It doesn’t take much to realize that an unprecedented “flood event,” a euphemism government officials like to use, is headed your way.
For instance, you know you’re in for a flood when suddenly an unexplained public information meeting has been called for the first time in 36 years.
You know you’re in for a flood when…
… the Red Cross greets you at the door.
…the mayor opens the meeting by saying, “Now, folks, no matter what happens, we are all in this together.”
... all of the websites referred to at the meeting begin with www.disasterrecovery or www.bReady.
…you can correctly pronounce and spell the word “levee.”
…for the first time ever, you know exactly where your town’s levees are located and what conditions they are in.
…the sights and sounds of Blackhawk heli
copters hovering over your area, while dangling 1,000-pound bags of sand, are everyday occurrences.
… four out of every five vehicles on the highway are dump trucks, transporting fill dirt to build new levees.
…your entire life revolves around if the levee breaks.
…you can report the current Missouri River stage at any given time.
…you are on a first-name basis with your county’s Incident Command officials.
…you know the exact elevation of your property (11,003 feet), the school elevation (11,009 feet), the sewer system (11,002 feet) and just about every part of town.
…you actually try to calculate the flood threat by adding the sum of your elevation and the river stage to your location relative to the river gauge but ultimately give up.
…your community looks like a war zone with Army National Guard troops controlling every entrance and exit to town.
Similarly, you know you’ve been sandbagging way too long when…
…you begin reciting statistics, such as: Two people can fill, tie and load 25 sandbags in 30 minutes. It takes three hours for a team of 15 to 20 people to build a 20-foot long, four-foot high sandbag levee.
…you know that 300 sandbags really don’t go very far.
…you set the alarm for 5 a.m. on Saturday morning, your only day to sleep in, to fill more sandbags.
…you think you need to fill 100 more sandbag even after you’ve already filled more than 700.
…you talk to the Weather Channel meteorologist on your TV screen by saying, “Good weather for sandbagging.”
…your back is breaking, your shoulders are aching, your knees won’t bend and every muscle in your body is in pain from filling and hauling all those sandbags, which weigh anywhere from 50 to 70 pounds each.
…you become weirdly territorial as you experience a sudden and unexplained obsession to protect your stake of the sand pile and stack of filled bags behind you.
…you actually start thinking which color of sandbags you prefer – army green, sunburst yellow, plain white or bright orange – and for a brief moment you seriously wonder if you should color coordinate them on the levee around your house.
…you really wish there were a Duct Tape or an App to protect you, your family and your property from flooding.
... you think high school and college students are God’s gift to the world as flash mobs of them show up to help you fill sandbags and to build your levee.
…you are equally as grateful for your family, your church and your employer who all played critically important roles in helping you prepare for this epic flood.
…at the end of the day, you are humming “What a wonderful world” because you know that if it weren’t for all of these volunteers, you, your town and your entire area would be sunk – literally.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
“Romance is the glamour which turns the dust…” Amanda Cross
Springtime makes you feel weightless…
Mesmerized by seductively warming temperatures, you scamper about in a pair of Bermuda shorts and tank top, yet the thermometer only reads 60.
Open wide the garage door and sweep winter’s dirt from cluttered floors. Drag out lawn chairs, which have hung sullenly from rafters for more than a season. Dust them off and sit a spell, watching cars, strollers and bicycles go by.
Crank open windows, inviting breezes to flow through, welcoming sudden gentle rushes of soft, warm fresh air.
Old familiar voices fill the sky with an electrifying intensity, as robins, red-winged blackbirds and sparrows telegraph a new day.
Rows of black-capped chickadees form long lines on utility wires high above – males vocalize thin repetitive whistles, while females reply with musical songs.
The kitchen sounds off, too. Echoing through screened windows, sashes raised, dishes clap, pots and pans clang, cupboards pop open and slam shut, chairs scoot.
Springtime loosens you…
Liberated now, you push away lingering memories of a hard winter past, while every part of you merrily calls out.
From the front porch, you greet neighbors; from your vehicle, you happily honk, recognizing old friends.
Outdoors, it is no longer silent with hammering of rooftops, dribbling of basketballs, barking of dogs and creaking of swing sets. There’s giddy chatter over fences and chuckles from patios, too.
Springtime makes you feel young again…
Inhaling intoxicating fragrances of lilacs, irises, apple and cherry blossoms, you petition summer to make her entrance quickly.
