Cee is for ...

Actually, I couldn't think of an appropriate word for this blog. I've been in a funk lately--more like the last nine months--when we learned the rent-to-own house we'd "bought" was being put up for sale. My spiritual life has been in a downward spiral, but I've trusted all along that God has been beside us. Yes, even holding us in the palm of His hand, despite the free-fall feeling we've been experiencing since then.

The housing situation remains closed of this writing; two houses have become available, yet despite our "hounding" the landlords, we've received no response.

My husband and I attended a children's ministries workshop over the weekend with Dr. Sherry Ifft, an internationally-known speaker for Children's Ministry International. We learned a great deal about childrens' ministries, and how they're second to the bottom in terms of priorities within the majority of churches. Typically, children are pushed out of the church service and have their "own" service, often in a dank, neglected portion of the church with few supplies and materials are available to learn about Jesus. How wrong is this? Even though I am just a helper in the nursey, I needed to have my perspective changed, and God did just that this weekend. I am viewing children through His eyes now; I haven't been able to focus clearly because of the troubles we've been enduring. So perhaps Cee is for ... Seeing Clearly.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkwJ-g0iJ6w

Cee is for Challenge

As part of an assignment for a college course, I was required to begin a blog and make seven entries throughout the 15-week course. This week marks the end of that course, and I have learned a great deal about Digital Storytelling.

I learned how to Twitter (didn't really care for it, though it can be useful at times) how to understand the planning process in creating a digital story (love animoto.com and will sign up for my own personal account when my 180-day account expires).

This blog is something I also intend to maintain after the course ends; it's similar to a journal/diary which I used to keep as a teenager. I journaled sporadically throughout my adult life, but parted from maintaining a consistent account of my life after my punks were born.

Punks. I picked up that term after learning about a blog called Confession of a Pioneer Woman via one of my classmates who highly recommended it. I became obsessed with Ree Drummond's life via her blog and signed up for her blog e-mails. I wished my husband was like Marlboro Man and .... *sigh*. She calls her kiddos punks and I liked that term.

Blogging is an activity I suggested to a friend who had recently learned she'd recently been diagnosed with Lyme Disease after nearly 24 years. Because I am a news editor for http://www.northcentralpa.com/, I also believed her blog would help others in this LD-riddled region, and added the rss feed from her blog to the news website. (http://illwelladventures.blogspot.com/)

And the neat thing is this: I never, ever would have learned about digital storytelling, and Joe Lambert and punks and Daniel Weinshenker and storyboards and how much I missed journaling if it were not for this college course. Thank you Tom Mackey!

Cee is for Charleston! Charleston!

We are spending Easter weekend in South Carolina, near the "lowcountry" area, of which Charleston is the capital. Relatives live just north of Charleston, and for a period of six years, my husband and I forged a new life apart from everything familiar to us.

It was in South Carolina where we learned how to become adults, even though we were in our late 20s at the time we moved from Pennsylvania. It was an exciting, yet frightening time for us, as we learned another culture ("the Southern way"), secured jobs and began anew. My husband's aunts, uncles and a set of grandparents also lived there, and they helped ease us during the transition of north versus south.

It was in South Carolina where I became pregnant for the first time, and then the second time, birthing a boy and girl whose heritage will always be southern.

There is something that calls to my spirit about Charleston, the birthplace of the Civil War (Sumter). Perhaps it is the defiant "you aren't telling me how to live" attitude which was pervasive 150 years ago. Or perhaps it is the sweet southern drawl genteel natives use in everyday expressions, such as "That's so good, it'll make your tongue slap your teeth right outside your mouth!" and "Pass those cathead biscuits" that bring an instant chuckle. Or perhaps it is the survivor spirit which remains rooted in the soil when battered about by hurricane winds and other adversaries howl defeat. I always felt welcome, even though I am clearly a Yankee through and through.

While James Taylor was specifically thinking of North Carolina when he wrote this song, I can't help but wistfully think of the other Carolina. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXmgkvIgc0w

Cee is for Characters

He seemed scary during our first meeting: manic, with short, cropped graying hair, grizzled beard, with no teeth. He was our neighbor after having moved into a new quiet neighborhood in 2002. As he began to to share stories from his tour in Viet Nam, his conversations, vivid with detail, sent shivers up my spine. As a result, I wouldn't allow my two children outside if "Spanky" was sitting on his porch.

A constant smoker, Spanky's voice is deep and rough, and projects easily even though he might be trying to whisper. He's the type of person who has to get in close and talk, sending a spray of spit with each word, due to the lack of teeth.

A proud Viet Nam veteran, Spanky often spoke of his mission to eradicate illegal drugs from the streets of our small town. He boasted loudly enough for the neighborhood to hear of his exploits in saving the town from the threat of "druggies" who were over-taking the streets.

