There is a powerful, life-giving phenomenon, called the Humboldt Current, in the Pacific Ocean of South America. Its positive effects reach for miles to unlikely places and in unlikely ways. These are my education goals for the children I teach on the North Dakota prairie -- fall in love with learning, then go change your world…

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Mrs. Dahl Earns Her Iron Butt Biker Badge

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Our friendship sent up its first tenuous shoots through a tangle of hardship.

My neighbor just to the west of our farm had a catastrophic motorcycle accident in July of 2011.  She went for a run after her shift as an ICU nurse ended, which she often did, and hit a deer so hard, she literally cut the thing in two.  Margo went airborne and landed hard in the ditch, breaking bones, collapsing her lungs, and suffering traumatic brain injury.  She lay broken and bloody in the hospital, her three children worried sick and precious few people to lean on. 

Margo’s prognosis was grim.  There was such pressure on her brain from swelling that her children were told she would never work as an ICU nurse again.  Her team of doctors were certain rehabilitation would take anywhere from six months to a year.  No one dared venture a guess as to whether she would ever truly regain her full health and mental abilities.

But they underestimated my neighbor.  She is tough and she is determined.  She is a fighter in its fullest sense.  If she sets her mind to do something, then she will find a way to get it done.  She never once considered accepting the doctor’s predictions as certainty.  She fought to come back with every ounce of willpower she possessed, and if you know Margo at all, you know that is considerable.

As the summer weeks and months melted into autumn, she did the unthinkable and was released from the hospital after only four weeks.  And then she began the arduous task of regaining her strength.  She had multiple setbacks and nearly started over at times.  But not once did she give up.  Unbelievably, she was back to work in the ICU after only two months. 

Margo is beautiful, she is stubborn and strong, and she is a complete inspiration to me.  Her brilliant smile is matched only by her warm personality.  I am a complete fan and am honored to know her. 

I do not know if I possess her brand of strength.  I hope I never have to find out, but I suspect my future will demand that my mettle be tested eventually.  I recoil at the thought of suffering or sorrow.  But then I remember Margo and my spirit is quieted, for she has blazed a trail before me and calls back to me still far behind on life’s path that I can indeed face hardship bravely for she has already slain those dragons and she knows I can too.

One night in August of this year she called late to see if she could run over and use our printer.  Technological gremlins were at work in her computer.  Yes, of course.  Come right over.  As she found her web site and printed off forms, she excitedly described her upcoming motorcycle trip.  It was called the Iron Butt Challenge, aptly named because it demands a thousand grueling miles of riding in a 24-hour time span.

Typical Margo was brave enough to be the only woman going on this run.  Her big, tough biker buddies worried that she would be unable to keep pace.  She never once doubted herself.  I love her courage.  She’s got moxie by the pickup load.

As she described her imminent adventure, the wheels of Mrs. Dahl’s brain were going on their own motorcycle run.  I just had to ask.  I did.  She beamed.  Yes, of course!  I gathered supplies for her and thanked her profusely.

Then I set about praying for her safe journey and safe arrival back home.  She is tough, yes, but even heroic, careful Biker Babes have accidents and cut deer in half. 

When she returned, exhausted but exhilarated, having visited seventeen states and the District of Columbia, she had indeed fulfilled my wishes and delivered to me a half-a-dozen small zip top baggies of soil from points along her journey.  We had Margo and her equally amazing daughter, Fate, over for dinner.  They came bearing dirt –- the best sort of hostess gift, if you ask me.

I got the giggles listening to Margo share her stories of being questioned, teased, and even aided by her biker buddies, big, tough guys with names like Wrong Way, and Tiny (a giant).  At first they thought she had truly suffered permanent brain damage when she insisted she take the time to fish out her metal spoon for digging and shove samples of common soil into her saddlebags.  But they eventually caught on to the spirit of the thing and soon were reminding her to get her dirt before climbing back on their bikes and even playing lookout at places like the Vietnam Wall.  Tiny prevented her from being foolish when she wanted to do a little digging at the Pentagon.  Apparently, you don’t say no to Tiny.

She told of gathering soil at the base of the craziest section of their journey, a stretch of road called Tail of the Dragon near Knoxville - a twisty, curvy stretch of road with 318 curves in eleven short miles, a right of passage for the true biking disciple.  

