Heidi Beth

For a few hours I was cool. I was at the raised round booth with a solid wood table at the south west wall of Yesterdays, a local and better quality TGIF type place. I was there with friends from our short lived improv troupe. Usually we met in someones apt, the kind that’s payed for by magic. The kind with very little furniture, including a few turned over card board boxes with fancy cloth on them as well as an old cold cup of coffee and a full ash tray. If you were to look up from your perch while sitting near such a table, you’d see sitting on the window ledge a wooden incense burner with 1/4 of a stick left and the wormy crumpled ashes below, not all landing in the intended tray. Maybe that was just an image of 20 somethings in the 90’s around my neighborhood, but it was common.
But tonight we were celebrating after a great show, feeling close and happy. The audience had been large and appreciative, offering compliments at show’s end. We thought this was the beginning of something big (it actually lasted only a few more weeks due to major disunity and hurt feelings). We had a few dollars and little sense (I’m 37 now, and think about reality in terms of budgets and sustainable situations).
I almost got away from the point I was heading for. There we were, hunched over incredible nachos, melted cheese, tomatoes, guacamole…, enormous juicy cheese burgers covered in dripping amounts of ketchup, mustard, and mayo, thick with pickles and onions on a fat white bread bun, chunky, perfectly browned french fries on the side. We sipped our sugary sodas between bites, between jokes, between happy glances whenever our eyes met. I remember Meghan, Jason, Sam and the slightly older balding guy who seemed to have more experience and better ideas than the rest of us (can’t remember his name any more).
I felt like I was in a commercial.

Mr. Sohn sang “Heidi Heidi Heidi Ho” slow and low almost every day as I walked in to his class on the first floor, next to the lunch room. I didn’t want to be noticed. I was 10, then 11 in his class. There were carpeted steps up the back of the windowless room, desks on each level.
Erin Carter and I made up a secret alphabet to send notes in class. It was a success. We learned our alternative letters well enough to read at nearly the same pace we read the regular English words. 27 years later I still remember most of it. One day Mr. Sohn spotted a neatly folded note as it was passed across from hand to hand between Erin and I. Ready to embarrass us so that we would surely never try that stunt again, he unfolded the paper before the class, poised to share it’s contents but sadly for him and much to our amusement, he merely turned the sheet over and over, round and round unable to make sense of our foreign scribbles.
On the first day of 6th grade, Chad Kingsley, who had grown considerably over the summer walked up and towered over me saying, “Let’s arm wrestle now.” So there in Mr. Sohn’s room, before class, we arm wrestled. He was the first person my age to beat me. Up until that year the boys and girls were around the same size and since I spent so many hours at the gymnasium doing flips and pulling myself around bars, I was strong for my age and size.
Mr. Sohn liked to play old radio programs for us. The lights would be turned low and to our delight (well mine at least, can’t speak for the others), once all had entered class for the day, a spooky old tale would come on. I guess these were from before TV, when the family would sit around the radio, entertained by tales of woe and adventure. It was obvious how much Mr. Sohn enjoyed these shows. I have a picture in my mind of him leaned back at his desk chair, hands folded on his perfectly round stomach, a contented smile playing on his face.
He was kind, gentle. He liked teaching. He liked King Lab. We liked him.

Copying the challenge of a friend who paints beautifully with water color, I’m challenging myself to write 30 blog entries in 30 days, and not just a run down of daily life, but pieces of writing. I risk being very boring, but I also risk writing beautifully at times, inspired by the heat of intensity that pushing through the resistance that will surely come must bring, for this is when writing comes through and I am not writing, but writing is writing and i am just the key tapper or pen pusher.

