A poem for today, for Myra and Janice

To the Women I Love Who Turn Seventy This Year

You were girls, of course, before you were mothers,
in saddle shoes and crinoline, singing along with the radio.
But motherhood suited you.
Though we're all past thirty now,
you still call us babies: remember braiding our hair,
teaching us the alphabet,
how to eat our vegetables and love one another.
Between you, you've mothered every child in town,
every child you ever met.

1943 must've been
an especially good year
for baby girls.

Yet you have both lost so much:
your parents, your husbands,
your brothers and sisters and friends.
There is much and more to mourn.
And seventy year old bodies complain
more than you expected,
as young strong-armed mothers,
or teen-aged Minnesota girls
dreaming of Minnesota boys.

You both still plant your gardens,
and reap what you sow, richer
in flowers and friendships both.

As you begin your eighth decade, we are so glad
to have this time with you. We will share
your cold beer in the Minnesota summertime,
while you dance with your grandchildren
in these gardens full of love.

I'm baaaaack.....

So a Viking, Frida Kahlo, and Merpunzel walk into a bar.....

or at least into Robby's photography studio. We had such a lovely time at Sarah & Robby's annual Halloween bash. And it was their Cousin Ben, I believe who coined "Merpunzel:" V is both Rapunzel and a mermaid. Of course. 

On Wednesday, she chose to just be Rapunzel ('cause it's hard to walk in a  mermaid tail), and we again trick or treated in my hometown with V's cousins. Luckily, Hendrum is still generous with the candy.

All three Johnson cousins wore sweatshirts I'd embellished for them. They can spell WEV, or EWV, or VEW, but I love them any which way.

So much fun for our wacky little Mer/Rapunzel, Iron Man, and Supergirl.

Hope your Halloween was happy, gentle readers. As you can see, I found my camera, so let's see what happens next, shall we?

Today's poem

My friend Nancy assigned a poem, due on Monday, that needed to start with the line she provided. I love it when Nancy gives assignments, because without them, I tend to not write creatively as much as I ought. I don't have a title yet: forgive me. This is the first draft, fresh from my journal this morning.

I come from a long line
of tree climbers
We skinned-knee girls
of uncombed hair
and laughs too loud.
We taste the sky
and smell of dirt and still water.

We grow up to be teachers, mostly,
our booming voices
bouncing through classrooms
where we teach, as we climbed,
with our whole hearts.

I'm BAAAAAAAACK.

Oh, internets. I know I've been gone a long time. Not a single post in August? How is this possible? Ah. Well, I've been busy. Let's sum up, shall we? 

First, Jess and I have been working on helping Myra empty out her house. Mostly what's left is the bits and pieces of spending 38 years in one place: dust bunnies, her massive jigsaw puzzle collection, some canned goods that are too old to recognize, much less eat. 

And then there's this. A mason jar full of ammunition. This is the kind of thing the basement used to be full of, in various ways, but most of that got cleaned out after the flood of '97. So here we are, ten years since Dad died, 26 years since he used any sort of gun, with a mason jar full of bullets & shells. You can't just throw this stuff away, you know.

So we brought it to Mike, Hendrum's lone police officer. The thing I love about Hendrum is it's pretty simple. Got a jar full of live ammo? I know just the guy to give it to. When we showed up on his doorstep, offering him this odd, potentially dangerous gift, he just grinned at us and said he'd take care of it. "Some of these are still good, I think," he told us. "Have fun," we told him.

 V and I have spent as much time as we can out at the lake. Here we are playing Bingo in Nevis, wearing our "What Happens in Nevis Stays in Nevis" shirts. It was a good day.

 And we've enjoyed the company of V's cousins. Pictured below is Jake, who has decided that as a superhero, he wants to be ToiletMan. You don't want to know ToiletMan's weapon of choice. (And I can't explain why he's holding a stuffed fish, either, so don't ask). Jake is just 6 months younger than V, and hilarious and strong-willed. That may run in one or all of our families.

 In unrelated news, Shaun got a new job several weeks ago, so he's no longer working nights! It's good to have him back in the land of the living, and it's really the best job he's had in over a decade, in terms of the work & hours. Perhaps that's why he looks so dang happy.

I have other posts in mind, and though it was an unscheduled and prolonged break, I hope you'll forgive me, gentle readers. It's good to be back.

Death, be not proud

with apologies to John Donne, et al.

