by Dan Gediman
Make It Do
Patricia Anderson
The simple life I live comes easy for me. It’s a family tradition. I remember listening, as a small child, to stories my parents told of surviving the Great Depression—tales of the deprivations they endured and the sacrifices the family made. My father was lucky to have a job, but he walked twenty-six blocks from his home to his office to save a nickel in carfare. My mother stopped putting sugar in her coffee, and she learned to cook without meat. My sister wore mended clothes to high school. And they say my grandmother counted the lumps of coal put into the furnace each day. It was a time of staying close to home and learning to live with what you already had and being thankful for whatever that might be.
When I was growing up in another time of economic hardship, World War II, there were more sacrifices to be made. My father went for years without a new suit. Mother still had no sugar for her coffee, and we were, by then, vegetarians. My sister went without nylons, and I wore hand-me-downs to elementary school. We had no tires for the car. And so, once again, we stayed close to home and “made do.” It seemed the lessons of the Great Depression served us well during wartime. And they serve me well today.
My mother made a little painted plaque to hang in our kitchen that spelled out this philosophy for living. It hung right above the drawer where we saved string and tinfoil.
Use it up.
Wear it out.
Make it do.
Or do without.
This is how I live. Today I have a small mobile home with a tiny yard. I cut the grass with a rotary mower, and I grow vegetables in a nearby community garden. I walk, use public transportation, or carpool. And I reuse or recycle just about everything.
There are many people in this country who enjoy a life free from money worries. But not all. Poverty and desperation exist in America. And poverty is rampant in the rest of the world. Here at my home in Oregon, my motto is “I live simply, so others may simply live.” My mother’s words of wisdom still guide my choices today.
I believe my small efforts to protect the planet, save scarce resources for others, and enjoy what I am fortunate to have will make a difference. Small efforts on my part can make a big difference to someone else.
Patricia Anderson is a retired social worker, aging hippie, part-time writer, and knitting addict who moved from the Ozarks to the Pacific Northwest to be closer to her children and grandchildren. The author of a book of essays called Down Home Musings, Ms. Anderson lives in Wood Village, Oregon, with her two Labradors and one kitty.
Grace Is a Gift
Laura Durham
It doesn’t always make sense to me, but when ambiguities such as grace and love manifest themselves, I’m moved by the clarity they bring.
The spring I was in the third grade, my teacher planned activities to celebrate the season. For weeks I looked forward to making treats and dying eggs. I remember telling my mom how much fun it was going to be, and I imagined what colors and designs I would choose. Before the big day, my teacher told us to come to class on Friday with a hollowed-out egg. We were also told to bring our spelling test signed by a parent, and if we didn’t, the teacher warned, we would sit out from the activities.
At nine years old, I was the perfect student. I was studious, I was obedient, and I was responsible. So when I forgot to bring my spelling test that Friday, I was devastated. I knew what the consequence would be. When my class jumped from their chairs to collect art supplies, I sat still at my desk examining my perfect, hollowed-out egg, fighting the inevitable tears.
It wasn’t long before my teacher pulled me aside. She knelt down and told me I should join the rest of the class. With tears in her eyes, she told me I could bring my spelling test on Monday. And then she gave me a hug.
I couldn’t believe it. My disappointment disappeared with this unexpected gift.
Twenty years later, I still remember that moment. Even though I fell short of what was required of me, my teacher graced me with love and understanding. She could have stood her ground and let me sit out as an example to the other students, but she knew punishing me for this small mistake wouldn’t teach me a new lesson. The lesson I learned that day was how much grace can lift someone’s spirit.
Yet, I seem to have a hard time grasping grace in my life. I sometimes subscribe to the idea of karma: what goes around comes around. But then I remember that balancing a behavioral checkbook is detrimental to my happiness. If I’m constantly keeping count of what I feel I’m entitled to, I may never be satisfied. If I’m blessed beyond what I deserve, I might never feel worthy. I must remind myself that I know better. Not everyone is punished for breaking the rules, just as not everyone is rewarded for their efforts. Life may not be fair, but when I think about it, more often than not I’m on the fortunate side of the imbalance. And this moves me to offer the same grace to others.
I believe in being gracious to others, and I believe in accepting others’ graciousness whether I’ve earned it or not. Sometimes you are blessed simply because someone loves you. And that is why grace is a gift—not a reward.
Laura Durham lives in Salt Lake City, where she works for several arts organizations, including the Utah Arts Council, the Salt Lake Gallery Stroll, and 15 Bytes, a visual arts e-zine. She also sings with the Utah Chamber Artists. Ms. Durham enjoys music, cooking, traveling, writing, and sharing stories with anyone who has the patience to listen to them.
The Sisterhood of Roller Derby
Erin Blakemore
When I first stepped onto the rink, I had no idea that by strapping on some pads and snapping a helmet into place I’d be taking a step toward changing my whole life. Now I know better.
They’re secretaries and moms by day, but every woman who walks through the door of the Wagon Wheel roller rink has an alter ego. Sure, they masquerade behind funny names like Rockett and Ivona Killeau, but every skater in my roller derby league is an athlete in disguise, a rough-and-tumble, hard-core wonder woman who doesn’t fear putting her body in danger on a daily basis.