My first experience with him came during our first full summer at the new house. A knock on our front door, with the borough's chief of police ordering us to evacuate due to an investigation of Spanky's apartment sent us out of the house. We watched from the sidewalk as federal agents and state police, and finally, the local media, arrived on scene after receiving a tip that Spanky had mailed threatening letters to then-President George W. Bush. Finding Spanky's small collection of military grenades, authorities hauled him off to the local mental health unit where he stayed for a period of time before being released.

This incident alone should have warranted feelings of fear, yet despite the wild stories he told, he seemed genuine. We would learn later that he never served in the military, but instead had been kicked out of boot camp for mental instability, or so we had been told. Such extreme detail to the background of his stories is crucial, so accurate that surely he must have been privvy to the horrors of war.

More importantly, he regales each presidential administration since his discharge from the military, and how each president since 1972 has specifically endorsed Spanky as a machine to fight the war on drugs. His right eye contains a camera that allows each president to see what Spanky sees; his left ear contains a microphone which is a two-way receiver and allows the president to speak orders directly to him while giving the president audio of Spanky's surroundings.

There are other incidents of outrageous behavior Spanky exhibited, such as wearing a Scottish kilt and beret, and directing traffic one summer day; Spanky placing an ad as a hit man in the local weekly newspaper; becoming embroiled in heated arguments with his younger brother Eddie which would result in a few weeks' stay in the mental health unit.

One of the more heart-breaking situations came on Memorial Day in 2005. Dressed in combat fatigues, he arrived late at the Memorial Day cemetery observances. Members of the women's auxiliary of the American Legion began to point, laugh and roll their eyes at his presence. He left the cemetery humiliated and vowed to never attend again.

He would watch my son play with toy swords in the side yard, then unexpectedly present him with a replacement when my son's sword broke. "He reminds me of me when I was a kid," he'd simply say and expect nothing in return.

When my mother passed away in 2004, followed by my father in 2007, he was quick to send a sympathy card and shared a few memories involving my parents.

Spanky became the best neighbor we have ever had. When we bought a house in 2008, we had to move away. We promised Spanky that we'd have him over for supper some time, but we have never followed through with that promise. I'm not sure why.

Cee is for Communication

It's a mystery to me why someone who experiences difficulty and obstacles in clearly communicating thoughts, ideas, speculations and other notions would even bother considering studying or even majoring in Communications. But yet, here I am, a student earning a bachelors degree in Communications, watching various dialogue between specific parties suffer because of a lack of clear communication.

A specific family that I am observing is undergoing such a metamorphisis, one that is painful not only to those involved, but also to the individuals the family employs, as they become an unwilling audience during the communication lapses.

I introduce to you a local business with proprietors named George, Glenn, Gary and Curt. This 90-year-old business, whose foundation was originally established on motor vehicle inspection and repairs, has also developed to include the transportation business as the sole provider of transporting students to public school in a small school district.

I did not know the original proprietor, George, but I came to know his grandson, Gary, as the main school bus driver I had when I was a child. Because it is a family business, Gary's brother, sister, son and wife also work there, forgoing any personal, individual dreams they may have held as a teen to help run the family business.

Occasionally, I came into contact with Gary's father, Glenn, who would have to drive the bus route as a substitute. A man of general build, he seemed threatening as my siblings and I boarded the bus, the stub of a cigarette clenched between his lips; the stench of burning tobacco leaves permeating the bus cavity and latching on to all who stepped inside. His dark hair was slicked back and revealed penetrating black eyes, almost shark-like in nature. He rarely spoke, but when he did, he growled orders.

Once children entered the zone at the top of the steps, Glenn snapped the bus doors shut and threw the bus into gear in one fluid motion, propelling children down the aisle with centrifugal energy. We fought against the forces to find a seat--perhaps for safety or simply to be anchored from being tossed around like rocks inside a tin can.

In the winter, country roads can be extra slippery. The grandfather knew no fear in this, however, and rounded each downhill twisted turn while rarely applying brakes. To the right, a plunging bank over 100 foot straight down lured the bus; children gripped the window sill frames in terror, leaving knuckle marks in the condensated window.

Less gruffer in nature, son Gary was more amiable and friendly; we didn't need to fight gravity in order to find a seat. George and Glenn have since passed away, and Gary has been operating the business for the last 30 years or so, raising his own son, Curt as heir apparent to the business.

Now I am employed by Gary, and observing what must be decades of communication that have been considered ordinary being exhibited between the father and son. I wonder if George, patriarch of the clan, had established the yelling tactics rather than developing calm, fluid lines of dialogue with his son, Glenn.

