Saturday, December 27, 2014

I knew there was something I forgot to post . . .


December 12, 2014
            “Pretty!”  Joelle carefully touched the Christmas bow on one of the shiny packages.  “Pretty!” She touched each package with her right pointer, clasping her juice glass to her body with her left hand.  “Pretty!”
            As Dana read the Christmas story from an illustrated board book, Joelle wriggled out of her arms to touch the presents again.  “Pretty!”  Shawn lay on the floor with Benjamin tussling his hair.  Joseph sat on the couch surveying the scene.  I sat on the floor, half-listening to the familiar and precious story as I watched the wriggly activity of my two grandchildren.
            Once Benjamin received the sock monkey Dana got him, he was perfectly happy.  He wandered about the room and down the hall twirling his newest treasure.  He only became upset when his parents tried to involve him in unwrapping his presents. 
            Unexpectedly, Joelle did not try to unwrap hers but was content to watch Mommy do it.  When the box of plastic food toys was opened, she descended on it, grabbing items to carry around.  And when the kitchen set appeared, she ran right over to it and began taking the hanging utensils down and opening doors.  At the very end of the evening, once Shawn assembled the shopping cart, she busily loaded it with her plastic groceries, baby, and Benjamin’s furry Elmo ball.
            Benjamin did enjoy the spinning gears, but he ignored the Elmo flashlight and only briefly tolerated the fuzzy Elmo ball.  Joelle was enchanted with it all, and really liked the flashlight show on the wall in the darkened room.
            Joseph made appreciative sounds over the new khakis, shirt, and video as well as the earphones.  He laughed and closely examined the jumbo package of hot sauces.  Shawn was delighted with his super hero T-shirts, pruning clippers, and eagle pens.  Dana was totally surprised by the Lord of the Rings DVD set, appreciative of the muffin tin and cookie sheet, and liked the decorative notepads.  Shawn and Dana expressed delight over the card offering each one a free massage at Wellness for Life.  I was happy to see a long-wanted copy of Sarah Young’s Jesus Calling, a Bath and Body Works lotion, and a magnet Christmas picture of Benjamin and Joelle.
            Thus went our early Christmas—after a delicious pot roast and decadent chocolate lava cake.  I thought about how blessed I am to be with my family—and I also wondered why I do not remember well the general mayhem of small children and establishing family traditions.  I rather enjoy not being a manager of the mayhem!

            Joelle’s initial comment—“Pretty!”—sums up our early celebration of Christmas rather well.  It was pretty awesome.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Enroute: All Aboard!


Lolling, rolling glide:
Autumn trees and lush green fields
Slide past my window.

            The lolling and sometimes lurching glide of the train surprised me.  What I had expected, I do not know, but the motion was much different than the highway zipping along under my car tires.
            I settled in, amazed at the abundant leg room and all the empty seats.  From the first day I planned to take Amtrak, I imagined myself strolling down the aisle to stretch my legs, wandering over to the dining car, exploring the train.  Suddenly I felt glued to my seat:  despite my claims to seek adventure, I really am a stationary person after all.  I had everything I needed with me in my carry-on bags:  water, food, Kindle, journal, and cross stitch. 
            After miles of country scenery and brief station stops, Nature beckoned me.  My sense of balance on a moving train, I learned, was none too good.  Lurching instead of strolling down the aisle, I managed to reach the narrow stairs to the first level.  The moment my feet hit the hallway to the restrooms, my stomach did a U-turn.  As I shut myself into the tiny, cramped space highly reminiscent of airplane restrooms, gastrointestinal somersaults ensued.  Hastily, I did my business and staggered back down the short aisle to the stairs.  It was time to eat another ginger chew and apply more drops of the anti-nausea essential oil behind my ears.

Lavender oil, ginger chews
soothe my sensitive stomach.
Dull headache lingers underneath
Lulled to slumber by the train’s lullaby.

            However, from previous experiences in the back of family vans, I knew not to nap long or deeply, for that would yield violent motion sickness.  The hours passed by with me gazing out the window, drinking water, and nibbling on nut mix.  I did not want to miss a minute of Oklahoma or Texas countryside. 
Scattered cattle graze
the green field;
Lone eagle sits on furrow,
gazes all around.

            The train station in Fort Worth was another matter.  Though it was clean with plenty of open space inside and out, there was only a lone Subway restaurant and beautiful but uncomfortable benches.  Lugging my luggage around to explore was not an option my arms would allow.  So I ate a meal, walked a few circles in the terminal, sat, and played solitaire on my Kindle.  My layover on the return trip was over three hours, and the station was quite crowded.  Two panhandlers approached me, and I overheard several endless cell phone conversations in which the speaker on the train station end barely took a breath.

            My Kindle books, my journal, and my cross stitch remained untouched.  When the announcement for the Heartland Flyer sounded over the intercom, I gladly made my way to the train with the crowd.  By the next stop, the sun set, and the train lurched and rolled its way into Oklahoma under cover of the night sky.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Bridging the Gap


Here is the last of my three essays on poverty from the 2003 Colby College Collection.  (Please excuse the strange formatting on the Works Cited.)

