Thanksgiving in June

Well well well.  If it isn't June.  Welcome to mid-year.  A month of many celebrations.

For example, I am now 43 years of age.  My wife has a birthday coming up.  There have been graduations, there are sure to be weddings-- and there was the Grinnell College Alumni Reunion.

It was an extended weekend of conversations and imbibing libation.  We danced 'til we ached and the house lights came back on.  It was past midnight, and somebody realized that it was June 3rd.  So they sang me "Happy Birthday" and I beamed a sweaty beam.

To all who survived the many frozen winters with me in Iowa; to all who ate fried potatoes with almost every meal;  to all that sported hangovers for many a consecutive string of weekends...  Thank you.

I'm trying to give birth to something here.  I'm trying to find the words to do the feelings justice.  I want to relay the sentiment I have felt in the presence of my Grinnellian family over the years, and particularly during reunions, whether they are sanctioned by the college or impromptu gatherings at satellite locations around the country.

But words are hard to find that do the experience justice.  There's always just a little bit more than what I'm able to come up with.  The superlatives don't flesh things out enough, and are hollow and cliche.  So maybe we just need to go with what is spoken from  the heart.

Thanks to Justine for the kind words of encouragement and complimentary edification.  You help me to build whatever it is that this here blog is constructing.  I am inspired to work and toil to entertain you and rattle your cage.  So to speak.

Thanks to Mark, Danja, and Steve for their comments and honesty.  My mission is bolstered by your efforts to communicate and assist me with all things on my plate.

I want to thank everybody out there who took the time to read my little book that could, The Raging, Flaming Goat of Samos over the weekend.  The feedback has been very kind and inspiring.

Thanks to Irene for all your work in the organization of the reunion.  And thanks to Paul for keeping us laughing throughout the night.

There are so many more.  Thank you to Suzy, for being such a wonderful being and thriving socially.  You do some amazing work, and you do it effortlessly.  At least, you make it look that way.

Thank you to Melanie for wrangling me aside and making sure that I know the depth of the love that she and so many others have for me.  You stoke the fire in my soul, and bring me fresh fuel.

I know I'm leaving people out, but not intentionally.  And the band is starting to play louder, as it's time to go to commercial... So.  You keep reading; I'll keep writing.

Regular writing produces better writing.  So it goes.

A Part of the Grinnell Experience

Wanted to get a word in before the end of the month and our trip away...  Going to Grinnell, Iowa for a few days to reconnect with friends and colleagues at my alumni reunion.  20 years since I "graduated" there.  It's in quotes because I didn't want to use an asterisk.

The story of my graduation is a culmination of my childhood or teenhood.  I grew up that day.  In a hurry.

I wore the gown, after having traversed the multitudinous syllabi and reaching the apex of requirements.  At least, I thought I had paid the right people for the desired results...

I had plans to pull out my wallet once I walked across the stage to face then president of the college, Pamela Ferguson (did I spell that correctly?) and settle my tab.  "What do I owe you?" I would ask her in my best theatrical voice.

But I stammered, mentally.  I got worked up and worried.  Nervous.  So I stepped in front of her, holding my wallet, and stood there.  She smiled and handed me my diploma folder.  I fumbled with my wallet, then took the folder, juggling.  I think I even shook her hand (details are not very clear).

It was now time for me to exit the stage.  My moment had passed, and I had not taken full advantage of it.  This was to be a bit of a metaphor for my academic experience while at Grinnell.  I was confused-- I couldn't see where my classmates had gone to get off the stage.  Which way was I supposed to walk?  I didn't see stairs or a ramp or anything.

So I finally acted and zigged instead of zagging.  I walked over to the back of the platform, behind the backs of the faculty and other dignitaries sitting in their folding chairs on the stage, and jumped off. 

It was totally unrehearsed, just me getting through it, muddled mind and all.  I don't recall the reaction of the crowd.  I just remember what happened next.

I stepped into the shade of one of the great trees there on central campus and opened the diploma folder.  But there was no diploma in it.  Instead, there was a note explaining that I had not satisfied the requirements for my successful graduation.

A friend walked up to me, laughing and joking with me for jumping off the back of the stage.  He saw me open the folder and experience the let down.  He commiserated with me as my thoughts swirled.  I knew that I had come up short in my French class.  That had to be it.

Soon I was surrounded by family.  I was totally defeated.  I had failed!  All that work, all that money.  What a waste of time!  I was humiliated and despondent.  I was inconsolable.

