A House Built On Memories

A House Built On Memories.

I guess that's what this is.  I guess that's what all houses are made of, memories.  This lake house's span generations.  Mine and those who have lived here before me.  There are memories here of the Fourth of July, of playing cards during summer thunderstorms, catching my first fish with my grandfather, and the time I transformed the fire hydrant into a red, white, and blue soldier for the bi-centennial.  They are all here, by this lake.  The moment we step over the threshold, memories come to life and the walls listen and watch and take it all in.

And so I am in this house of benevolent ghosts.  This house has all my things now.  My parents' things are here, as are my grandparents', and even a few of my great grandparents'.  If that sounds pretty crowded, it is.  These things, and they are just things... each carries on a conversation with me, as I try to sort, donate or throw it away.  Every book, every letter, every photo, every piece of clothing shouts, "Look! Look at me! Remember!"  It is a daunting task to cram three generations of stuff into a lake cottage.

On arriving, I set out to empty closets and purge and to make space here.  But this summer saw me sitting on the floor stuck in time, going through my grandparents' stuff, unable to move forward or accomplish much of anything.  There are time bombs planted, ticking with emotion.  There are lovely memories that do not bring forth happiness, but rather a melancholy longing that for me, borders the lands of depression where I dare not tread.  So the boxes, filled with my life, are still homeless here.  They do not know how to fit in until I accomplish the task of making room for them.

My books fill the shelves though.  My most important books are downstairs, while their lesser brothers line the walls upstairs.  I have too many books.  I will always have too many books.  I made a concerted effort last weekend to start on a large downstairs closet and tackle a box, three feet high, full of papers my parents had written.  letters, cards and pamphlets from every vacation, and correspondence from the days they first met.  There was artwork from my days in elementary school and every report card from the time my brother and I started school.  Every report card?  Do I keep them?  Do I throw them away?  What if I discover the cure for cancer?  Are they important then?

I feel as though I'm living in a time capsule.  As a teen, I told my mother that coming to Iowa was akin to going back in time.  I still feel that way.  Not much really changes here.  Businesses may come and go, especially in Clear Lake, where a business must survive the non-tourist months, but entire buildings and city blocks remain in place, and if you look up above the street level facades to the second story of these two story buildings, time stands still.

I come from the heart of Silicon Valley, Mountain View, California.  I grew up there.  I was born in Palo Alto.  This area is the home of Google and Facebook.   I was taught to program computers with punch cards when I was 12.  This whole way of thinking and the industry surrounding tech started in the 1970s.  To see a building over 50 years old in Mountain View is to stop dead in one's tracks and stare in wonder.

When I was three, my family moved from Palo Alto to Mountain View.  We bought the first house in a tract home development that replaced an entire apricot orchard.  This area was known for its cherries, apricots, walnuts and other produce that grew in a land of such temperate climate.  Orchards and farms filled the valley, but by the mid 60s, were vanishing rapidly.  By 1980, the place once known as the Fruit Basket of the World had changed forever into Silicon Valley.  The last working farm in Mountain View came down in 2006 and 150 luxury homes now stand in its place.

So I have moved here, to Clear Lake, to the lake cottage that was the destination of so many fun summers.  I'll reveal my reasons for moving here in a subsequent story.  For now, I will tell you that for the first time in my life, I saw snow fall from the sky this winter, and that until now I didn't understand the meaning of the word homesick.

I understand it now.

I Will Help You

 Infrastructure is the base that we all stand on, connected together.  We are all dependent upon this.

Do people tend towards selfishness, or giving?  Is selfishness an innate survival technique or is working together and cooperating how we survive?

I seem to be running across people here in our Midwest that are now fed so much fear, hate, and repression that they themselves, fear, hate, and are repressed.

My most recent baffling conversation started out with a woman, chatting together about organic foods.  We talked about how we are inundated with pesticides in our water and food. How do we negotiate this? How do we protect ourselves in a state where pesticides have been found in 100% of the ground water and permeate every inch of soil?
We talked about how to help ourselves as much as possible by finding organic food sources in the local farmer's markets.

