Our son, Caleb, will be a freshman at North High next year. He wants to play football, so he's been going to summer conditioning. In fact, he actually did this last year too, as an 8th grader. I have been amazed that he is getting up at 7 a.m. or earlier so he can ride his bicycle the 2 miles to North and be on time. No one is waking him up, he's doing it all on his own.
His friend, who I'll call Joe, doesn't have that same kind of drive. He's had a hard time getting up for conditioning. The two have played football together a number of years, and I think Joe wants to make the team. He's not a morning person. Caleb has tried giving him a wake-up call, but he sleeps through it. Joe's mom goes to work early, so she's not available. He's made it to conditioning when he's had a friend sleep over and they've gone together. Except the time that Caleb stayed the night. Then they both overslept and missed it.
I told Caleb that Joe's idea of enlisting his friends to help him get to conditioning is a good one. If he's having trouble, he needs to figure out ways that will help him succeed. However, there comes a point where he is going to have to find the motivation internally and make it happen.
And I thought of myself. In my writing, I have resembled Joe much more than Caleb. I've let myself get sidetracked, off focus. I've enlisted friends to help, mainly my small group sisters and my running buddy, Kristen. But they can't make me choose to stay at the computer when I feel like running upstairs for a snack. They can't make me stop checking email and facebook when I'm stuck on a story. They can't make me keep working when I decide to take a break and go to the pool for the the rest of the afternoon.
At some point, the motivation is going to have to come from within. Right now, I'm working on a special edition of the Current for our church's 20th anniversary, a project that I lobbied for last fall. I've gotten the go-ahead to use color, and eight pages instead of the usual four. I had the idea for the feature article over a year ago. I interviewed my subjects, and let my notes sit for over two weeks. I forced myself to write the story last week. The rough draft's done, but I have yet to re-visit it. The whole issue needs to be finished in early August. We have swim team championships, a rafting trip, a four-wheeling trip to Colorado, and a synchronized swimming show scheduled before then.
Maybe I need to talk to Caleb and see how I can make this happen.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
My Kathmandu
For a couple of years, I volunteered at WSU with their international students' conversation class. Meeting new students every week was fascinating, I loved hearing about their home countries, families, and culture. I remember one gal I met had very good English so we had a great conversation. I don't remember where she was from, because she didn't want to talk about her home. The summer before, she had been to Kathmandu (in Nepal), and she was planning to return as soon as possible. She glowingly told me of her favorite hangouts, the music, the art, the culture. She'd fallen in love with it. (And maybe a handsome local, I guessed).
After my freshman year in college, I spent a summer in Colombia with a missions team. We visited Bogota, Medellin, and the Choco (jungle), but our home base (and my favorite city) was Cali.
The statue of Christo Rey with outstretched arms overlooked the city in the valley. Downtown, street musicians filled the air with a tropicales or reggae beat. I loved the artisan fair, Tostadas Con Todo, and Mimo's chocolate-covered ice cream cones.
The weather was perfect. A missionaries' house even had a permanently open 8-foot square skylight covered with iron bars, because there would never be a time when you wouldn't want a nice fresh breeze, and it would never be too hot or too cold. The skylight was over a tiled area with a drain, so the rain would only water the plants they kept there, and then wash away.
Even people who lived in the poorer sections of the city, in the houses stacked on the sides of the foothills, managed to emerge from their concrete shacks in perfectly clean and pressed clothing. So many men were short, dark, and handsome.
We had a problem with our passports, and got turned away before stepping onto our plane at the airport. Riding with my teammates and our luggage back to the missionaries' home in the back of a pickup, I didn't care. So what if we were stuck in the country for a few more days? I hadn't been ready to leave anyway.
"I know what you mean," I told my conversation partner. "Cali, Colombia was my Kathmandu."
After my freshman year in college, I spent a summer in Colombia with a missions team. We visited Bogota, Medellin, and the Choco (jungle), but our home base (and my favorite city) was Cali.
The statue of Christo Rey with outstretched arms overlooked the city in the valley. Downtown, street musicians filled the air with a tropicales or reggae beat. I loved the artisan fair, Tostadas Con Todo, and Mimo's chocolate-covered ice cream cones.
The weather was perfect. A missionaries' house even had a permanently open 8-foot square skylight covered with iron bars, because there would never be a time when you wouldn't want a nice fresh breeze, and it would never be too hot or too cold. The skylight was over a tiled area with a drain, so the rain would only water the plants they kept there, and then wash away.
