The Edit Barn

Morning Visitor

2010-08-23T15:44:00.006-05:00

It's not any fun to have your weekly trash pick-up fall on a Monday. You're still coming off the weekend, and let's face it, Sunday night is not a fun time to take the sweep through the house's wastebaskets. During the summer, I have to set my alarm to take the trash out on Monday morning -- the truck usually comes by around 8:30 a.m., which is OK during the school year when I'm already up, but is rather sudden during vacation.

This morning I set my alarm for 7:30 and was up at 7:40. What greeted me was this:

Well, not really that. That, but covered with torn up bags and trash. The can was on its side and everything had clearly been pawed through. "Everything" being all the expired and tired food I pulled out of the cupboards a couple days ago in a downsizing madness. (All the powdery stuff is soy flour, I think. Soy flour.)

I told Matt I was pretty sure we had a bear.

I went out and started gathering up all the crap and noting what had been eaten and what hadn't. Stale pasta and chewed-up corn cobs, no. Overdue marshmallows, yes. Chicken skin, no. Forgotten almond bark that had waxed and waned a couple times, yes. Watermelon rind, no. Half-full tube of frosting, well:

When I was almost done, I found the scat. And what a scat! I will refrain from posting a picture of it (although I did take one), but it was huge. It must have weight more than a pound.

By that time, I had filled up the trash can. I took it down the driveway and found the bear's trail. Not that it was hard -- I just followed another frosting tube and a freshly killed lollipop.

The trail was fresh -- half the prints were mud (top half of the photo), and half were water (bottom):

The pad was about four inches across.

So if I had gone out at 7:30, maybe I would have seen it! I'm going to put up the trail cam tonight. Not that I want it to come back.

Viking Rage Redux

2010-07-05T22:27:00.002-05:00

Scene: Matt and I are at the kitchen table, helping John pack for camp. Matt is going through the list of stuff to bring while I'm finishing up the medical forms.

Me: Do you have his Social Security number? In case he goes to the emergency room.

Matt: Mm, I can go get it. I think I know where it is.

Me: No, no biggie. What should I put for this?

Matt: For what?

I point at the next thing to fill in: "Religion."

Matt shrugging: Thor?

More June Flowers

2010-07-04T17:47:00.006-05:00

So last year I did a post about June flowers that missed a few. Here they are, even though it's July.

These are thimbleberry blossoms. They are about the size of a fifty-cent piece and are fragile. The thimbleberry is kind of like the bunchberry -- not much for taste but a fun thing to identify and eat right off the bush. Or you can put it on your finger and pretend it's a thimble.

This has a boring name, One-Flowered Wintergreen, and a cool name, Olav's Candlestick. They are about four inches tall and never lift their heads, as far as I've seen. I found maybe one last year, and this year there are a lot more of them. This spring was very rainy; maybe that has something to do with it. Every year seems to be a good year for some plant or another, and it's different every year.

I have no idea what this is.

This is called a twinflower and I LOVE THEM. They are about three inches tall, and the little flowers range from dark pink to white. They also smell really sweet, if you can get your nose down to them. This was a good year for twinflowers. Maia says they are street lights for fairies.

I have no idea what these are, either. They're kind of more woody than plant-y, and the colors range from red to orange to yellow. Bees like them, and they don't smell.

Thinking About Lloyd.

2010-06-28T21:51:00.004-05:00

The voice on the other end of the line was almost impossible to understand. I was familiar with Australian accents, but not New Zealand. Combined with the bad connection (I was in Minneapolis, talking to a Kiwi in Russia), I was afraid I would miss a question and blow my big chance.

I was interviewing for the position of business editor at an English-language newspaper. I was talking with the founder and publisher, who was asking me all sorts of questions about my experience. The problem was, I didn't have a whole lot. I had worked at my college newspaper, of course, and had been lucky enough to find a job kind of in my field of interest (journalism) after college as an editor at a business newswire. But while it sounded good, all it meant was retyping press releases into a computer and coding it and sending it out over a PR wire. So I played up my experience of studying in Russia, and sounded as enthusiastic as I could.

It worked, and after an agonizing week of waiting, Lloyd called me back to tell me I had the job. Elated, I danced around my apartment after getting off the phone, then called Matt, who (although I didn't know it at the time) was less than elated to hear that I would be leaving the country. But he was happy for me, and congratulated me. I wrote that night in my journal that I thought I might be falling for him.

Lloyd's first words to me in person were "You're not as tall as I thought you would be." I am 5'10". He was about 5'5". I said, "Neither are you." It is probably the most clearly the two of us ever communicated.

Over the next few days, I was surprised at how bad Lloyd's Russian was. I was taken aback at how inept he seemed when talking to Russians -- not just with the language, but in the flow of conversation, the way you have to approach subjects. He had long dark red hair and a ginger beard. He told us stories about being caught in elevators with thugs and about outsmarting the tax police after a raid on the office. With his diminutive size, laughable Russian, and that crazy hair, the stories seemed unlikely.

As I settled into my job and detached myself from the old one, I found myself casting Lloyd as a slightly antagonistic boss -- not quite as micromanaging as my last one, but a definite meddler. He was mischievous where I was sarcastic, and our one-on-one chats always felt full of wrong turns. "I can never quite tell what you're thinking," he said to me once after offering some (truly) constructive criticism. I had thought my response had been clear: I appreciated the criticism and would work harder on that front. But I had no response for his statement, so I merely smiled.

I eventually became associate editor and my good friend Garfield became editor. I was happy to be a second-in-command; I found I liked being the make-it-happen person while other people dreamed big dreams and brainstormed and what-iffed. But sometimes it was hard to be the American and the youngest and the woman, the antipode to Lloyd and Garfield. When the three of us sat down to share our ideas for the paper's mission statement, I read a 25-word sentence any Minnesota public company would have been proud to engrave on a piece of brass and display at the front desk. "Mmm," Lloyd said. "Short and sweet." The two of them then held forth for more than an hour, talking in circles. Meetings like that drove me crazy.

This was how we worked, though, and we generally worked well together. Lloyd even went on vacations for weeks while Garfield and I held down the fort, putting out better and better papers. When he returned, he would spend a day or two meddling, then let us do our thing, popping up every once in awhile, his face peeking over a cubicle wall at what was usually a bad time to talk.

Lloyd was the one who got me back to Russia. Before I came to St. Petersburg, Lloyd moved out of his apartment but kept paying rent on it until I got there, so I had a place to stay. I remember his rare words of praise and still remind myself of them throughout my career. Lloyd was the one who signed the invitation necessary to get Matt a visa to travel to Russia to visit me; the invitation listed Matt as a business consultant for the paper. That was the trip when Matt asked me to marry him. Lloyd wrote a glowing letter of recommendation for me when I left the newspaper; I left it more briskly, perhaps, than he expected, and there was some bemusement on his part. He was not around on my last day. I never spoke to him again.

You see where this is going, of course; I found out this morning that Lloyd died Saturday at age 46 while dancing at Glastonbury Festival. I've been thinking of him all day. I gave him very little credit for many of the things he did in St. Petersburg. He started up a business in Russia that's still going strong. He united a cranky, rambunctious staff full of people bent on undermining, sleeping with, mentoring, working with and/or abandoning each other, from many countries. In my 24-year-old arrogance, I saw only how Lloyd affected me, and not what he was doing for everyone. Despite his bad Russian and clumsy relations with Russians, his unfailing energy and cheerful, fey refusal to hear "no" powered him through any awkward moment. He went on to work at nonprofits in England and elsewhere; he helped developing nations build their news media; he managed emergency health-care relief for an NGO in trouble spots around the world; he got married and started a family. Tributes on his Facebook page are coming in from all over Earth from people he helped or encouraged or worked with. I am one of those people. Without Lloyd, my life would be very different, and so would many others.

Politicoffee

2010-06-18T10:32:00.003-05:00

My friend Brian and I started talking about ARCO coffee a few days ago, and Brian, who has pretty much the exact opposite political views as me, suggested that maybe ARCO coffee could make something called anARCO coffee.

I thought that was an excellent idea and then couldn't get it out of my mind. I came up with this ad:

Two people stand on a white background, like the "I'm a Mac" ads. One is wearing a black t-shirt with the red circle A; the other with a worker's cap and red flag.

Anarchist: Same bosses, left or right!

Leftist: Workers of the world, unite!

Voice over: Even when people fight on opposite ends of the political spectrum, they understand the importance of a good cup of coffee.

Anarchist: Coffee has integrity just like a man. And just as seldom.

Leftist: Communism is Soviet power plus strong coffee for the nation.

VO: That's why revolutionaries of all stripes pick anARCO coffee.

(The two figures are handed cups of coffee, look suspiciously at the other's, then drink, and are obviously delighted.)

VO: anARCO pays careful attention to each and every bean in the individualist fashion it deserves without sacrificing its personal freedom, then combines them in a variety of roasts and blends to satisfy even the dirtiest communal-minded hippies.

Anarchist: I prefer the Rothbard Roast! It's blacker than even the most hardened libertarian's heart.

Leftist: New Deal Dark wakes me up in the morning, so I'm ready for a day of fighting the bosses, and imposing state will on people who have no choice!

VO: So if you're a revolutionary, choose the revolutionary coffee. anARCO.

(Shot of can of anARCO. Voice over says quietly: Also available in decaffeinated centrist; sure to satisfy nobody at all.)

Hilarity ensued. Brian suggested Spooner flavored creams for the "shooshy-foophy crowd" (his term, I love it) and Haile Salaise dark Ethiopian Freedom Roast. I came up with Marx Mocha (which has no mocha in it, because it's a symbol of the decadence of the bourgeoisie), the Ayn Rand Special ("Coffee is Coffee"), and the French Revolution Roast.

Any others? We cracked ourselves up.

Do As I Say

2010-06-13T20:55:00.007-05:00

So John, as a fifth grader, participated in the DARE program at school this year. DARE programs were established soon after I entered high school, and I never knew much about it. I've always kind of associated it with things like Nancy Reagan saying "Just say no" on Diff'rent Strokes and the "Your brain on drugs" commercial -- things that I was aware of, but were merely crass appeals to reason that I was too old for.

I've since wondered about the effectiveness of the DARE program -- apparently there are few studies that look at its outcomes, and the few studies that there are don't agree on how useful the program is. It can eat up class time, it is inconsistently applied across school districts depending on who's running the program, and I can speak from experience in saying that it sometimes has your kid asking hard questions that make you feel like your totally rationalizing. Which you just might be.

In any case, though, I figure there are enough families that need to have those conversations, and if this opens that door, then I'm OK with that. Also, in a small town, I appreciate John knowing the police chief by first name and being thrilled to get his picture taken with him after the DARE graduation. We heard every week about what Chief D. had to say, and John would bring home worksheets about alcohol, drugs and tobacco. It made a huge impression. HUGE.

A week or so after the DARE graduation, I ran into the sheriff at the recycling center. While the sheriff probably couldn't come up with our name, we know his because his wife was Maia's preschool teacher for two years. So as I was sorting my recycling, I told him how much John had enjoyed the DARE program and thanked him for his work.

He thanked me for telling him that, and said he thought it was a good program. We chit-chatted about it for a little bit -- not chit-chatted, but yelled at each other over the noise of me sorting my recycling into clear, green and brown. Sorting glass is noisy. Sorting glass beer bottles is really noisy.

"I think it's good for people to talk with their kids about alcohol use," I hollered as I sorted out my 20-gallon bin that was full of empty beer bottles. I looked at the bin. "Um. Yeah."

He laughed.

This story gives me a chance to share a photo from the recycling center. This is a semi-trailer that's pulled up behind it and it has some of the awesomest graffiti I've seen (click on the photo to enlarge it -- it's a pretty good graffiti job!):

Two Days Off, Two Capades!

2010-06-01T13:20:00.013-05:00

So after the trip through the Range, the next day we explored our backyard (well...our backyard that's 30 miles away) by visiting a feature Matt had grown up wondering about but never visited, the tunnel beneath Ely's Peak.

It's an old DWP line that is kind of a trail and kind of not; one end of it is easily accessible, the other kind of peters off into an almost-abandoned bluestone quarry. Matt mapped it out on google and we set off with a picnic lunch and curiosity about the tunnel.

First, the intrepid explorers had to get the lay of the land. John was kind of in a mood on this trip; Maia was ready to march. Both, however, wanted to stop and get a drink approximately 23 seconds after started out.
We crossed an old railroad bridge (not the Ass Bridge, which is on the other side of the tunnel). It was a little higher than the bridge from the day before, but a little wider and sturdier. Nevertheless, it took some coaxing to get everyone across, and it was high enough that I did not feel comfortable taking a picture on it.

There is a ton of trillium on Ely's Peak. You can compare this trillium, which is my favorite, to the trillim from last year's post. It was just beautiful when we were there.

After we crossed the bridge there was some question as to whether whether we were on the right trail or not, so Matt humped it cross-country for a bit while we stayed on the abandoned rail bed and waited. I nursed a banged-up knee I had already (this was like 10 minutes into the walk) while the kids, eager to do some hiking, climbed a nearby rock.Maia scraped her leg coming down.

The trail wound through the forest and the day got hot. I taught Maia how to make a halter-top by shoving the front tail of your shirt up and over and through the neck of your shirt, and she was wildly impressed. (I mention this to explain her shirt in the next picture.) The trail went on just long enough that we were worrying if we were in the right place, but not worrying enough that it wasn't fun anymore. And just before it got to that point, we came around a curve and saw this:

I felt a little like Tom Sawyer when I saw the warning:

The thing was really, really tall.

It was also very dark.

There was water dripping and lots of fallen rock. We had forgotten flashlights, so in the very middle of the tunnel, we couldn't see the sides or the top or even the ends very well. You could kind of feel how big it was, but it was big enough that you realized you didn't know if anything was hiding against the walls, waiting to reach out at you.

After we emerged, we walked on for awhile more, then found a nice outcropping to have lunch on. We had crackers, sausage, cheese, apples, and water. The bugs weren't out and there were only a couple other people on the trail; it felt like we owned the place.

Back along the trail and back through the tunnel. Matt had been hoping that it would be possible to climb Ely's Peak and get a good view; while the trail is pleasant to walk along, there isn't much of a view of anything because of all the trees. So on what was our entrance-side to the tunnel, we tried to climb up the peak.

But it was a little too much with kids, so we stopped and got one last picture. You can see Maia's scratched leg from the beginning of the walk (if you click on and enlarge the picture, which you can do with all of these).

Then we hiked back down and walked back to the cars. Another good day.

Cloudy on the Range

2010-05-31T18:03:00.008-05:00

Matt had a WHOLE WEEKEND off a couple weeks ago, and we were almost incapable with delight over the choices we had. Go hiking? Break out the canoe? Camp overnight? Go for a drive? Get work done around the house? Well, maybe not that. We decided to head up to the Iron Range and check out some things on the ground that Matt had seen from the train and always wondered about.

One of those things was the Jordan spur, an old logging road that went up to Ely. The tracks are still there, but it's pretty clear anyone wanting to take a train that way is going to have some difficulty:

We crossed the bridge and walked up a ways. Trees grow between the ties and someone comes by once a year, it seems, to take one for a Christmas tree. The line was crawling with wolf tracks and scat, and it was hot, quiet and isolated. The kids were nervous about the old bridge.

We got back in the car and headed to Ely, where Matt wanted to check out some canoe supplies. It was a gorgeous day and the new road to Ely bent and curved just like the old one, only safer. We came around a tight curve and almost hit a minivan with a woman standing next to it, taking a picture of, we assumed, a sign. "Oh, what a lovely sign," I said snidely, speaking for the photographer. "Look, it has our name on it," Matt responded, and then we turned to see what the sign said, and instead saw this:

Moose butt! Matt managed to turn the car around, which was impressive in that the highway there is narrow and bendy, and my car is a total beast when it comes to turning radius. By the time we came back the minivan was gone (by that time we had much respect for the minivan peeps), so we stopped and I took the picture of the moose, who stood for awhile, then walked quietly into the woods.

After Ely, we drove out to find a canoe for sale Matt had seen, but by the time we got there it was gone. We went past the osprey nest and it seemed to have changed a bit.

Matt said the pole blew down last year in a storm, and the nest came down with it. Someone put a traffic cone on the pole before they put it back up, so the osprey wouldn't rebuild there. It seems, however, that the osprey rather liked having a traffic cone in its nest, and built around it.

We saw a couple foxes on the way home. One flattened to the ground when we slowed, then shot off into the woods. The other one seemed to be watching the sunset, enjoying the evening coming on, and that's how we felt as we drove home, too.

It Was Funny At the Time

2010-03-27T21:39:00.003-05:00

So hockey has been over for awhile. Of course, it's never really over -- John is thinking about checking camp and Maia is being recruited for a girls summer league. (Heh, I said "recruited.") But a couple days ago, John's team and the families got together for one last pool party and hurrah, and it reminded me of a story from earlier in the season that cracked me up and I forgot to share.

We were getting ready to go to Hayward for a tournament for John's team. At John's level, they try to keep traveling tournaments to one a season ("traveling" meaning at least one overnight stay). Matt had some time off so we all got to go down as a family and make a little mini-vacation out of it. We packed up the car (and seriously, why does a three-day trip for four people require a full trunk?) and headed down to Wisconsin.

On the way, we stopped in Duluth to get some beer. Matt ran into the bottle shoppe* while I picked up some coffee next door. When we got back to the car, Matt showed me what he had gotten: a six-pack of Molson Canadian and a six-pack of Lake Superior Mesabi Red. Both great, but both in bottles.

"You have to go back in and buy cans," I said. "We can't drink by the pool with glass containers. You need cans."

"Ohhh," said Matt, and he put the bottles in the trunk (there was no reason to take them back in; we could drink them in our room or back home) and went back in to the bottle shoppe. He came out with a case of Molson Canadian in cans and reported this conversation at the checkout line:

Matt: I was just in but I got the wrong stuff.

Checkout guy (different than the first time Matt was in there): Oh yah?

Matt: Yeah. We're heading down to a hockey tournament in Hayward, and --

Checkout guy (price-scanning the case): Oh yah, you gotta have the cans. They don't letcha drink by tha pool if ya don't have it in a can.

