Dordt, CNN.com, and other random thoughts courtesy of me.

I just realized that I never quite finished that last story...oh well!

Having quit both my job and my internship, I'm staying in Florida for the week. My sisters and I have been relaxing and hanging out by the pool with our cousins. It's the rainy season down here, so we spend most of our afternoons sitting on the sofa playing video games or computer games.

I, on the other hand, have figured out how to work my Wi-Fi on my laptop again and have been catching up on the news. CNN.com is great. I've learned so much in the last day about what's going on in the world. I had no idea that 70,000 American jobs have been lost in the last month. I also found out that a Northwestern University college student has been driving around her hometown of Vancouver, Oregon on one tank of gas! Plus, there's the more gruesome news of a 17-year-old British girl's death and the discovery of her body (her torso only...) in a suitcase. Her Brazillian boyfriend apparently chopped her up after she refused to marry her. Talk about a violent relationship.

I've also been looking into a career in journalism, potentially. I checked out Mizzou's Journalism School and figured out that they have a grad school major for individuals who don't have significant media background. I'm thinking that that would be me...I'm not sure if I want to go into broadcast journalism or into print journalism. I know that broadcast journalism will most likely be around longer, although people will always read in some form or another. I guess that's a decision I'll have to make later.

Also, Dordt is approaching! Rachel told me last night that we have 20 days until we go to college. Yikes. To be honest, I don't really want to go back at the moment. I'm pretty content with waking up early only to exercise and suntan. I don't enjoy the thought of camping out in the library for another nine months of my life reading Beowulf or Canterbury Tales as I'm going to have to do this semester. Besides that, I'm moving into East Campus with five girls. Even though I'm sure that we'll get along well, I don't see how five girls with fully functioning hormones can survive together in 3 closet-sized rooms without there being some casualties.

I'll be happy to see my friends again, though.

Speaking of friends, I'm going to see Monique next week! We're going hiking with five other girls to Waterton Park in Alberta. Should be a blast. I'm glad I get to see her. I've missed pulling random pranks and traveling with her.

I'm going to the beach now! Hopefully I'll get a dark tan and not a bright red burn as usually happens.

How to Become a Jaded Journalist

Read this:

http://www.thetelegraph.com/news/alton_16450___article.html/wheeler_hospital.html

And then listen.

I wrote that story yesterday, after having traveled to the 200 block of Mounier Street to investigate what exactly happened with the ATV accident. I touched the ATV, looked at the perimeter, and probably stepped right over the blood. I called the police department and the fire department three times yesterday, and I was the first to know (besides the family) that Crumley "expired" (I am still irate over such a term being used on a dead person) last night. I even drove by the house again this afternoon, looking at all the loved ones sitting outside Crumley's house, smoking cigarettes to relieve stress.

I could use one of those cigarettes right now, to be completely truthful. Because I spoke with Crumley's daughter just now, and I have never felt more miserable in my life.

The poor woman came to our office frustrated and in tears over what our newspaper published yesterday. In my opinion, it was very over the top. A picture of the step-son scratching his head in disbelief as his step-father is rushed to the hospital. A picture of a policeman using a hose to spray blood off the street pavement. A map to the now-widow's house. Directions, if any thieves should choose.

I would have been just as mad if not angrier if I were that woman.

The two editors took two approaches to appeasing her: one decided it was best to comfort her and then tell her the hard truth while the other gave her the hard truth, no feelings barred.

In the end, Dan's way worked and Dennis was able to give me the "eye" to get me into the room.

Me and Mr. Presley

It's my second to last night at Park N Shop, and I'm impatiently counting down the minutes until I get to leave. 8:50 p.m. and the store is completely empty. Brian is standing beside me, one arm leaning against the register. My back is to my register and my mouth is gaping open, wishing that Kim would just let us go home. But she doesn't.

And the clock turns 8:51 p.m.

I start to fidget with the lottery ticket that Bob gave me two hours before--of course I didn't win; I never win--when "Pretty Woman" comes over the speakers.

A good song at Park N Shop is like a mini oasis from boredom. I've learned to better appreciate music because of the speakers at Park N Shop. Now when I hear a good song on the radio, I'm elated. When I hear a bad song, well, time goes by even slower.

So, I hum to the tune and reach for the spray bottle to spray down my lane. I hear the automatic doors swing open down the way and roll my eyes. Another customer. Sure enough it is, a man in an "OPERATION: IRAQI FREEDOM" t-shirt pushing a cart. Never a good sign when it's near closing time.

Bryan shakes his head and keeps staring at the clock. I'm still humming "won't you pardon me, pretty woman, I couldn't help but see, pretty woman..." when there he is. A man with slicked back shoe-polish black hair and two sideburns that resemble landing strips. He struts in with a Hawaiian shirt and an over-the-hill kind of suave air about him.

I want to laugh. Elvis has entered the building, 5 minutes before Park N Shop is scheduled to close.

Bryan and I watch him as he walks past lanes and toward the produce section. Once he is out of sight, I start giggling. "Did you see--?"

"Yeah," says Bryan, his eyebrows raised. "And can you believe the song over the speakers?"

I shake my head. Out of all the years I've been at Park N Shop and the strangest person in the world has to walk in on the day before I'm leaving. Oh the irony.

Anyway, Elvis eventually finds his groceries and (as I was the only checker on the floor) comes through my lane. I am smiling from ear to ear as he pulls out his leather billfold and looks through his bills.

Ask him! Ask him! I keep thinking to myself. My smile gets even bigger and I had to suppress a laugh when I say, "Uh, can I ask you a question?"

He smirks and closes the wallet. "Go for it."

I swallow as I scan his iceberg lettuce. "Are you--"

(I want to ask him if he is really Elvis and if he'd just come back to life to grace us with his presence as one of his most famous songs blared over the speakers. But I know that isn't true, and I also know that I am in dire need of some sleep in order to regain my sanity. So, I instead ask--)

"Are you Steve Davis?"

