Gabby Douglas, Michael Phelps ... and me

I’ve never been an athlete. Suffice it to say I’ve never even really tried to become an athlete. Some truths, as they say, are self-evident, and for me, that was one of them. Good speller? Yes. Good kick-ball teammate or tetherball partner? Nope. Not if you don’t want to lose.

But I’ve always loved the Olympics – to the point that if I had two weeks’ PTO to blow, I’d take time off and watch the coverage all day long. Bob Costas’ bad plastic surgery, be damned; I’m not looking at you anyway, Bob. I’m looking at the tears and the falls, the parents in the stands. The high-fives, the hugs. The drama.

When I was growing up, we were an Olympics family. The first Games I remember watching were in ’72, the year the terror unfolded in Munich. I still remember seeing the grainy pictures of the gunmen in the woolen ski masks. But equally vivid are the memories of Olga Korbut doing that backflip thing from the higher of the uneven bars and Mark Spitz with his seven gold medals fanned out across his chest.

Then came 1976 and Nadia with her perfect 10. From there, the years, and the athletes, run together, but when I think of family vacations, I flash back to the five of us spending our evenings huddled around some little hotel TV if the Olympics happened to be on while we were away from home.

Globally shared experiences are a little difficult to come by these days, but the Olympics do tend to facilitate a few every two years. No matter if we happened to be watching “Dance Moms” or “Breaking Bad” for a little while, we all turned back to NBC to watch Gabby clinch the all-around and Phelps accept his final gold medal. And we all talked about those experiences the next day.

I’ve often wondered what it would be like to possess the grace of a world-class athlete. I’ll never know, but for a scant two weeks every other year, I can imagine, and I can choke up at the sight of a runner with blades where his feet should be or a 16-year-old girl who spent two years with people who weren’t her family so she could see if she had what it took.

She did, and I’m in awe of her for refusing to be scared away by the voices that tell us all, “Don’t bother. Most people will never be that good.”

Even when they’re not that good -- 1,000 times more talented than I’ll ever be, but still, in Olympic frame of reference, not good enough -- I’ll watch them, and like many people, I’ll wonder “What if?” What if I had tried to become a pathologist in spite of my dad’s warnings that “people who aren’t good at math can’t be doctors”? What if I had, as a young person, stopped making mix tapes and laced up a pair of Nikes?

I wouldn’t have made it to the Olympics, but maybe I would have gotten a taste of what it’s like to push yourself harder than you ever thought possible. It’s on my bucket list to do that -- someday, in some way.

No, I’ll never know the feeling of gold around my neck. The upside, though? I'm equally certain I'll never be asked to stare into the face of Bob Costas.

Magic in their hands, food in my yard

Food is growing out of my yard. That that can happen has never ceased to amaze me.

For Mother's Day this year, Kevin bought me dirt. And dirt, luckily for him, was just what I wanted. He had tilled part of our yard last summer with the hope of putting a garden in, but ended up getting busy with a few dozen other things. And with my knee pain an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10 prior to my surgery, I didn't push it.

But this spring, after healing from this year's health woes and starting to feel pretty darned good, I was ready. So I may have whined just a little, and he surprised me with some beautiful black soil.

And into it, we burrowed some tiny seeds, as well as some starter plants made available to us by a generous neighbor. Growing from seed is really my preference; you have to wait longer, but what a sense of accomplishment.

Kevin texted me at work the other day. "Carrots!" the text said. And today, it was "Peas!" And sure enough, when I got home, I saw what you see in the photo above.

We're growing food. And that thrills me.

Kevin and I both have good jobs. We've never gone hungry. But there's something about knowing you're helping to provide for your family through your two hands and Mother Nature -- something much more satisfying than wheeling a cart around the grocery store.

When my kids were little, I gardened, and they helped me. We harvested potatoes, carrots, pumpkins, enough peas for one dinner (and I burned them!), and enough raspberries to feed the neighborhood. I still remember how thrilled the kids were to stuff the berries into their chubby little faces as we waited on the front porch for the kindergarten bus.

Their chubby little faces -- not so chubby now -- are in their own apartments now. But I know they share the memories.

Gardening also ties me to the more distant past. In the 19-teens, my grandparents -- both sets -- came to this country, like so many, in search of a better opportunity. They brought little but some clothing and meager belongings, yet they had magic in their hands. One of my grandparents died before I was born, and two more passed away the year I turned four. Yet I've seen the pictures and heard the stories, and I'm pretty sure I have a few snapshots in my own head.

My Grandpa Joe's meticulous gardens on Sixth and Jefferson with their straight, straight rows and splashes of color. My Nana's vegetable garden in her back yard that looked out on St. Anthony's school; I remember her hunched over, pulling peppers, in her black house dress and white apron. To me, her house forever held the smell of vine-ripened tomatoes, big as cantaloupes, stewing in olive oil.

Their wealth was in the food that grew from the ground they cultivated. I wish I remembered more about them, but I like to think that as they passed from this world to the next, they whispered something in my ear and slipped a little magic into my hands.

I can't sing, I can't play an instrument, and I can't throw a football. But I can make food grow from my yard. Each time it happens, it amazes me. And this year, I'll try hard not to burn the peas.

The world is so big, and the world is so small.

As I acclimate to being back home after traveling through Europe for the better part of two weeks, two things continue to strike me:

The world is so big. And the world is so small.

The first idea is a pretty simple one to grasp: Our planet is a big place. Despite the degree to which we all believe we’re globally minded, most of us also live our lives within a radius of a few miles. In other words, while I was aware of the existence of Stonehenge, I hadn’t been terribly bothered by the fact that I hadn’t actually seen in real life. But now that I’ve seen it, I know there’s so very much I’m missing.

I’m also newly aware, though, that no matter where I travel, people are really not a whole lot different from one another. I’ll always believe that by and large, people are good – and I saw that theory bolstered time and time again as we traveled through England, Wales and Ireland.

People want to smile and laugh and hug. They want to welcome you. And they want to know that you appreciate the places they call home. And the old adage is true: People may not remember what you said, but they’ll remember how you made them feel.

