Conor - A Terrible Price To Pay

Nobody knows exactly when it happened or why, but Cupid changed a while back.

For one, he grew a pretty great mustache. Everybody liked it! Everybody thought it was a good thing. He was golfing more often, so it made sense, sortof, so nobody thought anything of it.

Everyone started wondering when he got rid of his bow and arrow, though, and got a pistol. It performed the same function, it would still cause someone to fall in love when they were shot with it, and it was still pretty much entirely metaphorical, so they felt no pain, but it showed his new state of mind.

He no longer used love as a gift, but as a weapon. He recognized that the love his victims felt when first shot was wonderful, it was like flying. It was something indescribable. He was also aware that when this feeling went away, when the love ended, the memory did not fade.

So he would throw people into the jaws of love and laugh. "Yes, I've heard that some love is eternal, but the love between you and that girl over there in the corner throwing up probably won't be." He would keep track of their relationship, and revel in every broken heart icon he saw on facebook.

Sometimes though things went well. Sometimes they got married! Cupid didn't know how to react to this. He felt pride, he felt shame, sometimes he felt nothing at all. He often felt like he had nothing to do with the whole process. He didn't understand love at all, all things considered.

Sometimes he made people fall in love with abstract concepts.

Sometimes he made people fall in love with really literal concepts, like microwaves and lamps.

That shit was always funny.

Some storm we knew we'd brave

False, lying, incomplete.
There's an unfathomable essence in this room.
Something's not right — well, so
you're not here.

When I felt the warmth that day,
it reminded me of your shirt
pressed against my invulnerable skin.

Some things, they say, are meant to fade,
others vanish quickly
no more lonely days,
I'll take this planet with me.

You've found me, you see me, know my name
I'm-so-enjoy-you're glad you came

Don't think twice just take me with
we'll find some land and spread our arms wide.
We'll take it in, and it will be ours
to groom
and grow
and grace
and give.

We won't have to leave, not even when we think we should.
This place of ours, our neighborhood.
Our roundabout, our philanthrope.
Some reason won't wedge between us and it,
nah, it would never work out

that way. When we're older
we won't have to cry,
because no one's going to say
to us a bye.

Independence, independence
independence, independence, independence
oh no. Independence, independence.
Oh no.

Fighting back. Fighting back. Fighting back
fears—

--Eliot Sill


An afterword:

I feel the need to add — the need to explain myself. See, I've never ever liked poetry I've attempted. I've always written my poems, loved them, then hated them within an hour. It's the form of writing I'm least confident in.

Poetry stirs us that way. To try and use words as brushstrokes and craft art out of letters is a difficult task. Especially when it's abstract in the way (my) poetry is. I've found myself better describing emotions and images, rather than trying to use words as them. But I'm not alone. Poetry is an oft neglected art form.

It's not cool, it's never cool to do poetry, at least not in a public forum, (such as Classic Brian), but I feel like it's one of those things where it's awkward to read someone-you-know's poetry. Because you're used to them expressing themselves in a different, normal way. But when someone thinks they have this mind bending concoction of flowey words and sappy imagery painting phrases, it's sort of a matter of pretense. You don't respect the person writing because they aren't above you enough to write in that way.

Having said that, good poetry is good poetry. It'll make itself known in a crowd of crap, like most good things.

But here I am, I don't feel confident slinging poetry on Classic Brian like it's something I'm entitled to try. Like fiction, but to a greater extent. I am backing up that poetry with prose because, damn it, I can do prose. Anyone can do prose. But, anyone can do poetry too. Not good poetry mind you, but who said prose was easy to rock. Certainly, I think, it's easier. Especially for someone like me, who meanders on and on and can give you 1,000 words on any little dumb thing (like a dumb poem).

I wrote this poem because I didn't feel like I had any solid CB ideas, but yet I had a lot on my mind. I tried to think of topics, and only words came to my head. Words that sounded good together. Words that sounded bad together. Words that sounded nonsensical, frightened, and alone. Words that desired the companionship of other words. I put a lot of myself in its three-hours-ago state into that poem, and I feel like it relieved some stress, just typing it. But I still can't look at it like it's good. I hate it.

