On going home

Today I drove back to my hometown, Columbus. My parents no longer live there, and my grandma has passed on, so it's been awhile since I've been back. Today my visit was a somber one. One of my first friends from when I moved there in the seventh grade, my college roommate--lost her mom too soon. Today we celebrated her full, fun life.

Driving home

Just like death has a way of digging up the bones of old memories, so does place. Things I hadn't thought about in years suddenly became vivid recollections as I turned off the highway:

Driving home along HIghway 30

This is a poem that has been revised three times that I wrote on a drive from Columbus to Ogallala early this semester. All of the place conscious reading we did in my class caused me to think about the fate of small towns; this poem is a reflection of that.

Driving home along Highway 30

As I drive down Highway 30, through Silver Creek
I see the meat locker my Uncle Richard once owned.
The Silver Creek Locker sits along the edge of the highway
with butcher paper covering the windows
that have been damaged, I assume, from rocks
thrown by bored teenagers.

This run down, dirty-white building
used to be a major business in this town of 399.
I remember walking in the door, the smell of salt
tingling my nose, my hands shoved deep into
the pockets of my hand-me-down Levi’s
in an effort to keep them warm.
My Uncle Richard, in his blood spattered apron,
would emerge from the back—
a place I would never venture
because my wild imagination already gave me a
vivid picture of what laid behind those swinging doors.

My younger brother and I would suck on Lollies
while dad and Uncle Richard talked about fishing
and mom and Aunt Betty discussed all the latest gossip.
Aunt Betty was a hard working Polish immigrant
who still had a bit of an accent from the old country—
and it fascinated me.
As I drug my teeth in the sweet-tart sucker
I listened to her speak,
imagining what her life was like when she was my age.

Today as I drive through this tired, old town
I notice that many businesses look like the Silver Creek Locker and
I begin to grow a little sad—
sad that what my uncle worked so hard for is now gone,
sad that this seems to be the fate of so many small communities.
And as I sip on my Grande Americano from Starbucks
I regret that I did not stop at one of the mom and pop
shops that line Highway 30.

Finding a moment of peace- revised

As many of you know, I'm taking two graduate classes right now through UNL. One of the classes--Place Conscious Teaching--is winding down and will end in the next few weeks. This class has been a bit of a struggle. To be specific, the weekly place conscious writing (writing about our places) we did during the second unit was the most difficult part of the semester for me because I don’t feel connected to any place. I wanted to get the heck out of my hometown, I never felt settled in Lincoln, Kearney was nice—but I was a transient college student who was always moving, and Ogallala still feels foreign. So, this essay is my attempt at reflecting on this. I wanted to write at least one piece about the place I live, but it was so difficult because I don't feel connected yet. Sometimes I wonder if this lack of connection is derived from a combination of the isolation we're experiencing, the adjustments we're still making, and the long hours we put in at our teaching jobs. It's interesting how many outside factors can influence a person's sense of place. I posted an earlier version of this back in October, I believe, but here is a more polished version: Finding a Moment of Peace About a year and a half ago my husband and I moved to this small town—the Cowboy Capital of Nebraska, Ogallala. Because my husband had never lived in a small town before, we thought it would be a great new adventure. As we drove west down Interstate 80 in our rented U-Haul I marveled at the changing landscape and began to envision myself in a peaceful town filled with people who stopped working at 5:00 and then went home to relax with their families for the rest of the evening. Though we were moving far away from our friends and families, I thought the distance between us and them would bring my husband and I closer together. I hoped this new community would help me to feel settled. We had lived in three communities in a span of three years and never had the chance to set down roots...I was sure this new town was just the place for settling down. At the time, I thought our move was quite romantic. It’s been a year and a half and the romance of living in a small town has worn off. Today I’ve already put in about twelve hours of work, two hours of homework, snuck in a thirty minute argument with my husband about how our families never come to visit, and I’ve managed to squeeze in a few hours of family time…really, it was two hours spent in front of the TV, but we claim it as family time because we sit on the same couch while we watch TV. Lately I’ve found myself growing disappointed that my town is not like the town I envisioned when we moved out here. I don’t remember the last time I was done working before 6:00 or even 6:30. And I certainly haven’t had every evening free to spend with my husband. Though living out here has brought us closer together, being so far from family and friends has raised another set of issues we weren’t quite ready to face. Life seemed much easier when we lived in bigger cities like Kearney and Lincoln. I wasn’t constantly grading essays, filling out the endless amount of paperwork that comes along with teaching, and I certainly wasn’t up until all hours of the night worrying about how I could teach more effectively. We were also within a few hours from our close friends and family and could visit them often. Though I was newly married, finishing school, and working as much as my schedule allowed, I managed to have more time and less worries. Ever since we’ve moved out to this small southwestern Nebraska town I’ve felt bombarded. Tonight, I am wondering how I can feel so stressed. This town really is peaceful. Everything shuts down at five-thirty, there are only two options for grocery shopping, and I only have a short half-mile jaunt to my spot where I can sit and look out over hills covered in wild grasses. I remember the first time I found this place. I had had a terrible day of school and was feeling like a worthless teacher. So I laced up my sneakers, grabbed my dog, and took off down the gravel road that runs near my house. I had never run that hilly road before, and though it was unfamiliar, I kept running until I reached the top. I leaned over to rest my hands on my knees so I could catch my breath. After a few seconds, I stood up straight and was greeted with the most beautiful view. I was looking out over the northern outskirts of Ogallala where hills roll and grasses sway calmly below a pink-orange sky. I stood there, looking out over the town for what seemed like hours. After awhile, I noticed that my breathing became slow and regular and I was aware that my chest was rising and falling in a natural rhythm. I looked down at my dog that had also grown peaceful during our time on the hill. He lay on the gravel road with his eyes closed, but his head was held up like he was meditating, the breeze blowing through his scruffy Terrier beard. As the sun sank below the hills, we turned to head back home and I felt a sense of peace come over me. It was the kind of peace that you feel only when you know you’ve experienced something beautiful and rare. I think it was then that I realized that even though my new life out here was going to be a whirlwind, I was okay.

