Author: Coddiwompling

A country girl turned world traveler

When Your Pet Needs a Pet

by Coddiwompling, posted in Adventure, Uncategorized

It’s the sort of thing that happens often enough in the country. Small woodland creatures wander up to your door. It’s no real surprise to come home and see a herd of deer grazing in our yard or even eating the shrubs flanking the front porch. A myriad of birds, including cardinals, finches, bluebirds, and three kinds of woodpeckers can be seen flitting from tree to tree on any given day. Driving moles and armadillos out of our yard and into the adjacent woods is an ongoing battle. There have been various snake sightings, but fortunately these are rare. In the last month, however, the source of most of our wildlife interaction has been at the hands of the unassuming possum. (Just for the record, I am aware that the official name is opossum. However, no self-respecting Southerner ever uses the full name of North American’s only marsupial more than once, and that is to simply let you know that they know about the extra letter, but refuse to use it.)

Our family of three humans is rounded out by two canines, Lucy (Boston terrier/pug hybrid) and Maddux (golden retriever – big of head and small of brain). They love it when people come over. These two could easily have been the inspiration for the cheese wrapper meme. But let another animal enter their domain and you will see two dogs get highly upset. This pertains to most anything with four legs, including frogs and lizards.

At some point today a little possum wandered through my yard, probably looking for food: fruit, rodents, berries – possums will eat pretty much anything. Perhaps he was even heading to the screen porch, lured in by the aroma of fresh Alpo. It’s hard to say. What is clear, however, is that the two sentinels noticed the encroaching beast and sounded the alarm. And sounded. And sounded. And sounded some more.

Lucy finally grew weary of all that barking at an unresponsive opponent and fell asleep in the sunshine. The first time I saw the little guy, Maddux was sitting beside him on the ground. It was a pitiful sight. I thought surely the critter was dead. At their best, possums are prone to looking pitiful, and playing dead is one of their primary defense mechanisms.

Thirty minutes later, Maddux and his new pet were reclining on the back porch. From my window vantage point, I could see the little guy was breathing. A few minutes later, as Maddux began to drift off, small gray ears began to twitch and one eye peeked open as the hostage cautiously surveyed his surroundings. He prudently kept his head turned away from the dozing dog and yawned, revealing a long, thin jaw lined with sharp teeth that he was oddly reluctant to unleash on his canine captors.

In what can only be described as a comedy of errors, at that exact moment, a red wasp swooped down from the ceiling fan and stung Maddux on the nose. Both he and the possum leapt up. As the highly offended Maddux gave chase to the aggressive insect, the possum – less than 18 inches away from the steps leading to freedom – ran as quickly as he could in the wrong direction – further trapping himself in the corner underneath the porch swing. Lucy, noticing a change in Maddux’s attention, seized the opportunity afforded her. A crestfallen Maddux dropped his massive head as he slowly realized that he may have gained vindication by gobbling up the wasp, but he had lost possession of his furry gray pet. About that time, Lucy noticed my presence and went all Guardians of the Universe on the bewildered ball of nappy fur. Deafened and disoriented, he resumed his only course of action – total and complete inaction. As much as I hated to, I knew it was time for me to enter into the fray.

Knowing my dogs’ greatest weakness, I ran to the kitchen and found some leftover barbeque. Maddux was an easy sell. One whiff of the smoky meat and he trotted willingly onto the screen porch. Lucy paused momentarily from her  barking to look up. She was tempted but not willing to relinquish control. It would take something truly fantastic to lure her away from such a major prize. After several failed attempts, I finally got her attention away from the possum and onto the tasty treat. Moments later, both dogs voiced their discontent as they realized that the meat was all gone and now a screen door stood between them and their would-be captive. Curses! Foiled again!

Phase One of my clever plan was a complete success. But, now what? I had to get that possum off of my porch and back into the woods where he belonged. I could shoot it, but that was unnecessary. He was not being aggressive; he had done no harm. I just wanted him gone, not dead. I could put on some leather gloves, seize him by his tail, and….no. Just, NO! Then, remembering a successful tactic from a few weeks back, I grabbed the water hose.

I sprayed the possum, and I wish for all the world I had a picture of this moment. I could almost hear him as he looked up at me with a weary, “WHAT NOW???” expression. Using the spray, I motivated him to leave the corner. Try as I might, I could not guide him towards the steps. With one frustrated look back at me, he bailed off the edge of the porch onto the ground.  After allowing a moment for the tired animal to collect himself from the two-foot drop, I panned back and forth at his feet with the water, encouraging the possum to head for the trees. Finally, he seemed to understand what was happening and picked up the pace, snorting and waddling off towards the woods.