And, going back to the as-a-writer thing, it sucks that I don't feel confident in all walks of write. I wish I could bang out poetry and fiction in the same way I can do the things I do semi-decently. I've never been a songwriter, and I've never been a poet. I think I sound overall corny and always too desperate to sound cool.

Regardless, thanks for reading.

November is a Shit Month and I Will Have None of it.

Every single year, November fucking blows. It's colder than you expect it to be, you have more homework than any other time in the semester (or year really) and you haven't had a break from general shit since mid August. As I write this post on Tuesday, October 25th*, we are a mere 6** days from the arrival of that little bitch of a month; November, and there is nothing we can do to prepare for it.

First of all, dressing for November is hard and I don't like it. As a GDI (GodDamn Independent), I do not own an adorable North Face fleece jacket and I will not own an adorable North Face fleece jacket until I am at least 25 and they aren't cool anymore. Therefore, when it is 40 degrees everyday I can a. wear a winter coat which would be practical and warm but I look like a TOTAL LOSER, b. wear the gross, oddly shaped fleece that zips out of my winter coat from 9th grade, or c. just be really fucking cold everyday. I'm obvi never going to pick that first option and will thus feel either extremely unattractive or uncomfortably cold every day.

Next, school is awful and I hate it. First semester used to be about two weeks longer and people took finals after Christmas. This was clearly a terrible idea so they shortened it so that finals could be completed by the time we went home for festivities (thank gods). Even though this is a positive change in most ways it makes the end of the semester seem really scrunched and every teacher thinks it's a good idea to put their last midterm, third paper and extra honors assignment in the three weeks before Thanksgiving Break. Awesome. I will now spend about 20 dollars a week on fancy coffees and spend about as much time napping between classes as I do sleeping at night.

Lastly, it has just been way too long since I was able to just lay around for three days reading and eating. U of I is mean and stupid and therefore doesn't think that its students deserve a fall break. This means that I have gone to class 5 days a week for 10 goddamn weeks straight (ignoring Labor Day because it is far too early in the semester to ever really be appreciated). During second semester, Spring Break is usually about 9 weeks in, almost exactly half way through. This makes sense. Thanksgiving Break is 14 weeks in and U of I has 8 days of classes before "reading day" and finals begin. SO DUMB. Those two (one and a half) weeks after break are pretty much pointless and the 14 week stretch before break is torture.

Solutions: There are none. Perhaps I could help the weather situation by finding some warm yet cute jacket alternative but those two things don't really go together in girl's clothing. Other than that, I/we are doomed. School is always going to be hard and Thanksgiving is always going to be the third week of November. If anyone can think of some tips to make me less miserable during this dreaded eleventh month, let me know.

*Let's not kid ourselves; Wednesday, October 26th
**5

Nick - Facts vs. Ideologies

Last year I learned things.

I learned how certain chemical compounds react; at what rate, and forming what products. I learned how cells operate inside my very own body. I learned how dendrites and axons, working together, allow your brain to function.

I didn't like learning about any of those things. And that's why, this year, I'm learning very different things.

I'm learning about when it is and isn't morally acceptable to kill people. I'm learning about what is a good basis for policy in domestic terms and in international terms. I'm learning about what motivates people.

And, truth be told, I don't really like learning about that stuff either. And the reason for that is very simple: it's so subjective. It isn't even 'learning' so much as 'discussing.'

But let me tell you what I do like.

I like that moment where we can look at two policies, and say, "this one is the better policy." I like looking at statistics of countries going to war, and saying, "this factor increases the probability of an armed dispute between nations."

I like when we can apply facts to social situations. I like solving real, lasting problems. I like when we can sift through the grey areas to find the truth.

Oftentimes political science is a petty squabble over opinions; there is no invalid opinion as long as one can argue in support of it. This is the part of political science I hate. The part where we distance ourselves from reality in an effort to remain politically unbiased.

