Bloomington changes with the seasons, but learning never ends

It’s time to gear up for the annual migration of students into our small town. Circumstances are always changing here, and as much as my human nature resists change, I love the total package of Bloomington: the seasonal fluctuations, the town and the gown. As the product of two IU students who fell in love, got married, and decided to build their lives and family here, I bridge both worlds.

This summer I had the opportunity to stroll through campus, deserted and quiet like a ghost town. In my current phase of life, activities like walking through campus carry more significance than they did when I was student here. I feel as if I am walking on hallowed ground. My mind stirs with the thoughts of the students and scholars who walked these very paths over the past 189 years.

Here are some campus scenes and sensations that are presently calling up from my memory to be shared in this community forum.

The Hippie Hangout. I don’t think I’m hallucinating. In the 1970s I remember riding down 10th Street in the back of our red Dodge station wagon, passing by Dunn Meadow and staring wide-eyed at the mass of bell-bottomed, long-haired students throwing Frisbees, sitting in the grass talking, and enjoying the sunshine. We called it the Hippie Hangout.

The Sugar and Spice shop. When I was in early elementary school, Mom returned to college to finish her degree in education. I frequently accompanied her to campus. One of my favorite places to visit was the Memorial Union. I called it the Elevator and Escalator Building. Mom always treated me to a gingerbread man at the Sugar & Spice shop. I remember munching on my cookie while I sat in the row of seats at the base of the escalator, biting off one arm at a time, watching the students walk by.

The Wrubel computing center. Dad worked at Wrubel when it was located in the basement of the HPER building. We descended a concrete staircase to enter his department, humming with room-sized mainframes, the cutting-edge technology at that time.

Tenth Street stadium. Just steps across the parking lot from Wrubel stood the old stadium, now the location of the beautiful campus arboretum. The Marching Hundred practiced there. My brother played trombone in the band and I loved watching them rehearse.

Assembly Hall. I was lucky enough to be in a family that held season tickets in 1976. Need I say more?

Showalter Fountain. I was a student in 1987, part of the mad dash of NCAA championship revelry to Showalter Fountain. I was there when one of the fish statues was stolen. (Disclaimer: I didn’t steal the fish, and I don’t have a description of the people who did.)

The Library. I never quite got over the amazement that the IU library is huge enough to hold a cafeteria. And the stacks: floor after floor, row after row of nothing but books. A guaranteed quiet place to study.

Ballantine Hall. Even as a young adult, I always appreciated the beautiful walk along the creek from Jordan Avenue to Ballantine Hall. Back in the ’80s, “Mad Max,” a campus crusader, shouted his sermons to passersby outside the building where I spent many hours in liberal arts courses.

It is my hope that the influx of new and returning students take a moment this semester to realize they are making history: their own personal history from a brief yet important time in their lives, and a contribution to the collective history that walks the pathways of the Indiana University campus. I sometimes wonder why we are given the wisdom to appreciate something so many years after the experience itself. Again, I return to the truth that the learning really never ends.

It’s too early to say goodbye to another summer season

I’ve always had trouble saying good-bye to summer. As much as I try to deny it or push it down, I feel a grief at summer’s end like no other. The 10 weeks fly by so quickly.

Written or unwritten, most people have their list of summer wishes. While some are realized and some are not, this is the time of year to accept it all and begin making the transition to a new season. So, as we gear up for the start of another school year, here is a look back at this columnist’s memorable moments from the summer of 2009:

• Being away from my family for seven full days in June — the longest separation I’ve had from my daughter. While I was away, we talked on the phone as she was putting her very first batch of homemade scones in the oven. This produced a flash of awareness that, at age 11, she doesn’t need as much help in the kitchen as much as she used to.

• Sneaking away one evening to meet my husband halfway between Bloomington and Cincinnati at a Batesville pizzeria for dinner — being reminded that the most romantic dates are those that aren’t set up to be romantic.

  
  

• The feeling of terror upon finding out my 70-year old father fell off a ladder while trimming a tree near his house. Relief that he only has a small fracture in his lower back that should heal up just fine.

  
  

• The realization of a dream to offer a Young Women Writing for (a) Change circle in our community.