I can just imagine what it would be like for the little possum to finally make it home: wet, weary, and empty-handed. “Sorry, I’m late, dear. No Alpo today. You are NOT going to believe what just happened…!”

Storm’s ‘A Brewing……

by Coddiwompling, posted in Adventure, Uncategorized

Hurricane Matthew was, in many ways, a new experience for people in my area. We have had bad storms, to be sure. There was Hurricane David in 1979, Hugo in 1989, and Floyd in 1999 (Hmm…. there seems to be a pattern here). While these storms touched the area in varying degrees, the Savannah coast is largely protected by geography. As hurricanes head our way, they tend to bounce off Florida and hit South Carolina instead. It sometimes concerns me that people will grow complacent and expect this to always occur. A direct shot into Savannah could potentially make Katrina seem like child’s play. In recent hurricane seasons, and even this year, we have had a number of near-misses. Some people prepared. Others watched halfheartedly for Jim Cantore and went on about their daily lives.

As the reports about Hurricane Matthew began to increase in frequency and it became clear that he was headed our way, emergency planning teams sprang into action. Evacuation orders were made. There was a clear plan for where people were to go, and even buses to make sure they got there safely and on time.  I have to say, I was incredibly impressed with the thorough planning of our infrastructure. Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina in particular were in cooperation with each other, employing streamlined evacuation measures, curfews, etc. Expectations from individual citizens were clearly stated and enforced. In a world where people complain incessantly about our government, here is a shining example of leadership done well.

My family lives about an hour away from the coast. Our county had a voluntary evacuation since we were in the zone where “tropical storm” winds were predicted. As we debated whether or not to bug out, I changed my mind several times. The temptation to head west and not stop until we saw tumbleweeds was strong, but in the end, we decided to hunker down and ride it out.

The day before Matthew’s expected arrival, I went into Prep Mode. There was shopping for non-perishable food and other supplies, gas for the generator, and straightening up the house. Now, I don’t even know how to explain this. Perhaps it was the change in barometric pressure, but I felt myself slipping into this bizarre domestic zone. I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. I scrubbed things in the house that aren’t on the normal weekly spruce-up list. I organized Jeff’s paperwork. (You would just have to see the before and after pictures to appreciate the depth of that sentence.) I put our emergency food supplies in plastic tubs for easy access and quick getaway, should that become necessary. My humble home looked like a show place. I suppose my thinking was, if my house blew away with the wind, it should be in immaculate condition before the roof was ripped off and the walls fell in.

When Jeff came home that afternoon, we swept the yard for potential projectiles. Lawn furniture, garden hoses, our rickety old grill, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down was stowed away so it wouldn’t come crashing through a living room window. The next morning, we made one last run to the store for extra food, then settled down to wait. And wait. And wait.

This part wasn’t so bad. We had electricity and Netflix until 1:30 am. I know this because I was still wide awake. That was about the time that things really picked up outside. Suddenly the decision to ride things out didn’t feel like that great of an idea. We experienced 45-50 mph winds, which sounded as if they we going to uproot our house and send us to Oz. Meanwhile, Jeff slept quite peacefully through the entire ordeal. I am still trying to forgive him for that!

We awakened the next morning to an amazing sight. Twenty-nine 100-foot-tall pine trees lay on the ground in an arc, facing away from our home. I stood at the window, mouth gaping open, as Number 30 crashed to the ground. Through it all, unlike the dear people of Haiti, there was absolutely zero damage to home or Haywood’s. I’ll take that outcome any day.

A change in the direction of the wind and we would have a very different story to tell, assuming we lived to tell about it. As things turned out, we spent a week without electricity, but with an ample supply of food, a guy who can skillfully wield a chainsaw, and the steady hum of a generator, I have not one thing to complain about. Not. One.

Here are some observations from the first few days after the storm:

The Bad:

  • There will always be grumps. For them, every silver lining has a cloud. Perhaps they were without power, cell, Wi-Fi for a period of time. Yet they were alive and well enough to do their complaining. These people will be present in any and all situations of life. I am learning to ignore them.

The Good:

I can only speak for people in my area, but there were many more who were proactive helpers, rays of sunshine, if you will.