(Steve Davis = famous Saint Louis-area Elvis impersonator that nearly 3.3 million people have heard about. He is featured at many country clubs and 80-plus year old's birthday parties.)

He almost rolls his eyes as he says, "Well, yes I am."

An even bigger grin spreads across my face. "Oh!" I said.

"(Oh!" As if I've never met Bill Clinton, Bob Dole, Anthony Edwards, John McCain, Ron Paul, Jim Ryun, Don Piper, Francine Rivers, Sam Beam, and scads of other equally if not more famous people than said Elvis impersonator.)

He gives me a strange look. "Was that your question?"

I stare for a moment. "Actually, yeah."

"Oh," he said. We stare at one another for a while. It is rather awkward.

"Well, have a nice day!" I say.

(By this time, I am really hoping that he would give me a "thank ya, thank ya very much" and one of those famous winks with the finger gun pointing at me but instead I got--)

"Uh, thanks. You too."

I have a couple baskets to put away so I follow him to the door. He looks behind and sees me staring at his Hawaiian print shirt. I think that creeped him out even more, because he takes off walking faster.

In the end I return to my register to lean with Bryan and wait for time to move faster. 8:59 p.m. But at least I've now met myself a Mr. Presley.

My Short Adventure with the Famous Mr. Piper

I met Don Piper today, and I don't know if to believe him or not.

I should probably start at the beginning with this. Don Piper, New York Times Best-selling List author who has sold 1 million copies, inadvertantly dropped into my life in April when I heard a speaker at the Calvin College Writer's Conference say that his book was one of the most widely requested Christian books on the market. I immediately decided that a book like that was not my style--I don't want to be spoiled with other people's perceptions of what heaven is like!--so I pushed him and his book aside in his mind.

Three months later, I'm laying on my grandparents' couch in Kansas when I see this book sitting on the coffee table. 90 Minutes in Heaven. I'm not particularly interested in watching the Cards lose another game to the Cubs, so I pick up the book and start reading through it. I read the first four chapters until Don Piper comes back from the dead (he died in a horrific car accident and came back to life after 90 minutes). Then I put the book down and roll my eyes.

Why was I so frustrated? First of all, his perceptions of Heaven were not exactly what I wanted to hear. His old friends and family were standing at the pearly gates, smiling and being merry. His grandfather looked just like his grandfather did when he (Don) was a little boy: gray hair and a big toothy smile. I didn't really want to hear that. Does that mean that, when I die (which will hopefully be at an old age) I'll look old? Not exactly what a girl wants to hear, to be frank. Also, we would be singing songs and smiling all the time. I love to sing a good hymn and I am also one to have a perpetual smile on my face, but I can't really see that singing all the time would be my best way to express my love to God. I was thinking more along the lines of writing something.

Anyway, I ranted and raved to my parents on the way back to Godfrey (I'm sure that they would have preferred that I watched the Cards game instead of reading) about the book. Rachel had brought it back to read, so I figured I'd be able to get another good dose of Piper at a later date.

When I was driving to an interview for my internship, I saw that the Abundant Life Community Church sign read "Don Piper: 90 Minutes in Heaven visiting in July." I almost slammed on the brakes. A best-selling author in ALTON? I could hardly believe it.

But it was true. I found out later that he would be coming on the following Sunday. When I went into the news room on Thursday, I didn't hear any buzz about the guy at all. So I mentioned the story idea to my editor who told me that maybe I should consider writing the story. I was very excited, until I found out that Vicki Bennington had also written a story and that both of our stories came out on the same day. Yikes. My editor told me to write a follow-up story nevertheless.

So, I marched my high-heel wearing, dress-sporting behind into Abundant Life today and waited for Piper's sermon to intrigue me.

I was supposed to be writing an article, but I already knew that it wouldn't focus around him as much as it would around the people who attended the event. So, I mentally constructed what I would say at said interview, knowing that I wanted him to answer my personal questions about his ministry.

Turns out his sermon did most of that for me. I was searching for someone who was passionate about what he did, and I can't say that I found that.

Don and his (cute) son Chris travel 300 days out of the year to different communities speaking about what happened to Don. So, it would make sense that his retelling of his horrific accident would sound canned and rehearsed to a tee. And it was. He told the cold hard facts of his death as if he were telling you how to pay taxes or mow the lawn. He had no passion, because he's said it a thousand times before. He was cliche in his assertions about faith and about his death, too.

I will say that some of his stories brought me to tears, though. The girl Andrea whose leg was severed by a Jet Ski really got me. I admire Don for going to her bedside--even if it was in the hospital that he had his surgeries, the hospital he hated most--to comfort her and tell her that he knew what she was going through. I also felt bad for the young soldier who died in Iraq that he talked about.

But, it was his description of Heaven that really got my attention. Like a good speaker, he kept the most interesting part of his sermon (namely his experiences in death) until the end. Hearing him actually describe Heaven brought it into reality for me. The vibrant lights of heaven, the strong Heaven-ly aroma that permeated the air, and the sounds: he seemed authentic in his beliefs about it.

Then it occured to me that, perhaps God had sent him to Heaven. I'd disregarded his beliefs and assertions simply because I could hardly believe that God would let someone see the Heavenly gates and return to earth to tell about it. But I looked around the room and I realized that perhaps God was ministering through him so that other people could come to an understanding that GOD IS REAL and that there is a heaven out there.

I talked to Letha, a Catholic woman from Hardin, who is thoroughly convinced now that there is a God. "That book just reaffirmed it for me," she said.

One of my friends told me yesterday that he thinks that the only thing we need to believe is that Jesus Christ died for our sins. Religion doesn't matter. And I tend to believe that now. I can see that, despite Don Piper's altar calls at the end of his sermon and his moments of complete cliche overload, Don really could have seen Heaven. He saw that what he believed before he died really was truth. He saw that Jesus is the way and the truth and the light. Who cares about semantics and the non-essentials. As long as we believe that there is a Heaven and that there surely is a Hell and that Jesus Christ is our Savior, I would say that we have it right.

