Easter festivities

These are from last week, but today made me remember I hadn't posted these yet. I love how my daughter and my sister speak each other's language.

And I love how my nephew rejoices in getting his hands dirty.

And Grandma eggs them all on. (Oh for punny).

More on this weekend's excitement to come. Hope spring is treating all of you well.

Bring on Spring Dance

We're doing our part to inspire Mother Nature to bring us warmer weather. How 'bout you?

Mystery

On a walk in Columbia Heights today, we stumbled across some carnage.

So very much carnage. What happened here? Did a clown get run over? Did someone have a very unhappy surprise party? Or have an urgent need to speak like a chipmunk? Or have balloon angst beyond, you know, the usual balloon angst?Who would do such a thing, and leave such a heap of evidence in broad daylight? I looked and looked, but found no answers. But it explains these survivors we saw bouncing down the street.

I hope they made it to some sort of balloon safehouse. And I hope the perpetrator gets the help they so obviously need. Before another clown gets it.

March 13

80 years ago today, my grandmother gave birth to her second son, who grew up to join the Navy, be a carpenter, a volunteer firefighter, the guy who changed the lightbulb on top of the watertower, a farmer, and my father.

He was the kind of man who kept two pairs of wooden crutches hanging on a nail in our garage, just in case. When my sister hit me in the face with a snowball the winter I was in 1st grade, breaking my glasses, he used wire and electrical tape to affix my broken frame to an old frame of his, circa 1958. I wore those glasses for two months.

In the mid-1970s, when our local hardware store was going out of business, he and his brother bought up the remaining stock, displays and all. I just assumed everyone had racks of knobs and hinges in their basements.

He and my mother owned the local laundromat when they were first married, and lived in a trailer house on mainstreet, right next door. When my sister was born (or about to be) he bought the house next to his mother and informed his wife they'd be moving. When the laundromat went under, he stored at least four of the washers to use for parts or replacements in the house they moved to. They still required quarters to run, but he broke the locks on the coin drawers, so we used the same quarters over and over. He gave another washer to a family friend, who lived a few blocks away, in exchange for haircuts for his family. I didn't go to a professional salon until I was 12.

He loved to play games, and had a tendency toward obsession. When our family found a game we really like, we'd play every night, sometimes for months. He often made his own game elements, and created a customized Aggravation board, and wooden Rack-o racks (because he said the cards stuck in the plastic ones). He was excellent at cribbage, and had elaborate rules for jigsaw puzzles (which are a post unto themselves).

He loved my mother, and my sister and me, and his parents, and all of his siblings, and his entire extended family, and pretty much most people he ever met.

He died in 2002.

I miss him still.

Travels with V

Last weekend, V and I drove to Marshall, Minnesota, for the funeral of a dear man. It was V's second funeral, but her first one was before she was two, so she doesn't remember it.
I was worried that she would be so excited to see her friends Linus and Friday that she'd just sing through the whole service, but she didn't. She hugged Tenessa and said "I'm sorry" in the sweetest possible way.

And then she demanded toys. And candy. Not necessarily in that order.

But overall, V was a fantastic traveller. We borrowed a video player for the nearly 4-hour drive, and we turned it on around the South Dakota border, but she only lasted ten minutes. "I want to talk to you instead, Mama." How can a mama resist? These last three pictures are from the McDonald's in Watertown, South Dakota. (V absolutely loves that wherever we go, there's a McDonald's. I try to explain that this means the restaurants aren't especially special, but so far she won't hear of it). She tries hard to not smile in pictures, lately, but always ends up making herself laugh.

Which is just fine by me.

Why Squirrels Are Not Our Friends

Truly devoted readers will recognize the following rant from the second issue of Languishing (the old school version, in paper form) EVER PRINTED, ca. 1995. The photos are new, from a recent weekend at the in-laws.

Many of you, dear readers, spend time on college campuses, where for some reason squirrels tend to be more plentiful than in other places. This article is vital for you: for you and your loved ones' safety, read on.

Squirrels are wild animals. They pretend they're not, but they are. People even build them little chairs which they nail to trees and set corn cobs on. As if giving them their own furniture will keep them from chewing out the baby's eyes if you give them a chance.

Squirrels have eyes on the sides of their heads, and they will sit and watch college students on both sides of them all day long. They are actually really really bitter that students are always walking on their lawn and sidewalks. It's only a matter of time before they snap and invade our dorms and classrooms. I will not be responsible for the ensuing carnage. You have all been warned.Squirrels have big sharp teeth and jaws built to gnaw. Just think of how many squirrels have come dangerously close to your ankles. Need I say more? Well, I will.