  • Linemen from 20 states left the comfort of their homes to sleep on a gym floor and work ridiculously long hours, with the sole objective of helping restore power to thousands of people they have never met
  • As electricity was restored, many offered their use of their homes to others needing food, phone recharging, or hot showers
  • Random strangers helped remove trees from roofs, roads, and driveways
  • Both society’s “haves” and “have nots” donated and delivered food and water to those in need
  • State and local infrastructure did an excellent job of planning and preparing citizens well in advance
  • A local mayor who could have evacuated, stayed behind instead to help clean up his town after the storm. In fact, he took care of the needs of others long before turning any attention to his own home.
  • Probably my favorite: For almost a week, there were no political arguments on Facebook.

While I certainly do not mean to diminish the devastation some people in Georgia, Florida, or South Carolina experienced as a result of Hurricane Matthew, my point is simply this: There is always a reason to be grateful. We need only to look at Haiti and know that even on our hardest day, we have much to be thankful for. Sometimes it’s difficult to see, but it is always there.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

by Coddiwompling, posted in Uncategorized, Writing

Quite often these days I am asked how I am enjoying retirement. Technically, I resigned my teaching job. Retiring would have brought with it a pension and perhaps an AARP card. I have neither enough years of age nor service for retirement. Right now, I’m fine with that.

But to get back to the matter at hand, people often ask this question with a slightly envious gleam in their eyes. They want to hear how utterly fantastic it is to do nothing all day, how I’ve already written that book, and how I spend my days rescuing starving orphans all around the globe. Okay. Perhaps that’s me projecting just a little. I have found myself tossing off the chit-chat reply, “Man, it’s great!” and leaving it there. Thing is, this is a tough question to answer authentically in the time that whirlwind greetings typically allow. As we have learned from every telling of Aladin, when you get what you wish for, you also get what comes along with that wish. Many times these are challenging consequences, or at least by-products, you had not considered.

With this in mind, I have compiled a list of the pros (+) and cons (-) of leaving the incredibly lucrative career (HA!) of teaching to become a professional writer.

(+) Each day presents me with 24 hours. I can invest or squander them however I wish.

(-) The majority of my friends have regular jobs during the day, so I have no one to hang out with. Some days I tire of my own jokes.

 

(+) No one tells me how I should spend my day.

(-) I miss the camaraderie of a team in a work setting. Occasionally I feel isolated and alone. I enjoy collaborating with others and bouncing ideas off them.

(+) Thankfully, there are people I can email or text or IM on Facebook. They help me talk my way through the fog and come up with a workable premise. They also help me gain perspective during those times when throwing my body under a bus starts to sound like a fantastic idea. These conversations are not as quick or as personal as walking across the hall, but technology certainly makes this a viable option.

 

(-) I have started sleeping later. Some days, embarrassingly late. Two or three hours of productivity can easily be lost.

(+) The last two years of my life have been exceptionally stressful. It is nice to Be Still and REST! Restoring my soul now will help me to be more productive in the days to come.

 

(+) I have time to exercise and run. This challenges me. This makes me stronger. When I am physically fit, my mind works better.

(-) This can quickly turn into an excuse to procrastinate in other areas: “Oh, hey, It’s already 11:00. I’ll start on that project/laundry/article after lunch.”

 

(-) I have no money. I know this will improve in time, but as of today, this is a grim reality.

(+) Since I don’t have a regular job, I am able to participate in ministries that I love and believe in, such as teaching English to refugee women. Their individual stories and cultures are varied, but their needs – language, help understanding life in a new land, and friendship – are universal. And there is a whole melanin rainbow of babies who need my kisses!

 

(+) I have time to write!

(-) It is time to get serious. That whole “I am going to write a book” thing has passed from One Day to NOW. I have done enough talking; it is time for action. And one thing I’ve learned – this is pretty profound; you may want to jot this down – is that words do not write themselves. They require your time and attention and effort. And effort. And effort.

 

(-) Writing requires a great deal of discipline and self-motivation.

(+) I have given myself the luxury of flying by the seat of my pants for several weeks. That’s new territory, but I have enjoyed it. However, now my OCD nature longs for structure. I get more done when I have a definite plan. I feel better when I get more done. That’s a nice loop. This week I am working on establishing “office hours” to bring some order to my day. I love to set goals then cross them off the list once they are accomplished. Even if they are baby steps, each one taken is forward momentum.