So part of my mean reds, by no means all, but a good portion, has to be related to the fact that today marks the tenth anniversary of the death of my father. Ten years. More than a quarter of my life now, without him. It takes my breath away to even think of it. I...ach. I could blither on, but I decided months ago that I wanted to reprint an article from the paper version of Languishing (Winter 2004, Issue 1, Volume 8) today. I wrote it just a month or so after he died, and I print it here mostly unaltered.

Mighty and dreadful indeed.

Death Be Not Proud
One woman's story of losing her daddy.

Wednesday, 24 July 2002: 7:30am: Mom called this morning. Seems dad's chest pains from last night didn't go away, so I'm heading over to Hillsboro. I talked to Jess, told her not to come. I know she feels so far away in the Cities, but this is just chest pains. She'll be home this weekend, and can see him then.

8:30am: Dad looks gaunt, almost skeletal. He always looks this way, though, in his hospital gown, when he's had a ride in the ambulance. How many times have we been here? Since I was twelve, after those first 6 months of rehab after the stroke, I've seen him like this....half a dozen times? A dozen? Too many, but it's not like any of us chose this life. It just is. I smooth his hair; what I feel towards my father, what I have felt for almost 17 years, is very much typical father-daughter love. But also motherly, because he needs care. I clip his fingernails, clean out his ears when they're dirty. I cut up his steak for him. Rustle my fingers through his beard when I try to convince him to trim it. But he is always my father. He wheels his chair out with me to the parking lot, checks my tires, makes sure the headlights work, makes me use my seat belt. He is comforting, familiar, strong. He tells me everything will work out, that I can do what I am afraid to do, that he loves me.

In this little hospital room with uncomfortable chairs and a television mounted on the wall, I talk to Jess again. Should she come? I ask Dad. No, he says, shaking his head emphatically, as if to say, Don't be silly. The nurse is in the room with us, and after a few minutes, he starts coughing, waving his hand at her, raising his voice. She doesn't understand him, and I'm still on the phone with Jess. "He's going to throw up" I snap at the nurse, frustrated that she doesn't comprehend our secret code of gestures and inflection. Jess says, "I'm on my way" just before I hang up on her, because the black bile is seeping through Dad's beard onto his faded gown. The nurse apologizes, and I do, too, because she couldn't know that this time "Deelo...deelo!" meant "I need an emesis basin."

9am: The doctor comes in. Mom is really worried, but I'm not. Jesus, he survived a massive stroke, the amputation of both legs: some little heart palpitation's not going to kill him. The doctor is short, shorter than me, and other than that he reminds me of my cousin Chad, with olive skin, dark, thinning hair, and a laid-back way. His news is not good. There's been a heart attack, of significant size, it seems. Dad's asleep now, because the nurse gave him medicine to help with his nausea. We stand over him, talk around him. Mom strokes his bald head. I ask what we should do. I get frustrated, because I feel like the doctor and we are speaking two different languages. "It's up to you," he says. Yeah, we know that. What should we do?? "Well, he has a DNR order..." Yeah, we know that too. What does this mean. How bad is it? WILL HE DIE? "We don't know yet. We could find out the extent of the damage, but he'd have to go to Fargo for that." He's sleeping now. I don't think he wants to go to Fargo. I don't know. So if we don't find out the extent of the damage.... what happens? We know strokes, we know gallstones, we know prostate and cancer and bladder infections and amputations, but we don't know heart attacks. "He could recover. The next 24 hours will be important." I'm glad Jessica is on her way. I call her cell and tell her so, and tell her that Dad's comfortable now, snoring lightly. She's scared, but our Aunt Shirley, Dad's sister, is with her. I'm glad of that too. They just left the city, and it's almost 10 am.

12 noon: Brenda, our friend and the wife of our pastor in Hendrum, stops by. She's an RN, and looks at Dad carefully. I show her his vitals, which I've been recording in my journal. Blood pressure: 90/40; pulse 120; temp 99.2; oxygen 84%. She talks to Dad, although he's not really awake at all. Tells him she's here, says a prayer with us. The Lord's Prayer hurts my chest when I say it. "Our father, who art in heaven." Brenda does a healing ceremony, instead of communion, and it involves anointing with oil. It feels too much like last rites and Mom and I both cry.

