L. S. Kreeba, Write On

Walk a Mile and Talk to the Governor

                So yesterday was a pretty cool day in my “Do the 52” effort.

                I started off at the shelter, as usual, but in a rush to get a few things done before 11:30. One of those things was a hasty purchase of some women’s shoes that wouldn’t leave me maimed for life. I went more by size than style—if I could get my broad, jungle-spread feet jammed into the pointy toes, they were good enough. I ended up with brown, and low heels.

                Walk a Mile in her Shoes is on the list of 52 things to do this year, so I couldn’t miss it. I raced over to Nebraskaland Bank’s parking lot, where you could tell the difference between the men and the women because the men were dressed up in gorgeous outfits and the women weren’t. I happily made out my check for $100.00 to Rape & Domestic Abuse Program, a service that does a world of good for people in desperate circumstances, and headed off for a mile of tottering.

                I heard that Alan Hirschfeld won best dressed, but Joe Hewgley should have won best-disguised. With his little dog on a leash, his badly placed bright red lipstick and his very uncomfortable high heels, I wouldn’t have known who he was if he hadn’t muttered rather loudly, “These shoes are killing me.” I thought that might be a relevant metaphor for domestic abuse.

                Finishing my race-walk, I ditched my heels, grabbed a hamburger and hotdog and raced off to the community college to give a class of young women my perspective on the effects of using illegal drugs. The contrast was stark, at least in my own mind, having just come from a fundraising effort to help mostly women whose lives have turned out miserably different than the dreams they had as they sat in college classes. Could it be that my comments just might allow even one of those beautiful, bright students to avoid ending up in an RDAP shelter? I’ll never know.

                Class over, I ate my hamburger as I raced to the airport, having heard that Governor Heineman was to give an in-person update on the legislative session. I was stunned to see no more than a small group, many of them media people, waiting to hear him speak, and the only one talking to him as he waited was Dr. Chipps.

                I’m easily intimidated by powerful people. My first inclination was to head for the back of the room and take a seat. BUT! Okay, think of me what you will, but I had my “Do the 52” Passport in my pocket, and I wanted the governor’s signature in it on the line that says, “Give an elected official your perspective.” So taking a deep breath, I approached him and Dr. Chipps was kind enough to introduce me without saying anything like, “This is Ron Snell, and he’s nothing but trouble.”

                Governor Heineman was gracious. I told him that I was the one who’d written the open letter challenging his bill on illegal aliens, and I thanked him for his letter in return. We agreed on the importance of engaging in the debate, in tossing our views into the arena, of opening ourselves up to different opinions and discussing those differences with energy and with mutual respect.

                “Well then,” I asked, feeling like a junior high boy approaching Tom Osborne, “would you sign my Passport?” He was intrigued by it, asked some questions and signed it for me. I told him that the passport was what had motivated me to write the letter, and he hoped that it would encourage others to do the same. During the Q&A I asked a couple of questions about wind power and admitting illegal aliens into colleges and universities. His answers were helpful. I was glad I’d asked.

                Spring is here. Activities are coming at us one after the other. I’ve helped frame a house for Habitat for Humanity, I’ve been to a performance at the high school (The Messiah), I’ve been to speech tournaments, I’ve celebrated St. Patricks Day at The Espresso Shoppe, and more because of that silly little list of 52 things that challenge me to get out of my rut and slurp up every bit of enjoyment I can in North Platte this year. With about nine months left to go, I urge you to plunge in and do the same.  It’s the most fun I’ve had since I arrived in 2000.

                Questions about how it works? Go to plattepost.com and click on Do the 52. Then click on the calendar and check out all of the possibilities as they are posted. And don’t forget to get signatures; more than anything else, they bring you face to face with some special people. As they sign your passport, you can thank them for their service.

Do The 52: Live at Da Buzz

When Publisher Peter Rodgers and Editor Job Vigil of The Telegraph started picking on my tie, I’ll bet they had forgotten that I sometimes write for their paper. Never pick on someone who writes for your paper. Of course they wield the power of the veto, but I’m counting on Pat Dannatt to stick up for me.