Margo has become a generous donor even since then.  She also gathered samples for me from Deadwood, South Dakota, the outlaw town where Wild Bill Hickok was shot.  She even remembered me when on the trip of a lifetime to Lambeau Field to watch her precious Packers.  

As I stare at these remarkable symbols of people who are willing to do strange things for a strange teacher, I am touched and honored by their acts of thoughtfulness.  I am a shameless saleswoman; I freely admit that.  If you are silly enough to brag about traveling, I will ask for a “wee favor.”  I cannot really explain the amazing effect my simple requests has had on my neighbors, friends, community members, and even complete strangers. 

It is not uncommon to walk into my classroom in the morning and find a plastic bag of dirt on my desk marked with the name of location from some state or another.  I may not discover until a much later time who so graciously thought of us while vacationing in some fabulous spot. 

It has escalated from there. 

I recently was handed an entire bag of goodies from Vermont, complete with real maple syrup, which my angels thought tasted like heaven itself.  Such good-hearted people, these donors are.  They are singled out of security lines in airports to have their “contraband” tested for drugs and/or explosives, they make annoyed spouses wait while they kneel on beaches and alongside highways, they travel with plastic bags and metal spoons for digging and they are a little sick, just like the teacher they do these odd things for.

I just returned from a long weekend in the Deep South.  Several very dear, lifelong friends also turned the Big 5-0 this year.  We decided we would celebrate our mutual milestone with a trip to Charleston, South Carolina.  I packed way too many clothes, enough junk jewelry to supply a flea market, and a fistful of plastic bags.  I love to collect sand because I can touch first grade fingers to its dampness and tell them they are feeling the very moisture of the ocean.  My landlocked Darlings are captivated by anything to do with the ocean.

As my travelling companions and I strolled the boardwalk in Charleston, I noticed a ladder leaning against the sea wall.  There was no opening in the railing to get to the bit of beach in front of us, but climbing over a railing was not beneath this quasi-hippie with the stealth of a cat.  “Rules are for sissies!” I shouted to my friends and proceeded to take off any extraneous clothing that might impede my Bear Grylls-like moves.  I quickly climbed over the metal railing and descended the ladder onto damp sand.  Grabbing one of the multitude of broken shells littering the beach, I quickly scooped sand into my baggie, added a few shells for good measure and climbed back up the ladder to my waiting friends and discarded clothing.

Just as my head popped over the railing, a couple who were standing directly in front of me were startled at my sudden appearance seemingly out of nowhere.  People were not supposed to be on that section of beach, after all.  “Hi!”  I grinned at my welcoming party.  As I dropped the goods into my bag and redressed myself, I chatted amiably with this couple as though we knew one another, ignoring their confused and silent faces.  Upon further inquiry, I learned they are from England.  England!  I just had to ask….  By the end of the conversation, not only had they promised to send soil from their English garden (“You don’t mean ordinary dirt??  I say, extraordinary…”), they had also agreed to Skype with my students and tell them what England is like.  I have not heard from them yet.  Is it possible they were just trying to escape the clutches of a pushy Yank who is shameless enough to solicit from complete strangers??  Nah…. 

I have ideas for expanding this little project of mine.  I recently wrote a grant and have yet to hear the results, but I would love to make this something the entire school could benefit from, and create an interactive website for students everywhere to complement it.  I get a little woozy thinking about adding more burden to my already exhausting life, but small steps for now.  As long as people are willing to share in the fun of participating, I will run with it.  If they will take a few moments to aide in the learning of geography for a small group of prairie-bound first graders, then I will gladly, shamelessly, whole-heartedly continue to ask even strangers for “just an ounce or two from your destination.”  I am still waiting to see if the garbage man comes through with soil from his trip to the Ukraine. 

And so…

If you travel to places my students have never been (which is anywhere outside a three-state region), and you are so inclined, we would be honored for you to send us a small sampling of the sand or soil from your locale.  A picture to accompany it would be icing on the cake.

Will I eventually have samples from all continents and countries?

Hey, I’ve earned an Iron Butt biker badge.  I can do anything…



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