Squirrels are rodents. Rodents will eat their young. And that is just not right.

Now, I'm not saying we should annihilate squirrels. I'm just saying we need to be more careful. Don't feed squirrels. They just want to gain your trust: it's just a matter of time before they move from their chair on the tree to your LaZBoy. Protect yourself. Wear thick socks all the time. Walk fast, or better, run or skip.

And never, ever, fall asleep outside. It's just not safe, I tell you.

Ach.

I haven't spent much time thinking through this post, so bear with me.

Tenessa, my dear friend, called yesterday to tell me her father died. It was unexpected, and he was only 57, and they are understandably heartbroken. He was a kind, loving father and grandfather, and the world is truly a darker place without him.

And it sucks, knowing someone you care for is hurting on that profound level. It's hard going about my day, making grilled cheese sandwiches, thinking of Tenessa and her brother picking out funeral songs. It's hard listening to my student explain that he's just too busy to come to class when someone I love is writing an obituary.

I really think we should talk more, as a society, about how hard it is to lose a parent. Grandparents are hard, too, but they are people you expect to lose, really, before you yourself are old. But parents, gak. There's just such an ache left behind, a feeling of something missing, and it doesn't seem to ever go away. When my dad died, I kept thinking "Why didn't anyone tell me how hard this would be?" Maybe people had, but it's one of those things you don't really understand until you experience it.

When my Grandma Beulah, my mother's mother, died, I was 16, and I remember being genuinely sad, but also relieved. She had been ill, near the end, and her suffering was over. I pointed this out to my mom soon after the funeral. I can still hear her response. "I know, Jenny, but golly, I miss her."

I'm so sorry, Tenessa and Tommy and everyone else who is hurting today. I'm sorry, and it's awful, and I'm glad I got to know your dad, just a little bit.

Rusty winter things

I've never taken a photography class. In fact, the only art class I've taken of any sort was bookbinding, and though I absolutely loved it, I knew even then that I was way out of my league. I can't begin to talk about texture, balance, sight lines....not in any real way. But I'm trying to learn. I look at flickr, and The Pioneer Woman, a blogging icon, has some great stuff on self-taught photography on her photography page.

And I take pictures. Lots and lots. Weekends at the lake, I sometimes take 400 photos, and of those, maybe 20 are worth keeping. If I'm lucky.

Family is an obvious topic, and I have lots of pictures of V and her grandparents and her aunts, uncles, and cousins. But sometimes I want to wander outside and see what I can see.

My untrained eye is never sure where to start, but I like to look for things that aren't normally something I focus on (like vacant churches), and in the winter, I try to find texture among all the snow. I've tried photographing individual snowflakes, which is an admirable goal, I think, but ridiculously hard to execute. So when I was at the in-laws last weekend, I gravitated toward the old clothesline posts.

I know these photos are far from perfect: there's often distracting stuff in the background, and some of the angles are so wonky it's distracting.

But I like the rust, and all the textures and colors. I love the frayed rope, and the aging knots, and the light of the early afternoon.

More than anything, that's why I like taking pictures. Because I like them. I may not win any awards, or illustrate any semblance of expertise, but I still like what I've captured here.

Car culture

We've been a one-car family since the Buick Century blew a head gasket in '07 and would cost $1100 to fix. We just couldn't stomach that kind of repair on a car that wasn't completely necessary. V was still wee then, and Shaun was a stay-at-home dad with part time work, and my teaching schedule helped us just trade off the Mazda. It meant that when Shaun worked weekends, V and I were either stuck here or had to break out the stroller, and when I was teaching, Shaun and V had to wait for me to bring milk home after class or walk the 8 blocks to Hornbacher's.

