So it’s good to do some research.

                 I wrote about Three Cups of Tea and Greg Mortenson.  And then I mentioned Peace Fleece (which is not a charity).  I have been horribly remiss and stupid, though, because I forgot something.  I am actually related to one of the coolest Charity Projects ever:  Lalmba.

             Hugh is my dad’s cousin, and I don’t remember how I found out about this.  Maybe my dad told me about it after the family reunion decades ago.  Or maybe it was my beautiful aunt who told me. What Hugh does is run clinics in Africa.  He and Marty do tremendous work.  If you are looking for a place where you can be sure your money has a direct impact on the well-being of real children who are suffering at the very moment I am writing these words, and the very moment you are reading them: right now – then this is a beautiful place to put that money.  However little it may be.

                 I remembered this because G, reading the book mentioned above, found a site where charities are rated for effectiveness and fund use.  I wish I’d had a site like that about twenty three years ago when I gave a whopping fifty dollars of our non-existent monthly budget to a SIDs charity (give us money for research, and we will give you a roll of free plastic garbage bags); I had babies then, and SIDs was the monster under the bed.  A few weeks later, I found out that those people were liars and had just taken my money, along with a whole lot of other people’s.  The crowning pittiness?  The garbage bags were made out of recycled Kleenex.  Not really.  But close.

                 So G looked up Mortenson and found this.

                 We can note here that Greg is no longer languishing in poverty; he makes WAY more than I do.  But I wouldn’t deny him that, considering the nature of his work.

                 And then G remembered Hugh and found this.       

                 I have to admit that it is good, so good, to look behind the curtain and find out that the people who belong to you are honorable and true, and that you can be proud of them without even trying.  Especially when it’s your parents or children, of which Hugh is neither—but still  . . .

                 They do a great newsletter, Lalmba does, and they always find some wonderful craft that people in Africa do (one year, it was hand shaped and worked sterling silver crosses), collect it all year from the craftsmen and offer these things at Christmas when you give your donation.  We have TONS of cool stuff from them.

                 Anyway – I am pushing Lalmba today and every day.  They take volunteers, too, I believe.  I am only a contributor, but I am proud to be part of it.

We lost our tomatoes last night.  They froze.  So did our windshield.  But I refused to accept that as truth; I wouldn’t scrape the windshield.  I just pulled out of the driveway and faced the car into the sun and ran the windshield wipers till I could see.

I drove down to the pasture.  The grass there was white with frost.  When I got out to unlock the gate, I saw, just down the street a bit, a very small person—standing by the side of the road.  Center Street used to be a sleepy farm/recreational road.  Now that there’s a flight school and firefighter school and who knows what else down at our burgeoning little airport, Center is bumper to bumper at around eight in the morning, at noon, and again at five.  Not a the kind of place you’d want your kid to be standing, then, at eight in the morning.

I wish I had a picture of this: close your eyes while you read and imagine, please.  Cray, who is about two feet tall, was all dressed in his bright red hoody, his jammies, and his bright yellow rain boots, just standing there, watching the cars drive by.    If there had been a bench beside him, I’d have sworn he was patiently waiting for a bus.  I started walking down that way, not wanting to scare him, but a little worried about the traffic and bad guys and the possibility of his freezing to death.

Arms crossed and shivering, Cray squinted up at me.  “Whatcha doin’ out here?” I asked him.  Waiting for his nanny, he said.  I made a few other short comments, pointing out how cold it was and asking if his mom had already left for work.  Yes, mom was gone.  And he was just waiting for a car that his nanny would be driving and it would stop and pick him up and drive him the rest of the way home.  Which meant the driveway just around the corner.  I figured his dad had no idea Cray was out there.  And this was true.

His dad is an EXCELLENT father, I want to point out here.  I have never seen a man play so wonderfully with his kids.  It’s just, they get away from you sometimes.  It even happened to us from time to time, and we were the over-protective parents from hell.  So I walked him back to his door.  “Good thing I wore my jacket,” he said, peering up at me, his teeth chattering in his little blond head.  I sent him in after his dad.

 When S came to the door, he was happy to see me, and still without a clue. He told me,  “Cray came up to my room and said, ‘Crazy Lady is here.’”  Cray said this, not necessarily because I am certifiable, but because S always calls me that when he yells across the pasture to say hello: he thinks I spend way too much time training and not enough time riding, which is true.  So now Cray thinks this is my name. 

Later, S asked Cray why he had been waiting.  “She doesn’t pick you up at home.  You go to school, and she picks you up from there, after.”

“Oh, yes,” Cray said.  “I forgot that.”

Hopefully, he will remember tomorrow. 

Though I will miss seeing those brave yellow boots.

After I read Marilyn’s comment the other day, I looked up the now famous Boyle “make-over.”  Yeah—everybody’s got a right to change her hair color.  But what distressed me was the new expression on her face in that picture – what was it— “deep”?  Tough?  Defiant?  Can’t-touch-this?  Dignified—the dang super-model glare.  Some make-over.  (Susan – are you still in there??)