Naomi Block made white chocolate candies before the Nutcracker, she made them in blue and other colors, each a specific shape. This is how I grew to love white chocolate.
I always knew the hot dog stand was there. I loved when it was open. I have clear memories of trotting off the ice with a skip in my step as my blade hopped onto the foamy floor and I dashed to the concession stand for another hot dog, bag of orange salty popcorn, coke…my parents complained that I spent too much time there and not enough time on the ice they were paying for me to practice on.
When I was 6, on Friday nights, at the other end of Robert Crown, CPC gymnastics set up an open gym for all kids who wanted to fly in circles around little bars and fling themselves off the end of runways into foam pits. I was there EVERY Friday I possibly could.
In the same wing there was an arts and crafts area. Potters wheel, kiln, sewing machines, big half circle windows at the top of the south facing brick walls. This is where so many of the magic Nutcracker and Spring Show costumes were sewn. This is where I took my first pottery class. This is where I would sometimes wander to if I got bored in the ice rink area.
Hockey skaters took over public sessions and figure skaters tried to take over the center, marked off with orange cones by the staff. Most rinks still do this I believe. I figure most rinks that support a non college level hockey team still have little padded, helmeted figures cutting through the middle aggravating the daintily dressed figures in white leather skates.
When it was my turn to perform in a show, when the lights were down save for the ring of light following the preceding skater around as they executed lovely jumps and spins, I stood shivering behind an enormous garbage bag wall, nervous as I ever was, ready to launch onto the ice like a rocket the moment the music faded, just before mine began to play. Out there on the ice, a million miles from anyone, engulfed in a bubble of terror, I couldn’t hear the cheering section of my peers in the far right corner 2nd floor seating area. I was aware of the scratching sound my blade made as it cut the ice. I was aware that a million people with 2 million eyeballs were staring at me, no matter what I did.
For a brief time I competed. My mom and I trudged at insane hours to skating rinks all around the Chicago area. That’s when I learned to love 4am and the sunrise. That’s when I learned to love seeing new sights and sounds. May be why I love to travel so much now :). Competing wasn’t my thing. I always sank a bit, didn’t stretch my arms fully, kept half the effort inside, afraid of doing well and being complimented. Why I do not know but I’ve tried to figure it out for years.
My feet hurt in those stiff white boots. They left red dents in my legs and squinched my toes. Taking them off at the end of practice was a high point.
But I LOVED it! I loved the time with friends, Kori and Jenny stand out in memory most, there were so many friends there. Spelling contests as we laced our skates, quick changes in crowded locker rooms, enjoying snack at the tables that now remind me of Volkswagen Bugs because of their full colorful shaped seats and table tops. I loved flying for hours every day, round and round and round, spinning fast and jumping in full circles. I loved listening to the mothers talk. I liked the rhythm of their speech, the way their mouths formed words, the way they leaned in to each other listening intently. I loved the friendships, the seemingly endless hours romping at Kori or Jenny’s home. At Jenny’s I remember the Barbie dolls, that we got chicken pox at the same time, and a matching game. Jenny was energetic and enthusiastic about all things girlie (which I was not, but I tried to learn because she made it seem fun). At Kori’s, it was a game of Operation, her dogs Sukie and Loius (not sure if I spelled their names right) barking at passers by and the window to the kitchen from the stairway. Kori talked about becoming a doctor. I remember her as thoughtful and intense. I was all over the place and asked a lot of questions. If I remember accurately this combination made for a fun time playing together.
I guess as far as latch key children go, I was lucky. If it wasn’t skating it was gymnastics (which is another story of how I became a real gymnast and not just a Friday night romper) for 3 hours after school most days. I had somewhere to go regularly where I exercised, made friends, ate expensive junk food and learned skills that still live in my muscles, ready to show off whenever I enter an ice arena or a gymnasium.
And now when I look back at my childhood for clues to explain certain strengths or weaknesses in me as an adult, I have crystal clear memories of my life as an ice skater which is strewn with clues that I can use to further develop the good and overcome the not so wonderful habits I’ve developed…like going for the potato chips when I ought to be going for the pretty slices of green pepper beside them on the table.