In the next couple days I learned that I had actually flunked my French final and earned a "D" in the class.  I had been so distracted by the fact that I broke up with my girlfriend the night before the final that I had failed to study well.  But the work hadn't been done for the whole semester, really.  I hated that I had to take a language class as part of my major.  Wasn't studying English enough?  And I was so nervous and anxious in those classes, so much going on and me not able to figure out what it was.  I couldn't get over the hump and relax enough to learn.  So I avoided the classes.

I was also erroneously enlivened by the fact that I had worked on and given a good oral report.  I had figured that this was my ultimate weakness-- speaking-- as I had trouble speaking up in class in a language that I had been speaking all of my life.  It was shyness, yes, but also perhaps social anxiety.  I couldn't think straight when I didn't know for sure what was going on.  I'd get self-conscious and figure that I was too dumb to learn-- or I feared that such a truth would be exposed if I tried to talk in class.  My fears were too great to allow me to learn in a relaxed, natural fashion.  So I found ways to get by, and I found my own way off the stage.

I traversed an unbeaten path to get through my Grinnell Experience.  It was my path alone.  It led to me receiving the "Closest to Earning a Degree, but No Cigar" Award. 

I've since tried going back to school and taking a language class to satisfy the requirement.  But I haven't been successful.  I've started over with Spanish but flamed out when employment challenges got in the way.  I've tried auditing a Latin course at our local university, but you have to be an alum to register or audit a class, unless you go to summer school, where language classes aren't often offered there. 

So I haven't found my path to my degree.  At least, not yet.  I had enough credits to graduate;  I just needed a "C" where I received a "D" because the language requirement was considered to be part of my English major requirements.  So I missed my degree by a few percentage points.

If I had come from a family of litigators, I might have found a way to financially motivate Grinnell to working with me.  But as it stands, I don't have the piece of paper.  What I do have, though, is a great education and access to the network of friends and colleagues through the college.  There is a fellowship that exists between any- and everyone that has gone through Grinnell, and I'm proud to be a part of that.  I'm still walking the path for my steps alone, finding my way through my Grinnell Experience.

An education is not a piece of paper, anyway.  It's the journey and the mind set.  The Grinnell Experience.

Grinnell Yearbook Project Opens April 13th

Here's a story about my college, narrated by my friend's dad.

Typical Midwest College Experience

Describe a typical day in college or university.

Okay.  First of all, that's not a question.  Just so we're clear.

I suppose that the Journal Jar is full of writing prompts, not questions.  Now I know.  Learn something everyday.

So how do we write about a typical day in a non-typical experience?  College was typical when I was procrastinating studying or doing my homework.  Or when I talked myself through the snooze bar abuse and finally decided that it would be better not to brave the weather and freeze my nosehairs and just stay in bed and let the good little students have their class without me.

It's not like I didn't care at all.  I tried to pass the classes.  But my priorities weren't there.  I wasn't into academics by then.  I was into social studies.  Cultural studies.  Mating rituals.

I wanted to belong, wanted to know who I was and how I was doing it.  I wanted to find my way, find myself.  I wanted to have fun, push envelopes, escape the drudgery.  I wanted to fall in love.

That would come much later.

But before it would happen for me, I would dabble in love, thinking that I was getting somewhere.  I would try a handful of relationships, but none would last more than a few weeks.  I was hung up on this perfect, romantic, fairy tale vision of what love was supposed to be.  And it ended a lot of relationships for me.  Because I felt that I loved the person, but I wasn't in love with them.  Or something like that.

Some of the typical things that I did while in college were things like... well... eat.  I had to eat.  I didn't always have money, so sometimes I would be out with friends and they would stop somewhere and everyone would get something to eat, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for a loan, and so I'd sit with them and watch them eat.  One time I chewed on the paper wrapper from a straw until it disintegrated and I swallowed it, the only nutrition that I got at that meal.  It's not like I was starving, but it sucked not being able to indulge with my friends.  And now that I think about it, it wasn't typical.  I usually had someway to partake in the fun.

I remember walking to class in the winter, with the wind freezing my cheekbones and making my eyes water as the cold singed everything that wasn't covered by coat, hat, or scarf.  My shoes crunched through the snow and slid around as I walked, as if walking in sand.  But I didn't dare go barefoot.  One pair of high-top sneakers lasted for a winter or so, but soon the wet melted snow seeped in through the soles and doused my socks with searing cold.  It was sad to see those shoes go-- they had been a good friend.  It was more appropriate that I should wear my "Big Momma Boots" anyway.  They could handle the weather, and even assist well in kicking through snowbanks.

There were typically warm days too, however, where I had trouble staying awake in class because it was just to warm to pay attention.  I remember taking off my shoes and placing my bare feet directly on the tile floor to experience the coolness in an attempt to keep me awake.  But some lectures were just laced with sleep agents.  It wasn't the student's fault.