We talked about how, in the country, one can grow their own food, but in cities and suburbs we are dependent upon the structures that exist.  I feel that's how most people's lives are in this country, dependent upon infrastructure.

Our conversation then took an odd and dark turn. She began talking about, "when the grid breaks down."
This is how I feel.   I don't believe those are her own words. She has been fed that thought.

She went on to say we better protect ourselves against those who will "take the middle country's food stores"  and "take what's ours."  That we better have guns, and "lots of 'em" to protect ourselves and our family.

I said, "Well, it takes 2 hours by car to get here from Minneapolis and gas stations wouldn't be pumping.  There would be no food or water. I'd be on foot.  I'd never make it. Hahaha."

She replied, rather vehemently that people could go for weeks without food, all they need is water.  They could get here.

She had this whole scenario thought out, of  millions of people  pouring out of New York City and raging across our country because they would know, of course, that food would be on farms.

This mass, apocalyptic breakdown of society... this fantasy.  I think that those who feel in the least in control of their lives and economic circumstances believe this.  The more that lives are controlled by lack of decent jobs and any social support network, the more these sort of fantasies are embraced.  People need to feel in control in some way and this future zombie apocalypse is a fantasy of distraction.

I have guns.  I can protect what's mine against you.

Hobos ("and lots of 'em") use to knock on my great-grandmother's back door asking for food.  I grew up being told the stories that,  even though so many had so little, she would always have some soup, or bread, or whatever she could spare to help others.

Here, I will help you. If you need help, I will help you.

A Study in Survival

wow.
So was -13° the other morning.
If you think you read that wrong, 13 Below Zero, before wind chill factor.  I have to think in a whole new way here. As a born and raised Californian,  I have never, ever had to think about the implications of what one needs to do, know, or should have in case one's car breaks down.  I was told the story of a man whose car slid into a ditch, was knocked unconscious, and froze before anyone saw his car.  I am not cancelling my OnStar for emergency anytime soon.  They can find me even if I am unconscious.

I always loved the writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder. I loved reading about pioneers.  Struggling in the wilderness against tremendous odds sounded like one fun adventure to me. There is a book by Laura Ingalls Wilder, The Long Winter, with her family, her older sister now blind from scarlett fever, and two younger sisters, spending a winter that starts October 1st, slowly starving and running out of coal.

I am now pulling out these books and looking at them with new eyes.  These are studies in survival.

Laura lies in bed one night.  "Now she heard the Indian war whoops when the Indians were dancing their war dances all through the horrible nights by the Verdigris River.  But she knew it was only the wind."

A study in survival; they finally run out of coal and must bring hay into the "Lean-to" of the house to twist into something burnable.  This is no small feat.  Laura and her father sit together in the cold of the lean-to picking up handfuls of hay at least 2 feet long.  Twisting and twisting it, doubling it over and making these hay sticks as hard as possible so that they will burn as long as possible.  They do this until their hands bleed and they can't stand the bitter cold of the lean-to any longer.  They bring these "sticks" into the house to burn and get warm enough to go back out and start again ...for months.

On her first attempt, Laura was only able to make six before her hands were cut up by the straw.

The word has gotten to town that the supply train, now overdue by months, has no way to get there until spring.  People are running out of food and trying to leave.  And if you think (as I did) that this is the olden days, and everyone helped each other ...well, human nature is human nature, and prices on any remaining supplies are jacked up.  The general store is long empty anyway.

It is still only January.
 "February is a short month and March will be spring." Pa said encouragingly.

A man in town butchers his ox and sells it at 25¢/pound.  Pa is able to bring home four pounds.  They do have wheat seed.  Ma is able to grind it, in a coffee grinder that holds a half cup.  It is a complicated matter to be grinding and grinding, making the bread with a sourdough starter, and stocking the stove with straw sticks,  so it burns hot enough and long enough to bake bread.

There is a rumour of a man, miles away who has a stockpile of wheat.  Things have gotten so dire that Almanzo Wilder (Laura's future husband) and his friend set out in the general direction to find this person and demand his help as people are now on the brink of starving to death.

