Book Review: Under the Overpass

"I have learned what it means to be content in all circumstances, 
whether with everything or with nothing." 
                                                        Philippians 4:11-12

Recently I signed up for a program called Blogging for Books through Multnomah Press, a Christian book publishing company.  If you're accepted for the program, you get to choose one book at a time from a good-sized list of available books (and different genres), which they send to you absolutely free.  The catch?  You have 30-90 days to read the book and then post a review.

For my first book, I decided on a book called Under the Overpass by Mike Yankoski.

Here's the blurb off of the back of the book, which immediately caught my interest:

"Ever wonder what it would be like to live homeless?

Mike Yankoski did more than just wonder. By his own choice, Mike's life went from upper-middle class plush to scum-of-the-earth repulsive overnight. With only a backpack, a sleeping bag, and a guitar, Mike and his traveling companion, Sam, set out to experience life on the streets in six different cities: Denver; Washington D.C.; Portland; San Francisco; Phoenix; and San Diego.

For more than five months the pair experienced firsthand the extreme pains of hunger, the constant danger of living on the streets, exhaustion, depression, and social rejection - all by their own choice. They wanted to find out if their faith was real, if they could actually be the Christians they said they were apart from the comforts they'd always known...to discover what it feels like to be homeless in America."

Apparently this book has been out for several years, but this is a newly updated version with more stories from the author's time on the streets, and a follow-up interview to see where he and Sam are now, and how the experience has shaped them.

Back when I was a senior in high school (lo, twenty-plus years ago!), my mom, brother, aunt, and I got up at o-dark hundred on Sunday mornings and drove to an underpass in downtown Salt Lake to help feed the homeless with an all-volunteer group.  I remember feeling excited when my mom had mentioned to me what she wanted to do, but that first Sunday when she woke me up at 5:00 a.m. for the drive, I was not excited at all.  It was cold, dark, and miserable.  Once there, though, the reality that these men and women were dealing with that all night, every night, quickly humbled me. 

Even before reading this book, I had been thinking back a lot on those experiences and how rewarding it felt to be able to help - to brighten their day for even just those few moments.  I like to think that it made me a better person, not because I was doing something wonderful, but because I could see what it meant to them.  I feel like my kids have really missed out and need to see what life under the overpass is like too...

This book brought all those lessons I learned long ago rushing back home. 

Through scene after scene, Mike shows us what it is like to be homeless.  As he puts it, "An ongoing struggle to find safety, a place to sleep, a bathroom, and food becomes dehumanizing for anyone. One experience at a time, a person's sense of dignity and sense of self-worth gets stripped away."

In this book, Mike tackles hard subjects like drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness, and violence with his caring and honest search for answers.  He also covers the reaction that they got from people who are "Christians," part of the body of Christ.  Sadly, many of those were not good experiences for them.

Driving over the top of our personal overpasses, it's easy to be desensitized and to stop seeing those that need our help, or even actively avoiding them.

I am so glad that I chose this book, and I will definitely be keeping it and re-reading it again and again, as well as sharing it with friends and family.  This is a touching read - one that can't help but change your preconceived ideas about homelessness and how we, as Christians, should be responding.

To read an excerpt from the book, click here.

There is also a special Christmas Action Plan that can be accessed here.

Please stop by here to rate my review - it can help me win a prize... :o)

Outside - at You Capture

This week's assignment at You Capture was to head outside.  We had a major snowstorm/blizzard a couple of weeks ago, making for beautiful deep snow in the yard, but this last week has been warm and rainy (and foggy!  I am SO SICK of driving to work in a fog - I do that well enough on my own, thank you), melting all the snow and leaving a muddy, brown mess.

Determined to pick up the camera from its forced hiatus (i.e., my class that sucked up every spare second of my time, plus quite a few extras), Savannah and I headed up Blacksmith Fork Canyon last Sunday right before the sun set.  We found this scene at a pretty little park where I took approximately 5 photos before my battery died.  (Note to self: next time, LOOK at the battery icon before heading out).

Thankfully (and I honestly can't believe I'm saying that!) it snowed again, so yesterday I brought my camera with me and grabbed a few shots.  It was truly beautiful, and I'm grateful for the photo assignment or I'd have probably stayed bundled up and never taken these.

