Born in the USA

Once you have fully transplanted yourself to a new country, it is easy to forget what life is like in America.

Sure, I miss corndogs, Slurpees and Arby's jamocha shakes just as much as any red-blooded American would, but when it comes to everyday life it can easily slip my mind. Just this past week was the 4th of July. A holiday that is such an essential part of the American summer should be something that just flows through my veins by now, right? How could I have just let it pass by without any fireworks, barbeque or Bud Lights???

To be honest, I had nearly forgotten about the celebration. It was only when a colleague at work asked if I was going to bring any treats to share for the holiday did I remember. Oh yeah, Independence Day! I guess it's a bit funny being an American living in Britain on the 4th of July. Talk about irony. Back to the ol' taxation without representation for me... sorry T.J. declare your independence elsewhere! I'll choose free healthcare and 28 days of paid leave over those amber waves of grain--at least for awhile.

Yeah, I had some thoughts about the issues involved with my uprooted-ness around this special time of year in American history. But in the end I just celebrated with a good homemade burger and some freshly-squeezed lemonade (work the next morning, of course). I guess for now I'll just rest peacefully with the knowledge that we Yanks know better and that having a Queen is so two centuries ago.

USA! USA!

Listen...

Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?

Those of you who are die-hard Beatles fans like myself will know that this is the beginning of one of their earliest songs. The Beatles and their wonderful wonderful music are not the topic of this post, however. But, as is often the case, lyrics were popping up in my mind as I sat down to write this. The topic of this post is something that drives humanity, is on all of our minds nearly every day and the lack of it can bring some to their ultimate demise. I've been thinking about it a lot lately and the topic is happiness.

John, Paul, George and Ringo told us nearly half a century ago that happiness is a warm gun. Now, while this metaphor can mean a number of things (some of them more or less obvious), none of these are really what I'm talking about. The happiness of which they sang seemed to me more of a temporary experience. No, the happiness that I'm thinking of is more a state of being.

I was in Starbucks this Saturday evening, post-shift, and one of my favorite customers was sitting in the cafe. As I was getting ready to go, he called me over and asked if I would mind if he asked me a serious question. Of course, I sat down and said, "what's up?" Then, this grown man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, asked me, "Kelsey, why are you always so happy? I've never seen you not happy, and I'm curious as to your secret."

I've had this question posed to me before.

Never, however, has it been from someone I respect so much- someone who I see as older and wiser beyond my few years. I was blown away. I do spend time thinking about happiness, and I told him this. I wasn't exactly sure at first how to articulate my response, but I did my best to give an explanation for myself.

Happiness is a choice. Of course I have bad days. But if you choose to see each day as a gift, then there is no reason to be anything but happy. I cry sometimes. Sometimes I feel sad. Some days I feel downright depressed. But that doesn't change the fact that overall I am a happy person. I am thankful for all of the good fortune I've had in my life and I suppose this shows. And above all, what I want to do most with this gift of a life I've been given is to make the lives of those around me better however I can.

Having people like this gentleman in Starbucks notice makes it easier to keep on the way I have been, even when discouraging moments come along. It makes me feel like no matter my failures and mistakes, I can still see a purpose for my existence.

Clifford Geertz once said that, "one of the most significant facts about us may be that we all begin with the natural equipment to live a thousand kinds of life but end up having lived only one." I feel like living with that knowledge can make anyone want to make the most of what they've got. Choosing to be happy is just the way I want to spend mine.

Venti Nonfat Caramel Macchiato

I started a job as a barista at Starbucks a couple of months ago. I figured, what the hell. I love coffee, I might as well be getting it for free while I finish writing my Master's dissertation. Plus, they promised to pay me at least minimum wage.

I've actually really enjoyed my time at Starbucks so far. It's a funny sort of environment/cult that one becomes a part of once they start working at a franchise. Recently, my dreams have consisted of fast and furious rushes in the drive-thru during which I make drink after drink at 6am, knowing full well that I wasn't scheduled to be in until 2 that afternoon. My favorite part, though, is the customers.