Budding shelterbelts, hedges and tree stands progressively turn from muddy brown to vibrant green.
Rain pattering above amply teases nostalgia for a good storm. Yet, claps of thunder and flashes of lightning pose as strangers in your midst.
Springtime makes you feel playful…
Running barefoot through tall grass. Falling to your knees, triumphant over winter’s slumber, embracing its passage with a joyful heart, you render it non-existent for the time being.
Gratefully, you vow not to complain. Not one word, dare you utter, of what this turning season foreshadows – mosquitoes, crickets, spiders, humidity, flooding, mildew, heat and more heat. Shush now.
You hail this time of the year with new wonder, marveling over how frozenness thawed into lush emeralds, vibrant reds and splendorous purples. Once solid, waves push over shorelines, while sunlight stretches long into evening.
Instilling a refreshed spirit, a sense of newness sends you gliding beyond yesterday and into tomorrow. You love springtime; it loves you back.
Springtime gives you permission…
You plan and hope again; because of springtime, you have promise.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns received eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Mesmerized by seductively warming temperatures, you scamper about in a pair of Bermuda shorts and tank top, yet the thermometer only reads 60.
Open wide the garage door and sweep winter’s dirt from cluttered floors. Drag out lawn chairs, which have hung sullenly from rafters for more than a season. Dust them off and sit a spell, watching cars, strollers and bicycles go by.
Crank open windows, inviting breezes to flow through, welcoming sudden gentle rushes of soft, warm fresh air.
Old familiar voices fill the sky with an electrifying intensity, as robins, red-winged blackbirds and sparrows telegraph a new day.
Rows of black-capped chickadees form long lines on utility wires high above – males vocalize thin repetitive whistles, while females reply with musical songs.
The kitchen sounds off, too. Echoing through screened windows, sashes raised, dishes clap, pots and pans clang, cupboards pop open and slam shut, chairs scoot.
Springtime loosens you…
Liberated now, you push away lingering memories of a hard winter past, while every part of you merrily calls out.
From the front porch, you greet neighbors; from your vehicle, you happily honk, recognizing old friends.
Outdoors, it is no longer silent with hammering of rooftops, dribbling of basketballs, barking of dogs and creaking of swing sets. There’s giddy chatter over fences and chuckles from patios, too.
Springtime makes you feel young again…
Inhaling intoxicating fragrances of lilacs, irises, apple and cherry blossoms, you petition summer to make her entrance quickly.
Budding shelterbelts, hedges and tree stands progressively turn from muddy brown to vibrant green.
Rain pattering above amply teases nostalgia for a good storm. Yet, claps of thunder and flashes of lightning pose as strangers in your midst.
Springtime makes you feel playful…
Running barefoot through tall grass. Falling to your knees, triumphant over winter’s slumber, embracing its passage with a joyful heart, you render it non-existent for the time being.
Gratefully, you vow not to complain. Not one word, dare you utter, of what this turning season foreshadows – mosquitoes, crickets, spiders, humidity, flooding, mildew, heat and more heat. Shush now.
You hail this time of the year with new wonder, marveling over how frozenness thawed into lush emeralds, vibrant reds and splendorous purples. Once solid, waves push over shorelines, while sunlight stretches long into evening.
Instilling a refreshed spirit, a sense of newness sends you gliding beyond yesterday and into tomorrow. You love springtime; it loves you back.
Springtime gives you permission…
You plan and hope again; because of springtime, you have promise.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns received eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Gritty menacing source of pleasure
There’s a lot not to like about sand. It makes your teeth feel gritty and your eyes smart. It settles in your sneakers and grinds away at your heels and toes.
Negatives aside, I love sand.
It comes in various colors, consistencies and sizes, depending on the rock sources and conditions where it’s found.
In Hawaii, sand formed from volcanic rocks is black. In other places, such as the Bahamas and Bermuda, it’s pink. You’ll find white sands in New Mexico.
In South Dakota and Nebraska, sand is a light earthy color.
For many, sand is a toy that inherently transforms beaches into an artist’s pallet and playgrounds to a construction zone.
Remember spending hours digging, building, creating, sculpting and shaping?
The other day, as I emptied a bag of sand into our grandchildren’s sandbox, childhood memories came flooding back to me, like giant waves, one after another, curling in from ocean depths…
…It’s Friday afternoon, I am at home on my lunch break. My three Dachshunds are romping around the yard, basking in the warmth of May’s bright, cheery disposition, while I open the plastic-coated bag and pour out the coarse damp sand.
