Volunteering – Writing Wrongs

Well, January was certainly the longest year.

It’s been a lot, I’m not going to lie. But I’ve managed to do some writing, and some reading, and I even made it to the first meeting of my book club.

We read If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin. We all agreed that, in its own way, the book was a timely read, even though it was published in 1974. The group was so welcoming to me, as a new member, and I’m excited for next month.

I’ve rearranged my schedule, so I write in the very early mornings, while it’s still dark out. Although, can it actually be morning if it’s still dark out?

When I can, I read. Another thing I’ve been doing? Duolingo. Really. Last year, I was using it to learn a little Italian before I left on my trip. Now, I’m revisiting German. Between the four years in high school and two in college, I figured that would be the easiest language to start with. Maybe it’s that familiarity, but it’s an oddly peaceful activity.

I’m also thinking of signing up for the slow read of Jane Eyre over at The Tattooed Governess (formerly Book (& Craft) Alchemy). At some point, I bought the audio version, and it’s oddly soothing in the moment, too.

Finally, if you’re looking to help Minnesota but don’t know where to donate, may I suggest ICA Food Shelf? They do tremendous work. Currently, they’re ramping up new support programs and would be grateful for any amount you can give.

Bloganuary: What is the earliest memory you have?

My earliest memory is having my tonsils out when I was three years old. Most of these memories are fragmented. Being in a huge bed is one, although whether that’s true, I can’t really say. I was small for my age, constantly sick from my rogue tonsils. Any bed would have felt enormous.

The other memory, the most vivid one, was glimpsing ethereal, enchanting creatures in red and white. These teenagers. These candy stripers.

They made such an impression that when I turned twelve, I volunteered at our local hospital. At first, I had to wear the blue and white striped uniform (a visual cue for the nursing staff), but within a year, I’d graduated to the coveted red and white striped one.

My shift partner was a girl from the junior high across town. Rhonda was sunshine itself bursting into the rooms, often three patients in a room, chatting and laughing. I was endlessly shy. I busied myself refilling water pitchers, pouring juice, and being asked why I wasn’t as smiley and talkative as Rhonda.

We were a good team. She made everyone happy. I kept us on task and made sure everyone had fresh ice.

Each shift earned us a meal ticket to the hospital cafeteria, which thrilled us to no end. The macaroni and cheese with the breadcrumbs on top? Followed by chocolate pudding?

Chef’s kiss.

Sometimes I think about my rogue tonsils and how they led me down this path. I was never as ethereal or enchanting as the candy stripers of my memory, although I desperately wanted to be. But I like to think something came full circle during those three years of volunteering at St. Joseph’s Hospital.