God's Country Gave me Something Good

So it wasn't easy (hardest thing I've done in my life).

And it wasn't quick (took about two years, with two 6-month breaks in between).

And it wasn't an emotional breeze (more than a few shed tears of my own frustration, and quite a few from others as well).

But it wasn't all for nothing, either.

THANK GOD. I finally got the damn article published!

I will have a life again now. I'll have time for friends. I'll have free weekends. I'll have time for...my blog?

Thanks to all who put up with my low moments. Couldn't have done it without you!

I guess I'm not a true Hoosier

An email forward I received today:

THE RULES OF RURAL INDIANA ARE AS FOLLOWS:
Listen up City Slickers !

1. Pull your droopy pants up. You look like an idiot.
2. Turn your cap right, your head isn't crooked.
3. Let's get this straight; it's called a 'dirt road.' I drive a pickup truck because I want to. No matter how slow you drive, you're going to get dust on your Lexus. Drive it or get out of the way.
4. They are cattle. They're live steaks. That's why they smell funny to you. But they smell like money to us. Get over it. Don't like it? I-70 goes east and west, I-65 goes north and south. Pick one.
5. So you have a $60,000 car. We're impressed. We have $150,000 corn pickers and hay balers that are driven only 3 weeks a year.
6. So every person in southern Indiana waves. It's called being friendly. Try to understand the concept.
7. If that cell phone rings while an 8-point buck and 3 does are coming in, we WILL shoot it out of your hand. You better hope you don't have it up to your ear at the time.
8. Yeah, we eat taters & gravy, beans & cornbread. You really want sushi & caviar? It's available at the corner bait shop.
9. The 'Opener' refers to the first day of deer season. It's a religious holiday held the closest Saturday to the first of November.
10. We open doors for women. That is applied to all women, regardless of age.
11. No, there's no 'vegetarian special' on the menu. Order steak. Or you can order the Chef's Salad and pick off the 2 pounds of ham & turkey.
12. You bring 'coke' into my house, it better be brown, wet and served over ice.
13. You bring 'Mary Jane' into my house, she better be cute, know how to shoot, drive a truck, and have long hair.
14. Colleges? We have them all over. We have State Universities , Community Colleges, and Vo-techs. They come outta there with an education plus a love for God and country, and they still wave at everybody when they come for the holidays.
15. We have a whole ton of folks in the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines. So don't mess with us. If you do, you will get whipped by the best.

A true Hoosier will send this on!!!

I join staff of 60 Minutes

Not really. But I did pick up a camera last week and do some filming for the first time. (See bottom right on the screen, and please don't read the story.)

It wasn't exactly hard hitting documentary work. I shot a lot of wagging tails. That said, I now know how to correctly use phrases like, "establishing shot" and "b-roll," which makes me feel pretty cool.

This is the second time work has made me feel cool in the last two weeks. Last Monday, we published a front-page story I wrote about Indiana soldiers who were exposed to toxic chemicals in Iraq. It was so up my alley that I dreamed about it for two nights. (I never said I was cool, mind you, just that I sometimes feel that way.)

To catch up: Earlier this summer, our editor nearly gave me an anxiety attack by abruptly taking me off the features desk and assigning me to the military and education beats. I love talking to soldiers, who I see as a foreign yet intriguing species. But I'd almost prefer to parachute into a war zone than sit through some of these school board meetings.

I've had to learn about school corporation budgets (not exactly a strength) and write about them in under twenty minutes. The resulting stories are so painfully boring that my mom can't even read them. But I haven't had to write any corrections so far, so that's a miracle.

(Now if I could only get a handle on my own finances, I could declare true victory. My credit card debt almost rivals the school corp.'s deficit.)

When I go into work today, I'm looking in to donating plasma.

($200 a month if you donate regularly. Who can say no to that?)

Blogs.

Like they need to be updated.

Like regular updates are at all key to their appeal and success...

