Choose Kindness

In a world where you can be anything, be kind.

I know you’ve heard this saying before. Or seen it on a bumper sticker. Or on a yard sign. Or a shirt. Or a plaque. In this day and age, kindness can be hard to come by. Which doesn’t make any sense, really. Why not be kind? Kindness is free. And it doesn’t have to be hard. Or time consuming. Or expensive. You can even do it anonymously. You never know how that one little moment might make someone else’s day.

When I’m invited to give a presentation to community groups, no matter what the topic, I end with an exhortation to be kind to one another. Always. I started it right when COVID was gearing up, because I figured life was sucky enough. Why be assholes to one another? Since I couldn’t very well word it exactly that way and still sound professional, I went “be kind” instead.

I’ve witnessed, been the recipient of, and instigated acts of kindness all my life. I hope to do so for many more years. Here, in no particular order, are a few that have stuck with me over the years.

The very first act of kindness that I can remember happened when I was probably eight or nine years old. We were at the mall, and I’d found the perfect Christmas gift for my father--a ceramic mug that said I <heart> Dad. I bought it with my very own money (God bless dollar stores) and couldn’t wait to give it to him. Then, tragedy struck. Somebody jostled me and I dropped the bag it was in. The mug was broken. And I was out of money. Tears ensued. My uncle immediately produced another dollar and we went back to the store. He even carried the new mug all the way home for me. I didn’t realize it until many years later, but that moment is why I overpay at lemonade stands and leave quarters in the “return change” slots of various machines.

My junior year of high school, I had the opportunity to shadow a magazine editor in Chicago for a day. The woman met me at the train station and we hoofed it several blocks to her office. On the way we got breakfast, and she picked up an extra coffee and sandwich. It turns out she passed the same gentleman every morning and had gotten in the habit of chatting and bringing him food. She introduced me, and he shook my hand. I’d never met a person experiencing homelessness before. My parents had always told me to ignore them or cross the street. As ignorant as it makes me sound, that magazine editor taught me that everyone deserves at least a smile and eye contact.

When I was nineteen, I needed to get home from college. My folks couldn’t come get me, so I needed to take the Amtrak train into Union Station, walk a couple blocks, and then hop a Metra train from Ogilvie up to my hometown. My dad wrote out the directions (this was years before cell phones and GPS) and I followed them to the letter, but didn’t see Ogilvie. I finally asked a nice-looking man if he knew where the train station was. He took one look at my slightly frantic self, sporting a college sweatshirt and ginormous duffle bag, and gently pointed out I was, in fact, standing in front of Ogilvie. Honestly, somebody should slap a sign on that building. He took me inside, helped me buy my ticket, and explained how to figure out which track my train was on. Now I try to go the extra mile when someone asks me for directions.

My point is, kindness can go a very long way no matter who you are or where you come from. I could go on and on, but you’ve probably got better things to do than listen to me ramble all day. I’ll leave you with two websites to check out next time you need a little dose of kindness.

Good News Network - A news website that focuses solely on good news, uplifting videos, and the positivity in life. I stumbled across it via a BuzzFeed article and now I’m addicted.

FreeRice.com - Part of the United Nations World Food Programme, this site tests your vocabulary skills. For every word you define correctly, the site’s sponsors send the cash value of ten grains of rice to the WFP. Also rather addicting.

And remember, above all, be kind to one another.  Always.

Think once, think again

I once heard someone say "Your first reaction to someone different than you reflects your past. Your second reaction reflects who you've grown to become."

(If I'm going to be quoting people regularly, I really should put more of an effort into remembering specifics.)

So, for example, if I see someone with purple skin and green stripes, my knee jerk response might be How ugly! I would never go out in public like that! That reflects who I used to be, my childhood impressions. I might have run into a neighbor who dislikes the color green. Or maybe I had a little friend whose parents were once cheated by a purple person. It’s the immediate response that’s so ingrained I can’t remember where I picked it up.

(Probably not from my parents. They were both very open-minded and accepting. At least,that’s how I remember them…)

But then I might stop and think, That’s not my style. I’m proud of that person for rocking their unique look. It’s great when we celebrate what makes us, us. I’m able to see past my close-minded knee-jerk reaction, recognizing it’s wrong and replacing it with how I really feel.

This thought occurred to me a couple of weekends ago when I walked down to my city’s town square. I was on a two-fold mission--1) get some extra steps in and 2) satisfy my Starbucks urge. I’ll leave it to you to decide which I placed more importance on.

As I got closer to my destination, I began to hear music. Hm. I thought. The local bar must be having a ‘do. I kept walking, it got louder, and I recognized the beat and melody of Latino music. This was reinforced when I heard a voice shouting “¡Viva Mexico!” and lots of cheering.

And I admit it. My first thought was annoyance. I actually had the "This is America, speak English” reaction. I know. I’m ashamed of myself, too.

My second thought was irritation--I just want my coffee, I don’t want to deal with all these people. Although, to be fair, I have that thought every time there’s a crowd downtown. 

