Trick or Treacher's

If cats have nine lives, then it's safe to assume that Fish 'N Chips are good for a least a dozen. Residents and long-time acquaintances of our fair village can attest that the fate of Arthur Treacher's has hung in the balance on numerous occasions. Just when you are convinced that this time the puppies have really been hushed, doors reopen, and it's business as usual.

The faithless will say that 2008 looks dim for Art. There was actually a "For Sale" sign in the window for a time, and this blogger spotted a well-dressed gaggle gazing about the property a month or so ago. Soon after that, construction vehicles frequented the establishment, ripping up the parking lot and landscaping. Those with good vision will spot equipment still hanging about the front door. The shop itself is gutted, the only things resembling a working restaurant are the donuts on the fresh pavement.

I, however, can be counted among the devout believers. Past experience tells me that all of the carnage could simply be part of a well-deserved face lift. Until the sign is removed and I witness customers leaving with burgers or lattes, I will not count Arthur out.

I have learned an important lesson from the fortitude of Arthur Treacher's. Things aren't always as they appear.

Truth be told, I am often guilty of quick judgement. Recently I made an assumption at work that had me up in arms for a full 24 hours. I was sure of my conclusions and layered them into a solid reality, like fresh asphalt compacting under the roller's weight. Problem was, my deductions were built on a faulty foundation, and cracks formed in the pavement when the underlying truth pushed its way to the surface. Things were not as they appeared.

Likewise, one can drive through Danville and see a shell of a building and assume that a run-down old restaurant has met it's demise. I will not give in to that temptation. I have not eaten in Arthur Treacher's in at least 14 years, but I assure you that if it is resurrected again, I will be first in line to honor the long tradition of fried fish, cornmeal, and good, old-fashioned hope.

Capstone

So I've figured out why I've had a pervasive feeling of dread and despair of late. It's my Sociology class.

This class is a "Capstone Experience" - a Senior requirement that is supposed to be like caramel on pumpkin cheesecake, the crowning moment of my illustrious college career. The main objective of this particular capstone is to spend eight hours a week in an internship, and then go to class and talk about your placement.

Well, I have this happy little assignment at a local elementary school. Everyone else is at detention centers, judge's offices, probation offices, Children & Youth and the like. Each week I am barraged with stories of neglect, abuse and perversion - and those are the light topics from my fellow students. My professor (a therapist), apparently concerned that we might find the world too carefree after such hopeful reports, peppers the conversation with stories from his abundant case files. Who knew a little piece of rural America could harbor so much smut!

I leave each week feeling like I need a shower and an episode of Barney to balance out all of the exposure to society's dark underbelly.

Since I've realized the problem, I have developed some joyful counter-measures. I go out of my way to look at the sunrise and sunset. I smile at as many children as possible throughout the day, wherever I am. I spend some extra time each day counting my blessings and thanking God for them. I find a piece of good news and soak in it liberally, like pumpkin cheesecake in a pool of caramel.

Outside the Box

"Mother, I have smelled autumn, and it's inside this box!" My son's voice rang from the recesses of the mud room closet. With global warming finally losing the battle of the seasons, we had decided it was time to deck the halls with orange, rust, yellow and brown.

"You're right!" I caught a whiff of fall as I lowered the plastic bin from the shelf. Prying open the lid in the living room was like the redemption of Pandora's box: memories came pouring out in the essence of clove, apple, and some undefinable crispness which spilled from the bin and enveloped the room.

I find that in the height of seasons, like February, July and November, I feel claustrophobic and restless. I come alive at the turn of seasons. Maybe it's the promise in the unknown, like the intrigue of the big red X on a treasure map when the journey is just underway. Maybe it's because the wind blows more violently in April and October, scattering the stagnant and rousing the lethargic.

Autumn is a paradox. Can summer die? Can winter be born?

The warm sun on my face and the cold breeze at my back is like a friend I don't quite trust, but feel drawn to just the same. The sharpness of the air is that same necessary slyness needed to outwit such a companion. The bursts of color on the trees and from stalwart flowers mirror the adrenaline rush of a chase, a battle of wits, a maneuver well played.

My house is alive with the fire of fall.

Up to my neck and rising will work for this post, too.

My sister has gone missing, and I think I finally believe in global warming.

Perhaps she has taken another extended trip now that the Northwest Passage is open again.

Up to my neck and rising

I'm reading Reviving Ophelia. It's been on my "gotta get to it" list for quite awhile. Now that I'm in a counseling internship and at the brink of adolescent adventure with my daughter, it rose to the top of the stack.

On page 22, Pipher quotes a Stevie Smith poem, "they are not waving, they are drowning."

How can we as women be lifeguards to our girls when this quote sums us up just as well, if not better, than the girls we are to rescue?

We smile and wave at Home & School Meetings, countless sports practices, our own work places, volunteer activities and church events, but almost all of us aren't really waving at all. We're struggling for breath!

We want to be Every Woman, and end up spent. We want to give our girls this great model of how to "do it all" while we are so stressed that we can't even find our own vehicle in a parking lot. In fact, we don't even remember driving to the store.

My thoughts are coming so rapidly, and all I want to do is get them down on this page, but of course, I can't. There are birthday cakes to make, field notes to write, laundry to do, emails to send, cards to address, classes to attend, carpools to drive...I'll wave goodbye for now.

The Weight of Wait

I am a recovering control freak.

In the past, the trials that have stymied me the most always involved waiting. There was the Wait of '94 when Gregory was at Officer Training School. Could he pass Vigilant Warrior to graduate as a 2nd Lt.? The Second Wait of '94 featured almost a year (interrupted by the other Wait) of expecting to be expecting. Then there was the Great Wait of '98, while we sought a discharge from the Air Force and a job back home. The Wait of '03 tested my patience and my sanity during a house-building venture.

Today, I am able to report that the most recent Wait has ended. Gregory has received an invitation to Candidacy in the Diaconate Formation Program. It many not seem like much to some, but to us, this invitation unveils an entirely new path for our future. My husband will quite likely be a clergyman in three years; an ordained minister of the Church.

It has been about 20 months since this wait began. Although there were moments of frustration, this trial had a decidedly different feel to it. I prayed constantly for a resolution, but I found that my request was truly for God's will to be done, and for it to be done when He thought best. I wanted Gregory to continue in the program, but not at any expense. Not if God had a different plan in mind.

In Waits Past, I had an agenda. I wanted a certain result, and according to a self-prescribed time table. I was not above setting deadlines for God! I realize now that my problem wasn't waiting as much as it was controlling. I don't believe that I trusted God enough to leave the details to His care.

Now...I have learned enough along the way to avoid saying that I am cured of control freakism completely. I'm sure some flare-ups lurk ahead. But, thanks be to God,

I am a recovering control freak.

Press Release

I, dauntless frontierswoman that I am, have explored and tamed the landscape of Page Seven.