I don’t remember the specifics of my conversation with the old men outside a church in Wales, for example, but recall their words about my daughter and the other singers in the choir: how beautiful the “children” were. And how they “sang like the angels.” And how my eyes filled as I grasped the enormity of where I was and how I was feeling at that moment.

And the connections were not solely with the residents of these other countries. They were with some of the students I hadn’t really known prior to this trip, and with some of the adults who shared my “chaperone-but-really-not-a-chaperone” status.

Thousands of miles from home, I connected with Kathi about the joys and challenges of parenting adult children, and with Michele about the similarities in the temperaments of our daughters. I bonded with Anna, who can’t decide whether she should look for a first job far from home, and with Sophie, who missed her mom. And I cried as I listened to several students who, on the last night, stood and talked about what their years in the Drake Choir had meant to them.

And I connected in different ways with my own children. We saw the same sights and heard the same beautiful sounds, and when we look back on the trip in years to come, our frames of reference will be much the same.

Photos can’t do this trip justice; they can’t compare, at least, to the pictures in my own head as I think back over the 12 days I existed in a realm far different from the one in which I usually find myself. The choir members maintained a common blog about the tour, and one student’s comment stays with me: “These are the memories we’ll talk about when we’re in the nursing home.”

Indeed. But I also have a strong suspicion I’ll also find reason to bring them up every day between now and then.

(Photo courtesy of Dave Collier, official tour photographer)

To the "plant people" on 66th Street: Thank you.

I walk our dog, Isis, every day, and if I happen to get around to walking her while it's still light outside, I take advantage of Urbandale's trail system. If I cross the street and walk about another hundred feet, I can access a trail that takes us a couple miles -- perfect for a relatively small dog and an owner who's still battling some post-surgical knee swelling.

A couple of weeks ago, I began noticing, behind one of the houses that backs up to the trail, something curious: A milk jug filled with water, with the word "free" written on it. And next to it, an assortment of plants, much like the ones in the photo above -- which I happened to take home today. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The owners of the home must be master gardeners, or, at the least, aficionados, because they have some really lovely landscaping -- terracing, shrubs, annuals, perennials, vegetables, flowering trees, you name it. And like many gardeners, they obviously end up with an overabundance of plants.

And they give them away. Daily. To strangers.

Now, I'm Italian-American, and like most folks of my breed, I like a bargain, But even I felt funny as I surveyed the plants that first day. First, I looked around for a "Candid Camera"-type arrangement (that's an earlier version of "Punked" to you younger readers). Then I channeled one of my favorite writers, Frank Bruni, who mentioned in his memoir, "Born Round," that his Italian grandmother always wondered aloud, "What would the people think if I take something for free?"

I understand that feeling; I mean, we can afford plants. But they were just sitting there, and they were perfectly good, and they were free. So I chose two, took them home, and transplanted them. What a nice thing for those neighbors to have done, I thought.

A few days later, as Isis and I walked down the trail, I saw more plants. I didn't stop, not wanting to seem greedy. But on the way back, I saw a woman and her son walking toward me with a child's wagon filled with the free annuals! So I didn't feel as guilty when I snatched up two more to take home.

Today, I saw three lone chive plants sitting out by the makeshift sign, and Isis and I gathered them up as we meandered home. And although I probably really, truly won't take more, I'm still amazed by this thing that's transpiring.

In this day and age, when so many of us don't know our neighbors, what's prompted these kind gardeners to go to the trouble every day of digging up their extra plants, packaging them in potting soil, labeling them and setting them out on the trail? Why take the chance that they'll be wasted by kids who will throw them at one another, or be taken by folks who won't plant them properly?

Every day as we walk, I tell myself to go around to the front of the house, ring the bell, and thank the neighbors properly. But I haven't yet done that, and I can't even really fool myself into thinking that this blog post will suffice as a "thanks."

So I'm honestly trying to figure out what to do in return for the generosity of these kind neighbors. And while I'm doing that, maybe this will serve as a reminder to us to "pay it forward" -- or, at the least, to go the extra mile and, for no reason at all, do something nice.

What – or Whom – I Want to Be When I Grow Up

When I was little, I really liked a movie called “To Sir, With Love.” It starred Sidney Poitier as a teacher who made a difference to a disadvantaged group of kids. I find myself thinking a great deal about that film this week, because my own personal “Sir” is getting ready to leave.

Let me clarify: This “Sir” is a woman, and she’s not only leaving me, but a couple dozen other folks in the cube farm we call “home” five days a week. And to say we’ll feel her absence is an understatement; Linda has clarified, for many of us, what we want to be when we grow up.

Linda is of the “a lady doesn’t tell her age” generation, but to suffice it to say her retirement comes on the heels of more than five decades, give or take a year or two, in the workforce. She has worn a number of hats, from writer to project leader to the manager of a store that sold, among other things, whoopee cushions.

And not only has she adapted to her environment, no matter what it’s been; she’s taken it and commanded it and made it her own. Linda takes no prisoners and makes no excuses; she is who she is, and she’s never, ever apologetic. She’s a proverbial force with which to be reckoned, and that’s but one of the things that makes her worth our admiration.

Linda does more in a day that people half her age do in a week. It’s hard to find a spot on her calendar unless you book her weeks in advance; she chairs committees and volunteers on boards of directors, and at her church. She has standing lunches and dinners with various groups, regular theater engagements, and weekends of dressing up in period clothing to interpret at an outdoor museum.

She travels frequently to see her daughter, son-in-law and grandson in Colorado. She rides bikes and fixes plumbing and will probably end up building a new deck with her own two hands.

And yet she’s never too busy to lend an ear or a word of encouragement -- no matter who you are, and no matter how long you happen to need her.

Linda hasn’t been immune to adversity, and that’s one of the things that makes her relatable; she incurred some pretty monumental losses at a young age, and she’s seen her share of struggles. But what I admire most about her –- and what has bonded us most, I think -– is her behavior in the face of adversity. She chooses to be strong because that’s what she was taught, and because there’s no other option.

