Early Friday morning; as the Thanksgiving revelers dreamt of leftovers and the pre-dawn shoppers lined up in parking lots all across town, we had our first significant snowfall of the winter season. Sometime around 3 AM a heavy band of snow moved in to sugar coat the trees and transform this drab brown landscape into a winter wonderland. By the time employees threw open the doors of shopping kingdoms all across the area eager shoppers shook off their layer of snow and rushed inside like the bitter chill on a January winter’s day.

I awoke Friday morning to the familiar sounds of winter… snowblowers casting long white trails into the grey winter sky… shovels scraping across icy sidewalks… and children playing in the first snowfall of the season. There is something magical about that first snowfall; the way it transforms the landscape, how clean and stark the city appears, and the memories of past winters that come rushing back. As I gazed out my window two men were laboring to propel sleds filled with giggling children gleefully urging their steeds on, “Come on daddy, hurry up!” Despite faces red from cold and exertion the men smiled and forged ahead, laughter trailing behind them. Perhaps they were counting their blessing at getting the better end of the bargain... while wives battled the mayhem at local shopping inane asylums.

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving, gathered around a table laden with more food than a group twice our size could consume. The turkey, sliced and dissected, steamed on the platter hemmed in on one side by a bowl heaped with garlic mashed potatoes and a plate laden with sweet potato balls on the other. Way on the other end of the table a multicolored container of stuffing kept company with a wooden salad bowl filled with a variety of vegetables. A trail of gluttony ran all along the edge of the table and it seemed there was always something being moved along this happy trail… there was a basket of crescent rolls, a plate of lefse being chased by the butter and sugar bowl, and all the bowls and platters that ran endlessly along this track until someone begged for a cessation of eating opportunities.

It was my daughter the dancer, environmentalist, and social activist who spoke her conscience. “This seems almost criminal when we think of all the folks along the path of Katrina and Rita who have no home never mind money for a feast like this.” This elicited all sorts of comments and discussions. I remember my parents warning me that there were children starving in Korea whenever I left food on my plate (some things don’t change do they?). My son in-law mentioned that there are plenty of agencies, public and private, striving to help those affected by the hurricanes. Discussion ensued that covered the state of the nation, the disasters visited humanity over the past year, and how helpless individual members of a society can feel when faced with the overwhelming needs of society.

It is amazing how a conversation like this can affect one’s appetite. Fortunately, or unfortunately, we had done the damage to the feast before this conversation ensued. Yet still there lingered a sense of gluttony and the desire to accomplish some sort of positive deed to assuage the woes of the world. We sat for awhile letting the conversation wander away from the tender topic of human need. Suddenly my eldest daughter piped up and said, “How about Jimmy Johnson? Is he still living across the street?”

Jim “Jimmy” Johnson was from Appleton, Wisconsin and had moved to our fair city after returning from World War II. He bought a home in our neighborhood with money from the Veteran’s Administration and settled in with his beautiful bride Elizabeth, “Lizzy” Peterson. After several miscarriages Lizzy finally gave birth to a son, Peter John Johnson (I hear he never used his middle name). Lizzy quit her job teaching to raise her son while Jimmy got a promotion at the local Case Tractor and Farm Machinery factory. In 1982 Lizzy was diagnosed with breast cancer and died before year’s end. Peter lived in Omaha and visited often but never married. In 1993, at the tender age of forty-one, Peter died of heart failure.

Jimmy remained in the neighborhood, becoming a handyman after retiring in the late 90’s. He’d been over to our place a few times to lay some carpeting, put in a doorframe and door for my son’s room, and paint some trim around the house. But for the last few years we’ve seen less and less of ol’ Jimmy Johnson from Appleton, Wisconsin. It seemed we all had the same idea but no one wanted to deliver on it. It’s so easy to neglect those nearest to us while stressing over the needs of folks hundreds or thousands of miles away whose faces and plights have been brought front and center by the media. After lamenting that we should have invited Jimmy over for Thanksgiving we debated bringing a plate of food over to Jimmy. There were a number of reasons why we shouldn’t… his pride, his diet, his health, we weren’t even sure if he was around… but in the end fixing him a plate seemed like the right thing to do.

