For my twenty-ninth birthday I got skin cancer. I am not intending to
over-dramatize the situation, but those are the facts. I was fortunate
to have basal cell carcinoma, the slowest growing and most treatable of
the three types of skin cancer. Last week I had the spot surgically
removed from my forehead at Creighton University Medical Center and do
not anticipate any re-growth.
When I received my biopsy results, I started to think about how this
happened at a young age. I have been wearing sunscreen on my face daily
for the past sixteen years, I do not work outdoors, and I do not even
like many outdoor activities. My fair skin and a few sunburns as a child
may have put me at a greater risk. As I thought more about it while
driving down the highway under thick Midwestern clouds, I figured I was
smart to live in a place where the sun does not shine quite as much as
in my native southern California.
Although I was never a big fan of the beach or trying to get a tan,
until this summer I was used to something like 300 days a year of
sunshine. As kids in California we did not have indoor lunchrooms; we
ate and played outside on the sweltering blacktop almost every day of
the school year. Outside of school there were always sunny activities as
well. I rode bikes with my little brother on most days and on special
occasions my parents took us skiing, fishing, or to even to Disneyland.
Having two adhesive bandages overlapping on my forehead has brought
to light another difference between rural Iowa and suburban California.
People that know me and those who do not are all asking the same
question: “What happened to your face?” At first I could not figure out
why it struck me as odd. I mean, why wouldn’t you inquire out of
curiosity or concern? I came to the realization that people in
California – or perhaps just in densely populated areas – think it is
rude to notice anything out of the ordinary. I am completely sure I
could go about my business for weeks in my former home with everyone I
met pretending that I did not have a hole in my face. While I always
found it absurd, it had been the only way of life I had known until now.
It seems to me that Iowans would be just as likely to have skin
damage from the sun. I immediately think of farmers and others who work
outside during the sunniest months of the year. In experiencing my first
winter, I can see that I will want to spend all my free time outside
when the weather is nicer. When the temperature hits forty or fifty
degrees I might be driving with the windows down and the sunroof open.
For me sunscreen, lip balm, and a hat are more convenient than changing
the dressing over the seven stitches in my face right now. Don’t feel
sorry for me, but do take care of yourself.
The Longest Season
Originally published February18, 2010 in
The Chronicle
Although I have written about winter a few
times already, I am still asked one question several times each week:
“How are you surviving your first winter?” I must be surviving well
because some of my coworkers recently gave me an Olympic-style gold
medal that reads, “Surviving Iowa Winter.” My obvious hesitation to
announce my success is that it is only February!
It is no surprise that I am asked about this
never-ending season. First, experiencing winter has to be one of the
biggest differences between Iowa and Southern California where I grew
up. Second, let’s be honest – this particular winter has been a season
of extreme weather! Hopefully I’m getting the record-breaking storm
season out of the way so in the future I can laugh in the face of little
ol’ snow storms and mutter to anyone younger than me about how this is
nothing compared to the winter of 2009-2010.
I must say the past months have been a trial-by-fire
learning experience. When I decided to move to Iowa, my only anxiety was
about learning to drive in winter weather. Thanks to on-the-job
training, I feel that mission has been accomplished! Sure, I have been
stuck a time or two, but thanks to my patient husband and to good
friends, getting my vehicle stuck has been a learning experience rather
than a catastrophe. Who knew there was a systematic method to busting
through drifts with a two wheel drive car? And who knew I would ever in
my life use terms like “busting through drifts”?
I feel lucky to have chosen a profession in public
education because if the weather is bad, school is canceled and I get to
stay home. I have developed the utmost respect for people in jobs that
go on despite the blowing snow outside at this very moment: farmers with
livestock, plow drivers, my mail carrier, and countless others. When I
have the luxury of staying warm inside, there are many folks who bundle
up and head out just to keep the community going.
I am ready for spring like everyone else, but there are
some great things about winter. The snow looks beautiful across the
hilly fields, and the below-freezing temperatures make me unbelievably
appreciative of “warm” weather in the twenties. The best part about
winter doesn’t really have anything to do with winter: it’s that I’ve
now been here long enough to develop a few real friendships at work and
in the community, and that makes life in the middle of a blizzard a
whole lot more complete than it was back in warm, green July.
The New Californian
Originally published February 4, 2010 in
The Chronicle
Every February I reminisce about my grandfather John
“Jack” Hartig, Junior. This is the time of year when I get excited for
the NASCAR Daytona 500 and recall my grandpa’s love of stock car racing.
February was also the month of his death, shortly after my eighth
birthday. This year I started my stroll down memory lane a couple of
days early because I attended a high school basketball game. My grandpa,
who we kids called Pa, was an avid basketball fan – especially if the
Los Angeles Lakers were involved. But I don’t imagine he became a Lakers
fan until 1962 when he moved his family from Barnum, Iowa to sunny
southern California.
