(Almost) Winter Break

I am home. Good God almighty, I am grateful to say that. With grad school applications and a stupid online driver improvement course (I'm officially a member of the speeding ticket club…) still to be completed, I’m not quite in the clear for winter break relaxation. The weight of a grueling semester has finally lifted off my shoulders, though, and that is satisfying enough.

One Helluva Semester

I just discovered an index card I taped to my bedroom wall this past summer titled "Mentally Prepare: Fall 2014," listing all the things I was committed to this past semester.  How satisfying it is to pull that down and rip it into shreds [done!]. My summer August apprehension was justified; I knew the work load I was taking on this semester was not sustainable, and the semester proved me right.

I kept my smile and stayed positive. I reminded myself of the importance of balance. I tried not to take my assignments (or myself) too seriously. But perpetual busy-ness pretty much sums up the last three and a half months of my life. Fortunately, I don’t believe in perpetual sleep deprivation, so I saved myself from turning into a walking zombie after all but a few late nights. My schedule were packed and moments of relaxation few. Tuesdays were the longest, but every day was almost as demanding:

7:50        Breakfast with Lydia

8:30        Education

10:10      Peace

11:45      Scarf down some lunch

12:30      Change for tennis

1:10        Suck at playing tennis

2:30        5.5-minute shower to mercifully save my classmates from my sweaty self

2:50        Shakespeare

4:30        Shakespeare film lab

7:00        Dinner

8:00        RA meeting

Every freaking hour scheduled out. Just let me know when I am supposed to do the five hours of reading for Wednesday’s homework. So much for a morning quiet time of prayer, or exercise (tennis does not count. But I’ll get into that momentarily), or…what?! A social life? Is that a thing? It’s stirring blurry memories of a happier time far past. When did I miss the memo that my life was to become just as regimented as it would be at a military academy? Excuse my sarcasm; I joke, I joke. Kind of.

One morning at breakfast, I ran into Samson, who leads the 6:30 am boot camp I dragged my butt to a few times this semester.

Samson is bald and sports a goatee. Though he is a bit squat, waddling a little from past football injuries, his name is still appropriate. He has a commanding presence, and his voice carries the way you’d expect from an ex-marine. “JComp!” he yells as I walk by his table to dispose of my cereal bowl.

I whirl around, caught off-guard. I’m a pretty focused, one-track gal. I always walk like I’m on mission, even to the dishwashing conveyor belt. People used to joke in high school that they would wave at me in the hallways and I would walk right on by because I did not even notice them.

“Haven’t seen you at boot camp lately. You gonna come back around soon?”

“I hope so, Samson.” I shrug. I’m tired. “I’ve got a really heavy course load, though. I’m just trying to get through right now.”

“Don’t ‘just get through,’ JComp. Climb the mountain and stomp on it.”

I smile. “Thanks Samson. That’s good advice.”

And it was. I had to donn my figurative mountaineering gear this semester. I faced a mountain whose climbing grade was perhaps not comparable to the Himalayas, but was far steeper than the Southern Appalachia I'm so fond of. I wrote over 200 pages of papers and reading responses just to summit it. It took a lot more reading, research, and active participation to stomp on it.

Now that I am back in the valley, I think I did. I kicked and jumped and stomped til I had nothing left. Those A's gave the mountain a beating.

Tennis

Which brings us to the bane of my academic excellence this past term.

For my mandatory health and wellness class, I enrolled in tennis because I wanted to challenge myself. I could have signed up for backpacking and sailed right through a harbor of calm water. I wanted to learn a new game, though. Tennis, I figured, is something I can play for the rest of my life. I did not figure that I would be terrible at it. Being one's best is important to me, but I wish I didn’t care about grades quite so much. For an overachiever like me, though, the pressure only builds to make more good grades as the A’s accumulate. And tennis – tennis – was the only class where getting a B was a seriously feasible possibility. As my final grades attest, I made it out with an A-, which I'll deal with. I just couldn't "swing" that A.

Go ahead and laugh. Everyone else is.

I gave myself some slack the first half of the course. We were all newbies, and none of us knew what we were doing. But then people started improving, and I did not. As the margin of skill between my classmates and me increased, so, too, did my gut twist just a bit more every time I set foot on the court.

Hand eye coordination is just not my thing. Neither is strategy, or keeping score, or knowing whose turn it was to serve, or what side of the court I was supposed to be on…or generally understanding WHAT THE HECK WAS EVER HAPPENING.

4 points that are not simply 1, 2, 3, 4 – oh no, let’s go by 15s why don’t we, since that’s logical. Every once in a while we’ll switch sides of the court, but if I’m your opponent, I certainly hope you’re keeping track of when that’s supposed to be, because I’m still uncertain. And to win a game, you have to be ahead by 2. If you’re not, we’ll throw in some more confusing terms like deuce and ad-ins or ad-outs. Lots more games to win a set…2 out of 3 sets to win a match. Why is there a sport that is like a mini version of inception???

Tennis reminded me how much I hate being bad at anything. How often, if I’m honest, I only stick to disciplines and hobbies that I know I’ll be good at. I hesitated on starting this blog for a long time out of that same fear. Failure sucks, and I, along with most people, would rather avoid it.

That does not mean we should, though. God did not make us to live in a spirit of fear. He wants us to step out and trust him. Only when we’re stomped to the ground do we realize how very unhelpful we are, how much we need a big God. Against all odds, the Lord has still chosen us. We are not only his handiwork; he has chosen us to do his work, because he loves us and he wants us to be part of kingdom building.

Tennis challenged me in a way that English Seminar never will, rigorous as that class may be. It has been a humble reminder of how not awesome I am. As a Christian, it was a nice allegory of my weaknesses, God’s strength, and his decision to make me go “play tennis” sometimes anyway. As a teacher, it has reinforced the importance of valuing each individual’s talents and respective intelligence. Liberal arts curriculum requirements forced me to take a quarter-credit class that I really struggled in. Some people feel that way about school eight hours a day for twelve years. When I teach, I don't want to make school even more torturous; I will capitalize on my student’s strengths.

Someday, I really hope I can actually play tennis. In the meantime, I am going to keep telling myself that it can be fun, and I will keep practicing. I even asked for a racket for Christmas!

Good Riddance

Crazy as this semester was, I proved to myself that I could do it, and I tried to do it well. Beyond all the lonesome schoolwork, this semester was still good. My residents are incredible, and I really loved serving and mentoring them. I spent a memorable long weekend in Boston with Abby at the height of New England fall weather. I stayed in regular communication with family and friends. I picked up one heck of a boyfriend who has brought tons of joy to my life, and I began to figure out post-graduation plans. Miraculously enough, I really, really love being back at Roanoke. Despite the initial challenges, low and behold, it actually is the perfect school for me.