Sorry. I'm back!

I'll get to excuses (some good, some not-so-good) at some point, but for now the updates:

We have two new fantastic roommates at the Haynie B&B. Cole, the oldest, is almost five months now. Size-wise, he's like half of a skinny adult golden retriever. Personality-wise, he’s a little like me: loves attention, likes food even more, can be both overly confident and overly cautious, and has a tendency to slam into walls and doors.

Ella, the youngest, is about three fourths the size of Cole and twice as feisty. She's both a biter and a licker and has 'pick me up' eyes and a patchy, cream and golden coat. Of the new crop of Haynie roommates, she's definitely the most spoiled.

Watching my parents interact with Ella and Cole is sometimes a bit like having a childhood flashback. Cole sits silently underneath the dinner table, bothering no one as he chews and drools over a white dog bone. It's one of many in the house, but Ella suddenly decides she needs to have it. When my parents aren't looking, she ambushes Cole and rips it from his mouth. Cole chases Ella and tackles her, she whimpers and wails, and then my parents yell at Cole and cradle Ella as if she's the most innocent puppy to ever touch her over-sized paws to earth.

Some things never change, I guess. Cole, like some Haynie's before, will have to adapt to an unfair world.

Perros, Schmeros.

Parros sounds nicer.

What would mi maestra think?

Tonight she'll be thinking, "Donde esta Devon?" Because I'm skipping my Spanish class in favor of a much-needed beer.

Weddings, Christians, Gigantic Turtles

Please forgive me for letting everyone look at a picture of a dead dog for over a month. Not cool. I can't believe I did that, especially considering other interesting, blog-worthy developments in God's Country.

It's been a busy few weeks. I went on a midnight ride with the police, went hunting for a gigantic, Loch Ness-like turtle (more on this later), and infiltrated the ranks of some of the area's most tech-savy Christians. The spring and a recently purchased iPod-car-converter thing have elevated my serotonin levels (bye Miley, and thank you. It *is* the climb), but not so much that I couldn't let the tears loose at a beautiful wedding in Maryland and at touching memorial service in Houston.

I have now moved on to "Intermediate beginners Spanish," which means I can tell you what my name is, ask your name, and tell you how many ventanas are in mi casa. (Mi maestra and I have discovered that numbers and time are not my thing. But they're not exactly my thing in English, either, so I've decided not to stress.)

In other good news: The Haynie B&B is getting not one but two golden parros in August. And these aren't any old parros. The parents of these two puppies are more accomplished than I am: we're talking therapy dogs, "Best in show" champions, etc. I'm prepared to be overshadowed. But I'm excited to make two great new friends.

All for now. I'm at work, and should do some.

Rough night, rougher morning, sad day

The Haynie B&B/Writing Retreat lost a much-loved housemate today.

The owners aren't doing so well; the journalist tenant is touch and go.

The end came suddenly. Just a week ago, she was leaping over logs, barking at the night and licking over-cooked scrambled eggs off of breakfast plates. Then, yesterday, she couldn't stop throwing up. And she continued to get sick through the night and this morning. The vet said it was probably a tumor or liver disease. My mom had her put down around noon.

The house is eerily quiet tonight. Everyone's alone with their memories.

I'm picturing her beside my bed, looking up at me with the same doe-like face she had since she was a puppy.

We got quite close these last few months; we liked having each other around.

I'm really, really going to miss my friend.

A fun Haynie/Shine fact

I forget to mention that at one point my parents would've been legally responsible for the Shine kids in the case of Larry's death.

(I think my parents had a talk with him around # six or seven.)

So good!! I just became a convert

I am so proud of my neighbors!

I was in Florida and heading toward the airport when the episode aired. Just saw it now.

The Shine kids are adorable! (Larry told me the producer, Bridget, knew what colors would look good on the girls and he was right. She nailed it. They put Henry, the oldest, in Nantucket Reds. Love it.) I think Halle, their oldest daughter, is just stunning.