So, the honest answer to how I am enjoying this new season of life is that, while it is not perfect, it truly is good. Very, very good. I am struggling with redefining Normal and with choosing the best use of my time on a daily basis. Still, I know that God has entrusted me with Words. This amazing gift is not just for myself, but to strengthen and inform and encourage others. There is much to learn as I hone my skills, and I have no idea where this writer girl journey will lead, but I am excited to find out.

Zest for Life

by Coddiwompling, posted in Adventure, Europe, Uncategorized

One of the things I dearly love about the European Jews that I have met is their zest for life. They have lived through one of the most horrible eras of world history and somehow manage to continually bounce back.

In Poland, when we were given our room assignment at the retreat center, my digs were on the third floor. My suitcase was the size of a young manatee, barely squeaking in under TSA’s 50-pound limit. Yikes! Fortunately, there were a couple gentlemen around who helped this damsel in distress, and I was more than happy to let them do so. As the Holocaust Survivors arrived with more reasonably-sized bags in hand, they didn’t hesitate but headed straight up the stairs. Some had to pause momentarily, but most did not.

In this retreat center, the dining room was at ground level, on the second floor, and the showers were on the first floor. If, during the day, you needed to “go”, you would be hitting the stairs, heading either a flight up or a flight down, as there were no rest rooms on the main floor. There were also no elevators or wheelchair ramps. We all just hoofed it.

Never once did I hear the Holocaust Survivors complain about all the walking we did while on excursions. Certainly, as these folks are anywhere from 75-95 in age, some would tire quicker than others and therefore find a bench in the shade for a few minutes. While resting, they were quite likely to burst into song. They sang folk songs from their youth, and when I say they sang, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they belted them out. I could tell if the song was happy or wistful or a vigorous call to action by observing the cadence of their voices and the expressions on their faces. Then, just as swiftly as a butterfly flits away to another flower, the verse or chorus would end, and a new conversation would begin, or perhaps they would stand to walk further on. The moment was over as quickly as it had begun. More than once I was moved to tears by these impromptu concerts. Their tunes drew me in, and for that instant, I felt their pain, their joy, their determination. It was real and raw, and I felt honored to be given a brief glimpse into their hearts.

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One of the most fun things we did during our time together was a Camp Olympics. The Holocaust Survivors were divided into two teams to compete in a variety of athletic events, like kicking soccer goals, shooting basketballs, and the all-time favorite, using a giant slingshot to hurl water balloons at their trip leader. These people are some kind of competitive! They cheered their team on with enthusiasm, as former athletes and former spectators gave it their all. You didn’t have to speak the language to tell that there was a constant flow of good-natured trash talk with the other team. Just like with 12-year-olds from around the globe, there were heated discussions about whether or not the kick was “in-bounds” or if someone participated out of turn. Not one person entered the contest with the slightest intention of losing. At the end of the activity, however, the staunchest of rivals walked away arm-in-arm, laughing and recounting moments of failure and glory. Perhaps with an elbow to the ribs and a semi-jesting, “Just wait till next time!”

Without question, my favorite trait of the Holocaust Survivors I have met can best be visualized by the HaagenDazs Gelato commercial,  entitled ‘Arguments’. You know, the one where the Italian couple bickers, then reconciles over a tasty dessert. In much the same way, my European-Israeli friends will give each other what-for, holding nothing back. They conclude with an emphatic hand gesture that seems to signify, “And THAT’s the way it is!”, then they walk away. When next they meet, they are fast friends again, as if the previous conversation never took place. In a similar situation, most Americans I know would hold a grudge for years. Decades-long family feuds have developed over far less. For them, however, when it’s over, it’s over.

My personal introduction to this behavior was about fifteen minutes after meeting the Holocaust Survivors for the very first time. There was an incident with towels, to which I responded quickly but ineffectively. One lady, who I called Sassy Pants until I learned her name, was completely unimpressed with my inability to resolve this issue. I was severely reprimanded in Russian. The words were unintelligible to me, but her message was crystal clear. I was crushed. I walked away stunned. Here I was, minutes into living out a lifelong dream, and I had already alienated the very people I had come so far to meet. I honestly wanted to cry. The next morning at breakfast, however, she met me with hugs and kisses and a silver bracelet, which she insisted I put on immediately. The bracelet was too large, so she said (via translator), “You eat more. It will fit.” And just like that, we were friends.

