Dressed up and ready to go out for an evening, I tucked my cell phone into my purse before knocking on the heavy oak door. I had one obligation to fulfill before a night on the town, and approximately one hour to spend in quiet observation. Or so I thought.
We first sampled Organic Romantic Rose, a white tea with high notes of peppermint and hints of lavender. Later we were poured cups of Organic Masala Chai and Sweet Cranberry, two black and very versatile brews. I learned that while white, green and black teas originate from the same bush, it is how they are processed that develops their color and flavor.While enjoying a summer meal with my family, a rather bold 10-year-old withdrew a buttered ear of corn from her lips and placed it back on her plate. She pushed a few wisps of hair from her face with the back of her sticky hand before looking at me intently. Something was far more interesting to her than a steak dinner.
The first inquiry in her series of delightful questions was a simple fact-finding mission: “How old are you?”
Still a few years from being offended by my own age, I answered honestly. “Twenty-six.”
Her big round eyes slanted at me in suspicion: “Why aren’t you married?”
My dad nearly choked on his food. As he cleared his throat I gently rested my fork on my plate, stood up and folded my napkin before grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it violently into the air. I replayed that scene in my head a few more times before finally resting my fork on the table and looking thoughtfully at my plate of food.
“Why am I not married?” Only after Valentine’s Day or one too many Oberon’s do I give much thought to single-hood, the disease. Usually it’s a state of being that empowers me to do as I please, when I please, where I please and how I please. As far as I can tell, the ring finger on my left hand likes being naked--it's free to wave through the air without snagging a sweater or scraping someone's arm.
"But you're too beautiful," she insisted.
Flattered by the honest concern and logic of a 10-year-old, I was slightly disheartened to have squashed her romantic ideals. The princes and princesses, fairytales and happily-ever-afters kindly excused themselves from the table. An uninvited guest, loneliness, just showed up for dinner.
In the presence of loneliness we dined in silence. Forced to reflect on our gloomy guest, a whirl of memories surfaced and played out like a depressing funeral slideshow: my first kiss, senior prom, smore's on a rooftop, a long walk, a treasured photograph and exchanging "I love you's" for the first time.
Enter the protagonist: unanswered calls, lies by omission, excuses and more blatant lies. Cue all the music I can't listen to anymore. In comes the voice-over: "I need time to think," "you're such an amazing person, but..." and "It's easier this way." Then tie in a few strings for me to hang on to for too long.
I needed some water to swallow the lump in my throat. I wasn't prepared for anything heavier than strawberry shortcake that night, let alone an uninvited guest. The 10-year-old was watching my every move and I recognized the power in my response to her questions.
"I'm just waiting for the right one," I told her. "He has to be fun, truthful and very nice to me."
Seemingly satisfied by my answer, she nodded in agreement. I was satisfied too, because happily ever after just returned and knocked on the door. We all excused ourselves to entertain our new guest, leaving loneliness to dine in all its glory--by itself.
The starting line at the Borgess Run for the Health of It is also the finish line. At the blast of an air horn, a record crowd of more than 1,300 runners—myself and younger sister included—began a 13.1 mile journey around Kalamazoo. It was my sister’s first half marathon, and in typical elder sibling fashion, I double-dog-dared her to sign up, but then provided the much-needed moral support to help her prepare for the big race.
My sister was quick to point out a tangible energy at the Borgess Run that is unlike most races. And she’s right. While it boasts some impressive athletes and course records, there’s a welcoming atmosphere for both the seasoned and first-time runner. Maybe it’s the camaraderie developed during the Borgess Run Camp. Or maybe it’s Gazelle Sports’ Chris Crowell cheering through the speakers. Either way, the buzz of positivity combined with sunshine and a light breeze made it one of the most enjoyable race-days I could remember.
What I forgot about an hour into the run was that my sister holds several track and cross-country records at Kalamazoo Central High School—and the heart and endurance required to make those records never really fades. By mile 12, my younger sister, now several steps ahead, was reaching back to pull me toward the finish. In one race, our roles as sisters reversed. Despite years of bossiness and badgering toward my sister, she was willing to embrace the role of encourager when I needed it most.
Surrounded by an electric crowd, the two of us crossed the tape hand in hand. While my sister was ecstatic to have completed her first half marathon, I was pretty much just happy to have her as a sister….and as a best friend. The finish line at the Borgess Run for the Health of It is also the starting line.
Every day—whether I read the front page, turn on the TV or just listen to the whispers around me, I wonder, where is the good news? I’m saddened and frightened by the failure around me. Failure on the grandest scale has trickled its way to hurt and unnerve people just like me. Failure breeds negativity and hopelessness. Failure kills dreams.
As a self-proclaimed dreamer, my innate fear of mediocrity is fear enough without the heavy influence of mass failure. I remember posters in nearly every classroom in grade school that read, “Attitude is Everything.” And perhaps more than a pay raise, a vacation or a promotion—what I really need is an attitude check.
Several days ago I received a bright yellow post card in the mail from the Salvation Army. It asked me to donate my gently used clothing and household goods to families in need in Southwest Michigan. All I had to do was box it up, attach the bright yellow card to the box, and leave it on the curb.
And that’s exactly what I intend to do. Looking into the face of pessimism for me is like looking into the face of a stranger. I will remove my blanket of doubt and place it in a box—along with some kitchen wares and clothing. And before I leave it on the curb, I will attach that bright yellow card.
I’m going to clean up my attitude, and leave it on the curb. I’m going to box up my troubles and leave them on the curb too. Fears and failure? Straight to the curb. I know that if I leave fear, failure and negativity on the curb, there is a bright, golden invitation to hope—and to appreciate much to be thankful for.
Every couple years I count down to the New Year with a boisterous group—only to experience an awkward moment at the stroke of midnight. As the room pairs off into couples embracing, ringing in the New Year with a kiss, I find myself alone, staring stiffly at a crack in the ceiling. It’s
one of the few moments in life when seconds feel like an eternity. When it
seems that enough time has passed to plaster, sand and paint that crack in
the ceiling, the music resumes. And so does life.