Bridging the Gap
One spring day in 1985 as I pull into the parking lot, I silently ask God to help me make the $25 I have for this week’s groceries stretch.  I have to feed my husband, my two and a half year old daughter, and myself, four months pregnant.      
So I begin my march through the grocery store.  Because my husband raids store dumpsters weekly, I don’t have to buy fresh fruits or vegetables—we eat the rather wilted variety that stores throw out.  We eat very little meat since alternate sources of protein such as beans and brown rice are much cheaper.  There’s no money for prepared foods in my budget.  I’ve already made up my menu plan and only purchase the essentials to get us through another week.  But today I’m longing to yield to a major temptation that we cannot afford:  a half gallon of premium ice cream.
            We can’t really survive indefinitely on $25 per week for food, even though that is what is necessary in order to have the money to pay rent, utilities, and miscellaneous bills.  Fortunately, there are charity and the government.  One week I am surprised with a $50 gift certificate for food from an anonymous church member, so I stock up on the basics.  Sometimes we’re on food stamps.  We also get the free government commodities once a month, and much of the time I qualify for the WIC food vouchers, which provide milk, cereal, and cheese.
            Is my story really so different than that of others who struggle to survive on low wage jobs?  Ours was a poverty just a notch above welfare but an endless distance from what is called a “living wage” (Ehrenreich 213).  No matter what the underlying causes, poverty proves to be a trap from which escape is difficult if not impossible despite the best efforts of welfare reform.
            First, is there actually a problem with poverty in the United States?  Compared to people of some third world countries, everyone in the United States is rich.  Yet our welfare rolls are full, homelessness is rampant, and millions of people in our country scrape by on a meager existence as I did for ten long years.  Simply looking at the numbers tells us that poverty is, indeed, a widespread problem in the US.   In the early 1990s, 14.5% of the population subsisted below the poverty level.  Translated into numbers, that means that “[s]ome 36.9 million persons from nearly 8 million families lived below the US federal poverty level in 1992” (“United States” 358).  According to The 2002 HHS Poverty Guidelines, the poverty level is currently $18,100 per annum for a family of four.  For a family of three, it is $15,020 (2).
            Next, how is poverty measured?  The formula, surprisingly, has nothing to do with housing and utility costs.  Instead, the formula merely factors in food:
[T]he official poverty level is still calculated by the archaic method of taking the bare-bones cost of food for a family of a given size and multiplying this number by three.  Yet food is relatively inflation-proof, at least compared with rent. (Ehrenreich 200)
Clearly, the poverty formula grossly underestimates how much money it really takes to survive.  A more reliable indicator has been provided by The Economic Policy Institute, which “recently reviewed dozens of studies of what constitutes a ‘living wage’ and came up with an average figure of $30,000 a year for a family of one adult and two children’ (213).  That is a $15,000 gap between being officially poor and being able to financially survive in today’s economy.  I believe the problem our nation must face is how people can bridge that gap.  Obviously, moving welfare recipients from poverty level to a “living wage” is going to take more than welfare reform.
How well does welfare reform actually work?  Much has been written about the welfare poor and how to help them rise above poverty.  Welfare reform emphasizes getting people off public assistance and into the workplace (Danziger et.al 2).  In fact, the U.S. government spends huge amounts of money to fight poverty.  However, “the large outlays have not produced the promised results” (Weidenbaum 222).  A study of 700 single mothers in California bears this out.  According to the study, “[t]he majority of the 700 women found work, but their paychecks provide little more than what they got from welfare alone—an average of about $12,000 a year [. . .]” (May 1).  Even though welfare reform has succeeded in reducing caseloads, it has not succeeded in alleviating “material hardship and financial strain” (Danziger et al. 13).  Those coming off welfare typically earn the low wages of entry-level jobs (Danziger et al. 2). 
Well-known writer and reporter Barbara Ehrenreich knows from personal experience just how difficult survival on minimum wage can be.  In the late 1990s she undertook an experiment to see if she could survive on low wage jobs; this endeavor is reported in her book, Nickel and Dimed:  On (Not) Getting By in America.  Her three month experiment took her to three states and involved work as a waitress, a maid, and a Wal-mart employee.  She refutes the idea of “poverty [being] a consequence of unemployment” (219) as well as the myth that “’hard work’ [is] the secret of success” (220).  In fact, despite her long shifts of grueling labor, especially as a waitress and a maid, she found it extremely difficult just to make ends meet despite her advantages:  $1,000 to launch her, good health, a reliable car, and the knowledge that this was just a temporary way of life that she could escape at any moment (6).  Speaking of the “hard work” myth that she heard so much growing up, she says this:  “No one ever said that you could work hard—harder even than you ever thought possible—and still find yourself sinking ever deeper into poverty and debt” (220).
Based on Ehrenreich’s experience as well as studies of welfare mothers who have returned to work, we can see that welfare reform does not work and is, in fact “a catastrophic mistake” (Ehrenreich 217).  Some may disagree with Ehrenreich’s conclusion and would cite the reduction in the welfare rolls as proof that people on welfare can lift themselves out of poverty if they will simply work.  For example, Edin and Lein claim that “a substantial majority” of people on welfare get “off the rolls within two years” (4).  However, it is important to remember that getting off welfare does not necessarily mean rising out of poverty.  Single mothers especially face a “triple whammy” as they enter the workforce:  they earn less than men, have children to arrange care for, and don’t have another adult to help at home (Tilly and Albelda 83-86).   Besides that, there is the problem of “work-related expenses” such as “increased costs for child care, transportation, medical care, housing, and work clothing” (Danziger et. al 3).  Thus, the former welfare mother is now faced with making, at best, slightly more than she did from welfare while juggling the complexities of work and home.  In addition, she has little time and energy to spend in her chief role as parent.
If welfare reform does not work, what is the answer?  Unfortunately, there is no simple solution for poverty.  Perhaps the best that can be done is to recommend some courses of action, none of which are perfect.
A place to start is with the individual.  Undoubtedly, welfare reform is at least partially based on the idea that the welfare recipient must take personal responsibility in order to escape the trap of poverty.  I am all for personal responsibility, though I do not believe that it alone will solve the problem.  Two solutions that have been proposed in the past are marriage and education. 
Marriage, perhaps, is the more startling of the two.  The Rev. LeHavre Buck calls marriage “the Number 1 way to get out of poverty” (Johnson-Elie 2).  After all, marriage provides “financial benefits:  homeownership, insurance coverage for spouses and increased rates of saving” (2).  While marriage can certainly be considered an option that may work for some, it certainly won’t work for all.  Besides, married couples can be poor, too (2), as I well know from personal experience. 
A more commonly proposed solution for the individual is education or job training.  Murray Weidenbaum believes that finishing high school is one of the key elements to rising above poverty (223).  In today’s world, though, some vocational or college training beyond high school is usually needed.  Some of the poor can use education as a means to escape poverty; that is exactly what I did.  However, that was only possible because I was married at the time so could live off my husband’s meager income while I went to school, and I had the background and brains to be successful in that venture.  Not all are as fortunate as I was.  Sometimes adding school onto work and parenting is simply impossible, whether due to financial considerations, poor health, or stress.
Individual efforts to climb out of poverty should be supported.  Personal motivation is key, though it is not always enough.  Often a temporary support system outside of, and sometimes in addition to, welfare reform is needed.  Extended family often bridges the gap by providing housing and child care.  I believe that churches should also become involved in the process.  So many options are possible.  Churches can offer free or reduced price childcare, food pantries, financial counseling, and free car maintenance.  Or they can promote an individual approach, a sort of adopt-a-struggling-family ministry.  Of course, to promote personal responsibility, such programs can be offered with strings attached.  In other words, the road out of poverty need not be a handout.  Certain conditions may be required for, let’s say, a single mother to receive help through church programs.  Those conditions could include measurable progress toward the training or education sought, continued employment, even church attendance and volunteer work.  
While individual responsibility as well as family and church support are viable solutions, they still are not enough.  Governmental assistance can further help to bridge the gap between the welfare poor and those earning a “living wage.”  It is common knowledge that the government already offers assistance to those below poverty level in the form of food stamps, welfare checks, Medicaid, and housing subsidies.  But what about those families who are too “rich” to qualify for such help but too poor to survive on their own? 
I believe the government needs to make more sweeping changes in the war against poverty.  Already some states such as Kansas have made a start by offering medical benefits to children of families who cannot afford medical insurance but do not qualify for Medicaid.  Another desperately needed measure is to significantly increase minimum wage.  Some would say that such an increase is unneeded.  However, one needs only to do some simple math to discover that two people who work full-time and make minimum wage still earn less than $20,000 a year.  Shouldn’t that be a sign that something is drastically wrong with our wage scale?  Beyond increasing minimum wage, I believe closer scrutiny is needed concerning wages in lower-paying professional fields such as public service and education.  Sometimes even a college degree and a professional career are barely enough to provide a “living wage.”  Finally, providing more low-income housing or housing subsidies would be another step in the right direction. 
A combination of individual responsibility, help from family and church, and governmental assistance are viable options for bridging the gap between the official poverty level and a “living wage.”  For me, bridging the gap took governmental assistance in the form of low-income housing, two years devoted to earning my master’s degree, and various helps from extended family and church. My 1989 contract to teach at Colby Community College brought my family earnings closer to a “living wage.”  I can finally buy fresh fruits and vegetables, meats, prepared foods, and even premium ice cream without busting the budget. 