  
  

• Making moon-blessed water: setting out a jar under the full moon — an emerging tradition between mother and daughter, daughter and friends.

  
  

• Moon jellyfish glowing in the ocean near our feet as we walked along the beach at night while on vacation in coastal Alabama.

  
  

• Floating on the waves.

  
  

• Watching my nephew’s theater camp performance of “Man in the Mirror,” then finding out about Michael Jackson’s death right after the show concluded.

  
  

• Late-night firefly shows. There’s nothing like fireflies in Indiana.

  
  

• Discovering how a sensitive person is prone to difficulties with reading Harry Potter books at bedtime. “He Who Shall Not Be Named” has a tendency to creep into one’s dream life and frighten one into a shivering crouched position on top of the toilet seat.

  
  

• Letters from a reader, reminding me of the “I-me-my” syndrome in my columns — that I am close to Bob Hammel’s record (which isn’t such a bad thing in my book).

  
  

• Sharing Mom’s peanut shell antics with Herald-Times readers — Mom saying she felt “like a celebrity” that day.

  
  

• The sights and sounds of Drum and Bugle Corps performances in Lucas Oil stadium, sitting between my brother and husband, reminiscing about our involvement in the activity more than 20 years ago (has it really been that long?), all in agreement that Indiana University’s Memorial Stadium offers a much better atmosphere for the experience.

  
  

• Buying fresh basil from my friend Denise at the farmer’s market.

  
  

• The unusual coolness and low humidity — not so conducive to juicy red tomatoes in my garden.

  
  

• Retiring my daughter’s purple L.L. Bean dolphin backpack from school use, the one she has used since first grade, not due to wear and tear, but because she’s grown into a more stylish, over-the-shoulder, messenger bag for sixth grade.
  

OK, now the nostalgia has really kicked in. Therefore, I officially declare that summer isn’t really over until sometime after Labor Day. This declaration is supported by a Google search that reveals the last day of summer is Sept. 21.

School starts too early, anyway. Let’s just submit to the illusion of eternal summer, youth, happiness, barefootedness and freedom. Who’s with me? We’ll call it the Declaration of Never-Ending Summer.

Wise words of girls create inspirational week at summer camp

It is simply self-defeating for any community to discriminate against half its population. We need to challenge these self-serving and outdated attitudes and practices .” Jimmy Carter, July 15, 2009

I was relieved to read Jimmy Carter’s recent stand against the Southern Baptist church’s subjugation of women. His article titled “Losing my religion for equality” reminded me of the importance of my emerging resolve to do what I can to nurture the voices of girls and young women.

I was recently blown away by the depth I experienced in the words of girls ages 9 to 11 during a week of summer camp I helped facilitate, themed “True Nature: Our Wild Dreaming Selves.” We held the camp at the Poplar Grove Schoolhouse on Bloomington’s east side, the new writing home for Women Writing for (a) Change, a project that has been active in Bloomington since 2004. It was through my participation in the women’s classes that the calling sprang forth to bring this work to girls.

I feel the temptation to write this column from merely a historic perspective: how the sound of pencils scratching on paper and the sights of children deep in concentration filled this building, how we ate lunch at picnic tables under the large shady trees in the back yard, followed by spontaneous games that filled the yard with joyful running and laughter, complete with a skinned knee. These scenes transported me back in time to what it must have been like in the early 1900s when this schoolhouse held classes for elementary-aged children. I enjoyed the full circle sensation, the connection of today’s ultra-modern, high tech life to a more simple time sans computers, televisions and cell phones.

But the experience held a depth that transcends history. These girls carry within them a deep wisdom that cannot be ignored. I was honored to be bathed in their words about sacred places, dancing candlelight, ocean waves, the way flowers know how to make the earth feel better, the intertwining of earth and soul, mother nature, breathing underwater, love as mentor, awakening courage and the shared love of writing as a means of self-expression and imaginary exploration. Writing in community with these girls strengthened my own words.

These topics did not need to be coaxed out of these young writers. Once they trusted that they were in a safe space, the words flowed freely. On the final day of camp, each writer stood at a podium and shared excerpts from what she had written in front of parents and guests. I was again blown away by their solidness and courage to share. Some of the written comments from the audience included:

“These girls were all able to express so much emotion through their writings. You can only leave here knowing there is so much good in our world.”

