Selective Memory

I do not come from a family of travelers — or campers, for that matter. Our summer vacations were truncated due to softball schedules and summer school, leaving us about three weeks in the summer to get away. This was shortened further by my parents' garden obligations, shortage of money in August, and the poor-traveling ability of a certain eldest daughter (that would be me and my motion-sickness-prone stomach.) So, we spend a glorious week on Deer Lake in Wisconsin, at a place known to us as "Mac's cabin" belonging to a former principal of my dad's, John McManus.

But one summer, my godparents took me out camping to a Yogi Bear campground. I must have been about five, I suppose. I fondly remember sitting in the back of their car; I remember sitting in the pool; I remember knowing all the words to "Afternoon Delight" for some reason and my godparents smiling saying, "if only she knew what the song meant...." So, when I saw the listing for Yogi Bear Campground in the Indiana Dunes brochures, I jumped right to those memories, thought it would be fun for the boys, and off we went. I failed to notice the number of sites (almost 1000) — an important detail as it makes the campground a lot bigger, busier, and less accessible for two young boys to navigate independently (at least with their mom being comfortable with their navigations...)

Not only did I miss the small print with the Indiana campground, I missed the specifics of my childhood Yogi Bear experience. The aforementioned pool of memory was less-than clean with dead leaves floating on the top and an entire morning was spent in the tent, trapped by a downpour, leaving us with only a camping pan for a restroom. I'm sure my godparents and I packed up after the storm, maybe stopping for a movie on the way home. Brian, the boys, and I spent the night in the care of Yogi and friends, but packed up in the morning, leaving behind the crowds in their golfcarts and campers. Instead, we found an open site in the Indiana Dunes National Park. No crowds, no golfcarts, no playground (sorry boys), but lots of tenters, clean bathrooms, private showers, and — yes —bugs, a wonderful way to end the vacation.

Thrill Seekers

If I were to ask you for an adjective to describe our boys, chances are slim that "daring" and "risk takers" would come to mind. Yet, that is what they were yesterday at the aforementioned water park in Mackinaw City. Bob tried water slides beyond his knowledge and meandered down a "lazy river" — putting extra tubes on his head, exploring the limits of his tube, making the lifeguard jump in to pull him out after his tube capsized.... It was fun to see him not hold on "white knuckled" like his older brother would have done.

Now for the older brother. He's been an aficionado of water slides ever since his adventure at the St. Louis Park Water slide in ought-eight. It was his best day, he wrote in school: lunch,

water slides with his cousins, dinner at home, then back to the slides until close. The park we visited yesterday boasted 12 water slides, with two of them being of the "extreme thrill" class. After warming up on the milder rides, Ed and Brian climbed the ladder to the precipice (I'm not exaggerating here — the dual slides were 280' long and 6 1/2 stories high.) Ed ascended — and descended...quickly. I might even describe it as plummeting to the earth, but I'm his mother just over-reacting here. And THEN....he goes up again to try the other high slide. I'm still a little shocked about his boldness, but pleased at it. Just when you think you've got 'em figured out, they throw something at you that you wouldn't expect.

Enemy Territory

Noticing one's brand is difficult at home, but incredibly obvious while on the road. We've been flying our Minnesota colors while vacationing in the NFC Central/AL Central/Big Ten region and, as Brian says, "Making friends."

Our first stop was Green Bay, WI. Home to just over 100,000 people and twice as many Packer fans. Lambeau Field is a mecca of sorts to those flying the green and yellow and there is nothing lukewarm about their affiliation or affection. Of course, we were not just around Lambeau but inside of it — on a tour led by an enthusiastic guy from Eau Claire. We got to see statues of Curly and Vince, a Heisman, sit inside a luxury sweet ($100,000 a year and it could be yours...) and walk down the Packers' tunnel to enter the field (the visitors' entrance was described as a "crack in the wall".) Then, after being warned not to walk on, roll in, touch, lick, or pick the stadium grass, we took sat down on our momentary "18 inches of aluminum pleasure" (what they call the bleachers), saw the scoreboard and yelled, "Go Pack Go!" Through it all, Eddie wore his Vikings hat. And was teased ever so gently by the tour guide — a lifetime Packers/Brewers fan who raised his eyebrows at Ed's national-league affection for the Cardinals, but collaborated with Ed on dislike for the White Sox/Yankees.