I work in a town nearby my hometown, so I know a few people who come through the store, but not a lot. However, since there are so many "regulars" at my Starbucks, I have made some new acquaintances. Some of these individuals I now know by name. Countless others, though, I know by drink.

Just two days ago, I was wandering slightly aimlessly around Target (just down the road from my Starbucks) and saw Venti Nonfat Caramel Macchiato. Now, of course, this is not this woman's Christian name. Rather, it is her drink. Nearly every day I see this woman, speak with her, smile at her, ask about her health and her day, but have yet to learn her name. Instead, I know it is her as soon as she pulls up to the speaker and tells me she wants a venti-sized nonfat caramel macchiato. Therefore, when I saw this woman doing her shopping around Target, I immediately said her drink in my head. No speaker, headset or window separated us. I was no longer donning my lovely green apron, splattered with mocha sauce. However, I still identified her as her coffee beverage. I'm sure if she'd seen me, she would've said, "There's Kelsey, the barista."

Now, I don't necessarily want to be identified as my transient profession of glorified coffee jerk. Conversely, though, I am pretty sure there is much more to these people than the Starbucks drinks they order every day. I mean, Tall Quad Ristretto 2-Pump No Whip Mocha doesn't really identify with his drink on a personal level. Maybe he does, given its complexity, but I doubt it. More boring orders like Venti Unsweetened Iced Green Tea in a Personal Cup are probably not necessarily more boring people, but who knows? I do know that I love chatting with Venti Mocha Frappuccino with Mocha Drizzle, but don't care too much for the low grumblings of Unsweetened Venti Iced Coffee with Light 2% Milk. However, Venti Iced Coffee, Sweet but no Milk is one of the most adorable little Asian men I've ever encountered. It makes me think of the whole theory that pet owners start to look like their pets, or vice versa. Does that really hold true?

Photographs and Memories

I've been thinking a lot lately about photographs. Recently I had the chance to use an old 35mm film camera to snap a few shots, and so I got to wondering about the change in photography in the past 15-20 years. Photography has changed, yes. The way in which one actually executes the taking of a photograph is dramatically different now that digital cameras exist. Instantly, we can see the results of our efforts on a tiny screen built into the camera itself. This, of course, transforms the boundaries set by older, less-technologically advanced equipment.

The change in how photographs are taken is not really what has occupied my mind these days, though. Rather, it is about how many photographs now exist due to the existence of digital cameras. And, along with this, wondering how many photographs may exist of one person in his or her lifetime- many of which he or she may never be aware.

To illustrate this, I did a little observation of my own digital photography collection. As a case study, I chose to look into three sets of photographs, all taken in Paris, France at three separate times. Within these photos, I looked for shots I had taken of individuals that to this day remain anonymous.

The first one was taken in October of 2008 and is of a young gentleman reading on the lawn near the Eiffel Tower.

Apparently deep in thought, he seems to be a part of the natural scenery of this particular green space. I do not know him. I do not know what he was reading that day three years ago. And, he will never know that this image of him exists.

In June of 2011, I traveled again to Paris and took this shot of a

man walking past the entrance to the Metro near Notre Dame. This time, the photograph is of an individual in motion. He could be walking to work, home, university classes or a fashion show for all I know. However, as it is, I have this snapshot of a moment in his life. It is highly likely that he and I will never meet.

Finally, I went to Paris again just about two weeks ago. Many more photographs were taken.

The one I chose to look at for this little rabbit hole I've taken us down is of an older man sitting on a bench in Pont Neuf. To me, it seemed like he was waiting on someone. As time went on, however, it became clear that either that individual never arrived or he had just been doing a bit of, well, nothing. Which, to be honest, is what Luke and I were doing sitting in that same park, but under a tree when I shot this.

