"Love grows with the growing recognition of perpetual brokenness."

Elder writes, "We don't remember, and love, the past because it was painless and perfect." Next to this passage in my book, I wrote, "Dude, he's so right." (Now, I'm admitting here how full disclosure may make me seem like an idiot. I don't even know who the "dude" is to whom I am referring. I think I've watched The Big Lebowski a few too many times.)

Perfection is boring. Wait, let me rephrase that. Perfection when balancing a checkbook or examining a flawless spreadsheet at work can be fulfilling and gratifying. Perfection in the grander scope of life is boring. Had "Bess" and "Millie" not experienced those crazy travel shenanigans, they would have had nothing to say about their vacations except "The water was crystal clear" and "The weather was beautiful" and "The mai tais and/or pina coladas are really strong." Some of my best memories emerge from challenging, imperfect times. I don't remember the uneventful days; I remember the days that caught me off guard, that forced me to channel my inner resources and use them wisely. Elder is a wise man indeed.

Also, I just wanted to point out my favorite chapter, "The Ledges," about the fire that threatened the woods and Elder's town. We've all seen Grease and American Graffiti and The Lost Boys, we know these guys that Elder is talking about, the town troublemakers. However, I was so happy to see that these were the unlikely heroes in the tale, the ones who found a better use for their "courage, imagination, and playfulness than the dead-end jobs awaiting high school dropouts in a rural area, and to which they would be drifting soon enough. . ." These scowling, snarly 20-year-olds embraced the inherent danger in dangling off the cliffs, helping to distinguish the threatening fire. They came through in the end because, whether they want to admit it or not, they were townies who appreciated the community as much as their better-intentioned neighbors.

What Elder does well in his book is highlight the sense of community that exists in his town in Vermont. It's an area rich with history and steeped in tradition that he infiltrated with his family, an area that he now calls home. While he doesn't make me want to "read the mountains of my home," I do feel the need to explore a bit more, to open my eyes more.

On a related note, Dr. Smith asked in class if there was a poem that we would like to read and follow in the same vein that Elder followed Frosts' poem, "Directive." I searched my brain, sorting through the cobwebs, and seriously the only poem I could think of that I liked enough to dissect as thoroughly as Elder was "Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out," by Shel Silverstein. Stay tuned for dumpster diving updates, friends!

Yeah, about that vegetarian thing...

I'm back on the bacon. No beef yet, I still can't get the image of the cow conveyor belt and shocker out of my mind. But bacon was on sale and I'm nothing if not a thrifty shopper. Even as I write this I realize I'm behaving in the way "the man" wants me to behave. I buy what I can afford, ethics and humanity (animality?) be damned. Crap. I want to return the bacon, but that seems ridiculous (as ridiculous as Vladek returning an open box of cereal to the grocery store in Maus). I'll just turn on the TV while I eat, and hopefully I'll be done with breakfast before I realize what I've eaten.

Get Lost

The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,

-an excerpt from Robert Frost's "Directive"

Our final reading in class is a book in which a man explores the mountains of his home in Vermont by using Frost's poem "Directive" as a guide. In Reading the Mountains of Home, John Elder is taking a literal approach to the poem, which has him exploring the wooded mountains and the wildlife inhabiting the area. His perspective is unique and his knowledge of the area expands with every hike and every new discovery. Elder is on a journey to learn more about the land on which he lives, but his journey is also incredibly personal as he writes about the loss of his father and other struggles he is forced to deal with during the year in which he journals his journey.

The above excerpt from Frost's poem resonated with me for many different reasons. It's about a literal journey, but a metaphorical one, as well. This "guide" seems to have as his goal getting me to a destination, but also getting me to open my eyes to my surroundings on my journey. By getting lost, the things I may normally take for granted will be illuminated and I'll find the unexpected beauty and stories that lie beyond the path. Once you are literally lost, you must find your way.

Someone mentioned in class that people who move around a lot and struggle to name a place "home" are lost. I am one of those people. I can't seem to make up my mind about where I want to be, where I want to plant my roots. Perhaps it's because I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up (although I'm getting closer and closer and have narrowed it down to either teacher/writer or Ben & Jerry's flavor taster). But I think I'm on my way, working toward my destination, albeit not getting there in the most practical, the fastest way from Point A to Point B is a straight line, kind of way. I like meandering, taking my time, trying with varying degrees of success different jobs and cities and friends. I am thankful for the "guide" who has at heart my getting lost, as long as I eventually find my way. Even if I'm 72 and still navigating.

Let it (maybe) snow, let it (30% chance) wintry mix, let it sleet!

With the weatherman predicting snow (at the very least, a wintry mix [barring that, at the very very least, very very cold rain]), I began to reflect upon the evolution of snow in my life.

As a kid, snow was magical. The fact that these tiny flakes of precipitation held the power to delay school for two hours, or, if we were lucky, cancel it altogether, was magical. We relished every opportunity to sled in our hill-less backyard, build short, lopsided snowmen, and throw poorly-packed snowballs at the rowdy neighbor boys. I loved coming inside after playing in the wet stuff, my mittens hardened by the snow to the point where they were no longer flexible, my cheeks numb and bright pink, the tingling in my toes and my soggy pants that had somehow gotten wet even underneath my purple snowsuit. We laid our wet clothes over the vents in the kitchen while mom made hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. We curled up next to the fireplace to warm our hands, a fireplace that would provide the only heat and light when the power went out during a particularly bad storm in junior high.

(Dad and my big sister, early 80's)

The same snow that once could do no wrong in my eyes became an enemy when I was 16 and drove a tiny Honda Civic. The snow that could do no wrong made it impossible for my tiny car to enter my driveway after the plows had cleared our street. I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to help push me into the driveway. This snow also made the trips to and from college dangerous in the winter. The treacherous conditions forced me to pull over in the middle-of-nowhere Iowa one night in January, when I was returning to Des Moines after Christmas break. I spent the night in a hotel, alone and 19, with the doors locked. I had seen one (or a dozen) too many scary movies to know that no one is safe in a hotel alone in the middle of nowhere. Snow and I were on the verge of a break-up after I changed a flat tire on my Accord in below freezing temperatures i a particularly blistery and snowy Des Moines winter. The snow had begun to lose its magic as I grew older and it inhibited my daily life. It wreaked havoc at the airport and after a 15-hour delay at Midway (and $90 later to keep myself occupied with magazines, drinks, food, more drinks...) I was done with snow. I made up my mind to move south.

Now, after having spent a year and a half in Nashville, I miss snow. The grass is always greener, right? I obsess over the weather reports at home and all the other places I live, secretly jealous that there's snow falling everywhere but where I currently reside. But I know, deep down, that once I return north, I'll hate every morning I have to scrape my car and worry about black ice and falling icicles in the city.

Here's to hoping Dan Thomas is right and there's snow later this week! (I can hope for the best of both worlds, right?)

Frosty

I was so not pleased at having to scrape the ice off my windshield at 5:30 this morning. But I went to work, and two hours later I was hauling the girls I nanny for out the door to get to school. When we emerged from the toasty house, a rush of cold air hit our faces and I bundled little Willow tighter, hoping to protect her sweet, chubby cheeks from the blustery breeze. Jewell, who is kindergarten, screamed in excitement, "This is the best day of my life!"

