Michiana Chronicles

Friday, August 28, 2009

Running Music

I started running several years ago to distract myself from a broken heart and to quit smoking. I hated it. I did about eight 5K races with my Father, who has been a three-miles-once-a-week runner for decades. Then I quit. I was happy once again.

In the past few years I married my own Personal Prince Charming and have given birth to our precious first child.  Our lives have never been the same.  My body is not the same either...so I decided to try running again. In about a month I was able to get up to a slow plodding run interspersed with lots of walking, as usual.  I found regular weekly running partners: our baby Portia in a jogging stroller, my Hot Mama friend Tracy on Wednesdays, and of course dear old Dad on Monday or Friday.

I have been running longer and better than four years and thirty pounds ago, thanks to the maturing process of parenthood, good running partners, and my iPod.  The iPod helps by distracting me from my agony and energizing me with wild happy songs just when I’m ready to give up and eat more french fries.  I also have the cool Nike Plus attachment that tracks all my runs in pretty graphs with stats that keep me motivated to go out one more time. I sometimes miss a run with my Dad or Tracy, but the iPod is my constant running partner. I won’t go out without it. Really.

I was out with my Dad and my iPod for a longer run and breathlessly mouthing the words to a favorite song in a quiet moment.  My Dad said, “WHAT?” and I realized what I had sung: “I’m a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie world, I’m plastic, it’s fantastic.” Funny, happy words from a random song on my playlist.  I like happy sexy songs to keep my tired sweaty body on task. I am running to be healthier, sure, but above all to be thinner, sexier, and to feel good about how I look. It may not be the highest goal in my life, but it is authentic!  Later on I was singing about “bringing sexy back,” and once again Dad stares at me and comments on the words. This is the man who takes me to Chicago operas, who likes classical music, NPR, and old style country.  Pop music is an alien world to him, and as I usually listen to NPR and Christian music, he is surprised at my play list.

I try to explain to him how the music gets me going and how I know the lyrics are vapid and hardly worth listening to, let alone picking up as a daily mantra, but he doesn’t understand.  He asks, “Do you want your daughter to listen to this junk?” I do have to think about that one.  I have already begun reframing my language, both foul and self-flagellating, so that when she actually understands words I am giving her the best role model I can summon up.  I want her to know she is beautiful, captivating, and valuable just as she is, whoever she is.  I want her to be confident, kind and love others well.

I know the world may send her a different message. The struggle we women have with body image is an old dragon that never seems to be vanquished.  We can know the truth of our beauty in our hearts and then turn on the TV or open a magazine and question our value all over again.  We can have thin thighs in college but think they are enormous, not realizing the truth until our thirties when we learn the meaning of...well, never mind.

Body image can be a real challenge for women and I certainly do not mean to perpetuate it by my running playlist.  How do I appreciate the lyrics for what they are without letting them affect me in the negative?  How do I protect and shape my daughter’s view of herself in a healthy way as she grows into a young woman?  Honestly, I don’t know.  I think that is a process that will take a long time.  But I do know that “I’m a Barbie Girl” and Brittany Spears’ “Womanizer” help me run faster.  They help me run longer.  They bring me joy for what they are; silly upbeat dance songs that do not act as a moral guide for my life but keep my feet moving and my sweat pouring and my healthy beautiful mama’s body running.  I am happy once again.

Friday, August 21, 2009

The Lost Vacation

They’re fading already—don’t you feel it? Those pricey memories from this summer’s vacation are fuzzing out and soon they will be almost entirely gone.  The minute you pay the credit card bill, the brain lobe that remembers pleasure turns its attention elsewhere, and the whole adventure, whatever it was, starts draining of color like a drawer full of snapshots. But that’s okay—vacation is such an embarrassment anyway. What’s tourism but an invitation to wallow in the shallow of another place and time?

And by shallow I mean really shallow.  My, the king had fancy armor, and what fun these accents are! How pretty their money is! Why can’t our money look like their money? I wonder what McDonald’s smells like in this foreign country? (Answer: almost exactly like McDonald’s back home. Go figure.) Here’s my theory, then: Vacation is a posh kind of semi-consciousness; it’s a swoon that you put on your credit card.