Anyway, I was more nervous than anything when I interviewed him. I asked him if he'd enjoyed his stay in Illinois (stupid question for my article) and then I went into my own questions. Here's the highlights in my opinion:


What do you say to skeptics who don't believe what you preach?

"I'd say that I don't blame them. Before my accident, I'd heard about stories of people who had died and gone to heaven. They just don't seem real unless you go through them, so I don't blame people who don't believe me. But what I went through when I died is more real to me than this transient and changing physical world we have right now. If humankind were erased from the planet and a thousand years were to pass by, the only thing that would remain of our existence is the Pyramids. Can you believe that? I mean, this physical world will be gone before we know it. But the heavenly one will last forever."

So, how do you keep yourself from becoming stagnant in your work?

"I don't (get stagnant). I don't tell the same story twice, first of all. You can ask anyone who's been to one of my conferences or heard one of my sermons. I try to tell 15-20 different stories at eveyr place. I don't want this to become routine. I try to be as real and as genuine with people as possible."

He ended our short interview by telling me that he "is grateful for what I do." Whatever that is supposed to mean is beyond me. Perhaps he was referring to the fact that I'm a reporter? Or maybe it's just another cliche saying.

I don't know how he does it, though. There are so many people he has to listen to and talk with, and then he has to remain calm and happy while doing it! Incredible. I do not envy him, no matter if he is sincere or not. I admire him in that respect: traveling around and keeping a Christian-like attitude. He must spend a lot of time in prayer.

So, that is Mr. Don Piper of 90 Minutes in Heaven fame. Nice man, great dresser, yet I still cannot figure out if I believe him. I believe Heaven, but as for his personal sincerity, I guess I won't know until we both get to Heaven.

You're Hired.

Today, Dan told me he'd hired me.

Alright, he didn't say that he would hire me now, but he told me that if I ever did decide to go into journalism and if the Telegraph ever gets out of its hiring freeze, then I should think about putting in my application at the Telegraph. I could go to SIUE and get my master's on the side, he said. Maybe I could think about television broadcasting, even.

It was a little unexpected dose of reality for me. I guess that I am going to be a junior (technically a senior) this year and that it's less than a year until I have to start thinking about my future, job- or graduate school-wise. Suddenly it hit me that I actually could do something like that: live at home, work at the Telegraph, go to grad school part-time. I could seriously start my career off that way.

The thought got me a little excited. Not necessarily the fact that I could work at the Telegraph, but that I have a future ahead of me. I can do whatever I want--as long as it's not engineering or scientific studies--and go anywhere that I want, to a certain degree. I do have something to provide to companies, businesses, or newspapers for that matter: I can write, and (apparently) I'm kind of good at it. Besides that, I have nothing to hold me back at the moment. And that's a pretty good feeling right about now.

The Groneck Girls' Library Book Receipt

Em and I went to the library today for the first time in nearly a month. As we were walking out of the building, it occured to me how strange of a conglomeration our books, movies, etc. were. Here's the list:

Pan's Labrynth (DVD for both of us)

A River Runs Through It by Norman MacLean (book on CD for me)

Bellydance: Hip Drop Hip Hop (a DVD for me, but Em said she'd learn too)

The Witches of Eastwick (DVD for Em, which looks kind of funny)

Rihanna: Good Girl Gone Bad (Me)

Elton John: Greatest Hits 1970-2002 (Me)

Speak German with Michel Thomas (CD for Em; she wants to be multi-lingual so badly)

India.Arie: Vol. 1, Relationships (Me)

Gilberto Santa Rosa: Directo al Corazon (Em; wants to learn Spanish)

Taylor Swift (Me and Rachel)

Introducing Kierkegaard (Book for me; Tom always talks about this philosopher)

Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller (Book for me; uncles love this book)

Bridget Jones: Edge of Reason by Helen Fielding (The girly side of me told me to pick up this book)

Sacred by Dennis LeHane (Book for me--think Dean Koontz but with a Boston accent and a sickening yet intriguing tendency toward the most taboo subjects of our society)


Basically, I got a good laugh out of our library picks. Funny how our interests can be so diverse!

My Chance Encounter with Legendary Runner and (Former) Senator Jim Ryun

On Thursday I told my editor that I was planning on going to Manhattan, Kansas for the Fourth of July. He immediately looked up from his desk and leaned back in his chair.

"Oh really? Do you know who Jim Ryun is?"

Do I know who Jim Ryun is? I wanted to laugh at his question. Of course I know who Jim Ryun is; he's one of the greatest track runners in Kansas history, not to mention United States history. He's my uncle's idol, and Bob M. was one of Ryun's best men in his wedding.

"Yeah, I've heard about him my whole life," I responded.

Dan smiled and said, "I ran track in high school and I always wanted to be just like him. The four-minute mile, you know? Well, while you're out there, try to dig up some information about Jim Ryun for me, why don't you?"

I left the office early that day, not really thinking about Jim Ryun or Dan's request.

We got to Kansas really late and were up early for a family-filled Fourth of July. We went to my aunt's house for lunch and then went to the carnival to check out the rides I'd frequented since I was a little girl. Soon the time came for the parade to start, so we rounded up our family and carried our lawn chairs to Main Street in downtown Wamego. The little children crowded around the curbs, but somehow Em, Rachel, and I managed to squeeze in a little grass space relatively close to the floats.

I can't say that I'm a huge proponent of politics, but I do have some interest in local and national politicians. So as the trucks and tractors drove by with signs saying "John Smith for County Sheriff" and "Jack Sheeley for U.S. Senate," I made a point to ask for a pamphlet.

I'd accumulated quite a range when the Jim Ryun truck came by. There were girls dressed in shirts reading "Jim Ryun for Congress" handing out candy, but I didn't see any pamphlets! I knew that Dan would get a kick out of a Ryun brochure, so I was eager to get one. At the end of the float, I spotted a couple guys with red buckets filled with pamphlets. I jumped up and walked to the nearest one.