Ugh, seriously? "Look at the snow, Mallory! Just look at it! It's beautiful! This is the best day ever!" She then proceeded to twirl around in the frost-covered grass, arms spread wide, smile plastered across her face, eyes to the heavens, searching for more "snowflakes."

I couldn't help but smile, but then I had to herd her into the car so we wouldn't be late for school. She asked if we could build snowmen after school, and I had to gently explain to her that this wasn't snow. It was frost and it would melt by lunchtime. She cried, an overly dramatic cry, straight out of a Lifetime movie. I tried to explain to her the difference between frost and snow, why it would melt (I really thought my ice cube analogy was gold, but she didn't buy it), but the crying continued until we pulled into the drop-off line at school. She grumbled something about how her life was ruined and I sent her on her way, hoping her teacher could better explain this weather phenomenon to her.

This incident got me thinking about our first night of class when we discussed the imagination of children and how we are, as a society, slowly eliminating the wildness from our kids. She wanted desperately to play in the "snow" and I crushed her spirit. Should I have lied to her? Should I have allowed her to make a "snow" angel and dropped her off late to school? I struggled with my responsibility to her, and ultimately think I made the best decision. Certainly she'll forget about it, but I won't. Hopefully it will snow enough one day down here and I can help her build a proper snowman. That will truly be the best day of her life.

Stuffed

Oops, no longer a vegetarian (but the turkey was organic and fresh), but I'm staying strong with no bacon and burgers.

Farmer's Markets

Before moving to Des Moines for college, I didn't know what a farmer's market was. There was a fruit and produce market about 15 minutes away from my house that we visited once in a while, but that was the extent of my fresh fruits and veggie knowledge. It took me until my sophomore year in college to discover the wonderfulness of the farmer's markets in Des Moines.

On Saturday mornings, there was one downtown on Court and 2nd Aves. It was the big one, the one that required setting an alarm to get a good parking space. I could spend all morning there, buying handfuls of green beans and apples and unidentifiable squashes. On these mornings, we relished the pastries from the German, Swedish or Czech vendors. We devoured kettle corn and excitedly planned our meals for the upcoming week.

On Thursday evenings, Valley Junction closed its Main Street while farmers and vendors lined the curbs with their goodies. Here, we discovered sweet potato fries for the first time and delicious cherries that would soon get baked into a pie. On Tuesday nights, the residents of the Beaverdale neighborhood gathered on a smaller scale and perused the fresh produce the farmers hauled in from the country.

On any given day, driving on any given road, one could find a man sitting in a lawn chair next to his pick-up, selling corn or strawberries or melons. These guys, for some reason, always had the best sweet corn. There was one man who parked by Blockbuster, I think, whose corn I bought every time I passed him. He wore dusty overalls, muddy field boots, and a John Deere hat. My roommates and I could eat three ears of his corn and call it a meal. We cooked it into casseroles and salsas and soups. I miss that man and his corn. Like, if I knew he still parked his F-150 on that same stretch of road, I might move back to Des Moines.

A Bug's Life: Cut Short

I killed a bug on my windshield a couple of weeks ago; I smacked it with the back of my hand as I was pulling into the Target parking lot. I was in a rush and didn't feel like looking for a napkin or receipt on which to wipe away the carcass. I'm embarrassed to admit the dead bug's body remains on my windshield today. It's gross and I have clearly had the time to dispose of it, but I for some perverse reason, I haven't. Every time I glance at it (it's just out of my sight line) I am reminded of my own mortality. How every day when I drive on the interstate or speed through a yellow light, in the blink of an eye, it could be me on splattered on that windshield, not a tiny speck of a bug. It'll probably remain on my windshield until someone like my mom or sister climbs in and, in a display of utter disgust, reaches for a tissue and wipes it off.

This seems terribly morbid, doesn't it?

Hunting and Gathering

In the final chapters of The Omnivore's Dilemma, Pollan embarks upon a huntering and gathering expedition. His end goal is to prepare a meal for family and friends using only ingredients he hunted, killed, foraged, etc. himself. A noble, yet overwhelming undertaking, yes?

He cooks, not without a few mishaps, what he considers the perfect meal. Yes, he had to rely on the help and kindness of new friends and yes, this or that may have been over- (or under-) cooked. He does admit that this type of meal preparation is not practical in today's society. We cannot all go out and hunt game for dinner every evening and our gardens may not support us year-round. It is practical and convenient to go to the grocery store and do the shopping, not hike into the cold, blistery mountains looking for non-poisonous mushrooms. (Yet, the thought of a bunch of soccer moms driving their minivans into the woods to hunt and gather gives me a bit of a chuckle.)

His meal may not have been perfect, but the idea of it was. He wanted to feel a sense of accomplishment and pride in what he had done, and in the end, he did. On a more muted scale, I feel the same sense of pride when I try a new recipe and don't set off the smoke alarms. It may not be perfect, and it doesn't matter since I cook for one most nights, but there is an inherent sense of accomplishment when preparing something new and trying new cooking methods. The lumpy gravy or just-past golden brown crust of a homemade pizza taste perfect to my buds.

I might need to be a vegetarian for a little while...

I have a box of Bubba Burgers in my freezer, and since finishing the chapter "The Ethics of Eating Animals" in The Omnivore's Dilemma, I can't even make eye contact with the box. In fact, I've reorganized my freezer so there are bowls of frozen soup and a gallon of ice cream blocking my view of the burgers.

We no longer have any rituals governing either the slaughter or eating of animals, which perhaps explains why we find ourselves in this dilemma, in a place where we feel our only choice is either to look away or give up meat. (Pollan 331-32)

I've never really thought particularly long and hard about what I eat. (I mean, I put thought into whether to have lasagna or pancakes for dinner, not necessarily where it came from and how it arrived on my pantry shelves.) Apart from this book, only two other instances come to mind. . .

When I was younger, I don't even remember how old I was, probably in fourth or fifth grade, we were at my grandparents' for a holiday. They all blend together, especially when there are 40 or 50 people crammed into a house, but it was likely Easter or Christmas. For our family gatherings, the food was always spread out on the countertops and we filled our plates buffet-style. I had been standing in line with my cousins, irritated that we were being pulled up from our basement ping-pong game for dinner. When I finally reached the food, I saw before me at least three different kinds of meat. I wasn't surprised that it all looked like chicken, but earlier in the day, I had overheard my uncles talking to my grandpa about how the rabbits he'd killed and cooked up for dinner. So now I stood in front of unidentifiable meats, not knowing which was the chicken, the turkey, or the rabbit (who could possibly be the brother, sister, mother or father of my own pet rabbit, Cuddles, who was likely asleep in his cage at home, safe from Grandpa's butcher knife). I yelled for my uncles and asked what I was supposed to eat. They teased me and told me they couldn't tell which plate held the rabbit. I threw a fit and refused to eat anything but green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, certain those were safe foods. I just couldn't fathom eating a buddy of Cuddles, and didn't understand why Grandpa thought it was okay to eat them. Maybe it was because I had never seen a chicken or turkey in person, so they weren't on my radar as being animals. I can happily report that I grew wiser and began observing in the kitchen so I could always tell which was the turkey, and would never have to go through that kind of ordeal again.

Supersize Me. Need I say more? I can count on two hands the number of times I've been to McDonald's since watching that movie, and every time I go, I am so disappointed in myself; I can't even eat an entire bag of value fries anymore. That said, if anyone ever attempts that at Chick-Fil-A, I don't think I'll be able to go on living. I like to pretend it's not as bad as Mickey D's. Please don't burst my bubble, friends.

