Day 25 - Indiana - Project HOME Indy - Revisited

I wanted to hand this one over to Tim – let him take the wheel, so to speak, mostly because it has been the wheel he has been primarily responsible for during the entire trip. Here’s where I blush a deep crimson and admit that Tim did 93.2% of the driving (now kiddies, break out your calculators and figure out the exact mileage!). While I have been yack, yack, yacking away, he has been steering, navigating, and, quite literally, propelling us forward. We actually got into a fight about it once (if we are measuring once generously) – I was upset he wasn’t picking up any of the slack with regards to the “office work” (the coordination, the emailing, the calling). He countered that he had no time to do that sort of thing because he was doing all the driving, and how could I not recognize that. We went back and forth, bickering (cough...yelling) about who was actually shouldering more responsibility. We threw around words like “thankless” and, even to my regret, “absolutely worthless” and “pathetic” (And here we are, in the middle of a voluntary pilgrimage of sorts. Oh, the irony). At one point in the conversation, one of us (hi! that would be me) decided this wasn't working and it would be best if we went our seperate ways at the end of our trip, you know, 25 days from now (because that would make the rest of the trip so much more enjoyable). Oh wait, we were sticking around Hawaii for a few days. Fine - a month from now! Damnit, there is the F-ING drive back to get the dogs...40 days from now, Buckaroo, you and me will finished. FINITO! Are you listening?!?!?

(Side note - like that was really going to happen [insert eyeroll at the stupidity of threats made when clearer heads should obviously barge their way in and prevail])

It continued to escalate, blew out of control (if me threatening a breakup, dated 40 days from now, wasn't enough), and we went to sleep angry – actually, I went to bed mad, but I think Tim was only perturbed (Tim angry would be truly, truly frightening), but his ability to dole out insults without verbal hindrance of heighted, stutter inducing emotion made me only madder in the end. It took a full night sleep and a semi awkward encounter at the bathroom skin to begin the conversation anew, starting with “Dude, why are you using my toothbrush?” (you know, the red one? The one in your mouth? Why are you staring at me blankly?…That. Is. MY. TOOTHBRUSH!!!). Turns out, we brought two red toothbrushes with us, lost one, and ended up sharing the same toothbrush to scrub our caustic, wound inflicting tongues. That got a stiflied chuckle. And we agreed to stick to our respective strengths – me running the office and Tim steering, navigating, and propelling us forward.

Ah - being stuck in a car with just one other person for an extended period of time can be so much fun!

But I bring up Tim (well, I always bring up Tim) because today I wanted him to sit down with you, tell it from his side. Bring you his perspective, because that is what he brings to me so often – perspective. Unfortunately, our writing to you, gentle reader, falls under my purview of responsibilities and it may take a bit more to convince dear old Timmy to sit down to the keyboard, which is totally understandable, since he is still recovering from captaining the 18,000 mile drive (and, perhaps, being stuck in a car with me). So tonight, I humbly approach you with a story. A story of friendship, vision, and the difference people can make when they open their eyes, observe their social surroundings, and doggedly pursue their dreams.

Once upon a time (approximately 4 to 6 years ago), there was a woman, one who listened to NPR. On the way to happy hour after work, she hears a segment on pregnant and parenting homeless teenage girls and a facility established to help these girls and their growing families. The segment strikes a cord with her and she finds herself telling her friends about the facility and lamenting the fact that nothing like that exists in Indianapolis (in fact, the primary facility dedicated to helping “unwed” mothers derived a good portion of its revenue from adoptions, so you have to figure they were not trying to keep mothers and their children together). So she and her friends decide to create an organization – no, a home – where homeless teenage mothers could live in a safe and steady environment and really learn to be parents, having caring mentors guide them through decision making and helping them acquire parenting skills, as well as education or employment (hell, don’t the teenage years warrant a mentor, anyway – with or without a dependant child?). But this would be a house that would give young women options – would allow them to not only be mothers, but enable them to be moms as well.