Dad's kidneys aren't working much. He's been in the hospital since 7:30, and he's made no urine. This is very bad, Brenda tells us. Her seriousness scares me. She takes mom out for lunch, and I sit with Dad, tell him about work, Shaun, our dog, our house. I tell him I love him over and over and over again. I know he knows: it just helps to say it. Beverly, Dad's other sister, who lives in California, calls. She wants to know how he is, and I tell her, as he sleeps. Dad and Bev were so close as children, practically twins. As she's about to hang up, he opens his eyes, and I say, wait, here he is. I hold the phone to his ear, and though he's groggy, I tell him it's his sister Bev. He hears her voice, and responds. He knows it's her: I don't know what she says to him, but he says "yeah," a few times, tells her he's okay, I think. I take the phone and tell her he knew it was her, and she says she knows. She's looking into flights to Fargo.

2pm: The doctor stops by again. The kidney thing has him worried. Why aren't they working, we ask.  His blood pressure is so low, they're not getting enough blood. His heart has been damaged, so it's pumping where it can. Will that get better? Maybe. Let's inject him with some saline, and some medicine to make him urinate, and see if that helps. Okay. C'mon kidneys. Mom is really quiet. I don't see why everyone has to be so solemn. It's been bad before.

3pm: Jess and Shirley arrive. They stopped in Moorhead and picked up Shaun. Dad wakes up and knows Jess, certainly, and she kisses him and cries and cries. He's hardly awake at all any more, from the medication or the effort his heart is making to pump what little it can. Mom, Jess, and I talk with Dad, who won't wake up, about how we won't resuscitate. No breathing tubes, no surgeries. If the kidneys work, they work. If not, we'll have to let him go. Dad agreed to this years ago, but we tell each other again that this is what he wants, what we all know should happen, if it has to.

The doctor comes back, and as the saline and medication have not jump-started the kidneys, he recommends we bring family in. This is the first time I'm really startled. He says "If there's family thinking of coming, you should tell them to come. Now." We use Shirley's cell phone to call relatives. I call three of mom's siblings: Bev, John, and Sharon. "This might be it, the doctor says," I tell three people, and for some reason it gets harder every time. I can't call any one else after that. Jessica calls the others, and we let Shirley call Dad's side of the family. We are very, very tired.

6pm: We go eat supper in shifts. Shirley and I and Shaun go first, to the Wagon Wheel Restaurant in Hillsboro. It feels like a VFW hall, kind of, with industrial tables and chairs. I eat fried shrimp, and the three of us talk, and sort of look at each other, surprised, kind of, by what seems about to happen. i feel like my eyes are wide open, insistently watching, waiting. Shaun feels helpless, afraid for us, and doesn't know how to help. When we get back to the hospital, Uncle Harry, Dad's older brother, is there. They have been fighting with each other for about 10 years, or maybe 15. It feels like forever, but we're glad he's there. Even Dad, I think, knows how much Harry loves him this summer night.

7pm-on: Through the evening, we have lots of company; Pastor Tim comes, and Shaun's dad, and Carla and Darrell and Janice, friends of our family. Lots of people, it seems, and we are all grateful. Most everyone is gone by 11pm, when the nursing shift changes. Our night RN must've been in the military, I think. She is all business, and her gruffness worries me a little, because Jess and I will push back if we need to, but we're not exactly strong right now. Instead, she insists on just a few things. "He must be kept comfortable. Tell your mother to get some sleep. I'll let you know if it gets close to time." Now I know there's no going back. This nurse makes no pretense of recovery, and it is just the waiting. Because the hospital is nearly empty, we get the room next to Dad's, and mom goes to sleep for a few hours. She's been up, by our count, nearly 40 hours straight. Aunt Shirley dozes in the lounge, and Jess and I stay with Dad.

The next few hours will remain forever some of the most memorable of my life. Sitting with my father and my sister, knowing that time is so literally almost out, I feel desperate to stay awake, to soak in every second we have left together. Jess and I cry, even sob, at times. Finally, we decide to make the best of it. First we talk about our favorite memories with Dad. She remembers things I'd forgotten, and vice versa, So we tell him we love him, and why, and tell him what he's taught us, and what we'll remember. At some point, we shift, and talk about the future. Jess tells him what she hopes to name her children, and I do the same. "We promise to tell them about you, Daddy. We promise to take care of each other, and of Mom." We recognize out loud that if we'd been a TV movie, we'd have changed the channel by now.

