What is Cleveland?

I never intended to go to Cleveland. At least, it wasn't high on my list of places I wanted to visit in my lifetime. Not that there is anything wrong with the city. It is very nice, actually. And it has a gorgeous public library in the heart of downtown. But, I can honestly say I would not have discovered this fact if I had never had a chance conversation at work with my good friend Shelley. I am not sure how we got on the topic of Jeopardy, but I remember the conversation spurring me to check out when the next online test was going to be. Strangely enough, it was only a couple of weeks away, and I since I had nothing better to do that Wednesday evening, I went ahead and signed up. A quick reminder was added to my calendar, and I didn't think much of it.

The night of the online test, I made sure to let my grandma know that until I came back out of my room, I was not to be interrupted (I wanted to take it a little bit seriously, and I admit, I wasn't really sure how long it would take). I sat at my desk, eagerly watching the minutes tick by until I could log in and the test would start. At exactly 7:00 p.m., the first of fifty questions popped on the screen. The test was over in less than 15 minutes. There were only three questions I knew I had missed. Still, 47 out of 50 wasn't all that impressive in the context of Jeopardy, right? So, with this thought in mind, I relegated it to a fun experience that maybe I would repeat in another 18 months if I even remembered to do it.

Three months later, I am sitting at my desk again, reading some article or another online when I clicked over to my email. Immediately, I saw something I never thought I would see: "Jeopardy Contestant Search." My heart already beating quickly, I opened the email inviting me for an audition in Chicago on May 18. And with that, I laughed a little as my heart sunk. Of course, they would be in Chicago when I was going to be in Peru. Although being on Jeopardy has long been one of my (unvoiced) dreams, I couldn't rearrange my trip to Peru for something that may not ever amount to much. In a last ditch effort, though, I responded back explaining why I couldn't make this particular audition and practically begged for an invitation to any other audition they had available.  Three long days later, I received an email that I would be considered for auditions in Cleveland. The fact that they were still considering me was encouraging, but no date was set, and I wasn't sure if I would even be able to make that audition. I gave it a good shot, but perhaps Jeopardy was just not meant to be.

Fast forward a couple weeks later when I am at my desk at work, doing a quick check of my email (a bad habit I am trying to break, I swear), when I saw another message from Jeopardy. I almost bounced out of my chair I was so excited. I saw the date, calculated that I could slip away from work on those days, and emailed my RSVP within ten minutes of receiving the email. I was giddy. Ridiculously giddy, to the point that I was beaming ear-to-ear and could not sit still. I popped out of my chair and told my co-worker Alison right away. I was going to audition for Jeopardy! How was this happening? I had always been under the impression that this kind of thing never happened to me, but it seems that this is going to be my year for a lot of great things happening for me, so if I am going to get on the show, this will be the year to do it.

And so, with a great deal of anxiety (but also a great deal of support from the world's best friends and co-workers) I found myself in Cleveland on a warm, humid day. After killing as  much time as possible by walking around the downtown area, I finally headed to the hotel where the audition was being held. I found my way up to the suite, and there I was amid all the other hopeful contestants. I don't know why exactly, but as I listened to the conversations around me, I worried that I was hear on some fluke--surely I didn't belong in the same class as these people. After shaking off this crazy notion, I headed into the auditions ready to do the best I could. After a short explanation about what to expect and a brief video from Alex himself, we began our written test. Overall, I think I did alright--really, it boosted my confidence pretty high, actually. The producers went out to grade the tests, and we were left to wait for our "mock" game assignment. Some idle chatter ensued, but really, I think all of us were just ready to get to play with the signaling devices.

The producers came back in, all of our applications now carefully organized by whom they wanted to see first. As it turns out, I was the second contestant called, so that meant I got to get my turn out of the way immediately. The game itself was a blur...I remember holding my own on the literature questions and maybe a couple of others, but it was done in the blink of an eye. Then, it was time to go through the personality interview. When my turn came up, the first thing I was asked to do was sing. In Welsh. I knew I shouldn't have put that down as one of my interesting facts, but since I came here to prove I was Jeopardy material, I put aside all humility and sang one of the only Welsh songs I knew. I got a little bit of applause, so I guess I did alright with it, and that was that. I got to sit back and watch the rest of the people go through their games and listen to them answer questions about themselves.