As I neared him, he reached out his hand and gave me a big political smile. I knew right then and there that I was meeting Jim Ryun.

I was in a state of mild shock, so all I could say was, "Hi, uh, could I have a brochure?"

He laughed and said, "Of course, here you go. Thanks!"

I sat back down on the grass, staring at my family in disbelief. Dad, Grandpa, and Russ were all staring at me as if I were crazy but also some sort of hero. Mom was laughing and saying, "Sarah! What--wow!"

I was in shock for the next two or three hours, that's for sure. I kept kicking myself for not having asked more or been a little more prepared to see the man, but in the end I was just glad that I could have shaken his hand and said anything to him. It was like when I saw Senator McCain, but somehow a little bit better.

Now I'll definitely have a good story to tell Dan when I go back to work on Wednesday.

Vienna

Slow down, you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a
juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell
me why
you are still so afraid?
Where's the fire, what's
the hurry about?
You better cool it off before
you burn it out
You got so much to do and only
So many hours in a day
But you know that when the
truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before
you even
get halfway through
When will you realize...Vienna
waits for you.

Slow down, you're doing fine
You can't be everything you
want to be
before your time
although it's so romantic
on the borderline tonight
too bad but it's the life
you lead
you're so ahead of yourself
that you forfeit what you need
though you can see when
you're wrong
you know you can't always see
when you're right
you got your passion you got
your pride
But don't you know only fools
are satisfied?
Dream on but don't imagine
they'll all come true
When will you realize...
Vienna waits for you.

Slow down you crazy child
take the phone off the hook
and disappear for a while
It's alright you can afford
to lose a day or two
When will you realize...
Vienna waits for you.

[Billy Joel]

Miss Anonymous

I went into work at 8 a.m., bleary-eyed and certainly not ready to be Miss Perky behind the cash register. Marti was awake enough, as was Amanda, despite that she was apparently hung over from the Block Party the night before. Amanda and I had nothing better to do, so we talked to pass the terribly slow hours between 8 and 10. I kept staring at the clock as I usually do, which doesn't help much at all.

Eventually, a customer showed up with a copy of today's Telegraph. I smiled at the paper, because my pit bull article was on the front. Amanda saw me smiling and said, "I wanna read that pit bull article too." I didn't say anything; I just looked away and nodded.

Later Marti was asking me how I spell my last name. "It's not Gronick, is it? Patti always spells it wrong. Your name is Groneck, right?"

About twenty minutes later, Marti was helping me back a guy's groceries and his copy of the Telegraph. "Did you see that little boy got bit by a pit bull yesterday?" she said. "Now they have this article about it. Boy, those dogs send chills down my spine."

I definitely wanted to laugh. I would tell both of them--and all the customers who come through the lanes, for that matter--that I wrote the articles, but I don't want to seem pretentious or pompous. So, I remain anonymous. At least until someone who knows my last name looks through the headline and says, "Wait a second...I know her..."

Also, I finished Bridget Jones's Diary today. I loved that book. While I read this book, it suddenly occured to me--as it has on numerous occasions this summer--that I chose the wrong major at college. I don't like reading fiction that isn't understandable. It just doesn't intrigue me. So, I turn to novels (er, chick lit) like Bridget Jones's Diary or Virgin Suicides for sustenance during the summertime, a break between the sleepy novels that I read during the school year. Not that I don't enjoy some of them. Just that most of them are boring.

Now I'm going to go play tennis with my sisters. Hopefully I don't kill either of them with my tremendous backhanded swing. Heh.

Last Day of Freedom

Today, my parents return from California. Rachel, Em, and I have had the house practically free to ourselves all week, which has had its ups and downs to be sure. We've been able to hang out in our parents' bedroom, but we've had to keep the house clean at the same time. We've eaten out every day. I've had four battles with the coffee pot, three of which I won. Our dog had an "accident" on the floor of our laundry room this morning, leaving Rachel and I to clean it up. So, it is safe to say that I'm glad the parents are coming back. It will be wonderful to see them, first of all, but it will be nice to know that I won't have to try to remember to keep the sink light on in the mornings so that the violets won't die.

In other news, I'm becoming a camera-woman at my newspaper. The executive editor decided that I am a budding artist when it comes to camera work, so starting this upcoming week I'll be filming various points of interest in the Alton-River Bend area. I'm going to Robert Wadlow's statue on Tuesday, and the Piasa Bird by Wednesday. I'll have to call up the directors of the various museums and make sure that they'll be available for me to film them. Dan said that it shouldn't do more than two or three a week, and that it won't conflict with my articles in the paper. I'm actually a little excited about this project, even though initially I was a bit frustrated because I really enjoy reporting and writing articles for the paper.

This week's set of articles were some of my best so far, in my own humble opinion. I went to West Alton and reported on the sandbagging that was happening there. Water levels in the levees had gotten so high that water was beginning to spill over into farm fields and yards of West Alton residents. I had to interview the local fire chief, as well as a lieutenant from the Missouri National Guard (I'm getting to know military men pretty well these days!). I also spoke with one local woman, who tearfully told me that her house would be the first one to flood if the levees broke at Dresser Island and at Machens. Another woman told me that "we've survived the 93 flood and we'll survive this one again. We can't abandon our community." I wanted to toss aside my notebook and start sandbagging alongside of them.

I also spoke with Janet Neustadt, the mother of Matt Neustadt, who happens to be from "Farmer Wants a Wife." I wanted to ask if Matt and Brooke have stuck it out or if he's looking for a new wife, but I didn't. I was happy enough knowing that I'd spoken with her. I am trying to convince my newspaper to do an article about Matt and his new life, since he lives about forty minutes away from Alton. We'll see how all this flood news pans out, and then maybe they actually will.

