america

This country.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 3 Comments

I had a few more blogs I wanted to write about our road trip. Some food stops we made. A quirky place called Carhenge–definitely hope you look that one up. I really wanted to write an entire blog about where we ended our trip. My husband’s brother and his wife’s. They were our people when our kids were young. We got together for all the fun holidays and spent minutes and hours and days loving each other’s kids. Ate countless dinners together and melded in a way that can’t be undone. Walking into their house after that long trip was like coming home and shedding years all at the same time. They were just another piece of that crazy, road trip week that was perfect. I wanted to do all of that, but my youngest grandson got sick and I spent a week rocking that little man and wiping his nose and taking some weight off his parent’s shoulders. So, I didn’t get my last few blogs written and I thought about trying to squeeze them all in today, but I wasn’t feeling it. And, it was very important me to get this last road trip blog done before the election tomorrow. So, here’s the thing. We need tomorrow to work. To do its American thing. No subterfuge. No violence. No funny business. Just American citizens standing in line to vote. Minutes. Hours. Days. Whatever it takes, because it’s that important. It’s that important because America is kinda a big deal. I’m not saying she’s perfect. Of course she’s not. Neither are you. Neither am I. None of us are. But, as long as there is freedom there is the opportunity to get up every morning and try again. To fix what’s wrong. To make things better. And, America is not the guys in suits or the women either. The ones on TV. The ones so sure they know better than everyone. The ones that are trying to turn us against each other. You know they are. ( Did you read any of the comments under your family’s posts on Facebook the last couple of weeks? Or years?) No, America is Annette in Kansas and the quiet motel clerk in Wisconsin and all of the people painting their barns red in Iowa. It’s the crowds at Wall Drug laughing with their family and drinking drinks and making memories. It’s the guy who sold you carpet last week and the waitress serving you enchiladas tonight. It’s your Uncle Paul and the lady giving piano lessons at the church. Tomorrow, take a minute to look at the people around you. Really look at them. See if you can see America. The resolve that made those men hang off the cliff so we could take our families to Mount Rushmore. The dedication to work a not fun job with a cheerful heart and kindness. The courage to run into a scary moment instead of away from it. That is America. I’ve mentioned before that I spent many years living in a place where hurricanes happen way too often. Because of that, I learned that the folks who offer to row in and save you when your house is flooding and you’re on your roof are your countrymen. The people who show up with food and gift cards and a shovel when you need it most. So, when you pull that curtain tomorrow, vote your conscience but don’t drink the kool-aid. Don’t let TV people change how you feel about your fellow Americans. I might be in line with you. Seriously. I didn’t early vote. I was busy with that sweet baby boy that I love with my whole heart. I want him to grow up and be a part of this great experiment. I want that young girl from Ukraine to come back in a few years for another summer job. And, in four years, I want to be standing in line to vote. Minutes, hours, days. Whatever it takes. Maybe, by that time, we will have all wised up to the TV people and they, with an appropriate air of meekness, will be rowing their boats to make things better and not just stay in power. After all, in America, every morning is another opportunity to try again.

Mount Rushmore

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

Years ago, I spent a 4th of July in Lubbock, Texas. I’ve never forgotten it. I was with my brother and his family and we ended up on a football field in the middle of a huge crowd. Everywhere you looked there were families spread out on blankets. Little kids in red white and blue shirts with melted ice cream adding extra interest to their cute outfits. Coolers full of plastic bagged sandwiches and icy cans of coke. Moms wearing sunglasses and carrying on conversations while keeping each child on their radar. When any kid wandered too far the dads got an elbow in the ribs and they would chase them down dodging other dads doing the same thing. Eventually when the sun set and the fireworks started, I remember stealing a moment to look at all of the faces around me. Each turned up to the beautiful display above us. The lights catching on their features and making them beautiful too. When the song ‘What a Wonderful World’ started to play, I cried. It was the most American I had ever felt. Going to Mount Rushmore affected me the same way. There is something truly magic about standing in a crowd of people looking up at those craggy faces. In being one of them. You shuffle through the little museum and hear the stories about how they made it happen. The painstaking process. You look at the pictures and tell the person you’re with, “I just can’t believe they hung off the side of a mountain!” They answer, “I can’t believe the precision. They even added the glasses!” You both shake your heads and continue reading the placards and calling out facts to each other. Every once in a while, you make eye contact with a stranger and you both shake your heads in wonder. Later in the little dark theatre, you get a lump in your throat when you hear the entire thing was a nod to American exceptionalism. A love letter from a group of men who labored fourteen years to make it happen. They hooked themselves into belts and pulleys and detonated dynamite to create something for everyone who would come after them. For me. They gave me that sunny August afternoon with my husband. The one where we got to be proud Americans. Unabashedly proud. We stopped under the flag from each state we’ve lived in to take a picture. We went in the gift shop and bought magnets and red white and blue souvenirs for our grandsons. We took hundreds of pictures from every angle and we talked about how much we love America. We talked about it a lot. She is a big messy experiment that means everything. To us. To the men that created Mount Rushmore. To the crowd of people enraptured on that field in Lubbock, Texas all those years ago. To the world. I just have to remember that as I get another text message from a politician and try to survive these last 18 days until the election. Here’s hoping that whatever this election brings it continues us on the same path that Mount Rushmore has been illuminating for the last eighty-three years.