Even people who lived in the poorer sections of the city, in the houses stacked on the sides of the foothills, managed to emerge from their concrete shacks in perfectly clean and pressed clothing. So many men were short, dark, and handsome.
We had a problem with our passports, and got turned away before stepping onto our plane at the airport. Riding with my teammates and our luggage back to the missionaries' home in the back of a pickup, I didn't care. So what if we were stuck in the country for a few more days? I hadn't been ready to leave anyway.
"I know what you mean," I told my conversation partner. "Cali, Colombia was my Kathmandu."
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Pickin'
I just bought a couple of canteloupes at the grocery store, which reminded me of when Dave and I were first married. I was in the produce section selecting a canteloupe, and someone asked me how to make sure it was ripe. I said, "I always first look for one with a good-looking belly button, and then I smell it."
My husband added, "That's how she picked me!"
My husband added, "That's how she picked me!"
Trash Talkin'
I considered writing about how I found a dead bird while mowing, and how when I picked it up (with a large sycamore leaf over it, so I wouldn't actually touch it) I noticed stuff falling off of it--maggots. And the bird nearly fell apart before I reached the trash can.
Then I remembered my husband's class reunion. There was a guy who only had one topic--his work. And unfortunately, he was in waste management. As the weekend wore on, I heard some people saying, "Let's not talk to him, he's always talking trash."
So, before I risk people saying I'm always talking grass, I'll move on to other topics. Like melons.
Then I remembered my husband's class reunion. There was a guy who only had one topic--his work. And unfortunately, he was in waste management. As the weekend wore on, I heard some people saying, "Let's not talk to him, he's always talking trash."
So, before I risk people saying I'm always talking grass, I'll move on to other topics. Like melons.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dirty Jobs
OK, I've said some really nice things about my job as 1st assistant in our family business, Franklin Lawn Service. Here's the dark side. . .
Last week I was using the string trimmer to knock down some weeds in back of a shed. The weeds were huge, noxious pasture weeds, really juicy--and they come back every week. I've suggested to our customer that RoundUp or GroundClear would be a better solution, but so far nothing's happened. So I'm clearing out this week's growth, spraying green weed guts all over when I run into a pile of fresh doggy doo. The expression "the shit hit the fan" could just as easily be "the shit hit the weed eater." At any rate, the results were the same. Luckily, I always wear safety glasses. Instinctively I wiped my face and smeared doggy doo all over my cheek and hand. Probably my nose too, because it smelled awful. Nearly walked off the job. I shouldn't have to put up with that shit.
Grace's garden
There's always something blooming in Grace's garden--roses, iris, lilies, butterfly bushes, and other things that I have no clue what they are. Every time we show up to mow, there's something new.
But Grace has been gone for about five years. I never even met her. Her husband, Max, hired us to do his lawn the weekend of her funeral, and we've been doing it ever since.
The garden was always her thing--Max says he never works in it. We mow around it and trim it as best we can, but the profusion of flowers has convinced me that perennials are the way to go. In spring I plant several flats of annuals, and enjoy the color throughout the summer, but then have to do it all again the next year.
I've also noticed other perennials popping up from Grace's life. My husband, Dave, and I have kidded Max recently about setting him up with Dave's widowed grandma, since they are both 93. He chuckles, but says that the wife he had was the only woman he ever wanted, like someone who had experienced the great love of his life and was content. Her picture, a classic black-and-white portrait in an oval frame, sits by a potted African violet on a small marble end table.
Their daughter, who lives several hours away, emails Max daily. Their son picks up Max regularly to walk in the park or the mall. Surely their mother taught them well.
The other week, though Max told us something that raised my respect for Grace even more. He said his brother, who was incapable of supporting himself after contracting scarlet fever in his childhood, lived with them for more than 20 years. Max and Grace set up an apartment for him in their basement. Every meal she fixed at plate for him and took it downstairs to him, as he wished. Grace must have been amazing.
I want to plant perennials.
But Grace has been gone for about five years. I never even met her. Her husband, Max, hired us to do his lawn the weekend of her funeral, and we've been doing it ever since.
The garden was always her thing--Max says he never works in it. We mow around it and trim it as best we can, but the profusion of flowers has convinced me that perennials are the way to go. In spring I plant several flats of annuals, and enjoy the color throughout the summer, but then have to do it all again the next year.