“What beauty lies within each of our girls. I was so touched with the depth of their wisdom. It was a gift for them to have a safe place to share their words. It was a gift to all of us to hear their words.”

“These young women remind us to be open, to see anew, to experience the world with the heart and senses wide open to possibility.”

“The gift of these young women together, learning, sharing, giving, growing — together. Amazing talents — the future.”

I believe the world needs these wise voices, whether they are housed in the body of a girl or boy, woman or man. Let’s not muffle anyone who wishes to speak from her heart. Let’s listen. Let’s celebrate. These voices are ripe with hope and healing, and that is sorely needed in our community, nation, and world.

My hat’s off to you, girls!

Working mothers should have more ways to keep their balance

By Kim EvansCommunity columnist
July 16, 2009

I’m sitting on the patio at the downtown Bakehouse, poised to write my column. After digging through my purse in search of my earphones, then untangling them from the tube of lipstick I rarely use, I am plugged into my laptop with Aerosmith’s “Dream On” filling my ears and a deadline looming. I hope the song choice isn’t prophetic.

I’m writing with the topic of work-family balance in mind, which seems appropriate as I feel the afterburn from a tense morning with my 11 year-old daughter. Most of our morning struggles are over her difficulty getting out of bed. Right now, she’s suffering from sleep deprivation induced by late nights reading “Harry Potter.” I haven’t been strict about making her turn off the reading light — who am I to discourage her from reading? (J.K. Rowling, I bless and curse you in the same breath. Note to H.P. fanatics: This is not an actual curse.)

It’s summer, and summer is for staying up late, sleeping in and roaming through the fields barefoot, playing outside all day until it’s time to catch lightning bugs. These were the summers I knew for many years. I woke up each morning and wandered into the kitchen sleepy-eyed to the sounds of Phil Donahue on our small black and white TV. I wouldn’t trade these memories for anything.

This summer, my daughter hasn’t had many Phil Donahue-ish mornings. I’ve been working more, recently taking the leap into renting an office space for my business, and feeling more pressure to show up there regularly.

I was my daughter’s age when my mom went to work full time. I remember wearing a house key on a string around my neck to school, often forgetting that key and entering the house by taking the screen out of my bedroom window and forcing the glass pane open enough to climb through.

Finding a work-family balance has been one of my deepest values since the moment the pregnancy test was positive. Like those parallel pink lines in the little window, my motherhood mission lined up before me with military precision. In my heart, I knew I wanted to be as present as possible for my child. For me, that meant working from home.

For the past 11 years, I’ve chosen the precarious world of self-employment in order to find the flexibility I need. I have carried the torch for moms working from home, starting our own businesses, cradling our nursing babies in one arm while typing e-mails with the other, holding on to the thread of showing up for our professional lives while holding the center of caring for our children.

And now I find myself feeling tired — and distinctly lacking in 401(k). I wonder how much professional equity I have built up these 11 years, working for myself from my basement office, spending many, many hours alone each day trying to get the work done before I hear the squeal of the school bus brakes outside.

I envision a future where there are more choices for working mothers, flexible working arrangements and a steady paycheck with benefits. Employers need to recognize there is strength in diversity, and a diverse work force includes working parents with varying needs and preferences.

I guess there is still hope that my writing career will turn out like J.K. Rowling’s, and even if it doesn’t, I know all is well. As I jam out to the music on my headphones, I remember the excitement I felt as a teenager at rock concerts in Market Square Arena.

I’m still that girl who loved to run barefoot in the grass and spend summer days playing in Stoutes Creek. But maybe I should turn the volume down. I don’t want to get hearing damage.

Kim Evans is a Bloomington native and IU graduate who moved back to Bloomington in 2005 to open her graphic design studio, raise her family and circle back to her writing. She can be reached at kimevans_columnist@att.net.

The old man and the tree: a journey on an unmarked trail

By Kim Evans

Herald-Times Bloomington, Ind.

Community Columnist

July 2, 2009

It’s summer, and my thoughts turn toward vacation. It was about this time twelve years ago that my husband and I had a memorable vacation experience hiking in the Smoky Mountains. The beginning of the story finds us enjoying the earthy sights and smells of the forest, noticing the unique air quality here – the moistness, the pure freshness – as if the forest were inside a cave with a view.