But man I am glad to be done. Ridiculous amounts of school work: ciao, arrivederci, never again (!). I can’t wait for one final semester  of college to invest in people, share Jesus’ love, and live spontaneously. 

Gratitude and 8 Buckets of Blessings

"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever." -Psalm 107:1

I remember a sermon several years ago that talked about being grateful, even when it seems like nothing could be worse. For the pastor, his wife had just given birth, and the baby was premature and in critical condition. As they prayed in desperation, and even some anger, they sensed that they really should be thanking God for everything that was going well. So they began with the basics...food, shelter, love from friends, a good God, an older healthy daughter. And once thanksgiving began, it became easier to think of more reasons to be thankful. As praise fell from their lips, the Spirit renewed them with hope, with faith, with gratitude. From a more secular perspective, they started looking at the glass half-full rather than empty, and it literally began filling up and overflowing.

Increasingly so, I am aware of my material wealth. I recall the moment in Cambodia, walking through a slum of shacks, garbage, and malnourished villagers, when I realized that no matter how poor I was in America - if I was scraping by on a teacher's salary, or living on welfare, or somehow lost everything - I would still be incomparably wealthy. And right now, I'm not scraping by. I have so many provisions, countless people who love and care about me, and bright opportunities ahead.

Today, on this fine lowcountry Thanksgiving, my heart is full, and my cup - or rather, my many buckets - overfloweth. In my education class a few weeks ago, we studied the eight "buckets" of wealth and poverty. Wealth is not just material. Even if I lost everything, I have a lot of other buckets that would sustain me.

A Thanksgiving Exercise

Go ahead, do this with me. Pull out a sheet of paper, and draw eight empty buckets on it.

Label your buckets with each of the following:

• Financial - Having money to purchase goods and services
  
• Emotional - Being able to choose and control emotions
  
• Mental - Abilities and skills to deal with daily life
  
• Spiritual - Believing in divine purpose and guidance
  
• Physical - Having physical health and mobility
  
• Support Systems - Having friends, family, and backup resources available
  
• Relationships/Role Models - Having access to nurturing, appropriate adults who do not engage in self-destructive behavior.
  
• Knowledge of Hidden Rules - Knowing the unknown cues and habits of a group

Now, enjoy some coloring time. For each of these buckets, be honest with yourself, and draw the line where you think your bucket is filled to. In America, many people may have buckets full of mental or financial wealth, but may be in a life-long spiritual drought. A woman in Belize may not have hardly any money, but she has the support of her community and a good God. I already knew I had a lot, but this exercise makes me wet, quite drenched, really, in wealth and blessings. 

Beyond money, I am thankful that I am not struggling with depression or anxiety, that I am about to graduate from college and go to graduate school debt-free, that I trust in and serve a God who has redeemed me. Physically, I am both healthy and fit, and I am surrounded by people who care for me. I have two parents who have set a good example for me, and I have been taught how to behave in different social scenarios. How very grateful I am! My prayer is that I do not use these blessings selfishly, but that I really am a blessing to others. I want to not only be aware of the poor, but to actively and intentionally step outside of a comfortable lifestyle to fill up others' buckets.

This day will never come again. No matter what your buckets are like, take a deep breath and remember that you are alive; that, my friends, is one heck of a gift itself. Where ever you are, whoever you are (or are not) with, whatever you are (or are not) feasting on today, I hope you have at least one bucket that is half-full. May we rest and be grateful in our buckets, and may we feel the urgent call to fill others up where we have the means to do so.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Drunken Soberness

You know those wildly off-the-wall extroverted adolescents? The ones you joke should never drink when they’re older, because they already live in an elevated craziness?  I used to joke that that was my sister. Apparently, it’s me too, because twice this past week my peers thought I was drunk when I was actually 100% sober. I find myself a bit offended, but mainly entertained by their suspicions.

Encounter 1: 

Last Saturday was R-Glow, which the advertisement posters around campus described as a “tribal rave experience.” I didn’t see any cheetah print or African masks, but we were not lacking in sensory overload. Around 11:30 pm, when I’d really prefer to start heading to bed, I ignored my internal clock and kept my promise to my friends to go with them. Just aiming to be comfortable and colorful, I pulled on my neon purple sports bra, white cami, and orange and blue Nike shorts. Just in case I wanted a drink at the cash bar, I stuffed my ID and a $10 bill into the secret key holder on the inside of my shorts.

The gym was dark, illuminated only by roving colored spotlights, flashing strobe lights, and glow sticks. An aerial dancer loomed above the crowd, spinning, bending, and splitting in mid-air, anchored only by the hanging silk fabric she wrapped around herself. 

It does not take me long to get down on the dance floor, so, amidst the rhythmic base of the deafening dub-step, fog machines, and exploding confetti, we pulled out our best and weirdest moves, very much Napoleon Dynamite style. It was way more exhausting (and fun) than an aerobics class. I went wild from the start, and, pushing past that initial wave of sleepiness, I didn’t stop the whole night.

After an RA meeting a few days later, Chris, a fellow RA said, “I saw you getting down at R Glow, Jess. Dang, you were crazy – I’ve never seen that side of you!”

“Haha, yeah, it only comes out every once in a while when I don't let school stifle me. But you know that was just me, right? Like, I hadn’t had anything to drink?”

I enjoy the occasional glass of wine or pint of craft beer. True to its depressant properties, alcohol does loosen people up, and it can add an extra fun factor. But once I got moving at R-Glow, the idea of a beer sloshing in my stomach did not sound that appealing. So I passed.

“There is no way,” shaking his head adamantly. “I don’t believe you.”

Really?! This guy knows me well enough. 

“Wellll you should, because I was stone-cold sober.”

We’ve all heard the “You-can-have-an-awesome-time-without-alcohol” lecture, but it really is true. I might be legal, but I still don’t drink that often, and when I do, I tend to be a one (or two) and done kind of gal. Part of not drinking in excess is about honoring both God and my body, but it is also just about being smart and aware. 

Encounter 2: 

Wednesday was the celebration of our founder’s birthday, famously known as Bittle Bash. The tradition includes a bonfire, a parade of students walking to Bittle’s grave, a “real-life” appearance of Roanoke’s first president himself, ending with a borderline raucous night of karaoke and drunken history professors. Since it was my last year to participate, I decided to take some time for myself and my sanity to enjoy this mid-week celebration. Loosened from the unceasing bonds of required reading, I felt free, alive, and very much like my real self (as opposed to the semester-long student). As we all marched through the biting air to the cemetery together, I skipped, sang camp songs, and ran between groups, fueled by a stream of academic absent energy. 