Works Cited
The 2002 HHS Poverty Guidelines.  24 April 2002.  U.S. Department of Health and
Human Services.  20 Sept. 2002  http://aspe.os.dhhs.gov/poverty/02poverty.htm.
Danziger, Sandra, et al.  “Work, Income and Material Hardship After Welfare Reform.”
Joint Center for Poverty Research:  Child Welfare Information Clearinghouse.
Jan. 2000.  Univ. of Michigan, Ann Arbor.  09 Dec. 2002.  www.jcpr.org 
Edin, Katherine, and Laura Lein.  Making Ends Meet:  How Single Mothers Survive
Welfare and Low-Wage Work.  New York:  Russell Sage, 1996.
Ehrenreich, Barbara.  Nickel and Dimed:  On (Not) Getting By in America.  New York:
            Henry Holt, 2001.
Johnson-Elie, Tannette.  “Marriage: the Missing Ingredient in Poverty.”  Milwaukee
            Journal Sentinel  16 July 2002:  1-4.
May, Meredith.  “Welfare Reforms Not Ending Poverty.”  San Francisco Chronicle
            16 April 2002:  1-3.
Tilly, Chris, and Randy Albelda.  “A Lack of Opportunities Keeps the Poor on Welfare.”
Welfare:  Opposing Viewpoints.  Ed. Charles P. Cozic.  San Diego:  Greenhaven, 1997.  83-88.
“United States of America:  Income.”  Worldmark Encyclopedia of the Nations:  Americas.  V. 3. 
New York:  Gale Research, 1995.
Weidenbaum, Murray.  “Lack of Commitment Perpetuates the Underclass.”  Poverty:
Opposing Viewpoints.  Ed. Katie de Koster.  San Diego:  Greenhaven, 1994.  221-24.


Saturday, October 18, 2014

The Poverty Cycle

                                                                                                
(another of my essays from The 2003 Colby College Collection)