Bavarian Inn, Black Hills

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We got home from vacation and I got busy. Then, I got sick. Probably the same thing all of you have had. Sneezing, coughing, I want my mom kind of sick. I would blame the man from Wall Drug, but there was enough of a delay that I am giving him the benefit of the doubt. All of this is to explain why my entries about our road trip suddenly stopped. However, today, I am feeling well enough that I don’t want to be sick, but still too sick to really do anything. So, here I am. I hope it goes well. I want to do our last few stops justice, but my mood is different. I’m crankier and less relaxed. Less able to remember the little details of those days. Thankfully, as I’ve mentioned, I am a prolific picture taker. And, in with the fence post and random gas pump pictures, there are some that take me right back to where I was. Thank God. Because, where I was in these pictures was really, really good. In the first one, there were storm clouds gathering and thunder rumbling. Our suitcases were in the room behind us and it was bright and cheerful and ours for a few days. The sweet girl who had just checked us in spoke with a delightful accent and loved our puppy. We didn’t know it then, but we would see her again the next morning at breakfast and again, a couple of days later, at a pizza joint downtown. Each time, she would be wearing the same high wasted jeans and sweet smile. At the pizza place, we would find out that it was her last night in America. The next day she would catch a flight back home to Ukraine. If she had uncertainty about what was waiting we never saw it. All we saw was her joy. All we heard was how much she enjoyed her summer in the states. How excited she was to start university. We asked if she would ever come back and she shrugged her shoulders. With sparkling eyes she told us she didn’t know, but she waved away our immediate frowns. “It is good I’m here now. You are all in my heart when I go home.” she told us. “Your cute puppy, the beautiful waters and all the nice customers.” We loved her all we could with our smiles and jokes and warm waves goodbye. She was balancing several empty plates and laughing with a coworker as we left. Joyful still. I confirmed with my husband that he had way overtipped her and went home thinking how the news headlines never capture the humanity of anything. Stories about Ukraine hit different when you’re thinking about a precious girl with worn out high wasted jeans and a love for America so big it hurts your heart. That’s why I love this picture so much. At the moment I took each of these pictures she was right there. Waving up to us from the parking lot. Smiling at how pleased we were with our lovely breakfast. Just a kid working her summer job and saving every penny for the future. Could have been my kid. Or yours.

