Hope is alive

Yes, hope is alive this morning, and it takes the tangible form of pavement in all its rough, black and gritty glory.
After 6 weeks straight of sub-zero temps with and without the wind chill, we finally begin today the long, slow climb out of winter's abyss.
Oh sure, there will be more cold. There will be more snow. But, there is an imperceptibly tiny taste of the end.
Spring will come.
On a superficial level, the South Dakota winter is like an annual life test. It is hard. It is nasty. It is cold and it is brutal. It knocks you down, kicks you in the teeth and stomps on your back.
You scrape yourself together only to get thrown back down. Survival, at times, seems unlikely. You question your mortality, your fate, your ability to endure.
But, just when it feels as though hell truly has frozen over and you cannot go on another day, patches of pavement start to emerge on the street. The five-foot high snowbanks begin to recede. The thermometer climbs into the teens and low 20s.
And then, driving down Eighth Street South, I see the true splendor of the world unfold before me in the three simple words on the Medary Acres Greenhouse sign:
Dirt is coming.
The sun breaks through the clouds. My heart races. Tears of joy run down my cheeks. Angels sing. A renewed will to live bubbles up from the soul.
Dirt is coming.

Never again?

After walking into the Holocaust museum in Washington, DC, visitors pick up an identification card based on gender.
Each card gives a brief history of a real person who lived during the Holocaust.
I was Bruna Sevini, born Sept. 22, 1923, in Trieste, Italy. My son was Max Rosenblat, born July 1939 in Radom, Poland.
Riding up in the elevator to the fourth flour of the museum to start the tour, we discovered how our assumed lives played out.
While awaiting deportation to Germany, Bruna was in a prison in 1944 when it was hit by an air raid. She and others escaped to a convent, where they were liberated by British troops on Sept. 23, 1944, the day after her 21st birthday.
Max was three-years-old in August 1942, when the Germans rounded up all the Jews in the Radom ghetto where he lived with his parents. Max and his mother were herded into a railroad boxcar and taken to the Treblinka extermination camp. The pair were gassed upon arrival.
Reading our fates gave only a slight hint of the unimaginable hell that was about to unfold before us.
From top to bottom, each floor took us through the sequence of Hitler's rise to power, the rounding up and extinction of Jews, Gypsies and other non-Ayrians, the world's slow reaction to the horror, and finally, thankfully, Hitler's downfall and the liberation of those left.
Throughout the exhibit, photos and artifacts chronicled one of the bleakest moments in world history.
There were piles of musty, leather shoes taken from prisoners as they arrived at concentration camps. There was a table, upon which dead prisoners were laid and the gold from their teeth extracted. There was a boxcar used for transporting men, women and children to their death. There were crude, wooden bunkbeds, where prisoners slept five and six to a bed.
The misery of the Holocaust journey played out in every step, on every wall, in every room.
We left the museum through an exhibit on Darfur, where an estimated 3 million people have been displaced and more than 200,000 killed since 2003 in a scorched earth campaign of murder, torture and rape of civilians. Some reports put the numbers even higher.
And so, here we are, in 2009, only 65 years after the Allied troops liberated concentration camp victims.
Never again? Hardly. Think Bosnia and Serbia. Think Rwanda. Now Darfur.
The first link below will send a postcard to President Obama, urging him to abide by his campaign promise to stop the genocide in Darfur.
The second is a petition to the UN secretary general, asking him to take several key steps to ending the atrocities against the people of Darfur and the devastation of their country.
http://addyourvoice.org/?utm_campaign=Postcard&utm_source=savedarfur.org&utm_medium=textlink
http://action.savedarfur.org/campaign/savedarfurcoalition

Obamarama, baby, continued ...