Checkout guys at the bottle shoppe in hockey towns: They know what you need.
*I'm not being pretentious; that's what they're called in Duluth.

Rural Thoughts

2010-03-06T21:56:00.003-06:00

A sign on the door says "DeWitt State Bank will close for the day at 1 p.m. for a funeral."

* * *

I'm not a farmer. My parents weren't farmers. Even my grandparents weren't farmers. But there's an old kind of rural living that my ancestors did and when I go back for a visit or, this time, a funeral, I know the language and I know how to act.

When you go back, you are defined not by who you are, but who came before you -- when someone asks who you are, you respond by telling them who's child or grandchild you are first, and your name second. You do the rural wave, lifting two fingers off the steering wheel to acknowledge the only other car on an almost abandoned highway. You know to yield to farm trucks. You ask about the planting.

* * *

I am told for the first time that I look like my grandmother, which is a surprise. John, it is generally agreed, is not one of us whatsoever.

* * *

Is it possible to know your grandparent as an adult? When we are younger, we know them as a presence and a benefactor; after they die, we learn about them through stories. "Did we ever tell you about when your grandmother hitchhiked out to San Francisco and worked at a bar to make enough money to come back?" Matt's parents asked him once. "Remind us to tell you about that sometime."

At the luncheon after my grandfather's funeral, people come to me and tell me how he helped them through one or many hard times. The stories do not surprise me and I am pleased to hear them; I would never had heard the stories from him. But there is loss in these stories, too -- there is a blind spot in knowing your grandparents, and as people fill the spots in, I realize how little I did know him.

* * *

As we drive through central Nebraska, I find myself telling the kids the same stories I heard as a kid: this is where your grandpa, my father, went sledding when he was your age. This is where your grandma, my mother, lived until she was your age. My children like to know where they are in our family, where they fit in. I imagine that when they are older it will be the lake and basalt and white pines that pulls them back from wherever they go, but I also want them to stand in the center of a prairie and feel the importance of a circular horizon surrounding them. I am pleased when we drive past a field of cattle and Maia says, "I LIKE the way farm country smells!"

I tell them the things I know, which isn't much but was told to me as I rode in the backseat and a football game played on the a.m. radio. I know that cottonwoods on the horizon mean a creek bottom or a homestead, either of which can save you when you're lost. I know why the road always curves at the county line. I know how many times a siren blows in a work day, and what each one means. I might laugh at it, but I know that the four kinds of deviled eggs and eight kinds of bars at a funeral luncheon at the American Legion are expressions of sympathy and comfort.

For all the homogeneous culture across the country, I think it's important for the kids to see signs such as "Leaving brand inspection area" and to feel that there are places that are different in ways they might not understand.

* * *

At the gravesite the pastor gives thanks for a beautiful day and place, the creation around us. We are five steps from a freshly manured field on a March day where almost all the snow has melted and nothing has sprouted. By summer, corn leaves will shade the grave.

Making Tracks

2010-03-02T20:54:00.005-06:00

I got snowshoes for Christmas, and after having to send them back because they had a flaw, I've been doing a lot of snowshoeing on the total lack of snow we have up here. It is my new favorite thing to do, not least because of the purposeful track snowshoeing leaves. Here is my track along our creek:

While we have never heard wolves at our house, we know they are all around us, and a couple weeks ago we found tracks near our house. They follow the deer and there are a ton of deer this year. Here is one of the tracks I found:

And here it is compared to Matt's hand:

I keep hoping I'll surprise a wolf by sneaking up on it in my snowshoes, but so far that hasn't happened.

Горячая-печь лига

2010-01-27T09:39:00.002-06:00

Living in another language means constant work. The easy part of living is gone — I don’t mean modern conveniences or cable TV, but the native understanding of every cultural and social and linguistic message you receive, consciously and unconsciously. In another language, your brain has to devote a chunk of its time and energy to constantly translating those exhausting messages, and it goes like this: “Is he standing close to me on this train because it’s culturally appropriate or because he’s weird? If he’s weird, is he criminally weird or just a creep? Is that person looking at me because she can’t believe this guy is standing so close to me and she’s waiting for me to react, or because she’s trying to see the advertisement behind me? Do I say ‘excuse me’ when cutting in front of someone to get off the train, or ‘pardon me’? How long is it OK to stand and look at the map before I look like a tourist? If I get lost, who is it appropriate to talk to?”

That tiresome monologue is from 30 seconds during a ride on the Metro. It’s like a sump pump running quietly in a basement — it deals with an overflow of information and is always in danger of being swamped.

Hanging out with expats sometimes helped. Great friendships are born in the shared experience of living in Crazytown, and people I never would have known in the U.S. became like family through alcohol, fear and the shared experience. But spending all your time with other expats becomes incestuous — everyone wants to date each other, or at least drink too much and come on to each other, and after awhile you discover you’ve gone three or four days without speaking Russian, and that feels pointless.

English-language books were like water in the desert. We traded and loaned them out, and when new people arrived, we asked quickly what books they had brought. Reading abroad was more than enjoyment or even escape; it was a total immersion into something Not Here. I wallowed in easy, light books with warm, comfortable plots and bright writing (The Shell Seekers, Winter’s Tale), and charged my English with the restorative words of Possession. I read some books because there was nothing else to read, and in some cases that was good (Tale of Two Cities, White Swans, Name of the Father) and in some, not so good (an inexplicably huge batch of Clive Cussler novels brought by a newspaper consultant who advised laying off half the staff, and who dribbled out of his mouth at a lunch with the U.S. consul general).

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there. But the constant low-level grind of the possibility of being faced with a situation where you had absolutely no idea how to deal with it was so pervasive that it was a relief to take a break when one could.

It wasn’t just the people. St. Petersburg is built on rivers and canals. There are no parts of town built on a sensible grid. Even in the suburbs, the blocks are laid against the compass and I often found the sun rising in what I felt was my magnetic north. Near the top of the world, the sun rises at odd times anyway, and at strange places in the sky, adding to the general background confusion: “Is it OK that the sun is rising over there, or should I mention it to somebody? And I’m pretty sure that this road was running north-south last week — now that it’s east-west, is this a problem?”

There some parts of St. Petersburg where the buildings are made of red or tan brick. The roads in those parts of town are wide and empty. Even though these neighborhoods are near the center of the city, no trams and few buses run there. They are padding between the cultural downtown and the beautiful leafy first-ring suburbs, full of empty storefronts and communal apartments. Traffic is sporadic; it’s hard to find a car to drive you there, or pick you up when you’re done.

Because it is apparently useless, the neighborhood is full of surprises. A blank window might be, on the inside, a fully stocked pharmacy where one can buy contact solution and European tampons. A doorway could lead to an invitation-only restaurant. When I was there, it was also the home of the St. Petersburg Lions, the city’s professional baseball team.

It was little more than a back lot, but the grass was well-kept and the pitcher’s mound carefully raked. The road ran along the first-base side, then angled away down a canal. The third-base line was backed by the side of a brick building, about five stories high, dull red and pleasant against the green grass and blue sky. The outfield was lined with scrubby bushes and trees that the outfielders hunted through for balls at the end of scrimmages. There was a backstop, and a set of bleachers for girlfriends and skeptical passersby.

The Lions never played a regulation game there. They played their home games 500 miles away in Moscow because the team could not afford to pay for the improvements to bring their field up to regulation. Their colors were gold and green. They got no money for playing.

By the time I’d discovered the Lions, I wasn’t quite as homesick as I had been. It was my first summer in a city I had seen only in winter, and I had fallen in love with it. I had found some friends and gotten used to my job. When I went to the weekday games, I pretended I was reporting on the team, calling it to expat attention, and I did in fact write a couple of articles about it.

Since other teams didn’t come to St. Petersburg to play, the Lions had to make do with split-squad scrimmages against themselves or, if they were lucky, youth teams from the United States. They relied on the goodwill of these teams for equipment and uniforms, although sometimes they would scrape together enough cash to buy a case of balls from a European team.

It was like any town-ball team. Sometimes players couldn’t make it because their car had broken down or they had to work. Some were obviously more dedicated than others. Some had found, whether learned or felt, that easy grace that comes to natural ballplayers more than other athletes. They played at single-A level, but with flashes of intuition. If boys in Russia are raised on any sport, they are raised on hockey, and the cultural understanding of baseball — the leisure, the connotations of a fleeting summer, the trite and true coming-of-age undertones that run through the game — are absent from the players here.

But ballplayers in Russian are like ballplayers anywhere. Zhenya was a grinning, easygoing catcher who chatted up the infield and was almost always screwing around. Behind the mask he kept up a stream of jokes and insults, and after awhile the outfielders would yell at him to knock it off.

Sasha was a silent, lonely, hulking figure at first base. He rarely smiled but took the throws for the outs patiently and with ease. His range wasn’t outstanding but he could scoop them up. It was understood that his wife was sick and money was especially tight for him, and he missed practice more than the others because he couldn’t afford to take time off work. When he played, you could see it was his escape.

Sergei, more often Seryoga, carried himself like an officer and laid down bunts with military precision. He played center field in a matter-of-fact way, as if it were his duty to be an outfielder, and the other players deferred to him — when he told Zhenya to shut up, Zhenya shut up.

I made friends with Dmitry, the shortstop. He was in his early 20s and had played hockey all his life. He was short, bandy-legged, and one of the more effortless shortstops I’ve ever seen. He didn’t have the speed or quickness to make it in any league, but he played the game like he was born to it. “I played goalie, so I’m not afraid of the ball,” he told me once, and it was a good enough quote I used it in a story. “Some guys, when the ball is hit, they’re afraid of it, and they jump away or close their eyes. But me? I’m used to it.”

He would walk me to the Metro station (or, if I’d been playing hooky, back to work) after games, and he would call me at home to talk about baseball. Once, during a game, he came off the bench to sit with me and discuss strategy; he almost missed his at-bat, earning a snarl from the coach.

One afternoon Dmitry called me at home to talk about a bat a visiting team had brought. “It was made for me,” he said, as if he’d come straight out of “The Natural.” “You know how sometimes you put on a pair of jeans, and you KNOW they were made for you? That’s how this bat was. It was beautiful. Oh, Katya, I can’t even tell you. There are no words.”

The overheated sump pump at the bottom of my mind slowed and quieted when I watched their practices and games. The pitcher’s mound was 18.45 meters from home, and the bases were 27.5 meters apart, but it was closer than translation — it was simply a different measurement of the same thing. Watching baseball in Russia was like running into a dead friend in a dream — it filled me with delight even as I knew it was not quite how it was supposed to be, and then sadness came when I realized it would soon be over.

Because every game must end, of course. And when it did, it ended like it does in America: You are sitting under the summer sun, heckling the players and drinking a beer and there are no demands on you, nothing you have to do until the good-natured regret of lengthening shadows and a full scorecard begins to wash through the afternoon. The sump pump kicked into gear again. I was brought back to where the baseball cap I wore almost everywhere was cause for strangers to stare and openly mock, where only one of my few expat friends was an American, and anyway, he was a hockey freak.

Rawr Means I Love You In Ice Montster Language

2010-01-21T17:46:00.004-06:00

I keep telling myself that someday, some sunny winter day, I'll take some time and take gorgeous pictures of the ice on the rocks up and down Highway 61 and people will be inspired to give me a lot of money for them. This would be a great idea if many other people hadn't done it already (and this goes for pictures of lupine and lakeshore sunrises, as well). In any case, I should do it for my own satisfaction, but I just haven't gotten around to it. When I think of it, it's not a sunny day, or it's too warm and the ice is gone, or something.

A couple weeks ago John had a hockey tournament up the shore. The ice was really beautiful that day, and it was sunny, and the sun was behind us and the sky was bright blue, and I had left the camera at home. Of course! But the next day I brought it, even though it was cloudy and damp, and not a very photogenic day. I brought it because this ice formation had caught my eye the day before:

Why? Because it's going to eat us all, that's why!

Trainspotting

2010-01-11T11:20:00.004-06:00

Before Matt started working on the railroad, we were interested in trains. We took a trip from Minneapolis to Duluth on the 261, and learned why people wore travel clothes during the era of steam travel. Steam travel is really dirty. Our clothes and hair were full of cinders at the end of the journey, and while we had kind of snerked at the people who came on the train wearing goggles, we agreed that if we were ever to do this again, goggles were the way to go.

I had fond memories of railroads from my childhood (BN and UP), and so did Matt (DM&IR), and seriously, who doesn't like trains to at least some extent? But when we visited the Depot in Duluth, or slowed down to be "caught" by a train at a crossing so we could watch it instead of trying to beat it, we didn't know about the huge subculture of train lovers that's out there.

Matt sees it, now, almost every day: The guys (almost always guys) standing at crossings or along sidings with cameras on tripods, ready to film him as he drives by. There are thousands of videos on YouTube of trains going through crossings, engine switchings, coming down or going up hills, and so on. There are fewer now on the DM&IR lines because the CN engines aren't as pretty (or maintained as well) as the old engines were, but they're still there. They are known as foamers, for foaming-at-the-mouth enthusiasm they have for trains.

We've poked around foamer photography sites and found trains that Matt was working on. It's funny to watch some of the videos, although some of them are quite well done. You can buy videos of trains doing just about anything, and we get vaguely naughty come-ons from the the main seller (which has the kind-of tee-hee name Pentrex) for DVDs such as "Trains At Speed!" On the other hand, Matt says it's kind of odd to work a job that people love to photograph and tape.

Today, I joined the ranks of foamers. I knew Matt was taking a train up soon after I dropped the kids off. I got into position at the crossing and was ready. I made some amateur errors -- you can hear my hazard lights clicking; I started filming way too early (it doesn't get interesting until about a minute into it); and because I didn't get out of the car (I was still in my kid-drop-off pajama pants), the pan across the crossing gets a little awkward. In all, I think it's a pretty good first effort. If you watch carefully, you can see the engineer put his hand out the window and give a tiny wave just as the train is crossing. Yay Matt!

That Whole Decade Thing

2010-01-08T13:17:00.005-06:00

A friend of mine is hugely into pop culture in a way I'm just not comfortable with. It's specifically TV, movies and music, and the musical literacy is something that makes me look at my own progress in a harsh light. He made a list of his favorite singles of the decade, and while I recognized most of the artists and song names, I had to listen to most of them online and hadn't heard the majority of them. So then I started thinking, did I buy ANY music in the last decade? And as it turns out, I did, but not much -- and not all of it new:

Bought in 2000

Jill Scott, "Who Is Jill Scott? Words and Sounds Vol. 1" (2000). I got this after hearing "A Long Walk" and listened to it so much that John, at age 2, was singing along, which was pretty funny. I feel like this is one of my first grown-up music purchases, because it was so unlike anything else I listened to regularly. I still listen to some of the songs, after putting it away for a while because it reminded me of when I was dealing with a mild case of depression.

Bought in 2002

Missy Elliott, "Under Construction" (2002). I think I saw a couple videos on MTV from Missy Elliott and I was so impressed I went right out and picked up "Under Construction" and loved it. This one was harder to listen to in the car with kids, though. I bought it at a time when I was going through a lot of difficulty with local politics and I used to crank it in the car on the way to DFL meetings. It also hugely boosted my rap cred, which until then had consisted of the Beastie Boys and House of Pain.

Bought in 2005

The White Stripes, "Get Behind Me Satan" (2005). After writing the White Stripes off when I saw their first video, and then warming up to them with their second, I didn't pay any attention to them until Matt told me about this fantastic new song he had heard and thought was a legitimate contender for New Music We Might Like. We bought the album and listened to it during a drive around Carlton County, when we looked at the house we were pretty sure we were going to buy IF ONLY OUR OTHER HOUSE WOULD SELL, FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY, and familiarizing ourselves with our soon-to-be-new-home. Our house didn't sell, our offer for the Carlton County house expired, and it was months before we moved into the house we are in now. Despite all that, I can still listen to this album with affection.

Iron and Wine, "Woman King" (2005). Working the night shift in Duluth and then driving home for 30 minutes gave me a good chance to listen to KUWS' excellent college radio programs and introduced me to Iron and Wine. These dark yet peaceful songs made a great soundtrack to heading up the North Shore under the northern lights.

Bought in 2006 (and 2009)

Neko Case, "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood" (2006) and "Middle Cyclone" (2009). Neko Case was another discovery from KUWS. "Fox Confessor" is outstanding. "Middle Cyclone" is not.

Bought in 2008

The Byrds, "The Fifth Dimension" (1966). I like jangly guitars and think "Eight Miles High" is one of the best songs evah and decided I should hear the rest of the album. I bought it and listened to the whole thing on a drive to the Iron Range and back just after I resigned from the newspaper; listening to it now makes me feel strong and competent, like I did on that sunny fall day.

Bought in 2009

Meat Puppets, "Sewn Together" (2009). This sounds just like their 1984 album which I got in 1994. Listening to it creates a sense of false nostalgia, but it's a good false nostalgia.

Drag the River, "You Can't Live This Way" (2008). Someone on a message board I participate in once in awhile posted a song from this album and just said, "Listen to this." Within three minutes this band went from completely unknown to me to one of my favorites. It's not a challenge: They sit firmly between the Jayhawks and Uncle Tupelo and nod warmly across the table at the Carpetbaggers, but there are worse things a band could do.

Bought in 2010

Les Negresses Vertes, "Mlah" (1988). So this is my first foreign-language music purchase. Wait, no -- I have a bunch of Russian rock. And I suppose Enya isn't always in English, either. This is my first all-French music purchase. I know. I KNOW! This is another bulletin board "listen to this!" purchase...I heard the song, liked it, tried out the others and found that I edit to them almost better than to "Check Your Head," and decided to take the plunge. I should get it tomorrow.

Back to the Kitchen

2010-01-06T11:46:00.003-06:00

I wish Matt would blog. He has learned so many interesting things on the railroad; every day he comes home and tells me something new and I wish he would write it down so that knowledge isn't lost. It's not big-deal stuff: tall tales, histories of nicknames (everyone has a nickname on the railroad), hints and tricks and what things mean. Sometimes you tell who's running the train by how he blows the whistle at crossings. You can figure out what mine the train filled up at by how the taconite is loaded into the cars. Hand signals are their own language, and while you can learn the vocabulary, it takes years to be fluent and develop your own accent.