I also am off for the fourth of July, which is fabulous! I'll get to go to Kansas with my family and spend time with my grandparents. Rachel, Em, and I will go to the carnival again and get to see the fireworks. Should be a very exciting time.

I'll be glad to get away from here for a while. For some reason, I've been antsy and somewhat depressed lately. Not really sure why, but I think a good dose of Kansas air, some new faces, and no cell phone service will be just the trick to cure my mood.

The Day I Compromised the Unified Area Command

Today I had one of the biggest breaks of my journalism career thus far. Right when I got to the office at the Telegraph, Dennis gave me an important assignment. He pulled out a press release from Rod Blagojevich that described how he (the governor) wanted to establish a second Unified Area Command in the Metro East area, especially as floodwaters were moving down the Mississippi River. Dennis told me that he wanted me to rush off to the Alton Mental Health Center campus, where the National Guard and some Illinois state officials were camping out for the duration of the flooding. So, I called up my mommy (that’s right, I don’t have my own car at this point. Rather pathetic, if you ask me) and got her to re-pick me up. She drove me straight over to the Willow building—where Hurricane Katrina victims used to stay--and nervously dropped me off. She had to take my sisters to their summer class, and she didn't know how late I'd be.

I shut the door and walked as confidently as possible toward the three-story building. Despite the rather large crowd of fatigued-airmen and soldiers congregrating beside towering HumVees and 1008 A (can't remember if that's what it's called, Aaron!) jungle trucks, I felt like I knew what I was doing. I walked past the yellow tape that read "KEEP OUT" and past a group of barricades. The "guards" gave me a once-over, but I think they had other things in mind aside from arresting me, to be frank. A pair of official-looking civilians were talking together in the middle of the cracked parking lot, so I walked up to them and asked where the main office was. They gave me a peculiar look and pointed toward the inside of the Willow building. I nodded and continued to look straight ahead, perfecting in my mind the serious look upon my face.

When I got inside, I found myself going down a long hallway that was flanked by a rooms. The first room was pretty large, with tables in a circular formation. It reminded me of something you would see in an old James Bond movie--these official looking personnel slumping in chairs, one hand on a telephone and one draped across a notepad. Each telephone and designated chair had a sign: IDOT, IEPA, ING...the abbreviations were extensive.

I kept on walking down the hall, noting all the Guardsmen filing through with their gear in packs. Eventually I ran into a woman and a man dressed in civilian clothes. I stopped them and said, "Hi, I'm Sarah Groneck from the Alton Telegraph..."

Immediately, the woman rolled her eyes. Her mouth dropped open before she said, "How did you get in here? We've been here for like forty minutes and the reporters are already creeping in here..."

I shrugged and gave a sheepish smile. She just stared at me for a little longer before saying, "Oh, come with me. I'll take you to Maggie."

I followed the woman back into the phone room and over to a woman with dark red hair. "Maggie," said the irritated lady, "Some girl from the Alton Telegraph is here. I don't know how the hell the press got word of this already..."

Maggie looked at me and then back at the other woman. "Oh, okay, thanks," she said. She turned to me and said, "How can I help you?"

I introduced myself as Maggie walked me back out to the parking lot. "Well, we just got activated at 9:00, so I don't know how much information I can give to you at this time but I'll try."

I checked my phone. It was about 9:30. Score one for the novice reporter!

Maggie ended up being from the Environmental Protection Agency. She answered all my questions as thoroughly as she could, telling me that they were mostly working as liaisons between the American Red Cross, IDOT, Illinois State Police, etc. to help with the flooding problem.

In the end, of course, I was stuck. Literally. Mom was probably five minutes from home by then, and I couldn't exactly walk to downtown Alton from the Mental Health Center. They'd probably lock me up for that. So, I pretended to write my article right there, taking notes about the machinery and the building state.

Meanwhile, the soldiers I'd passed on the way in--the group odf four that let me get past the tape that read "KEEP OUT"--were still standing beneath a tree. After about ten minutes of fighting with myself as to whether or not I should speak with them, I did. I waltzed up to those big, brawny men in uniform and said rather seriously, "I'm from the Alton Telegraph and I was wondering if I could get an interview with one of you guys."

The men snickered before pushing forward Senior Master Sargent Miller. He smiled at me with his big blue-green eyes and his boyish grin and his outfit and I got intimidated. As I do with most good-looking guys, I just looked at my paper and took up notes as fast as he could spit them out. Even though Maggie interrupted it before I could actually talk to the man, I still say it was a successful convo. At least for my interview.

I then walked down to the military equipment, scouting out the HumVees and the trucks. By then, Mom pulled up with my less-than-pleased sisters in tow.

I hopped in the car before any of the military officials could see that this seemingly mature reporter with her pink high heels--extremely inappropriate for the locale; if only I'd known where I'd be going today!--being driven away with three other women as body guards. But no matter--I was successful in slipping by the military unnoticed today and clinching the first media interview at the center. And that's enough success for my day.

Internship Improvements

Today, I spent my day reading "Virgin Suicides" and laying poolside. It was rather nice, I have to say. It's been a while since I was able to do that. Quite the Bohemian experience. Plus, I called in to work and Kim told me that I don't have to work next Saturday.

One of the things I've been struggling with is whether or not I'm actually succeeding with my internship. This week I improved moreso than before; I've learned how to write faster and how to get the interviews done speedily. But for some reason I feel as if my stories lack the punch of the other interns'. My TreeHouse Wildlife story made front page and has had a lot of positive feedback from the community. The Telegraph website said it was the fourth most commented story this week, and the editor even wrote a commentary about it. Nevertheless, I haven't had a punchy story to follow it up yet. Well, a punchy assignment from the editor. I'm not sure if it's my writing style or the fact that I'm not a Journalism major. Perhaps I'm reading into this too much (haha, bad pun). Whatever the case, I'm going to figure this out in the next couple of days and hopefully improve my writing for this paper. I love my internship so far and am looking to do better as I continue.

That's about it. Life is rather dull aside from that. I work a 10-3 shift in the morning/afternoon. So, I'd better get going.

