The View from the Left: Part 1

Labor Leader and Mentor: Part 1 of 3

I am often intrigued by how people's opinions are formed and how they evolve over time, particularly opinions on significant topics such as religion and politics. How much of what we believe was ingrained in us as children by our parents and other key adults, and how much is the result of our independent experience as we grow, ponder life, and seek to make sense of the world?

I was thinking about this a few days ago after a brief conversation with Gerald. Let me backtrack. A few months ago, the satellite radio in our van malfunctioned, the apparent result of a loose connection. Gerald said it would be an easy fix, but it was still three months before that happened. In the meantime, I was stuck with regular AM/FM stations, and in Billings, that means either Christian or country. We have little else. I like some Christian music, but I'm not a huge fan. On the other hand, I grew up on country--the old stuff--Waylon and Willie, George Jones, Johnny Cash. Consequently, in the past three months with no satellite radio, I've become somewhat addicted (can a person be somewhat addicted?) to contemporary country music. I've learned the words to all the songs. I sing along when I'm driving and pretend I'm on stage at the Grand Ole Opry. Yep, I'm hooked!

Here's the problem. Gerald HATES country music. With a passion. He hates everything about it: the tune, the lyrics, and most especially, the nasal twang. It grates on his every last nerve. The other day, I picked him up from work, country music playing loudly in the van. “Ugh,” he complained, “You should have been born a Republican.” Now those of you who know me well will understand that this was a supreme insult. Me, a Republican?!? Not in this lifetime. Or the next. Or the next. You see, I was born a Democrat. In every sense of the word, it is as if the Democratic Party is the life blood that flows through my veins; it's as though it's genetic. But why? Exactly how does that happen?

I am an adult woman, independent, free thinking, highly opinionated, and in full possession of the agency to choose for myself. I can study political issues and candidates, and I do. I can come to my own conclusions and vote my own conscience, and I do. And when I do, I find myself voting a straight Democratic ticket almost 100% of the time. Why? Because those are the candidates whose views most closely match my own. I am liberal and proud of it. However, I have to wonder if it might have been different had I been born into a different family. Of course, I'll never know; what I do know is that from infancy, I was taught the values of my parents and, more importantly, my grandparents. I was taught to be a Democrat.

My maternal grandfather was 17 years older than his wife, so by far the oldest of my four grandparents, and he died when I was just 12, long before the other three. In those 12 years, however, he left the most notable impression on my young, emerging personality than possibly any other adult in my life. He was a labor leader. As a young man, he worked in the logging camps of the Pacific Northwest, under horrific, inhumane conditions. In time, he united with co-workers to fight these conditions, forming a union called the International Woodworkers of America (IWA), and he eventually became its president. With but a fourth grade education, my grandpa led this union for over three decades, dined with U.S. Presidents, and attended the inaugurations of both John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson. He was my hero.

On the night I was born, he was presiding over an IWA convention in Canada. It was tradition for attendees at the convention to sing the familiar labor song, “We Shall Not be Moved,” replacing the words “The union is behind us” with “Al Hartung [my grandpa] is our leader.” That particular night, though, he instructed the entire convention to sing the song, using my name instead. Over 500 convention delegates stood and sang

“Tannie is our leader, we shall not be moved.
Tannie is our leader, we shall not be moved.
Just like a tree that's planted by the water,
We shall not be moved.”

(Note: Tannie is a contraction of my name, Terrianne. My grandpa called me Tannie from the day I was born until the day he died. I like it a lot, but it never really caught on with others. So feel free to call me Tannie if you want to.)

I, of course, was totally unaware of this serenade in my honor, but I heard about it many times as I grew up and met his IWA associates. My tutelage as a strong labor Democrat didn't end there. I remember sitting on my grandpa's lap as a young child singing “Solidarity Forever, The Union Makes Us Strong” to the tune of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” It was years before I realized that this particular song had different words for most everyone else. “Why are those people singing about their eyes?” I would ask my dad. “Don't they know the right words to 'Solidarity Forever?”' Even today, it's hard for me to sing the “Battle Hymn.” We're supposed to do it in ward choir next month.

So the political world was introduced to me at a young age. I remember as a little girl when George McGovern ran for President. My grandpa came over with a McGovern campaign button and pinned it on my dress. “This is who we're supporting for President, Tannie. He is the candidate of the working man. He upholds important social values.” Sounded good to me. From that point on, I wore my button proudly and told everyone I knew to vote for McGovern. Too bad I didn't know enough people. My grandpa was also close friends with then U.S. Senator Wayne Morse. Senator Morse happened to share my birthday, and several times, I had the honor of celebrating that day with him. Indeed, I was raised to be a Democrat.