Working in what is essentially an 19th-century-style job (see also: newspapers) is such an unusual opportunity and I'm glad both of us have had the chance to do just that. (Matt's job is so old, OSHA doesn't apply to railroad workers!) While the schedule is a pain in the ass, I'm proud of the work he does and of him for making the switch to this in the first place.

The problem is, I've been slacking.

I talk a lot about how one of these days I'll take a whole day and make a big mess o' pasties for him to take to work, like a real engineer should. I work at home, right? I should have the time and gumption to do something like that. But I haven't. During fall and winter, I think I do a pretty good job of making big batches of soup, stew, pot pies, roasts, and so on, so he can bring home-cooked food for supper. The problem is, if he is on a road job (as opposed to shuttling cars around in the yard), he doesn't have access to a microwave. There is a radiator in the train he can put his food on to warm up, but it would melt the Tupperware pieces we store leftovers in. We're looking into stainless food storage, but in the meantime, if he has a road job, he either packs a sandwich and a bunch of fresh fruit or vegetables, or brings along soup or ravioli in a pull-top can and puts it on the radiator to heat up.

So.

The other day, he was working a road job with a new conductor, a young, earnest guy, former military, Catholic, nice wife with two kids and another on the way, really likes his new job. The two of them hit it off and found they felt the same way about a lot of things, such as what this job should entail, and what role the union should play, and so on. They pulled out their meals and started eating their lunches. The new guy had some leftover pot roast and potatoes and (IIRC) some homemade pie in a nice lunch box. Matt put his canned Progresso on the radiator to warm up and started peeling a clementine. The new guy looked at the leftover plastic grocery bag Matt had brought his food in, then at the forlorn can on the radiator, then at Matt, and said politely, "I thought you said your wife was at home?"

Busted.

Well Hello There!

2010-01-05T10:31:00.003-06:00

When I was working in Russia, we had a Russian freelancer who liked to write about the history of art and opera in St. Petersburg and didn't do it very well. She looked like a pre-revolutionary (the 1917 one) throwback: long fur coat, slightly menacing hat with a feather, thick glasses that did scary things to her gaze. She would come into the office when we had the least time to talk about pitches with her, and my co-editor and I were almost reduced to playing rock-paper-scissors right in front of her to see who would be the one to talk to her that time.

Her merits included good connections, stories that landed when she said they would, and useable photos. To her credit, she often swooped in when we needed something to fill a page, and seemed to know when we were stuck for an evergreen feature. Our newsroom was in a long room at the top of the building, but when you came up the stairs to get there, you actually had to climb the stairs up to the attic room (where the reception area was), and then emerge at the top of a set of stairs near the ceiling of the long room, and descend into the newsroom. It's hard to describe, but I will never forget the effect of seeing Yevgenia at the top of the stairs, terrifying and resplendent in her ancient coat and hat, as she peered down into the newsroom, trying to spot an editor before we ran out for smoke breaks or picked up the phone to make a fake call.

Yevgenia is on my mind because it is her I think of as I jump-start this blog in the new year. Her spoken English was good; she dropped the high falsetto she used in Russian and used an unnerving, viola-tuned governess voice to articulate her careful BBC accent. She had a habit of prefacing almost every single thing she said with "Hm. Yes. Well. You know. Now."

What have I been doing this last month? Thinking about blogging, especially about John's discovery of dialectical Marxism. But thinking isn't doing, and the point is, I need to follow Ruth Whitman's advice to "Write first." December is such an easy month to do everything else but write -- prepare for Christmas, chauffeur for hockey, some editing, some cleaning, and so on. I'm also working on a super-secret writing project that I started in November, put aside a little bit in December, and will jump back into this month. In the meantime, I need to keep blogging, if only to clear out the chaff and stay limber. And so that's what this post is today, a throat-clearing: Hm. Yes. Well. You know. Now.

Disaster

2009-11-01T22:21:00.009-06:00

For about the last six months, Maia has been telling me almost daily what she would like her birthday cake to look like. I am not a hugely artistic person, but I can draw a little bit with frosting, and the kids get cakes with their favorite Yu-Gi-Oh! character or a unicorn on it.

"Mama," she would say, "for my birthday I want a ooey-gooey butter cake for the family party, and I want a white cake with chocolate frosting and a pink, you know, around the edges, and pink polka dots, for the party when my friends come over."

Seriously, it was almost daily. Until it got to the point where I asked her to stop telling me that unless she changed what she wanted, because it wasn't likely that I would forget what she did want.

On her birthday, I made the butter cake as requested, and because we had no birthday candles (NICE, MOM), I stuck a match in it for her to blow out. Which, yeah, is a little sad. But she didn't seem to mind.

Maia's birthday-party-for-friends was scheduled for Halloween day. The flu was raging around here in a major way last week, and on one day 20 percent of the students were absent from the elementary school. Figuring some kids would call in sick, we invited a few more than usual, and of course everyone was healthy. TEN KIDS were coming over for her party. TEN!

On Friday, I cleaned through one of the worse head colds I've had in a while. My last chore of the evening was to get her cake out of the oven and into the fridge for thorough chilling before I decorated it in the morning. Maia was malingering on the couch in a funk born of a Halloween party at school gaining possibly more attention than her on her birthday, and also battling a head cold. I got up to check the cake in the oven, opened the door, smelled it, and came back to the couch to sit with her, and I said, "Aaahhhh....doesn't that cake smell good?"

"Mama?" she said in a small voice. "Did you make a chocolate cake?"

"Yup," I replied.

"Because..." and here her voice got all Cindy Lou Who and her eyes had violet shadows because of the cold, "...because, Mama, I had wanted a white cake. With chocolate frosting."

Of course she had. Of course she had. I knew that. Obviously I knew that, because she had been telling me EVERY DAY for MONTHS. And I made a chocolate cake from scratch anyway. What the hell was I thinking?

"Is there any way" -- I spoke slowly, because I knew what the answer was going to be -- "that a chocolate cake would work? A chocolate cake, with white frosting?"

"Well," she said, honestly considering for a moment, "......no. I'd really, really like a white cake."

I got up early the next morning -- yes, the day of the party! -- to make a white cake with chocolate frosting. I put the chocolate cake in a Ziploc bag in the freezer for some other day. And I decided to save time and make the white cake out of a box.

I have an egg allergy, so if I want to eat some of my children's birthday cake, I have to make it from scratch without eggs (and there are good recipes to be had). But this was too much; I would sacrifice my cake-eating to convenience and make a cake from a box with eggs in it.

The problem is, either I completely forgot how tender a cake with eggs in it is, or cake-mix-makers assume you're going to be lazy and put it in a 9"x13" pan. I mixed up the mix and baked it and it smelled fantastic as I was finishing up the cleaning and game prep and the worrying. I got it out of the oven and cooled it thoroughly. I took one cake out of the 9" round pan, and put it flat side down on the cake plate and frosted the curved top. I took the other one out and put it curved side down on top of the other cake, which is what I learned from Mom and 4-H in order to make a nice, flat-topped cake.

But the cake began to break.

I'd never seen anything quite like it before. As I started to -- gently! -- frost the top cake, it uncannily broke into quarters, thusly:

What the? Here's a view from the top. I starting to panic a little bit here.I tried to prop it up with toothpicks, but it was so tender and moist it just slid back down again. Did it rise too high? Is this how eggy cakes act? Why was it doing this?

Get ready to say "oh no you di'n't" so I can say "HELL YES I DID": I decided to turn that bad boy over and put the misbehaving cake on the bottom where it couldn't cause any more damage. I scraped off the frosting I had already put on, then flipped the whole thing. The new top cake started the break a little bit too, but some extensive and fervent swearing on my part put a stop to that in a hurry:

This, I knew now, was going to be an ugly cake. It was already and ugly cake and it wasn't going to get much better. I stuck it in the fridge, where I felt like it was lurking at me every time I opened the door:

After the chocolate frosting had cooled and set a bit, it was time to "decorate" the cake. I put "decorate" in quotes because there is nothing I could do to make that cake look good except maybe attach $100 bills to it with pink frosting. So I gamely put the "pink, you know" around the edge and polka dots all over it, and decided a giant lucky 7 down the middle would be just the thing to cover the gaping rift down the cake's prime meridian.

It was not my proudest cake moment. But it was covered with frosting and that was good enough for the kids.

Rainbow

2009-10-08T11:47:00.002-05:00

On Magic

2009-10-05T11:46:00.002-05:00

It's not clear to me what John's views on Santa are. Faith is a private thing, and I don't need to go digging around in it. He has given me looks while writing letters to Santa, as if looking for affirmation one way or the other, and I have provided ambiguous answers to his indirect questions. He will never ask straight out, because that's not his style.

The other day he lost a tooth and told me, "I think you should tell the Tooth Fairy that I think I should get an extra fifty cents for this tooth. I don't have many left, and this one is kind of a big one."

"I'll let her know if I see her," I said, continuing my work.

He paused, and I looked up. I winked at him, and he winked back. Then he sat down and said, "Mom, I'm having trouble believing that Santa can come down our chiminey." He made the word three syllables, as he always has.

"Oh?" I asked.

"I mean, how can Santa fit in it?" he asked, indicating the hearth.

"Well, they say he's magic," I said.

He nodded. "I'm just not sure I believe in that kind of magic anymore." He paused. "I mean, I believe in Harry Potter magic, and Artemis Fowl and Narnia and that kind of thing, but..."

"There's always magic, sweetheart," I said, trying not to feel like a Disney movie. "Sometimes things change and you look at something in a new way, but you can always see something special in it. Even when you're an old person you can go outside on nights like Christmas and feel like there's something different. That can be a kind of magic, too."

He thought for a minute, and nodded, and smiled. He went to his room to put his tooth, only one of a few baby teeth left, on his bedside table for the Tooth Fairy to find.

The Child Is the Teacher

2009-09-19T22:52:00.002-05:00

So after two weeks of school, things seem to be going fairly well with new teachers and new classes. John has been getting his work done at school, which greatly reduces homework battles at home. However, we had a huge one yesterday about putting forth effort. He had to sit outside for awhile, listen to nature, and write a page about sounds of the season. He took a long walk in the woods by himself and came back and wrote about a third of a page.

It wasn't bad, but it wasn't enough, and I told him so. Instant outrage, the kind usually reserved for when I have the gall to help him with math homework after he asks. He said he didn't have to write a whole page. I said he did. He said that was too much work. I said he was being lazy. Huge, gasping, angry tears. Finally he said, "If you think it's so easy, why don't YOU do it? Why don't YOU write a WHOLE PAGE about sounds?"

"All right," I said. "I will."

This was too much. He stomped down to his room, while I sat and listened to the afternoon and then wrote a page about what I heard. He came back upstairs, face blotchy but composed, and read it.

"Mom," he said, "I'm sorry, but you can't write about human-made sounds, like the traffic."

"All right," I said. "I'll do it over."

I wrote again while he did his math homework, and I handed it over. He read it and said I was a good writer. I told him I had had a lot of practice. We talked a little bit about what made good writing, specifically about how observation and description is a good place to start, but then you have to ask yourself, in the kindest possible way, so what. Go deeper. What does it mean if you hear wind in the trees? So what if you hear water in the creek? Then what? And then what?

He got it. His face lit up. He sat at the table and wrote as fast as he could. "My hand is getting writer's cramp!" he cried. "My head is so full of ideas it's going to burst!"

And it turned out pretty good. He was done with his homework, before supper on Friday. I was too.

First Day of School

2009-09-08T15:10:00.005-05:00

A work and its translation.

IT WOS THE NITE BEFOR SCOOL
VOLUN 1

It was the night before school. Volume 1

IT WOS THe NITe BefOR SCOOL. as THe CHILDREN aLL SLePeg DREaMING Of SCOOL SOPLIES.

It was the night before school, as the children [were] all sleeping, dreaming of school supplies.

THaR PaReN'S all pAKeg LuNCHes foR THe fRST Day Of SCOOL.
Their parents [were] all packing lunches for the first day of school.

WeN THe CHIDREN awaKEN aLL ekSIDeD THe GRAB THaR LuNCH'es AND HRe To SCOOL.

When the children awaken all excited, they grab their lunches and hurry to school.

WeN THay aLL geT TO SCOOL THay MeT THaR TeCHR THe eND
When they all get to school, they meet their teacher. The end.

AoBaT THe ATHR SHe WOZ BORN IN WIOMeG MENOSOTO SHe ROT THeS BOOK WeN SHe WOS 6
About the author: She was born in Wyoming, Minnesota. She wrote this book when she was 6.

First grade, and fifth grade.

Change

2009-08-31T11:15:00.002-05:00

When I kissed John goodnight the other night, he had that look on his face. His eyes get all shifty, her purses his mouth like he's trying not to laugh, and he burrows the back of his head and shoulders into his pillow as if he wants to hide. Then we go through this dialog:

Me: Do you want to talk about something?

John: No.

Me: Are you sure? You have that look like you've got something on your mind.

John: No no, I'm fine.

Me: If you ever want to talk about something, Dad and I are ready to listen, or you can write us a note if it's too embarrassing.

John: No no! I know. Thank you. It's not about puberty or anything.

Me: OK, I'm not going to sit here and try and pull it out of you. I'm going to go upstairs to bed now.

John: No, no -- you go on upstairs to bed. Good night. I love you.

Me: I love you too. Good night.

And I walk to the bedroom door, and as soon as I get there he says, "Actualleeeeeeee," so I come back and sit on the side of his bed and he pulls the sheets over his head and I hear one muffled word: "Girls."

That's right, friends. Girls.

Or more specifically, a girl. She's on his mind, and he's thinking about writing her a note (and yes, school hasn't started yet). "But I don't think I'll sign it," he said. "Signing it would take away its touch of mystery."

I Still Wonder How It Ends...

2009-08-25T10:33:00.004-05:00

Before I lived in Russia, I studied there twice. The first time was in January 1992, days after the Soviet Union voted itself out of existence. I spent a month studying Russian at Moscow State University. We were supposed to be living in the foreign-student dormitory there, but about a week before we left for Russia, we were told that they dorms had run out of food and they would find another place for us. I spent a month living in Russia at a trucker hotel miles from the university.

The second time I studied there was the first semester of my senior year in college, fall of 1992, when I studied at Krasnodar State University in Krasnodar. At that time, Krasnodar had about a half-million people. We lived in the dorms and conditions were so bad that the professor who came over with us completely overhauled our academic requirements for the semester. Originally, we were supposed to pick some topic about Krasnodar -- history, culture, politics, whatever -- and make a huge senior-project type of presentation. One of the requirements was producing a 20-minute lecture in Russian and then a 20-minute lecture in English about your topic. That worried me, but having been in Russia before, it didn't worry me as much as wondering where I was going to find posterboard and markers for my presentation.

In any case, as I said, the professor decided that conditions in Russia had deteriorated so badly at that time that our main concern was going to be the basics of finding food every day and making sure we weren't overrun by Chechen refugees who would somehow throw the whole city into a riot (in September 1991, the Chechen-Ingush autonomous government was dissolved, and in November, Yeltsin tried to send troops to Chechnya). There were weeks when basic staples were missing from the stores (the week cheese was gone was a particularly rough one), and I still have my sugar ration card.

It became very easy to think like a Russian -- to carry your bag everywhere you went just in case you found something useful, to share information if there was a sudden glut of something unexpected (friends would come back from the market with reports of a box of Snickers or extra Fanta, and we would all rush off, hoping to get some before it was all gone), or to keep some information to yourself. If opportunities came, you took them, and sorted them all out afterward.

It was in this spirit that one day I accepted the invitation from some people on the trip to go see a movie. I was friendly with these other three Americans, but didn't hang out with them often. They lived in the other dorm. But it was a weekend and most of my friends were off with their host families or studying, and I didn't have much else to do, so, having not seen a movie in Russia, accepted their fourth ticket.

I asked Amy what the movie was going to be. "I'm not sure," she said. "I don't recognize the name. It's something from, like, Roman times. Like Ben-Hur, or something."

Krasnodar has an impressive movie theater, the Avrora:

and it took a tram ride, a bus ride, and a long walk to get there, because the university was located in an awkward part of town, far from the center.

We went in. The theater was full of large groups of very young soldiers in their dress uniforms. Clearly they were on their weekend outing. There were also some couples here and there, but the vast majority of people in there were soldiers. There weren't any older couples, or families, or groups of young people, the way young people go to see movies in the U.S.

When we walked in, everyone stopped to stare at us. This was not unusual. We stood out no matter what we did. In Krasnodar, strangers lectured me for wearing shorts, because that's what children wore. (This always annoyed me -- if I wore shorts that reached my knees, that was bad; if I wore a mini-skirt that showed off my butt-cheeks, that was OK.) An old woman ticked her tongue and shook her head at me when she saw my (male) friend and I smoking on the street: "When young men smoke, it's not good, but when young women smoke, it's VERY BAD." People would lecture the young women of the group for sitting on the ground or benches without a blanket or newspaper (or, preferably, the lap of a young man) under our tender woman parts; sitting without protection would make us barren. We knew we stood out, we knew we were obvious, and walking into a packed movie theater and being stared at didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary.

It was fun to go do something semi-normal in Krasnodar, where anything you tried to do was always set about with difficulty. Our dorm rooms had no phones; there was an outside phone at the dorm entrance that only made local calls. Calling outside the city (or country) meant an almost-all-day trip to the central phone exchange, which is another blog for another day. Grocery shopping (there were no cafeterias at the university) was another all-day proposition. Anything you wanted to do was going to take more time and effort than you thought it would, and finding everyday things to do was a challenge. So to pick up and go to a movie, and find some escape, and feel semi-normal, was a real pleasure.

None of us had ever heard of the movie Caligula before, and so neither the title nor even the opening scene set off any warning bells for us. Not even the involvement of Bob Guccione made us consider what what coming.

Stunned, embarrassed, choking with hilarity and horror, alternately covering our eyes in disgust and covering our mouths to keep from screaming with laughter, we sat through about two-thirds of the film, until finally Gretchen pulled herself together and said sensibly, "We need to get out of here. We don't want to be here when this film is over."