As I get older, the New Year approaches more quickly than it did the year
before. My post-college years have become a complete whirlwind—and time freezes only to celebrate life and mourn loss. I’ve learned to lend the fleeting moments to the people and activities that I truly love—to focus on what I do have instead of…architectural
flaws.
I’ve never made a New Years resolution—and it’s not for
lack of ambition. I just think that the time to learn, change and grow is
now. Not tomorrow, not next week and definitely not next year. Last year,
I opted for a personal mantra instead of a resolution: “2008
is going to be great!”
Although I didn’t cross paths with Mr. Right in 2008, it was a really great year. So while the stroke of midnight on January 1st may sound the alarm to my solo status, I’d rather plaster, sand and paint a crack in the ceiling than spend one more New Year’s
with Mr. Wrong. Instead, I choose to celebrate another year blessed by family
and special friends.
My mantra this year? “2009 is my time to shine!” But I think I’ll
start today.
Happy New Year!
Every year, just before Christmas, the third generation of our family gathers
in festive spirit to decorate Christmas cookies. It has been a family tradition
for at least twenty years. We’ve grown from a young group of rambunctious cousins to women with degrees and rings on our fingers. Somehow, we coordinate our corporate schedules each December to meet at grandma’s house—to
revisit our youth and sing along to Andy Williams.
It has been three years since we lost our grandpa, George Kingsley Buckham.
If his old farmhouse was his palace, then his rocking chair near the wood-burning
stove was his throne. That is where he read the Kalamazoo Gazette cover to
cover; his glasses low on his nose. Every time we came to visit he would
toss his paper aside as he emerged from his chair. He expressed his love
to us by placing his tough old hand on our cheeks and exclaiming, “you’re
such a joy!”
Grandpa loved the holidays and enjoyed the laughter and commotion from the
kitchen when we decorated Christmas cookies. One year he came into the kitchen
to observe. Grandpa stuttered and was very careful with his words. His kind
brown eyes were deep with pride and appreciation as he told us, “This is our culture.”
“This is our culture.” It’s a phrase that emerges in our family each holiday season. As we mix ingredients into a large bowl of sweet batter, I know we all see grandpa’s
empty chair in the family room. And we keep baking. It is our culture to
honor the love and togetherness that he fostered throughout his lifetime.
It is our culture, and such a joy, to preserve the stories and traditions
passed along through the generations.
My grandpa was an avid letter writer who called written correspondence a “dying art.” He
wrote columns for several national livestock publications, and his Christmas
Story was a favorite among his readers. It was also a favorite among his
grandchildren.
I remember grandpa reclined in his chair next to the crackling stove; his large, calloused hands entwined in his lap. An old western was muted on the television as we gathered around him while another batch of Christmas cookies baked in the oven. It was Story Telling Time.
The story began at the family farm on Kalamazoo’s West Side—it
encompasses triumph in tough times and reflects a culture of love that never
dies.
Please read and enjoy Story Telling Time, by George K. Buckham:
We’ll go back to 1938, when my twin
brother and I were 10 years old. We were just coming out of the Great Depression
of the early 1930s. Like everyone else, we were as poor as church mice, but
things were finally looking up for us and the rest of the country.
At the time, we didn’t have a tractor.
We had eight good workhorses, and we always raised two or three colts a year.
My father took great pride in his horses, as he did all of his livestock.
He gave them special care, and in return he expected them to always produce,
work, and of course, help him make his living as a farmer.
It was about dark, a week before Christmas, when we heard a knock on our door. It was a fellow who owned a fuel truck. He had gotten his truck stuck delivering fuel to one of our neighbors and he wondered if we had a tractor that could pull him out of a very muddy driveway. My father told him that we had no tractor, but he did have a great team of horses that could pull better than most tractors of that time.
The fuel man of course thought that my
father was crazy to think a team of horses could accomplish this tough feat.
But my dad assured the man that he could pull him out. We quickly went to
the barn to get the horses harnessed. Before we left, my dad made sure that
the harness was clean and polished, and he brushed the team’s manes
and tails. We hooked them onto a hay wagon and drove the mile to where the
truck was stuck.
By the time we got there, probably 15 or 20 people were standing around waiting for the big show to start. Of course, not one of them thought that our great team could pull the truck out of the mud. We quickly hooked the team to the back of the truck as my father instructed the fuel man to start the truck and be ready to back up when he started to pull.
But things did not go as planned. The
driver killed his truck, and Dad’s team failed to pull like they were supposed to. I could see by the look in my father’s
eyes that he knew he was in trouble, and maybe he had bitten off more than
he could handle.
My father quickly halted his team to a stop. He seized them by their bridles and just stared into their eyes. He then spoke to them in a very stern voice, as though they were human, and told them his very reputation as a horseman and livestock man was at stake. They could pull the load and were not to let him down. Then, he again shook their bridles and just glared at them.
At this time, I was relieved to see that my dad was in control, and his big team had understood the meaning of his stern words. But the suspense began as he told the driver to start the truck and that he better be able to keep it going. My father had changed his strategy this time. He backed up his big team and was going to give the truck a huge jerk to get it moving.
I can still see it and have thought about it a million times. My father bad backed his team up. The reins looked like shoelaces intertwined with his huge hands. He held the lines so tightly; you could almost hear them crack under the pressure. He was calling out their names, very slowly at the start, his voice getting louder with each second. When he thought his team was together and ready to pull, he let out a war whoop to PULL! When the force of the pull hit the horses, it picked their front ends off the ground as though they were dangling in the air. They were breathing so hard it looked as though fire and smoke were streaming from their nostrils in the cold night.
When my father’s powerful team came
down, they were together, pulling like the champions that they were. My father
was calling out their names, commanding them to stop. He had let the lines
almost drop and was towering over them as the horses were almost up to their
knees in the soft, muddy ground. But every step got easier. When they reached
the road, my dad even put a flare of showmanship into his great pull. He
turned his horses sharply in the road to pull the truck around and straighten
it out.
