Call It What You Want...

I went back to the old alma mater for a retirement dinner for a much-loved professor. I was concerned (as always) about who I would know who was there. Turns out, they were a little concerned about me.

"Who is Jenny Sherrill?" the professor had asked the head of the p.r. department who was putting on the event. "I can't remember a Jenny Sherrill at all." They wracked their brains, but to no avail. They couldn't for the lives of them (either of them) come up with who this Jenny Sherrill might be. They called the Alumni office. There, they learned the truth. This unknown "Jenny" was, in truth, JR. THAT name, they could handle.

It happens most every time I'm with my college cronies or other college friends, chums, pals, or gang. Someone calls me JR -- my college name -- and then apologizes. "I forgot; you're Jenny now, aren't you?"

Well, yes, most people call me Jenny now, but I refuse to leave JR behind. JR was good times. It was more than a nickname -- no one in college thought of me as Jenny unless they'd been dating me for a while (or unless their friend Tim had been dating me for a while and had been calling me Jenny, which then created some weirdness, when OTHER people besides Tim called me Jenny in those days...) -- it was who I was. It was only because there was another Jenny Vinson on campus that I took the nickname to begin with, and she'd been there a year already when I arrived, so it wasn't fair to try to change HER name. JR had some fun times: trips to Cedar Campus and other InterVarsity events, good times on campus, sorority events, friends, even classes that had some interesting and fun in them.

Yes, there was the time that, as I was going through Shirk Hall (home of the journalism school), I was asked by an editor of a campus publication (I don't remember which), "JR, do you have periods?" A rather appalling question, you have to admit, and a little more personal than I wanted shouted across the building to me. Actually, they wanted to know if it was "J.R." or "JR" or "Jr." or some other such arrangement. ("It's whatever you want to make it, but the J and the R both stand for things.")

Of course there's the question of what the R stands for. The standard answer was "Ravioli." There was a story behind that, but this is a family show... Ha ha ha. Imagine the surprise of one sorority sister a year later when she found out Ravioli wasn't really my name. Surprise, and a little offense, too, I have to admit, that I'd lied to her. (I didn't think she'd believe me... or that anyone else named Brent Etzel would believe me either, which he did as well.)

But JR was a nice nickname to have. It gave me a little something different, rather than being one of a gazillion Jennys running through college those years, though I did hear about "Who Shot J.R.?" a few thousand times too many. (Yes, you were original when you said it, I'm sure...) And then there were the questions (or comments) along those lines -- "What does the R stand for?" (we've covered that) "Is it Junior?" (not to you...) "Do you pronounce it 'JUR'?" (only in your case)...

It was a nice name to have. It was a nice person to be. And when someone from then calls me JR, I do still answer to it. And I sign things JUR from time to time.

Mark decided to help Daddy put together a shelf unit for the living room. First, he got his tools ready.

Then he pitched in and lent a hand. What a big help he was, too!

Of course, he also showed his gross motor skills (aside from his carpentry skills, of course) by taking on the balance beam portion of the shelf-building event.

All the while, Mommy was off at work, but when she got home, she was pleased with the new shelf, and, of course, happy with some new cute pictures, too.

It was eighth grade. It's a bad enough time to be alive without a ninth-grade brother to complicate things.

I walked into rehearsal for the current play I was in, and one of my friends, a Mr. R____, was behaving in a strange manner. After some time of awkward avoidance, he finally told me, "Your brother says you like someone in this cast." What? I was taken aback. How would my brother know such things? I would certainly never have told him anything of the sort, even if I had happened to have spoken to him (entirely by accident, I am sure). I wouldn't have mentioned to anyone else any interest in any young man of our acquaintance. And to whom would he be referring?

Hmm, looking about, the options were endless. It was a rather large cast, and, indeed, I had a rather large list to choose from. There might have been one or two who would land higher on my list (and those of every other eighth-grade girl in the cast), and there were certainly those who weren't even in the running (even for me, hard to believe but true).

Mr. R____ finally came out with it. The person my brother had told him that I liked was... him. My brother, discretion personified, had, apparently (and so it was found to be true) read my diary, and had harvested juicy tidbits for future use. What a dear boy he was, and so insightful to find the book stashed in such a secret spot. (Knowing me, I'd probably left myself a note of where to find it.) But back to the revelation.

How does one answer such a thing????? You can't admit it, for heaven's sake. Even if he had occupied one of those higher spots on the list (which I don't think he did, though time and knowledge of future events might shape my recollections here), it would be beyond the humiliation facing me to admit any particular feelings toward this individual. Let it be known here and now, though, that my attentions and interests at the time were neither highly focused nor selective (those who know might remember "Herman" and other notables who shall remain unnamed for the sake of this writer and any innocent bystanders). So to say that R_____ may have garnered a mention in my personal literature would not be surprising as the list included a great many young men of my acquaintance -- and not a few with whom I was not acquainted. If admitting it would be humiliating for me, what does denial do for the party who has broached the subject? "Gee, R_____, he must be mistaken, for I find you repugnant. Good heavens, how could I like you? I would sooner like (fill in the name of a more repulsive cast member here)!"

I don't remember how I answered the comment, but I think it was some hot denial of even keeping a diary. I doubt it flew. The next day he was "going with" A___, a girl in my grade who I did not know well, but to whom he introduced me. She was a very nice girl. I did make a point of noting that in my non-existent diary for peeping eyes to read. In the years to follow, though, R____ remained my friend, and never again did the issue of the diary rear its ugly head. At least in that circle. I am sure said brother read it for the rest of its life, but I didn't hear about it after he outgrew that ninth-grade stage. I also did not become much more discreet, though I did start using code names. Which I then decoded in the back of the very same book. Boy was I a smart one. At any rate, the diary no longer is a part of my memoribilia. Whew. I'm glad I destroyed it. There are journals worth reading after the person is gone. Mine was not.