I found a clip from the show. If that doesn't work, this might. If I can find the whole episode I'll post a link. Heart wrenching, people. My mom and I sniffled through the entire program. (Here's the preview.)

You know what?

Oprah can be pretty damn cool.

(I actually realized this in South Africa, where it also airs, but wouldn't admit it.)

I've had people from all over the country email me since this aired. I guess they Googled me and found my article. Everyone wants to get in touch with Larry. Some want tips about adoption, others just want to cheer him on.

Such a cute family.

I've never been much of a babysitter (Larry brought this to my attention several times during our interview), but I can always start late, right?

Right...

Oprah, world, meet my neighbor, Larry

You might remember Larry Shine from one of my old postings.

He's the skinny, neurotic, 61-year-old neighbor who has a strange preoccupation with my love life. He's also a widower, and single father of nine. His first kid, Henry, was a toddler when his wife died from melanoma; he got eight others through surrogacy and international adoption. Henry's 19 now. His youngest, Lucia, is three.

Larry's been famous in my universe for about 20 years now. And on Monday at 4 pm Eastern Standard Time, he'll have his brush with national fame.

The Oprah Winfrey Show is doing a segment on "unique and exceptional fathers," and Larry's family (English bulldog included) will be one of the four featured.

Another neighbor gave me the heads up about this last week, and I was able to hang out with Larry and talk about his experience on the show.

I love this man. He works full-time as an attorney, runs six miles a day, and still manages to make dinner for his kids every night. He's Jewish, but spends his Sundays at a local African American Baptist church because "he really likes the singing and the clapping." He's also writing a book.

Lucky for me, I think the affection is mutual.

In addition to suggesting that I explore various online dating sites, Larry has also tried to set me up with every first-rate bachelor in town. Just a few weeks ago, while at the gym, Larry met a young man on an elliptical machine next to his.

Later that afternoon, I came back from a meeting and found a voice message on both my cell and work phones. "It's not an emergency," he said. "Your house isn't on fire or anything. But I have a social matter I would like to discuss."

When I called him back, he asked if he could give the guy my number.

(Larry has decided that I need to date someone "international" and this man had just returned from living in Japan. As far as neighborhood matchmakers go, I can't really complain. He does have good taste.)

I guess I have been taking some strange phone calls at work lately. (Had to delete that last post, by the way. Something about letting it stay there just didn't seem right. For those who missed it: we hung out, and he was nice. But the whole conversation could have taken place in 1912. We even discussed our favorite ice cream flavors.)

Anyway, if you can, watch Larry on Monday. He’s amazing. Spend five minutes with the man and suddenly adopting seven kids from Guatemala and Paraguay doesn't seem so strange.

Taking one for the team

My second column came out last week. It was about "boomerang kids," a.k.a adult children who move back home.

I cringed a bit as I wrote it, picturing angry old men reading my words, shaking their heads, and saying "lazy kids these days just can't stop mooching off their parents."

But the reception was positive, thank god, although also a little... strange.

The next morning I got a few emails thanking me for writing the column, which was very appreciated, and made the mild amount of humiliation I suffered through writing it worthwhile.

A few hours later I got a call from an unrecognizable number. Turned out it was a suitor who read my column, saw my photo, thought we might get along and wanted to ask me out on a date.

I didn't know what to do. This conversation was taking place at noon, at work, in front of several cube mates.

Partially because I admired him for taking the risk, and partially, honestly, because I thought it would be a good story to tell, I said yes.

I have since been assured by another reporter who knows this man that he is not a stalker, felon, or weirdo with any sort of questionable past.

Tuesday night is the night. We'll be meeting in a very public place.

Is this stupid? I don't know.

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Homage to my favorite Swede

I made my first foray into column writing today, and the results were mixed: while the women in the newsroom gave me kudos, the men in the newsroom told me that the column's premise (that women and men can be platonic friends) and the conclusion (that those friendships can endure after one friend marries) were total sh@$#%@.

