Dowhill skiing in a space suit

I've always loved winter. Sledding. Snowmen. Snowball fights. The silence of a snowy woods...

But I've never understood the allure of strapping boards to one's feet and hurling oneself off of a mountain. That is to say, downhill skiing.

Please understand, it's not for lack of trying. It might, however, be a lack of coordination on my part. And, perhaps, some scars I acquired on my first attempt.

Have you...uh...

At one point in my long and illustrious college career, I thought I wanted to be a sign language interpreter. My very first American Sign Language class in college was taught by a Deaf man, Dennis -- who also happened to be gorgeous. New language. New culture. Distracting professor. Perfect.

As with any language, small nuances are all that separate one word or sign from another. A slight change in the orientation of one's hand, a raised eyebrow instead of a lowered one, or a tiny crook in a finger can completely change the meaning of what you're trying to convey.

And, as with any language, the things that stick with us most easily and permanently are the...uh...socially-unacceptable terms and phrases. The ones that could get you arrested, or even slapped in the face, if used in front of people fluent in the language.

Naturally, someone managed to expose me to a few of these, right before our midterm exam.

Mr. Niece

In my early 20s, after working for 6 years for Coca-Cola, I decided to go back to school and finish the bachelor's degree I'd barely started. I had it in my head that I should be an elementary school teacher. I loved kids, right? And I compulsively taught people things, right? (Read: bossy, annoying know-it-all who liked to play on jungle-gyms.) 

Handily, I'd become good friends with a woman who just so happened to be a lead teacher for a daycare. She graciously hired my silly self to be a teaching assistant, and I began a 6-year relationship with daycare and summer day camp. 

I wasn't not conventionally "feminine." In fact, I've always been a bit of a tomboy. My uniform: Jeans (dirty was good; torn was better), t-shirts, sneakers. My hair was long and straight, and the less I had to mess with it the better. Make-up? Seriously? Not on your life! And what does a coach have to do with a hand-bag?

Sleep depraved

My friends Jerry and Dan were hanging out in my cube at work one day a couple of weeks ago, and Dan's major contribution to the conversation was some aimless babbling, followed by a yawn. Jerry's major contribution?:

"Dan, you seem sleep-depraved."

That cracked me right up. I knew he meant "sleep depr-I-ved," but the flub was too good to go unremarked. It held a hallowed place on my whiteboard until just recently when I had to replace it with a draft of a workflow diagram. (Not nearly as interesting, but it is a work whiteboard.)

We spun off into sleep-depravity jokes, most of which involved hatchets and drooling on oneself and that sort of thing. But when I got to thinking about it, sleep depravity is nothing new. Take fiction and film.

Masters of understatement

I have a friend whose last words on this earth will likely be "uh" and "oh." No expletive or gasp or shriek. Just "uh-oh." 


Nothing freezes my heart like those two syllables falling out of Rob's mouth. "Uh-oh" is the harbinger of impending doom. Death. Dismemberment. Something that's really going to sting.


I've personally never mastered the art of understatement. I'm no hysteric, but I certainly am not one to deny myself the cathartic benefits of responding to a situation with emotional force. I believe, as Mark Twain once said, "Under certain circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer." And, so, I sometimes make colorful use of my six years of tutelage from Teamster truck drivers. (Those guys could come up with pairings of swear-words that I would never have thought of on my own.) 

Hot chocolate -- and more

by Charles L. Dilworth

I served as a Marine in my early twenties. While at Camp Lejuene I was assigned as a Duty NCO one weekend. The Duty NCO's responsibility was to keep a watchful eye on the barracks and make sure the Marines returning from a night on the town got into their bunks without doing any harm to themselves or to others. The biggest challenge was that of trying to stay awake all night. Fortunately, we had a vending machine that dispensed coffee and hot chocolate.

I was doing OK, but after about my sixth cup I decided my stomach would not tolerate any more coffee. The only alternative was hot chocolate.


I inserted my quarter into the machine and watched the chocolate pour into my cup. The force of the stream of chocolate created a layer of foam on the surface of the drink. When I removed the cup and took a sip of the hot brew, I detected a lump of chocolate which had not dissolved (so I thought).

When this lump suddenly grew legs I quickly expelled everything from my mouth.