You won’t find Linda making excuses for anything, nor will you find her relying on any type of crutch to get her through a trying time. A client was upset with her about something? The boss shared a concern? Her response, most likely, is this: “You know, that person had a point. I really should have done such-and-such. I need to remember not to make the same mistake again, and now it’s time to move on.”

She grew up in a matriarchal household and understood the need for women’s rights before the issue became part of the public lexicon. And in a “stand by your man” era, Linda made the decision to leave a marriage that was no longer working for her. (She even found a way to handle divorce the right way; she talks often about the close friendship she and her ex-husband enjoyed till the day he died.)

No one’s perfect; Linda certainly won’t be surprised to see in print that I think she starts chatting too darned early in the morning! But hearing her go from cube to cube, greeting all her co-workers while enjoying her coffee, is something I daresay most of us will find ourselves missing.

When Linda walks out the door for the final time tomorrow, we probably won’t think about the contributions she’s made to communicating about variable universal life insurance, although her years of expertise in that realm will be missed as well. I know that I'll think of her support during my dad’s illness and death. I’ll think about her empathy and her ability to zero in on what makes a person tick -– and her wish that humans in all walks of life would treat one another with a little more respect and a little less judgment.

I guess this is what it means to leave a legacy. Linda, you’ve left one indeed, and your sensible shoes will be hard ones to fill.

Would I like my child to have a 4.0 GPA? I'll take this instead.

Both my kids are nearing the ends of their college careers, and as I took back over the last few years, I wholeheartedly agree with those who say there's more to the "college experience" than earning a degree. I've been reminded lately, as my son prepares to graduate, just how much more college offers than a name in a frame.

Like most parents of more than one child, I have kids who are vastly different from one another. One has taken a straight path to a goal she first identified in fourth grade; the other has taken a roundabout way of finding his passion. And they're now both on roads that are right for each of them. I'm not at the point at which I can look at them and say "My work here is done," but I'm getting closer.

Scott's road has included a lot of diversity; not just in the places he's studied, but in the friends with whom he's chosen to study. He spent an exchange semester in northern California and a summer in England; he traveled to South Africa, and he's hoping to visit friends in Sri Lanka this summer. His girlfriend is from Johannesburg; his close friends are from Qatar and Japan and India and numerous other countries.

I don't know about you, but when I was in college, my friends hailed from such venues as Davenport and Postville; when I went home with my college boyfriend to a Milwaukee suburb for the first time, the fact that the bars stayed open till 4 a.m. was my idea of exotic. So I look at my son's world, and I'm thrilled for him; as he once said, "No matter where I go in the world, I'll have somewhere to stay."

He invited me to an event that was held last night at Iowa State; it's called the Global Gala, and it's presented annually to celebrate the many countries from which ISU students hail. Scott's friends wore elaborate costumes and participated in dances that honored more than 20 ethnicities. I was enamored of the talent and could have watched all weekend.

Contrast that, again, to when I was in college. "Foreign students" lived in a dorm all their own; I'm sorry to say I didn't know any of them personally, but the ones I remember strapped on their backpacks and walked quickly to and from their classes, not taking the time to participate in many extracurricular activities. I'm ashamed to think of how little I did -- nothing, in fact -- to extend a welcome to these students who were so far from home.

This semester, Scott has visited his friend Ahmad's apartment to eat Qatari food. He cooked an Italian dinner for a group that included not only Ahmad and Scott's girlfriend Katleho, but also Shun from Japan, Onalie from Sri Lanka, Nidhi from India, Ashok from Malaysia, and others I'm forgetting. I look at the photos from that night and see a bunch of really happy young adults reveling in the company of one another, and I'm thrilled for my child.

I'm liberal in my world view, and it's easy to talk about embracing and learning from and respecting other cultures; it's another thing to realize that you yourself have never really taken the opportunity to do that. I'm a white girl from Iowa; with a few exceptions, the people with whom I associate are white people from, if not Iowa, the Midwest. I had Latina friends in grade school and exactly one African-American friend in high school, but since then, I've not found -- or is it that I've not sought out? -- the diversity I've always wanted my kids to experience.

That's why when Scott warns me that he's probably not going to live in the United States -- and certainly not in Iowa -- I really, truly get it. "There's so much more out there," he says, and I know him well enough to know he won't be happy until he experiences it.

The homebody in me wants to gather my kids -- and eventual grandkids -- around the table for Sunday dinner each week. I'm hoping beyond hope that Caroline's career allows her to stay close by, but there are no guarantees; she has a very bright future ahead, and her skills could be in demand elsewhere. So Sunday dinner may entail eating with my husband as I Skype with my kids wherever they happen to be.

Tuition payments haven't been cheap. But as I looked around last night, I realized I would have paid twice as much for my son to construct the world he's built for himself. And I'd best be racking up those frequent-flyer miles now.

Why others' opinions of us sometimes should count more than our own

My very (non)-favorite (non)-singer, Rihanna, has a song out now that’s one of the most irritating I’ve ever heard; something about “I found love in a hopeless place.” Well, last night, Here’s what I found:

Grace. In a place not at all hopeless, but altogether unexpected.

(This post has nothing to do with Rihanna -- thankfully, as I cannot stand her -- but sometimes a writer can’t figure out just how the heck to lead into something. That didn’t quite work. But here we go.)

I currently serve as the chair of a nonprofit group that helps support the fine arts at Drake University, my alma mater and the university my daughter attends. (Keep reading. This isn’t a pitch, I promise.) I love Drake, and I believe wholeheartedly in this group and everything it stands for and accomplishes. We meet once a month, and between meetings, I typically work a few hours a week on issues relating to our efforts. I have a binder and notebooks and a system that works for me.

Only it doesn’t always work, though, as I realized this week that I had dropped the ball on something pretty big. A reminder about a deadline had come to me while I was having one of the surgeries I’ve seemed to enjoy so much lately, and although I had made a mental note to take care of this issue, I hadn’t addressed it. At all.

So the result was this: One of our tried-and-true, high-profile fundraisers – one that helps raise money and awareness for the programs we help to support – isn’t going to happen this year. Period. No adjustments can be made; I missed the deadline. End of story.

