Nicole Helget

Little Things

2012-03-11T12:24:00.004-07:00

rustic colored pencils

I'm on a bread-making kick...I forgot how easy bread is...

found this wild deer antler bottle opener for my favorite beer-drinking man

Gordie's new way to entertain himself

cinnamon bread with honey

avocado shells

from scratch Italian bread for dinner tonight

Weekend Stuff

2012-03-10T06:27:00.002-08:00

We stopped at Biaggi's for dinner on our way to Mitchell's basketball tournament. Archie has been wearing that Pippen jersey for going on 20 straight days, with only a change into his nightly pajamas to break up the streak.

I love the look on the other team's players as Mitchell shoots a free-throw.

We met up with our friend Jer and went to lunch at The Chatterbox Cafe with the cool ceiling.

Winning and Losing

2012-03-09T11:14:00.000-08:00

We are a pretty competitive bunch. Nate got a card game of War going with Archie and Violette, and Archie cleaned house. Violette congratulated him and shook his hand, but she hates to lose and, though she tried to hold them back, welled up with tears.

Sometimes it's painful, but I think a healthy competitive attitude is good, necessary even, for survival, for prosperity, for better thinking and doing. And, no, I'm not adopting a Republican platform and do remain a crazy, feed-em-if-they-are-hungry liberal (if you were worried). Cooperation and mutual aid are just as important as competition. But, competition has its place. Some competitive leanings inspire us to strive to be quicker, smarter, healthier. Winning teaches us to do our best. Losing teaches us dignity and humility and perseverance. It's hard to watch the kids hurt, and I thought about making them play again and again until she won, but that's not right either. She had a cry, but then recovered and moved on with her day.

He may look peaceful, but try to take his bear and see what happens.

Smiles

2012-03-08T15:16:00.002-08:00

I got this cute little cardinal for my birthday.

Bread dough.

Discovered this empty hot fudge jar and a spoon, along with a strawberry hull behind the rocking chair. Who to accuse first?

Smells delightful.

Turtle on the window ledge.

Thirty-Six

2012-03-08T04:13:00.002-08:00

I like thirty-six just fine. I feel like I"m finally starting to make sense in this life. I'm happy to grow older and wiser, and I'm very pleased with my kids and my life. It's been a good year, and I'm stoked about the upcoming one, too. Thank you for all of the good wishes.

All Arise!

2012-03-07T13:44:00.001-08:00

music by The Decemberists.
video, my first ever obviously, by me.

Cake Flop, Craft Beer

2012-03-07T04:50:00.000-08:00

I did beat the egg whites, but not long enough...

This was going to be my birthday cake, mint mock angel food with fudge and mint whipped cream, but it didn't turn out as beautifully as I wanted, so we cut into it early. It did taste good, even if it wasn't as fluffy as it should have been.

Nice selection down on the left at Bobby Joe's Pub.

A local.

And then we met some good friends, The Millers, out for "Hoppy Hour" down at Bobby Joe's Pub, only a couple of blocks from us. The Millers were accommodating as I droned on and on about the merits of Moby Dick. Have I mention I just read Moby Dick? What? I have? Oh. I wasn't sure you'd heard...
Anyway, Bobby Joe's has a nice collection of craft beers. I like the 1554, and Nate goes for the Alaskan India Pale Ale. Tasty. Kinda like my cake. Frothy. Kinda not like my cake.

Moby Dick, Pros and Cons

2012-03-06T09:14:00.000-08:00

I'm still processing this book. I do know that my initial response is to give it five out of five stars for doing the three things that I consider to be most important in art: it affected my emotions, it challenged my thinking, and it inspired a creative response.

For now, I'll simply make a list of pros and cons.
Pros
Plot: what a great collection of ideas between two covers
Conflict: man versus man, man versus nature, man versus himself, man versus a big damn whale, America versus herself?, black versus white, Christian versus cannibal, economy versus conservation, bible versus science, sanity versus insanity, tradition versus progress
Setting: how can you go wrong when you float a boat on a wide ocean and force 30 men to interact without relief for a sustained amount of time?
History: I really enjoy reading about the period of this piece and always trying to discover implications on later events and current affairs. I did enjoy the allegorical qualities of this book, but I didn't seek out heavy allusions or symbols. In general, I don't like when a book tries too hard to do those things.
Information: I did enjoy learning about whaling, about the American economy, the oceanic business, the international affairs, the day to day chores on a whale boat, the processing of the whales, different types of whales
Humor. Melville is funny as hell. How about that conversation between Stubb and the cook and the sharks? Or how about when the French whaling ship comes up with those two stinky whales attached and the translation for Stubb to the Rose-Bud's captain?
Quotable. So many great quotes. So many beautiful metaphors. So much beautiful poetry
Intelligent: I can literally feel the weight on this book on my shoulders, in a good way, as though I am smarter for having read it. That's a good sign.

Cons
No women save one hardly worth mentioning in the beginning? And what's up with bringing up Ahab's wife 500 pages in? Jesus. Include her.
Shallow motivations: for me, it's not enough to simply say Ahab was a monomanic intent on revenge
Heavy-handed symbolism: the bird at the end? Give me a break.
Long nonfiction asides which detracted from keeping the pace of the story
Long nonfiction asides which are purely speculative that have no basis in reality, such as the chapter on the historical or scientific probability of Jonah being swallowed by a whale. It's OK to accept the story as an interesting whale-centric parable. Trying to explore whether he could have survived in the jaws for three days in really, really dumb and made me question Melville's cred.
Long nonfiction asides which did not seem to match with the original voice of Ishmael
Overuse of some words including monomaniac and unctuous
Abandoning some of the most interesting characters including Starbuck and Stubb and Pip,
Racing the end and sacrificing clear action.

Hast Thou Seen the White Whale?

2012-03-05T12:02:00.001-08:00

I have not picked up the toys.

I have not done the breakfast dishes.

I have not put away the laundry.

I have been sitting here,

all morning,

with a couple of distractions

who have been waiting patiently for me to finish

Moby Dick, which I have done on this 4th day of March 2012. And now, I must think before I comment further.

Pancakes and Wild Things

2012-03-05T04:27:00.003-08:00

Maurice Sendac's Where The Wild Things Are is a favorite book around here. My kids have been making their own "wild things" for years, since I first visited Phillip's kindergarten class years ago with the book and materials to put the creatures together. Now, I use wild things time as a way to keep them out of my hair for a while! So, while Phillip, Violette, and Archie made wild things, I made these pancakes, a family favorite.

I found this recipe in an old church cookbook. Look at how much baking powder!

Materials. I have a couple of big tubs of crafty stuff. Every time I open one, it's like Christmas.

The batter is very light and fluffy. You can't pour it like regular pancake batter. You have to spoon it on a hot pan and fry it slowly because the pancake is so thick.

Phillip's moustachioed creation.

Frying.

Pretty wild.

Pretty good.

Night Out

2012-03-04T06:48:00.000-08:00

Adam and Jennifer

me and Nate

Jennifer and Nate

Adam and me

We love these people.

Photos are blurry. But I prefer blur over flash.

Climbers

2012-03-04T06:35:00.000-08:00

Little Things

2012-03-03T07:42:00.003-08:00

Eggs cooling.

I finally finished my whaling pillow. Now back to the real work, finishing Moby Dick.

Isabella and Violette. Girl stuff.

Cream Puff.

Phillip and Archibald. Fun coloring.

Stuck Tomato.

Mitchell and Gordon. Let me see!

Chocolate Fig Cake with Butter Frosting

2012-03-02T13:32:00.001-08:00

My little Violette, whose pulse is always on the finger of reasons to celebrate, informed me with much happiness that today was Dr. Suess' birthday, and then wanted to know "what kind of cake are you going to make?" I do love Dr. Suess books, and I remember that since having Isabella (15.5 years ago!), the first book I ever read to each child was The Foot Book. When Mitchell arrived, the favorite book, at anytime of the year was How the Grinch Stole Christmas, in which I would substitute "Isabella Who" for Cindy-Loo Hoo and call the dog Max, Mitchell instead. They got a kick out of that. When Phillip arrived, Mr. Brown Can Moo was the favorite, and he'd nearly leap out of my lap in anticipation of the page that reads, "Boom! Boom! Boom! Mr. Brown is a wonder." Since then we've poured over Cat in the Hat, Green Eggs and Ham, The Lorax, and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, and many, many others. SO, Happy Birthday to you, Theodor Giesel, wherever in the Universe you are! This cake is chocolatey, fruity, and very moist.

2 cups flour, 2 cups sugar, 1/2 cup cocoa, 2 Tbsp baking soda, salt

2 eggs, 2 tsp fig spread, 1/4 cup oil

1 1/2 coffee. Mix. Spread in lightly greased cake pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Let cool. Mix 2 cups powdered sugar, 1/4 cup milk, and a stick of butter for frosting. Spread.

Serious decorating.

Fixing imperfections.

Whale Pillow Progress and a Song

2012-03-02T06:49:00.003-08:00

I struggled mightily through the middle part of Moby Dick, so much so that I started this pillow to relieve some anxiety. I call it "Ahab's Revenge."

Happily, my interest in the book has picked up again, and I'm through page 350. I'm honestly enjoying the parts about the production of the whale carcass.

I've been wondering if The Decemberists had a similar experience with Moby Dick, and if they, too, grew impatient with the big book and decided to write this song...

Spaetzle

2012-03-01T16:23:00.002-08:00

Spaetzles are thin, fried dumplings, tasty with butter or gravy.

Crush several whole cloves.

1 cup flour, 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar, 1/4 cup milk, salt and pepper, cloves, and two eggs

Spread the dough, a little at a time, over a flat grater, which is over a boiling pot of water

Smear the batter back and forth so that the dough gets pressed through and falls in strings into the boiling water

When spaetzles are done, toss onto a hot frying pan, thick with butter. Fry until crisp.

These are usually served with gravy, but I just made some leftover chicken and carrots

Visiting Classes

2012-03-01T13:43:00.000-08:00

Archie drew an alligator on the white board.

Archie holding court.

Deb in the background.

Every once in a while, I get to play "visitor" in a colleague's classroom to talk shop--writing, mothering, and life. I love these visits so much, particularly when I can walk into the room and immediately feel good energy, which is what I always feel in Deb's classrooms. She's got a way with her students that is easy, friendly, authentic, approachable, and educationally stimulating. I've visited her classrooms each semester for a couple of years now, and the mood's always the same. So, I think I can safely assume that she's creating that kind of welcoming and spirited space. And while this mood comes off as easy, I've witnessed, personally, how hard she works at her job and how she frets and worries about her students and whether they're learning. They are.

The groups yesterday and today were curious, funny, and willing to share. Today, I had to bring the little boys (bad planning on my part), and the students were nice to them and forgiving of the little distractions the boys created, including the time Archie went behind the cart to smell a dry-erase marker. EEEEK! I think we intervened in time to save his brain cells.

Thanks for inviting me, READ classes! Keep reading!

Deb. Take a vacation! You deserve it, and it's long overdue.

Couple of Weirdos

2012-02-29T17:47:00.000-08:00

Gordie talking to blocks.

When asked to draw Chicago (where Nate's gone for a few days), Archie drew this.

Hand stuck.

Relaxing in the ottoman with some good reading, a CD label.

Quite the duo.

Wedding Wear

2012-02-29T05:19:00.003-08:00

Outfitting 6 kids can be expensive, of course. We pass down a lot of hand-me-downs and usually check Once Upon A Child for items the kids' needs. Phil hasn't seen a new pair of jeans, maybe ever. But he's so hard on them, I don't think he cares very much about anything being new. I kinda think he likes to look grungy. Isabella and I can share some things, though I get real mad when I find one of my shirts rumpled uncaringly in a corner of her room, and she probably doesn't like it any better when I'm wearing her sweatshirt to make a batch of chili or using the sleeve to wipe Gordie's nose. The little boys share clothes, and, when we do get Violette something new, it's often "gender neutral," so she can pass it along. But, sometimes, the occasion calls for a new outfit. My husband's uncle, Mike, is getting married in a couple of weeks at a small country church south of here. We are so happy for him and his fiance, Irene. We are so excited to celebrate with them. This occasion calls for the kids to get cleaned-up and dressed-up. Here's what I've got going so far:

I ordered this in Violette's size from Maria at A Vintage Touch on Etsy. Violette's got a plain brown sweater and a cute pair of purple fringed boots she can wear with it.

I ordered this style (the patterns and colors are different) in Archie's size from EW. McCall, also on Etsy. Archie inherited a sweet pair of cowboy boots from his cousin, Benjamin, so he'll clomp around like a little cowpoke.

And, I ordered this for Isabella, from modcloth.com. She's got a pair of Minnetonka Moccasins that'll go nicely, as well as an Indian beaded belt.