So they set off on their quest, spending years researching, grant writing, acquiring a house and operating funds, as well as skilled professionals to run the organization (and this is in addition to maintaining jobs, relationships, and families). But they reigned triumphant, and here they stand, years later, in the bottom floor of a gutted historic home in Indy with two traveling volunteers. They walk us through the structure, void of walls and ridden with two-by-fours, pointing out that this room will be a kitchen (where the girls will cook communal meals), and that will be the dining room. This will be a bedroom (each resident and their child/children will have their own room and a total of 6 families will be able to find shelter, most expected to stay about two years) and that is where one of the bathrooms will be. Beyond being a wonderfully functional and homey facility, the house, at one time decrepit and rundown, will be restore to its elegant historic standards. After so many years of planning, building the foundations, Project Home Indy is becoming a reality.

For our part, we did not paint, or hammer, or build, but slid behind the wheel of a bulky, bouncy U-haul truck (Tim, characteristically, took point as driver) and traversed the city, collecting dollar and in-kind donations from corporations and private citizens. One company donated cribs, another donated new crib mattresses and bags full of baby staples. A homeowner donated a vanity for one of the bathrooms. Yet another company donated a substantial gift card, as well as necessities such as fire extinguishers, smoke alarms, and baby friendly cleaning supplies. Additional companies donated tables and chairs for the dining room, desks and desk chairs for each individual bedroom, and faucets for the bathrooms and kitchen. And with each donation, we not only witnessed the accumulation of necessary items, but saw a community rallying around a growing organization, fostering its development and enriching it with support.

Day 24 - Kentucky - Olmsted Park Conservancy - Revisited

This being home, and, dare I say it, stationary, has not been a walk in the park – what with unpacking, figuring out what next and seriously embarking on the dreaded, dreaded job search (I now know what early privateers felt like, but instead of seeking and plundering treasure via the sea and ships, I am searching for professional booty via the internet and my resume), Tim and I have indeed felt stationary, trapped in indecision. Staying at his parent’s house, we run errands between floors and take field trips to the attic office or the kitchen table to check for emails and send out notes. Today, I voyaged into the back yard to rake leaves – and, in doing so, quelled the panic that has been tight in my chest. I attacked the wet, matted leaf carpet with a rake, combing the grass free of acorns, twigs and debris, uncovering tulip buds, and cultivating clean flowerbeds and a quiet mind.

None of my apartments have had true outdoor space, at least not usable outdoor space; more common is a slab of concrete labeled as a rustic patio, or a fenced in couch sized plot of grass with no gate – much a kin to having walls but no door (though, my neighbors with more dainty dogs where able to utilize that space by squeezing their canine companion through the bars. Alas, both our dogs are too hippy). In fact, in my last apartment, I had to walk 5 blocks to get to the closest patch of grass larger than a queen bed – not bad for some cities, I guess. But, over time, and especially when competing stressors intertwine to craft a noose I could hang myself with (in jest, people), I have found myself craving an outdoor space I can nurture. Get dirty in. Play in.

But, it is not realistic to expect most apartment buildings to provide tenant gardens, at least not the ones in my price range. And though private plots within the community are always an option, most I have researched have waiting lists long enough to suggest that while I may not get a plot, my grandchildren will be growing their own produce in my name – and, don’t get me wrong, this is wonderful, because it speaks to the level of interest in gardening, but it also prevents me from planting and pruning. So, what’s a city kid to do?

Get potted plants! Just kidding…though that actually does provide some respite from the play with dirt hankerings. In all seriousness, volunteering with an organization that maintains parks or community gardens allow you to indulge your soil habit in an urban environment. In fact, it is a great resource for amateur gardeners, who are looking to get their hands dirty (sorry, couldn’t help myself) but don’t want the responsibility of being the only person to maintain the space. Case in point, in Louisville, Tim and I volunteered with Olmsted Parks Conservancy, an organization dedicated to enriching the life of everyone in their community by restoring, enhancing and preserving the historic Olmsted-designed parks and parkways. They have a full time team who works diligently on the parks, but also welcome the help of volunteers, especially those who dig eradicating species encroaching the intended plants.