So, for now, I'm quitting bacon cheeseburgers. Thanksgiving is around the corner so I can't promise no turkey, but I'm certain I'll be feeling a little guilty as I eat the yummy little bird.

A Hitchhiker's Guide to Jamaica

(After our class discussion about hitchhiking, and how it's not socially acceptable to pick them up anymore, I reflect once again upon my own decision-making during recent travels.)

Again, we encounter Millie and Bess, two girls escaping a chilly Minnesota spring at an island getaway retreat in Jamaica. Only this time, the intrepid travelers have companions, fellow risk-takers, if you will. Now, let's pause for a moment and reflect upon the poor decisions these girls made in Vegas, a trip occurring only 2 months before the jaunt to Jamaica. Two months! Have these girls learned nothing?

Bad Idea # 1: The Boat Ride

As Bessie and Millie and their three friends explored the oceanfront town of Port Antonio, they encountered a minor problem - the one beach they had heard rave reviews about had recently been washed out by a hurricane. As the girls gazed out upon the inviting waters, they pondered their next move. Try to find a different beach? Head back to town? Lounge at the hotel pool? As they were about to turn back toward the rental car, a local man offered to take the girls, and a group of three girls from Argentina or Brazil, to an island via his boat. Why not? Without thinking twice, the girls climbed into the rickety, baby blue boat and the captain glided over smooth waters toward an island a mile or so away from shore.

The local steered his boat onto a tiny, postage-stamp-sized sandy shore. This couldn't possibly be the island the man intended to leave us on, could it? There was hardly room for all 8 girls to lay their beach towels out without bumping elbows and block each other's sun. The man left and promised to be back in two hours to pick them up. Bess and Millie exchanged glances. Seriously?

If he doesn't come back, pretty sure I can make it to shore, Millie said, eyeing the beachfront houses on the main island. While the other girls relaxed on the "beach," Millie pondered their current situation. Who thought this was a good idea? Why did we think we could just get in this man's boat? What if he doesn't come back? This isn't even a beach. What's worse, if he does come back, we'll probably have to pay him.

He did come back, and they did pay him. But Millie and Bess still couldn't believe they had been so careless. They vowed never to make such a dumb mistake again.

Bad Idea #2: The Mountain Hijack

Bess, Millie and their friends ended their trip with another questionable decision. On their way back to the airport, they decided to take the scenic route through the mountains. Now, picture this - a crowded, mid-size sedan weaving up on a one-lane, pot-hole ridden road, driving on the opposite side of the road, the sweltering heat not aiding with overwhelming feeling of carsickness. The girls followed the map closely, certain they would make it to Kingston in plenty of time. They climbed higher and higher into the mountains, the view of the ocean below quite breathtaking. They paid little attention to the signs warning them of the impending road construction. They waved politely out the windows when a man yelled at them from the side of the road. They screamed in unison when Jamie slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt just a few yards shy of plummeting into nothingness. Those road signs? Warnings that the road was out due to a landslide. The man on the side of the road? Yelling at them to stop.

The girls exited the car, struggling to catch their breath and slow their pounding hearts. After several minutes of discussion of what to do next, the man who had hollered at them a few minutes ago sauntered up to the car, offering to sell the girls coffee. Coffee? At a time like this? Much to Millie's surprise, the other girls forked out the rest of their Jamaican cash and forked it over in exchange for Ziploc bags of coffee beans. The man then pointed to a road, which looked more like a straight uphill dirtpath, and said that was the only way over the mountain since the road washed out. The girls craned the necks back. No way that can be a road! they exclaimed to each other. When they decided they could not, in fact, get the car up the road, the man offered his assistance. Jamie happily handed over the car keys, and the man informed them the car wouldn't make it up the mountain if they were all inside - they would have to hoof it.

The girls watched as the man revved the engine and began to drive the car up the steep incline. The girls watched as their suitcases, passports, cameras, wallets, and Ziploc bags of coffee began to climb up the steep incline. He's not going to drive away with all our stuff, is he? someone asked. Crap. Suddenly, there was an urgency in their step as they hustled over the mountain and, out 0f breath, began their descent. Soon, they were in an all-out run, praying the man wouldn't take advantage of them and drive away with all their possessions. But alas, the girls came upon their sedan and the kind man who had driven it up the impossible road. They expressed their gratitude in the form of cash (as per usual in Jamaica, apparently) and continued on their way to the airport.

Now, there's another lesson to be learned here, and that is to avoid groupthink when on vacation. There's a false sense of security when you're in a group of people that you don't have when traveling alone. Also, wear sunscreen. The sun is very strong in Jamaica.

Mmm...corn!

I would like to start out by saying I think "Omnivore's Dilemma" should be required reading for all Americans. Every single one of us needs to read this book, if only to put into perspective one of the primary aspects of our every day lives - food. Michael Pollan tells the story of our food, nearly all of which apparently originates from corn. I've spent more time than the average non-Iowan American in Iowa. I lived there for four years while attending college in Des Moines and learned pretty quickly that corn is the lifeblood there.

For starters, I drove almost six hours from Michigan City to Des Moines, about five of those hours were spent watching the rows and rows of corn whiz by at 80 mph. Only in Iowa do tractors take precedent on the roadways; actually, only in Iowa do tractors merge so gracefully onto the interstates.

I met many people who grew up on farms in rural Iowa and Wisconsin and Nebraska. They told stories of heading home every weekend during the harvest and grew excited at the prospect of birthing a calf. I didn't understand this world I had infiltrated. I couldn't make sense of these people who loved the country, the farms, the ruralness of their lives.

After reading about corn so extensively in Pollan's book, however, I am forced to examine how I interacted with my farmer friends in Iowa. I didn't appreciate what they did until now, how hard they worked, how their parents struggled to make ends meet to send their kids to private school, how an unpredictable force such as weather can make or a break a crop. So here's a hearty thanks to all those farmers out there who grew the corn that inevitably was an ingredient in nearly everything I ate today.

A Hitchhiker's Guide to Vegas

(*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the hitchhikers in case their moms happen upon this blog and read this post. Should that happen, the hitchhikers would like to remind their moms that they are adults, capable of making their own choices and everyone makes mistakes. Also, I can neither confirm nor deny the identity of the girls in the photos.)

Once upon a time, two girls, Millie and Bess*, had a 12+ hour layover in Las Vegas on a return trip from Hawaii. Upon arrival at the airport at the godforsaken hour of five in the morning, the girls sluggishly lugged their suitcases off the luggage carousel and headed toward the information desk, where they inquired about luggage storage. The nice, helpful ladies suggest they head to the strip where any hotel will gladly check luggage for a small tip. Duly noted, help desk ladies.

As Millie and Bess headed toward the public transportation terminal, a sprightly young man approached them and mentioned he had overheard their inquiries at the help desk. I'm headed home, he said, my shift just ended. I live close to the New York, New York, I'd be happy to drop you there.

The girls exchanged glances and shrugged. Why not?

Now, perhaps their red-eye flight left them a tad bit delirious; after all, they hadn't slept in over 24 hours. Or, perhaps the sun shined so brightly that it killed any brain cells they had left after drinking screaming mai tai after screaming mai tai. Whatever the reason, they showed poor judgment by agreeing to ride with this stranger.