To say I was absolutely sick when I realized my oversight doesn’t do justice to my feelings of panic and dread; I emailed a couple of officers in the group right away, but knew I’d have to face the entire committee yesterday to issue a mea culpa. As the agenda items ticked off, I broke into a cold sweat. Then it was time to tell the group what I had done.

I was honest, taking full responsibility for the mistake. As I yammered on about the details, I almost started crying. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. I finished, and there were a few seconds of silence. And then the most amazing thing happened.

This group of about a dozen people immediately set about making me feel better. My predecessor, who now serves as vice-chair – an amazingly busy but always-together person – was the first to say, “We’ve been wanting to ‘go rogue’ on this for a while now. This might just be a great opportunity to see if we can do that.”

At the end of the meeting, we had a plan: One of the committee members is going to determine if we can host our own similar event outside the auspices of the umbrella group with which we had been working. The group was energized and excited, and I was surprised and humbled.

Like many busy people who wear a lot of hats, I tend to be hard on myself when things don’t work correctly; in this instance, a few things could have transpired differently to ensure that the deadline was met, and not all of those were on my plate.

But still, the buck stops with me. And because I tend to take on too much and end up beating myself up, I had spent 24 hours feeling pretty darned worthless and low.

I wondered, though, why I had underestimated these people. They’re all high-achieving, busy, and passionate about the causes they believe in, and chances are each one of them, at one point or another, has mucked up something important. Why had I anticipated their wrath rather than the kind, affirming responses I received, most along the lines of “You do a great job – stop being so hard on yourself”?

Because of the way the world is, I think – because of the way we’re always moving too fast and sleeping too little. Because our emotions are fraught and we’re pulled in too many different directions. And maybe because some people – ones with whom we come into contact all too often – are quick to lash out when things don’t go their way.

Everyone who makes a mistake should have the privilege of coming into contact with – and being embraced by – the good people who had my back last night. After all, reactions such as theirs are extra motivation not to screw up next time.

Let's hear it for the boys

A few days ago, my friend Jeff posted a photo in which he and another of my almost-lifelong friends, Bill, are standing in front of an ice-cream shop. It's a typical photo, albeit a bit whimsical; we're all in our late 40s now, and going to the ice-cream store probably constitutes a little more fun than we have in our everyday lives.

The photo made me smile for any number of reasons; the years have treated both men well, and the faces that smiled back at me were the ones I remembered from our high-school days. But the way I felt was derived from more than that; these guys, and a few others, were a huge part of my history. And my friendships with them were considered a bit odd in an age where, as my dad often told me, "Nice girls don't call boys."

I don't think I'm the only woman who has ever been more comfortable having friendships with guys than with girls. During my formative years, from junior high through college, although I had female friends, my maximum comfort level was achieved when I hung out with boys. (And let's cut to the chase here -- I'm talking about platonic friendships. The guys who were my friends were not the ones I dated.)

Friendships didn't work out with all guys, mind you; I gravitated toward the ones who had more to them than met the eye. They weren't necessarily the jocks or the student-council representatives; they were nice guys who liked to write or read or listen to music or talk for hours. It was easy to open up to them about other, less worthy boys, or about school anxieties or family issues.

And the crux of it was just that: They listened, and they didn't seem to judge. We attended a Catholic school, and through eighth grade, we were grouped with the same 40 kids, give or take, year after year. We all knew each other, and we all had formed opinions, right or wrong, about our classmates.

In some ways, I was a square peg in a round hole. My hair wouldn't part in the middle and "feather back," and I read the dictionary for fun. I was also the only person in my class who didn't have a mom. Maybe some of my perceptions about others' opinions of me weren't correct, but at that point in my life, I didn't feel I fit in.

And my guy friends didn't care. They seemed to value the fact that I was smart and a good listener, and that I wasn't too shy to ask the kinds of questions that would lead them to talk about things they had wanted to talk about, but didn't know how. They didn't care that I had glasses and looked nothing like Marcia Brady, or that I was way too tall, having hit my full adult height of 5'4" when I was all of 11.

And there was more: If one of them liked a girl and was reluctant to let her know, I was the go-between, the eighth-grade romance broker. And I was also there to sympathize with them if that first crush just didn't work out.

High school and college were much the same, but on a different scale because I had boyfriends to factor into the equation. Everyone caught up to me in height and I lost the glasses; I was suddenly dateable, but that didn't put an end to my relationships with my guy friends. I still laugh at a yearbook inscription from the guy who was my boyfriend for two years in high school: "You spend more time with Marty and Steve than you do with me, and that's kind of weird. But I guess it's OK."

In retrospect, the fact that my guy friends valued me for the person I was had a great deal of bearing on the fact that I reached adulthood with my self-esteem intact. A boyfriend may have turned out to be not so great, but Bill or Jeff or Chris or Steve or Marty or Tom was there to remind me that my self-worth should be derived from so much more than the opinion of a boy who had dumped me because he fancied someone blonder or skinnier.

Don't get me wrong; I had some tried-and-true girlfriends during those years, too. Tricia and Susan and Francie and some others helped me understand that not everyone was a "Mean Girl," and my friendships with them, all of which still endure to some degree, led me to reach out to some of the women who are my best friends today.

Male/female friendships are more difficult in the adult world; I still have them, but they're different, as no one wants to be perceived as a boundary-crosser. I'm really happy, though, to see that each of my kids has close platonic friends of the opposite gender, and that my husband counts at least one woman among his closest allies at work.

As I look at the picture of Jeff and Bill and see photos of some of my other pals and their wives and families on Facebook, I wonder if those guys have any idea just how much they meant to a girl who was trying to find her way in the world. I doubt they realize that just by being themselves, they helped me let down my guard, let people in and begin to reach out.

My ability to be a good person in adulthood -- or to try to, anyway -- was shaped, at least in some degree, by their tutelage. And all these years later, as I smile at those still-young faces in the photo, it's high time to say "thanks."