I remain a true believer in the premise. As for the conclusion, well, I'll take a leap of faith.

DC friends: Please excuse my hyperbole. Tribes can last forever, in one form or another. Also, Josef would like me to clarify that he only once agonized over the title on his business cards.

Fort Wayne friends: I understand you may have missed this column in print, having mistaken my photo for one of a bloated chipmunk. Forgiven. Whatever you do, just please don’t tell me it looks like me.

Miss Positivity

Sorry for the month-long absence.

I've been anguishing over my article draft. And I may have been suffering from a case of the "winter-never-ends-here-crap-there-may-be-no-newspapers-tomorrow" blues.

I have, however, taken steps to address my condition: I'm habla-ing Espanol every Miércoles at my local community college, dragging my body to yoga twice a week, and finding creative ways to convince people at the newspaper to be my friend (I've found emails with subject lines like "Wanna grab lunch? I need some friends" to be very effective.)

I've even changed my blog title to reflect my new-found sense of positivity (and because some Hoosiers found the old title, "Grounded in God's Country," offensive. I'm sorry! It's not the Wayne. It's me!)

For those I haven't told: Last week, the Journal Gazette publisher announced that staff needed to take a six percent pay-cut to avoid lay-offs.

The atmosphere inside the newsroom is morose, yet I remain undaunted.

Who needs a journalism career when you can be a full-time nose model? During a sneezing photo-shoot a few weeks back, I may have found my other calling.

In other news:

My bedroom has been invaded by hoards of orange, lady bug-like insects that land on my face at night, crawl in the sheets, procreate constantly and never die. I've started to vacuum the floor every few days to curb the population; Darlyn is enjoying a few mid-day snacks. Neither extermination method has been particularly effective.

Otherwise, life ticks on as usual at the Haynie Writing Retreat/B&B.

The owners leave tomorrow to go to Florida for two weeks, so Darlyn and I may throw an evening bash: a few bottles of Pinot Noir, crackers and Camembert, Alaskan salmon dog treats.

We'll keep you posted.

Turning 29: The perfect weekend itinerary

Take Friday off.

Wake up, get a massage, drive to Indy. Meet with the editor of Indianapolis Monthly during the day, meet with close high school friends at night. Drink three glasses of red wine, and far too many glasses of sangria with your tapas. Catch a Michael Jackson cover band at The Vogue, and let four Red Bull & Vodkas get you moving. Move well until you hit the pavement on the way back to your friend's car. Pretend no one saw. Go to bed.

Wake up, hydrate, drive to Bloomington. Meet with a favorite high school buddy and her husband during the day, have far too much food with them at a trendy cafe at night. Drink wine, talk writing. Drink more wine, talk relationships and old houses and Ghana and mothers and Christians and yoga. Eat so much chocolate you begin to feel sick. Go to bed.

Wake up, hydrate, drive home. Crack the windows and blare the radio. Croon with the Top 20 crooners until your cell phone rings, and you tell someone far away what a wonderful weekend it's been.

And surprise, surprise...

I will not be moving to a remote oil and gas town in northwestern New Mexico.

This is not, as some surmised, because I couldn't get a good bagel on Sunday.

Rather, it was because I wouldn't have been Ms. Navajo—a dream of mine since, well, about three weeks ago.

I could have covered the reservation every now and then, but for the most part I would have been a city and county government reporter. Nothing wrong with that; it just wasn’t enough to lure me there.

I hit it off with an attractive, mountain man photographer, but he didn't quite tip the balance. Everyone else on the staff was either in a serious relationship or married.

And there were other troubling signs: restaurant choices were Mexican, Mexican or Mexican, and the nearest department store was three hours away. I was told housing could be hard to find, but there was a never a shortage of trailers. And one editor, with whom I would have been working closely, mentioned she once joined a polygamous cult.