I remember my Aunt Alma. She was very slim and taller than me. Her hair was mostly gray by the time she died, always cut short. She loved to talk, loved to laugh, but mostly loved to be of service, especially to those who’d hit bottom.
She was also the relative I was closest to on my dad’s side. She was grandma to my 2nd cousin Corey. He must miss her most of all. I miss her too, but we still talk. Right after she died, she told me what it was like, her new home. She was happy, very happy.
In this life, we’d spend hours on the phone, Aunt Alma telling me stories of all the cute things Corey said, of all his accomplishments, the presents she gave him each Christmas. They liked to eat at Boston Chicken. He was a late start to read then he leaped far ahead of his peers. He went to grandma’s house after school every afternoon.
I learned all of this long before my kids were old enough to bond with my mom, some even before I was married or had children.
Now I know the valuable link between a grandma and her grandsons.
My mom and Devyn drove off just before I left for the Cafe this evening. They’re heading to her house for a sleep over, car packed with the bed he’ll create on the floor (2 body pillows, 2 comforters, 2 flannel sheets a fuzzy blanket and 2 pillows), treasured stuffed animals and clothes and the current bed time book, full of adventure stories about building character.
He likes time with grandma because she’s nicer to him more often than his parents. That’s the role of grandma right? Very obvious unconditional love. Grandmas are more likely to say yes to another yogurt, more computer time, another movie, another story, another round of UNO. She also has a different perspective. She raised me, then took a break and prayed her butt off I’m sure, then breathed a big sigh when I finally got married and did a little dance when she met Devyn in the delivery room that beautiful summer morning in 2000.
She might go days with out seeing Devyn or Matthew, even months when we lived in other parts of the country (she spent more on plane tickets then, now she spends more on food since they are always …”hungry grandma, may I have some frozen blueberries and some toast with lots of margarine and rice and…).
She sees their development from a different angle, sees that the relationship is the most important aspect. Yes, she was eager for Devyn to read and anticipates Matthew’s triumph over letters and sounds, but she is far more aware than I that these are her buddies to watch over, to love and enjoy. I am aware of their wonderfulness, of how important the relationship is between each of my boys and I and I think I do pretty good, but it’s so easy to accidentally slip in the mire of daily chores, wet beds, meal preparation and clean up, laundry to collect, wash, fold and hang, our home school, and the dynamic between the boys on difficult days. I get jumbled and impatient sometimes. When I feel it coming on, the need for a break, I call my mom for help and whenever she possibly can, she steps in and assumes her natural role. She goes on “grandma duty.”
So I thank God for the friendship my mom has with Devyn and Matthew.

Welcome home David.

I haven’t thought of Ferris Wheel in years. At the time I thought it was a great paying job and fancy to be working down town, even if it was a little diner next to the alley with the bathrooms down stairs, down a long mirrored hallway…with rats I heard about but happily never saw. I made more money than many of my close friends and they were all I knew to gauge by. Never mind that all of us were broke, living too many too an apartment or in a room at an SRO where we shared a hall bathroom and showers with strangers in near by rooms, many of them not all there or way too there. I remember first, the roaches, especially the one shown to me on a plate under a cut omelet. I would have been way more grossed out than the woman who calmly complained. I didn’t shake my coat and purse out when I went home from work because the roaches lived there too.
Once a bunch of albino ones took over the cat dish. Too bad I didn’t take pictures since I’ve never seen anything like them again. Though now all I have to do is google “Photos of albino american roaches” and I’d have my pick. I could probably add, “in a bowl of dry cat food” and get even closer to the reality.
I remember 3am at Kafien Kafe too. Late night walks, fearless, down Chicago Ave. What was I thinking, or not? Notebook in hand, pen, money for a cup of coffee or 5, cigarettes, light and maybe a book for mind breaks. This was my life. I liked it. The first and second time I lived there.
The first time I lived there I helped produce an open mic on Tuesday nights. I worked in a restaurant down the street owned by another Greek man (like at Ferris Wheel) who screamed a lot (the owner at Ferris wheel fortunately did not scream, but he did talk fast and a lot). Didn’t phase me, that’s what Greek restaurant owners do right? One day about three months in to my employ there I decide he was crazy and so would I be if I stayed one more day. This kind of logic that acted quicker than sense that should have had a small bit more concern about where I would eat when the money ran out was responsible for my having and losing a good 50 jobs over the course of 9 years (not a typo, and thank goodness people grow up). I had a colorful and creative application. My favorite part of that job was the 5am quiet walk.
I like 5am. In less than 2 hours it will be 5am again, only I won’t have the benefit of 8 hours sleep to enjoy it by. Hopefully I’ll be in my bed at 5am, unaware of the constantly shifting numbers we all agree represent forward motion.
I started out at Ferris wheel and followed my hands here. Where are we? Are we at Kafein Kafe, watching smoke curl, form a straight line then dance off the end of a Marlboro, lodged in a black plastic ash tray, neglected as my busy fingers scrawl out the words in my head, coffee getting cold? Are we looking at the pale bugs eating cat food? Are we wandering to the shared bathroom with creaky white painted doors that close by a hook latch on the inside once you walk up one oddly placed step? Are we listening to the upstairs neighbor listening to the Beatles at an alarmingly loud 10, his feet thudding as he dances or something resembling?
Or are we right here, listening to the quiet, grateful for the learning of lost youth, grateful to be found, thankful that 2 sweet beautiful boys are asleep in their beds after a long day of laughter and play, struggles, frustration and victory (always big victories at this young age), thankful to be married to an odd sort of man who makes me laugh a lot and think deeply but most importantly, challenges me to consider how I might help someone else (among a much longer list of wonderfulness)?
I’m here, lap covered in a fleece like blanket with a Native American pattern on it, tap tapping black keys on my fancy laptop. I’m here in a way I could not have imagined from my room at the SRO with the missing Murphy beds. I’m here, happy, content, grateful and surprised, happily surprised.