But it all becomes worth it in that moment where the numbers are sitting in front of me, and I can see that factor x increases probably of result y. That moment where we can cross a policy off the board, casting it down as ineffectual. That moment where the professor tells someone he's incorrect, and illustrates a real-world example to show us why.

I love facts, and I love using facts. I love applying facts. Because once that barrier between facts and ideologies is broken, the true state of things can be discerned.

Only by being completely open-minded, and completely dedicated to evidence, can we determined the correct path.

-Nick.

Robert - Speed of Light

This post is directed primarily at Nick, Brendan, Eliot, and Brian. I have a vague feeling that Conor and Mada might have already experienced this in some fashion.

I recently was in a hurry, about two weeks ago. My bike displaced at the time, lounging about on the other side of campus somewhere, there was simply no way I was going to make it to that meeting on time. There wasn't the time, there wasn't the speed. I acknowledged my defeat, grabbed my things and briskly walked outside, where I promptly tripped on a concrete step, sending both legs sprawling and flailing into the afternoon midair. Soon, though, almost as quickly as they left the ground, one of them came back down and landed again, forcing energy to shoot down my body, connect with the earth, and spring back up through that leg, in turn forcing that leg back into the air. This process repeated for almost a full minute, each leg ricocheting into the air, one after another, until I finally regained control of my body and stopped to regain my bearing. My haphazard staggering was characterized by a pattern wherein there would sometimes be two legs in midair and sometimes one, but at no points were both legs on the earth. I know what you're thinking, and no, I did not fly off into the atmosphere once my entire body was propelled from the ground. I also was anticipating this, which frankly provided some moments of sheer terror, but indeed gravity seems to work as a force that extends somehow into the ethereal dimension of the airs. I've done a little research on this and uncovered that this phenomenon seems to be known as running.

Running is real goddamn fast. It's a lot faster than walking, I came to notice. I understand it doesn't make any sense, because if both of your legs are off the ground at once, how can you possibly be propelling yourself faster than someone who is using both of their legs at once, but you're going to have to trust me because confusing results are still results.

Over the course of the next few days after my discovery, I skipped most of my classes and quit one of my jobs, dedicating the vast majority of my time to mastering this new trick, which I expect will win plenty of ladies once I'm comfortable enough to display it publicly, assuming that they can still see me as I whisk by them.

I really think I got the hang of it after a while, and I learned a few helpful hints for those who might want to try. For example, I find it much more difficult to use the skill in my apartment than in the outdoors. No matter what logic dictates, attempting to claw at the ground with your arms for increased speed does not speed you up. Again, I refer you to the confusing theory wherein the fewer limbs on the ground, the faster the speed. Finally never run for extended periods of time after consuming a highly significant amount of alcohol unless.

I admit I got a little crazy once I mastered the running. I started with a mile, and then two miles the next day, and then four, and then five (five miles!) and then eight (eight!) and then ten (!!!). I thought that was really cool until my knees notified me that this is not a rate of increase that the human body is capable of sustaining. Their memo which contained debilitating uselessness informed me that I would not be running for a week. Being the good bureaucrat that my body is, my ankle also sprained itself to maximize effectiveness of the message. Thank you, body.

I understand this is likely to stir up some interest. I can't promise that I can cater to every single person's desires, but I am willing to give lessons or at least a demonstrations to those who text me the fastest at 217-494-1823.

Gratuitous Confessions of a College Student With an Actual Beard

by Brendan Cavanagh

I can easily recall the circumstances leading up to the first time I shaved. As I sat in the kitchen, basking dreamily in the afterglow of my first seventh-grade all-school dance, my father entered and illuminated me to what was a copious amount of bristly mustache-hairs for a twelve-year-old. Because my dad allegedly began shaving and taking his coffee black at the same age, he dragged me to the upstairs bathroom where he placed me in front of the mirror and shone a bright light in my face to point out to me what I had previously ignored- facial hair of more substance than the peach fuzz most of the fellows in my class wouldn't have the capacity to grow until the middle of high school. Naturally, a cliche Father-Teaches-His-Son-Life-Lessons scene a la 7th Heaven ensued. I think Fenton Hardy stopped by to dispense advice on sleuthing and being a gentleman while Cliff Huxtable made silly faces and did a goofy jig in the corner. Anyway, I learned that night how to apply shaving cream and use a disposable razor and discern which aftershave doesn't assault my nasal passages while stinging like a bitch on little nicks left by the occasional, uncoordinated slip of the wrist, and when I returned to the kitchen with fresh-smelling, waxen-smooth visage, my mom snapped a photo of my awkward amalgamation of sheepishness and pride. I believe the picture is still floating around in one of the numerous photo albums around my house.