The best New Year's Eve party ever

It's no secret that I've been a little bummed lately. General anesthesia plus morphine plus a couple of weeks on a narcotic pain reliever always seems to mess with me somewhat; add to those things a few weeks off work and a lot of mandatory time in the house with my leg encased in ice and elevated, and you can bet I've been a little stir-crazy.

So when I found I'd be spending New Year's Eve alone, I thought, Of course.

Don't get me wrong: Kevin fully deserved to go to Illinois for his family's Christmas celebration, and we both knew I wouldn't be able to make the 10-hour round trip when I can barely stand to remain in one position for five minutes. It wasn't his fault my kids also happened to be out of state visiting their dad. The timing sucked, purely and simply, and I was left alone with the dog.

Some well-meaning friends, upon learning of my loser-on-New-Year's-Eve status, invited me to various gatherings, but I really didn't feel up to it; I still can't walk well, and I tire pretty easily. So, as no one was willing to bring the party to my house, I mentally settled in for an evening of watching the ball drop with Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin.

Then came a last-minute invitation -- one I couldn't refuse. And I'm so glad I didn't.

My dear friend Shelly is the parent of two sons; one of them, Jake, is a young adult with Down syndrome. Jake lives in an apartment with two other young men with special needs, and Shelly was planning to hang out at their place New Year's Eve so their caregiver could have some time off.

"You have to go with me," Shelly said. "When you're feeling a little down, there's nothing like these guys to make you feel better. They're a hoot."

I love Jake and welcome any opportunity to see him. And it would be just for a couple of hours; I reasoned that I could do that without watching my knee swell to a size larger than my head. And so, chocolate cake and buffalo chicken dip in hand, I went.

When I arrived, the party was in full swing. Jake and his roommates, Nik and Zach, were playing ping-pong, and the trash-talking was in full force as the guys and Shelly counted to see how many times they could volley over the tiny net without missing. A New Year's Eve special was on in the background; I found out the guys were waiting anxiously to watch their favorites, Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga.

The guys greeted me with hugs and enthusiasm. "Thank you for coming to our party," Zach said again and again, and Nik, the least verbal of the roommates, just smiled and said, "Yeah." Jake gave me a hug and showed me all the Iowa State memorabilia he had received for Christmas.

We shared dip and cake and conversation, and then Shelly and I visited as the guys watched their New Year's special. They blew noisemakers and laughed and talked as their favorites sang on-screen, and once in a while one of them would shout out, "2012!" We played more ping-pong then, with all of them cheering on my good -- and not-so-good -- shots.

As the ball-drop neared, Shelly filled the roommates' glasses with sparkling grape juice, and the guys took cautious sips. "This tastes like the real thing!" Jake, who has never tasted alcohol, said with a laugh.

At 11 p.m., when the ball dropped in New York -- the guys aren't night owls -- there were well-wishes and hugs all around. The guys drank their beverages, laughed at their own antics, and began to prepare to wind down for the night.

It was then that I -- always the worrier, always thinking of the next step -- realized that these guys were totally in the moment. And that was something I envied. Here I was, smiling at them as I worried about whether the just-starting rain would make the roads slick, and about carrying things out to my car with my bum knee. But they were thrilled about the new year, and about being together.

Jake, Nik and Zach are by no means "simple," as my grandmother would have worded it back in the day; each one holds a job, and they help manage their own household. They shop and they cook and they clean, keeping order in their world and keeping tabs on their money so they can enjoy the things they love, such as watching their favorite shows, attending Iowa State games, and taking part in any number of activities around town.

But they're filled with their own joy -- the joy that comes from simply being together and looking forward to doing the things they love. When they thought ahead to the new year, they didn't think ahead to "What's going to happen with this?" and "How am I going to afford that?" They simply luxuriated in the moment.

I learned from that last night, and I hope I have the good sense to keep learning from it. Happy new year, guys. Thanks for inviting me to your party.

You want to go where everybody knows your name

I'm not much for the bar scene, but I've always been a fan of the '80s show "Cheers" -- you know the one. It starred Ted Danson, and was about a disparate group of people who found a defacto family in a Boston tavern.

I had surgery several days ago and am in the process of undergoing some pretty challenging physical therapy to get everything back in working order. Three years ago, after undergoing a similar surgery, I chose to rehabilitate my knee at a place called Johnston Physical Therapy. I'm going there again now, and whenever I walk in the door, the "Cheers" theme song runs through my head. The main refrain is: "You want to go where everybody knows your name." And as cheesy as it sounds, that's the kind of place it is.

Never having been an athlete, I had known nothing about physical therapy until my son, Scott, hurt his knee playing hockey several years ago. Someone recommended JPT to us, and off we went; Scott rehabbed there a few times a week, and I learned a lot. But as Scott was 17 at the time and didn't always want his mommy tagging along to rehab, I didn't immerse myself as much as I wanted to in the process and was left to wonder why he was doing certain exercises, why they were taping his knee, and just how critical all this was to his recovery.

When I had my first knee replacement, in 2008, I learned all that and more. Above all, I learned that in a time of impersonal medical mega-practices and hospitals that want to get you out of their beds as quickly as possible, a practice that truly wants to get to know you and determine how to best help you is rare indeed.

Here's what they do that's truly different: They tap into who you are and how you're likely to best accomplish your goals. Andrew, pictured above, is the guy who owns the place, and I've been fortunate enough to have him as my therapist both times now. Early on, he determined that I'm competitive and tend to do better when he dangles some sort of number or distance in front of me. Yesterday, he mentioned the fact that at my last appointment, I hadn't activated my quad muscle as much as he would have liked. Duly challenged, I did what he was asking me to do, and more. Later, I found out that he had made the whole thing up; he simply wanted to see how much better I could do if he made me believe I hadn't done well enough last time.

Well done, Andrew. The result is that I'm achieving the goals he's set for me, and I'm on my way to full mobility in my surgical knee. The really notable thing, though, is that I love going to physical therapy. Again, keep in mind that I'm historically not a person who likes to move any more than I have to, so that's a big deal.