I have come to love these Holocaust Survivors so much. They captured my heart right away and have refused to let go. While I am still reluctant to name them by one event in their history, they are indeed Survivors in every sense of the word. Their passion is contagious. They are affectionate and brutally honest. They are loud and loving. They are strong-willed and optimistic. They are considerate and tenacious and inspiring. They welcomed this awkard country girl with open arms, and gave me the best gift of all – their friendship.

 

Lemon zest photo from http://www.thefreshloaf.com/node/45079/best-lemon-zest

“Assume The Crash Position”

by Coddiwompling, posted in Adventure, Europe, Uncategorized

Where I come from, there are couple of running jokes. One is that there are more cows than people living on my road. The other is that when people come to visit, they have to check their passports at the border of civilization. While these are indeed exaggerations, they are not too far from the truth. It was a big deal a few years back when our road got paved with real asphalt and rocks. This was a step up from the layers of ash from the local paper mill that some bureaucrat thought would be a fantastic idea. (Just for the record, it was not.) Autumn mornings you are quite likely to see men in camouflage converge in wooded areas and grassy fields, hoping for a white-tail buck to fill the freezer and perhaps a set of horns to adorn the living room. (This is a part of Southern culture. Don’t judge.) Because we live in a rural community, most people work in the big city about an hour away, and the twice-daily bumper-to-bumper commute can be quite gruesome. Out here in the county, however, it’s only about a ten-minute drive to the nearest small town, which is a lovely old faded beauty currently being revitalized through some sort of Revitalize Cute Old Towns Grant. A traffic jam out here is most likely to happen when you get stuck behind a tractor driving down the road at 11 MPH, chugging from one hay field to the next, or perhaps a school bus-turned-convertible hauling large quantities of said hay. There are also what we refer to as “crop inspectors”, old men in old trucks who have nowhere to go and all day to get there.

Now I had heard of the autobahn before. It is spoken of in hushed tones of great awe by prepubescent students bouncing along on a school bus most likely older than they are. Years after being enlightened about this wonder, even my wildest fantasies of zipping along at such speeds were no match for my initial encounter with real, live European drivers.

My first year flying into Poland, I remember being incredibly impressed with the Chopin Airport in Warsaw. It was bright and welcoming. Though the pace was fast, the building is organized and well-marked, so locating our bags was a breeze. We met our guides who took us on a tour of the city for a few hours while we waited for the other half of our delegation from the US to arrive. After introductions all around, we piled into a 15-passenger van/minibus hybrid and away we went. And, man, did we ever GO!

As we shot into traffic, the first two minutes were better than a ride at Six Flags. The allure wore off quickly, however. Leaving Warsaw was simply an experience I was in no way prepared for. There were no discernable speed limit signs in the city, or perhaps they were uniformly ignored. People changed lanes at will, and a gap of about four inches was enough for them to squeeze their vehicle into – regardless of size. My Polish consists of about five phrases, but even my inexperienced ear could easily determine that our driver had an extensive vocabulary of Slavic profanity, which he exercised liberally, accompanied by a couple of hand gestures that are recognized on six continents.

We flew – or should I say, careened – down the highway, and our group of European first-timers foolishly thought that we would be able to enjoy the sights of both the city and the countryside on a leisurely three-hour drive. Rookie mistake. We moved as such a break-neck speed that what might have been interesting highlights were little more than a blur.

The inside of the minibus was lacking in certain accruements that I have become accustomed to. Since Polish summers are incredibly mild by South Georgia standards, there was no AC. (Did you even know that they still make cars without air conditioning??!!) This happened to have been a rather warm day and the only two opening windows in the vehicle were for the driver and shotgun passenger. As the vehicle barreled along in a herky-jerky motion, we all tried to time our sway so that no one fell from his seat. My seatmate, who later became a dear friend, was at the time a stranger to me. After about the third or fourth time I bounced off her left shoulder, I quit apologizing. Add to this, all of us had been awake for approximately 30 hours. Between the exhaustion, the heat and the bouncing around, I was fighting car sickness. I closed my eyes, hoping against hope that I could fall asleep and the ride would mercifully seem to end sooner. Nothing doing. I curled up every way imaginable in my portion of the seat and even considered lying in the floor. As soon as I would drift off, there would be another snatch of the steering wheel, and my head would snap awkwardly. By the time we arrived at our final destination, I was, as my grandmother used to say, “plumb tuckered out.” Kissing the ground would have been a tad melodramatic. But I did consider it.