I left feeling pretty good about the whole process. Knowing that the likelihood of my being picked is pretty slim (of the 2,000 to 3,000 people auditioning, only 400 will be selected), I figure I won't be hearing from anyone in the next 18 months. Still, I did well, I think I did my friends and family back home proud. And, if nothing else, it helped me realize and appreciate just what a great group of friends and family I have supporting me. It has been a long time since I have felt such overwhelming love.

The Art of Getting Lost

I may have admitted this once before, but I have a knack for getting lost. Not the horrible, irreparable kind of lost that requires a team of skilled trackers to extract me from the wild, but the kind of lost that is enough that I can easily add an additional 30 to 45 minutes to any drive or hike I happen to be on. (Okay, there may have been one or two times professional help would have been much appreciated, but at least then I was with a friend...it is always easier to endure these kinds of things with someone else by your side.)

Anyway, today was one of those days to get lost. At the very least, it was a beautiful day to do so. The sun blazed down and the skies were a resplendent blue. If it weren't for the chill in the air, it would have been a perfect day to sprawl out. I had a need to get a little ways away from the city, away from the urban scene and reconnect with nature. I hopped in my car and headed west, looking for a trail that sounded like it would be a serve my needs--long enough to be worth a good drive, but not so challenging it took all the fun out of it.

I had the directions. I was even sure to write out every single step, mileage and all. And, you are probably wondering why 1) I wrote it out instead of printing it and 2) why I have not invested in GPS.  My home printer is old and decrepit. It takes less time to transcribe seemingly simple things like directions. I have not purchased a GPS because...I have no real reason except that I figure that my handwritten directions will suffice, despite having proven wrong far more often than not. Like I was today. In all fairness, though, if I had GPS, I would not have passed the wild turkeys or the soaring hawks. I would have missed the simple beauty of sunlight over a rolling prairie. I would not have been reminded what 'fun' it is to drive on unpaved roads. And, I may have ended up at my destination a few minutes earlier. Still, I found where I needed to be, and really that is all that matters, right?

If my navigation skills while driving are bad, they are even worse when hiking. I had read about the hike I was about to do (a simple 4.25 mile loop), and I felt confident that all I had to do was follow the blue blazes, and I would be okay. And for the first half, it worked. While a few times it seemed like I had lost the path (and there were no blazes until a good third of the way), I always managed to pick it up again, following it through grasslands to the trees and down to the lake. The path along the lake was by far the best part of the hike, and the few moments I spent listening to the water lap the shoreline provided some calm to my otherwise busy mind. (Perhaps this distracted mental state is related to my ability to get lost.) And really, the first part of the hike wasn't where I got really lost. I quickly found myself at the other side of the trailhead, the loop completed in far less time than I had anticipated. (I figured about 50 minutes...I walk fast, but not that fast, especially on uneven ground.) So, being the intrepid adventurer I am (read idiot), I decided to retrace my steps and see if I had missed part of the trail somehow.

I am still not sure if I missed part of the trail. I have no clue, really, if I was ever on it after the first fifteen minutes back in. I thought I did a good job retracing my steps until I reached a fork in the road I didn't remember. Of course, I chose the wrong path. I think no matter what I had decided, it would have still have been the wrong path. But, because this was an adventure, or at least an attempt to recapture the spirit of past adventures, I kept on. My mind occasionally drifted to the most negative outcome possible, but thank goodness my rational self is good at curbing my imagination. What I couldn't quell, though, was my growing frustration. How many times would I allow myself to get into this kind of mess? While this situation was not at all dangerous (I had a ton of energy still, and I knew I could backtrack yet again if I had to), there is no guarantee that the next time I do something like this, it would be safe. At least when I was with friends, there was the comfort of their presence and I knew if I were hurt, someone else would be right there to help. As it turned out, I was able to find the right path, a fact confirmed by locating my own footprints. One benefit of a muddy path, I guess. As I got into my car (after having knocked off as much mud from my car and taking off my sodden shoes), I realized that yet again I was lucky. That what makes my getting lost such an art is my ability to finally get unlost. I have always found my way back, from bogs and fields, mountains and forests. But for how long? Perhaps it is time to be a bit more careful...