And the travel books and tourist videos give lessons in how to do it right. They offer systems to organize the experience, whole levels of shallowness. Got an entire day at your destination, the book might ask? Brilliant—you can see any four items on the big list, if you keep moving. Just an afternoon, then? Try a traditional meal at a landmark pub and a short riverboat ride. Two hours? Stroll through the ancient cemetery and check out the gift shop. Only an hour, poor dears? Run in and see the stained glass and the ancient manuscript.

I would turn the page, expecting even shallower suggestions: Got 30 minutes? Listen to a busker strum a few classic pop songs on guitar near a monument of enduring beauty. As little as 10 minutes, is it? Smoke a cigarette beneath the famous rose window and have a passerby snap your picture. Look, we went to England!

And yet, and yet. Vacation starts out as wrong as a rock-hard supermarket peach, but later might offer something hand-picked at the moment of ripeness, if we’re lucky. It depends on whether we notice the clues—and that is all they ever amount to—that accumulate in the best moments of a trip.  You sense a way of life, the extremes people have gone to, their skills and their desires. But these are just hints, because their stories have worn away over time like the center of their old stone steps. They dissolve over centuries.

I found a clue at the end of a stone corridor deep in the wings of a great medieval cathedral. There was a stout wooden door, and just a few inches beyond, another heavy door just like it, both ready to seal up the last stretch of corridor. This dead-end room was where the gold and the jewels were kept. Three guards would spend the night in this crypt. They’d lock the inner door to keep robbers out, and the king or his lackey would lock the outer door to keep the guards honest. The nobles trusted their soldiers only so much, and the soldiers prayed that there would be no fire. And this was the clue. They were clever, our ancestors, and suspicious, and grasping, to build that strongbox of a room, to lock men inside it, there in the shadow of the justly famous, the miraculous, the extravagant cathedral. In other words, they were like us. They worked and played hard, they suffered and loved, they lived to us strange yet very recognizable lives. Our ancestors, it turns out, were so human.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Order in the Court

After her outburst, the bailiff removed the woman in the pink sponge hair rollers from the courtroom. Who knows to where, but I was hard pressed to think of any place where the bailiff might take her that the pink sponge rollers would have been the correct fashion accessory. The adage, “When you fail to plan, you plan to fail,” sprang to mind, closely followed by a plan for my later life. As I sat there in the back-benches area of the courtroom, I decided that an interesting thing to do on some days when retirement came would be to go to court just to watch the action. Let’s face it, being in court usually means that something has gone terribly awry in someone’s life, so seeds of drama are just barely covered by the soil and are ripe for sprouting. Must be why there is so much court-based television. After all, you surely remember that “there are eight million stories in the Naked City.”

Maybe you’ve never had to go to court, and if so, good for you. Sometimes though, in my work life, I do have to go to court (This means that something has gone terribly awry in someone’s life.), and I haven’t seen much there that dampens my idea that sitting in court would be lots more interesting than sitting on the couch watching television as a filler for my no-employment days. This, even though I know that real-court is not as fast-paced and precise as television-court. The immediacy is the grabber.

A couple of years ago, one of my life-goals was fulfilled when I was called for and empanelled on a jury. I just love seeing these “your government in action” things, so was eager to have the experience. In a Jane Austen novel, here I would tell you the first letter of the judge’s name, followed by a blank line, but since Michiana is a fairly small community, I suppose that it would be inappropriate for me to do that since you would guess right away who the judge was. In discretion mode, I’ll just tell you that he did all that he could to make it relevant and interesting for us Jane and John Q. Publics on the jury, but nothing that he did was going to make it move along at mini-series pace. It was slooooooooow. Witnesses were unprepared; attorneys, both the prosecution and the defense, asked lame questions and hemmed and hawed; most of the participants, both the prosecuted and the defended, were unlikable; and we, the jurors, were too diverse to come to a unified decision. No instant replays were required. “Your government in action” turned out to be moving in slo-mo, if at all.

