Boo!

A belated Happy Hauntings to you!

I'm not sure what part of this photo is the scariest. Here are the nominees:
1.) Leah's face paint job and tongue action looks a little too much like the drummer from Kiss.
2.) Matthew's wearing the Minnesota equivalent to a cheese hat. Oooo, a Vikings fan... scary!
3.) The alien eyes from Jack in the background. When will green-eye fixers come standard on cameras?
4.) Is my husband flicking me off? Nah. Look at that face. He's sweeter than a whole bag of candy.

Leah bagged a bounty of teeth-rotting booty from our kind neighbors tonight. We shall add that to the pile of dental-nightmares she collected the night before on campus. One of the big dorms held a hall-wide trick-or-treat fest with games and treats as well. It was all fun and games until the popcorn machine set off the smoke alarm ushering everyone out of the building, and bringing the fire fighters and police to the scene for some impromptu entertainment. The best part? Some poor guy was trying valiantly to deliver a pizza by shouting the name of the patron into the crowd of college kids and trick-or-treaters. Bad timing! We all felt bad for him, but he kept his chin up.

Brush those teeth, kids!

Down on the Farm

We took the girls to a diary farm this weekend, using some free tickets from the university. While there were many aspects of the farm that could be more visitor-friendly, we did get a thorough look at how the farm operates and Leah got to see and touch all kinds of animals. They didn't have pigs or horses, but they had just about everything else. Leah's been to farms before and this time, she started to come out of her shell a bit more. She fed goats and geese, chased chickens, "mothered" some very patient kitties, pet one-week old calves, and even dared to milk a cow.

One of the highlights for me was seeing and hearing the flock of geese and ducks. The tall, "wine-bottles-with-legs" ducks in the background are Indian Runner Ducks. They were less vocal than the big, nosy (beak-y?) geese, but so cool looking. Our guide, a Four-H expert in fowl, said that they are used in rice patties to eat fallen grain so that mice don't have any reason to invade. I thought they looked like rocket ducks, waiting for mission control to give them the green light to blast off.

And yes, even I milked the cow. Throughout our guide's explanation of the milking process, I kept feeling a pang of empathy. They milk the cows twice a day, letting their milk ducts/veins swell between milkings. Yeowtch! There's no way I could last nursing only twice a day. And then there's the fact that the babies are bottle fed from day one. The calves were adorable, but I was saddened that they were separated from their mamas so soon. "It's so the mothers don't get mad later," our guide explained. Yeah, I'd be pissed too. But, thank goodness, I am not a diary cow, or worse (maybe?) a beef cow. Then again, a lot of diary cows get sold for beef when they get too old or too fill-in-the-blank to be bred. A double-whammy. *sigh*

I'll get off this depressing soap-box now and try to end on a brighter note. At the conclusion of our visit, we each picked out a pumpkin from the patch. (Leah picked out one for Natalie.) I kept laughing because Leah kept tripping over pumpkin vines. The overcast sky turned bright blue and the sun felt so good on our shoulders. It was hard to pick the perfect pumpkin, but in the end we came home with four pumpkins who now surround Hector by the front door. Despite my lifelong love of being a little bit different from everybody else, it feels good, deep-down good, to mentally cross off this autumn "task" from the list of trite things a family should do.

Laughing in Church

One of our culture's greatest enigmas is the difficulty to stop laughing once started while in an environment where laughing is a big no-no.

Scene 1: Standardized testing in 10th grade. Rows of desks in perfect lines anchored by pimply teens with their number 2 pencils dutifully filling circles. Someone, probably that smelly kid who lives by you, releases a tightly clenched "fwarp," and you can't help that your diaphragm jiggles instinctively with restrained laughter. What makes it worse is that A) no one else seems to have heard it, and B) your mind is somehow replaying the sound over and over so as to antagonize your guts and your ability to calm your breathing. Your face turns hot and the test in front of you is blurry through the tears in your eyes. The tired teacher in the front purses her lips at you and you regain your composure -- but only until you recall the sound yet again and have to bite your lip to keep yourself from falling on the linoleum.