The look on his face was one my brother
and I had seldom seen during the hard years of the 1930’s. He was
almost laughing, his eyes dancing like big brown diamonds. What he did next
I will never forget. He took the horses by the bridles, looked them deep
in the eyes, and thanked them for not letting him down. The horses, still
breathing almost fire and smoke, with slobber all over their mouths, rubbed
their damp heads all over his shoulders, knocking his hat off. It was like
three kids bragging and laughing about a great victory, a truly joyous moment.
Everybody was shaking hands with my dad, confirming what a great team of
horses he had. You can be sure that he was enjoying that special moment as
much as we were.
We quickly hooked the horses up to the
wagon, and I got to drive them home. The Christmas trees were lit in the
neighbor’s homes. The sounds of the horses’ hooves on the pavement
were like a Christmas carol as I let them trot home.
Maybe you had to be there to appreciate
this special event. Or maybe one had to live at that time to appreciate the
special emotion that my brother, father and I had felt that cold night. To
me, it will always be the greatest livestock event that I have ever seen.
The ribbons and trophies weren’t there, but there was no doubt that
my father was a master livestock man.
Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
I recently shared a small feast with my aunt, uncle and their two children.
Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—a savory Sunday evening spread.
Within one bite, my heaping plate of food was suddenly my only company. My
family and conversation faded into the background as the flavors triggered
a heartwarming nostalgia for traditional values.
My aunt offered me a second helping. Twice. As I snapped back to reality
and thoughtfully considered whether I could eat more, I realized I was enjoying
the best meal in…and I started to count. Weeks. Months. A year?! As a young professional, I have hardly taken the time to appreciate a simple meal. My work ethic deprived my palate as I multi-tasked my way through nearly every bite—I
ate while driving, walking, typing, you name it.
This year, more than ever, I anticipate Thanksgiving. As every holiday becomes more commercialized, the simplicity of Thanksgiving has remained a reliable constant. In the face of economic turmoil, war and illness, it is important to recognize and celebrate our abundant blessings: friends and family.
I look forward to sharing a meal with my family instead of hastily eating
on the run this Thanksgiving. However, I remember there are people in our
community who are challenged daily to find even the hastiest meal. That’s
why it is important to share our blessings and resources with those who are
not as fortunate this holiday season.
To learn how you can donate food or volunteer for those in need, visit The Kalamazoo Gospel Mission, Ministry with Community, Kalamazoo Loaves and Fishes and the Kalamazoo
Deacon’s Conference.
“Thanks” is easy. Consider “Giving” this Thanksgiving.
I woke up this morning to the remnants of a huge party in my back yard. Mother Nature must have hosted a welcoming celebration for autumn during the night. And as I drove to work, it appears that all of Kalamazoo was invited. Fluorescent leaves are scattered like confetti across the county, and a few trees are displaying the season’s most vibrant hues of red and orange.
For me, waking up to fall in Michigan invokes a child-like excitement similar to waking up to snow and Santa Claus on Christmas. I wondered how my obsession with this season began, so I journeyed through the autumns of my youth and a few images came to mind:
Fall is the sweet smell of the final cut of hay. It is a Harvest Moon grinning low in the sky like a giant jack-o-lantern. It is rows of golden corn crackling beneath the groan of a dusty combine.
Fall is a hayride and a bonfire. It is children running through an orchard for cider and donuts. It is a herd of ewes retreating from the pasture—their bellies bulging as they prepare to have their lambs.
Fall is the smell of a wood-burning stove. It is catching leaves as they float from the trees. It is a swinging rope hanging from the rafters—or burlap sacks of wool piled to the ceiling of our old barn.
Fall is the screams of a haunted house and the stomachache from candy corn. It is the laughter from a game of football in my grandma’s front yard. It is the memory of my grandfather’s charming face, blackened by the soot of his harvest.
Fall is the heralded “trick or treat!” The beauty of autumn arrives quickly, almost unexpectedly. And like an awe-inspiring display of fireworks, its celebration is brief. I believe Michigan may host the nation’s most beautiful finale to nature, so I always make a point to enjoy the “treat.”
10-21-08
Two years ago I sat along a curb in East Lansing, waving to Kermit the Frog as he rolled by in a white convertible. Moments later, massive draft horses with green manes and hooves pounded the pavement as they trotted down Grand River Avenue. Another Homecoming parade was passing before me as quickly as the year had passed since I graduated.
Each fall I drive into Michigan State’s campus and read the imaginary banner above Spartan Stadium that screams, “Welcome to the Happiest Place in Michigan!” Sure, I admit I’m biased toward my alma mater—but every time I step foot on campus toting a grill and wearing a signature hooded sweatshirt, I feel like I’ve been welcomed to the largest extended-family reunion known to man. It’s a celebration I have most appropriately termed “Tailgation Nation.”
Tailgation Nation is more than a parade, high-fives, the smell of hot dogs and the blast of a sportscaster on an AM radio. Exceeding the celebration of a football game, Tailgation Nation is the celebration of community and the sense of family developed during one of life’s greatest periods of transition. My college years taught me astronomy, biology and ethics and communication theories. But the greater education was about myself—about love and friendship, heartache and triumph. I left East Lansing with more than a degree—and each time I return I can’t help but celebrate the place that nurtured me and fostered my growth from a shy farm girl to a confidant woman.
Although I didn’t go to Kalamazoo’s Western Michigan University, I’m guessing it has a group of graduates and enthusiastic fans similar to what I experienced at MSU. In the midst of another exciting season of college football, I am convinced that Tailgation Nation is a universal phenomenon. And if it’s not—it should be. Our community can learn from the universities: perhaps a stable and lifelong sense of community results from providing a supportive environment that evolves and transforms the individual.
No matter where I wind up in life, I have the comfort of knowing my alma mater will always welcome me home. I’m confident that Kalamazoo can do the same.
10-8-08
I distinctly remember a conversation I had with two peers last summer. We were having dinner in a secluded booth at a restaurant chain. The familiar green lamp hung low between our faces, lighting the familiar menu. Like seemingly every other restaurant in town, old trumpets and sports photos adorned the walls. We were young and single, and after ordering the usual hamburger, we never felt so stuck in Kalamazoo.
