If you live outside of Iowa, have been in a cave for the last 38 years, just landed your spaceship from planet Xerox or have come in from the Out Back, you may not know about RAGBRAI. RAGBRAI is The Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa, as in The Des Moines Register.
The oldest, largest (an estimated 20,000 bicyclists) and longest (nearly 500-miles) tour event in the world, RAGBRAI attracts bicyclists from around the globe who gather every July in Western Iowa and spend a week riding across the state. This year's race starts at the Missouri River in Sioux City and ends at the Mississippi in Dubuque.
Cities and towns along the way reap the benefits of suddenly having their populations explode as bikers break for restrooms, refreshments, meals and overnight stays in parks, parking lots, churches, schools and even private homes.
I try to imagine what it would be like going on RAGBRAI but struggle with getting past the port-o-potties.
You see, I've always loved riding my bike, but if I went I'd have to have my wide cushy granny seat. Add to that a bicycle basket to carry Kleenex, tweezers for facial hair, teeth whitener, anti-wrinkle cream, a set of 32 hot-rollers, down comforter, feather pillow, nightlight, lots of fruits and veggies and my trusty bicycle bell to keep the coyotes away.
When I envision going on RAGBRAI, my picture is pretty sad. I see myself pedaling into Dubuque one month after the race ends, finishing dead last.
I'm all blistered and beat down from the wind and sun, not to mention a severely chapped behind. I roll into town and groan inaudibly, "I made it, I made it..," with no fanfare or anyone who gives a care.
Overrun by dark thoughts, I picture extreme discomfort: hurricane winds, driving rain, deadly lightning, drenched tent, wet clothes, flat tires, stripped gears, aching muscles, grapefruit-sized mosquitoes and gritty bugs in my teeth.
Maybe that's my problem: my visualization is right there in the old dumpster. I think a little dose of Robert Schuller's Power of Positive Thinking might get me in the right frame of mind.
Or perhaps I could draw inspiration from the Wilson family of Ames, Iowa. Greg and Shelli Wilson and their three children, ages one to eight, are riding in RAGBRAI this year.
According to the official RAGBRAI website, the entire family will travel on one bike, a three-person tandem with a tag-along for the two littlest ones.
The bike with the Wilson's on it weighs 600 pounds and is longer than the family van. As Shelli Wilson explains, "Greg is the captain. No matter what, he has to keep pedaling."
So what happens if everyone in the family but Greg decides to take the day off? Well, if the Wilson's can do it, maybe I can, too. (Nah, probably not.)
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Monday, August 2, 2010
For Jane...a Tribute
You may not have noticed her obituary in the paper, but our friend Jane died July 7. She was 87.
A likable kind of gal, Jane never married, didn't drive a car, walked and rode public transit to get groceries, see the doctor, go to work and pay bills.
If Jane had known you, she would have made you her friend. And on your birthday, your anniversary, for Christmas, at Easter time, on Valentine's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day and maybe even Independence Day, you would have received a cheery card personalized from her.
Whatever excuses that usually keep me from attending funerals - can't get away from work, too sad, I'll honor her in another way or any number of reasons to avoid feeling grief - didn't stop me from attending Jane's funeral.
As I drove to the church through rain on Monday, I dwelt on the 26 years I knew her. I thought about how hard she tried to fit into conversations, friendships, choir, ladies circle, and other groups.
Traveling down West Seventh Street and up Pearl, I thought of the Easter lily blooming in my flower garden. It was a potted plant she had purchased for the altar in memory of her father and "Mother Dear," and later gave to me.
When I turned onto Fifth and over to Sixth, I recalled her playful expressions: "Are you being mischievous?" or "Was I naughty."
As I parked the car, I thought of the many canvas and plastic bags she lugged wherever she went. Her purse, rarely zipped, hung wide open, stuffed with papers, envelopes and whatnot, like an overflowing filing cabinet.
As I walked up the stairs to the church door, I remembered that for many years, I only knew Jane from greeting her on her way to and from the choir loft. Although, I'll never forget the first time I encountered her on a more personal level.
It was Thanksgiving Eve and we had just finished a traditional worship service. "So, do you have your turkey and all the trimmings ready for Thanksgiving?" I asked her, fully expecting a hardy, affirmative, "Yes!"