Settling down

For my Place Conscious Teaching class we are required to submit a teaching unit that incorporates place consciousness--I have been putting off the unit all semester. The idea of teaching students in a way so they come to appreciate the place we live is a bit scary for me becuase I am a fairly nomadic person--in the words of John Steinbeck in Travels with Charley “….once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable.”

I am by no means a bum, but I do get a two-year itch. In the past six years I have lived in four different places. Since beginning my adult life, I really haven’t lived in a place long enough to put down roots. Sometimes I want to settle down, but just as soon as that thought crosses my mind I start to get the itch. It starts as a simple longing for other places and eventually transforms into full-blown discontent. Usually I can’t stay in that original place for more than six months after discontent takes its hold. Thus, the four moves in six years.

We've lived in Ogallala for about a year and a half now and I fear that I may soon get that itch. It's not that I don't enjoy it here...I really do. I love my job, I love that it only takes me five minutes to get anywhere in town, I love the hills that surround us, I love the lake...I could go on and on. I just fear that my nomadic personality will take hold of me.

Last week I finally mustered up the energy and worked on the unit late Friday night and into Saturday morning. When we come back from Christmas break, students will be taking photographs of their favorite places in town, writing poetry or personal narrative essays, and then will create displays of their work to place in storefront windows. I'm going to try to set aside time so I can do this alongside my kiddos.. I'm hoping that as students begin to develop a sense of place here I will as well.

Finding a moment of peace

It’s late on a Monday night. I’ve already put in about twelve hours of work, two hours of homework, and I’ve managed to squeeze in a few hours of family time. Some Mondays I wake up and wonder, will I make it another week?