Crazy.
That is the one word that keeps coming to mind when I think of what it was like to be in Washington, DC, for the inauguration of President Barack Obama.
Not crazy insane — just pure, mind-boggling, overwhelming, over-the-top crazy.
How to put into words the experience of being among the millions who traveled from all corners of this country and beyond to witness history unfold?
How to explain the awed look on so many faces, young and old, every color skin? Why people would stand in the cold for hours, jammed together in not enough space, yet content to savor the experience?
So many people assembled for so many different reasons, as individuals and as a sum greater than its parts. To cheer the triumph of an entire race. To celebrate the unleashed potential of generations to come. To pray for peace among people and nations. To renew faith in the troubled economy. To take pride in the call to service. To believe for perhaps the first time that we, as a people, can do better.
Add to this unimaginable, sweeping sense of monumental change, millions of people filling every space on every street of the nation's capital ... so full that it was — literally — impossible to walk. Stuck in a mass of humanity for an hour or two, trying to get somewhere, but going nowhere.
Somehow, everyone staying fairly calm and respectful of others. Somehow, the moment at hand making everyone realize that the all-too-often human instinct to sink to the lowest common denominator was inappropriate and unacceptable on this day of all days.
And then, to think that this force, this swelling tide of hope, has come from one man.
One man has inspired to incredible proportions a people starved for leadership and a clear and defined break from what we have known.
I am not certain of how or exactly when we got to this place, where we are so desperate, where we are so weary of the factions, the hatred and the bitterness, that we will pour by the millions into the streets just to grasp even the tiniest shred of this historical moment.
On Tuesday, among the masses, you could reach out and actually feel and hold onto the emotions. This display on the grandest scale imaginable makes me think that, yes, change will come.
It makes me think that despite all our differences — in color, in belief, in political persuasion — we can come together. We can live in peace. We can lift up those less fortunate. We can leave a good world for our children's children. We can do better.

Yes, we did!

Just a couple of photos from Sunday's activities — the We are One concert at the Lincoln Memorial, which drew nearly a half a million people; and the Jefferson Memorial at night.
More later.

Obamarama, baby!

Walked up to the airline gate in Minneapolis Friday morning for our departure to Washington, DC, and immediately entered the Obama zone.
From the older, black woman with waist-long dreadlocks, Obama hat, sweatshirt and "That one for president" pin, to the crazy campaign volunteer lady, who was telling everyone her story, and a young guy in an Obama staffer sweatshirt, it was one, big Obama fest.
No different here in D.C. From the metro to the streets to all the public landmarks, everyone is gearing up for the festivities. Workers toiled into the night, putting up thousands of portapotties, wire fences and bleachers.
In front of the Lincoln Memorial, they are erecting a massive concert set-up, complete with stage, sound systems, lighting and massive video screens (yeah Daktronics) for the "We are One" concert on Sunday.
Our hosts, who have witnessed many presidential inaugurations, say they have never seen anything like this. It is amazing to be a part of this historical moment.
We stopped by the Russell Senate Building yesterday and picked up our tickets to the inauguration ceremony and our keepsake inauguration invitation. Also scored an invite to the South Dakota Society Event. Good thing I brought my best jeans.
Gotta run ... too much to do and not enough time.

Beyond cold

OK. I quit. Done. Finished. Uncle. Winter, you win.
The actual air temperature — no wind involved — is now at -17 and predicted to drop to somewhere around 25 below zero by morning.
Throw in some windchill and we're talking -35 to -40.
How cold is this? Too cold to run outside. Too cold to even start school on time. Nearly every district in the state is keeping school doors closed a couple extra hours Thursday morning.
Fabulous. The temperature is supposed to warm up to -20 by 10 a.m. By comparison, today's high temp of -8 was a heat wave. We're not supposed to climb above zero until about noon on Friday.
With the exception of a few random days in the teens or 20s, we have been hunkered down in the single digits and below since early December, which brings to mind a few questions.
For instance, where in the heck is global warming when you need it?
I'm also seriously wondering, how did the settlers survive in this stuff? We've got all the modern day conveniences — heated homes, heated vehicles, Ugg boots, warm weather destinations — to cope with the cold and it's still horrendous.
I can't imagine living in a one- or two-room hut, cooped up with my family for months in bone-chilling cold. It's challenging enough being together for a family vacation on the beach when it's 80 degrees.
So, the most pressing question is, why did they stay? Once they knew what it was like, why didn't they move on and save us from this misery?
Now, I'm moving on.
All the brave talk of running through this crap? Forget that. I was delusional. I'm shelving my shoes with screws in the soles.
Tomorrow morning, we'll drop the kids at school at 10:15 and meet for coffee instead of a run. Going to kick back, kick up the feet, sip some hot brew and share laughs with the girls.
Hmmm ... that would be a group run except we get to drink coffee and stay warm. Gosh, life may be unbearably cold, but it is good.