2:30am: After taking Dad's pulse, Army nurse says we should wake Mom, so we do. But Dad has no intention of dying yet, so we sprawl around his room...in hospital chairs, across the foot of his bed, on the floor, and take turns dozing. When morning comes, he is still with us, and we joke, wearily, about his stubbornness. Sometime in the morning, Brenda comes again. She tells us an amazing story about letting go, about the path toward death as a journey, and we all cry. Brenda, Mom, and Jess go out for lunch, and Shirley goes to pick up Bev at the airport.

While they are gone, Dad's breathing gets more sporadic. He has a kind of apnea, it seems, and stops breathing for a second or two or ten...and then breathes again. Brenda told us this would happen, And that it would indicate the end was coming closer. She said it would get worse until finally the space between breaths was greater and greater...and eventually, he would just stop.

2pm: Mom and Jess come back from lunch, and walk in with Uncle Harry. Harry says, "I'll go," and we tell him he has to say good-bye. So he does. "We'll see you, Dewey," he says, shaking Dad's hand. It is one of the saddest moments I've ever seen.

Jess has to run to the bathroom, just down the hall. Mom and I sit, listen to Dad breathe, then stop. Breathe, then stop. When Jess gets back, Mom has to go. While she's gone, Jess and I watch Dad wince twice to draw breath: it really seems to hurt him. Finally, mom gets back. She sits with Dad's good hand, on his left. I sit on his right, and Jess sits on the foot of his bed. We tell him we love him, that he can go...and he does. He just...stops.

Again, if it were a TV movie, it would be too ridiculous. But that's how it happened, how we got to say good-bye, and be with him. How we watched him die. I don't have a moral to this story, and I'm not telling you this for pity, or to make you sad. It feels good, somehow to share it. It was a gift he gave us, being able to be with him. He was a good man. I miss him.

Ten years

Jess played "You are My Sunshine" on her guitar as my parents and I walked up the driveway into our backyard. Beth and Steve read for us, and Pastor Tim performed the ceremony. Afterwards, we all went out to  dinner to Timberlodge Steakhouse, and Shaun and I stayed in a Honeymoon Suite at Expressway Inn that I'd won at the wedding expo in January.  It was a fantastic day.

We all look like babies to me, now.

 Ten years ago today. It really doesn't seem like it's been a decade at all.

Then again, it feels like we've always been together. In a good way, I mean. I can't really remember life before. 

So much has changed for us, and our families. And marriage is hard, hard work sometimes. But this photo here, my favorite of them all, is still who we are.  Two dorks who really love each other very much. He is my sunshine, indeed.

For more photos and nostalgia, see here, or here. Or come on over and look at our photo albums.

Why yes, her name is V

When Shaun and I first talked about having a baby, we agreed immediately on a name for a boy: Dewey David. In that one name, we honor both of our fathers, and there's really no argument to be had. But a girl's name? Without an obvious choice (Myra Mary or Mary Myra just didn't sing for us, and besides, they're both still alive, which makes it complicated), oh, we could not agree. 

I love fancy/old fashioned names. Sylvia, Olivia, Sophia, Zuzu...Shaun liked none of them. Old lady names, he called them, or just too strange. Isabella, Carpathia, Ruth, Eliza, Beverly....no, no, no, no, no....Finally I asked what names he liked. Something simple, he said, like Jill. Or Ann. 

Now, I have nothing against any Jills or Anns, but as a Jennifer, I know how it is to have a name that is completely unmemorable. No way was I going to name my daughter Jill or Ann. 

These exhausting discussions all happened well into our marriage. Years earlier, on our second date, he had shot down the one girl's name I have loved the most. I had wanted, for many years, to name my firstborn daughter Ruby. Somehow Tenessa was there, and told him I wanted a girl named Ruby. He immediately responded, "Ruby's the name of my toilet." 

This raised several questions for me, as you might imagine: "what kind of man names his toilet?" for starters. 

Anyway, it turns out that his toilet really was named Ruby, but that's for some other post.  My point is, Ruby was clearly not an option, though it's a lovely name.

One day, not long before we got pregnant, Shaun came home from work and said "What about a letter?" After my initial confusion, I saw he meant as a name. "You know, S. Epatha Merkerson is an actress on Law and Order. We could name our potential daughter a letter, couldn't we?" (I know now that his logic there was flawed, since her S. stands for Sharon. Harry S Truman, on the other hand, his S was just an S). So I said, "How about V? You've always loved that mini-series, right?"  And so it was decided.