With a blank stare, she quietly said, "No, I'm all alone and no one has invited me."
"Well, consider yourself invited," I said, without hesitation, stunned by the hedge of loneliness and isolation that shaped her expression. That was the beginning of many years of Jane joining our family for all the major holidays.
After I settled into the last pew closest to the narthex, I counted the number of people at her funeral: 20, not counting about 15 family members and two pastors. I did this in the spirit of Jane, since she routinely reported a tally of how many people were in church each Sunday.
While leaving her funeral, I felt a twinge of guilt over how hard it was to visit her after she went to the nursing home.
Driving away from church, I reflected once again on Jane's efforts to fit in, and I knew all of her struggles were finally over. I thought of the Easter lily blooming in my garden and felt Jane close by.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
A likable kind of gal, Jane never married, didn't drive a car, walked and rode public transit to get groceries, see the doctor, go to work and pay bills.
If Jane had known you, she would have made you her friend. And on your birthday, your anniversary, for Christmas, at Easter time, on Valentine's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day and maybe even Independence Day, you would have received a cheery card personalized from her.
Whatever excuses that usually keep me from attending funerals - can't get away from work, too sad, I'll honor her in another way or any number of reasons to avoid feeling grief - didn't stop me from attending Jane's funeral.
As I drove to the church through rain on Monday, I dwelt on the 26 years I knew her. I thought about how hard she tried to fit into conversations, friendships, choir, ladies circle, and other groups.
Traveling down West Seventh Street and up Pearl, I thought of the Easter lily blooming in my flower garden. It was a potted plant she had purchased for the altar in memory of her father and "Mother Dear," and later gave to me.
When I turned onto Fifth and over to Sixth, I recalled her playful expressions: "Are you being mischievous?" or "Was I naughty."
As I parked the car, I thought of the many canvas and plastic bags she lugged wherever she went. Her purse, rarely zipped, hung wide open, stuffed with papers, envelopes and whatnot, like an overflowing filing cabinet.
As I walked up the stairs to the church door, I remembered that for many years, I only knew Jane from greeting her on her way to and from the choir loft. Although, I'll never forget the first time I encountered her on a more personal level.
It was Thanksgiving Eve and we had just finished a traditional worship service. "So, do you have your turkey and all the trimmings ready for Thanksgiving?" I asked her, fully expecting a hardy, affirmative, "Yes!"
With a blank stare, she quietly said, "No, I'm all alone and no one has invited me."
"Well, consider yourself invited," I said, without hesitation, stunned by the hedge of loneliness and isolation that shaped her expression. That was the beginning of many years of Jane joining our family for all the major holidays.
After I settled into the last pew closest to the narthex, I counted the number of people at her funeral: 20, not counting about 15 family members and two pastors. I did this in the spirit of Jane, since she routinely reported a tally of how many people were in church each Sunday.
While leaving her funeral, I felt a twinge of guilt over how hard it was to visit her after she went to the nursing home.
Driving away from church, I reflected once again on Jane's efforts to fit in, and I knew all of her struggles were finally over. I thought of the Easter lily blooming in my garden and felt Jane close by.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Gimme some younger looking skin
Last week, I saw two different signs advertising products and services that captured my attention. This is not my usual reaction; normally, I’m very leery of anyone selling anything, but these signs raised my curiosity.
The first one was on a marquee that read: "Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale."
Now, naturally, being in my late 50’s, younger looking anything is appealing. So, I called the number to find out about this so called "sale."
"Thank you for calling [bleep-bleep], how may I help you?"
"Hello, I saw your sign advertising 'Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale' and was curious as to what that entails?" I inquired.
"Uh-h-h, can I put you on hold?"
"O.K." I replied, thinking this really is not O.K. because I really do not like being on hold. I waited for about a minute before someone else with a much deeper voice got on the line.
"Thank you for calling [bleep-bleep], how may I help you?"
Repeating myself, "I saw your sign that said 'Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale' and I was just curious as to what that entails."
"Well, we have a really big deal going on now that includes a computerized facial skin analysis," the salesperson mumbled.
"A what?" I asked.
"A computerized facial skin analysis, a micro-derm." A micro-derm? Sounds like a made-up word to me.
