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?
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