I hold no illusions about being any more special than any other client, so the way I'm treated there is amazing to me; after an absence of three years, I came back to the same group of therapists; a few had been added, but none had left. No turnover in three years; that's remarkable in my book. And the therapists there recalled not only that I had had a knee replaced, but the degree to which I ended up being able to bend that knee after all was said and done.

And here's something I'll always remember: A combination of bad meds and overwhelming pain last time reduced me to tears on a couple of occasions, and I spent two entire therapy sessions crying my way through the stationary bike, exercises and kinesiology. Instead of reacting as any number of people would -- i.e., saying "Get the crazy lady off my table" -- Andrew reassured Kevin and me that me feelings were normal, and that they would pass. And they did.

I have the utmost respect for my orthopedic surgeon, for the anesthesiologists who put me to sleep and woke me up again, and for a few of the nurses who took care of me in the hospital -- the ones who actually knew what my medications were for, didn't forget to give them to me, and managed to lock the bed so I didn't fall (that's a story for later).

But more than anything, I owe my recovery to an unassuming guy named Andrew who has cultivated a staff of truly caring therapists. A sign in the facility's entry way says something about, "People won't care how much you know until they know how much you care." Luckily for me and for other Johnston Physical Therapy patients, that's not just a cliche.

Something to make you stop coasting

There is something about adopting a dog that makes you stop coasting.

My similarly aged friends might understand what “coasting” means. When my kids were younger and still at home, I was very involved with them and their activities. They’re both closer to finishing college than starting it now, and although I still see them a great deal, it’s not the same.

When kids are 23 and 20, they don’t need you anymore. Not in a day-to-day sense, anyway.

So you rediscover your own life. You figure out who you are with your spouse or partner, as well as without that person. You learn to function in a quieter house. Some mornings, you realize you not only can sleep late, but you could pretty much sleep all day if you wanted to, and no one would care. That’s a little sobering.

That’s kind of fun for a while – the sleep part, anyway. The rest of your life kind of falls into place, too. You get use to a new rhythm – a calmer one, but one that starts to feel like a “new normal.”

And then you adopt a dog.

We’ve had dogs before – almost always had dogs, in fact. But within the past year, we had to make the sad decision to euthanize the ones we had. Both were old; one had been ill and dying for months, and the other suffered a sudden injury. We were sad for a long time; our house was so oddly silent.

Then the stars aligned, and both our criteria were met. We had wanted a rat terrier, the same breed as my son’s dog, Forty, whom we really, really enjoy. And we also wanted a shelter dog. This week, by sheer coincidence, we found that the Ames Animal Shelter had in its care a 6-month-old female rat terrier. Within hours, she was on our couch, getting used to her forever home.

Her name is Isis, named after the goddess of nature and magic, among other things. (Isis is also the goddess of motherhood and fertility, but the dog is spayed, so … tough luck on that one.)

Anyway, here are a few things that happen when a pseudo-empty-nester becomes a pet owner.

• It’s no longer acceptable to sit at the computer for hours on end. Work to do? No matter! If you’re not moving and the dog can jump, she’s on your lap. If she can reach your hands, she’s nudging them to pet her. If you’re gently placing her back on the ground so you can do your work, she’s whining until you devote your full attention to her.

• It’s a good thing you’ve enjoyed sleeping in for a while, because those days are over. The minute the room grows lighter and the dogs in the neighborhood start to make noise, she’s clamoring to join them. So what if it happens a half hour before your alarm is due to go off? Think of it as an opportunity; you’ve always been curious about what comes on before the Today Show.

• The time you choose to come home from work matters again. Since my kids have been away at school, I’ve rarely been in a hurry to leave work on time unless I’m covering a story; pre-dog, on the nights Kevin didn’t have any responsibilities, he tended to leave work a little later, too. Now that we have a dog who’s clamoring to get out of the kennel we leave her in during the day, we’ve become clock-watchers again.

• You’re needed again, and not just to pour food in the dog dish. There’s nothing like waking up to something that greets you as if she is absolutely enthralled by the fact that you are still in the world.

Yes, dogs are a ton of work. Yes, they’re expensive. No, I don’t want to turn into one of those old ladies who stops having a life because she’s afraid to leave little Peaches or Muffin alone for too long. But I’m not someone who thrives on going out anyway; I work hard, and when I’m not working, I enjoy being home. Besides, Isis makes me laugh.

You can’t compare a puppy to a child, but until one of my kids chooses to move back in – which, by the way, Scott and Caroline, would be perfectly OK with me – she’s the next best thing.

Think the fair starts today? Think again.

Hey, Des Moines. I have a secret.

Everyone thinks the fair starts today, but it doesn't. It actually started yesterday.

I'll explain.

About four or five years ago, some co-workers and I started something that has become a tradition in our office. We had been charged with going to the fair the day before it opened to pick up tickets for our boss, who had planned a department outing for the next afternoon.

We drove to the administration building inside the fairgrounds, bought the tickets, and noticed something: Some vendors were open, and they were hawking their wares. We decided to explore for a bit and were greeted by folks hanging out the front windows of their food stands, asking us to sample things that would go on sale the next day. We gladly obliged them, and we bought a few goodies as well.

We spent our lunch hour walking around the grounds, enjoying corn dogs and lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies. No attractions or buildings had opened, so we didn't feel guilty about entering the grounds for free; really, all we could do was eat. But that was plenty; we three grown women smiled at one another conspiratorially, as if we'd scaled the fence.

The next year, our group grew by one or two. And yesterday, we hooligans, professional women ranging in age from early 30s to early 50s, set out on our covert operation once again.

It was obvious when we drove inside the gates that our secret had leaked out to a few more folks, but no matter -- we remained pretty pleased with ourselves, and we set out to cram as much fun into our hour as we possibly could.

The moral of the story? You're never too old to break the rules. And when you head to the fair, you have to buy a red-velvet funnel cake.

We parked and headed down the main concourse, plotting our attack.

This mini-restaurant, operated by the West Des Moines United Methodist Church, won our business when the proprietor said, "Come on in and sit down -- we'll serve you!"

We made our selections from a varied menu with really reasonable prices. Melissa was hoping for pie.