As they climbed into the passenger side of this man's F-150, he heaved their suitcases into the flatbed. What are we doing, they exclaimed to each other. I don't know, but you didn't say no, so I didn't say no, Bess said. This is how scary movies start, ya know, Millie said. Spring breakers making ill-advised decisions, then suddenly they're stranded on a tropical island during hurricane season with a hooked fisherman! Millie exclaimed. Bess reasoned with her, Okay, that's I Know What You Did Last Summer. And, we have cell phone reception, it's not like he can do anything to us. Besides, he's still wearing his badge. He's legit.

Millie nodded, trying to convince herself this wasn't the stupidest thing she's ever done. Hitchhiking. It was broad daylight, though, so their chances of survival increased exponentially. Luggage handler Matt (his name has also been changed because the author of this story forgot what it actually was) dutifully drove them the two minutes or so to the hotel, where the girls exited safely, breathing huge sighs of relief as they smiled and waved Matt the hitchhiker-picker-upper goodbye.

The lesson learned here, I believe, is that there are still nice people who don't murder stupid coeds out there, thus reaffirming my faith in humanity.

I'm not super stitious, but I am a little stitious...

I'm not a huge believer in the supernatural, but there are some things I believe in - like unsettled spirits haunting old friends and certain days of the year (Friday the 13s and full moons) lording special powers over us mortals. Case in point...the toddler dog whisperer. Today, I introduced the little boy I nanny for to my sister's dog, Gracie. Gracie has a rep for hating all kids, except her little "brother" (my nephew). So naturally I was a bit wary of taking an unpredictable 18 month-old boy to meet the huge 70-pound Weimaraner. But it was love at first sight - Gracie sat patiently waiting to be pet by Jake, who found Gracie's sweet spot under her chin. I was quite surprised that the child-hating dog took so fondly to Jake.

Pondering this hours later while playing outside at Jake's house, I still couldn't wrap my head around it. Now, Jake ran around his front yard, giggling at the wind whipping leaves in his face, tiny, crunchy brown bits stuck in his hair. From the neighbor's yard, a white dog began barking incessantly at Jake. He looked at me, unsure of what his next move should be. I knew the dog was being held back by an underground electric fence, but Jake was not restrained in any way. He did the only thing he knew to do, he barked back. "Woof woof!" he hollered and pointed at the dog. "Woof woof!" The dog immediately sat, ears folded back in shame, eyes longing for forgiveness from Jake and I. Holding my pinky in his small, chubby hand, he walked toward the dog, unsteady on the uneven ground, leaves cracking beneath his feet, and he gently set one hand on the dog's head. With a final "Woof" of apology acceptance, Jake turned and toddled back toward his own yard.

The dog sat quietly the rest of the evening, watching Jake and I cut the grass with his Fisher-Price lawnmower and draw messages to his brother on the driveway with sidewalk chalk. I realized then that this kid had magical dog calming powers. Maybe I was hearing "Woof woof" from his mouth, be he was secretly talking in dogspeak, a language only toddlers and dogs comprehend. I'm not sure and would probably be more skeptical were it not for the date, Friday, November 13.

City Living

I quite enjoyed the friendly debate we had the other night about city vs. rural living. I've put a lot of thought into this, actually, after moving out of Iowa four years ago. The state is almost entirely rural - farm after farm, a Kum & Go littered here and there. After getting lost on nearly every trip to my great aunt's house outside of Iowa City, I decided I could never live more than ten minutes away from a town center. Nay, a thriving, highly populated city center. I think my problem is that living in the country would force me to be alone with my thoughts far too often. In a city, I can easily get lost in the traffic or the people watching or the crowded malls.

That said, I have total respect for people who choose to live in the country. Many of the people I know who live in rural spaces really enjoy the peace and quiet. They have space for their animals to run about freely, a more relaxed pace, and a certain appealing ruggedness about them. They get their hands and boots dirty, they eat homemade meals, and they care about their neighbors. (I understand that these may be grand, sweeping generalizations, but I do know that for the people I know living outside the city, these things are true.)

Unfortunately, my need to blend in with my surroundings overrides my desire to get friendly with neighbors and live in a giant, creaky country home. I'm a city girl, at least for the foreseeable future.

Waterfront Dining

So, we talked last week about green space functionality. I got to thinking about the wonderful ways in which businesses interact with waterfront property in many of the places I've lived and visited.

In Maine, seafood is obviously a priority. The places where one can get seafood are abundant. In Portland, I ate my very first lobster on a riverboat. I had Mexican food on a pier, water lapping under the wooden planks beneath my feet. The little boat house where we rented paddle boats on our days off served the best ice cream sundaes in town.

In Minneapolis/St. Paul, lakefronts are unavoidable, thus entrepreneurs have a huge opportunity to capitalize on the pocketbooks of lake-goers. A fish taco connoisseur friend of mine claims the best fish taco she's ever tasted came from The Tin Fish, a tiny little seafood stand on the shores of the lake. Within walking distance are plenty of eateries, local and chains, that attract hungry outdoorsfolk. Because of its climate, I was surprised to find so many restaurants and shops that offered al fresco dining. Tables line the streets of downtown Minneapolis and twentysomethings gather on rooftop pubs as soon as the snow melts in March (or April...sometimes May).

Not quite as evolved as the lakefronts in Minnesota is the Lake Michigan lakefront in my hometown of Michigan City. Within walking distance of the sandy beach is a hot dog cart, and if one is interested in slipping on flip flops and going for a short (ish) walk over the draw bridge, there's a sandwich shop and Matey's, an island-themed bar.

What I'm trying to get at (I think) is the idea that the new (business and technology) can interact and function with the old (the natural environment), without completely destroying it.

Main Street, America

Back to James Kunstler...

He suggests that we should attempt to revive the idea of Main Street in our cities; shops and restaurants on ground floors, easily accessible from the sidewalk. This idea reminds of this great little street south of downtown Des Moines called Valley Junction. Lining the street are jewelry shops and clothing boutiques and art galleries. There are 50s-era soda shoppes and pizza joints and bakeries. This was my secret retreat the four years I spent at college in Des Moines. I don't remember the first time I went there, but I do know that once I found it, I wanted to drag everybody I knew there, too. Tavern Pizza boasted a to-die-for seven-cheese pizza and Nan's Nummies baked the yummiest (according to my mom) almond cookies on the planet. Cookies that I would have to ship home to my mother after she tried them for the first time and couldn't kick the craving. Cookies that I had to beg friends to send to my mother after I graduated and moved away from Iowa.

In this tiny little section of the capital city, I felt like I had traveled back 50 years in time to the era when girls wore poodle skirts and guys wore letter sweaters. People were always in a great mood there, especially the owner of Fifth Street Fountain, who served every Coke float with a smile. Children sauntered delightedly out of the candy stores, licking their lollipops and skipping over the cracks in the sidewalks. If every town boasted a "Main Street" atmosphere like this, I would happily support Kunstler's endeavor to create such an environment.

