d noticed and had to draw to our attention.
“Did you see the owls in your trees?” he’d ask, or he’d comment on the nesting wood ducks, or a family of rabbits under a bush, or even the striking color in an evening sky. “Wouldn’t want your kids to miss it.”
Well, we wouldn’t want our kids to have missed Bill.
Sometimes he’d drop off vegetables from his backyard garden, or cookies Colleen had made, or a stack of 1960s-era Ranger Rick magazines enjoyed by their children (because they knew OUR kids would love them, too) or a piece of music he wanted me to play for him, and he never lacked a twinkle in his eye, always linked to a joke or wry observation.
Irreverent? Yes. Intelligent and enthusiastic? Definitely. Bill never missed an opportunity to learn, engage and expand his knowledge–or to serve, though he never sought recognition for his efforts.
Bill was a successful Salvation Army Christmas kettle bell-ringer (and that service came complete with his patented, shimmy-rich “Jingle Bells”), a faithful, funny and evangelizing church choir member, a frequent entertainer at local nursing homes, a tutor to neighborhood school children whose parents’ English skills were lacking–heck, he learned Spanish (one of five languages he knew) in order to better understand and relate to his new-comer neighbors.
With Colleen, Bill befriended young Mormon missionaries over the years, inviting them for meals–and, in a twist few but he could achieve, convinced them to join HIM at our church on occasion. How could they resist?
Bill prized classical choral literature, like Charles Gounod’s “The Seven Last Words of Christ” and Handel’s “Messiah,” but he also loved spirituals (such as “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”). One of his traditions was singing “Sweet Little Jesus Boy” each Christmas Eve at church, and for several years, he’d drop by my house that day for a quick practice run-through, most often with a plate of Colleen’s cookies in hand.
He’d brush snowflakes from his jeans and shoes and greet my children with a wink and a hearty, “How are ya, kid?” before unleashing his powerful baritone in the simple telling of Christ’s birth that also speaks of people rejecting Jesus due to his humble origins.
Accompanying for “Señor Billy’s” memorial service was an emotional experience, partly because the selections (“The Lord’s Prayer” and “Hymn of Promise”) were ones I’d played for him when he was the guest soloist at numerous funerals.
I imagine there IS a heaven, and Bill is there now, hoping we’ll follow his lead by fully engaging in life and helping others, without regard to their race, backgrounds or social status.

Livin’ the sitcom life

Even with our eldest child at college, the home front remains a bustling joint with two active teens on hand.

Either someone is running in, sweaty and shower-needy, from a sports practice, or is dashing off to confirmation or a concert, or is STARVING and has to EAT SOMETHING NOW, or is in the throes of a homework assignment at 10 p.m. that’s taking longer than expected (although s/he said at 5 p.m. it “will only take a few minutes” and then delayed its start until 8:37 p.m.), or arrives for a quick meal with unannounced friends in tow, or needs a ride, or lost a critical article of clothing in the laundry mix, or—well, this illustrates the typical scene.

And while there are rarely blocks of unclaimed time available for something as leisurely as TV-watching in our household, our youngest has developed the not-altogether-approved habit of switching it on at odd moments, most commonly during dinner on nights when he is eating alone because schedules have scattered three of us across town or region.

That’s how he discovered “The Middle,” a half-hour sitcom set in a small Indiana town that depicts, in comedic style, the lives of the middle-class Heck family. Dad Mike and mom Frankie (played by Patricia Heaton of “Everybody Loves Raymond” fame), plus their three kids (like ours, an eldest son, middle daughter and youngest son), experience crazy situations that are all-too-relatable.

So relatable, in fact, that when the rest of our family finally found itself in one place at the same time and watched an entire episode, we stared at each other with knowing eyes and dropped jaws, spending a minute in stunned silence.

“Mom, are you, like, secretly writing for this show or something?” my daughter suspiciously inquired.

“I wish,” I replied, picturing the riches that must roll the way of TV sitcom writers relative to the income of lowly freelancers like me.

“Do they have a secret camera somewhere in our house?” mused my son, studiously peering around the kitchen, his gaze lingering on THE IDENTICAL cow print that hung on a wall of the Hecks’ house.

“Wow, I was starting to wonder,” I said, trying to laugh.

How does this real-life episode sound as a possible plot line for Frankie?