What causes poverty?  Is poverty perpetuated in families from generation to generation?  While poverty cannot be easily traced or limited to just a few causes, there are several that seem to be central:  single-parent families, lack of education, and unemployment (Weidenbaum 223).  However, while these are important, there are also covert psychological factors that help perpetuate the cycle of poverty.
            Some researchers claim that poverty does not beget more poverty and wish to dispel the myth that the welfare cycle perpetuates itself.  They cite several studies that support this conclusion:
Even before welfare was time-limited, a substantial majority of those who collected welfare got off the rolls within two years, and hardly any stayed on the rolls continuously for more than eight years.  (Edin and Lein 4)
However, even if the majority climb out of poverty, there is still the sizable minority to consider, those for whom poverty becomes the inescapable, vicious cycle. 
            Some who live in the grip of poverty “lack the inner resources to seize their chance” to escape poverty (Magnet 213).  What could those inner resources be?  Myron Magnet identifies them as “a self-defeating set of values and attitudes” and “an impoverished intellectual and emotional development” (213). 
Perhaps we should first further define Magnet’s “self-defeating set of values and attitudes” (213).  I have observed this depressing state firsthand.  Take, for example, a Christmas party for Head Start parents in Independence, Missouri that I was part of in the mid 1980s.  At that party, the Head Start staff distributed beautiful gift items that Hallmark had generously donated:  wrapping paper, Christmas bulbs, paperweights, jewelry boxes, and more.   However, what happened during the gift distribution shocked me.  Some parents loudly complained about their gifts or became angry if they didn’t receive the color or print of wrapping paper they preferred.  Others were pushy, grabbing items from the box to make sure they got exactly what they wanted. 
Why would these parents act so childishly and selfishly?  I would explain by adding my own interpretation of “self-defeating.”  Being poor is hard.  Not having financial control forces people into a beggar’s mode of existence:  applying for food stamps, energy assistance, and commodities as well as asking charitable organizations for help when emergencies arise.  That “begging” becomes a way of survival for those whose money doesn’t come close to paying the bills and buying the food.  Eventually, those “beggars” develop a victim’s mindset that tells them they deserve to be helped, that it is their right to be helped because they are helpless to help themselves, and that it is others’ responsibility to help them.
Miles Shores explains this demeaning cycle quite eloquently:
Repeated experiences of loss of control lead to a state of learned helplessness that interferes with the ability to seek and make use of opportunities to exercise control.  Eventually, this becomes a persistent motivational deficit and is associated with resignation and depression. (317)
That sense of victimization or “learned helplessness” is accompanied by the demoralizing and hopeless situations the poor must deal with on a daily basis, which serve merely to reinforce the sense of helplessness. Children naturally pick up on their parents’ attitudes, thus sealing the vicious cycle of poverty. 
            Besides “self-defeating” attitudes, “impoverished intellectual and emotional development” contribute to the poverty cycle (Magnet 213).  Some people are poor because they lack the mental acuity and emotional stability to get or keep a decent-paying job.  In other situations, parents who feel helpless and depressed are less likely to stimulate and enrich their children’s minds and emotions.  Consumed by the cares of the day and the financial struggle to survive, they have few inner resources left for their children.  Those children, ill-equipped to face life’s challenges, may grow up to become adults who find it difficult to hold down a job.  Thus the cycle continues.
            Why people become poor and stay poor can never be reduced into a simplistic formula.  Many factors perpetuate poverty.  Some of those factors are outside of anyone’s control, while others can be addressed.  Though less obvious than issues of unemployment, single parenthood, or insufficient education,  “self-defeating values” as well as “impoverished intellectual development” can be insidious factors in the poverty cycle.

Works Cited
Edin, Katherine, and Laura Lein.  Making Ends Meet:  How
Single Mothers Survive Welfare and Low-Wage Work.  New York:  Russell Sage, 1996.
Magnet, Myron.  “A Lack of Moral Values Created the
Underclass.”  Poverty.  Opposing Viewpoints Series.  Ed. Katie de Koster.  San Diego:  Greenhaven, 1994.  210-16.
Weidenbaum, Murray.  “Lack of Commitment Perpetuates the

Underclass.”  Poverty  Opposing Viewpoints Series.  Ed. Katie de Koster.  San Diego:  Greenhaven, 1994.  221-24.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Mired in the Poverty Maze

Okay, I am officially standing on my soapbox to address an issue about which I have strong feelings.  Motivated into action by a Facebook post, I dug through old editions of  The Colby College Collection, an annual composition reader produced by the Colby Community College English department.  In the 2003 edition, I had three essays, all of which dealt with poverty.  I wrote those essays as teaching models for my Composition II writing assignments.  My goal in posting these essays is to raise awareness about poverty in the United States.    

Mired in the Poverty Maze

Poverty is an issue that affects every single person in the United States.  Some experience the stranglehold of poverty firsthand.  Others experience it secondhand—perhaps they know a single mom on welfare or pass by a homeless person every day on their way to work.  All of us help wage the war on poverty, willingly or not, through taxes deducted from our paychecks.  Murray Weidenbaum speaks to the issue of poverty in his article, “Lack of Commitment Perpetuates the Underclass,” promoting the theory that people can avoid poverty and even climb out of it through individual choices.  In addition, he believes the government “can and should” play a role, but that individuals hold the key to success through their own actions (224).
Weidenbaum begins his article with the oft-debated question of whether or not the disparity between rich and poor in the United States is increasing.  He quickly lays that question aside as missing the point.  Many people are poor, he says, so questions should be directed to alleviating poverty instead of simply analyzing it.  He proposes two questions that he answers in his article:  “How do people fall into poverty?  How can they be helped to move out of poverty?” (222)
Weidenbaum assures his readers that “it is inaccurate for Americans to castigate themselves as a heartless society” because, in fact, the government spends huge amounts of money to fight poverty (222).  The problem, however, is that “the large outlays have not produced the promised results” (222).  The larger issues that need to be addressed, according to Weidenbaum, are the “personal and social problems” of the poor (222).  He proposes that family dysfunction such as single-parent families, lack of education, and unemployment perpetuate the cycle of poverty (223).
So how can the cycle be broken?  Weidenbaum continually emphasizes the responsibility of the individual although he concedes that society can help.  He offers a simple, three-part solution for those who are poor:  finish high school, stay married, and keep working (223).  He seems, though, to focus on being married as the key, clearly implying that single mothers are the most likely to be poor.  He also claims that if “a woman on welfare takes on a full-time job, the odds are overwhelming that she is lifting herself out of poverty” (224).
Weidenbaum concludes by pointing out actions the government can take to combat poverty:  work toward a strong economy with a plentiful supply of jobs, improve education, and supply funds “to alleviate distress” (224).  However, he also emphasizes again that personal responsibility is the key factor “required to escape the poverty trap” (224).
On some counts I agree with Weidenbaum.  Certainly, unemployment, lack of education, and single-parent households help create and perpetuate the cycle of poverty.  Moreover, I find his emphasis upon personal responsibility refreshing.  However, I also believe he is viewing the problem of poverty simplistically and unrealistically.
Weidenbaum conveniently pigeonholes all the poor into his simple stereotype:  uneducated, unemployed, and unmarried.  While I do not doubt that these are significant factors, neither do I believe they are the sole factors behind poverty.  I know this too well, because I spent nearly a decade of my adult life mired in the quicksand of poverty.  Yet I was married and had a college education.  My husband worked full-time at minimum wage jobs and I stayed home, except for several part-time stints, with the children.  Some would say I should have worked.  But my college education, as enriching as it was, did not qualify me for any decent-paying job.  It didn’t take too much calculating to realize that I would take home next to nothing once daycare and transportation costs were taken from minimum wage earnings.   Perhaps a stereotype of the poor is a helpful generalization, but it is also too simplistic.  Weidenbaum completely ignores other causes of poverty:  unavoidable lay-offs, catastrophic medical emergencies, disability, minimum wage employment, or—as in my case—poor academic planning.
Besides being simplistic, Weidenbaum is also unrealistic.  His claim that a woman going from welfare to full-time work will lift herself out of poverty is absurd.  Just what kind of job can a welfare mom expect to find?  Probably minimum wage.  If she must pay daycare, she will be lucky to be able to pay her rent, utilities, and any other bills, let alone purchase groceries.  Besides, unless health insurance is offered as a benefit, she will be unable to afford it.  Some states have programs for qualifying children, but she will have to forego insuring herself.
While I agree that personal responsibility plays a huge role in breaking the poverty cycle, I also believe that poverty can be an inescapable maze.  Favorable circumstances must present themselves so the individual can exercise personal responsibility.  Not everyone is as fortunate as I was.  Simply taking a low-paying job to supplement my husband’s low income would not have helped due to daycare costs, and I was not qualified for higher-paying jobs despite my college education.  The situation seemed hopeless until, on a whim, I decided to look into graduate school.  I found that in two years I could earn my master’s degree while working as a graduate assistant teaching freshman-level courses.  For that, my tuition would be waived, and I would receive a small monthly stipend—just enough to cover daycare, transportation, and miscellaneous expenses associated with school and work.  We could continue to scrimp by on my husband’s income while I worked toward increasing my earning power.
For me there was a happy ending, a way out of the poverty maze.  Despite Weidenbaum’s naively optimistic outlook, there are many U.S. citizens who continue to scramble through the maze, looking for a way out but never finding it.  I am one of the lucky ones.    




