Town meetings in my town are an event not to be missed. Unfortunately 95% of the voters don’t realize this. If only my friends and neighbors were aware of what they are passing up—this is theater with the lights on. And it’s good theater—especially later in the evening due to the inverse relationship between tiredness and civility. This year a citizen suggested, no, actually directly said, that laws are made to be broken and made this utterance with a full complement of our officers in attendance. Then the presenter went on to suggest that the Supreme Court of the United States exists just so we could pass the current article and challenge current laws.
Granted theater with the lights on is not so good for necking, but it’s great for multi-tasking. A brief glance around the room and I spotted 3 knitters (who put down their knitting needles when the Supreme Court issue was raised), a baby being rocked to sleep, one crossword puzzle devotee in action, and multiple doodlers. This is an ideal environment for type A personalities—you can not only cross many items off your list, you can make your opinion known to a room full of fellow citizens, respectfully listening while knitting, stretching and doodling.
Both the script and the actors are high quality. The actors upon the stage had researched their areas of focus and brought forward well thought out and articulated arguments and, at least earlier in the evening, were very complimentary to their opponents’ presentations. Ad lib performances at the open microphones were coherent and persuasive, challenging the audience to consider both sides of the debate.
But what would a critique be without suggestions for an area of improvement? Given the intelligence and the knowledge of the presenters, I was surprised at the poor quality of the slides shown. Certainly the color choice was fine and by and large the font size was readable, but honestly, these are educators—why are they displaying a long list of bullet points and then reading the bullet points to the audience. That is precisely what we teach our students NOT to do. A budget is full of numbers, numbers can be easily graphed. Graphs can show comparisons far more effectively than a column of numbers—create some graphs people. In addition, we can be more externally focused—let’s look to other towns for best practices. Only one article, which was prepared by a concerned citizen, focused on the best practices of other communities as a model for change we could use. Thankfully several presenters showed photographs which clearly were worth a thousand words. Perhaps some of the board members took note and will improve their slides in the future.
Oh, and if any techies are reading this, can someone please create a mechanism that allows projectors to go to a blue screen (or any other entertaining interlude) rather than displaying the laptop’s desktop between slide shows. Some desktops are not meant to be publicly displayed.
So check out the local theater at your town meeting—you may be pleasantly surprised at the quality of the performance and make a difference in your town planning and governance at the same time.
The Volunteers of the Iowa Flood Recovery Effort
The skill range of volunteers assisting with flood recovery is quite broad, ranging from skilled contractors to, well, to people like me who put up a piece of sheet rock for the first time while rebuilding a once flooded basement.
Our team of volunteers from Vermont was matched with a full time volunteer through Americorps Vista Corridor Flood Recovery (www.vistacorridorrecovery.org) . This Americorps group has been transformed from community corrections outreach, so the Americorps volunteers drive around in corrections vehicles to the work sites and are outfitted with standard issue corrections jump suits. The jump suits all have names sewn on the pocket—the name of the wearer might only coincidentally match the name sewn on the jump suit. Consequently we were calling Jimmy by his nametag—Danny— the day he came by our work site. After 10 months few volunteers were still choosing to wear standard issue jumpsuits in favor of their own jeans and Ts.
Our team leader, Phil, was a recent college graduate from Philadelphia who had started volunteering last July to assist with the recovery efforts. He stopped wearing jumpsuits last summer. As an Americorps volunteer he is given a below poverty level stipend and minimal housing which typically results in living in conditions similar to those in poverty. Phil takes his dinner meal at a local church feeding the homeless along with other Americorps volunteers, has no housing expenses and very low entertainment expenses as he has little time and the evening softball league requires few expenses beyond refreshments. Consequently, Phil commented that as he is no longer managing the expenses of a college student, he is actually saving more money now than he had previously.
Phil was an outstanding team leader—an adjective he likely would not have applied to his inexperienced crew the day he met us.
When we asked him how he was assigned to be our team leader he responded, “I was late for the meeting.”
Ouch. He later denied that he followed that statement with “I won’t do that again.”
However, in our zeal to finish our project on Friday afternoon, he again missed the weekly team assignment meeting, so likely ended up with an equally inexperience group of volunteers the following week.