Based on both my own encounters and a piece which came to me over the internet not so long ago, I’m thinking that my personal experiences are not all that unusual. The internet message, purported to be from a public defender, advises defendants on court dress and behavior. At first glance, her advice might seem unnecessary, dark, and/or disrespectful of her clientele, but trust me, she obviously has been there, seen the need, and is offering useful counsel for maintaining order in the court. For those with just a passing interest, here are a few pithy tips that the public defender offers: “If you are charged with a DUI, don’t wear a Budweiser shirt.” “Long sleeves are nice for covering tattoos and track marks.” “Try not to be visibly drunk when you show up.” Bathing and tooth-brushing also are advised, as is steering clear of spitting while in court. However, she fails to mention avoiding sporting the pink sponge hair rollers. I can only think that this means that there are eight million and one stories just waiting for our attention.

WWW Michiana Chronicles

A random pick from more than 400 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:

April Lidinsky -- Garden Bounty / More essays by April

Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff

Ken Smith -- The Lost Vacation / More essays by Ken

Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- Order in the Court / More essays by Jeanette

Heather Curlee Novak -- Running Music / More essays by Heather

David James -- More essays by David

Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth

Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe

Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise

Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan

Leave a note for any of the authors at our WebNote page, or maybe you'd like a copy of our book? Then there's our Twitter and Facebook pages!

About the series

Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.

Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.

Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.

Recent pieces

What Do You Do? -- This terrible economy is a heart-breaker, it’s true. But our work, I hope, is not who we are, whether or not we’re collecting a paycheck right now. By April Lidinsky.

Beyond the Pole -- It has become almost obligatory for movies and even TV shows to work strip clubs and pole-dancing into stories that sure don’t need them for plot development. Don’t worry – I’m not going to linger on these dens of iniquity; my question is why, now, these scenes have become a narrative norm. Why in so many CSI shows or spy flicks does the female investigator or detective have a pole dance up her sleeve? (Not easy when you’re only wearing fringe.) We sure don’t expect our male heroes to break into Chippendales dances in every other episode. By April Lidinsky.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Morning -- Facebook is my grown-up playground where, in the comfort of my home, I meet friends old and new to share information, tell stories about our lives, and generally have a good time. These encounters are, by turn, fun, interesting, and sad; sometimes maddening; often poignant; and on many occasions have made me roar with laughter. Today I am here to share with you, dear listener, one of my very favorite Facebook experiences. My dear friend Matthew posted a single, simple sentence that elicited a string of exchanges among him, his friend Bill, and me that I believe is worthy of the Bulwer-Lytton award for worst fiction. By Elizabeth Van Jacob.

The New Wheel -- I was suspicious. I brought in a flat tire, and now I needed a whole new wheel? I drove over to the shop. The mechanic showed me the parts that had fallen off the hub and he pointed out that there was no way to reattach them. He had carefully checked the manufacturer’s website; he had spoken to the bike shop that specialized in this brand. So he repeated the bad news: I needed a new wheel. What did I know? He was the expert. By Ken Smith.

Trials of our Times -- What do I know about lawyers? Well, I harbored a deep adolescent crush on the floppy-haired lead in the 1970s TV series, The Paper Chase – does that count? What could be more romantic to a budding nerd than a show about late-night study groups and the adrenalin rush of the Socratic method? I barely noticed the near-absence of women in those classrooms; I was caught up in my fantasized quest to prove to John Houseman’s irascible Professor Kingsfield that I was up to his standards. You may remember that every show replayed Kingsfield’s threatening promise to his students: “You teach yourselves the law. I train your minds. You come in here with a skull full of mush, and if you survive, you’ll leave thinking like a lawyer.” By April Lidinsky.

Chronicle of a Death Told in Facebook Postings -- Elizabeth Van Jacob and Scott learned that, like creatures from a horror movie, Scott’s tumors have again repaired themselves and grown significantly. Scott will no longer receive treatment for his condition. We are meeting with hospice later this week. September 23 Elizabeth Van Jacob is taking a leave of absence from work effective immediately to live la dolce vita with her dolcetto amore. September 24 Elizabeth Van Jacob just shared the very last cherry tomato of the season with Scott in the garden that was ours and ours alone. September 26 Elizabeth Van Jacob is so very pleased that as Scott comes out from under the fog of the chemotherapy drugs, his inner light is shining through brighter than ever. September 27 By Elizabeth Van Jacob.

