Record-Setting Rain

Today was the last day of the month. It rained early this morning with some golf ball-sized hail thrown into the mix.

These days I don't worry too much about hail as long as the Blazer is safe. I certainly don't worry the way I did when the boat took up the entire garage and the Blazer had to stay outside. There were a few crazy times when I parked it in a nearby parking garage and walked home during a thunderstorm, lightning flashing all around me. (Note that I didn't worry about hail thumping my head, only my vehicle). That's how much I fear hail damage.

Now I have room in the garage for the Blazer, but a new worry has replaced the old one. What if the hail crashes through the two skylights? As the hail pounded early this morning, I lay there immobilized, wondering how I would solve such a problem.

Luckily I didn't have to. Instead I went about my day wondering when the rain cloud that has been residing over Wichita might migrate to Death Valley or Phoenix. I tuned into the Weather Channel to see if their meteorologists had any insights regarding when things will start drying out. They shared this: there is a high probability we will get MORE rain tomorrow.

They also shared that our rainfall for this month is 290% times the average for May, with a record 12.8 inches.

It shows - my herb garden is thriving. For the first time this year I harvested some sweet basil to make bruschetta, which was delicious. But I feel as though I live in Panama. It's muggy, sticky, and hot. Not only that, but this evening I discovered more dampness in the basement. The carpet in one corner is soaked.

Sigh. Wet basements, too, are part of the excitement of living on the edge of the city. The very, very wet city.

I Can See Clearly Now

For most of my life now I have worn corrective lenses. I discovered a need for them when I was about six years old, visiting my grandmother for Christmas in her rambling old Victorian home on the outskirts of Clearwater, Nebraska. My dad had several brothers, most of them tall men with long wool overcoats they hung inside the front door.

Being a child, and short, and as I would later learn, as nearsighted as Mr. Magoo, I bumped into the rack of coats. Promptly and politely I apologized to it. When I realized I had just spoken to an inanimate object and not one of my uncles, I quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Not that I would have seen them – they would have appeared as a fuzzy blur somewhere in my peripheral vision.

Welcome to the world of myopia, a genetic gift handed down through my mother’s side of the family. Apparently the gene for nearsightedness is so dominant that when scientists observe it on the DNA helix, it can be seen brandishing a small sword that it uses to wipe out its competitors, which are the genes for the eyesight of a hawk. You can see just how dominant the myopia gene is at a family reunion of my mother, her siblings, and my cousins.

Especially if there’s a gathering that takes place late in the evening, when the eyeglasses start coming out. Not readers (I now have those, too), but the thick-lensed spectacles we wear around the house after taking out our contact lenses for the day. After a few glasses of wine, to really get the party going, we’ll start discussing diopters and astigmatism in order to determine which one of us truly has the poorest eyesight. Unfortunately, the winner is also the loser, the poor chap whose eyeglasses have the thickest lenses.

Not that I’m complaining. I am thrilled to live in an era when myopia doesn’t have to be such an obvious flaw as, for example, the decision to wear Mom jeans or black nail polish. Thanks to contact lenses many of us with defective vision can proudly stand side-by-side with our eagle-eyed peers and no one has to know. Unless a hair or speck of dirt touches our eye. Then we’re blinking madly like Andy Kaufman’s “Foreign Man” character.

But even the near-perfect solution of contact lenses has its hazards. The most notable one occurs when you mistakenly put in the wrong lens. I am careful to put the right lens in its proper half of the case, the one where the lid has a giant R stamped on it, but every so often I get distracted.

What results is this: the next morning, filled with optimism and coffee, I put in the mixed-up contacts. Sometimes I don’t notice immediately what I have done. But it’s obvious once I start tooling down the road and can’t see anything clearly. My first thought is, I wonder if this is what it’s like to have a stroke. My second thought is, even with corrective lenses I’m stumbling and bumbling around like Mr. Magoo. Oh Annie, you’ve done it again!

Mow, Or Not Mow

Now that the rain has stopped, it is time to make a critically important decision. Mow, or not mow.

The threat that the lawnmower will disappear into the temporary marsh in my back yard lessens with each successive dry day, meaning that Saturday morning will probably be the perfect time to fire up the mower and get it done.

But I know myself, and what I know is that I will go through an hour of mental gymnastics whereby I delay the inevitable by getting immersed in some completely useless chore like organizing my lipsticks in ascending order based on the number printed on the bottom label (beginning with 103, Revlon’s "Caramel Glacé" and ending with 892, L’Oréal’s “Raisin Rapture.”) My friend Polly says this behavior is a sure sign of OCD; I say it’s just being more organized.

Yet I cannot lose myself entirely even in a task that requires all my powers of concentration; the grass dancing in the wind outdoors taunts me. This leads to another delay tactic, questioning and rationalization. “Do I really need to mow today? Could I wait until tomorrow, thus being gentler on the environment and my own lungs?”

Then one of two things happens: I eventually fire up the mower, but I’m grumpy because now I’ve just wasted 45 minutes doing something I now realize was utterly ridiculous, or I feel smug because I have accomplished something TRULY IMPORTANT that will make my life flow more smoothly and save time in the long run. But I will still have to mow.

Despite the seeming inconsistency of such behavior, I am insistent about this: I will not TRY to mow. I will not TRY to vacuum the living room rug, TRY to walk three miles on the treadmill, or TRY not to watch so many episodes of 'House Hunters'. I will not TRY to do anything. I will not use the word TRY unless it is followed by ‘ing’, as in, all this talk about TRY is TRYING my patience.