For a year or two after that I never grew much more than a sparse amount of short, wiry black hairs in random areas of my face, so I didn't hassle with all the unnecessary howdy-do and brouhaha involved in basic shaving routine and simply went for the dry shave, with few accidents. As high school wore on and my collection of each of the eleven season of M*A*S*H grew, my facial hair became less patchy and consistenty stubbly, thus requiring me to dust off a finely-aged can of Barbasol and shave on a regular basis. I think by the time senior year rolled around, I was finally able to grow a worthy facsimile of a beard, which I decided to incorporate into my basic weekend schedule, which looked something like this:

1. Nap immediately after school lets out
2. Lazily carbo-load for pending cross country race
3. Endure shortness of breath and confusedly half-hearted pats on the back from the coach who doesn't
    remember my name at Saturday's race
4. Sit in a parking lot with friends and pray for a party or something new to talk about
5. Grow "beardish" to look ruggedly handsome and have something to talk about in aforementioned
    parking lot

I detect traces of beard, there, on my face.

Alrighty, then came college. For most of freshman year, my modus operandi involved growing out my beard, which was never really anything more than a half-beard at most, at school until the next time I got a ride home, so I could give the impression to the folks back in dem ole cotton fields back home that I lived an untamed, ragged Grizzly Adams-esque existence in my dorm. Then I'd go ahead and clean myself up- that is, get a shave and a haircut, only this time it didn't cost two bits because it was all taken care of at my house.

Before and after, if you will.

Then, because my boss at the country club wanted me to look presentable when greeting members for three hours at a time in a sun-baked parking lot, but also because I just felt like it, I didn't grow a single beard all summer until the week or two leading up to my return to school. Perhaps it was simply laziness, or an act of curiously-manifested apathy. Perhaps my face, in an act of pointed irony, was cold during the hottest months of the year. Or most likely all of the above combined with a maddening desire to grow a legitimate, un-creepy mustache (still a little creepy-looking, presently). Whatever the reason, I stopped shaving in August. Well, actually September. I have shaved one time since coming back to school two months ago. In just a few fly-by weeks, I grew a pretty lush-looking beard, got bored and shaved. Then I decided in September that I could grow out my facial hair until Halloween, so that if I arbitrarily decide to assemble a costume that requires a mustache or a beard, then I'll be set. In case you're wondering, I do, in fact, have an idea for a good Halloween costume. I'll wear obnoxiously loud clothing and my old round glasses- the ones that resemble Harry Potter's har har- and shave everything but a looping mustache and scruffy sideburns and moonlight as John Lennon, circa 1967 (around the recording of the "Strawberry Fields Forever" single and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band).

 Lennon, in red, is what I'm aiming for. Maybe I can pull off George Harrison, I don't know. But damn it, I want Paul McCartney's mustache! Like all the time!

But I digress. Here's the thing about having a beard: people really like it. I admit, what I'm about to say makes me sound a little bit like Narcissus, but hey, we're awesome, handsome men and we should be allowed to boast our best qualities in some form. As the beard gets longer, some friends' and mere acquaintances' interest in it piques. If they see me for the first time in a little while, they'll say something along the lines of, "Heyyyy, I'm liking the beeaard," usually accompanied by an unconscious stroking of an imaginary goatee. Sometimes it catches me off guard because I normally have enough facial hair, but truthfully, it's continually reaching unprecedented lengths.

My God, I could probably knit a sweater with the cornucopia of hair trimmings I'm bound to shave.