I've also noticed other perennials popping up from Grace's life. My husband, Dave, and I have kidded Max recently about setting him up with Dave's widowed grandma, since they are both 93. He chuckles, but says that the wife he had was the only woman he ever wanted, like someone who had experienced the great love of his life and was content. Her picture, a classic black-and-white portrait in an oval frame, sits by a potted African violet on a small marble end table.
Their daughter, who lives several hours away, emails Max daily. Their son picks up Max regularly to walk in the park or the mall. Surely their mother taught them well.
The other week, though Max told us something that raised my respect for Grace even more. He said his brother, who was incapable of supporting himself after contracting scarlet fever in his childhood, lived with them for more than 20 years. Max and Grace set up an apartment for him in their basement. Every meal she fixed at plate for him and took it downstairs to him, as he wished. Grace must have been amazing.
I want to plant perennials.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Magical summers begin at TRC
By Karen Franklin, editor
Every summer, a little bit of magic happens in our neighborhood. Almost like the Scottish village Brigadoon rising from the mist, a community appears at 2248 Sweetbriar. As the water in Twin River Club’s pool rises over the course of a few days, so does the excitement.
Our summer friends appear, and we comment how their kids grew the past year, and they say the same about ours.
Of course, some of them we ran into around town over the winter. When that happens, the standing joke is, “Oh, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!” We laugh, and dream of summer days spent poolside.
We’ve been members at TRC since 2002, and many of my favorite memories are tinged with chlorine.
Like that first summer, watching our six-year-old, Caleb, learn to do flips off the low dive, and the next year, the high. Or Caleb’s first swim meet, when he thought “DQ” meant he’d get an ice cream treat, instead of disqualified. And later meets, when he brought home handfuls of blue ribbons.
Or 2008, when our second son, Harrison, received a trophy for tying for most points at league championships in the boys’ 9-10 age group.
A highlight was Laurel’s first synchronized swimming show. She joined the other “8 and under” girls with their daddies for a routine to “Fun, Fun, Fun.” Dave doing a ballet leg in the pool in front of hundreds: Hilarious. Knowing that he did it because he loves his little girl: Priceless.
I grew up on a farm, envying my town friends who rode their bikes to the pool every day. So I love that my kids have that freedom. I’m glad they’ve passed all the Red Cross swimming lessons (which are included with membership).
If you live near and have kids–or even if you don’t–you owe it to yourself to check it out (see ad page 4) and create your own magical memories. Because once summer’s over, it will disappear––until next year. See you at the pool!
Every summer, a little bit of magic happens in our neighborhood. Almost like the Scottish village Brigadoon rising from the mist, a community appears at 2248 Sweetbriar. As the water in Twin River Club’s pool rises over the course of a few days, so does the excitement.
Our summer friends appear, and we comment how their kids grew the past year, and they say the same about ours.
Of course, some of them we ran into around town over the winter. When that happens, the standing joke is, “Oh, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!” We laugh, and dream of summer days spent poolside.
We’ve been members at TRC since 2002, and many of my favorite memories are tinged with chlorine.
Like that first summer, watching our six-year-old, Caleb, learn to do flips off the low dive, and the next year, the high. Or Caleb’s first swim meet, when he thought “DQ” meant he’d get an ice cream treat, instead of disqualified. And later meets, when he brought home handfuls of blue ribbons.
Or 2008, when our second son, Harrison, received a trophy for tying for most points at league championships in the boys’ 9-10 age group.
A highlight was Laurel’s first synchronized swimming show. She joined the other “8 and under” girls with their daddies for a routine to “Fun, Fun, Fun.” Dave doing a ballet leg in the pool in front of hundreds: Hilarious. Knowing that he did it because he loves his little girl: Priceless.
I grew up on a farm, envying my town friends who rode their bikes to the pool every day. So I love that my kids have that freedom. I’m glad they’ve passed all the Red Cross swimming lessons (which are included with membership).
If you live near and have kids–or even if you don’t–you owe it to yourself to check it out (see ad page 4) and create your own magical memories. Because once summer’s over, it will disappear––until next year. See you at the pool!
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About Me
- Karen Franklin
- I am a freelance writer. I also work full time with our business, Franklin Lawn Service. My husband, David, and I met as students at Tabor College and we have been married for almost 20 years. We have three great kids, Caleb, Harrison, and Laurel.
