We got Charlie last fall. We’d been looking for a dog for a long time. We met so many at different rescue events over the course of a year. And then we met Charlie, and he stole our hearts. He’s a border collie, and we weren’t sure if we could give him everything he needs, expelling enough of his energy. We fostered him for few weeks to be sure we could give him a good life before we signed the adoption papers.
I’m a little amazed we did it. I think back to the dog Charlie was when we adopted him. He was wild and needy — desperate and anxious from having been shuffled between seven different homes. I’d have bruises from him jumping on me or playing too hard. He was still learning how to play after being raised mostly outdoors on a farm, away from his human family, so he’d want to wrestle but not know his limits — like a puppy learning his new world, but he was full-grown. He’d thrash unexpectedly and bust my lip. Or bite just a little too hard. Not breaking the skin, but leaving me black and blue.
But, my god, was he sweet. Part of what drew us to him was how happy he was to meet us. How eagerly he sat in our laps and showed us his belly. He still wants to meet everyone, to be everyone’s friend.
We saw how much work he was, but we saw beyond that. We saw the potential in him of the dog he would become. In the first few weeks of fostering him, he learned a bunch of commands. We were hesitant to sign up for obedience classes or anything before he was ours, but we also knew we needed help getting him under control.
And now, he’s quickly becoming an agility dog — another thing I didn’t know I’d ever be doing. I didn’t know I’d ever have a dog, because my mom and sister were both afraid of them. I wasn’t around them much. And then, I got to know more dogs, got to see how incredible they are, how lucky we are to be kindred species. One of the dog trainers at the Humane Society was shocked I hadn’t had a dog, because she couldn’t believe anyone would jump into a high-energy dog like a border collie. But now I’m becoming an agility handler, and I’m having the best time.
I love learning, and learning how to train a dog is opening new worlds to me.
We gather in an open meadow in the cool night air around a fire on a night when the moon’s so bright it casts a shadow.
I used to feel like I was back in the forest, the smell of smoke a nearby memory, the inviting cackles coming from a distance. The light of the fire and moon so obscured by the trees, I had to feel my way through the branches, get poked in the face a few times.
Now I stand in the circle, stoking the licking flames, stirring their heat as I would a cauldron. We dance and kick, we loose ourselves the world awhile.
And tomorrow, when we return to the churn, we smile coyly whenever we catch a scent of the lingering smoke in our hair.
Shifting shadows by a slatted wooden door. The family inside huddling together, shivering with fear, tears dripping down the children’s faces. If the creature outside wants in, it’ll come in. There’s nothing sturdy about this door. It’s only meant to keep out the cold.
Heavy breathing, scraping sounds. Rustling.
And then nothing.
The family stays inside, what feels an unbearable stint, cowering and tense as they wait for its return. But it doesn’t come.
When they finally work up the courage to first glance outside, then open the door, they find that they’ve been marked. The door has three stripes scratched in it.
Summers during college I worked at my hometown newspaper, The Stark County News. I got to do a little bit of everything — layout, editing, shooting photos, and writing.
I’d have to say that one of the greatest things that job taught me was to be able to pick up the phone and dial a stranger. It may seem like a small thing, but to those of us on the mid to low end of the extroversion scale, such a task can easily be one of the things we put off until later and later, until it either falls off the list completely or can no longer be avoided. It just takes so much energy.
On top of that simple act, I was usually calling one of these strangers to ask them questions for the paper or even schedule an interview so I could meet them in person. At first (and sometimes still) I was super awkward on the phone, or when I met them later. Mostly now, I just get over my awkwardness. It’s there, no doubt. But I just ignore it.
Certainly, an ability to pick up the phone is not the only thing that journalism taught me.
It honed in me an ability to predict questions that would need to be answered before they could be asked. Likewise, it taught me to ask the right questions. And it burned in me the importance of clear and concise sentences.
I have saved two articles on my phone’s internet browser—tabs I won’t close until I write a few thoughts about them. Just checked the dates. I’ve carried these in my pocket or my purse for over a full year now. And I’m finally taking a moment to honor the fallen. (I’m publishing this post a full year after I did take the time to write out these thoughts. Oops!)
Not every industry dies slowly, having been kissed by a necromancer, with the flesh around the spot decaying, killing from the outside in.
And people slough it off so carelessly. “The written word is dying.” “Print is dead.” “Don’t go into journalism. It’s a dying industry.”