I don’t know too much about Pa’s early days. From pictures I know he
was tall and handsome, especially in his Navy uniform. Although he was
one of nearly a dozen children, he and my grandmother had only three
children of their own. Pa worked at the elevator in Barnum; his office
was a tiny white building adjacent to the scale and it still stands
today. His sister headed to California first – my “Aunt Dode” who
resides there even now. He raised my mother and her siblings in a couple
of different cities that were never far inland from the Pacific Coast.
What I don’t know about Pa’s life is made up for by the memories I
have of his involvement in mine. As a little girl I would spend time
visiting his rubber stamp production shop in Costa Mesa. My grandmother
and I would walk a few doors down to the German bakery and gather items
for Pa’s lunch. I remember once Grammy asked me, “What should we get Pa
to drink?” and I replied, “Well, he likes beer and milk.” We bought milk
that day.
Pa did more than just work. He loved to spend time with his
grandkids. Grammy and Pa were often responsible for babysitting my
brothers and me and these were days that I cherished. When I was five,
Pa taught me how to skip with only verbal coaching – no demonstrations.
I was doted upon, but he was not hesitant to discipline me like he was
my own father, either.
My grandparents spent their retirement traveling the country in a
motor home, while my mother and I collected their mail and missed them
dearly. Those trips came to an end when Pa began a short and ugly battle
with a rare, terminal cancer at the age of 64. From there my memories
flash from sitting with our feet in the spa together as he explained the
large surgical scar on his chest, to seeing the strong man bedridden and
medicated to the point he could no longer speak. Judging from my second
grade journal entries, my first experience with death introduced me to
some strikingly adult emotions.
Although Pa’s ashes were scattered at sea outside the Newport Beach
harbor, I like to think his legacy lives on in Iowa as well as
California. Today a little house that he built by hand for his family
stands occupied and well-kept in Manson. I hope his legacy also lives
through me, following my dreams like Pa did – though somewhat in
reverse. I’ll be watching the Daytona race with either beer or milk – I
love you, Pa!
Growing up Californian
Originally published January 28, 2010 in
The Chronicle
Working in the schools (or perhaps even having your own children) gives
a second look at childhood for those who can take the time to notice it.
Perhaps I am more likely to notice because I see little differences from
my own upbringing in Orange County, California. Regardless, there is
something interesting about having an adult perspective while spending
time in a child’s world.
The first time I toured Iowan schools, the differences that really
struck me were indoor lunchrooms and tall rows of lockers that went on
forever. When I attended school, we ate outdoors at the lunch tables. My
high school had individual hexagonal buildings sprawled across acres of
land, which we crossed outdoors during five minute passing periods –
barely enough time to make it from science to art. Elementary schools
never had lockers, while middle school and high school lockers were
often half-sized for books and backpacks only. “Did you get a top locker
or a bottom locker this year?” probably isn’t a question heard in Iowa.
Even more striking than the existence of roomy lockers in the elementary
schools is their use. The first time I saw a long hallway lined by open
locker doors with dozens of snow pants and coats draped from them I
wished I were holding a camera. The bright, mismatched colors against
the drab metal lockers and linoleum floors are forever captured in my
memory. I smile and furrow my brow like a foreigner watching an
unfamiliar cultural ritual when the kids spend several educational
minutes each day layering and un-layering their outerwear four times.
Boots, socks, tennis shoes, mittens, hats, and scarves strewn about are
just not part of my childhood memories. The first time a student asked
me to wait while he put his gloves on the dryer was just that – a first!
There are differences in the content of instruction as well, but maybe
not so much in the curriculum as in the extras. In California I recall
having a yearly school assembly about conservation of water, as I grew
up in an endless, severe drought. We learned to turn off the faucet
while brushing our teeth, save bath water for watering flowers, and
water the lawn in the evening to avoid evaporation. Then there were the
earthquake drills, which started as “duck and cover” and evolved over
the years to be more comprehensive. Maybe the educational minutes spent
putting on outerwear in Iowan schools are equivalent to the time I spent
under my desk in preparation for “the big one” for all those years. And
until last week a tornado watch was unheard of in Southern Californian
schools!
No matter the location, kids will be kids and learn what they are shown.
Unlike adults, their free time isn’t spent worrying about forest fires
and mudslides or ice storms and power outages. Recess is time for
planning a bike ride to the beach or sliding down an icy snow mound. Did
I just hear the bell ring?
The Nuances of My
First Winter
Originally published January 14, 2010 in
The Chronicle
One of the greatest features of my new life in Iowa is
having free time. In California, I was constantly working or driving in
traffic. Since moving here in July, I have rekindled a love for
knitting, baking, and reading. I have also found time to slowly learn
how to cook, something that does not come naturally to me.