Amanda chose a pulled-pork meal. Prices for the combos ranged from $7 to  $9 -- not bad at all for the fair!

Our waiter, Isaac, demonstrated some serious customer-service chops to go with his Justin Bieber smile. Thanks, Isaac!

We didn't hit the midway, but it was looking busy.

Due to a strangely large number of things named "Mary" or "Porter" at the fair, our own Mary Porter grabbed quite a few photo ops.

Yep.

We old-timers remembered the fair train and noted this evidence of its former existence. My kids loved that train.

Dating myself again, I mentioned that rides on the giant slide used to cost a quarter.

c

Amanda posed next to my very favorite ironic fair sign.  Once again, the Turkey Federation's spokes-turkey appears to be promoting ... cannibalism?

I couldn't resist pointing out the misplaced apostrophe.

These cool little calves were everywhere.

On the way out, we found the holy grail.

The red-velvet funnel cake may have resembled intestines, but it was worth all the hype. 

Thumbs up, funnel-cake guy.  Sssh -- don't share our secret.  See you next year.

I'm on a bus.

I’ve covered quite a few Des Moines Area Regional Transit Authority (DART) meetings as of late, and it occurred to me while I was sitting in one the other night that there’s no reason I can’t start taking public transportation to and from work.

I believe in it for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that I’m Charlie Lavia’s daughter and I like to save money. Thanks to the handy calculator on the DART website, I quickly realized I could save upwards of $800 in fuel costs in a year if I jettisoned my car for the bus. That amount easily could purchase a year’s worth of textbooks for one of my kids. Winning.

I don't have small children whose schedules might necessitate that I leave work during the day. I'm no longer helping to care for a sick parent. Logistically, there's no need to have my car downtown. Plus, I'll be having my knee replaced soon; some mornings, walking from my parking ramp to my building is more painful than I like to admit, and DART basically pulls up in front of my office.

Then there’s also the whole carbon-footprint thing. Although taking my 1998 Malibu out of commission isn’t likely to save the planet, no one will miss it. Besides, I worry frequently that my brakes are going to stop working or parts of the car simply are going to begin falling off, so from a peace-of-mind standpoint, leaving the car where it can’t hurt anything is also a plus.

So I pulled up DART’s website and began checking my options. It’s a little tricky, so I needed some help. As luck would have it, the Doyenne of DART happens to sit two aisles from me at the office.

Jen Deutmeyer not only is a bus champion, but she produced a video last year that was the grand-prize winner in DART’s Why I Ride the Bus contest. She scored an iTouch and a cult following. She also really knows her DART. Jen hooked me up with the best routes – there really are a ton of options – and I promised myself I’d just do it.

That was yesterday. Today, I rode the bus.

(Those of you familiar with the Saturday Night Life comedian Andy Samberg also might know his parody song I’m on a Boat. In my head, I’ve changed it to I’m on a Bus, and it’s on a mental loop as I write this. And it’s making me laugh. Anyway…)

I rose a little earlier than normal this morning to make sure I was at the bus stop on time. Anyone who knows me won’t be surprised, though, that of the two routes I can most easily take, I made it to the park-and-ride in time to take the latter of the two.

While I was waiting, I made small talk with another rider – one whom I nearly startled off the bench initially because from the back, he looks like my friend Brent and I greeted him with a loud, “Hey! You ride this bus, too?” Once he recovered his composure, he graciously explained just where the downtown stops were, as they’re not all listed on DART’s map of the route.

Soon, the bus arrived and I climbed on. I showed my company security badge and the driver nodded and pushed a button. Seriously, that’s all that transpired, and the trip was free. (I am not a suck-up, but here’s a shout-out to my employer for a great perk!)

I chose one of the front seats because I tend to fall victim to motion sickness from time to time, and sitting in the back of a vehicle often makes me feel worse. I looked around, smiled stupidly and started munching on the crackers I had brought in case my empty stomach didn’t take well to a lot of starts and stops.

And boy, were there a lot of starts and stops. If you’ve let yourself be deterred from riding the bus because you don't think it will stop close enough to your house, you needn’t worry. Between 86th and Aurora and downtown, we stopped approximately 8,032 times.

(I’m exaggerating, obviously. But suffice it to say these folks don’t want you to have to walk a block farther than you want to, which is something to be appreciated. And also, if you choose an express route, it will include far fewer stops.)

But here’s the thing: Even with all the stops, the commute took exactly as long as it does when I drive my car. DART gets people on and off the vehicles pretty quickly, and besides – the best part! – when we pulled into downtown, the bus dropped me off at the corner of my building. No need for hunting in the ramp for a parking space, walking down the stairs or taking a slow elevator to ground level, and then hoofing it a few more blocks to my office. I was giddy.

(Plus, I have to tell you: I’m a prissy girl, and the bus passed muster. It was clean, the seats were comfortable, and the aisles were wide. I could have used a drink holder, but, hey, I muddled through.)

I walked into the office and I bragged. Then I texted my husband, who – knowing full well that I’m directionally impaired – assumed I’d end up at the zoo. After that, I stuck a post-it on my computer to remind myself to ride the bus home.

There are some days I won’t ride the bus; once or twice a week, I cover meetings or events after work and will have to drive directly to them. But barring anything unusual, I think it’s safe to say that even after one day, I’m a convert.

Like many people, I don’t allow myself a lot of downtime, and riding the bus will force me to take some – 40 minutes’ worth a day, to be exact, and that’s huge. It will be my iPod-listening and blog-reading time, and chances are I may arrive home just a little more relaxed than is typically the case.

Also, I’m not likely, in my lifetime, to do anything huge to make a difference, environmentally speaking. It’s probably safe to say I won’t purchase a hybrid or install solar panels anytime soon. But this small decision I’m making is something, and if more people choose the same option, we could actually make a dent in reducing greenhouse-gas emissions right here at home.

No matter how you look at it, it’s all good. I’m on a bus. And I like it.

If you're on the fence about your class reunion, go. Just go.

Thirty years melted away faster than I could have imagined.