Then we begin to see that the trails aren’t marked as clearly as we are accustomed to back in Indiana. In fact, as we hike on, the trail markers disappear altogether. We are still on a trail, but we no longer know which trail. According to the map, we should have looped back to the campground by now. I am tired and hungry, and unbeknownst to me, hormonal from the early stages of pregnancy. A layer of fear begins to emerge in me like a thin sheet of fog at ground level.

Finally, we descend a hill and spot a paved road. My emotions are lifted slightly by this vision of civilization, but we have no idea which way to turn. There is a fifty percent chance of getting lost even further. No cars pass by; there is no one to flag down and ask for directions. I know of nothing to do but sit down on the side of the road and weep. We are lost in the Smoky Mountains. Score: Smokies:1; Kim and Trent: 0. I clasp my hands, rest my forehead on my knuckles, and pray for help.

Within moments we see a man walking along the road toward us, whistling and carrying a small pine tree in his hands. It occurs to me that this man might possibly be the answer to our call for help. Could an angel appear in the form of an old guy carrying a pine tree? I struggle to grasp the immediacy and humor with which our prayer may have been answered.

We explain to the man that we are lost. He tells us his friends are following him in a van, and they could give us a ride back to camp, as long as we promise not to tell anyone they are digging up pine trees from national park property. We accept his offer with gratitude, happy to trade mild lawlessness for a ride home.

The van appears. The man opens the hatch and adds his tree to the collection in the trunk. He introduces us to his friends, three couples altogether, well into their retirement years, partying and stealing pine trees in their boogie van. I suddenly have a vision of how fun old age could be.

We discover that our campground is about 11 miles from where they picked us up. We arrive safely and thank them all profusely, our new friends we will probably never see again. We slide the van door open and hop out, glad to be back on familiar ground. I had been to the forest and back, lost, then found, and was about to become aware of the larger journey I was beginning: the journey into motherhood, not unlike a hike deep into the woods with unmarked trails.

This summer we are heading straight down I-65 to the beach. If you happen to be on Dauphin Island, Alabama the last week of July, you’ll hopefully find me walking in the sand, hand in hand with my husband and daughter, listening to the ocean, feeling anything but lost.

One for the history books:

A tale of baseball and peanut shells

By Kim Evans

Herald-Times Bloomington, Ind.

Community Columnist

June 18, 2009

I come from a family of Cincinnati Reds fans. There was a time when Southern Sporting Goods in downtown Bloomington was the local ticket outlet, and I remember going there with my mom and brother, wooden floor creaking beneath our feet, air scented with leather and cigars. The salesman would pull out a small map of Riverfront Stadium and Mom would pick the best available seats in our price range. These were the days before online ticket sales.

It was a real treat to attend games and watch Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and the rest of Sparky Anderson’s Big Red Machine of the mid-1970s, and I had the most fun when we were joined by my cousin Jeff and his family. Jeff and I were people-watchers more than game-watchers. There is one particular night I will always remember. It was chilly enough for sweatshirts. The stadium lights were smudged by the evening haze. Jeff was pointing out people in the crowd, drawing my attention to strange hairstyles and funny outfits. The scoreboard showed two chunky hands clapping in an effort to get the crowd to join in. Jeff and I bent our fingers at the knuckle to make our hands look chunky like those on the scoreboard. We grinned like clowns while we pretended to clap with exaggerated motion.

Mom had just returned from the concession stand with the classic baseball snack, unshelled peanuts. She passed the crinkly bag down the row to us. I pulled out a small handful and rested them in my lap. After I cracked the first one open, I wasn’t sure what to do with the shell. I noticed Mom was throwing hers on the ground, so I followed suit, enjoying this opportunity to be messy and carefree.

Then I noticed the man sitting directly in front of me, leaning forward in his seat, inadvertently exposing a big gap in the back of his jeans. I didn’t look too closely because I was embarrassed on his behalf. I quietly pointed this out to Jeff, and we looked at each other with our mouths wide open, silently hysterical. I glanced over at Mom again, and saw she had that familiar devilish look on her face. I watched her as she took aim and tossed a peanut shell directly into the man’s pants.