Scene 2: Sunday church service. Your family of six arrives late to church and are forced to occupy the second to the front row of hard, glossy pews. During the reading of the gospel, your brother nudges you and points to a typo in the church bulletin. "Bring any unopened bags of poocorn to the pantry collection site." poocorn. You're a goner. The paper gets passed around until all four of you are repressing guffaws, heads bowed to hide from the all-knowing eyes of the pastor, and if it weren't for the rhythmic squeaking of the pew from your laughter, it might look like you were all experiencing a divine moment of humility.

Scene 3: Way past nap-time on a weekday. Your lovely daughter refuses to settle down for her much needed nap. She is wound up on sugar from a post storytime treat, and is probably overtired as well. You've given her clear instructions on what she needs to do in order to get out of her room: be quiet, lie in bed, close eyes, and got to sleep for two hours. She runs through her repertoire of excuses to get out: still hungry, needs more water, wants a different toy to sleep with, and finally, has to go poop. Dear Daughter then begins chanting, "Please can I go poop?" over and over again, in exactly the same tone each time. Sometimes it's a little louder, other times she sounds like she might actually drop it and go to sleep, but alas, she persists. "Please can I go poop?" "Please can I go poop?" "Please can I go poop?" -- and then the doozy -- "Peas can I go Ploop?" You let out a massive laugh that feels so good compared to the tension you had a moment ago, but you quickly stifle it so as not to encourage further "dialog" with a nap-needing girl. You resist the urge to give in to her pleas, knowing that doing so would be certain death to any chance of a civil evening.

This is my life. There's needs to be some sort of power cell (a la Monsters Inc.) that can capture the potential energy of repressed laughter. It feels so good because it's so bad!

Tie-Dyed Tree

I like trees. I even have favorite trees. There's the big spruce that towered over a corner of my childhood house -- you could walk "into" it and be surrounded by sappy-smelling boughs. There's the tree that grew or eroded straight out over the lake in my hometown -- you could shimmy along the trunk and sit over the water. And then there's this knockout. Every year, this maple two doors down throws out the most vivid tie-dyed display in the neighborhood. It's got every color from green to bright red, and against a clear blue sky, well, it's photo worthy. Enjoy!

You cant have too many buckets

Hooray for a little crafting time! Here's a little square-bottomed canvas bucket i made last night. The design uses a Jordy bag style to get the squared bottom. I kept the height short so it would have a chance of standing on its own (and it does!), and the two little handles on either side are sewn onto the outer fabric with a tight zig-zag stitch.



The finished object is about 6.5 inches all around (height, width, length).



I purchased both the outer and lining fabric for close to nothing at a remnant/outlet store -- woo hoo! (The colors look a little washed out in the photos; It's a light lime/chartreuse and a real chocolatey brown.) I'm thinking about making a set of three, in different sizes using the same fabric.

Now, if only I knew what to put in it. Any ideas?

Little Details

We're home from our trip safely and soundly. My passengers three fared well and the nine hours on the road moved as swiftly as the dotted yellow line that I still see when I close my eyes. During our visit, I snapped a couple of nice shots of some details that "sum up" a bit of what it's like to be there. The leaf, still carrying some rain drops, was one of many like this, on display like weather-related vignettes upon the rustic trails in the woods. And the cake was just one of Mom's yummy culinary creations from Saturday. I think it turned out better than the one in the cook book. Not that my mom doesn't like the woods or that my dad doesn't ever turn out a tasty meal, but each of these pics, to me, represent a little of each of them and the details they appreciate. Thanks again for letting us make a big mess in your house, Mom and Dad.

My Hip Hometown

O.k., my hometown is far from hip. It's a smallish city in northern Minnesota surrounded by farmland, forest and Native American reservations. Still, it has its finer points that lean towards being kinda cool. It is a college town, it's built around a pretty lake, it's home to many artists and artisans who make neat stuff, and they even have a weekly farmers' market. With roots in the lumber business, I guess they're doing well. Over the past ten years it seems to keep a relative balance of yin and yang: for every Wal-Mart and bank branch, there's a privately owned coffee shop and art gallery.
Every once in a while, it feels like there is a fun, radical uprising and the town oozes the potential to appear in a trendy magazine as a "diamond in the rough" kind of vacation spot. Then, time, the great leveler, quiets that voice and the townsfolk come out of their shells and go back to their favorite chain restaurant to order "the regular."
Hipness in my hometown? It's there if you look for it. I found this nifty robot graffiti downtown. Perhaps his missing lower half is symbolic.