That little pile easily yields to my compulsiveness as I carefully and systematically smooth it all the way to the corners of the sandbox, raking it into a flat plain.
For a moment, I allow myself to dream during this brief respite – this island oasis of yet another work day.
What will I make in the sand today? A castle? A fort? A highway? A lake? A statue?
I could bury my feet in it, trying hard to wiggle my aging entombed toes? Or will someone bury me, submerging my entire body, save my head?
Yes, there I will lie, deep in the cool underground, as my cohort scoops, piles and pats me into a sandy mound. My eyelids fail to bat away sand particles; my lips, now tightly squeezed shut, unsuccessfully hold back grit.
I feel the weight of damp sand draped over my legs, tucked under my arms, around my waist and between my fingers.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, I hear the sullen coo of mourning doves. A lingering glee comes over me, and I heed to the distant call of work.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Negatives aside, I love sand.
It comes in various colors, consistencies and sizes, depending on the rock sources and conditions where it’s found.
In Hawaii, sand formed from volcanic rocks is black. In other places, such as the Bahamas and Bermuda, it’s pink. You’ll find white sands in New Mexico.
In South Dakota and Nebraska, sand is a light earthy color.
For many, sand is a toy that inherently transforms beaches into an artist’s pallet and playgrounds to a construction zone.
Remember spending hours digging, building, creating, sculpting and shaping?
The other day, as I emptied a bag of sand into our grandchildren’s sandbox, childhood memories came flooding back to me, like giant waves, one after another, curling in from ocean depths…
…It’s Friday afternoon, I am at home on my lunch break. My three Dachshunds are romping around the yard, basking in the warmth of May’s bright, cheery disposition, while I open the plastic-coated bag and pour out the coarse damp sand.
That little pile easily yields to my compulsiveness as I carefully and systematically smooth it all the way to the corners of the sandbox, raking it into a flat plain.
For a moment, I allow myself to dream during this brief respite – this island oasis of yet another work day.
What will I make in the sand today? A castle? A fort? A highway? A lake? A statue?
I could bury my feet in it, trying hard to wiggle my aging entombed toes? Or will someone bury me, submerging my entire body, save my head?
Yes, there I will lie, deep in the cool underground, as my cohort scoops, piles and pats me into a sandy mound. My eyelids fail to bat away sand particles; my lips, now tightly squeezed shut, unsuccessfully hold back grit.
I feel the weight of damp sand draped over my legs, tucked under my arms, around my waist and between my fingers.
Squinting in the mid-day sun, I hear the sullen coo of mourning doves. A lingering glee comes over me, and I heed to the distant call of work.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Mother's Day Tribute...
Dear Mom...
Even though you have been gone for six years, I sometimes feel you are near.
It boggles my mind to consider all we didn’t talk about in our 52 years together. There are so many things I wish I had asked.
Did you actually fall in love with Dad or did your family think it was a good idea to marry him in a match-making sort of way?
What was your original Italian name – the one your parents gave you before the nuns in elementary school changed it to something they could pronounce, like Lillian?
Your favorite color was sage green, which I thought matched your eyes. What were your favorite fabrics? Mine are polyester and wool.
Remember when you’d place a wool scarf on your arthritic shoulder? You said it helped chase the pain away. I do that now, too.
I still make your spaghetti sauce and pasta fagioli, but those are the only recipes I have. If only I knew how to make your meatloaf, your stuffed peppers and your coconut cream pie.
Over the years, you were a mentor to many young women. Besides telling them to trust God, what other advice did you give them?
Remember our daily jaunts? The littlest – either Anita or Eli – in the stroller and the rest of our brood tagging along at your side. I marvel at how you’d run errands with all six of us in tow. How did you manage?
I always thought we walked everywhere because you loved the outdoors, like I do. Later, I realized it was because we were a one-car family and Dad was on the road.
Why didn’t you tell me about losing the house and everything in it to bankruptcy? I would have been there for you.
So much has happened in the six years since you passed away. The kids are doing fine. Our granddaughter, Gracie, is 14. She still refers to you as “Old Grandma.” And, we have a new grandson, Oliver. You would love holding him.
