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A Heartland Sojourn

6/21/2015

28 Comments

 
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It has happened again.

My husband and daughter have run away from home.

Just in case the thought may have crossed your mind, nope, they haven’t left to join a traveling Big Top.  And to be fair, I know precisely where they are; how long they’ll be gone, and even what their highway route was, and will be, coming back. 

There’s this, too: although our daughter wasn’t exactly thrilled to go on this journey, my better half was itching, bad, to hightail it out of our little town as soon as possible.  In fact, this is the third summer that he, with a vanload of other teenagers besides our kid, has driven off to a place that he looks forward to, really, really, really looks forward to going to, all year long.  (He also knows that I don’t take his get-me-outta-here attitude personally, so, we’re good.)     

They’re in South Dakota.

At this time of year, The Mount Rushmore State is hot, really hot.  It’s humid, really humid.  It also rains, a lot.  And the cherry topping the cake right now?  It’s tornado season. 

But maybe, if they were there for only a few days to see the historic monument that the state’s nickname refers to, or camp in the majestic Black Hills National Forest, or even spend some time at Wall Drug—the largest drug store in the world, honeymooners can still get a free cup of coffee and donut there—those Mother Nature inconveniences wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

But no one in this group is very interested in being that kind of tourist.

Instead, they’re all living barracks style, with many other strangers, in the town of Fort Thompson, ranked by the U.S. Census as the poorest town in the poorest county in the United States.  This hardscrabble region is also the site of the Crow Creek Indian Reservation, home to about 1,800 Lakota Sioux natives.  So, it’s here, and for a few more weeks now, where the two people I love most in the world are volunteers on a long-term Habitat of Humanity project.   

Yes, they’re building houses, but doing a lot more, too. 

Among other tasks, they make hundreds of pancakes every Sunday for a community breakfast; cart away debris and hand out sandwiches after massive thunderstorms, and cook and deliver food to those who are housebound.  Each year, too, my daughter has galloped across the plains on horses who are direct descendants of war ponies, and last summer, she learned to bottle feed a newborn calf.   As it turns out, she’s also a natural equestrian, riding bareback most of the time with only a halter, so she might even be called on to be a real cowgirl on a real cattle drive. 

To be brutally honest, the initial attraction of South Dakota wasn’t born out of altruism, at least for me.

Rather, it was to find a long term, community service project that my high school daughter could take part in.  It had to be domestic because our budget can’t accommodate a fancy overseas trip.  And, it also had to be something that would show potential colleges that she could be both committed and consistent to one project over a period of several years, something that admissions officers now look for, especially with kids like mine who aren’t straight A  students. 

The fact that Crow Creek is under the Habitat for Humanity umbrella made the idea that much more attractive.    

But something unexpected, and magical, happened to my husband along the way.

“It’s the Ikce Oyate, which means ‘ordinary people’ in the Lakota language, who keep drawing me back,” he says. “Simply put, they’re a people who define the word ‘disenfranchised’—a people whose life experience is wrought with the despair of the belief that no one cares. 

 “Well, I care!  And the students who travel there with me have learned to care.

 “We, too, are Ikce Oyate, and we love our brothers and sisters.”  

That's a pretty powerful statement—and perhaps my husband has this sort of passion because his great grandmother was a full-blooded Shawnee native. 

He has never known her name, and he has never even seen a photo of her, but he still remembers, with perfect clarity, his father’s instructions about her.  

Never, ever, he repeatedly told my spouse as a child,  tell anyone he had “Indian blood” for fear of being turned down to buy a house; attend a school of his choosing, or even get a bank loan (it’s reprehensible that every one of these scenarios was commonplace mere decades ago). 

So, maybe, serving at Crow Creek provides a means for my husband to not only connect with his past, but in a tiny way, the work here makes up for the shame his family carried around not so long ago.  

But I have also come to believe that my partner’s desire to serve the Lakota goes much deeper. 

More, it has to do with what’s in his very core (and one of the many reasons I adore him).  And that is this:  the honest desire to serve—after all, he is a teacher by profession and has been for decades—and the immense satisfaction he receives from giving to others.    

For now, I’m in charge of the home front. 

We have three big dogs to feed and brush and love; there’s a house and yard to sweep and dust and water, and without fail, bills to pay. I usually pick up some extra cash writing at this time of year as well, something, of course, that wouldn’t happen if I went to Crow Creek.  And, to be perfectly candid here, it’s also my time to see some over-the-top romantic movies, and dine at a few serious foodie restaurants that my husband is, at best, lukewarm about visiting.  

Still, every year, despite the heat and humidity and tornadoes, and despite the fact that I’d be sleeping in a bunk bed and living out of a suitcase for a month, there’s something about this journey that is slowly calling to me.

Maybe, next summer, I’ll be hiring a house sitter. 

What sorts of community service projects have you done, and which ones have especially touched your heart?  I hope to hear from you! 

p.s. To find out more about this very special Habitat for Humanity project, visit www.dacokatipis.org. 