At first I didn’t think I would fit in. What does a bespectacled geek really have in common with a bunch of mean roller derby babes? To me, they were pinups on skates—sexy, powerful women with something to prove. That was before I started the grueling ritual of skating drills that taxed my body and my mind to the outer limits of endurance—and changed my insides to go along with my newly muscular frame.
Through months of training it became clear: I was unstable on my skates, but that wasn’t my only problem. I was too inhibited, a buttoned-up woman on the verge of a quarter-life crisis. I had just moved to a new state, ready to start a new life. Joining the roller derby was just another move in a long chain of flustered and floundering attempts to redefine myself in terms of what I could be rather than what I did for a living.
And I found I wasn’t alone. Through divorce, death, and bankruptcy, lost jobs and lost boyfriends, the women of the Denver Roller Dolls are there at the rink four times a week beating each other up—and building each other up. My roller persona, Audrey Rugburn, is no different—she doesn’t take no for an answer. She’s tough and selfish and undeniably strong. And before too long, her power started bleeding into my everyday life. I’ve gone from mistrusting my own instincts to knowing true confidence.
Some dismiss the roller derby as campy sports entertainment that’s past its prime. Others think that just because I skate in fishnets it’s not a real contact sport. But I laugh at these critics and others who have reared their ugly heads in the year since I’ve begun my transformation from doormat to derby queen. With the sisterhood and support of fifty other women, I know that whatever life flings my way will be skated over with pride and flair. After all, my alter ego is buff, brash, and rarin’ to go—even when my insides quiver like a set of sore thighs.
Sometimes, life’s scariest changes start with a bold external transformation. I’ve become one with Audrey Rugburn, a persona I trust, because she taught me to never doubt mys
elf.
That’s why I believe in roller derby.
After cofounding the Denver Roller Dolls, Erin Blakemore hung up her skates in 2007. She lives and works in Boulder, Colorado, where she cheers on her sister skaters as a rabid roller derby fan. Ms. Blakemore’s debut book, The Heroine’s Bookshelf, was published by Harper in 2010.
Caring Makes Us Human
Troy Chapman
When the scruffy orange cat showed up in the prison yard, I was one of the first to go out there and pet it. I hadn’t touched a cat or a dog in over twenty years. I spent at least twenty minutes crouched down by the Dumpster behind the kitchen as the cat rolled around and luxuriated beneath my attention. What he was expressing outwardly, I was feeling inwardly.
It was an amazing bit of grace to feel him under my hand and know that I was enriching the life of another creature with something as simple as my care. I believe that caring for something or someone in need is what makes us human.
Over the next few days I watched other prisoners responding to the cat. Every yard period, a group of prisoners gathered there. They stood around talking and taking turns petting the cat. These were guys you wouldn’t usually find talking to each other. Several times I saw an officer in the group—not chasing people away, but just watching and seeming to enjoy it along with the prisoners.
Bowls of milk and water appeared, along with bread, wisely placed under the edge of the Dumpster to keep the seagulls from getting it. The cat was obviously a stray and in pretty bad shape. One prisoner brought out his small, blunt-tipped scissors and trimmed burrs and matted fur from its coat.
People said, “That cat came to the right place. He’s getting treated like a king.” This was true. But as I watched, I was also thinking about what the cat was doing for us.
There’s a lot of talk about what’s wrong with prisons in America. We need more programs; we need more psychologists or treatment of various kinds. Some even talk about making prisons more kind, but I think what we really need is a chance to practice kindness ourselves. Not receive it, but give it.
After more than two decades here, I know that kindness is not a value that’s encouraged. It’s often seen as a weakness. Instead, the culture encourages keeping your head down, minding your own business, and never letting yourself be vulnerable.
For a few days a raggedy cat disrupted this code of prison culture. They’ve taken him away now, hopefully to a decent home—but it did my heart good to see the effect he had on me and the men here. He didn’t have a PhD, he wasn’t a criminologist or a psychologist, but by simply saying, “I need some help here,” he did something important for us. He needed us—and we need to be needed. I believe we all do.
Troy Chapman is a writer, artist, and musician incarcerated at Kinross Correctional Facility in Kincheloe, Michigan. He has developed a system of wholeness ethics into a weekly program for fellow inmates and is the author of Stepping Up: Wholeness Ethics for Prisoners (and Those Who Care about Them).
Satisfaction with a Job Well Done
Nancy Pieters Mayfield
When I was in college twenty-five years ago, I spent four summers working in housekeeping at a luxury hotel in downtown Chicago. In other words, I was a maid. Each May, I traded my book bag and library card for a black uniform dress, a white apron, and a dust cloth.
I did not enter the world of housekeeping enthusiastically. My friends had summer jobs making ice cream sundaes, hawking accessories at the mall, or lifeguarding at the outdoor pool. I had been hoping to get a job as an office assistant for the county prosecutor: decent pay, an air-conditioned office, the gold standard for summer jobs.
When that fell through, the only option left was to join a handful of college students who took the twenty-five-minute train ride downtown each morning to work as maids during the busy summer convention season in Chicago.