She was right. It was evening and would be dark by the time the film finished, and with hundreds of frustrated soldiers and four American women and a big park next to the movie theater, it was not a good place to be. We got up and left, and laughed on the tram and bus all the way back to the university. That is the story of how I saw most of Caligula in Russia. I still have the ticket stub.

You Had To Be There

2009-08-24T10:34:00.003-05:00

This isn't going to be as funny as it was in real life, and I'm putting this on my blog more so I can remember it than so anyone else can share in its humor, because if you don't know how Maia can deliver a line in a level, almost condescending tone, this isn't funny at all. She reminds me, sometimes, of River Tan from Firefly, saying odd things in a way that makes it clear that it's my problem if I'm not keeping up.

We had spent a long day sitting up talking with grandparents, and it was time for her to go to bed. "Can we read tonight?" she asked, and while I don't like to say no when it's about reading, it was after 10 p.m. and one of these days I really need to get them back on a school schedule. So I said, "No, not really, not tonight, you can look at a book until I go to bed, which is only in a few minutes, and that's it."

I turned to walk down the stairs, and she made a little sobbing noise behind me.

I turned back around and said, "Are you OK?"

"Yes."

"It sounded like you were crying."

She looked at me as if I were wasting her time. "No."

"Oh."

"I was burping."

(Beat.)

"Silently."

(Beat.)

"So no one else would hear me."

Alrighty, then.

Book Notes

2009-08-20T22:03:00.002-05:00

We went down to the library book sale yesterday and today -- one day wasn't enough to make sure we had found every gem we wanted. I didn't find as much as I sometimes do, although I did walk out of there with a 1964 copy of Герой нашего времени with a couple of notes in it and a book in Russian about Karelia.

I think my favorite, though, was a copy of "Ex Libris," described as "A small Anthology, printed and bound (and sold) at the First National Book Fair sponsored by the NEW YORK TIMES and The National Association of Book Publishers. Compiled at their request by CHRISTOPHER MORLEY." It's dated November of 1936. It's a slim little book full of quotes about books, reading, and printing. Not, Mr. Morley says,

...famous golden texts and purple passages of the bibliophile's evangel. ...Most of the fragments here are contemporary, and it was the editor's pleasure to choose not only "literary" bits but also odds and ends of trade and technical palaver.

Fun for what it is, indeed. But I had to have it after I saw the handwritten notes on the front flyleaf. There are several lines in Japanese, then transliterated into Roman letters, and finally translated a little awkwardly, but I love it:

Lines sent to my eldest son Goitsu
Ever in common ways
Practise economy
But when you purchase books, in any case,
Use not your money sparingly.

Ho-Hum

2009-08-15T13:35:00.004-05:00

I'd like to tell you about our health insurance.

But first, let me back up a second. If you're reading this, you probably know all this about us, but I'll give you a quick rundown anyway. Matt and I are college-educated adults with no pre-existing conditions. We don't smoke. Our kids are strong and healthy.

As long as Matt and I have been married, we have been covered through his unions' health insurance plans. The carpenters union in Minnesota, in particular, has an excellent, excellent plan, because the union itself administers it. Contractors -- that is, union members' employers -- have nothing to do with it. As things came up to get covered (mostly for me, including two babies, an antidepressant, and a sleep study with resultant hardware), there was never, ever, EVER any hassle. We had no co-pays. I could pay for prescriptions with the cash that was in my jeans pocket.

We were a little spoiled. On the other hand, we have also, because of slowdowns in construction, had to pay hundreds of dollars a month out of pocket to buy COBRA coverage, and we have gone months without health insurance altogether.

When you have kids playing hockey, that can get a little nerve-wracking.

Matt's current plan is a very good one. There have been some hiccups because of his furlough. He is now covered again, and will be now even if there is another furlough. His coverage ended on June 2, and began again on August 2. A few days ago I went in to pick up a prescription for allergy medication for him. The pharmacist said our coverage had apparently expired.

"Oh," I said. "You know, my husband was on furlough and if you don't have his information on record anymore I'll just bring the card in again and you can run it then."

"OK," the pharmacist said.

In the meantime, Matt checked our health-care company's Web site to make sure we were covered again. We were.

I went back today with the health-insurance card and the prescription coverage card. The pharmacist typed all the information in again, but it wouldn't go through. So she called the prescription-coverage company to talk to someone. She went through a huge phone tree and ended up being told that no, we weren't covered.

"My husband checked two days ago and it said we were covered," I said.

"Is this on the insurance Web site, or the prescription Web site?" she asked. "You'll have to call your insurance company and check with them."

WTF? So I went out to the parking lot and called the prescription company. I got stuck in a phone tree that didn't offer me what I wanted ("answers"), so I called the insurance company. That phone tree actually connected me back to the prescription company, but in a different phone tree. I finally got ahold of a real person. I explained that while I was sure we had health coverage, for some reason the prescription company didn't know that.

"Oh yeah," the guy said. "You're going to have to call the employer's benefit line and have them make sure they tell your health-insurance company and have them call us to tell him he's covered."

Do what now? That makes three separate companies that for some reason have to be reminded to communicate to make sure my family is covered. Three companies, and suddenly it's my responsibility to make sure they are talking to each other.

It's not a hugely compelling story. No one is dying because of this little annoyance. But of course this scene is being repeated thousands and thousands of times across the country. And there are people who are being delayed and denied the coverage they are paying for because of the terrible bureaucracy our health-insurance industry and health-care system has become.

I do not fear government-run health care. The talk of "death boards" and so on is laughable and disgusting. Private companies are making the kinds of decisions right-wing scare squads are hyping every day, and so far my family has been lucky that the only problems we have are having to wait two extra days to pick up an allergy prescription. Best health-care system in the world? It's the best system that couldn't possibly get any worse.

Spiro, We Hardly Knew Ye

2009-08-11T11:36:00.003-05:00

So, back in June we took our first real family trip. We'd had other trips where we went to visit family, but we had never traveled, just the four of us, for the express purpose of going to a new place none of us had been before. We took a circle tour around Lake Superior and it was a blast. I didn't blog about it here because I blogged about it elsewhere (under my real name) and I really should blog about it here, too.

One of my favorite things was the coffee we bought in Canada. I of course nattered negatively every time we made some, and every time we had to explain to the kids why it was funny. And how can I throw this can away? If there's anything a member of the effete corps of impudent snobs, a member of the 4-H Club of the hopeless, hysterical hypochondriacs of history, should be drinking while she reports and writes, it surely must be Nabob Coffee.

Beginning of the End of Summer

2009-08-03T11:34:00.006-05:00

Yesterday was Matt's last day off from a long furlough; today he went back to training. He had a few days' warning, so we spent the weekend doing only what we wanted to do. It felt, almost, like he was getting ready to go on a long trip. Sometimes it does feel that way; if schedules are just right, I bring the kids to school functions and hockey practice by myself for a week or two, and I sometimes wonder if others wonder about the state of our marriage.

On Sunday, Matt decided he wants to get down to the lake. It has always been, for him, a place to go and think, to use as a bookend or a transition, a touchstone, a key, a place to sit quietly before things change. We loaded up wood for a fire, a bag of marshmallows, and the dogs; we headed out and hoped it wouldn't rain.

John sharpened marshmallow-toasting sticks.

There were a few people at Flat Rocks, but they left soon after we got there; some had to beat the traffic back to Duluth, some back to the Cities. The rain held off, and while there was no breeze, there were no bugs, either.

The last time we were at Flat Rocks, it was with my parents, and we spent much the same time there. A small bag of food, a fire, a cloudy day. On that day, John fell into a crevasse and was badly shaken. This time, the kids leapt with confidence over gullies and rifts, and the lake was quiet enough to walk right up to it. A thousand-footer eased past. An eagle hunted in the water, and was chased off by a gull. We were there for hours, just being with the lake.

"Mama. All I see is the lake, and the sky, and the blue line, which is the land on the other side of the lake."
And sometimes, that's all you need.

As It Used To Be

2009-08-02T10:59:00.002-05:00

We took a drive out and about yesterday to run a couple errands and check out some cool local places. The Tweed Museum is exhibiting its WPA drawings, and the kids got a big kick out of the Mountie exhibition. We bought John a size 5 soccer ball to practice with, and then went to check out Chester Creek Books and Antiques.

The town has needed a good used bookstore ever since Books Bound closed. And I'm here to tell you that Chester Creek fills that hole very, very well. It had a wide-ranging selection and the prices were low. Like, the kind of low where you murmur out of earshot of the proprietor, "Does he know what he has, here? Um, is there a zero missing at the end of that price?" and so on.

We bought about a dozen books; the kids each got two and the rest Matt and I picked out. Some of the books included a handbook of farm accounting, stamped by the Work People's College (we have several WPC books and it's fun to add them), a book about trains from the BLE (now that Matt's in a new union, we have to build up another catechism), some old pamphlets and booklets about Duluth, a 100-year-old book about train rules and instructions, and a book called "Heywood Broun: As He Seemed to Us."

Heywood Broun, a columnist for the now-defunct World, is known as the father of the Newspaper Guild. His column, "As It Seems to Me," started out as a general column and became more devoted to the plight of workers. I have not read any, but it is said his baseball writings were also outstanding. When he died in 1939, 12,000 people came to his memorial, where John L. Lewis, Fiorello H. LaGuardia and Edward G. Robinson were among the many who spoke. A stenographic account was made of the memorial and sold to raise money for the Heywood Broun Memorial award, which is still given today.

From the book:

On August 7, 1933, when newspapermen were growing conscious of the meaning of unemployment, and resenting reduced pay checks, Broun printed a letter from an unemployed newspaperman in his column. The letter said, "The men who make up the papers of this country would never look upon themselves as what they really are -- hacks and white-collar slaves. Any attempt to unionize leg, rewrite, desk or make-up men would be laughed to death by these editorial hacks themselves. Union? Why, that's al right for 'dopes' like printers, not for smart guys like newspapermen." The challenge stirred Broun, and what he wrote that day was the conscious genesis of what has been called his enduring monument -- The American Newspaper Guild. He said:

"After some four or five years of holding down the easiest job in the world, I hate to see other newspapermen working too hard. It makes me feel self-conscious. it embarrasses me even more to think of newspapermen who are not working at all. Among this number are some of the best. I am not disposed to talk myself right out of a job, but if my boss does not know that he could get any one of forty or fifty men to pound out paragraphs at least as zippy and stimulating as these, then he is far less sagacious than I have occasionally assumed.

"Fortunately, columnists do not get fired frequently. It has something to do with a certain inertia in most executives. They fall readily into the convenient conception that columnists are something like the weather. There they are, and nobody can do much about it. Of course, the editor keeps hoping that some day it will be fair and warmer, with brisk northerly gales. It never is, but the editor remains indulgent. And nothing happens to the columnist, at least, not up to now.

"It is a little difficult for me, in spite of my radical leanings and training and yearnings, to accept wholeheartedly the conception of the boss and his wage slaves. All my very many bosses have [been] editors, and not a single Legree in the lot. Concerning every one of them, it was possible to say, 'Oh, well, after all, he used to be a newspaperman once himself.'

"But the fact that newspaper editors and owners are genial folk should hardly stand in the way of the organization of a newspaper writers' union. There should b e one. Beginning at nine o'clock on the morning of October 1, I am going to do the best I can to help in getting on up. I think I could die happy on the opening day of the the general strike if I had the privilege of watching Walter Lippmann heave half a brick through a Tribune window at a nonunion operative who had been called in to write the current 'Today and Tomorrow' column on the gold standard."

Good stuff -- the kind of stuff that really makes me feel like I haven't done a whole lot.

Poking around on the Internet, I found a less heavy but equally engaging quote attributed to him:

I doubt whether the world holds for any one a more soul-stirring surprise than the first adventure with ice-cream.

Jump Start

2009-07-29T12:05:00.006-05:00

Wow, summer has totally taken over my blog. Part of the problem is that I spend a lot of time on blogger editing blogs (for, you know, money), and at the end of the day when it's time to fire up the Edit Barn, I am really, really tired of looking at blogger. This post from Barrett was a a reminder about how much I like to write and should write. Sarahlynn has a quote from W.H. Auden on her blog, and I find it inspiring as well: "You owe it to us all to get on with what you're good at."

So, here's the getting on.

* * *

We went down to Omaha last weekend for my 20-year high-school reunion. There's not a ton to say. I don't regret going, but I can't say, honestly, that I enjoyed it. The people who looked right through me 20 years ago looked right through me last weekend, and most of my closest high-school friends weren't able to make it. I *did* shake hands and talk briefly with my senior-year nemesis, which was pretty much the most unexpected moment.

* * *

I love it when my musical history can be summed up on a road sign:

* * *

Scene: In the car on the drive down.

Maia: John. JOHN. Want to play super-animals?

John: No, Maia, I'm reading and fantasizing.

Maia: What's fan-ta-size-ing?

John: It's when you imagine and make something up in your head.

Me: So...what are you fantasizing?

John (luxuriously): I'm fantasizing that we're at T-Bonz and Mom is playing pickle cards, and she scratches one off and wins a million dollars.

There is a respectful pause.

Maia: Wowww. So...and then what? Do we get some popcorn?

* * *

I usually don't do these type of viral marketing things, and if I do, I don't usually put it on my blog, but Christina did, and her blog can do no wrong, so I will too, because this cracks me up. Here is me walking past the cleaning lady on my way to do some editing at home:

I think it's the expression that cracks me up the most.

*And, yes, that's a different one than I had up earlier. I realized I had forgotten to change the hair color, and then I decided on a different hair style, because the other one made me look disconcertingly like our realtor from many years ago.

Nothing's Better Than a Ham Sandwich

2009-07-07T15:17:00.002-05:00

Scene: Matt, Maia and I are driving to the recycling center. Maia is occupied with pointing out Ford pickups.

Maia: There's one! And another one! And one over there! AND ONE RIGHT THERE!

She sees another one with an old-school bouncy horse in the bed

Maia: And another one! WITH A PONY IN IT!

Me: Wow, a Ford pickup AND a pony!

Maia: YAH!

Me: It doesn't get any better than that.

Maia: Yes, it does.

Me: Really?

Maia: Yah.

Me (incredulous): What could be better than a pickup with a pony? What would make that better?

Maia: FISH!

Feeling At Home

2009-07-05T16:38:00.004-05:00

Every year we go down to the lighthouse to watch the town shoot fireworks over the ore docks for Independence Day. Even though there is only one road in and out, traffic is not an issue because it's such a small town. We can see Duluth and Superior and Port Wing fireworks from where we sit, and the railroad turns the lights off on the docks so they don't ruin the show.

When a shell is shot in the air, the docks echo with a curious descending groan. When the shell explodes, the docks rumble and shake as if someone is banging them together. It's like two shows in one.

Matt and I have been feeling more and more comfortable here. Even though it's hard to fit into a small town, we are happy with who we know and the level of involvement we have with things. But more than that, we're happy with the town's values -- what it's willing to pay for, what is important to it.

A couple weeks before school was out, I went to the school to help out with a big landscaping effort. After several years of raising money, the PTA was ready to break ground on an outdoor classroom. This involved all the classes planting trees, bushes and flowers that day. Everyone helped and the result was beautiful. The next day, the kids dedicated the plantings with a presentation that included poems and songs, and then finished with the whole school singing "This Land Is Your Land." It felt good.

Last night, we set off some fireworks after we came home from the city's show. As I was setting up some of the cones, Maia and John caught lightning bugs. The quiet greenish light shone on their hands as they stood still, holding the bugs carefully.

June Flowers

2009-06-11T15:48:00.007-05:00

One thing I enjoy very much about living here is getting to know our land and the way it changes throughout the year. When I walk in the woods, I like to take the same walk I took the day before, or even that morning, and see what has grown or bloomed or died back. If you had told me in college that I would become a wildflower hobbyist, I would have backed slowly away. But I have, and I love it.

So far, in the years we've been here, a different flower seems to have a surge every spring. Two years ago, we had a ton of Clintonia. Last year we had a bumper crop of sarsaparilla. This year seems to be a good year for bunchberries. In June, almost everything that blooms is white. The crop of white flowers is set off by marsh marigolds in the middle of May and bluebells by the middle of June.

The first white flowers we see are the anemones. They generally show up at the beginning of May, although everything came late this year. These are the first real flowers we see after the spring bulbs are done. They open up (as this one has) on sunny days, then close up and droop on cloudy days. They are long-lasting and I sometimes spot them, in cool places deep in the woods, into July. Then there are always a few that bloom in the fall, just for fun.

We had a terrible pollen season this year. I took the anemone picture a couple weeks ago when the pollen was thick on everything; you can see it on the leaves. When it rained, our driveway looked like it was full of yellow paint.

As I said, this is a good year for bunchberries. I learned that the bunchberry flower is not a flower -- the actual flower is the group of little nodules at the center, and the plant grows four white leaves around the nodules to trick bees into thinking it's a flower. The white leaves start out as green (as seen here) and seem to turn white as they get more sun. In the summer the kids can pick and nibble on the bunchberries. They are edible but because of the large stone it's really more for the novelty of picking and eating something right of the plant. A good patch of bunchberries can be very pretty, although not as impressive as a field of trillium.

This is a trillium, but not the kind of trillium I wish we had. We have nodding trillium, which hides its flowers under its petals. It's hard to find on the forest floor; you really have to be watching for it. The good news is last year I saw two plants (both of which produced blooms), and this year I've seen five, all of which produced blooms.

Speaking of sarsaparilla, here is what it looks like when it blooms. We have a lot of it this year, although not as much as last year.

If I recall correctly, this is a Canadian mayflower. It's about as tall as the length of an adult finger and just as cute as it looks here. Unfortunately it was never sunny when I wanted to take a picture of it, so it looks a little drab here. I have never been to the BWCAW, but as I understand it, these are very common there.

Using blossoms is cheating a little. And really, these are a little more pink than white. Instead I should include a shot of our white apple blossoms, which are just starting to come out. However, I include the plum blossoms because they smell so fantastic. I would wear plum-blossoms scent as a perfume if I could. Including this photo would make more sense if I had a smellovision blog.