Life seemed much easier when we lived in bigger cities like Kearney and Lincoln. I wasn’t constantly grading essays, filling out the endless amount of paperwork that comes along with teaching, and I certainly wasn’t up until all hours of the night worrying about how I could teach more effectively. Though I was newly married, finishing school, and working as much as my schedule allowed, I managed to have more time and less worries. Ever since we’ve moved out to this small southwestern Nebraska town I’ve felt bombarded. I wonder how this can be. The town really is peaceful. Everything shuts down at five-thirty. There are only two options for grocery shopping. And I only have a short half-mile jaunt to my spot where I can sit and look out over hills covered in uncultivated grasses. I remember the first time I found this place. I had had a terrible day of school and was feeling like a worthless teacher. So I grabbed my dog, laced up my sneakers, and took off down the gravel road that runs near my house. I had never run that hilly road before, and though it was unfamiliar, I kept running until I reached the top. I leaned over to rest my hands on my knees so I could catch my breath. After a few seconds, I stood up straight and was greeted with the most beautiful view. I was looking out over the northern outskirts of Ogallala where hills roll and grasses sway calmly below a pink-orange sky. I stood there, looking out over the town for what seemed like hours. After awhile, I noticed that my breathing became slow and regular and I was aware that my chest was rising and falling in a natural rhythm. I looked down at my dog that had also grown peaceful during our time on the hill. He lay on the gravel road with his eyes closed, but his head was held up like he was meditating, the breeze blowing through his scruffy Terrier beard. As the sun sank below the hills, we turned to head back home and I felt a sense of peace come over me. It was the kind of peace that you feel only when you know you’ve experienced something beautiful and rare. I think it was then that I realized that even though my new life out here was going to be a whirlwind, I was okay.

As I head to bed and prepare for a busy week filled with choir concerts, meetings, football games, volleyball games, concession stand attending, homework, and the weekly “come to Jesus moments” we teachers seem to have with our students, I feel calm knowing that I have a place where I can go and breathe. I can run to the top of that hill and forget about all of my responsibilities even if it is only for ten minutes.

In response to "So This Is Nebraska"

Today in my English 9 classes we journaled in response to Ted Kooser's poem "So This Is Nebraska." I used the poem as a springboard to talking about our place--Ogallala, Nebraska. I try to journal with the kids, so here is what I wrote:

"I hate this place," a student declared after we read "So This Is Nebraska" by Ted Kooser. How do I get my students to love this place where rolling hills and bluffs exist--this place where cactus and sunflowers line 10th Street? I love this place and its people. I love the small hardware store that smells of sawdust and nails. I love walking into Hokes Cafe, the bell on the door ringing as it slams shut, where as soon as you walk into the restaurant heads turn to see who has just come in. I love Friday night football games and Thursday night volleyball where people from town gather no matter their differences, no matter what their opinion is on the school bond. When I think of my place I think of cowboy boots and jet skis. I think of the skatepark that sits in the middle of town--an oddity for a town just barely over 5,000 that is dominated by spurs and chaps. Yet it's a beautiful sight to see kids skating in this town--it reminds me of the youth--the people who can make this town great if they only try.

Mapping out where I'm from- high school and college

Columbus

So I know I've already touched on Columbus, but I felt like I needed to write more. Although middle school was rough for me (lots of fights, kicked out of classes, nearly suspended from school, grounded quite frequently, etc.), high school was not so bad.

Four days before my first day of high school I was hit by a car. I was already sporting a hot pink cast on my left wrist that I gained from playing softball and was set to get the cast off the next day. A friend of mine and I were walking across the street en route to a boys house (stupid boys) when a car going about thirty-five mph hit us. My friend walked away from the accident with a sprained knee. I wasn't so lucky. I suffered a busted shoulder, several head injuries, and had a severe case of road rash on my left leg. As a result, I spent four days in the hospital, two of which were in the ICU. As terrible as the accident was, I do think it wised me up.

Throughout high school I felt confined and I think it was due to my place. I felt like the town was too small for my large personality (I had several hair colors...red, purple, pink, black, bleach blonde and gauged ears). As a high school senior I spent many afternoons and evenings leaning up against my favorite tree at Pawnee Park (I couldn't find a decent link to attach here...sorry!) playing guitar, reading Kerouac novels, and dreaming about living in larger places. I don't know if I ever really appreciated Columbus...I sometimes wish I was more connected to this place.

Kearney- Part I

In August of 2004 I moved to Kearney to attend UNK with grandiose plans of becoming an actress. UNK was my second college choice, my first was Nebraska Wesleyan. But UNK was more affordable. I quickly fell in love with Kearney. It had a small town feel (28,000) but had all the amenities of a larger community. I fit in quickly on campus and involved myself with the Navigators where I led worship on Thursday nights. I also sang in two choirs at UNK: a large concert choir and another smaller chamber choir (choir is where I met my husband). After about five majors, during my sophomore year of college, I transferred to UNL. My husband and I had wanted to to live in Lincoln--The Land of Opportunity. So tearfully, I said good-bye to Kearney and headed east down I-80.