I mean, that part, anyway, for us. There was some weeping and gnashing of teeth by the grandparents-to-be, and we had to chose a middle name, but this, gentle readers, is how we decided to name our daughter V. We love her so.

Kickety kick ball

April. 5th grade. It must've been raining, because my class was playing a heated game of kickball in the gym. Mr. Timmer was our teacher, and I was the catcher. William Wainwright, my nemesis, was on third base, and after a decent kick from his teammate, he came toward me with determination. Though I had the ball, and was standing on the base, he put his shoulder down and knocked me up in the air. I came down on my left wrist, and broke both bones in my arm. Ow. That's what...28 years ago now? My mom was teaching at the time, but couldn't very well leave her classroom, so she had her sister Beverly take me to the doctor in Halstad. My arm had quickly swelled up to twice its normal size, and as we waited to see Doc Brown, he decided to spend 45 minutes visiting with an octogenarian in the next room. Aunt Bev and I learned all about Mrs. Alfredson's ferns while we waited.

When the doctor finally saw the x-ray his nurse had taken, he quickly decided it was beyond his expertise: with both bones broken, one badly, I had to go to St. Ansgar's in Moorhead. There I was put under general anesthesia, my arm was set, and I woke up to crabby nun nurses taking my blood pressure in the middle of the night. When they came to pick me up from the hospital, my parents took me out to Nine Dragons, our favorite Chinese restaurant, which I couldn't really enjoy because I was still queasy from the anesthetic.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was, with an 8 week cast, I turned eleven at the end of May and could not ride my brand new blue ten speed bike until mid-June.

It was, at least up until then, one of the great tragedies of my life.

Flying the friendly skies

In 2001, just five months after Dan and Tenessa moved to New York City, Shaun and I decided we'd like to go and visit them. We'd been dating a little over a year, and this was to be our first big trip together. We sat down to plan the details.

"We can stay with my aunt Linda in Michigan the first night," I said, "and if we get up early, I think we can make it there by day two."

"What?" he said, his eyes wide open.

"I have an aunt who lives in Michigan, not far from Detroit. It's not too far out of the way. Or would you rather stay in a hotel?"

"Um, you know they have these things, right? Called airplanes? People get in them and they take them places really fast. So we don't have to drive for 28 hours."

"Oh. Right." I had honestly not even thought of flying.

My people are land-based people. We like to drive places, and 5 or even 10 hours in a car doesn't phase us at all. But an airplane? Hm. How would I get to see my Aunt Linda in Michigan, if we just flew over her? I'm not widely travelled, but everywhere I'd been, I'd driven, or ridden in a bus. New York, D.C., Denver, New Orleans, all were accessible by car. And each time, the journey was part of the adventure.

I agreed, finally, to fly, because though my school year was ending and I had three months off, Shaun still had a real job and didn't want to spend 4 days of vacation trapped in a car with me (the boy has no romance, I tell you).  Several of my students at the time were in the aviation program, so they calmly explained to me that the airplane was indeed safe, and they encouraged me to put my hand out the car window while driving, to help me understand wind resistance and other principles of flight.

Since then, I've flown to New York alone, to Boston for work, and three times to Vegas. I still default to driving, but it is pretty fun to get places in 3 or 4 hours instead of 2 days. Unfortunately, I see a lot less of my dear Aunt Linda....

Collector of Treasures

First, Shaun has a job. He's almost 2 weeks into a full-time night shift position at a local truck stop/gas station, and we're so grateful for the work, and we're busy getting used to a whole new schedule. It's really, really, really a relief, and I thought you'd all want to know. So now, on with the post.

When I taught World Literature in Crookston, we studied a short story by Bessie Head, "The Collector of Treasures." It's a marvelous story with love, romance, friendship, violence, imprisonment, indictment of patriarchal society....everything you want in a good story. The main character collects treasures in her heart, all the kindnesses shown to her in her life. It's a striking image, and one I try to emulate. Especially when the shit seems most dismal, those treasures really help.