Obviously Laura Ingalls Wilder lived to tell this story.  Obviously people died from the cold and exposure, the isolation, and running out of supplies far more than I have ever given thought to. But it is sunny.  The sun streams through my east facing front windows and without that, this experience would probably be much more diificult.  Especially in the mornings.  These mornings when I think about every little thing.

A Study in Survival.  Part 2

I was living in San Francisco when the Loma Prieta earthquake hit. B and I had just turned off Van Ness Avenue to go get an early dinner. Parked cars began bouncing on either side and I did not comprehend what I was seeing. Traffic stopped and people leaned out the windows. " Was that an earthquake?"

I heard and witness a phenomenon I will never forget. The entire city shut down. It was an arching sound, a low moan, dropping two octaves to silence. Electric busses, restaurants, stoplights, everything stopped and everyone in the city was stunned into silence. We felt the best course of action was to get back to our Potrero Hill home.

As soon as we arrived, we pulled out a battery operated small B&W TV. After a bit, KRON/TV-4 got on the air with their helicopter. When they reached the Bay Bridge was when my stomach dropped and I began to realize the seriousness of this. A section of the Bay Bridge had collapsed and we all witnessed cars drive over the edge.
The helicopter proceeded to Hwy. 880. The upper deck collapsed onto the lower at the height of rush-hour traffic. At this point the ability to breath left me. Apartment buildings had sunk in the Marina, people were trapped and there were fires and death. A brick transient building collapsed killing nearly everyone in it.
One has a marvelous view of the downtown buildings and lights from Potrero Hill. Potrero Hill is solid rock and suffered no damage. There was a party atmosphere that night, all the neighbourhood was out, watching for the city lights to reappear.

It took 4 days reestablish stop lights, get back to normal, drivers were very polite. There were now closed freeway ramps all around the city that took years to repair and shore up.

The face of San Francisco changed forever. The controversial Embarcadero freeway was torn down and property values immediately soared. Broadway was no longer scary at night. The freeway that had blocked the view and thrown so many businesses and homes into shadow was now torn away, leaving the vistas San Francisco is most loved for.

So what was my point? Oh. We are all interdependent. Especially more so in our cities. To be a rugged individual in an apartment in midtown Manhattan does not have the value it may have on a farm, with sheep and crops, chopping wood, and the ability to build things.

I have always felt this interdependence will work out. I have always felt that this infrastructure which supports me will be there...
I don't have a crystal clear thought on this. Mostly people live in cities and suburbs. Mostly people need to earn money to survive in homes others have built. On food others have grown and shipped. We buy our clothes made by others. Our transportation is not the family horse anymore. Infrastructure is the base that we all stand on, connected together.

Freedom of Religion?

I think there was a clue in The Daily Show tonight of the reason Jon Stewart is leaving and it was the word "relentless."
The Relentless Hate Machine Which Churns Fear and Divisiveness. My words for Fox "news", Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, and their ilk.  Jon spoke of the unending use of the word "liberal" as some sort of catch-all for all that's not Christian and American exceptionalism, and he used the word "relentless."
And that's what I think his job is, relentless.  It must be an exhausting task to be the voice that brings light to all that is hypocritical and wrong in this country, no matter how well one does it.  No wonder he needs a break from it.

Which brings me back to the Midwest.  The kettle of paranoia and suspicion has been churned in what was once considered a fairly liberal state, Iowa.  I will put the responsibility squarely on Fox "news" and its "relentless" propaganda machine.  I see it on televisions in restaurants and homes with alarming regularity.  I wonder if people hear what they are being fed.  This churning, churning, churning of a faux outrage with an agenda fueled by the Koch brothers,  the far right, and the monied interest that has no interest in these people except to see how far they can exploit them.

In my last Midwest Diary entry, I spoke of the prayer thanking God said before each meal in the little school that I am working at.  This preschool/daycare has no affiliation to organized religion.  And this is my question.  Why?  Why do they do this?

I have already distinguished myself as some kind of free-thinker and a curious outsider.  I have had baffling and frustrating conversations about the freedom of choice, climate change, and worker's rights.