This is called the starflower, and it's my favorite of the spring white wildflowers. It's a little less common on our land than some of the other wildflowers and is a treat to find. The blossom is about as big as a thumbnail so it almost feels like you're finding a little jewel when you see one.

Tuning In

2009-06-01T21:03:00.003-05:00

At the end of April, some vandals cut down the Honking Tree, a huge white pine on the road near town. When locals came back to the North Shore, they would greet the tree with a honk. I was sad and mad about it, but that was about it. It became kind of a joke among former (and current) newspaper people, because the newspaper covered the hell out of it, until there was really something of a backlash ("It's only a tree! SHEESH!"). A friend of mine has done some work for MPR, and mentioned to someone in St. Paul that I could write a commentary about what the tree meant to people. They liked the idea, I wrote it, and this morning I went into Duluth and carefully read my essay into a giant microphone in a glass booth. This evening we listened to it on the radio. There isn't a link from the Web site, but here is the original essay. I read an edited version for broadcast.

When I heard that a 113-year-old white pine near Two Harbors, Minnesota, was cut down by a vandal or vandals April 29, I was sad and angry. There are other trees, but not another honking tree.

My family and I moved to Two Harbors almost four years ago. We hadn’t planned on it – we looked at houses in Duluth before stumbling upon one here on the north shore. Living here meant a half-hour commute each way into Duluth to my job, but that was half as long as I had been driving into Minneapolis, and besides, the view was better, too.

Two Harbors is a small town, with a lot of people who have lived here their whole lives and raised their kids together. Matt and I are from larger towns – he grew up in Duluth and I grew up in Omaha, Nebraska. We were warned about what we were getting into, with a small town – people will know what you’re doing! All the time! They’ll know your business! -- but we figured we could make it work. We dove into the local history – 3M was started here; the railroad shut down in 1967, devastating the town; and everyone here seems to have a nickname. And in the 100-year history book Matt bought, we found three sentences and a photo about the honking tree, a white pine in the median of the expressway about three miles south of town. We learned that North Shore residents honked at the tree, which was spared by a highway worker when the expressway was put in, to mark their return home. We were charmed, and started honking.

I worked as a copy editor in Duluth and my shift ended late at night. After making it back safely through snowstorms and herds of suicidal deer night after night, I honked quietly at the tree when I came by– you didn’t need to lay on the horn for it. It was a little like checking in with your parents after a night out, to let them know you were back. It felt homey.

We pointed it out to our children and greeted the tree when we came back from visiting grandparents in Duluth. On our way home from longer vacations, spotting the tree meant we really were home, we were on the North Shore, and had returned from far lands without lakes or tall white pines or seagulls. And in fact many visitors from points south hailed the tree as they came up for vacations or to open up cabins. So it meant different things to different people – for some it was escape, a holiday, Someplace Else. For others it was familiar, a haven, home. It belonged to anyone who knew about it, to anyone who honked.

My family has lived in many places and has struggled in many places. Moving to Two Harbors felt right in a way that other moves hadn’t. Even with job slowdowns and small-town uncertainty, the life we have made for ourselves here feels like a long-term decision, a good decision. Learning the local lore was part of that, and now this town is where my son and daughter play hockey and have sleepovers, where my husband works, where I greet people at the grocery store and stop my car in the road to talk to a friend.

Yes, there are other trees, and yes, it’s ONLY a tree. But when people find and then recognize and then love something, it becomes an icon. It becomes something everyone shares. There is comfort in coming home after a long day and seeing the door opening for you. It is, after all, ONLY a door, but it welcomes you home day after day, and you are sad and angry if someone takes an ax to it.

Change

2009-05-28T09:35:00.005-05:00

A year ago, I was running myself around trying to figure out what to do with the kids all summer. Maia's day care was closing because the woman running it was having a baby, and John was doing a bunch of summer activities and I didn't know how he was going to get to them. Matt was working bizarre hours training on his new job. And I was starting to realize that my job was turning into something I didn't want it to be.

The weather now is reminding me of that time. May and June on the North Shore are marvelous. Spring, in Nebraska, lasts about four days, and then it's a long, hot summer. Spring here comes so slowly, and then retreats a little bit, then blooms out again, then it snows a little bit. But once it's here, the air is cool and soft and there is sunlight from 4 a.m. to after 10:30 p.m.

Last year, I put the kids in an excellent summer-care program run by the schools. I juggled some scheduling so I could see some of John's baseball games. I took a week off for his summer play. I struggled to do a job I loved in a tense, unhappy office while the sun shone and the kids played on the grass. At work, I parked my car under a basswood tree and would spend a few minutes smelling the blossoms and listened to the kids -- not mine -- at the daycare across the street squealing and laughing and running around. And I would think, Something is going to change here and I am going to change it.

And I did.

This year, the summer is stretching before us, uncharted and inviting as a hidden lake. Matt, having qualified and been certified as a train engineer, is now furloughed for some time and mapping out summer projects. I am writing and editing just as much as I want to, getting involved in new projects on my terms and cutting loose things that don't fit. The kids are scheduled for lots of fun things this summer -- swimming lessons and baseball and summer hockey and soccer -- but nothing feels overscheduled, because I am not overscheduled. There will be time to read in the treehouse and explore across the creek (they are now old enough to cross it themselves!) and to indulge in that special summer boredom that inspires the greatest summer memories.

There is uncertainty, of course -- both Matt and I are, essentially, unemployed. But it feels like it's on our terms, and things are different than the last time we were unemployed. We are very lucky. We are very grateful. And we are excited for this summer.

What Are They Thinking?

2009-05-12T15:32:00.005-05:00

I had a nice Mother's Day -- a Sunday NYT, breakfast in bed, dozing until 10:30...perfect. Maia's card was a little fill-in-the-blank essay about me called "My mom is the best mom in the world!" The bold words are Maia's answers, and no, she didn't call me Krupskaya, and no, I'm not quite sure why I still use that pseudonym when everyone else on this blog has a name.

Her name is Krupskaya.
She is 38 years old.
She weighs 100 something pounds.
She has brown eyes and brown hair.
Her favorite food is scrambled eggs.
My mom looks pretty when she smiles.
I love my mom because she makes good food.
The best present I could give my mom is a bracelet.

Very sweet, but hundred-something pounds notwithstanding, they need to stop focusing on how moms look, methinks.

This Walk Brought To You By The Rune Wunjo

2009-05-01T11:36:00.004-05:00

Once I was in a park full of oak trees and I was just kind of sitting there, not really doing anything, when I noticed there was an oak tree that looked exactly like the rune fehu, the first rune in the futhark. I wondered if that was where the ideas for runes came from (that, and of course they're easy to carve into stone). In any case, I found another one in the woods yesterday: Professor Internet says this is the rune wunjo, joy.

Happy, Like, Belated Birthday

2009-04-29T10:49:00.007-05:00

I've been sitting on this one awhile. I got a card for my friend Ethelred for her birthday back in February. Before I put it in the envelope, I scanned it because I wanted to blog about it and even promised in the birthday greeting that I would blog about it. But then I couldn't blog about it because I couldn't remember what I had named the scan, and I have a lot of scans and photos sitting around on my computer.

Was it card.jpg? No.

Birthday.jpg? Nope.

Maybe blog.jpg. No, that's what I name the flag photos.

I tried variations of Ethelred's name, including Ethelred and Eth. This morning I spent some time looking for it and finally found it again under the name pms017.jpg. Nice.

Anyway, here it is.

You can see why I had to get it. It's so incongruous I thought it had to have been made in China, but no, it's made of 100 percent Made-In-USA recycled WTF. I was in sixth grade when I bought the "Valley Girl Guide" from my Scholastic book order in 1982 and was a little young to be a part of the Valley Girl scene. Well, that, and the fact that I was living in Omaha, Nebraska, at the time. But I have to say I'm pretty sure this isn't Valley Girl.

No, this is clearly something someone found in one of those giant clip-art catalogs newspapers and ad departments used to have before such things were computerized -- huge slippery books that you actually clipped the art out of to use it. We had one of those at the college paper Ethelred and I worked at and part of the reason I am sympathetically drawn to this card is that its leggy, angularly drawn model reminds me of late nights laughing until we couldn't see straight as Back Page boys made clip-art collages and narrated them with little speech balloons.

Everything's funnier when it's in print. Or, you know, at 3 a.m.

I love everything about this card. Its cheery colors. Its label text on the front (not even an exclamation point after "Valley Girl" -- it's just a statement). (On the inside, it says "Have a, like, totally awesome birthday!" in the same font.) Its attempt at flashback nostalgia and its total miss. THOSE SHOES! AND HAIR RIBBONS!

I was not a Valley Girl, but she is not, either. She could be a model from a Butterick catalog, fall collection, from 1972. But what she really reminds me of is someone who would have been one of the letter-writers in Growing Up And Liking It, the little booklet about menstruation all the girls received in fourth grade at school. That site is terribly designed, but it has a TON of hilarious and infuriating information, as well as a complete copy of "Growing Up And Liking It," which my friend Natalie and I read out loud to each other as we sat in the branches of a tree in her yard after we got it, screaming with laughter and rolling our eyes.

Anyway. Happy birthday, Ethelred, and many happy returns!

In Defiance of Winter

2009-04-20T21:50:00.004-05:00

This is how the crocus looked two days ago. Today a winter storm warning was declared for our county. It says something that I, hay-fever sufferer though I may be, am focusing on those grains of pollen (click on the photo for a large version) with something bordering on obsession.

'I Diddent See The WHOLE THING!'

2009-04-20T16:28:00.003-05:00

That was Maia's anguished cry at the end of the penultimate chapter of "Charlotte's Web" last night. I was crying by the end of it myself, because that last line, "No one was with her when she died," is one of the saddest in all literature. After I got that line out in a whisper, Maia put her head on my chest and wailed. Matt ran into the bedroom, John at his heels, and we all sat on the bed and tearfully mourned Charlotte.

"I thought you said you had seen the movie," I said.

She sat up and shook her head. "I diddent see the WHOLE THING," she cried, full of grief and reproach. "I diddent see the END."

Once we had pulled ourselves together, we read the last chapter, which was also sad in its own way, but happy-sad, and she had settled enough to read to herself before she fell asleep. "That book's a one-timer," John said to her in a wise voice. "It's so good, you can only read it one time."

Shattering a small person's literary world is exhausting, so I went to bed. About a half-hour later, I awoke to find Maia climbing up on the bed. "I'm lonely," she said. "I want to be with you."

I want my children to be familiar with grief and loss and healthy ways to deal with those emotions, but I am not heartless, so I let her cuddle up with me and we talked about the book.

"Why would somebody write a book like that?" she asked, and we talked about writing as catharsis and sharing and vicarious experience. She said she understood, and we curled up and went to sleep.

Math Homework

2009-04-15T20:49:00.003-05:00

I'm not quite sure why math homework is such a catalyst for visceral anger. John is good at math -- he routinely tests well on it, enjoys reading "The Number Devil" and other math books, and generally has an OK grasp on things such as estimating. But when he's learning a new concept -- such as long division two months ago, and length conversions this week -- it's like drilling a well deep into his store of viking rage.

Here is a typical escalation:

I'm washing dishes. John is at the table doing homework. Maia is either coloring or doing her own math worksheet I've printed off the computer (honestly, sometimes I feel like she does this to bug John).

John: Sigghhhh....grooaaaannn...Um. Mom. Mom, can you come help me?

Me (wiping hands off): Sure, whatcha got?

John: (Sighs again.) I don't get it.

Me: What don't you get?

John: This! All of it! That! I don't GET it.

Me: What number are you on?

John (grips pencil tightly, stares at table, presses lips together): NUMBER. SIX.

Me: OK. You've got 11 feet, and you need to figure out how many inches it is.

John: I know that! I just....RRRRGH! I JUST DON'T GET IT! NARRRRRRGHHHHHH MUST DEFEAT OUTRAGEOUS HORROR OF MOTHER TRYING TO TEACH ME MAAAATHHHHHHH! RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAWWWWWRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!

Well, that's what it feels like, anyway. I send him outside to walk it off. I go back to washing dishes. He comes back. We try again. We get a little farther until he insists his teacher told him that when you're converting feet to inches you divide by 12. And so on. Tears. Peevish comments. Erasing and re-erasing. Wet, gurgly sniffs. Until finally, he's multiplying by 12s in his head. He converts yards to inches. After supper, he tells us he read that it takes 20 football fields for a loaded train to stop ("No shit," I can see Matt thinking). I ask him how many feet that is, and he stands, looking at the ceiling, and comes up with the answer.

Then it's OK.

What Spring Looks Like Here

2009-04-13T20:52:00.004-05:00

So I've got a picture of spring for you. I took it today. I was so excited about it because I was walking with Matt and saw something that just said "SPRING IS BUSTING ITS BUTT OUT ALL OVER THE NORTH SHORE, RIGHT HERE!" and it just made me feel all full of warm breezes and sunny days. Here it is:

Do you see what made me feel all springy? No? Well, take a guess. No, it's not the Christmas wreath that's still up. No, it's not last year's pea trellises or the apple tree branches that were chewed up by the deer all winter. It's also not the wheel from our garbage bin, left there by the receding glacier of this year's snows. It's also not the receding glacier itself, SHOWN HERE ON A SOUTH-FACING SLOPE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. And finally, it's not that nasty mold that looks like dog hair or cobwebs that you see right after all the snow melts but before the ground thaws and everything is done running off. That whole slope is covered with it. All right, I'll just have to point out what it is.
It's the year's first crocus, of course! Bright yellow. Gorgeous.

Anger Management

2009-04-08T12:01:00.003-05:00

The other day John got mad at me and Maia. We've been talking a lot about being appropriately angry -- you can be angry, and speak strongly, but you cannot yell or be disrespectful. This is actually harder than it sounds, because I tend to get sarcastic when I'm mad, and that's not terribly respectful, and John has picked up some of my angry sarcasm. So we're both working on that.

In any case, the other day he was so mad he went down to his room to (I thought) cool off. This was fine. I was in the bathroom when I heard him come back up and then Maia lost it, saying, "John, what are you doing? What? What are you doing? JOHN!" And then tears.

I came out and tried to figure out what was going on. Apparently John had gone down to his room, drawn a picture of me and Maia, then came upstairs and tore it up and threw it in the kitchen trash.

"I read about it somewhere as something to do when you're angry!" he said loudly, stricken, when I expressed a little bit of shock. "I was trying to deal with being angry in an OK way!"

I took a breath and tried not to feel like he was trying to work some voodoo on me, or something. "You know, you're right," I said. "It's better than yelling at someone. But, next time," and I grasped his arm to make the point, "maybe you could do it not in front of the person you're tearing up and throwing away!"

Soundtrack to I-35

2009-04-05T12:01:00.004-05:00

I haven't put all -- all -- my vinyl and cassette music on my iPod. I don't need Semisonic or Vive la France! with me all the time. But it's got the basics, the underpinnings of the life I've lead traveling from a spot on I-80 to a spot up the road from where I-35 ends.

Driving to Omaha makes me think of that music and I tend to listen to it when making that drive, marking a backward chronology, and some might argue a decomposition, of my tastes. Driving back to Omaha is divided up into chapters and I tend to go over my life so far as I make the drive back. There are overlaps in the different chapters, but there are some songs and bands that belong in very specific times of my life.

Chapter I: Duluth to Pine City
New beginnings. Success. Iron and Wine. Neko Case. The Byrds. Neil Young. Security and uncertainty. Middle age. That one Jill Scott song. Feeling like an adult, sometimes.

Chapter II: Pine City to the Cities
Uncertainty and struggle. Jill Scott. Allman Brothers. Politics and backstabbing. New babies. Missy Elliott. Depression.

Interlude: Russia
Living abroad. Arcwelder. Meat Puppets. Falling in love with Matt. Robert Johnson, Blind Willie Johnson and John Lee Hooker. The Jayhawks. Summer in St. Petersburg and the White Nights. Captain Tractor. The Levellers. Phish.

Chapter III: The Cities
Living alone. Beastie Boys. Live. Uncle Tupelo. Jayhawks. Finding a job to support me and finding an apartment. Sugar and Bob Mould. Alice in Chains. Shows at First Ave. and the Entry and the Fine Line. Pearl Jam. Feeling successful and self-sufficient. Screaming Trees. The Judybats. Inappropriate men. Counting Crows. Taking a risk. Meeting Matt and then leaving.

Chapter IV: The Cities to the Iowa Border
College. The Jayhawks. Uncle Tupelo. Died Pretty backed with Buffalo Tom. Late nights in the newspaper office. Gear Daddies. The Halloween blizzard. Boiled in Lead. Soul Asylum.

Chapter V: Iowa to Omaha
High school. Trip Shakespeare. Nirvana. Fugazi. Bob Mould. REM. Thinking, all the time, that there's something more.

Chapter Book

2009-04-02T21:15:00.003-05:00

I try to get my kids to read the book (or have the book read to them) before they see the movie. With most of the classics, I think we've done pretty well, but somehow Maia saw "Charlotte's Web" somewhere before she had read it. I pulled out the book the other night to start reading it to her, and she told me how she had seen the movie.

"Well, we'll read the book, and you can see how the book and the movie are different," I said.

I'm not against books being made into movies. I am a huge fan of the Lord of the Rings movies because for some reason I have trouble making big epics fit in my head. With all the traveling the fellowship does, it's difficult for me, when I read it, to get the lay of the land straight and to figure out where everyone is going. The movie helped me a lot with that. Plus, it was awesome! But I still think that generally you should read the book first, if it came first. Especially with children's books. With something like "The Godfather," I don't think it matters.

Anyway. We started reading "Charlotte's Web" the other night and every once in awhile she says "I remember that from the movie!" or "I know what happens next!" I don't want to make it a huge moral thing that I think books are better than movies, but on the other hand, I think books are better than movies. So I acknowledge her quietly and read on. I'm hoping I can get through it without crying.

Last night we got to the chapter "Wilbur's Boast," which is the first time Charlotte sticks up for Wilber to one of the snotty little lambs that's always insulting him. She reassures him that he will not be murdered for the sake of Christmas ham and that she will save him. She gives him some bedtime guidance on what he should do from now on -- the duties of a pig, essentially, which are to eat a lot and not fuss around -- while she thinks about how she will go about preventing his death. It is a beautiful, quiet scene, lovingly written and full of patient details. Wilber beds down, then says he remembers a bit of potato in his trough. Charlotte gives him leave to get up and eat it.