More Musings on Janisse Ray

On Poverty:
Janisse Ray writes with unabashed truth about her childhood and the struggles her family faced. One of the most poignant chapters in her book is when she writes about being poor. Her father gave what he could to others in need, even when his family was poor. This kind of behavior is probably partially derived from their faith, but I get the sense that her father was a good, kind man. I believe, too, that his children followed in his footsteps as they grew older. When I was kid and we'd go into Chicago or to a bigger city for vacation, my dad always threw change into guitar cases or Styrofoam cups if people asked politely enough. We were in San Diego for Christmas when I was 8 or so, and my dad brought a homeless man into McDonald's with us to buy him a meal. It's that kind of generosity that has been ingrained in me and I still feel compelled to give when I have very little to share. I'd rather make my family homemade gifts for Christmas and spend my money on the angel tree at the mall or donating to the Salvation Army bell ringers.

On Leaving:
"When I was eighteen and away from my town, I dived recklessly and surely into the world, not because it was a form of rebellion, as people might think, but as a form of healing and survival." (255)
Ray describes in this chapter what it was like to leave home for college. Her experience was not unlike many other kids who leave a small town and hope for bigger and better things. But, the experience can also be overwhelming and full of things that are new and exciting. I thought it was important for her to include this chapter, about drinking for the first time and rapelling off the cliff, because it clearly shows that you can emerge from the shadows of your family without severing the ties that bind you.

Suburban Tragedy

James Howard Kunstler, The Tragedy of Suburbia
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1ZeXnmDZMQ

If you hate suburbs and the ugliness of certain public spaces, you'll enjoy this guy. Kunstler claims that suburbs are places that are not worth caring about. To a certain extent, I do agree. The suburbs in Chicago look the same as the ones in Indianapolis and Dallas and Des Moines. The only difference seems to be the kind of trees you might find lining the streets. Targets look the same in every state, and so do all the Paneras and McDonald's and Best Buys. But, they are places to care about if you live in the suburbs (which I do). I feel I must defend my decision to live in a burb, like most things I need - grocery stores, gas stations, restaurants, even waterfront and recreation - are within ten minutes from my apartment. It's cheap, convenient, and practical. What Kunstler wants us to do is create spaces that are not degrading to humanity, places that are worth defending.

What he fails to mention, from my perspective, is that many people can't afford to create these kinds of places. In the current economy, people are worried about keeping the homes they have, in the city or burbs, and they worry about keeping their jobs. I believe they are worrying less about whether their neighborhood is architecturally beautiful and practical and just focusing on whether they can pay their bills every month. While it would be nice to create neighborhoods (and towns and cities, for that matter) that utilize space efficiently and effectively, it's not the crisis that Kunstler is making it out to be. People like Target because they can find things cheap; if the same items were available to me at a non-chain store close by, I'd certainly go there, but that's not the most feasible option for people living in a city where chain stores have a monopoly on the market.

More thoughts on this later, for sure...

Musings on Janisse Ray

Ecology of a Cracker Childhood
Heaven on Earth --
This chapter was quite compelling; it was interesting to see the connections between Ray's religion and her childhood (and later on, the effect her religion had on her in "The Leaving Years"). She claims that she and her family were different, for various reasons, throughout the book, but in this chapter specifically, because of their religion - they were white attending a black, Apostolic church. As she grew up, she was marginalized because of her father's occupation and the restrictions and guidelines she followed because of her faith. I found solace in this particular passage:

Church is a glorious place to daydream because no one knocks you from your reverie with a question to answer and no one asks afterward what you learned, which is good because you understand hell is burning but further expostulating - the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost being one entity, for instance - baffles you. What is entity? Imagination, on the other hand, keeps you awake and occupies your time. In church, I had this one recurring daydream. . . . (109)

I can tell from reading this book that she has a strong, creative voice and a plethora of ideas and thoughts. I think she questions the things that most children question in church, if they're even paying close enough attention to notice what's being said. She really admits to something that is rather taboo in this chapter, and that's blindly following religion because it what's you're supposed to do. She went to church, performed the rituals, said the prayers, abided her faith's rules, but admits that she didn't understand what exactly she believed in. I did the exact same thing - I went through the motions, sang the hymns, received communion, but anytime I wasn't actively participating, my mind was wandering. Sometimes it wandered toward the sermon or the readings, but mostly it veered off into unexpected places, like creating stories about the choir members and the family that always sat in the front row, or worse, sizing up the altar boys. I think that Ray's creativity and imagination are wonderful tools that she employs in this book with ease, and I admire her ability to do so.

Happy Halloween!

I struggled to find a way to relate this holiday to an environmental writing class and came up with the following:

1) It's a consumer-driven holiday and thus is relevant to several class discussions we've had about the economy

2) Trick-or-Treating occurs outside

3) Many trick-or-treaters dress as animals (or animal hunters as the case may be)

4) Watching scary movies whose plots force characters into the great outdoors and the midst of the unknown - a haunted camp (Friday the 13th) or a secluded mountain resort (The Shining) or the Brazilian jungle (Turistas).

I clearly came up with nothing, but couldn't resist a Halloween shout-out!

I Love Trash

"Oh I love trash

anything dirty or dingy or dusty

anything ragged or rotten or rusty

yes I love trash"

-from the immortal and incomparable Oscar the Grouch

What I don't love is when trash litters an otherwise lovely landscape. Have we learned nothing from the threatening signs on the side of road indicating fines for littering? Have we not seen the community service workers, dressed in reflective orange, paying their debt to society by picking up garbage? Are people lazy? Does the wind "accidentally" blow the garbage out of our hands/cars/trash cans and land buried in the woods? I think not. Litterers bug me.

This little guy, a bread bag, was located a mere twenty feet away from a trash can. I choose to believe it blew out said trash can when a giant, menacing, swirling wind came through Hendersonville. But it's probably not true.

Natty Ice - I'm certain this is from a group of teenagers who are

a) too young to be drinking and were doing it in the woods because it's illegal

or

b) too young to know Natty Ice is gross and just because it's cheap doesn't make it okay.

These two I'm pretty sure are from a picnic. Styrofoam, the most environmentally unfriendly product known to man, is great for keeping perishable items fresh on a picnic. It will just live on for eternity, buried under the fall leaves and amongst the decidedly decaying log against which it lays.

This cooler is no doubt from some tale of tragic tailgating gone awry. A close zoom in on the cooler indicates its age and the scum covering all sides suggests its been submerged in this little creek for many years. I can understand the rage that builds up during football season when school pride is on the line and bowl games are at stake. If I were to take my frustrations out on my surroundings, I too can envision chucking a cooler and a pop can deep into the woods. Hypothetically speaking, this kind of rage can boil over during the waning seconds of a very important Notre Dame/USC game when Reggie Bush clearly (and illegally) pushed Matt Leinart over the goal line with no time left on the clock, thus leaving Irish fans wrought with fury and enough animosity to hurl a perfectly spiraled cooler into a creek. Hypothetically speaking.

The leaves are nice, like in a lazy river, floating about aimlessly. The Cherry Coke can and plastic bag are not so nice. (By the way, this can is of the old variety, indicating it's probably been there at least a year or two.)

I like Diet Dr. Pepper as much as the next guy. I also like to recycle as much as the next guy, which is why I reached deep into this really itchy bush and pulled out the bottle, tossing it in the recycle bin on my way out of the park.

Finally, my favorite - blue plaid boxer shorts. In a secluded spot in the woods. No explanation necessary, other than, unlike most of the other items of trash, I left these guys alone.