So this is the conversation I cannot have.  Why is there an assumption here that everyone is Christian and that everyone does and should believe in God?   I am learning that there are things here that I should only observe, and keep my thoughts (for now) to myself.

Thank You For Our Food

"Give me FIVE!  Give me TEN!  Put your hands together!

God is great. God is good. Thank you for our food.  Amen."

That is how meals are started at my little preschool and daycare center.  Food is provided by the Iowa Food Bank.  This food is not all that nutritionally sound, but it is something.  Children are served Cocoa Puffs and skim milk for breakfast.  A lunch may be white hamburger buns, a chicken type sloppy joe meat, and canned carrots.  Dinner is approximately the same.  Snacks at 10:30 am and 3:00 pm would be jelly sandwiches, or Jiffy peanut butter sandwiches, Ritz crackers, or granola bars depending on the day.  Snacks come with a juice box.  

Even though from my viewpoint, these foods are not very healthy, I do not see overweight kids. 

What I do see is that after about 25, people begin a decline of acquiring an unhealthy body type.  Clear Lake is somewhat of the exception as it has a populace with a bit more affluence and lake activities in the summer lend towards a healthier lifestyle overall.  

I am beginning to wonder if my school has "sick building syndrome."  Of course in the winter, doors and windows are never opened and some days I feel  as if I am swimming in a petrie dish of Legionnaires disease, what with the relentlessly sick kids and toxic chemicals teachers are required to clean with.  Yes.  Teacher's are required to do the heavy janitorial work here. This is all part of what I see as the abuse of workers in an "at will" state.  There is a very caustic floor cleaner that we expose ourselves and the children to daily. We also spray bleach all around while their delicate eyes and little noses are mere feet away.  All this could easily be handled by a professional janitor who understands his exposure, takes the precautionary steps to insure his and others safety.  I do not believe this would be a huge drain on the budget here.  30 hours/week would certainly cover it and the toys could then be sanitized on occasion too.

People are cowed into some sort of silence and desperation here.  People are resigned.  Not everyone, but it has been a long time since I have ever had a job that made me unhappy.  Stressed, yes.  Bringing home the problems and challenges of work in my head? Yes.  But this place makes me happy. 

Unless I get really invested in the place though, I will not worry too heavily about challenging "their norm."  

Today some kids were smashing their granola packs.  I basically said, "Hey, if you don't want them, give them back to me.  There are other kids who are hungry and would want them."  After a derisive snort from one of the boys, I gave them a variation of the, "There are kids starving in Africa, you know." speech.  One boy picked up on that and began to  tell me how his class had raised money for Haiti.  Another child talked about his church raising money to buy some goats for impoverished people so that they would have a source of milk.  It was gratifying. Even though a number of these kids live in what I consider poverty, I still wonder, at times, what poverty looks like. There are still refrigerators, TVs, clothes and shoes, cell phones and toys in all these situations.   We talked about being fortunate in our country in comparison to other parts of the world.

I guess that's all I can ask for right now.  That I can foster a larger view of the world for these kids.  This small town, in the center of the United States isn't all that there is.

I Only Miss My Mom When I'm Sick

This is a blog entry about my move, combined with some of what I wrote months ago.  All of it applies to right now.  I am sitting in the middle of the night, feeling adrift.  B. is right next to me.  We're listening to Wire.  I told him to shut it.  I only want to listen to Wire and write.  He totally understands.

"Interrupting my train of thought, lines of longitude and latitude. Define and refine my altitude."

Working with kids, I thought I had developed the immune system of a cement dump truck.  I thought, back in Silicon Valley, in my branded concierge tutoring situation and my private preschools, some with valet parking, that I was somehow immune to ever getting sick much.  At the sign of a sniffle, moms and nannies would come swooping in and whisk their child to the doctor.  Why did it never occur to me... I thought I was immune to a lot of things in this world, but I am learning otherwise.  

