Blue Shoe

Author's note: Like thousands (millions?) of other bloggers, I'm resolving to update my blog more this year. Seriously. The goal, however, is more about quantity than quality--which means I may be posting random thoughts throughout the day or, quick snapshots of my son, or today, a book review. Today's review is a book by Anne Lamott-a book Jill claims I read a couple of years ago but one that I had (apparently) completely forgotten. This is one of the reasons I want to write about what I read--so that I may actually remember it. Anyway, as always, skip if you're not interested. I won't be offended. Or at least I'll pretend not to be.

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Eight years ago, I sat in the bleachers of the Calvin College Gym and listened to a middle-aged woman with dread-locks, a sense of humor as dry as a corn husk in October (as she might have said), and a voice that sounded like a bad imitation of a sixties stoner, tell a story about a recent flight where she was given a seat between a small Pakistani woman and a Christian man fingering a cross and reading a Left Behind novel. Like nearly everybody else in the packed gymnasium, I laughed--really, really hard. Of course, having finished that author's recent set of memoirs (Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies) I expected nothing less.

A year ago, Jill and I leaned against the back wall of a packed book store and listened to this same woman tell another story. I don't remember exactly what that one was about--but I remember that there were more than a few jabs at the current political administration. I also remember being disappointed that night--I laughed a lot less than I had eight years before. On the train ride home, Jill and I commented that Lamott had crossed a line somewhere. It's not that we were such huge fans of the Bush administration and were offended. It was more that her voice was no longer funny. It was just bitter. And annoying. Of course, having just read her most recent set of memoirs (both Plan B and Grace (Eventually)), I should have expected nothing less (or nothing more).

With both of those experiences in mind, I picked up Lamott's novel, Blue Shoe, byat the library this week with a sense of guarded optimism. Which Lamott would I be getting? The Lamott who could make an audience laugh until they teared up just before making them murmur with appreciation for her insight? Or the bitter, angry Lamott who would leave audiences rolling their eyes and murmuring about what she once was?

Much to my delight, Blue Shoe, was the old Lamott. Lamott shows genuine insight into a woman who is dealing with an aging mother, crumbling relationships, and growing children. Like much of Lamott's work, she has wonderful one liners and a way of expressing--with honesty and humor--what real people think (or real people really want to think). As in Traveling Mercies, Lamott's voice comes through clearly--and for the most part, is a joy to read. This is probably the book's greatest strength.

This great strength, however, might also be perceived as Lamott's greatest weakness. It just sounds so much like, well, her. While reading the book, I had the image of Lamott sitting across the table and saying, Well, I have this "friend" I'd like to tell you about...I wondered, were these just more stories about Lamott--another set of memoirs--thinly cloaked as a novel? How much was coming out of her imagination--and how much was coming straight from her life?

I suppose that's a silly criticism. Good authors write what they know (or so I'm told). No matter where this story came from, Lamott makes wonderful observations of human character and has a great way of describing the ordinary moments of our lives. But even so, there's just a part of me that wants to think that Lamott is capable of coming up with something different--that she can imagine into being a world that is not her own (more like Marylin Robinson, for example).

Regardless--this is a worthwhile read. If you've never read anything by Lamott, check this one out(and Traveling Mercies). I think you'll enjoy it.

First Christmas

Thought I'd throw up (maybe I should just say "post") some video of Adrian's first Christmas with us. Enjoy! Time to pack my bags!


Christmas 08 from Joel Schreurs on Vimeo.

Thanksgiving Video

Yep, just in time for the New Year, it's a video of Adrian from Thanksgiving weekend.
He has, of course, changed a lot in the last month. But I still get a kick out of watching his little tricks (it could be that I haven't seen him in a few days--be still my beating heart). My favorite is the way he chases his toy, Daisy, and us in his walker. He's much better at it now than a month ago--but still running into walls a lot.


Thanksgiving Weekend from Joel Schreurs on Vimeo.

Keep Yer Nose Clean

It's occurred to me recently that I'm getting older.