Our daughter’s first cross country meet of the season was a “night run” on a golf course outside of Canby–very rural, very dark, very unfamiliar.

Cutting it close, as usual, three of us leaped out of the car after parking far down a gravel road, which was already lined for nearly a mile with the vehicles of more timely spectators. Despite earlier storm warnings, the weather looked good, so we left our umbrellas in the car.

The sky darkened as we watched the girls’ race, before all daylight disappeared and the boys took off. We were following the action when fat drops of rain began pelting us, slowly at first, but soon accelerating.

“I’ll run to the car and drive it close to the entrance,” I volunteered, thinking I’d be out of the deluge faster that way.

I darted up a slope and turned in the direction I supposed was that of the road. But as the rain kept pouring down,  I became enveloped in streams of rain and blackness–and, with my glasses as useless as a windshield without wipers, I couldn’t see anything, much less a road.

Stumbling in mud, I happened upon…the most distant portion of the boys’ course, and I had to pause as runners passed, praying none of them recognized me as I tried desperately to get my bearings. Somehow spotting a similarly soggy course monitor, I cried, “Where’s the road?”

“That way,” she pointed–about 45 degrees away from where I’d been heading.

Changing course, I finally reached the road but couldn’t locate our car, so I pressed the panic button on the key fob. With alarm beeping and headlights flashing, I pushed forward until I collapsed, dripping, in the driver’s seat.

When I’d guided the car down the narrow gravel road, now crowded with other spectators and runners also frantically seeking shelter, I called my husband, who I could see standing about 50 yards away–looking in the opposite direction from where I was blocking traffic.

Another successful family outing!

Roll ‘em?



Investing in our future

Yep, it’s September, so the kids are back in school–and so are the teachers and staff.

Cafeteria lunches are being dished up, homework is being graded, quizzes administered, athletic games played, test scores analyzed, locker combinations learned, routines established.

And this week, however early in the year, is Worthington High School’s Homecoming. The Trojan Field lights are primed for tonight’s football game and appearances by the WHS Homecoming court, choir and marching band to boot.

With all that activity under way, it’s easy to lose sight of what keeps this education train chugging along on a daily, monthly and annual basis: state, local and federal taxpayer funding. We’ve come a long way from drafty one-room schoolhouses dotting rural landscapes, but there’s never a shortage of needs, even in this age of air-conditioned buildings and school-issued electronic learning devices.

Achievement gaps persist, language barriers can exist, too many students report for the first day of kindergarten without invaluable early childhood education experiences, some kids are victims of domestic abuse and others arrive from deprived homes with incomes well below the poverty line.

Adequately educating student bodies that walk through our school doors with such a wide variety of challenges, backgrounds, needs and abilities is obviously not a simple task.

And yet our future–the future of Worthington, Minnesota, the United States–depends on it. If the current generation of students falls behind and/or fails to meet minimum educational standards, with what are we left? Where will we find the engineers to design and maintain our roadways and bridges, or the nurses to staff hospitals and clinics, or the meteorologists to alert us to weather patterns?

Today at 9 a.m., a kick-off rally for the District 518 referendum takes place at WHS. The district is requesting a $500-per-pupil levy for a 10-year period, with the vote going to the people on the Nov. 4 general ballot.

A vote in its favor will maintain the essential level of support the district receives for students, and the proposed new assessment is not dramatic (homeowners of $100,000 houses will realize an annual increase of $13.40 per year, while owners of $125,000 houses will pay an additional $16.75 annually, the district’s materials cite).

Considering that many teachers pay hundreds of their own dollars to supplement what is provided for their students (a recent survey conducted by the National School Supply and Equipment Association–notably, NOT a teacher advocacy group–reported that a full 99.5 percent of U.S. public school teachers spent at least some out-of-pocket money for the 2013-14 school year on classroom or other instructional supplies, with a per-teacher average of $485 annually expended by those surveyed), this doesn’t seem like an exorbitant amount to ask.

Additionally, our schools strive to meet state and federal mandates that are, nevertheless, unfunded by those governing organizations, leaving local administrators with no choice but to direct dollars to cover those imperatives (even if they wouldn’t otherwise be first on the list of budgeting priorities).