....To Be Continued...

The Summer Job

Ah, the summer job. Each year, as summer approaches, college students everywhere begin to wonder where they will work once school ends. They need to find employment in order to help pay next year's tuition, but in most cases, they only have three months to work. For obvious reasons, most businesses aren't interested in hiring and training someone who will work only three months. Still, the student needs a summer job, so he or she will likely do just about anything (legal and moral, of course) that will secure some summer income.

I clearly remember facing this dilemma myself after my freshman year at Willamette University. I was heading home to Portland for the summer in need of a job. So important was this to many of us Willamette students that I remember my friend Tim calling me after I'd been home only a few days. "Hast Du schon Arbeit gefunden?" he wanted to know. Now keep in mind, Tim and I had just completed our first year of Elementary German. We loved communicating auf Deutsch, but we weren't very good at it. I'm not sure if the above sentence is grammatically or syntactically correct (Lorrie? Patty?), but I knew exactly what he meant. "Have you found work yet?"

Luckily, I had! In fact, I had found what turned out to be the most perfect summer job ever. Knowing I'd only be in Portland three months, I decided to apply at a temporary agency called Manpower. After a typing test and brief interview, I was hired. My first assignment was with the City of Portland Department of Street and Structural Engineering. Right after I took down the necessary information, I hung up the phone (yes, back then we actually had to hang up phones), and my dad said, "That is a wonderful assignment. You will love working for the City." Indeed, it was. And I did. I answered phones and did light typing (yes, on a typewriter). It was fun and easy, and the work environment was delightful. I got long lunch and coffee breaks and met many great people. It was a good summer, and when it came to an end, my boss said the magic words: "Be sure to call me next summer if you want to work here again. I won't be under obligation to Manpower, so I can hire you myself and pay you considerably more than they do." YES! So that was the end of my search for summer employment. Happily, I returned to the City of Portland each summer through college.

Not all my kids have been quite so lucky. Luke was. He landed a job at Whitman after his freshman year and was able to work and live on campus through the summer for free. I hated it that he didn't come home to Mt.Vernon, but the job was good, and he acquired many valuable computer skills. Shulamith came home to Billings the summer after her freshman year at Westminster and immediately began pounding the pavement in search of a job. After submitting countless applications, she was hired to host at Ihop. No, it wasn't the most glamorous job ever, but it was money, and by her second summer there, she was able to serve (rather than host) and earn those amazing tips. No, Montanans aren't good tippers, but Ihop gives its servers tons of tables at once and then turns them quickly, so she made decent money.

Now we have Isaiah, home from his first year at Westminster. His boss from his high school job called and asked him to come back, but sadly, we don't have adequate transportation for him to go to St. John's on the West End every day. He needs a job here in the Heights, close enough that he can walk if need be. As a result, he applied at Walmart, the closest business to our house. After three interviews in two days, he was hired as a cart pusher. I probably don't need to point out that this isn't exactly Isaiah's dream career path, but it is a job, and it will provide some money to help us finance next year at Westminster.

Ah, the summer job. Whether it's as a secretary in a government office, a host at a restaurant, or even a cart pusher at Walmart, every college students needs one.

Learning Curve

I knew there would be a learning curve. After all, this is not the first time I've upgraded my cell phone. I suppose I've had at least six or seven different phones in the past ten years, maybe more. And each time, there's a learning curve. Each time there's a period of adjustment as I learn to navigate the different features of the new phone. But honestly, I'm just not very good at learning curves. I like to be able to make things work right now. When they don't, I am easily frustrated.

This time, I decided to get a Droid. It was either that or the newest Palm, which would have been easier because I already had a Palm, but the Droid was appealing as well. Ultimately, Gerald found me an amazing promotion that allowed me to get my new Droid for just $19.99, so the decision was made. Droid.

The day it arrived, Eli put in the battery and charged it. The next day Gerald activated it and transferred over my calendar and contacts from my Palm. The next day, he got my ring tone, the sweetest Alan Jackson tune "Remember When." If you don't know this song, you should definitely google it and listen. It's hard core country, though (which Gerald abhors), so he told me if I choose another country tune for my text ring tone, I'll need to find someone else to download it. Lindsey? Nah, I'm pretty sure he isn't serious, but I haven't chosen a song yet, so right now, when a text comes in, it defaults to this low-pitched, drawn-out voice: "DROID."

The next day, Gerald transferred over all my music. The only major thing left to do is install an application that will allow me to transfer over my "memos" which include a variety of important information which I need almost daily. Then I'll be totally set. Well, except for the learning curve.