Lincoln

Moving to Lincoln was an exciting time. When I was in high school I had spent many weekends in the Lincoln/Omaha area attending concerts or visiting friends, so I felt like I was moving into a familiar place, but there was still an air of excitement. We loved living in Lincoln, but it ended up being a short stay for us. At the time, my husband was searching for his first teaching job and had no luck in the Lincoln area. In fact, he ended up getting a job in Elm Creek which is 15 miles west of Kearney. The move back to Kearney was for the better. I did not really enjoy my time at UNL. Though I loved living in Lincoln, I just didn't feel like UNL was a good fit for me...I felt foreign the entire semester. Being a transfer was difficult, everyone else I met had already carved their place at UNL, they were settled in and I felt like a wanderer.

Kearney- Part II

After my husband and I got married in July of 2006, we moved back to Kearney and I started up at UNK again this time as a Language Arts Ed. major. I wasn't sure that we would find a place in Kearney again, but we did. I fell in love with the town even more. I loved the apple orchard in Riverdale (about 6 miles northwest of Kearney), Cotton Mill park and the Oldfather Prairie trail where my husband moutnain biked and I ran, and my favorite coffee spot- Barista's Daily Grind. I loved seeing the Sandhill Cranes that stopped in the Kearney/Gibbon area or at Rowe Sanctuary every year--these cranes would fill up the field behind our duplex....if you haven't ever seen the cranes in this area, you ought to...it's a beautiful sight. I loved the rock garden at Harmon Park and I loved visiting MONA to look at the art and to listen to poets and author's read excerpts from their books in the main gallery, their voices echoing off the marble floors. I loved the downtown area that houses wine festivals, live music, an awesome used book store, several antique/thrift stores, and the occasional poetry reading. I felt at home in Kearney, in fact I oftentimes find myself telling people that I am from Kearney. Kearney is a beautiful town that will always hold a special place in my heart. We will be passing through on Friday as we travel to Lincoln, so I will try and take a few photos of my favorite spots to post on my blog.

Mapping out where I'm from- childhood

Reading through this week's reading assignments and viewing other Place Conscious blogs made me think about the places I have lived. I decided that I would describe a little about each place that I have lived because I really do feel that these places have shaped me into the person I am now. I wish I had pictures for some of these places, but unfortunately my family is not big into pictures. So words will have to do :)

Omaha, Columbus, and Milford

I was born in Omaha, Nebraska and lived all over eastern Nebraska and in a small Iowa town during the first two years of my life. After my parents divorced my mom and I moved back to her home town, Columbus, Nebraska. She asked her parents for help, but they lovingly told her she was on her own. They believed in tough love, and it worked. My mom found a modest apartment she could afford, landed a job waitressing at Pizza Hut, and invested in a sturdy bike that was equipped with a baby seat. This is how I got to and from daycare every day, on the back of a bike. My mom is one tough cookie and I respect her for forging her own path after my biological dad left. When I was three or four my mom married her high school sweetheart, my step-dad (who I refer to as my dad) who had just returned from the Army. We then moved to Milford, Nebraska and lived on campus at Southeast Community College so my dad could go to school. Soon after, my brother was born. I don't remember much about Milford, but I do remember that there were other families who lived on campus. We had a swing set in the backyard that all of the kids played on in the evenings while our dads either went to work or did homework. I remember that my parents went to the food pantry every now and then because we were dirt broke. It seems like these were some of the toughest years in my parents' lives, yet my dad talks about this place more than any other place we've ever lived.