And I've been blessed by many treasures lately. So many of you have emailed kind messages of support to me or to $haun, or patiently listened to my sad stories, or even kept us in your thoughts over the last few months. I treasure all of those. Two colleagues at work gave me a fantastic altered journal and two cold Cokes to cheer me up before break (it worked!).  And one day, several weeks ago, a package appeared in the mail. It was shortly after this post appeared, but all I could think was "What on earth did I order? We can't afford to spend any money!" But I hadn't: it was a present, from Tom, one of my first bestest friends (and high school sweetheart).  

It was during the hardest time of the last few months, and I can't begin to tell you how much it brightened my world. I'd been so melancholy for that record for so long, it never even occurred to me that I could get another. Aside from reminding V of the importance of not saying "bitch" in polite company, mostly I've been humming "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" whenever it's not playing on the turntable these last few weeks. And that it came from Tom, whom I haven't seen in well over ten years, who knew my dad and probably helped me look for that damn record in our basement more than once, made it even better.

Thank you all for the treasures you've sent, in thought or electronic or paper or carbonated or vinyl form, over these dark months. They've lightened my heart so, so much.

Y'all are the best there's ever been.

I Told You Once, You Son of a Bitch...

As a little girl, my music influences were...eclectic. We had church music, of course. And then the record player at home...my dad was 43 when I was born, and his musical tastes were a whole generation behind my friends' parents. Which was awesome, really. We listened to a lot of Burl Ives, some Hank Williams, Sr.; The Louvin Brothers; Patsy Cline and other old coutry groups. Once a month or so, in music class, we got to bring a record from home and we'd all listen to each others' favorite songs. I don't even remember the music other kids brought, but I loved listening to Country Death Ballads with all my classmates. (Now that I've typed that sentence, I'm not sure why child services never showed up at our house).

The other music I listened to was "new" country, on the radio at our babysitter's. She had a transistor on top of her fridge, and the only thing better than a country death ballad was a little "Rhinestone Cowboy," Eddie Rabbit, or any Crystal Gayle. The edgiest song on country radio in the late 70s/early 80s was, at least in my experience, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Oh, I loved that song.  Though Johnny was a little overconfident when he dismissed the devil, I wanted to own the record more than anything in the world.

I didn't even realize, then, that one could purchase new record albums. I thought you either listened to your dad's records, or lucked out a garage sale. (We were simple people).  The day I saw the album, in a milk crate jn a driveway in North Moorhead, I almost wet my pants. It was probably 1981 or 82, and there was hardly any wear on cover. It was, as I recall, marked 50 cents.

My dad didn't even argue or tease me, make me think I wasn't going to get this. He knew how much I loved this song. We brought it home, and I bounced in the backseat all 28 miles. I stared at the cover, I read the titles of every other song...I slid the record out just to look at how long my song would play. It was my first record just for me, that I had picked out. Oh, music class, I was going to impress everyone next month!

We had to unload the car, and take out the dog, and finally, after Mom had started supper, Dad put the record on the player. The familiar fiddle music, the talk-song lyrics....I was dancing in the living room. I was so happy I even let my sister dance, too. And then came the best line of the song..."I told you once, you son of gun..." only he didn't say "gun." This was not the radio version Charlie Daniels, the G-rated, FCC approved Charlie Daniels. As my dad reached for the power switch, I started making my case. "I know what that word means, dad, and I will never, ever, ever say it. I'll sing 'gun' really loud every time it's on. I swear." But it was too late. He slid the record back into the barely worn sleeve, and took it down to the basement, where there were the best hiding places. For months I begged for that record, and though Dad was sympathetic, he would not be moved. When I'd given up begging, I tried to find it myself when my parents weren't home. I spent hours in that damn basement.

In 1986, after Dad's stroke, I knew I was running out of time. Aphasia or no aphasia, I was going to have that record. After he moved home from the rehab hospital, I asked him where he'd hidden it. He grinned at me.

"Is it in the basement?" I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. "Is it in the garage?" Still grinning, still shrugging. "Did you forget where you hid it?"

"Ah, nope." He couldn't say much, but he could say that.

"You're still not gonna tell me, are you?"

"Ah, no. No, no, no." And he grinned.

I've learned many more curse words since then, but I still haven't found that record. Wherever he put it kept it safe from my tender ears.  I reckon he's still proud of himself for that. 