No one wanted to be the lone stranger delivering a plate of leftovers so we all decided to head over. It must have looked a bit silly, all six of us standing on Jimmy crumbling steps with a Tupperware container in my wife’s hands. There was a light in the living room and Jimmy came to the door dressed in his finest. He had recently returned from a feast at the local senior citizen’s center and he graciously invited us in. I don’t think that living room had seen so much company for years as we occupied every chair, couch cushion, and even a spot on the threadbare, beige, shag… I really didn’t mind as it made me feel right at home after all those years as a preschool teacher. We didn’t stay long really, and it was a bit awkward at first as we stared and filled the void with “umms” and “Well…” But my love is a master of conversation and soon Jimmy was showing us old family photographs and reliving Thanksgiving Day’s “on the Front.”

We left promising to visit again and Jimmy’s eyes seemed a bit moist as he thanked us again for the plate of leftovers. Something so simple yet so difficult. We didn’t solve world peace, ease the hunger pangs of the millions in our country alone, or even reach the thousnads in our own town. The pain and suffering of humanity rolled on and we didn’t do anything grand or heroic. So why did I feel lighter and walk with a jaunty air as we traversed the short distance back to our home? Sometimes all the problems and catastrophes of the world can seem so overwhelming that I just want to pull the covers over my head and surrender. But then there are moments when I manage to step away from my own sphere of self-interest and problems to realize that sometimes all I can do is bring a little joy, light a little candle in the life of someone so near I can touch them… if I just reach out. It may not change the world, but it can change one world. One world, one life at a time, sometimes it’s enough.

Thanks for stopping by, it makes the place feel like home to have your presence warming these cyberwalls. Be well… achieve excellence… keep in touch. Take care of each other, it can change a life… or two.

“Become the most positive and enthusiastic person you know.”-“H. Jackson Brown Jr. "Life’s Little Instruction Book”

Grading Day

This morning the wind blew in and stirred up the sky. It stirred in the sunshine, the white bloated clouds, and the sunlit ginger clouds driven across the dawn. Then the wind reached down and scooped up some dust and dirt and swept up piles of leaves abandoned by trees too cold and weary to maintain their attire. With cold and bitter gusts the gales stirred and stirred until the heavens grew grey and bleary. Now that the sunshine has been masked and cold northern air has been ushered in by November’s gales the temperature had dipped ten degrees since sunrise.

Perfect day to remain indoors sequestered with a smoking stack of papers awaiting my all-powerful grading pen to sweep across them and pronounce judgment. Oh how I hate and despise grading… the allotment of merit upon a piece of work wrought by another. It’s not that I can’t determine if the content of most match my objectives… it’s just the uncommunicative merit of assigning points to a piece of work. Clearly some students have spent considerable time, thought, and effort at assembling information and communicating their concepts through the vehicle I have framed using certain criteria.

What I note as unfortunate is the inability to move beyond the barrier of the grade to have a constructive discussion regarding the content, the student’s efforts, and my questions regarding the paper or project. Yet with over one-hundred and twenty students such a monumental effort is beyond my comprehension. So I rustle through the pages, mining the tomes for meaning and alignment to my objectives. How accurate a measure is this of “learning” and the acquiring of new knowledge or the assimilation of information into one’s knowledge base? In my esteemed opinion one hindrance to providing a quality educational experience at ANY level is the ratio of students to teacher.

Well back at it eh? The end of the semester looms near and the students who share my class are hungry for feedback and knowledge of “the grade.”

By the by… I’ve been so encompassed with schoolwork, coursework, dissertation stuff I’ve been unable to muster the energy and time to alert all those folks who have been readers of my AOL journal. If any of you have the means please feel free to pass the word along that I’ve set up shop here? Much obliged.

Until next time… be well… achieve excellence… keep in touch. Take care of each other; it’s worth the grade.

Hmm... *Looking around* ... It's quite dull here isn't it? *Walking about to get the feel of things* I'm somewhat aprehensive about the new digs. I had a place I liked, enjoyed the neighbors, had the decor at a tolerable level... at least I had control of the decor. *Shakes head* That was until the landlord barged in, nope didn't knock, give advanced warning, or ask for input. Came right in and begon redecorating for me. A bit unnerving if you know what I mean.

Least I wan't singled out. Whole damn neighborhood suffered the same fate. Really broke up the place. soime fled, some stayed, some are straddling the line...like me. But I'm game for an adventure so here goes.

Hope someone will visit. This is a bit of a lame post though for my opening salvo. Hey, we all must start somewhere.

Now to figure out to hang a picture.