Men--this is how I think of you!

This morning, I rushed to the bus stop, late for class. A man was standing there, smoking a cigarette. He smiled and waved at me as I crossed the street, and I wished him a breathless "good morning". When I sat down, I covered my nose and mouth with my hands to breathe without breathing in the cigarette smoke. I looked up, and the man was looking at me, looking concerned. "The smoke," I explained. "I have athsma." Instantly, the man threw away his cigarette. He came into the bus shelter and sat down, saying, "I don't smoke, either. I quit...about two seconds ago." That gave me pause. I thanked him, but I was suddenly cautioius. What he had said was my first clue that he was after me. The second clue was not long in following. "Are you married?" the man asked.
I was completely discombobulated. (If you don't know what that word means, look it up.) I had heard of things like this happening, but had never thought it would happen to me. Unsure what to say, I finally said, "Is that really important?" I pulled out my Bible and opened it to read, hoping that he would take the hint and leave me alone.
He stammered, "Uh...no...I mean...uh...I just meant to say...well, I don't know what to say," he finally finished. I felt like saying, "Don't say anything, then." Instead, I just started reading my current chapter of the book of Hebrews and tried to ignore him.
No such luck. "The truth is," the stranger said, "I think you're a beautiful woman."
Surprised, and maybe a little flattered, and definitely a lot uncomfortable, I thanked him again and tried to return to my reading. "So are you single?" the stranger asked.
"Um..." I stumbled, trying desperately to think of something to say. I didn't want to tell him I was single and raise false hopes, but I didn't know how to tell him I wasn't interested in any type of romantic relationship. My thoughts whirled frantically through my head, unable to form any coherent idea but discomfort and fear...and just then, to my unspeakable relief, the bus showed up. I made sure not to sit near the stranger.

Later this afternoon, a guy friend of mine greeted me in the hallway and paused to talk to me. We made simple small talk, asking each other how our lives were going. He asked what I was up to, and I told him I had just gotten out of class. He smiled and asked jokingly if I was going to relax the rest of the day. I told him about my few responsibilities, but said I would relax as much as I could. He said, "Have fun with that, kiddo!" and took his leave, grinning. We had both been smiling through the whole conversation, enjoying each other's company. There was nothing awkward, nothing embarrassing, nothing to frighten me or disconnect my thoughts. I wished the conversation could have continued.


As I left the building, and while I stood at the homeward bus stop, I pondered my conversations with and reactions to these two men. On the surface, my reactions seemed unreasonable. One man told me that I was beautiful and that he would give up smoking for me, and I couldn't wait to get away from him. The other just asked me how my life was going and made small talk, and I was disappointed when he left. Why was that, I wondered? Then I had the answer. The first man was a stranger; the second was my friend.


The stranger made it clear by his words, attitude, and actions that he wanted me, that he only cared about me because I was beautiful. What would he care what I was doing this afternoon, except as far as it included him? What would he care if I joined a choir, or went to Irishfest, or had family in Iowa? What would he care if I were a college student, a fast-rising career woman, or a waitress at Country Kitchen? What he said and what he did was sweet, but it was superficial. He was only concerned with my body. He liked it, and he wanted it, and was willing to give up smoking to get it. That's what scared me.

On the other hand, my friend wasn't chasing after me. He made it clear by his words, attitude, and actions that he wanted to know what was going on in my life, that he cared about what I did because he cared about my well-being. What would he care whether or not I was married, except as far as marriage or singleness brought me happiness? What would he care that my hair was blonde and messy (which it was)? What would he care about the color of my eyes, or the shape of my legs? What he said and what he did was insignificant, but it was good. He was concerned with my friendship, not my body. He liked me, myself, and was glad to take a few minutes of his day to spend some time with me. That's what I like about him.


Men, take note!!!

Cold and Windy Bus Stops

(I dare you to find the words "cold," "wind," or any normal synonym thereof [e.g., "chill breeze"] in the following paragraphs!)

6:00 a.m.--from home to work

In the dark, all I could see were headlights and vague shapes. As they passed my little island of light, they flashed into existence and were gone before I could notice what they were. All I knew was that they were not the bus. I stood alone, trembling, seemingly the only live creature in the world besides those lights coming down the viaduct. The bus shelter did not provide much shelter. My ankles were bitten as severely as they had been when I was walking out in the wild beast's lair; that wild beast that "stings the toes and bites the nose" in the old folk song. Still, it was enough shelter for some comfort. I didn't have to pinch my hood shut anymore to keep my throat safe. I pulled my watch out of my pocket and checked the time. I wasn't late. The bus would come. My thawing hands fluttered into my purse and pulled out my Bible. Today was a day to read out loud.