I have been coughing insanely. I took on a job at this local preschool and care center to meet kids and be involved in the community.  I decided that I do not want the emotional investment that many of my private jobs had become.  This situation allows me to be fun and creative but I am not bringing any of it home with me.  What I have brought home with me is tonsylitis, laryngitis, strep throat, and a case of bronchitis that partially derailed my last trip to Manchester.  This cough has kept with me since November.  It now wakes me out of a sound sleep and I am alarmed enough that I will have this looked into in a couple days.  I am a healthy person. I feel I am healthy, but there is an unease to this that is becoming disconcerting.   I eat right (mostly) (hey chocolate!) and I go to the gym.   I love to bike and I am one of the few teachers who actually plays and runs around with the kids.

These kids come to school sick.  There is nowhere else for them to go.  Parents work two jobs. The policy is that kids do not have to leave unless their temperature hits 102 degrees.  Iowa is an "at will" state.  People are hired at their own risk.  If they miss work one too many times (which often means twice) for the health of their own child, they will just be fired from their job with no recourse.  I have sat with children who are lying glassy eyed and coughing on mats wondering what the hell is wrong with our country.

I do not like these feelings.  I do not like what wells up when one does not feel well.  I do not particularly like nostalgia.  Melancholy borders the land of depression.  All these things I avoid and I wonder how people look at pictures of dead family members and stay happy.  So why the hell am I in this house?  Why did I choose to move into my grandparent's house that is so full of memories? Benevolent ghosts, happy to see me, but I am not sure I am happy.

This is the middle of the night speaking.  This is all the darkness that we, each and everyone of us have to endure.  I know that.  I know that if I tell my truths out here, I am not alone.

My mom did the whole great thing of making a place with blankets and pillows on the couch for me. I would watch cartoons in the morning, then gameshows like Monte Hall's Let's Make A Deal. TV got boring after that until cartoons kicked in again at 3:00. She would bring me soup, poached eggs on toast, or juice, maybe cereal. If I could not stop coughing, she would give me a tiny cordial of creme de menthe. It was strong but did the job.

Even though I gleaned at a young age that her first choice was not to be a mom, she did it well. She was the first woman to graduate as an electrical engineer from NMSU, she worked with Clyde Tomboe, the scientist who discovered Pluto, she worked on missiles at White Sands Proving Grounds where she and my father decided they would no longer work on weapons of destruction and moved to Palo Alto, CA. 

She chose safety. She took an easier path and I don't blame her. She struggled uphill against the norm since she was a kid and it must have been exhausting. I don't blame her anymore for choosing the other road.

I miss her now. I want one of her poached eggs on toast.

What Are People Worth?

This blog is a tool for me to sort out how I feel about my move from Silicon Valley to our Great American Midwest.  I also will be writing about the people I meet, my impressions of the culture and economy, and my dismay that although, intellectually I realized I grew up my entire life in a bubble, I am now where opportunity and job growth are not a given.  It has all given me a lot to think about.

I saw an interesting thread on Facebook recently that talked about raising the minimum wage and specifically referencing fast food chains.
Some of the comments were, "Working at McDonald's wasn't meant to be a career." and "You only get minimum wage? Get a better skill set."

I was at the Mason City branch of my preschool/care center.  I had a roomful of 2 1/2 to 3 year olds and I came in from noon to 5pm.  On a Saturday, this is no specialty art class, or music enrichment, or social play club like I would be doing in Palo Alto, Ca.  Some of these kids had been there hours earlier than me and we will call it what it is, daycare for working parents.

A mom came in with some sort of uniform to pick up her kids and at first glance I thought she was a lab technician, only to realize the uniform was for a fast-food outlet.  The thought that went through my head was, "omg. How can she raise kids on that salary?"

Job economy in Silicon Valley is separated along racial lines.  Typical of my upbringing, the unsaid thought process was, "No self-respecting white person would work at McDonald's." and a whole slew of other jobs that seemed beneath everyone there.  But here, the jobs and opportunities of Silicon Valley don't exist.  Here, there is no Hispanic population looking to better their lives by taking the lesser jobs.  Here, people live their entire lives working in restaurants and stores, doing things like yard work and house cleaning as their "career."

It is a whole different mind set.  There is a small amount of tech jobs here.  There is no movie and television industry.  I am beginning to realize that these jobs, these American jobs, should support these people here who are working so hard.