I'm not sure yet for the rest. Mitchell's got very distinct ideas about "his look" these days, so I'll probably just keep my nose out of his decisions. Phillip's got more of skater thing/GreenDay concert-goer thing happening, so I'm sure we'll have to drudge up some cleaned-up version of grunge. And Gordie. I'm not sure he's going. I'm thinking of dropping him at my mom's where he can just hang out in his pajamas all day!

Make Something Monday

2012-02-27T17:27:00.001-08:00

Violette woke up with a sore throat and ear ache today, so we kept her home from school. After some throat coat tea, a hot pack on her ear, and a dose of aspirin, she was up and ready to do "something." She loves to make things. Here, she's stitching a butterfly pillow.

I started this pillow, a whaling scene, of course, since I'm all obsessed with Moby Dick, which is quite annoying.

Here you can see the pencil marks, drawn by Nate.

Ready to bake.

Here, Violette's beating egg whites for a Mock Angel Food cake, which we dismantled and mixed with a basic powder sugar frosting and shaped into cake balls.

Decorating with great vigor.

Picture's a little fuzzy, but they are cute and tasty.

Moby Dick Fun

2012-02-26T17:20:00.003-08:00

I'm closing in on 300 pages, and I'll rabble up some thoughts on the last 100 pages in a day or two. For now, check out these three sites for related information.

Amboise Louis Garnerey, one of the few whaling painters Melville gives a thumbs-up.
You can find other whaling images here: Photo Gallery . Into the Deep: America, Whaling & the World . American Experience . WGBH | PBS

Photo of Sperm Whale via National Geographic. There's also an audio of a sperm whale clicking you can check out there.

I like this very much: a mother whale and her calf.

And, for those interested, here's a photo of the star constellation Melville writes of, compliments of Christopher J. Pickings.

Nothing Special

2012-02-26T06:26:00.002-08:00

Snack plate: grape tomatoes in red wine vinegar, black berries, mozzarella/pepperoni roll, fig spread (which tastes a lot like ground cherry jam, if anyone remembers that--my mom used to make it), crackers.

Phillip's basketball tournament.

Isabella and Archibald with armloads of treats.

Violette's breakfast: french toast made from leftover baguette, fruit, and maple, raspberry, and fig dipping sauces.

Christmas ornament from Aunt Linda that I like to keep up year round.

Great new dishtowel I found at Weeds and Reeds in New Ulm.

Reminder that spring's almost here.

Isabella and Gordon

2012-02-24T07:13:00.002-08:00

Farm Store Shopping

2012-02-23T19:53:00.002-08:00

I really love this place.

You have to do a little digging, but it's often worth the trouble.

Cool shirt with snap buttons.

Homework

2012-02-23T09:01:00.000-08:00

Phillip is in fourth grade. He's a smart kid, the kind who imagines escape routes for apocalyptic fires and defenses for intruder break-ins. He likes to tinker with the gears and handle bars of his bike and ride it over curbs and through puddles. He likes to pound a hammer and dig holes. He loves to go outside and poke sticks in snake and gopher holes and pull bark off of trees and look at the kinds of bugs crawling under there. He likes to cook and shoot hoops and play with his brothers and sisters. He is intellectually curious and socially savvy. His grades do not always reflect these realities. And, I feel like if his school had its way, he'd spend every free moment doing homework, filling out paperwork, as though the only way to learn something, the only way to demonstrate that he's learned something, is to write it down, check boxes, circle the correct answer, and match the word on the right to its correct definition on the left over and over and over again. God. The sheer number of papers he brings home for homework is ridiculous. I'm so sick of this phenomenon. I understand that we're worried about slipping test scores in this country, but I find the dependence of papers to fix the problem to be misguided and ridiculous. I know, for instance, that the way to improve the writing of my own students is not by requiring them to write 10-page paper instead of a 4-page paper. We need to get more creative with education in this country. The answer is not quantity alone. There are other ways to learn, and there are lots of ways to assess knowledge other than through written language.

Now, I'm an English teacher. I learn through words. I remember information and retain knowledge mostly through the ideas I read on paper. I've noticed that many teachers like words, as well. That makes sense. People who learn this way tend to be successful in school because the system rewards our kind of retention and is based on assessing knowledge using our written language, English. When a person has a positive experience in school, it also makes sense that that person would pursue education as a career. But, that fact also creates a circular problem. What if "Word-Learners" are likely to create assessments that test learned skills in a wordy way, which is great for all the word learners in the classroom, but maybe isn't so great for the other kinds of learners, those who learn with their ears or their hands or any number of other ways? What about those students?

Lately, in a frantic reaction to lagging test scores, we now require more and more homework, more paperwork, more tests, which only highlight the problem more, as the assessments of these papers and tests contribute to the body of facts and figures which seem to prove that our students are not learning enough, which seem to prove that our students are not smart enough and that our teachers are not doing a good job. We seem to have even more evidence of the enormous disconnect between what information is being delivered to students and what they are retaining based on how well they do on paperwork and test assessments.

But, what if the problem is the assessments? What if they are overwhelmingly slanted toward word-learners? By the way, I'm not suggesting reading and writing aren't important. Of course they are. But, they're not the only way to determine knowledge retention or intelligence.

Well, there's the rant of the day. And I'm well aware that I'm not the first person to identify this possibility. But, this issue has been a personal one in our household the past couple of months. And, I waffle between getting mad at my kids for not doing their homework and getting mad at the education system. But, every time, I come away thinking that, outside of occasional projects and tests, grade-schoolers should not have ANY homework aside from reading for pleasure and cardiovascular exercise each night. God. Let them play! Let them develop their curiosity about the world and romp inside their imaginations. Isn't that how our great patent-holders and geniuses learned? Who ever talks about how well Benjamin Franklin did on the matching quiz or how well Susan B. Anthony did on the ACT? Yeah, yeah. I'm being a bit silly, but you get my point.

Root Soup

2012-02-22T08:10:00.000-08:00

This guy's not feeling so well today. Poor Archie.

Turnips, Parsnips, Potatoes (not really a root, more of a tuber--thanks 4H, circa 1988 for lots of garden knowledge), Carrots, and Onions

Mix and heat in this order, 2 tbsp butter, 2 tbsp flour, cup milk, 6 cups water, 2 tbsp veg. boullion.

Chop vegetables. Add one parsnip and one turnip to broth. Simmer.

Puree broth in blender.

Put back in pot. Add rest of vegetables. Sprinkle with paprika, celery salt, pepper, and thyme. Simmer again until vegetables are soft.

Done! The heat of the soup and, especially, the bite and spice of the pepper and turnips and parsnips help clear stuffy heads.

Moby Update

2012-02-21T01:11:00.000-08:00

I finally got caught up on my Moby Dick reading assignment today, which means I am through Chapter 43 and am about to enter into the chapter on whiteness. I've been warned. I was outside with a couple of the kids, taking pictures and thinking about what I'd just read, thinking about all the strange turns Melville had taken since I had last commented about his beautiful book, a book that, at first, had made so much sense, had inspired me, had been so inviting. And, I was upset.

In some camps they say you shouldn't "workshop" books that are already published, that the point is moot as the book's already out there and on the shelves. It seems especially silly to workshop a book that's embraced as an American classic. But, I'm going to do it anyway, if for no other reason than to identify a problem I see in Melville and that I have struggled with myself, which is wanting to do too much with too few pages and going ahead and doing it without earning the right to do it first. Makes complete sense, right? Ha. I know it doesn't. But here's what I mean: A fiction writer has to be more than a nonfiction writer if the work at hand is supposed to be fiction. While I was writing The Turtle Catcher, for instance, I often felt compelled to write long, dry, purely informative chapters (essays) on World War 1. I was researching it so thoroughly, and I was learning so much myself, and I was understandably excited about having that information in my head that I didn't want to bother with the added issue of bringing forth the information through the fiction filter.

Running the information through the fiction-filter requires more time, energy, and thought. I would have rather written about battles and tactics and artillery in my academic Nicole voice. But, The Turtle Catcher was a novel. I knew it was going to be a novel. I wanted it to be a novel. I knew my readers would expect a novel. So, I had to include that information in a novel-natural way. Now, I don't think a writer always has to bend to the will of the reader. In fact, I think in a lot of cases, it's a writer's responsibility to challenge what the reader thinks the reader wants. But Melville is not doing this. At least, I don't feel this type of artistic challenge from Melville to the reader in Moby Dick. I feel a guy who has so much knowledge about whaling in his head that he can hardly wait to get it out, and the way it comes out is the way it comes out regardless of what anyone else wants. This, I think, also explains the parts that read like drama.

Often, the skeletons of my chapters look like play format. I am simply hopping between characters without filling in their movements. I have the dialogue at the ready and am so anxious to get it out (usually so that I don't forget it) that I can't be bothered with prose that establishes setting, mood, and action. Usually, once the dialogue is all out, I go back and fill in, to create a fuller experience for the reader. Melville did not.

I thought Melville came back to his craft after the chapter on cetology (which a friend of mine said she really loved [but she also read and loved a book on the history of salt--that's a wink to you, Donna--and maybe she's just a big weirdo], and I can see myself loving too if in the right context) and after a few pages about the intricacies of a whale ship, which are, admittedly, interesting though not brought forth in a way earned by Ishmael. The overall issue I have, I think, is that Melville sometimes pawns himself off as Ishmael. The voice in the beginning of the novel, one that is looking back on an event, is curious, youthful, intelligent, funny, friendly. Some of those qualities are probably Melville's own, which is totally OK if consistent throughout the book or if changes in personality are a result of plot points. But, what we get in the information-drop chapters of Moby Dick is not a narrator changing or growing. What we get are the outpourings of a man, the author, eager to get what's on his mind, out of his mind without shape. While reading, I can feel the desperate release of an impatient writer who sacrifices his narrator for his own needs. Anyway, I am going on. I am looking forward to more character development on Ahab, on the mates, particularly Starbuck and little Pip, more Queequeg, more Ishmael. I am very interested in the enormous diversity of cultures and languages on the ship. I am interested in what they do all day, as they've not yet encountered a whale. What do they talk about? How do they keep from going stir-crazy and turning on each other? When a whaleman is on the mast, on the lookout, what specifically is he thinking about? I wonder, too, if their will be any discussion of women or sexuality? I hope some of these things come. Something will, that's for sure. I'll attempt to be through page 250 by Wednesday night.

Pear Brownies

2012-02-20T09:09:00.000-08:00

Pear Brownies.

Little helpers.

Chopping.

Adapted this recipe, "Ma's Brownies." Used less butter and included chopped pear and baker's chocolate.

Thick batter.

Waiting patiently.

All done!

New Ulm

2012-02-19T11:25:00.000-08:00

Great day in New Ulm with my father-in-law, Steve.

My old stomping ground, Veigel's Kaiserhoff. I waitressed here for many, many, many years. Today, I ate the best of the place: ribs, German Potato Salad, sauerkraut, and Ray's Salad. Yum!

Nate and my brother-in-law Tony with kids at the Glockenspiel, which incidentally, was one of my oldest daughter, Isabella's, first words, as I used to take her and Mitchell to it all the time to listen to the bells and watch the dancing figures spin.

Flags flying for Fasching, German Mardi Gras, last celebration before the lean, restrained weeks of Lent.

This kid stayed home with his wrecked arm.

But we brought him leftovers from the K.

Bad Mother

2012-02-18T20:02:00.000-08:00

Ended the day at this amazing concert by the extremely talented duo of Ann Fee and Yumiko Oshimo-Ryan. The title of which was "Bad Mother." The music and stories were funny, sad, serious, and ironic. Ann's lyrics to "A Maiden's Prayer" by Badarzewska-Baranowska (a mother of five who composed while the little ones slept and who died in 1861 at the ripe old age of 27) read "And when you wake/I'll be long gone/You'll cry I know/But Daddy's home/And mommy's through/With all of you," which she sings as straight-faced as a saint. Funny stuff.

Here's the also extremely talented, unexplainably single vixen/bartendress/writer/harpist/singer/feline immolator, Amy Kortuem, pushing alcohol

This is the funny and talented pianist Yumiko warming up the crowd as Ann Fee listens in.

This lady cracked me up about 37 times.

Ann's pious ways.

Here is a fiber work by Ann Widness, who you can see in the background.

I just love these plump little goddesses, dancing happily.

Concert over. Message from Mitch. Inspired by the Bad Mother concert, I respond "Hell yeah!"

And then drink wine and eat cupcakes in a dark corner, Bad Mother style.

Honestly, this concert was great. It needs to hit the road. Should it come your way, Go, Go, Go. God, it was nice to laugh.

Saturday Morning

2012-02-18T07:01:00.001-08:00

Red Velvet Archie

2012-02-17T11:17:00.001-08:00

Mankato Night

2012-02-17T08:07:00.000-08:00

Some reasons to love Mankato...