9:00 a.m.--from work to school

The cars were definitely cars now; and the trucks were definitely trucks. Mormon Coulee Road was no easy street to cross, but I made it, panting, into the bus shelter. I made some remark about the weather and then was silent. My companions, a classmate and a stranger, were as silent as I was; even more silent, for their teeth were not chattering. The warm green that shone from almost every branch of every tree was belied by the savage air. Only a few astute maple trees had unpacked their autumn clothes. I shivered in my thin jacket and slacks. The maples were smarter than I was. I mentally resolved to break out my sweaters and such as soon as I got home.

3:45 p.m.--from school to home

The long, thick, gray clouds slid through the sky like sluggish railway trains, showing a stark contrast to the solid and stationary steeple of the nearby church. The young trees planted by the roadside waved like frantic hitchhikers. My hair became nearly as animated as Medusa's, whenever it managed to escape the confines of my hood. My thin, baggy pant legs decided that they were flags, and my goose-bumpy legs the flagpoles. Meanwhile, real flags on real flagpoles tugged at their strings and reached longingly into the free air. But the air was not free. It was under the command of a powerful force: the steam in the cloudy engines, the life-force in the trees and in my thin snakes of hair, and the delusion in my pant legs. I was reassured to see the bus come around the corner and to remember that not everything was under the influence of that force. It was not unstoppable. Gratefully I boarded the bus and sat down in the warmth and the calm.

Guantanamo Bay: To Close or Not to Close? That’s Not the Question.

President Barack Obama wants to close Guantanamo, stop torture, and review the trials of the prisoners therein, all within one year (BBC)[1]. I applaud Mr. Obama’s decision since, as Jennifer Vanklausen says, the Constitution guarantees the right of due process of law (which most of the Guantanamo detainees have been denied). However, I think the suddenness of the decision is ill-advised. CNN points out that “About 250 prisoners, many of them suspected terrorists, remain in the prison.”[2] So, then, in one year, president Obama wants to review 250 trials and release 250 suspected terrorists upon the American public. A lot of the prisoners, about two-thirds, are already pleading for release and charging the government with wrongful imprisonment, according to CNN. I want justice for the prisoners, but I don’t trust them to be safely released into the U. S. A lot of people agree with me. In fact, 46% of voters polled oppose the closing, while only 36% approve. As for releasing the inmates into the United States, 75% are against that notion (Rasmussen Reports).[3] Other countries are also reluctant to accept terror suspects into their societies (Delahunt and Willett)[4]. So I think that President Obama’s decision to close Guantanamo prison was a good and just one, but a rash one. He didn’t understand how much would be involved.
[1] BBC. “Obama Orders Guantanamo Closure.” NEWS. 22 January 2009. 8 April 2009. <http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/7845585.stm>
[2] Bill Mears. “Chinese Muslim detainees take case to Supreme Court.” CNN.com/US. 6 April 2009. 8 April 2009. <http://www.cnn.com/2009/US/04/06/scotus.gitmo/>
[3] Rasmussen Reports. “75% Oppose Release of Guantanamo Inmates in the United States.” Rasmussen Reports. 2009. 8 April 2009. <http://www.rasmussenreports.com/public_content/politics/general_politics2/75_oppose_release_of_guantanamo_inmates_in_the_united_states>
[4] Delahunt, Bill and Sabin Willett. “Innocent Detainees Need A Home.” Boston Globe, Lexis Nexis. 2 April 2009. 8 April 2009.

The Bald Frog With A Wig

In the profile section of Blogger, there's a part where you can answer a random question. One question that really caught my attention was: "The children are waiting! Tell them the story about the bald frog with a wig..." I wrote a story that I really liked, but it was too long for the word limit on the random question. Here it is...

The bald frog, Titus, never came out of his mud house. All he knew of the outside world was what he saw on television. One television program in particular was about animated frogs with hair. Titus would watch that show, then look at himself in the mirror and sigh, "Not a single strand of hair! I'm different. I'm weird. I'd better stay inside, so no one will see me and laugh at me." Titus moped around his house all night, every night, longing to go outside and see the world, but terrified of the ridicule that would surely result. He often lay awake during the day (since his type of frog was nocturnal), worrying about what might happen to him if he stayed inside his whole life, eating pond plant roots that grew through his walls, and what might happen to him if he went outside. He shuddered at both outcomes: a life of boredom and an eventual unknown death, or shame, mocking, and humiliation for the rest of his life.

One day, Titus was considering his fate again when he heard a strange noise coming from outside. It was a very faint scratching sound. Titus got up and checked his walls and door. The scratching sound wasn't directly outside his house, but farther away. Titus trembled with curiosity. There seemed to be two parts of his mind: one that wanted to go out, and one that wanted to stay in. His frightened self whimpered, as it had so many times before, "I can't go out there! They'll see me! They'll laugh me out of the pond!" But the adventurous side of him replied, "They're all in bed sleeping. No one will see me. I can sneak out quietly, see what that noise is, and come back, without anyone knowing I'm even there." Titus nodded excitedly. With a pounding heart, he opened his front door.