Think about it. If you tell someone you’ll TRY to do something you’ve given yourself a free pass not to do what you said you’d do.

“Please pick up a gallon of milk on the way home.”

“Okay, I’ll try to do that.”

But then you don’t, either because you never really cared to in the first place, or because you know you can say, well, I didn’t do it - at least I tried.

However, the end result is the same as though you had said, “NO! I WON’T buy any milk! Not at all! Forget it! Don’t ask me!”

Either way, you can't be counted on. Although the second scenario seems like defiant behavior, at least you were being honest about your intentions.

Luckily, in my household, where I am both queen of the castle and her hired help, this dialogue doesn’t take place very often. If I want milk, I can’t TRY to buy it. If I want a tidy lawn, I can’t TRY to mow. If I want to change my tv viewing habits, I can't give it the old college TRY. Because there is no try.

Which is what wise old Yoda said long ago. “Do, or do not. There is no try.” If he could, the Jedi Master might tell me, “Mow, or not mow. But don’t ever waste time arranging your lipsticks in ascending order. Because that’s not mastering the Force; it’s being mastered by it.”

No Time to Wallow in the Mire

The average monthly rainfall in Wichita during May is 4.16 inches and in June it’s 4.25 inches. That means nearly two months of rain have fallen in just five days. THAT means my back yard has recently turned into a morass of muck and mud.

If I’d been a little kid I would have squealed and squished – squealed with joy at the opportunity to squish my toes in such pristine mud. But I'm not a little kid - I'm an adult who worried about the two window wells in the basement that kept filling up with water, almost to the glass. Another inch of water and the pressure would have pushed them in, allowing oozy mud to seep indoors.

Last night when I discovered this I started bailing water out of the wells, but the rain fell so hard and fast I had to come inside. I bailed again in the morning and then at intervals used a fountain pump to remove the water. Did any of this hard work make a difference? I’m not sure.

What it did was confirm that once upon a time in the life of my home and property, someone working on the landscape architecture either reversed the drawings or had a malfunctioning level that tilted the wrong way. My back yard slopes. Toward the house. Following is a dialogue that I imagine took place during the construction of my home, an era long ago, prior to GPS, cell phones, Facebook, and good restaurants in Las Vegas.

Landscape Guy #1: “Hey, shouldn’t the dump truck be closer to the house? Do we really want the dirt that far out?”

Landscape Guy #2: “Nah, fuhgettaboutit, we’ll just rake it in a nice little slope away from the house, sorta like this – hey, isn’t it time for lunch?”

There are places near the house that are like a miniature reservoir, with standing water six inches deep. Tufts of unmowed grass dot the yard like small islands. It’s possible to avoid most of the mud by leaping from one tuft of grass to the next. In contrast, the back of the lot looks normal. It’s almost a desert by comparison.

This is the most rain that has fallen in one month since I moved here. What I found today on http://www.wunderground.com/ (Weather Underground) confirms it:

“When it rains... OH can it pour. This is especially true in May 2008 as yesterday's record-shattering calendar day total of 3.23 inches at Wichita's Mid-Continent Airport for May 26th brought the monthly total to 11.45 inches. This easily breaks the monthly May record of 11.22 inches set 73 years ago which... oddly enough... was during the dustbowl era of the mid 1930s. Of this 11.45 inch rainfall total 6.31 inches... or 55 percent of the monthly total... drenched Wichita Mid-Continent in a 3-day period spanning the 24th through the 26th.”

There you have it. It rained the entire Memorial Day Weekend and it would be great to have the weekend again only with better weather. Squishing my toes in all that mud reminded me of something else kid-like: Can we have do-overs?

Rain, Rain, Go AWAY!

Wherever you are in the world, if you watched The Weather Channel at all this weekend you may have noted that the entire state of Kansas has been marked in red, indicating a high probability of severe weather.

It has rained every day for the past four days, with several weather adventures happening every day. None of them tornadoes, thankfully, at least not in my little suburb. My heart goes out, though, to all the folks whose weather adventures were of the tornado type. Some people lost their cars, some their homes, and a few, their lives.

About six inches of rain have fallen here in the last four days. I knew it was getting bad when I went downstairs and found the cat adrift in the basement, clinging to a couch pillow with the remote in her paw.

Yes, Mother Nature is on a tear this spring. While I am thankful that a tornado has not leveled my home, I am finding all this water frustrating. My back yard has become a marsh. I fear I will need an airboat to get around it if the rain continues. While I always appreciate an excuse for not having to mow the lawn, today was different. I would much rather have mowed the back yard today than continue to hear the sound of rain pummeling my skylight. I did manage to mow the front before the latest deluge, a small victory on a very wet weekend.

During the brief break from rain I also planted some tomato plants in the mushy raised bed. If all goes well, in about 90 days I will have enough tomatoes to start a small salsa canning business. Of particular note is a hybrid called “Mr. Stripey” that features orange and red stripes. I don’t know how Mr. Stripey will taste on mayonnaise-slathered honey wheatberry bread, accompanied by his friends Mr. Bacon and Ms. Lettuce, but I was intrigued enough by his looks to purchase a couple of his plants to find out. I also planted a Roma, four Big Boys, and a couple of Beefsteak. There’s still room in the garden for more, but before I surrender the space to just any hybrid, I want to conduct additional research and locate some rare heirlooms to see if they will grow in my corner of the world.

But if this rain continues, Mr. Stripey and the Big Boys will float off before they have a chance to thrive. I just hope they don’t take the cat with them. She still has the remote.