He found a bit of potato, chewed it carefully, swallowed it, and walked back to bed. He closed his eyes and was silent for awhile.

"Charlotte?" he said, in a whisper.

"Yes?"

"May I get a drink of milk? I think there are a few drops of milk left in my trough."

"No, the trough is dry, and I want you to go to sleep. No more talking! Close your eyes and go to sleep!"

Wilber shut his eyes. Fern got up from her stool and started for home, her mind full of everything she had seen and heard.

"Good night, Charlotte!" said Wilbur.

"Good night, Wilbur!"

There was a pause.

"Good night, Charlotte!"

"Good night, Wilbur!"

"Good night!"

"Good night!"

Maia was cuddled under my arm, reading along with me. We were quiet a minute, and then she said, "Charlotte is just like a mama to Wilbur, because he doesn't have one and she can be one for him."

I gave her a squeeze and kissed the top of her head. Maybe she thought of that when she watched the movie. But at the white page at the end of a chapter, she had the time to share it.

Kids, Darndest Things, Etc.

2009-03-30T20:56:00.003-05:00

I.

Scene: Driving Maia to a party
Starring: Maia
Supporting role: Me

Maia is very, very excited because she is going to a swim party.

Maia: (Sigh.) Maybe Kaden will be there. He and Claire are friends, maybe he will be there too. Oooo, I'm so excited! I can't wait to get there! Drive faster, Mama, but DON'T run any red lights and DON'T run into people. (Imperiously) If there's a car in front of you, wait until it goes!

Me: Alrighty then!

Maia: (Sigh.) Is this a dream?

Silence for a beat.

Maia: Is this a dream, because it's so sunny?

Me: You think you're in a dream because the sun is out?

Maia: Yeah. I think I'm going to rub my eyes now because I think this is a dream and I'll see if I wake up. (Pause.) Nope! It really IS this sunny!

II.

John is charged with cleaning the bathroom. I go out and run a few errands. I come home and smell aftershave, which is odd -- even though I know Matt is home, he'll be working later, so there's no reason for him to shave. John comes bouncing out of the bathroom, dressed in flannel pants and a pirate bandanna on his head, and shirtless, and looking guilty.

Me: Hey. How's it going with the cleaning?

John: Um. Good. Um.

Me: You about done?

John: Um. Yes. I scrubbed the sink and the toilet, and, um, took the towels downstairs, and swept the floor. Yeah.

Me: Did Dad shave?

John: No.

Me: Were you messing with the aftershave? Did you put some on? I can smell it.

John (heaving shoulders): UM. Mom? Um, I think I made a bad choice.

Me: Which is?

John (deep breath, then speaks very quickly): Well, um, when I was done cleaning, I got out Dad's aftershave and wiped down the bathroom with it so it would smell nice. (Holds breath, bites lip.)

Me: Uh. Really?

He nods.

Me: Oh. Well. Don't do that again.

John: I'M REALLY SORRY!

Me: That's OK! Just...don't do it again.

By Mennen.

In My Free Time

2009-03-24T20:24:00.004-05:00

If I were truly a woman of leisure, I like to think that I would do a lot more visual art. While I was never brilliant at it, I liked drawing as a young person and am a nonstop doodler. I spent a summer playing around with oil paints and would like to do so again. I think printmaking is a beautiful art and have some ideas for what I would like to make -- if, you know, I knew how to make prints.

I bought a sketchbook and some pencils on a whim a couple weeks ago. It's probably the just the weather, but I've been feeling like a creative change is on its way, and I've been trying to pay more attention to any spark of an idea I've had lately. It's been six months since I resigned, and I've had a little more time to stop and pay attention when that creative subconscious waves its little hand and then looks away, whistling innocently.

I'm one of those people who, when doing a new thing or working on a project, feels like she really can't get started on something special unless everything else that should be done is done. I feel guilty putting up a Christmas tree when the laundry isn't folded. I hesitate to work on my writing-for-pleasure if I've got editing-for-pay I could be doing. And it's not from a sense of duty -- far from it. It's more a feeling of ritual, of making something special in its own space, instead of going with a creative flow when I feel it -- or at least trying to find a balance between the two.

So in light of that, the other day, when I felt like playing with the pencils and sketchbook for the first time and I had some time to kill, I decided that I would just sit right down and draw what was in front of me. No arranging, no looking for something easy or interesting -- just draw what was there, if only to get a feel for the pencils and paper. And what was in front of me? A battered, 35-year-old tacklebox, which used to belong to Matt's grandpa and is now Maia's. And of course, it was at a crazy angle to my line of sight -- it was pointing directly away from me, so it was hard to show its third side. In any case, this is what I came up with:

Yesterday our power went out in the late afternoon because of an ice storm. No power also means no water and no heat. We went into town for a fast-food supper (and bathrooms), swung by the grocery store for s'more fixins, then settled in at home in the living room with books, sleeping bags and candles in front of the fire. Maia conked out pretty quickly, and John sat up reading Harry Potter by candlelight. I had plenty of work I could be doing online, but instead was brought into the quiet of the evening, the rain outside and the soft talk of the fire inside. I made an old-fashioned blog:

That one looked a lot better by candlelight. But, you know, it's a start.

Listen Up

2009-03-18T20:28:00.005-05:00

When John was about three, he started saying a lot of really cool stuff. I didn't have this blog yet so I had to write them down on little scraps of paper that I've been pretty good at keeping in one place. He used to say things like, "What's the shiningest star? Maybe it's God!" and "The flowers dance when I water them!" and "The sun is my favorite star because it makes pictures for me when it sets."

He said a lot of funny things, too. When Maia was born, Matt and I were going through a rough money patch and battling unemployment. John must have picked up on that, because a few weeks after she was born, John came into the kitchen as I was making supper and said reassuringly, "I'm proud we're making money and we'll be able to keep Maia!"

So from about that time, when he opened his mouth, I listened, because I could bank on something good coming out of it.

As he got older and started school, he liked to talk about his day. If he was feeling down or something was bothering him, he would share it. If he had something weighing on his conscience, it usually worked itself out of his mouth eventually whether he wanted it to or not. He's a talker.

Now that he's approaching the very, very slight beginnings of adolescence, I figured we'd get to the point where he'd stop talking and sharing. Which is fine; I'm ready for that. Or I tell myself I'm ready for that. But in the meantime, I think I've figured out why kids stop talking to their parents.

It's a simple reason: It's because when kids hit nine or 10, they start spouting facts that parents don't find interesting. And so they respond with an "oh, really? Huh" and that's it. If people responded that way to me when I said something I thought was cool, I'd stop talking, too. I figured this out when I really listened, the other day, to what John was telling me. It usually fell in one of the following categories:

1. The property of a character from Yu-Gi-Oh, Pokemon, or any other card game. Example: "Mom! MOM! There's this one card? Divine Wrath? Well, it's actually a spell, not a creature, you know? And if it's played on a clear field it can't be defeated."
2. The reconstruction of a scene from Spongebob, Avatar, or Chowder. Example: "Mom! MOM! There was this one part in Spongebob where Patrick was, um, he was all dressed like a pirate, you know? And he had, um, two patches over both his eyes."
3. A math fact. Example: "Mom! MOM! Did you know that the square root of 2 is one-point-one-four-one-four-two-one-three-five-six..."
4. A complaint about his sister. Example: "Mom! MOM! Maia is all in my face when I'm trying to read! MOM!"

I'm not quite sure what made me realize how much I was saying, "Really? I didn't know that" and then letting the conversation end just because what he was saying wasn't interesting to me. I'm trying to be better at asking him why he finds those things interesting or funny, but without being an analyst-parent, thusly: "WHY are two patches funny to you? What do YOU think is important about Divine Wrath?"

I also took this picture of him a couple weeks ago. He's been asking me to teach him how to knit, and he's picking it up pretty well. I like this picture because he's still wearing his hockey jersey from the last game of the season, and he's also sticking his tongue out because he's working so hard.

It reminds me of one of my favorite posters. You can tell from their faces that not all the boys are necessarily interested in violin music, but they're giving the kid their attention until he's done. And that, at the very least, is what I can do for John.

Signs of Spring

2009-03-17T21:08:00.002-05:00

The waterfall was silent this morning; it rushes tonight.
Fish houses come off the lake.
The cutter makes its way this far.
Muddy dog prints inside.
The uprooted lilac sends out cautious tiny buds.
Hockey jerseys are turned in.
Autumn fog turns to spring mist.
I turn my face to the sun.
I trade my coat for my vest.
I'm blogging again.

He Shoots, He Scores!

2009-02-22T22:57:00.002-06:00

Here's what John did this weekend:

We went to a four-game, five-team tournament, and John's team went 1-2-1, winning their first game and getting enough points to earn -- earn, not get -- a third-place trophy. John scored his first goal (shown above), but said winning was a lot more fun than finally getting a goal. When I saw his stick go up after the ref signaled goal, I got a little teary. Pretty funny for this Nebraska girl.

Party Mom

2009-02-16T20:14:00.003-06:00

Maia didn't get a birthday party because all of the kids she invited had been exposed to whooping cough in the days before the party and their parents didn't want to pass it on. Then hockey and the holidays intervened and Maia's party was put off until last weekend, when she had a Valentine's Day/birthday party. We were going to decorate heart-shaped cookies instead of having a cake and play a couple games. I bought some pre-made cookie dough and a bunch of party supplies the day before.

Here is how the day of the party went:

7:30 a.m. I get up to start cleaning and baking the cookies.

8:25 I put cookies on my cookie sheet and after removing them from the oven I find that the cookies have swelled -- no, not swelled, expanded -- by about a third, smooshing into each other and rendering themselves useless thusly: I compensate by using the cookie-cutter on the cookies and trimming off the extra. Fortunately, this works, but makes a lot of waste and stresses me out more than it should.

8:38 a.m. While compiling the foam shapes I had bought the day before for decorating bags, I find that almost half of them aren't self-adhesive. This means we will have to deal with regular white glue, because I have no glue-sticks sitting around.

10:15 a.m. Guest's mom calls and says he will not be at the party because he is throwing up.

11:28 a.m. The bathroom sink backs up for no apparent reason other than to get on my case.

1:05 p.m. The first guest arrives, five minutes late; the party commences.

1:37 p.m. Bag-decorating threatens to get out of hand as John shows the party-goers how to throw handfuls of foam shapes for fun. Attendees are visibly impressed as I bring an appropriate level of smackdown on John.

1:45 p.m. First game begins.

2 p.m. Second game begins.

2:15 p.m. Maia opens presents. The coolest present, a hand-knit scarf from a 7-year-old (!), is not appreciated as much as the gift-giver thinks it should be. She tries to put it on Maia, who makes it clear she doesn't want the scarf on at this time. Power struggle ensues.

2:20 p.m. Final guest arrives, and it is time to frost and decorate the cookies.

2:40 p.m. Full of highly refined sugar and carnauba wax, the guests all go down to Maia's room to play. Note: Maia's room is approximately 7 feet wide and 10 feet long. There are six girls in there.

2:45 p.m. I receive a report that there is a group of girls barricading themselves in John's messy bedroom and not letting the other girls in.

2:46 p.m. I find the girls barricaded in John's room and John queuing up "Welcome to the Jungle" on his CD player. This boggles me.

3:06 p.m. First guest leaves, 6 minutes late.

3:15 p.m. Last guest leaves, 15 minutes late.

3:45 p.m. The floor is swept, trash is thrown away or recycled, and calm returns. After a restorative cup of coffee, the day continues.

One Moment, Please

2009-02-09T14:58:00.003-06:00

Maia lost the other front top tooth, so she no longer looks like Burns. Now she looks like a kindergarten vampire.

"I miss those baby teeth," I told her last night. "I was so excited when they came, when you were a baby. And now they're gone!"

She leaned into me, smiling. I wasn't trying to be all heavy and nostalgic, but she took it that way.

"Am I still your Bugaboo?" she asked. "Am I still your baby?"

She doesn't often get demonstrative without a deprecating comment or a sarcastic aside. This was no more and no less than what she said, and even as I hugged her and told her I couldn't wait to see the grown-up teeth come in, I could feel the moment move on.

Dumpster Diving

2009-02-06T09:20:00.006-06:00

One of my online friends, Grace, blogs a lot about thrifting, and closer to home, I've been reading Northern Cheapskate. Matt and I don't spend a lot on buying stuff -- clothes, housewares, and so on -- and when we do spend, we tend to really investigate what we're getting and buy something good that will last awhile. One of our vices, however, is used books. And I found a surprising source for cool used books.

Our county doesn't pick up our recycling; we have to drive it into town every week or so to the recycling center. Inside the recycling center is a giant bin for telephone books and, amazingly, other books. It's often full of old textbooks, or weird medical journals, or awful management books. I've found, however, that it sometimes contains some real gems.

The first one I found was Friheten, by Nordahl Grieg. The cover caught my eye -- I assumed the title was "Freedom" and the dramatic graphic of a flaming figure falling through the sky made me think it was probably either something Communist or fascist. What a pleasure, after doing some online digging, to find that Nordahl Grieg was a cousin to Edvard Grieg and was a left-wing poet and journalist during the Nazi occupation of Norway. He wrote in exile and his poems were smuggled back into Norway and used by the population as their own small way to resist the Nazis: a phrase murmured at the bakery and answered by the next line was enough to provide a little comfort. He flew with the RAF as a war correspondent and was shot down over Germany in 1943.

The book is full of his war poems and was published by Gyldendal Norsk Verlag in 1945. Grieg is considered a national hero.

Another one I found is "The Book of Good Manners" by Frederick Martens (1923), which is an absolute scream. It is full of things such as the definition of morning dress and evening dress, the role of chaperones for young unaccompanied women in Europe, requirements for well-bred children, and how servants should speak to and about their masters. The scan from one of the plates here is a little blurry -- the spine is in tough shape and I didn't want to break it on the scanner. The top photo is captioned "The Graceful Bow" and the bottom one is "Let spoon enter mouth quarterwise."

One of the best parts is "A List of Words and Phrases Not Used in Well-Bred Conversation." There are two columns: "Incorrect" and "Correct." Incorrect includes cunning, complete your dinner, genteel, murderous, and sheeny (a slur I had never heard), and the respective correct terms are dainty, finish your dinner, well-bred, deadly, and Jew.

The next list is even better: "Slang and Colloquialisms Which Will Not Pass Muster." Incorrect terms are aggravating papa (a refractory lover), cake-eater (an effeminate young man), dinge (Negro (sic), another slur I had never heard), finale hopper (a dancing man who always stays to the last dance), stiff (vulgar, when applied as a term of contempt to the living; unpardonable when used for a corpse) and wild woman (an objectionable euphemism for a girl or woman who is no better than she should be).

The book deems "elegance of phrase" vulgar as well, and sniffs (rightfully) at people who say "what an unpleasant effluvium" instead of "what an unpleasant odor" or "I feel so lassitudinous" instead of "I feel very languid." There is no need, the book informs us, to say "You are too previous" instead of "You presume." I quite agree.

The last one I grabbed is "The Sexual Life" by C.W. Malchow, M.D. (1905), a frank but turgid (as most texts from 1905) look at "the natural sexual impulse, normal sexual habits and propagation, together with sexual physiology and hygiene." The book has a slightly bizarre dedication from the author to his mother, "To whom I owe most for whatever I may be; whose physical deformity inspired gentleness, and whose simple, true life will ever command my highest esteem." Gee, thanks.

While the book does encourage both men and women to get educated about pleasing themselves and their partners, it does stress that "There is but one finish to proper copulation, and that is -- simultaneous orgasm, which ejaculation into the upper extremity of the vaginal passage. Anything short of this does not completely suffice for the satisfaction of the natural sexual instinct. Time is of the essence of this, as well as other contracts, for an untimely orgasm is invariably disappointing and unsatisfactory." Whew, no pressure there.

Anyway, it does drag on in that fashion, which is funny for a bit, but gives one a headache after awhile. There are passing references to homosexuality (which the author dismisses in one sentence, saying it "need not give us any concern"), a little bit on pregnancy (and fear of) being the chief cause of women not enjoying sex, and condoms leading to "race suicide." It's interesting to read as a scientific relic, and to find the social commentary peeking through once in awhile, but this one will probably find its way back to the recycling bin, or at least the library book sale.

Digging these books out of the recycling bin isn't exactly thrifting, because it doesn't replace me buying books I like. It's more like hunting for treasure. In any case, it's getting me to the recycling center more often, which is a good thing.

Hero Worship

2009-02-03T11:08:00.013-06:00

I feel a little weird putting a picture of Maia up with a cheesecake shot of a hockey player, but the resemblance is uncanny. She lost a front tooth the other night:

She thinks it's hilarious that her smile looks like that of a Wild defenseman. She showed it off to her hockey coach yesterday and said "I look like Burnsie!" with a little lisp.

Photo of Brent Burns courtesy of meltyourfaceoff.net
.

On the Lake

2009-02-01T17:07:00.007-06:00

I had read elsewhere that the skating was good on the big lake. We loaded up our skates, sticks and helmets and headed southwest.

Sadly, we found that a wind shift and a strong sun on top of a dusting of snow last night had made the conditions deteriorate quite a bit. So instead we climbed around on the ice and drifts and the funny old castle-like amphitheater down on the shore.

There were a lot of frozen drifts and melting snow caves to play in.

It was hard to get a decent picture of all the ice shards because they were all so marvelously clear. The photo up in the flag right now is of the blue ice that was on Brighton Beach several days ago. But the ice where we were today was like prisms.

Maia found a little snow throne and made herself comfortable. I have to say here that it was really, really warm out there. It felt like it was about 50. Neither of the kids had hats or gloves on. We passed a family all bundled in Polarfleece and scarves and mittens and I felt a little neglectful; I do tend to underdress the kids. However, no one was complaining, and at one point the kids found a clear patch of grass and dubbed it "spring" and basked in the sun there for awhile.

John found a nice beach where we sat in the sun for awhile. Maia found some quartz and a pink dragon tear and I found an agate bigger than my thumb-knuckle, the first I've ever found along the Lakewalk.