Two days later, my education class and I were presenting our service-learning projects in the library, and I asked the freshman next to me if he enjoyed Bittle Bash. As we talked, it didn’t take too long for him to ask, “Were you…a little drunk?”

Unlike Chris, this guy really didn’t know me, so I just smirked, happily responding, “Nah, man, I just get a little high on life sometimes.”

And I like it that way. Particularly in the wake of the shocking Rolling Stones article on the frat party environment and gang raping at the University of Virginia, I like that I don’t need a drink, and in fact, often don’t want one. When I had to take the alcohol.edu course before my freshman year at Roanoke, I remember learning that most college students think other college students drink more than they actually do. Sometimes I feel like a loser watching a movie in my room on a Friday night, envisioning the rest of the world getting ready to go out. But then I go on a duty round, and I find six other pods filled with perfectly content people watching movies in their PJs just like me.

 In the party culture so prevalent in high school and college, too many people presume alcohol is a necessary component to having a good time. But it’s just not, and I hope I testify to that truth. I like that I can enjoy a drink when I want to, but that I can have just as much fun without one. I like that I can dance confidently for hours, that I sing karaoke poorly but without hesitation, that I can be so outgoing people that don’t know me well assume I am in an intoxicated stupor. 

It turns out a drunken soberness is a pretty good state to be in.

Dan in Real Life

“So, how much time have you actually spent with this guy?”

Halfway through fall break, I am back in Roanoke with my friend Griffin. We are both crashing at a friend’s apartment for the night, and he is getting the scoop on Dan, who would be arriving in a few hours.

“Ummmmm, maybe like, nine hours?”

“And you’re about to go backpacking alone with him for three days?!”

“Yeah… I know it sounds crazy. It is crazy. And I am a little nervous. But it feels right, and I’ve gotta see him again sometime. He’s worth the risk.”

***

When I returned home from studying abroad last December, reconnecting with my recently-engaged friends Maddy and Thomas was near the top of my homecoming list, and it took less than a day for me to wind up back in Thomas’ living room. Ranting about my struggles to find someone to thru-hike part of the Appalachian Trail with me, Thomas offhandedly says Dan is the type of person that would do that. Apparently Dan was one of Thomas’ roommates from college, and, as it so happened, he was driving into Charleston that evening. Thomas’ head bops up. Eyebrows raised, he turns to Maddy. “Dan and Jessica. That has a lot of potential.” I don’t blush often, but that comment took me off guard, and I could feel the rosy heat rushing to my face.

A few minutes later, wearing a grey Clemson sweatshirt, khaki pants, and tennis shoes, Dan walks in. He looks tired from driving and doesn’t say too much. His short haircut accentuates the way his ears stick out a little bit, but he is tall and handsome; he has a nice way about him. I learn that he has a job set up after graduation in May, but he asked for seven months off first to go travel the world, and his bosses agreed. Thomas’ matchmaking inevitably encouraged me take some interest anyway, but I’m a sucker for a traveler. Still, I did not say too much to him that weekend. I never mastered the art of flirting.

Dating Dan could have been a fleeting consideration, the possibility coming and going with his own very brief entry to and exit from Charleston – and my life – that weekend. But we got connected on Facebook and Instagram, and the power of social media should not be discredited. For the next seven months, Dan was an enigma, a stranger I hardly knew at all, but I couldn’t totally forget about him, either. He liked almost all of my pictures, and when he headed off to Hawaii in May, his Instagram ascended to one of the coolest accounts ever. Every few days, he would post another ridiculous picture of camping next to a volcano or alpine mountaineering on Mount Hood. 

Who IS this guy?! I often found myself wondering.

iPhone in hand, I would approach my sister. “Hey RoRie, wanna see something cool?”

Rolling her eyes, she would ask, “Jess, is this another one of Dan’s pictures? You don’t even KNOW him!”

True, I did not know him, but I started crushing pretty hard on this mystery man. Midway through his trip, I knew he would be making his way back to Charleston to be a groomsman in Maddy and Thomas’ summer wedding. By the time July rolled around, I was just ready to pull my thoughts out of the clouds and get to know the real Dan. I knew we shared the same faith and love of adventure, but that was all I knew. What about his personality and passions? His quirks and flaws? 51% of me needed to find out if there was any mutual interest, or if I should get over him. Simultaneously, the other 49% felt like a fifteen year-old girl who wanted to run far, far away.

Though Maddy and I never talked about Dan, she had been scheming since December to set us up. We were both a little shy, and we only had a few short conversations over the course of the pre-wedding festivities, but low and behold, our seat placements were not-so-coincidentally next to each other at the rehearsal dinner, and the conversation flowed pretty naturally.

He shared his story of being a fake Christian through high school and the start of freshman year. God transformed him that year, and he has been passionate about sharing the real Jesus with people ever since then. He genuinely cares about other people, and he has a gentle trustworthiness about him that makes people want to open up. His post-graduation travels started selfishly, but he began blessing others by genuinely getting to know them, asking about their spiritual journeys and listening to their struggles. There are not enough normal-yet-bold Christians in the world, but Dan is one of them. His faith spurs me on to grow closer to the Lord myself.

After one heck of a wedding, I was rockin’ it out on the reception floor by myself like I always do. Eventually Dan made his way over to dance with me. He’s got rhythm y’all. A few dances later, he worked up the courage to ask me on a date the following day.

Between the time on the back porch sipping on mojitos with my family, brunch, and swimming in the pond at Sugah Cain, it was pretty much seven hours of the most Perfect Day Ever.

And then he flew to China.

When he wasn’t off the Wi-Fi grid, we caught up over FaceTime. The thought of spending more than thirty minutes on the phone with anyone used to sound like a massive feat to me. Talking to Dan in two-hour chunks every week or two as he made his way through Hong Kong, Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, Oktoberfest, London, and Iceland brought me some of the greatest joy in my whole week.

In the months following that date, I no longer solely followed Dan through Instagram; he had already shared the wild stories associated with each picture he posted with me. Dan the enigmatic stranger became Dan in Real Life. It is funny because that is also the title to my favorite movie, but that actually became his official name in my family.

“Dan slept underneath a bus seat last –“

“Who?”

“Dan, Hoffa, Dan Telsey.”

“You mean, Dan in Real Life?”

Exasperated, I concede, “Yes, Hoff, Dan in Real Life.”

Mid-October, Dan finally returned home, and I powered through to fall break. We decided to go backpacking together, followed by a visit to his home in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

Hoffa gave Dan the stamp of approval back in July, but you wanna guess what my protective father had to say about visiting his parents?