Yeah, about that. The first couple days I was totally grumpy. Like seriously in a bad mood. "I just need this to work. Right now. And I want to know how to do all these things, and I don't want to have to read about it in a stupid manual." In desperation, I went to the mall and bought a hard plastic case for the phone, so in the event that I threw it across the room, it wouldn't break. Thus far, I've exercised sufficient restraint, but the phone is in its protective case just to be safe.

There's a debate in the field of education about whether students learn better by trial and error, that is by making mistakes, or if they learn better by doing things right the first time. I'm pretty sure there's not one right answer to this question. It likely depends on the situation, the specific skill involved, and the individual learner. But I can surely answer this question for myself. I do not learn best by trial and error. I do not learn best by making mistakes. I just get angry. Really angry. I am a perfectionist; I like to do things right.

After a week, though, I believe I'm mastering the learning curve. I think I actually like this phone. It has many fun features. One of my favorites is the front screen which changes color depending on the time of day. In the morning, it's a bright blue with green grass blowing in the wind. At sunset (well probably at sunrise as well, but I'm in summer mode, so I'm never awake for sunrise), it's a lovely red/orange with the grass fading in the shadows. At night, it's a deep dark blue with white stars. I'm finally able to text okay, not with the speed and accuracy I had with my Palm, but I'm getting better every day, so there's hope. I'm still not fully adjusted to the calendar application (I'm just SO used to the Palm system), but I think I'll adjust in time.

Last week, when I was grumping over this thing, Shulamith said, "You are so funny. Why are you so grumpy over a phone? Can't you just remember that it's always like this whenever you get a new one, and you know you'll figure it out eventually?"

Sounds reasonable, I suppose, but I'm just not good at learning curves.

Precious Fleeting Moments

I know we're supposed to behave as adults. That means accepting the inevitable changes that come with life whether we like them or not. You would think that by now, I'd have this figured out. You would think that I could handle life's curves with grace and even look for the opportunity they might provide.

And sometimes, I can. But not always. Not when it comes to my friends moving far away. Two years ago, one of my two best friends moved to Texas. Yes, all the way to Texas! I did not like it then, and I do not like it now, not one bit. Since Celeste left, Lindsey and I have been able to visit her twice, but the last time was nearly a year ago. That is until this past weekend. Celeste came to Montana for a brief visit to attend her sister's high school graduation in Glendive. The day she flew back, she had about three hours to spend with us here in Billings.

Three hours. Precious fleeting moments. We all look happy in this picture, and we were. Truly. Happy to see each other after nearly a year. Happy to be together, even if only for a short time. Still, underneath those smiles were feelings of angst, sadness, longing. It was lovely to be together, but as each moment passed, we knew it was that much closer to the time we'd need to take Celeste to the airport and say goodbye yet again. The experience made Lindsey and me long to go to Texas. We would so love to be there when Celeste's fourth daughter is born next month. But we can't. For so many reasons, we just can't. And so the 180 minutes flew by, and she flew home.

After we left her and Molly at the airport, Lindsey's son Jase began to cry. Is that the right word? Scream? Some combination of cry and scream. "I want Celeste to come to my house right now," he exclaimed. Me too, Jase. Me too. His outburst was, in fact, the perfect reflection of everything I felt inside at that moment. I appreciate that he expressed it so well. Leave it to children to say what we cannot.

For the record and for future readers who may not recognize everyone in this photo, Celeste is on the left holding 2-year-old Molly. Lindsey is in the middle with 20-month-old Hanna. Then there's me with Lindsey's older daughter Emma. The photographer was 4-year-old Jase, and if you think it's a great picture, well he's a genius. Seriously.

We are adults, and we are to behave like adults. Change is inevitable. Blah, blah, blah.

Precious fleeting moments.

They're probably going to throw you in jail!

Recently, we had several messages on our home phone from the United States Census Bureau asking us to return their calls. I completed the census questionnaire for our family a long time ago, so I couldn't figure out what they wanted. I ignored them for a while, but they were persistent, so I finally called them back, only to find out that we were randomly selected to take part in a more detailed phone questionnaire. This took over an hour, so be grateful if you don't have to do it.

Before I got around to calling them, however, Seth had this to say:

"You probably lied about your age on the census, and they're probably going to throw you in jail!"

"Date Night," plus Seth!