This isn't to say that I will give up solo hikes altogether. I will, however, be far more mindful of the paths I choose--those that are well-defined and well-traveled. I am getting to that stage in my life where it is finally sinking in that I am not invincible. Took me long enough to realize this, yes? Yet, a part of me finds it hard to let go because while hindsight reveals to me how every situation could have gone horribly wrong, the experiences remain some of the most memorable, the ones I think back on and smile. I don't want to give up any of those yet to happen...I guess it is finding that balance of spontaneity and planning to allow for chance to guide the path, but not to be caught of guard? Who knows. All I know is that I made it out yet again unscathed, and I drove off with a smile on my face.

Memorial

Today marks the third anniversary of my grandfather’s death. Three years seems like an eternity ago, and even though I never thought it possible at the time, my life has adjusted to his absence. It didn’t seem to take very long for my grandma and me to settle into a quiet, comfortable routine without him. It has been a while since I have looked for him sitting in the living room chair, blanket covering his knees, television blaring in the background. Very rarely do I wake in the middle of the night to track any movement in the hallway, confirming that the trek from the bathroom back to the bedroom was completed successfully and without incident. Eight p.m. no longer has the same significance as I have no one to prepare a bowl of spumoni ice cream (with a dash of brandy to enhance the flavor) for.  So much of my life in Kansas City was spent helping care for him, watching out, listening, that with him gone, I felt adrift. When he was around, I had a purpose, one that I embraced and enjoyed. Without him, there was a void, one that I haven’t quite figured out how to fill.

My grandfather was a good man, dedicated to family, country, and his faith. He wasn’t perfect by any means—he had quite the temper, was stubborn beyond belief, and could be unforgiving.  He was even a bit of a scoundrel in his youth, running booze across state lines, lying about his age to enlist in the National Guard, and who knows what else. But, even with his shortcomings, he was an amazing person.

Although born in Omaha, he was a Kansas Citian through and through. Kansas City was the place that would always be home no matter how far he traveled, whether it be out on the Pacific during WWII or following jobs in St. Louis or Atlanta. He went to school here, attended college as well. He met my grandmother here and started his family here. Drive down any street in Kansas City, and he would have a story to share. He knew the gangsters, the elite, the who’s who of Kansas City. In turn, people here knew his name, respected him.  I wish I had paid more attention to his stories at the time instead of dismissing them as the ramblings of a nostalgic old man. But, it is always easier to think that in hindsight…

My grandpa was always a proud man. He rarely complained, and he did everything in his power not to feel like a burden to his family. He never was. Even as his health began to fail and his body weaken, his spirit remained strong. Parkinson’s robbed him of so much, but never his mind. When he could barely read, he would pull out his magnifying glass to read the newspaper, keeping on top of the world around him. When he could no longer even do that, he would have either my grandma or me read to him, books about Kansas City that reminded him of his past, and he would add his own commentary where the author had omitted pertinent information. And if he were in a mischievous mood, watch out. He could make a snowball or a water gun materialize out of nowhere, hit you with it, and make it disappear. The only evidence that anything had even happened, besides the tell-tale wet spot on your clothing, would be the faux innocent look on his face doing a poor attempt to hide his amusement.

For a man so independent, it could not have been easy to accept the help of his wife, children, and grandchildren as he did. It was hard to make him hand over the car keys, harder still to ask him not to make minor repairs around the house. He did so with little fuss, but it felt like in asking, we were asking he give up a part of himself. To compensate, we did what we could to make sure he never wanted for anything. I took him and grandma to Mass every morning. We arranged for trips to the store, asked him for advice, anything everything to make sure he felt included and important, as he still very much was. Some days, it was just enough to have someone to sit next to him, not saying a word but just being there.

I do not know if I will ever quite grasp how fortunate I was to spend so much time with him. I just know that I was one of the lucky ones to share in his life. I got to witness his humor, his kindness, and his love. I still think that his relationship with my grandma is one of the sweetest I have ever seen, and if I find something even half as good as what they had, I’ll be lucky. And although he was never one to say it, he was extremely proud of all his children, all of whom shared his good heart and generous nature. When he did finally pass away, he did so realizing that he was leaving things in good hands. I sometimes think that was one of the reasons he fought for so long…he just wanted to make sure everyone he loved was going to be okay.  He wanted to be sure my grandma would be taken care of, and his children would support each other in even the most challenging times.