Work Cited
Weidenbaum, Murray.  “Lack of Commitment Perpetuates the Underclass.” 
Poverty:  Opposing Viewpoints.  Ed. Katie de Koster.  San Diego: Greenhaven, 1994.  221-224.

Friday, October 10, 2014

At Least It Wasn't A Snake


               A surprising sight awaited me this morning.  I had already walked through the darkened dining room into the living room with my breakfast of coffee and Greek yogurt/sliced peaches/walnuts.  You see, my couch recliner is where I wake up with breakfast, laptop, and devotional.  I turned on the overhead light switch by the front door and went over to sit down—and then I saw it.
               Wriggling on the floor on its way to the dining room rug was a humongous earthworm.  A good six inches long, it was not navigating my hardwood floors very well.  Relieved that I had not stepped on it in the dark, I fetched a paper towel, gently picked it up, went out the front door, and deposited it in my front yard.
               Had the earthworm been spider or snake, I would not have been nearly so kind—or calm.  It is amazing what a difference lack of speed makes in my reaction to unwanted intruders.  There is, however, one thing that really bothers me:  How did the worm get inside my house?

               

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Eclipse


            Waking up in time to see the lunar eclipse, I was happy that my bedroom window faces east.  All I had to do was prop up on my elbows and lift the window blinds.  There it was:  even more stunning than I had imagined.
            Several hours later, I woke again, smiling with the memory of the eclipse, which seemed almost like a dream.  As I thought more about it, I realized it WAS a dream.  That stunning view had been of Earth, the continents a shimmering white against the backdrop of the dark oceans. 

            Oh, well.  There will be another eclipse in the spring.  But I doubt I will ever see Earth from space again, unless in my dreams.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Powerless


            Hot yellow flashes crackled in the night sky.  Trees frantically tossed their branches.  Wind gusts buffeted me across the street.  Cool rain splashed on my head and shoulders.
            I turned on the TV news and started to pour protein smoothie ingredients into the blender.  The power went off.
            “No problem,” I thought.  I was wrong.  The power stayed off:  that was Monday evening.  Today is Wednesday.  Residents of the Oak Park neighborhood are still without power.
            It doesn’t help that I’ve been sick all week with allergies.  There are all sorts of cleaning tasks I could tackle without electricity if I only had the energy.  Of course, then I’d sweat even more.
            The worst part about being powerless is the standstill it creates.  The freezer and refrigerator food that will have to be tossed don’t bother me nearly as much as life without central air.  Admittedly, there is more that I miss.  I can’t pay my online bills, check my email, or post on Facebook.  I can’t check the weather or see the news.  I can’t transcribe those 1913 letters of my grandparents, use writing software to plan a novel, or complete the final edits  in my Random Reflections manuscript.
            How did my life become so technology-bound?  Though I can power up my electronic devices at the library and use the internet there, it seems that a few hours is not enough.

            So I sit here in the dim light of morning without electricity.  I am gradually getting hotter and definitely guaranteed all-day pain in my right arm from wielding a pen.  I stop writing to blow my nose, sip some lukewarm water, cough, and then close my eyes with the exertion.  Maybe once I’ve stopped whining, I will think to bow my head and confess my personal powerlessness to the Creator.  But I think I’ll ask for central air, too.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Google Joys