Tammy and I almost didn’t go to Da Buzz for the concert on Valentine’s Day. It was very cold outside, and we got home late, and hey, it was just Chuck Salestrom and Job and Peter. So totally hometown. If they were real musicians, would two of them still be sorting through nasty letters to the editor every week?

Still, I had made two reservations that morning, so there was no turning back We got there five minutes late and rushed in to discover that my untypical foresight in making reservations had landed us in a softly luxurious loveseat right in front of the trio. In a full-to-capacity room of hard chairs around small tables, I felt a little too privileged, like we were sitting in someone else’s seat and would soon be told to get up and get out of their way. But it did say “Snells” on the little card, so we plunked down and cuddled.

Well, we didn’t cuddle quite yet. First Chuck had to rib us by asking if we’d come on my boat, and Peter had to make some wisecrack about “Do the 52,” and Job had to tell everyone that my white tie looked thirty years old.

“How do you spell T-H-R-I-F-T C-O-N-N-E-C-T-I-O-N?” I answered. Which immediately made them regret their jokes, because they’d just given me some free advertising, which drives newspaper people crazy. Yes, that’s Thrift Connection, 422 E. 6^th St. So there.

It wasn’t the last laugh. All through an evening of love songs, the jokes and bantering kept Tammy and me in stitches, and I promise you it wasn’t because we’d been drinking. Nope, cross our hearts we’re doing the whole 52 alcohol-free. They are just plain funny guys. Somewhere in the past month or two Job’s goatee had migrated to Chuck’s chin, picking up a little more gray on the way, but apparently none of anyone’s hair had migrated to Peter’s head.

When they played and sang, Peter’s brow furrowed in concentration, Job’s smile widened broadly and Chuck looked as contentedly relaxed as if this were even more fun than being the P.R. guy at the college. They were clearly enjoying themselves more anyone else in the room, perhaps because they knew we’d actually paid for this. They dedicated songs to their special gals, took turns leading off and sometimes sang in beautiful harmony. Job even impersonated Elvis, although he did feel the need to tell us who he was impersonating.

I was trying to figure out how they got started doing this, but I really don’t want to research it. I mean, if they can write opinions without researching them, so can I. (Oooooh. Now I bet they wish they hadn’t picked on my tie and my boat.) I’m thinking Peter said to Job, “If you want to be the editor-in-chief, you’ll have to sing with me.” And after Job had had a chance to think about it for a while, he said to his wife, “Well, I don’t know which would be most embarrassing, so I guess I’ll do both.” And she agreed with one caveat: “Just don’t ever play at Da Buzz.” And the next day Peter said, “Great. Let’s start by playing at Da Buzz.”

It’s not really a describable event. All sorts of music, including lots of oldies, some Gospel and one classical. Job’s wondrously fun ad libs on the piano, which in one Beatle’s song went on so hilariously long between Peter’s lines that we worried Peter would forget where he was. Chuck’s experienced bass guitar and oh-so-perfect harmonies. Peter’s deadpan comments about wishing they’d practiced more and stopped sooner.

The dessert bar was amazing, homemade by Job’s wife Gail. She certainly deserved to have a song dedicated to her. I don’t know which angel made our caramel hot chocolate, but it was heavenly.

All three signed my passport, perhaps the first thing they’ve ever been asked to autograph. On the way home I said to Tammy, “That has to be one the funnest evenings we’ve ever had in North Platte. “

“Let’s do it again,” she answered. And so we will. Watch the Community Calendar in plattepost.com for upcoming opportunities to join us.

When you “Do the 52,” expect to be totally entertained. Right here in our hometown.

Do the 52: The Caucus

At the entrance to the Ag building Saturday afternoon, I’m stunned to see all the cars. Then I see the sign: Bull Sale, February 9. “Oh,” I think to myself, “so that’s why everyone’s here.” But something’s wrong. I’ve been to bull sales, and no one comes in a sedan. Where are all the muddy pickup trucks and poop-stained stock trailers? So these are people who have come for the Democratic Caucus? I chuckle at the irony: Republicans probably think it’s a “bull” sale all right.