Like all contractors I met, Phil did not shrink from finding fault with the previous workers for any problems we encountered. The previous group had erroneously put the sheet rock on the walls before the ceiling, left gaps that were hard to fill with mud, put up a few pieces of sheetrock wampyjod ( a new term for me, which I question is widely used by experienced contractors) and left countless screws sticking out too far. I am certain the group following us would find plenty of complaints in our ceiling tiles and mudding efforts. Although, the final two sheetrock pieces we affixed to the bathroom ceiling did fit beautifully around the lighting fixture and wall jags.
We met other Americorps volunteers—those coordinating training in the warehouse, communicating with the short term volunteers, and other team leaders. Steve was one of those team leaders. Steve had been a physical therapist until he was diagnosed with ALS shortly before the flood. He was let go from his job and rather then retreating into darkness, Steve began working every day on the flood recovery efforts. He has worked every day since the flood gutting destroyed homes by hauling load after load of rotting, saturated, putrid possessions, furniture, and building materials out of buildings that need to be reduced to the bare studs. All of this I learned from him in one short conversation after he asked if I knew the score of the previous night’s Celtic’s game. The untold stories are countless, waiting like bud ready to blossom with a little rain and sunlight.
Likewise the women I worked with are dedicated volunteers, women in their 40s, 50s and 60s, giving their own time to rebuild a stranger’s home. In the camaraderie of using a sheetrock lift to puzzle in a piece of sheetrock, or figuring out the most effective (and ineffective in the process) way of cutting out a hole for a can light in the ceiling, we quickly moved from conversations of daily fluff to the meaning of life. Once we were in the seductive rhythm of screwing in an 8 foot ceiling sheet or mudding corner beading, we could contemplate the lives and loss of lives that have touched us. The time we spent working together was a gift to each of us equally as meaningful as the physical results of our efforts.
The Parishioners
“After I looked 165 people in the eye and had to tell them we couldn’t do anything for them, that their insurance didn’t cover floods… well, it gets to you.”
“I washed my niece’s clothes 5 and 6 times and couldn’t get the smell of the flood out of them. No water damage, just the smell.”
“I knew the UCC disaster relief needed help, so we opened our doors.”
“The downtown jewelry store lost everything. A friend who had her ring there—it’s gone. Someone’s going to find a really nice ring someday. The local library lost its great collection. A nearby church was completely flooded out.”
These are snippets of the stories that the parishioners of Hope UCC shared as they welcomed flood recovery teams to lodge in their church. A somewhat small church in membership, Hope UCC is HUGE in compassion and mission and activity. Greeting us in our makeshift bedroom were inflated air mattresses, one large enough to sleep a family of four, and a huge basket filled to the brim with microwaveable popcorn, Girl Scout cookies, snack packs, nuts, maps and paperbacks. They had arranged that we could shower across the street at the fire station—the absolutely hottest showers imaginable—and shared their kitchen where we cobbled together a few basic meals (5 mothers away from home for a week are disinclined to prepare big meals after putting up sheetrock all day). Truly an extravagant welcome.
We happened to visit the week prior to the big spring church fair, so parishioners were coming and going all week setting up crafts and baking for Saturday. Tuesday, table center pieces and homemade crafts began filling Fellowship Hall. Wednesday, a beef and vegetable soup simmered all day in the kitchen as more crafts appeared. Thursday, an indoor garden of flowering plants appeared. Friday morning at 6 am Lois and Faye arrived to start baking cinnamon rolls and 275 “Pies for Two” (which we soon renamed, pies for one) for their Saturday church fair. Upon returning from work we found every surface covered with cinnamon rolls and pies—peach, raspberry, cherry, banana cream, strawberry rhubarb, pecan, apple, blueberry, mince meat, raisin, raisin?, yes, a pie full of raisins—and I thought I knew the full range of fruit pies being a pie maker’s wife, but raisin was new to me. “P” had been pricked into the peach crust, “R” into the raspberry, “Y” into the strawberry (never did figure out how that came about). The delicious aroma permeated every room in the church and had we been in any other structure, we may have been less likely to show such self-control as we restrained from tasting every pie available.
And this was only one of many annual events Hope UCC congregants prepared—in a few weeks they would be baking and cooking for the local spring town-wide event Hog Wild Days where they manage the food tent and feed hundreds of hunger fair-goers for four consecutive days.
Many new members are joining Hope UCC
from a nearby church that was devastated by the flood. While the flood may have provided an impetus for the individuals and families to find a new church, clearly the vibrancy of the Hope UCC community and its welcoming attitude are the compelling reason for these new congregants to choose Hope.