            On the Internet a few evenings back, I started thinking about friends from long ago.  And, yes, I googled them.  And, yes, I found them.
            Google people searches are currently my only detective outlet.  In elementary school, I was a big Trixie Belden fan.  I fancied myself a brave detective, an expert horsewoman, and a charming tomboy.  That is how caught up I was in the ever-expanding book series, believing fiction as truth.  You see, I was definitely not like Trixie. 
One time a friend and I decided to go play detective, largely because she had an amazing miniature camera.  We also carried pencils and memo pads.  We snuck up to an abandoned house.  She was ready to peer in the windows and click a few pictures (this was in the old days of film cartridges)—but I was extremely nervous.  What if someone saw us standing right by the house?  What if the police came and we got in trouble?  What if—horror of horrors—the house turned out to be occupied after all?
Every time I read a Trixie Belden book, I imagined myself galloping on my horse right alongside Trixie.  Except I didn’t have a horse.  Nor had I ridden one more than once—and that was a recalcitrant old trail horse that knew to walk slowly following the others and ignore whatever I tried with the reins.  (Actually, I tried nothing, because I was gripping the whatchamacallit thingy on the front of the saddle, terrified I might fall off.)  Interestingly enough, even after that single riding experience, I still imagined myself a terrific horsewoman, accompanying Trixie and friends on their countryside trail rides.
So, a detective and a horsewoman I was not.  Neither was I ever a tomboy, despite my inner identification with Trixie.  Timid is too weak a word to describe me as a child.  I didn’t swing high and I didn’t climb trees.  I was even scared of teeter-totters.  However, when I was 10 or 11, I had my shoulder-blade length blonde hair cut into a pixie and was delighted when a little child at the playground thought I was a boy.  Every Saturday morning I indulged my tomboy fantasy as well as my sweet tooth:  I woke up early and read in bed, devouring the current Trixie Belden book along with the special-flavor packages of Lifesavers that I hoarded in my room.
Now that I’ve established that I am neither tomboy nor horsewoman nor detective, I can return to Google.  And here is where I confess that this blog title is somewhat misleading, because there was a Google sorrow, too.
You see, there was this person I dated on and off in the 1970s, the “off” part mostly because he would periodically disappear and then eventually reappear.  (This was clearly a different era, before social media.)  Bob was a sweet guy despite his alcoholism, which I suspect had something to do with a tour of duty in Vietnam.  Now and then I get a twinge of nostalgia and wonder what ever became of him.  So I did a Google search and employed my best detective skills.  I was sad to discover that he died nine years ago.  That set me back a bit.
Hoping for a better outcome, I started another search because Bob’s last name reminded me of a college friend’s last name.  This time I hit pay dirt.  There she was, the pastor of a United Methodist Church in Illinois.  I read through the church website, knowing she must be a wonderful pastor and happily noting that her sermons are available to listen to online.
There must be a way to wrap up these ramblings so it at least appears that I had a point in mind when I started writing.  To be honest, I didn’t.  I was just following the trail of a title that popped into my mind:  “Google Joys.”  About a paragraph ago, I suddenly realized that the title was more descriptive than I had thought.  Take the “s” off “Joys” and you have the first name of my college friend.  I guess I have some detective skills after all:  I figured out how to finish this post.


Monday, August 11, 2014

The Rest of the Story



          The email came while I was visiting family and friends in Washington:  would I preach on August 10?  At first I thought no, and then I reconsidered and said yes.  At Whidbey Presbyterian Church on July 20, I mentioned the request to my former pastor.  His immediate response, given with a smile, was “what’s your topic?”  I didn’t know.
          Returning home to a whirlwind of activity, I still didn’t know.  Should I pull an old sermon from my files and rework it?  The question nagged at the back of my mind, and I started praying about it:  “God, what do You want me to talk about?” 
          Listening to the sermon at Good Shepherd Presbyterian Church on the 27th, I started to get an answer.  Jonah’s unforgiving attitude toward the Ninevites caught my attention.  It reminded me of a novel I had finished reading the day before.  In part, the story was about a character’s anger and bitterness concerning an injustice done to him.  He was stuck in past pain because he refused to forgive.   Hmmm.
I love a good story.  I’ve learned over the years that my seemingly random choice of reading materials often becomes an avenue for God to communicate timely truths to me.  So I should not have been surprised when I started to read the second library book I had checked out the week before:  it, too, contained a subtext concerning unforgiveness.
Okay, so there was the topic, delivered to me via sermon, a Cape Light novel, and a Terri Blackstock mystery.  The next step was easy:  look in the topical files I started to keep close to twenty years ago and see what there was in the forgiveness folder.  I found plenty of notes from various books.
I kept praying and pondering, chose a scripture text, and then started writing.  Draft one was followed by revision one a couple days later.  On August 4, I checked the Whidbey Presbyterian Church website as I do most Mondays and saw that the pastor’s sermon was up from the day before.  To my surprise, his text was Matthew 18: 21-35, the same text I had chosen.  Sure enough, listening to that sermon gave me just the insight I didn’t know I needed for the first part of my sermon.

All that remains now (today is August 7) is to preach it.  No matter how well or how poorly that goes, I am deeply grateful that God spoke to me through two sermons and two novels to identify and confirm a message that we all need to hear:  God forgives and so must we.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Countdown


            The countdown begins.  Suitcase, backpack, and purse are packed.  Kitchen should be cleaned up (oops, have not done that yet).  Overnight I will charge my Chromebook, Kindle, and cell phone.  Between those three gadgets, I should be sufficiently armed for a long day of travel.
            And in the morning my daughter will drive me to Tulsa.  She will be back home before noon when her husband redeems my Father’s Day present to him:  my regularly scheduled massage at Wellness for Life.  By then my son may even be awake, missing my Kindle and maybe me.
            By early afternoon I will be changing planes in Denver.  Three hours later, I will be at SeaTac International Airport claiming my checked bag and catching the 4:45 p.m. shuttle to Whidbey Island with my friend Cathie, who is returning home from a month with her family in Texas.  At 6:45 p.m. my brother John will pick up Cathie and me from the shuttle at the Greenbank Store.  We will go eat a late dinner in Coupeville and then drive on to Cathie’s home in Oak Harbor. 
            The two weeks on the island will fly by in a delicious flurry of visiting with friends and family.  I will savor the 70 degree temperatures, enjoy the local coffee, indulge in some Chocolate Shop red wine, and take as many walks on the beach as possible.  Perhaps I will remember to take pictures.
            And then on the 21st, I will board the shuttle in Coupeville to start the long trek back to Bartlesville.  About eleven hours later, my son-in-law will greet me at Tulsa International Airport to drive me home.  I expect that when I see my grandchildren the next day, Benjamin will be more than ready to play our monkey game together, and Joelle will probably have progressed from walking to running. 