My favorite textbook was from a Political Science class.  "Contemporary Readings in American Politics," aka "C.R.A.P."  Okay, so I loved the title of the book.  Never really read any of it.  But I still have it, so I could eventually pick it up.  No, really.

We spent a fair amount of time goofing around.  We played frisbee in the hallways of the dorms, nearly decapitating unsuspecting floormates coming out of their room.  We drank for the sport of it, then placed empty cardboard twelve-pack boxes on our heads and grabbed 2-liter plastic soda bottles and raced at each other through the hallways, a makeshift game of joust.  We played team quarters, speed quarters, anchorman... we placed our thumb on our foreheads when we burped and the last person to make the gesture was sentenced to drink.  These were typical things that made up my college experience.

It was typical to laugh.  I don't laugh anymore like we used to laugh, and I miss that.  We were freer then, to yuck it up about things so funny.  Life is so much more somber when you're older.  And that makes me sad.  But there's still some levity out there.  Just have to hunt for it.

Grinnell 15-Year Reunion Revisited

In my second blog entry (EVER!) I wrote about my 15-year college reunion.  Check out what I had to say then here.  The last thing I had to say then was that I would write more later.

Now is later.

It's over four years later, and now I'm looking forward to the 20-year reunion (and I'm wondering how we're going to pay for a trip out there...)  Grinnell is a magical place;  there's something that brings out the best in people when you're there.  Maybe it's the people entirely, I don't know.  But so much inspiration is born there, in the conversations between old friends and new acquaintances.

I saw my old acting partner, Erika Krouse, and we bonded about writing.  She's got a book out there to check out if you'd like-- it's called "Come Up and See Me Sometime"  and is a compilation of short fiction organized around some Mae West quotes.  At least, I think so.  I still haven't read it, but my wife did and liked it.  So there you have it.

I also spent time with some folks that I knew but didn't know well when we were in school together, and my wife and I had some nice, relaxed, flowing conversations with them about things such as other Grinnellians, permaculture, and parenting.  I made a connection with another Grinnellian writer with one of the best blog names I've heard-- the parenting/mommy advice blog known as Breed 'em and Weep.  And I saw old friends who still cause some trepidation and anxiety, in the form of old roommates.  Well, okay.  One roommate who is sometimes intellectually confrontational and makes me nervous.  But he can be a great guy, he just makes me self conscious sometimes.

So it was a fabulous weekend that was exactly what the doctor ordered, as far as what I needed to lift my mood and my outlook on life.  We had a blast dancing inside Carlos' refurbished Airstream trailer.  He does beautiful work.  We danced some more in the Harris Center where they had a dj that was kind of annoying.  So annoying that a group broke off, grabbed a boombox, found another venue and started another dance hall party.  It was fun to sit in the hallway as the dance tunes pounded out and people jumped into a frothy euphoria.  We sat and had a calm, fun conversation with a few of my closer friends from Grinnell, and a handful of others that are friends of friends.  Perhaps I should find the article that I wrote about it and post it here.  That sounds like a good assignment.

Reunions can be a very good thing.  This one definitely was.  There was renewal and rejuvenation.  There was networking and positive connections.  And there was fun.  Laughter.  Tears.  Celebration.

I really can't wait for next year.  My 43rd birthday and  my 20th Grinnell reunion.  And my 25th high school reunion.  All good.

All things to look forward to.

***UPDATE***

Here's the article I wrote about the reunion that was published somewhere, I just don't know where.  Irene?  Can you hear me?  Can you remind me what publication this went into?  Thanks.

----------------------------------------------------

The evening began with dinner and an auction.  Lots of friends that hadn’t seen one another in several years.  And it ended with music reverberating in the collective ear.

After the meal everybody had pitched in and cleared the tables and chairs from the dance floor.  Some of the folks with kids bid their adieu to honor set bedtimes.  Those of us without kids (and some parents who had arranged for sitters, not to mention the mom or dad who won the coin toss while the other parent slinked back to the dorm, festooned with responsibility...) started gearing up to party.

We were sold the idea that a DJ would play music by request.  But it soon became evident that Mr. DJ had another agenda.  Not ones to settle for anything other than our own agenda, we hit the road.  Some of us splintered off to investigate another party, an impromptu gathering in an alumnus’ refurbished Airstream trailer.  A warm evening, hot tunes, and cold beer—Now, that’s a party.  My wife and I sauntered between locales, dancing and drinking and chatting at both. 