Another Great Dordtian Mess-up.

My sister found out where she's rooming and who her roommate is going to be for the upcoming fall semester. Everything that my sister asked for was basically turned down by Student Services. She wanted Covy, she got East Hall. She wanted a girl who knows no one, she got someone from Pella. I tried to remain optomistic, but I really just wanted to groan.

Sometimes Dordt really frustrates me with the decisions they make. I know it might be because I'm Rachel's older sister, but I want her to have everything perfect at Dordt. I don't want her to have to go through some of the crap that I've gone through. It's bad enough that the school is located in the middle of nowhere, not to mention a number of other socially negative things about it.

Ugh! But oh well. I guess that God has a plan in this. I'm glad that Rachel is coming, but I'm hoping that God will be able to work things out so that she finds happiness at Dordt.

My Front Page Article on TreeHouse Wildlife Center

I walked to the mailbox today and found that another one of my stories was on the front page of the Telegraph. I did a little dance around the end of our driveway and ended up jumping up and down. I'm most excited about this article because it means that TreeHouse Wildlife Center gets the much-needed publicity that they've been longing for.

TreeHouse is literally stuck between a rock and a hard place as an organization. They have to move off of their current property because the real owners want to move onto it, but the building plans they have for the new facility will cost over a million dollars. If you want to read my article, here's the link:

http://www.thetelegraph.com/news/treehouse_14954___article.html/wildlife_organization

I know, I know; you have to copy and paste the site to get somewhere. I'm not that computer literate, I apologize.

So, Lynn Schreiber, the director of TreeHouse, told me that they haven't gotten nearly the amount of money that they should have. They are still in desperate need of donations from others. I hope that they are able to make it, especially with the economy being in the state that it is. It would be a shame to see a great organization like TreeHouse shut down after over 25 years of hard work for the community.

But anyway, my point is that I am happy that they at least made the front page. I don't know if the article indicated all that they wanted it to, but I do know that at least they might get more donations this way.

Odysseus

Today was my day off. I awoke late and spent my morning with my mom and her friend L. We walked around the lake and across the dam toward the neighborhood surrounded by willow trees. The clouds were dark--we didn't need a weather man to tell us that rain was coming. Instead of turning around, we kept along our path. We ended up talking about L.'s nephew who didn't make it in the Air Force. He used to work at a diner in Jerseyville, but now he does odd jobs for his father. The guys he hangs out with are people who "would work just enough to make money for pot and partying," as someone has said. They are considered deadbeats, because they aren't driven in their lives. "Aren't you glad you have direction in your life, Sarah? At least you know what you want to do with your life," said L.

All the while, I'd been secretly thinking how I had a lot in common with her nephew.

In some ways, that's the way we all are. I mean, my generation. Schaap once called my generation the "Odyssey generation." We really don't know what we are doing with our lives, and we really don't want to work that hard to find out. We'd prefer to remain children forever, having fun and never really growing up.

I'm a victim of that sentiment, I guess. If I've learned one thing about myself, it's that I don't want to figure out what I'll be doing for the rest of my life. I don't want to settle on becoming a teacher because I don't know if that's where my passions lie. I don't want to think that I'll spend the rest of of my 9-5 weekdays in an office, writing business articles for corporations who wouldn't know my name from the next office girl. I don't want to think that I'll be able to map my life achievements out in decades. But I will one day. Maybe we all will.

It scares me to grow up, to know that in two short years I'll not be able to even consider myself to be a child anymore. I'll have my college loans to pay off, plus a mortgage or a car loan... Eek. I get goosebumps simply thinking about it.

And to think that when I was a kid I saw growing up as being the best thing that could happen to me. I didn't want to run around in my yard and build forts in the trees for the rest of my life. That was kid stuff, I used to believe. But then one day, I woke up and I was a sometimes lonely, sometimes happy college student who couldn't figure out what to do with her life. A summer intern and a smock-clad checker-outer. A silly older sister and a moody daughter. An Odysseus like all others, trying to find her way to her own personal Ithaca somewhere across that vast expanse of ocean.

Keppi

Today marks the end of my first 21 1/2 hour work weekend at Park N Shop. I'm not complaining, since I have friends who work 20 hours a day it would seem.

One of the customers I've had repeatedly in the last couple of days is Keppi. She's a long-time saleswoman at Macy's who I always recognize because she never takes off her nametag. I couldn't forget her name anyway, though, because no one has a name like Keppi. But anyway, every time I try to walk into Macy's to just peruse the displays of shirts and shorts, Keppi stops me and tries to get me to buy something.

"Oh, you really should try that on," she will say, holding up some cute colorful blouse that would fit me perfectly. "You would look great in it. Plus, it's on sale. Eighty dollars isn't that expensive. Oh, and if you open a Macy's charge account--do you have a Macy's charge account?--you'll get 30% off your purchase. You can't pass up a deal like that, sweetheart. You are over eighteen, aren't you? Well then, you really need to take advantage of these savings. There's no better time, doll!"

I'll smile and go along with her. Usually I will think about buying the shirt--that is, until I look at the price tag and realize that the shirt she wants me to buy is about twenty or thirty dollars more than I'd ever spend on a shirt (I'm admittedly stingy sometimes). So, I have to wait until another customer comes along to distract Keppi so I can make my great escape.

Well, in the last couple of nights at PNS, I've found that Keppi's not as peppy when she isn't on the pay roll. She'll come through my lane, laying the bananas and the paper plates on my register. I will smile at her and give my usual "Hi, how are you doing today?"

"Fine," Keppi will say flatly.

She usually will push her glasses further up her nose and squint at the computer screen. "How much did you charge me for that box of Cheerios?"

"Three dollars."

Keppi will keep looking at the screen as if she can't believe me. Then, after a long two minutes, she will glance back down and nod slowly.

"Good. I always have to keep track of the prices here. You guys claim to have things on sale but then when I bring them up to the checkout counter it's never the price you said it was."