Wall Drug

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

The zoo in Colorado Springs is my favorite. It’s bullt on the side of a mountain and the views are incredible. Albuquerque Zoo is a close second. There’s something about the air there and they used to have an orangutan that pretended to smoke cigarettes. He was funny. My sister, however, swears by San Diego’s zoo. She says there’s no competition and I believe her. She’s the zoo lover extraordinaire! Myself? I’m more a fan of a good people zoo. I love going to the mall and sitting in the food court and just watching folks. Y’all are funny. The skinny teenagers giggling behind their hands. The way too patient mama who might need to give her kid a little pat on the behind. The beleaguered dad sucking down an Orange Julius and questioning his life choices while his family shops. But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for Wall Drug in Wall, South Dakota. Not even Vegas where I once saw a guy dressed up as Elvis wearing a wedding dress in a wheel chair. Take a minute to picture that. I’ll wait. Back to Wall Drug. That place was the mother lode of people watching. Mostly because there were hundreds, felt like thousands, of them crammed onto its’ property. Ever been there? It’s more than a little crazy and pure American. First of all, they sell everything you could imagine. Need neon dice that flash? They got ’em. A full barbecue meal. It’s there. Brontosaurus sculpture? You know it. They also have an entire boot store! A huge one. And, wouldn’t you know, in that crowded place in the middle of nowhere my husband was suddenly in the market for boots. Not a joke. My husband is a very thorough shopper. He has looked at me aghast many, many times in our long marriage because I tend to walk in a store and buy the first thing I like. This makes sense to me. I like it. It’s for sale. I’m good. Not him. He has to try it on and think about it and debate it–it’s a whole thing. To keep us married, I have learned to remove myself from those situations and find something else to do. Hence, I sat on a bench for almost an hour just watching people. Wow. I’ll say it again. Y’all are funny. Mr. Man with the big tummy who dropped ice cream on himself and got a chewing out from his wife I see you. All the people with dogs, the puppy says hello–again. Way too skinny lady with spangled back pockets and blue eye shadow debating the sparkly pink boots– you have been noted. Scary looking biker dude wearing no shirt and a leather vest with an even scarier skull looking thing on the back–I averted my eyes, but I totally saw you too. To be honest, you kinda intimidated me. You need to take it down a notch. Go have some ice cream or something. Ask big tummy guy where to get it. Mom with the leather purse suffering through your own version of hell in the gift shop while waiting for your four(!) kids to pick a souvenir I totally see you. Where on earth was your husband? Probably trying on boots with mine. Some people. I decided, that day, we should stop taking foreign tourists to places like the Statue of Liberty or the White House and instead drop them in the middle of South Dakota at Wall Drug. This is where they can really experience America. In fact, I think half the country was there the day I visited. It’s hard to find a square inch in that place not occupied by someone! Even the giant jackalope wearing a saddle is crawling with people looking for a photo op. And, by the way, you guys cough and sneeze and touch things a lot. And some of your coughs sound a little serious. Tall man in the plaid shirt I’m talking to you. Turns out there is a limit to my love of people watching and it centers around the fear of tuberculosis. So, when I had finished my 32 oz. weird tasting pineapple drink and there was still no sign of my husband, I went and told him politely it was time to go. Well, pretty politely. I did snap my fingers at him and the lady chewing out her husband for spilling his ice cream gave me a little nod of admiration. As we made our way through the throng of people trying to get to the front door and back to our car, I made sure to soak the moment in. To really notice all that Wall Drug is. I did this because I have no intention of ever going back. Been there, done that and yes, I bought a t-shirt–the very first one I saw. My husband, however, did not buy boots. Some people.

Perry, Iowa (Hotel Pattee!)