I’m not currently in a full-time “journalism” job. But I have absolutely used my journalism skills to communicate more clearly both in writing and in speaking at every single job and hobby I’ve ever had. I do currently write freelance articles and I help companies express their core values with words, succinct and true, and I help other writers clarify their lines of thought when I edit for them. My skills are not yet perfected, but they’ve certainly grown.
People often laugh about bachelor’s degrees. What you studied does.not.matter. You probably won’t use it. But guess what? I have actually used my degree. A lot. I have zero regrets about my choice of major. Even being ridiculously short on funds at different times, I wouldn’t trade in my life choices.
So I read these articles about huge layoffs and shifting the model so every writer is their own editor, and I mourn.
It’s not just a nostalgic love for my roots. I want to be able to be paid as a writer and as an editor because I am skilled at those roles. And I want other people to be paid to do those jobs, because I value carefully crafted words and accurate statements and good grammar.
I want to read good writing. And I want our society to show that it values articulate thought.
What I hope is that this shift in the journalism field is not necessarily a funeral song, but rather a trumpet declaring that times are a-changing. We live in a different world. We work differently. We consume information differently. Maybe, just maybe, we can do things even better than before. And then a shimmer of hopes settles into my belly.
There. I have cobbled together a eulogy of sorts for my old friend. I can close the tabs on my phone. But, journalism, I will remember you.
Driving back from a weekend in Illinois, I realized I was making the same journey I’d made almost exactly 10 years ago.
In 2006, my parents helped me pack up almost everything I owned so I could try out life in a new city at a new job.
I rented an apartment that was across Dodge Street from the 49er bar. The night after we’d unloaded our trailer, the bar was loud and woke me up. I got up from my twin bed and looked out through the blinds.
My cousin who’d come along to help shifted on his air mattress. “Is everything ok?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m just wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
He laughed and reassured me.
This Sunday Homaha-bound, my car carried a few boxes filled mostly with keepsakes. It seems I didn’t bring quite everything I owned with me all those years ago (there are a few more boxes to bring next time!). And now I’m a homeowner with room to house everything-everything, so it’s only fair that my trinkets come with me rather than live forever in the Store Room — the name my mom gave to my old bedroom. Thankfully, this includes fun belongings like Fancy Penguin, a stuffed animal I won from a raffle in first grade.
The place I live inside Omaha is but one thing that’s changed over these 10 years. I lived in four other places before this one, with three different people.
I’ve had good friends move to town, and several leave. In fact, the very week of my anniversary, Omaha lost two of the very first people I knew here — dear friends with whom I’ve seen some shit and for whom I’ll always be available, despite the distance to their new, opposite coasts. And that’s what I have to remind myself whenever a loved one moves away: I’ve got a new place to visit; my love is spreading around the world as I’m connected to these new places by the people who have a piece of my heart.
I know that’s corny, but I like corny. And another thing that’s changed over the years is that I’ve embraced who I am and what I want.
I’m thankful for this city that I’ve called home for 10 years. I’m thankful for the house I’ve lived in for two months, and the other homes I’ve had and shared. I’m thankful for finding my beloved partner. I’m thankful for rediscovering old friends, including Fancy Penguin. And for I’m thankful for the many people I’m privileged to know, the community I’ve made, in Omaha and all over.
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The other night, Cale and I were looking at Reddit together like we sometimes do. I was on the mend from strep throat and honestly hadn’t been getting quite enough sleep for that to be the case.
And then we found a gif of two former military comrades who’d been searching for each other for 38 years finally reunite. That was sweet enough, but Cale found the source video, and, really, who could help getting a little teary when one of them says, “I’m gonna cry for the rest of my life thinking about this day,” and so enthusiastically telling his fellow veteran that he loves him??
Cale left to go to the bathroom or something, so handed me his tablet. When he came back, I was full-on bawling looking at the image of the post, “A man who lost both his arms cares for his elderly mother.” In the photo, the man held a spoon in his mouth by its handle and offered it to his mom.
“Manders!! It’s ok. Don’t cry. Maybe it’s time for bed?” Cale said, gently retrieving the tablet from my hands.
Hey friend, I wanted to let you know that Ty and Terri Schenzel were killed in a car accident in South Dakota yesterday afternoon. Devastating. I know you love Ty and wanted you to know […] Sending love. Xoxo
Ty and Terri were wonderful people, and there’s no confusion on that matter in this town. 16,000 people either attending or live-streaming a funeral, are you kidding me?