There are some less-obvious time
fillers that are unique to my new lifestyle, especially during my first
winter. Each one may be a detail in my day, taking only moments or
minutes to complete. Nonetheless, these are some of the things I had
never thought about doing a mere six months ago.
Warming my dishes: whether a
coffee mug or a dinner plate, I have found the need to make sure dishes
are warm. An old house means cold cabinets in my case, so everything
gets microwaved or drenched in hot water. Otherwise food and beverages
are cold in minutes. Instead of immediately pouring a cup of coffee, I
enjoy the seconds of anticipation while running my mug under the steamy
faucet.
Waiting for hot water: it may
only take a few seconds to warm up, but I tend to immediately stick my
hands into ice cold running water and attempt to wash them. I don’t know
why I’m in such a hurry, but I need to start taking my time! Ice water
is not so bad for wetting a toothbrush, but it is not ideal for rinsing
one’s mouth.
Starting the car: when I drove
older vehicles in California, it was common to spend ten minutes warming
up the engine. Even with a newer car here in Iowa I have found myself
going out to start the engine, and more importantly the heater, before
leaving for work. I’ll never forget the fall morning when I suddenly
realized that a windshield defroster did just that – de-frost. In
California “defogger” would be a more accurate term. Even on snow days
at home I’ve found the importance of starting the car to make sure it
will start the next day!
Bundling up: maybe this is an
obvious one, but in California I might have thrown on a scarf for
fashion. Here I am finding the purpose behind scarves, gloves, and hats.
I’ve also learned first-hand what wind chill actually means! Layering
almost doubles the minutes it takes to get dressed in the morning. Maybe
with practice I will learn how to quickly jump into my clothes.
There are other silly things I
sometimes do in this climate – a dozen jumping jacks before getting in
the shower, toe crunches inside my boots, or draping my clothes over a
chair in front of the corn burner – and I hope some of them are
first-winter adaptations that will phase out in the years to come. I’m
sure native Californians and Iowans alike might find my routines
laughable. But hey, I’d rather spend a few minutes each day doing crazy
things to stay warm than watching my life pass me by while working
overtime!
My Latest Adventure
Originally published January 7, 2010 in
The
Chronicle
Long before dawn on the Tuesday prior to Christmas, my
husband and I left home for Eppley Airfield. Narrowly missing the
beginning of what was said to be a severe ice storm, our plane headed
west as the sun rose. After a short layover in Denver, we found
ourselves landing in sunny Southern California. While our friends and
our home in Iowa were hit with a blustery Christmas, we spent time with
family in the 60 to 70 degree sunshine.
We had happily purchased one-way tickets to Orange
County, as flying is a general nuisance and road trips provide for much
more freedom. As airport security tightened over our stay, we were
thankful that our return trip would be in a motor home I had inherited
from my grandmother 10 years ago. The 1977 Tioga needed a lot of work,
so my husband spent much of our trip searching the junkyard and making
repairs while I cleaned the burnt orange upholstery and avocado green
carpet of thirty years of grime.
When it was time to head back to Iowa, the Tioga was an
adventure at best and a jalopy at worst. My friend Claire assured me we
would have fun, and I agreed. Over-packed with the contents of my
uncle’s garage, the RV bounced on worn shocks to the tune of an engine
that was too loud to converse over. I wasn’t sure we’d make it 1,900
miles, but I had my mechanic on board.
I remembered the torture that is Southern California
traffic when we lurched onto the freeway and came to a halt within 3
minutes. Opting for the toll roads instead, we headed out of California
with a maximum speed of 45 MPH when going uphill. It wasn’t long before
we were winding through Arizona and stopping to sleep in Winslow. The
old clunker pushed onward through New Mexico where we started to
encounter a little snow. My husband drove on and we finally slept for a
few hours in Wichita. Kansas was our first inkling of the snowstorm we
had missed.
That old Tioga showed signs of wear such as water
mixing with the oil. With the back end packed full it was a wonder the
front wheels stayed on the road. It was exciting to see the Nebraska
sign as we crossed the border – almost home! Omaha looked amazing with
lighted trees, snow-covered buildings, and everyone driving in icy
slow-motion.
With a minor hang up of digging my truck out of the
airport parking lot and having to jump start it from the weakening RV, I
was finally nearing home. The drive north from Denison looked foreign.
There was so much snow that I hardly recognized where I was. At last I
reached my road; the snow mounds looked as tall as a house and my dining
room lights welcomed me in. I missed the white Christmas, but I am so
happy I was able to enjoy an Iowan New Year with lots of great people!
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