A Century

Today I interviewed a woman who is turning 100 years old tomorrow.

That was the best conversation I've had in awhile. If I'm that lucid and funny and charming when I'm 100 (or ever), I will be extremely blessed. Her memory was incredible. Probably better than mine — she recounted what meals she had this week. I'm not sure what I ate for supper last night. Or for breakfast. She's lost most of her eyesight — which she said was tragic, as her favorite past time was reading. Her hearing is still surprisingly sharp. I had to ask my questions loudly, but I wasn't shouting. She said she wished her hearing had gone instead of her eyes, though. She spends her time listening to the TV, but she'd much rather read the daily newspaper or an old novel. I'd have to agree with her.

Her stories were funny — she told me about all the happenings at the assisted living facility where she lives. With all the scandals and gossip, I felt like I was having coffee with my best friend in high school, trashing the other girls.

I teared up a little when she told me about her childhood. She spent time in the Owatonna State School — the former orphanage, the building where I was married. She was adopted from there, but separated from her four siblings. Before arriving at the State School, her father left her and her siblings at the Duluth orphanage. He wanted the kids to stay together, but after his wife died, he couldn't take care of five young children and continue to make money as a miner.

It was at the Duluth orphanage where Justine was sterilized, along with her sisters and all the girls there during those years. She didn't know what was happening at the time, but she recalled the scene in perfect detail to me. She found out a few years after she was married that she could never have children. She heard on the radio about the sterilization at the Duluth orphanage at the time she was there and connected the dots. She told me she would have liked to have a couple kids to take care of her now, and visit her, especially since her husband died when he was 79, and her siblings died young. She's been alone for 25 years with no family.

Long after I turned off my recorder, the questions for my article answered, the perfect quotes already said, we continued talking. Just talking. She asked about my job, my family, my college, my friends. She told story after story about her fascinating journey. I didn't want to leave. I ignored my oncoming deadline, the fact that I had the only company's camera, and I was expected back at the office half an hour ago. We just continued talking. Two friends.

I asked her about living 100 years during a time when nearly everything has changed. She's been through two world wars, the evolution of the automobile, the television, the computer, space shuttles, Facebook. She said it's mostly over her head. She hears about these things on the news, but can't even comprehend them. She doesn't understand computers. She's not really sure what the internet is. She watched Watson compete on Jeopardy last week, but she wasn't sure why or who he was.

I would need to live to 2088 to be 100 years old. I can't even imagine what the world will be like then, and honestly I'm not sure I want to be around for it. I can't imagine watching everyone close to me pass away, living in a world I can't understand.

But Justine's secret to long life: "I always have a good spirit. I'm always happy. I don't let anything bother me."

Justine, 100 Years Old on Feb. 23

Communication

Communications Coordinator.

That’s my official title at my new job. My dream job. 

My unemployment/temporary employment/never-ending job search has ended. At least for the foreseeable future. 

I broke a lot of those interview rules that we polished so much in college. I dressed like myself — a creative, quirky 23-year-old housewife. I wore a pink jacket. A checkered scarf with a flower-patterned shirt. My hair was triple-barrel curled and quite large. 

I admitted to my interviewers the job was my dream job. I gushed about my passion for helping people and making a difference in my hometown. They asked how my best friend would describe me, and I admitted she would say I’m creative. And also weird. 

They asked how I deal with others. I openly revealed that I want everyone to like me. I work at relationships at a level and pace that is probably unhealthy. I love people from the moment I meet them and hate when people don’t like me. 

I told them I could never hold a corporate job.  I’m not a cookie cutter post-grad. I don’t wear pantsuits. Cubicle mazes make me dizzy and claustrophobic. I’m not going to cut my hair into a bob. Or curl it daily and keep up with perfect highlights. I wear leggings and skirts and boots. And scarves. 

They asked about my writing system. And I told them. I spin in my chair really fast until I shake loose the ideas that are stuck. In college, I’d lay on my dorm room floor or upside down on my couch to shift my perspective. I write several paragraphs of “wrong” to be able to find what’s “right.” I make list after list of what/when/how I’m going to accomplish everything I need to do. 

This was a panel interview. I was outnumbered and out aged. Though I kept them smiling and laughing throughout, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get the job.

But I did. 