Cedar River Flood Fallout: The Homeowner
Eleven months after the devastating floods in Iowa, homeowners, volunteers, and community members welcomed a team of New England volunteers to assist with rebuilding in the Cedar Rapids area. These are the stories those volunteers encountered.
The Homeowner
“The water will only reach the curb,” officials told homeowners in Palo, Iowa in early June 2008 as the Cedar river headed for flood level and rain continued to fall. Curt and his neighbors pledged to stay and save their homes from the rising water. So they armed themselves with generators and pumps, put basement furniture up on blocks and stayed vigilant. The water continued to rise. Forecasts were revised, the Cedar River would crest at 31.1 feet on June 13, 288, over 10 feet above the previous record of 20 feet in 1851 and 1929. At 18.5 feet water affects the lowest residences in Palo.
Vehicles were prohibited from the neighborhood after 8 pm Wednesday. The water kept rising. Early Thursday morning Curt looked out at his dark neighborhood, realized his neighbors had fled and decided it was time for his wife and him to seek safety. The water rushed around his calves as he carried a few belonging to his truck at the end of the street. He quickly returned home, called for his wife to grab the dog and headed out into the now waist deep current swirling through his once tranquil neighborhood. Lightening flashed and the rain pelted down as they anxiously made their way back to their truck and left for higher ground.
In this town of 950 residents northwest of Cedar Rapids all but 1 household evacuated. Residents waited impatiently for the water to recede and to be allowed to return to their neighborhood. Finally, 3 days later on Father’s Day, they were allowed back to see their homes, although it would be months before homes passed occupancy inspections.
Curt and his wife found several inches of muck in their garage, coating everything, and their freezer knocked over and blocking their entry. Between the black water, rotting food, hot June days and a sealed house the stench was overwhelming. The water had reached 22 inches up the first floor cabinets and by Sunday had receded to expose the top step of the basement stairs. Curt looked down into his basement filled to the brim with filthy black water.
With friends, family and co-workers pitching in, they took two days to shovel out the garage and then the real work began. Fans, power washing, shoveling out muck, removing debris continued for days on end. “A king size mattress, waterlogged, weighs more than a car, I tell you,” Curt commented as he retold the story of lugging the mattresses up out of the basement. The power of the water was evident everywhere. His slate topped pool table, which a week prior he had lifted up onto cinder blocks in the basement, was completely flipped over. Clothing, mementos, furniture, appliances, all unsalvageable. A ruined household and no flood insurance.
Even with generous time off granted by his employer, Curt and his wife with help from friends and family could only chip away at rebuilding their home. The pace slowed, but work continued until finally, 109 days after evacuating, they returned to live in their home again. The basement remained unfinished, stripped and cleaned down to the studs. Their family had traditionally hosted extended family for Thanksgiving and Christmas and everyone would retreat to the finished basement for pool, TV and games after their holiday dinner. Holidays in 2008 wouldn’t be the same without the basement space. The rebuilding would stretch far into 2009.
Aging: The more things change the more they stay the same
I feel a twinge in my shoulder as I slide out of bed. I chalk it up to an old mattress. And then I reconsider. Did I slide out of bed as a kid or jump up?
Each year in my 40s seems to offer up a physical mark of aging, final sale, no returns allowed. Knee pain kicked off the start of this illustrious decade, followed by physical therapy, and consequently my very short-lived running career was curtailed. The following year I recall looking at the thermostat while wearing my contacts and wondering who had shrunk the numerals. That decline seemed to have occurred between getting out of bed in the morning and turning in that night. And then about a year later my core body temperature seemed to drop. I wear scarves for warmth, not style.
Several weeks ago I overhead three women conversing over coffee at church.
Two clutched their canes, as one fumbled in her handbag for a tissue, saying “Oh I know, I have my operation scheduled for next week.”
“The doctor recommended I see a different specialist for my colon.”
“My husband sees Dr. Cohen too.”
“No she said, colon.”
“What did you say Betty? I think my hearing aid isn’t working again.”
The first woman turned to include me in her final remark, “You know the 70s are the best decade and we took them for granted—still healthy enough to travel, plenty of time, few responsibilities. Remember that.”
Focusing on the present is easier said than done.