If there is a moral to this story it would have to be this:

If you must have a late-night cup of hot chocolate from a vending machine, before you do anything else, first bang on the side of the machine to chase away the cockroaches.

Charles L. Dilworth spent much of his childhood out-of-doors, learning about the woods and the critters who populated them. He lives in Allentown, PA, with his wife of nearly 50 years.

Thrift store miracle

by Mary Beth Hetrick

It was fifty percent off day at the Salvation army. As a sociologist, watching the people shopping was facinating...after all school starts tomorrow and not all children can go to the mall, or even Kmart. Money is tight.

One family was there with a crisp 10 bill for each child, and the kids were entertained for over an hour shopping for a back to school pair of pants and top.

One girl, around age 11, was shopping with her Gram, and she begged to go to Kohls. Gram said, "Girl, you have 20 dollars so deal." The little girl tried on skirts, boots, looked at purses...nothing practical for back to school. Gram sat in a folding chair and just waited it out.

A store manager walked by this mini family drama several times and finally asked the girl what size she was. A few minutes later she came back with a pair of jeans and a top -- with the Macy's tags still on them. The look of hopeful anticipation on the girl's face brought tears to my eyes. She tried the clothes on... Glory, they fit! She looked good. She knew it. She could afford both, and the boots she had wanted earlier too. And she had six dollars left after picking out her purchases.

The girl looked at her Gram, took her arm and said, "Hey, let's get you something." They walked off arm in arm.

Some children do not have new clothes for this back-to-school time -- or for Easter or Christmas. They have slightly worn. And that angel at the Salvation Army who made a such a difference in a young girl's life with a simple act of kindness...she is going to go home tonight, and just before bed that little girl's joy will make her pause and smile.

Thank God for people like her -- and for Grams who patiently wait it out and give small miracles a chance to happen.

Mary Beth Hetrick is a sociologist and childcare specialist. She lives in a suburb outside of Detroit, Michigan, where the unemployment rate is still over 20% and where -- miraculously -- people in the community are pulling together in a breathtaking display of mutual support.

Beth is also my best friend.

What is that buzzing sound?

by Charles L. Dilworth

I guess I was always fascinated by nearly everything in the natural world. As a young boy, hardly an insect, bird, butterfly or animal was ignored by my inquiring mind. Those were the times before, DDT when the fields were practically alive with butterflies of all shapes, sizes and colors. At night, thousands of little yellow lanterns of the “lightning bugs” blinked at us. We had creatures that most people never see any more. I caught crayfish and tadpoles. I had a tadpole in a goldfish bowl. I watched it slowly lose its tail and grow hind legs, then front legs, becoming a frog. I started a collection of insects, attaching them to a layer of cotton in a small box. I found spiders of all kinds, butterflies, snap beetles, centipedes and bees.

And one time, my penchant for collecting insects got me into hot water.

Guest bloggers are coming!

Over the years I've had the pleasure of knowing folks who are able to take tiny glimpses of their lives and turn them into wonderful stories. Some of these stories are about direct experiences. Some are observations of the people and events around them.

I've asked two of my favorites to contribute to this blog. You'll soon be reading stories written by my best friend and my father. These are stories that have shaped my view of the world, the people around me, and storytelling in general. I want to preserve them, even in this small way, if only just for me.

I hope you -- whoever "you" might be -- enjoy them as much as I always have.

Warning: woman hiking alone

Getting out into nature has always been an important part of my mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. It's where I go to disconnect from my day-to-day life and re-connect with those parts of me that I hold dear. Hiking and backpacking are spiritual pursuits for me, my version of a "walk-about" or a vision quest. I learn a lot about myself while I'm pushing my body, paying attention to my senses and how they process information about the world around me. I've made important decisions about my life. I've contemplated my own humanity. I've come face-to-face with my mortality.

Because hiking is such an intensely meditative activity, I tend to do most of it alone. Conversation is distracting. The physical comfort and needs of others pull me out of myself. When I hike (or camp) locally, solo walks are fine. Folks are used to encountering someone alone. They smile, nod, move on. Hiking alone in more remote wildernesses, however, elicits strange responses from others on the trail.