“That’s ridiculous! Why would you do that? You don’t need to do that!”

No, I think, but he did get to meet you already. It’s only fair, really.

Nerves aside, our reunion made me the happiest I have been in a while (and I consider myself a pretty joyful person). I mean, I could have done without the handlebar moustache, but Dan knows how to have fun with his facial hair. We headed down to Grayson Highlands, known for “wild” ponies and Mount Rogers, the tallest, yet rather anticlimactic, mountain in Virginia. As burnt-orange leaves crunched under our steps, we managed to complete a three-day hike in a day and a few hours, and over the course of the 25-mile loop, the conversation never stopped.

With our extra time, we headed up to Roanoke to break up the drive a bit and camped near the base of McAfee Knob. At the last minute, we decided to wake before dawn, night hike to the summit, and watch the sun’s majestic morning rays penetrate the darkness.

When we made it to Philly, I really enjoyed Dan's family, too. They are loud and boisterous in a different way from the Compton Clan, but the same kind of love is there, which is what matters most. By the end of the weekend, I was officially dating Dan in Real Life. I’m not really sure how I landed such a catch. After so many months of wondering who Dan even was, it is often still hard for me to believe. It also feels right, though. Really right. Despite the challenge of long distance, we’re having a blast.

I must close with a final comment from my father. Freshman year, as Hoffa, ever the Southern gentlemen, moved his eldest daughter onto a campus with a large New England student body, he looked at me soberly and acquiesced, “Well Jessica…I guess…if he’s a good one… you can date a Yankee.” At the time I internally scoffed and sarcastically thought to myself, Well thank you so much, dear father.

But Dan is a good one, one of the best, I think, and I could not be happier to call him my boyfriend.

Ol' Lady Elizabeth

Here's to you, sweet woman, on your 87th birthday. I couldn't make you a cake while I'm at Roanoke, but I know you're partying away right now. I hope you have a good decade of James Brown boogying left in you!

Elizabeth’s hands testify to more than age and arthritis. The fronts are dark chocolate, verging on charcoal. Slender and angular, they resemble a distant aerial view of small mountains – five frail boned ridges, with valleys of loose skin and knobs of enflamed knuckles. Her fingertips, after decades of shining and scrubbing, have regained some of their softness. These are hardworking hands – hands that have creased countless khaki pants, spanked several misbehaving bottoms, and rolled some of the South’s finest homemade biscuits.

When Elizabeth first began working in the Compton home some fifteen years ago, Mama’s focus was on raising four children under the age of six; keeping a clean house was secondary. Elizabeth, up in age even then, was a godsend. She has been wadding up newspaper to clean windows since she was sixteen, when she and her mother worked together in one of South Carolina’s now famous plantation homes, which was then owned by my cousins. The maintenance of the grand colonial house, once kept by slaves, did not decrease after the Civil War. For a small paycheck, Elizabeth kept it shining.

After the home was sold, she continued to work for various branches of the family tree, where she had the reputation of being stern and uncompromising. Family members from the generation above me still become being locked outside of the house while Elizabeth dusted and mopped. My siblings and I, beneficiaries of her more mellow years, were able to remain in the house, but we instinctively steered clear of Elizabeth’s migrating work zone. Today, her body belies her years; she looks twenty years younger than her actual age of eighty-seven. While four Compton children have transformed from babies and toddlers to teenagers and young adults, Elizabeth faithfully keeps up her Tuesday and Friday cleaning routine.

It may seem like a crime to hire a maid the same age as my chair-ridden grandmother. Employing Elizabeth is more like helping out a family member, though. Given her age, what she accomplishes is amazing, but it is certainly not up to maid-for-hire standards. Mama has been going back behind her for years, re-shining the front doorknob or smudges on the windows that Elizabeth’s weaker eyes can no longer see. The number of brand new clothes she has shrunk in the dryer or stained with Clorox can be frustrating, but now we are more cautious about what we once carelessly tossed in the hamper. These days, Elizabeth straightens more than deep cleans. Everything looks nice on Tuesday and Friday afternoon, and proceeds to descend back into an unkempt tornado within twenty-four hours. This job is her only income, though, and even if she folded clothes for twenty minutes and spent the next two hours eating a tomato-mayonnaise sandwich and watching TV on the couch, we would continue to pick her up for work twice a week.

Once I asked my mom if Elizabeth could really do anything well anymore. “She can iron. And she makes y’all do what you should be doing already.” I had to laugh because Mama is right. With a toothy grin and happy cackle, Elizabeth excels in two activities: ironin’ and fussin’. Once Elizabeth has thrown out the refrigerator’s perfectly good leftovers and made a little breakfast for herself, she places the ironing board in front of the TV like others set up tent, as if she may be there a while. She refuses to learn to use the remote and always yells for someone to turn on The Price is Right or a dramatic soap opera. “Up that volume for me, too, please.” With starch and steam, she irons crisp creases into the fronts of khakis and the collars of button downs. My fifteen-year-old brother, the only Compton son, takes no particular interest in his apparel or appearance, but Elizabeth wants her men looking extra sharp. While everyone’s clothes are ironed on Tuesday, only “Master Cain,” as Elizabeth affectionately calls him, has his pants ironed also on Friday.

There is a mixture of dread and entertainment when Elizabeth shows up. Dread, because we don’t like to clean the bedrooms and do chores for her. Isn’t the point of a housecleaner to clean the house? Why are we straightening everything before Elizabeth comes? In essence, Mama argues, so she doesn’t have to. We are also entertained, though, because twice a week, Elizabeth rules the house, making much ado about nothing whenever she can. “I’m gon’ fuss, now,” she always reminds us. She knows that with her age, she has earned the right to do and say what she wants, and she takes full advantage of her position in the family.

One of her favorite fussing topics is the outfits we don before leaving the house, which, according to her, never suit the weather. If it is raining and we have sandals or shorts on, she’ll rant about catching pneumonia if we don’t cover up. Once in high school, I came downstairs in a formfitting dress for a class presentation that day, and Elizabeth compared me to the voluptuous 1920s actress and singer Mae West. Though I am not that curvy and rarely wear dresses, ever since then I have been “Miss Mae West.” Sometimes I wonder if she knows my birth name anymore.

House rules don’t allow yelling up or down the stairs, but no one stops Elizabeth from hollering all the day long. She will request, question, or complain, but everything she says is really a command.

“You strip yo’ sheets yet?”

“Bring those clothes down fo’ me dahlin’. This ol’ lady’s knees can’t go up n’ dawn these stayahs all day.”