Even though we didn't get to skate, it was a good day.

Watching History

2009-01-21T10:59:00.004-06:00

John woke up sick yesterday and he stayed home from school. He slept most of the morning, but at 10 a.m. I woke him up and brought him downstairs so he could watch the inauguration. He has always been interested in politics and participates in his own way in political discussions Matt and I have. He malingered on the couch and provided a running commentary to what he saw.

When I pointed out the probably energy secretary, he said, "Oh, I think we need about FIVE of those." He also recommended that Hillary Clinton keep a lot of Secret Service around her, as the role of secretary of state might make her a target. He was a little unclear who Aretha Franklin was until I reminded him of "Think" in "The Blues Brothers," and then he was excited to watch her sing out from under that fabulous hat.

I kind of sat out this election. Matt's new union is politically active in a different way than his old one, and our county is so blue and loves to vote so much there's little point in doorknocking or organizing GOTV. The idealistic liberal in me liked Obama's campaign and marketing and so on; the human-rights union pinko commie in me had trouble looking past Obama's opposition to gay marriage talk of school vouchers and other "centrist" things. But the 12-year-old in me is a sucker for pomp and circumstance, and I got kind of swept up watching the inauguration and history being made.

I was OK until the piece arranged by John Williams. I thought it was marvelous. And as I was watching these gifted musicians play in the cold, beaming and obviously having the time of their lives, I got a little teary.

"Oh, are you OK, Mom?" John asked.

"Yup, just happy," I said, wiping my eyes.

John watched the musicians, and when he saw Yo Yo Ma smiling, he said, "Ohh, look how much fun he's having!" and to me that was the beginning of the next four years.

When Maia came home, she said she got to see some of the inauguration at school: "I saw Obama coming down da stairs and then I saw a helicopter going around and around the city!"

"That was George Bush leaving!" I told her. She laughed.

It's All About the Effort

2009-01-15T15:03:00.002-06:00

Scene: Locker room after practice
Starring: Maia and her teammate, Fee
Witness: Matt

Maia: I scored five goals!

Fee: I didn't score any.

Maia (turning to him): Well, did you try?

Other Kids Say Funny Things, Too

2009-01-08T17:20:00.004-06:00

I was working at the hockey arena's concession stand during a bantam tournament the other day. Bantam tourneys are really the place to pick up volunteer hours -- the players' friends aren't old enough to drive themselves, so the only people there are parents. It's very quiet, and the hockey is kind of fun to watch. (I don't recommend breaking the first-place trophy, though, like I did -- it can cause some awkwardness.)

A 10- or 11-year-old girl came up and ordered our specialty, taco in a bag. As it was being made, she said, "My brother has two penalties already. If he gets another one, he'll be benched."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "He better knock it off."

She nodded, bored and a little annoyed. "Yeah and my dad will yell ALL the way home. He always yells at him when he gets penalties."

"Well, that's no fun," I said. "What were the penalties?"

"One was a cross-check and the other one, he's the captain and one of his teammates got hit with a head spear and so when the play started again he hit the other guy with his head."

"Cross-checking, OK, I can see that," I said. "That's a good penalty. But you can't go in for the head spear. That's not safe for anybody."

"No, it's not," she agreed, twirling the tie on her hockey tuque's earflap.

"Do you play?"

She nodded. "Yup." A beat. "When I get penalties, Dad yells at the ref."

Work Pleasure

2009-01-03T11:06:00.005-06:00

If you're an introvert like me, you may have spent some of your formative years (um, like, ages 13 to 25) imagining that someone, a big-name movie director or photographer, would someday happen upon you while you were reading in a cafe or on the bus and say, "YES! YES! THAT is the face I have been looking for ALL MY LIFE! Come with me now, and I will show you new things." And you would fit into this person's artistic vision in such a new and amazing way it would be revolutionary.

I got a feel for what that must be like at the dentist the other day. I had been a little nervous to go to the dentist because it had been a couple years* since my last visit. I have never had a cavity and have generally had strong teeth, so I wasn't too worried about it, but with John's front teeth starting to cuddle with each other in an alarming fashion, and Maia showing a tendency for her permanent teeth to erupt behind her baby teeth, we figured a checkup might do us all some good.

I used to hate going to the dentist, but now I love it. Remember that awful gritty tooth polish and huge rotary toothbrush they used to do for the cleaning? This guy has a baking-soda and salt blaster that took two minutes and felt rather like having my mouth scanned by a Cylon. But in a good way. There was very little picking, because the blast takes care of most of it. The TV tuned to HGTV was a bit much, but at least it was muted. **

But the very best part was when the dentist, a so-wry-he's-dry businesslike man, took a look in my mouth for the first time. If you've never seen me, I will tell you that I have a big smile full of big teeth. I had seven years of orthodontia done, including tooth extraction and jaw widening with an appliance that looked something like this:

So this dentist looks in my mouth and just about jumps in. "Whoever did your teeth...wow...it's like..." He's so impressed he can't complete a sentence. "Who did this?" he manages, reverently.

I twitch my jaw to get him to move his hands. "I grew up in Omaha," I said. "I'm sure you don't know him. He died recently. Yes, I had a lot of work done."

"The work he did...." he trails off, and opens my mouth again. I feel like he's found a previously unknown da Vinci in there. "This is beautiful. This is...this is amazing. And I never give compliments." He snaps straight up, as if I have accused him of saying something nice. Then he melts again. "But this is really something else."

I was insufferable for the rest of the day -- despite the four cavities (my first) he then found my wonderful, perfect teeth.

* Like, five.

** Seriously, I love this guy; let me know if you're looking for a dentist and want his name.

Change

2008-12-31T18:52:00.003-06:00

Matt is home after a rough shift that started at 2 a.m. He's dozing off in front of the Wild game. Maia is soaking away in a hot bath; John is poring over the latest National Geographic. The dogs are sleeping. A year ago, I was beginning to have my doubts about where my employer was going and Matt was stuck in another slow construction winter. This year, as on the national level, it was all about change. We took some big risks this year, with my resignation and Matt's new job on the railroad (and by the way, he starts engineer training next week). Maia started kindergarten. John started his next-to-last year of grade school.

The crescent moon is hanging low in the cold sky tonight. Orion reaches and stretches out from behind the horizon. At midnight we'll go out and look at them and listen for ships on the lake and trains heading up the hill. We'll talk about what 2009 will bring, and I think a lot of it will be good. I hope your good things stay good, and that you get the changes you want.

Gifts

2008-12-25T11:00:00.002-06:00

In the front of this picture you see one of my old Breyer horses that I played with for many years. It's a Palomino colt I named Butterscotch. Maia is opening what I always deemed his mother, a "Proud Arabian Mare" with Appaloosa markings, whom I named Snowfire after a dianthus we had planted that year.

She was thrilled to get the horses, and I was thrilled to pass them on. I had played with them a lot and all they were doing was sitting in a box in the garage.

I took a lot of pictures of John, but they are all variations on this theme. Matt found a Dungeons & Dragons book that lists the hit points and strengths/weaknesses of all the gods and goddesses in all sorts of myths -- Celtic, Norse, Egyptian, Sumerian, and so on. In this picture, you can see that John is perched on the side of the couch, having started reading even before he sat down.

The photos are a little dim because I was playing around with natural light and not working with the flash. In the background of John's picture, you can see the tree we cut from our woods, and in the background of Maia's picture, you can see how we drape our hockey socks on the hearth with care on the night before Christmas.

After Maia opened the horses I asked her what she was going to name them. "I have a name for this one," she said, picking up the foal.

"What is it?" I asked, wanting to tell her what I had named it, and deciding that letting her name it would make it really hers.

"His name is Butterscotch," she said.

There's a Blessing on the Ground

2008-12-14T21:47:00.003-06:00

10:45 a.m., trying not to slide off Highway 61 into Lake Superior:

11:45 a.m. in town. See the railroad bridge by the grocery store? What's that? You don't? Huh.

Noonish, heading home. The road isn't visible not only because of blowing snow but because there's just so much snow on the road.

We got stuck in the driveway and had to make a run for it. John had the 12-pack of root beer, Maia has the Sunday NYT in a bag and I followed with provisions including coffee, wheat thins and frozen pizza.

Shoveling snow is a lot more fun at night than during the day. Eight to 10 inches and counting; snow day tomorrow!

Auto Loan

2008-12-12T09:49:00.007-06:00

With the concern from Mitch McConnell, Republican senator from Kentucky, about the huge-ass wages (that's a paraphrase from him) that UAW members get being his big holdup for voting for the U.S. auto industry loan, I have some thoughts for him. He thinks the UAW should bring its "labor costs" "in line" with "other manufacturers in this country" (those are his words) before any help is considered.

Here's what I think. U.S. senators are among the most highly remunerated legislators in the world -- clearly parity is needed! How about McConnell take a 65 percent pay cut to, you know, help the nation? That brings his salary to about $59,000. C'mon, Mitch! Do it for the land you claim to love!

Why isn't is seen as anti-American for a U.S. senator to demand lower wages by breaking a legal contract? Why isn't that seen as economic terrorism? What we've learned from the senate vote is that some Republicans hate unions so much they are willing to bring national financial collapse to break them. And that craven greed and hatred is disgusting to see.

Also, did you know McConnell is married to Labor Secretary Elaine Chao? Sometimes, you could just cry.

Twelve Years

2008-12-10T21:24:00.003-06:00

December 7, 2008, the kitchen table.

Matt (holding up a library book): I saw your proofreading mark in this.

Me: I -- wha?

Matt: I was reading this book and I found where you had marked it. A library book! Come on!

Me: Uh...how did you know it was me?

Matt: Oh. I know.

Fade. Happy anniversary.

Back Among the Living

2008-12-06T17:23:00.003-06:00

November was full of stuff, but now we're in December, and already I have to catch you up. But here's the latest. I'll provide the visual, and will let the subject tell it in her own words.

Two Minutes For Slashing

2008-11-16T22:22:00.002-06:00

Slow November

2008-11-12T23:56:00.002-06:00

November is going to be a little slow for posting, I'm afraid. Which is too bad, because I was getting good at posting again. I'm participating in NaNoWriMo, which is a little embarrassing, but I'm enjoying it.

The Big Day, Part III

2008-11-05T10:14:00.002-06:00

Maia: Mama! We had a election today!

Me: Wow, how exciting! Tell me about it!

Maia: Well, we had these little pallets, and we colored in the box for if we wanted John McCain or Bawack Obama. And MAMA!

Me: What, what?

Maia: John McCain had six votes. Bawack Obama had six....TEEN votes! SIXTEEN!

Me: I bet that was a lot of fun!

Maia: Yah! And guess what! My three boyfriends voted for Obama.

The Big Day, Part II

2008-11-04T15:08:00.003-06:00

I took a few pictures today, but this is my favorite. Sadly, this is not at my polling place.

The Big Day

2008-11-04T10:45:00.003-06:00

What happens when the phone wakes you up at 4:30 a.m., you have to be at work by 5:30, and you'll be on a train until at least 6 p.m., at which point you might possibly be more than 2 hours away from your polling place? You start feeling a little disenfranchised, and you'll kinda wish you had filled out an absentee ballot. And all I'm saying is that anyone who's on the line for the 0600 Minntac had better stand back from the track, because that train will be flying to get its conductor back home in time to vote.

I get to do a little minor journalism today, visiting a couple poll places and writing a couple blurbs. It's a beautiful day in the state that always posts the highest turnout; many people are predicting turnout of more than 90 percent. I love Election Day, and this year I love it a little more than usual.

Halloween

2008-10-31T21:08:00.002-05:00

The viking (here with Viking Rage tempered) and the princess.

And Then...

2008-10-28T21:46:00.005-05:00

We have a day, maybe the last almost-warm sunny one until April. Matt wants to buy a new coat for work. It turns into an exercise in depression, as we find that Carhartts has ceased all of its U.S. manufacturing. Storekeepers shrug and say "What can you do?" We have lunch at T-Bonz and commiserate over Bell's, solving the world's problems and making up storylines for everyone else in the bar, like we used to years ago.

A walk on the lake was on the original agenda. "I want to feel the sand," Matt says, and we amble along Park Point. The lake is almost still and empty of ships. It's cool but not chilly. We hear a train heading up the hill.

At home, we find that the dogs have decided to be a little destructive and have torn up a lot of paper, including Norwegian design catalogs and the Bible I bought for my freshman religion class in college. Later, one of the dog pees on the floor just for the hell of it. Maia is in a mood and a half, providing us a glimpse of what fifteen will be like. John gets ready for his second day of tryouts and brings the wrong helmet. We find out that some of the mines have announced that they will slow down their production: less taconite, fewer trains.

Sometimes, you have a day.

Resolved: Proper Grammar and Punctuation Throughout the Campaign

2008-10-27T09:33:00.003-05:00

My good friend Ethelred, who comments here occasionally, was tired of politicians dropping names and professions to endear themselves to voters. All those hardworking teachers, factory workers, and yes, plumbers were getting all the attention. It's time that an unrecognized yet powerful voting bloc get the props it deserves. Next time around, I think she should print up a bunch of them and sell them, because I would totally buy one.

Oh, Come On

2008-10-23T20:48:00.004-05:00

Scene: In the car
Players: Maia and I
Background: We are on the way to John's hockey practice; Maia likes to hang out with the younger siblings. She is talking about the night before, when we were at her hockey practice and she was spending time talking with N, a boy in her kindergarten and on her team.

Maia: Mama, I was a little bit embawassed yesterday when it was time to go.

Me: Why?

Maia: Bikaz I was mad that you said it was time to go home and go to bed. In front of N. Dat's why I got so mad.

Me thinking, Seriously?: Oh. Well, um, what would have been a better thing to say?

Maia: I wish you haddent said it was time to go to bed. Dat embawassed me.

Me: Well, we need to think of something to say for next time. Because when it's time to go, it's time to go.

Maia: Yeah.

Silence, as we think.

Me: How 'bout next time I say, "Maia, come here, please; I need to tell you something." And then you come over and I tell you it's time to go, and you can run over and say good-bye to N.

Maia: Yeah.

Silence again, as I think, "Did we really just have a conversation about how I can keep from embarrassing her in front of her friends?

This Is So Beautiful

2008-10-22T10:34:00.000-05:00

Season Opener In Pictures

2008-10-21T20:29:00.006-05:00

"I swear, if that chippy little forward gets in my face one more time, he is so going down."

"I'm not saying I don't want to look good, but I don't want the girls to notice me." *

* Actual quote, after I told him he looked like a heartthrob. What he actually said is under some dispute, so this is the compromise we came up with.

Season Opener

2008-10-21T12:56:00.005-05:00

John is moving up to squirt-level hockey. Squirts are between 9 and almost 12. We had a team meeting last night and realized that Things are Changing.

"OK," said one of the coaches. "So, we're looking over the schedule and we've got like 10 games, plus three jamborees."

Matt and I were standing across the room from each other. At this, our eyes met. Ten games? Plus? And did somebody just say "Grand Rapids"?

But this wasn't the biggest change. This year, the squirt team will be divided up into an A team and a B team. And this has some parents annoyed.

There was a lot of blah-blah from parents who wanted to know what they should tell their kids if their kids end up on the B team. "How am I supposed to explain to him why this happened?" demanded one mom, who also seemed to have some concerns about how the kids might be told. "I mean, is it going to be posted on a piece of paper?"

By this time Matt had come over to my side of the room. "Hockey was funny up till now, wasn't it?" he whispered. "It's not funny anymore now, is it?"

John loves playing. I like being a part of it. But living in a small town, we are dealing with parents who are acting out resentments that they've held against other parents for 25 years, since they knew each other in school. Parents may have had a bad breakup with the coach, years ago. Your stepson makes the A team while your son, who's living with your wife, who married the tryout judge last year, makes the B team.

Whatever. We drove home, John bubbling over with fear and excitement and apprehension and eagerness of tryouts. But talking about it all, tryouts aren't even the biggest change John is facing.

At the squirt level, parents aren't allowed in the locker room.

This means the kids either have to get dressed at home, or suit up by themselves. And for John, this means tying his own skates.

What are tryouts next to that?

Dog Day Afternoon

2008-10-09T13:20:00.005-05:00

"I LOVE being a dog!"

"Yeah, but I'm pretty."

"Yeah, but did I mention I LOVE being a dog?"

Open Letter

2008-10-07T10:57:00.001-05:00

Dear Workout Place:

If your employee chippers "Stop yawning, Krupskaya!" at me one more time while I'm working out, I won't be responsible for my actions. And no jury would convict me.

Your friend,

Krupskaya

My Son The Heretic

2008-10-06T09:26:00.002-05:00

John is on a big Viking kick. He wants to be one for Halloween, and will use the costume on the day the fourth-graders go sing ethnic folk songs in costume at the nursing home. He's been checking out books at the library and poring over our Viking tomes. We were driving around the other day when John launched into this bit of Weltanschauung:

"I don't know quite how to describe it. It's hard to explain. But I'm reading this book, Viking News, and I just get so angry when I read about how...well, just how the Christians just came in and took away all our beliefs. They just wiped 'em out. I mean, they wouldn't even let us bury people the way we used to bury them!"

"Oh?" I said, thinking, our? Us? We? "How is that?"

"Well, I mean by burying people with your belongings. They just, you know, put 'em in a box and maybe get a piece of granite for a headstone. If that. And the Viking kings don't even get a special stone. Everyone is all the same."

At this point, I guessed he was quoting the book. I was going to point out that that was one of the whole points of early Christianity, and take it from there, but Maia piped up and said that when she dies, she wants to be buried with Kaki, her favorite doll.

"I dunno," John said thoughtfully, looking out the window. "I read this stuff, and I think about it, and I just get filled with this Viking rage."

A Glimpse At Our Parenting

2008-10-01T17:31:00.002-05:00

Fade in

Matt: How old do you suppose John has to be to see "Slapshot"?

Me considers, then: Fifteen.

Matt: That's what I was thinking, too.

Me: And not in this house.

Matt: Yeah.

Me: He'll be over at Hockey Friend's house, and Hockey Friend, who has been watching it since, you know, now, will pull it out and say, "John, you ever see this movie?"

Matt: That's exactly what will happen.