And of course Daphne was right. Shortly after the forewarning text, my Facebook feed was dripping with love and tears about this couple who touched so many lives.
Among the first things to cross my mindwhen I heard the news was, Well, I guess at least they went together.I believe if they could choose, that’s what they would want. I try to imagine Ty moving on without Terri, and I just get bleary eyed. Were ever two grown adults so in love?
It’s fitting that the news came from Daphne. Daphne is the one who pulled me into a project almost five years ago — my first freelance gig — and it was helping Ty write the story of his life and calling, what became his book, A Thousand Screaming Mules.
And so I have an unusual intersection with Ty’s life. There were these few months of being incredibly close. Not only did I comb over this sweet pastor’s life story from his Leave it to Beaver beginnings through his vision for and founding of the Hope Center in North Omaha. But Daphne and I would also meet with Ty frequently during those months to dig a little deeper into one of his chapters. We started calling these meetings “therapy sessions,” as writing so often can be. Ty was never one to shy away from tears, and I’m pretty sure he shed several every time we had a “session.”
Part of the reason that this project was so memorable to me was that it was my first freelance gig. But more than that, it was my life rope. It was my way forward.
I was leaving a bruised non-profit feeling pretty beat up myself. I’d given five months’ notice and had started diminishing my hours there, as was customary when one of the community members was leaving, so we could get used to them not being around. Phasing ourselves out before our final disappearing act.
The phase-out was grueling and I was not well to begin with. I picked up a temporary, part-time proofreading job at an ad agency in town to help separate me as well as bankroll my release.
But I didn’t know what was next. I felt lost.
And then Daphne wrote over and asked if I might be interested in this book project. So I grabbed on.
I got to test the waters in an unusual career, and I got to figure out some things that I was actually pretty good at. Plus, working with Daphne was always a dream; and those therapy sessions with Ty were healing for me, too, because when he’d cry, I’d cry.
In reality, my relationship with the Schenzels was a blip, and then it was mostly over. Other than Facebook and stories from friends who were in normal relationship with them, I haven’t interacted with Ty or Terri in five years, even though I always wished them well. I was not among the 16,000 who attended (physically or virtually) their funeral. I didn’t feel I needed to take up space there when I knew they would be so many others who would want/need to. People who were much closer, who’d had a bigger impact or been impacted more.
I did watch video of the four Schenzel kids speaking at their parents’ funeral. A few of them said how helpful it had been, how comforting to see what people were sharing about their parents on social media. And I think that’s why I’ve decided to post this. Not trying to steal any spotlight. But, just in case these thoughts I’ve gathered are helpful to anyone.
It’s been helpful for me, at any rate, to take this moment to say thanks. Thanks for that few-month blip, thanks for showing me what crazy love looks like after 25 years, thanks for being such a positive and grateful couple, thanks for sharing with me the vulnerable raw story of your life and trusting me to help gently handle it, thanks for the healing tears, and thank you, thank you for the life rope.
One of my favorite things is giving wedding toasts. I’m super sappy, I love reminiscing over fond memories, and I love making people feel good about who they are (because they are good people).
It’s a fun challenge, because it’s a delicate balance. You have to be clear that this is a story of your experience with the couple, but the focus of the speech is the couple —not you.
I also love writing and then reading my writing aloud (it’s my adrenaline kick of choice). So I guess it gets to be about me again? Oops.
I’ve been lucky enough to give a few toasts at weddings. I treasure those experiences. And a few times, I’ve written a blog post to toast the happy couple, because I’m bursting with memories and love and thoughts, so those blogs posts also feel good.
But I’ve missed a few opportunities, times when there was an open mic to do it. I just got too nervous I wouldn’t have the right words — I’m a writer, not a speaker.
I haven’t forgotten those opportunities, because I knew what I was going to say — at least the essence — I just didn’t take the leap. And I hate regret. So, here. And sorry for not saying this four years ago. xo
Mark and Sara Trampe. Memorial Weekend, 2011.
So, what should we talk about?
Sara, I don’t know you very well. But you’ve chosen Mark, so you obviously have good taste. Mark is one of the best men I know. Whether leading us on a camping trip to an undisclosed location or spending his time helping move a friend or just helping us have a good conversation — which might be what he’s best at — Mark is a good friend. One of the best.