“Grab me some mo’ hangas, please.”

“Y’all keep these lights off, now.”

Without dilly-dallying, sheets are stripped, stairs climbed, hangers brought, and lights turned off. Even the dogs, who are not well-trained, obey her.

Elizabeth tells it like it is. Whenever she thinks parents are not disciplining their children enough, she asks condemningly, “You ‘fraid o’ yo’ own child?” A few months ago on the Charleston city bus, Elizabeth sat cramped between two young people, her patience dwindling with every unnecessarily loud word her preoccupied neighbor bellowed into the cell phone. She made a fuss for a bit, but the gal ignored her and continued talking, so Elizabeth moved to another seat. When the phone conversation ended, the young woman turned to her and, with a hint of attitude, asked what the problem was with talking on the phone. That day, Elizabeth happened to be taking her kitchen knives to be sharpened, and without a moment’s hesitation, she whipped one out and began ranting at the woman to leave her in peace throwing in an “I don’t play” several times. As she recounted this story, incredulous listeners retorted that this was a serious crime. It did not seem to phase her. “I don’t play,” Elizabeth repeated, and we all know it.

The only thing Elizabeth is better at than fussing is living. Her work has kept her physically active, but her friends keep her soul alive. She will never turn down a party, particularly if there is a dance floor, James Brown boogying, and good drink. One would be hard-pressed to find an eighty-six-year-old with smoother moves than Elizabeth. Her southern cooking – plates of creamy mac n’ cheese, collard greens, baked beans, country ham, homemade biscuits, and sweet potato casserole – is to die for, literally. Butter is always the secret ingredient, and no calories are skimped. While the likelihood of a physical heart attack increases with every bite of this “soul food,” the spiritual heart never felt so satisfied. Elizabeth has been singing in her AME church choir for over sixty years, and after the fiftieth year, she was honored with a plaque for her dedicated service. After her great-grandchildren, the congregation is her extended family, and along with the normal Sunday service, she rarely misses a funeral or prayer meeting. She is overwhelmed by the kind gestures of friends, but she doesn’t realize it is the natural order of things – what goes around comes around.

As for the Comptons, she often tells us that she loves us and that she prays for us every day. Then she reverts to fussing, reminding us to say our prayers, too. Every year for our birthday growing up, she gave us a card with the respective number of dollar bills for our years of life. She always signed it the same way: “I love you. -Old Lady Elizabeth.” It was repetitive and predictable, but the love and monetary sacrifice in those cards was tangible. For each of Elizabeth’s special occasions – her birthday, holidays, a visit from her son – she asks me to make her one thing: a lemon pound cake. She doesn’t share it with anyone, preserving the extra portion in the freezer to savor one slice at a time. When I place that wrapped pound cake in her weathered hands, it is as if I am signing a card to her. For all your fussing, for all your care, “I love you. –Miss Mae West.”

Writing My Story

“Is your life a story that someone would want to read?”

Last week before the rest of the Compton clan arrived in Greenville, my sister, Georgia, and I enjoyed a late-night dinner together, catching up over some locally celebrated Greek-American eats at Olympian Grill just down the road from Furman University.  It was family weekend, and, giddy at being reunited since our precious Charleston summer came to a close, we shared the past two months of our crazy and fun and stressful and sleep-deprived college lives with each other.

Then she turned sober on me.

“Jessica, you say you’re trying to keep a balance, and you’re making time to talk to your friends far away that you care about. That’s great. You say you have friends on campus. But really, do you? Because it sounds like you’re just doing school work to me.” Even before I made my defense, the prosecution had set down an eerily accurate verdict. Probably that annoying telepathic soul sister connection.

She was not accusatory. She just regurgitated the facts I had shared and made a concluding observation. Still, it was convicting.

“Welllll, that is a topic of potential debate. You know, G, I’m trying to prioritize. School work doesn’t rule me the way it used to – I don’t take it quite as seriously. But I still want the A, I’ve conditioned myself to work for it to the best of my ability for the past fifteen years, and I’m taking a butt-load lot of classes.”

Wow. That’s not the strongest argument. You’re pretty much summing up what she just said. I took another stab.

“I don’t know, there’s just a lot to be done. I tell myself people matter more, and they really do. In my heart, I am third. Jesus first. People next. Then me. But that isn’t necessarily reflected in my life every day. I just don’t have time to make any new friendships. Maintaining the ones I already have is more important. I’m a senior, I’m already a quarter of the way through my last year, and, honestly, I’m just trying to keep trucking along, keep my head above the water, and maintain some sanity. It’s too much effort to make dinner plans with people…”

She just sat there, letting me condemn myself. “Oh, Jess.”

But what am I to do? I signed myself up for this, and I’m trying to take it in stride. It really is hard, though! Some weeks feel like I’m on an unending date with my books and word documents and classes, interrupted only by 20-minute periods of scarfing down sustenance and surface-level interactions with my classmates. And deep down I ask myself the same thing Georgia asked. What are you doing? Why are you doing it? This is not the life I was made for.

I was made with an intelligent mind, and I was made for greatness – if that can be said without being pretentious, I really do believe that, but it doesn’t equate to making good grades and checking off tasks in an agenda. I was also made for people - to help them and listen to them and serve them. I was made to worship an enormously good God. I was made with a smile to bring joy to the world. I was made with a heart for mountain trails and new adventures, for sharing and writing stories, for loving and being loved.

Last night I set up a dinner date with one of my freshman residents that I have wanted to get to know since the beginning of the year. We sat down for an hour and shared the past two months of our crazy and fun and stressful and sleep-deprived college lives with each other.  It’s a start.

Lunch Buddy

I enter the elementary school lunch room where a substitute teacher directs me to Majesty*, who is sitting at a round table all by herself. Even before hitting the "blossom" accompanying adolescence, she is stunning - curly waves of brunette-black locks and creamy hazelnut skin. Her specific race is an enigma, but when we first make eye contact, she radiates an aura of kindness. I introduce myself and ask if anyone had told her she had been assigned a lunch buddy.

"No," she says, "but that's great!" 

Her cheeky grin expands across her whole face as she finishes off a Little Debbie Nutty Bar. Like any dessert-loving fifth grader, this is the first selection from her tin lunch box, also packed with a sandwich, a nacho Lunchable, and a note saying, "I love you!  ~Mommy." 

I'm not one to beat around the bush, so I jump right in, asking her about herself and her family. Majesty does not hold back.  She is the youngest of eight. Eight! Her mom has cancer, but she seems to be stable.

At least I don't have to spend the next eight weeks trying to figure out why I have been paired with you, I think to myself.