Smiles Bridge Generations

Natalie got the chance to meet her great grandparents yesterday. While Leah was feigning shyness, Natalie impressed them with her big, toothless grins. We enjoyed our visit even though it was short. Of course, it wouldn't be a trip to Grandma and Grampa's house without a little meal. Grandma whipped up a batch of ham sandwiches on buttered bread, sliced diagonally and set on a clean Corelle plate. Complemented with apricots in syrup, milk in plastic cups, and a home made chocolate chip cookie, it was a simple meal, but as with anything Grandma makes, it tasted so good. :) Perhaps it was that dash of tradition that gave it zip.

Vagabond Dogs

Growing up in a rural area, I saw many dogs who, as far as I could tell, were tagless, ownerless, and homeless: vagabond dogs. At times, I felt sorry for them, wondered what they did when it got really cold, and worries about what might happen if they injured themselves. Other times, they were a nuisance, driving our dog crazy by meandering through our yard and inevitably leaving their "calling card" where we were bound to step in it. And every once in a while, I would see a pair of lab-ish mutts running full tilt in the ditch beside the road, tongues flapping out the side of their mouths, tails tipped upward in glee, and I couldn't help feel a little jealous of their freedom, the ease with which they ran, and the silent communication they had with one another.

On our big road trip back to northern Minnesota, we stopped at a gas station to go potty and to nurse Natalie. While we sat there, we were entertained by the visit of a little vagabond pug. He waddled across the street, possibly from the apartment building there, sniffed around the grass surrounding the parking lot, squatted to pee, then trotted to the corner of the gas station where he sat, tongue out (as only little dogs like pugs seem to do), watching life pass him by. From his state of contentment, it seemed that this was a pastime of his. When Natalie finished, I put her back in her seat, buckled Leah into hers, and then got in myself. Just as I did so, our little "gas station buddy" decided he had had enough as well and he waddled back across the street, out of sight behind a car on blocks. When animals like this little guy have personalities so amusing, it always makes me wonder about reincarnation -- who was this soul before he was born a wrinkly, black-faced dog that waddles to the call of his own chuck wagon?

Silly pup. Any of you have any "vagabond dog" stories?

Meet Hector

Leah and I put this stout little fella together this afternoon, with help from this Family Fun idea. I think he turned out rather distinguished considering we didn't have corn, beans, nut shells, or even acorns to work with. He's currently watching the entryway, and I'm sure he'd open the door for you if he could.

Oooo! It's chilly!

Yes! It finally feels like fall! It's not too cold as to warrant a call to the furnace gremlins, but it's just the perfect "ooooo" to pull my favorite hoodie off the hook in the closet, "birth" myself through the opening, and tuck my hands, almost instinctively up into the frayed sleeves.

Matthew and I both used to like fall as our favorite season - camping is often bug-free, it smells like dry leaves and wood stoves, and we both are hoodie-fans. Recently, however, we both have jumped onto the "I Like Spring Best" bus as we prefer warming (versus cooling) temps, longer (versus shorter) daylight totals, and the fact that our garden looks halfway decent before the carnival of native weeds gets too rowdy. Maybe it has something to do with working 8-4/9-5 type jobs when we leave for work in darkness and return to darkness during the late fall and winter weeks. Or maybe, having seen two babies enter into the daylight of being, we relish all new growth with more passion -- eh, sounds too poetic. ;)

When Life (or your mother-in-law) Hands You Apples...

...make apple pies! and apple crisp! and apple compote! and take lots of artsy photos of them! and, well do anything to use up all these tasty little buggers. I know I've watched it happen a few times, and I probably helped peel apples a couple of times as well, but this was my very first solo apple pie making experience. In an attempt to use up as many apples as I could, I make two heaping French apple pies. (Do they call them "french" because they're "topless" pies, or because this is some sort of traditional French way of making apple pies?) ;) And no, I didn't make the crust myself. Mom would have, but she's a pastry whiz and I am barely a rookie.