I push into the crowded room to be greeted by Dan McGuire of the raised eyebrows and surprised voice. “Are you really registered as a Democrat?” he asks. “Yup,” I laugh. In order to participate in the primaries, I have had to change from my usual “Independent” to “Democrat.”

I look around and see some big surprises. People are whispering, “Can you believe he’s here? Who knew?”Others are undoubtedly whispering about me. I wonder if that’s what it will be like when I enter heaven. “He’s here?”

After a few problems with the P.A. system, we hush and are asked to approve the temporary chairman. We roar our approval. He then goes to the podium and nominates himself to be the permanent chairman. We roar our approval. I feel like I’m in a third world country where the next thing we’ll do is abolish the Parliament. But this is FUN. This MATTERS!

Next, Obama supporters must move to the left side of the building, Clinton supporters to the right, uncommitted to the back. Like trying to separate the bananas from the peaches once the blender’s been going.

In a few moments, I’m hearing Dan speak. He’s using a little portable P.A. system to throw his full throated support behind Obama. It’s hard to hear, but the passion is there. He has clearly prepared for this, ticking off his points, interrupted by cheers. Apparently this is a procedural mix-up; he’s not supposed to be doing this quite yet. Oh well, it’s Dan, and we love Dan. What’s a little anarchy among friends? And as long as he’s speaking out of turn, why not invite someone else to do so? A representative from Clinton’s side of the room responds with her own prepared speech.

So now we count. I wish for my father-in-law, who can just stare at a vast herd of black cows and tell me how many there are. Instead, we hold our hands high and then put them down when the counters click their clickers and look us in the eye. That look in the eye is the most significant event of the afternoon. “You’ve been counted,” it says. “Your vote counted.” I will never forget that. I’m frantically looking for Tammy, who is late because of the Blue and Gold speech tournament. We need her vote. Please hurry, Tammy!

For some reason we need speeches again. Nominations for someone to represent Sen. Obama? Someone yells a name. Then someone yells my name. “Are they kidding?” I ask a couple next to me. “You’re allowed to decline,” they answer. Then another name. Shouted votes, and suddenly I’m walking to the front of the room completely unrehearsed to tell 500 people why I’m voting for Sen. Obama. “Dead Man Walking” flits through my mind. When I stand in front of the microphone, the chairman asks me to be brief. “You can count on it,” I mutter.

I’d love to take this opportunity to edit the remarks I made. To delete the inappropriate comment about pronouncing “nuclear” correctly. To insert a comment about how Obama chose to go from the top of the socioeconomic class at Harvard to the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder in Chicago. To provide some better sound bites for the  media to quote. But that’s not really the point. The real point is that for what it’s worth, I didn’t decline. There were far better spokespersons there, far better prepared. There were women and men whom we respect more, who have done more for our community, who are smarter, more thoughtful, have a better grasp of the issues. I saw many of them in the audience.

But my one voice matters. Your one voice matters. You may think you have nothing to say, you may think you are a very small fish in a very large sea, you may be shocked to discover that anyone cares what you think, you may make mistakes in how you say it. Say it anyway. Given the chance, speak. We’re faced with dozens of consequential issues right now locally, nationally and internationally. We need your voice. Agree or disagree with my position, but speak. Yes, you’re allowed to decline, but I say to you with all my heart: “DON’T.”

Obama wins by three votes. Tammy has come in at the very last second. The counter has looked her in the eye.

Afterward we re-mingle for soup, crackers and dessert. It turns out that Clinton’s supporters like a good bowl of chili as much as Obama’s do. And so we enjoy each other’s company, all mixed back together.

When you “Do the 52,” expect a few surprises. And don’t decline!

SPEECHless.

The first thing that amazes you about a high school speech tournament is that the kids are so dressed up. You just don’t picture high schoolers that way these days. Suits, ties, shiny shoes.

The second surprise is that anyone can find the room they are supposed to be in. I feel like we’ve earned a piece of cheese or a tidbit of fresh fish every time we work out the maze and end up in the right room.