Dad didn’t last long after you were gone. Even though we called him daily, sometimes more, he sunk into melancholy. He was so lonely; it really didn’t seem to matter what we did or said. Seventeen months later he died.
From time-to-time, you visit me in my dreams, and we’re together again. I know better, but I want to arbitrate your return. I wish I could convince God that your death was a mistake and you are needed here.
Funny how I still reach for Mother’s Day cards at the store. I stop and look, as though in a time warp, then wander by, feeling the sting of your absence.
Today, I came home from church smelling like other women’s perfumes from all the “so good to see you” hugs we exchanged. It reminded me of your lovely fragrance that would carry me home after our visits.
One of your sweaters is tightly sealed in a zip-lock bag I keep tucked away in the closet of the spare bedroom. Every once in a while, I take it out, hold it close and reminisce. Why is it that I never expect the tears to come, but they do?
Mom, when I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful face…I can feel your soft cheek against mine. There are so many things I want to ask you.
Wish you were here…
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Even though you have been gone for six years, I sometimes feel you are near.
It boggles my mind to consider all we didn’t talk about in our 52 years together. There are so many things I wish I had asked.
Did you actually fall in love with Dad or did your family think it was a good idea to marry him in a match-making sort of way?
What was your original Italian name – the one your parents gave you before the nuns in elementary school changed it to something they could pronounce, like Lillian?
Your favorite color was sage green, which I thought matched your eyes. What were your favorite fabrics? Mine are polyester and wool.
Remember when you’d place a wool scarf on your arthritic shoulder? You said it helped chase the pain away. I do that now, too.
I still make your spaghetti sauce and pasta fagioli, but those are the only recipes I have. If only I knew how to make your meatloaf, your stuffed peppers and your coconut cream pie.
Over the years, you were a mentor to many young women. Besides telling them to trust God, what other advice did you give them?
Remember our daily jaunts? The littlest – either Anita or Eli – in the stroller and the rest of our brood tagging along at your side. I marvel at how you’d run errands with all six of us in tow. How did you manage?
I always thought we walked everywhere because you loved the outdoors, like I do. Later, I realized it was because we were a one-car family and Dad was on the road.
Why didn’t you tell me about losing the house and everything in it to bankruptcy? I would have been there for you.
So much has happened in the six years since you passed away. The kids are doing fine. Our granddaughter, Gracie, is 14. She still refers to you as “Old Grandma.” And, we have a new grandson, Oliver. You would love holding him.
Dad didn’t last long after you were gone. Even though we called him daily, sometimes more, he sunk into melancholy. He was so lonely; it really didn’t seem to matter what we did or said. Seventeen months later he died.
From time-to-time, you visit me in my dreams, and we’re together again. I know better, but I want to arbitrate your return. I wish I could convince God that your death was a mistake and you are needed here.
Funny how I still reach for Mother’s Day cards at the store. I stop and look, as though in a time warp, then wander by, feeling the sting of your absence.
Today, I came home from church smelling like other women’s perfumes from all the “so good to see you” hugs we exchanged. It reminded me of your lovely fragrance that would carry me home after our visits.
One of your sweaters is tightly sealed in a zip-lock bag I keep tucked away in the closet of the spare bedroom. Every once in a while, I take it out, hold it close and reminisce. Why is it that I never expect the tears to come, but they do?
Mom, when I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful face…I can feel your soft cheek against mine. There are so many things I want to ask you.
Wish you were here…
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Friday, April 22, 2011
A Review: Came empty...left full to overflowing
Sioux City, Iowa – Thousands descended upon the Tyson Event Center here on Saturday, March 19, 2011.
Our hearts and souls supple from lives of longing and lonesomeness. Our minds pliable, searching for sovereignty, seeking sureness, sojourning sorrows.
All the lonely people cryin’
It could change if we just get started
While waiting for the opening act, the sold-out crowd bears down behind me, in front of me, surrounding me as a massive congregation.
Elated conversant screams sprinkle their chit-chatter. A Christmas morning thrill intersperses a heightened murmur penetrating thick air.
Light the darkness, light a fire
For the silent and the brokenhearted
This unholy assembly, I included, is banking on the arrival of greatness, soon, very soon. We count down the minutes, our eyes pace back and forth over the stage, trying to detect movement of any kind that would herald the arrival.
When the walls fall all around you
When your hope has turned to dust
We are a communion of saints and sinners, desiring to be bathed in a river of hope, knowing we came in broken, anticipating we will leave whole.