The water was bright. It took a little time for Titus' eyes to adjust to the brilliant light of the sun. He peered around cautiously, showing only his head outside the door. No other frogs were in evidence. They must have all been asleep. Titus slipped out his front door and into the water. He heard the scratching noise again, but it was louder out here. It seemed to be coming from the bank. Titus silently swam, trembling inside, to the source of the noise. He cautiously poked his head out of the water so that only his eyes showed above the surface. His eyes widened at the sight of the scratcher. It was a fox. Titus knew what it was, since there had been foxes on the same television show as the frogs with hair. Those foxes, though, were not nearly as big as this fox! He was huge! He was beautiful, too; more beautiful than the animated ones. The golden light of the sun rippled through the orange fur of his back and gleamed on his white belly. Even the black fur of his paws shone like polished stones. The fox didn't notice Titus, hidden in the shadows of a clump of reeds. He was busily scratching himself with one hind leg. Tufts of hair flew from his energetic strokes and landed in the tall grass near the edge of the pond. Titus watched, and was suddenly inspired. The fox didn't need that hair anymore. Titus could take it! He could make a wig for himself. Then he wouldn't look weird anymore, and he could go out all the time without being afraid. The more Titus considered the idea, the more he liked it. He waited with bated breath until the fox finished scratching, drank from the pond, and slunk away into the forest.

Titus sprang out of the pond and looked frantically around for hair. The sun was sinking, and Titus needed to get that hair before the other frogs woke up. He saw several huge tufts of hair stuck to the top of the tall grass, too high for him to reach. Finally, Titus found a bundle of matted fox fur that had caught on the grass closer to the ground. He gathered it up and looked hurriedly for something to fix it to his head. An old, abandoned spiderweb caught his eye. He untwisted a few of the unsticky strands and used them to tie the hair together. Another strand looped around the hair and under his chin. Titus quivered with delight. He finally had hair! He couldn't wait to show the other frogs. With a splash, he dove back into the pond. His wig almost came off, and he quickly went back to the bank for more spider webbing. At last, he was ready. He swam down to the bottom and waited excitedly for the other frogs to come out of their mud houses for the evensong. They sang it every sunset, and it had often greeted Titus after a long and sleepless day.

As the sun slowly sank, the bottom of the pond began to open with hundreds of little doors. Frogs' heads began to pop out everywhere. Titus watched and was shocked. None of them had hair! He was mortified. After all the effort he had taken to fit in, he was different. He was weird. He tried to take off his wig before anyone saw him, but the spiderweb strands had stuck to his head when they were soaked in water. Titus groaned and turned to go back inside. It looked like he would be stuck there after all, unless he came out only when the other frogs were asleep again. Then suddenly he felt a tug at his elbow, and a small voice said, "Mister?" Titus looked down and saw a small frog, not much more than a tadpole. He still had a stubby tail left over. His wide eyes looked up trustingly at Titus, with no mocking or ridicule in them. Titus liked this little frog. He smiled down at him and said, "Yes, son?"
"I'm not your son," the small frog said matter-of-factly. "I'm Jimmy. My father is Sam Williams." He held out his hand for a handshake.
Titus smiled again and shook Jimmy's hand gladly. Then his smile faded as he realized that Jimmy's eyes were fixed on Titus' wig. Jimmy pointed at it and said in an awed voice, "What is that, sir?"
Titus gulped down rising terror. "It's hair," he managed to squeak.
Jimmy, though, didn't seem to find the hair funny. He stared at it in wonder. "Where'd you get it, sir?" he asked.
"My name's not 'sir,' it's Titus," Titus replied, getting rather annoyed with Jimmy's probing questions that threatened to expose him to the rest of the frogs. "And I got this hair from a fox."
Jimmy's eyes grew still wider, if that were possible. "Wow!" he exclaimed, too loudly for Titus' comfort. "A fox? How in the world did you get hair from a fox, Mr. Titus?" Before Titus could say anything, Jimmy rattled on, "Foxes are ferocious animals with sharp teeth! They eat frogs! You must be an incredibly brave frog, Mr. Titus!" Jimmy grabbed Titus' hand and pulled him toward a crowd of frogs, chattering, "Come on, Mr. Titus, I wanna introduce you to my friends. They've gotta see you. A frog who has hair from a fox! You're amazing, Mr. Titus!" Titus was dizzy with wonderment. He wasn't strange? He wasn't weird? He was brave and amazing? Before they could get to the other frogs, though, the other frogs had risen to the surface and were beginning the evensong. Jimmy looked disappointed. "We're late," he said. "I guess I'll have to introduce you after the evensong, Mr. Titus. The director hates to have the song interrupted."
Titus smiled at his new friend. "That's all right, Jimmy," he said reassuringly. "I don't need to meet them right away. Why don't you go sing with your friends, and I'll wait over here until the evensong is over?" Jimmy nodded happily and swam over to his friends. Titus sat on the bank and watched. He had never seen the evensong, or the sunset, before. How much beauty he had missed while he was hiding in his house! The frogs were all so different, with different looks and different voices, but they all sang together in perfect harmony, praising the Creator of the world. The sunset was more colorful than anything Titus had ever seen, even on television. The sun itself was hidden by the trees of the forest, but above them were numerous clouds of pink, orange, and yellow. The sky itself turned from gold in the west to purple in the east by soft gradations of color, going through green to blue to indigo. Titus sighed with rapture.