I felt my eyes widen as far as they would go as she repeated the ritual several times. I wondered if I could get way with this, too? I decided to give it a try. Bingo. My shell landed on top of the small stack that was accumulating. Then Jeff joined in and before long the back of the man’s pants was full of peanut shells. My stomach muscles hurt from stifling my laughter. I kept wondering what Mom would say if the man turned around to confront us. Would she defend us? Or were we on our own? I wondered what else I could get away with if I got away with this. I started questioning why I tried so hard to be good all the time when being nasty was so much more fun.

Suddenly, the man stood up. A few shells spilled out the back of his pants. I grabbed Jeff’s arm and squeezed. The man looked around, hiked up his jeans and exited the row. We never saw him again.

I don’t remember who won the baseball game that night, but the peanut shell story has become “one for the history books” in our family.

Community Column #1

http://www.heraldtimesonline.com/stories/2009/06/04/column.qp-8661325.sto

Newspaper with an editorial page required for residence

By Kim Evans

Community columnist | kimevans_columnist@att.net

6/4/2009

Hi, my name is Kim, and I’m a Bloomington rubber-bander. I’ve fulfilled the classic scenario for many townies like me: We grow up here, not fully appreciating all this community offers. In search of some perspective, we move away for awhile. That’s what I did; shortly after graduating with a psychology degree from IU, I seized the opportunity to relocate with my soon-to-be-husband. Thirteen years, one baby and a more marketable associate’s degree later, there was nothing more I wanted than to come back here.

We lived in a very small town for eight years. While the kindness of the people in this small town was unsurpassed, the lack of town leadership started to get to me after awhile. There was no organized forum for public conversation. I hungered for a local newspaper with an editorial page.

So, as I launch my stint as a community columnist, I’d like to get a few things off my chest by sharing a sampling of brief letters to the editor I would have written to my small town newspaper:

Dear Editor,

Is there anything that can be done about the “antique shop” across the street from my home? I am concerned that my property value is being adversely affected by this eyesore with unfinished plywood siding, old rusty bathtubs on the front lawn, two buildings crammed so full of junk no human could possibly walk through, not to mention the conservative talk radio blaring all afternoon. Isn’t there a local ordinance that at least requires finished siding on buildings? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

I’m writing to convey my shock that a policeman knocked on my front door today and asked to speak to my husband and me about a complaint that a toddler was running around our front yard. That naked toddler was my daughter playing outside on a hot summer day. Is there a law against a toddler playing naked in her own yard on a hot summer day? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

Is there any way our town can find a more effective way to corral the loose, aggressive dogs across the street? I fear they will attack my child (yes, the naked toddler) if we dare take a walk to the park. Just how effective is a town official walking the streets with a box of dog biscuits tucked under his arm? Didn’t Mayberry have its act together better than this? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

When will the “renovation” work be done to our town park? We previously enjoyed going there to swing and play, but now all the playground equipment has been ripped up and there are dangerous trenches in the ground, filled with green liquid. I haven’t seen anyone working on it for several weeks and would like to know what the master plan is. (Is there a master plan?) Thank you.

Dear Editor,

Is there any way that residents can be forewarned when the town plans to flush out the water system? On several occasions we’ve been shocked to suddenly have rusty red water flowing from our bathtub faucet as we prepare to give our child (yes, the criminally naked toddler) a bath. How hard would it be for officials to hang door tags about this? Thank you.

Dear Editor,

Why are chickens residing in the town limits? Don’t get me wrong, I love chickens, but I don’t live on a farm, and I don’t love being awakened by a rooster crow at 5 each morning. And the smell of chicken poop knocks me over every time I’m in the back half of my yard. Isn’t there an ordinance that addresses this issue? Thank you.

Ah, it’s good to be back in Bloomington. Life handed me the perspective I needed. Along the way, I discovered some of my bottom-lines: town ordinances, freedom for toddlers to play naked in their own yards, and a local newspaper with an editorial page. Everything else is gravy.

Kim Evans is a Bloomington native and IU graduate who “rubber-banded” back to town in 2005 to open her graphic design studio, raise her family and circle back to her writing. She can be reached at kimevans_columnist@att.net.