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I suppose we all get mired down in our individual lives. Bills to pay. Strawberries to buy. Soccer games to attend. We go busily about our days and, sometimes, forget that there is a group of people in the world who remember that it is important to protect beauty for the sake of beauty. On our road trip, we found just such a group of people in Perry, Iowa. I wish I could tell you more about the town itself, but I can’t. Instead, I can tell you about the Hotel Pattee and tell you to make it a goal to spend a night there. I did. In the Telital room. It’s a room based around a man who loved journalism. There are old newspapers on the walls and a beautiful old roll top desk that I spent quite a bit of time with while I was there. Yes, I opened every drawer. Yes, I thought about leaving a secret note for whomever came next. Yes, I pretended I was a newspaper reporter from bygone ages with important copy to get out. I loved that room. You can go to their website and see it for yourself. Or, better yet, you can go yourself. You could book the Circus room or the Louis Armstrong suite. Their rooms all have a theme and they are beyond delightful. There is a coffee table book down on the front counter you can buy so you can peruse them long after you’re home. I’d highly recommend that. I’d also recommend petting the three legged dog that wanders the property and has his own bed just inside the back door. I’d definitely have a delicious dinner in their cafe. Enjoy the heavy glasses and the wood work and the carpet your feet sinks into. Take time to admire the intricate wood carvings on the back of each booth and the train that runs the perimeter of the dining room. Marvel at the breathtaking chandeliers and go down in the basement to look at the gorgeous tile work on the spa area and peek through the doors at the old fashioned bowling alley that you can still play on. Exhaust your husband with proclamations like, “Can you believe this?” and “They just don’t make things like they used to.” and “We have to bring the kids here. Can you imagine what the boys would think?” Go outside into the beautiful courtyard and beat your husband soundly at corn hole and wander through their sculpture garden. Take your makeup off in a beautiful black and white tiled bathroom that makes you feel like a fancy starlet and go to bed thanking God that there are still people who understand it’s important to protect beauty for the sake of beauty itself. I did and I also told the ladies thank you before we left the next morning. “You guys are important,” I told them. “We all need you. Especially lately.” They smiled and were gracious and told us to drive careful. Probably thought I was a little strange. Probably, I am. Especially since, I must admit, I shed a few tears as we maneuvered our way out of their tiny parking lot. Why? I’m not sure. I guess I am afraid we are getting too far away from that place that will make us drive an extra couple of hours to see a place like Hotel Pattee. There’s no mall there. No big sporting events or tourist attractions. It’s just a hotel in a small town in Iowa. Somewhere nobody would go without an intention to do so. I owe it to my parents that I did. They taught me to appreciate places like Hotel Pattee and I am so thankful they did. I’ve tried to do the same with my own children, but I’m not sure I have succeeded. Competition is fierce. But, I will keep trying. Because it is a valuable thing when wood gleams and windows have diamond inserts that make rainbows on plush carpet in the afternoon. Fresh flowers on every table. Amazing rooms that let you live a different moment in another place. All of it. Hotel Pattee holding the line against mundane and cookie cutter nights spent in chain hotels. I hope her doors are always open and I hope I’ve made you want to do your part to make that happen. If you take some good pictures please share! My husband drew the line at me asking to visit every room and I feel like I missed out!

Two Rivers, Wisconsin

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

When I am an old lady (way sooner that I’m comfortable with!) and I think back on Wisconsin I will remember flowers and lighthouses and nice people. A different flavor of nice, but nice all the same. I say that because they are not walking towards you friendly in Wisconsin. They are more two steps back and then a smile kind of nice. I noticed this, first, with the young man who checked us into our room. Our motel was the kind of place where your room door opens onto the parking lot and a decorator was not consulted about anything. There’s a microwave that looks like somebody might have used it at college first. The beds are the old-fashioned kind you better check under for puppies and socks before you leave–we found both. The shower squeaks and bangs before it starts and none of that matters because once you cross the parking lot and a small street you are on the shores of Lake Michigan. That is a sight you won’t soon forget. I couldn’t get over folks talking about going down to the beach of a lake. But it’s there. Anyway, I digress. Back to the young man who checked us in. It was pouring rain when we arrived and tumbled into his lobby dripping and exhausted. Darkness had long since settled and it was that time of night when hotel lobby folks are in the back room watching tv or doing their homework. This one wasn’t. He was clicking clacking on a computer. Took way longer than i expected to look up and then didn’t smile. He kinda looked like a chubby version of that famous character Spicoli from Fast Times.(If you don’t get that reference you won’t be old as fast as me!) Looked like him but with none of the natural bounce of Spicoli. Nope. This kid found nothing amusing about two wet Texans in his lobby. Polite, but not amused. Or friendly. That never stops me. I told him we were first time visitors to Wisconsin and asked him what we should do in the area. What he recommended. He stared at me for a minute and then lumbered over to the wooden display rack and gathered up several flyers. He shoved them into my hands, gave my husband our room key and informed us it was too late to get any food close. Ten minutes later, when I was back to buy some microwave popcorn and a candy bar from his little store, the computer was once again click-clacking. I tried to start a conversation again to no avail. Back to my room in the rain to eat my nutritious meal and listen to the shower screech. Fished the puppy out from under the bed and was already asleep when my husband got out of the shower and informed me there was only one towel. “One of us is going to have to go to the office and get more.” he informed me. Not gonna be me I thought and then fell asleep again– exhausted I’ve been in the car for days kind of sleep. Didn’t wake up until I smelled coffee the next morning. My husband had already been down to the office where, he informed me, there was now a lady working and he had gotten a stack of towels. “Was she nice?” I asked without opening my eyes. This was one of those questions I ask my husband that he never understands. He honestly doesn’t care if people are nice. If they have a family. How long they’ve worked at a place. He just cares if they are doing their job. “She gave me coffee and towels.” was his reply. I stuck out my hand, took the coffee and the first of our three days in Wisconsin began. It was a blur of one beautiful place after another. We had coffee at a charming coffee house around a fire that was completely necessary. (You probably didn’t appreciate that sentence enough if you’re not from Texas!) We walked along the beach of Lake Michigan and the puppy barked at water. We got ice cream late one night at a wonderful old-fashioned ice cream parlor called Beernsten’s the was something from a kid’s best dream. Glass jars of different chocolates lined every counter. We saw red lighthouses and gorgeous hydrangeas casually growing beside the road like they wouldn’t cost me a fortune back home. We wore light jackets and shivered and talked, mildly seriously, about whether we would want to live in Wisconsin. (No, because of the winters!) Stopped one night to watch a full moon rise over Lake Michigan and felt our throats catch at the peaceful beauty. Smiled at the other folks watching the same thing and pleasantly frittered time away as vacationers do. So much so that, suddenly, it was our last night in our homely room that had started to feel like home. I packed and then, to celebrate, I told my husband I was going to get popcorn. I hadn’t been back to the office since that first night and I wondered on my way over if our friend Spicoli would be there. He was. Click-clack. But this time, when I walked in, he stopped typing and looked up at me. And, he talked. “Sooo, what did you guys do?” He said with a real interest. I stared at him for a moment and then answered, “We ate cheese curds.” All the wonderful things we had done and seen and that’s all I could come up with. “We ate cheese curds.” He nodded his head and that was that. Click-clack. I gathered up my popcorn and another candy bar (We were on vacation!) and asked him to charge them to my room. He told me, “I got you.” And then, just as I was about to go outside, he added, “Wisconsin is cool. Come back.” But he smiled. A real smile. I smiled back. A happy Texan and a quiet kid from Wisconsin. I couldn’t wait to tell my husband about the interaction even though I knew he wouldn’t care.