We soon learned of a third splinter group.  Someone had checked for availability of another “party space” over at the Joe Rosenfeld Center.  Others had secured tunes and amplification.  Soon, there was sweat.  There was dancing.  There was thudding bass, stomping feet, and clapping hands.  There were a number of, shall we say, aromas.  And there was the open exploitation (y’know, fun being had) by all.

Sure, there was a great diversity displayed.  Grinnellians ooze diversity.  Some danced hard and fast, working up a sweat.  Others bobbed and weaved near the amplification source.  Still others stood on the outskirts of the room, taking turns leaning into each other’s ear as they tried to carry on conversation.

My wife and I danced a bit, but soon took to the hallway of the Joe (aka the JRC, or the “jerk”), where we could still hear the music and singing of the crowd, but could more easily speak to each other.  We took to the couches and benches there with a handful of other friends and had a pot-luck conversation of sorts.  Everybody brought something to the discussion. 

We talked about what we had in common such that we found ourselves outside of the party room, choosing the cerebral exercise over the aerobic.  Our buffet table was set with one part reminiscence, one part levity, one part reality-of-getting-older lament.

 

There were other parts too, of course.  Beer drinking, wine sipping, joke telling, and problem solving.  We talked about things we were still working on—me and my writing, and my still-yet-to-be-completed degree requirements.  One woman in the group spoke about how she had conquered the beast of learning another language (the one thing left standing between me and my undergraduate degree).  She said that it had become a necessity—a matter of survival, in fact.  I suppose that’s what my problem has been—I’ve never bought in to the idea that I needed another language in my repertoire.  But then, I’m oh-so comfy with the one I use daily... it gets in the way anytime I try and use something else in my mind.  My English is the jealous sort, I guess.

By the end of the night, we’d partaken in plenty verbal entrees, laughed until the metaphorical milk ran out our noses, and seen plenty over-partying.  We watched one couple stumble and giggle their way back to their room, taking time to chat with others along the way.  We giggled heartily with them, and then at them, as they weaved away from us, for they were both of a physical age closer to my parents’.

Man, woman, and child of any gender. Overall, my reacquaintance with my Grinnell Experience was spectacular. Not like a Jerry Bruckheimer film, but a resonant, penetrating, rejuvenating sort of spiritual renewal. A molting of sorts. I had been in a depressed state before arriving at reunion, but I shed my sour skin of rigidity, the wheel-spinning frustration, and any bureaucratic entanglement. I lamented no more; I had returned to the womb, in a sense, and drank from the source that sustains life; the source which inspires, energizes, and heals; the source of focus.

And it was very good.

May we all party hearty and healthy well through our golden years.

 editor's note: It looks like some of my earliest blog spilled into this article.  All my content, so no plagiarism.  

What of this "Tripolarity," Anyway?

For those about to rock...

It was a seemingly enough amazing vacation plan. We’d go to Greece for almost two weeks, seeing the country like no regular tourist experiences it. We’d have a native family to guide us, interpret for us, entertain us, and assist us.

It all had come together so dramatically—like a tightly written chapter in a biographer’s masterpiece. I would be ending my tenure in Engineering, one that had become increasingly more and more stressful, for the dream vacation with my wife and a friend I hadn’t seen in many years (as well as many others). And upon returning to the mainland, I’d slide into my imagined idyllic job in the Finance Department.

But just when all seemed set, and paradise found, the unfathomable, unexplainable, unplanned major fork in the road curve ball fly in the ointment outta nowhere kick in the head derailed all storylines, all realistic visions of the future.

Or so I’m told.

Yes, this is my story; but I’m still making sense of it.

If there’s sense to be made.

******************************************

He and I had attended college together; we were "Dormmates" Freshman year, "Floormates" our Sophomore year, "Housemates" our Junior year, and thus, lifetime friends. We shared in the experiences of growing up, being on our own, living and studying and trying to find the ever elusive perfection of love, wherever she was.

We had many shared friends, and even more shared experiences-- Winter break trips to Chicago and Valparasio, grand drinking excursions and loud parties, both hosted and attended. We shared a love like brothers, persisting through disagreements, arguments, and the necessary mistakes which bring great learning.

But by the end of our time in Greece together, I would be left scrambling within my mind, wondering if he was one of my best friends, or the greatest foil I'd ever ran up against.

And by no fault of his. Who knows what reality was. It didn't matter. I was living inside my head. And it didn't make sense to me.

Even though it felt like it did. Fleetingly... it was a fluid lucidity; making sense in the moment. And as time passed, context was forgotten, replaced.

I'm guessing that there was just too much coming in to make sense of. Sensory overload.

So that's what I've been trying to do over the course of the past six years-- organize, rehash, vocalize, chronicle, and analyze my recollection and tell the story that I've lived through.

Get comfortable. This could be a rough ride.