After a little while, Titus noticed that the evensong was changing. Only the older frogs were singing now, and the little frogs, like Jimmy, were slipping out of the chorus to play. They went off a little distance from the others and splashed and laughed in the shallows. Jimmy seemed to have forgotten about Titus. At any rate, he wasn't introducing him to his friends. Titus sighed with loneliness. He'd found a friend, but it seemed that he'd lost him again. He cast his eyes around the pond and was surprised to see how dark it had become while he was watching the sunset. Then he caught a glimpse of a sudden movement in the grass. A flash of orange fur was revealed by the waving blades of grass. Titus jumped up and looked closer. He could vaguely see the dim outline of a fox. It was pressed low to the ground, and staring directly at Jimmy and his friends. With a stab of horror, Titus remembered Jimmy's words: "Foxes are ferocious animals with sharp teeth! They eat frogs!" Titus was frozen in place for a split second. Then he knew what he had to do. He leaped into the air and yelled, "Swim away! Fox! There's a fox coming!" The evensong abruptly ended as the frogs scattered, rushing to the deeper reaches of the pond. Jimmy, though, seemed paralyzed by fear. He was standing in the shallows, staring with glazed eyes at the huge orange creature that appeared out of the tall grass. The fox raised a paw, and Titus saw one of the adult frogs cover her eyes and weep. Titus leapt forward toward his young friend. He landed between Jimmy and the fox, waving his arms and yelling, "Don't you dare eat my friend Jimmy! Eat me, if you dare! I'm Titus the fox-haired frog! I took the fur from a fox's own back to wear as a wig! You won't touch my friend!"
The fox sat back, surprised. He looked quizzically at Titus. He leaned forward and sniffed at the wig. Some of the hairs slipped out from under the spider webbing and went up the fox's nose. The fox sneezed three times and looked distastefully at Titus. He turned around with disdain and sashayed into the forest. That weird frog could be someone else's breakfast!

Titus went limp with relief. The water exploded behind him as the other frogs rushed forward to cheer and congratulate him. Jimmy and his family were first by his side, hugging him and thanking him with glad tears. The director of the choir declared that he had never been so glad for the evensong to be interrupted. Jimmy didn't need to introduce Titus to his friends. Everyone wanted to introduce themselves to the brave, fox-haired frog who had saved their friend's life. Titus felt his heart swelling with pride and joy. Jimmy's hand was firmly clasped in his, and Mr. and Mrs. Williams were affirming that they couldn't do enough for him. The choir director was asking Titus what part he sang. "Tenor," Titus said confidently. He had overheard the rehearsals and performances for his whole life, and had often sung along with the tenors in the choir. The director promptly called the frogs into chorus formation, assigned Titus a place in the tenor section, and began the evensong again. Titus, the bald frog with a wig, joyfully lifted his voice in praise to the Creator, free from fear and surrounded by friends.

Another Typical Tuesday

It's another typical Tuesday.

I rush out of the second-floor Coleman building classroom, where I've just spent an enjoyable hour. As always, I'm going to be late for work. My morning class, Written Communication, never gets done early (not that I'd want it to, since it's my favorite class), and it's some distance from the second floor of the Coleman Center to the ground-level Welcome Center on the next block, where I work. I weave through classmates and strangers in the hallway and reach the elevator short of breath. On the way down in the elevator, I fix my jacket and other accoutrements for going outside. It's still the cold season of the year. Too soon for my fumbling fingers, the bell dings and the doors open. I zip my coat and put on my gloves as I walk quickly toward the door of the wheelchair ramp. Both elevator and ramp are necessary, for I roll a large black suitcase, full of books, behind me.

It's another typical Tuesday.

