karen rutherford, freelance writer

Austin’s grandparents had come for a visit, and we wanted to show them the new casinos in Tunica. (It’s just what you do.) We found a small Taco Bell inside The Grand, so we placed our orders and slid over to the pick-up counter. One by one, everyone picked up their trays and headed to a table. I was last. I gave her $6 for my and Austin’s orders and headed to the pick-up counter like everyone before me.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. No tray. No questions. And even though, I never took my eyes off of her, she never so much as glanced anywhere in my direction. Finally, I asked her about my order.

“I don’t has no oh-der foh you.”

“I just placed it with you less than two minutes ago. I paid $6. I’ve been standing here waiting on it.”

“I don’t has it.”

And she walked off to the back of the kitchen.

I called to her to come back. “May I have my money back then?”

No response. I yelled again. “Can you check the register for it?” She was exasperated already, but she did check – she glanced at the screen on the register and said, “It ain’dare.” And walked away again.

I called after her, “Well, what are we going to do?

She shrugged. “I looks foh ma man-ger’s phonumba.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Then, she got on the phone. And I waited some more. I motioned to the table for them not to wait on me. Someone gave Austin a taco. She hung up and walked over to talk to her co-worker. I thought they might be discussing my plight, but they talked and laughed and the co-worker rubbed her bulging belly. They were talking babies!!!

I think I yelled. “Did you get in touch with your manager?

She looked at me like she couldn’t believe I was still there. “She don’t ansuh hu’pho.”

“Where is she?”

“A’ home.”

“Is there nobody here who can get my money or my order?”

“No.” And she turned back around to talk to her friend again.

I gave up and went to get the security guard who sits at a stand at the front of the casino. I explained the situation to him, and he walked back to the Taco Bell with me.

“I don’t has no oh-der foh huh.”

He looked as though he was giving consideration to the idea that I might be lying. I pointed to my family, here from out-of-town, and asked him why I might put myself through all this trouble for the mere pleasure of interacting with her.

Then, I did it. I said, “Tunica will never get repeat customers until these people learn how to work at customer service jobs.”

(What I MEANT was that while I couldn’t be happier that Tunica hires local and rural people from around Tunica who desperately need jobs, they can be uneducated, unintelligible, generally angry and put-out, and, as a result, untrained in handling customers.)

He grabbed the back of my suddenly criminal arm, and shouted, “Alright, that’s enough. We don’t tolerate that here.”

It took me just a second. “That wasn’t what I meant. THAT WASN’T WHAT I MEANT!!!!!!!!”

He started pushing me towards the exit.

“Unless I see my $6, I’m calling the police as soon as I get outside.”

So he stopped, pulled out his wallet, gave me $6 and proceeded to escort me from the building while my family and 9-year-old son watched. Lesson learned. I’ll never say “these people” in Tunica, Mississippi, again. And even better, I’ll never be in Tunica, Mississippi, again. Not that they'd let me in.

My father’s sister had recently moved back home to Little Rock, Arkansas. I received the customary tour on my only visit. In her guest bedroom was a lovely little antique table with a Living Bible-sized, very old, white leather bound photo album resting on a round doily that hung, as it should, off the front of the table forming the perfect semi-circle between the table’s two front legs. It was flanked by a few standing pictures of her parents and siblings I recognized and some candles.

“Ooooo, what is this?”

“It’s a family photo album.”

“Can I look through it?”

“Sure!”

“Who’s this?”

”I don’t know.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they Mahanays?”

“Yes, of course they are.”

“But you don’t know who they are?”

“No.”

“Are their names on the backs of the photos?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never looked?”

“No.”

“Can I look?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. They could tear.”

“And that matters?”

“Of course that matters.”

“Does anyone in the family know who these people are?”

“I doubt it.”

"Well, where'd you get it?"

"Grandma and Pop's things."

"Who?"

"KAREN. Don't be ugly."

"So, you never saw it while they were alive?"

"No, it was in a box in a closet. It probably had been there for years."

"Perfect."

"Can we just go now? I'm hungry."

“Who could we ask?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to open a huge can of worms.”

"Worms?"

"It'd be a lot of work. I don't want to bother anyone."

"So, you're okay with a shrine to people you don’t know?”

“They’re family.”

"I assume you’re going to pass this album of unknown relatives to your kids?”

“Well, certainly. It’ll be nice for them to have.”

"But it's meaningless."

"You just don't understand family, Karen. You never did."

Everybody has regrets. And they’re all the same. Things we wish we’d done, things we wish we’d said, opportunities we ran from, offspring we yelled at a little too long, too much alcohol making us think we should fly to NYC to see a boy....

But when I think regrets, the one that always floats to the top is this:

South Haven, Michigan. Downtown. Late spring weekday. Quiet sidewalk shopping. A little indie bookstore. Love those. Must go in. A man, about 80 - maybe a little older - at a tiny postage stamp of a card table set up on the sidewalk right by the door. Arranging his pens and his papers. And the stacks of his book.