A pair of creative teachers (one a physical education instructor, the other a science specialist) from Union Grove, Wis., has made a start-of-school video for a third consecutive year, spoofing popular songs (last year they used “That’s What Makes School Beautiful,” this year it’s to Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose”) to cleverly fire up their high school students for the year ahead and to reinforce a few basics (stay awake, be on time, do your homework, pay attention in class).

They also manage to clearly convey the notion that, really, American students are darn lucky to have the opportunity to learn and attend schools that have, for the most part, decent standards, buildings and educators.

Ultimately, education is about opportunity, and school is where kids can grow and learn so they can, in turn, become contributing, productive citizens.

Locally, referendum volunteers have chosen the theme “Strong Schools = Strong Communities: Invest in Our Future.”

And that’s an opportunity we can’t afford to waste.


Calculating minds

It was a date.

My husband and I had agreed to rise early on a rare Thursday when he was scheduled to “vacation” from work in order to tackle some at-home projects, with the intent to squeeze in a run before charging headlong into necessary tasks.

He, being a focused firstborn, followed through with his end of the bargain, rolling out of bed at nearly his usual time and brewing his customary pot of strong coffee to get the juices flowing.

I, a slacker second child, ignored his departure and promptly returned to dreamland.

But not much later, a slight noise–the recycling truck? an outer door creaking?–alerted me to the reality that morning was already in progress, and I jerked unsteadily toward the window, whipping up the shade just in time to see him passing through the door in running gear.

Still lacking my glasses, I called out to him, “I’ll be right down,” and quickly I threw on shorts, a t-shirt and socks before scooting down the stairs.

“I wondered if you were coming, but I didn’t hear anything so I thought I’d go ahead,” he explained, waiting as I tied my tennies and guzzled a half cup of hot, necessary caffeine.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Since it’s later, let’s just go for a shorter run–maybe down the street, through the park, up the path and back.”

He agreed and we were soon off, he with noticeably more pep and vigor in his step than I had in mine. But I was moving, taking strides, and before long the relatively cool air and bright mid-August morning were motivating me.

Because I’d dressed myself (bleary-eyed and blind) without regard to his get-up, we both happened to be wearing black shorts and matching Dri-fit shirts in bold gold-and-black from the recent local Mary Kay 5K. So much for being inconspicuous.

“How far have we gone?” I inquired as sweat started collecting on my forehead.

“Less than a mile,” he answered, having previously charted most possible jogging routes around town leading from our house.

“Are you sure?” I replied, incredulous.

“Yes, we’ve been running seven minutes,” he said, consulting his watch in mid-step. “Unless you’re running a seven-minute mile.”

“Oh,” I said, chastened. “But it feels like it’s been at least a mile.”

“How far will it be if we follow the path home?” I pestered my reluctant running coach.

“Well, it’s about one kilometer from here to our house, so 1.1 or 1.2 miles altogether,” he answered with precision.

“Really?” I queried, doubting his calculations. “I thought it was at least a mile and a half.”

I volunteered that it would still be far enough for me on this particular morning, while he determined to do an additional loop on another path to extend his distance.

“So you’ll run about four miles, then,” I said encouragingly when he detailed the route.

“No, that will be about two more miles, and two plus this one will be a little over three,” he said patiently.

“But this is really closer to two, so it’s more like four,” I contended, irrationally desiring to extend my own run without expending further effort.

“Jane, two plus one is three, not four,” he responded, giving me a quizzical glance.

I complained, “That’s why I had problems with math–there’s just no room in it for personal interpretation and creativity.”

And this, friends, is why I may not be in adequate shape to run the Turkey Day 10K on Sept. 13. In sum, running’s all in the numbers–and apparently every one counts.

Doing it with pride

Our recent, week-long family vacation in Colorado revealed many things, more of which may be shared in future musings.

A few fast insights:

- My youngest son can contrive the most crazy-making sounds and songs ever known to humankind, and then continue producing them long enough to drive his siblings to the verge of fratricide.

- When you see people in Colorado wearing t-shirts proclaiming, “Dude, I think this whole town is high,” it may be truer (in multiple ways) than one might initially suppose.

-  Given the opportunity, kids might actually enjoy visiting ancestral graves and family “historical sites.”

And, although Coloradans like to boast that their state enjoys, on average, 300 days of sunshine annually, it nevertheless CAN rain there; we managed to be present for two of the rainiest days the state has experienced recently. That meant collecting a soggy raincheck for some hoped-for outdoor activities and finding other ways to occupy ourselves–not too difficult a challenge in the Denver area, which bursts with museums, restaurants, shopping and other attractions.