But then, my personal growth came roaring up. I was proud to be part of a diverse community. Proud that different groups feel safe enough here to celebrate their heritage so openly. I know that a lot of countries (heck, probably some places in this country) would frown upon such a display--or worse. I don’t want to live in that kind of place, or be that kind of person.

I got my coffee (no lines), and spent some time wandering around the square. The whole vibe was incredibly joyful, and the place looked almost like a Latino-themed farmer’s market. There was even a booth set up to do tattoos. Unsure if they were real or temporary, but the booth set-up and decor certainly lent credibility to the possibility they were real.

As I walked home, I gave thanks for the fact that I’ve become able to grow past my knee-jerk childhood responses, recognize them as close-minded, and recast situations in a new light. 

Although I am a little sorry I didn’t investigate that tattoo tent a bit closer.

Mus Musculus

Living in an older home means that the foundation and various assorted cracks and crevices aren’t quite as entry-proof as they should be. Much to the delight of Fubar and Snafu, we are visited by a fair amount of moths, spiders, stink bugs, box elder bugs, Japanese beetles, houseflies, crickets, mosquitos, june bugs, centipedes, and the occasional stray bee or two. This happens so often that we have a designated “bug catcher” (a clean DQ cup and a piece of cardboard) on permanent standby. I’ve overcome most of my fear of the creepy multi-legged denizens of the world. Okay, there was that one time with the wolf spider...but that could have happened to anybody.

It’s no longer a big deal for Dan or me to stop what we’re doing, grab the bug catcher, and perform a swift “catch and release” move. Sometimes the cats beat us to it, and it becomes more of a “dispose of the murdered corpse” move. Last night, for example, Snafu saved me from one of those weird flying bugs that look like gigantic mosquitoes. Mayflies? Swatted it down behind the headboard and (eventually) sentenced it to Death By Pawing. If I could have reached the fluffy orange menace I would have tried to rescue his victim. 

Unfortunately, our unwanted house guests aren’t limited to the insect/arachnid kind. We also have an annoying amount of experience with rodents. Up until recently, the furry varmints were restricted to our unfinished basement. Not ideal, but much better than finding an unauthorized visitor upstairs where the humans and felines reside. Until I met Dan, the only traps I had experience with were the old-fashioned Tom and Jerry snap traps. Quick, clean, and deadly. Hazardous to mice, brooms, bare feet, and librarians who don’t know what they’re doing.

Dan introduced me to the concept of live traps. Well, I mean, I’d already heard of live traps of course, but never used them for fear of getting bitten. But now that I have a big, strong, brave, truck driver in the house, I was willing to give them a try. So when we started having mouse problems at my house, Dan got a live trap and set it up in the basement. Over the past year we’ve caught a couple of mice and a handful of voles. If you’re friends with me on Facebook you are probably well aware of the saga of Edmundton, Volentino, and Vole Demort. And if you aren’t, e-mail me and I’ll tell you all about them.  

Once the cats came along, I figured I had a couple of furry little rodent deterrents who could patrol the perimeter (aka the kitchen and immediate environs) and do bouncer duty. I reasoned that even if they didn’t actually catch a mouse, their very presence would be enough to deter them.

Ha. Ha. Ha. 

We have almost daily mouse sightings in the basement; the most memorable being the six brand-new mouse pups Dan found in my jack-o-lantern. I channeled my inner cat and stalked a mouse with a stick and a coffee can, cornered him, and promptly chickened out when he launched a frontal attack on my foot. I fully expect to find one watching me pedaling my exercise bike, or supervising us as we build shelves. Still, I told myself, at least they aren’t upstairs in the household itself.

Two points if you can guess what I’m going to say next.

Yep. Sunday afternoon I pulled open a kitchen drawer and there were mouse poops. This was about three minutes before I needed to leave for work, so I gleefully left Dan in charge of sanitation and bleaching duty. Thank goodness for dishwashers. Dan did the requisite scrubbing, cleaning, and (I’m sure) cursing while I was gone. He also set up the live trap in the drawer and shamed the cats for not doing their duty. I’m sure they were embarrassed. 

As of this morning, we had fresh mouse poops in the drawer again. My options at this point are somewhat limited. I can’t use poison or glue traps because A) I think it’s cruel and B) I’m pretty sure my cats are too stupid to leave them alone. We have a couple of snap traps, but I don’t know if the drawers are deep enough to allow them to snap properly. My friend, Mary, suggested I borrow somebody’s pet snake and let him/her crawl through the cabinets and the drawers. The scent will deter the stupid little rodents. Not knowing anybody with a snake (that I know of), we’ve decided to try mothballs. If this doesn’t deter them, I’m going to suggest we take out all the drawers, block the openings, and set out the dreaded snap traps. 

If I’m already seeing mice inside at this point in the year, I’m wondering if this means we’ve got a brutal winter ahead.

I Did a Thing

On Friday, August 27, 2021 I drove up to Skydive Midwest. I parked, walked in, and presented myself to the lady behind the counter.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi! I’m here to jump out of an airplane.”