But the third thing is that beyond what you might imagine, this building reeks of energy, adrenaline, triumph, disappointment, nerves of steel, and sheer exhaustion. High stakes performances punctuated by card games, idle chatter, tense anticipation, roaring laughter, and big sighs.

Tammy and I have a vested interest in this tournament, since our daughter Sheila participates. She’s a senior, she’s doing well, and she has introduced us to a whole new world. But even if you don’t have a child to proudly support, this is fascinating stuff. In fact, the first round we attend doesn’t include Sheila at all. One by one, complete strangers walk in to do Extemporaneous speeches.

In random drawings, the contestants have pulled a question out of a hat, taken 30-60 minutes to prepare, and are now telling us how to address issues as complex as dealing with gangs in prisons and countering cyberwarfare advances in China. The two best contenders do so for 6-7 minutes without notes, clearly and coherently, absolutely putting to shame the adults we’ve known who cannot discuss an issue without resorting to anger, foul language, and personal attacks.

And then our hearts break for the guy who walks in, sighs deeply, says a few things about Hugo Chavez’s presidency in Venezuela, asks if he can be excused, and walks out, shoulders slumped. Outside the room he says to someone, “Aw man, I think I just went thirty seconds.” “Thirty seconds over the limit?” they ask. “No. Thirty seconds.” Still, he tried, and for that we’re proud of him.

Two of the best in the state are from North Platte. I hope they stay here, or come back soon after getting their degrees! When we congratulate one on his speech, he says, “I just hope I beat Kirsten (sp?) Block.” Apparently she is from Gothenburg, feared and revered. But instead of smash-mouthing her and making excuses, they push, push, push to beat her. We love that about these kids.

The day goes quickly. Persuasive speeches written by the contestants (our Sheila is one of the top contenders in Nebraska as she makes the case for “cooperation” being a more proactive approach than “tolerance”), highly synchronized teams performing Oral Interpretation of Drama, over-the-top individuals doing Comedy in all sorts of weird accents and facial expressions that exhaust us, and Duets that are so funny we just want to roll on the floor and hold our stomachs.

They take this stuff seriously, even when it’s funny. As we race through the halls logging hundreds of aerobic points in search of rooms, we see a pretty young lady in a suit speaking earnestly and gesturing convincingly to a fire extinguisher. Others just amble along the halls talking to no one but themselves in British, German, Bavarian or Australian accents, their voices alternating between soprano and bass.

For lunch we brave the cafeteria and feel like we’ve just landed in a refugee camp with a soup kitchen. Bags, spare clothes and junk food litter the landscape. Props are propped here and there—a mannequin dressed in an evening gown, a giant roll of duct tape, easels and poster boards. Students flop where they can, some eating, some sleeping, some laughing, some consoling, some sending and receiving text messages from friends on the other side of the dining room, as if it just requires, like, too much energy to walk over and talk to each other.

When it’s all over, we join everyone for the awards ceremony, which is quite interesting in its own way. For one thing, there are lots of kids who “place,” so for each event there can be a bit of a line on stage.  As each name is read, working from bottom to top, we collectively give one loud clap until the final announcement: “And the champion for this event is….” when the room erupts into thunderous applause and cheers and students all over the auditorium leap to their feet. That has to feel good. We are so proud of how often our North Platte students are right up there at or near the top, as if we’d coached them ourselves.

Special honors are given to the foreign exchange students who have competed. “Yeah,” I think to myself, “they deserve special honors.” I try to imagine myself competing in any foreign language that I know, and decide that I probably wouldn’t. But here they are, diving right in and even placing in some cases. Amazing. Our own speech team includes Huan He, born in China and raised in the U.S. “The Asian,” his teammates affectionately call him. As in, “We’re not competing in this round, we just came to babysit The Asian.” He's not an exchange student, and he clearly needs no babysitting—he shows up frequently on stage to accept top honors in his events. In fact, Sheila informs us, he has placed in every one of his events every time.