Learning to live without someone you love doesn’t mean you have forgotten. But, I still struggle with find the best way to remember my grandpa. I guess it will be in the stories I tell for the years to come. It will be in how I continue to watch out over my grandma, to make sure that even when she is lonely or missing him, that she knows she is not alone. And, it is in living my life in a way that would make him proud, to ensure that what I do ensures that the name Hayes remains synonymous with character, strong morals, and, of course, good humor. 

Big Ideas

Recently, I finished a book that, while assuming the guise of a more articulate/literary version of chick lit, posed some questions about how we view and conduct our lives. Perhaps the most profound observation was about how we (as humans) attempt to fit the story of our lives into a traditional narrative structure—where every major event seems to have a distinct beginning, middle, and end. There is the exposition, the obstacle, and the resolution, all of which are only truly visible in hindsight. Everything happens to move the plot along, no matter how small that action happens to be. We each should be the heroes of our own stories, and each story should have some greater impact on the surrounding world if it is to be one at all worthwhile.

But, does life ever really fit into such a neat, tidy construction? Not really.  Indeed, much of what we do is meaningless, at least in the sense of contributing to some universal narrative If life were like a novel, my choice to drive to work via Main Street versus Gillham would have a huge impact on not only the rest of my day but my entire life and potentially, the lives of others (I would show up to work late, have to park in a space far, far from the building, further delaying me from reaching my desk on time, which would mean I miss an important phone call from my manager, etc.).  In real life, all of these things may still happen, but there would not be some ulterior reason, no grand cosmic scheme that drove these events. It wouldn’t be the day that my life changed for a grander purpose. It would just be a day that happened to be awful.

Life cannot really be narrowed down to such a fine point. It is far too complicated, far too messy for that. Yet, try as we might to avoid such a conceit, we still have a tendency to see our lives as one big adventure. Or, as I shouldn’t speak for everyone else, I know that I do.  Why do I do it? It gives me a sense of purpose. It makes me feel like there is order in the world. Random events make me nervous because I want to understand…indeed there is a need to understand. I don’t like mystery, I don’t like uncertainty. I unconsciously seek out patterns and connections, and maybe, I tend to create connections that really are not there. I want to believe that some of my more irrational choices were not so irrational, that I knew one decision would change the entire course of my life.

I like the idea of being a hero. It is far more exciting to think in those terms than it is to recognize yourself as simply another cog in the corporate wheel. Maybe that is why I tend to seek out different experiences, like traveling to Kazakhstan or hiking in Croatia. It isn’t only because I want to see these places for myself, but also because I am writing my own story in a way to make it more exciting, more intriguing for some invisible audience.  So, in a sense, in buying into the whole idea that life is one great novel (or movie if you prefer to think in those terms), I make major life decisions based on audience appeal.  If I am bored with my life, then certainly my invisible audience is, too, and that requires a major shake up. I need to change just for changes sake, not necessarily because things are not working as they are. Hmm…

Most likely, I have given this idea way too much thought. I tend to do that with ideas that intrigue me.  And, the longer I think about an idea, the more muddled and tangential my musings on it become, as has happened with this piece. Still, it cannot hurt to ponder some of these things. Granted, it isn’t going to change how I live my life, but it does help me keep my mind fresh. I think mulling over ideas isn’t so much about giving credence to them or rejecting them outright…it is more to keep our mind alive and open to possibilities. It helps remind us that the world is infinitely more fascinating and complex than we will ever be able to fathom.  Or it means absolutely nothing, and it would be better for all if I leave this kind of thinking to those far more intellectual…

The Stars At Night...

I had forgotten just how beautiful a clear, cool night in Texas can be. Away from the city lights, the stars and moon illuminate the earth below, and memories of evenings spent staring up at the sky, time spent searching for some peace of mind, come flooding back. I have been wanting to see the stars...really see them...for some time now. For some reason, I find comfort in seeing the vastness of the universe spread out before me.  It reminds me of my own insignificance and all my problems (not at all as bad as it sounds...a little perspective sometimes is a good thing).  It speaks of places yet unseen. And, it makes me marvel at just how impressive the world we live in truly is.