Perhaps you’re more apt to complain when you’re hungry, but I think our hunger was for something deeper. We huddled in our booth and dreamed up the ideal restaurant for the young, ambitious and inspired. We imagined the perfect downtown location; described the lighting, the furniture, the menu and the entertainment. We thirsted for innovation and excitement in Kalamazoo and were determined to find it: our monthly dinner date became a mission to explore new venues.
Removing the “chain” from Kalamazoo restaurants led to our discovery of some amazing food and cozy atmospheres. We tried variations of Japanese, Italian and Indian dishes. We sat on the deck while the sun set over Cosmo’s and shared a bottle of wine at Martini’s. Between secret family recipes, Spanish tapas and home-brewed beers, I was elated to have discovered the scrumptious hidden gems of Kalamazoo.
While my friends and I have yet to dine in the atmosphere we dreamed up one year ago, we haven’t lost hope. Two new restaurants, The Wine Loft and Charlie Foster’s, have opened in Downtown Kalamazoo—that makes two new opportunities to refine my palate and appreciate this evolving town.
So, you might be wondering what the perfect restaurant would be in the eyes of the single twenty-something: I want jazz floating through the air. Comfortable, yet contemporary style. An innovative menu with fresh, local ingredients. Engaging conversation and laughter. I want a reason to put on my little black dress and the high heels that I never wear—the ones that are just too amazing to part with.
…I think I want more than just a new restaurant in Kalamazoo..
09-09-08
Editor's Note: Kristi Buckham, whose regular column addresses single life in Kalamazoo (in contrast with her counterparts who drifted to the big city) had a revelation cleaning out her closet recently. Enjoy.
Several weeks ago I was elated to have received a coupon from Macy’s shoe department…until I read the fine print. In very small letters I was informed that the discount was a reward for having purchased five pairs of shoes within the past 12 months. My excitement turned to shame. Macy’s confirmed it: my fascination with footwear was officially excessive.07-15-08
Back in my college days, I always got a thrill from riding my bike to lectures. I was a speed demon on my blue five-speed, weaving in and out of the walkers, roller-bladers and fellow bikers. Riding a bike was the quickest, most efficient way to get to class---if you had the guts to do it.
Pedaling to class cut 20 minutes from my walking commute. I had more time to sleep, finish a homework assignment or stand in front of a full closet to complain, "there's nothing to wear."
Back then, I envisioned myself in my "adult life" wearing a power suit and owning the streets as I drove a shiny new truck to work in a big city. But after I graduated I took advantage of a career opportunity in Kalamazoo and my commute to work was only 10 minutes each way by small, but very cute car.
In other words, I've cheated the national average commute time of 24.3 minutes, and sometimes I wonder what my "big city" friends are doing during those 100 hours a year they spend in their cars. Amazingly, though, as I navigate the streets of my "10 minute town" in a car so small it has a bug's name, I'm finding myself spending more than $200 a month on gas.
Every time I fill up my gas tank I wonder what happened to my blue five-speed. I could use it right now. What's really great is that biking to work is suddenly very fashionable, even on days "there's nothing to wear."
The Kalamazoo Chamber of Commerce and state Sen. Tom George (a physician who regularly bikes to work) recently hosted the "Bike to Work Event" and the movement is gaining traction.
Saving gas is just one benefit to biking to work--think of the environmental and health benefits. It's more than a commute to work; it's a workout! If biking to work simply isn't an option, consider taking the bike for a "scenic drive" or to run an errand. Another beauty of our "10 minute town" is the growing trail system, not to mention the special lanes designed for cyclists.
I'm ready to hang up my car keys and hold on to the handlebars. It's time to give new meaning to the expression "pedal" to the metal.
07-15-08
Last week I drove to Atlanta with two college girlfriends to visit my very best childhood friend. As we turned a bend on I-75 in northern Georgia, the skyline came into view—every building revealed a unique silhouette. So this is Atlanta; this is why my friend left Kalamazoo and pursued a new career. My two girlfriends let out a shriek of excitement. We turned up the radio, glanced at the GPS and let the adventure begin.
I was enthralled by the metropolis my friend calls her new home. For such a large southern city, Atlanta was both laid back and quaint. We shared meals on colorful, mismatched dishes and shabby-chic furniture in open-air cafes. Bowls of fresh fruit and honey, granola pancakes, biscuits and peaches comforted like a meal from grandma’s kitchen. The city is considered one of America’s “urban forests,” where many trees and green vegetation are incorporated into the city. So the view from almost anywhere within Atlanta reminded me of sitting on the back porch of a cozy wooded lot, where buildings jutted into the sky like the tallest trees of the forest.
But Atlanta is also renowned as a melting pot of culture, and anyone strolling downtown can feel excitement ribbon through the air, cross the street and flow into all the unique shops and restaurants. On our first night in the city, my girlfriends and I sat in a chandeliered booth eating sushi and sipping mojitos. We enjoyed valet service and befriended an Irish soccer team on holiday. I suddenly realized we had evolved from the Easy-Mac and Slurpees of our college years.
The return ride to Michigan seemed longer than our trip South. I felt like I was leaving so many thrills behind…not to mention, my best friend. But it’s funny how 12 hours in the car will make you realize the beauty of our country. As we rode through the peaks and valleys of Tennessee I was completely taken by the view. I realized that the redundancies of everyday life have isolated me from the culture, excitement and nature that surround me daily in Kalamazoo.
Nearly 20 years ago, my best friend and I were two blonde girls sharing a single seat on the school bus, practicing our spelling words. Only 5 years old, we giggled as the driver curved the back roads of Kalamazoo. We sang songs, drew pictures in the moisture on the windows and spoke in our secret language. We were special friends who aspired to become veterinarians, marry brothers and someday float together on a cloud in heaven. We didn’t know much of life beyond our bus route—we only knew each other.
I’m proud of my friend for molding a new life and pursuing a passion in Atlanta. Reuniting with her always awakens my inner child. She now calls a beautiful, lively city her home. But for me, without the love and presence of good company, Atlanta would have been only a bustling cluster of tall buildings in a southern forest. Just one of the many lessons I’ve learned since I rode the bus with my best friend in grade school: it’s the people who make the place.