Secretly, I wanted to be this cool in 1966.

In the article was a link to twelve year old Shaheen’s just as amazing performance.  From there, you can pretty much spend the rest of your life following links. Like a shlub, I just sat there for half an hour, clicking away.

So  I find this soprano sax player.  He says he wants to win the competition to give his wife and little kid a better life.  He gets on the stage, noodles around till they’re irritated with him, then cues his minus track.  The song?  “There’s a Place for Us,” from West Side Story.  His tone?  Haunting.  He takes his time.  He sings through the instrument.  You feel it.  He’s feeling it.  Everybody’s feeling it.  And he gets a standing ovation.

<digression> For me, the experience was a little personal.  We sang that song at my Hartsdale Junior High ninth grade graduation.  I haven’t heard it since, really.  So it took me back.  (We also sang “When I’m Sixty Five,” over which I would NOT have gotten sentimental.)  And there I was, feeling those ninth grade feelings and thinking about Mrs. Sciarra who always wore bobbles, bangles and beads” and little off shoulder shawl things, coming to school looking like she was going to an important business lunch.

Ms. Sciarra with bobbles

  Wow, did she do wonders with us.  Tough as a drill sergeant.  Fair. Great at her job.  We sang with one voice, even though we were hundreds of individual packets of adolescent angst.</digression>

I should have been in this band picture.  But I think I was back with the choir – I’m guessing the blond girl who should NOT have been talking to her neighbor.

At the end of my little link fest,  I realized that every one of these clips had had in it the phrase, “change your life.”  Like winning Top Talent Dog was going to do it.  On Survivor once, somebody said that same thing: “Somebody here is going to win a million dollars.  That’s a life-changing thing.”  Back when I taught English 111 at BYU, I always assigned “The Purpose of Education,” as the first paper assignment—because it gave me a chance to clear up misconceptions like the one I almost always got: the higher the degree you get, the more successful you’ll be in life; the more money you’ll make.  HA.

Me, building points toward that advanced degree.  Wendy, the babe (my antithesis) , also working.  See?  I could have been cute AND working.

Still working.

Where do we get these ideas?  Winning a million dollars doesn’t change your life much—you’re just the same old self with the same old habits of behavior, only with the money, now you can buy more stupid peripherals—at least, as long as the money lasts.  Which won’t be long.  They’ve done studies on this kind of thing; I’ve read them.

Here’s what I’ve learned: It’s changing your heart that changes your life.  And you can’t just “win” that.  You actually have to do it, and do it yourself.  You have to decide to change your patterns of behavior—and gradually, sometimes dramatically, you see your life changing.  You don’t become more famous.  You don’t become rich over night.  You become happier, more free, more powerful.  Life becomes your choice. And the fact is,  you can live in exactly the same house with exactly the same stuff and still live a way different life.  Not that I’m the ace at this.  But I know what I’ve seen.

The sad thing about the sax player is that he actually believes being in the music biz will make things better for him.  Show biz in any form is  Life Crash Central of the universe.  Not always, of course.  But often enough—we see it too often even here.   Sure, go on the road, wear yourself out, meet new, adoring people—lose your sense of self and connection, separate sex from love, take chems to counteract exhaustion.   Or put your “art” before your family—for your family.  A recipe for a better life.  And this is no cliché I’m throwing out, here.

Yeah, it’s really nice to be applauded.  I’ve had that experience.  But it can also be terribly ironic.  And the feeling doesn’t last long; there are still dishes in the sink when you get home.   Even being published – you never arrive. Famous isn’t something you become.  It’s actually more like getting the flu – it hits, you have it for a while, then it goes somewhere else.  Except with “success” – you want it to come back.  Has-been sick is way different that has-been successful.  This is an old story.  There are tons of movies and books about it.

Anyway, yeah – so I guess I’m saying that watching these hopeful folks always makes me a little sad for them.  Just a little sad.  Like they’ve been sold a bill of goods.  And yet I find myself in tears over their moment of glory.  That moment of  validation. 

Hopeful us.  I’m the wet cat.

Honestly.  Michael is going to yell at me again for being a downer.  But this isn’t really a downer, is it?  That we don’t have to be on some big show to know we have talent?  That we can be powerful and joyful and useful and loved without a headline?  That’s a glorious thing.  I read these blog things of ya’lls and feel wonderful, connected with people who interest me and make me think and teach me and make me laugh – people I love better now because I know them better—that’s not famous writing, but it’s wonderful writing.

Me.  My mom made me wear my hair this way.  I wanted bangs like Carol’s.  Wow – she had the best dang voice.  And she was nice.  And she was a really good girl.  I should have just cut the bangs myself.

Just singing to kids before they go to bed at night—it’s powerful stuff and it can change the world for generations to come.  We have so much power to be joyful ourselves and to make other people feel loved and safe and validated.  Even when it’s still raining outside.  Which it is.  Still.  Raining.

Noah?  Can you hear me?