I wonder if Glenn had sneered all over Gary's ideas during arguments. Had he thrown sarcastic comments at Gary, and forced him flailing down the communication aisle? In repsonse, did Gary roll his eyes, rake his hair and need to leave the room, yet continue to yell through the walls in order to be heard?

A close likeness to his grandfather, Curt's dark eyes blaze when being argued with; his black hair cropped close to his scalp, revealing flushed skin underneath; the curl of his lips turning into a sneer at a business decision his father Gary has made--one that will affect Curt's future.

I don't wonder if the business will survive when it's turned over to Curt. Instead, I wonder if the communication lines will have collapsed, leaving a family unable to transmit anything but contention.

Cee is for Cardboard

Cartons, that is, as in moving. Following an unusual set of circumstances that I would never think to bore anyone with, my family of four moved out of a rent-to-own housing situation last December to temporary housing about 15 minutes south of our former town.

Because we desire to have our children remain in the school district, we received permission from the school superintendent for up to three months, beginning December 1, 2010, which would allow our children to remain at the desired school. After three months has elapsed, however, tuition must be paid if we want our children to maintain their schooling in that district. 

During that time we have been earnestly searching for a 3 bedroom house that will allow our menagerie of four-legged friends permission to stay with us. Coinciding with this search are the hundreds of others in the area, including gas workers here due to the Marcellus Shale. We have lost out on renting several houses due to this sudden influx of industry workers, many of whom are able to pay the doubled monthly house rentals that just a year ago were asking $500-$800.

So with this temporary housing still in place, cardboard boxes line our bedroom perimeters, waiting to either be unpacked or sit at the ready should a rental unit become available. I feel powerless in controlling my family's housing future, and nearly as strong as the boxes in which our belongings are packed. With a swift removal of packing tape, it seems as if our world may come apart--almost as quickly as a cardboard box is flattened. I wonder what our children will learn from this circumstance--and if they will hate living out of boxes are much as I do.

I found this video on youtube.com http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JVX64woxu5k

Cee is for...

Car. It's been on my mind for over a week now, since it left me stranded on the up-ramp of Interstate 180, about 3.5 miles from my house. I was on my way for a lunch date with my husband, had committed to the entrance ramp turn when I heard a rubbing sound.

Thinking it sounded similar to the vibration of a tire rubbing a wheel-well that is packed with snow, I accelerated up the ramp...only to discover I had no "go." I drifted as safely and as quickly as one could on a ramp in Mennonite country, where I share the road with tractors and buggies; I had power, only no acceleration.

I shut the engine off and tried to start several times to no avail. It would turn over, but not fire. Giving in, I phoned my husband who was waiting for me at our designated lunch spot and told him my dilemma. He assured me that he'd be there to pick me up.

Initially, the car was towed to our mechanic's garage, who also owns the transportation company, whom I drive for. Seems like ever since I was hired to drive as a substitute school bus driver last August, either one of our two vehicles has needed repaired or inspected. I joke that I might as well sign my paycheck over to them each month.

Anyway, the mechanic originally thought the car was in need of a timing belt and water pump; however, the diagnosis became more terminal: the engine was dead.

So, with this news, I was reflecting on all the memories that the car had taken my family to, and inspiration hit me full force. I created a 2-minute Animoto project to convey my thoughts...and I cried when it was finished. There was so much I didn't include in the video that was important, I really could have made another one. Or two. Or five.

As for now, friends have a vehicle they are willing to give us, but it needs repaired and inspected, which we will pay the cost of. Hopefully, it will not amount to much moolah.

As for the beloved car, the mechanic offered me money for it; he will replace the engine for far less than an engine would cost me, and give it to his son.

Below is a link to the Animoto project:
http://animoto.com/play/zBPSXXUVoHwuUnmdmjNxqQ

A Burst of Spring

It's snowing--again. Of course, it is the final Saturday in January, in northcentral Pennsylvania--what would I expect the weather to be? Unlike other regions of Pennsylvania and the northeast, my region has not received what others have been forecast. For this, I am most grateful. However, rather than producing a spirit of thankfulness within me, the continual dusting of snow that we receive several times during each week has been irritating.

It's during these moments of irritation when I reflect upon a warmer climate that my family lived in during the 90s decade: a small town 30 or so minutes from Charleston, South Carolina, and later, Virginia Beach, Virginia. This time period--when my two children were born and experienced their formative years--warms my heart, which then spreads to change my overall mood.

Winter in the South is delightful to experience. Temperatures for the most part run 20- to 30- degrees warmer than Pennsylvania, and except for an approximate two-week long period, is relatively quickly to adjust towards. Go coatless in January? Why yes, I think I will. Plant flowers in February? How many varieties would you like? Walk on the beach with toes flirting in the ocean water in early March? Absolutely!

Fifty-one days until Spring.