Bundled up, we traverse the park with a full-timer, taking note of the artistry with which Olmsted planned and executed his vision: a vista here, a specific species of tree over there – each scene carried out deliberately, with minor adjustments necessary given the introduction of invasive plants. We found patches of garlic mustard along the paths, and using our fingers, pried the weed (gripping root and all) from the frozen ground. (A side note to all you natural foodists out there – garlic mustard makes a phenomenal pesto, or so I have heard. I encourage you to get weeding and whip some up!). In the afternoon, we became embroiled in a battle with creeping vines, hacking and thwacking at the dense tangle till we freed the surrounding trees from their strangle hold. (No report was given as to whether or not vines make good pesto. Experiment at your leisure).

We played in the dirt. We got dirty. We had physical evidence as to what we had accomplished during our work day – yet there was a greater sense of pride that we were sharing the responsibility with so many other folks, volunteer and otherwise, who work to maintain the parks. It gave me the sense, that though located far away from my home, it would from now on be a piece of my own backyard. Which is quite a step up from a concrete slab, if I may say.

Day 23 - Missouri - Haven House - Revisited

I never know what will stick with me. Sometimes have an inkling of the things I will remember and perhaps even the stories I will tell regarding a certain event, but I am never completely certain of the details, the expressions, the particulars of the interactions that will stay, captured in my minds eye. It is always a surprise what stands out - what jumps to the forefront in my memory. When, teetering at the cusp of sleep, I play back my day, I am often pleasantly surprised by what I see, as periodically misremembered or slightly distorted, but as deliciously rose colored as it may be. Most of the time, what I see gives me insight, not only into the events of the day, but to my character and comportment.

(Tim says his nightly “playbacks” are often narrated by one Angela Lansbury, in character as the grand dame of 80’s murder mystery, J.B. Fletcher, and that, although he can visualize the scene, he can only hear her voice. That may have something to do with him being slightly delusional, or that I am guilty of finding all the seasons on Netflix and tend to “listen” to them as I complete tasks such as researhing, emailing, or trying to sleep. Hey, you can’t blame a girl for trying to maintain one environmental constant on the constantly changing road.)

We arrived in St. Louis fairly late, as our arrivals early in the trip went, harried after our first long drive. Tim actually let me behind the wheel, a daring feat of confidence on his part and a true test of skill on mine; we managed to hit traffic coming into the city and my novice clutch foot was forced to work for the rest it so rightly deserved after we parked the car. Haven House, a facility dedicated to providing the comfort of home and a community of support for families traveling to St. Louis for medical treatment, was gracious enough to take us in and put us up for the night in one of their family rooms, complete with kitchen, as well as a laundry facility down the hall. Tim and I got the grand tour – dining facilities, computer lab, playrooms, craft room (with the ceiling covered in a flock of brightly colored paper cranes), gym (volleyball net down tonight), TV rooms. In fact, as we passed through the hall, a family sat, snuggled closely on the couches, faces washed by the colors on the screen.

We bounced out of bed, finding our way downstairs to eat breakfast with the families staying at the facility. Kids roamed the tables greeting each other as adults trickled in, finding hot coffee and a hearty breakfast. After eating and packing up the car, with admittedly less care than before given the biting morning cold, Tim and I got to work, creating fliers for the various donors to the silent auction: massages, golf, photography, hair cuts, vacations, cooking lessons, restaurant coupons.

We ventured to the cafeteria for lunch, eating with two wonderful women who work at Haven House, one of which had been at the facility before its current incarnation, when it was a children’s home. A tired looking man stopped me as I passed his table. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, lightly touching my arm, ”how is your baby?”

Obviously, I was a little confused.

“Sorry…I don’t have a baby.”

“Well, then your kid – are they ok?” he adjusted.