Be gentle to us, 2012

Oh, new year, new post. Last year, I revisited my "37 things to do in the next 37 years" birthday list, so I think I'll do that again. Ive been sick for almost three weeks with a cold that will not die, so I'm too tired to think of a new topic. I realize this doesn't bode well for the new year, but I'm hoping I'll perk up by the time classes resume on January 9.

By the end of last year, I'd completed 2 of the 37 things: #10 & #32. This year, I've finished another 3, and made (somewhat questionable) progress on a few others.

9. Let go of all my old shame/guilt for stuff that doesn't matter to anyone but me. Done. Well, kind of, anyway. I imagine this will be a life-long thing, and perhaps it's just that my medication is working really well, but I've been reading the book Self Compassion by Kristen Neff, and it really is clicking with me. Every woman in my family should totally read this book.
15. Have a healthy, well-adjusted dog to take with for #11. (#11 is a Travels With Charley-esque trip). Done. I mean, we're not going on a trip any time soon, but we adopted Seven in June and he's pretty much a rock star. He adores V, tolerates our familial wackiness, and is just a kick-ass addition to our family. I'm not entirely sure he's "well-adjusted," but comparatively, he fits right in.
35. Bake a cake from scratch. Done. It didn't end up even pretty enough to put on the blog, but using recipes from an old issue of Real Simple, I made a fine vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. It's not really that much more work than a box mix, and it tasted divine.

The progressing ones are these:
8. Build a swing set/play house for V. Probably as done as it's gonna get. Okay, I just hung a swing from a tree in the front yard, but she really loves it, and so do the neighbor kids. That kind of success motivates other people, I hear.
12. Take a few sabbaticals. One down, four (?) to go. My first sabbatical was sort of transformative. I feel like I won't actually die from my job any more, and I'm looking forward to going back to class in a way that I haven't in a good ten years. Let's hope it carries me to my next sabbatical...
14. Publish a paper zine again. This is the first official statement, but there will be a paper Languishing in 2012. Stay tuned for more details, and start thinking about stuff you want to contribute. Please. Otherwise it's just me yammering on for twelve pages, and nobody wins when that happens.
26. Write a country music song. Started. This one is a total stretch, but I've got a few lines done, so I'm counting it. I don't want to jinx it, but just you wait. You'll all be impressed. Eventually.


Thank you, gentle readers, for your continued support of Languishing and me and mine. May we all have the healthiest, silliest, gentlest of years in 2012.

Game time!

Little warms this mama's heart more than coming in from running errands to see this:

Shaun and V, playing the beautiful Little House on the Prairie board game, which Shaun bought for me years ago.

I don't know who won, nor do I care. It's just the goofiest, bestest thing to come home to.

Hey, nice tubes.

I know posting's been light lately, but I have a good excuse. I had surgery. Elective, same-day, drug-me-up-then-send-me-home surgery, but still surgery. A tubal ligation, to be specific. It was this past Friday, and I'm recovering well, though I still feel quite a bit like I've been kicked in the belly by a very angry mule. For those of you unfamiliar with fallopian tubes, I provide this illustration, from the 1918 edition of Gray's Anatomy (which you may have to click on to see, because it's not cooperating with me):

We decided, finally, that V would be our only biological child, and Shaun is not a candidate for a vasectomy, due to his cardiomyopathy, among other fascinating reasons. We could've stayed on the pill, or some variation thereof, but as a woman over 35 with a family history of early massive stroke, I'm not exactly the kind of girl that birth control companies are hoping to reach.

So we have our reasons, and made our choices. I felt surprisingly bad, though, because I have a few people close to me who want very much to become pregnant. It seemed wrong, somehow, to undermine our own (potential) fertility when I have friends and family who so want to experience the very thing I'm trying to avoid. I know, it's not like my fallopian tubes have any impact on their pregnancies, but still. I mean, I know I couldn't do surrogacy, so it wasn't that, but it just seemed cosmically...rude, somehow.

Finally, I realized that, like my Peter Falk Lazy Eye theory, perhaps there's only so much fertility in the universe, and by handing in our fertility card, maybe we could free some up for the rest of the world.  So that's what we've done. May the baby making begin! In other people's uteri, I mean.

Tami's Place

My friend Tami is an artist and a mama, a poet and a hairstylist. She co-owned a salon for many years, and works independently in one now. And she's also in the process of setting up her own salon in her house. When Jess and I and V were in the Cities last weekend, we got to be among her first customers.

 I love the black and white floor and the in-progress transformation of a regular basement into a whole new space.