Need a hug?

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I was at Walmart the other day. Cart full of groceries and in a hurry. Aggravated because there was only one check out open. I don’t enjoy the self check out. It takes me forever. People huff. Anyway, I was standing there perusing the cover of a People magazine and waiting my time when I realized there was a small drama playing out ahead of me. The lady in front of the couple in front of me didn’t have enough money to buy everything in her cart. She was taking things back from the conveyer belt and handing them to her son. He was probably twelve with huge glasses and a nintendo t-shirt. Skinny arms full of laundry soap and baked beans and toothpaste. My brain immediately started cataloging the cash in my wallet. But, before I could make a move, the man in front of me had his wallet out. “Let me pay,” he said taking a step toward her. She turned and put a hand out towards him. Not to accept, but to stop him. Because he was stepping toward her, her hand ended up in the middle of his chest. Splayed there and stayed. They spent a minute staring into each other’s eyes and then he stepped back in place. Behind him, I quickly stared at my feet. I didn’t want her to see that I saw. Saw the pain and confusion. The resignation. The fear that somehow she might become someone she never intended to be. She paid for what she could, her son handed the rest to the cashier, and me and the man finished our purchases.

When I got to my car, tears started to fall. I wished I knew the lady. Had her phone number. I wanted to call her and tell her I understood. Understood that sometimes things hurt too much for even help to land right.

I understood because the day before, I was at the vet saying goodbye to our dog we loved for ten years. She was the best. Tiny, tough and funny, but completely incapable of beating cancer. In the examination room, I held her until the vet said she was gone and then stood up and froze. Our sweet young vet came around the table offering me a hug. Compassion was written all over her face and I knew she meant well, but I said no and backed away holding out my hand just like the Walmart lady. A physical representation of how much I didn’t want her to hug me. I saw the surprise on her face and felt bad. I wasn’t trying to be mean, but I was completely incapable of accepting a hug in that moment. Too many things were too close to the surface. I needed my shell to get out of there. My shell and my sunglasses.