On the first rainy afternoon, we took advantage of the state’s generous offer of a free, one-hour tour of the Colorado State Capitol building in downtown Denver. Our guide, a pleasant and well-spoken young woman, ably led our group up and down the marble-walled corridors while relating easily digestible facts and tidbits about Colorado history, politics, key historical figures and the building’s architecture and construction.

One point that stuck out to me was her comment that all of the brass in the capitol–handrails, posts, lamps, etc.–was hand-polished on a daily, rotational basis by two employees whose sole job was to do only that.

Indeed, all visible brass nearly sparkled, so clean and shiny it was. I examined a railing and could find not a single flawed inch of it, though it was yards long.

Those employees were not personally seen during our time there, but their work spoke for them–they were meticulous, responsible, hard-working people who clearly take immense pride in their jobs and their contributions to the overall impression that Colorado, and its state capitol building, were quality, worthwhile places to be.

I couldn’t help but think that those brass polishers, whoever they are, were equally important ambassadors for the state as its governor, and their work was as much “on display” to the public as the governor’s might frequently be.

The next day was even rainier, so we sought refuge at the factory of Hammond’s Candies in an industrial area of northern Denver. A complimentary factory tour again led me to appreciate the hard work of dedicated employees, even while our family took its leisure.

There, in full view of dozens of tourists (with many eager kids pressing tongues and noses to the glass), Hammond’s Candies workers stirred enormous vats filled with sugar, water and corn syrup, poured out hot mixtures onto gleaming stainless steel trays, manipulated 70-pound bundles of sticky ick into ribbon machines and taffy pullers, expertly twisted ropey lengths into candy canes or enticing lollipops and still managed to smile occasionally at the gaping visitors, even while working repetitively at a rapid pace.

To say it was hard to resist purchasing every item on sale in the retail area we were deposited into at the tour’s conclusion would be an understatement–and it’s no exaggeration to admit I felt like a kid in a candy store, because, well, I literally was.

Surrounded by the very lollipops, chocolates, candy canes, ribbon candies, “chicken bones” and yes, fudge, those good people had produced with their own hands on the other side of the wall made it difficult to say no to any product, and instilled a distinct desire to support the employees, and their company, with one’s purchase.

Russian actor Konstantin Stanislavsky memorably noted, “Remember: There are no small parts, only small actors.” Similarly, there are no small jobs, only people who don’t think their work matters.

And let me tell you, when brass shines and candy beckons, it couldn’t be clearer that every job worth doing is a job worth doing well.


Basic instincts

At 5:15 a.m. one day last week, I sprang from my pillow, wide awake.

No alarm had rung, no thunder rolled, no husband had yet stirred, nor did I have to be anywhere before 6 a.m.

So why did I jolt from my dreams over an hour before I normally would? Because my eldest son had drawn the early shift at one of his part-time summer jobs and was due for duty at 5:30 a.m.

At 19, he has happily weathered one year at college without ever sleeping in and missing a class or an early morning work assignment, and each of my three kids long ago developed the habit of setting their own alarms on school days and other dates when a certain waking time is required.

But somewhere deep inside, I knew my son needed to rise sooner than usual, and my internal clock somehow set itself to alert me to listen for the sounds that would indicate he was on his way exactly when he needed to be. It wasn’t until after I’d heard him descend the stairs, make his way out the door and start the car that I was able to fall back to sleep for a period.

Motherly instincts die hard, and even when we no longer need them, they don’t necessarily disappear. Before I was a mother myself, I remember watching (with a slight degree of disbelief) moms of preschoolers stand, swaying gently back and forth, as though they were still quieting infants in their arms–though those former infants were now tearing around the park on their own strong legs and showed no signs of slowing down for their mothers and a nap time lullaby anytime soon.

After motherhood found me, the “Mommy Sway” became part of my kinetic repertoire, too, and likely didn’t take leave of me until my youngest was nearing 5. Where’s the “off” switch for parenting patterns?

Another mommy trait which my kids–all teenagers now–frequently tease me for still possessing is the habit, ingrained through years of “teachable moments,” of pointing out people, places and things as we make our way about town or further afield.