And here's the bizarre thing: Nearly everyone looked the same as I remembered. After three decades. How is that possible?

My 30th class reunion was this weekend. Our class meets every five years, and I'd only made two previous gatherings; one year, I was getting married. Another year, I was having a baby. And frankly, I had never made attendance a huge priority; I still live in the town from which I graduated high school, so I reasoned that I frequently ran into former classmates. So what was the big deal?

It turns out many big deals -- big observations, anyway -- came out of the past two evenings. Here are just a few of them.

• With few exceptions, everyone was just so genuinely nice. Seriously. The people I never really spoke to in high school because I figured they were conceited or fake or had nothing in common with me? I guess I was a pretty big idiot 30 years ago, because some of the people I enjoyed the most are the ones with whom I never shared a word from 1977 to 1981. The moral of the story: Never assume.
• Girls who are currently in high school should make a beeline to date the boys who are not quarterback of the football team. Nothing against our quarterback, but he's no Jeff F. Not to embarrass you if you are reading this, Jeff, but you are such an awesome guy that we should all have vied for your attention back in the day. Case in point: Your regard for your lovely wife, who attended the reunion with you despite the fact that she is in the midst of a serious health situation. "I want you to meet my wife," you said to several of us. "She is amazing." Well, Jeff, so are you. Shame on some of us for not realizing that 30 years ago.
• Along the same lines, some of the women who didn't call attention to themselves back in the day are drop-dead gorgeous now. This, I loved: I watched a couple of guys ogling a tall, beautiful classmate with a willowy figure and sculpted cheekbones. And I heard one saying to the other: "Who is that?" Guys: It's someone who never once had a date to a school dance because she was overweight.Your loss entirely.
• A guy in our class who happens to be gay and married to a man brought his hilarious, delightful husband to the reunion. And they were greeted warmly by all, as they should have been.
• A classmate who has struggled mightily against mental illness for years made the difficult decision to attend his first reunion. "After some things I read online, I thought maybe I would feel comfortable at this one," he said. He left early, but I so hope he enjoyed his time with us. What a brave, brave guy.
• This feeds the soul like nothing else: laughing hysterically with one of your best high-school girlfriends about such nonsense as the time that you inexplicably crawled out of government class, or the time you choreographed a dance to a rap song, only to be rejected from your senior variety show. (Hypothetically speaking, of course.) Sigh.
• There is nothing in the world that can compare to the way you feel when you look around and realize you are surrounded not only by your high-school classmates, but your grade-school friends -- the ones you've known since you were 6, the ones who knew your parents and siblings and spent the night at your house and were your "secret Santa" at Christmastime. Those faces choked me up. (And Julie Diaz, if you're reading this -- you come home now!)
• Everyone seemed to spend a moment looking at the memory board that pictured our deceased classmates. They were indeed part of our reunion, and I hope their families know that we tried to honor them.

As I've written before, I didn't love high school. I was unsure of myself and didn't know where I belonged. But this past weekend, I realized I belonged exactly where I was -- with the people who helped shape me.

Whether I was your best friend or never even said "hello" to you in the hall: Thank you for a wonderful weekend that I hope resulted your humming bad early-'80s songs all the way home. See you in five years.

Thirteen stories high, cool, and free. What are you waiting for?

It was the kind of evening every married couple knows, I think -- the kind where you're arguing just to argue and neither of you is going to give an inch.  So I suggested a change of venue. We'd been wanting to visit the new High Trestle Bridge northwest of Des Moines and the weather looked as if it was going to cooperate, even if only briefly. He grumbled a bit, but we headed out. 

Suffice it to say my directions were a tad incomplete, but thanks to a lucky turn down a gravel road, we found the parking lot closest to the bridge. We chatted briefly about the wisdom of walking a couple of miles in flip-flops (I know -- what were we thinking?), but we started down the trail anyhow.

And here, in words and pictures, is how we found more than we had bargained for. In a good way.

Only 4,000 steps? In flip-flops? No problem.

So we walk a while, and ... only 5,000 steps? Are we going the wrong way?

Ah. There it is. 

We learn that the artist who conceived the art for the bridge, David Dahlquist, designed it to resemble a trip down a mine shaft. Much of central Iowa was built on mining, and the materials with which the art was built also pay homage to this history.

While Kev walks bravely near the edge, I hug the middle. I seem to have forgotten on the way here that I am afraid of bridges, especially ones over water. Troubled or otherwise. 

Have I mentioned that this bridge is 13 stories high?

At a lookout station, we catch this cool view.  My architect friend Diane would be loving this.

The bridge spans a half mile over the Des Moines River. It feels a bit longer than that when your heart is pounding. 

How he's brave enough to look down, I have no idea. The height is pretty breathtaking, though.

Another really nice view. The geometry changes as you walk along.  

Can't get enough of the unique views.

Viewing the Highway 210 bridge from a lookout station

The view from the Woodward end of the bridge. We started in Madrid, and unbelievably, we made it to the other side , despite my whining and shaking and, occasionally, yelping.

At dusk, the lights turned on. They're blue, not purple. The photo doesn't do this justice. Beautiful.

The pillars that mark the Woodward end of the bridge. We met some new friends from Sheldahl. There they are, walking along. Hi, friends who live on a farm whose names I can't remember!

No horses on bridge; good idea. Apparently there's no "no bats" sign, though. But more on that later... 

A little bridge history. Worth reading. 

The lookout station on the Woodward side. It bears the year 1912 and belongs to the bridge that used to be there.

Look closely. See the "1912"?



I take a breath and we start back across. This time, the walk is not so windy.  

 

The lights span the river's main channel, the little guide things tell us.

Love these angles.

Being a good sport. Then he tells me he sees some bats flying overhead. I respond that if he encloses me in a box or a nonfunctioning elevator, he'll have hit all of my phobias in one handy trip!

The little guide things tell us that the circles on the pillars represent coal -- again, honoring the many immigrants who made a living in the coal mines of Madrid and Boone. Many of them were Italians, so I find this especially interesting.

We'll be back, and we'll drag a kid or two with us next time. 

Indeed.