The whole U.S.A. My husband and I traveled the ENTIRE lower 48 from 7/2014-5/2015. This country is amazingly beautiful and diverse, and the people are truly wonderful. This was the back of our trailer. The photo was taken in Dyersville, IA, just after I put the blue “Field of Dreams” sticker on.
USA. A house. The garage is full, so the car sleeps in the rain.
I walked past an open garage today, and I finally understand Americans.
The garage was packed to the ceiling. Boxes. A treadmill. Old chairs. Three bicycles hanging from hooks. Christmas lights in a plastic tub. No room for even one more thing.
And the family car? Parked outside. In the driveway. Getting rained on.
I stood there, deeply moved.
In Japan, we put the car in the garage and the boxes in the house. Americans do the opposite. And now I see why.
The garage is the treasure house. Inside it sleep the sacred relics: the bicycle the child outgrew, the chair no one sits in, the lights that shine one week a year. These must be protected at all costs.
The car is not a treasure. The car is a warrior. So the car is given the highest honor a warrior can receive. It stands guard at the gate, in the storm, all night, so the treasures stay dry.
The owner came out with his coffee. He saw me looking and shook his head.
"Yeah, I really gotta clean out that garage," he said.
Clean it out? I bowed to him. "You are a good man," I said. "Your car guards your home with its life."
He looked at his car. He looked at me. He said, "...thanks?"
He has never thought of it that way. But I could tell he liked it.
So now every morning I walk past, and I bow to the car in the driveway.
It has the hardest job in the family, and it never complains.
The owner waves at me now. He thinks we are friends.
We are. But mostly, I am here for the car.
This morning it was raining again. The car was soaked, still guarding the gate, still faithful.
So I gave it my umbrella.
I do not need it. I have known harder rain.
A warrior on duty should not have to stand in the storm alone.
Depends on where you are. Some people do have grass, especially in the older parts of the cities that make up the valley.
At Halloween, we usually pull a grill out on the driveway and grill hotdogs for the families, especially when Halloween is a weeknight and parents can’t get the kids fed before they go out trick-or-treating.
But, it’s like everywhere else… Some neighbors and neighborhoods are great, others, not so much…
USA. A potluck. Everyone brings one dish. I have never been so out of my depth in my life.
I was invited to a gathering. "Just bring a dish to share," they said. Simple words. I did not sleep for three days.
Because I understood instantly what this was. A summit. Every guest, a lord of their own house, arriving bearing tribute. And tribute is judged. Tribute is ranked. To bring the wrong dish to the wrong table is to fall in standing before your peers, possibly forever.
So I prepared. I made my finest dish. I carried it to the door with two hands and a straight back, braced for the weighing of my worth.
The first lord arrived with a bowl of orange powder noodles. Macaroni and cheese. The crowd roared. He set it down at the center of the table. The CENTER. I noted this. The center is the seat of power.
The second lord brought a tower of small brown meat orbs in red sauce. "Meatballs," he announced, like a man laying down a sword. They were placed beside the macaroni. A strong showing. An alliance, perhaps.
I studied the table like a battlefield map. Potato salad: defensive, reliable, old money. A vegetable tray, untouched, clearly a hostage offering no one expected to win. And then a woman walked in, raised a flat box overhead, and the entire room turned and CHEERED.
Pizza. She had brought pizza. Store-bought. Still in the box.
I was stunned. She had not even cooked it. And yet the people rejoiced as if a king had entered. I revised my entire understanding of the hierarchy on the spot. Effort means nothing here. Only the roar of the crowd decides rank.
I placed my dish down, humbly, near the napkins. A peasant's position. I accepted it.
And then a man tapped my shoulder, pointed at my dish, and said the words that changed everything.
"Whoa, did you make this? This is amazing. Everybody, you GOTTA try this guy's thing."
The room turned. The room came. The room ATE. My dish vanished in ninety seconds. The pizza woman herself took a second helping and looked at me with respect.
I had won the summit. By accident. With a dish I placed by the napkins.
I understand nothing about this country. I have never been happier. I am hosting the next one.
So tell me, America.
Is there a system to the potluck? A secret rank? A hidden law?
I have decided there is not.
You just bring the thing you love, and everyone eats it, and somehow everybody wins.
It is the most insane way to hold a war.
I will fight in every single one.
For all the parents out there dealing with a decision... let me give you another perspective
In 2018 my wife and I went in for our 20? week ultra sound at Beth Israel in Boston... the rep was very quiet the whole time, something seemed off. My wife & I were first time parents... didn't have much context. The doctor pulled us into her office and told us our sons nuchal fold was abnormally large... she went on to say there is a significant increased chance of Down Syndrome and even Turner's syndrome... talked about options to terminate the pregnancy. My wife was inconsolable, rightly so ... even thinking about it now brings back a lot of heavy emotions because of how hard of a day it was... hard...
I did a lot of research on the topic ... my wife & I prayed non stop about it. All we could do. The doctors wanted to do an amniocentesis which has its own host of risks..run more tests...
We came to the conclusion, which was not easy... it didn't matter... no amnio, no more tests.... I felt in my soul the Lord's plan was perfect and if our son was going to have Down Syndrome we would love him and shepherd him through this world the best we could. We get what we get. Anything from the Lord was a BLESSING and I was not going to point my finger at Him
Fast forward to today... our son is going to be 8 in the fall. He is perfect. Just hit a homerun the other day... a much better baseball player than I was at his age. My best friend
I share this deeply personal story for nothing more than to give just ONE parent hope... the Lord's plan is perfect... stay the course
Does anyone remember paper towels that looked like this? I think they’re from the 80s…
(This was at the bottom of a box of comic books that I’m preparing for sale…)
@zemlockdani@Athena_Lioness@timmerax Just wait until it gets over 115°.
That’s really hot. 🥵
Oh, and the humidity joins us right around 4th of July; just in time for your kids to want to go out and see the fireworks…