Oh, and when I visited, an editor sent me 45 minutes away to do an article on Durango, Colorado’s annual Wedding Expo. Every time I approached a vendor for an interview, they’d say, “Congrats! When’s the date?”

If there is a God, he gave me a little wink.

Good thing I skipped out on those Super Bowl parties...

Although let's be honest, I was only looking forward to the food.

So I just finished a draft. Four months, and far, far too many words later, and I actually wrote a conclusion to my novella of a draft.

I have this very strange feeling in my stomach...

Twenty minutes ago, when I knew this was going to happen, I went into my family room, kissed my parents on the cheek, and told them they were great. (Note to self: this should be done more often, not only when you finish 40-page drafts).

I think parts of the draft really bite, and it's far too long, but at least I've got something to work with. (Ben S.: Are you ready for this baby? Begin to prepare yourself. Although I think it needs a week of editing before it's ready for you.)

My guy is in the hospital again, by the way. I'm going to see him tomorrow.

This has all been so strange and rather sad...

Killing time in the Albuquerque Airport

Good news in God's Country:

I'm actually employed.

I just wrapped up my third week at the Fort Wayne Journal Gazette. I'm back, five days a week, working mostly for the Living section, but also helping out the Business and Metro desks.

It's a temporary gig, but I'm not complaining. I'm thrilled to be back.

So far, most of my stories have been pretty playful: I’ve interviewed Fort Wayne fashionistas about what Michelle Obama should wear to the inaugural ball, talked to bakers about their Obama cookies, and spent an afternoon with the crazies who strip down to their underwear every New Years Day and run into the frigid waters of the St. Joseph river.

I’m getting a little worried, though, that I may be becoming the de facto “tough times” reporter, which may not be the best beat for my mental health. My first lengthy feature story was on survivors of the Great Depression; the next was on how the unemployed are flocking to online networking sites like LinkedIn to enhance their job search. I enjoyed doing the interviews, but given the chance, I may have passed the assignments on to a full-time staff member. I’m already worried about my economic future; listening to 80-somethings talk about eating dandelions and squirrels in the 1930s doesn’t help.

But three weeks of consistent work is apparently too much for Devon Haynie.

I'm actually in New Mexico now. I just spent the weekend in a very remote northeastern part of the state, where I interviewed for a reporting position at a community newspaper in a town called Farmington. I shouldn't give away too much about the gig, but allow me to foreshadow: it may or may not involve covering the Navajo Nation, acquainting myself with the oil and gas industry, and living in a trailer.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to New Mexico, and I forgot what a stunning state it is. On the three-hour drive from Albuquerque to Farmington, I passed towering sandstone mesas, red rolling hills, white rock formations and mountain ranges covered with snow and pines. The landscape seemed to change every 20 minutes. I haven’t been so overwhelmed by my surroundings since driving through South Africa several months ago.

I got so sucked in by the scenery on the drive back, in fact, that I thought I should take my time, enjoy the ride, and stop every now and then to take a picture. While that seemed like a good idea at the time, it seemed like a very bad decision a short while later when I approached the American Airlines counter at the Albuquerque Airport and realized that I had just missed my flight.

The original game plan was to get into Fort Wayne at 9:30 pm. I’ll now be getting in at 3 a.m. My friend Brian, who has to work tomorrow, is driving two hours to pick me up in Indianapolis. I hate that I’m the kind of person who actually asks for those kinds of favors, but I’m traveling tomorrow, too. And if I don’t get home tonight I’m in trouble.

I’m off to DC again tomorrow. I don't know how I did it, but I somehow talked my way into covering the inauguration. I'm taking an over-night 14-hour bus ride with The Fort Wayne Urban League—a local chapter of the national group of African Americans dedicated to black economic and educational empowerment. I couldn't have found a more perfect group to tag along with. I'll hang out with them during the day, file, and then see my friends at night.