But then V started pre-school (a year and a half ago, now) and my classes started coming around 1pm instead of 3, which made things considerably more complicated. Plus V wanted to play with folks on the weekends, and when Shaun was working, V's friends either had to come here or we were out of luck. And when we did travel anywhere, to the cities or the in-laws, for example, I was a little bit nervous in the Mazda: I bought that car new in 2001, and I still love it, but with 174,000 miles on it, it just seemed like too much of a gamble sometimes, being 200 miles from home with a child in the backseat of that car. So I consulted with my car-loving cousin, Jonathan, and we talked about what we wanted in a car (a bit more room, but not mini-van level; reliability; low miles), what I wanted (something unusual, with good mileage), and what Shaun wanted (an automatic!). I found this 2008 Scion xB at a dealership 34 blocks from our house, and after test driving Beth and Chris (Shaun's sister and her husband)'s Scion, I was pretty well sold. The Scion xB is listed as a wagon, but it's kind of like a shrunken mini-van: the seats are upright, and the backseat is way roomier than our Mazda Protege, which is hugely important when your 4 year old is taller than average and has a kicking habit.

It's the kind of car that people either think is repulsive or awesome; I'm in the awesome camp, though many of my closest family members disagree. I'm just happy that I can go grocery shopping now anytime I'm not at work, regardless of where Shaun needs to be. And this gold color is soooo easy to spot in a parking lot. I just really like it.

At the same time, I feel totally indulgent and also grateful that my job allows this new expense. I promise to take good care of it, and if any one of you needs a ride, you should let me know.

Now, with this fancy car, I found myself drawn to the car accessories aisle at Target. There I found lots of extra cup holders (which we don't need), CD cases (which I bought), and a fabric trash holder for $17.99 (which I find ridiculous). So I came home and made one instead.

I like the idea of a fabric trash bag because I would do anything to keep this car reasonably clean, and I have that serious fabric obsession we've discussed. Plus, unlike the Target version, I could chose colors and materials myself, and get the exact size I wanted. I chose a mid-weight upolstry fabric for the outside, and some rip-stop nylon for the inside, all of which I had in my sewing room. This made a tough, lovely bag that was also totally washable. What's not to like about that? I gave it a pocket (because who doesn't love pockets?) and I sewed on an elastic loop to connect it to the back of the passenger's headrest: I can easily reach it while driving (and V can keep her area tidy, too).

Here you can see the rip-stop lining. Rip-stop is fairly thin but totally durable, and even if I toss my scissor collection in there, it won't ruin the bag.

What I liked about the Target version was that it had a rigid circle on top, so it's easy to throw small or large things in. But how to replicate that at home? At first I thought I'd wrangle a wire hanger, or even bend some thin plywood. But down in my craftroom, I found an oval embroidery hoop that was the perfect size. I just unscrewed it and slid it through the casing, then screwed it shut again. And then, though the lining is waterproof, I thought "Why not use the other half of the hoop, and make cleanup even easier?" and attached a plastic grocery sack. It's not as aestetically pleasing, I think, and I try really hard to use reusable grocery bags, so we may run out of these as liners, but for now, I'm awfully proud of myself.

And since I saved $17.99 on this project, I think I'm going to try to find a nice hula dancer for the dashboard. Or something. Maybe if I took some of that leftover easter grass, and V's unplayed-with barbie doll....

Quilty McQuilterson

I am prouder of this quilt than perhaps any other one I've ever made. It is the first one I ever designed myself, and I made it in 2001, at the first quilt retreat after 9-11, and slept under it on Saturday night (this is a big accomplishment, non-quilting people). It's based on the bullseye quilt, with layers of fabric sewn on top of each other, with seams left ragged. Like the bullseye, it looks way more complicated than it is. The fabrics are 100% cotton, with a cotton batting, making this a medium to light-weight quilt.

Within a year of making this quilt, Shaun and I got engaged, bought a house, Shaun got fired, we got married, adopted a dog (who rudely chewed three holes in this quilt, which I promptly patched) and my dad died. It was a wild year.

And now this quilt is almost nine years old. Nine years! I've slept under it every night I've been home since that first night at quilt retreat. The blue and yellow are for Sweden, where my grandfather proudly hailed from. I'm more of a red-orange kind of girl, but I wanted something soothing for my bed, and this quilt brought me many sweet dreams.

It's far from perfect: some of the squares are glaring at me even in these photos (gold check, I'm looking at you) and you can see it's finally falling apart. I doubt it will make it to age 10. I should start work, soon, on a replacement for it, because it has served me well.

So many posts, so little time...

Oh, dear readers. I know you feel neglected. It's not that I'm not interested in you, honest. On my camera right now are photos for 4 or 5 new blog posts. In my head are the start of several more. But the work laptop got sick, and then we went out of town, and here we are, a full week of no posts and more days to go.