Each year in my 40s seems to offer up a physical mark of aging, final sale, no returns allowed. Knee pain kicked off the start of this illustrious decade, followed by physical therapy, and consequently my very short-lived running career was curtailed. The following year I recall looking at the thermostat while wearing my contacts and wondering who had shrunk the numerals. That decline seemed to have occurred between getting out of bed in the morning and turning in that night. And then about a year later my core body temperature seemed to drop. I wear scarves for warmth, not style.
Several weeks ago I overhead three women conversing over coffee at church.
Two clutched their canes, as one fumbled in her handbag for a tissue, saying “Oh I know, I have my operation scheduled for next week.”
“The doctor recommended I see a different specialist for my colon.”
“My husband sees Dr. Cohen too.”
“No she said, colon.”
“What did you say Betty? I think my hearing aid isn’t working again.”
The first woman turned to include me in her final remark, “You know the 70s are the best decade and we took them for granted—still healthy enough to travel, plenty of time, few responsibilities. Remember that.”
Focusing on the present is easier said than done.
Subway Turnstiles
“Please be aware of the gap”, was repeated at every subway station. If only there had been a ‘please be aware of the turnstiles.’ Thankfully New Yorkers can be friendly in a pinch—or at least when the only way they can move forward is to help you, or your luggage, out of a tight spot. I thought I was blending into city life—wearing mostly black, pulling my nondescript, black roller board quickly and efficiently through the subway station, appearing to know where I was headed. Okay, except for when I asked directions to the express subway track and the kind New Yorker pointed to the track beside me with hardly a condescending look. In retrospect that was a bit of a ridiculous question. As my daughter pointed out, “it wouldn’t be much of an express if the train were on the track behind the local, now would it?”But all in all I was looking capable as I scanned my metro card, moved quickly forward through the turnstile and then stumbled as my roller board failed to roll on behind me. I gave the handle a tug. No go. What was up? I turned around to see the handle caught cleanly over one of the turnstile arms. Unfortunately I had just used my last swipe of the metro card. Fortunately, New Yorkers can be more friendly than they are typically given credit for. As the subway arrived in the station below, commuters started pouring up the escalators heading for the exit turnstiles—also known as the entrance turnstiles—where I stood with my luggage trapped. Bracing for exhortations aimed at my incompetence, I was pleasantly surprised to have not one but two independent travelers stop and help jiggle, push and wrench the handle of my roller board until it snapped free of the turnstile. And I was on my way, once again, appearing competent, although feeling a bit less so.
Virtual Conversation in Silicon Valley
Walking by myself, but hardly alone, through the California foothills last week, I felt as if I were walking with an eccentric conversationalist. As I merged into the flow of walkers, joggers, runners and strollers on the paths of the park, I caught snippets of dialogue. The conversation skipped along like a pebble over a glassy lake, only sinking in the short pauses between groups of walkers.“So he barley makes it to the dome and he sees the cable and says, ‘I’m done’.”
“Oh my God, it must have been huge!”
“Unbelievable!”
Something in Indian
“My wife has actually broken her heel bone, so in the midst of everything else,”
”I can see what you mean.”
“Yeah”
Something in Chinese
Something in Indian
“The same thing happened to her.”
and then a bit of a non sequitur,
“really thinly sliced.”
Hmm, was the heel bone was ‘really thinly sliced’?”
Perhaps if I were bi-lingual I would have been able to make the leap between the heel bone and thinly sliced. As it was, I let the dialogue continue without comment.
During the short pauses in my virtual buddy’s banter, my ears tuned in first to the more distant human sounds like the hum of the highway, and then were drawn to the natural crunches and swishes close at hand. “swshhh,” as a small mammal skittered away through the underbrush. “Whhheet, whhee-eet”, from above.
As I looked around I realized that nearly all of the walkers must be enjoying the integrated natural and human dialogues. Here I was in the middle of Apple territory, and I spotted only 2 dazzling white iPod earbuds. A third walker wore her black earphones discretely obscured by her long dark hair as if she were reticent to admit she preferred her man-made music over the natural symphony now in full swing.
“ch-ch-ch-ch-chee”
“threeet!”
“because it’s upstairs”
“yeah”
“thrump.”
“I like it and even though I’m not, it’s great, I’m not practicing, but umm”
”I may be doing the same thing, you know.”
Something in Indian.
“I was just doing that.”
“driving me crazy and I don’t go up there”
Something in Indian
swish
“You know, so, um”
My dialogue partner was wonderfully tireless; my legs however were not, so I said so long to my virtual conversationalist and exited the flow of walkers.
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