I’ve spent the last eight months going on interviews and trying to convince employers that while I don’t have a lot of marketable skills, I can write. I can communicate. They looked at me like I’m crazy…like communication isn’t that important at all. Cut-throat sales skills, years of experience, a degree in business, math — those are the important things. 

Communication is so fundamental. What’s the highest degree of punishment in our prison system (besides death)? Solitary confinement. Not being allowed to communicate with anyone else.

It’s such a basic human need — the ability to talk to others, to share, to listen, to exchange information, to communicate. 

I got a job based on my crazy plea that communication is important — fundamental even — and I take that role seriously.  So maybe I’m not that crazy — or at least not alone. I’m going to be working in an office full of people that just want to help other people. My co-workers don’t want a corporate, meaningless job; they want to do something that matters. Make a difference in the community. 

And they’re letting me do it through communication. And wearing scarves.

Power of Music

I’ve been musing about music lately.

My radio station of choice seems to be playing a lot of older music recently. Or maybe they always have, but my hour commute each day has given me more quality time with my radio station.

(And to clarify — by older music, I mean music from my early teen years to high school. Not that that’s old; really, I’m not trying to offend.)

Music is so powerful — so much more so than even writing — I often wish I had the musical talents of my friends: Brian, Tony, Emily, and of course, the great Adam Young.

When an early Pink or Limp Bizkit song comes on, I’m instantly transported to Emily (Sorheim) Smith’s gray Oldsmobile. My sister is in the front seat; Josh and I are the backseat, scheming about how to steal Emily’s car once we park somewhere.

When I hear Bryan Adams’ “Summer of ’69,” I’m in the blue ghetto van. My sister is a senior in high school; I’m a freshman. We’re cruising with the windows down, and whenever she makes a hard left, I have to catch the Fig Newtons that are sliding across the dashboard.

 A few days ago, Brett and I heard a Destiny’s Child song. Not Beyonce — Destiny’s Child. I’m back in my elementary school classroom, and the boys are constantly pleading, “Say my name, say my name” in their best Beyonce voice.

Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle” reminds me of the summer of Andrew Souba. Enough said.

Nickleback’s “How You Remind Me”— Mike Smith. I just have this memory of MSN instant messaging (you know, back when anytime the phone rang, you got kicked off the internet — and it took a few minutes for each message to send) with Mike and my other junior high friends and listening to “How You Remind Me” on repeat. It was my favorite song for most of eighth grade.

And then there’s Vertical Horizon’s “Everything You Want.” The blue ghetto van is now mine. The song was a few years old, but it seemed to constantly be on the radio when Emily and I would drive to the beach every day of the summer. Our windows were rolled down, and we’d forget it was now summer and the people we’d talk about walking down the street could hear our snide remarks. Oh, and it was now Emily’s job to catch the sliding Fig Newtons.

Whenever I hear those opening guitar strums of “Eye of the Tiger,” I’m a freshman in college again. Brett, Emily, and I have costumed ourselves into ‘80’s rockers and are filming ourselves in the basement of my parent’s house. For the integrity of the movie, I even folded myself into their dryer.

I hear All American Rejects’ “Give you Hell” and I automatically change the words to “give you joy,” because my roommate Holly once quipped, “that’s not very nice. I hope when you see my face it gives you joy!”

I remember tears rolling down my face as I drove back to Northwestern, my giant bag of laundry riding shotgun. Spring break ended, and it was dark—I’d waited as long as possible to make the trip back to school. On I-35, somewhere between Northfield and Lakeville…maybe, I stopped watching the exits. “Wait for Me” by Theory of a Dead Man came on. I knew it would only be a few months before I was home from college forever, but the song was a little too close to home. And now that song brings me back to that lonely car ride.

Ke$ha’s “Tik Tok” makes me wake up feeling like P. Diddy, and I’m back dancing in my dorm room with Amy and Alyssa.

The opening notes of “Final Countdown” and I see Gob Bluth’s jazz hands during his magic tricks…I mean illusions. Or Heidi Rust playing that song nonstop during finals week.

And finally, Nelly’s “Just a Dream” puts me in Brett’s truck this summer before we’re married. Anytime we heard this song, we sang along with Nelly and put our hands on the roof whenever he commanded, “If you’ve ever loved somebody, put your hands up.”

It’s almost funny how easily these memories flood me with just a few guitar riffs or an opening line. So powerful.

What special memories do you associate with songs?