Homeward Bound

I am headed home tomorrow. It sounds strange to say it that way considering I haven't lived at 'home' for over five years. Still, when everyone asked me what I was doing for Christmas, the words came naturally--"I'm going home." At first, I said this with hesitance, perhaps even a bit of dismay. Here I had a perfectly good week of vacation time where I could go anywhere, do anything, and I was heading to the small town of Marion, just outside of San Antonio, Texas, revisiting a past that, if I remember correctly, I was more than eager to leave behind.

As the weeks drew closer and life seemed to be getting more confused and hectic, the sound of home wasn't so bad. My parents are in Texas. My grandpa is in Texas. One of my best friends is in Texas. So is my sister. They alone are worth the trip, right? Quite simply, yes. Because even if I were able to embark on a fantastic trip in some far off land, I would be missing out on time with them, something far more valuable to me than even the greatest trip I could imagine.

Home is complicated for me, which is one of the reasons for my initial hesitance. I have many fond memories of Christmases past, and I have some Christmases I wish I could obliterate from my memory altogether (those were the ones that resulted in yelling, tears, and so much anger). But for the most part, I look back with a great deal of nostalgia.

The festivities always began Christmas Eve, where it was off to church for the Children's Mass (when I was younger, I would be a part of the pageant. As I got older, I acted as a sort of assistant music director). I still go to this Mass, and I still love singing "Silent Night" during communion and belting out "Joy to the World" at the end. After Mass, we would head over to my grandparents and open gifts from them and have dinner. For awhile, we would get things like dolls or tea sets from my grandma. During Christmas, my grandpa was given an allowance, and he would go out and buy jewelry he thought we would like. I still have a lot of that jewelry, many of it still in their original boxes. (He meant well, but his taste is eclectic.) After the gifts had been opened, we would head home and open one gift under the tree, usually the gift from my grandparents here in KC. Then off to bed so Santa could come. We would leave cookies and milk and a few carrots (you cannot forget the reindeer!).

Christmas morning for the first several years was the four of us. Now, it is just me, my mom, and my dad. And while I would be lying if I said the presents weren't important, it was more the small rituals we had on Christmas morning that made a difference. My sister and I would wake up early, but we never bothered waking my parents right away. We would usually take a look in our stockings and asses the presents around the tree, then watch television quietly until a decent hour arrived. My dad would usually be the first up, and he would make up a batch of scrambled eggs (a welcome change to the cereal we were used to). By the time they were ready, my mom would be up, and with painstaking slowness, we would eat. Then it would be time to open our gifts, where inevitably there was some genuine excitement mixed in with the feigned appreciation.

Often, depending on the gifts, my sister and I would change and head outside. (Something I never truly appreciated about Christmas in Texas--more often than not, you did not have to worry about weather getting in your way of enjoying your new toys.) Usually, it was the toys that elicited the most excitement that would be most quickly cast aside, and the present initially overlooked that would bring lasting entertainment. My sister and I often got joint gifts, which meant I spent a good amount of time watching my sister play with it. And yet, I never minded. It was fun, it was exciting, and it was family.

Eventually, we would wander up to my grandparents' place and enjoy Christmas dinner. I cannot recall any of the foods really beyond the sugar cookies that my grandmother, sister, and I (and sometimes my mom) had rolled out and decorated a few days before. They were always in this large plastic Santa cookie jar, that looking back was kind of strange looking. But then again, my Grandma Tanner had a lot of strange Santa things in her house (she collected them), so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. While the adults talked and my sister did her own thing, I would often sneak away to the den, where laid out on the coffee table was the Christmas village.

Made up of houses of all different shapes and sizes, the village was something I enjoyed setting up each year, and when I could, I would make up stories for its residents. Perhaps the strangest thing about the village, though, was the HUGE nativity scene at the end. The manger itself was huge, at least twice as tall as even the biggest house. Mary and Joseph and all the rest were giants, looming over the houses. The wisemen had a few scrapes and bruises (one had an unfortunate accident that deprived him of a hand), and the animals looked a little more worse for wear. Let's just say that triggered the more imaginative (and perhaps blasphemous/irreverent) part of my brain, and it would be safe to say there was never quite another village like that one. And although we have a Christmas village here, it is nothing like the one from Texas. One of the many things I cannot recreate.