06-25-08
Imagine the smoldering scene: there he sat in a plume of smoke. His dark, handsome features soften with every sip of whiskey. He’s unwinding after a long day at the office. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone.
Enter the single, twenty-something stuck in Kalamazoo. She let her hair down and skipped lunch to fit into her designer jeans. All ten of her toes are wedged into a pair of pointed, 4” stilettos. She orders a martini and something deep-fried with a side of ranch dressing.
Their eyes meet and the rest is romantic history…minus, of course, the lingering aroma of cigarette smoke, two hangovers and that giant side of trans fats.
Most females will tell you they dreamed of meeting their significant other in college. I distinctly remember my freshman year at Michigan State University. My girlfriends and I sat in a crowded cafeteria, checking out more than the food. I think I was the one who said: “Just imagine. Our husbands are probably somewhere on this campus, right now.”
We all graduated single and a little discouraged. As part of the post-college crowd, we learned that the last of the single people were located at bars and nightclubs. This discouraged me even more—my desire to find fun in a loud, smoky and overcrowded “hotspot” must have died with my college days. Besides, I have an inkling that most guys don’t go to the bar thinking, “I’m looking for a wife.” Just an inkling…
In a society where everything is “going green” and we rethink what we waste, I ask myself, is there a “healthy” way to meet someone? I mean, you could find the man of your dreams recycling his cans at Meijer. But I’m thinking that it would be ideal to meet someone who shares your values and with whom you could incorporate your lifestyle.
I’d like to challenge the single, twenty-somethings of Kalamazoo to get out during the daylight hours and interact in a way that betters themselves and the community. I’m thinking, take a stroll through the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday morning, go for a jog with Gazelle Sports Summer Safari, become active in a local sporting club or head to the beach and have fun in the sun (just don’t forget the SPF). These are all significant opportunities for a great time, and could be a “healthier” way to meet someone. Don’t let them go to waste!
05-16-08
Growing up, my mom told her four children never to talk to strangers. This is easy enough when you’re seven years old: if a creepy guy in a big van with no windows offers you candy or asks for directions, simply run the other way. But somewhere between training wheels and drivers training, interacting with strangers becomes part of everyday life. It’s how learning happens; how business works...even how love evolves.
If I were to take my mother’s advice as an adult, running from every stranger would make me a world-class marathoner. Like most people, I’ve traded the childhood run from the unknown for the opportunity to understand what makes strangers interesting, friendly, enlightening or just very strange.
I still fondly recall my run-in with a stranger at the supermarket. He was the handsome man in a suit, who offered me random—but very effective words of wisdom. Then there was the older gentleman who sat next to me and cheered on his grandson at a track meet. He intrigued me with stories about the changing face of our small town. This stranger emanated a sense of contentment with life that I hope to someday achieve.
I also recall, not very fondly, an encounter with a stranger who viewed my personal successes as failures and then had the audacity to ask me to dinner. Even if he drove a BMW, he might as well have driven the big, rusty, windowless van—because my instincts told me to run. Then of course there was the stranger who did take me to dinner, looked deep enough into my eyes to make my stomach leap—and then never pursued our special connection. The disappointment lingers.
Good or bad, I believe my interactions with strangers ultimately make me a better person. The good I see in others inspires me. Strangers help me to evaluate who I want to be and how I want to change. And if they don’t lighten my load they thicken my skin. I can’t invest much thought or emotion into strangers who judge me. After all, they’re strangers.
05-16-08
With Mother’s Day around the corner, I wanted to share a few things about the friend and role model I have in my mother.
I think of Marcia as the antique. Every year she gets more and more beautiful. I envision her a bride at 18: a child draped in white lace, advancing down the aisle towards young love. This was the path to the family that would be her self-proclaimed greatest joy and purpose in life.
Marcia had her first son at age 20. Two years later, after nine months of craving pickles, ice cream and fruit loops, Marcia gave birth to me. Over the next five years her and dad gave me a younger sister and a younger brother. Marcia worked from home and made certain her family joined each night for a home-cooked meal. The six of us seated around the dinner table is my fondest childhood memory.
I remember dancing around the living room with my mom to Chaka Khan, Billy Ocean, The Commodores and Kool & the Gang. The windows were open. In the backyard, laundry on the clothesline swayed in the breeze. The sun shot through the windows making big, bright squares on the carpet. We danced and danced. I spun myself in circles before falling to the ground. Childhood was a spinning room of music, dancing, sunshine and family.
With a farmer for a husband, Marcia cared for more than her own children. She nursed orphaned baby lambs to health in our basement. I’m simply amazed at how she did it all, especially taking four kids to the grocery store without making a scene. Our clothes were always clean and our home, always spotless. She taught responsibility and ran a tight ship. Our rules were strict but revealed to us her compassion. Like other kids, we weren’t allowed to throw our toys or hurt or siblings. But more importantly we weren’t allowed to call each other names like “dumb” or “stupid.”
Marcia curled her daughters’ hair and told us we were beautiful. She never missed a parent-teacher conference and praised her children for doing well in school. She made a point to tell us we were smart. Marcia is a strong woman. A survivor. She vowed to give her children everything she never had but always wanted. She chose to break a cycle and create a life for her children based upon unconditional love, support, praise and self-worth. For this I am eternally grateful, because it has made me who I am today.
I would like to reverse the roles and thank the special woman who I call mama. I would like to tell her how smart, beautiful and courageous she is. And while I know she may not totally believe me, she raised me to always tell the truth. Happy Mother’s Day.
05-06-08
I tightened my lips in frustration as I smoothed the bright white icing around the cake for the thirtieth time. How could two layers of moist cake, bound by a sweet fruit filling, look like something I pulled of out my plastic Easy-Bake Oven in the 1980’s? After my first day of cake-decorating class, I brought home an edible tribute to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. My face still contorts when I think about it.