Church

Last night’s weather adventures meant that I was awake for 3 – 4 hours listening to the storm coverage along with the shrill early warning system I had purchased prior to tornado season. I woke up a bit later than usual, at 8:40, and realized that, due to my tightly scheduled day, the only opportunity I would have to go to church would be at 9:30. Fifty minutes.

I wasted four more minutes pondering this, to see if I could come up with a “God is everywhere” or “I serve my fellow man every day” loophole somewhere, but no. I either had to make the commitment to be there at 9:30 or forget it. I was meeting a friend for lunch, shopping for food, cleaning, cooking, and having my family over at 6 for a big dinner – pulled pork, corn on the cob, salad, potato salad, baked beans, and root beer floats.

There were no other possibilities. Also entering the decision equation was the fact that I had a half hour to get ready, which meant no coffee. NO COFFEE on Sunday morning!!!

When you’re a grown-up and no one’s watching, it can be very tempting to skip church and just pad around in your pjs on Sunday morning, drinking coffee, reading the paper, scarfing down last night’s leftovers for breakfast…. Lots of people do. I have. But the thing is, even when no one else is watching, I know. What I also know is this: I have been so blessed in my lifetime that I want to know this incredibly generous Creator even better.

At any rate I got myself together and went. The funny thing was this: the thoughts I had about going/not going, being an adult, who’s watching….all of these topics were covered in the homily by the priest. It was as though he took what had been in my head and turned it into a message for everyone.

I suspect that in the divine scheme of things it really was the other way around. The thoughts entered my head because they were already out there, ready for me to hear if I just made the commitment to go. The truth we seek is out there, but we have to take the time to listen.

Stormy Weather

A couple of months ago, in anticipation of the severe weather season, I purchased a small hand-held weather radio. Like all things electronic, it requires reading a small manual written by a professional engineer prior to using it.

While this manual is much easier to read than the coffee-table sized book that came with my TiVo, I still couldn’t figure out how to program the radio so that the only weather alerts I would receive would be for the actual county where I reside, not the entire south central Kansas region.

I blame this on the fact that it was late and the print was tiny, not on the engineer who wrote the manual.

After fiddling around with the different settings, I finally figured out that “FR” on the screen meant Friday, not French. I went to sleep, secure in the knowledge that I would be appropriately alerted in my native language should a weather emergency arise.

And one did. I was awakened several times by the shrill buzz of the early warning alert system as a thunderstorm moved through several different counties adjacent to mine. While I have an odd fascination with severe weather, which is mostly a fascination with how not to be harmed by it, around midnight I also have a fascination with sleep. Which was being disturbed by my deceivingly small, yet loud, radio.

All the weather alert system has to do to get my attention is say either ‘golf ball-sized hail’ or ‘tornado warning’ and I go into ultra-readiness mode. My adrenalin kicks in as though I’ve just consumed a couple of Red Bull energy drinks. A few years ago, prior to moving to the suburbs, ultra-readiness mode meant driving to the nearest parking garage to protect my Blazer from hail damage. (The boat took up all the space in the garage. Now I have a bigger garage where both the boat and the Blazer safely reside).

I’ve seen how hail can reduce an awning into tattered strips of cloth, or make a car look like it’s been used for target practice. In 1991 I was in Andover about ¼ mile west of the tornado that struck. I was never in harm’s way, but I will always remember the black wall of destruction that reduced homes to piles of broken lumber and mud, sometimes leaving only a bathtub intact.

But last night there was no tornado in my area, just a powerful thunderstorm that moved into my neighborhood around 1:45 am. It wasn’t destructive, just windy and wet. As much water as it dumped I thought I might even be off the hook for mowing today.

I could have, I should have. But instead of mowing I found other things to do. Meanwhile, the weather radio is buzzing again. Severe thunderstorms in Sumner County. Sigh. I really need to get that thing figured out.

A Most Righteous Recipe

On this, the eve of a much anticipated three-day weekend, we at Suburban Blurbs would like to recognize the fact that while many people will be traveling, many more from the suburbs, like me, will be enjoying a “staycation”.

A “staycation” is where you don’t go anywhere but the movies, mall, or market, staying at home to enjoy the harmless decadence of having time to drink coffee on the deck, read that stack of unread Bon Appetit and Cooking Light magazines (we like to explore both ends of the caloric spectrum), test new recipes, finally get around to view DVDs received as gifts at Christmas, put away the last of the Easter decorations, etc.

Some may have agreed to host a Memorial Day gathering for family and friends during their staycation. In an effort to help you make this a most pleasant event, I am sharing the following recipe that should wow your guests, if they like salmon. I found it in a recent issue of Southern Living on a full-page ad for McCormick Seasonings. Three times now I have prepared it, and it’s always tasty. The key is to use smoked, not regular, paprika. Yes, I know gasoline is expensive, but go to the store anyway. The smoked paprika is worth it. And whatever you do, DO NOT buy salmon with bones in it. You don't want to spend your holiday picking tiny white bones out of your dinner. Or your throat.

Smoked Paprika Roasted Salmon with Roasted Spinach

(Makes 8 servings. Yeah, right. More like 4 – 5).

Ingredients:
¼ cup orange juice
2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided
2 teaspoons McCormick Gourmet Collection Thyme Leaves, divided
2 pounds salmon filets
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon McCormick Gourmet Collection Smoked Paprika
1 teaspoon McCormick Gourmet Collection Saigon Cinnamon
1 teaspoon grated orange peel
½ teaspoon McCormick Gourmet Collection Sicilian Sea Salt
1 bag (10 ounces) spinach leaves

Directions:
MIX orange juice, 2 tablespoons of the oil and 1 teaspoon of the thyme in small bowl. Place salmon in large baking dish, skin side up. Add marinade. Cover. Refrigerate 30 minutes or longer for extra flavor.