Now, I'll allow that I'm a fairly humble person, so I don't like to make much mention or display of my beard; however, due to the fact that it is on my face, it is something I must visibly display. But then again, why else am I growing it out? To supplement a costume and look good. So it's weird that I'm very lackluster about having to let people see it, while at the same time secretly wanting people to acknowledge it. I guess I'm just bitter because I inexplicably miss shaving.

There are some redeeming qualities to having a beard, though. For instance, the other day I volunteered to aid an English professor man the English department's booth at an informative seminar for prospective freshmen. I was polite and conversational, and thus hit it off well with the professor and some of his colleagues from other departments when we had an informal rap session between breakout sessions. One of them was my Principles of Reasoning professor from last semester, so he asked me how I was doing, and was a senior? I said, "Au contraire, mon frère; I am a sophomore." The professors appeared shocked. I told them that I tend to have that effect on people due to my beard and good posture, to which one of them remarked, "You do have nice posture." But you get the point. Having a beard, in part, makes me look older and elicits both increased attention and respect, which I guess allows a little bit a leeway in certain situations. I really can't say how, exactly, but maybe I'll be offered a job or served alcoholic beverages before I shave again.

Finally, I do dig being told that the beard, in addition to my Ray Ban glasses and the fact that I cross my legs when I sit down, gives the impression that I am a plebian English-major-turned-published author. I mean, I guess I have to look the part, and apparently resembling an author is enough to convince someone that I am. Take that, Christopher Paolini.

Oh yeah, I also resent being told I look like a lumberjack when I wear red flannel.

Bound for recovery

Only two closets withstood the tornado. The rest of the house had been destroyed. One closet contained Barbara Kuhn, who kept trying to stand up to the behest of the storm. Each time she went to move, she said, she'd get knocked right back down. She was trying to go get what was in the other closet ― her two grandchildren, 4 and 9 years old at the time.


Now, Barbara's got a small, empty house being fixed up on the 200 block of S. Roosevelt in Joplin, Missouri. Her attic was completely wiped away by the storm, the remodeled home won't be needing one.

Barbara survived the storm, buried but hanging on. When the tornado was through with Joplin, two neighbors came over to help Barbara out, they were able to extricate her body, bruised and battered from debris and hail of all sizes, from the shambles of her house. But these weren't the two neighbors Barbara was used to seeing. Rather, they were two of that elderly couple's sons, in town for the funeral of their father. Their mother was okay, and so were Barbara's grandchildren. The worst part, of not knowing whether her grandchildren were living, was over. Now all that remained was recovery.

That was five months ago.

Five weeks ago, I broke my finger. I was playing a game and doing a bad job. By all means, I probably deserved it. I had, after waiting a week in denial of the possibility of me actually breaking a bone, to go to the doctor and get it checked out. And again two days later, and again two later. They finally gave me a cast on September 23rd, my mom's birthday. After struggling through life one-handed for a week and a half, I got it removed on October 5th. Sweet freedom.

And then there's Joplin, Missouri. Joplin didn't suffer a broken finger.


Joplin hasn't been inconvenienced. Joplin's been shuffled. A mighty storm of wind and water ripped Joplin limb from limb and strewn it all throughout itself. This surgery has taken five months, and is still ongoing. Broken is the bone structure, but Joplin's mind is clear and in good spirits.

Barbara's been so blessed. At least, that's how she puts it.

My thoughts? Bullshit, Barbara. You've not been blessed. God hates your city and had the gall to prove it. Your neighbors died and the foundation of your home city is still broken. You know what I did on May 22nd? I probably sat on my ass, belittling the disaster ― “oh, another one?” ― and went to work. And I probably complained about having to walk to my car in the rain. May wasn't very warm this year, if I remember correctly, so I'm sure the rain wouldn't be very welcomed.

But you, Barbara. You've floored me. You're happier than I am. I'm here for you. And you know what, I'll get all the glass I can out from under your new deck. This hoe will have to do the job, even though its tiny head will make scraping it all the more tedious. I won't ask why you didn't remove the glass before you put the dang deck in, and I won't ask what you did this summer. I have a feeling I know.