My friend Andrea recently was a "safe house" in a cool youth group activity at her local church, called "Underground Church". From her blog: "Basically, kids are divided into groups, find people who give them maps and instructions, and then go out into different neighborhoods. Certain houses are safe houses, and their job is to get to a safe house without getting caught by the "secret police", teams of people armed with Super Soakers. Anyone the secret police manage to get wet gets taken to "jail". Anyone who makes it to the safe house would give a password, and if admitted to the house, could call the leaders to come pick them up. The point of the activity, in addition to having fun, is to raise awareness of persecuted Christians around the world."  So Andrea would be waiting for 12 kids to make it to her house (three did). They would give the password ("Are you with the YMCA?") and she would respond with the proper response ("Yes; are you?"); they would give their team color, and she'd invite them in. Add to all this excitement the interesting fact that while her house number is in the 700s, all of the other houses around hers are in the 500s. Makes the game a little more interesting.

This was meaningful for Andrea because her husband is Chinese, and, while his home country is becoming more open to Christianity, there is certainly a history of underground church activity being necessary.

This made me think about the deeply meaningful youth group activities that we did "back in the day" as part of the group at the church where we grew up. Naturally there were the retreats and lessons and activities led by our most capable leader, but once we got into high school, she couldn't teach us anymore, as only a man would be appropriate to lead youth of that age. (Pardon me while I choke on that one.)

I was going to list the most meaningful youth activites here, except I came up a little short. Aside from anything led (or heavily participated in) by that leader who shall remain nameless (but whose code name is "MOM"), I'm coming up with nothing that was organized by our youth leaders. There were some youth rallies at other churches (perfect for meeting new guys or running into old ones), ICYC (the last of which was horrible enough to darken the memory of all the rest), and of course all of the activities at the OTHER church that HAD a youth group. And there were the activities that were fairly self-led (boys who shall remain nameless having hymnal wars in the back row, painting our very own high school room "whatever color we wanted"), and the puppet and drama activities led by that famous person-of-a-gender-that-can't-lead.

There were some dark times, chair-throwing incidents, devotions with other youth groups, youth ministers whose er, extra-curricular activities led to serious legal implications, leaving youth rallies early so we could get home to watch our favorite TV shows. This is what we get when "only" men can lead youth groups? Get serious.

Best fun, one-time activity I can think of? PHOTO SCAVENGER HUNT: Our group was divided into two teams, each of which was given a list of things to find and a Poloroid camera. We were assigned a van and a driver, and we were given a certain length of time and assigned to go around town and try to get as many of the assigned pictures as possible.

• Picture of your group "somewhere you shouldn't...be": Brian's group (with the church van) photographed themselves climbing the sign for the Hiphugger lounge; our group (with a mercifully anonymous van) took a group picture at the front door of the now-defunct adult bookstore.
• Picture of your group "behind bars": Brian's group went to the jail; mine went to a salad bar.
• Picture of your group with someone who looks like someone from "Goonies": Brian's group got a kid at the mall to pose with him, not telling him that he reminded them of "Chunk". (I had a picture from some cheesy teen magazine.)

It wasn't a bad activity. It was a lot of fun. Both groups had a lot of stories to tell later. (And I think that unnamed youth leader had a lot to do with putting it together.) Not everything has to be meaningful, of course. She had enough things with content that were. If only some other people had learned from her.

Take note, youth leaders. You can have fun and meaning too.

It's a day for random thoughts, so here they are...

You can't go home again. But it's nice to stop in for a visit. Last weekend was my college homecoming and 10-year reunion. It was nice to see people I haven't seen in years. There weren't a lot, but those who were there, it was good to see. It was quite funny to see this little knot of sorority sisters (including me) sitting at a table at the local [this is about the best website ever] (using my brother's British sense of the word), pulling out pictures of our kids and talking about immunizations. The guys had hangovers from partying the night before -- some things never change. But everyone was nice and friendly and acted like they were happy to see everyone else. Back on campus, we had a class photo taken by the tree planted in memory of a classmate (and sorority sister). Hard to believe that tree is that big... Then it was off to see campus. At the DDD suite, they pulled out the photo album from my freshman year. Lovely. At the theatre, there was a photo album out that chronicled my four years. It was fun to point out myself (I'm so vain) in the few pictures I was in, and remember some great shows and interesting people. It was fun seeing different people, and it was nice to find at least one who lives nearby. (Can you say playdates?)

Accomplishment is a nice thing. Sometimes I set out to "fix" things and end up destroying them instead. Tim is always very understanding when I break something instead of repairing it. But I think I had success today with a minimum of destruction when I pulled the bike stroller out and put it back together and got it all attached to the bike and gave Mark a little ride up the block and back. Success. Whew.

Walking. A week ago the kid couldn't walk by himself. Today, while Tim and I were finishing our supper, he was doing laps around the dining room table. Giggling with glee. Carrying a block (for balance, I'm sure).

Visiting Grandma. Yesterday Mark and I went to Kokomo to get his birthday pictures (very cute, very cute), and we surprised Grandma by stopping by to see her. "I wasn't looking for you to come today," she said. Which is good; gotta keep the "old bird" on her toes. Left off a couple pictures for her and one for Aunt Betty, of course. Got caught up on all the news. She saw so-and-so, so-and-so else had surgery, someone else is feeling better, someone's moving back to the U.S. (and no, Aunt Jeannie isn't doing a happy dance for that... no, she is after all)... All the while Mark wanders around the house, checking all the rooms out. He has such fun.

good grammar. My mom did a happy dance and she didn't know why the other day when I picked up a friend's prescription and said, "I am not she; should I still sign here?"