It was tiring work, cleaning up to eighteen rooms a day. My poor attitude reflected my disdain for scrubbing toilets, changing bed linens, dusting, and vacuuming eight hours a day for the comfort of total strangers who rarely left a tip. I thought it was beneath me, a fledging journalist. My maid work was passable, my effort mediocre, until the day I was assigned to the eighteenth floor, which was a floor of newly renovated suites.
That was Lorena’s regular floor. The only time another maid set foot on it was on Lorena’s day off. If you left a trace of soap scum in the bathtub, a crumpled tissue under the bed, or a pillow unfluffed, Lorena would hunt you down when she returned, as I found out firsthand. She ended her lecture to me with, “Take some pride in your work.”
She did. And so did Rosalie, Helen, Annette, Pearlie, Earline, and all of the other career maids with more than one hundred years of experience among them. Their commitment to doing a good job and their belief that their work was a reflection of their character stuck with me throughout my professional career. I learned a lot from them those four summers.
Not a week went by without one of them offering some firm but friendly advice: “Where’s your commode brush? You don’t have one? How do you expect to get that bowl clean?” or “You don’t want to use that cleanser. That one will leave too much grit.” Don’t cut corners. Do the right thing.
Their pride in a job well done was reflected in how they carried themselves. They left the building at the end of the day in floral print dresses and carefully applied lipstick. They looked like they could have been attending an afternoon tea. And, most often, they were smiling and laughing, cheerfully bidding their coworkers a good evening.
Happy and content with a job well done. I believe there is respect in any job if you work hard and try your best.
Nancy Pieters Mayfield is a writer who lives in Dixon, Illinois, with her husband, Trevis. A former newspaper reporter in northwest Indiana and a journalism teacher at Saint Mary-of-the-Woods College, Ms. Mayfield enjoys reading, writing, kayaking, and cooking. Her bathroom is always spotless.
The World Is Imperfect
Suzanne Cleary
I believe in imperfection.
I have worn glasses since the age of four. My first pair had pink cat’s-eye frames with a thick foam patch covering the left lens so that my right eye, my “lazy eye,” would grow strong. Whenever a classmate made fun of my glasses, I explained the lazy-eye phenomenon. I spoke with a calm self-assurance that I still occasionally hear in myself. And when I hear it, I smile and remember that child who did not see her body as imperfect, who did not see her classmate’s teasing as other than pure curiosity.
Since kindergarten, I have learned to see imperfection. And I regularly relearn. Every time I pick up a magazine I learn how to maximize my investments, minimize my waistline, and organize my closets. Everywhere, perfection glares.
G. K. Chesterton wrote, “Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.” I may not understand him perfectly, but I think he is saying, “Go ahead. Give it a shot.” I believe in imperfection, because if I believed otherwise I would not dare to cook a meal, knit a sweater, stand up in front of a class, or write a poem. Imperfection invites me to step up to a challenge.
My art teacher says, “Hang up your bad drawings on the wall, not just your good ones. You learn more from your bad drawings than your good drawings.” Creativity risks failure, perhaps requires failure. It thrives on exploration, discovery, play.
In childhood my favorite books were joke books. I trace my love of language to reading aloud from these with my father. Imperfection often is the key to jokes. Most humor arises from incongruity, the unexpected shift in which logic or perspective goes wrong.
Here is my favorite joke: Do you know why bagpipers always march while they play? They are trying to get away from the noise.
My great-aunt Margaret Cleary Bauer also believed in imperfection. During an annual physical her doctor broached a delicate topic: “You know,” he said, “you probably would feel better if you lost five pounds.” Aunt Margaret responded, “Doctor, I am ninety-four years old. How good do I have to feel?”
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nbsp; How good, indeed. That’s the question. I can always feel better, look better, do better. I can learn more, sell more, buy more. I can do more, and do it faster. But what is the price of this perfection? Joy. I feel robbed of joy. The good, which is imperfect, becomes not good enough.
I believe in imperfection, ultimately, because I have to. The world is imperfect, and I choose to love the world. This is not easy. I believe in the bagpiper’s labored song, in lopsided eyeglasses, in children who make fun of what they don’t understand, because they teach me patience, discipline, compassion—qualities I possess only intermittently, imperfectly.
Suzanne Cleary is a poet whose most recent book is Trick Pear, published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in 2007. Her current eyeglasses have black plastic frames.
Peace Can Happen
Christine Kingery
My grandmother was born in northern Russia to a large family of fourteen siblings. She was sixteen years old when World War II broke out. Her first job was going onto the battlefields to dismantle bombs that hadn’t exploded.
She was captured by the Nazis when she was seventeen and taken to a “work camp” in Germany. They shaved off her waist-length hair and tortured her. Grandma never saw her parents and siblings again. Her mother died when Grandma was young. Her father was taken away to Siberia for political treason and never seen again, and most of her siblings died in the war.
My resourceful grandmother escaped the camp and worked for many months as a nurse in underground movements in Germany and Belgium. She was captured by the Nazis again and put into another concentration camp. This one was bigger. A death camp. There she met my grandfather, and the two escaped.