It was a Thursday like any other Thursday

Working nights affords a person the luxury of living two days in one. You get all the daylight you want, you get stuff done when other people are working, and then you go to work.

So on a recent Thursday, I tried to shoehorn in as much as I possibly could before going to work.

The butterfly garden at the Ronald McDonald House needed weeding, so I swung by there to see how much damage I could do in an hour. As I plucked grass out from between the bricks in the walkway and shaved moss off the bricks nearest the fire escape, I started to think about work. We were slated to see layoffs that day. Nobody knew how many, how much, what time, who, but we knew it was that day. I started to psych myself up to be a good boss. I knew that people in the newsroom would be stressed, bummed, under-productive. "Be nice to them," I told myself. "They're gonna be sluggish and they're going to screw up, so be prepared to cut them some slack and work a little harder yourself to make up for it. Be gracious. Let people talk; it's what they'll need to do. The paper'll still get out."

And what if it happens to me? On the off chance that I lose my job, what's the first thing I'll do? Laugh, cry, swear? Feh, don't waste your time, Jann. Focus on what'll really happen.

Speaking of focusing ... I hadn't been to my eye doctor in more than two years, and frankly I was tired of having to take my glasses off to proofread newspaper pages printed out at 75% of actual size. And I was tired of having to slide my glasses down my nose a bit to see my computer screen, then back up again whenever my favorite page designer pestered me from beyond my cubicle glass.

I'd scheduled an eye doctor appointment for later that morning. When I got there, they were glad to see me and more than happy to sell me two pair of glasses -- one pair of distance-centric sunglasses for driving, and a pair of ... sigh ... bifocals for work. Geez, I thought, I've got no business buying two pair of glasses, but I need them and it's been such a long time, I can justify it.

The urge to stop at Starbucks after my appointment was too great to ignore, too, and I splurged on a big ol' cappuccino and a that-damn-diet-starts-tomorrow pastry.

It was just hot enough and sunny enough that a hike in a county park sure sounded good. I looked on the map and found the closest one, one I'd never been to. Ahh, a hike with the coffee and the pastry ... life is good. The park was hard to find, and had very little parking, which felt weird. How can you have a park with no parking? But I found my way in and walked under a big bridge/tunnel thing to get there, and it was stunning. No swing sets, no nonsense. A creek, waterfalls, the whole shebang. What a treat.

I walked and walked and was a little worried that I'd walk too far, that I wouldn't get back in time to get to work on time. But I took a look around at the big cottonwood trees and sweet little vistas and figured I could swing it. After about 10 minutes, I came to a clearing with a bench -- perfect spot for a bench! -- and what looked like a grave marker, a tombstone.

It turned out to be a memorial spot to a former newspaper columnist, a gentleman who had many friends, countless fans, and had made a great career of newspapering over more than 50 years. By the time I came to work at this newspaper, his work as a storyteller and goofy observer of the human condition was fairly well-regarded. So much so that we were not to change his copy without checking with one of the senior editors, which invariably endears a writer to the copy desk.

And I sat on the bench, a remembrance from the writer and his wife, engraved with words encouraging others to enjoy this very spot as they had for so many years. And I cried. All the stress, all the worry, all the fear -- what a comfortable spot to just go ahead and feel all the difficult things I was feeling. I sobbed and wept and all those other great headline verbs for crying. It was precisely the release I needed, when I least expected it.

And then I went to work.

Home

     Are those of us with a fixed "home" better off, somehow, than people who might not have a constant place to call home?

     Wait. I don't feel like I have a fixed home. Those of you who've known me for more than a little while know that I've long struggled to be truly comfortable in my environs.

     My friend Kir's mom still lives in the house in Columbus that Kir and her brother grew up in. But that doesn't make Kir immune to the vagaries of life in 21st century America. 

    My favorite 13-almost-14-year-olds have each lived in ... let's see ... at least four different houses apiece. I love them both and I know they like me, but are they damaged because they haven't been able to really put down roots? They're glorious kids, effervescent and lovable and witty and creative and brilliant. They know they have people who love them, I know they know that. I'll have to ask them what they think about this. I'm optimistic that they'll be OK.

     This afternoon, I drove past the house I grew up in, the place I called home for, gosh, 35 years. It's just a 1920's house, solid and friendly, and I always have to try not to cry when I see it. I mean, why cry over a house? But I usually cave, especially if I'm alone, and let 'er rip. It was a good place, and it feels good to have a connection to it. But it's somebody else's home now, and that's out of my control.

     So I drove farther, to some land we own that's really not in the middle of nowhere but looks like it could be. It's three miles close to a couple of little towns, but you can't see them from the property. When I was a little kid, it was pasture land, and Mom and Dad and I would drive up there once every weekend just to check the fence and check on things and make sure somebody's beer party hadn't left too much of a mess. I'd catch tadpoles and turtles and snakes and run around with abandon. I'd sit by the windmill while my parents were driving around checking fence (hmmmm.... hmmmm ... that's an interesting euphemism, now that I think of it ... ) and sing at the top of my lungs and imagine that I'd be famous someday. It's probably the place where I learned to drive, too. 

     Today I drove my rental car through the mud and snow to get out there, where it's 150-some acres of corn stubble this year, potato leavings next year. It was so glorious to stand at the high spot and just stare at the clouds and the horizon ... and breathe.

    

     Here, a few things I like about being home:

     ... driving down the middle of our blacktop road with impunity.

     ... waiting for a miles-long Union Pacific coal train, bedecked with garish Homer Simpson graffitti.

     ... meeting my dad's new friends at the place where he lives, and reconnecting with old family friends.

     ... meeting people from my past and finding out how nice it feels to reconnect.

     ... staying at the marvelous old house in my hometown that's been turned into the sweetest b&b.

     ... being able to see forever.

     ... $2 hamburgers and cheap beer at Glur's.

     ... hearing the trains go through town.

     ... being reminded of just how beautiful Nebraska is.