Brian Frink's art at Bethany Lutheran College.

The Good Thunder Reading Series, featuring Kristin Naca and Samuel Ligon

The Ylvisaker Fine Arts Center Gallery is open to the public Sun through Turs 1 -9 pm and Fri and Sat from 1 - 8.

The Good Thunder Reading Series is held in the Centennial Student Union building monthly. Access the schedule here: http://english2.mnsu.edu/gt/PDF/SCHEDULEndb.pdf

Into the Deep: America, Whaling & the World . American Experience . WGBH | PBS

2012-02-15T17:52:00.000-08:00

Say you're really tired. Say your kids have been wild, maybe fighting a lot. Say you've gotten to a part in Moby Dick where the pacing slows wayyyy down. Say you need a little break, but you're still interested in American whaling and Moby Dick and are maybe even interested in the true story that inspired Melville to write Moby Dick. Well, if you are, then you may want to watch this documentary. It's really great, and it is narrated by one of my absolute favorite contemporary writers, Nathaniel Philbrick. It's a free viewing if you click the link.

I'm mixing myself a drink and putting my feet up.

Into the Deep: America, Whaling & the World . American Experience . WGBH | PBS

Neck-Deep

2012-02-15T12:15:00.000-08:00

Though this is my Moby update day,
I am regretfully unable to chat about the great book until tomorrow.
I'm neck-deep in essay-grading, class-developing,
lesson-preparing, and star-gazing until Thursday.

"When I'm Small"

2012-02-15T11:20:00.000-08:00

I love this song, "When I'm Small." So does the Gord-Man.

Archie worried about whether I'm coming or not

Archie happy to see me

Gordie not wanting to sit for lunch

Jonny with Archie at lunch.

Valentine's Gift

2012-02-14T12:34:00.000-08:00

I stitched these little love notes on white pillowcases as a Valentine's gift to Nate. Now I have to be the last thing he thinks of before he closes his eyes. I refuse to settle for anything less than complete mental saturation.

Meat Treats Gum

2012-02-13T04:43:00.000-08:00

Every Christmas, Isabella gets Nate a pack of Bubble Gum, a nostalgic nod to the time when she was small and he taught her to blow bubbles. This past year, talk got going about gum. Somehow, the boys decided that inventing "meat gum" was a good idea. So, with a start-up box of corn starch, syrup, and gum base and then a trip to the grocery store, Nate and the kids endeavored to create the next big thing:

Milk and Honey Cake

2012-02-12T15:23:00.000-08:00

Here's an old-fashioned cake that moves away from the too-sweet boxed versions.

Melt couple tablespoons of butter in 1/2 cup of milk.

Cream 2 eggs, cup of sugar, squeeze of honey, and vanilla.

Sift cup of four with a teaspoon of baking powder and pinch of salt.

Pour hot milk mixture into creamy batter.

Add sifted flour. Mix batter. Pour into 8 by 8 baking pan. Bake 25 minutes at 350.

Meanwhile, melt cup of brown sugar, tablespoons butter, tablespoon of milk, little dark corn syrup, and nuts.

Pour this mixture on top of hot baked cake. Put under broiler for a minute or two until cake and frosting bubble, caramelize, and brown.

Serve.

Double Date

2012-02-12T06:34:00.001-08:00

Cast me in a vampire movie. Fast.

Some Boys

2012-02-11T14:50:00.000-08:00

Mitchell and Gordon.

Making Valentines

2012-02-10T09:18:00.001-08:00

Nate and Archie.

Dancing with Melville

2012-02-08T19:33:00.000-08:00

OK. So we're through chapter 19. I feel like I am dancing with this book, like I am in the hands of a trustworthy expert, a partner who knows what he's doing, so that if I fall or falter, he will hold me and steady me, and we will continue with our waltz. It took me twenty or thirty pages to get into this book and to get used to the random, overused commas and, sometimes, semicolons, but I'm in now. I don't worry when I trip over an awkwardly phrased sentence or don't know a word. After a couple of dictionary checks, I've learned to trust my ability to figure them out from context. I come close enough to not warrant any more of those distractive dictionary hunts (I will write that and then encounter a series of archaic words in the next section-ha!). Honestly, I love this book. It's insightful. It's bold, especially for its time. It's still literature-forward, even in 2012. And, it's funny! Ha! How about where the two ship captains keep mispronouncing Queequeg's name? Great stuff. And, Ishmael, thus far, is a very capable narrator, and I suspect he has many of Melville's own traits, which is why he's coming off so fully developed and likable and real.OK, so tell me: Your favorite quote? Any themes you've identified? Any annoyances? Mine are as follows: My favorite quote is the whole bit on page 54 where Ishmael deliberates about whether he should join Queequeg in his pagan prayer rituals or whether it would be against the commandments. His reasoning through that situation and his dismissal of jealousy from a merciful God absolutely tickle me, especially when I think about the time and place in which Melville lived and what a risk it might have been to champion such beliefs then. Though, now that I think about it, transcendentalism would have been afoot in the east at this time, so maybe some of those principles or influences are at play. I don't know. I'll keep reading. In any case, my favorite line reads, "Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth-pagans and all included-can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible!" To that I want to raise a glass in cheers. A theme I've identified so far is a life/death theme. Duh, right? But the theme I've identified has to do with Ishmael thinking about different people and categorizing them into people who live thinking about and fearing death and the dead and people who live thinking about and preparing for life and the living. I notice this in my own going-abouts, so this theme is reflecting back to me something I'm already interested in in the world. I think a lot of people spend too many of their living hours ruminating about the dark possibilities of death, most of which come through some fanatical devotion to a religion, and in doing so, can often be a dark cloud over this world and life, a phenomenon that Ishmael nails later on, "Now, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person's religion, be it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any other person, because that other person don't believe it also. But when a man's religion becomes really frantic; when it is a positive torment to him; and, in fine, makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to lodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and argue the point with him" (90). That quote also demonstrates My annoyance with the punctuation situation in this book. But I'm getting over it.All right, I've gotten my book back from Nate, who is a bit behind but is a quick reader and will catch up quickly. I'm going to read through Chapter 43 for next Wednesday. We haven't even met Ahab yet! Post thoughts here or on Facebook. I would just love to be sitting at Blue Bricks circa 2003-2004 discussing this book with all the old MSU friends. Sigh.

Sibling Love

2012-02-08T15:33:00.001-08:00

Isabella with Archie and Gordie.

Thar She Blows Treat

2012-02-08T10:18:00.000-08:00

I can't wait to discuss Moby-Dick with my husband (and with you!) tonight. I made this little treat for us to enjoy while we talk about what we've read. I love reading and discussing a good book with Nate. It's one of my favorite things in the world...

Here's what you need for this really cheap but pretty treat: flour, water, salt, butter, and eggs

Melt 2 sticks of butter in 2 cups boiling water.

Add 2 cups flour and a teaspoon salt.

Stir until you get this ball shape.

Switch to bowl and allow to cool a bit. If you don't wait, the hot batter will cook the eggs. Add 8 eggs,

two at a time until you get this sticky, wavy batter.

Dollop onto cookie sheet.

VERY IMPORTANT: After twenty minutes of baking at 425 degrees, stab each one with a knife point. If you don't, they'll collapse once you remove them. Bake five more minutes.

Fill with Cool-Whip and nuts or pudding or vanilla yogurt.

Enjoy!

Drawer Explorers

2012-02-06T09:04:00.000-08:00

In every room of this house, drawers and closet doors display their contents. I walk from room to room, closing, re-closing, and closing again.Here's why:

Lemon Bars

2012-02-05T13:11:00.001-08:00

My contribution to our friend Ed's Superbowl Party shall be Lemon Bars. Yesssss!

Cultural Literacy

2012-02-04T16:00:00.000-08:00

Every week or so, I give my students a new list of cultural literacy terms, which are people, places, books, historical events, or vocabulary words from a specific time and place. The first week I did "Minnesota." On that list were Prince, Paul Wellstone, The Coen Brothers, Giants in the Earth, Jesse Ventura, Arne Carlson, Little Crow, Wing Young Huie, and other terms to equal twenty pieces of knowledge to research and learn for the quiz. One of those questions was to name the current governor of Minnesota. Nearly 50% of the class missed that one on the quiz. Only half came up with Mark Dayton. But most of them got "name one of your two senators," Al Franken being far more popular than Amy Klobuchar. And, no one missed number eight, which was to "name the Minnesota singer and songwriter who made First Avenue famous," even though only a handful knew exactly who Prince was when I first distributed the list the week before. And very few missed "name the well-known photojournalist who has photographed the everyday lives of everyday people in Minneapolis and elsewhere." Almost all of them got Wing Young Huie correct even though no one had ever heard of him before I presented the list. I probably should walk away from the results of the quiz being very, very alarmed that so many early twenty-somethings don't have the slightest inclination who governs the state they live in, but I'm not. Maybe this generation is hard-wired to remember the arts and those associated with it. Of course, I'd prefer it if they knew all their politicians. I'd feel better. But I'm quite happy that they're both attuned to and interested in the arts. To them, I'm sure music, television, and other types of media are more interesting and important, and I can see why. On a day to day basis, the work of artists probably seems to affect their immediate happiness more than the ideas and speeches of politicians. Maybe the politicians need to change their delivery, their message, their...lesson plan. I watched the President's State of the Union address with one of my other sections, and I watched them watch Obama. When he was funny, when he relaxed, or when he was just a little bit combative seemed to heighten their attention, regardless of the topic he was discussing, which goes to show you, you can talk about seemingly boring topics in an engaging way. What do you think?

100%!

Another perfect score! I must be a great teacher!

Uh-oh. Maybe not.

Centerpiece to Plate

2012-02-03T11:04:00.000-08:00

Avocado Salad: salt, 1/2 lime, 1/4 lemon, dollap of cilantro, finely chopped sweet red pepper, a couple of chopped cherry tomatoes, 3 or 4 avocado

Another Big Melt

2012-02-02T14:32:00.001-08:00

46 degrees.

Moby Dick

2012-02-01T18:00:00.000-08:00

Let's tap that whale.

I've got my book. Do you have yours?

I've made myself a little snack. I've got a warm blanket and comfy pillow. I'm ready to go.

Assignment 1 ReadThis week, let's read chapters 1-19. I'll post new questions and new activities and a new reading assignment next Wednesday. Assignment 2 EatFor this week's activity, send me a picture of your favorite book-reading snack, preferably with you in it so I can see your sweet faces. I'd like to post them all together in a blog post at some point. You can either send it to me via facebook or to nlhelget@gmail.com. Assignment 3 Answer the following question in the comments section of this post. Here it is:Melville dedicates this book to Nathaniel Hawthorne, author of such books as The Scarlet Letter and The Blithedale Romance and lots of short stories often anthologized. So, if you wrote a book and had a chance to dedicate it to a cherished American author, who would it be?Bonus Question for you literary types: Why might Melville have chosen Hawthorne?

Chops and Cream Peas

2012-02-01T11:53:00.000-08:00

Minnesota Wild Rice

Couple of thick chops

Butter + Flour + Heat

Heavy cream + whisk + milk + heat

= Baked Chops, Wild Rice, and Creamed Peas

Jealousy

2012-02-01T07:42:00.001-08:00

All. Day.Archibald. Gordon.

Soup's On

2012-01-30T18:55:00.000-08:00

My cooking creativity often takes a dive in the winter. I miss the little stands with fresh-from-the-garden corn, watermelon, herbs, cucumbers, and tomatoes. I toss together some pretty crappy meals a lot of days. A hot dog. A side of cottage cheese. Slip a couple of corn chips on the plate and deliver. Either that or run through the drive-through and hand out the burgers and fries. I get a bad, a guilty feeling when I put so little thought and effort into the food that goes into my family's mouths. So, I've made a commitment to slow down and make more meals at home.Bean SoupRinse the beans.

Put together and simmer the broth.

Chop some vegetables.

Get some help crumbling bacon.

Simmer.

Eat with crackers and bread.

The Last Stand

2012-01-30T08:38:00.000-08:00

The Last Stand: Custer, Sitting Bull, and the Battle of the Little Bighorn by Nathaniel Philbrick
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A very thorough, bright, and imagistic review of the events and people who contributed to the Last Stand at the Little Bighorn. Philbrick is a master of incorporating first-hand accounts via quotes and also a master of combing history to find possible motivations for the actions and words of these people. There are a lot of people to manage in THE LAST STAND. And, since I was reading on a Nook, I wasn't able to underline or make margin notes as I might normally do when trying to connect people who pop up in various chapters. The book, because it doesn't and shouldn't, follow the story of one or two people from beginning to end, can become convoluted and complicated to manage. And some of the chapters don't feel united. Also, toward the end, the aftermath feels rushed and condensed too much. Philbrick does lean on a couple of easy metaphors, attempting to put Custer, Sitting Bull, and the events of 1876 into historical context, but I'm not sure putting the event into context is possible, even yet. It was simultaneously surprising and predictable, unusual and common for the time. Even so, Philbrick's style and ability to offer fresh perspective raises this book up. One of my favorite lines is, "when does resistance to the inevitable simply become an expression of personal ego, or even worse, of narrow-minded nostalgia for a vanished past." Philbrick is at his best when he is assessing history. This is a strange comment, but I'll add that I love reading Philbrick because his vocabulary is specific and correct. I often learn new words or am reminded of words I once learned and have forgotten.

