Today’s guest post comes from Beth-Ann.

On Saturday I responded to a last minute request for volunteers at Minnesotans United for All Families. Since I am recovering from laryngitis, I was ideally suited for the menial gluing and stapling task at the Loring Park office.

After several hours of sign-making I high-fived my young supervisor (his initiative not mine) and headed down Hennepin Avenue to my car. I noticed some money on the sidewalk and bent down to pick it up. There were two crumpled $50 bills!

I was across from the Basilica without a soul in sight. There was nobody who had just passed the spot in either direction and most of the storefronts were empty. I picked up the money and (too) rapidly decided that with possession being 9/10 of the law, the hundred dollars were obviously mine.

I am very fortunate that my life is comfortable enough that I can get along without the money, still I needed to think if it belonged in my pocket or elsewhere. I’ve found money before and never even think twice before putting nickels and quarters in my purse.

I decided that since the only reason I was in the neighborhood was to help Minnesotans United defeat the hurtful marriage amendment, my most appropriate action would be to donate it to the organization. I turned around and went back to hand the money to the staff person processing contributions. I wish she’d been a little more excited about my lucky find.

I’ve since told the story to a number of folks and have truly enjoyed the enthusiasm shown in their plotting to allocate the windfall and their joy in the serendipity of my discovery.

Have you ever found any money?

Today’s guest post comes from Clyde.

In June one morning I rode my bike through the industrial park and saw an arresting sight. In a large parking lot about 75 cars were parked near the entrance to a manufacturing plant. In a distant corner of the lot were two cars parked side-by-side. One was a perfectly maintained BMW Z4. The other was an old Dodge Dart, a rust-bucket rattletrap. I spent the next couple of miles guessing how these two cars ended up in their shared isolated position.

I could imagine several stories.

I forgot about it until two days later when I rode by to see the same placement of cars. This time it struck me that Pixar would make a movie out if it, in the style of Lady and the Tramp. The two cars would be in the alley behind an import garage sucking on radiator hoses simmered in 5-10 motor oil flavored with herbs de Peugeot as they sipped on chilled canisters of penetrating oil. Their union would result in six bouncy little Vespas and a mo-ped.

Three days later, I rode by the scene again. This time I imagined a murder mystery in the style of Three Bags Full or Thereby Hangs a Tail but as seen through the headlights of a car, not the eyes of sheep or a dog. Using pure German rationalism, the BMW would solve the mysterious murder of a VW beetle by a black stretch limousine. The Dart would be the BMW’s snitch in the style of Stuart Margolin playing Angel in The Rockford Files. They were holding a meeting in the parking lot for the Dart to tell the BMW that the VW was an industrial spy.

Circumstances kept me from riding by the parking lot for more than six weeks. But now the BMW was alone and has been on every ride since. Hmmm? In fantasy or real life, I bet there’s a story to be told.

What’s your version of this story?

Today’s guest post comes from Ben.

I put up some new perch racks for my chickens. This latest batch of chickens never seemed to get the hang of them and they kind of just huddle up in a corner on the floor; easy pickings for some raccoon or coyote.

So lately I’ve tried to get them using the perch. Chickens don’t listen very well. And they sure as heck don’t ‘herd’.

There are a variety of perches. Wonder what sort of perches I provided?

Here’s a hint. Not this:

Not this either:

My perches are simple 2×4’s. About as basic as a tree.

My older siblings could tell you stories about chickens in trees. My brother had to climb up and get them down. My sister had to collect the eggs. They both hated their jobs. At least my chickens don’t roost in trees. Much.

They do hang out in a lilac bush during the day.

So, the first night I simply chased the chickens over to the perch. They don’t really settle down and roost until night so it was dark out when I decided to do this. In hindsight I should have told my wife what I was up to. The chickens were greatly upset by my meddling and it sounded to Kelly like a massacre down in the chicken coop. Five nights in a row now I’ve poked, prodded, chased, herded, carried, lugged and cajoled those chickens to the roost.

And they still haven’t figured it out.

The White Rock breed is very quiet and I can pick them up and tuck them under my arm and put them on the perch. The Black Australorp do NOT like to be picked up and they make a real fuss about it. The Silver Laced Wyandotte have no sense of balance. I’ve been picking the chickens up and carrying them over to the perch and I place them on it.

One of those black ones lept straight up, smacked into my face and broke both nosepieces off my glasses. They were broken before and I have super glued them back on twice now. But this time I couldn’t find the nosepieces. They’re down in the dirt and feathers and manure and….

Well, I didn’t look too hard.

I have been trying to help these birds, and have been handsomely rewarded for it. A couple weeks ago it was a stick up my nose. Today it’s broken glasses.

It’s quite an ordeal. I’m hoping they learn soon. Or one of us should anyway.

They say no good deed ever goes unpunished.
When has this been true for you?

Today’s guest post comes from Steve Grooms.

When I was a kid I felt a breezy, uninformed optimism about the process of growing up. I assumed it would flow naturally, evenly, always moving toward a higher state of consciousness. I assumed that I would experience some tricky teen years and maybe endure challenges in my 20s. But I took it for granted that I’d be all grown up by 30 or (worst case scenario) 35. Then I’d have four or five decades to enjoy being a grownup before the little candle of my soul was snuffed out.

That optimism began to wear thin when I hit my 30s and still felt like a work in progress. I feared there was something wrong with me in my 40s because I still pursued maturity like a greyhound chasing a tin bunny, never catching it . . . hell, never getting near it!

Becoming a parent while I was still flagrantly immature was interesting. When you have a kid, you sometimes have to act like a grownup. I often felt like a fraud at such moments. I wanted to sneak out to the apron of the stage and confess to the audience, “I’m not really an adult, but I gotta play one from time to time.”

Somewhere along the line I sensed I wasn’t the only one still trying to grow up at 40, 50 or 60. One of my best friends is about twenty years older than I, and she routinely experiences breakthroughs in personal growth as she pushes 90. I now understand that most people continue to grow and mature as long as they breathe air. Some of that feels good and some of it stinks, but it seems to be one of the unavoidable realities of life.

I might be more aware of this than most folks, for my life blew up in my face when I was 57, and I suddenly didn’t have any idea of who I was or what I would do when I grew up. I “got” to experience my teen years all over when I was actually in my AARP years, with all the terrors and bizarre rewards of dating. I was plunged into a crash course in self-discovery. It has been fascinating and often harrowing.

Because of this blog piece, I’ve been contemplating changes that I’ve made lately. Without going into tedious detail, I believe I’m much more humble. I’ve always had strong opinions and no shortage of them. Most of my life I was “humble” in the sense of not arrogantly spouting off with my excellent opinions. I now understand that my opinions are often based on crummy data, lazy analysis and wishful thinking. Where I used to act humble, I now am humble because I know many of my pet convictions are just crap. I am doing a better job of keeping quiet when I see people doing dumb things. If they want my wisdom, they can always ask for it. I listen better now.

I continue to be curious about what I will be like when I grow up . . . if I ever do, which seems mighty unlikely after all these years!

What does it mean to be ‘grown up’, and how can you tell when you get there?