When the same friend who talked me into running half-marathons convinced me to take up decorating cakes, we were beyond optimistic. We dreamt of all the possibilities: we could make cakes for weddings, then open our own bakery, move on to become wedding planners and finally inspire a new reality show for the Food Network. But by the time we boxed up our first confused creation, we bid our sky-high aspirations farewell and settled for the fact that we were just learning a new hobby.
Internet news sites are overloaded with articles claiming to give the secret to job satisfaction. Every article offers the same bottom line—job satisfaction is derived from doing what you love. Many recommend taking your hobby, or what makes you unique, and then selling it to the world. This is easier said than done, especially when your hobbies include collecting PEZ dispensers and speaking in a British accent.
My lopsided cake taught me that we all have inherent gifts and abilities—and icing cakes was not mine. Sure, the cake was delicious and I’ve gone on to make a few more creative and comedic desserts in my spare time. But the search for job satisfaction will continue until I can combine thoughtfulness, creativity and passion all in a day’s work...and excel at it. Because I refuse to settle, the process of trial and error keeps my life interesting. I now have a huge box of cake decorating supplies. I’m starting to realize that maybe all I need is a pen and paper.
What’s next? My friend and I are thinking dance lessons. Maybe we’ll get in some music videos, do a stint on Broadway followed by a few seasons on Dancing with the Stars. Or maybe we’ll just learn a few moves and be the life of the next party. We won’t know unless we try!
04-22-08
A fireman may fearlessly enter a burning building to retrieve the family pet. Meanwhile, a lifeguard may brave unfriendly waters to rescue a swimmer from the grips of a rip current. I’m positive that on a universal scale, both individuals would be considered quite brave. We would celebrate them as heroes.
The question is, however, must you always defeat death and preserve life to earn a badge for courage? I greatly respect and admire heroes—ordinary people who have conquered extraordinary feats. But I also think that some recognition is due to the unsung hero in each of us. Sometimes the inner-satisfaction gained from conquering a small, personal feat is greater than any outward recognition.
For over 150 years my family has farmed the same plot of land on the west side of Kalamazoo. My great-grandmother had twin boys in the midst of the Great Depression. She gave birth at home and her doctor was compensated in potatoes. I never had the privilege to meet the tough woman who was my great-grandmother. She was no Franklin Roosevelt, but without a doubt her courage and strength has stretched generations.
For a farmer, the land is their lifeblood. Most of my family is surprisingly sheepish (no pun intended) around water. Imagine me, a young student enchanted by French language and culture—who longed to see Europe but couldn’t bear the thought of flying over a vast ocean. After three years of yearning contemplation, I packed a few pairs of clothes and a journal into my backpack. Like a timid person peering over the edge of the high-dive, I dove into the deep end. I boarded a plane to Europe and didn’t return for two months.
The fear of heights is called acrophobia. Imagine the satisfaction attained when someone with this condition conquers his or her apprehension by hang-gliding, parachuting or simply climbing a ladder. Years after my journey abroad, I continue to pat myself on the back. I had the courage to face a fear, and each day I’m rewarded with an appetite for culture, beauty and adventure. Like many others who overcome personal obstacles, I don’t need a medal. But I do feel convicted by the great-grandmother I never knew, and what I really need is for my courage and strength to endure for generations. If my mantra is “2008 is going to be great,” then consider me focused on the next fear.
04-15-08
When I tell people that I run, I recognize the initial shock and horror on their faces. And while it’s never been clinically documented, I’ve been told many times that I’m crazy for jogging in the heat, rain and snow. Running is my little secret.
Sometimes, I get up before the sun to start my jog. I can get several miles in before the watchful eyes of the world open to start their day. I even sleep to run. My dreams are bombarded with 5Ks and impromptu track meets. In some dreams I disguise myself as a high school student and run relays and win meets. In others I’m lost on a 5K course and my legs are stuck in slow motion.
When I go to the gym, I’m obsessed with passing the other runners on the indoor track. In my mind, every runner is a bull’s eye before me and a cloud of dust behind me. At this point I’m no longer human. I’m Gail Devers clearing the last hurdle, or Sly Stallone punching the air as he climbs to the top of the steps in Rocky. Then Michael Jackson hiccups in my ear and eggs me on as he sings “Bad” through my headphones…
Is this normal?
Probably not. I’ve heard of runner’s high, but question its existence. Besides the obvious health benefits, I run to feed my competitive spirit. I was in need of a place to vent my running—a place where I knew I would get support from those with the same diagnosis. Luckily I’ve discovered the competition and camaraderie through local running clubs and races hosted by Gazelle Sports, Borgess Medical Center and Kalamazoo Area Runners.
A good friend and fellow runner was asked why she chose to run as a hobby. Her blunt response humored me but held some truth: “Because there’s nothing else to do in this town.” As single, twenty-something’s stuck in Kalamazoo, we may have discovered the healthiest way to conquer redundancy. So, the secret’s out.
**If running is your little secret, or if you’re interested in meeting new people and getting fit, consider running or walking on April 25 and 26 at the Borgess Run for the Health of it.
If you really knew me and understood me, you’d note something beyond the smile and sunny disposition. Sure, I’m a positive person. I’m also organized and detail-oriented. I tend to be clever, creative, caring and independent. I respect and honor good communication, and to top it all off I floss daily. It would seem that I’ve got a lot going for me—at least that’s what my resume reflects.
But it seems that every other week I find myself in the comforting presence of my father, a man who seemingly knows my heart better than I and who believes in me more than I’m capable of believing in myself. As he wipes away my hot tears of frustration, sorrow and self-pity, he assures me that dawn is nearly here. According to my father, when daybreak comes, I will blossom into all the greatness that I aspire.
I inherited the tendency to dream from my father, who undoubtedly inherited this trait from his father. While everyone contemplates their desires in life, I can’t distinguish whether it’s a blessing or a curse to be born into a family of dreamers. The way I was wired to dream means more than determining which career I want or how many kids I’ll have. I was born to dream to outlandish and absurd degrees of greatness. As a result, my greatest fear is mediocrity.