MIX sugar, smoked paprika, cinnamon, orange peel, remaining 1 teaspoon thyme and sea salt in small bowl. Remove salmon from marinade. Place skin side down in greased foil-lined baking pan. Discard any remaining marinade. Rub top of salmon evenly with smoked paprika mixture.

ROAST salmon in preheated 400 degree Fahrenheit oven 15 – 20 minutes or until fish flakes easily with a fork. Meanwhile, heat remaining 1 teaspoon oil in large skillet on medium heat. Add spinach, cook and stir 2 minutes or until wilted. Serve salmon over spinach.

The Roasted Bean Routine

Our work site in Pascagoula was about a 40-minute shuttle bus ride from the Beau Rivage hotel. Right away I learned that one way to cope with waking up early for a day of manual labor was to stop by the Roasted Bean coffee shop at the Beau, purchase a large coffee, and enjoy the ride.

This one little thing dramatically altered the trajectory of my day. I know, because on the first day of the work week, Monday, I did not purchase coffee. Thinking vats of it would be available when we arrived at the large gathering tent for breakfast, I walked right past the Roasted Bean.

That first morning I missed out on one of life's little pleasantries: sipping coffee, heavily laced with skim milk and artificial sugar (I know, I'm weaning myself of it) early in the morning before reaching my destination. But I learned. Every morning after that I stopped in at the Roasted Bean.

While I can't say I was 20% smarter for the rest of the day, I am certain that I was 20% more enjoyable to be around. As I looked around and saw other Habitat workers cradling their cups of coffee they seemed to be experiencing the same gentle effect.

Therein lies one of the keys to a more civilized society: a warm breakfast beverage to get your blood circulating and help you wake up, a long ride with someone else at the wheel, and perhaps a friend or two to talk with. (Or a cocoon of tunes.) I believe if more of us began our days that way we could be well on our way to achieving what treaties and peace talks haven't: a world of friendly people who help each other get important things done.

If you don't believe me, look at what we achieved last week: we were part of an effort to build 250 homes along the Gulf Coast. The coffee and conversation were part of the success. Because you sure can't create something wonderful if you're not alert and grumpy.

A Cocoon of Tunes

No doubt it's out of politeness that people have yet to ask what music is on the 'cocoon of tunes' I enjoyed while waiting at the Gulfport-Biloxi Airport for 10 hours last Saturday (disclaimer: due to my error, not anyone else's).

I take music with me whenever I travel, as well as a large set of noise cancelling headphones. They come in very handy not just on the plane but during long layovers. I used to try to find "CNN-Free" zones at airports, locations where either the tv was turned off (good luck) or there was no tv to be found.

Then I decided to fight back and purchase an iPod. I don't have to tell you what that is. If you are savvy enough to read a blog you know how the iPod has revolutionized the music industry and the ability to discreetly ignore people all around you. A little electronic box the size of a deck of cards, or smaller, means that you never, ever have to listen to a used car commercial again if you don't want to.

iPods were banned on the Habitat construction sites for good reason - you have to be able to hear your team leader and co-workers. But at the airport they're a great way to shut out the loud cell phone talker next to you, the unhappy child, and of course, CNN. (I don't know how that deal slid through - being able to install tvs at every airport tuned permanently to CNN - but someone needs to go to jail.)

Why all news all the time? Why not the Food Channel? Bad news makes people grumpy. Food makes people happy. Simply changing the channel at all the airports in the US could really help the airlines these days.

For example: your flight has been delayed and now you are going to miss your connecting flight home. With CNN broadcasting the latest flood, fire, mass murder, earthquake, corrupt person, or hardened criminal in a continuous loop you start walking around like a lab rat helplessly trapped in a maze, seeking a way out.

But if the Food Network were on (or for some people, NASCAR) you'd be a much happier lab rat. "Well, okay, I guess I'll be delayed 10 hours, but wow, they're having a Paula Deen marathon all afternoon so I'd better get some Moon Pies, a Coke, and settle in."

At any rate, having a cocoon of tunes is such a civilized way to spend time, as long as you keep the volume down so that the people next to you can't hum along with you.

And what's on mine? So far, 2,500 of my favorite songs, but I still have several hundred CDs to download. Last Saturday I listened to:

*Marvin Gaye - Midnight Love

*Barry White - Greatest Hits

*Herb Alpert - Herb Alpert's Ninth

*Acoustic Alchemy - Red Dust and Spanish Lace

*The Rippingtons - Kilimanjaro

*Big Maybelle - Candy

*Walter Wanderley - On My Mind

What I did NOT listen to: Just about anything, other than Jazz, produced in this century.

I am decidedly unhip. But that's the great thing about creating your own playlist. You can groove to your favorite tunes and no one has to know that Tom Jones is singing "It's Not Unusual." Which, by the way, I'm thinking of downloading. For 99 cents it's a steal.

A Tale of Two Blackberries....

....and the wonderful people behind them.

Blackberry #1: Belongs to me. Faithfully I brought it each day to the work site, reading emails on the 40-minute bus ride to and from Pascagoula. Like the responsible adult that I am, I took along my charger and plugged it in every other day.

Sometime on Friday morning I noticed it wasn't in my tool apron, where I'd kept it all week. I had an unsettling thought that I'd dropped it somewhere, but hoped I had left it in the hotel room.