Acorns Squashed

Acorns - they're everywhere this time of year. They pop like those little white firecrackers under the tires of my car, they crunch under the soles of my shoes as I walk cross campus. Like the little brown helicopters that drift from the trees, they are a casualty of changing seasons. When I was young, we had a swing hanging from a high branch in the backyard. Below the swing was an oval of dirt where our feet, in our efforts to pump our feet and swing higher and higher, had worn away the grass. One autumn when I was eight or nine, I buried an acorn beneath this little patch of dirt. I thought that by burying an acorn, a tree would sprout up by spring and I would surprise everyone when the snow melted away. I thought my family would be surprised and my dad would have to move the swing and everyone would love me because I planted a tree because, after learning more and more about the environment in school, weren't we supposed to start planting more trees? But I kept my plan a secret, not telling anyone about the acorn that I planted. Finally, after building snowman after snowman and flailing about creating snow angels for the better part of three months, the spring thaw came and much to my dismay, there was no tree. In fact, there wasn't any indication that anything planned on growing there. Not even a weed. I was seriously disappointed that my endeavor had failed. I'm not sure when I realized that an acorn wasn't a tree seed, but when I did, I wasn't the least bit embarrassed; I was still quite proud that I had tried to "help" the environment.

Self-Proclaimed Barbara Kingsolver Lover

Having read several of Kingsolver's novels, I was thrilled at the chance to read her in this class. Ever since I met Turtle in "The Bean Trees," I fell in love with Kingsolver's ability to create a text in which wonderfully vivid characters interact with the landscape and environment around them. Her humor helps a bit; who wouldn't be intrigued by "Jesus is Lord Used Tires" and manic-depressive hermit crabs?

First of all, let me say that when I read the title to this essay, "High Tide in Tucson," and read the first line, I was reminded of a trip to Cape Cod when I was little, when my sisters and I accidentally brought a hermit crab back from the beach. We were sorting through the shells we had collected back at our cottage, when we realized there was a special little treat in one of them - a cute little crab. We promptly filled glass mixing bowl with water and sand and watched as the little guy poked his head out. We watched him for a day or two (it could have been more or less, but it was a long time ago so I must speculate) until he moved on to the proverbial ocean in the sky. Nevertheless, he provided us with some entertainment, but our lack of knowledge of crabs likely led to his death. I'm sure we kept him in faucet water, which is significantly different than salt water. I'm also pretty sure we didn't feed him, and if we did, it was probably not anything that he would normally find for lunch in the ocean. He sure was a cute little guy, and we did as Kingsolver suggested, "When something extraordinary shows up in your life in the middle of the night, you give it a name and make it the best home you can." (Except I'm not sure we even named it)

One passage in this essay really resonated with me:
"I am the commonest kind of North American refugee: I believe I like it here, far-flung from my original home. . . . I'm here for good, it seems. And yet I never cease to long in my bones for what I left behind." (1071-1072)
While I didn't fling myself as far as she did (Kentucky to Arizona is quite a change), I can relate to the idea. I moved from my hometown in Indiana to Iowa, Minnesota, and Tennessee. In each place, I find what makes it unique and latch on to it, believing, like Kingsolver, that I like it there. And generally, I do. I loved the Midwestern feel of Des Moines, the beauty of the lakes in Minnesota and watching the ice fisherman in their huts on my way to work every morning, and I'm a huge fan of nearly year-round flip-flop weather in Tennessee. But I still get that feeling of longing for home, for knowing my way around town on the side roads, for the sound of seagulls all over town, for the squeaky sand underneath my feet at the beach. In my best estimate, I imagine I'll continue floating around, probably not making a permanent home for a while, yet always feeling a pang in my heart for good old Michigan City.

Why Leaves Turn Color in the Fall

"At last the truth dawns on us: Fall is staggering in, right on schedule, with its baggage of chilly nights, macabre holoidays, and spectacular, heart-stoppingly beautiful leaves." -Diane Ackerman

I enjoyed Ackerman's essay on leaves almost as much as I love actual leaves. She has a wonderful gift for description, the shush sound they make when children drag their feet in them, pastel and confettilike. I even appreciate that she delves a bit into the science of how leaves die, why fall is called fall, and how the leaves fall in the fall.

For me, fall and the changing of the leaves reminds me of the circle of life (insert Lion King joke here) and lights a little fire inside me. When trees rid themselves of their leaves, it's self-preservation. Trees behave like every other animal and plant on earth - they do what is necessary to survive. What we enjoy, in the meantime, is a stunning display of electric colors that are vibrant in the sunlight and muted under cloudy skies. Yes, it creates work for those who must rake and dispose of the leaves, but who doesn't enjoy, just a tiny bit, falling back into a pile of crunchy leaves like one falls back into the snow to fan arms and legs into a snow angel. The nostalgic gene in me loves the smell of burning leaves in the fall and the idea of s'mores and apple cider. Fall rings in the holidays, the back half of the football season, and oversized sweater and scarf weather.

As a kid, I used to watch Bob Ross paint landscapes on PBS - and as I walked through the park today, I thought of him, his giant fro, and how amazed I am by the inspiration one can find on an ordinary fall day.

Loon-atics

Until I moved to Minnesota several years ago, I had never heard ducks called "loons." To me, ducks are ducks, even if they're swans or mallards or loons. If they reside in water, eat bread that's thrown to them, and peck at each other, they're simply ducks. It might be insensitive or ignorant, but I don't spend a lot of time with ducks, thus I don't have a huge interest in studying the species and differentiating amongst them (I know you're thinking it's possible that I have the same feeling toward humans, but I don't - cats, dogs, birds, yes - humans, no!).

But today, I drove past this little lake and the ducks were acting crazy. I had checked the weather in the morning, and I knew a cold front was coming through, but I thought it was insane that the ducks could tell. The wind was picking up as stopped to watch, and the ducks knew, deep down in their highly evolved selves, that something was happening; they could sense a change in the weather. They chased the kind people feeding them bread, pecking at their hands and feet. They darted around in the water like I had never seen before. Now, I'm pretty certain that special breed has earned their name "Loon."

The Fog

Last weekend, as we made the drive back from Chattanooga, on a misty, dreary day, I struggled to find something interesting to look at out the window. I was hoping we'd see autumn's colors - pumpkin and mango oranges, deep reds and burnt yellows on the trees, but we made the drive a week or two early. Instead, what I found was fog. Misty, thick fog hovering above the interstate and in the mountains. Low-lying clouds kissing the tops of green-leafed trees. I think of fog like the curtain at the theatre, hanging in place until it's time for the reveal. Perhaps when the fog lifted, a day or two after we went through, motorists were treated to the fall colors I desperately wished for.

Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls

I have a fascination with water - salt water, fresh water, highly chlorinated pool water - whatever the form, I'm swimming in it. Going hand-in-hand with my fascination of water is my love of waterfalls, to which I owe a debt of gratitude to the Full House episode where Uncle Jesse and Rebecca jump in the waterfall in Hawaii, which I believe piqued my curiousity of falls. I find them exhilarating and breath-taking and a whole lot of other cliche words that you might expect one to use when describing a waterfall. For me, though, I find their inherent danger intriguing.