I first noticed it while hiking in North Dakota's Badlands. I was exploring some of the shorter, more popular trails, and I came upon a family taking turns photographing one another. I asked if they wanted me to take a photo so they could all be in the picture together. They happily handed me the camera, and when I'd snapped the shot, the woman looked behind me asked me where my friends were.

"Oh," I told her, "I'm traveling alone."

"Oh. Couldn't anyone come with you?" she asked, clucking with solicitous concern.

"Oh, it's not that," I responded. "I didn't invite anyone to come with me."

Her smile froze in an odd expression. The rest of the family's eyes widened a little, their faces reflecting a sort of...what? Suspicion? Revulsion? And they all hurried off, glancing behind them as though they thought I might follow them. And eat them.

At Wind Cave, I joined a group tour consisting of two small families and one or two couples. One of the moms asked me if I couldn't get any of my friends to come on the tour with me. I explained that I was traveling alone. This time, instead of moving away from me as though I might infect them with my aloneness, the family "adopted" me for the duration of the tour, including me in their conversations, pointing out interesting rock formations, watching over me as though I were a lost lamb. It was sweet, but when they invited me to their campsite for dinner, I politely declined. I waved and turned my back on their murmurs of concern for my safety and well-being.

Time after time, as I hiked the Badlands and Black Hills, visited the Crazy Horse Memorial and Mount Rushmore, or just sat at a diner and ate between camps, I was either mothered or shunned. And I found it occurring on other wilderness trips. It also happened in cities. In restaurants, I would often suffer the attentions of "helpful" wait-staff who would seat me with other people or would bring other people to my table to sit with me so I "wouldn't have to eat alone."

Why? I wondered.

I noticed over time that it was not the same with solitary men I met on the trail. No one asked them why they were alone. No one worried or fretted over them. No one avoided them as though they were somehow dangerous. They were left to themselves or greeted politely with a little chit-chat about the condition of the trail or sights to see, then released back into their peaceful solitude.

Interesting.

Was a woman traveling alone somehow suspect? Did people consider me mad? Deranged? Antisocial? Did my perceived boldness imply that I was possibly dangerous?

On the other hand, was my solitude mistaken for loneliness? Was I seen friendless? Foresaken? Was I in need of social distraction? Was I someone to be pitied?

And if so, why? How could it be, in this day and age, that a woman couldn't enjoy her own company without people's taking special note of it? I know that women are generally social creatures -- connection is important to us -- but don't we all need to be by ourselves sometimes? And so what if some of us choose to hike, camp, kayak, or eat at a restaurant without companionship? Do people still believe we ought to travel in groups? Or -- worse still -- in the protective company of men?

I've never gotten answers. But I know I'm not *alone* in my experience.

While in the Badlands, I met another solitary woman, hiking up the way I'd just come. We made eye contact and stopped to chat a little. I asked if she was traveling alone. She flinched.

"Are you getting strange reactions from people when you tell them you're alone?" I asked.

She sighed and smiled wearily. "Yeah. It's like I'm diseased or crazy or something."

"It's almost worse when they try to adopt me into their families," I groaned.

"I know what you mean," the woman nodded, chuckling. "There's a reason I chose to be out here alone."

I nodded silent agreement, and we stood lost for a moment in our thoughts. Then we traded quiet words of farewell and parted ways.

Contentedly alone again.

Farewell to August -- and good riddance!

I've watered
and staked
and pruned
and pulled
and mulched

and still...
I can't stop
the relentless spread
of August

------

I recently told a friend, "I don't know what made me think I could live in Indiana." It's not that the state doesn't have its charms. Indianapolis has theater, big and small: the Indiana Repertory Theater, The Phoenix, and Theater on the Square (or TOTS, as it's affectionately known). The Dance Kaleidoscope is our modern dance troupe, and they're wonderful. Broad Ripple boasts some of the best micro-breweries in the area, including the Broad Ripple Brewpub and Brugge Brasserie (which also serves A!-MAY!-ZING! crepes).

But the heat and humidity... Ugh!

We had weeks upon weeks of temperatures in the 90s, at least three weeks of which were completely without rain. So, all of the moisture was hanging in the air we were trying to breathe while all my landscaping drooped from drought. Ironic...

Luckily, September has come to our rescue -- at least momentarily. This weekend's temperatures are finally in a comfortable zone, and I'm sleeping with my windows open and the AC off.