Not so. I officially proclaimed it lost when the Knight Foundation staff and friends met for dinner on Friday evening following our final work day at our Habitat sites. My colleague Paul notified T Mobile immediately and I assumed that Mr. Blackberry was gone for good.

Blackberry #2: Saturday morning I was exhausted and rattled about losing my friend. At least that's my explanation for leaving my bag behind on the shuttle bus from the Beau Rivage to the airport. Not only did I not have my wallet and ID at that point, but I realized I was without a communications device in case anyone called to tell me they had found my bag.

I mourned appropriately, and then fantasized about how neat it would be to own a RED version of the Blackberry Curve. Sweet! No more looking for a black PDA in the bowels of a black purse! No, the beautiful cherry red of my new Blackberry would stand out, and make me look hip as well!

Polly Talen, my colleague from St. Paul, MN, graciously offered the use of her Blackberry. For her, this was a TREMENDOUS sacrifice. I think she uses her Blackberry more than her laptop to communicate with people. Yet she could tell what a spot I was in and she responded with kindness. Since it was a Saturday, it meant she wouldn't get it back until Tuesday at the earliest.

As it turned out, I only needed to make a couple of calls. But Polly had left on the same flight I was supposed to take. Her Blackberry was mine until sometime Monday.

Blackberry #1: With all the rain that fell on Friday there was no way my Blackberry could have survived the deluge. I was certain it had drowned in a puddle somewhere near our job site. Or been crushed by the trample of feet, wheelbarrows, golf carts, trash trucks, semis hauling sod, etc. And I was certain I could request a beautiful, swell new RED Blackberry as a replacement. All I had to do was figure out how to position my request, which, let's face it, came from a position of weakness ("I screwed up and lost my Blackberry.") as opposed to a position of strength ("I was rescuing people who were lost at sea and my Blackberry fell out of my pocket as I plucked the last one who was clinging to life on a small rubber dinghy.")

You can imagine how my fantasy was interrupted by the jarring reality of receiving an email on Monday of this week from a man named Bracky Cooper, who said he saw my blog, the name was familiar, and he had my Blackberry (thanks, Bracky, for reading my blog! :) He offered to return it.

Blackberry #2: On Monday I overnighted it to my colleague Polly, making a mental note regarding the typeface she had selected, the layout, and the action photo of her daughter that she used as wallpaper. I had Blackberry layout envy and vowed to unlock the mysteries of how she had set up her screen so I could do the same. Polly received her Blackberry on Tuesday, a little more than 72 hours after she had lent it to me. I'm sure they were among the longest 72 hours of her life.

Blackberry #1: Arrived today. I didn't have high hopes about the state it would be in. I was certain it would be a shorted-out, waterlogged piece of junk. Figuring it was ruined, my colleague Philip Francis wanted me to send it to him so he could take it apart.

IT WORKS PERFECTLY. Not a scratch on it. There's the whole SIM card and registration issue to deal with, but somehow my Blackberry was preserved from being drowned and run over. It's charged up, the phone works, and I've gotten over my Blackberry envy because I've reconfigured it to look like Polly's. What a journey it's been on! If only it could talk!

I'll talk for it instead. Thank you, thank you, good and honest people for a) lending me a Blackberry to use for a couple of days and b) for returning it ASAP and, a bonus thank you for c) reading my blog! :)

Photos of Rosalynn and Jimmy at Work

I snapped a few photos of Rosalynn and Jimmy Carter while they were working next door. I believe it was at the closing ceremonies when Rosalynn said in that lovely honey and molasses accent of hers that she has become a 'pretty fair carpenter' over the years. I was pretty young when she was the first lady and I didn't pay much attention to politics, but my recollection is that she was just as kind and gracious then as she is now.

The Kindness of Strangers

After a week of hammering, insulating, and painting, I was weary. As much as I enjoyed meeting the good people of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, I had reached a place where I was ready to resume my routine of sleeping in on Saturdays, planting herbs in my new flower bed, creating container gardens, reading cookbooks as though they were romance novels, etc.

My flight was scheduled to leave on Saturday at 6:30 am, necessitating a wakeup call at 4:15. This could partially explain the coma-like and forgetful state I was apparently in. But the upside of taking Northwest's first flight of the day was that I would be back in Wichita just before 11 am. I'd still have most of a day to wash the sand and dirt from my clothes and re-enter the atmosphere that is my life.

Which I did, only about ten hours later than scheduled.

I cannot blame this one on weather, airline overbooking, mechanical delays, or any of the other standard reasons for arriving home late.

No, this one was on me.

I left my "Habitat for Humanity" messenger bag on the shuttle bus. It had my wallet and camera in it. When the ticket agent asked to see my ID I looked in the place where I usually keep my wallet when I travel - my backpack.

I wanted to crumple to the floor when I realized what had happened. By then the bus driver was gone, returning no doubt to the Beau to pick up the next batch of weary Habitat volunteers and deliver them to the airport.

It's a horrible moment of realization when you're at the ticket counter and you know you've left your ID at home or somewhere other than your wallet. It's even worse when you know it's riding around somewhere, and you're not sure how to get to it. I considered renting a car but you can't do that without ID and a credit card.

Luckily, the kind man who dropped off the folks on the 6 am shuttle helped me out. Tyrone Reed with Calco Travel made a few phone calls and assured me that my bag would be in my hands by 7:30. He was right.