On one of my Hawaiian vacations in recent years, my friend suggested we go for a hike in the mountains. I groaned at the idea of wasting a sunny day on a hike, when I would much rather be lying on the beach, but when she promised we'd see a gorgeous waterfall at the end, I was in. Actually, if I had to admit it to myself, I was excited. After what seemed like hours of hiking through a tropical rainforest (I exaggerate, obviously, it was probably only an hour and maybe 85 degrees), we happened upon this beauty. She was well-hidden from tourists, but due to a dry spell, she was quite a bit smaller than normal. We peeled off our sweaty clothes and tennis shoes and dove in the chilly water. Goosebumps covered our bodies as we swam toward the fall. Struggling to catch our breath in the cold water, we swam behind it and stayed only for a minute or so, just long enough to watch the water pour over our heads and pound the pool in front of us, white, foamy water spraying our faces. I must admit that the grueling hike was worth it.



This waterfall, at the Chattanooga aquarium, is not for humans to swim in, but is home to some pretty huge turtles and is nice to look at nonetheless.





The best $10 I ever spent was to gain admission to this waterfall spot in Jamaica. After a long, nausea-inducing cab ride, my friends and I were relieved to go for an incredible hike and a refreshing swim. While the other tourists and locals climbed into rowboats to access this site, we swam along the channel, braving wildlife and a rocky creek bottom. When we finally reached the waterfall, there were families huddled behind it, children splashing with their life vests on, parents attempting to keep track of their little ones. We swam around for a while and marveled at its beauty. We wanted more, though, and waited in line to lie on the smooth rock directly below the fall. I watched as a handful of people in front of embraced nature's deep-tissue massage, I watched the white water pound their backs, I listened to them cry out in delight. And so, when it was my turn, I approached the waterall with a bit of apprehension, but with a little shove from a local, held my breath and flung myself at the waterfall's mercy. The water pounded my body, a painful but calming sensation, and I, too, squealed in delight.

Creation is Unfolding Now...

"Most of all one was born into space, into the great resonance of space, a magnetic midwestern valley through which the winds clashed in lassoes of thunder and lightning at the apex of the sky, the very wrath of God. The body repeats the landscape." LeSueur 449

LeSueur's piece is kind of a literal interpretation of creation, it's a story about birth and death and conception, which is happening everywhere, right now. There is obviously a spiritual, religious aspect to creation, which I find compelling, especially when she adresses it in terms of Indian rituals. Moving beyond the notion of conception is the idea of rebirth in the spring, when the "living danced up a storm and drank and ate heartily" (450). After the deaths of the long winter months, people celebrate and more creation stories are made.

In regard to Carson's piece, I think creation is in reference to the landscape, specifically the seashore, which is recreated with every wave that rolls in. The sea and the sand are everchanging and creating a different landscape everyday. An interesting idea and one that I am sure I will return to soon...

Top o' the morning to you, Stanley!

He's baaaaack! My little buddy, Stanley, in his Sunday's best. When I walked outside this morning and saw him slithering along the sidewalk yet again, I ran back inside to get my camera. Back outside, I planted my bum on the cement and held a photo shoot, Glamour Shots-style. What I didn't expect was my neighbor to walk out of her apartment and shoot me a curious, skeptical glance. Why is it weird for someone to want to document the unusual? She stepped around Stanley and I and drove away in her Focus.

"She just doesn't appreciate you, Stanley," I said to him, patting his back gently to soothe his hurt feelings. "If I were dressed like Steve Irwin in khaki with a fanny pack and a fancy camera she wouldn't have looked at us like that. Just ignore her."

Why is it that it's not okay to sit and take in nature? Had I not been sitting there, protecting my buddy from the big, scary humans, who knows if she would have seen him? I helped him back to the grass where he'll hopefully avoid being squished by a nature-hating woman.

Colors of the Wind

I think it was the very first day of class that we discussed the child's relationship with nature - how they are more apt to embrace the freedom and wildness of it. I experienced it firsthand today when I baby-sat an 18-month-old boy who truly appreciated the south winds and the 80+ degree weather. On what I was positive was going to be the last hot day of the year, I took Jake out to play in his front yard, where he mowed the driveway with a pretend lawnmower and played the dual role of quarterback and receiver with his miniature football. We'd been outside over an hour, his cheeks flushed from exertion, when the wind began to swell. Leaves that had been discarded from bushes and trees in the yard were floating around us. I grew irritated as they became tangled in my hair and latched themselves onto my clothing. But Jake broke out into giggles every time one came within arms reach of him. He chased them around the yard, stomping on them to keep them still when they finally landed back on the ground. He even sampled a few leaves as if they were hors d'oeuvres being passed around on silver platters at a cocktail party - he'd catch one, examine it closely, turn it upside down to examine all sides, and then place it carefully on his tongue, all the while his eyes on me, waiting for me to holler the inevitable "No" and snatch the treat right off his tongue. He won't remember this day, but I will, because it was a day when the notion was reaffirmed in me that children must be allowed to explore nature on their own terms. He had to taste those leaves and learn for himself that they tasted like dirt.

The Birds - Part Deux (Revisited)

So, after reading Eiseley's essay, "The Judgment of the Birds," I am forced to re-evaluate my stance on the creepiness of a large mass of birds. Yes, the Hitchcock version is scary and disturbing, perhaps as scary as the flock that descend upon the raven in "Judgment." But Eiseley chose to celebrate the birds, not fear them. He writes, "They sang because life is sweet and sunlight beautiful. They sang under the brooding shadow of the raven. In simple truth they had forgotten the raven, for they were the singers of life, and not of death" (492). I must, begrudgingly, give the birds another chance to prove their beauty to me. I will try to find the sweetness in their song and I myself will forget the raven.

Mount Baldy

A few weeks ago we discussed in class the preservation of national parks and it got me thinking about Mount Baldy, a sand dune that graces the southeast shore of Lake Michigan. As a kid, I remember the grueling hike up the south side of the dune, huffing and puffing the whole way, my arms loaded with beach towels and sand buckets. The hike, however, was well worth it once you reached the top and could peer out over the lake and, on a clear day, could see the Chicago skyline lurking out across the waters. This landmark, almost exclusively used for recreational purposes (except when our swim team traveled there for conditioning - alternately running sprints on the giant mound of sand and swimming to the buoys and back - in which case the word torture comes to mind), is part of the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. It's free to visit and open year-round, factors that have likely led to its deterioration.

Foot traffic on the dune has been rerouted to limit the movement of the sand, which has begun moving inland quite rapidly. Due to beach erosion, the dune is shrinking every year, the water taking more sand away. Efforts to restock Mount Baldy have slowed the process a bit; it's been fed several times in the past three or four decades with tons of sand being hauled in and dumped to prevent erosion.

The effects of Mount Baldy shrinking are not just environmental, they are economical. Our town, and those scattered along the eastern shore of the lake in Michigan, thrive in the summer on tourism. What happens when our most popular landmark is no longer viable as a tourist attraction? No doubt our town will suffer the consequences. Who, or what, is to blame here? Yes, our human footprints have literally changed the landscape. But Mount Baldy was incorporated into the national parks system to expose its beauty to our region, so at what point must we eliminate human traffic to preserve its beauty and prevent its extinction?

Where the water meets the shore...

Because I grew up on the lakeshore, Rachel Carson's essay really resonated with me. We built castles in the sand, wrote "I love you's" to boyfriends with sticks that washed up on shore, collected shells and rescued the occasional creature that had become disoriented and was unable to find its way back home to the water of Lake Michigan. Never had I thought about how unstable the shore is until reading Carson. She is absolutely correct when saying that "For no two successive days is the shore line precisely the same...Today, a little more land may belong to the sea, tomorrow a little less. Always the edge of the sea remains an elusive and indefinable boundary" (480). It does change everyday with the tides - one minute the castle you've spent all morning building is there, the next it's been replaced with slimy green seaweed and a handful of rocks.