With a sinking heart, I realize that the weather is fair and relatively warm. As I cross the Coleman/Kumm courtyard, I brace myself for the crowd of smokers who will surely be out in this weather. I draw closer to the crosswalk and see them standing like sentinels guarding the sidewalk against the weak of lung. Sadly, such a weak one am I; an athsmatic, whose disease is aggravated by cigarette smoke. Still, I steel my resolve, pull a fold of my scarf over my nose and mouth, and surge forward. As I frantically race through the crowds of laughing, chatting, smoking students, the bitter, tobacco-filled air wafts around me and seeps through my fuzzy makeshift gas mask. I hold my breath until the last smoker is behind me. I breathe too soon. In my wild career through the cloud of smoke, it built up in front of me from the force of my going. It clings to me now, floating into my breath and setting me to coughing. I clap my hand to my mouth. It makes a much more efficient gas mask than my scarf. I inhale deeply and hold my breath again. Again, I breathe too soon. The smoke is stuck to me even as I turn the corner, coughing, hardly daring to breathe again. When I finally do breathe again, the nicotine smell is gone. The smoke has dissipated into the air. Still coughing and trying to clear my throat, I open the Welcome Center doors, with a glance at the "Tobacco-Free Campus" signs posted in the windows. I greet my coworkers with a smile, roll my suitcase to my little cubicle, and sit down at my desk. I'm still coughing.

It's another typical Tuesday.

After an hour of work, I rush to another class. This class is mostly discussion, and as such, is dreaded by all its students. This time, we discuss for about an hour and are given the other hour to research. I'm off to the library, marching through the skyway from the Business Education Center to the Academic Resource Center. I and my group spend more than an hour on the computers, trying to make some sense out of a slew of newspaper articles and an ambiguous topic. The others leave for lunch. I stay, searching and writing and searching some more. Finally, I can't take it any more. My brain hurts and my stomach growls. I walk back down the skyway to the entryway stairwell of the BEC, where a faint, stale smell of tobacco lingers. I don't know where that smell comes from. I've never seen anyone smoking near those doors. I sit down at the small table at the top of the stairs, determined to rest my mind by simply experiencing the tangy, chewy sweetness of a creamy-peanut-butter, blackberry-rhubarb-jam sandwich. As I eat, I greet the occasional classmate or professor who passes through the entryway stairwell. Soon I join them, going back into the BEC and down the elevator to the basement.

It's another typical Tuesday.

With other early-arriving classmates, I stand at the door of the locked classroom until a kindly janitor takes pity on us and lets us into the room with chairs. I wearily sink into the cushioned swivel chair and take out my necessary papers. Students trickle in. A few minutes after the class is supposed to start, the professor enters. None of us minded the delay. We have a test this afternoon. First, we ask any questions we need to ask about the homework and such. As usual, I'm jumping into every discussion, no matter how tired I am, trying to be the teacher's assistant. Should I keep my mouth shut? Is it possible? Oh, well, now the test starts. The room is immediately silent, except for the scratching of pencils and the clicking of calculator buttons. The occasional whispered question interrupts the quiet, but everything is still muffled in test stress. A few finish early and leave. Then I finish early and leave. With relief, I pack my suitcase and drag it back to the elevator. I love the class, but after a long day of school and work, I'm glad to be on my way home.

It's another typical Tuesday.

I fight the buffeting wind on my way to the bus stop. I left just in time to catch the next bus. There it comes around the corner! I pull out my student ID card and hold it up for the driver to see. I push the pulling handle of my suitcase down and drag it onto the bus by its other handle. I look around for a seat. A score of long-day-of-work faces stare at me. I hitch myself and my suitcase toward the back and--oh, rapture!--I find a seat. I relax, letting my face go somber, like the faces of my near neighbors. Other passengers talk, listen to music on headphones, or read. Most, like me, simply stare blankly out the window, the better to see their stop when it comes. Finally, we reach my neighborhood. Someone else pulls the cord, and I pull myself (that is, my accoutrements) together. Soon I'm tumbling down the short steps and out onto the sidewalk, making sure that I'm a good enough distance from the bus before stopping and pulling out the pull handle on my suitcase. Once, I was almost run over because I stopped too soon. I trudge wearily, but gladly, homeward. I drag that ubiquitous suitcase up the steps into the front porch and unlock the front door. With an immense sigh, I call out, "I'm home!" Whoever's home comes to greet me, and I shed my accoutrements gladly. I relax until I remember what homework I have. It usually takes me until late at night to finish everything. Then I drag myself through the ritual of getting ready for bed, set my alarm an hour later for Wednesday, and pull the ancient cord to turn off the light. I daydream until I really dream.

It's been another typical Tuesday.