She tells me this every night, and every night I shrug my shoulders and nod. This will be the duration of the conversation with Keppi. I'll bag her groceries in silence while she goes over the receipt many many times. Then she'll slip it into her checkbook and wait for me to take all her groceries and put them in her cart.

She doesn't even mutter a thank you. She just walks off.

Maybe she realizes who I am and that I make a break for it whenever she has her back turned at Macy's. Maybe icy conversation and slight stinginess are her ways of telling me that I should be more generous with my money at Macy's. Or, maybe she's simply off commission and doesn't want to be bothered with flighty conversation that she's had all day.

All I know is that we all must wear different masks around different people, and it's hard when we see others without the mask they usually wear.

"The Love of My Life is Buried in the Wamego Cemetery."

I'm dead. Somewhere in the eight hour shift I worked today, I went from being the bubbly cashier that double bags groceries when asked to being the slumped over checker who reads tabloids between lanes and hardly smiles at the customers. Usually I'm not like this; I guess it was just a harder day at work than I expected. I had one old man that was infuriated with me because I didn't give him a five dollar bill at the moment that he wanted it.

But, I also talked to a guy who recently went to Belize and a funny woman who told me that she got thrown in jail in Colorado for touching another woman's shoulder. I wasn't sure if to believe her or not.



In other news, my mom and my sisters had an interesting run-in at a grad party today. At Amelia's party, they sat down next to this older couple. The old woman--who was hard at hearing--kept shouting at Rachel, wanting to know where she was going for college. When she told them that she was going to Iowa, the old man exclaimed, "Oh, I'm from there!" He then proceeded to carry on a conversation with my mom and with Amelia's dad about how the wheat crop in Iowa isn't so great this year due to various agricultural problems that my family didn't pick up on. Anyway, Mom let it slip that she was originally from Kansas, and the old lady also exclaimed, "I'm from there!"

Mom eventually found out that the lady was from Manhattan, KS, which is approximately thirty minutes away from her hometown of Wamego.

"I'm from Wamego," Mom said loudly, "Do you know where that is?"

The old woman stared for a moment before nodding. Mom wanted to ask her some of the usual "Wamego Bingo" (hey, we're not Dutch, okay?) questions but the old lady didn't seem receptive to them. She ended up asking:

"So, how long have you two been together?"

The old man replied, "Oh, we aren't married. But we have been together for longer than most couples."

The old woman looked away from the table. "I never married. The love of my life is buried in the Wamego cemetery."

She actually said that line. I wanted to kick myself--or maybe my manager--for making me work today when such an amazing story took place before my mom's eyes.

The story of her fiance's death slowly unfolded throughout the course of the night. It seems that the woman's fiance was poisoned by his mother. It was supposedly an accident: the mother left a nicotine inhaler next to the man's actual inhaler, and when the man had an asthma attack, the mother grabbed the wrong inhaler. She gave her son a shot of the nicotine and the young boy died within thirty seconds.

So, this woman's fiance died physically and took his fiancee's life with him in some ways. She hasn't gotten over his death, even after 80-some years. She has this man who follows her around--a life companion of sorts--but she will never marry him because her heart belongs to some guy who's been dead since the 1940s. Wow.

My mom called my grandmother to check up on these facts and found them to be true. The boy was named Tom S., and my grandfather may have been friends with him when they were younger.

A novelist couldn't have thought of a better tale.

I wish I'd been there to experience the story firsthand.

Newswriting: Is it about Becoming a Celebrity or Spreading the Truth?

One thing I've noticed with my internship is that people view the newswriters and me as being celebrities, or perhaps as middle-men toward making the everyday person a celebrity. Even though the printed word is starting to be viewed as archaic, people are still fascinated by the sight of their photo or even their name being memorialized in an article. There's just something about it that astounds people.

Most of the people I have interviewed so far are quick to "spread the news love" to others. Kelsey's sister Kourtney wanted me to mention the names of her former teachers, some of her good friends, the people who sponsored the events, and a myriad of others.

Theresa W., a volunteer at West Elementary who is the focus of one of our "Everyday People" articles, gave me a long list of the people who helped her with some of the programs at the elementary school. "Please, if you mention my name, put this woman's name in," she said adamantly, pointing to a name that had been highlighted, starred, and capitalized. She would later coax the Assistant Principal of West to be in the photo with her. I was humbled by her generosity and volunteeristic heart, but I also got a small chuckle out of the fact that she wanted so many people's names to be mentioned in one 400-word article.

I understand how people feel about having their name in print. When I was in kindergarten, I remember being very disappointed when the photographer John Badman--with whom I now work!!--didn't take my photo when I was skating around the roller rink in the Evangelical cafeteria. I can also remember how excited I was when one of my articles--one which I poured a lot of thought and sweat into--was published in the Puma Press in ninth grade. It was like I had been immortalized; perhaps I would never be forgotten because my name was in the paper, and people would be able to read the words that I wrote.

The Telegraph has given me a bigger audience to work with, I guess. With over 600,000 people in the River Bend community, I know that my articles are most likely read (or at least skimmed) by about a quarter of the population.

But, the novelty has begun to wear off and has been replaced by a sense of duty. As my fellow intern Amber said, we are here to write about the truth. In some ways, I feel that I am here to write about the average person. My purpose at the Telegraph is to make sure that the story of an 80 year old grandmother who fought off a pit bull with a brick does not go unnoticed. I'm here to help the community remember all the hard work TreeHouse Wildlife Center has done and why they should remain open. I want to help others give a round of applause to over-the-top volunteers and teachers in Alton and Godfrey. I don't care that much about breaking news; I want others to see what the average person can do. I don't care nearly as much about being remembered as a person; I'd rather see Kelsey's memory live on or know that the Summerfest at St. Mary's got a few more customers because of my article.

Boo to being a celebrity; that's too complicated. Let's just try to change the way people think.