And lo, my first solo adventure and the completion of a fairly high-stakes bucket list item began.

After a fair amount of waiting around (thank goodness for Kindles), they herded my class into a tiny room for our safety briefing. There was a trio, a couple, a very nice barista from Schaumburg, and me.

We watched a short video on what it’s like to skydive, what we can expect to happen next, how to purchase photos or videos of our jump (I did both), and information on group rates if we decided to jump again in the future.

I sat through it thinking, I just want to jump once. Forget the future. Heck, depending on how things go this time, I might not even have a future. 

More waiting. More reading. More butterflies in my stomach. I went outside for a bit to try to distract myself by watching other people land. They seemed to be approaching the ground awfully fast. I decided perhaps I should go back inside.

Finally, our group was called to go back to the hanger, meet our instructor, and get suited up. There were people rolling parachutes, other chutes draped over things, and a bunch of gear I’m pretty sure wouldn’t look out of place in a torture chamber. My trusty tandem jump instructor, I discovered, was about a foot shorter than I am. She assured me she’s taken up people bigger than I am. I certainly hope so.

She trussed me up like a chicken in my harness and hung a pair of goggles off my shoulder to protect my glasses later. I met my videographer/photographer, did a short interview, posed for some pictures, and after a few more moments waiting for my groupmates to get set up, we were off to the plane.

Each instructor led their jumper by a ring fastened to our harnesses. I asked my instructor what the deal was--“I’m not going to run away, you know”. It’s to make 100% certain we’re seated in the proper order with the right instructor and the correct jumper. She also had a helmet. I didn’t. It turns out that my head could snap back and--if I were wearing a helmet--hit her in the face. Bad news all around.

I was last in, which meant I was in a primo spot to watch the ground fly by underneath. I settled down between my instructor’s knees and alternated my time during our short ascent to 14,500 feet between looking out the window, trying not to panic, waiting for the sliding door to roll up, trying not to panic, rehearsing all the steps we were supposed to take, and trying not to panic. My instructor pointed out Lake Michigan and various other interesting landmarks. She also took this time to buckle our harnesses together, check and re-check them, remind me to put my goggles on, and review what was going to happen next.

“OK! Put your goggles on! When the door opens, we’re gonna butt-scoot into position and you’re gonna dangle your legs over the side! Hold onto your harness straps like you would a backpack! Keep your chin up and lean your head back toward my shoulder!  When we fall, keep your legs tucked behind me like you’re trying to kick me in the butt! Remember to stay like that til I tap your shoulders twice, then you can relax!  Remember to breathe!”

The door rolled up like one of those old manual garage doors. A cold rush of wind whipped into the plane. Below, I could see the patchwork of fields and two-lane highways that make up so much of our farmland around here. Next to me, my video guy was whooping it up, giving thumbs up and high fives. My instructor was cheering. Behind me, my six classmates and their instructors waited for their turn.

My instructor and I scooted to the door. I dangled my legs over the edge. My stomach did a flip. I hung onto those harness straps like it was life or death. I pointed my chin up and braced my head on the instructor’s shoulder. I had the parachuting scene from Deadpool 2 running through my head.

“OK! I’m gonna rock us back and forth to the count of three and then I’m gonna push us off! Relax! Breathe! You got this!”

“ONE!” If I were Catholic I’d be crossing myself.

“TWO!” Dear Lord, please let the parachute work and let us land in one piece.

“THREE!” OH MY GAAAAAAAAAWWWWDDDDDDDD WHAT THE F*** WAS I THINKING???

The wind blasted over my face and in my ears. It was loud. It was cold. It was hard to breathe. I was immediately, completely, disoriented. I had no idea where the plane went, where my videographer was, or when my fellow classmates jumped. I saw the sky, I saw the clouds, I saw the horizon. I was plummeting toward earth at a breathtaking (literally) speed.  I may have broken a new record for the number of times one person has said “holy shit.”

Then, thump-thump on my shoulders. I let go of the harness. The instructor held my hands out sideways. I wasn’t falling, I was flying!  I waved at the videographer. I looked down with a manic grin on my face.  I gave a thumbs up, a rock-n-roll salute, and tried to look everywhere at once.

The parachute deployed, there was one massive jerk on my harness, and then we were floating downward. The instructor guided my hands to the parachute controls and encouraged me to “drive."  We went to the leeeeffft.   And my stomach went to the right. We went to the riiiiiiight...and my stomach went to the left.  We decided she should probably drive. 

“OK! We’re gonna get ready to land! Pick your legs up! Pick them up! Up-up-up-up-up!”

In one of the most ungraceful moments of my life, I hit the dirt knee-first and we toppled over. My videographer came out of absolutely nowhere to help me up and ask me how it was.

It was amazing. Terrifying. Cold. Spectacular. Breathtaking. Panic-inducing. And once-in-a-lifetime. And I do mean “once.” I’ve done it now, and can cross it off my list. On to something a little safer. Whatever that may be.