View all my reviews

Profundity Dissemination

2012-01-29T11:56:00.000-08:00

I've noticed this trend on Facebook: take a picture of yourself holding a card with words on it, and people will like it like crazy. I was thinking about this while I was preparing for my Saturday class (Yes. That's right. I teach class on Saturdays.) because I was sort of feeling blue thinking about all the words that come out of my mouth that go in one ear and out the other, that I have to repeat over and over and over again, or that students never hear at all because they're busy checking their Facebook and reading the cards that people in photographs are holding up for the camera. To cheer myself up, I tried to remember a couple of things that I've said that have gotten at least a blink or two of connection or understanding from students. Here they are:

Join in the trend! If you've said something noteworthy (pun intended), take a picture of yourself and link to your blog or post in on my Facebook wall. I'd love to see it and maybe steal it for my class.

Nothing Special

2012-01-27T09:42:00.001-08:00

This was the morning sunrise between New Ulm and Mankato.

A couple of hours later, snow.

Lazy sandwich: everything bagel, cream cheese, turkey, spinach.

The best.

Old standby: buttered noodles with peas

Oldest and youngest

Hoops, Moon, Nook

2012-01-26T19:33:00.001-08:00

Book Review

2012-01-26T11:27:00.000-08:00

Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I'm intrigued and impressed by the construction of this book. Anderson bobs between different citizens of a small town, revealing inner passions that sometimes conflict with outer realities. In its time, I can see how this book would perhaps shock and relieve its readers. I can see why they liked it. For me, the book isn't revelatory enough. In any case, I'm glad I read it.

View all my reviews

Snapshots

2012-01-25T07:38:00.000-08:00

Dramatic Irony

Crafts

A Nice Lunchbox Note

Fueling in the Cold

For Keeping Hands Clean and Moisturized in Winter

Good Poems

2012-01-23T11:22:00.000-08:00

In times of strife or stress or simple times of quiet, I like to pick up a poem or two. We've had strange days here: the death of a good friend's brother at an age way too young and the Lazarus-like resurrection of a friend and mentor who was thought to be a few minutes from death. The pictures are of three of my go-to standards, James Wright, Kay Ryan, and Walt Whitman. I sometimes like to think about or reread those versus from the second chapter of Song of Songs, too. They're very passionate, sexy, very secular. Here they are since I don't have a picture: I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

We Love Noodles!

2012-01-23T05:57:00.001-08:00

Somebody's getting too big for the changing table, which I suppose suggests he may be too big for diapers (but he's not yet 2!?!).

Phillip and Archie always have a funny face for the camera.

2012-01-22T06:05:00.000-08:00

There's a teenager under there. If you have a teenager lying on your couch with a blanket over her or his head (metaphorically or literally), you might enjoy this article, "Teenage Brains" by David Dobbs, which was published in National Geographic a couple of months ago.

Snowy School Morning

2012-01-20T10:18:00.000-08:00

A nice snow fell overnight and into the morning. It's one of those quiet but serious snows, and the weather here seems to be reflecting the events and mood. The kids were tired but compliant this morning, resigned to school where testing is in full swing. The roads were inches deep with snow, dangerous. I drove slow and listed to MPR, which never fails to help pass the time with stimulating and thoughtful stories. On the way home, too, I saw a gaggle of wild turkeys in the field. I tried to get a closer photo, but they scare easy and bolt.

Moby Dick

2012-01-18T19:59:00.000-08:00

I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I haven't read Herman Melville's Moby Dick. Though I've read a lot of nonfiction on the subjects of sea-faring and whaling including most of Nathaniel Philbrick's books and am currently reading Leviathan: A History of Whaling by Eric Jay Dolin and even some of Melville's short stories and poetry, I have not read THE novel. Though I possess an undergraduate degree in literature, which I earned by reading lots and lots of world literature, feminist literature, and multicultural literature, I didn't dedicate myself to the traditional American classics. But now, as I'm about to embark on a new writing project that includes whaling, sea exploration, and lofty ambitions, I feel compelled to read the tale that first mastered these three themes. It's interesting to note that when Moby Dick was released in 1851, the book was a flop. Critics didn't like it. Readers didn't like it. Even though whale oil had illuminated and provided energy for the factories and products of the industrial revolution, and whale baleen and fat provided the ingredients for corsets, soap, lotion, and make-up, American men and women were over whales and whaling. They were no longer enamored with the sea to the east. They were interested in the land to the west. Americans were drilling into the earth to discover their next energy source, and women's fashions were changing. By 1851, whale products were no longer the critical ingredient that fueled their lives. The story of a man chasing a whale may have been a good one, but Melville's timing was all wrong, 10 years too late. After presenting to the reading public what he considered to be his greatest work and being very disappointed by the sales, Melville sunk away from the literary scene, made his living as a night watchman, and died before seeing Moby Dick become a touchstone in American literature. It's really Melville's personal story that sells the book for me. I'm going to read it, once and for all. It's a big book. I've heard it's challenging. And, I'm busy. But, I'm resolute. I'll read it while I bathe the kids, while they hog the tv and computer, and while they sleep. And if you want to, I'd love to have you read it with me. Beginning Feb. 1, I'll post the reading schedule for the week with a couple of discussion questions. If you need further convincing, Philbrick wrote a whole book about why every American should read it. You can read the synapsis of that argument here: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/23/books/review/why-read-moby-dick-by-nathaniel-philbrick-book-review.html?pagewanted=all

Comforting Abstractions

2012-01-18T09:41:00.000-08:00

On this day Gordie is sick, the laundry's overflowing, and, most importantly and sadly, my good friend is reeling from the worst possible news. And I've got nary a word to comfort him. Yesterday, I was mourning all the words that exist that go unused. Today, though I search and search, I can't find the right ones and find myself returning to old, cliched adages. On this day, I'm reminded that there's logic in some traditional, stand-by prayers, even for skeptics, for consummate champions of reason rather than religion, such as I am. Today this secularist is reflecting and doing something closely related to praying.

Lofty Words, Meaningless

2012-01-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

Among the first things I do while teaching the Descriptive Essay is to outlaw words like "awesome," "great," and "beautiful." I warn, "if you are using the same words to describe your mother that could be used to describe the Grand Canyon, you might consider picking new descriptors." Somehow, even while using a language that is so vast, infused with influences from hundreds of global languages and requiring nearly one million dictionary entries, coming up with fresh details and the "right" words is difficult. I understand. I, too, find myself describing the a burrito from Chipotle, a grounded Italian luxury liner, and one of Gordie's diapers as "amazing."To further befuddle the task of identifying the exact right word for the exact right situation, educational systems and government entities and corporations have manipulated and diluted the meanings of words that once held importance and power. Now, we want our students to strive for "excellence," which we judge through various, oftentimes vacuous "assessments." I read an article this week in Thought & Action, the National Education Association's higher education journal, titled "Tales From the Dark Side" by John Daly. In it, he mostly recounts what a bureaucratic drag it is to be a department chairperson. But, what caught my fancy was his list of words and phrases whose meanings have become convoluted through misuse. My favorite is "accountability," which he says is now "a term favored by those who delegate as much responsibility and as little authority as possible," but I also like "flexibility," which he describes as a "word used most often by those who would like you to be flexible so that they don't have to be." In the spirit of having a laugh at the above-mentioned phenomenon, I painted this eagle head the other night and then painted "Domination" on it. This is my funny nod of those motivational posters with a hugely-maned lion on them with the word "Leadership" printed beneath or with wild horses and the word "Spirit" underneath. Next, I'm going to do a big deer with enormous antlers with the word, "Significance" on it. That one was Nate's idea. If you can think of an animal/word combo that might be funny, let me know. I'm gonna do a bunch and then mail them to unsuspecting people. My friend, the artist Jason Ruhl, did a project like this last year, where he sent his art to people snailmail, and I'm copying him. So cool.

Easy Sunday

2012-01-15T14:19:00.000-08:00

It's only 4 o'clock, and I already feel done for. Nate's been gone the last couple of days and my older kids have been at their dad's. So, it's been me and the little ones holding down the fort. Keeping Archie from arguing with Violette or Gordie is an olympic feat. But, we managed to eat some decent food and get some fresh air today. That counts for something, right? Boy. I'm tired. I wish Archie were...

January Poem on a Cold Evening

2012-01-14T21:45:00.000-08:00

Trampled by Turtles

2012-01-14T19:51:00.000-08:00

I had the great pleasure of hearing these guys at Riverfront Park in Mankato this past summer. The band, the venue, awesome. I like the turn American music is taking, back toward more artistic, natural, and talented performers and musicians and lyricists. After the artificiality of the early 2000s, this return to instruments and voices makes my heart soar. The sound is pure, exciting, inspired, soulful, humble, respectful, and energetic. The banjo pulls a sound reminiscent of old frontier music, but the overall sound hops with fresh voices, lyrics, and even humor. If you Pandora Trampled By Turtles, you'll get groups like The Avett Brothers and Mumford and Sons, but Trampled By Turtles is more clever than the first and more instrumentally talented than the second. They're a Minnesota band, too. Check 'em out. Side note: I listened to them so much while writing Stillwater that I wrote their likenesses into my book...except I introduced a jaw bone rattler. But, who knows, maybe one of these boys will pick up that instrument, too. Codeine by Trampled By TurtlesI couldn't find a photo credit for the picture, but I found it here: http://4to12.wordpress.com/2010/10/08/trampled-by-turtles-palomino/

Salsa Contest, Submission 1

2012-01-13T11:16:00.000-08:00

So, Mitchell very stubbornly maintains that Pace Picante Salsa is the best salsa out there. I don't like it. Too chunky. And it tastes like it's made from those green tomatoes which are artificially reddened with ethylene gas. Last time Nate and I hit the grocery store, we picked up a few different salsas to try. I opened this one, wee willy's, today, and I'm really liking it. It's got good texture, not too chunky and not too runny. I'm a salt fiend, and this has a salty flavor along with a fully developed tomato taste. I can hardly imagine a better flavor combination than ripe tomato and salt, so I'm very happy with this jar. We bought medium heat, which really isn't very hot at all. I'd consider it mild, so I'll go for the hot next time. But, we've got other jars to sample in the meanwhile...

Walleye

2012-01-13T04:59:00.001-08:00

I painted this last night. I've got a spot over a book case I want him to lord over.

Horse Camp Jacket

2012-01-11T18:25:00.000-08:00

Our finalized book jacket showed up today, too. I love the pig! Book comes out early May.

The End! The End!

2012-01-11T07:23:00.000-08:00

Here it is. 330 pages. 102,000 words. Twins. Orphans. Widows. Mothers. Corruption. Greed. Jealousy. Malice. Violence. Rivers. Frontier. Freedom. Slavery. Expansion. Isolation. Manifest Destiny. War. Saints. Sinners. Despair. Love. Stillwater.

Descriptive Documentary

2012-01-10T14:22:00.000-08:00

Well, it's a new semester, which means it's time to start the Descriptive Hometown Paper. I usually begin the teaching of this essay with a viewing of Vernon, Florida, a documentary by Errol Morris. This documentary does, on screen, what I think descriptive writers ought to try and do on paper, which is to bring a place to life and leave a lasting impression by using sensory description without relying upon abstract opinions. Morris caught wind that some insurance companies were looking into insurance claims for "maimed body parts" and "amputated body parts" in north Florida, which, for some reason, were very, very numerous. Seems that people down there, then a place a high unemployment, were shooting off their arms, legs, and fingers to collect the insurance money. So, Morris headed down with his camera and started filming. After receiving death threats, Morris backed off his project, but he realized he had some, shall we say, interesting footage anyway. He clipped them together and made, Vernon, Florida. There's no plot. There's no narrative. There's just scene after scene of ordinary people. A turkey hunter. An opossum catcher. Morris does not comment upon these people at all. He just portrays them as they were and allows the viewers to come to their own conclusions about the lasting impressions. I use this film to show students that it's usually better to describe a place without using any judging language such as "boring," "ugly," or "amazing" or "great." I use it to teach them that if they describe the way a place looks, sounds, tastes, that the sensory description will help the reader experience the place him or herself, without the subjective filter of a narrator. You can stream it for yourself at netflix.com. It's an instant play.