I didn’t want to accept that hug and start ugly crying and not even really know what I was crying about. The loss of my sweet dog? Sure. My sister’s long wait for scan results? Absolutely. The news headlines? Without a doubt. All of that and more. It was easier to just refuse the hug and make my escape. No reason to upset the poor folks in the lobby.

Thinking about it later, I wondered if Americans aren’t mostly feeling the same way as me and the lady in Walmart. A whole nation of people fragile and hurting and just trying to keep it together. Life certainly seems weird lately. Friends in my circle talk about it a lot. Everyone just seems off. Out of kilter. Worried. It’s like the pandemic happened and we never righted ourselves afterwards. We seem to be a whole nation of little kids waiting and trying to act tough until the grownups show up and fix things. Our bottom lips quivering while we stand in a corner with our arms crossed. Waiting for grocery prices to go back to reasonable, waiting for headlines to be less terrifying and waiting for some sign that things will be better this time next year. Will they?

I read a story about a bunch of college kids the other day at a church service that wanted to be baptized so badly they did it in the beds of pickup trucks. Filled them up with water hoses and got it done. The Walmart man was going to buy the groceries. The vet offered a hug. An election is coming. Some opportunity to choose.

Little signs, but signs I hold onto all the same.

I love you America.

A day at the County Fair

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

You’ve been. The County Fair. That dusty, hot, smelly slice of life. You’ve jumped over the puddles where a hose leaked. You’ve stepped in various varieties of colored poop. You’ve seen the proud 4-H kids leading their steers, goats, pigs around. All of them with a checked shirt and a big number tacked to their chest. Behind them, you’ve seen their moms carrying all of the brushes and spray bottles and hair spray with hope splayed across their faces that this whole venture will turn out well for their kid. A blue ribbon. Maybe their picture in the paper. You’ve been in the exhibit hall to see all of the projects. The oil paintings of Pac-man and wolves and hummingbirds. The draw bridges built out of craft sticks. The jars of jelly and the purple and blue quilts. You’ve eaten the funnel cakes with powdered sugar that turns into a sweet silkiness that makes your napkin stick to your fingers. Just try and shake it loose. The long ears of corn dripping with butter and not quite shucked. The homemade lemonade with the little lemon wedges and, most times, an insect or two floating alongside them. You’ve seen the kids looking to spend their spending money. Meet boys. Feel grown up. They travel in packs and stand awkwardly at corners. They laugh too loud and yell across the clearings at friends to be noticed. They are defiant and needy and young. You’ve seen the super important guy running around with a clip board and a badge. This thing ain’t happening without him. He’ll guarantee you of that if you ask. Don’t. It will take a minute. But, he’ll also tell you where to go to watch the costume contest for goats or where the first aid tent is if your kid gets bitten by a bee or a rabbit or anything else. So, maybe he’s right. You’ve seen that family that looks a little down on their luck. Three or four kids. One of them named Blaze or Chance and a troublemaker. “Blaze stop it.” “Blaze get down from there.” “Blaze leave your damn sister alone.” You’ve seen them all share the same turkey leg and oversized soda. You’ve had a fleeting thought to buy each of those children their own ice cream cone but then didn’t. You don’t want to come off weird. You’ve ran into old friends and shook their hands and hugged their necks and felt the sweat on the back of their t-shirts. You’ve talked about mutual friends and how much the kids are growing. How much things cost and the weather. One of you ended the conversation by saying you need to get to the exhibit hall to see someone’s prize winning pumpkin or squash or batch of cookies. You’ve reached the end of your desire to see anything else and had someone in your group beg to go to the carnival. Books of tickets and cheap stuffed animals and an old peeling ferris wheel that looks magic in the dusk when the lights come on. You’ve stood there looking up at the laughing couples with their faces a blur against the twilight sky and felt lucky. Lucky to be a human. Lucky that you knew enough about life to be there. Lucky. Lucky. You’ve turned in a slow circle to take it all in. You’ve searched the crowd for those you’ve been to the fair with in the past. Your parents when they were still alive. Your children when they were toddlers holding your hand with an intensity you miss in your deepest heart. Your best friend from high school who always shared her lip gloss. You’ve gone home with a little bit of a sunburn, dirty tennis shoes and a restored heart. Lucky. Lucky.