Simply Norma

Minnesota is known for it’s many lakes — at least 10,000 of them although I don’t know who went around counting them all.

Can you imagine having the task of making a logo for each one?

Well, someone is doing that. It’s quite interesting. They are doing a logo a day so it should take, uh, 27 years? That’s what they predict.

Check it out!  www.branding10000lakes.com/index

I’ve always enjoyed a song by John Denver called Fall. It’s one of four songs in his Season Suite mix. But, I don’t think I’d make a change as he would — I prefer autumn to summer.

Season Suite

Fall

Reflections in the water like shadows in my mind
Speak to me of passing days and nights and passing time
The falling leaves are whispering winter’s on it’s way
I close my eyes remembering the warmth of yesterday

It seems a shame to see September swallowed by the wind
And more than that it’s oh so sad to see the summer end
And though the changing colors are a lovely thing to see
If it were mine to make a change I think I’d let it be

But I don’t remember hearing anybody asking me

[amazon_link id=”B000002W7S” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ][/amazon_link]

Oh Seattle! Here I am again!

Getting up before the sun rose, my mind still fresh with the most recent dream I had, I planted my feet on the carpeted floor and headed to the bathroom. I had laid out everything the night before – toothbrush, hairbrush, toothpaste, pills. After finishing my regular routine, I headed to the closet where I had laid out the clothes I was going to wear for this trip.

I knew that at 4:00 in the morning I was not going to have the clarity to make clothing decisions. That being said, I tossed the blouse I had picked out in favor of something more cheerful — bright blue instead of olive green.

Grabbing my cell phone, I headed downstairs where I put my jacket on and headed to the garage door. My husband was ready to take me to the airport.

Suitcase – check. Computer bag – check. Cell phone – check. My obsessive compulsive disorder kicked in but this time I was prepared so I wasn’t missing anything.

I was glad to be driven to the airport. My night (or early morning) vision is not what it used to be like in my younger days. (It’s hardly believable to me that I can say those words “in my younger days.” Being in my mid-fifties but not quite 55, I have noticed what my “older” friends keep telling me, ie it doesn’t get better.)

Being a morning person, I could have chatted all the way to the airport but today was a wee bit early for me as yesterday I had the beginnings of a migraine. The pain was not severe enough to debilitate me but bad enough that I had to take a nap, have a cup of coffee, and pop an Excedrin for Migraine. So no chattiness for me.

Once at the airport, I got out of the car and grabbed my carry-on suitcase only to find that the handle would not lift. So I had to carry it the old-fashioned way — with the handle.

Heading to the security line I went through all the motions – shoes off, jacket off, computer out of the bag. I was thankful that today was not a TSA molestation day, ie I went through a metal detector instead of being groped. The groping will be done on the way back to Minnesota — unthankfully.

On the way to my gate, I passed a Dunn Brothers Coffee House but could not stop as there was no way I could carry a hot chocolate in my hand while trying to handle the two other items I was carrying. After a quick restroom trip, I settled into my chair to wait for boarding.

A few Muslin women were sitting further ahead of me. Four of them stood up, passed me and stood facing east and audibly but quietly prayed. A little later, a man joined the women who were sitting then stood up, found a place by himself and started praying. Then he bowed. And bowed. And bowed. I don’t believe I ever had the experience of actually watching a Muslim during one of their five prayer times.

I watched the expression of the other passengers. Some looked curiously but most tried not to stare.

Finally it was time to board. I had reserved a window seat and was glad to know that the plane was not full so the gentleman in the middle seat moved elsewhere.

I opened my computer bag and took out a new book I’m reading by Terrence Real. It’s called “I Don’t Want To Talk About It” and is about men and depression. I’m finding more and more people I know are going through depression — both men and women, young and old.

After reading 3 chapters (which were very interesting), the pilot announced we would be making our descent into Seattle. What?!!! Time passed so quickly.

Three chapters. “Not bad” I told myself. Three chapters doesn’t seem like much but I am a slow reader and have to read and re-read a book in order for the words to stick in my brain. Growing up, I never really learned how to read. For history, I quickly scanned what I needed to know and memorized it on the bus the morning of a test. Then it was forgotten.

As I get older, I find my retention and understanding is getting better but I sometimes forget my words — or they’ll come at an inopportune time. The other day, I was trying to remember the word for the “thing” that the wood pile sits on. I thought and thought and thought but it would not come to me. Later, staring into my dark bedroom, the word PALLET screamed itself into my brain. The next morning, I looked at my husband and screamed PALLET! We both had a good laugh.

I was glad during this trip that the gentleman 2 seats away slept all the way through.

Following the directions on my paperwork for the rental car, I went to the nearest Enterprise counter at the airport terminal only to be turned away by the Budget representative. Oops! Wrong line.  Going to the “right” line, I was met by a sign. “Please take the shuttle to the off-airport terminal.” What a bother! I had trudged all the way to the other side of the airport to get to this counter with my un-rollable suitcase in hand only to have to walk all the way back to the other side since the middle escalators were down for repair.