The show eventually began at 7:30, but it’s going on 9 and the main act is nowhere to be seen.
There’s a comfort
There’s healing
Although that doesn’t seem to matter much. A sacred anticipation carries us from opening acts Casey James to Little Big Town.
And then it is done. With a bounding force of music and elated cheers, Sugarland’s Jennifer Owens and Kristian Nettles appear on stage, front and center.
High above the pain and sorrow
Won’t you stand up
Jennifer’s satiny, bounding vocal performance, as a blessing, impeccably and lovingly preaches reconciliation and salvation.
Any tiredness we hulled into the arena flew away on her very first note. Kristian’s rough, ready chorus solidly backs up her anthems.
With so much exuberance, we can’t sit still and will gladly stand for the next hour and a half of the show.
Stand up, stand up?
Won’t you stand up you girls and boys?
I will remember this night forever for …
…the penetrating perfume of the young woman sitting next to me.
…the praise music of this country band.
…the worship tones, raised hands and swaying bodies of this crowd.
I will remember this night forever because I never expected a concert venue to feel so much like a worship hall…because I went to the well empty and left full to overflowing.
(Lyrics: “Tonight” and “Stand Up” by Sugarland)
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Our hearts and souls supple from lives of longing and lonesomeness. Our minds pliable, searching for sovereignty, seeking sureness, sojourning sorrows.
All the lonely people cryin’
It could change if we just get started
While waiting for the opening act, the sold-out crowd bears down behind me, in front of me, surrounding me as a massive congregation.
Elated conversant screams sprinkle their chit-chatter. A Christmas morning thrill intersperses a heightened murmur penetrating thick air.
Light the darkness, light a fire
For the silent and the brokenhearted
This unholy assembly, I included, is banking on the arrival of greatness, soon, very soon. We count down the minutes, our eyes pace back and forth over the stage, trying to detect movement of any kind that would herald the arrival.
When the walls fall all around you
When your hope has turned to dust
We are a communion of saints and sinners, desiring to be bathed in a river of hope, knowing we came in broken, anticipating we will leave whole.
The show eventually began at 7:30, but it’s going on 9 and the main act is nowhere to be seen.
There’s a comfort
There’s healing
Although that doesn’t seem to matter much. A sacred anticipation carries us from opening acts Casey James to Little Big Town.
And then it is done. With a bounding force of music and elated cheers, Sugarland’s Jennifer Owens and Kristian Nettles appear on stage, front and center.
High above the pain and sorrow
Won’t you stand up
Jennifer’s satiny, bounding vocal performance, as a blessing, impeccably and lovingly preaches reconciliation and salvation.
Any tiredness we hulled into the arena flew away on her very first note. Kristian’s rough, ready chorus solidly backs up her anthems.
With so much exuberance, we can’t sit still and will gladly stand for the next hour and a half of the show.
Stand up, stand up?
Won’t you stand up you girls and boys?
I will remember this night forever for …
…the penetrating perfume of the young woman sitting next to me.
…the praise music of this country band.
…the worship tones, raised hands and swaying bodies of this crowd.
I will remember this night forever because I never expected a concert venue to feel so much like a worship hall…because I went to the well empty and left full to overflowing.
(Lyrics: “Tonight” and “Stand Up” by Sugarland)
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, her columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
All the lonely people…
Many years ago during my career as a newspaper reporter, I was assigned to the night police beat in Sioux City, Iowa. During that 3 to 11 p.m. shift, I’d go down to the police station and comb through police logs for any kind of mischief people intentionally or unintentionally got themselves into.
There were the usual incidences of assault, theft, disturbance of the peace and other felonies you might expect. Occasionally among the more serious offences were humorous ones that made me chuckle and wonder.
To this day, police logs fascinate me. Like a diary of untold lives, each entry is a biography of the life and times and the Joe Shmoes and Suzy Ques caught in the act or being good neighbors by reporting their suspicions.
The most benign entries were similar to these found in a small town police log...
4:18 a.m. – RP advised his neighbors are “revving up their vehicles.”
8:05 a.m. – Reporting party (RP) advised of criminal mischief done to a planter near the playground.
Then there are the police calls that really make you wonder what people were thinking…
2:49 p.m. RP advised she was away from home and thinks she left on her car’s headlights parked by her garage. RP requesting an officer run by and check.