There was a time, about 9 years ago, when I thought all beef hot dogs were healthy. I was recently married and now had an infant to love and care for. I also had a new understanding that what I did and ate affected other people directly.
There was a time I ate fresh broccoli mushroom tofu with garlic and ginger while nursing my newborn in the hospital then came home with him and ate Aldi corn beef hash and eggs with whole milk and soft whole wheat buttered toast.
There was a time when I ate 3 snickers bars a day, but that was long before all beef hot dogs were healthy.
There was a time I thought a little sugar would be okay after I had given it up “finally” after one bite of a cream puff caused a buzzing vibration in the back of my head. After I ate that little bit of sugar in a chocolate chip scone with morning coffee I did not know how to deal with a minor adversity with out feeling angry and agitated (the kind of minor challenge that I had grown out of feeling upset by). I got the message. Some can, some can’t. I would not.
Shortly after that, David and I went in to The Zone, the place of “I’m gonna try this healthy food thing and see how much ugly green food I can make taste good for friends who don’t care if their hot dogs are all beef or all unidentified other.”
We kept matches in the kitchen from then on (air quality control).
We ate a lot of split pea soup and I was under the mistaken impression that the “healthy” version of a dish had to mimic the popular version,which for split pea soup meant thick with fake ham in it. Pea soup has gotten easier and is ready for consumption with less time stirring and no blops of glops on my shirt in the making. Now it’s full of garlic, potatoes and carrots.
We switched to fancy milk and organic whole wheat flour. We ate sucanut sweetened sweets (a lot of them), ice cream, chocolate, lots of cookies, brownies. (The non damaging sweetener allowed me to get crazy again — the yummy kind. Good thing I haven’t found an alternative to snickers yet, but if you know of one do tell!)
We also made cooked broccoli mushroom tofu, homemade french fries, and um, many brown bumpy entrees. One friend went to Subway after declining our offer to feed him; he admitted that our food had just gotten too weird. This was all some time ago, when we lived in a little house in Central Illinois with a fenced back yard and nice neighbors we made friends with. At that time we all still ate wheat, soy, and dairy.
Times change. Slowly. One insight, one learning experience, one eye opening book at a time.Skip to 2009.
We’ve lived in three other states since then, cooked and baked A LOT, and somehow, all in divine order, we are back, six houses and one cross walk away from that first house by the corn fields. We have a fenced yard and neighbors we are friends with. But thankfully we make prettier food now, healthier, and I’m at ease with the cooking/baking process.
The other night we celebrated our new floors with a gluten, onion and sugar free, goat cheese pizza that was good enough to market! Yeehaw!
It’s OK if you don’t believe me, I wouldn’t either if I hadn’t been at this the whole time. I make gluten free, non white sugar, delightful chocolate cake with traditional frosting (except for some of the ingredients), fruity breakfast muffins, almond butter cookies, still lots of homemade french fries, easy split pea soup, fresh garlic salsa that gets great reviews, and a lot more I can’t think of just now. People ask for the recipes. I’ve been encouraged to sell at the farmers market and local stores. And it’s our main stream now, not our experiment. I’ve had people over to learn how-to and I’ve encouraged others to experiment.
Many people say that they couldn’t do what we did. I couldn’t either if I thought I had to do it in a few weeks. We spent 9 years making messes, mistakes, enjoying victories, making faces and getting out the mixing bowl, the cutting board and the soup pot again and again. Because we had to.