Minnesota River in January

2012-01-09T20:01:00.000-08:00

I'm no expert, but I'd say 50 degrees is a bit unusual for early January in Minnesota. Yet, that is what we hit today. The kids and I had time to kill while Mitchell had basketball practice, so we went to see what we could see in the Minnesota River bed. Water's pretty low, folks. While I didn't let our extended dry weather prohibit me from enjoying the warmth immensely, I wonder/worry a bit about what precipitation the spring will bring. Since we had so little rain in summer and fall, and we've had only a few measurable snowfalls, I'm sure the old farmers are biting their nails to the quick because, as you all already know, snow means moisture in the fields for the corn and soybeans. Ironically, on the way home, I saw a field freshly tiled. Tile drains the excess water from the fields, so the plants don't drown. Intakes drain the water in low spots, and then the underground tile runs the water to the river. I should say the tiles take water and whatever else gets sprayed on the crops these days to make sure they're tall, green, sturdy as iron, and disease and pest-resistent to the river. Crops didn't always look so perfect, you know. They used to look kinda rustic and like something you might see slapped up on a pilgrim's table. Apparently, consumers don't like for their food to look that way anymore. Also, it was a pretty inefficient way to farm, too much labor output for too little crop payoff. But, we do pay the price for these seemingly perfect edibles...but, I'll leave that preaching for another day.

Dead Deer

2012-01-09T09:44:00.000-08:00

As I was driving the kids to school in New Ulm this morning, I saw a plague of grackles scavanging on this dead deer.

Add to Reading List

2012-01-08T05:45:00.000-08:00

My friend Tom Maltman has a new book coming out this fall, Little Wolves, published by Soho Press, which also did his first book, Night Birds. Night Birds, the plot of which springs from the Dakota-Settler Conflict of 1862, will probably see a resurgence this year, being it's the 150th anniversary of the terrible events of that year. While the United States was embroiled in the Civil War and continued its expansion westward, it systematically and callously pushed American Indians out of their traditional lands, by force and manipulations, and onto reservations. Political ineptitude and selfish prioritizing kept important and promised payments and food and supplies from the families on them, and starvation and disease prevailed. And, in the late summer of 1862, some of the Dakota took out their frustrations on the settlers. More than 500 people were killed. President Lincoln relieved Major General John Pope from Civil War duty (as he'd recently orchestrated a humiliating defeat and retreat at the second Bull Run) and sent him here, to "put down the Indian Rebellion." As you may or may not know, a good deal of our Minnesota boys were part of the First Minnesota Regiment, who came upon that retreat at the second Bull Run, and then stayed to regroup and prepare for battles at Antietem, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and ultimately at Gettysburg, where the regiment had 75% casualties, I think, nearly 200 of the 300 soldiers left from a regiment that once numbered 1,000. I wonder how things might have been different if a more complete army had remained here, in Minnesota, and had properly distributed the promised payments and entertained the complaints from the Dakota leaders. My book is, to some degree, about this First Regiment.In any case, I had the pleasure of reading Tom's work when I was in the MFA program at MSU, and after we graduated, Nate and I started up a little writing group, of which Tom is a member. So, I've had a sneak-peak at Little Wolves. Tom has a way with the natural world and complex human relationships. Tom and I have a similar obsession with history and its implications in the present. Some might wonder what gives us, white, middle-class, comfortable people in 2012, the right to write about the struggles of people in the past or the lives of cultures different from our own. I've heard this sentiment from regular readers and from literature teachers and from other writers who seem to think that one must experience an event or somehow inherit the experience of the event in order to earn the right to write about it. Sherman Alexie, a wonderful writer, used to share that sentiment until he wised up and revised his opinion. Good for him, because how silly an opinion it is. With that logic, men couldn't write from women's perspectives nor women from men's nor anyone about a time period older than himself. When a writer immerses him or herself in careful study and research and applies imagination, why should anything be off limits? If anyone objects to the writer's portrayal, that person is more than welcome to chronicle the event himself. Tom will be speaking about his research and his book at Gustavus Adulphus College in St. Peter on January 16. You can find details here: http://news.blog.gustavus.edu/2011/12/17/u-s-dakota-war-of-1862-speaker-series-begins-jan-4/ Put both of Tom's books on your reading list this year. Our writing group has had quite a good year. Nick Healy won the Minnesota Voices Project with a collection of short stories, It Takes You Over, the title of which comes from a story set during the Armistice Day Blizzard (any out there remember that Veteran's Day used to be called Armistice Day?). Tom had Little Wolves taken by Soho. Nate and I sold Horse Camp to Egmont, and I sold Stillwater to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. We're on fire! Let's hope 2012 is as generous to us as was 2011.

Pottery Barn Makes Me Covetous

2012-01-06T08:54:00.000-08:00

I love love Pottery Barn. But, I can't afford anything in it (except a pillow covering or two). I got the new Pottery Barn magazine last week and spent too many minutes paging through it, growing more and more desirous. So, I went around and decided to be happy about the things that I do have, including...

my brain, my imagination, and the blessed opportunity to work from home a good part of the time

sunshine through the windows

spiderman toys

happy thoughts to fall asleep and wake up to

plaid coats aplenty

a cute apron from Abby, my sister-in-law and dearest friend

happy memories. You can't buy those at Pottery Barn.

Buffalo Break

2012-01-05T17:43:00.000-08:00

Soooo, I've got this really important writing deadline coming up, and I am working really hard at it. But, sometimes my brain needs a break. Today, I pulled out the kids' acrylics and painted over this crappy old painting of an old guy reading we bought at the thrift store several years ago. I scrambled up these three buffalo (bison?). I hope I don't someday discover that the painting I painted over is a one-of-kind, million dollar treasure.One of these days, I'll learn to paint in a way that's not quite so two-dimentional. That day's not today, though. Pretend they're made of cardboard.

Oh Books!

2012-01-02T13:21:00.000-08:00

As I write this post today, my children are napping, Ken Burns' The Civil War plays on the other computer, my husband sits at his laptop, writing. With this post, I am taking a break from my own novel writing. I am 300 pages into Stillwater (as it's still titled though I'm entertaining other ideas). I am rounding out some chapters on the First Minnesota regiment at Harper's Ferry and Bull Run. My mind is on fire, and my fingers can hardly keep up. Sometimes, my thoughts get to racing so that I have to take a break from the book and calm my brain. This blog helps.I'm thinking today about all the books I have read that have contributed to the completion of this project. My book is set from 1840 to about 1880 and mostly in Stillwater, first part of Wisconsin Territory then part of the state of Minnesota. To learn the details and history to fill in all the details, the population, the places the people came from, the economy, the weather, the clothing, the food, the transportation, I have read dozens and dozens of books. My book was first inspired by Les Miserable by Victor Hugo, a French writer writing about an escaped convict and the French Revolution, which seems to have very little to do with Minnesota in the 1850s. But, for me, the tale of a prison break in a tumultuous time sparked my own literary sensibilites. What if a righteous man escaped from Stillwater Prison? I thought. What if he were a Civil War vet? That was the first emotional rabbit hole from which I wrote my first chapter of Stillwater. And then, books and ideas by Whitman, Stowe, Cady Stanton, Ole Rolvaag, and more contemporary and local writers like Bill Lass and Richard Moe, and dozens and dozens more poets, novelists, and historians led me on one campaign into the past after another. One of my characters is illiterate, a thing which grieves her terribly. And as I sit and think about all I've learned from books, I find myself becoming emotional for this imaginary woman, one I created. It's silly, but her distance from knowledge, from knowing, all she wants to know affects me and makes me so grateful for the gift of words and organized ideas on pages and the ability to read them and learn. Books! Such gifts.

Snow, Soup, and Spring Lake

2011-12-30T12:41:00.000-08:00

We had a nice snow here this morning after a dry winter so far. Bundling up the kids to go outside is always a "two-steps-forward-one-step-back" venture. Before I got Gordie outdoors, he removed his mittens four times. Why anyone makes (or buys) mittens for anyone who doesn't understand how his fingers work is beyond me. But we finally got him out there, and he had a blast. We warmed up with some Panera soup before checking out the ice on Spring Lake.

Play Time

2011-12-28T12:07:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I worry that all the toys my kids have will somehow cramp their imagination rather than develop it. But, I came upon this scene today in which Archie was playing "baseball game" with a bunch of characters, including a few spectator horses and motorcycle guys in a truck and where Violette had set of a "horse hospital" in which she was immunizing Spiderman with a pen and was using a nail clipper for surgeries. I guess they're OK in the imagination department.

Christmas Travels

2011-12-27T13:10:00.000-08:00

From top to bottom: Grandpa Gordon with my niece, Izzy. Nate and Abby and kids on tracks. Archie looking for prey. Archie with shiv. Nate and niece Izzy in morning light. My brother-in-law, Tom, dancing with Izzy, Gordie, and Violette. Wrangler tought. Gordie bawling his eyes out. Despite a shaky start (see Gordie in the Christmas morning time-out), we had a good Christmas. While my oldest three kids took off for Tulsa to visit their dad's sister, the rest of us drove down to the stark prairie of Westbrook, Minnesota (population 974) to hang in the man-den at Nate's dad's place where we broke into impromptu music and dancing, my sister-in-law learned to play the harmonica in about two minutes, we discussed Willa Cather's O Pioneers, we trifled over the qualities of various craft beers, and someone is always wearing and someone always gets a Wrangler shirt for Christmas. Renaissance rural folks, no kidding. We had good food, great conversation. Then we headed westward to the great state of South Dakota to visit Nate's sister and her family. We walked the railroad tracks for a bit in search of pretend adventure and game for the cookpot (my brother-in-law brought his slingshot and Archie brought his binoculars). Though we searched high and low, we had no luck save one pheasant that was too fast for us, and we would have surely starved had not the aunts and grandparents saved us with a nice sup of beef, bread, potato, and hot coffee. I don't know what it is about South Dakota, but I always turn pioneer over there.

Christmas Eve

2011-12-25T05:09:00.000-08:00

In the third picture, that's Nancy, Neah, me, Mom, Nola, Natalie, and Nevada from left to right. In the bottom picture, that huge kid is actually Mitchell who is a rare subject of photographs as he often disappears when the camera comes out. He's 14 and sprouting right up! We enjoyed a wonderfully warm Christmas Eve day with my grandparents, mom, and sisters. We ate well, talked fully, organized a calendar so that we could all take turns wearing Nola's Christmas sweater, and snapped quite a few pictures...

Two Things My Kids Despise: Santa in the Flesh and Quiche

2011-12-23T10:42:00.000-08:00

From top to bottom: That's Phillip at two years old, refusing to sit on Santa's lap, so I'm holding him and leaning him into the photo. Then, that's Violette at a year and a half, crying while Phillip looks for the first opportunity to get the H out of there, then Archie, a year and a half, crying, then Gordie, a year and a half, crying. And, of course, a piece of quiche I made this morning that only Isabella (who has a fairly adventurous palate) and Gordie (who doesn't know any better) would even try.

Phillip's Birthday

2011-12-21T19:43:00.001-08:00

As I write this, Isabella's flan for Spanish class is baking in the oven. More accurately, it's the flan that my sister Natalie put together for Isabella's Spanish class while Isabella checked her facebook and text messages. The oven's had quite a workout today.

Ten years ago this night, I went into labor with Phillip Raymond in the beginnings of a blizzard. It snowed real hard all the day. In honor of that day and that fine boy born all those years ago, I baked a white cake today and tried to recreate a snowy-feel on top with coconut, edible pearls, and silver flakes. Three days after Phillip was born in 2001, my nephew, Preston was born on Christmas day. So, I made a cake for him, too. Chocolate with sprinkles. Real simple. It, of course, was the one everyone preferred. Figures.

Phillip and Preston are the best of pals, and we had a good time at the Wow Zone, eating pizza and playing games. Happy Birthday, boys!

Christmas Program...

2011-12-20T10:13:00.001-08:00

We had a great time getting ready for and enjoying Violette's first Holiday program at Monroe Elementary today! The kids and teachers did a great job! Then Violette and I went out with my mom and sister, Nevada for treats at Olive Garden.

Christmas Cookies

2011-12-18T06:03:00.000-08:00

I have a load of sisters: five. Yesterday, Nancy, Natalie, Nola, Nevada, and Neah and a good percentage of our children got together at Nola's to make merry and make cookies. Yum!

Head, Hands, Heart, Health

2011-11-30T08:02:00.000-08:00

The real December essay is about Elizabeth Cady Stanton, domesticity, feminism, and 4-H. It's an ambitious endeavor, and I'll never finish it before the end of the year. So, this is the last post, a collection of photographs of my traditional noodlings. I like to cook. I like to paint. I like to embroider. I like to make things that make the house pretty and comfortable and warm and inviting. Even though it can be very, very overwhelming, I like to take care of the house and rule the domestic sphere. I take pride when a neighbor walks in the door and says, "smells good in here" or when I can hang one of my own paintings on the wall.