On a trip to Hawaii's North Shore a few years ago, I noticed just how violent the shore can be. Yes, I've seen Lake Michigan claim the lives of many growing up, but never had I encountered waves of the magnitude I saw in Hawaii. I could swim out between wave sets, the water hitting me mid-chest; then a set would roll and and I'd be struggling to find the sand beneath me while the waves pounded our exhausted bodies over and over. By the time we'd swim back in to shore, we'd be beaten and out of breath. At that spot, where those vicious waves meet the soft, fine as powder sugar sand, I could truly sense the toughness the shore must project in order to maintain its ground against the thrashing of the waves.

Before the waters rise and steal it away, I leave my footprint in the sand.

Marshmallow Fluff

Some of my favorite memories from my childhood involve laying flat on my back on sticky, green grass, staring up at the clouds with my neighbors, and inventing stories about how they got up there. Because we'd paid a bit of attention in school, we knew the basics about clouds - which ones brought rain, which ones were just pretty to look at, etc. - but that didn't stop us from imagining. My theory, which was widely discredited on our block, was that the giant marshmallow man from Ghostbusters was somehow responsible for the perfect placement of the puffy, cotton-ball clouds. I thought, perhaps, those clouds in the sky were his blubber for the winter months. When the weather began to change come October and November, he'd just reach up with his huge hands and grab a handful of clouds and pad himself. Another theory - in my neighborhood, we'd all heard that old saying about when lightning strikes, it means an angel bowled a strike up in heaven. A friend of mine chose to believe the white puffs were from the angels smoking in the bowling alley in the heavens above. Silly, yes, but one of the most respected opinions on the block.

I think, in the process of growing up, we forget to look up at the clouds and use our imagination. They still take various and sundry forms up there, some looking like the rabbit we had when I was in elementary school, others resemble the creepy school bus driver from kindergarten. What's so exciting about clouds is that I can look up and get lost in them, searching for something familiar, and then the wind blows, carrying them five, ten, fifty miles away and someone else can look up and get lost in the same clouds, albeit they've no doubt taken a very different shape by then. For that reason alone, I completely resent the statement, "get your head out of the clouds."

The Birds - Part Deux

Alfred Hitchcock has scarred me for life. As I drove to campus this evening, I saw a freakishly large flock of birds hovering above the interstate, circling as if planning their attack. One bird I can handle, seven hundred I cannot. Where are the writers who speak the truth about how creepy animals can be? Perhaps I'm the only one frightened by the birds, who I swear eyed my Civic like there was a bullseye painted on the hood.

Twinkle Twinkle

Something magical happened last night while I was sleeping--the clouds vanished. (I'm so glad I saved my last wish from my genie lamp for this occasion!) And this morning, before the sun came up, I sat on my sister's front porch and let her dog run about and chase imaginary prey in the yard. While Gracie, the doggy, sniffed the grass, I looked at the clear sky, spying the twinkling stars for the first time in weeks. The sliver of a moon had all but disappeared below the horizon. The cool morning air blew across the porch, sending goosebumps up and down my bare arms. Apparently, in exchange for sunny skies Mother Nature dealt us a cold front. I blew my breath out in tiny white puffs and watched them float away like dying dandelion leaves, up into the night sky.

Rainy Daze

Two weeks ago, when the rain began, it was refreshing. After a miserably hot and humid August, I welcomed the rain with open arms and a wide open mouth (you know, for catching raindrops). But now, our little corner of the world is soggy and constantly cloudy. I want to be happy and saunter about, looking excitedly at the new green-ness of everything, but I can't. I miss the sun and cotton-candy blue sky. As much as I love my new pal Stanley, I'd rather hear birds chirping excitedly than be greeted every evening by creepy little slug. Nashville is turning into one giant mud puddle and my golashes aren't keeping me dry anymore!

Stanley's Back

Last week I introduced you all to the slug who had made his new home on my doorstep. After I escorted him back home, I assumed that would be the last I would see of him. Apparently, we forged a friendship (of which I was unaware) and he has returned. Now that he's a recurring character in my life, I felt the need to name him. From here on out, my new little buddy will be referred to as Stanley. Tonight, I stood in the rain and watched him slither up my sliding glass door, no doubt attempting to escape the flooded lawn again. I could have watched his plump little body crawl for hours, but A) it would have been equally as boring as watching paint dry and B) it was raining and I was soaking wet. So, I wished Stanley a good evening and went on my way.

Twilight Serenade

Sunsets...
If I had an adequate vocabulary to describe them, I would do it all day long. But somehow, I can never find the right words to describe their beauty, my descriptions coming across as forced and trite.



Staring head-on at a sunset produces an entirely different visual than when taking it in from an angle. The colors tend toward the orange corner in the Crayola box. The reflection of the sinking sun on the water is even more breathtaking as it illuminates every ripple on the surface of the water. The lake is never more gorgeous than at sunset. (Or perhaps sunrise, but let's face it, I'm generally not awake to capture sunrises.)



Not a cloud in the sky to block the rosy tones of the sunset. As the huge star sinks lower and lower, the sky turns pink and purple.

The sun's almost gone now and soon the stars will twinkle above. A refreshing breeze swirled over Lake Calhoun and the unseasonably warm day cools rapidly as the sun set below the horizon, where it will soon be admired by those lucky enough to catch it set out west.

With Every Season, Turn Turn Turn

(Minneapolis, MN)

The leaves here are further along in their dying stage than those in Nashville. Although many trees are still a healthy shade of green, many have begun the change to a popcorn butter yellow.



The leaves on this tree are clearly fighting the urge to abide by autumn's rules. Less than a third of the leaves have begun to turn golden, and the ones that have given in aren't fully changed yet. This is the first time I think I've noticed a multi-colored leaf and admired it's beauty--the way the bright green gives way to a murky yellow.



The older, thicker, taller tree is maintaining its green summer glow, while its younger, shorter neighbor has given way to fall's quick approach. Dying leaves already litter the ground, crunching underneath the feet of those passing by on the jogging path. Cars drive past and a whoosh of wind displaces the fallen leaves, where they'll remain until another car passes or a man with a leaf blower bids them a permanent adieu.

If the leaf's a rockin'...

Bugs--a necessary part of the natural environment. Yet, on my walk around Lake Calhoun last night, they bit me, crawled on me and buzzed in my face. I, like many of my fellow saunterers, found myself swatting them away nonstop. What I didn't expect to find upon examination of a berry tree were two ladybugs going at it Adam and Eve-style. I felt incredibly embarrassed at having interrupted their sexual endeavor and instinctively turned my head away...until curiousity got the best of me. I estimated that hundreds, maybe thousands, of little creatures were, uh, engaging in intercourse around the lake and the hundreds of people running, biking and Rollerblading around the path were completely oblivious to it. I wondered, as I zoomed my lens in on them, which was the male and which was the female. Then I realized I knew nothing about ladybug mating habits. Is fall the preferred time of "the rut?" Do the men prefer the women with fewer black spots, or are the black spots part of the appeal? So many questions, so few answers. I snapped a few photos and gave Jim and Nancy their privacy. (Little do they know their sexual exploits are now circulating on the Internet.)