            And I will be tired but refreshed.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Dear Anne




Dear Anne,
            I miss you.  Tomorrow would have been your 61st birthday, and you’ve been gone almost five years already.
            I miss your hearty telephone greeting:  “Janis!”  I miss your overbearing personality.  I miss your tender heart carefully hidden beneath a gruff exterior.  I miss your sense of humor and verbal word play.  I miss your hand gripping mine and your piercing gaze.
            I still count those 66 days with you at the end of your life as a cherished yet profoundly difficult time.  I am so grateful that I was able to be your support and advocate.  Those long hours at your bedside taught me the ministry of presence.  So human and so holy, that time bound me to you in your suffering.  I learned the tiniest fraction of Christ’s sacrificial love.
            Anne, far more than I feared you as a child (you really were the older sister from hell!), I love you and miss you.  I’m glad you found the missing true love of your life, Jesus, at the very end. 
Love,

Janis

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Me and My Mud Dauber


            To the left of my front door and clear up in the top corner where brick meets eaves lives a black mud dauber wasp.  For the past few weeks, I have noted her daily progress adding more cones to the single one she emerged from earlier this spring.  Diligently, she daubs—or whatever that is called, making a nest.  She has not once bothered me.
            So today, when I returned home after babysitting the grandkids for a bit, I was sad to see that her nest had been knocked down.  Likely, it was not the wind but a well-meaning gesture by my son-in-law when he went in to deliver my share of the Bountiful Basket we purchase every other week.  I have never been particularly fond of wasps, especially since the long-ago day on my grandparents’ farm when I was stung by one.  But I also have never developed a friendly co-existence with a wasp before.
            My mud dauber, oblivious to my compassion for her, was perched in her usual upside-down position working on the remaining single cone of the nest.  Unperturbed, she was at the usual task of making mud.  It is a fine place for a wasp to live, there in the corner by my door, because of the smallish spiders that spin their lines to trap little bugs but become prey for the wasp instead.  Since I prefer wasps to spiders, she provides a helpful service keeping the front-door spider population down.
            Perhaps I should not be surprised at this affinity with a well-behaved wasp since I am of Wasp heritage myself.  However, neither of us is waspish in the least.

            

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Till Tuesday


            Yellow sun, endless blue skies with occasional puffy clouds, and 96 degrees: it was a typical—though rather hot for May--Oklahoma sort of day.  My OWFI (Oklahoma Writers’ Federation, Inc) roommates and I were traveling back to Bartlesville from a whirlwind of a weekend in Oklahoma City.
            Put three or four writers in a van after a writers’ conference and there are no lack of words.  We talked.  And we talked.  And we talked.  And we talked.  The miles flew by.  Almost too soon, it seemed, the van pulled into my driveway to let me off.  I bid good-bye to my new friends and wondered how hot my house would be.
            The cool air inside my well-shaded home was a pleasant surprise.  After all, I had not even turned on the air conditioning.  I plodded around in this suddenly sad and too-quiet space, unpacking my suitcase straight into the laundry basket and putting away everything else in record time before my Sunday afternoon nap.

            I texted my daughter—“I’m home.”  Her reply was an invitation to dinner.  Sadness banished, I stepped out into the Oklahoma heat, anticipating a glorious greeting from both grandchildren and conversation with Dana and Shawn worked in between verses of “The Wheels of the Bus” and the “ooh-ooh-ooh-hah-hah-hah” of monkey games.  Writing work would have to wait till Monday, and the air conditioning till Tuesday.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Halfway Home

I catch my first glimpse of Sound through fog and rain as the ferry speeds its way to the island.  A true Northwest greeting, this rain, followed by days of sun, then rain again.

Listening to the surf, seeing the snowy peaks east and west, breathing in the scent of fir trees and salty air, I am home in this joy wash of creation's majesty.

Sharing precious moments with friends and entering back into my beloved faith community seamlessly as if I had never left, I am content.  Music, worship, and fellowship fill the lonely spaces of my homesick soul.

Yet even as my heart belongs to Whidbey Island, it belongs as well to my home in Bartlesville.  I long for hugs from Benjamin and Joelle, anticipate conversation with Dana and Shawn, and think about the dear folk at Good Shepherd.

I'm in an in-between space, halfway home on an island and halfway home on Sooner Road.  If I could be both places at once, I would.

When the past, the present, and the future are all rolled up in one, then I will finally be all the way home--in heaven.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

No Foolin'

            I just finished reading Three Corners Has My Cat:  Caregiving in Alzheimer’s Time.  No foolin’.
            Perhaps it seems a strange thing to do, read a book that I wrote over a period of five years and edited many times.  But I wanted to find out what it was like to read the whole thing just like I read any other book.  And it is the best way I know to reminisce about my mom.
            You see, I miss her.  My life took off in a whole new direction soon after she died, and sometimes I can hardly believe how quickly everything has changed.  So it seemed right to take some time to read my book, to pause a bit and remember my caregiving life on the island that I will soon be visiting. 
            The writer in me notices the occasional typographical errors and awkward sentences.  She sees how the manuscript would benefit from professional advice and editing.  But she also notes the poetry of well-turned phrases and feels the emotions evoked by description and dialogue. The daughter in me misses her mother and is so profoundly grateful to have this written recollection.  The caregiver in me still feels the guilt, relief, and grief that those pages record. 
            So I’m feeling sad and nostalgic for the past as well as thankful to have had those years with my mother and my brother and my friends on Whidbey Island.  What a gift that time was!  I am also reminded to embrace each day of my present life with joy and gratitude.  God has blessed me in so many ways here in Bartlesville. 
            Still, I’m looking forward to two weeks of water and mountain views, of worship and music, of fellowship and fun on the island that still feels like home.  And, Mom, I’ll be thinking of you every single day.  No foolin’.