Yet the peace with which you carry yourself, speaks to something much more fulfilled ― much simpler. It's all material stuff, she says. What really matters was intact. Barbara obviously didn't own an Xbox.

Or maybe she did. She may as well have owned everything. The more she owned the more she would have appreciated losing it. Well, that's all we have time for Barbara, see you on the other side.

Holy crap, where are we? This is Joplin, Missouri. It's a town that knows itself better than I do. I don't know what it's like to live here. I have an idea what it's like to live here now, but, this ain't Joplin. Or at least I would think. I signed up to come here for a service mission trip through a friend. Well, a whole gang of them, really, but I digress. It's me, Jason, a junior in high school, seven girls of various ages, an adult couple, and Jamie and Mary, who organized this whole deal.

This is the house? Oh man, I don't really know where we'd start. It's up, standing. But it's gutted and there's a mountain of wood in the front yard. The yard is trashed. Ah, the roof it is. Hi roof.

We spent Friday afternoon on that rooftop. There was this old roof up there that needed to be smote. So  I got a shovel, which works better than a flatbar, and started digging through to the bottom of the shingles, uprooting hundreds of nails in the process, and ripping up that tarpaper.

The roof provides a nice view. Well, a proficient view. You can see far. But what you see isn't really nice at all. Homes ― areas in which people like the ones you like go to sleep and wake up in every day, where food was kept, chores were completed, families struggle to keep on. Imagine, imagine having that ripped from the ground by God himself and thrown like a piece of crumpled paper, on which was scribbled your entire life. How do you watch it go? How can you?

And yet, Joplin presses on. Building back the city the way they remember it, one project at a time. Like someone merely went through and made a gigantic mess in their town. Spring cleaning. Help from friends. Service projects. Ask God to say sorry, show mercy, provide grace. Get up in the morning, get out of bed, and work backwards.

How did you spend your summer? I spent mine feeling like I was doing too little. In Southwestern Missouri they spent it feeling like there was too much to do.

The wrath of that tornado was devastating, unforgiving and coldly real.

Just look at this pile of trash in front of this house. It spans the width of the yard, and is having trouble containing itself to the limit of ten feet from the curb. In this garbage heap lies the entire house, of 2408 Montana Place. The house has been pretty much gutted, and the roof is a glaring mess. We set up a ladder and climb on up.

Oooh wha oh, it's unstable, of course. There's tarp covering weak spots, and tired shingles barely holding on to everywhere else. Our task is to strip this roof, and administer a new one.

This house is Christi's. Also living here are Gavin, Emily, Alex, Joey, Sam and Michael, according to the spray-paint on the unhinged garage door. I don't talk to Christi, I don't get the chance. She's a Chiefs fan, though, apparently. Pretty unfortunate. Also her house is destroyed. She tells Jamie, the leader of this trip, that we're a miracle. It feels pretty cool to hear. I continue ripping shingles off the roof with my flathead shovel. Dead tired and hot. But it feels so good, so therapeutic, to do some manual labor for someone else. I'm making up for all the housework I didn't do as a kid.

As a clear message from God that I was meant to be here, I begin to hear the jingle. You know the jingle. You hear the jingle, and you cry out that you've heard the jingle. An ice cream truck is nearby. I get my Two-ball Screwball and enjoy it on the roof in the beaming sun. As I sat there, with some of my closest friends, a train passed by behind the row of rebuilding houses across the street ― Union Pacific.

In that moment, I felt really what the spirit of America was. For some reason, seeing that train, undoubtedly packed with materials pointing toward progress, and enjoying ice cream on top of this roof I was helping to rebuild for the sole reason of pitching in, it just clicked. I was filled with a sense of greater purpose.

The day wears on, and wears on us. We're all growing tired by around four, when all of a sudden a bus pulls up. It's always nice when you're tearing off a roof and starting to get really tired and ready to go home and the Lincoln University football team shows up. They were just passing by, apparently. Thought they'd stop and help. They ripped the rest of the roof off, pretty much. We pointed our collective finger at the sky, uttered gratitude, and went home having completed the first half of the battle.