Lately, I've been stitching while watching/listening to Ken Burns' documentary, THE WEST, which chronicles the settlement of the American West. I'm using it to research for a new book project called, ROPED, about a girl whose scientist father was shamed off a whaling ship and is now trying to make it as a farmer. As I weave the needle under and over the dishtowel, I listen and let my mind wander. I imagine how my character, Hallelujah Wilkes, would behave, vulnerable to the whims of the naked prairie and relentless barbarous collisions between American Indians and settlers.

And sometimes while I'm cooking or cleaning up, I'll think about my classes. I'll prepare lessons for future classes. I'll review previous lessons and wonder if I did them right.

In any case, being a woman is complicated these days. It's probably not even financially possible for the wife, the mother of a family to stay at home exclusively. The kind of lifestyle that used to be possible with one income, now requires two. And, I'm not sure many of us women would want to return to those days anyway. But I, for one, still enjoy many of the traditional roles even though I work. Therefore, the essay I'm writing, the real one, is about that. Maybe you'll read it someday.

Thanks for reading this year.

Cleaning Up (excerpt)

2011-11-12T09:39:00.000-08:00

excerpt from "Cleaning Up"

Sheetrock’s nailed and taped. Joint compound is smeared, is drying. Nate’s various tools, used to complete this task of filling in a long-ago window well, lay around here and there. An uncovered bucket of patching plaster sits on the counter, a dirty scraper rests on the floor, a two-by-four leans against the wall. While I look forward to the completed project, the interim mess makes me antsy and uncomfortable. I pluck out my eyebrows and eyelashes. I yank on the ends of my hair. I bite my fingernails and the skin around them. I put my hair in a pony tail. I sanitize my hands. I slap a couple of steaks on a cookie sheet and throw them under the broiler. I pour some rice and water into a pot, turn up the heat on the stove. I cut some bread, slather some butter. Dinner’s going. The house smells good. The kids and Nate make happy sounds in the dining room. Everything’s fine. Good even. I try to ignore the construction muddle behind me. I try to imagine how tidy the area will look when the project’s all done. But I keep thinking about the mess. I pull the steaks out of the oven and slide them onto plates. I scoop a dollop of rice next to them. I race the plates to the table and say, “it’s done.” I tap back to the kitchen, spray down the counters, and wipe them clean. Open the microwave and rub dried Spaghettios off the sides. Get down on the floor, lick the pads of my fingers, and use them to sponge tiny crumbs of bread from the floor. Wash my hands. Then, I go the dining room, where Nate and the kids are eating, like normal people do. I stand over Nate as he eats. He eyes me. He stabs a piece of steak. “Can I finish this before you have to wash this plate?”

“Sure’” I say. “How long do you think it will take?”

Among the many qualities I possess which drive Nate and the kids crazy, I am a ruthless cleaner. I have nearly zero tolerance for clutter or dirt, and I can’t relax unless my environment is clean. I like for the toy cars to be in the top wicker container, the toy people to be in the middle container, and the toy blocks, parts, accessories and other miscellaneous toys to be in the bottom one. I like for the couch cushions to be the correct distance apart. I like the bird pillow in front of the blue swirly pillow and the green voile pillow in front of the red flowered one. I like the books in the book shelf to be upright and equal inches from the shelf’s ledge. I like for the corner of the rug to be matched up with the fifth floor board. I like the table cloth to be smooth. I like the bottle of soap on one side of the bathroom faucet and the bottle of lotion on the other. I like both their nozzles pointed toward the drain. I like the creased, not the loose, side of the towels facing out when I open the bathroom closet doors. I don’t like drawers that are opened just a tad. I don’t like pieces of paper on top of the refrigerator. I don’t like shoes on the floor. I don’t like towels that dangle from doors. I don’t like sweaters or hoodies tossed over chairs. I don’t like schoolbags drooped on the high chair. I don‘t like containers of soap, hair product, or lotion sitting on the bathroom vanity. I don’t like cereal bowls sweating on the counter. I don’t like remote controls smeary with potato chip oil. I don’t like fingerprints on the tabletop or the window. I don’t like toys sticking out from under the couch. I don’t like crooked or lumpy bedspreads. I don’t like pillows falling off the bed. God help you if the fitted sheet has come undone, and you’ve been caught sleeping on a bare mattress. I don’t like jeans, football jerseys, and dirty underwear on the floor. I also don’t like clothes rippling over the sides of hampers. I don’t like drawers closed with bits of socks or t-shirts poking out as though they’re begging to be saved. I don‘t like ipod and cellphone cords lazing from bedstands. I don’t like shades drawn unevenly. I don’t like pots and pans jumbled in the cupboard. I don’t like plastic cups in the glass section of the cupboard. I don’t like glasses in the plastic section. I like the beige plates on top of the blue ones and not the other way around. I don’t like gunk around the sink drain. I don’t like the cleaner that cleans the gunk sitting out in the open. Nor do I like unrinsed water glasses next to the sink. I like the curtains opened uniformly. I like them closed fully at night, and I like them opened all the way during the day. Exactly. I like things just so.

I’m not this fussy with everything every day. I don’t, for instance, care too much about the basement or care at all about the garage where the boys toss mountains of bike and skateboard parts on top of garden tools and Christmas ornaments. I don’t mind having a junk drawer. And my laundry room is often piled three feet high with unwashed items. I don’t care about those places every day. But on the days I decide to care, I am merciless and focused and tenacious in my cleaning, and you best not interfere.

Beneath Nate’s bed was a smattering of papers he’d kept for years, manuscripts from old stories, notebooks he’s kept from college, receipts for things like gas, fast food, shoes, Menards, ripped pieces of paper with lyrics to songs or lines to stories on them, socks without their match, empty shoeboxes, and gum and cough drop wrappers. I’ve often joked (with cutting seriousness) that if he’s ever sneezed on or scratched a pencil against it, it’s a keeper to his sentimental heart. Too bad for him that I decided to care about this mess one day while he was gone.

I admit. I sometimes throw things I probably shouldn’t. I don’t think I personally own a single baby picture of myself. I didn’t keep anything from grade school or high school. I have no year books, no photos of classmates, no love notes, no report cards. Aside from a few, very select items (my Abe Lincoln “Corporations Have Been Enthroned and an Era of Corruption in High Places Will Follow” t-shirt and a swingy green dress I still wear to teach), I got rid of every single article of clothing I wore during and between the last three pregnancies. I couldn’t stand to look at them. Many of them were perfectly good lounge pants or t-shirts, but they reminded me of my body at its biggest and most unfit. Did I mention I also don’t like flab? I have kept some items from my kids’ childhoods. I do have birth certificates, some half-completed baby books, some clothing items, some really important notes, cards, or works of art, and quite a few photographs. But I ditch a lot. I read report cards and then brutally toss them in the garbage. I gush over artwork or A+ tests and maybe hang them on the fridge for an admiration period, but then I will callously stuff them in the trash when the kids aren’t looking. I throw lonely socks, toss or give away good coats, and pitch close-to-new toys that are too messy, too noisy, or too unloved. Someday, I promise to be one of those old ladies who goes around with a pick and a garbage bag plucking empty cans and cigarette butts out of the ditches to make up for my section of the landfill.

For years now, I have taken advantage of days or weekends when Nate was gone to raze his hoard and clear it out of the house. I took three large garbage bags worth of stuff out from under the bed. I sorted it, keeping things like his great-uncles’ letters home from WWII, a picture of baby Violette, a book he’d made, but tossing everything else. When he came home and learned of the mass purification of his stuff, he flipped out, wanted to know where the bags were, and sifted through them, one by one. He found a quarter in there, a shirt he wanted to keep, a love note that I had written to him, some other mementos that made me roll my eyes. He yelled at me that I was crazy. I yelled at him that he was. We fought in front of his brother, who’d come to babysit the kids. My brother-in-law looked from one to the other of us, as though he were afraid of how sick, wild, loud two people in love could be.

“You’re reckless,” Nate said to me.

“You’re a mess,” I said to him.

“This is psycho,” Nate said to me.

“You’re a packrat,” I said to him.

“You need medication,” Nate said to me.

“You need therapy,” I said to him.

My brother-in-law guided Gordie, the baby, away from us.

In my rational mind, I know that all this throwing and cleaning is excessive and that it interferes with my relationships. I know I should sit still and listen to Phillip practice his spelling words, but if I can pair and fold socks while he recites, aren’t I multitasking? Won’t he do better on his spelling test tomorrow if he’s wearing clean socks? I know I should sit still and help Archie put his Smurf puzzle together, but is it really so bad if I clear the crayons and papers and scratch bits of hardened wax off the tabletop while he does it? Won’t he be able to more easily find the puzzle piece he needs if the rest of the table is free of the mess? These behaviors have something to do with control, I think, have something to do with making everything in the outer world perfect because of inside turmoil.

When I’m honest with myself, I will note that my cleaning is directly related to feelings of deep, deep anxiety and stress. Sometimes, when I’m in good running condition, I can run a lot of this stress out, but when the weather turns cold or when I get out of my running groove, I turn to cleaning. I feel the need to clean especially when my relationships or the lives of my closest loved ones are emotional or in upheaval. When the people around me express sorrow or disappointment or grief or anger, I often kick my cleaning, sorting, organizing, decluttering, and sanitizing into high gear. Cleaning is my drug.

Cry Me A River

2011-10-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

Last week, I received an email from a student which read, “sorry cant make it today—womanly issues. will I miss anything?”

My response: “OK. Check D2L. Feel better!”

I get at least a handful of these emails every semester. Sometimes, the girls come up to me shortly before or even during class, telling me they’ve got to go because of their monthly visitor. I always smile, comfortingly, and tell them I understand. I direct them to our school’s online instruction organizer, D2L, where I put every day’s agenda, every day’s homework, and oftentimes, the day’s notes for those who can’t or won’t take the notes him or herself.

What I should say is this: “Listen. When I was your age, I worked on a construction site, twelve hours a day, in the summer elements, among crews made almost entirely of men my dad’s age, in places where Port-A-Potties were few, far between, and criminally disgusting. I used to carry a tampon in my steel-toed boot so that the old guys wouldn’t see the shape of it in my jeans and get embarrassed. I never called in sick. Not once.” I should say, “When I was a little older, in my early twenties, I waitressed, nine months pregnant and on my feet, a full shift just hours before I went into labor. I catered to the whims of fat, hungry assholes, carried bus tubs full of heavy dinner plates and coffee cups and glasses, cleaned up my station, took out the garbage, punched out, went home, felt the cramps (which surely started while I was working but which I was too busy to notice), and went to the hospital 2 hours later to begin a 10 hour labor to deliver Phillip Raymond Cook. In the moments after his delivery, I lost so much blood that my temperature dropped so that the nurses wrapped me in an electric blanket because I was going into shock. Two days later, I prepared Christmas Eve dinner for my family.” I should say, “I taught here, in the very place we’re standing, up to the week I delivered Gordie.” I should say, “I have been here, standing in the front of this classroom, talking about connecting independent clauses and paragraph development through mastitis, a searing, burning breast infection brought on by nursing a gigantic baby, an infection which felt as though someone had removed my breast tissue and implanted oven coils instead.” I should say, “I trained for a marathon during last autumn’s semester. One morning, I ran twenty fucking miles before coming to class and teaching the Process Analysis paper. I had exactly 30 minutes between the end of the run and the beginning of class.” I should say, “I was here in the days after finishing that marathon, teaching. I was here teaching with a hip that felt like someone was drilling screws into it every time I moved.“ I should say, “Take an aspirin and sit down.”

One of the many things I have really liked about the students here, in southern Minnesota, is their work ethic. They come from the farm or they come from small towns mostly, where hard work and stoic duty to manual labor are virtues. I’m generalizing here, but I’d say that these qualities are what set us apart, make us unique and special and desirous to employers. We don’t have the quick wit of New Yorkers or smug, tough veneer of Bostonians. We don’t have the breezy social graces of the Western states. We don’t have the soft mannered charm of our neighbors to the south. We are laden with nasally, Minnesoooota accents and turn quiet. We’re the type who close our mouths, put our noses to the ground, and hammer out a job until it’s completed. We have the will to work.

But lately, I see a laze creeping up on these once industrious youth. They make more excuses. Skip more classes. Want me to do more for them, more often. They’re still the nice people I described in an earlier essay, but a good chunk of them are disinclined to work and eager to trump up small illnesses and everyday ailments.

Yesterday, after a 30-minute lecture on essay organization, complete with step-by-step outlining on the white board, one student asked me if I was going to give them a handout with all the information I had just written on the board. The words, “Get your lazy ass out of here and don’t come back until you’re serious about learning,” immediately popped into my brain. Luckily, I’m old enough now to never leave the house without my mouth filter. What I said instead? “It’s on D2L.”