She continued, "…a facial, and a chemical peel, all for only $167."
"Ah, I see," I said, reminded that the word "discount" doesn’t necessarily carry the same meaning it did in the 1970’s. Back then, you could buy a brand new Datsun 240Z for $2,400 and discount meant you could actually make purchases for under a dollar.
Another sign that grabbed my attention was handwritten and stuck in someone’s front yard. It read: "Rent-A-Friend. Mow lawns. Trim bushes. Haul stuff. Fix things."
"Rent-A-Friend." There’s something wonderfully shallow about the notion of renting a friend. Although, it kind of bothered me that I liked the ring of it so much.
The idea of renting a friend fits my approach to fix-it projects, which usually boils down to getting out the Duct Tape.
I like the convenience of calling a "Rent-A-Friend" guy or gal and asking them to fix the roof, unclog the drain, trim the hedge, walk the dogs, lift the dock, repair the fence, reach for things that are too high and maybe even run errands.
When I shared this idea with my husband, he said, "Why do you need to rent a friend when you already have "Rent-A-Husband?"
I replied, "But I don’t rent you. How do you explain that?"
"I can’t, it just goes along with your theme," he noted.
"Yeah, but you get so tired of fixing things on my 'Honey Do' list and 'Rent-A-Friend' would give you a break," I resolved.
"Yeah, I may get tired, but I still fix things anyway," he said back at me.
"But a rent-a-friend would fix things with a smile and wouldn’t whine about it," I remarked, not giving in.
"How do you know that? Besides, how much will that cost you?" he intoned with a it-will-cost-too-much ring to his voice.
He had me. Suspending the idea of a "Rent-A-Friend" for as long as possible and certain that the hourly rate would spoil it, I decided not to call.
"You're probably right," I conceded, while applying my Nivea age defying moisturizer with age diminishing creatine technology. I then put on my tool belt and got out my trusty Duct Tape.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
The first one was on a marquee that read: "Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale."
Now, naturally, being in my late 50’s, younger looking anything is appealing. So, I called the number to find out about this so called "sale."
"Thank you for calling [bleep-bleep], how may I help you?"
"Hello, I saw your sign advertising 'Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale' and was curious as to what that entails?" I inquired.
"Uh-h-h, can I put you on hold?"
"O.K." I replied, thinking this really is not O.K. because I really do not like being on hold. I waited for about a minute before someone else with a much deeper voice got on the line.
"Thank you for calling [bleep-bleep], how may I help you?"
Repeating myself, "I saw your sign that said 'Younger Looking Skin 70 Percent Off Sale' and I was just curious as to what that entails."
"Well, we have a really big deal going on now that includes a computerized facial skin analysis," the salesperson mumbled.
"A what?" I asked.
"A computerized facial skin analysis, a micro-derm." A micro-derm? Sounds like a made-up word to me.
She continued, "…a facial, and a chemical peel, all for only $167."
"Ah, I see," I said, reminded that the word "discount" doesn’t necessarily carry the same meaning it did in the 1970’s. Back then, you could buy a brand new Datsun 240Z for $2,400 and discount meant you could actually make purchases for under a dollar.
Another sign that grabbed my attention was handwritten and stuck in someone’s front yard. It read: "Rent-A-Friend. Mow lawns. Trim bushes. Haul stuff. Fix things."
"Rent-A-Friend." There’s something wonderfully shallow about the notion of renting a friend. Although, it kind of bothered me that I liked the ring of it so much.
The idea of renting a friend fits my approach to fix-it projects, which usually boils down to getting out the Duct Tape.
I like the convenience of calling a "Rent-A-Friend" guy or gal and asking them to fix the roof, unclog the drain, trim the hedge, walk the dogs, lift the dock, repair the fence, reach for things that are too high and maybe even run errands.
When I shared this idea with my husband, he said, "Why do you need to rent a friend when you already have "Rent-A-Husband?"
I replied, "But I don’t rent you. How do you explain that?"
"I can’t, it just goes along with your theme," he noted.
"Yeah, but you get so tired of fixing things on my 'Honey Do' list and 'Rent-A-Friend' would give you a break," I resolved.
"Yeah, I may get tired, but I still fix things anyway," he said back at me.