Tomorrow, I'll take my kayak out to one of our city parks, Eagle Creek, and paddle around the reservoir. Crested cormorants. Egrets. Blue heron. American coots. The occasional merganser. Banded kingfishers. And, apparently, a nesting pair of bald eagles.

September: the only way to halt the relentless spread of August.

Out-running bison in North Dakota

A few years ago, my friend, Mary, and I took off on an adventure to follow the part of the Lewis and Clark Trail starting in Bismark North Dakota and extending to the North Dakota Badlands.

At the end of our trip, we did some hiking in the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. I'd been to the Badlands of South Dakota -- had even done some solo backpacking and camping there -- but I'd never seen North Dakota's. They were, as advertised, stunningly beautiful.

As in most places in that part of the country, herds of bison roam freely around the park. If you keep at a respectable distance, and you don't engage in any predator-like behaviors (e.g. "sneaking up" on them to take a photo), they generally ignore visitors. Bison generally weigh between 2,000 and 2,500 pounds and can sprint at speeds of up to 30 mph. As huge as they are -- and as cow-stupid as they look -- they are surprisingly nimble, jumping fences as easily as any deer and able to turn quickly while running. (They also have creepy eyes and know physics, but that's a story for another time.)

Despite numerous warnings posted throughout our National Parks, despite rangers' attempts to save people from themselves, and despite the obvious humongousness of the beasts, several tourists are gored or trampled every year, sometimes to death. Bison are seen as photo opportunities, not as wild animals. In fact, my mother overheard a Yellowstone tourist comment, "The signs are just for show. Buffaloes aren't really dangerous. If they were, they'd be fenced in. They wouldn't be allowed to roam around the park where people go." Yep. Darwinism definitely has its place.

The thing with bison is this: They'll tolerate you. And tolerate you. And tolerate you...

Then they just get up and kill you.

Karma and the ride home

I have a Golden Retriever, Sachi. Like all Goldens, Sachi's a happy, energetic dog, and I love her for those reasons. One of the things I love best is watching her run. She's beautiful -- her long, silky hair rippling, her lean body low to the ground... I take her off-leash as often as possible so I can watch her flow around trees, leap over rocks, and stop just long enough to sniff something wonderful with her eyes narrowed to slits and her tail a still, bright flag as she deciphers the scent.

Dog-parks are great, but they're crowded and loud. So, occasionally, against the rules, I take her out to a local trail and let her and her sister, Coyote, run off-leash.

In an admittedly lame attempt at courtesy, I try to do this when it's unlikely there will be many other people on the trail. Generally, it's after dark (also against the rules) or when it's raining or extremely cold outside. On this particular day, there was a 6-inch layer of snow on the ground, and it was about 20 below zero -- a rarity for the part of Indiana in which I live -- and perfect for off-leash running.

The two dogs were having a great time, but I was starting to have a bit of a drop in my blood sugar, so I called them over to put their leashes back on so we could go home. I bent to snap the leash onto Sachi's collar when she plunked herself down on the ground and dug at her paw with her teeth. When she stood up, blood gushed from the paw. She'd apparently removed something from it -- a piece of glass from a beer bottle; a shard of ice from a puddle she'd broken through. Who knows. But the snow under her paw was quickly stained red.

Sometimes, I'm invisible

I'm out for dinner, drinking a couple of beers with a friend. I excuse myself to use the restroom, do what I need to do, wash my hands, and approach the paper towel dispenser to dry them.


Crap! It's one of those motion-detector dispensers.

I wave my hand in front of it. Nothing.

I move closer and wave again. Nothing.

I wave harder. I back up and wave. I move my hand toward, then away from, the little red light. Just as I start doing my silly little "what-a-stupid-situation" dance in front of it (cue the sarcasm), someone walks into the restroom. She's a bit startled, so I explain: "The paper towel dispenser doesn't see me."


 The woman kindly waves her hand in front of the dispenser, which obediently provides her with a paper towel, and locks herself into a stall. I dry my hands and re-join my friend.