4:28 p.m. – RP advised there is a man that has been standing by her back gate for at least an hour. RP stated he will hop and jump around and act like he is conducting a choir. RP stated she’s not sure if he’s high on something or intoxicated. He’s wearing a green jacket, a bright yellow shirt and blue jeans and has black curly hair. RP requesting an officer.
5:46 p.m. – RP advised he wanted to give the officers a copy of an email that he received today asking him for money.
9:10 p.m. – RP advised she left her electric blanket on and she’s out of town and is requesting assistance to turn it off.
Some calls for law enforcement intervention are strictly family matters…
9:00 p.m. – RP advised she hasn’t seen or spoken to her sister all day and would like for an officer to try and find her.
11:20 p.m. – RP advised his wife was being a fool. She was intoxicated, yelling at him and telling him that he’s no good. RP requesting some assistance.
Still there are many others that come from a dark lonely place that only seeks to be seen and heard. A place that’s tired of being invisible…
9:48 a.m. – RP advised she received a letter in the mail and she would like for an officer to look at it to see if it’s a scam.
7:38 p.m. – RP advised she had observed three juveniles on skateboards go down the middle of the street. She advised one of them was on his stomach.
There were so many calls like these to the Sioux City Police that the department looked into what was driving them. Their goal was to reduce the waste of costly resources for situations that did not necessarily require police action.
What the department found was basically people are lonely and their calls for police are a coping mechanism to chase away the blues.
It’s an underwritten story of the lost and forgotten down the street or next door. If only we would reach out more often, acting as the host in our own neighborhoods. Checking in. Bringing well-wishes. Ringing the doorbell until someone emerges. Letting the phone ring until someone answers. What a difference that would make.
“All the lonely people…where do they all come from?” “Eleanor Rigby” The Beatles
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
There were the usual incidences of assault, theft, disturbance of the peace and other felonies you might expect. Occasionally among the more serious offences were humorous ones that made me chuckle and wonder.
To this day, police logs fascinate me. Like a diary of untold lives, each entry is a biography of the life and times and the Joe Shmoes and Suzy Ques caught in the act or being good neighbors by reporting their suspicions.
The most benign entries were similar to these found in a small town police log...
4:18 a.m. – RP advised his neighbors are “revving up their vehicles.”
8:05 a.m. – Reporting party (RP) advised of criminal mischief done to a planter near the playground.
Then there are the police calls that really make you wonder what people were thinking…
2:49 p.m. RP advised she was away from home and thinks she left on her car’s headlights parked by her garage. RP requesting an officer run by and check.
4:28 p.m. – RP advised there is a man that has been standing by her back gate for at least an hour. RP stated he will hop and jump around and act like he is conducting a choir. RP stated she’s not sure if he’s high on something or intoxicated. He’s wearing a green jacket, a bright yellow shirt and blue jeans and has black curly hair. RP requesting an officer.
5:46 p.m. – RP advised he wanted to give the officers a copy of an email that he received today asking him for money.
9:10 p.m. – RP advised she left her electric blanket on and she’s out of town and is requesting assistance to turn it off.
Some calls for law enforcement intervention are strictly family matters…
9:00 p.m. – RP advised she hasn’t seen or spoken to her sister all day and would like for an officer to try and find her.
11:20 p.m. – RP advised his wife was being a fool. She was intoxicated, yelling at him and telling him that he’s no good. RP requesting some assistance.
Still there are many others that come from a dark lonely place that only seeks to be seen and heard. A place that’s tired of being invisible…
9:48 a.m. – RP advised she received a letter in the mail and she would like for an officer to look at it to see if it’s a scam.
7:38 p.m. – RP advised she had observed three juveniles on skateboards go down the middle of the street. She advised one of them was on his stomach.
There were so many calls like these to the Sioux City Police that the department looked into what was driving them. Their goal was to reduce the waste of costly resources for situations that did not necessarily require police action.
What the department found was basically people are lonely and their calls for police are a coping mechanism to chase away the blues.
It’s an underwritten story of the lost and forgotten down the street or next door. If only we would reach out more often, acting as the host in our own neighborhoods. Checking in. Bringing well-wishes. Ringing the doorbell until someone emerges. Letting the phone ring until someone answers. What a difference that would make.