Fight Club

I know that it's supposed to be a high school boys' cult classic movie, but right now I'm enjoying FIGHT CLUB. Fighting other men to prove that you're still a man? Taking out your anger against your boss by beating yourself up? Handing out assignments to keep others bad-ass? To me, it sounds like a pretty cool male adventure. Of course, Matt and Drew say that it gets way more violent and a bit more eccentric, so I can't yet say that I love the film yet.

And who the heck is Jack? I must have missed that somewhere along the way....

I also think that the movie makes a good point about happiness and fulfillment in life. You don't have to hold a gun to your head to find a reason to live, but I do think that desperation and hard times can make a person appreciate the good times. But that's just my opinion.

ALSO, I'm starting to seriously think that almost all guys should join the military after high school. Maybe it's just me, but it seems that the military has a way of letting guys have adventures and teaching them to be men. I know that it's not for everyone, but I know a few people that it would be useful for.

Anyway, this is a boring blog. I've had very little sleep this week and will have less as the weekend progresses. But I'm not complaining. This has been a great summer so far.

Kelsey

I wrote an article today about Kelsey, a girl from a local town who died from an inoperable brain tumor in January of 2003. She has a twin sister, Kourtney, and an older sister Casey. Kelsey was apparently very angry and aggressive up until the time her mom took her to the hospital. When the doctors confirmed that she had a brain tumor, they gave her six months to a year to live. Her aunt Pam told me that the little girl ended up dying six weeks later. She was only nine years old.

Listening to Kelsey's aunt and sisters talk about her really moved me. This family was already struggling from a divorce when this terrible news of Kelsey's condition hit them. According to Pam and to Kourtney, Kelsey had been smaller and more sickly since both girls were born. Yet, it is heartbreaking to think of a 9-year-old having to comfort her father as he carries her out of the hospital.

Kelsey and Kourtney were identical twins. Pam said that when the girls were babies, they were very hard to tell apart. They each had their own bottles. When she would offer the wrong bottle to one, the baby would shake her head and point to her twin. They were a remarkable pair and were inseparable in many ways.

Now, Kourtney is on her own. She lost her sister at such a young age, but she and Casey are absolutely unwilling to forget about Kelsey. They want to let others know about what Kelsey went through. They want to fight cancer through every avenue possible, such as participating in the 2009 Relay for Life in her honor. Both sisters see how fragile life is. As Pam herself said, "No one will be able to truly know how this little girl feels. She has lost her other half."

When I asked Casey to describe Kelsey, she just chuckled. "Awnry," said the older sister. "Kelsey was annoying. But she had a good heart, and she loved animals and children. She gave away her money to people at gas stations. She always tried to make us laugh."

Pam remembered how Kelsey had a giving heart. "A week before Kelsey passed on, the American Legion held a 50/50 drawing in her honor. By this time, Kelsey had suffered a stroke, so she couldn't talk or walk. But she pulled the tickets out of the bucket and would hand the winner to one of the speakers to announce. She pulled out a ticket with Pattie's [a close family friend] name on it. She tried to yell, but she couldn't. Instead, she said, 'Pattie won!' When Pattie got the check, she told Kelsey that she would split the check with her. Pattie took $100 and gave the rest straight to Kelsey. Kelsey then turned around and gave the rest of the money to her sister for a new computer. The baby girl died a week later."

As Kourtney and Casey go on without their sister and Pam without her neice, I think it is important for us to remember that we are blessed to be alive. I know it sounds cheesy, but there is truth to it. This little girl died within two months of the announcement. She suffered much as she went, but she also spread much love. Her family will never let her family go, in life or in death. I only hope that I am able to make such an impact on another person's life in my short stay on this earth.

Check It Out

Today was one of the most ironic days of the summer so far. I had spent most of the weekend wondering about my newspaper internship and questioning my motives for taking it. Mom and I went on one of our long walks, and much of the time I talked to her about my internship. By the time we had made our way around the lake and across to Fox Woods, I'd talked myself out of going into journalism. Mom suggested that we walk down to the mailbox and pick up the paper, since she'd forgotten to get it anyway. When we reached the mailbox and she pulled out the paper, I noticed that the feature news report was written by a girl named "Sarah." "Dang," I thought, "How many Sarahs are there in this world? And it's another intern, too." But then I did a double take and realized that it was MY article that was being featured in the paper. I was completely shocked. I still can't believe it. But it's true. You can check the website if you'd like. My article was a headliner. The story itself doesn't seem that important and is actually rather boring, but it is surprisingly pretty key to growth coming to the River Bend area (where I live). Here's the link if you'd like to look: http://www.thetelegraph.com/. The article is titled "RGBA Touts New Tool." Read it and be bored, unless you are from the area. Then you might get it.

When I'm not masquerading as a news reporter on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I'm working at a little grocery store about five minutes from my house. Park N Shop is one of those old-style grocery stores straight out of Updike's "A & P" but without the male checkers. I'm still sporting the red smock and the ugliest Dr. Scholl's on the planet. I'm still scanning old ladies' groceries and telling people to have a nice day. Even the customers remain unchanged after two years; only the workers are different.

I spend most of my four-to-eight-hour shift asking people if they would like paper or plastic, and whether or not their cards are credit or debit. The other part I spend listening to the latest Park N Shop gossip. Basically, my work is like a miniature version of public school. The checkers talk smack about each other behind each other's backs, while the baggers but in their own two cents about the issues. The managers even know about "who is dating who/who is sleeping with who/who got drunk last night." It's been rather entertaining for the last two summers. But, for some reason, I'm not enjoying it as much this year. I don't care if Kayla and Sara absolutely despise each other. I don't really care if the newest checker got super smashed this weekend and ended up with the deli guy. I feel like a fish out of water, watching all these 20-somethings fight for or against each other in the grocery checklanes. What is the purpose of it all, except to pass the minutes between breaks and shifts? Maybe as the summer lags and I run out of things to do, I'll find some benefit in hearing the girls complain about each other. You never know.