Now, I am not a football fan — I am a baseball fan. But there we were, standing in the tunnel to the field and the guide tapped a kid and said, "Now, just imagine you were standing here on game day about to play in front of 80,000 fans. Can you hear them cheering? You have to believe that you will hear them and then you just might." And of course, the gate opened and in piped a game-day recording and we walked up the tunnel, crossing over the bricks crossed by Lombardi himself. And I got goosebumps. And Eddie grinned, wide-eyed.

Now Bobber — he liked the helmets in the gift shop ($270), but refused to try on an actual uniform at the kidsfest thing they had going on outside the stadium. And I think he liked the players on bicycles. Oh, did I mention we visited on the first day of Packers training camp? Timing. Is. Everything.

We left Lambeau for Mackinaw City, Michigan set up camp next to a family from Troy, MI who immediately called our attention to our Twins' gear (it's okay — the daughter likes Scott Baker), offered to buy Ed some green and white Michigan State gear, and smiled at Bob's Vikings' pants/Twins' shirt combo this morning (it's okay — the dad liked Culpepper.) The boys are notably well-stocked in Minnesota gear, making us stand out while away from home. But Brian is right — it does help us make friends. Rivalries — especially in the Midwest — give strangers something to talk about and a common language to share without the nastiness of East Coast venom.

We have some pics that we'll post later this evening, if all goes according to plan. Now, we're off to water park extreme. We'll be in the straits area until we leave for Motown on Saturday morning.

Scouter-doubter, Puppy-ruppy

I have never been good with good-byes. When I was a kid, I would leave from a weekend at my grandparents with gasping sobs, working myself into such a state that I would often end gagging over a bucket in the backseat of our car. But by the time the county road 86 intersected state highway 60, I had succumbed to the exhaustion of crying and sat gazing through the windows as we traveled home. When I left for six weeks in Japan when I was 17, I cried from Minneapolis to Seattle and from Seattle to Tokyo. My traveling companion slept, or pretended to sleep the whole way. Good defense, really.

We said goodbye to our dog Scout yesterday and I have been crying since Saturday. We got Scout in 1998 — adopting her from one of my dad's students who lived on Como Avenue. She was part of a litter of about five of six pups. We met her when she was only a month old and brought her home when she was weened from her mama. When we went to pick a pup, there were two left. I remember that she was running in a make-shift pen and came up to us right away. I held her on my lap in the car as we went home, her crying all the way. Her name was originally Maxine, but Brian and I landed on Scout on the way to get her. She was named for Jean Louise "Scout" Finch, the dungaree-clad protagonist from To Kill a Mockingbird. Brian and I took her everywhere in those days. We both grew up with dogs who stayed in the kitchen, but Scout was happiest when she could be near us. So, we let her.

Her life was happiest when she was playing ball, which I'm sure she's doing now. Newell Park was her favorite place in all the world. In fact, when Eddie was little and I would take them both to the park, we had to spell it so that Scout wouldn't be barking at the door before we were ready. She wasn't like most dogs who would sit by your side and wait for you to throw the ball: she played her position and waited, mouth open and smiling for the ball to be hit and she would play it masterfully. She was our shortstop.

She was a smart pup — Springers usually are — and quickly learned whatever trick Brian would teach her. My favorite of hers was, ironically, "hurt paw" — in which she'd raise her leg as if it were injured wouldn't hold weight. Hurt paws and joints were what ended her career and eventually brought about a sedentary, sadder Scout than the one she was. She injured her leg in a fall down by the river and although we rested her to give it time to heal, we couldn't convince her to take it easy and slow down. She modified her play so that she put more weight on the other leg; then, when both back legs go sore, used her front legs more. Of course, they got tired, too— so much so that in the end, she wouldn't follow us upstairs because the stairs hurt so much. I know, however, that she had no regrets: she would rather have played hard and ended early rather than never playing at all.