Definition of peace

There are two different kinds of peace: peace with others and peace within oneself. Peace with others might be defined as “The absence of war or other hostilities,” or “Freedom from quarrels and disagreement; harmonious relations,” as thefreedictionary.com says. Under this category falls peace between nations, between family members, and between humans and other beings. We talk of living at peace with God, at peace with nature, and at peace with situations, in this way. Peace between nations is a cause for which many people have striven, as evidenced by the many quotes I found about it. People have taken many sides on the issue of world peace. Some say it is impossible, others that it is imperative. For example, Bill Clinton said in 1997, “The real differences around the world today are not between Jews and Arabs; Protestants and Catholics; Muslims, Croats, and Serbs. The real differences are between those who embrace peace and those who would destroy it; between those who look to the future and those who cling to the past; between those who open their arms and those who are determined to clench their fists.” Herbert Hoover said that peace between countries had to be preceded by peace within oneself: “Peace is not made at the Council table or by treaties, but in the hearts of men.”

Peace within oneself might be defined as tranquility, repose, calmness, or a lack of stress. This kind of peace can also be possessed by a place: e. g. “the peace of a mountain resort,” an example from dictionary.reference.com. It is this kind of peace—stillness, quietness, and calmness—that people are arrested for disturbing, and that people want after a hard day’s work. It is this kind of peace that a guilty conscience does not allow. As George Eliot said, “I could not live in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God.”

Summary of Ge Vang's Thursday presentation

College drinking in La Crosse is a problem. So says Ge Vang, Western Technical College’s AODA counselor. Mr. Vang came to our class yesterday morning and presented us with much information about college-age drinking in this city. He began with a YouTube video of a Milwaukee news story about the La Crosse river drownings. In that video, the news anchors interviewed several students who claimed that a serial killer was luring their peers down to the Mississippi and pushing them in. These students loudly proclaimed that they were drunk, but that being drunk wasn’t enough to get them down to the river and falling into it. According to the police and other authorities in La Crosse, though, the only link between the eight recent drownings was a high blood alcohol level. All eight victims had blood alcohol content at nearly three times the legal driving limit of .08. Ge Vang also presented a slideshow of statistics on college drinking in La Crosse and in Wisconsin as a whole. The slideshow pointed out that Wisconsin ranks number one in the country in the number of alcohol users, DUIs, and binge drinking. In La Crosse, it said, twenty-four people have drowned in the Mississippi in 30 years. Many more statistics referred to the numbers of young people who are killed or injured because of alcohol use. After the presentation, Ge Vang gave us time for questions and answers. He stressed the importance of knowing one’s limits when consuming alcohol, and putting safety and health first.

A Fake Letter

Have you ever felt the pangs of hunger and known that you could not satisfy them? Have you ever looked into the face of one whom you love and been forced to deny them a slice of bread because there was none in the house? If so, then you know the plight of hundreds of families in this county right now. Usually, when a poverty-stricken family runs out of food, they can find relief at the local food pantry. Now, though, there are so many hungry families that the food pantries themselves are running out of food. Our college is taking action. On Friday, March 27th, there will be volunteers in the cafeteria with boxes to collect non-perishable food items for all of our local food pantries. When you come into the cafeteria on that Friday, with your stomach growling, please don’t just complacently feed yourself. Bring cans and boxes of non-perishable food, and feed the hungry families of La Crosse County!

A Good Accountant

A good accountant must be ethical, accurate, and dedicated. These qualities are hard to maintain in the handling of other people’s money, where temptation to fraud and negligence is strong. However, the consequences of poor accounting decisions can be grave, for both the accountant and those he or she serves. For example, if an accountant acts unethically and falsifies accounting records, a failing business might be misrepresented as a successful business, and investors would continue to invest in it. They would then lose their investment when the business finally failed, and the persons responsible for the fraud could be faced with monstrous fines and long prison sentences. The accountant’s reputation would suffer, as well; he would find fewer clients who would trust him with their money. Inaccuracy in accounting also has negative consequences. If an accountant makes a mistake as simple as putting an extra zero on the end of a dollar amount, then the business’s accounts will not balance and their checking account might become overdrawn, which could result in bounced checks and high bank fees. Accounting also requires dedication and hard work. If the accountant is careless, and misplaces important papers or procrastinates on a task, then the business might endure late payment fees or be unable to collect payment from a customer. I have reaped the consequences of procrastination in my personal finances. When I neglect to record and plan my financial activity, I find discrepancies in my records, and have piles of papers to analyze and file. Even worse, I don’t know if I’ve misplaced or forgotten something important, or if someone has stolen from me while I wasn’t paying attention. To search out the documentation of financial transactions, to proofread and correct every single stroke of the pen, and to get everything done on schedule, requires much time and effort. A good accountant, though, will devote himself to the task in order to serve the best interests of his clients.