Taking the afternoon off. Earlier I opened my closet, moved the brown suede boots, the black boots with heels, the box of letters that date back 15 plus years. I pulled out two boxes of writing, my writing, from high school forward. It’s the next step in this purge process. One was sort between keep, toss, give and recycle. Two was sort and put all the keep in appropriate rooms. Three was organize each room. Four is now. Seeing everything in it’s place, reassess. One room, one closet, one drawer at a time. Same four options. There I was with my writing, sitting on my knees, pulling notebook after notebook, waiting for a light, a sign, to know which ones to bring with me wherever I’d go next. As I flipped old lined pages, I wasn’t impressed. Some, a few, I threw away. Then I put back a pink spiral, closed the boxes, replaced the letter box and boots. Today I decided is not for sorting my old mind. Still, I see this is next, part of step four whether I like it or not. So tomorrow or the second day of November I’ll begin again(I’ve started this daunting task before, made progress, but left it unfinished), dive in to the boxes of history told in angst and boredom, frustration and immaturity, joy, intensity and inspiration. I’ll seek out the gems, discard the dead withered pieces. I’ll read slowly and quickly, savoring some, holding some aside for revision or at least revisiting and nearly ignore others as they make the waste pile. And when this process is done? Could be I’ll fly!

Michael Hedges is the backdrop for this one. I’m at Schnucks eating salad bar with dressing I bought from home. I’m on a break from the BIG PURGE. Therefore this little entry might be boring. I’ll take the risk. We have SO MUCH STUFF! and yet, not that much, but so many of “our” things don’t have a place in our home. They’ve been sitting around our lives for ages, keeping the corners of boxes company, the ones in the back of the closet waiting for nothing. We already have a large pile of boxes in the back corner of the pod ready to go into our garage sale this Saturday. The boys are motivated by the prospect of cash. They get to split the proceeds from all the kids stuff that sells. Here’s something I found on a flylady.net email a few days after we set aside time to do this purge. Very motivating yes? Read on…
“Dear Friends,
What is your clutter doing to you?
One day when I was having a conversation with my dear friend Tracy,
she coined a phrase that I asked to borrow. Clutter is to our homes
as cholesterol is to our arteries. So I ran with it. Over the past few
years, it has been forwarded to me saying you have to read this.
It is so funny when your own words come back to you via the
internet. LOL
This is scary, so lets examine the similarities.
Cholesterol clogs arteries.
Clutter invades the pathways of our homes.
Cholesterol increases blood pressure.
Clutter causes stress in your life.
Cholesterol reduces your life span.
Clutter decreases your joy in living.
Cholesterol cost major money when you treat it.
Clutter pushes money away from you.
Cholesterol causes heart disease.
Clutter destroys closeness in families
Cholesterol is a result of over indulging in fatty foods.
Clutter is a result of over indulging in stuff.
Cholesterol causes arteries to harden
Clutter causes hearts to harden.
Do you see that we have to put our homes on a cholesterol free,
clutter free diet.
How do we do this: By changing our eating habits
We live in a society in which the one who dies with the most stuff
wins! Do you want your stuff to be the death of you.
Start changing you eating habits, by only buying things that are
needed.
When you bring something new home, purge something old that it
replaces.
Get rid of the items that you have more than one of.
Give away the things you no longer use.
Clean out those clothes that you can’t wear.
Clean out those attics and basements.
Look at why you are holding on to things. Are you afraid that you
are going to have to do without. Fear and hoarding are signs that you
don’t have faith in God.
Clutter was clogging up my pathways to the abundance. When I got rid
of my clutter I opened my heart to all the joy that life has to
offer.
What is stopping you from getting rid of clutter?
Are you ready to FLY?
FlyLady”
So this is what I’m talking about. Especially this line about cholesterol hardening our arteries and clutter hardening our hearts. It was like BAM in my face. Yes, I was not as nice simply because I felt overwhelmed by all the pieces of material I had to keep track of, clean, pick up, sort, organize and manage. And most of those pieces are optional to the smooth functioning of providing our basic needs and actually get in the way. Even worse, they detract from the quality of living once our basic needs are met. Blah!
Good then, getting to it! Strange are the pangs of doubt when I come to an item that has a use, might one day be useful etc. Here’s what I must hold in my hand and carry in my heart and keep front and center in my head. God has created a flow that I have found works like this. If I stay open and honest, if I am not greedy but generous, if I am focused on the objective of a happy loving family, happy loving friendships, helping my fellow humans and being a good person, then if I truly need something, it will be there. Defining “need” helps. Then there is the question of what if what we need does not come. Maybe there is another hidden gift. Either way, I have been sinking in the mire of material congestion and I want out of that trap. I will sing more, write more, reach out more, give more, love more, worry less, fear less, when I can hear the space of clarity created. What are we doing here anyway? Living, loving and learning.