She was our dog before the boys came. And she loved them, too. Their arrival meant that someone was home most of the time; it meant late morning walks and lunchtime handouts from highchairs. When Eddie would nap as a baby, I could tell when he had finally fallen asleep because only then would Scout leave his room and come downstairs to me. When he would wake up, she found find me and give me a look as if to say, "Isn't there something you are supposed to be doing?"

Her last moments were surrounded by the people who loved her most. We stroked her head and rubbed her ears. She wasn't anxious or nervous. She just gave a little head shake then put her head down and breathed her last. I know why they call it "putting to sleep" becuase that's what she seemed to do. It was awful to make the decision, but it certainly was the most humane way to do it. I know that Scout was ready to be free of her pain and her cysts and her failing ears and eyes — of the lumps that were ever increasing and the functions that were more and more difficult. The only thing that never failed her was heart — beating strong and without difficulty until it finally stopped. And although her death makes me sad and the role I decided to play in it makes me sick, I know that Scout was grateful for the it. She didn't like to be sick anymore than we liked to see her sick. And now she's not anymore. Her last movement — a reflex in death, I know — was a slight wag of her tail, something she hasn't really done in a while. I want to think that it was her way of thanking us for helping her out of her body and letting us know that she is happy again.

I believe that life never ends — and I have to believe that that is true for animals, too. It gives me a lot of peace to think of Scout in heaven — playing with her friend Cutter. I know that Tom was happy to see the pup he met before he was even sick and has been running with her since she arrived last night. of People always say "rest in peace," but I don't wish that for our Scouter. I hope she run and plays and swims and snags line drives without stop, pausing only to dunk her head in a bucket and seem to eat it rather than drink it. I'm sure no one will mind the mess...

There are worse things in life than to lose a dog. This is know for sure. And I feel a little silly getting so sad over Scout's death when one of my friends is watching her 40-year old sister and mother of 3 quickly lose her life to ovarian cancer. But a goodbye is a goodbye nonetheless — and I stink at them. I know that I will feel better each day and that the memories of Scout will soon produce more smiles than tears. But for today, I'm sad. And that's just how it is. She was a good pup — and truly, there's nothing else like it.

A Mom's View from Behind Home Plate

We embraced organized baseball this summer, although it's year three into the system of St. Paul Rec Organized Sports. Ed played tee-ball for one year and then "coach-pitch" with a league within walking distance from our house. The commitment was minor, but the organization was, well, unorganized and although the coaches were enthusiastic, they were really just partially-interested parents who showed up at the right place at the wrong time. ("Parent: I'm here to sign my kid up for ball." Rec Desk Worker: Great. Do you want to coach?")

So, this year we meandered down Fairview to join the HGRA League. Ed had a couple of friends on the team and it seemed like a good fit: the skill level would challenge him and he would probably learn a few things in the process. I think he did. It really helped, I think, that Brian helped coach. And although Ed was one of the youngest on the team, he held his own — getting on base most every time he was at bat and making some key defense plays. It felt like a ball game for the first time — they held the kids to three stikes and three outs and the game ticked along, most of the time. It made things fun to watch and, I think, fun for him to play.

I've posted some pictures for the latest games, featuring Ed and his scrappy brother, Bob.

Sports Center a la Reinhardt

This is a short film made up of footage from 2007-2008. I'm a year behind with my film-making — hopefully I'll add another selection before the end of summer...

A short exchange

Setting: Rain begins on a Saturday morning in early June. It has not rained in some time. The earthiness of wet soil and damp grass permeates the air. Anne steps into the porch. Bobby follows, looking for his batting helmet. Anne then opens the front door and leans outside. We hear neighbors talking in the background.

Bobby: Mom, my helmet's not out there.

Anne: No, I'm just listening to the rain.