Mediocrity. I fear it more than death. To be mediocre would be to extinguish a legacy and to fail my inherent potential. I hope for so many things that I question whether I’m being reasonable. I want adventure. I want passion. I want to win. I want to change lives—to be an example, a hero, and a genius. I want to be swept off my feet, because I’m almost ready to knock the socks off of Mr. Right. Is this too much to ask? My dad, my great encourager, doesn’t think so.
Several months ago I was lucky to run into Jim Long, one of Kalamazoo’s legendary track coaches and a personal mentor. I sat in his office on a particularly trying day, when mediocrity was grasping at my heels. Maybe fear was written on my face, because without any exchange of words, Coach Long gave me a piece of paper that read:
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
-This excerpt was written by Marianne Williamson and read by Nelson Mandela at his 1994 inauguration.
I read it and cried. It is okay to dream, as long as you have the courage to act, the faith in positive outcomes, and finally the patience to watch greatness unfold.
I remember sitting wide-eyed on the floor as a child, a little girl engaged by animation and the screen of a big television. Twenty years later, an array of educational television programs and networks are produced for children. I like to think that although I wasn’t learning Spanish or sign language, the occasional cartoon indulged my imagination and perhaps developed within me a slight sense of humor…and just a hint of dignity.
A particularly vivid cartoon concept remains with me today. It’s not the dropping of an anvil or the endless chase scene. It’s the fork in road—the definitive moment when the character must turn right or left and choose between right and wrong. But my favorite part about the fork in the road was that it was never a hasty decision. It was thoroughly considered with the help of two characters, a devil hovering above the right shoulder and an angel strumming its harp over the left.
With college behind me, and the possibility of new careers, love interests and advanced degrees before me, I sometimes feel like every other step brings me to the inevitable fork in the road. And so often when I can’t decide which turn to take, which career to choose and whom to love—I consult the white-winged and haloed version of myself. Why? Because while the path to success may be lined in accolades, it’s the figurative high road that will truly set me apart.
When “doing the right thing” makes national headlines, I realize the high road is less traveled. But the character that fuels that path is honorable and respectable – and will prepare me for life’s next big intersection. A young child watching cartoons, I was captivated by the morals, the ethics or maybe even the spiritual conviction introduced at the fork in the road. Today, when everything is sensational, dramatic and complicated, I am even more fascinated by making the right turn.
Disclaimer: To claim to be purely angelic would be to vastly exceed the parameters of the little white lie. With a sly smile I’ll admit I often acknowledge and consider the hot pokes and prods of my own pitchfork. Even the high road has potholes.
03-12-08
Ten years ago I sat in a crowded classroom of a local high school, trying to focus between the ringing and dinging of obnoxious chimes. It wasn’t a bell choir or even a music class. It was Typing 101.
Typing 101! I sat up perfectly straight with my delicate fingers poised above the home keys of an electric typewriter. As I typed away I envisioned all the new opportunities a typewriter could give me—polished reports, professional correspondence and perhaps better yet, an anonymous love letter. My great idea was almost a reality, and just as I prepared to type, “I love you,” the angry little machine scared me. It let out a shrill and sudden “ding!” before it violently zipped and retreated to start a new row. My paper read, “I lobe you.”
Within a year or two I think an entire landfill was dug for typewriters. I sat in the same classroom, this time learning web design on a bulky IBM. The possibilities with this new technology seemed abundant. And now, ten years later, they seem endless.
With the touch of a button, that anonymous love letter can be translated into fifty different languages. And if I don’t know where to send it—heck, if I never even knew the guys’ name—our eyes simply locked at a café in Southern France—then some clever Google searches will reveal to me that he’s a single Aquarius named Jacques, who loves long walks on the beach and strawberry gelato. Perfect!
I have a family member who works 90 miles away, but doesn’t spend a dime on the commute. She does Pilates each morning and makes the perfect cup of coffee before settling in front of her laptop. She is part of a growing population of professionals who work from home. As a woman, technology will allow her to balance her career and a budding family. I envision her continued success, holding her cell phone to her ear with her shoulder, sending a few emails and spooning baby food to her first child.
The new roads paved by technology in the past decade are incredible—but far from perfect. Spell check didn’t catch my typing error and I sent Jacques an email stating, “I lobe you.” I’m still waiting to hear back from him.
Editor's Note: He won't call, Kristi. . .not after that earful.
02-20-08
My grandparents used to read each other the messages on those little candy hearts every Valentine’s Day. They would giggle and smile coyly like two teenagers before dropping the tiny confection into the other’s mouth. I was only 10 years old when I saw this and realized that I wanted “grandparent love” someday. “Grandparent love” is that unconditional, hold-hands, drink coffee together in the morning and tea at night, in-it-for-the-long-haul type of love. This love has the comfort of homemade bread and the warmth of a wood-burning stove.
But as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized how difficult “grandparent love” is to find. And as each lonely Valentine’s Day passes, I quit reading the messages on those tiny hearts and just devour the entire bag in protest. It seems that “grandparent love” is becoming obsolete. Why? Because making homemade bread takes too long and wood-burning stoves are considered dangerous.
“The good ones are already taken.” What a discouraging phrase for the single, twenty-something in Kalamazoo. As I was driving to work last week I was distracted by all the young, ambitious men downtown wearing suits and walking with purpose. Where were they going? I’m convinced that there is a secret destination in this town for men who dream as big as I do. And I’m determined to find them without having to ride a bull, embarrass myself in a karaoke contest or give my credit card number on-line.
As part of the post-college, young-professional crowd, I know many of my peers will agree when I say this town needs a place of refuge for our growing demographic. Until a venue exists that reflects our budding sophistication and creativity, I’m forced to spend another night at home hoping for “grandparent love” while polishing off the final piece of candy from a big, red, heart-shaped box of chocolates that I bought for myself.