"But a rent-a-friend would fix things with a smile and wouldn’t whine about it," I remarked, not giving in.
"How do you know that? Besides, how much will that cost you?" he intoned with a it-will-cost-too-much ring to his voice.
He had me. Suspending the idea of a "Rent-A-Friend" for as long as possible and certain that the hourly rate would spoil it, I decided not to call.
"You're probably right," I conceded, while applying my Nivea age defying moisturizer with age diminishing creatine technology. I then put on my tool belt and got out my trusty Duct Tape.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Summer Is: A poem in prose
The beginning of summer is…
...licking ice cream cones and forgetting about school,
…going to the park and staying up late,
…listening to meadowlarks and hearing morning doves,
…planning family picnics, hitting home-runs.
…Splitting twin-pops and stopping for Kool Aid,
…eating plums and tasting rain,
...filling the pool and painting the barn,
…putting up wind chimes, hanging out laundry.
...Catching rays and pulling weeds.
...exploring new places and leaving the rest behind.
Those dog days of summer are for…
...watching kids chase fireflies and seeing corn grow,
...finding shade and losing weight,
…riding waves and floating boats,
…taking off shorts, putting on swimsuits.
…Wading to your waist and wanting to go farther,
…building tree houses and taking down tents,
…putting on sunscreen and putting off tomorrow,
…roasting marshmallows, buttering corn.
…Going to street dances and returning from vacations,
…losing your grip and finding your soul.
Oh, yes, these sweet hot months mean…
…diving deeper and coming up for air,
…watching flowers bloom and waiting for fruit to ripen,
…picking mulberries and pitting cherries,
...wearing madras, donning seersucker.
…Carrying straw purses and sporting summer hats,
…riding with the top down and turning the radio up,
…striking up the band and putting off the blues,
… jumping at thunderclaps, awing at lightning strikes.
…Hearing cicadas and listening to frogs,
…living your dreams and letting go of your sorrows.
End of summer is…
…needing more and realizing there's a limit,
…knowing seasons change and feeling a chill,
…seeing birds fly south and noticing turning leaves,
…bidding summer goodbye, wishing it wouldn't go.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
...licking ice cream cones and forgetting about school,
…going to the park and staying up late,
…listening to meadowlarks and hearing morning doves,
…planning family picnics, hitting home-runs.
…Splitting twin-pops and stopping for Kool Aid,
…eating plums and tasting rain,
...filling the pool and painting the barn,
…putting up wind chimes, hanging out laundry.
...Catching rays and pulling weeds.
...exploring new places and leaving the rest behind.
Those dog days of summer are for…
...watching kids chase fireflies and seeing corn grow,
...finding shade and losing weight,
…riding waves and floating boats,
…taking off shorts, putting on swimsuits.
…Wading to your waist and wanting to go farther,
…building tree houses and taking down tents,
…putting on sunscreen and putting off tomorrow,
…roasting marshmallows, buttering corn.
…Going to street dances and returning from vacations,
…losing your grip and finding your soul.
Oh, yes, these sweet hot months mean…
…diving deeper and coming up for air,
…watching flowers bloom and waiting for fruit to ripen,
…picking mulberries and pitting cherries,
...wearing madras, donning seersucker.
…Carrying straw purses and sporting summer hats,
…riding with the top down and turning the radio up,
…striking up the band and putting off the blues,
… jumping at thunderclaps, awing at lightning strikes.
…Hearing cicadas and listening to frogs,
…living your dreams and letting go of your sorrows.
End of summer is…
…needing more and realizing there's a limit,
…knowing seasons change and feeling a chill,
…seeing birds fly south and noticing turning leaves,
…bidding summer goodbye, wishing it wouldn't go.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Fur-children, flashlights and fuzzy memories...
The wind's deep massive roar caused me to shoot out of bed at 3:15 a.m. on June 10.
Instinctively, I scooped up our three Dachshunds and hollered at my husband, Brian, to get downstairs. Hurrying with two flashlights and three dogs in my arms, I stopped just long enough to drag Brian out of bed, and then sleepily fumbled my way to the basement.
Sounding more like a freight train than a strong wind, the storm already had the upper hand. Looking from the basement window, I could tell by the heavy yellowish sheets of rain and the low bending trees that it would be only a matter of time until the power went out.