And, Sara, you should also know about his plans. I can’t remember the context, but there was a conversation about what we wanted to do with our hypothetical partners once we got married. Mark got all shy and only later, in an email, did he tell me and, I think, Daneen and/or Chris, “My wife and I will have the most fun of any couple in history.”
And I suppose that is my toast for you. May you have the best time together.
Libby Mowers-Simon and Ben Simon. June 11, 2011.
A few years ago during the Christmas season, I was home with Libby. We were talking about how school was going for her, and she was talking about this poetry class and how she really liked it and how she loved talking about poetry with her friend, Ben. And it was just sort of obvious that there was more to it, even though they weren’t dating or anything. She didn’t say she liked him, but she clearly did.
I think it was the beginning of this world you’ve built together. You have your own sky, your own language. You know each other perfectly in this world.
I didn’t understand it when you started referring to each other as Wifey Ivy and … whatever Ben’s nickname was. But you knew. You’ve known for so long. You’ve said many times that you each knew that if you started dating you’d end up married. And that’s perhaps the bravest part. Starting the thing you know will make you happy.
I love that this wedding is just so you. Not only the way you’re doing it — with the rainbow dress, and outside, and small, and short-notice, and, “Hey, everybody bring your swimsuits,” and casual and fun — but the very fact that you are doing it your own way. That’s you.
I’m very sorry for all the times I’ve tried to impose my own understanding on you. I hope you know it’s only ever been out of this deep, guttural love I have for you.
I think one of the reasons we’ve been able to be such good friends in addition to sisters is that we do listen to each other. We understand each other in a unique way, and we’re really successful as friends when we share back and forth. You’ve spoken some very important truths to me over the years. And I’m grateful for our friendship. And I am ecstatic that you’ll be in Omaha with me.
I watched a bird struggling in the wind today and it transported me back to the summer after fifth grade. My family went to Rhode Island, where we stayed with friends in their vacation home for a week.
It was beautiful and amazing. There was a small pond out back, accessed by a dock. And the ocean was a few blocks away.
I didn’t care too much for the pond. It had snapping turtles, which terrified me. And, hello, five minutes walk to the frickin’ sea.
But Becky loves to fish. So she asked me to go out in this little row boat with her so she could drop a line. Becky. My older sister. Asked me to hang out with her. When there were other people around.
I think she was avoiding Josh, our friends’ son who was her age, and on whom she had a crush. Whatever. I went with her.
The wind was very strong that day. And we found ourselves in our little boat stuck against the opposite shore of this pond. The water was surrounded by really tall weeds, and we were pressing up against them. Becky tried to row us out and back to the dock. And I was panicking. All of the adults were planning to leave, and then we’d be STUCK here. The birds couldn’t even fly in this wind. We couldn’t swim because of the snapping turtles.
I started screaming for help, my voice also carried away in the wind. Becky was at first irritated, and then defeated, so also yelled. Finally we got some attention.
The solution was for Josh to paddle out on a surf board, climb aboard the boat, have us duck down out of the wind, and then row us to safety. Poor Becky was humiliated. But Josh said, “You’re coming out here with me tomorrow to get this surf board,” so I think it was ok.
Some nights my mom takes a big plastic cup of ice water up to bed. We all, at one time or another, stole this cup from her. It just looked so refreshing.
Chris and Jeremy love to have us over. After Frisbee on Thursdays, it has been our most popular dinner spot. I have a favorite cup there. A plastic A&W mug that is exactly the same as one I grew up with. I sent them a picture text of my family’s mug when I was back for Thanksgiving. Now they are renovating their kitchen, and Chris brought me that cup. Getting rid of all the excess dishes and utensils.
It’s a little sad. I liked having “my cup” there. Like I have the yellow-striped glass at Jeff and Jordan’s. Or how Jordan has his global warming mug at my house. No one else is allowed to use it.
Growing up, we all had our favorite cups. And a lot of times, our favorites overlapped. A purple totem pole cup. A handled plastic mug from Rainforest Café.
Like the brown-handled spoon. Or the best books—like some Berenstein Bears nighttime poem, or Button Soup with Scrooge McDuck, or Huey, Dewey and Louie’s Halloween story. Sometimes I would hide one or all of them in my room.
Why do we do that? We have to possess this thing, so we can use it whenever we want and no one else can have it at the exact moment we want it.