“Look! It’s a cow! Moo! Moo! Cows give us milk…and ice cream!” I might once have detailed as we cruised down a rural highway. Or, in a city, “Do you see the blonde lady with the red purse? She’s tall,” or, “There’s a baby! Wave to the smiling baby!”

These days, if I lapse into that type of behavior (arguably with more advanced vocabulary and perhaps to draw attention to something subtler), I invariably suffer the teenage eye-roll and earn a response more like this: “WOW, mom, how old do you think I am?”

Hmmmm….. Good question. While, intellectually, I am well aware of my kids’ correct ages and know that not one of them is under 5’7, sometimes the Mommy Instinct betrays me and I’m back to the days when the slightest dark-of-night crib movement had me on the run to check the baby’s breathing, or my mind’s eye shows me a cheerful 13-month-old feeding himself in a high chair rather than the long-limbed 19-year-old currently before me who inhales his lunch while simultaneously absorbing news feeds on his laptop.

“Hey, it’s because I took the time and made the effort to tell you all those things that you got so smart, kid,” I sometimes retort to an impatient teen who chides me for sharing observations he/she can now easily grasp without my help. “How do you think you learned what a cow was in the first place?”

Such insights are met with the occasional sigh or sheepish shrug, and I guess that’s understandable. I feel the same way when my own mother persists in calling me “Janie,” even though no one else has used that name for me since I was about 6.

I get it, mom (even if I don’t like it!). And I also know why I can’t help but awaken when my kid has to be somewhere at 5:30 a.m., even though he is perfectly capable of getting up and heading off to work by himself, “big boy” that he is.

Diapering? Easy to leave behind. Caring? Not so much.


A little less conversation

A length of tangled, curly cord, stretched as far as possible from the kitchen where family members might be perched to overhear, served to connect me with my friends when I was a teenager. Naturally that cord was attached to one of the two rotary dial telephones in our house–eventually, one phone was replaced with a modern push button model, which expedited calls somewhat.

Decades later, I can still recite on demand the phone numbers of several close friends from my youth, because memorizing was the only way to avoid the process of looking up a number in the fat phonebook.

Back then, making a phone call took a measure of time and intention, and was something a person could only do from a specific location–an office, one’s kitchen or maybe a phone booth (“A WHAT?” you can almost hear all those under-20s asking). Sitting on a swing and casually chatting, or phoning home from the grocery store to check what was on the list you’d inadvertently left on the counter, were unthinkable possibilities.

As Cole Porter aptly lyricized, “Times have changed.” Things I shuddered at when reading George Orwell’s “1984″ have long since come to pass–people actually sign up to have their images visible as they speak long distance to others (Skype, anyone?), and Snapchat allows users to instantly send photo messages, only to have them vanish after a mere five seconds.

So it was with great sorrow but a cold jolt of recognition that we learned two weeks ago a 33-year-old wife, mother and nurse (Andrea Boeve of Steen) had died due to the alleged distracted driving (in this case, cell phone use) of another young person. While sadness at the loss of such a vibrant, needed woman was the predominant emotional response, I am confident many among us also gasped, “I could have been that driver.”

Our world has evolved in such a fashion that only a teeny percentage of individuals is without a cell phone of one kind or another. A June 2013 report of the Pew Research Foundation revealed that 91 percent of U.S. adults owned cell phones, with 56 percent having smartphones. The 12- to 17-year-olds aren’t far behind, with 78 percent of them claiming phones, 37 percent of which are smartphones.

With U.S. adult cell phone ownership having grown from 65 percent in November 2004 to 91 percent by 2013  (and presumably that figure has risen by now), the Pew researchers concluded, “Cell phones are the most quickly adopted technology in the history of the world.”

It’s likely that Andrea Boeve had a cell phone in her own pocket on the morning of June 30, and the driver who struck her wasn’t really doing anything most of us aren’t guilty of at least occasionally–fiddling with our phones when we should be concentrating on something else.

The grief and pain her family will continue to feel won’t quickly pass, but maybe Andrea Boeve leaves us all with another lesson, however unintended. At the time of her death, she wasn’t worried about her job but was instead experiencing a lovely summer’s morning with her two little girls, having taken them for a bike ride and a short visit to their grandma’s house. She was getting a little exercise, spending time with people she loved, making space for a few meaningful moments in her life.