Oh yes. I contribute to the hapless, indolent nature of this generation. Why? Because I have measured the cost of catering to their ridiculous needs against the cost of having them drop out, become unemployed, and soak off society. I have spent many, many long hours contemplating this conundrum, and I have decided that it’s better that I retain them, subject them to sermons about the value of work and education and contributing rather than sucking off society, and hope that some of that information resonates. I have decided that a person without a degree in this society, in this economy is a person certainly doomed. If you fail my class, it’s not for a lack of trying on my part.

Every twenty-nine days or so, my insides feel as though a forest is being cleared of its trees. I feel as the trunks are sawed and felled. That slicing of wood is the strand of pain I get in my lower abdomen, from one hip bone to the other, in the shape of a slack jump rope. The thump of the tree hitting the forest floor is the throbbing I get in my thighs and the deep ache in my back and butt. I feel when the tree limps are chopped and then scraped along the ground. The chopping of limbs is the relentless thrum of a womb in rhythmic contraction. The scraping is the descent of blood, my blood, out of my body.

I hardly remember thinking about my period when I was a young woman. I don’t remember it interfering, really, with anything. I remember playing sports. I remember going to school. I remember working 12 hour days at Mathiowetz Construction. But I do remember my mother, whose body architected six children, bending over and shuffling like an old woman a few days a month. I remember her popping pills, sighing, but doing all the work of the house, cooking, chauffeuring kids, changing diapers, cleaning bottles, stopping every now and then to gag into the sink, but then returning to work of the day. Then at night, when the little ones were asleep, I remember the bath water running and the steam coming from under the bathroom door. I remember the click of the door lock and the noises of her sinking into the water. Heat, it seemed, was the only comfort. I remember wondering, then, as an adolescent, what the big deal was. I remember thinking she ought to toughen up, like my dad would say. I remember being pleased that I was able to tolerate my teenaged PMS so well.

God. I’m so ashamed. But I do remember thinking that.

Now that I’m 35, my body feels it’s time to repay that teenaged smugness. Now that I’ve had six pregnancies, now that I’ve had six births, now that I’ve had my tubes tied, by body seems to be punishing me for putting that womb to such good use. Every month for a couple hours over the course of a couple of days, I believe that if I were hooked up to the contraction machine at the hospitals, my period contractions would register. The cramps I feel sometimes approach the 4-5 centimeter level of labor. And I know what those feel like, for real, because of a recent natural delivery (see March’s posting). Throughout those days, my mouth will water with an irony-tasting saliva, and I’ll feel nauseous from the hurt. My upper legs will go wobbly as a newborn calf. My body, from all its good practice, seems to be trying to expel another baby.

In any case, these days, I can’t curl up and hibernate. The kids still need to get to school or to practice. They still need to be fed, exercised, and put to bed. I still need to work. And I feel an obligation to do so. I feel an obligation to the students, of course, who pay good money to learn. I feel an obligation to the school to deliver the promises of my contract. I feel an obligation to society not to give up on these students. I feel an obligation to my sex, to not be the one who makes it hard for other women to get jobs in management, in politics, in leadership roles. I don’t want to contribute to the notion that women can’t be bosses, can’t be CEOs, can’t be senators, representatives, President because they’re laid up, out-of-commission, irrational, moody a few days every month. When I look up and down the office cubicles at my work, I see other mothers, grandmothers, and single women in various stages of menstruation and menopause who are there, whose doors are open to accommodate students who've been sick, whose kids have been sick, who had to work, who had to miss class for a myriad of (mostly lame) reasons. Because those women are here, how could I not be? I don't think I'm any tougher than any of these women, who certainly have their own tales of pain and pregnancy and postpartum and nursing and hysterectomies and infertility and who knows what else. Sometimes, when I listen to the woeful aches and trifled sniffles of my students, I wonder about the future of women. Then I worry that the women up and down the hallway of teachers represent the last of the tough old birds.

But maybe one day, when my female students have a few more year's experiences and responsibilities under their belt, they’ll remember me. Maybe it’ll occur to them that as well as their teacher, I was a woman, working hard to pick up their slack, smiling while gritting my teeth.

Go Butterfly

2011-09-20T09:33:00.000-07:00

Cicadas buzz all day but, by evening, twitch in death throes on the sidewalk. The squirrels have turned psychotic. The trees are worn out under all those leaves. Last week, the tiptop of our maple tree exploded yellow and orange and shed them soon afterward. And yesterday, on the Judson Bottom Road, Nate and I ducked our heads as we passed under oaks dropping acorns, tink, tink, tink, and walnut trees dropping walnuts, chunk, chunk, chunk. The apple trees gasp under the weight of their fruit. The apples are too round and full to cling so desperately to their branches. It’s almost embarrassing, in the way watching a too-big kid cling to his mother at swimming lessons is embarrassing. The farmer’s market on the backroad to New Ulm has tables piled high with green, yellow, purple, and orange vegetables. I no longer shy away from heating up the kitchen by turning on the oven. I’m in the mood to bake, a homemade chocolate cake and a banana bread just this week. I’ve forced open the ancient, stubborn windows in the house to let the crisp breeze in. The air conditioner sits quietly after a summer of hard labor. The cool and bright winds of the morning are enough to keep the afternoon heat at bay, even when the temperature still reaches 80 or 85 degrees. This month, the sunrise will shift from 6:38 am on September 1 to 7:01 am on September 30. On September 1, the sun set at 7:54 pm. By September 30, the sun will set at 7:01 pm. The brief and sweltering summer is gone. The weather has changed here in southern Minnesota. In the early morning, we can smell the winter season, a porcelain-like scent, coming on the wind. The plants and animals feel this, and, in course, adapt or hibernate or flee from here. I’ve noticed the Monarch butterflies out in great numbers the last few days. Their orange and black wings flit between the school kids walking home, lagging under the weight of backpacks.

Four Generations
In March, Monarch butterflies leave Mexico in search of milkweed plants, a common weed in America. The milkweed plant isn’t desirable to most species of insect and animal as it’s soaked with a sticky sap and contains a chemical called cardenolide, which tastes bad and is toxic. The Monarchs have evolved to digest the cardenolides without harm and even store the chemical in their own tissue. This way, the Monarch butterfly tastes terrible to other creatures, thereby discouraging bats, birds, and other insects from eating it. Pretty smart. This first batch of Monarchs leave Mexico and make their way to the southern United States, where the milkweed are blooming. They lay their eggs, which hatch, transform, and become the second generation of butterflies, which fly further north, following the maturation of the milkweed. This second generation makes it to southern Minnesota in late May or early June, just as the milkweed plants are sprouting. Then the second generation lays their eggs here, which become the third generation, which emerge in July. The third generation sticks around here. They're the lazy generation, only concerned with eating, resting, and mating. They lay their eggs in southern Minnesota in July and August while the milkweed plants are still robust and nutritious. And these days, in September, we’re seeing those eggs hatch, morphe, and take flight as the fourth generation of Monarchs. Though they don’t look different from the older generations, they are. Incapable of reproduction, in a state called diapause, the fourth generation of Monarchs is cued by the short day light hours and the senescing of the milkweed plant to store their energy for migration back to Mexico, 2000 miles. Once there, the Monarchs' bodies mature for mating and reproduction. They lay their eggs, which become the first generation again who start the cycle all over again.

From Mitchell to Gordon
Between Mitchell and Gordon are a dozen years and two more boys, but these two brothers, in particular, seem paired in a growth pattern. Where Mitchell is being fitted for braces after more than a year of a retainer meant to stretch his thin, crowded jaw, Gordie is popping snaggle teeth left and right. Some are pointed to the north and others to south. Another appears to be as unpredictable as a divining rod. And, as if to match Mitchell’s rich brown, thick, shiny hair, Gordie’s locks look adolescent rather than baby, thick and textured and nutty like his older brother’s. And where Mitchell has gone suddenly quiet, thoughtful, and deep-voiced, Gordie too has taken on a new timbre, lower and gruntier. When Mitchell is hungry, he says “ ’mhngry.” When Gordie is hungry, he says “eat.” They are men of few words.

A dozen years is a long time. The woman raising Gordie at 1 year old is very different from the woman who reared Mitchell at 1 year old. I am now an older, wiser, more patient mother in many ways, but I am also more tired, more busy, less spontaneous, more stressed. In Gordie, I recognize stages and phases that once bewildered me with Mitchell. I don’t wonder if Gordie’ll always be obsessed with pressing his own private parts like an elevator button. I don’t wonder whether it means he’ll be a pervert. I’ve seen this stage three times before. I know he’ll grow out of it. With Gordie, I don’t panic about the fevers and diaper rash, which foretell a new tooth. I don’t overreact when I discover him perched on top of the kitchen counter, the back of the couch, the computer desk. I remember that he’ll grow out of this need to climb. But where Gordie benefits from my experience and age, he’s ripped off in ways Mitchell as a baby wasn’t. Gordie doesn’t know the stay-at-home mom who energetically prepared a picnic and packed up strollers, carseats, toys, and blankets to the park. Gordie doesn’t know the mother who painstakingly painted colorful bugs all over the bedroom wall. Gordie doesn’t know the mother who crawled on all fours to play lions, cars, and farm animals on the floor. Gordie’s mother hasn’t slept soundly in fifteen years and is exhausted.

Egg State
Toward the end of July and beginning of August, the third generation of Monarch butterflies lay their eggs on the undersides of the milkweed plants standing sturdy in the fields, ditches, railroad tracks, and prairies of Minnesota. A milkweed can grow practically anywhere. It’s the least finicky weed in the world. And, though aphids and a couple of other insects make the milkweed their home, it’s the Monarch butterfly which has organized and evolved its entire life cycle around the sprouting, seeding, and senescing of this plant. The Monarch mother lays one egg at a time and takes care to spread them around. She can lay up to 500. She has to lay a lot because the eggs are tasty to other insects. The egg is white and oval and tiny. The larva inside it grows at topspeed. After a couple of days, if you look very, very closely, you may be able to see a black dot, which is the head of the Monarch caterpillar, pressing against the egg shell. After another day or two, the caterpillar inside is so big and so cramped that the shell can’t hold it, and so the worm begins to chew its way out of the egg. It emerges as a whitish-gray, squiggly caterpillar, small as a baby’s nail clipping. The creature is ravenously hungry and ready to grow. The first thing it consumes is its own eggshell.

Archie Outgrows the Tentcot
We have a hard time keeping track of Archie, who turned three in June. He likes to disappear and hide. He likes to disappear and hide and then watch us frantically search for him without saying a word. For his second birthday, my sister-in-law gave us the best gift, a stuffed animal backpack with a long, long “tail,” which also functioned as a…leash. Outside of Nate and me, no one understands Archie better than my sister-in-law. The gift was perfect, perfect for those trips to the mall, a place where he scoured the nooks and crannies for the best hiding places, a place where he loved to meander in and out of the crowd and disappear among shopping bags, purses, other people's children. I used the monkey/leash a couple of times, and it worked exactly as I hoped it would. He got to walk, which he preferred to riding in the stroller. He ambled fairly happily alongside me as I pushed Gordie or led Violette or kept my eye of Phillip, and he could not escape into the great big wide wilderness of the mall. But, oh the looks from the Moral Superiority! I could see the shock and judgment. A leash. My God! He’s not a dog! Why doesn’t she just teach him that he can’t run away. Why doesn’t she just explain to him that he’s got to hold her hand? Here’s why Moral Superiority: He doesn’t get it.

At about a year and a half, Archie began climbing out of his crib and escaping into the black of the night house. He’d feel his way along the wall to the steps and hang onto the groaning rail on his way down the stairs, steep and wooden. At first, Nate and I would catch him quick. But with practice and persistence, he figured out which steps croaked and where the handrail whined, and, more often than not, figured out how to stealthily get all the way to the living room in silence. One night, he plucked a permanent marker from the desktop and used it to scribble on the wall and on my white dining room chairs. Another time, we found him sitting on the couch, in the dark, with a blanket over his head. Sometimes, he’d sneak into the toy closet and press the buttons of noisy toys, especially the giggling Elmo, and we’d all be startled awake by “Ha ha ha. That tickles.” He’d pull papers and crayons out of the desk drawers and spread them all over the floor. He’s climb into bed with Gordie, the baby, and wake him up, too. He’d do all the things he’d do in normal wakeful hours, only it’d be 3am. Night after night, Nate and I would return him to his crib. We’d wait on the other side of his door, peer between the door and the jamb, and watch him scale his crib slats and throw his hefty leg and rump over the side and then plop delicately to the floor. It was like watching an ant emerge from its hill and slip silently down the side, quickly, quietly, undetectedly.