Winter beauty

Last week, when the snow was falling again, I missed the bus to school. I sighed. Oh, well, I could still walk to school. It wasn’t too far, and I could easily get there in time for class. As I relaxed my frantic steps and slowed to a leisurely stroll, I was free to notice my surroundings. Snow filled the scene. It muted, calmed, and softened the world around me. The buildings and sidewalks on which it lay seemed at peace. With grateful eyes I watched the new, clean, soft snow cover the old, filthy, jagged ice from sight and touch. I turned the corner and stepped on a white carpet of snow. My footprints would be the first in the snow on this stretch of sidewalk. As I made those footprints, I refreshed my weary vision with the sight of pure, smooth whiteness. For so long, it seemed, I had been trudging through a wilderness of dingy, dirty brown and gray that stained my boots and suitcase wheels. Now I washed my boots with every step, and the fresh snow hid them from the constant mud. I pulled down my fuzzy orange scarf, breathed in the crisp, cold winter air, and smiled. I was actually glad that I had missed the bus.

A Mutual Friend

Last week, I was eating my lunch in the campus cafeteria. At my round, gray table was a girl that I didn't know. For a long time, we sat and ate without speaking to or even looking at each other. Suddenly, one of my friends came to the table and greeted me warmly. The other girl looked up. "You two know each other?" she said. It turned out that we both knew my friend. She introduced us to each other, and we three had a wonderful time of chatting together. The other girl was beautiful, smart, and friendly, and shared many of my opinions, but I would never have known any of that if our mutual friend had not come along.

A few days later, I was again sitting in the cafeteria, eating my lunch at a table with another girl that I didn't know. The same performance of concentrating intently on anything but each other's face was repeated, until the other girl, who had come before me, left. For a while, I sat alone, with a strange sense of loss. No mutual friend had come. I would probably never know who the other girl was, or what she was like. Suddenly, another girl came to the table with a smile and an outstretched right hand. She introduced herself before she even sat down. Pleasantly surprised, I gave her my hand, my name, and my smile in return. The girl sat down and began to talk freely, but unassumingly, about herself. I couldn't figure her out. I wondered if she was mentally challenged, then berated myself for thinking such a thing. Soon, I was having a great time again, chatting and laughing with my new friend. We exchanged cell phone numbers and parted in warmth and friendship.

Later that afternoon, riding home on the bus, I thought back on that meeting. I would never have had the nerve to speak first. Even now, I thought, glancing around at the people on the bus, I don't even dare to make eye contact for more than a millisecond with anyone I don't know. What am I so afraid of? Am I afraid of what people will think of me? After all, I thought that my new friend's childlike openness bespoke the mind of a child. Maybe I was afraid that people would think the same of me. But isn't it desirable to be open, frank, and unafraid of other people's opinion? It may be so, but the fact remains that those are childlike qualities. As children become adolescents and then adults, they become fearful of their peers' possible negative opinion, or the harm that could come to them if they reveal themselves to the world. Of course, some people are more shy and cautious than others, while some people never lose their natural friendliness. After meeting that exceptional young lady, I'm trying to get some of mine back. Hopefully, the next time I'm faced with a shy stranger, I won't wait for a mutual friend to introduce us.

The Lord of My Ring

I woke up slowly to the gleam of the December sun through my grandmother’s salmon-colored window blinds. I stretched myself comfortably. It was the second week of Christmas vacation, and I had nothing to do today but relax and have fun. I took my glasses out of my purse and put them on. My other early morning items, my watch and purity ring, were in the candy pocket of my purse. But no, I suddenly remembered, my ring was in the pocket of the jeans I had worn yesterday and planned to wear again today. I was glad I had remembered that fact. This was my second purity ring, my second tangible symbol of the promise I had made to stay a virgin until marriage. My first such ring had been real pearl and silver, with diamond chips, and had been stolen when I carelessly left it in a public restroom. My current ring was black and silver, a much cheaper ring that I had bought at a fair, and I had already misplaced and recovered it twice. I was being much more careful with it now, wearing it almost all the time and carefully placing it in my pocket or beside my bed when I had to take it off.

I stretched again and reached over to shake my sister, who shared the room and the double bed with me. “Wake up, Karis!” I said. “Remember, we’re going to Grandma’s house today!” We were staying with our dad’s mom, whom we called “Oma,” and today we planned to visit our other grandma across town. Karis grunted and groaned and said she was tired. I knew she’d get up eventually. I sat up and put on my watch, saying to no one in particular, “I’m going to take a nice, long shower.” I reached for my jeans, which lay in a confused heap on the floor between the wall and the bed. I picked them up haphazardly and swept them out of the crevice in which they lay. As I did so, I heard a clattering noise on the carpeted floor. I dropped my jeans without noticing them. That sound could only mean one thing. “My ring just fell down the vent,” I said in shock, staring blankly down at the grate over the heating vent.Karis sat up immediately. “Your silver-and-sable purity ring?” she said in horror. I don’t remember if or what I answered her. All I remember is that within seconds I had squeezed myself down between the bed and the wall, bruising my leg in the process, and was prying the grate out of the carpet. Karis hurriedly crawled across the bed and leaned over the edge, entering into my panic.