“Do the 52” includes attending a high school speech tournament. The easiest to attend will be “Blue and Gold” at the N.P High School on Saturday, February 9 (go to www.plattepost.com, “Do the 52”, “Educational” for details a couple of days before the event). Expect to be entertained. And impressed. And proud.

Do the 52: African Children's Choir

A few weeks back someone asked us if we’d be willing to help host some children in the Africa Children’s Choir from Uganda and Kenya. We said yes, so Jackie, Sarah and Julian, 8 and 9 year olds, arrived Saturday afternoon with their chaperone.

Here is how we knew that we had just been drawn into what will end up being one of the great blessings of our lives: Tammy went to pick them up at the Berean church while I scrambled to put a new fan in the refrigerator (another story). When they got to our house, they said in unison to Tammy before getting out of the car, “Thank you, Auntie, for driving us here. May God bless you!” Tears filled her eyes.

Their presence is precious. “Yes, please.” “No thank you, Uncle.” “Thank you, Uncle and Auntie, for the dinner. May God bless you. May we be excused now?” Hugs before they go to bed, quiet, beautiful young prayers before they fall asleep, more hugs when they come up in the morning, shoes always lined up in a tidy row, immediate response when it’s time for a shower or bed, dancing in the living room.

Less than a year ago these were some of Africa’s worst off children. They are orphans or single parent kids plucked from slums, city streets, extreme poverty and despair. We were told not to ask about their families, nor their schools, because they have virtually had none. Out of a thousand applicants, they were “the 26 chosen ones.”

They are choir #30 after 25 years of this ministry. The first ones are now doctors, lawyers, computer scientists, chefs…. “Our” three girls want to be an astronaut, a designer and a musician. During their concert we heard from one former choir member who is now a young man recently graduated with a degree in business management. When they found him, he was a seven-year-old who had migrated by himself to the city because severe drought had decimated his village. He was scavenging the streets every day looking for scraps of food.

I’m having the hardest time getting my head around this. By grace, one child plucked out of a thousand equally needy ones. I’m elated for these, but what about the thousands of other seven-year-olds who are wandering the streets today scavenging for food? Tammy and Sheila and I agreed that the worst part of this whole thing would be selecting the 26. Reading off the final list. Seeing 26 children rejoice, and 974 go back to their slums. How could you keep doing that for 25 years? How do you focus yourself to keep doing something, even if you can’t do everything?

Perhaps the answer is that these will multiply the efforts. In another generation they will touch other children’s lives. Only 12 disciples changed the world. Perhaps the takeaway is that if I invest heavily in a few lives, that offers more to the world than scattering my efforts over too many. I don’t know, but somehow this will improve my own sense of “ministry.”

If you ever get a chance to hear them in concert, or to host a few of them, drop everything and do it. Or maybe not, but do something this year to impact a few lives deeply. Who knows but that in 25 years Jackie the fearless one will be lifting off for the moon, in a space suit designed by Sarah with the gorgeous smile, to the accompaniment of rousing music by Julian with the gentle spirit. We will weep openly, and remember the awesome privilege we had of having them at our table laughing, teasing, and quietly thanking God for the people who love them.

                They will each sign my “Do the 52” Passport in the space, “Invite someone from another country home for a meal.” When you Do the 52, expect to be touched. The points you get, will not really be the point.

Oh no! They Think I'm a Liberal!

Tammy was laughing last night. Again. She’d just had a conversation with someone who said he was really enjoying interacting with me in spite of the fact that he is very conservative.

“I think he was implying that you’re a liberal,” she laughed. “How funny is that?” Tammy has had ample opportunities to disagree with me about nearly everything. “In some ways,” she sort of sighed, “You’re the most ultra conservative person I know personally.” She loves me in spite of my views, not because of them.

This isn’t the first time. One couple quit supporting the homeless shelter because of something Tammy wrote in her column, even though the column had nothing to do with me as Executive Director or the homeless. Maybe I was just too liberal for acknowledging her freedom to write whatever she chooses. Another woman refused to shake my hand when introduced to me by the former mayor. “I hate liberals,” she glared when I stuck out my hand and said, “Pleased to meet you.” My response of “Well, we might have a lot in common” didn’t help. “Sure doesn’t sound like it,” she answered.