“All the lonely people…where do they all come from?” “Eleanor Rigby” The Beatles
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Behold the birds and birds’ nests
“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much better than they?” Mathew 6:26 KJV
A March windstorm has displaced a good-sized birds’ nest from its lofty, once secure place in the sprawling elm on my front yard. A very strong gust must have toppled it.
Scooping this sturdy abode into my hands and examining it, I concluded that probably a family of robins or cardinals had been the occupants.
Delicately constructed with mostly organic ingredients, this circular one-room home was made with massive blades of dried buffalo grass, a conglomeration of twigs, sticks strands of alfalfa, dried out corn husks, cottonwood leaves and mud.
There’s bird spit sown in everywhere, applied as an adhesive, although, now invisible.
Along with all the natural elements is a mix-match of man-made stuff - litter woven in. Studying the materials of the nest builder, to whom I am by now feeling akin, I marvel at how resourceful and forgiving nature sometimes can be.
There are three dirty swatches of yellow and blue fiberglass insulation - most likely from a construction site…
…a shred of plastic from someone’s grocery sack,
…a tangled mass of human hair, maybe from a women’s hair brush,
…some purple and pink dryer lint,
…and part of a plastic ring from somebody’s six-pack.
There’s a tiredness about the nest – a sublime fatigue that I can’t quite get past. I try to imagine the subtext buried deep within – the goings on from last season…
… enduring endless early March days after a long flight north from southern latitudes…
…building a place to stay in temperatures just above freezing,
…singing breeding songs with the winter flock,
…filling the air with joyous sounds that, as a lubricant, releases winter’s frigid hold and invite spring’s return.
My narrow focus leads me to the porch where I lovingly place the fallen nest, as a war-torn soldier, on an empty plant stand. I don’t think the wind will blow it away here, but I provisionally place a heavy rock in its empty shell – just in case. I’m saving the discarded nest for a time, as I always seem to do.
There’s something deep down inside of me that ponders this pitiful artifact: the forces that built it, the way it withstood nature, the mournful litter strung through it, the life it once bore and at last its fatal fall.
I like to think this nest was a good home for a bird family – a place where one cohesive unit ate together, slept together, rose together, sang together, celebrated together, grew together cried together, loved together, weathered storms together – stayed together. I want to believe it was place of honor and respect.
We can only hope for as much.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
A March windstorm has displaced a good-sized birds’ nest from its lofty, once secure place in the sprawling elm on my front yard. A very strong gust must have toppled it.
Scooping this sturdy abode into my hands and examining it, I concluded that probably a family of robins or cardinals had been the occupants.
Delicately constructed with mostly organic ingredients, this circular one-room home was made with massive blades of dried buffalo grass, a conglomeration of twigs, sticks strands of alfalfa, dried out corn husks, cottonwood leaves and mud.
There’s bird spit sown in everywhere, applied as an adhesive, although, now invisible.
Along with all the natural elements is a mix-match of man-made stuff - litter woven in. Studying the materials of the nest builder, to whom I am by now feeling akin, I marvel at how resourceful and forgiving nature sometimes can be.
There are three dirty swatches of yellow and blue fiberglass insulation - most likely from a construction site…
…a shred of plastic from someone’s grocery sack,
…a tangled mass of human hair, maybe from a women’s hair brush,
…some purple and pink dryer lint,
…and part of a plastic ring from somebody’s six-pack.
There’s a tiredness about the nest – a sublime fatigue that I can’t quite get past. I try to imagine the subtext buried deep within – the goings on from last season…
… enduring endless early March days after a long flight north from southern latitudes…
…building a place to stay in temperatures just above freezing,
…singing breeding songs with the winter flock,
…filling the air with joyous sounds that, as a lubricant, releases winter’s frigid hold and invite spring’s return.
My narrow focus leads me to the porch where I lovingly place the fallen nest, as a war-torn soldier, on an empty plant stand. I don’t think the wind will blow it away here, but I provisionally place a heavy rock in its empty shell – just in case. I’m saving the discarded nest for a time, as I always seem to do.
There’s something deep down inside of me that ponders this pitiful artifact: the forces that built it, the way it withstood nature, the mournful litter strung through it, the life it once bore and at last its fatal fall.
I like to think this nest was a good home for a bird family – a place where one cohesive unit ate together, slept together, rose together, sang together, celebrated together, grew together cried together, loved together, weathered storms together – stayed together. I want to believe it was place of honor and respect.
We can only hope for as much.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
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