My other experiences with European drivers have all been interesting, but not nearly so traumatic. It seems that red lights and stop signs are merely helpful suggestions and that use brakes is entirely optional. Whether the drivers were simply in a hurry, or were trying to shock their inexperienced passengers, they certainly did wonders for my prayer life! That being said, in my three summers of visiting Poland, I don’t recall ever having seen an automobile accident. Perhaps those European really are onto something after all.

Who Are You? Who, Who, Who, Who??

by Coddiwompling, posted in Uncategorized

Over the last several years, life has taken its twists and turns. As the scenery around me changes, so too have the ways I define myself. I’ve been chubby and miserable inside my own skin. I’ve been lean and healthy and strong. (That one is much better.) I’ve been a teacher. I’ve been a runner. I’ve been the mother of a screaming baby and the mother of an adult (This one, too, is much better.) Each season of life has its benefits and challenges. Sometimes I do miss the Old, but there is something exciting about the New.

Professionally, my New is becoming a Writer Girl. I’ve spent the last 22+ years teaching some pretty incredible kids how to get the words out of their heads and onto the page. That was a terrific season, but as happens with seasons, change arrived. Now I am seizing the opportunity to put into practice all those things I learned from teaching them. Some days the words come blazing out of my mind and onto the screen almost faster than my fingers can type. Other days, like a bashful kitten, they have to be gently coaxed out of hiding. Whether short or long, easy or difficult, each finished piece leaves me in stunned amazement to see that something I have always dreamed of is becoming a reality.

In my personal life as well, there is another New. I am becoming a Hiker Girl.

I remember a few years ago when we started going to a new church, we were invited to a big overnight camp-out. In the woods. In a tent. Without a restroom. There would be nature all around. That’s right, bugs and dirt. I really liked this group of people and wanted to get to know them. Certainly I didn’t want to wimp out. But, did I mention the bugs? I had it on good authority that spiders were allowed to roam freely in these woods. I would not have access to a stationary toilet or electricity or running water. What kind of Deliverance prototype were they luring me into???? As if those things were not enough, there was much talk of the previous year when an ice storm arrived during the night and people were trapped inside their tents the next morning, zippers frozen solidly in place. The temptation to fake an illness was strong.

We went to that camp-out, in spite of all my misgivings. While I would be inclined to emphasize the incredibly rustic nature of these surroundings, it is only fair to admit that someone made allowances for prima donnas like me. There was a generator and a port-a-potty. Several of the men arrived early to clear up debris so there was a nice, neat camping area. Women brought crockpots of chili and several varieties of homemade pound cakes. After dinner, a pied piper led a group on a quest to tree a raccoon, a southern rite of passage of sorts. All night there was a roaring fire, carefully tended by those who chose not to go traipsing off into the woods after dark. The night was cool, but there were no frozen tent zippers or spider attacks. We all awoke, wild hair and backs a bit stiff from a night on the ground. The faithful stoked the fire, while the rest of us stamped the cold from our limbs and waited for a hearty breakfast of pancakes and sausage.

It. Was. Awesome.

A couple months ago, Jeff and I decided to hike the Appalachian Trail. I’m not even sure how the subject came up, much less became a “good idea.” I’ve matured a lot (OK, a little) from those prima donna days a decade ago. I’m more active and physically fit, and not one to back down from a challenge. So, hike the infamous AT we shall.

Part of me is really looking forward to this adventure: Jeff and me out there in the great unknown, taking on a huge challenge, with nothing but our wits and an overstuffed backpack to draw from. Part of me is keenly aware that we are in the honeymoon phase of this venture. We take daily walks (2-5 miles based on the time available), strengthen our muscles at the gym, become students of AT survival, and buy one vital piece of equipment at a time. The reality is, after our Daily Hiking Practice, we enter our air conditioned home, have a popsicle, take a shower, then sleep in our incredibly comfortable bed. Something tells me the Trail won’t be quite that easy.

Our initial plan is quite simple. We are going to begin with a day hike this fall, about five miles out then back again. Based on how that goes, in the spring we will try camping for two or three days. Before that happens, we will most likely do an at-home camp-out to practice getting water and eating and sleeping in the Great Outdoors – with the equally Great Indoors nearby, just in case that prima donna rears her dainty little head.

(This post was originally published on my Facebook page, Running After His Heart, but fits the scope of this blog as well.)