All of which has made me wonder, what in the world is a liberal and how in the world did I get to be one? I attended one of the most theologically conservative Bible schools in the world, voted Republican every chance I had until I went Independent four years ago, was involved in the global Bible translation effort for 25 years, and have almost always used “liberal” in a derogatory way theologically, fiscally, socially and politically. I don’t anymore, having finally learned that most of the fundamental freedoms I enjoy were achieved by liberals including, oddly enough, Jesus himself (just ask the Pharisees!).

Maybe it’s that I work at a homeless shelter. Tammy speculates that anyone working in social services is automatically considered liberal. Well, that would be quite odd, because the Bible spends over 10% of its verses talking about reaching out to the poor, and I assume those who take the Bible seriously would be considered rather conservative.

Maybe it’s because of my views on social issues, but how would anyone know my views? It's not as though I put them on billboards. (Okay, for the record, I’m pro-choice before conception, pro-life after, and I believe pre-conception is where we can unite in our fight, since countries where education and contraception are widely available have a better record in reducing abortions than do countries that just make it illegal. I’m in favor of the death penalty, but am passionately against the horrifically unequal application of any penalty in our country based on race, class, whim, wallet, convenience, politics, or religion. I’m against teen sex, but am pretty convinced, based on numerous studies, that while abstinence works, abstinence only “programs” generally lead to more unplanned pregnancies instead of less sex. Etc. Etc.)

Maybe I’m perceived as a liberal because I’ve lived several places in the world and I see us as connected to each other globally. Maybe speaking several languages and enjoying people of whatever color or nationality equally is liberal? That would seem a little odd, since there are a bazillion people of other countries who are far more conservative than any of us are.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve been working to help build a new homeless shelter, as though putting people in a place where the plumbing actually works and giving each individual a better chance to re-build a life is liberal? Almost all of the early homeless shelters, adoption agencies and other social services in early America were founded and funded by conservative churches. I don’t assume that those involved with the Bridge of Hope Child Advocacy Center, for example, are liberals, even if there is a correlation between children who get abused and undereducated ending up as adults who are homeless. That’s statistical, not liberal. So efforts to prevent homelessness start with the community that allows so many of our children to be abused and undereducated. That’s just common sense to me, and I think both liberals and conservatives can enjoy a measure of common sense.

Or maybe it’s just because I see positive efforts at change as a good thing. I think it’s great that women got the vote, that slavery was outlawed, that America was founded, that other countries are participating in the global economy, that immigrants come in many colors and bring fresh new perspectives and energy (foreign nationals living here contributed to 25.6 percent of all U.S. international patent applications in 2006), that there are small groups of people in our community working creatively and energetically to make it a better place to live, that my choice of next president includes a woman American, an African American, a Mormon American, a trial lawyer American, a Baptist preacher American... (okay, so that was a bit redundant, but it just felt weird to only say "African American", as if he's the only American in the lot) and that none of those labels tell us much of anything about how well they would serve us as President. (Wow--try to diagram that sentence!)

Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Goodness knows everyone has a different definition of liberal and conservative. I just took four different online tests to see if I’m more liberal or conservative, and got four different results depending on the issues.

The only thing that saddens me about all of this is that labels lead to preconceptions. The person on the phone with Tammy gave the impression of being surprised to discover that he enjoys interacting with me. I’m sad that he  expected it to be any other way. Some of my best friends in North Platte are so different from me that one might wonder how we ever end up in the same room, laughing, talking, crying, sharing cookies and hot chocolate. Yes, shocking as it may seem, both far out liberals and whacked out conservatives love fresh chocolate chip cookies.

As the elections approach, I plan to attend campaign rallies of all parties and to talk to advocates of opposing positions. Please join me. Since the labels mean so little, that’s the only way I can imagine voting wisely on behalf of our grandchildren, or of being any good in this community. 