Me: And I want to be far, far away when it does.

Fade out

Hockey Mama

2008-09-28T22:29:00.004-05:00

First game of the season? Already? Matt's working, so I'm wrangling this one on my own. The last thing I feel like doing is getting all that equipment together. I run through it in my head: socks, skates, elbow pads, knee pads, breezers, jersey, gloves, helmet, stick. Is that it?

"John, where's your helmet?"

A blank look. I tell him his hockey bag is in the garage. Which garage? Where in the little garage? He goes out, comes back without his helmet. I am more explicit in the directions. He retrieves the helmet.

The skates, of course, have not been sharpened. "Why didn't we get these sharpened when we were in town last week?" John shrugs.

The game is out of town. It's out of state. I google the arena and jot down a little map; Superior is another place where my sense of direction is completely useless. More than once I've found myself on one bridge having been sure I was crossing the other one.

We fuel up on a huge salad and then mac'n'cheese. I run the dogs through the woods and tell them that after the latest performance (chewing up my CD of Minnesota Orchestra playing Beethoven's Third (Eroica) and Fourth Symphonies), they had better keep away from the LPs.

I pile kids, equipment, yogurt raisins and water bottles into the car. Maia requests "the robin song," and she means "Maybe Sparrow" by Neko Case. We're shuffling the iPod, so she's out of luck, which she accepts.

Who schedules a game on a Sunday night? What kind of mom am I, going along with it? We won't be back home until 9:30. Is this what happens when hockey rules your family?

We get to Superior. John runs into the arena as I get the bag. He runs back out. "Oh, MOM," he says, "you are TOTALLY playing a tough team. They're out on the ice right now and they are good."

"Hold the door for me," I say. "That's the men's team. We'll play the women."

In the locker room, I put on John's helmet, now mine because he got a new one this season. I strap on the skates and pull on the gloves. I greet women I haven't seen in months. We hit the ice, which is warm and sloppy and Olympic-sized. My ankles hurt. I'll need to buy shoulder pads this year. It feels good to play again.

Coming Soon To A Gallery Near You

2008-09-27T19:35:00.002-05:00

I can't believe I forgot my favorite canoe picture! I know everyone can take a photo that can be a postcard when they canoe; here's mine.

Seriously, This Just Makes My Brain Hurt

2008-09-25T13:42:00.004-05:00

From Katie Couric's interview with Sarah Palin:

COURIC: You've cited Alaska's proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?

PALIN: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and on our other side, the land -- boundary that we have with -- Canada. It -- it's funny that a comment like that was -- kind of made to -- cari -- I don't know, you know? Reporters --

COURIC: Mock?

PALIN: Yeah, mocked, I guess that's the word, yeah.

COURIC: Explain to me why that enhances your foreign policy credentials.

PALIN: Well, it certainly does because our -- our next door neighbors are foreign countries. They're in the state that I am the executive of. And there in Russia --

COURIC: Have you ever been involved with any negotiations, for example, with the Russians?

PALIN: We have trade missions back and forth. We -- we do -- it's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where -- where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is -- from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to -- to our state.

Allrighty then!

ETA: Here's the video, if you can stand it.

Again, editing to add this, because I love it so and it makes me laugh every time I look at it:

Sunday Canoeing

2008-09-23T20:23:00.012-05:00

Jugs of water? Check. Yard-O-Beef? Non-check, but a roll of summer sausage will have to do. Wipes for injuries, pocketful of Kleenex for noses and butts, digital camera? Check to all; it must be a canoe trip.

We spent hours at the head of the St. Louis River a few days ago on a warm-cool cloudy-bright day. Matt found a good place to put in and we didn't hit a single submerged rock, which is really saying something, seeing as how the last time we went canoeing we chose something called the Stony River to navigate, with obvious results.

Here is where we put in. The reedy looking things in the river are all wild rice stems. We had quite a bit of rice in the bottom of the canoe by the time we were done. The whole river curved like it does on the left side of the photo.

Our guides were taciturn northern types.

I am really disappointed that I didn't get a photo of the FOUR otters that were wrestling in the water. The camera was in one of those delayed-reaction phases, so all I got was one swimming off into the rice.

By this time we were on the water for a little more than an hour but it was almost lunchtime, and everyone was ready to eat. We pulled up to a couple of large rocks but weren't able to unload on them. There aren't a lot of places to stop on a wide river that's essentially one giant rice paddy. We were considering just eating in the canoe, when we came around a bend and found a very old but clearly beloved and well-made dock. We pulled up and had a nice lunch, complete with product placement.

We took only a small trip -- about seven miles -- because it was a Sunday and we had left the dogs at home, unattended, and weren't sure what we might find when we got home (they did very well). Both kids tried paddling. It was a good day.

At A Loss

2008-09-21T20:59:00.002-05:00

As I was trying to sort out a post about what leaving the newspaper voluntarily meant to me -- how it was a painful and long-debated decision that I don't like to dwell on much because it feels too much like failure -- the paper went and laid off seven people in the newsroom last week. If I hadn't left, I'm guessing I would have been among them.

Every time I sit down to write about it, I go in a different direction. I want to write about my path through journalism and what's important to me. I want to craft complicated extended metaphors to illustrate my feelings about my career. I want to list alphabetically the annoyances suffered under various bosses. I want to just talk about my triumphs and good days and the fun and pride I had in any work that had to do with words. I want to rage against an industry that is hell-bent on deprecating itself right out of business. I want to thank everyone who has taught me something about writing or editing or layout or reporting. I want to hold forth on newspapers being at the vanguard of democracy, and crumbling under the demand for profits, and then bring the two together in a devastating analysis of what's wrong with America. And I can't get any of it right so I don't even try it.

I have friends who were laid off and friends who are left there. They're all in my thoughts this week.

Creeping Insecurity

2008-09-21T17:03:00.001-05:00

Is my putting a new photo up there every once in awhile a total rip off PDD? Lots of blogs put stuff up there. Maybe it's the typeface.

Additions to the Edit Barn

2008-09-15T20:40:00.002-05:00

Husker, a surrendered German shepherd-hound mix, and Ranger, a stray collie mix. They are settling in very well after about seven minutes of sorting-out dominance. It's nice to have dogs again.

I'm So Shurr.

2008-09-13T21:04:00.003-05:00

The scene: John and I are getting stuff together for him to spend the night at a friend's house.

Me: Do you have your toothbrush? Grab your toothbrush.

John: No, I don't.

Me: Well, get it. I'll grab a Ziploc for you.

John: But Mom --

Me: And grab one of those travel tubes of toothpaste. Perfect.

John: Mom --

Me: What?

John: I bet I'm the only kid who brings a toothbrush to a sleepover. Maw-UHM.

Back to the Grind

2008-09-10T21:29:00.002-05:00

I thought that when the kids found out I was leaving my 9-to-5 office job (or 8:30 to 5...or 8:30 to 5:30...sometimes 6...and sometimes the night shift...and sometimes on the weekend...) they'd be a little disappointed. They loved to visit (at least, until Matt got the COOL job) and my co-workers were always invariably kind to them. And yes, the kids were a little disappointed. Change is weird and sometimes scary when you're that age, even if the promise of Mom being less crabby is pretty tempting. But on my first days home before they went to school, things went very well and by the time they were tired of me, the school year started.

I've swung into a groove, and put together a good chunk of work each day. I'm feeling productive and doing what I wanted to be doing. Much of this I attribute to the sign Maia made for me on the first day I was home, when I was trying to wrap up an editing job and saying, "Hang on, guys, give me half an hour and I'll be done."

Labor Day Weekend In Pictures

2008-08-31T22:03:00.012-05:00

We started our day at a fundraiser for Petrell Hall, a Finnish meeting house that has held weddings, funerals, rallies, dances, dinners, plays, and political debates for almost a century.

In fine Petrell Hall tradition, a Finnish journalist gave a lecture on Gus Hall. I liked the stage backdrop. During the Q&A session Matt told an agitated self-described Communist to sit down and let the man speak, and then later an older woman tried to get the journalist to admit that the U.S. was an oligarchy.

The Swedish-Norwegian-Irish Menshevik listens to the Finnish Socialist Democrat and ponders history.

That evening, a senate candidate came to the biker bar outside of town for a campaign stop. I got a picture of him with the kids.

Matt wanted to talk to Franken about the possible steelworkers strike, only hours away, but the bikers in line kept cutting in front of him to ask Franken about where he stood on helmet laws.

On Labor Day, Matt slept off a 12-hour shift that ended at 9 a.m. while I took the kids to the Duluth labor picnic. The biggest draw of this event is the inflatable obstacle course.

Several years go, we were at a small DFL function and I was wrangling the kids while Matt participated in the meeting. It's hard to tell who had the more annoying job. In any case, I kept telling Maia that she had to sit still and be quiet until Jim Oberstar came, and then we could go. We just wanted to see Jim Oberstar, and then that would be it, the meeting would be over. She was about 3 and I guess all my talk about Oberstar must have really built him up, because when the door opened and he came in and I whispered, "OK, Jim Oberstar is here, we can leave pretty soon," she leaped off my lap and gasped and said in her little amazed toddler voice, "JIM OBERSTAR!" She ran to him like he was her grandpa, and he was awesome. "Oh! Oh! Oh my!" he said, just as amazed as she was. "Well, hello there! Hello! I'm so glad to see you!" He picked her up -- and, I mean, I know he's a tough old Ranger, but she was sturdy even at 3 -- and she laid her head on his shoulder like she was ready for a nap. In the meantime, John walked right up to him and held out his hand to shake the congressman's. And did I have a camera? No, I did not. But I did yesterday!

And after Labor Day, of course, is the first day of school. The first day of kindergarten and the first day of fourth grade. The house is awfully quiet today.

Recipe For A New Day

2008-08-28T15:53:00.002-05:00

Ingredients:

1 large lavash
1 bunch of asparagus
1 chunk of brie
1/2 red onion
1 lemon
olive oil (truffle-infused if you've got it)

Drizzle the asparagus with oil and roast it under the broiler. Rub the lavash with a little oil. Cut up the brie and put the pieces all over the lavash. Chop the asparagus into 1/2 inch pieces and spread over lavash. Mince the onion and add to lavash. Zest the lemon over the whole thing and put it in a warm oven until the brie is all relaxed and gooey. Nom at will with a glass or two of wine.

What I Did Today

2008-08-27T06:15:00.003-05:00

Only, you know, without the gas through the keyhole, or the Lotus Seven.

If The Kids Want To Buy a T-Shirt, What The Hell

2008-08-19T21:03:00.002-05:00

Another vacation in links:

Great Wolf Lodge. It was crazy fun, including the Howling Tornado, which claims to be six stories tall. This so obviously untrue; when I went down it, it was clearly at least 10 to 12 stories high. I got off and my knees were shaking. And I like water slides.
The Del-Bar. Eat here. No, I mean it. The pan-fried mushrooms were so good Matt and I giggled every time we took a bite of them. The gin-and-tonics were the distilled essence of summer. And Matt's parents watched the kids, so we didn't even have to sneak off for dinner. I love you, Del-Bar!
My alma mater. We came back via Northfield to foist ourselves on Little Brother for a bit. We sat up late and drank Moosehead and talked while the kids tried to sleep.
Then we came back home and Matt bought a new commuter car. Awesome!

Incommunicada

2008-08-16T07:24:00.002-05:00

Posting will be spotty between now and September. August funk, a couple vacations, and prepping for school.

In brief, though:

1. Jolene Koski did not enter jelly this year either. I totally could have one, but I wouldn't have beaten her.
2. First prize for cake, raspberries, and apples.
3. Pie was disqualified for being the wrong size: they want a 4" pie. Four inches? With a lattice? The fair defeats me every year.

The Eve of the Fair

2008-08-13T21:16:00.003-05:00

On nights like this, it feels like we live on the ocean. The wind leans in from the east and the lake's breath creeps in the open windows and around the door. It doesn't feel like it's time for the county fair. It feels like it's time for Halloween.

I haven't planned this year very well. I did try: I made biscuits last night that were so tall and rose so well they fell victim to their own height: each one looked like a tiny biscuit representation of the tower of Pisa. They were beautiful and flawed and I couldn't enter one of them, let alone four identical ones.

Today I rushed home from work and baked a pie and a cake and found four similar apples on the tree. I gave up on the biscuits. Maia colored her picture and I got one of John's K'Nex models to enter.

We drive through the drizzle and I can hardly see because the lighting at the fairgrounds is so tricky. Most of the lights on the grounds are off, but there is a giant limb from a carnival ride stretched out on the ground, half the bulbs blazing. We pull up to the open class building where Jolene Koski was holding forth, her squat Finnish face looking crabby even when she's having the time of her life, which she clearly is the eve of the fair.

When we get out of the car, Maia and I hear a cow bawling in the dark, not from the barns. "Dat's the loudest cow I ever heard," Maia pronounces.

The women who help with the sign in are the same as every year: They have classical penmanship, they are very slow at what they are doing and they never stop talking. I can't get annoyed with them because they are so clearly my people that I'm delighted to be around them. It feels like a family reunion, and I know I'll be one of them when I'm old.

"What's your address?" the one filling out my slip asks me.

I give it to her, and she leans to her neighbor.

"What's your address?"

"Yes, I am," she answers.

"What?"

"I said I am."

"You're what?"

"What did you ask me?"

"What did you think I asked you?"

"Well, now I don't think I heard you right."

"What do you think I said?"

"Didn't you ask me if I was cold?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, what did you ask me?"

"Your address."

"My what?"

"Oh, your address."

"My address."

"Yes."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Well, your address."

"My address."

"Where you live."

"Where I live."

"Yes."

"You want my address?"

"Yes."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

They are trying not to giggle, and I feel the need to step in. "Your fire number," I say helpfully.

"Oh, my fire number," she says, and gives it, and establishes that we live several miles from each other, although she used to live very close to where I do now, and I give her the name of the people who used to live in this house, which places it for everyone, and I am sure we had this conversation last year at this table, with these same people.

There is a hitch when I enter the pie. In the rules it says a 4" pie with a lattice crust. I have brought in 1/4 of a 9" pie. An appeal is made to Jolene Koski, who has to at least be relieved I didn't bring any jelly in this year. She gives me a long look and then says, "Last year, someone brought in a whole pie, and I let them enter it."

The ladies wait for judgment.

"I guess that's all I'm sayin'," she says putting her hands up in a "stay away" pose and turning her head aside, and she looks like my mom and my aunt and my grandma, even though we aren't Finnish. It's a little scary. I hope she doesn't remember it was me who entered that whole pie last year.

Forms filled out, entries tagged, we're ready to go. This is where I always think, I could have done so much more. I didn't get jelly done this year. I was defeated by biscuits. I taught myself to knit this past year just so I could enter a potholder and I didn't even do it. Next year, next year.

We walk back out to the car. Six or eight farm people are standing in the dark driveway, watching the woods. The ladies told us that the cow had never been penned before, had only ever been pastured, and panicked when she was brought in the barn and made a break for it. The farmers step aside for my car, then stand together again, peering at the misty woods, listening to the cow bawl, waiting for her to come back.

A Kick Out Of The Nest

2008-08-03T16:51:00.009-05:00

I love traveling but I hate airports. Who likes airports? No one, that's who. What's even more difficult is trying to instill my travel philosophies in my nine-year-old as I prepare to put him on a plane. By himself.

"I'm going to buy you this magazine, but DON'T LOOK AT IT UNTIL YOU GET ON THE PLANE!" I said. I almost bought him The Economist, because that's what I always buy when take a plane trip. And then I don't look at it until I get on the plane. I got him at Kids' National Geographic, but he still couldn't look at it until he got on the plane. Otherwise, why buy it? You can't read it all up just sitting at the gate. That totally defeats the purpose of buying something fun like that.

Meh. The only thing more boring and soul-crushing than an airport is writing about an airport, so I'll go through this day in alternative storytelling form.

I. LONG TIME GONE: Stream-of-consciousness
I know it's been a few years but I can't remember which terminal to go to. Humphrey? Lindbergh? Humphrey: Progressive senator, vice president, civil rights, big forehead. Lindbergh: American First, first flight across the Atlantic, author wife. I need to stop saying "crap" out loud in front of the kids. It must be Humphrey. It better be Humphrey, it's too late to go back. I don't remember this road at all, but I know there's been a lot of construction, so this must be the right way. Wow, this parking garage is almost totally empty. This is great. There's almost nobody here. Where are the rest of the check in gates? Why isn't Northwest even an option here? Oh....shit.

II. CELEBRITY SIGHTING: Haiku
Brad Radke is right
there. Our eyes meet; he knows I
know. Damn, is he tall.

III. LUNCH: Photos with captions
"I love eating at French Meadow Bakery! Where else could I get a grilled cheese, roasted pepper and Dijon mustard sandwich on man bread? Let's eat here all the time."

"HOW much did that sandwich cost?"

IV. MOMENT OF TRUTH: Photos
The traveler:

Left behind:

V. INTERLUDE: Smellovision
We had to stay until the plane left the ground, which was a real drag for Maia, especially because John was one of the first to board. We hung around the gate for another half hour. As we were waiting, a well-dressed woman of a certain age who had been sitting across from us sipping a Caribou Coffee drink rose, walked a few feet away into the corner, and let fly with a lavish and terribly audible fart. I don't like noting such things on this blog, but her effort rose beyond a mere annoyance. We're all in this hateful place together -- was she paid by the Metropolitan Airport Commission to make everyone's experience that much worse? If so, she succeeded. If she was doing it out of pure meanness...well, I hope she had to sit next to the crying baby.

VI. EPILOGUE: Cliff Notes Version
John took his first solo plane ride today.

Signs of Fall

2008-07-31T16:46:00.002-05:00

The football team held its first captain's practice yesterday; it had to have been at least 80 and humid. The boys came off the field sweating and panting after a month or two off.

That may be a sign of fall, but the real first sign of fall came back around the 4th of July. It was a sign on the arena:

INTERESTED IN COACHING HOCKEY
INQUIRE WITHIN

Continuing With Things I Don't Have Time For

2008-07-24T21:37:00.002-05:00

I'm now on Facebook. If you want to be friends with me (n.b., NOT "friend" me), you know where to find me.