In the meantime, I'll tempt you with upcoming topics.
1. We got a new (to us) car! It's shiny!
2. I'm obsessed with finding the perfect airfreshener and making accessories for #1.
3. Myra had a birthday party.
4. Winter photos of rusty things. Because it's that time of year.
5. William Carlos Williams references. And maybe some Charlie Daniels. And a little Janis Joplin and Frida Kahlo, to show how balanced I am.

So stay tuned, Languishers! There is more to come! And when I can provide photos again, I won't have to rely on exclamation points to keep you reading! Think of the adventures we'll all have together!

Wolf Moon

Last weekend was the Wolf Moon, the brightest full moon of the year. V and I were on our way to Grandma and Grandpa's while the moon was rising. I know the landscape is dull here, but it's the best shot I got of the moon. (And why would I crop for you? You think I have nothing to do but make your experience here easy??)I love the whole moon-through-the-trees shots. Which wasn't easy, considering I was taking photos while driving. (I don't recommend this). This one's obviously too blurry, but I like that you can see the snow-covered branches. And this one shows just how brilliantly bright this moon was. Wolf moon, indeed.

Okay, okay.

Winter, we get it. You're the toughest season. You can make us stay home, strand us in a ditch, or even kill us. You're relentless. And those 5 years or so of mild, little snow-producing winters when we first moved into this house? Just meant to get us good and lazy. Now we can barely open the door, and the birdfeeder in the backyard is buried under 3 inches of new fluffy snow. I can't find the shovel (it's buried, too), and my 4 year old is bored out of her skin.

Okay? You win, winter. 6 more weeks of you, and then you and your sidekick spring will likely flood us all to hell again. But maybe if I give you credit for your brutishness, you'll back off a bit. Or at least let up for a couple days. I'm starting to get claustrophobic.

Life skills

We bought an old typewriter for $5 the other day. It has its own case, and a good ribbon, and came with instructions.So V is learning to type, in case her singing/recorder-playing career doesn't pan out. She types like she plays the piano: quickly and enthusiastically. Accuracy be damned.

I think that may be how Virginia Woolf started, actually.

School Bag

My colleagues in the English Department and I have a shared journal that we started last fall: it's a standard sized composition notebook, and we can choose to pass or play. If we play, we have 24 hours to share something: a poem, a story, a rant, an observation. Some people have pasted in pictures, or taped in typed things. Lots of folks just hand write something, off the cuff. It's allowing us a little snapshot into each other's writing styles and thought processes that I'm enjoying immensely.

If you're one of my colleagues, and you'd rather be suprised when the journal comes to you, stop reading now.

This is my entry for today.

1-27-2010
Every semester I search for the perfect bag: big enough to hold 125 syllabi, or 75 student essays, and a couple of books, a handful of dried up dry-erase markers, and a tepid Coca-Cola. I want one that makes all this feel less heavy, literally and figuratively, than it is.

At the end of my 12th year of teaching, I still haven't quite found it.

I've come close; a green Hanna Andersen bag with technicolor flowers; a dark green messenger bag from old navy; a leather man-purse on clearance from Target. Each is flawed, somehow: lacks that essential pocket, or tips too easily, or is too hard to get into.

Over break, I found a vintage soft-sided suitcase at St. Vincent de Paul for $2. It's a carry-on type, like a super-sized camera bag, a softer response to the rigid train case. It has a front zipper pocket, and a decently long shoulder strap. The zippers are industrial strength, and there is no velcro. It's that particular, distinctive shade of Harvest Gold.

On the inside of the shoulder strap, in permanent ink, is the name "Mary Mitzel" and "Hope, N. D." in the script of someone who once had decent penmanship until age shook her hand. Just the fact that there's a town in North Dakota named Hope makes me happy: and I imagined Mary Mitzel packing this bag for a week or two away, folding slips and stockings and denture cleaner, than zipping the industrial zipper closed and locking her door behind her.

I know she's probably dead, or nearly so, because St. Vincent's tends to get entire estates, or what's leftover from estate sales. Or maybe she's gone into a nursing home recently, and won't be traveling anymore. I hope wherever she is, Mary Mitzel has fond memories of this gold bag, as I pack it with syllabi and pens and class lists for my first day teaching in a new decade.

In my 5:30 class, students ask if it's a bowling bag. "No!" I tell them. "It's a vintage piece of luggage. And it belonged to Mary Mitzel of Hope, ND." I'm kinda proud of myself, in that irritating way people who buy old stuff and call it vintage are.

From the back row, one of my students can't help himself, and blurts out "I totally knew her! She was a bitch."