My latest heartbreak may be categorized as one of my greater disappointments. It revealed to me even higher standards for “grandparent love” that could be challenging to find again. But I’m going to press on and believe there is hope in this town for those who believe in life-long love and passion and who won’t settle for less. I think I’ll pass up the pity party this Valentine’s Day in hopes that I’m one heartache closer to never being heartbroken again.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
As a child I spent most of my playtime in an imaginary world. With several siblings and cousins at my disposal, I carefully selected the cast and plot of every fictitious adventure. On Saturday afternoons, shortly after our upper lips were stained red with Kool-Aid, we came together to escape a great childhood in order to live and discover an even greater dream.
One of my favorite scenarios involved escaping an orphanage and the wrath of its evil keeper—I’ve only recently realized this was not too original if you’ve seen a production of Annie. But my other favorite game of pretend was far more elaborate. It involved two sisters, caring for their five siblings after their parents were tragically killed in an accident. Desperate--with no food or money, and on the brink of complete failure they spent their last coin (or bottle cap) on a single lottery ticket—and win. In their newfound wealth, the young sisters and their family are bombarded with feasts and fine dresses. Of course the sisters are victorious, because in the game of pretend you control your destiny.
Years later, I sometimes wish I could close my eyes and revert to the ease and triumph of childhood dreams. But as a grown woman it is expected of me to bring all my dreams to fruition in a world of roadblocks, deadlines and rejection. Do I have to experience rock bottom before I choose to spend my last dime on the toll for “victory lane?” Just maybe I can take advice from my own youthful ambitions and attempt to lead a life in which I carefully select the cast and develop the plot of my next adventure.
Some families carry legacies of education and achievement. It wasn’t until two years ago, at my grandfather’s funeral, that I realized my family’s legacy. My uncle, a tall, lean and very humble farmer, stood up, faced the congregation and said something profound that I will never forget. He said that according to his father, life was all about dreams. He then instructed us to “dream the dream. Live the dream.”
Maybe the moral of make-believe should be reversed in adulthood. We should call it “believe-make,” as in believe it and make it happen.
01-28-08
The most interesting thing happened to me today at Meijer---and of all places, in the toilet paper isle. I was considering the differences between Charmin and Quilted Northern when an attractive young man, perhaps in his late 20's, wearing a gray suit, red tie and a smile, said to me: "Getting in your weekly shopping, eh?" Without turning around I immediately thought, Please no. Please don't let me get hit on in the tissue isle at Meijer. So without even looking at him I gave a slight chuckle and answered, "Yep."
As he walked ahead of me he asked, "Are you from the area?" Oh great, here we go. "Yep."
"Really, do you go to Western?" He then read the front of my MSU hooded sweatshirt, "Or to Michigan State?"
"I graduated from MSU."
"That's great. What program did you study?"
I answered him, knowing what would come next. "Communication, PR, that's great. So what are you doing with that?"
Uuuugh. The inevitable question. The question that even I cannot answer--one that I ask myself almost daily. And now I have to tell a handsome, dark-complected stranger in the same place where I stock my bathroom. "Actually, I'm trying to figure that out," I answer, embarrassed.
And then this stranger, with sparkling eyes, no shopping cart, and not so much as a product in either hand, begins to tell me about my inherent potential. It's as if he came into the store only to deliver a divine message to a young woman who is struggling with finding her footing on one of life's more rocky paths. For several minutes he shared with me the detrimental properties of fear... and how confidence, faith, and a true heart with good intentions are the keys to success. He told me to determine my goals in life and understand that I can be the person that I want to be through a multitude of avenues. But one of the last things he said to me struck me most: "You're worth more than you think."
All I could think to say in return was a thought that had already been running through my head all day: "I don't want to be mediocre." I was smiling ear to ear when our exchange came to an end--in fact I was so engaged that I forgot to buy toilet paper. And I walked away happy because this random guy offering unsolicited advice at Meijer a) didn't ruin the moment by asking for my phone number and b) intrigued me to the extent that I wondered if I could be the target of some divine intervention. For that alone, I believe I'll conquer mediocrity. Thanks!
On a warm spring day several years ago, the tassel from my cap drifted in and out of view as my head spun with sheer panic to the droning symphony of graduation music. I was expected to celebrate the hard work, the "best years of my life" and the impending success. But in reality I was entirely frightened by the unknown. With a diploma in one hand and a suitcase in the other, I was practically thrown out onto the doorstep of a massive university, expected to make something of my life at the ripe age of 22. But like a frightened child kicking and screaming for their blanket, I retreated to the only other place I knew: home. So I set out to the safe and familiar Kalamazoo. And I cried the whole way there.
Within a week of graduation, an internship at one of Kalamazoo's respectable healthcare facilities gave way to a full-time position. But I woke up in my old bedroom, ate cereal at my old breakfast table and compromised a curfew with the parents. I was 17 again -and hating it. I was relieved to put on my corporate sweater vest and drive downtown to work each day. As an adult, I saw Kalamazoo from a new perspective. I thirsted to differentiate myself from my former life as a child in this town, and soon realized that I didn't have to go far to find a fresh perspective and a new beginning: downtown.
As a child, Kalamazoo was limited to the route from our farm to grandma's farm and the occasional shopping trip or doctor's appointment. I hardly knew that a downtown Kalamazoo existed, until a spaceship had landed in the heart of the city. Like a curious farm girl captivated by UFO's and cattle abductions, I ventured downtown to discover that the "spaceship" was really the futuristic facelift of the Radisson Plaza Hotel. But I was pleased, because as I admired the arched steel and shining glass of the new, modern creation, I suddenly felt as if I had left typical, comfortable Kalamazoo and entered a young, cosmopolitan city.
I was surrounded by a unique charm: the view of an illuminated brick mall, the scent of espresso and the soft melody of a nearby jazz ensemble in the Union Cabaret and Grill. Young couples holding hands scurried under the fluorescent lights of the Rave Theater in hopes of making their show. This new Kalamazoo awakened in me something I hadn't felt since I left college. I realized that I didn't have to go much further than grandma's farm to find a renewed sense of adventure and a fresh start in a new town.
Now in my mid-twenties, I am pleased to discover that the "best years of my life" have extended beyond the great university and continued in this great town. My college friends had moved to Detroit, Phoenix and Atlanta... but I moved to Kalamazoo. I moved home.