The heating vent was a narrow, rectangular pit in the floor. Its bottom sloped like that of a swimming pool, making a shallow end and a deep end. In the wall of the deep end there was a large round hole that led to the furnace pipe. I had heard my ring bouncing and clattering in the vent when it fell, and I didn’t see it in the rectangular pit. I was almost sure that it had rolled all the way down to the furnace. Still, I would not give up. I was not about to lose that ring again. I felt around the edge of the round hole and partway into the pipe, where it still had a relatively level floor. Finding nothing there, I delved my fingers deeply into every corner of the rectangular pit. All I came up with was dust. I slammed the palm of my hand against the floor in frustration and despair. It seemed that my beautiful and richly symbolic ring was lost forever. If my feelings had made words, they might have said, God, how could You do this to me? Why would You? Don’t You care that I’ve lost the symbol of my vow?

Karis made sympathetic noises, which I scarcely heard, from her post on the other side of the vent. She had been digging her fingers into the vent as well, and had also been foiled. I sighed, not with resignation, but with desperation. I simply could not accept that my ring was gone. In whatever vestiges of hope I had left, I reached back into the hole, stretching my hand farther down the pipe. Suddenly I felt something smooth, round, and hard on the bottom of the pipe. My hand froze and my eyes popped. Could it be? I frantically felt it more thoroughly. It was shaped like a ring, with a bump at one point. I grabbed the object and pulled it out, holding it up for myself and Karis to see. We both sighed, this time in deep relief. There on my finger shone the familiar claddagh, the Irish symbol of friendship and loyalty, the silver of it still clean and bright. “Thank You, Lord,” I breathed. “Yes, thank You,” Karis echoed. I moved my finger away from the vent and kept gazing at my ring, reassuring myself that it was really safe. “Um, Brenna?” said Karis. I slipped my ring back on its usual finger and turned back towards her. Karis was trying to wedge the metal grate back into the floor, but the flap that opened and closed the grate kept on closing and blocking her efforts. I offered my help, and we both soon had the grate in its proper place. Karis got back in bed. I rolled my eyes and began to prepare for my shower. As I did, I was still in something of a grateful daze at the miraculous rescue of my ring. A song began to play in my head: “God is so good; He’s so good to me…”

Ever since then, when I’m tempted to feel that God doesn’t really care about my little problems, I feel my purity ring and remember how He answered my unspoken, desperate prayer. It’s like my own personal version of Jesus’ parable of the sparrows. Jesus said in Matthew 10:29-31, “Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” It’s the same for me with my ring. If God will keep my little, cheap ring from falling down a pipe, then how can I doubt His ability and willingness to take care of me?

[By the way, the ring in the story is the ring in the picture at the top of my page. There's a clearer but smaller picture of it in my profile.]

My Authorities on Garbage

Wherever I am, I follow the example and instructions of those in authority over me. This is especially true in regard to my position on garbage and recycling. My parents, with whom I am still living, allow us to trash almost everything, including metal cans that cannot be washed out easily. When I am at home, I follow their example and send most of my gargage to the incinerator to be turned into eletricity. My boss at Western Technical College, on the other hand, is a member of the recycling initiative, which has made recycling easy at Western by bringing in tall, white boxes in which to stow recyclables. At work, therefore, I recycle papers, plastics, and metal. I also help the other workers recycle by shredding their confidential papers and putting the shreds out for recycling instead of incinerating the papers. The different viewpoints of my parents and my boss are diametrically opposed, and have left me unsure of what position I should take on garbage. Since our garbage is burned for energy, and the power plant separates out non-flammable recyclables, isn't it all right to throw away just about everything, as my parents think? But if it's possible t do more than what is merely expedient, and to truly recycle as my boss does, then why would I not do my very best to care for the environment? I could research recycling plants in the area. I could even get my parents and sisters involved, and make recycling a homeschooling project. I think I will do so, and thus be able to respectfully obey the authorities over me and still think for myself.

Introducing the Modern Gondorian!

What ho, friends and family! I have now entered the wonderful world of blogging. You can expect frequent posts for at least one semester, because this blog is required for my Written Communication class at Western. I may post more often than is required, however, because of my insatiable desire to play with words. You probably all know how I thrill to the turn of a phrase, and agonize over inspirations that I have no time to express in writing. This blog may give me a good outlet for all my wordiness.

If you didn't know me well enough to know that, then welcome to my world! Here, we speak in a strange language made up of old English, modern English, and book and movie quotes. The Modern Gondorian does many random things, and may speak as a college student one day and as a medieval princess the next. If all of this has you a little freaked out, I won't be offended. Even those who know me best call me strange.

To conclude this introduction, I would like to thank Ms. Pamela Solberg for giving me this opportunity to blog my thoughts. You are a wonderful teacher, Ms. Solberg!

That's all for now. Check back next week for more from the Modern Gondorian.