I'm waiting for them to cool before I dig in for a taste test, but the recipe was so simple that I doubt they will be anything short of scrumptious. Thanks again, Jan, for the apples. Next week, I'll be schlepping home a load of butternut squash from Mom and Dad's. Yep. It's fall.

Wanna bite?

THIS is why people have kids!

Summer's Passing

According to our calendar, Summer ended a while ago. No one told the weather though. It's October in Wisconsin and we're sweating! Temp records were broken throughout the midwest. Wack!

Starting a post with weather chit-chat after a brief hiatus may seem trite, boring, or even disappointing, but perhaps I needed that "lite" opening to lend some wings to the heavier events of the past week. A few days ago, we reflected on the long and varied life of Matthew's grandmother who passed away on Monday. As sad as it always is to let go of someone we love, there was a more tangible feeling of relief and finality to her passing. When greyhounds die, their owners are fond of wishing them a fond farewell by saying, "run free" and imagining their pups racing other hounds on long stretches of green grass, pain-free. I imagine Grandma Jean cooking for an army of her friends and family, three different pots boiling on the stove, something very aromatic in the oven, and yards of plates carrying every kind of cookie and bar, waiting on the side. Her husband winks at her from a table, his way of letting her know he appreciates her. She winks back -- her way of saying, "There's no where else I'd rather be."

We also wrapped things up at the cabin -- the surest sign of summer's end, unseasonably warm temperatures be damned! I was equally impressed and amused by the concerted effort of men-folk who braved the chilly water and muscled in the dock and boat lift pieces onto the shore. Many of the men were CEOs, VPs and professors by day which lead naturally to civil discussions about how best to move those cumbersome metal skeletons. At each step, there was a chorus of ideas, illustrated by gestures and expressions, in a dozen different male timbres. Believe it or not, dear reader, they got the job done, and right quickly too.

Before we left, Leah and her grandma picked apples to bring home (the apple crisp we made tonight is de-lish!) and we posed for some pics under the neighbor's lovely maple tree. I've updated the Picasa link too, so check that out.

While the occasion that brought us together was a mournful one, we were able to mourn together, sharing stories, looking back through old photos, dusting off memories we hadn't played in years, like old songs we had forgotten but for which we still knew the words by heart.

A Doggy Decade -- Almost

One more post before the day is over: Happy Birthday, Jack-A-Roo!
Our darling dog, Jack, a retired racing greyhound turned nine today. He's got a greying snout and he's currently limping, but the grey hair is just hair, and the limp is from tearing around the back yard like a young pup.
Here's to many more years, you gorgeous goofball, you.

edited to add: I got a little overexcited and originally posted that Jack was ten. Whoops -- not yet, puppers!

Edible Cuteness

Some babies are just "edible," you know what I mean? Those soft, perfectly round little cheeks, the jewel-like eyes, fabled button nose and rosebud lips -- don't tell me you're not salivating a little bit. Of course I'm not actually tempted to actually eat my own child, but LOOK AT HER!

The hat, which you must see in person some time, is a gift from one of Matthew's co-workers.

Enjoy the cuteness overload!

Jeckyl & Hyde or Just Well-Rounded? A Case Study

Subject: Miss Leah Bear
Observation: behavioral patterns during a 24 hour cycle
Hypothesis Summary: Typical "wiggidy-wack" todder stuff
Evidence: Photo A and Photo B
Description: In Photo A, we see the face of "wild child" alter ego of LB. Just moments before this photo was snapped, the subject threw crayons at the brave and determined photographer. Note the blurred hands in the photo ready to strike with round two. Hair askew, mouth open in devilish delight, and eyes locked onto her target, this little creature has "Danger" and "Riot" written all over her. Researchers are desperately debating the merits of bringing the subject to "Story Time."
Photo B, taken less than 24 hours after Photo A, reveals the other dominant trait of Miss LB: orderly placement. Here, the subject has taken six markers and placed them, all in the cap down position, in a row along the edge of a bookshelf. Observers discussed at length the motivation behind such a careful act of orderliness before resolving the issue with the statement that "the markers were placed there in that position, because they could be."
Can these two exhibits be products of the same child? Did the mother have diametrically disparate twins and not know it? What other hidden personalities will be revealed next? Will the world of coloring ever be the same?