 

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28 Comments

My Neon Vest Life

6/6/2015

41 Comments

 
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No, not bullet holes! These punches made on purpose to make the sign easier to hold in the wind.

Those who have known me for a very long time, as well as friends just learning about yours truly from this blog, are aware that I’m a journalist and foodie, as well as a wife and mom.  And once upon a time, I was Celery, the Ringling Brothers trained circus clown who juggled with scarves while balancing on a rolla-bolla; played a beribboned violin, and balanced a peacock feather on my nose. (My husband is adamant that I will always be a clown, but, that’s another post for another day.)

From time to time, though, this girl clown wears another job hat that most of my chums don’t know about.

It requires a neon orange vest.

Be advised that this particular occupation won’t work if being outside on cold mornings is a deal breaker.  It’s also a gig that’s an absolutely terrible fit for those who hate smiling and waving.  Most of all, it’s not a position for folks who are incapable of giving directions, especially to small children.

You see, a few times every month, I’m called on to be a grammar school crossing guard. 

Besides wearing the baggy yet festive vest, which sports equally blinding yellow trim, there’s also an old-fashioned, wooden handled stop sign I foist up high. Comfortable sneakers are a definite plus, and in the wet foggy mornings 
we get around here, a warm hoodie, knit cap and scarf complete the look.     

I began this work a little more than five years ago, when my little family moved to the sweet beach town where we 
now live.

Money was tight. 

My husband’s once-thriving business had taken a spectacular nose dive; our big dream house was abruptly foreclosed on us, and I was between the lucrative television show jobs I still land every once in a while, thanks to the miracle of telecommuting.  I knew I wanted to be at home for my then 10-year-old daughter, but I also knew that even a little extra dough in our bank account would be more than welcome. 

So, when I saw the notice to be a substitute crossing guard (as well as doing occasional lunchtime yard duty) at the school six blocks away from the house where we were now living, I jumped at the chance.  I wouldn’t have to buy new, fancy work clothes, and I could still be home for my child, who was not thrilled about our unexpected move. 

But mainly, it was a job that yielded a paycheck, so I swallowed my pride and applied.  Although I wouldn’t be in a classroom, I’d still be in contact with children, so I had to be fingerprinted and take a TB test, too. 

I gamely went through every hoop, and was finally hired a few months after first hearing about the job.

What I didn’t know then is how much I’ve grown to love, absolutely love, wearing the neon vest.

These days, the paycheck is nice but not needed quite as much as before.  What that means is that I no longer have to get up early on those days I’m called, and I no longer have to work the afternoon shift, either.

Except here’s the thing: I want to.

Maybe it’s because everyone loves crossing guards.

Rough looking men who drive testosterone-fueled trucks; moms full of little ones in common sense vans, and white collar folks behind the wheels of expensive cars--all of them smile and wave.  I think that’s because, much like a fireman, I’m considered one of the good guys performing a truly necessary service to the community.  And since I’m neither armed nor dangerous (unlike a policeman, especially these days), I’m also utterly benevolent and non-threatening. 

Simply put, my neon presence represents all that is good and comforting in an increasingly complicated world.

I especially love escorting little kids across the street. 

They soon learn that by me walking out first into the intersection, I’ll take the hit, literally.  I also get to teach bicyclists, skateboarders and scooter riders to always walk with their accoutrements in the crosswalk.  I let everyone know that it’s never okay to run.  With folks trying to get to work at the same time, it’s a juggling act, but maybe 
because of my past experience in that ring, I’m good at it. 

As it turns out, school crossing guards have been around the United States for nearly 100 years. 

The heartland of Omaha, Nebraska, was ground zero for the idea.  In 1923, its police department created the position after an influx in cars on its roads made parents anxious about how to best protect the children who walked to school.  Called safety patrol officers, they were assigned to that city’s busiest and most pedestrian-heavy intersections.  The concept was the right idea for the right time, and by the mid-1950s, crossing guards were working in nearly every American town. 

However, I’d be neglectful if I didn’t mention the most famous crossing guard ever. 

Neither man nor woman, she was a dog named Lori. 

Lori traveled around our country, from school to school, where she boasted a variety of tricks, including carrying a safety paddle sign in her mouth while standing on her hind legs to stop traffic. The lesson was this: if a canine of undetermined origin could be taught traffic rules and safety, so could children.  Much loved, she died in 1977 and 
was buried with special honors.      

As for me, the academic year is nearly over, which means that my vest and sign will soon be returned to their school closet home for the summer. 

But I’ll be back. 

Smile and wave if you see me, because come September, the neon vest life will, once again, be calling my name.

I can’t imagine it any other way.

What jobs have you had that ended up being something different than what you expected?  And, what memories do you have of your school crossing guard?  I’d love to read your comments!  

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The most famous crossing guard of all!
41 Comments

    Hilary Roberts Grant

    Journalist, editor, filmmaker, foodie--and a clown! 
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