Equally kind was the Northwest ticket agent, who didn't penalize me at all for my error. I missed my flight, of course, but after getting my bag back I decided to wipe away the tears and make the best of the day. I talked with other Habitat volunteers at the airport, shut out the world in a "cocoon of tunes" with my iPod, chatted with my colleague Vivian Celeste and her husband Vernon, and read, something I hadn't done much of all week.

By the time I got home I was very nearly babbling, exhausted as I was. I don't remember much except for feeling overwhelmed with gratitude - both for the kindness of caring people who were willing to take time to help me out, and for my very large, and soft, pillows.

The Beau's Secret Fleet

In an earlier post I marveled at the number of Beau Rivage guests who use scooters to get around in the casino [the Beau is where many of the Habitat volunteers stayed]. A little mobility challenge is NOT going to keep them from enjoying their favorite pastime.

In fact, there are times, primarily any time of day associated with a meal, when you need to be extra careful or you might get mowed down by a fleet of grannies on Rascals.

I don't fault anyone for wanting to be as mobile as possible despite a setback, but I do think that perhaps a driving or safety course should be a prerequisite for going out on the open road, or in this case, the open casino.
Even more astonishing than the number of folks on scooters was the fact that all the scooters seemed to look alike, as though the Rascal vendor had a monopoly. But an accidental discovery revealed the answer to the puzzle: deep within the bowels of the Beau is a secret fleet of scooters, oxygen tanks, and wheelchairs.

This represents a standard of customer service that Congress and the airlines would do well to emulate. THIS level of planning is how you make sure your customers are pampered. If having a scooter is the only obstacle to your enjoying an evening of tossing change into a slot machine, then you can bet the casinos will be sure to have a fleet of them at the ready. You can even call ahead and request one.

Not me, though. Because the perfect evening after a day of hard work in Pascagoula wasn't gambling or sightseeing or even dining out. It was soaking in a hot tub. You can take those scooters almost anywhere, but not the bath.

Tools of the Trade

You don't have to bring your own tools to a Habitat build, but some of the veteran volunteers do. And in our case, it was a good thing. Without the cat's paw, we might still be at the site, pulling out nails with our hammers, our bare hands, or even our teeth.

The cat's paw (or bear claw, I heard it referred to both ways) is a small crowbar for pulling out nails. Habitat must have been very optimistic in thinking that we volunteers on House #9 would all be able to drive the nails securely into the wood, and thus not require the use of a cat's paw. They supplied us with a dozen or so hammers, but no tools for prying out errant nails that bent or broke.

Luckily, a couple of members of our crew had brought their own cat's paws with them. At times these little tools were more prized than cold bottled water. Because when you whack a nail and your aim is slightly off, it bends like a rubber band. Sometimes you can pull it out with the claw end of the hammer, other times you need the hammer for leverage and the cat's paw for pulling.

And you want to remove bent nails as quickly as possible. Because when you're standing at the site with a bunch of bent nails sticking out of the wall like an angry artist's sculpture it's embarrassing. You want to get rid of the evidence. Fast.

That's why I recommend if you've never been on a Habitat build you bring along one or two cat's paws. Keep one for yourself, and save the other to use for barter. As in, "Sure, I'll let you use this, but that means you get to do roofing and I'll stay on the ground."

This way, your tools of the trade can become tricks of the trade.

Hammer Time

My sister wants to know what my work boots look like. A colleague in Wichita can't imagine me swinging a hammer. Here are actual, un-Photoshopped photos taken this week.

What you don't see is the time I hit my thumbnail with the hammer. But it didn't bruise - it was only a flesh wound.

I learned a great new Southern expression today. "All that and a bag of chips." Let's hope I don't get a big head over this experience. I don't want anyone saying, "Anne thinks she's all that and a bag of chips."

A Bit About The Beau

The Beau Rivage is the hotel where many of this week's Habitat volunteers are staying. Despite the fact that the rooms don't have their own coffee makers like the Holiday Inn Express, necessitating that you have to be fully dressed before you can enjoy your morning java jolt, it is a fine place, with several restaurants, upscale shops, a coffee house with the friendliest staff on the planet, large, posh rooms.....and a casino.

I have never understood the allure of gambling. Giving away my hard-earned money to bet on a the fickle finger of fate doesn't seem like fun.

Maybe that's because I'm gun-shy. In the 80s I bought some stocks that ended up being unintentional penny stocks, which was gambling without the buffet. Or the cocktails. I didn't even get a shrimp platter or glass of wine for my troubles, only a stack of worthless paper.

However, the Beau, beautiful as it is, has not caught up with the non-smoking laws that are standard operating procedure in most other parts of the country. Smoking is allowed in most of the hotel, to the delight of many guests who find themselves alternately breathing from their oxygen tanks and taking a drag.

As a result, when you go walking around to check out the shops and restaurants you come back to the room experiencing the scratchy-voiced sensation of having had a couple of cigarettes. I feel like Jerry Seinfeld, who once joked, "I'm a pack-a-day second-hand smoker."

But aside from that I can see why folks love it here. The staff treats you like a million bucks once you arrive. And even the non-Habitat guests have been quite friendly. A couple of times I've stopped for coffee in my Habitat gear (t-shirt, shorts, name tag, hard hat) and complete strangers thank me for the wonderful work Habitat is doing here on the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

So all in all, the Beau is a place I will definitely visit again. But not for the gambling or even the food - which is delicious - but because those gals behind the counter at The Roasted Bean are the essence of Southern hospitality. I wish I could take them home to Wichita. But instead I'll take home the memory of their kindness. And raise a toast to them the next time I brew a pot of coffee at home. If I can remember how to do that.