Perhaps not surprisingly, this makes me like this bag even more.

Quilts of our lives, part III

This is a quilt we use every single day, and it's also one I didn't make. Our dear friend Jeni made it, as a housewarming gift. When Jeni and Tami came to visit our house for the first time, in June 2002, they brought this beautiful Bulls-eye Quilt with them. And since we had decided that very week to get married the following Wednesday, it quickly turned into an engagement/wedding gift. As I recall, she made this from the cut-outs of another bulls-eye quilt, for her sister's wedding. I love this quilt, because I had just a few months earlier talked Jeni through the process of this pattern, which is a fun technique that looks a lot harder than it is. I adore the fabrics she chose for this quilt, and I wouldn't have thought to put these together. I love the corner circles, the double borders, and the blue and red flowered background (which you can peek in the first photo...).

It's the only quilt in our TV room, and I or Shaun use it every day for sure from fall to spring, and I use it most days in the summer, too.

It is so much more than just a blanket: everytime I use it, or fold it up before we go to bed, or hang it out on the line on wash day, I think of my Jeni, and miss her (as she lives in the Minneapolis), and I'm so thankful that she is in my life.

"To whom much is given, much will be required."

When I first heard of the Haitian earthquake, and all the devastation, all I could think of was in Star Wars when the planet Alderaan is destroyed, and Obi-Wan Kenobi shudders, feeling a giant cosmic sob of grief. It is the only reaction that makes sense to me. But then, on the second day of class, I made the mistake of bringing Haiti up to my students, some of whom had a very strong reaction.

"Why do we have to be everyone's big brother? We don't belong there." But, but, I said, there are so many hurt, someone has to help them. "There are homeless people downtown, and we're not helping them." Really? I said. You want us to help our own homeless while the bodies rot in Haiti? "Yeah, well, it doesn't always have to be us. Besides, Haiti used to have a functional democracy, and the people let it fall back into corruption and chaos. This is what they deserve."

That question, "Why do we have to be everyone's big brother," rings in my head. It implies that somehow, Americans should be separate from responsibility to anyone else. I didn't think of it at the time, of course, but I should've pointed out that we as 5% of the population consume 25% of the world's resources. That we throw out 200,000 tons of edible food EVERY DAY. That daily, Americans use 6x more water than over half of the world's population.

The depth of suffering on that little island exhausts me. So does the bureaucracy that keeps people from getting the help available. But even more devastating, to me, is the idea that my students expressed: that somehow these people don't deserve help, and that Americans need to focus more on taking care of our (already spoiled) selves than those suffering the most. I don't know what to say in the face of that idea, because it is such a cold and foreign thought to me.

I hope somehow all who can be saved are saved, and those who cannot suffer as little as possible. I hope people get safe, and fed, and learn to bear their grief. And I hope my students can learn to be more compassionate, and never suffer such devastation as this.

V and Steve

I blame Gene Simmons for V's expression. These two make each other laugh almost constantly when they're together, which means good times for everyone. I'm just lucky they both held still long enough for me to take this photo.

I hope to be fully back in blogland action by this weekend. Stay warm, people, and write me comments! Ask questions, make complaints, whatever you like: comments make me want to write for you.

Recent conversation

We were in the waiting room of V's therapy center, and V's back was to me, when I noticed her hair was kind of messy. It had been Shaun's turn to take her to school that morning, so I made a gentle inquiry.

Mama: "V, did Daddy brush your hair today?"

V: "Yes. Why do you want to know??"

Mama: "Well, it looks kind of messy."

V (sighing): "Everybody's a critic."

So there you go.

Happy New Year!

Insert thoughtful, year-reflecting post here. Or perhaps a rousing summary of holiday festivities. Either way.

Winter screws with me so much because we have two options: sunshine and bitter cold, or bleak greyness and milder cold. When I want to take outdoor photos, the light's better in the bitter cold. But then I'm out in the bitter cold.I'd rather sit on the couch with this little sprout, in the early morning light.
And take pictures of the outdoors through the window.

Today was my semi-annual holy-crap-break's-almost-over-and-I've-done-nothing-whatsoever-that-I-meant-to-do-over-break freakout. So I'm going to take an official blog break (instead of my usual unintended/unofficial/I'm just lazy break). Classes resume on the 11th, and I should be back shortly thereafter. Please don't despair, dear readers. Hope your New Year is bright and not too cold.