Since it was Jess' birthday, she got the whole color and cut shebang.

 Even V got in on it, getting her hair washed in the fancy sink. When Tami washes your hair, it's like a magical massage for your scalp. Really.

Jess looking beautiful.

At one point, I giggled and said "We're totally playing Beauty Shop!" and we all grinned at one another.  So much girly happiness in one place! 

If you're in or around the Cities and looking for a fabulous stylist, Tami's Place is the place for you. Or at least the place for me.

My Little Sister

She inspires me to be a better mama. Her patience and creativity, her obvious love for her children and for my daughter, never cease to move me.

 She's on a new path, now, leaving her preschool teaching job to follow her true calling as a music therapist. Such a huge leap, but I know she can do this.

My brave, smart, patient, loving sister.

Puppy love

It's a little amazing to me how quickly he just became a part of our family; we were three, and now we're four. He's woven in to V's imaginary stories, he's a part of our morning/afternoon/evening routine, and when we're away, we all miss him. Life is too short to not share it with a dog, for me anyway.

Sweet Seven, we're so glad you're here!

My Little Dinner Party

I teach Judy Chicago’s art installation The DinnerParty in my Women in the Humanities course, and it never fails to make an impact on the students. So I thought it only fitting to create my own Dinner Party guest list.

1.      Sylvia Plath: you sweet, broken genius. Come over and have tea. I’ll keep you away from the oven if you stay away from my daddy issues.

2.      Elizabeth Cady Stanton: How fantastic to have one of the mothers of feminism at our table! Please, Elizabeth, stay awhile and help us fix this unholy mess of a country.

3.      Marilyn Monroe: I believe she was way smarter than any of us gave her credit for, and broken like the rest of us.

4.      Susan B. Anthony: a little redundant, what with E. C. Stanton, but I bet she’d be fun at parties.

5.      Liz Phair: given the guest list, I think she’d be a kick-ass addition. Plus, she’s also the only one besides me who’s still alive.

6.      7, 8, and 9. My great-grandmothers, Beatta, Myra, Elizabeth, and Emilie. I never met any of them, and I think it would be cool to hang out with all 4. I know Beatta died of cancer, Myra is whom my mother is named after, Elizabeth had long, thick, white hair, and Emilie had five children including identical twins, one of which she named Emil. I don’t know if they like talking politics, or music, or Kennedys, but we’ll figure out something.

We would eat expensive cheese, drink cheap wine, and have lefse. Who would you invite to your party?

Things I consider when I really should be grading (Winning the Lottery)

If I won the lottery:

I'd pay off our mortgage, and our car. Then our student loans, and our immediate family’s student loans, and Tami's & Susanne's student loans would all be paid off. Others to be considered once a year by an elaborate application process that I will likely develop in the near future, just in case.

I would buy my grandmother’s house, next door to my mom’s, and set it up as a little quilt shop. Who cares if we break even? We’ll put a long-arm machine in the boys’ room, upstairs, and serve cookies & peppermint tea every single day. Wanna come over?

I’d buy my sister and her family a reasonable, lovely home to move to their lovely lot.

I’d buy an elaborate Gypsy caravan & a ‘68 Dodge Coronet to pull it. Then V and I and Seven (and Shaun, if 'n he wants to) would travel where few people have seen Gypsy caravans. Like…um, Kentucky. And Montana. Maybe New Mexico.

Then I’d get myself 3 new pairs of Danksos, in brown, black, and red. Because everyone loves red shoes.

And that's it. Seriously. Oh, okay. I'd probably put up a 6' cedar fence around our backyard, and plant a bunch of kick ass perennials, and hire someone to paint our window ledges this summer. Because I'm going to be driving all over in the Coronet, so I don't have time to mow the lawn or climb ladders and whatnot.

Howsabout you?

Mother's Day Loveliness

It rained. And rained.

But it wasn't terribly cold, and the kids were good, and the dogs weren't too crazy, and nobody got particularly pissed off. That's a good weekend at the lake, if you ask me.

When the sun did come out, the cousins were ready to soak it up.

After eight months away, it was good to come back to the lake, with so many people we love, and celebrate a brave, cancer-free mama/grandma/mama-in-law.

Beth and I found this very, very special carnation for her. And I think it really made her day complete.

Hope you're finding sunshine between the rainstorms this week.