Now if it would just stay off the roads!

Karma, or this is what you get when you throw your daughter under the bus...

First, let me say how nice it is to be able to blog again!  I turned in the final portfolio for my non-fiction class today, so I-Am-Done!!!  I'm trying to decide if I can/should take the advanced writing class next semester, or if I should give my poor, wearied mind a break.  My thoughts on this change about every 5 minutes.

Anyhoo, I'm long overdue for a post, so here goes. :o)

Back in October, Savannah and I were both in desperate need of a haircut, so we headed off to my favorite hair cutting place. The cost is reasonable, it's not too far from home, and my favorite stylist gives the most incredible, relaxing scalp massages that I've ever received.  I seriously would go in daily if I could afford it, just for the massage! 

Anyway, when Savannah and I got there, there were only two stylists: My favorite, hereafter referred to as the Angel, and scary-haired skunk-head.  Skunk-head had given me my last haircut, and I never could quite get it to style as well as it normally does.  Savannah has also had her for a previous cut, just to get her bangs trimmed, and she hated them.  They looked fine to me...

"Who wants to go first?" skunk girl asked, her enthusiasm about like mine when I go for a root canal.

"She does!" Savannah and I both emphatically said, looking at one another simultaneously.


I had been watching the angel work on her current customer and could see that she was nearly finished.  It had been three long months since she had last cut my hair, and my scalp was not going to be deprived!

Pulling the "Mommy" card, I firmly told Savannah: "You go first.  I'll go ahead and wait a minute longer," trying to make it sound like I was doing a selfless service.  I'm sure the poor girl could tell that neither of us wanted her to touch our hair, but what could I do?  Savannah trudged over to her chair, resignedly, barely speaking two words throughout the entire haircut.

For the record?  I thought her hair looked fine.  After all, how much damage can be done to just a trim?  Savannah, of course, disagreed.  Feeling more than a little guilty for throwing her under the bus like I did, I gave an oath in blood that from now on I would only take her to MasterCuts in the mall, her favorite.  

As for me?  My massage was divine, as was the haircut!

Now let's fast forward to a week ago...

I again needed a haircut, so I stopped off at the salon on Monday.  As I drove into the parking lot, I could see skunk-head sitting, reading a magazine, waiting for some hapless customer.

Ha!  It was not going to be me, so off I drove...

Wednesday night I drove by again.  I really needed a haircut.  I could see only one stylist working through the window, one I knew did a decent job, even if she wasn't the angel.  In I went. 

"What can we do for you?" she asked, taking a break from the person's hair that she was working on.

"I just need a good trim," I answered, already heading towards the magazine rack to settle in for the wait.

Suddenly, appearing from her lair in the back where she'd been lying in wait, came skunk-head.

So, now my bangs are half-an-inch too short (this, after I very carefully told her that I didn't want to look like a kindergartener - leave them a little below the eyebrows) and decidedly crooked.

Crap... Guess that's what I had coming.

A Heartfelt Poem for Winter

I've been thinking about poetry a lot here lately.  I'm taking a memoir-writing class this semester at the college, so in my first essay I wrote in part about how, in 9th grade, I had to memorize Longfellow's poem, The Children's Hour.  Then in my last post about autumn, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poem captured magnificently the feeling of the season.

A good poem can express so succinctly what a long-winded essay (my personal specialty) can never do.

I remember in high school and junior high having to write poems, which I was never very good at.  Oh, I had your typical teen angst, love lost, type that gushed out after one of many breakups.  But these in class had to have form and purpose and thoughtfulness.

Worst of all I hated Haiku's.  I never could understand them - what purpose was there in three lines, a set number of syllables, and a lack of rhyming?  How could they call themselves a poem?

Now that I'm older, I find that my tastes are changing in everything from food, to books and -- wouldn't you know it? -- in poetry. With the first real snowfall of the season steadily coming down outside my window all day today, I decided to give Haiku's another try, to fully capture the essence of winter, and my emotions, swirling and diving like the flakes, around it.

ODE TO WINTER
Frigid snows, they blow,
Metaphorically speaking.
Away now, damn it!