A little overwhelmed by these first two statements, I rewind and ask about the ages of her sundry siblings. They range from 50 to 20, and she assures me that they are all fully related. Her mom is sixty and her dad is eighty; some of this math is not adding up to me, but I let it go. And then there is ten-year-old Majesty, who is actually adopted. Her blood mother is her adopted mother's sister (her "aunt" and "mother" are switched).

Another girl plops down beside Majesty. Nodding to me, the new arrival candidly asks, "Who are you?"

I introduce myself, and with a hint of pride, Majesty adds, "She's my lunch buddy!"

"Jealous..." the girl says, and her face shows it.

"This is my best friend Kia*. She just moved to Carver."

I expand our conversation to a ring of three, and I begin to learn a little about Kia. She moved from Roanoke over the summer because her sister returned, and her single mom needed a bigger house. In their old one bedroom apartment, her mom and brother took the bed, so she slept in the closet.

Kia's jealousy is justified; she deserves a buddy, too.

"I didn't mind it though," she adds happily. "It was like my very own fort!"

I love this. I love the lack of self-consciousness and sincerity of these two girls. I love that someone you just met can be your best friend and that you say the special ed girl in your class is so sweet instead of calling her weird. I love that fifth graders are not yet ashamed to have visitors at lunch, that lunch buddies are not a sign that you are struggling, but that you are prized. Coming full circle, they are already making me feel pretty special. While I normally power through my day, bee-lining straight ahead to the next task, this lunch visit decelerates my full-speed-ahead mentality, peeling back my side blinders to the common reality of nontraditional families and everyday poverty. 

The thirty minutes pass by in a snap, and I am soon waving goodbye, telling Majesty I'm excited to see her next Wednesday.

Being a lunch buddy is the compulsory service-learning component of my education class. I have realized that the mandatory aspect just enforces weekly consistency, though; my heart is already tied to the elementary school down the road. I have made a new friend, if only for a few months. My professor says that we are to be "vessels of goodness and light" when we interact with the kids. Perhaps Majesty's day was a bit brightened today. I hope by the end of my visits, Majesty absorbs a little bit of the love that I cannot help but shower upon her.

*A pseudonym

A Sampling

I am reading, all the time. I try to change the environment up a little bit – the corner nook chair in my room; an eno hammock next to the creek, discreetly tucked behind the freshman dorm; my iron bench on the back quad (my name is not on it, but it is very much mine; kind of like Sheldon and his spot on the couch); the rocking chair on the porch of the Chaplain’s Office; those gloriously comfortable couches on the third floor of the library; and, for particularly dull readings, an equally boring and hard desk. Still, every night (or, rather, early morning) as I crawl into bed, just before I quickly slip into a deep sleep, my head aches from all the literary food I have digested. So. Many. Words. Ceaselessly.

I am embarking on a semester-long reading marathon, and it is a feat to keep pace. Without utmost attention and discipline, I tend to wander from the text. My mind drifts, pressed with post-college decisions and the many other things I would rather be doing. Oftentimes the book finishes me before I am quite done with it, my drooping eyelids, which as of late have been forced to stay open too long, demanding a respite. Today, my mind wandering as usual, I was struck by the variety of subjects and material I am powering through. It is really quite comical.

 So, I thought I would invite you into my world, give you a taste of who my companions have been these last two weeks – not the new freshman on my hall (but they are SO great!), not often my best friend or those with whom I would still like to reconnect. Nope. It is the books…and some wine and chocolate. Books on books – a diverse selection covering a whole spectrum of academic disciplines. How are topics like sugar and its increased consumption over the last two centuries, the struggles of a first year teacher, Homeric battles, a quaker’s moral conflict over slavery, reconnecting with oneself through journaling, different approaches to literary analysis, and Shakespearean sonnets for a sampling of this week’s reading?

“At the production end, sugar early became one of the leading motivations for making overseas agricultural experiments of a mixed sort – that is, with capitalist means and unfree labor. At the consumption end, it was, as we have seen, one of the first items transformed from luxury to necessity, and thereby from rarity to mass-produced good, a transformation embodying both the promise and the fulfillment of capitalism itself.” (Yawwwwwwwn)

                -Sweetness and Power

“ ‘When you’ve got the guts to face what you did and talk about it, I’ve got the time to talk to you. But I don’t have time to waste talking to a cowardly little boy.’ I didn’t say it mean, just matter-of-factly.

     He turned back to his classroom, picked up a desk, and threw it. He looked at me, his chest heaving, his eyes wet. I just shook my head, shrugged, and walked away.” (What a badass teacher)

                -Educating Esmé

“And at this, once more

He joined the melee, entering it as a god.

Hektor in splendor called Kebriones

To whip the horses toward the fight. Apollo,

Disappearing into the ranks, aroused

Confusion in the Argives, but on Hektor

and on the Trojans he conferred his glory.”

                -The Iliad

“Many slaves on this continent are oppressed, and their cries have reached the ears of the Most high! Such is the purity and certainty of his judgements that he cannot be partial in our favour. In infinite love and goodness he hath opened our understandings from one time to another concerning our duty toward this people, and it is not a time for delay.”

                -John Woolman: A Nonviolence and Social Change Source Book

“To begin to ‘write real,’ (that is, to keep a journal and to write from our hearts and our feelings) is to enter the river of our writing and being.” (I do value journaling, but can we get any more hippie?)

                -Writing and Being: Embracing Your Life through Creative Journaling

“If a character narrates who also plays a role in the diegesis, it is called homodiegetic narration. If a voice situated outside the action narrates, it is called heterodiegetic narration.”

                -The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd 
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age; 
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed 
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage; 
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, 
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state, 
Or state itself confounded to decay; 
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate -- 
That Time will come and take my love away.
   This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
   But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 

                -Sonnet 64

How ridiculous is that?! Do you feel like your brain is starting to hurt a little bit? This is what happens when you are an English major at a liberal arts college.

Don’t get me wrong, I really do love being a student again. Learning and discussing is my thing; I have been doing it for a good 16 years now. But balance, as I have blogged about before, is key. Right now, it would be nice to have less books and more people.

PS

The time I spend in class is killer. I have calculated that I spend exactly forty hours a week. FORTY HOURS. That is a full time job without the homework. If I’m supposed to be spending three hours studying for every one hour in class (believe me, I don’t), there’s another 56 hours (not including tennis and lab). And if I ideally got 8 hours of sleep every night (again, believe me, I don’t), then there is another 42 hours. That totals to 138 hours.

There are 168 hours in a week. What does the math equal? SchoolOnSchoolOnSchool.