That Moment When Your Dream Comes True

by Coddiwompling, posted in Uncategorized

Traveling to Poland was the first time I had ever left the United States. It was rather overwhelming to think that my family was 5000 miles away. It was also interesting to realize just how disconcerting it is that YOU are the stranger, the foreigner, that you cannot speak a word of the local language, that if you get separated from your group, you are in serious trouble. I didn’t know how to ask for water, or a bathroom. I had no idea how to say hello. It was humbling, for sure. At the same time, it allowed me to view the world from a completely different perspective.

We stayed at a beautiful retreat center, Ostroda Camp, about a four-hour drive from Warsaw. The first full day there, we did some light repair on the cabins, painting and sprucing up after the harsh Polish winter. In particular, we replaced screens on the windows – designed to keep the mosquitoes (and they are HUGE) out, and the children in. (Kidding, not kidding)

Then the big day came! The Holocaust Survivors were due to arrive just before dinner. We got word that this day was Shauvot so we should dress up. My group of four from Savannah had no idea what a Shauvot was or how one should dress. Obviously, we were not prepared for this occasion at all. We stared Googling the holiday and its related traditions. We also cleaned and decorated the cabins and made a welcome gift for all of our guests. It was such an exciting afternoon.

Dressed in a borrowed skirt and the only decent shoes I had with me, I paced nervously, my ears straining to hear word of their arrival. I felt like I was preparing for my first date. Would they like me? Did my outfit look okay? How on earth were we going to communicate? What was I even doing here???? Suddenly a shout went up and we all flooded into the parking area. My heart pounded as the charter bus pulled in. As I ran toward the bus, I made a decision. No one here knew that I was shy except me. I was diving in. I was going for it.

I joined the others and went right up to the door of the bus. Though it was unplanned, we formed a receiving line to greet each person as he/she got off the bus. It was beautiful chaos. People began laughing and hugging and speaking to each other in any of four different languages. Instantaneously, strangers became friends. It was quite chilly as the sun began to set. I found myself wrapped up in this cute little Jewish grandma’s jacket. Three minutes in, and I had my first Jewish friend. It was one of the most amazing moments of my life. Little did I know, this was only the beginning.

(BTW – Although I have many fantastic pictures of experiences shared with the Holocaust Survivors, we have been asked, as an act of respect for their privacy, not to show their faces on social media.)

Getting There is Half the Fun!

by Coddiwompling, posted in Adventure, Uncategorized

My illustrious travel career boasted of destinations like Wolf Laurel, NC and Moncks Corner, SC. Once in high school I had even traveled as far as Lincoln, NE, but most of my childhood comings and goings were in the Southeast, within a day’s drive from home, and experienced from the backseat of a giant black Ford. They were great trips, all memorable in one way or another, even if not particularly glamorous.

Given my OCD nature, planning for my maiden European voyage sent my natural bent towards list-making into hyperdrive! And there were questions, lots of lots of questions. As my team met each week to get to know each other and to plan the details of the trip, each session began with 1) prayer, and 2) my unending barrage of questions.

Apparently I was quite anxious about many, many things: What kind of clothes do I need to pack? Is Poland a politically safe nation? Do I need special immunizations? Can we drink the water? How do I call home? What kind of electricity do they use? Is there a place where I can run? Where should I keep my passport? What kind of money will we use? What is the difference between an adapter and a converter? How heavy can my suitcase be? And on, and on, and on! My team leader later admitted that he wasn’t entirely certain I would be able to make the trip. In fact, the day we left, he asked me repeatedly, “Are you all right? Are you sure that you’re OK?” In retrospect, I can understand his concern.

Then came the packing. Have mercy, the packing! I started a week in advance. Good thing, too. I carefully made stacks of all the clothes, toiletries, and of course, books that seemed essential. After placing like items in two-gallon ziplocks and smushing out all the air, I loaded up the suitcase, went through a ridiculously awkward procedure to determine the weight, and…..oh no! Fifteen pounds too heavy! Thus the culling process began. Items were removed. Bags were resealed. Awkward weighing process was repeated. Now it was only twelve pounds over! And so it went. For days. Finally, on the night before our departure, the bag tipped the scales at a comfortable 47 pounds. Which I could only pray was accurate.

My first international flight was a wonderful experience. The seats were comfortable and larger than I expected. While my mission teammates were several rows over, my travel companions for the eight-hour flight were both thoughtful and friendly. There were movies and games on the individual video system for each seat. We were treated to warm cloths to wash up before dinner. Now, I’ve heard numerous horror stories about airline food. We were given a small, tasty beef stew and rice meal with adorable plates and utensils that I was tempted to keep as a souvenir. Then dessert. And warm cookies two hours later. And a light breakfast croissant shortly before we landed. It was like a kindergarten teacher’s idea of perfection – Give them a blanket and a chocolate chip cookie, and everyone will take a nap!