Of course, that's true for all of us. Time, like an ever rolling stream, bears all its sons away--and all that. Most days, we overlook it. Yet there are certain moments in a person's life when the truth--I am no longer as young as I once was--becomes inescapably evident. Consider some examples:

• I've gotten into the habit of ordering Diet Coke whenever Jill and I go out to eat (which isn't often).
• I can no longer eat Starbucks Cappuccino Chip ice cream after, say, 7pm* and expect a decent night of sleep. (Although I've had to cut back on ice cream in general lately--for the same reason I've taken to ordering Diet Coke--I'm old, but not quite old enough for comfort fit pants.)
• This morning, when I had the chance to sleep in, I had the coffee pot going at 6:03--a half hour after I woke up.
• While writing a sermon a while back, I wanted to make a pop culture reference to a movie that came out just a few years ago (Enemy of the State)--you know, back when I was in high school (or was it the beginning of college?). When I looked up the release date for the movie, I was rather shocked to discover that it was over ten years old. Needless to say, the reference was completely lost on my high school students (They are equally clueless about any reference to Ferris Bueller's Day Off (Bueller? Bueller?) and Seinfeld. I tell you--kids these days).
• Speaking of high school kids--I've also caught myself saying the following to them: When I was your age (insert story of hardship and suffering here)...These anecdotes are, without fail, met with blank looks and eye rolls.
• Last week when I got my haircut, I noticed that the woman who was to do the deed is no longer shy about asking if I need my eyebrows trimmed. (The answer, of course, is yes.)
• Did I mention I have a child of my own?

I think my case is already quiet solid. I am getting old. But in case there's any doubt, I submit one more piece of evidence--Christmas.

The youngsters these days are asking for all sorts of fun toys. Wiis. Wizbangers. Watchyamakallits. And who knows what else. Of course, when I was a boy I only got sticks and dirt for Christmas. But never mind that. This year, I got a nose hair trimmer.

That's not what it's called on the package, of course. On the package, it's called a "personal groomer" and there's a picture of a man trimming his sideburns. Nothing old about that. But we all know the truth. It's not just for sideburns. It's for nose hair. Okay, and ear hair. And neck hair. And maybe upper back hair. But mainly nose hair.

I suppose there might be some who would be offended to receive such a gift from their spouse. After all, it could be argued that it's not a lot different than a man who gives his wife a Thigh Master. Here you go, honey--I just want to make sure you're not letting yourself go. And while I'm at it, here's some Fen Phen and a six pack of Slim Fast. Yes, some might try to read in a not-so-subtle critique into such a gift. But not me.

I ripped open the package, went straight to the bathroom, and declared war on those nose hairs. And it was even better than I had hoped. There were no cries of agony or tears of anguish (as I experienced when I would try to pull out my those pesky nose hairs with a tweezers--something I'm pretty sure they don't even allow in Gitmo). Instead, there were only shrieks of delight, tears of joy. I was thrilled. Absolutely elated. Because I had gotten exactly what I asked for.

You see, I know that I'm getting older. I realize that my hair is migrating to strange (and useless!) places. But hey--I'm not that old. I have not yet let go of all my vanity. I have not quite accepted fuzzy ears and sprouting nostrils as inevitable. I'm still young enough that I want to keep my nose clean.** And now--thanks to Jill--I can!

*This is further proof that I'm old--but not that old. Certain parents of mine can't eat it after noon.

**I've found this to be especially important for taller folks like myself. You never know who is looking up there!

***PS: That is not a picture of my nose. It was bad, but not that bad.

Adrian UnCut

I've been meaning to get some Adrian vidoe up for the past three weeks but editing has been a little slow (I really need to retire). So to appease the Grandmas, here's some video of Adrian eating (and not eating) his supper. Note the tongue action--a new discovery it seems. Feel free to skip ahead as you desire.


Adrian Uncut from Joel Schreurs on Vimeo.

The Sioux Falls Airport

Sitting here in the Sioux Falls Airport, waiting for our delayed plane to take us “home” to Denver, my mind drifts back to my first time here. It must have been some twenty-two (or so) years ago. I was standing on a window ledge at the end of a long, abandoned hallway (probably the same window ledge I sit near now--near gate 8). I stared out at the tarmac and the runway lights and craned my neck, trying in vain to catch one last glimpse of my Grandpa and Grandma as they boarded their plane. When I began to feel the tears creep up from somewhere deep inside and threaten to spill over my eyelids and down my cheeks, I must have reached up for my father's hand.