If You're Claustrophobic, This Job Isn't For You

Here on the Gulf Coast houses don't have basements. They're just too close to the water. But what they do have is a sizeable crawl space under the house. It's unfinished, but a good temporary place for storage while we're working.

This morning we needed someone who didn't mind venturing into the crawl space to remove the siding that was stored there. I thought given a choice between that and the roof, I'd crawl.

It's not unpleasant, just cramped and somewhat dark. But it's not uncomfortable because of the soft red earth that some wise person spread on the ground while preparing the building site. It's like a cushion for your knees as you're crawling, which is the only way to get around.

I must have done an impressive job of shoving boxes of siding out from the crawl space because later in the day I won the prize for best crawler! My prize was that I got to go back inside for a half hour to store the insulation that we will place inside the ceiling tomorrow.

Thanks to this Habitat project, I'm learning all kinds of new things about home building. Luckily for Tiffany, the young lady who will take possession of the house next month, there are some very capable people on our crew who are making sure all of us volunteers are doing things right. Because without their oversight, I'm not sure I'd want to live in a house I built!

It Really Is All About The Food....

...So I talked to former president Jimmy Carter this evening. Yes, he and Mrs. Carter (Rosalynn) were the featured guests at a dinner I attended. Jimmy walked around for a bit and shook hands with some of us.

The food at the dinner was delicious. Crab cakes, sweet potato parfait, bananas foster, shrimp, a risotto bar, pecan pie bars....scrumptious! As was the food at a dinner I attended last night, and that my colleague Adele cooked for some of us on Saturday.

Yup, I've enjoyed some mighty fine traditional Southern home cooking since I arrived here in Biloxi a few days ago.

So what did I say to President Jimmy Carter when he shook my hand?

"I sure am enjoying all this great Southern cooking here." !

My chance to say something to the former president and all I could do was think about food!

If I Had A Hammer....

....There's no 'if' about it. You will have, and use, a hammer at a Habitat build.

I was hoping we might get to use those swell, zippy tools that you see on "Carter Can", but no. We're amateurs, and we might get hurt using nail and staple guns.

Throughout the day there's one thing you can count on hearing, and that's the steady 'thwack thwack' of hammers pounding nails. The sound reverberates throughout the neighborhood and even in your dreams long after the work day has ended.

And there are a dozen different kinds of nails to thwack. Luckily, if you have never used an 8 penny galvanized nail before, the crew will be glad to show you what it looks like. There are roofing nails, cabinet top nails, finish nails...that's just for starters.

Even if you don't regularly swing a hammer, you can at a Habitat build. Just be prepared to take ibuprofen and a hot bath at the end of the day.

What These Houses Mean to Kids

At lunch today I sat with Melissa and Marie. Melissa will be the proud owner of one of these homes. Marie is her stepmother. They seem like best friends or sisters, and were a whole lot of fun to talk to.

As a soon-to-be homeowner through Habitat, Melissa has been working at the building site like the other homeowners. Unfortunately, her two young sons aren't old enough to help out at the build. But they are very excited about their new home.

So they played a trick on their mom. They told her that they had missed the bus to school and begged her to take them. Coincidentally, the route to school is VERY close to their new home. So they asked their mom if she would mind detouring a bit so they could see where they will be living soon.

Melissa drove them past the house. For two young boys, these are very exciting times. In about a month they will be eating, sleeping, playing, having friends over, and just being boys in their new Habitat Home.

I wish I could be there when they get to walk in the doors for the first time....

Blogapology

Last night I didn't post because my wireless card was misbehaving. I made many attempts to log onto this blog because I knew so many of you were eagerly awaiting my latest post. I finally gave up because I needed to rest for a big day of:
1) pounding nails
2) cutting insulation
3) helping install the insulation
4) eating

Something about my magnetic field repulses wireless internet and attracts bugs in equal measure. One of my colleagues, Belinda, told me that she loves her wireless card and it works just great. I thought, hmm, does she have an updated model? Why is mine so hit and miss, and mostly miss? Why, when I have a three-hour layover at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, is it so darned hard to read and respond to emails using my wireless card?

Recently while at this same airport, I had to send some documents NOW, so I built a small tower, stacking my laptop on top of my backpack and down-filled coat, just to get the best wireless signal possible at my gate. It was the digital version of putting Reynolds Wrap on your tv antenna.

But while I seem to have a knack for repelling forces that can help me, I have a great talent for attracting bugs that not only bite, but leave huge welts on my arms, legs, neck....this happens no matter what hemisphere I am in. Not one of my colleagues has complained about bug bites. But me, well, if I'm not careful I'll blow up like Martin Short did in the movie "Pure Luck".

Why We're Here

My Knight Foundation colleagues and I had an action-packed day touring Biloxi, Gulfport, and East Biloxi together. We saw for ourselves the progress these communities have made, and how much more needs to be done to restore homes, office buildings, and businesses. Some folks just cannot afford to rebuild - insurance costs are so much greater than they were before Hurricane Katrina. Some are restoring slowly. Some seem to be just getting by.

One of the bright spots was seeing the homes in East Biloxi, where the rebuilding started before the storm. They look bright and cheerful, the way kids look on the first day of school showing off their new clothes and high hopes. A boy skated by on roller skates, perhaps practicing to get a job at Sonic. Another boy rode a bicycle. People sitting on a porch waved to us. The whole community isn't this bright and shiny - you still see buildings with broken glass and sagging walls - but there's a lot to be happy about.

