I want to go green, I really do.
When I was a "cub" reporter in Fort Dodge in the very early 1990s, the first writing award I ever received was for a series of stories I'd done on how the area was addressing a state mandate to reduce tonnage taken to the landfills over a several-year period. I did stories on recycling, on saving energy and on "going green."
That was the start of my ecological awareness. When my kids went to school and were taught things like turning the water off when you're brushing your teeth or recycling cardboard and glass, they brought it home and lectured their father and I when we didn't conform.
Now I like to think I'm pretty green. I keep my furnace turned down, opting instead for blankets and sweaters in the winter (except when it was 40 below -- on THAT day, the furnace went up). I don't use hot water in my laundry -- it's all warm or cold. I am driving closer to the speed limit now (although the high price of gas and my forced enrollment in driving school really get the credit for that).
And I recycle. A lot. Newspapers, cans, jars, boxes, plastic bags, laundry and milk jugs -- I recycle it all. Most weeks my recycling bin is fuller than my garbage can. I'm doing my part.
Thinking I would like to see just how much I could recycle rather than toss, I went to the City Hall in Coggon to get a second recycling bin -- how exciting it would be to have two bins full and only a half-can of garbage accumulated over a week.
Imagine my surprise when I learned the city wanted $14 for an extra bin! Fourteen. Dollars. Now, I have a 40-gallon garbage can (I have two, actually, but one usually stays empty in the garage) that can hold a lot of trash. For just $1 a week I can FILL the second one and the trash collector will pick it up.
But to recycle more -- to do something the state has been encouraging for years -- I have to pay $14.
Yes, I know that if I were to throw everything I recycled into the garbage and use that second can, I would be paying $52 a year. But that's over time. I honestly don't mind putting out $1 a week for a second can. But $14? That's two lunches downtown, or a third of my cable bill, or a night at the movies.
Why is it that everything that's good for you is more expensive?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Other people
For most of my life, I've thought myself immortal.
Not truly immortal, but the kind of immortal that makes you believe that "those things only happen to other people." It will never be my mother, my father, my brother or my daughter. It will always be "other people."
It's happening to one of those "other people" right now, and the sadness I felt when I heard caught me a little off guard.
The "other person" and I are following each other on the social media site Twitter. He is a journalist in Des Moines who knows many of my co-workers. He and I, however, have never met. We have shared a few direct conversations, but for the most part, we're part of a larger community.
In addition to being a good networking and sourcing tool, Twitter is also a window into other peoples' lives. Through Twitter we have followed as this man -- who is probably about my age, give or take a year or two -- went through chemotherapy for his brain cancer, a few hospital stays and various doctors' appointments.
We have also read as he recently helped his son build a pinewood derby car (to the tune of about $65) and the struggles the two of them went through in that process. We've read about getting kids ready for school and other ordinary parenting issues.
Yesterday, we learned this "other person" got the news from his oncologist: 7 to 8 months. He sent out a tweet that he was starting his bucket list.
I immediately felt a profound sadness for this "other person" whom I've never met, the stranger in my computer who I, along with countless others, have digitally cheered on through his battle. I thought he was winning.
Godspeed, Other Person. Safe travels on your journey.
Not truly immortal, but the kind of immortal that makes you believe that "those things only happen to other people." It will never be my mother, my father, my brother or my daughter. It will always be "other people."
It's happening to one of those "other people" right now, and the sadness I felt when I heard caught me a little off guard.
The "other person" and I are following each other on the social media site Twitter. He is a journalist in Des Moines who knows many of my co-workers. He and I, however, have never met. We have shared a few direct conversations, but for the most part, we're part of a larger community.
In addition to being a good networking and sourcing tool, Twitter is also a window into other peoples' lives. Through Twitter we have followed as this man -- who is probably about my age, give or take a year or two -- went through chemotherapy for his brain cancer, a few hospital stays and various doctors' appointments.
We have also read as he recently helped his son build a pinewood derby car (to the tune of about $65) and the struggles the two of them went through in that process. We've read about getting kids ready for school and other ordinary parenting issues.
Yesterday, we learned this "other person" got the news from his oncologist: 7 to 8 months. He sent out a tweet that he was starting his bucket list.
I immediately felt a profound sadness for this "other person" whom I've never met, the stranger in my computer who I, along with countless others, have digitally cheered on through his battle. I thought he was winning.
Godspeed, Other Person. Safe travels on your journey.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Are you talkin' to me?
No, of course not. That would involve speaking. With words. Out loud.
That's what I want to say to my kids almost every weekend when we take our trek into Cedar Rapids to go out to lunch and get groceries and do whatever it is we do to get some "family time" away from the computer and video games.
I remember as a child going into town with my parents -- or, more often, with my Mom because Dad was working -- and on the drive we'd listen to her radio station in the background while we talked. I don't remember a lot of the conversations because most of them, I'm sure, were my inane thoughts about life as an adolescent. But I do remember talking. And I remember loving that time with my family, when it was just us and everyone else was locked out of the world inside our car.
Now, with my kids, we make the 30-mile drive into Cedar Rapids with my radio station or CD playing -- and each of them with their MP3 players plugged into their ears. If I dare make a comment to either of them I get the rolled eyes and the "This better be important" look, which then makes me stop to rethink what I was going to say, to make it worth the interruption.
Don't get me wrong -- the kids and I do talk quite often. Once we get to our destination the music stops and we talk and laugh and have a good time. At home it's the same, we talk about our days and what's going on and what we want to do over the weekend or over the summer.
But in the car, it's their friends who have the advantage -- the kids keep their cell phones with them and usually on "vibrate" so they know when someone is trying to send them a message. THAT gets a response.
That's what I want to say to my kids almost every weekend when we take our trek into Cedar Rapids to go out to lunch and get groceries and do whatever it is we do to get some "family time" away from the computer and video games.
I remember as a child going into town with my parents -- or, more often, with my Mom because Dad was working -- and on the drive we'd listen to her radio station in the background while we talked. I don't remember a lot of the conversations because most of them, I'm sure, were my inane thoughts about life as an adolescent. But I do remember talking. And I remember loving that time with my family, when it was just us and everyone else was locked out of the world inside our car.
Now, with my kids, we make the 30-mile drive into Cedar Rapids with my radio station or CD playing -- and each of them with their MP3 players plugged into their ears. If I dare make a comment to either of them I get the rolled eyes and the "This better be important" look, which then makes me stop to rethink what I was going to say, to make it worth the interruption.
Don't get me wrong -- the kids and I do talk quite often. Once we get to our destination the music stops and we talk and laugh and have a good time. At home it's the same, we talk about our days and what's going on and what we want to do over the weekend or over the summer.
But in the car, it's their friends who have the advantage -- the kids keep their cell phones with them and usually on "vibrate" so they know when someone is trying to send them a message. THAT gets a response.
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