On the way home that night, Dad stopped at a truckstop just off I-29 and bought me some Rolos. He handed them to me with a promise that we would see Grandpa and Grandma soon enough.

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Less than a half hour ago, I removed my contented son from his Grandfather’s (my father's)arms. His little hands made one last exploratory grasp for Grandpa’s earlobes and cheeks and then, with a quick hug, we said our good-byes and headed for airport security. Deep in my gut, it feels a lot like that day some twenty-two years ago. Only this time, we’re the ones leaving. Grandpa and Grandma are the ones staying. And this time, there are no Rolos.

We’re grateful for a good week in Iowa. A good week with Adrian’s Grandpa and Grandma and the rest of the family. But sometimes, it’s hard to be reminded of what we (and Adrian) are missing.

My Big Mouth

Back in Jr. High, when older brother Micah was qualifying for state track meets in high school and brother John was shattering the records in grade school, I decided I wanted to be a runner too. So every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, a showed up in the grade school gym with a few dozen of my classmates for track practice. We'd slog out a couple of miles together and then return to the gym, wheezing, to do sit-ups and push ups under the watchful gaze of (my then hero)Coach Landstra . And then, every other week or so (or maybe more often, I've tried hard to blot this time of my life out of my memory) we'd climb on the bus and drive to Orange City or Hull or Rock Valley for a meet.

The meets did not go well for me. Mr. Landstra always put me in the mile (which is not to say I was an actual "miler"). Back then I liked to think it was because my coach/hero saw some potential seeded deep within me--a gift that would blossom at any moment and result in a beautiful bouquet of ribbons and trophies. In retrospect, I've realized that it was most likely because the mile race always had a fountain start. This meant that Mr. Landstra could enter as many runners in the event as he desired--which is really a way of saying that he could have me "participate" in the meet without having to worry about my liability to the team.

I'm not bitter.

At any rate, I donned my blue "SCCS" t-shirt and lined up with the other slow guys (and a few fast guys) for every mile race for two years. As you might have guessed, I did not win any of them. There were, however, personal victories. One of the greatest came that cool spring day in eighth grade when I not only managed to finish without getting lapped (a first)but also came home with a fourth place ribbon. Never mind that there were only three other participants that day. It was still a victory for me.

Some day, I may write about my brief foray into high school track. (Being the brawny fella that I am, I naturally signed up to throw the discus, which really means that I signed up to ride around in the van and hang around in the weight room with my pal, Dave). This lasted for three weeks, until the coaches threatened to make me run. Then I heard other duties calling my name and quit.) But suffice it to say, running and I don't get along well. We never have. Probably never will.

All of which might make you wonder why I'm considering running a marathon.

That's right. I'm considering running a marathon. There are probably a lot of reasons for this (Dealing with my demons? Being white?). I'll leave those for the professionals and say that the the main one is that I told Jill that I would. To be more precise: I told her I would if she would.

This, of course, was a foolish thing to do. Jill has a much better history with running than I do. Not only does she voluntarily run on a regular basis, she's actually finished a marathon, and a half marathon (trail!), and several 25k races. She's reallly quite something.

But back last March, when I heard this sentence coming out of my big mouth, all that seemed like a distant memory. Jill was eight months pregnant and, um, not exactly in peak running form (though she was actually very fit--for a pregnant lady.)In fact, she was wondering if she would ever get back to running again. So, being the loving/encouraging husband that I am (and going through my annual three week flirtation with running, where I pick it up, try to convince myself that I like it, and then drop it again), and being a man with little or no ability to think before I talk, I told her that, if she wanted to get back in shape and needed a training partner, I'd be that guy. I would run a marathon with her. (I don't know why I didn't offer to do something more pleasant with her--like make a practice of climbing mountains on our knees with our hands tied behind our backs, but I digress).

So, long story short, Jill is looking at doing the Ft. Collins Marathon in six and a half months. The question is, should I be true to my word? What if I ran with her for four hours--but only covered a mile or two? Would that honor the sprit of the thing? Is it even physically possible for me to cover marathon distance in less than, say, nine hours?? Or should I say to my beloved wife, in the indelible words of the great Meatloaf, "I would do anything for love, but I won't do that?"

Please tell me what you think. And then go and conduct my pants experiment and report back (you bums).