I slept like a dead baby that night.

Saturday we went back to put the roof back on. It proved to be easier imagined than completed. But while I was up there, hammering in plywood and metal siding, I fell in love with that roof. We all did. We were no longer scared of its numerous pitfalls, as we knew how to avoid them. No one fell through the thing all weekend. Mike kept us working, kept us rolling on tarpaper and eventually we began hammering in the shingles. Every once in a while, I would see a train pass by, and feel rejuvenated. We needed to get this done. We had to get it done. If we went home without completing it, this trip would be a failure.

At dinner, which was hamburgers and hot dogs brought in a to-go box (not saying that's bad ― that's definitely good), I walked down the street to a half destroyed house. There was stuff everywhere. Their stuff. Their life. In a bedroom I found a copy of Happy Feet, and Badder Santa, which is weird, because  this bedroom definitely had belonged to a little girl. Then again, who knows where that DVD had come from? There were shoes, clothes and a drawer full of socks. I pulled out one pair of these tiny socks and unfolded them.

“Someone who loves me very much went to San Francisco and got me these socks” in bright, colorful, text.

Fuck, man. What do you do about that? These people's lives have been permanently gashed. If they're still living, they're scraping by. This was not another storm. Not another national disaster. This was another national tragedy, as far as I was concerned. Sure makes a roof feel insignificant. But that one roof, that was us. We had that roof. We were going to provide that roof and put it over that family's heads. We don't have time to contribute much else. But, man, if only we did. I kept the socks. Some souvenir.

We woke at daybreak Sunday morning and headed over to the site of Christi's house. We began work, and it soon became apparent that the roof was going to take more than the six hours of labor we had to offer to be finished.

We did what we could, Joplin. As the last futile minutes of labor passed by with no glorious finish line to signal us home, I came down from the roof and began scootering around. I spotted a youth walking his dog. So naturally, I chased the kid down on the Razor that was for some reason left in the front yard. I talked to the kid, Bryce was his name.

I asked him about the tornado, and he remembers it like a  dream he had. It happened, but in the end, it didn't kill him. He talked about how his dog, Gizzy, was smarter than he and his family, because it hid under the bed instead of in the closet. The family's Great Dane was unfazed by the tornado. And the damage to his house was “between minor and major,” but it had just gotten rebuilt. He used to have no fear of tornados. Now he says a loud storm will give him anxiety. Well, yeah.

I returned to the site, wiping out along the way and scraping my hands, which I had already cut twice with a boxcutter blade, and pretty much making grabbing things a difficult task. I was going really fast, guys, it was a pretty cool wipeout.

I grabbed a soda and hopped back on the roof. I sat there and looked out at Joplin for one last time from the peak of that roof. It's banged up. Time does not heal geological wounds. People do. People like me, who had never been on a service mission before and wanted to help people to make myself feel like less of an oaf. People like the Lincoln University football team, who know when to pull over and rip some shingles for the hell of it. People like Barbara, who feel blessed to be here and won't let you take your life for granted.

The trip was incredibly fun. I learned so much in so little time. I also got shocked by an electric fence, but that's unrelated. For the city of Joplin, we were appreciated, but just a speck in the mosaic of people, groups, it will take to get that city back on its feet. When people talk about greater purpose, it's hard to see your impact, beyond barely recognizing your face in the crowd. The roof we failed to complete would be finished off by some other group that I don't know. That's what it takes to rebuild, it takes all of us. And in a country so typically divided, seeing a united front stubbornly erect a city from the rubble created by God himself will make you feel that, as a race, people can do some pretty cool things every once in a while.

I came back down, and said goodbye to the house. As we drove away, I wondered if Joplin had a real future. It sure seemed so. Joplin's a train, like the ones I saw all weekend, that's bound for recovery. The weekend was a lesson in reality, one I'll never forget. I felt needed by this stranger, this city, and I felt like everything made sense. Especially when I was watching the trains pass by.

--Eliot Sill