We can all benefit from remembering that multi-tasking isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, that we should appreciate the people we are with at the time we are with them rather than checking our phones every 23 seconds to see who ELSE might be wanting or needing to contact us. We should try to enjoy the moment we are in rather than always worrying about the next moments to come–those will arrive soon enough.

It might seem old-fashioned now, but maybe there was some merit in those long-gone, tangled-cord days, when we were essentially forced to do one thing at a time, to talk with one person at a time, to concentrate on our driving when we were driving and on our phone calls when we were talking, but not on both in the same split second.

Surely we can all learn from this tragedy: When you’re behind the wheel, make safe driving your sole focus.




With World Cup soccer matches underway, futbol/fuBball fever has infected millions of fans around the globe, not to mention locally.

My household is no exception, and even though we lack cable TV (go ahead and speculate!), the three soccer-mad males on hand have found creative ways to stay on top of a lot of the action.

Though the U.S. challenges Belgium in Brazil as I write, a few soccer games played closer to home remain on my brain. That’s because my 13-year-old son has been part of a Worthington Area YMCA Futbol Club team for a fourth consecutive season, and the enthusiasm of the league’s players is remarkable.

Last year, the U12 team was the state runner-up in its class, having overcome obstacles such as four-hour bus rides to distant fields on non-air conditioned school buses (largely paid for by team members’ families) in nearly 100-degree heat. This year, more players meant more teams, so my son has been on the U14 rec-plus team (comprised largely of other 13-year-olds like him), while the older athletes have filled the roster of a U14 competitive team (with a few of the best 13-year-olds thrown in to round things out).

So far this season, the U14 competitive team (playing as a C3 team in the Southwest District) has a 10-0 record, having scored more than 10 goals in six of those games–and with only three (THREE) goals total scored by their opponents.

The U14 rec-plus team has also enjoyed great success, having lost only two games this year and competed in tournaments at Brookings and Sioux Falls, S.D.–and just last weekend, in the popular Burnsville FIREcup Tournament (with over 200 teams participating in games at numerous southwest metro fields).

Watching this group of boys from a wide variety of ethnic backgrounds (Mexican, Salvadoran, Guatemalan, Laotian, Sudanese, Karen, Eritrean and Caucasian, among others) band together and kick it with undying energy and drive is, truly, nothing short of inspirational. The skill, strength, teamwork and determination they display every time they take the pitch almost knocks your socks off–and I’m not exaggerating.

Other teams underestimate them at their peril, but many have nevertheless done just that.

Take last weekend, for instance. The U14 rec-plus team played at the Burnsville FIREcup in a higher class than they’d competed in all season, borrowing only four 14-year-olds from the local U14 competitive team for the occasion. This occurred because the tournament officials misread the registration and told our team representatives on site they had expected our undefeated U14 competitive team, so they’d placed them in the tougher C2 bracket against other suburban Twin Cities clubs with strong records.

And guess what happened? Although the Worthington kids lost their first match to Eagan in a closely fought 3-2 contest, they prevailed over Chanhassen/Chaska 5-4 later Saturday, then toppled Burnsville 4-1 on Sunday morning, thus qualifying for the championship game (against initial foe Eagan) late Sunday afternoon.

While the seemingly well-heeled Eagan fans lined up mostly in blue-and-white apparel, the Worthington supporters were more colorful in every way possible. It appeared Eagan’s crowd (which skeptically eyed the opposition) thought they had the championship sewed up–but were they ever wrong.

Buoyed by the non-stop cheers from their supporters, the Worthington team played with such heart and skill that nothing could have stopped them. Yes, they emerged the victors, 2-1, with the trophy for the tournament’s C2 bracket, and broader smiles (and stinkier socks) were simply unimaginable.

What a delight it’s been to be a part of this soccer juggernaut, if only from the sidelines. Worthington residents should know how well these young athletes have represented this community, with smiles, handshakes and sportsmanlike conduct the rule, even in the face of questionable calls and underdog expectations.

We’ll watch with pleasure as the U14 and U17 competitive teams play qualifying games the weekend of July 12, in hopes of advancing to the July 20-23 Minnesota Youth Soccer Association state tournament. The Daily Globe sports department plans to run more detailed information about the Worthington Futbol Club’s season yet this week, I’m told, so look for that.

World Cup soccer only takes place quadrennially, but the Worthington youth soccer teams give local groupies something to cheer about every year.