“Nope, not a mom! I think you are thinking of someone else.” I stared blankly at him while smiling with too many teeth.

He called a woman over to where we were talking and as she slid into the chair next to him, he said, “Well, we (he nodded to his wife) saw you check in last night while we were watching TV, and, well, you and that guy just looked so upset and so worn out, we figured your kid was sick and you must have spent the day at the hospital. We were hoping everything was okay. Wanted to find you today and ask.” As he was speaking, a little boy crawled into his lap, grinned up at me, and began to eat lunch.

Atfter washing the tables and chairs in the cafeteria, Tim and I left Haven House, and took a quick spin through downtown St. Louis, taking pictures of the ball field, the river, and the cobbled streets in downtown. We parked the car and sprinted to the arch, racing the cold wind from block to block. Tim and I took pictures of the arch, around the arch, under the arch, walking to the exact midpoint beneath the incandescent structure to take an artistically staged photo of us staring up and the camera capturing us from below.

But, beyond the photographic evidence, I hardly remember being there. I have no recollection of what we talked about, what we did immediately before or after we took those pictures. It must not have been that important. But what I do remember, what immediately sprung to mind that night as I shut my eye and began to replay my day, was the immense compassion, kindness, and support that family showed Tim and I, the childless volunteers not facing any major crisis, whose minor brush with traffic had left the weight of the world on our faces.

Day 22 - Arkansas - The Living Affected Corp - Revisited

For having just three and four letters respectively, HIV and AIDS are two very scary words, if I may call them words and not acronyms. At this point in our trip, we had worked with five organizations that counted HIV/AIDS among their primary focuses, if not the primary purpose of the organization. Some organizations provided food to person with HIV/AIDS and their families. Others provided home and care. Living With, Affected By, among others, provided awareness.

I have a clear memory of when I first learned about HIV/AIDS, in early grade school. When I ask friends, those who grew up in areas outside of San Francisco, they tell me that they don’t remember hearing about it that early on, let alone learning about it in school (For instance, Tim remembers first hearing about HIV right before high school). But, I distinctly remember talking about it, in the classroom, nonetheless. I remember the mobiles hanging from the ceiling spinning as I looked up and them, realizing in some way that the conversation that we were having was very serious and that I was learning something that was perhaps too mature for me to understand, given I was still little enough to be required to wear knee socks to school, but that I needed to try, with all the might in my little body, to pay attention, because this was important, was going to affect my life, and wasn’t going away.

It may be due to the fact it was San Francisco in the early 90s. The city was buzzing (well, always is buzzing), with cultural undercurrents from the past 40 some-odd years slowly rocking the city, causing it to bob and shift, much like a buoy in the bay. In some ways SF is defined by its make up – it’s demographics: the Mission, the Haight, China town, the Sunset, the Castro. In fact, when I arrived as a freshman at college, one of the most frequently asked questions was “So you are from San Francisco? Are you gay?” (and this was from people attending a school that frequently featured granola on the menu, if you get my drift). But, for whatever reason, I was conscious of the disease and it’s progression from an early point, and saw evidence of it around me. I knew people who were suffering through it, suffering because of it. It clung to the headlines. It seemed to be everywhere.

But then, it was gone.

Just like that. I am not sure if it was a slow progression, or if one day, “poof!”, everyone stopped talking about it, but it was a one day a huge crisis, and the next, a different topic had taken the forefront, had upstaged HIV/AIDS. Maybe it was because I became an uncaring creep in high school (very kind words for what I became, but then again, high school is a confusing place, full of uncaring creeps who, for the most part, eventually grow out of it and become caring adults) and was unable to see outside the me-specific realm. Or, maybe it was less pervasive in the area of the country in which I went to college. Or, maybe it was the fact that better treatments were introduced that extended the average lifespan of a person who is HIV positive (this, of course, is if they promptly receive treatment, take care of themselves, etc). Or, it maybe it is because of any number of factors that caused people to exhale slightly, to let their guard down and to stop talking about it.