He stopped fumbling. Looked up at me. Hope. Anticipation. I smiled. He smiled. I froze in unnecessary fear and walked right by him into the store. Then, we danced the same dance as I left.

Why didn’t I ask? One little question. Did you write a book? Followed by a much easier What’s it about? And thumbing through while he told me his story. And buying. And asking him to sign it.

Regrets? I’ve had a few. But I will always be especially sorry that I didn’t talk to this man.

I feel weak, a little giddy, and damn near hopeful. To know that while I sleep or sit on my sofa baffled by (but unable to stop watching) something called High School Reunion, there is a group of people out there fixing typos and spelling errors all over this great country of ours.

What could be better?

I know there are wars and human suffering and embarrassing campaigns and disintegrating job markets, but this is what we need in America. People who give a shit about the very basics of education and do something about it. The world is now a better place.

Like I said, I’m giddy. This calls for an M&M and a blog entry. And quite possibly a T-shirt order to show solidarity and appreciation.

http://www.jeffdeck.com/teal/
http://www.jeffdeck.com/teal/blog/

(I checked this post an extra umpteen times for typos. If you find one, do let me know, and then do something about the economy. Please?)

Dan Miller was on Dave Ramsey’s radio and TV shows Monday, the 18th, making for a perfect combination of inspiration and perspiration: Dan works on one’s income, and Dave works on one’s outgo.

Both agreed on the five requirements for success:

• Passion
• Determination
• Faith
• Talent
• Self-discipline

Dave said, “What’s great is that you can decide TODAY to have all five.”

They also agreed that 85% of success is identifying strengths, while only 15% is the logistics of getting there. (Where they got the percentages is not entirely clear, but who am I?!)

One of Cynthia Morris’ tasks this month was for us to identify a “Creative Leap” and the skills and qualities we used that made it a success.

Guess I’m off to make my list of how great I can be. I could be a while (not due to length of list). :)

Too few years ago, I learned about laws of attraction, high expectations, and daily affirmations for positive outcomes. My chemical makeup seems to reject these things, so it’s an almost daily internal struggle to remember.

Yesterday morning, I had to pick up a new remote at the cable company office. I arrived early in an attempt to be first in line, because I had a class in thirty minutes. The doors didn’t open until 9am and it was cold, so I waited in the car. One by one, cars began filling the parking lot. Like vultures, all of us sitting in our cars eyeing each other and our prey, planning our attacks on the Comcast door.

Knowing that being the first car there didn’t necessarily mean I’d be first in line – especially with these people, I had surmised - I got my coat and headed toward the door at 8:57. Typical. The man in the car next to me immediately copied me and got to the door first. I’m sure my expression (evil eye) was transparent.

I have tried to make sure I don’t scowl in public ever since my first ex-husband told me I looked angry and ugly all the time. Allen - or Alan, I can’t remember which and to find out, I’d have to dig up old papers and really shouldn’t have even spent this typing time on him - told me many hateful things, all of which I have no problem remembering. He voiced this revelation after watching me walk from the store to the car, where he had waited in the passenger seat. I thought he was in love and was happy to see me return.

Anyway, I’ve been fairly successful in my attempt not to look visibly ticked-off for no reason until the hormonal years of late.

“You were here first,” he said with a smile as he motioned for me to get in front of him at the door.

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” being the passive-aggressive that I am.

“No, seriously, please.”

“Alright, then. Thank you.” I physically felt the dam of low expectations break and the heat of guilt and embarrassment course through me.

And we made nice little small talk for the next two minutes.

(I wish I had told him about the previous five minutes I had with myself in the car. It might have been the right thing to do in return. But it felt a little too personal.)

The dryer is making soft tumbling noises, the rain is steadily trickling from the roof onto the front porch, Austin is laughing like he did when he was a baby at some television show in his room, I just found video of an X-Factor (first I’ve heard of it) contestant singing a touching rendition of Somewhere on the Internet (*update: the link to the YouTube video has been removed, but this site still has a video.), and I’m re-reading Cynthia’s response to my post to her about how scared I was to stop watching TV (a seemingly impossible dream).

**I have a fantastic story about the wonder of Cynthia Morris’ coaching. Someday, when I’m through raising what looks like a perfectly grown man, I’m going to pay her to lead me where she’s always sure I can go. Anyway, two years ago, I won a summer contest and got a few free sessions with her. We talked about dreams and obstacles, imaginary and real. The most real being fear and money, which boiled down to fear of money, which boiled down to fear of no money. I needed a magical number to live on and not worry every month and to concentrate and be able to think about other things like pursuing writing dreams. A month later, I was earning that magical number, allowing us to become debt-free and create an emergency fund. Absolutely by the grace of God, His Laws of Attraction, and the Muse that is Cynthia Morris.