Bobby: That's not the rain talking.

Anne: Right. That's Curt.

End Scene

Still my Eddie...

Ed has been showing his first grade stripes lately. Maneuvering between lunch with other 7-year old boys and dinner the fam has been messy: Ed forgets silverware, tips on his chair, makes armpit noises, and engages in other such behavior. I am not so old that I have forgotten grade school humor — it's just that I never "got" grade-school boy humor then, so I'm having a difficult time appreciating it now. Another thing -- and this thing I have no trouble remembering...what it means to deal with other kids in elementary school. Now, Eddie is a nice kid. A really nice kid. So nice that I think other kids take advantage of him. I think he laughs it off -- maybe blinks away tears -- but brushes himself up and turns the other cheek. But, he comes home and takes it out on his brother. Bob gets pushed, yelled at, and (at worst) ignored by Ed. Ed disdain directed at Bob is particularly hard for me to watch — it physically pains me to watch one boy hurt the other. As a result, my patience with Eddie has been thin lately, even though I know that he comes by his emotions honestly.

So... tonight we read a book together and I suggested The Clown of God. It's been on Ed's shelf for years and I've avoided it. It begins with an orphan boy sleeping in doorways and ends with a old man dead a the foot of a statue of Jesus. A beautiful story, but pretty intense. I thought Eddie needed a good story tonight -- one that was well told and one he hadn't heard before. I'm reading the story and Eddie is silent (aside from the deep nasal breathing he and Bob do when they're concentraing on something.) The end comes, the clown dies, the Christ-child smiles, and Ed leans over to wipe the tears on my cheek. He tries to talk, but he's pretty chocked-up.

I didn't read him the book to make him cry. Honest. I read him the book to make him feel something beyond himself — something beyond goofiness. To remind him (and definitely me) there is always more than what we see.

Appreciating the Kindness of Strangers

Three times in the past two weeks. Three times when complete strangers went out of their way to do something earnestly good.

One night, a free coffee at Starbucks when I forgot my wallet — and would you believe it, this is the least of the list. Second — I bike to work at the U. I leave my van at St. Mark's, meander along River Road and end up just outside my building on Church and Washington. Probably a twenty-minute ride. I pull in to the bike rack last week to realize that I left my lock behind in the van. I can't really go back as I'd probably be late for class. As I'm about to take my chances stashing my bike in the building, someone I've never met offers to share his combination lock with me. Out of the blue. He says, "It's happened to me sooo many times. I'll be here 'till 9 tonight. No big deal." My students, when hearing this, asserted that my bike was "so gone." It wasn't. And wait until they hear the next tale. Today, biking to pick up Eddie at school after work. I'm running late, cross Cleveland only to lose my chain. Broken. I have a few more blocks to go. So I run — with greasy chain and heavy bag. Someone -- Nora she said later — pulls up next to me on her bike and asks if I need help. I explain the situation and she offers me her bike saying, "I'm not in a hurry at all." So, this nice person pushes my broken bike four blocks while I take off to St. Mark's on hers. We swap in the playground. Quite something.

I'm resisting a moral to these stories because I don't know if there's a lesson to be learned or just something to know. To know that the world is really a good place, filled with good people who do good things for each other. Or maybe it's just the urban utopia that is St. Paul, I don't know...

Bill Wins

A shout-out to my brother-in-law Bill. He never ceases to impress and amuse me.

So...the first movie I watched on our brand-new VCR was Raiders of the Lost Ark (quickly followed by a copy of Fletch.) I remember going around and imitating the Marian/Nazi part for whomever would listen: "Let me tell you what I am used to...Fraulein..." But I had nothing on my nephew Danny, age 3 1/2 (complete with creepy breathing and volume variation>)

Changing smiles

They hung on for as long as they could. They evoked shudders, even from un-shudderable individuals. Friday: Wrestling with the neighbors. Out number one. Monday: Lunch at St. Mark's. Out number two. And now we have a front-toothless seven-year old, looking older and yet somehow younger, simultaneously. I think he's relieved they're out, although he had no interest in pulling the teeth nor hastening their departures. Maybe I'm projecting here, but losing teeth signals change; baby teeth never come back. It's a very tangible way to tell a seven-year old that he's growing up. Of course, this is what he wants: to get bigger and stronger and faster. This is the promise we make as we encourage him to eat good food. But then you turn around and it's more than just running and height: it's long division and first communion. It's responsibility and more homework.