But it has not gone away – not in the slightest (though, during our trip, we did hear someone report that they interacted with a number of teens who thought there was a CURE, so if they got it, they could make it go away...which is SCARY). In fact, it is on the rise in a number of populations. And in these communities, people are struggling with how to deal with this problem - to make people see that this is an issue that won't go away and needs to be addressed immediately.

Living With, Affected By is comprised of men and women dedicated to raising awareness for HIV/AIDS in Arkansas. The organization is dedicated to develop and conduct educational outreach to include HIV prevention, as well as sexual health, domestic violence and peer relations. And these wonderful people are afraid - afraid that we will stop talking. Afraid that awareness will further decline, whisked away by the chaperon of silence.

Though we spent the day there, very engaged and with them, I don’t count what we did that day as our service to the organization. Yes, we volunteered our time. But I count this as our service – telling you that we need to not forget that this is prevalent, this is a problem, and this is very, very real. Like hunger, like homelessness, like the multitude of very current, and very frightening issues we are facing, we can’t stop talking about it. We need to keep talking and keep each other aware. So we are starting the conversation. And we invite you - no, beg you - to do the same.

Day 21 - Tennessee - Children's Museum of Memphis - Revisited

The following includes profanity and drug references. Reader descretion is advised.

Begin Scene:

Two A.M.

A girl and a guy, both of who have obviously had a good evening, enter the studio apartment, already occupied by two sleeping travelers. The girl reaches for the light switch. Garish light floods the room.

Girl: “Oh, shit, sorry dudes!”

Lights extinguish. Lights flick back on. Lights off. Back on. Off.

Darkness. Silence.

Guy: “Dude, I lost it!”

Girl: “What did you lose?”

Guy: “I lost IT!”

Girl: “Huh?”

Guy: “IT (!), dude!”

Girl: “OH, shit! You mean the WEEEEEEEEED?”

Scuffles. Door opens and closes. And opens again. Lights back on.

Formerly sleeping female traveler wearily opens one eye to see formerly sleeping male traveler laying quietly, both eyes wide open and a grin bisecting his face. Girl smirks and rolls over, scrunching down in her sleeping bag and attempting to coerce sleep back into her eyes.

End Scene

We did not immediately return to sleep. Guy and Girl in the dialogue were joined by another Guy, one who had his stash of WEEEEEEEEED stashed in an easy to find, and, ultimately, very accessible area. The three friends sat at the kitchen table, the built-in benches of which lined up perfectly with our pillows, only inches to spare. We listened to them, eyes closed, while they performed the motion of their collective ritual of rolling, inhaling and passing. They razzed each other a bit, discussing the various rolling techniques, filter placement, volume of contents, as well as a brief tangential conversation regarding the realities of a war fought over water. Much later, when the lights were finally dimmed and we were carried off to sleep on the wings of their conversation (as well as, I regret to admit, their exhalations), I felt much like a child falling asleep during my parent’s dinner party - listening to the clanking of glasses and clinking silverware, hearty laughter and conversation my drowsy mind had difficulty absorbing (though, just to be clear, my adorably square parents would never smoke pot, at least not in front of their kid and never at the dinner table).

We woke the next morning, almost hung over from our night of half sleep (which is much different than a half night of sleep). It was my fault. When we couldn’t find anyone who knew anyone who may want to take us in while we where in Memphis, I scoffed at Tim’s suggestion that we get a hotel and decided we would couch surf – it would do us some good. Harden us up a bit. Plus, what kind of road trip would this be with out sleeping on a complete stranger’s couch? So I found someone with a couch… online. (I can hear a number of moms out there cringing…)

In our defense, we had decided to stay with people to avoid the sterile hotel rooms that would otherwise greet us in every state, creating a homogenous view of each city - no variable furniture, art, or bath towel patterns. We wanted to experience America - the people, the food, the culture, the lifestyles, the jobs, the community involvement, the family dynamics, the political and religious inclinations – every possible variable (not limited to those previously mentioned) that defines what it means to be an American. So it made sense to stay with someone completely unknown to us, to our family, or to our friends (who comprised the primary source of couches, beds, and floors) – vary the pool, if ever so slightly.