Screw you, winter

I did something yesterday I never imagined I'd do — walk into the local hardware store and buy 12 half-inch screws to drill into the soles of my running shoes.
The concept seemed perfectly reasonable. We've had 20-something inches of snowfall this winter. And, what has fallen still sits on the city's streets.
This has driven many people to head for the tropics, like Omaha, Kansas City or maybe even Mexico.
With one child at college, three more at home and me unable to come to terms with a 9-5 job, going for a run is about the only trip that falls in my budget range.
But, I didn't want to get into that with the hardware store man. Just the screws, sir.
He gave a little sideways glance and repeated after me, "You're going to put these in the soles of your running shoes?"
"Um, yeah," I said.
"Boy, that's ... uh ... dedication," he said, clearly searching for a suitable adjective that wouldn't insult my mental health.
Whatever. Six weeks into the worst winter of outdoor running in at least 10 years, and I am too far into crazy to turn back.
What actually is crazy is that the damn screws worked. Weeks of slip-sliding along icy streets covered in a snowy mush? Done! Tight hamstrings? Gone! Run inside? Not a chance!
All for the whopping price of 84 cents. Can't get to Mexico on that, but it sure gets me out the door.

To hell and back

The end of 2008 and the start of 2009 will go down in Dunkle family history as our descent into Car Hell.
As life events go, Car Hell does not rank among the worst. Surely, we are blessed, and if something must go wrong, I'll take it in the automotive department.
Still, the only way to move on from a mess is to try and make sense of it ... see how it fits into the grand scheme.
Car Hell began in mid-December with a smash not heard around our world.
You might think, two, big, yellow labs, who spend their days either sleeping or monitoring every movement within 90 feet of the house, would notice vandals smashing in the back windshield of their owner's car. But, you would be wrong.
You also might consider that it would have been much more appropriate for the vandals to choose the front windshield of our 20-year-old Volvo wagon, which was already cracked and needing replacement. But, no such luck.
Seventeen years in this house and the worst we've experienced was drunken college students making off with parts of our wooden fence, presumably for use as bonfire material.
So, cursing the vandals and counting our blessings, we pony up $350 to replace the windshield.
But, before we could get the Volvo to the body shop, the severe cold, which has yet to loosen its grip on South Dakota, stops the engine. Mechanic — $150.
The husband's Durango is next. Dead battery will not revive. New battery — $150.
Out $650 we don't have, but still counting blessings and looking on the bright side, wherever and whatever that might be.
Within days, we're back up to nearly a full fleet. Three of four cars are on the road, making this family with four drivers heading in different directions much happier.
Happiness is shortlived. Driver in morning traffic suddenly slams on brakes, Durango skids across black ice, slams into car and gets totaled. So much for the new battery. No injuries, though. Just a lot of cursing by other driver.
Lonely, unused 1988 Jeep hauled into action, but won't get going without a jump. Husband suspects alternator. Another bill looming, but a new day dawns in Car Hell. Bad battery still under warranty. This one's on the house.
I've been around long enough to know that life runs in cycles — the good, the bad, the ugly. The problem is, when you hit a good cycle, you tend to forget about the other possibilities.

A dog's life

Great. It wasn't enough that my human relationships were complicated, conflicted and messy.
Now, the movie "Marley and Me" has me reexamining my relationship with our dogs.
I thought things were going pretty well. We provide food and water, keep a consistent stock of rawhide chews and let them lay around without lifting a paw to help.
They, in turn, do basically nothing unless, of course, you count filling the yard with their poop and the house with their hair a contribution to society.
Or, when they are moved to action, they stand in the doorway and sniff your crotch when you're trying to walk inside with 10 grocery bags, three gallons of milk and laundry detergent.
So, yeah, on occasion, I have yelled, "Get out of the way you idiot!"
Yes, I have screamed, "you dumb dog," "fat pig," "get off the furniture," "you stink," for any number of offenses, ranging from leaving a gargantuan pile of crap on the kitchen floor to chowing through 20 pounds of food in one week and suffusing the air with really stinky farts.
Add in the skin tags and fatty tumors of the older one, and this pair truly is a joy.
Seriously, though, I do enjoy their big, hairy presence in the house.
Call them what you will, yell at them, and they still wag their tails silly if you look at them with the slightest hint of affection. They can be snoring in a full-on, dead sleep, yet sense your gaze and jump up, bounding over for a pat, forgetting that the last 99 times they did this you told them to go back and lie down.
Hmmm ... unconditional and undying love. Sounds a little like motherhood.