But, enough deep thought. The teeth are out and Eddie sure looks cute.

Walking the Walk

I moved theory into practice today. In my academic life, I'm a big fan using textile construction as a narrative device. I once compared some novel to quilting (I forget which) — using different "squares" to determine my paragraphs; my dissertation investigates textile references in early-American fiction for what they add to narratives of historical fiction. I like to use these largely-female occupations as a way to "liberate" texts out of a (perceived) notion of male hegemony. I feel like a flag waver for women and women's occupations though my songs of praise for these collaborate female arts. But I don't — sew, that is. I took sewing in home-ec (it was still home-ec then) and made an awkward billfold and I'm not sure what else. I started a counted-crosstich that was kindly finished by my sister when I was two rows "off" at the end and left it -- never to return. But today I did some "tie" quilting with my aunts, my cousins, my grandma, and my mom. I felt like Bob in What About Bob? : "I'm quilting! I'm a quilter! I quilt!" Although, I didn't really do too much. The experience, in fact, was very much true-to-Anne. I start: I can do this...this is fun. Then: I like this, I should quilt... Then: I could make a quilt myself...where can I get wool? Who would want to do this with me? To: Oh, now we need to finish the sides. This takes cutting and sewing. Hmm. I'm not interested anymore.

I could see half-finished quilts/piles of fabric in my future. Walk away and stick to writing about it, I say. Although I'd love to help someone like I did today, I don't want to carry the responsibility of an entire quilt. Too big for me.

Bobby the Scholar

Bobby likes to take chapter books to bed with him — he "reads" them after I read to him. An early reading book you ask? Henry Huggins, maybe? Winnie-the-Pooh? Bob has bypassed these classics for more complicated fare. Tonight, after dropping off to sleep, he happened to drop his newest selections: Achebe's Things Fall Apart and C.S. Lewis' Four Loves. When he originally selected Achebe, he paired it with Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Then, he asked me to suggest a third book: "Umm, I think Tutola would be a complementary pairing, Bob. Its binding is yellow and blue." He went for the Lewis instead. Interesting dynamics — what could be the theme? Religion in the Empire and the colonies? (Re)narrating archetype? :)

Spring has sprung in Minnesota; warmer tones are slowly overtaking the bitter cold. The buds are swelling — leaf and flower will be peeking through before I look again. They're tricky that way. Our cardinal couple is building a nest in the shrub outside the backdoor. I can walk outside shoeless without too much discomfort. It's much too soon for it, though. I like to push the limits of Spring.

Our season of Lent ended on Saturday afternoon, giving way to a glorious Easter. It was warm enough to hunt for eggs outside in shirtsleeves, a treat for sure.

A happy moment between cousins. I resisted taking another photo a minute later when Joe sat up and then came back down (accidentally) on Anna's nose. I thought taking a picture of Anna screaming and crying wouldn't be the most caring thing to do....Although it would have been a nice companion to this one. :)

Another one from Bob:

"Bad guys have knives."

I said, "Where did you see something like that," ready to indict LA Fitness for violent cartoonage.

Bob's reply: "Bad guys have knives in God." [translation: persecutors of Jesus — as well as various Old Testament n'er-do-wells — in the kids' Bible have knives.]

"Is Jesus yellow? Is God red?"

Two randomly-induced questions from Bob. My answer? "Sure. I don't see why not." And I still don't see why not: yellow and red seem appropriately fitted to the appropriate branch/incarnation/facet/1 of 3 of the deity.

Bob. Thinks out of the box and outside traditional illustrations.