But, we survived and eventually perked up, due to our coffee (for me) and OJ (for Tim) consumption, as well as the metal revving keyed by an idiotic fight driven by hunger and waking up on the wrong side of the bed (there was only one side from which to roll off the futon, so it was destiny for us to be grumpy, at least with each other). We arrived at the Children’s Museum of Memphis after a quick spin around the town, the colors of the building strikingly bright in contrast to the faded glory of Graceland.

Job was simple enough despite the complexity of the interior of the building, chock full of a maze of exhibits, each featuring bright colors, lights, and noise making displays. In the morning we manned the “supermarket”, helping kids ring up their purchases and restock the shelves. In the afternoon, we worked behind the desk at the “bank” helping kids to write checks and “cash” them for $16 (no more, but periodically less). In the down time, we tidied the exhibits, picking up costumes and supplies.

Children ran from area to area, donning fire-fighter hats and coats, before tearing them off and charging toward the green screen to dance around in front of changing backgrounds (a news desk, a beach, a flying carpet ride), only to sprint to the aerial maze. As I passed by the tree house, complete with a paper airplane making station and a target range, where I found Tim seated with three boys. The entire crew were making intricate flying apparatuses out of white sheets of paper, folding, tearing and cutting the shape, experimenting with different aerodynamic lines. As they sat, tightly packed around the small benches, the boys started to debate the value of each individual's folding techniques, razzing each other about the respective finished products - the straightness of the lines, the sharpeness of the creases, the lengths of the folds.

Simmering away.

Well…crap…we kind of dropped the ball.

We wandered to the edge of the earth, failed to stop, and kept trudging along, stepping almost mindlessly into the atmosphere, floating away into the ether. Though not physically tired (thanks to our many, many hosts who kept us well rested and well fed), our minds quietly turned the switch to “off”, before slipping into a daze and refusing to snap out of it. Which has been, needless to say, frustrating. I imagine we have had the look of small children glued to a cartoon television show, but instead of brightly colored pictures, we have been watching trees, the sky, blank walls. There were a few “what the hell is the plan now” moments, but over all, I’d say we are just pleasantly shell shocked.

But, I guess that is normal after completing something that consumed you for the better part of the last six months.

Tim and I have been talking through this experience, trying to distill it down, concentrate the happenings and learnings into something more compact and less bulky than our current explanation (it is back-breakingly hefty). I would share this “summary” with you, but is very long and I am fearing that if I type it out, you would recoil in horror that we have been regaling unwitting subjects with this conversation squelching monologue and never come back to visit us again.

But we want you to come back – to stick around for the remainder of the trip (yes, it is technically over, but the boil has now reduced to a simmer, and our summations, ideas, feelings, and experience has begun to thicken, coming together in something a bit more smooth and cohesive. I’d say we are now making beurre blanc; before we were making coleslaw). So, here’s the deal: Show up every four days and we will have another story to tell. Keep us accountable - Every four days! Who knows, we may get crazy and (gasp!) start churning posts out everyday or every three days, but we aren’t making any promises.

Day 50 - Hawaii - Lanakila Pacific

Slept with the sliding door open, heard the rustle in through trees, and woke up before the sun rose. Worked with Lanakila Pacific Meals on Wheels. Spooned gravy over roasted chicken, scooped brown rice, and portioned peas and carrots into eco-friendly containers, pushing them down the line toward the sealing machine. Compiled cold packs with butter, fruit and milk. Got a quick tour of the other programs – received handmade fabric leis and a performance of Hands in Harmony. Delivered meals to a number of elderly through out Honolulu, either in single family homes or apartment units. Ate a lunch of traditional Hawaiian foods, a meal that was being served to the clients. We left the facility, backpacks on backs, pant legs and shirtsleeves rolled up, aimlessly meandering into the immediate unknown.