Many people do not like being photographed. Old Order Amish and some Mennonites forbid photographs being taken of themselves, citing the Second Commandment as their reason. However, it is nearly impossible to imagine a world now without the hundreds upon thousands of images on the Internet that people post purposely, not to mention anonymous photographs such as the ones in this post. The concept of space has changed since the storage of electronic files. It makes me wonder if some sort of e-landfill will have to be created to take all of the unwanted clutter leftover after this generation is gone. How many photographs will exist of children who were born in the time of digital photography by the time they are on their deathbeds? I'm waxing a bit morbid, but just sayin' is all.

Meh, some food for thought.

Take me away from fields of grain...

Well.

I just logged in here, and Blogger informed me that the last time I published anything was in July of 2009. In case some of you live in the stone age and haven't started using the "calendar" yet, it is now 2011. September, actually. Basically, it's been awhile.

I almost forgot I even had a blog. Does that kind of defeat the purpose of a blog to begin with? Oh well, no one reads this anyway.

Not surprisingly, quite a lot has happened in my life in the last two years. I really don't relish the idea of slogging through a detailed description of my latest ventures, hills and valleys, etc. So I won't. Instead, I'd like to talk to you about a place very near and dear to me: the old country road where I grew up.

Too infrequently travelled to deserve a real name, 550 West is just a hair over a mile long. Up until my senior year in high school, it was also not trafficked enough to be composed of anything but dusty limestone bits and pieces. It's paved now in a low-cost style fondly referred to as "chip 'n seal" by us locals. Not too dusty now, but still full of holes.

Anyhow, the thoroughfare's composition isn't really the point of this discussion. The interesting things are what lie on each side of 550 West. I grew up on the very last bit of land at the far north side of this old rural lane, so when I started running cross country at 15, I began doing my off-season training from one end to the other.

Now, one might think that this middle-of-nowhere pathway would be quite mundane. Obviously there's not much going on out in the country at 7am. But, after thousands upon thousands of strides spent going up and back, up and back, I've decided that this is far from the reality of 550 West.

Starting off from my front gate, I'd turn left and head immediately down a steep hill into a small valley. And, if I was lucky and it was October, I'd have some pretty entertaining sights on the opposite side of the pavement. Mr. and Mrs. Strong LOVE Halloween. When I say love, I don't think that really even begins to describe this couple's obsession with the holiday. No Christmas lights are ever put up at this house, no Thanksgiving wreaths or Easter bunnies bearing baskets full of eggs. But every autumn, as I crest the top of that next hill, I'll see her: the animatronic, deliciously evil-looking, head-nodding, wart-covered witch. Standing near the road, hands perched on her knobbly cane, she's usually surrounded by a few cronies- skeletons, spookily-carved jack-o-lanterns, perhaps some bats perched in a faux cobweb-laden bale of straw. And this is just the beginning. If I looked further inward on the Strongs' property, my senses would suddenly be inundated with everything meant to scare. Their barn, converted into a makeshift haunted house, played host over the years to all manner of folk from miles around (mostly their kinfolk). Around about a week before the 31st, I'd also expect to find a small colony of campers set up in the front yard, awaiting the finale night of horror.

Continuing south, I could see the Christmas tree farm and band of billy goats gruff belonging to the Ratcliff's on my left, coupled with the pen full of obnoxious jackasses the Ramey's have on my right. And yes, they do hee and haw to their hearts' content at all hours of the night/early morning. What a delight. This particular homestead also has a magical display of recycling genius by their front gate- an old jacuzzi liner, propped up against the fence, converted into a lovely green plastic planter. Seriously folks, this should be in Better Homes and Gardens.

After that, I expect to see more Rameys. See, many locals call 550 West "Ramey Road" due to the fact that about 80% of its inhabitants are, well, Rameys. Anyway, the next Ramey household is home to an obsessive lawn mower. I don't mean this guy just really prides himself in lawn care. No. This is serious. Not a spring/summer/autumn day goes by that I don't see him riding around his immaculate green spread that sprawls for at least two acres. The best part is that no matter how hard I try, I can never tell by the length of the grass where he's going to and where he's already been. I think perhaps it's just a therapeutic thing for him. That and it makes a nice stage for their Christmas decorations come December (giant light-up stockings with the names of their five children on each one).