America the Interesting -- Even the neighborhood food shops aren’t as parochial as they used to be. Sixteen years ago, on my first evening as a resident of Michiana, I went to the nearest grocery store to pick up something for dinner. Someone at home had an unsettled tummy, so I asked the clerk to point out a few of the less spicy foods there in the deli case. “Oh, no, sir,” she said, “we hardly ever put spices in anything we make.” But now that same store has torn out the giant Aisle 1 racks of Technicolor jello salads and installed a fifteen-foot cooler of imported cheeses. By Ken Smith.

The Conundrum of Snow -- Soon after my move to Michiana, as I became accustomed to daily snow shoveling, I hypothesized that if I didn’t fall over dead immediately from the exertion, it might cause me to live forever. Anecdotally, I observed robust, 80-year-olds out there throwing snow. Heartening.
My son swears that when he was living in southwest Indiana, he heard a weathercaster exclaim with astonishment, “My God! It didn’t even snow in South Bend today.” So, as you grumble and crawl out of your igloo here near the end of this bumper-crop snowseason, think about how special having survived it makes you. Lift high your snow shovel and feel proud that we, the snow-shifters, are admired as a tough and vigorous people. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.

Phone Call from the Other Side of the World -- My Blackberry started getting phone calls from overseas, or so I figured since the caller’s number was several digits longer than good old U.S. numbers. Presumably this was a friend or family member of the last person who was assigned my new number. I ignored the calls, but they kept coming, so one day I finally picked up and said hello. The person on the other end spoke a completely mysterious language. I said, “You have the wrong number,” and pretty soon he hung up. But he’d call again every couple of days and we’d go through it all once more. By Ken Smith.

Heading Toward the Finish Line -- As we near the time to waddle out of the major eating season of the year, I breathe a sigh of both thanks for the opportunity and relief that once again, it didn’t kill me. Starting with Thanksgiving and extending to Valentine’s Day, treats are the order of the day. My creative assistant, Larry, has offered the helpful suggestion that, like any major competition, we need to train for the season. Note now, you need to prepare. You can’t just go into this cold turkey. Beginning in late October or early November, we should begin to overeat just a bit each day in order to stretch our stomachs, so that they can accommodate the coming onslaught. He has named this regimen “The Stomach Pack.” Not such a bad plan, since there almost certainly will be quite a feast coming soon to a table near you. As Oscar Wilde said in The Importance of Being Earnest, “I hate people who are not serious about their meals.” This is crucial business. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.

Christmas Eve, 1971 -- I ran in for some coffee at a McDonalds, and asked the lady if there was a VW dealership in Indianapolis. She pointed me only a few blocks down, by the bypass construction. We chugged over and turned in; the service bay was open—our first piece of luck. Out comes this short, round, greasy, cross-looking mechanic; working, on Christmas Eve. I explained our predicament; he glanced at her, in the full throes of dazed, dreamy pregnancy, and growled, “Pull it on in.” Dead battery; he and I had to push it on in. She and I moved to the waiting room. I sat and thought, how am I going to pay for this? It was Friday, they would deposit the check that evening and on Monday it would bounce and there was nothing I could do. Fifteen bucks in the bank; me in Atlanta. Overdraft protection was years away. By David James.

Feeding Willard -- Uncle Frank spent a great deal of his daily free time for years caring for my Grandfather. Frank would feed Grandpa Willard at least one meal most days. They would go to restaurants where Grandpa would drink too much and fall asleep before eating much of whatever it was he really liked that day. The whole excursion would take hours because Grandpa Willard was wheelchair bound and needed a special shuttle to travel anywhere. Despite all the trouble to arrange transportation, nurses and equipment Uncle Frank made sure Grandpa also got to his Dreamland cabin in the rocky mountains once or twice a year. He got him loaded onto a ferris wheel, to the opera, ball games and yes, to many, many restaurants. My Uncle took exquisite loving care of him for about eight years before Grandpa Willard died this Spring. By Heather Curlee Novak.

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