After dinner, and after we had exhausted our interest in our new toys, the day would wind down, and we would all settle in to watch either tv or movies. There was never a particular movie...we didn't always watch "It's A Wonderful Life" or "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" or anything. What I do remember is hot chocolate and British comedies. Not sure why that is...

Christmas at home isn't quite like the Christmas of my childhood. Sadly, my Grandma Tanner isn't around to share it with--I haven't made those sugar cookies in years. My sister isn't really around to share my gifts with, and she certainly isn't there to take them away from me so "we" could use them together.  After being harangued by my mom for a few years, Grandpa now gives money instead. I kind of miss the jewelry, to be honest. We still do the hot chocolate and tv/movie thing. A few years back, my father stumbled upon this strange old movie with Rupert the Squirrel  and Jimmy Durante, and we watch that together instead of British comedies. My dad still makes sure to hang the Christmas lights, particularly the star that has been in his family for years. And most years, we have a tree. We may never had a conventional Christmas, but I cannot imagine how they could have been any better.

Writing this reflection helped me realize something. I am fortunate in so many ways. I am grateful to have such fond memories, I am fortunate to have a place to go, a place I WANT to go. And I know that not everyone out there has this opportunity, and for those of you out there, know that I wish you and your loved ones all the best. For those who can be with family, enjoy them. Have fun. Try to overlook the things that make you most frustrated and focus on the good stuff. Wherever you are, whatever you do, may this holiday season be a good one for you, and may you always find a place you can call home.

Something to Smile About

Tonight, I had the most unexpected conversation, and I am still smiling about it. One of my favorite students from my year of teaching messaged me on Facebook, and it was amazing to hear from him for several reasons. First, I never really expected any of my students to reach out to me, particularly since it has been seven years since I taught them. But more importantly than that, I was so very happy to hear that this particular student is only one semester away from graduating from college with a B.A. in Music with plans to pursue an master's in library science soon. 

So, I am not really sure how much I have ever shared about my time at St. Greg's, but a bit of background will help to explain why I find this so exciting. St. Greg's served a special purpose, providing students who had fallen through the cracks a chance at receiving an education that might prepare them for a future after high school. As harsh as it may sound, it was apparent college was not an option for the majority of the students, and even our best students faced a long road to getting into college and finishing a degree.

 During my brief stint there, I did my best to teach English to freshman, sophomores, and juniors without inflicting any permanent damage to their language skills. (To all you teachers out there, I have no idea how you do it. You are amazing!) This particular student was probably the hardest working of all of them, and it showed as he was always one of my top-performing sophomores. His writing was always thoughtful, his contributions to the class always productive. He never missed turning in an assignment, and he never complained. Really, he was a dream student. And while you may think he sounds like a teacher's pet and that he would elicit the ridicule of others, that wasn't really the case. Something about him was so earnest, so honest, that even his peers recognized it. Perhaps it was because his dedication to all things carried through onto the basketball court, where he may not have been the star athlete but was always the one everyone could cheer for. I still remember one game where he was called out to play, and he managed not to make just one basket, but several. Those of us in the stands were on our feet celebrating with him, and his teammates were right there along with us cheering their hearts out. Like all of my students, he was someone special, and to hear what he has accomplished since then is so exciting. 

When we were training for our year of volunteer service, one thing that was drummed into our heads is that in we were planting seeds. It could take years before what we did would ever take root, and even then, the likelihood that we would see it was minimal. Especially being fresh out of college, I was, naively, expecting more immediate results. I quickly learned to scale my expectations back significantly, and in recent years, I hadn't even really thought I would hear from any of my students again. I was content with having done what I could, knowing that I did the best I could.

So, yeah, that flashing bar telling me I had a message on Facebook made my night. It transported me back to that time where I learned so much more than I ever taught. Gosh...my time at St. Greg's really deserves a lot more than a single blog post because it was such a amazing, complex, wonderful experience, where I met some of the most dedicated educators I have known and some of the sweetest, most charming students ever, but there is SO much to share, I never know where to begin. I am so grateful that this student gave me a way to share something about my time there, and I hope that his success is representative of several of my students. He mentioned that one of his classmates (and another one of my sophomores) is studying exercise science at the same university, which is another piece of good news. Now, my curiosity is piqued...I wonder what some of my other students are doing now.

Have you ever had an unexpected conversation like this, one that leaves you happy for the person you just talked with?