Three Secrets to Having Fun

Oh the woe: “There’s nothing fun to do.” Repeated in bored voices, young and old, across the planet and the years. It’s not just a local complaint. I’ve heard it on several continents and in many countries, from the Amazon jungle to Island-rich Indonesia to sunny southern California.

Whole industries have vaulted into lucrative positions by offering remedies. Travel. Theme parks. Movies. Concerts. Sports. Video games. Even church services. And still the continuing complaints, ironically increasing in number as incomes rise and opportunities grow.

Some people, of course, never lack for fun. It’s not because they have more money, nor because they live in fun-rich locations. I mean, it's easy to find wealthy people in fun-rich locations who aren't having much fun. So what are the secrets to having fun anywhere and everywhere?

First, fun is quite often not about “me.” There is ancient, eternal wisdom in that Biblical proverb, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” A family of middle aged siblings came to our homeless shelter to help prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Afterward one of them reported back to me, “That was the best Thanksgiving we have ever had as a family.”

It turns out that helping someone else have fun is more fun than trying to have fun ourselves. Any grandparent knows this. So do volunteers of all stripes—those who read to seniors, or mentor young children, or ring bells at Christmas, or build Habitat houses, or plan events that others come to enjoy. As an event planner myself, I gauge the fun I’m having by the smiles on other people’s faces.

Second, fun that engages our own creativity and every part of us is richer and longer lasting than fun that is handed to us on a platter, even if our culture has come to demand the latter. The funnest culinary experiences in my memory are those that involve a group of us working together to create a unique meal, rather than those that involve sitting idly and waiting for someone to bring me their world-class cuisine. I enjoy the latter, but the former is more fun in many ways.

This is why, I believe, video games and television are dead ends as entertainment, the culinary equivalent of ordering fast food, waiting for someone to bring it, and complaining about it the whole time we’re eating it. People watch TV by the year, the whole time reporting, “There’s nothing good on T.V.” It isn’t meaningfully fun, so the hunger for more increases while the payoff decreases. There is no video game on the planet that is ultimately more fun than exploring with a group of friends on a sunny fall afternoon in the park, or building a huge blanket fort in the living room.

Third, fun often isn’t. “Are we having fun yet?” I have quipped, as I slogged through rain and cold and sticky clay ruts with intrepid friends, carrying our bicycles twenty miles because the wheels wouldn’t turn anymore. Exhausted, hungry, miserable, no end in sight--in short, the best times of my life. The fun starts after it’s over. “Are we having fun?” Someday we’ll think so.

Great fun requires a great personal investment up front. No risk, no investment, no fun. Winning the lottery, it turns out, does not make most people happy. Study after study has shown that winners have no more fun after they win the big one than they were having before they won, and sometimes far less. The fun of winning a triathlon includes the months or years of experimenting with training, trying out different shoes, loading your iPod with just the right music, shopping for bicycles, sampling energy bars. The fun of putting on a play includes memorizing lines, laughing at each other’s mistakes, building sets, speaking to fellow cast members in different accents when you see them in the grocery store. The fun of taking a plateful of homemade cookies to a neighbor includes staying up late with a loud CD and a cat weaving herself around your ankles, then reading a delicious chapter while the cookies bake.

This is why those who plan events have more fun than those who participate in them. The cast of a play exults and dances and goes out to eat after a successful performance. The audience goes home and turns on the T.V.

For me, the Walk Around the Clock coming in October 2008, ten months from now, is already being a lot of fun. How? Well, to do better than last year, I need to do more training. Since I work on the computer a lot, that meant I had to figure out a way to walk while I type. That meant designing a laptop tray on our treadmill. Which meant scouring the garage for cheap materials and trying different designs. The result: while writing this column, I’ve walked seven miles.

May 2008 be full of fun that is about others, that engages all of our creative senses, and that results from our personal investment. If “Do the 52” provides inspiration, we invite you to join us.

Download 3SecretstoHavingFun--Audio.mp3

I Live in North Platte

(I wrote this piece seven years ago, when I moved to North Platte. Reading back through it recently, I had to chuckle. It's still relevant and it explains a lot about why we have put together a "Do The 52" competition for North Platte in 2008. Enjoy!)