I hitch a ride back Wednesday with one of the Urban League members. It’s going to be quite the trip. Cross your fingers that the networks aren’t down, and I can actually send in my copy….

Brrrrrrrrrr

There's not much walking, or driving for that matter, in this winter wonderland.

Two Homes for the Holidays

I've spent the last few days berating myself for failing to complete my mid-20’s magnum opus by my self-imposed deadline.

What should be a fast-moving tale of serendipity, violence and identity struggle is coming along, but at a dial-up modem’s pace.

I have only myself to blame for this, though it’s hard not to dwell on minor contributing factors: my subject’s illness, the job search, election distractions, a certain golden retrievers’ dependency issues, operation Fit into my Suits. The list goes on and on.

I came up with another excuse yesterday, though its relevance is still being vetted. It goes something like this:

I get work done when I’m here. But I haven’t actually BEEN HERE all that much.

I did the math (skepticism warranted), and it seems that since returning from South Africa in early October, I've evenly divided my time between northern Indiana's preeminent writing retreat and a conservative salon in northwest Washington called La Casa de Josef & Brian (CJ&B), known to outsiders simply as unit 825 at The Argonne.

Maybe I’ve spent too much time there. But I find solace in my east coast retreat, and cherish my alter ego as a jet-setting mystery woman curiously linked to 825’s handsome Texan tenants.

The two urban cowboys spend a weekend at a dusty, five star ranch, and Mystery Girl holds cover letter writing sessions in their absence. They leave early for Christmas, and Ms. Enigmatic collects their mail and invites a friend over for bagels. What, I wonder, does the building staff think of the girl who swoops into the apartment, stays for days at a time and acts like she owns the place—losing her laundry, locking herself out, swapping life stories with the Chinese owners of the basement bodega?

Do they wonder if I’m a sister? Friend? How I pay my "rent?”

(I would like to say in charm, but that’s pushing it. It’s more like I pay by eating the chocolate in the apartment so that nobody else has to.)

Ah, the practice tryst. I’d highly recommend it.

I wouldn’t change anything about my latest trip to apt 825. My itinerary was packed, but it was worth it:

Josef let me accompany him to a World Bank holiday party, where I wined and dined with the internationals. I caught up with an old college pal during a road trip to Baltimore. I saw my best friend try on her wedding dress and got misty eyed over how beautiful she looked, but regained emotional balance after learning that the bridal shop also sold Frosty the Snowman costumes, allowing me to dress up and do a little jig. I had two interviews, one of which horrified the Texans and might actually come to something.

On one of my final nights, I met a lawyer friend who decided that he wanted to become more than friends when I admitted that I shared his fascination with civil war re-enactments. I was asked to push back my flight a day so that we could tour Gettysburg, but declined. I bought a pair of skinny jeans, three years after they became fashionable, and had many thought-provoking conversations and tasty dinners.

During my quiet moments on the most comfortable couch/bed in the world, I spent time thinking about how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends.

In short: pretty damn lucky.

And then two days ago, along with several wailing infants and a handful of short-tempered, overworked flight attendants, I boarded a plane and flew back to the Artic tundra.

It's 2 degrees here. Negative 20 with the wind chill. The trees outside my house look like they're made out of crystal. Many are frozen in bows to last week's ice storm, their top branches brushing the ground.

Our power flicks on and off, but we're lucky. Thousands won't have electricity by Christmas.

It is 40 degrees in Washington, balmy in comparison; I'm already thinking about my next CJ&B booking.

I do, however, have this crazy thing called a job starting on Monday, which could complicate my travel plans. More on that to come.

Bad, but not this bad...

If you're interested, check out this blog post by conservative, Christian author Amy Welborn, who just left Fort Wayne.

She found the City of Churches too insular, and is now celebrating her move to, of all places, Birmingham, Alabama.

Is anyone else confused?