I'm invisible to paper towel dispensers. Consistently. No matter what moves I make in front of them, no matter how hard I concentrate to be corporeal, I simply don't exist to them. Motion-detector sinks? No problem. Soap dispensers? They squirt me every time. But I'll be damned if I can dry my hands without using the legs of my jeans. There's just something about paper towel dispensers.


 Well, ok, and the occasional automatic door.

My first cell phone...and white slavery

I remember my first cell phone... No, it's not something I wax sentimental about. In fact, I got it under duress in preparation for a solo backpacking and camping trip in South Dakota's Black Hills and Badlands.

Friends were already concerned about my choice to "go it alone" in the harsh environment of the Badlands, but when Jenni noted that my trip coincided with the end of the yearly motorcycle rally in Sturgis, ND, she insisted I buy a cell phone. (And pepper spray, but that's another story.)

Me. A cell phone. Riiiiight.

Creating a brand

One of the first mistakes I plan to make out here in the Blogosphere is one involving branding.

"Branding" refers to how one distinguishes oneself, how we present ourselves to the world and what meaning we make of that representation. Think "trademarking." Think Nike and Gatorade and Disney. Think Mother Jones and The Onion and The Economist.

Branding also refers to burning a mark into something -- like branding cows or horses or other livestock.

It also means to stigmatize: "branded a fool."

Stigmas and burns are difficult to remove. They tend not to change, for the most part, leaving lasting marks -- which is probably how the advertising sense of the word also works. Changing a brand is a huge risk, a big expense. For some demographics, changes in brand is almost an expectation. For others of us, well...I just want to be able to find that blue kind of deodorant I wear, dang it! Don't go changing the packaging to yellow!

As I move along here, though, I might think the background on my blog doesn't quite fit. I'll likely learn how to use my own photos or backgrounds. I'll likely mess with fonts and colors and all the other things that might be considered "branding." I'll likely morph, change direction, go from blue to yellow. And it's highly unlikely I'll notify anyone of my intentions -- or explain my reasoning. There is creativity in chaos. "Consistency," as Michael Shurtleff writes in Audition: Everything the Actor Needs to Know to Get the Part, "is the death of good acting."

And what are we out here but actors? You might watch at the window. (I'm imagining readers, here, in my conceit.) But I'm the performer.

So be ready for costume changes, shifts in scenery, makeup artistry. The writing will be what it will be, but the set design, the lighting, the BRANDING -- well...all of that might just go yellow on you now and again.

For my first conceit...

Pardon me while I publicly figure this blogging thing out.

I'm a Luddite Lite. It's not that I believe technology has no place in our lives; it's just that I try to limit its place in mine. I was TV-free for five years, until a frustrated friend gave me the 1999 model he was replacing with a flat-screened modern marvel -- along with the little card that would allow me to purchase a hi-def converter box. When he asked me how I liked my new TV, I responded, "TV? Oh...you mean the DVD-viewer. I like it just fine." Netflix, yes. Network TV, not so much.

Until I drowned it in a kayaking mishap a couple of weeks ago, my phone was a flip-model with a little, bitty camera, and a plan that allowed me to phone ET if I wanted to, but limited me to text messages. I now have a new shiny, red phone, with one of those screens you need to pet and tap and nudge with your finger -- along with the requisite data plan for that model. "Cool!" you exclaim. "What kind of phone is it?" Didn't I just tell you?: The shiny, red kind with the pettable screen and a data plan.

I went kicking and screaming into the Valley of the Shadow of FaceBook, and -- yea! -- though I walk there, I walk there infrequently, often tripping over rules of conduct/engagement I never knew existed because I live in the physical realm. I was a Twitter tweeter for a while but have yet to find a good personal use for it. I'm LinkedIn, Plaxo-ed, and even had a little bit of "karma" going on Plurk. Dogster and I had a brief flirtation. I'm digging Digg, but Tweetdeck and I just couldn't get it together. Really, do I need that much information at my fingertips?

My industry tells me, "Perhaps."

And it's my job that brings me here. I'm not kicking. Or screaming. Or making much of a fuss at all. But it seems I'll be blogging corporately now, and the company website just isn't a good place to experiment. This space, I'm hoping, will be.

I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to misstep. I might even misspell occasionally. (Say it isn't so!) But I'm not sure how better to learn about this space than to occupy it. So here I am. Please accept my apologies in advance.