            

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Duck Pond Ramblings


            Sunshine and in the upper 70s:  yesterday was a treat.  My neighbor, Alice, and I went for a first walk at the duck pond.
            Bartlesville has a park trail system called The Pathfinder, which winds its way between parks through the countryside within the city limits.  Since moving here in October, I’ve been looking forward to trying out the paved trails.  Those first few weeks, caught up in the business of unpacking and doing errands about town, I missed my window of opportunity for comfortable walking weather.  What’s more, I drive past the duck pond when I have coffee at Jude’s and shop at Food Pyramid and have often thought about stopping to walk, but weather or groceries in the back seat have always stopped me.
            We parked in the gravel parking lot on the east side of the pond and started the loop.  It was a day for geese, and from what we observed, the mating season has begun.  The few in the water were busy with this springtime activity, but most of the geese were hanging out in the park on the quest to be fed by willing visitors armed with bags of stale bread pieces.  They honked and strutted about (the geese, not the people).  A gaggle marched over to a minivan that pulled up in the west-side parking.  Sure enough, on our next pass around the pond, we saw that gaggle gathered around a picnic bench where the humans were tossing chunks of whole-wheat bread.  One disheveled, old goose standing off by itself reminded me of a rooster:  its beak was red and lumpy like a rooster craw.  Some of the geese were white, some brown.  All were incredibly noisy.
            We walked and talked, enjoying the raucous geese, quiet ducks, and hot sun.  We peeked in a dusty window of an abandoned one-room cabin.  We noticed that many of the trees were marked by small signs identifying them.  We commented on how pretty the area will be once spring has turned the area from brown to green.  Finally, after a good hour of walking, I declared a last loop and we headed over to Alice’s car.

            So it is no surprise that my energy flagged last night and that I woke this morning with pain as my companion.  Even though the temperature today is supposed to hit 81, I must forgo the duck pond today.  I need a recovery day and am beyond grateful that I am gainfully unemployed (my synonym for retirement) so that I can slow my leisurely lifestyle down another notch to accommodate this pesky fibromyalgia.  Otherwise, my goose would be cooked.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

No Monkeys


            Today is the second consecutive snow day for Bartlesville Public Schools, a real treat for most kids but not so for 4 1/2-year-old Benjamin.  He thrives on routine, and going to pre-school is an important part of his routine.  Thus, it was an easy decision this morning to invite him over for a play date.
            Shawn, home because he is a teacher himself, delivered my grandson to my door at ten with the one item I had requested:  a ball.  Before I could even think to get Benjamin’s coat off, he was on his way to the toy room.  I was ready, having set up his toys minus the monkey because I want to expand his horizons beyond our monkey game.  I felt somewhat like an anthropologist, ready to study the communication habits of my grandson.  My goal was twofold:  follow his lead and encourage communication.
            Benjamin loves to walk from room to room in my house, especially carrying a toy.  I followed him around and participated in his play, trying to enter into his world.  We grooved to the music of his mailbox, celebrated playing with the See and Say on the guest bed, took turns with the toy phone, and played with the ball a little bit.  Each of these activities took place in, perhaps, thirty-second increments.
            I knew he would find his way into my kitchen.  There is something about sitting on the floor and looking up at the exhaust fan above the stove that delights him.  There he will sit, clap his hands, and make his “ah ah ah” sound to signal me for a snack.  I peeled and cut up a small apple into bite-sized pieces.  Throughout his hour here, he ate most of the apple.  Each time he went into the kitchen to the counter where the apple was, he had to ask for it.  Sometimes he did the signs on his own; sometimes I prompted him.  It was interesting to see his variations on “please eat.”  Sometimes the “eat” came first, other times the “please.”  Sometimes he signed just one of the words himself; sometimes he took my hand to his mouth for “eat” and rubbed my tummy for “please.”  Always I said the words. 
            Just for fun, I tried offering the apple pieces in different ways.  At first I handed him a piece.  Then I had him take the single piece out of a little plastic container.  Finally, I put five or six pieces in the container and was pleased to see that he would take out just one or two instead of grabbing all of them at once.
            Near the end of our hour together, I could see that he was starting to get tired.  At one point, he walked into the living room, sat down on the floor, put his hand in his mouth, and started to cry.  I sat down in front of him and asked, “Benjamin, what’s wrong?”  He stopped fussing and made his sign for “sing,” so I did. 
            By this time, he had asked to leave several times by going to the front door and trying the door handle, which reminds me of another door story:  I told Benjamin I was going to use the bathroom and let him follow me in.  There he pulled back the shower curtain to see the bathtub, looked at the sink, and checked out the bathmat.  When I was done, he helped me close the toilet seat lid, watched me flush the toilet, and watched me wash my hands.  What I noticed is that he was familiar with and interested in the sequence.
            I count this morning as a grand success.  Benjamin had fun, and I learned a little more about entering his world and communicating with him.  He is a good teacher.  And, to be honest, I did not miss the monkey.

            

Sunday, February 2, 2014

The Ultimate Prize



In my granddaughter’s eleven-month-old mind, her brother’s bedroom is the ultimate prize.  He has cool toys and a whole lower shelf of board books she can pull down.  Yesterday, as I watched Joelle determinedly army crawl down the hall to get to Benjamin’s room, the tune to “Shall We Gather By The River” put itself into new words. 

Shall we crawl on down the hallway?
The beautiful, the beautiful hallway?
Shall we crawl on down the hallway
That leads to Benjamin’s room?

What would happen if I put my whole self into pursuing Christ?  Like Joelle, I would find heaven.

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Book Note


           As I sat down at today’s church luncheon, I heard a voice to my right say, “So you’re the one who kept my wife up till midnight.”
            That seemed like a strange comment, so I figured I was hearing the tail end of a conversation.   Then Margaret spoke up:  “I read your whole book yesterday.  It was so good!”
            “Really?” I said.
            “Oh, yes . . .” and she went on and on about it. 
            Wow.  She is the second person I know of that has read the whole thing since I self-published it through CreateSpace.com and the Kindle store three days ago. 

            Two readers, three days, about a dozen purchases:  it doesn’t take much to get me excited.  Maybe my audience will grow with time, maybe it won’t.  But already my prayers that Three Corners Has My Cat:  Caregiving in Alzheimer’s Time would bless those who read it have been answered.