The shuttle came quickly and the counter people were quick. When I got into the car though it smelled like someone had been smoking inside so a new one was assigned to me.

Leaving the Enterprise parking lot, I handed my contract and license to a young man who checked to make sure everything was okay. After handing it back to me, I asked him “Which direction to the airport?” Oh — great, I thought “he doesn’t speak English very well.” He pointed right and then right which was wrong. Oh well.

Eventually I made my way to Highway 99 which was backed up for, I don’t know, rain? The pilot had announced “Welcome to sunny Seattle” although only rain poured through the sky.

Looking down from the plane, I reminisced about how much I missed Seattle. I thought about my friends, my old house, all the good times. Once I hit this traffic I realized that I wasn’t missing actually living here. Cars sat bumper to bumper for about 35 minutes until finally I was set free to ride the speed limit.

Since I was early for my lunch appointment with a dear couple I know, I took a trip down memory lane and passed by our old house. Then I headed into a coffee house called Holy Grounds. The cocoa was good as was the fresh chocolate chip cookie.

After lunch I’ll head to my friends house and from there we’ll head to another friends’ 60th birthday barbecue. Although, unless something changes quickly, I doubt we’ll be outdoors. Still — the thought of being with friends who I haven’t seen in 4 months is comforting.

Seattle welcomes me with sameness — traffic, rain but mostly true friends.

[amazon_link id=”B002S3NDEC” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ][/amazon_link]

In 1997, my family went to Mexico on the Carnival cruise line. Arriving in Mexico, we were told “don’t drink the water.” Bottled water and soda were bought so that we wouldn’t catch any diseases.

We had decided to take an excursion trip to one of the local restaurants. This trip made me sad and has been memorable in my life ever since for more than one reason.

On the tour bus ambling up the mountainside, we saw poverty – people living in small crowded huts, children with tattered clothes and no shoes — these dotted the landscape as we passed by in our air conditioned buses. Ironic. We were hustled into the restaurant. “Don’t speak with any locals outside the restaurant or leave this area.” The warnings came more than once.

The restaurant, as I remember it, was nothing to speak of really. The locals were friendly but seemed in a hurry as they tried to accomodate the bus loads of people.

Looking out the window, I noticed children playing. Other children were standing with sheets of paper in their hands. It looked odd to me. Some children would approach people with these sheets of paper. As directed by the tour guide, the people would not look at them but continue to their tour buses.

When it was time to leave, we started the walk to our tour bus but curiosity welled up inside of me. I stopped and looked around to see what these children were trying to hand out. From where I was, it looked like pieces of paper from a coloring book. The children had colored on these and were trying to sell their artwork.

My stopped position caught the attention of a little dark skinned boy with pitch black hair. He came up to me and held his picture up. My family stood a little to the side urging me to continue to the tour bus but I couldn’t help myself. I spoke to the boy and admired his artwork. It was obvious he was poor and was trying to sell this to me.

In the United States, we would consider such artwork inconsequential. What child would color a picture and feel compelled to take it to the streets to sell it? Oh, we would look at it and say “how nice.” We might comment on how they “stayed in the lines” while coloring. But unless it’s your child or someone else’s child who you know, it probably would just be “cute.”

My heart felt compassion as I looked into the eyes of this little boy. I would have taken him home with me had it been allowed. I did what I was not supposed to do. I had stopped and looked into the eyes of poverty.

And then I took another step closer. Holding the crayon colored paper in my hand, I took out my wallet and handed the boy a dollar.

I still can see his little face. His eyes became wide and lit up. His body language said much but his words meant even more “A dollar? For me?” I could hardly believe his excitement.

He ran off yelling “a dollar! a dollar!” And then other children started coming out more quickly than before. My husband grabbed my arm and, along with our son, led me into the tour bus.

A dollar. Leave a dollar tip on the table these days and you may be scorned or prohibited from entering that establishment again. It’s an insult.

Give a dollar to a child in poverty and magic fills the air. I have no doubt that this young boy took the dollar and gave it to his family for clothes and food.

I’ve known many Mexicans in the U.S. who do just that — send money “home” to help their families.

This cruise left me with a new perspective of poverty and what it’s really like.

Growing up in Chicago, I wore hand-me-down clothes and ate oatmeal for dinner sometimes. But we never knew we were poor. Only my mother who had to make ends meet knew the reality.

In this part of Mexico, it appears the children know the reality and do their part to contribute to the household income — even if it means selling a page from a coloring book.

A few days after returning back to the cruise ship, a virus started circulating through the ship. First it was our fellow cruise travelers who fell ill. Then my husband and son were victims and had to stay in their cabins until the vomiting and diarrhea passed. I was not affected but many were. I entered the dining hall one evening and few people were there.

I felt lucky. “I must have a great immune system” I mused to myself. But that was not the case. In fact, I’ve never recovered from that trip.

More on this adventure in a future blog post.

Image courtesy of Microsoft Images.