For weeks, we tried all the common techniques. We tried to wear him out with lots of outdoor air and exercise. We explained to him that he could get hurt. We explained to him the importance of sleepytime. We read him books about sleeping, Good Night Moon and How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight. We showed him movies about sleepytime, The Napping House, Corduroy, and The Paper Boy. Nate and I read book for our own edification. When he continued to climb out of his crib, we gave him the silent treatment. We returned him to his bed wordlessly, calmly, patiently. Over and over and over and over again. One night, I put him back in his crib 27 times in 1 hour. Nate and I were like zombies, and Archie was crabby, inconsolable, and overtired and relentless and stubborn. Yet, out and out and out he’d climb.

Then we returned to our sleep bible, Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Dr. Marc Weissbluth (with six kids and dozens of how-to parenting books under my belt, I can tell you that this is the only book worth any mother’s limited time), who recommended a crib tent, a netted material that covers the top of the crib and prevents the child from getting out. Perfect! Nate hopped into the car in search of one. And since he couldn’t find a crib tent, he went to Scheels and bought a tentcot, which is basically the same thing except bigger and more manly.

The tentcot is a thin, long bed on legs with vented netting over the top. It’s sorta like a twin bed with mosquito covering and seems like something you'd see on a wilderness survivor show. We put down a soft blanket and tossed him in there. We zipped it up. He sat in there for a minute, tested the seams for flaws like a pig nosing along a fence, then lay down. Nate and I went to bed. We could hear him pushing against the netting, rattling the zipper. "What if there’s a fire?" I worried. "You get Gordie, I’ll get Archie," Nate said. "What if he feels caged, and someday blames his inability to develop healthy, trusting relationships because of the tentcot?" "Go to sleep. He's fine." And, he was fine. He was better than fine. He slept! He wasn't crabby. He became...pleasant.

Lately, we’ve been trying to transition him to a regular bed. Some nights are successful, sort of, and some are a disaster. But he’s getting bigger, and the tent cot can’t hold him forever. But now he’s savvy enough to really hurt himself if left to his own independent, pitch black devices. He knows how to open the doors. What if he tries to go outside in the middle of the night? Every year, we read about some little toddler sneaking outside in the middle of the night and freezing to death in a snow bank. He knows how to get into the cupboards and drawers, where there are sharp scissors and knives. What if he cuts himself or trips and falls on a blade? What if, what if. Sometimes I feel like parenting is all about measuring risks, and in times like that, I wish I had paid more attention in math class. I’d really like a solid formula for Archie. If he continues to sleep in the tent cot, his risk of this, this, and that is this, this, and that. If he sleeps in the bed, his risk of this, this, and that is this, this, and that. Thus, you should (fill in the blank).

Larvae Stage
Once the caterpillar eats its own shell, it turns its voracious appetite onto the milkweed leaves, thick with sap. The caterpillar starts out at about 1 mm long, and in a day or two, will stretch to 3 mm long. At this point, its skin acts as a straight jacket. The caterpillar is immobile and has no choice but to bust out of its skin. So, suddenly, the skin splits and the caterpillar wrestles out of the old skin. The caterpillar’s new skin has the distinctive stripes of white, yellow, and black. The caterpillar is still stifled, though, and has to rub its head against the leaf to remove the mask of old, too-small face skin. When it's off, the caterpillar returns to munching on the milkweed. It’ll go on this way, eating, growing, and shedding, three more times, until it reaches the nice plump caterpillar we’re used to seeing in early September.

Big Naughty Goes to Kindergarten
One week before school began, I had a brief bout of doubt about whether or not we’d the right decision to send Violette to kindergarten. She was only three weeks into year five. A year ago, I was adamant: there was no way we were sending her to school. She has a mid-August birthday. She’d be the youngest one in her class. She still needed help in the bathroom. She couldn’t brush her own hair or teeth. She cried over small infractions and threw tantrums in stores. But then, sometime in last spring, she made a leap in maturity, social and academic and physical. Suddenly, she was approaching children at the park and asking them to play. Suddenly, her printed letters began to actually look like recognizable English rather than spiders in casts and traction. Suddenly, she could skip, gallop, and hop on one foot. Suddenly, she seemed bored at home, interested in organized learning.

But in the week before school, she again seemed very, very young, and very, very reminiscent of her toddler self, a time in which we coined her the “Big Naughty” because she was so, so mean to the baby Archie, so irrational, so jealous. She grew out of that, but then regressed in the weeks before school. She again couldn’t understand why she sometimes had to give in to Gordie, why he couldn't be expected to sit still, to play with his own toys, to share. She couldn’t keep her hands to herself. She trap Archie in a corner and bully him into apologizing to her. She pouted, whined, shouted. She had a gross runny nose. Her hair looked like a patch of switch grass. The underside of her fingernails could have hosted an ant farm. She didn’t flush the toilet after using the bathroom. One morning, I looked at her, and I thought, Shit. She’s gone feral.

According to Scholastic, these are the skills a child should have before going to Kindergarten. I read them and then measured Violette against each. Enthusiasm Toward Learning. This is a check. Violette loves to learn. She asks relentless questions. She’s so enthusiastic toward learning that if she doesn’t like the answer to her question (Can I have a treat?), she’ll seek out another authoritative source until she finds the answer she wants. Solid Oral-Language Skills. Another check. A couple of weeks ago, after a long shopping excursion to Scheels, she turned to Archie and said, “We need to get the hell out of here.” The Ability to Listen. Violette is so good at listening that she can sing, watch tv, play toys, and carry on a grudge against Archie while I’m talking to her. The Desire to be Independent. Another check. Violette has recently become so independent that she has independently become stuck twelve feet up in the tree, has independently snuck crackers, peanut butter, and raisins from our cupboard to make treats for the neighborhood children, and has independently decided that she gets to determine who can and cannot jump on the trampoline. And yesterday, she told me that she can babysit Gordie becasue she knows how to put him in his crib and close the door when he cries too much or bothers her. The Ability to Play Well with Others. As long as “others” doesn’t include Archie or Gordie, this is a check. Strong Fine Motor Skills. Yes. She can finagle a yogurt-covered raisin up Archie’s nostril and somehow find the exact spot in the yard where there’s a sliver waiting to penetrate her foot. Basic Letter and Number Recognition. Yes. She was quite skilled at reading all of the fast food signs as we pass them and whine for "Good Mood Food" or a stop at "Harbees."

So, we packed her up and took her to school where I was pleased to discover that a lot of her classmates looked as though they’d been recently plucked from the forest, checked for ticks, dusted off, and pushed into the classroom, too.

Chrysalis Stage
Two weeks after hatching from its egg, the caterpillar seeks a nice, calm place from which to dangle by its back feet. The caterpillar spits out a little silk to attach itself to the leaf and then it extends and suspends for about 12 hours. Then, it wriggles out of its skin again. The old, striped skin drops to the ground. And this time, the skin of the pupa is shiny and light green. If you look really closely, you can see the veined outlines of what will become wings. The chrysalis, as it's known, hangs stoically and still for nine or ten days, while the magic happens within.

Phillip in the Speech Room
For a couple of years now, Phillip’s been taking speech therapy here and there, working on his pronunciation of the letters L and R, both of which he pronounced as W. At first, he paid very little attention and only practiced on the ride to school, when I’d ask him to say words like rabbit, lion, licorice, rainbow, worry, lollipop, and grape. He was more interested in talking about the college girls at the MSU speech clinic who were his therapists. “She’s wewwy hot.” The correction of the L came pretty easily, so that soon he was saying, “she's welly hot.” But the R was not so easily fixed. We’d work on it once in a while, play internet games designed to help kids like him with their articulation, watch youtube videos with speech therapists modeling how to shape the R, and Phillip went along with it, but was always eager to go outside and play or was easily distracted by sudden hunger or fatigue or the need to go to the bathroom.

But, that’s recently changed. In the past couple of months, Phillip has shown true interest in correcting his speech impediments as he realizes that his words don’t sound the same as his age-mates and that his age-mates realize this, too. The first week of fourth grade, some kid asked Phillip if he was trying to be funny or if that’s the way he really talked. This past summer, some other kid asked Phillip why he talked like a baby. They’re kids, I know. But that doesn’t stop me from wanted to kick them back to the stone age.

I wonder every day if some kid has said something mean to Phillip about his speech, but I don’t ask because I don’t want to embarrass him. I wait for him to tell me or tell his dad. I do ask about the therapy sessions and what kind of exercises he’s supposed to be practicing, all of which he’s more interested in doing now. I wish I could hide him away for a while as he works this out, as he figures out how to move his tongue in way that forms an R sound. I wish I could be there when one of those little snots says something cruel to Phillip so that I could verbally slay the kid into tears. But, I can’t. I only hope that this is one of those things that builds character, one of those things that Phillip looks back to and says, “kids mocked me, but it made me work hard and get tough and learn that my opinion of myself is more important than the opinion of shit-head fourth graders."

Butterfly Stage
On about the eighth day of the pupal stage, the chrysalis turns dark brown. Then, in the next day or two, the bottom part of the chrysalis cracks and the head of the black butterfly is freed. The butterfly pushes out of the dry chrysalis and frees its fat abdomen and compacted wings with their notable orange and black arrangements. In a few minutes, the butterfly will push all the excess fluid from its abdomen into its wings, which will lengthen, stretch, and flap. The butterfly will hang there until its wings are completely dry.

The first flight is short, to a tree or fence post, but this butterfly, this fourth generation traveler, is preparing for a 2,000 mile flight to Mexico. 2,000 miles on the most delicate of wings, so thin so as not to even appear as matter but rather as a gaseous element, like fire against the blue September sky. This flight doesn’t seem possible. Think about the skill, the instinct, the power, the winds, the food fuel, the weather, the luck, the millions and millions of factors that will affect the Monarch's journey.

Isabella Gets Her Learner’s Permit
There’s a car sitting in my driveway, an old thing from my sister. The car, a silver Ford Taurus, is the kind of car that doesn’t attract a lot of attention. It’s one of those cars that has the look of “safe.” The car is meant for Isabella.

My sister has been calling me, “Hey, the insurance payment on that car is coming up here at the end of the month. Do you want to transfer the title or what?” These are questions and deadlines which force me to accept that, indeed, Isabella is fifteen years old, indeed, she does have her learner’s permit, indeed, she is growing up and will be driving, in control of a motorized vehicle, on the road with lots of other motorized death machines very, very soon.

I hardly know how to put my hesitation and anxiety about his fact into words. Recently, I’ve been upset with the “system,” a vague matrix of laws and regulations, which somehow determined that sixteen years old was mature enough to operate a car. Who decided this? Has this person ever lived with a sixteen year old? Does this person know that sixteen year olds don’t remember to carry their water glasses down from their rooms or put the cap back on the shampoo? Doesn’t this person know that sixteen year olds don't know enough or have enough self-starting motivation to empty a garbage when it’s full and overflowing and the top won't even close? Doesn't this person know that the sixteen year old will continue to try and dispose of wrappers and kleenexes into the overflowing, won't-close garbage recepticle and will not even bend to pick up the things that fall to the floor? Doesn't this person know that if a sixteen year old squeezes a huge dollap of toothpaste onto a toothbrush and most of it falls off into the sink, that the sixteen year old will ignore it and wait for someone else to clean it up? Doesn't this person know that a sixteen year old will completely soak the bath mat and leave it and sopping clothes on the floor of the bathroom? Doesn't this person know that, in an ironic display of righteous indignation, the sixteen year old will be totally grossed out when the baby eats, if dinner is spaghetti (again! disgusting!), or when you ask the sixteen year old to share a candy bar with a little brother (he's repulsive!)? How do those lapses in memory and contradictions translate into remembering to stop at a stop sign, to use a blinker before turning, to yield the right of way to the car on the right, to weaving between lanes safely, to watching for the whims of other bad drivers?

When I really want to work myself up into a lathery panic, I remember the things I used to do in cars. Which, very naturally, forces me to accept that all the boys in her class will also be getting their learner’s permits, their driver’s licenses, their own cars this year, too. Then, I look at her, all tall and curving up, all big brown-eyed and pouty lipped, and I wonder if I could somehow coax her into the basement with the promise of a hidden candy bar and chain her to the water softener.

But, I guess not. I guess I’ll have to see what lessons she’s taken out of these past fifteen years. I guess I’ll have to hope that she’s not as reckless, stupid, silly, and dense as I was. I guess I’ll have to hope that my parenting wasn’t complete crap. And then I’ll have to hope that the millions and millions of other factors, other bad drivers, rain, ice, a deer dashing across the road, a spilled drink, a shouting brother, a loud song, a phone call, a text message from a boyfriend don’t interfere to disastrous degrees.

So much change and so many risks. My heart’s fluttering, and Mexico's looking pretty good.

*Monarch on milkweed picture above is stock photo from 123rf.com