Still groggy from a deep sleep, Brian eventually came down to the basement, where I sat on the couch with our three fur-children and flashlights.
The place suddenly went dark and from that point on, the storm had full control over our lives.
Waiting out the worst of it in the family room, we thought we'd try to get some sleep. With flashlights in hand, we half-stepped our way to the basement bedroom and settled in. Or at least that's how I remember the summer storm of 2010.
However, my husband's memory of it is quite different. Brian's side of the storm story goes like this...
"I, on the other hand, recovering from Vertigo, asked Paula, who was positioned on the couch with one Dachshund, to help me carry our other two Dachshunds down the spiral staircase.
"However, not budging from her spot in the basement, she didn't respond to my request. So, with trepidation and a slight case of dizziness, I took one step at a time down the stairs in complete darkness, carrying the dogs with me.
"I then asked Paula to get the flashlights, which were on the first level, but she opted to stay put. So, with great effort to balance myself, I made another trip upstairs to get the flashlights, while the storm continued to rage outside.
"We eventually settled in the basement bedroom. However, unable to get comfortable, we went back upstairs 15 minutes later, after the bulk of the storm had passed."
After Brian recounted his side of the story, I challenged him. "Are you sure about all that?" I asked. "I could have sworn it was the other way around."
Oh, well, at least we can agree on what we saw when we awoke a few hours later...
The power was still off and I found myself praying to the hot tap water to brew a nice hot cup of tea. Instead, I was clutching a mug of lukewarm Earl Gray, while peeking out the front window to see what Mother Nature had left behind.
I saw downed limbs everywhere, but it was not until I ventured outside that I realized the extent of the damage.
Huge sections of a decades-old silver maple landed on the house across the street, smashing the chain-link fence and above-ground pool and tearing into the master bedroom.
The neighbor's screen porch folded like a deck of cards with some sections contorted into unrecognizable chunks of metal, while other parts were lying in the yard across the way.
Looking long down the street, I could see a number trees leaning on garages and power lines. The road was covered with branches, weathered deadwood, ripped siding, distressed children's toys and a clutter of other debris.
The 95-mile-per-hour wind picked up a trampoline from the backyard of one house, wrung it out like wet laundry and left it twisted and gnarled in the front yard of another house.
Vinyl boat covers were strewn about. Garden sheds collapsed like cardboard boxes. Large pieces of sheet rock and Styrofoam littered otherwise well-kept yards. Shingles were stripped from roofs and lawn chairs found new homes down the block.
For the first time in the 35 years, there was a path of destruction from one end of our road to the other.
It was the summer storm of 2010. A storm which my husband and I remember differently, but one we won't soon forget.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Instinctively, I scooped up our three Dachshunds and hollered at my husband, Brian, to get downstairs. Hurrying with two flashlights and three dogs in my arms, I stopped just long enough to drag Brian out of bed, and then sleepily fumbled my way to the basement.
Sounding more like a freight train than a strong wind, the storm already had the upper hand. Looking from the basement window, I could tell by the heavy yellowish sheets of rain and the low bending trees that it would be only a matter of time until the power went out.
Still groggy from a deep sleep, Brian eventually came down to the basement, where I sat on the couch with our three fur-children and flashlights.
The place suddenly went dark and from that point on, the storm had full control over our lives.
Waiting out the worst of it in the family room, we thought we'd try to get some sleep. With flashlights in hand, we half-stepped our way to the basement bedroom and settled in. Or at least that's how I remember the summer storm of 2010.
However, my husband's memory of it is quite different. Brian's side of the storm story goes like this...
"I, on the other hand, recovering from Vertigo, asked Paula, who was positioned on the couch with one Dachshund, to help me carry our other two Dachshunds down the spiral staircase.
"However, not budging from her spot in the basement, she didn't respond to my request. So, with trepidation and a slight case of dizziness, I took one step at a time down the stairs in complete darkness, carrying the dogs with me.
"I then asked Paula to get the flashlights, which were on the first level, but she opted to stay put. So, with great effort to balance myself, I made another trip upstairs to get the flashlights, while the storm continued to rage outside.
"We eventually settled in the basement bedroom. However, unable to get comfortable, we went back upstairs 15 minutes later, after the bulk of the storm had passed."