PPS

It is Saturday, and I am going downtown for some live music at Sidewinders tonight, just in case you’re concerned all my time is spent in class or isolation. I think I can count on people being there.

Back to the Grind, Ready or Not

You would think after literally a fifteen month break from legitimate academia a dork like me would be excited to return to school. The grass is so often greener on the other side, and I get to return to that side. An opportunity like that so rarely comes around, you would think I would really be appreciating it. Taking one last hurrah around the track, being able to return to the glory days of college. That is a precious, coveted gift, and I should be stoked about it.

The last half a year, I have been. But now that it literally looms right before me, now that I am about to dive into the thick of it, I am afraid I may drown. Oh God. Can I handle this? I really don't know. I might break down. I probably will; it has happened before. WHAT have I gotten myself into? Six classes and two jobs?! So much for that social life. Or my peace of mind or sanity or morning quiet times or physical health or any of the things that actually matter. Jesus.

So even as life continues on rather normally in the present and I go prancing around like the camp counselor I am for all of my residents and new freshman beginning to move in, even though I just received an amazing scholarship for a year of graduate study abroad (which should seriously take some pressure off of senior year, right?), even though I am just fine right now, I see the tsunami building miles off. I know it will inevitably crash over me, and I fear it. Just fine is not living, though. Just fine is getting by, and it can quickly spiral into a euphemism for No! I am not fine at ALL! I thought I had conquered most of my tendencies to worry or be anxious in high school, but I think it turns out I just have not had anything to worry about in quite a while.

I am trying to keep everything in perspective here. I get to learn, one of my favorite things to do. School will challenge me, but it is not going to kill me. My immediate needs are always met, I have loads of people who love and care for me, and I have one year. One year to soak up the community only found on a college campus, to pour into other students, to love them and share how Jesus does too. But right now, my emotions are playing with my rational sense, and I already need a reminder of the full life I was made for.

The school year is here. The daily crazy is back. I am not ready, but I don't think there is anything that will prepare me more. As most of us re-enter the picked-up pace after slow(er) summer days, I remember how futile worry is. It will not add a day to our lives, so let us take one one day at a time. "This is the day the Lord has made," I remind myself. I will rejoice in it, and I will let tomorrow worry about itself.

Living Righteously

I have noticed a pattern in the Scripture I have been reading lately in which God calls his people to live blamelessly. Of course, this is not a new tenant at all. It has been around since the foundation of Christianity before the Fall, and ever since then, we have been screwing that commandment up. In fact, most people who have just barely been exposed to Christianity think this is what it is all about: being “good people,” doing “good things.”

No matter what, followers of Jesus have been called to live righteously. As I return to a setting where I am unknown by half of the student body, I have been thinking a lot about the impression my actions and words have upon others. Do they know that I am genuinely interested in listening and caring for them? Is my light shining? Do they see my joy? Do they wonder where it comes from?

Each time I have opened my Bible this week, I have been reminded that Christians are called to holiness, not necessarily by reading Scripture or worshiping (though those are important things to which we are also called), but by our actions, by the everyday choices we make in our lives. Over and over in the New Testament books I have been skimming through, I am picking up on the emphasis to live righteously by being pure, honest, and loving. Through them, the verses read, others will take notice, and we glorify God.

Here is a summary of some chapters I have looked at recently:

Be imitators of God. Live a life of love. Walk as children of light, bearing goodness, righteousness and truth. Live wisely, filled with the Spirit.

(Ephesians 5)

God wants his children to be sanctified, living a holy and honorable life. If we don’t, we disregard Him. Love each other more and more. Live a humble life, so you can win the respect of outsiders.

(1 Thessalonians 4)

Train yourself to be godly. Set an example for believers…Be diligent in doing this, so that everyone may see your progress. You will save both yourself and your hearers.

(1 Timothy 4)

You are not your own; you were bought for a price. Glorify God in your body by living purely.

(1 Corinthians 6)

Be holy in all you do, because God is holy, and he redeemed you with Christ. Obey the truth, and love each other deeply. Abstain from sinful desires, living such good lives that others see your good deeds and glorify God. By doing good you silence foolish men…Live for the will of God, and love each other deeply.

(1 Peter 2, 4)

“The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous and his ears are attentive to their prayer, but the face of the Lord is against those who do evil.”

(Proverbs 21:21)

“Set an example for others in speech, life, love, faith, and purity.”

(1 Timothy 4)

Fortunately, being virtuous is not the whole story. These verses attest to two other results. First, rather than doing works just to stay on God’s good side, grace flips our actions into an eager response of gratitude because of the the lavish gift we have received through Christ’s blood. It is not just about being good. It is about honoring God because we are a precious commodity for which he paid the ultimate price. In response to that miracle, we get to shine. We are given the chance to strive to be more like God, emanating his light, his radiance. The second outcome: when we do live in a way that is pleasing to God, other people take notice. Through our righteous actions, we testify to a different life. People who are not Christians will see us and not only recognize the difference in the way we choose to live or find us faultless; they will yearn for what we have. 

Thrifty, Part 2

The difference between thrift shopping in Colorado and South Carolina is mainly in the type of clothing bargain one finds. While it is easy to snag a Lily Pulitzer dress at the Goodwill near Isle of Palms, in Colorado, it’s all about the outdoors and the cowboy look. So, like the Vikings hopping and sacking one community after another, as the rain set in each afternoon, we ventured to a new thrift store in the Durango area, hungry to lay claim to any hidden treasures we could find. By the end of our exploits, we hit at least seven stores, lugging off a heavy load of gems, including a $22 genuine leather jacket worth about $300 (I am so jealous of Rosa Marie), a(nother) cowboy hat for Hoffa, and my four dollar puffy vest.

After the Jailhouse, we stormed into the United Methodist Thrift store at 3:15 for our second plunder, where pillaging ensued. In half an hour, we seized all kinds of valuable goods from the racks. But we were cut short. I don’t know when stores started closing at 4 o’clock, but this one, probably manned by volunteers who made it very evident they were eager to listen to mountain music that night, were ready to go.

“Customers, please report to the cash register to make your final purchases.”

As they make this announcement, I am in the dressing room, and treat this appeal much like I do Mama’s calls for supper when I have not quite finished up with my work. Don't worry, I'll be there in five minutes.

Literally two minutes later, they are back on the loudspeaker. “The store is closing. Attention, the store is closing. It is time to go.”

Jesus, calm down old retired people. Not sure you could be too much more subtle there. I have one more dress to try on, and I’m probably going to buy it. Chill out a sec!