Recently, after watching the movie "Date Night," I began to reflect on the history of our "date nights" in the past 20+ years. Back when all four kids (pre-Seth) were little, we had to hire baby-sitters if we wanted to go out by ourselves. That was expensive. If you add the cost of the baby-sitter to the cost of dinner to the cost of a movie (assuming the date includes dinner and movie), you wind up with quite an expenditure for just one night. So yeah, we did this occasionally, but not often. For those of you reading who are still in this situation, I have some excellent advice:

1. Have more kids!

2. Have lots of kids!

3. And be sure to spread them out.

That's what we did, and it worked out great. We only had to do the baby-sitter thing for about 11 years. After that we were home free. We had live-in baby-sitters! Once Luke and Shulamith were 11 and 10 respectively, we felt comfortable leaving them to care for Isaiah and Eli. Even as the two big kids grew into teenagers, we could generally count on at least one of them being home on any given evening. No more money down the drain on baby-sitters.

Time went on. Seth was born. Luke and Shulamith left for college, one right after the other. Problem? No. Because we followed Advice #3 above, when Shulamith left for college, we had a whole five years before Isaiah would leave. Isaiah and Eli were 13 and 11 respectively, the perfect ages to take over baby-sitting duty for 4-year-old Seth. Score! We could still have "date night" without paying a baby-sitter.

The thing we failed to consider in all this was what we would do with Seth once the "little boys" (Isaiah and Eli) grew up and left for college. Which brings us to where we are today. Isaiah, who was always the home-body and, consequently, our primary baby-sitter for Seth, left for college this past fall. Eli, who technically lives here, is seriously gone more than he's home. Between school activities, his job, church stuff, and an active social life, Eli is practically never home.

That leaves us with 9-year-old Seth and no live-in baby-sitter. Problem? I thought it might be, but really, it hasn't turned out that way. We simply take him with us the majority of the time, and it is truly more fun that way. He is quite delightful; we love having him with us. He brings his DSI (hand-held video game system) for those times when our conversation becomes too boring to tolerate, but most of the time he seems content to interact with us old parents.

Last evening, we decided to to eat Chinese food at a restaurant that had been highly recommended by several friends. Seth was excited because he loves Chinese food, and this place had a buffet, so he could get whatever he wanted and as much as he wanted. His favorite item on the buffet was barbecued ribs. Seth LOVES ribs, but ribs are not the easiest food to eat, and by the time he had eaten several, his fingers and face were covered with barbecue sauce. In a moment of confusion over what to do, Seth looked at his fingers, looked at us, and then wiped his hands on his pants, attempting to rid himself of the sticky sauce.

"Seth!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing? Use your napkin to clean your hands, NOT your pants."

"But, Mom," he replied, "I'm planning to change these pants tonight anyway."

Ugh. It gets even worse.

After that, he still had his face to contend with, so with his lizard-like tongue, he proceeded to lick first his top lip, then his bottom one, methodically, removing all the sauce.

"SETH!" I gasped.

"Mom. This is a good way to wash your face. It's very effective."

After a brief and comical discussion about the importance of good table manners, we finally left. It was a fun night. He is a fun companion.

"Date night," plus Seth. What could be more perfect?

The Very Hungry Mom

In the light of the moon, an airplane destined for Salt Lake City sat on a runway.

One Wednesday evening, the airplane took off, landed, and -pop- out of the plane came a very hungry mom.

She started to look for some food.

On Thursday, she ate through one hot dog, one roast beef and cheese sandwich, and ten french fries. But she was still hungry.

On Friday, she ate through two doughnuts, one teriyaki chicken sandwich, 12 potato chips, one cookie, one bowl of sausage/potato soup, one salad, and two bread-sticks. But she was still hungry.

On Saturday, she ate through two pancakes, one chicken burrito, one New York strip steak, one salad, two rolls, and one garlic mashed potato. But she was still hungry.

On Sunday, she ate through two eggs, one waffle, one honey-seared chicken rice bowl, and one southwest chicken salad. But she was still hungry.

On Monday, she ate through one bagel with cream cheese, two slices of pizza, and four pieces of cheesy bread. But she was still hungry.

On Tuesday, she ate through one Quarter Pounder with cheese, 12 french fries, one lamb tenderloin, seven roasted potato sections, and one slice of banana cream cheesecake. That night she had a stomachache.

The next day was Wednesday again, and the mom ate through one more piece of cheesecake, and after that, she felt much better. Now she wasn't hungry anymore, and she wasn't normal-sized anymore. She was a big fat mom. She flew to the Denver Airport. She stayed there for over four hours. Then, finally, she boarded another airplane and flew to her home in Billings, where she will need to do P90X doubles and eat nothing for the next three months in order to be fit to wear a bathing suit in Costa Rica!

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Note: The charming children's story The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle was the first book Luke and Shulamith “read” (memorized and pretended to read) when they were very young. It holds precious memories for me. Now, 20 years later, Shulamith is sharing this book with her kindergarten class as they observe first hand the metamorphosis of a butterfly. For this reason, and also because she ate through the past week right along with me, this post is dedicated to her.