One of the highlights of the day was when all the Habitat volunteers converged for dinner, music, and motivation. The Mississippi Mass Choir sang a song whose refrain was "I'm Not Tired Yet." And then Garth Brooks and Tricia Yearwood, who are helping build a home this week, introduced Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter.

But most meaningful to me were the testimonies from people who helped build a Habitat home and are now living in it. We saw videotaped presentations about the hurricane damage, the cleanup, and rebuilding. One of the images showed a hand-painted sign that read "If you lose hope, you've lost everything." Having a clean, new home to move into after losing nearly everything made all the difference to these survivors.

And that's why we're here.

No Specific Skills, But Willing to Learn

A few months back I completed Habitat’s volunteer registration form. It asks what previous building and/or Habitat experience you have, along with your specific skills. Somewhat alarming was the fact that they also requested the name of your doctor and your health insurance policy number.

Having watched hundreds of hours of remodeling/refurbishing shows as well as an entire season of “Design Star” on HGTV, I felt confident that I possessed at least a few highly specialized abilities that could support the cause. For example, I can choose complementary paint colors, buy coordinated pillows, and match throw rugs all purchased at completely different stores. Send me on a shopping run to Kohl’s or Gordman’s and I’ll return with an SUV filled with colorful, affordable decorative doodads.

However, the Habitat folks are not looking for volunteers with this skill set, unique as it may be. I learned this when completing the registration form. After checking ‘no’ to skills in plumbing, landscaping, painting, electrical, general contractor, roofing, trim and finish, flooring, and siding I had to stare reality in the face. Officially I fall into Habitat’s category of ‘unskilled’, which means I have no specific skills, but am willing to learn.

Fortunately for the good people who will be living in these new homes the 1,700 volunteers include many enthusiastic long-time Habitat volunteers who have the proper building skills. Many will be supervising people like me. After landing at the Gulfport-Biloxi Airport I rode to the hotel with several seasoned Habitat veterans. Because I was the only newbie in the group I thought perhaps I had stepped onto the wrong bus. They greeted each other like old friends with multiple Tower of Babel-like conversations happening all at once.

They were certainly a welcoming bunch. Jerry Kwas, from Detroit, who has been a volunteer since 1999. He has missed only two of the annual Carter Builds. His dedication and quiet modesty are impressive. Most Habitat volunteers like Jerry who travel to the Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter build sites pay for their travel, lodging, and registration fees themselves. (Note: My Knight Foundation colleagues and I are being sponsored by our employer, who is also a major sponsor of this build. More about this in another entry.)

Jerry explained that at the builds in Mexico, Philippines, and Korea the homes are like small shelters, only about 300 square feet and built with concrete blocks. Their construction requires masonry skills. Here in Biloxi, the new homes will be framed. The frames will be delivered pre-built on sites where the foundation is laid and the infrastructure is in place. If not, we would need much more than a week here to really accomplish anything.

The experienced volunteers tell me this will be a week like no other. One thing’s for sure: after this week some families are going to have a place to call their own thanks to the efforts of thousands of people who care. And I think that’s the reason we’re all here. I just that my lack of skills doesn’t result in a need to call my family doctor or use my health insurance ID.

Of Steel-Toed Shoes And Pig Boots

For no reason whatsoever I started worrying about my feet. Then I realized the worry was due to reading the Habitat for Humanity Volunteer Handbook for the first time. Open-toed shoes, flip-flops, and Crocs are strictly forbidden. Running shoes/sneakers are okay, but the Habitat folks strongly recommend steel-toed shoes.

Which is why I started worrying. I don't own any steel-toed shoes. And I figured I'd better get some. Pronto.

Steel-toed shoes convey a sense of know-how about fixing things that in my case is fictitious. When you see people wearing steel-toed shoes you realize they probably have jobs that require a particular skillset that combines athleticism with danger, like shimmying up electrical poles or installing cable tv. They're not for pansies like me with indoor jobs.

In the course of the day I conferred with my friend Peter, who owns a farm in Oklahoma. "You need pig boots," he advised.

Pig boots?

"Yes." He was serious. He's the proud owner of several pair himself. They are plastic boots that reach almost up to your knees. You can tuck your pant legs into them and they'll stay dry. Intuitively I figured out that their name comes from the fact that some folks use them when slopping the hogs.

He assured me that I can find them when I get to Biloxi. Relieved, I made a compromise. I purchased waterproof boots that look like they have steel toes but don't. In the end, I wimped out. That little "electrocution hazard" icon on the box of the steel-toed boots is what did it. I think I'd rather drop a two-by-four on my waterproof boots and risk hurting my toe than getting zapped because of my shoes.

Ready To Build With Jimmy and Rosalynn?

Several months ago I signed up to help build houses in Biloxi, MS with the Habitat for Humanity team. One reason I agreed was that several people from work would be part of the crew, and I had an image of myself fearlessly swinging a hammer in the heat of mid-day, impressing my colleagues with my substantial homebuilding know-how acquired primarily from watching hundreds of hours of HGTV.

The other reason was that Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter would be there. They've been tireless Habitat for Humanity volunteers for 25 years. I thought working on the annual build they lend their names and energy to might be one of those history-in-the-making experiences I could tell my grandkids about.

Okay, there was one other reason. I thought I might learn a new and useful skill, like putting up drywall or installing plumbing fixtures.

So I'm writing a blog about the experience. I will take photos and talk to volunteers while working side by side with more than 1,700 volunteers and 60 families as we build 30 new homes, refurbish 30 homes, and construct 48 frames to be completed later. I hope to create an experience for you that is almost like being there, except without the perspiration.