The dress was a go, and in a chaotic rush to make it out the door without physically receiving the boot, we all piled our findings on the checkout counter, helping  remove clothes from hangers and report price tags - none of which were over five dollars - to be manually entered into the register. All of our clothes were subsequently stuffed to the brim in a white kitchen-size trash bag. The rush worked in my favor, though; despite their meager price, I am not sure my padded spandex biker shorts would have made the purchase cut otherwise.

“How are we going to get all this stuff home?” Cain asked as we hauled our booty down the street.

It was a legitimate question, but I reassured him we would resolve that when the time came.

The spree continued. At one ten by thirteen foot sketchy hole in the wall, it may have been hard to navigate the piles of clutter, but if you found something good, it was practically free.

“Oh heck yes,” Georgia exclaimed as she pulled off an American flag blouse from one of the store’s two racks. “‘Murica forever.”

“Georgia, when are you ever going to where that?” I reprimanded.
“Ummm, basically to anything having to do with our country. Duh. I realized during the World Cup that I own nothing to display my ardent affection for my country.”

When Mama went up to pay for three shirts and a puffy Northface vest, the cashier-less cashier counted the items and said, “That’ll be five dollars. Plus forty cents tax.” He just stuffed the cash in his pocket, and I somehow doubt that forty cents will be submitted to the IRS. But hey, Georgia can now be patriotic, so I’m not complaining.

At Dunn Deal, another store selling more furniture and gear than clothing, I happened upon a pair of clip-in road bike shoes that fit my foot perfectly, and the price seemed right. I brought them over to my sisters for evaluation.

“You know, you should probably get a road bike before you get shoes,” Georgia suggested.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I guess you’re right. It’s just hard when I know I won’t find a deal like that back home…” Plus, I thought, I might as well complete that new biker outfit of mine.

I returned to put them back on the shelf, but the owner intersected my direction. After talking about the shoe brand, its fit, and the hardly worn, fantastic shape they were in, I began to cave.

“If you were my daughter,” he disclosed, “I would be announcing to you that we are spending getting those shoes. Thirty dollars on a pair like that is a steal.” Of course, he had a vested interest in me buying these shoes, but his advice seemed genuine, so I went for it. I really am hoping owning all of the gear, you know, minus the bike, will encourage me to hit the roads more seriously in the future. Or at least a few more spin classes.

After almost entirely disregarding price tags up to this point, our next stop to ReRuns made me gasp, literally. Thrift stores that identify themselves as “high-end second hand stores” are one of my biggest pet peeves, and this was one such boutique. Once that article of clothing is back on the market as “lightly worn,” those stingy store owners need to realize that it no longer matters that that sucker was once marked at $85. It is not anymore, so don’t go off trying to sell it for $40. I might have scoffed a little too loudly. “They don’t make dresses like this anymore,” the stylish and age-appropriately dressed older owner retorted. Yeah, just like you. You’re cramping my steal-a-deal style, grandma.

After a very chilly and under-dressed semester in DC, I have become an advocate for owning the right clothes for the weather. The down coat I splurged for in Italy was one of my wiser purchases, and it kept me toasty for half a year plus a backpacking trip…and then it began to stink. Although I carefully researched proper washing methods for such gear, all that was left after the light tumble dry with tennis balls was a clumpy, featherless heap of nylon and a despondent owner. I already missed its squishy, body-heat trapping attributes, and I longed for another one.

Over the past few years, I have almost entirely converted to consignment stores, where my shopping has become economically frugal, though perhaps quantitatively excessive. In my experience, I have learned that you will likely be disappointed if you go in searching for a particular item. You just have to survey what is available, and let the right clothes and their beautiful prices find you. Still, with every door we entered, I had my eye out for that down coat. Day by day, we began to exhaust the host of thrift stores in Durango. Each time we entered a new shop, I searched for it; I just felt like I was going to find it – somewhere on a rack it would be hidden from the masses, just waiting for me, the destined second owner. But as the week progressed, that fate seemed increasingly less likely.

So I must confess, having been let down by my search for that ten dollar down coat, there is one exception to my stingy sprees. I’m a sucker for outdoor clothing brands. Marmot, SmartWool, Chaco, and so many other overpriced, Made in America, lifetime warranty rugged companies, you’ve got me. I consciously guard against this weakness by only entering REI or Half-Moon Outfitters when I do not have money. I did have money in Durango, though, and I did mosey into one of those local outfitting stores to happen upon the perfect down coat, and by the end of the week, after a thorough investigation of online prices and a daily visit to the same sale rack, I did, of course, crack. It was sixteen times more than the envisioned price tag, but that charcoal black, thirty percent off Patagonia was calling my name. Following a week’s worth of cheapskate shopping, I splurged on something that will not lose its European goose down, and I am glad I did.

After shopping almost everyday, our trip came to a close. To solve the predicament Cain addressed from the very beginning, we returned to Dunn Deal to buy a seven dollar suitcase; it is only fitting that our thrifty finds be packed in a reused item. We crammed and kicked and stood on top of our luggage to zip it up, but we successfully returned home with all of our thrift booty, and we made the most of our rainy afternoons. Our wallets are a little emptier, our drawers a little fuller, but I would say that a combination of Caesar’s famous phrase and our family trip Instagram hashtag #ComptonsConquer applies quite well to our thrifty ways. 

We came to Colorado, we saw the sights, we conquered the thrift stores.

And now, if you have made it this far, you may be entertained by a just-shy-of-fifty item inventory of our ridiculous thrift store purchases.

Hoffa

Mud Doc Boots

Hat

Braided belt

Flannel shirt

Nice heavy jacket – barber-esque

Leather Cowboy hat

Baseball cap – 50 cents

Tie – 70 cents

Tassled Loafers

Mama

Gray Shirt

(With the caveat that she doesn’t need USA shirts and joke Jerry jackets.)

She is a minimalist. We could probably take a lesson from her.

Jessica

Patagonia down coat

Patagonia thermal shirt

Brooks long-sleeved running shirt

Yellow V-neck

White long-sleeved shirt

Lucky shirt

Gray dress

Bike shirt, shorts, and shoes

Puffy vest

Heavy pea coat

Colorado t-shirt

Georgia

USA vest

Jerry jacket

USA shirt

Gray striped shirt

Patterned belt

2 white shirts

Black shirt

Baseball cap

Rain boots

Denim shirt

Rosa Marie

Great western rocky mountain brass band festival, 2004 (what?)

Green beaded belt

Leather jacket

Floral dress

Hawaiian shirt

Fancy white going out shirt

Brown Native American Shirt

Blue jean dress

Nike shorts

Cain

Pullover sweater

Vest

2 t-shirts

Canvas Coat