We arrived in Amsterdam just as the sun peeked over the horizon. My first European sunrise! It was simply lovely. We had a layover of several hours, so there was an opportunity to explore the airport. Let me just say, I am impressed that children in the Netherlands ever learn to read and write. It seems to me that Dutch uses a maximum number of letters for incredibly simple words. I was thankful for the English subtitles or I would still be standing there, trying to figure out some of the signage. Two other sights worthy of note include a giant mound of chocolate. Had there not been a connecting flight to catch, I could still be standing there as well, nose pressed to the glass, eyes begging for even the tiniest sample. Additionally, since this was Amsterdam, there was a shop (or ten) where wooden shoes of all styles, colors, and even of rowboat-sized dimensions were available. Just for the record, those are never going to fit in your carry-on. I tried!

(Just Kidding…but not about the chocolate).

POLAND??? Who Goes to Poland?

by Coddiwompling, posted in Adventure, Europe

Like millions of twelve-year-old girls, I read The Diary of Anne Frank when I was in sixth grade. I was mesmerized. From that day, I dreamed of meeting Holocaust Survivors and hearing their stories first-hand. I used to daydream about sitting in a quiet cafe, sipping dark, steamy coffee, and listening to their thick European accents as they spoke in distant, far-away voices of things tragic yet incredibly important. Even before it became a cultural “thing”, I developed a Bucket List, no matter that there was no logical expectation that I should ever accomplish any of my outlandish goals.

Over the years, I traded away certain goals for others, and some were forgotten entirely. But not the Holocaust Survivor dream. It would still pop up on occasion, unobtrusive, but ever present. One day, somewhere around 2010, I was reevaluating the items on my list. Armed with a real job and a more firm grasp on reality, I was taking a look at what could be accomplished and what needed to be dropped entirely – a very decade-y sort of thing to do. I considered the Holocaust Survivor idea. What was the use of holding onto that one? By this time, the number of Holocaust Survivors around the world was greatly reduced. Those who were still alive would have been children at the time of the war. What were the chances of my running across one in Savannah, GA? With great sadness, I mentally struck that off my list.

I moved on with my life.

A couple of years later, my friend Morgan had a post on Facebook about needing another woman to sign up so she could go on a mission trip to Poland. I walked in our house after work that afternoon and asked my husband what he thought about me going with her. Jeff said he knew I had always wanted to do missions overseas. Six minutes later, I was signed up for a trip. Other than “In Europe”, I wasn’t entirely sure where Poland was, and I had no idea what the focus of the trip was. All I knew was that I was going.

The next day Morgan called to tell me that we would be ministering at a summer camp in Poland for Holocaust Survivors who were coming in from Israel. I think she had to repeat herself three or four times before my brain registered what she was saying. Holocaust Survivors! I was going to meet not one, not two, but about 30 of these iconic individuals! And it wouldn’t be just an hour-long conversation over coffee. We would be with them 24/7 for two weeks! I’m not sure my feet hit the ground after that.

Six weeks later we boarded the plane. This was it! I was excited! I was terrified. I was heading to Poland!

Coddiwompling

by Coddiwompling, posted in Uncategorized

Coddiwomple — Isn’t that a great word??? What on earth does it mean? You may well ask. Up until a week ago, I had never even heard of it myself. Then a Facebook meme triggered a burst of creativity for something I’d been struggling to define, and the next thing you know, this page was born. (Admittedly, this only happened with much idea-bouncing off of those kind enough to call me friend, and who hit Reply for the second or third or eighteenth time my name appeared in their inboxes.)

Coddiwomple is a verb, meaning “to travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination.” This absolutely captures the essence of this blog. Over the last three years, I’ve gone from mild-mannered English teacher to world traveler. The things I have seen and experienced have changed who I am and how I view the world. I’ll be sharing some of those little moments that ended up not being so very little after all. Some of the incidents were funny, and some were poignant, while others were prime examples of “country comes to town” ignorance. All managed, in some way, to teach me and to grow me.

Come, pull up a chair on the front porch. Let us gaze over the cornfield and watch the sunset as we explore the grand adventure of learning more about who we are, simply by looking at the incredible world beyond ourselves.