Moving along, I pass through a few less-interesting bits. Despite the lack of detail, I'm always calmed by the expansive field on my right-hand side. Filled with either corn or soybeans (depending on the year for crop rotation), this field brings me some kind of reassuring peace. I can focus on each breath- in the nose, out the mouth- and the steady rhythm of each pounding footstep in the pavement. This is where I talk to myself most.

When the forest begins on that side and the houses start again on the other, I know I'm getting close to the main attraction on 550 West: the Ramey Petting Zoo. Home to all manner of fauna throughout my childhood, the Ramey Petting Zoo has always fascinated me in a twisted way. Strutting peacocks, miniature painted ponies, pygmy pigs, rabbits and ferrets make up the menagerie as I pant past. Giving my usual head nod and the occasional wave, I laugh to myself at this "only in America" feature to the road.

The last stretch is just me, the horses and the cows. One on each side, I imagine them encouraging me to the end of the mile, telling me that it's only a few yards more then stretch. Huffing and puffing, I make it to the end and turn around to see my new friend. See, recently I've been meeting an old farmer who has gotten into the habit of walking his white, fluffy three-legged dog, Suzie Q, around the time I run in the mornings. Nodding to each other from our separate sides of the roadway, we chat about the weather. That's all we've ever talked about, really. That and good ol' Suze. She only makes it one trip to the end of the road and back in the summer time. When it cools off she'll do more, the farmer tells me with a smile from beneath the brim of his old straw cowboy-style hat.

Eventually I have to bid my friend farewell as I speed back off down the way I came for my second mile. Sometimes I see a pregnant dog running around on my way back, but generally it's just me and my thoughts again. And honestly, of all the things I like about 550 West, it's the serenity of this that I love best.

Nothing could be better, and nothing ever was.

Standing, already, for over two hours, I had not even the faintest notion of fatigue. I was about to finally see my favorite (live) band for the first time. (I say "live" because I am and always will be dedicated to the Beatles...) YES. Chris Martin and crew were in the lovely little burrow of East Troy, Wisconsin for one night only.

If you are a fan of Coldplay and have never seen them in concert, DO IT. I am serious folks, it is worth the price you pay for any ticket in any venue. I was fortunate enough to see them from the Pit, right in front of the stage. Getting there early is a must for these seats, though. First come, first serve, standing room only. Yep. I was smart and had only one person between me and the stage: the security guard! When Coldplay finally came onstage, I almost passed out. Yes, it was that epic. Kind of sad, I know, to be that overwhelmed by a band, but trust me, it is definitely a sight to behold. I can't really explain to you how awesome a Coldplay show is. You must go see it yourself. I promise you won't be disappointed. But hurry, the Viva la Vida tour won't be around much longer!

Oh hey, I feel like a new pair of shoes.

Many moons have passed since my feeble attempt at maintaining a blog while living overseas in Cambridge, England.  My life has meanwhile morphed, once again, into that of a young girl swimming in a sea of Midwestern American farmland.  (At this point, many of you will stop reading...it's okay, I know Indiana isn't as interesting as my four month jaunt about Europe.)  Somehow, I manage to stay happily entertained no matter where in the world I am. 

At the cusp of my senior year at Valparaiso University, I have recently begun to feel the pressures of that unforgiving four-letter word:  LIFE.  In the midst of a summer full of two jobs, no air conditioning, and countless nights with wonderful friends, I am confronted with choices.  Where will I live?  What will I do?  For the first time, I find myself with TOO MANY options.  It is a relief in some ways, but mostly overwhelming (the buzzword, as of late).  

So. Instead of allowing myself to drown in this "future-talk" pressure, I have vowed to continue my life as it always has been.  I must find humor in everyday things (got it), turn everything I see into magnificent works of art (if only in my imagination), and continue to live up to my self-given title of The Eternal Optimist.  Yep.  No suicidal, emo blog for this kid.  (Sorry guys, if that's what you were expecting...) Although, I did have a dream last night that my bed was a pool of water and I was being chased by a hungry shark....hmmm....what would good ol' Freud have to say about that one??