Awww... the power of the written word!

Enjoying Autumn before it's gone

The Autumn  

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them --
The summer flowers depart --
Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,
Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, --
Their presence may be o'er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh'd our mind,
Shall come -- as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind -- view not the woods;
Look out o'er vale and hill-
In spring, the sky encircled them --
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn's scathe -- come winter's cold --
Come change -- and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne'er be desolate.

For more autumn pictures, visit Beth at You Capture...

For Grandpa...

Living in Idaho, I first got my driver’s license when I was 14.  Due to the excess of “spud-miners” who needed cheap labor (aka: young teenagers), the powers-that-be in this potato-rich state made the dubious decision to grant daytime-only driver’s licenses to 14-year-olds, of which I had finally become.  I knew I was more than ready to take on the world, or at least the roads.  Now that I have my own teenagers, I am firmly in the camp that believes 18-years-old should be the limit – at a minimum!

My grandpa was a piano tuner by trade, and he also happened to be totally blind,  which meant he had to hire a driver to ferry him around to his different appointments.  Once I got my license, I became his “favorite” Saturday driver.  The story below is my stab at recreating one of many favorite stories he regaled me with as the two of us traipsed from job to job.

* * *

Lewiston is located at the confluence of the Clearwater and Snake Rivers in northern Idaho where the rivers converge before emptying into the Columbia River.  The town sits on the eastern side of the Snake River; westward, on the other shore, lays the state of Washington and Lewiston’s sister city, Clarkston. Much like its namesake, Meriwether Lewis of the famed Lewis and Clark expedition, the small town of Lewiston, Idaho, has always attracted the adventurous. First settled by gold miners in 1861, it became the first capital of the newly-formed Idaho Territory, although it quickly lost that distinction as the gold rush turned to parts further south in the rugged Sawtooth mountain range.  Despite the change in fortune, the town continued to grow, eventually becoming the site of the Lewiston State Normal School (which is still running as the Lewis and Clark State College today), where Grandpa Frank attended.

It was 1932, and included among the more recent group of adventurers were two young 19-year-olds, excitedly making their way to a dust-covered Ford Model-T sitting in the dirt lot outside the mens’ residence hall at the Normal School, situated at the top of a hill overlooking the town’s business district.  It was a beautiful fall day, God’s gift in October before the coming winter, the sun shining steadily down but with enough of a breeze to make the sweaters both boys wore a little too warm.  Taking a well-deserved break from their studies, Frank, at a strapping six-feet tall, loosely grasped the left shoulder of his friend Jesse with his right hand as they made their way to the vehicle.  They stuck together all the way down the stairs and across the large expanse of lawn, listening to the leaves crunching satisfactorily beneath their feet, finally reaching the car itself.

Letting go of Jesse’s shoulder, Frank lovingly stroked the still-sleek black paint of the car – a 1926 Model-T Touring Car – walking around the back, trailing his fingertips down the side, until he reached the driver’s side door.  Even though the nation was still in the stranglehold of incredibly hard economic times, “the Great Depression” Frank had heard it called (like there was anything great about it), Jesse’s family had managed to stay afloat.  In fact, he had been granted the use of one of the family cars to get back and forth to the farm when he could escape his studies long enough to help out.  

Feeling more than a slight thrill, Frank opened the driver’s door and climbed in.  He fumbled his feet around the pedals until he figured out which was the accelerator and which was the brake, with coaching from Jesse, who then handed him the key.  Hands shaking slightly, Frank turned the key and felt the rumbling power set his feet and hands to vibrating – whether from the power of the engine or the anticipation and accompanying nervousness about his first time driving a car, it was hard to tell.  Jesse was close by at his shoulder.

“Okay.  Ease your foot off the brake and go straight ahead until I tell you…”

“Like this?” Frank asked.