After Brian recounted his side of the story, I challenged him. "Are you sure about all that?" I asked. "I could have sworn it was the other way around."
Oh, well, at least we can agree on what we saw when we awoke a few hours later...
The power was still off and I found myself praying to the hot tap water to brew a nice hot cup of tea. Instead, I was clutching a mug of lukewarm Earl Gray, while peeking out the front window to see what Mother Nature had left behind.
I saw downed limbs everywhere, but it was not until I ventured outside that I realized the extent of the damage.
Huge sections of a decades-old silver maple landed on the house across the street, smashing the chain-link fence and above-ground pool and tearing into the master bedroom.
The neighbor's screen porch folded like a deck of cards with some sections contorted into unrecognizable chunks of metal, while other parts were lying in the yard across the way.
Looking long down the street, I could see a number trees leaning on garages and power lines. The road was covered with branches, weathered deadwood, ripped siding, distressed children's toys and a clutter of other debris.
The 95-mile-per-hour wind picked up a trampoline from the backyard of one house, wrung it out like wet laundry and left it twisted and gnarled in the front yard of another house.
Vinyl boat covers were strewn about. Garden sheds collapsed like cardboard boxes. Large pieces of sheet rock and Styrofoam littered otherwise well-kept yards. Shingles were stripped from roofs and lawn chairs found new homes down the block.
For the first time in the 35 years, there was a path of destruction from one end of our road to the other.
It was the summer storm of 2010. A storm which my husband and I remember differently, but one we won't soon forget.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
A little bit of this an a little bit of that
Why is it that umbrellas don't last for more than a summer? I'd like to blame it on the wind, since it never seems to rain vertically in South Dakota but always with a horizontal slant.
Almost every time I dash through a rainstorm, my umbrella inverts, creating a perfectly good for nothing thing with a curled handle. Just think about it...we have sent astronauts to the moon, we have developed hybrid seeds that grow vegetables in the desert, but we haven't engineered a durable umbrella.
I have never thought of July 4 as the end of summer, but retailers do. As soon as July 5th hits, they are stocking their shelves with back-to-school supplies and clothes. And by August, they have aisles of Halloween, Thanksgiving and even Christmas merchandise. Now I know why people move to the mountains or to remote islands. It's so they can live the remainder of their lives without commercialism dictating their thoughts and actions.
Have you ever wondered why so many people get cancer? A doctor once told me it's not if we will get cancer, it's when we will get cancer. How morbid is that? I wonder if it's because of all the plastic we use or possibly the quantity of prepackaged- already-prepared-just-pop-it-in-the-microwave food we eat.
The next time you're in the grocery store, notice how much space is allotted to fresh foods compared to space dedicated to foods in boxes, cans, plastic bags and jars. If we returned to shopping only in fresh food markets, would our cancer rate decrease?
People ask me what makes my pasta sauce so delicious. I tell them it's all about how I feel when I'm cooking it. My advice? If you're having a bad day, don't cook. Plus, I have some secret pasta sauce ingredients and cooking methods, which I am more than willing to share for the asking.
When I was in the London in May, I was pleasantly shocked to see palm trees. I learned that the soil is so fertile there that you can grow anything. Who would have thought?
Why is it that so many people eat their meals in their cars? Have we become so busy that we don't have time to sit down at a table and slowly savor every bite. Or is it that we have became a fast food nation and grabbing breakfast, lunch and dinner on the run is the norm?
From listening to Science Friday on National Public Radio, I learned that if you can hear thunder there is a danger of a lightning strike. I always thought I was safe as long as the thunder sounded far away. I also learned that plumbing pipes are conductors of lightning. That's the real reason you don't want to be doing dishes or taking a shower when it's storming.
When I see the oil continuing to gush from a broken pipe at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, I am sickened by our mindless oversights and our inability to protect nature and ourselves from disasters like this one. I am saddened by our greed. I say "our" because we all play a role in this with our unquenchable desire for bigness: big vehicles, big machinery, big boats, big house and our big lives that are addicted to fossil fuels.