Her original post is here: http://vivelaslink.typepad.com/vive_la_slink/2007/11/what-to-do-when.html

I'd love to stop watching television and I agree so much. I know it's key to fulfilling my life's purpose, but I also think I'd die from the silence and loneliness after just one day! :)
Posted by: Karen | November 21, 2007 at 01:39 PM

No, you would not die from the loneliness, but I understand. When I stopped reading while eating, I felt a pool of loneliness waiting to take me over. But then after a day or two, it went away and I was able to enjoy my food. I lost two pounds in two weeks just from stopping reading while eating.
In the silence without TV, you'll be able to better hear your Muse.
Posted by: Cynthia Morris | November 22, 2007 at 07:28 AM

Karen,
Wait a minute. You have the key to fulfilling your life's purpose and you're not using it to open the door? What are you waiting for? Many people wander around not having the key.
Come on! Your adventure is waiting for you!
no...more...T...V....
Posted by: Cynthia Morris | November 22, 2007 at 07:29 AM

**This just in: Austin was giggling at Kenny and Spenny – a new to Comedy Central show about disgusting and inappropriate boy things.

Some years ago, a Hoosier named David Dwiggins moved to the Philippines. And some years ago, he visited the Manila American Cemetery and took a picture of the grave of an Ohio serviceman.

Most of the American servicemen buried there are still listed as Missing in Action. He researched and sent the picture of the grave and a letter to the family in Ohio.

He repeated the process again and again, mostly targeting Indiana graves, and now spends most of his time gathering information, udpating his website, and contacting the families of the men who have been lost for over 50 years.

How does it work? There’s an obvious, open-and-shut case. A district attorney decides not to prosecute. Based on what? The law? I wonder.

A case struck me recently about a public school bus driver here who left a 5-year-old child on the bus all day.

The little girl sat right behind the bus driver, but never said, “Hey don’t forget me!” They say she was extremely shy, which makes that understandable, so the kid spent six hours sleeping and playing on the bus. And she’s JUST FINE!

Now, I do understand that the driver is responsible and should be punished. If this were her only questionable incident (prior issues have come to light), one might expect a job loss or at least a revocation of her bus driving privileges for a period of time.

In this case, though, the bus driver is being prosecuted for neglect of a dependent, which is a Class D Felony and could result in 6 years in prison. The school system is in an affluent suburb, but, it is still a public school system. There is nobody to rush to the driver’s defense. There is nobody with any power to sway the DA not to prosecute.

Yet, nobody died or was even seriously injured.

So how does a person understand a 2005 case in which an English teacher at an obscure private school in Georgia was not prosecuted for making inexcusable, blatantly neglectful, and fatal (two boys died) decisions while leading an outdoor excursion for the school?

Death. Permanent psychological injury to a dozen or so kids and their families. Prior issues came to light in this case as well. Still, no prosecution. No loss of job. Not even a legal demand to stop future excursions.

And, now, two years later, since there is no record or even a resume ding to prevent it, this teacher, with the judgment and conscience of a toddler, was able to seek out and land a job as the official Outdoor Coordinator with another obscure school in the middle of nowhere.

So, how to understand....

I can only gather that district attorneys pick and choose what they will spend their time and resources prosecuting based on both legal and non-legal reasons.

And that, because of the non-legal reasons, there will never be unambiguous justice throughout our legal system. It’s just the way it is and has been particularly since the beginning of cronyism, money and the law.

So, lucky are we bystanders and witnesses who just get to keep hoping for the best.

When we moved to Indianapolis from Horn Lake, Austin was in the middle of 7th grade. The teachers at Eastwood Middle School made him feel like a rock star, instead of the new kid from the South that he was.

Just two months later, Austin was nominated by a collection of his teachers for the annual Citizenship Award.

There was, of course, the usual middle school ceremony. Pictures were taken, awards and pins were distributed, speeches were made and parental applause was predictable.

But what I will never forget is a speech by Dr. Eugene White, who was the Superintendent of Washington Township schools at the time. As per usual, I cried. (In my own defense, I had been racked with pent-up guilt and fear about the move here.)

Dr. White spoke to the kids, of course, telling them how proud he wanted them to be of their accomplishments and contributions. They had defined themselves as examples now, and much would be expected of them. They had bright, bright futures.

Then, he addressed the parents. We were to be credited for our children’s moment of excellence. He told each child to turn to his parents and hug us and say thank you. We were the keys to their success. We were their champions - their biggest fans – and they were never to forget that.

I started to write Dr. White a letter once, but I thought he probably got tired of reading the same old thing about his gifts of hope and principle from grateful parents.

Besides, he’s an incredibly busy man having since moved on to the Indianapolis Public School system, where his tireless and sometimes thankless work, not to mention his character, are desperately needed.

In today’s Indianapolis Star, there is yet another article that defines who this man is. He has refused a pay raise for himself this year. The Board gave him $17,000 cash bonuses for meeting academic goals, but he declined the pay raise they offered saying that he didn’t feel right accepting the money amidst grueling teacher contract negotiations.

Dr. White is still a fresh air of faith for me.