“Exactly!  Get ready to make a 45-degree turn when I tell you, but be sure to go slow.  Not yet…not yet…not yet… okay, NOW!  Good, now tap the brake a little bit to slow down some… Easy over this bump…” 

“Let’s drive over to Talkington Hall,” Frank suggested, once he’d become a little more comfortable behind the wheel.  Talkington Hall was the women’s dorm that had recently been built on the other side of campus. Just like today’s college freshmen, they were out to see and be seen!  On they drove like this, Frank listening intently to Jesse’s detailed instructions, following them word for word, all across campus, making turns, stopping for pedestrians, gaining speed on the straight ways, just like any other driver on the road.  In the distance Frank could hear the blasting horns of tugboats on the waterfront just a few blocks away from campus, getting ready to make their 465-mile journey back to the ocean, back to open waters, and the freedom they represented. 

“Man! What I wouldn’t do to just keep driving this thing…” Frank said, with a slight wistfulness. They had completed their tour and were headed back the way they came, back, back, back to the little dirt lot outside their dorm.  As he inched his way into a large, clear spot on the end of the row furthest away from their dorm, Frank could hear the buzz of voices around him.

"Did you SEE that?!” an incredulous voice rose up above the others.  “That Collins guy was driving Jesse’s car!!!  I can’t believe he’d even let him try something like that.  He must be crazy!!!” Around him, others agreed. 

Jesse came around to the driver’s side, waiting for Frank to get out.  Once again, he offered his friend a shoulder, which was gripped under a sturdy hand, and they skirted the small crowd that had gathered. As they climbed back up the steps of the dorm, they both began to laugh uproariously, Jesse with his blind friend Frank, walking proudly behind him.       

* * *

The reason for my long absence from the blog is that I'm taking a Memoir-Writing class this semester, and I've been completely buried!  This paper is a scene I had to create for a longer piece that is due in a few weeks.  I’ve taken the bare bones of the story Grandpa told me and tried to imagine it as it would have been.  The name of the friend was long forgotten by me (if I ever knew it at all), so I took the liberty of using the name of one of his dearest friends, who was also blind, and put it in here in honor of them both. After hours and hours of research, writing, and rewriting, I finally turned in a different version of this piece.  Unfortunately for me, I ultimately decided that none of this fits in the essay I'm  trying to write, so it's back to the drawing board.  

However, I didn't want to waste what I'd done, so I hope you'll enjoy it!  I'd also love to get some feedback.  Let me know what's working, and what isn't.  I promise to surface again soon... :)

Ahhh... Sweet Victory!

The words I have come to fear most in life are these:

"MOMMMMMM... I need help with my math homework!!!" Savannah, my 6th grader urgently calls to me, night after night.  Sometimes I stay where I am, hoping she'll figure it out on her own and leave me out of it, or at least if I'm quiet enough she'll think I've gone outside.  I've already been through 6th grade, thank you very much, and once was enough.

"MOMMMMMM!!!"

Resigned to my fate, I trudge into the bedroom where Savannah sits scowling at the computer, and I peek over her shoulder to the screen to look at the problem: good old Number 22.  Of course, it just has to be a story problem; it always is.  Story problems and I had a parting of the ways 'round about 4th grade, and we've hated each other ever since. Who cares what "X" is, and why can't they just come out and tell you?  In English they teach you to write succinctly, leaving out the fluff and including only the stuff that matters.  Well, apparently X matters, so why not just give it to us straight instead of trying to confuse us?!  The only "X" I ever liked was the X-Files, you know that great 90's show with FBI agents Scully and Mulder? Man I loved that show!  Remember the episode where... Oops - I digress... Math does that to me.

After the sobbing (mine) subsides, I take another look at the problem.

"Okay, where's your book?"
 
"We don't have one.  We just have to learn in class and then do the worksheet that's on the math website at home."

Well of course... what use would there be in sending a book home for students to learn from?  And what, exactly, did I pay a "Textbook Fee" for when I handed over the many hundreds of dollars it took to register my kids for their "free" public education a mere four weeks ago?

Sighing, I read the problem again, grabbed a notebook, and stole Savannah's pen.  I put myself in time-out in the kitchen and gave myself a pep talk:  "Okay Tracy - You are a grown woman!  You have a brain in your head, now use it!  You are an English major, and you are not going to be scared by a wimpy little consonant on a piece of paper!"  Within a few minutes, I figured it out, then went in and taught Savannah how to do it.

I am so pumped up right now, I feel like I could take on a polynomial or two, or at least a little long-division.  OH YEAH, BABY.  BRING IT ON!!!