I will be 58 in November and for the most part I don't feel old, until I count the number of pills I take everyday: one multivitamin, two calcium pills, one vitamin C, one baby aspirin, one blood pressure pill, a capsule for acid reflex, and one for allergies. That's eight pills daily, not counting my sleep medicine at night. And then I look down at my bent arm while I'm typing this and see the wrinkled skin of an old woman.
A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took a total of five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net , follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/
Almost every time I dash through a rainstorm, my umbrella inverts, creating a perfectly good for nothing thing with a curled handle. Just think about it...we have sent astronauts to the moon, we have developed hybrid seeds that grow vegetables in the desert, but we haven't engineered a durable umbrella.
I have never thought of July 4 as the end of summer, but retailers do. As soon as July 5th hits, they are stocking their shelves with back-to-school supplies and clothes. And by August, they have aisles of Halloween, Thanksgiving and even Christmas merchandise. Now I know why people move to the mountains or to remote islands. It's so they can live the remainder of their lives without commercialism dictating their thoughts and actions.
Have you ever wondered why so many people get cancer? A doctor once told me it's not if we will get cancer, it's when we will get cancer. How morbid is that? I wonder if it's because of all the plastic we use or possibly the quantity of prepackaged- already-prepared-just-pop-it-in-the-microwave food we eat.
The next time you're in the grocery store, notice how much space is allotted to fresh foods compared to space dedicated to foods in boxes, cans, plastic bags and jars. If we returned to shopping only in fresh food markets, would our cancer rate decrease?
People ask me what makes my pasta sauce so delicious. I tell them it's all about how I feel when I'm cooking it. My advice? If you're having a bad day, don't cook. Plus, I have some secret pasta sauce ingredients and cooking methods, which I am more than willing to share for the asking.
When I was in the London in May, I was pleasantly shocked to see palm trees. I learned that the soil is so fertile there that you can grow anything. Who would have thought?
Why is it that so many people eat their meals in their cars? Have we become so busy that we don't have time to sit down at a table and slowly savor every bite. Or is it that we have became a fast food nation and grabbing breakfast, lunch and dinner on the run is the norm?
From listening to Science Friday on National Public Radio, I learned that if you can hear thunder there is a danger of a lightning strike. I always thought I was safe as long as the thunder sounded far away. I also learned that plumbing pipes are conductors of lightning. That's the real reason you don't want to be doing dishes or taking a shower when it's storming.
When I see the oil continuing to gush from a broken pipe at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, I am sickened by our mindless oversights and our inability to protect nature and ourselves from disasters like this one. I am saddened by our greed. I say "our" because we all play a role in this with our unquenchable desire for bigness: big vehicles, big machinery, big boats, big house and our big lives that are addicted to fossil fuels.
I will be 58 in November and for the most part I don't feel old, until I count the number of pills I take everyday: one multivitamin, two calcium pills, one vitamin C, one baby aspirin, one blood pressure pill, a capsule for acid reflex, and one for allergies. That's eight pills daily, not counting my sleep medicine at night. And then I look down at my bent arm while I'm typing this and see the wrinkled skin of an old woman.
A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took a total of five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net
Friday, June 18, 2010
Looking through and seeing it all...
For most people, going through airport security can be downright unnerving. I wonder why this is true when 99.999 percent of us should have nothing to fear.
The way I see it, I am an honest person, earning an honest living, going on an honest to goodness vacation. At the security check, I dutifully take off my shoes, remove my belt, empty my wallet and displace my computer from its case.
And then I hear the security officer say, O.K., Miss, please step over here while we check your bags, and I realize she is talking to me. The reality suddenly sets in that airport security is not only going to go through my carry-on bags, they are going to check my body.
After the whole body imaging technology took an X-Ray right through my clothing, the female security officer asks me to lift my arms and stand with my legs apart as she proceeds to pat me down. She actually touches me! Holding my breath, I feel like a criminal in an everyday lineup.
Staying calm and employing a healthy dose of self-talk, I remind myself that I must have been the umpteenth traveler to meet her hourly quota. She must be using me as an example to prove to other travelers that she really means business. When packing, I followed all the rules on the TSA and airline websites. I squeezed all of my liquid containers into one tiny quart-sized bag. I didn't pack nail clippers or anything sharp.