     I live in North Platte. I’m shocked.

     Of course many of you live in North Platte too, without being the least bit shocked, but I came the scenic route. Remote rainforest of southern Peru through high school, Chicago and Indiana and California through graduate school, Washington D.C., southern Texas and Mexico through my twenties, Indonesia through my thirties, Dallas into my forties. If you’d asked me five years ago where I’d be living at the start of the 21st century, I could have named 100 possible countries and 1000 possible cities without ever getting close to North Platte.

     “Why North Platte?” ask people I'm leaving in Dallas and people I'm meeting in North Platte.

     “Why not North Platte?” I answer. For some reason, “why” sounds negative and “why not” sounds positive.

     Ultimately, the reason is Tammy, my fiancée. Tammy is the lovely and intelligent co-anchor weeknights on KNOP and she loves her job and has loyal fans who would wrap me in duct tape and lay me across the tracks if I enticed her anywhere else. I have corporations and organizations and clients in Dallas that greatly appreciate me, but none of them would duct tape Tammy for taking me away. If anything, they would raise their eyebrows conspicuously and ask, “With your background, why North Platte?”

     So now I live in North Platte, where people mostly think trees block the wind and a good view of nothing as far as the eye can see. Where I grew up, trees were the view. Now I have to learn north, south, east and west even when I’m referring to which corner of which drawer of which bedroom the camera is in. I practice, “Tammy, could you get the camera so I can get a picture of this cow? It’s in the southwest corner of the northwest dresser in the east bedroom.” I'm referring to the camera--not the cow.

     “It was in the northEAST dresser,” she says ten minutes later, patiently and lovingly but with unbelieving question marks in her eyes. Like, “Were you raised in a hut or something?” Tammy grew up on a ranch south of here, but where I grew up, dugout canoes were the only practical means of transportation and directions were just “upriver” and “downriver.” And they didn’t have dressers and drawers. Or bedrooms, for that matter.

     So now I have to find out what to do in North Platte. First, of course, I have to find a job, and I can’t quite figure out how running a training program in Mexico or directing a cooperative graduate linguistics program with a University in Sulawesi qualifies me for anything I’ve seen in the employment ads. But that’s a minor thing. When you’re a cross cultural trainer and real estate broker and author and speaker and handyman and building contractor and Peru tour guide, there’s always something you can do. Like ranching.

     More importantly, I have to find out how to enjoy this place, and I think I might be on my own. I checked in at the Chamber of Commerce on one of my earlier visits and asked what there was to do that was fun. Mind you, I’m not terribly fussy, having spent many years of my life 350 miles from the nearest light bulb.

     “Well…I don’t know,” said the first smiling lady, who apologized that she had only been here a couple of months. I thought two months might have been long enough to have discovered at least one fun thing to do.

     “There’s the train yards,” offered a second smiling lady who sounded like the train yards pretty well summarized North Platte.

     Within two years, I will offer them 50 things to do within 50 miles. I’m too old for 4 H and too young for square dancing, but I’m willing to bet that there’s a lot in between.

     But first, there are questions to be answered. Like why is it called “North Platte” when it’s between the North Platte and the South Platte. Why not a more accurate “Mid Platte”? Or a more descriptive “Flatte Platte?” Or, even trendier and more descriptive of its actual color, “Platte Latte?”

     And then I’ve got to learn everything I can about cattle and corn prices. Then I’ll be able to understand the noon news, read in a drone by someone who needs to learn how to make it sound fascinating that hog prices are the same as they were yesterday and the day before, but corn prices are moderately higher and cattle are…well…I forget how he said the cows are doing these days.

     Even though I’m chuckling, I’m not poking fun. I’m enchanted by this city and its culture, it’s friendly people and it’s super Walmart and its weeknight news anchor. I could have done far worse than moving to North Platte.

So, one thing at a time, and the first thing is to just get over the shock. If you’ve ever heard of Sulawesi, let’s have lunch. I’m going to love this place.