Crete

When I entered Kindergarten we moved to Crete, Nebraska where my mom worked at Region V with mentally and developmentally disabled adults. My dad commuted to Lincoln to work at Appleton and my brother and I went to school at St. James Elementary, a small Catholic school. We lived in an old, Victorian style home that was a block from the city pool. The house was so old that on our deed there was no year listed; instead, where the year would be listed it simply said "old." The house was quite the "gem" when we moved in. Their was no electricity in the upstairs, the basement was unfinished, the kitchen and bathroom were in serious need of repair, and the dining room had bare wires sticking out in some places. Fortunately my dad is a handy man. He wired the upstairs (although he never got to my brother's room!), completley flipped the kitchen and bathroom, remodled my bedroom, started on my brother's room, and fixed up the dining room. It seemed like this house was in constant disarray, at one point my mom had no kitchen sink and she had to wash the dishes in the bathtub! I loved this house. It had a spiral staircase, french doors leading into the living room that housed an antique up-right piano, a gigantic yard, a clawfoot bathtub (before the rennovation), and my bedroom was the best: an attic-looking room equipped with two large built in bookcases that housed every single Babysitter's Club book available to man-kind and two small windows that I often sat in front of reading the night away. I would have loved to stay in Crete for my entire life. We ened up moving to Columbus the summer before I started 7th grade (years are fuzzy for me). My brother and I were devestated. The day I moved I was supposed to meet my best-friend, Kevin, to say good-bye. Kevin was so sad that he wrote me a letter and gave it to a mutual friend to give to me. I remember sitting in the backseat watching out the back window, tears running down my face hoping that Kevin would run down the block. My brother was only in 1st or 2nd grade but had a terrible time with the move. It actually ended up being a pretty traumatic event for him. The rest of elementary school was a rocky road...he was made fun of a lot and turned to fighting these hooligans which led him to be suspended quite frequently.

Columbus

My family moved here to be closer to my grandparents (I suppose new jobs played a role in this move as well!). My dad accepted a job working at one of the many factories in town working as a supervisor and my mom found a job working at a place similar to Region V. Columbus was a large adjustment for us. We went from a town of 5,000 to a town of 20,000. Looking back on our move and our time in Columbus, I am beginning to realize that it was more of a rough transition for my brother and I than we probably realized at the time. Like I said earlier, he didn't fit in in this new place and thus turned to fighting to stick up for himself. I was no angel child either. I found a few friends, but got in more trouble than when we lived in Crete. I talked like crazy in my classes and drove my teachers nuts. I also had quite the attitude, this put me in the principal's office more times than my parents would have liked. 7th grade was also my first fist-fight and my first experience with alcohol. Luckily, by about my freshman/sophomore year of high school, I straightened up and turned out to be a pretty good kid. It's funny how much a place can affect or change a person. I'm sure when we first moved to Columbus, my parents probably wondered if they had made the right decision simply because of the drastic turns my brother and I took.

I Am From poem

Here is the latest copy of my I Am From poem. I have written several copies over the years, but sadly, have not saved any of them! Have no fear, this one is saved :) My English 12 students have also crafted an I Am From poem....I will try to post these tomorrow!

I Am From

I am from Jan and Mitch, Dave and Pat, Bunk and Jeanette, Elaine and Don—a family tree that looks more like a knotty forest due to divorce.

I am from eastern Nebraska, where the Platte and the Loup house barefoot children splashing through shallow waters and where sunbathers occupy sandbars.

I am from do as your told and don’t be afraid to rattle their cages—you don’t want them to forget who you are. I’m from a home where we were free to speak our minds but encouraged to be sensitive while doing it.

I am from garden-fresh tomatoes with every summer meal, from radishes dipped in salt, from creamed cucumbers and breaded pork-chops. From meals of corn on-the-cob and watermelon. From brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tarts and three at a time popsicles.

I’m from lakewater, four-wheelers, and wild sunflowers. From sand in our hair and bathing suits hanging on the cabin’s deck, water slowly dripping onto the weathered wood.

I am from Husker football on Saturdays, mom screaming at the TV and Grandpa Kinzer’s laugh ringing loud above the announcer’s voice.

I am from blue-collar workers who value education and a good red beer. From occasional church-goers to fire and brimstone pulpit preachers.

I am from The Beatles, Alan Jackson, and 38 Special. From Reader’s Digests on the backs of toilets and Nebraska Life on coffee tables.

Though I keep these values, I am now stomping out my own path in a classroom filled with ninth grade students in the Cowboy Capital of Nebraska—my life before me like an open highway, my right hand on the steering wheel and my left out the window grasping for whatever comes my way.