I begin to worry about being wrongly accused and fear being left behind all because of some error I may have made in reading the fine print on a gazillion Do's and Don'ts for international travel. No water bottles, no fresh fruit, no liquids in containers larger than three ounces, must have all prescriptions with pharmacy receipts, pack everything in see-through zip-lock baggies. Funny thing is I haven't left Chicago yet.
Next, I have to answer to the Customs agent upon arrival in Dublin. After Chicago, what would in the world are they going to do to me there?
Why do you want to come to Ireland? the agent asks with an Irish brogue, barely looking up.
I want to tell him the real reasons: You see, Officer, this is a dream come true. My whole life I have wanted to visit Ireland. Now, I am here. My feet are firmly planted on Irish soil. I am ready to kiss the blarney stone. I am living my dream!
I decide not to go there. Containing my exuberance, I plainly explain, I am on a study tour with the university where I am employed.
Welcome to Ireland. Have a good time, was his response. That's it? Is that all there is? One question and I'm through to ancient castles, storied villages and historical lands?
Even though I was relieved, I had spent so much time worrying about going through Customs, I felt let down and wished it had been a little harder to make all my fussing worthwhile.
I had heard that Customs would be really, really bad when returning to the U.S., so I braced myself for the worst. Carrying images of Night Line and 20-20 horror stories of innocent travelers, I imagined a 3-D body scan, strip search, three-hour interrogation and detainment, never to see my home and family again.
Instead, the U.S. customs agent, who told me his job would be a lot easier if he only could spell, asked...what reasons did you travel to the U.K., what do you do for a living, what does your job entail?
"That must be a very hard job," he stated. "Welcome home."
Jiminee! It was that easy...
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
The way I see it, I am an honest person, earning an honest living, going on an honest to goodness vacation. At the security check, I dutifully take off my shoes, remove my belt, empty my wallet and displace my computer from its case.
And then I hear the security officer say, O.K., Miss, please step over here while we check your bags, and I realize she is talking to me. The reality suddenly sets in that airport security is not only going to go through my carry-on bags, they are going to check my body.
After the whole body imaging technology took an X-Ray right through my clothing, the female security officer asks me to lift my arms and stand with my legs apart as she proceeds to pat me down. She actually touches me! Holding my breath, I feel like a criminal in an everyday lineup.
Staying calm and employing a healthy dose of self-talk, I remind myself that I must have been the umpteenth traveler to meet her hourly quota. She must be using me as an example to prove to other travelers that she really means business. When packing, I followed all the rules on the TSA and airline websites. I squeezed all of my liquid containers into one tiny quart-sized bag. I didn't pack nail clippers or anything sharp.
I begin to worry about being wrongly accused and fear being left behind all because of some error I may have made in reading the fine print on a gazillion Do's and Don'ts for international travel. No water bottles, no fresh fruit, no liquids in containers larger than three ounces, must have all prescriptions with pharmacy receipts, pack everything in see-through zip-lock baggies. Funny thing is I haven't left Chicago yet.
Next, I have to answer to the Customs agent upon arrival in Dublin. After Chicago, what would in the world are they going to do to me there?
Why do you want to come to Ireland? the agent asks with an Irish brogue, barely looking up.
I want to tell him the real reasons: You see, Officer, this is a dream come true. My whole life I have wanted to visit Ireland. Now, I am here. My feet are firmly planted on Irish soil. I am ready to kiss the blarney stone. I am living my dream!
I decide not to go there. Containing my exuberance, I plainly explain, I am on a study tour with the university where I am employed.
Welcome to Ireland. Have a good time, was his response. That's it? Is that all there is? One question and I'm through to ancient castles, storied villages and historical lands?
Even though I was relieved, I had spent so much time worrying about going through Customs, I felt let down and wished it had been a little harder to make all my fussing worthwhile.
I had heard that Customs would be really, really bad when returning to the U.S., so I braced myself for the worst. Carrying images of Night Line and 20-20 horror stories of innocent travelers, I imagined a 3-D body scan, strip search, three-hour interrogation and detainment, never to see my home and family again.
Instead, the U.S. customs agent, who told me his job would be a lot easier if he only could spell, asked...what reasons did you travel to the U.K., what do you do for a living, what does your job entail?
"That must be a very hard job," he stated. "Welcome home."
Jiminee! It was that easy...
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
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