News from the Pond

Rose-Colored Jello

2009-12-13T14:16:00.004-05:00

Gaudéte in Dómino semper: íterum dico, gaudéte.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice!
Phillippians 4:4

At the vigil Mass last night the priest spoke of the special significance the rose-colored candle and vestments for this Third Sunday of Advent have for him personally. He was four years old in December of 1941, a prisoner of the Third Reich. His father was a Canadian trade commissioner stationed in Oslo, and following the invasion of Norway in 1940, the entire family spent two years in internment camps in Germany before a prisoner exchange was eventually arranged.

Largely cut off form the world, the internees did receive Red Cross aid packages, the most prized of which were the ones sent from Canada. And during that bleak Christmas season, one such package contained an unheard-of delicacy: rose-colored Jello. The happiness of that rare treat, the hope it gave him, the joy with which it filled his child's heart—these memories were clearly still alive and vivid for him nearly seventy years later.

His connection of his story with the joyful hope we celebrate this day, this season, reminded me that as a Christian I am called to be focused on hope and joy. Despair and anger are not valid responses for me. Through whatever trials and hardships we are enduring, I can and must look forward to the joys to come, both the joys of the better tomorrows that I continue to believe are coming, and the untold joy of the eschaton which is the object of our ultimate hope.

Passing on the torch

2009-12-13T00:27:00.002-05:00

Today dawned bright and sunny here on the banks of the Rivière des Outaouais. It was cold as all get out. but it was lovely to look at. I felt unwilling to spend another entire day alone in this empty house, just me and the silence. Downtown is suddenly closer than I think this week, so I dressed myself in a weather-appropriate manner and set off for the library, the feedbag, and the confessional.

I had already spotted two or three attractive, athletic young people wandering about in their white, expensive-looking "Official Torch Bearer" tracksuits before I had gone a dozen blocks. After I left the library I passed near Parliament Hill, heard the hubbub, and spotted the crowd and the massive outdoor stage. Ah, Olympic madness. After all the build up, it was finally starting to happen for real. Whatever. I trudged along the Sparks Street Mall, devoid as it was of human life, without giving it any further thought.

Too early yet for confession time, I stopped to drink a latté and write an actual letter to a friend. Sufficiently caffeinated, I left the café and headed east toward my appointment with God's mercy. I had only a few blocks to go when I saw the flashing lights of several police cars up ahead. The last street I needed to cross was closed off to traffic. People lined the sidewalks, excitedly clutching flags with the logo of the impending Winter Olympics. Official Olympic vehicles were pulled up at the intersections. The torch was going to be passing this way!

I have never been even remotely near any sort of Olympic event. I may very well never be this close again. Ordinarily I would be curious about such an opportunity; I would want to have the experience, qua experience, for no other reason than it was one I had not previously had. But as the details of the scenario came into focus, I knew with absolute certainty that my recent conversations with friends had not been mere prattle. I sincerely did not care a fig about the Olympics. And I certainly wanted no part of this contrived little scene. I looked up and down the street, and when the signal changed to "walk" I headed across under the watchful eyes of Ottawa's finest.

As I reached the opposite corner an exuberantly-grinning young man—who, bizarrely, had sold me a Big Mac not two hours before—attempted to hand me one of his fistful of little "Vancouver 2010" pennants-on-a-stick. I shook my head, politely I think, keeping my scorn on the inside. I didn't scream at him: "Haven't you people done enough? You want me to smile and be a part of your overscripted shenanigans, too?" I didn't tell him where I thought he could put his little pennant. I didn't shout anything about Miga the Sea-Bear and the other infuriatingly-nonsensical mascots festooned on every postage stamp I stick to every letter I send back home. I didn't even punch myself in the head.

I just moved along, against the flow of people rushing to get in place before the big moment they imagined was going to come jogging by. I just walked away, and went on with my day, and went on living my life, a stranger in a strange land.

Red Balloon, White Rose

2009-12-07T00:39:00.009-05:00

There are plenty of covers, but I still shiver a bit as I lie in bed. The thermostat has been set at 62º for days now, and those six degrees definitely makes a noticeable difference. Maybe I'll have to bring a few more blankets down and pile them on the hide-a-bed. I finally put a nail in the living room wall above the computer, and now my Big Dead Jesus (a.k.a. the large crucifix that creeps her out) hangs prominently in my line of sight. It is comforting, I guess. This living room is starting to feel like home.

Above me a red balloon rests against the ceiling, as it has for nine days now. Eleven days ago the Boy and I went to the florist to get a single white rose, as requested. They offered him a balloon, and so home we came with it. Of course it immediately caused trouble with a little brother who wanted it but couldn't have it, so it quickly ended up locked in a closet, pleasing no one. The Boy wanted to pack it, but I convinced him that was impractical.

As I wandered through the vacated home last Saturday, I saw it and brought it down to be part of my growing nest in the living room. It has lasted remarkably well, far exceeding any expectations I had. It is a bit reduced the last couple of days, but still looks taut and strong. The rose, too, still blooms, standing in the French press carafe on the kitchen counter, the closest thing to a vase that we brought with us. I wonder how long it will last before it droops and wilts. Maybe long enough.

Lonely snow

2009-11-30T22:16:00.002-05:00

First snow in Ottawa today. Not much, just a coating on cars and roofs, mostly, but it stayed cold enough that even at evening rush hour I could still see cars with ice and snow sliding off their roofs and trunks.

And though the purple sled sits ready in the garage, there is no little boy to ask eagerly about its employment. There is no little voice full of excitement at the window, no one shouting "Look, Daddy, snow!" over and over again, while I nod and say "Yes, that's right; it snowed." Instead, I am alone in a silent house, silent save for whatever noise I choose to make or what tunes I elect to crank up. Everyone else is gone. And they are not coming back.

It is hard to fathom the immensity of this development. Watching them walk through the gate at the airport was devastating, even though I knew it was the only right choice for us to make. Now they are all safe, with family, being cared for and loved, far from this land that, through no real malice, proved so inhospitable to out fragile little family.

I am gradually becoming studious again, pushing the pain and terror to the background, trusting in the wisdom of others. I am determined to finish what I have started, if at all possible. Even though everything has changed suddenly, one thing is unaltered: all our plans and dreams of the future are predicated on my completion of this course of studies. I don't intend to plunge blindly ahead, but if at all possible, then I needs must continue somehow through these next three years in order to make possible the better life that we have imagined together for our young family.

But only time will tell.

Need some veggies, boy?

2009-09-19T23:58:00.003-04:00

Primus is not known for his love of vegetable bites. Or really any bites; it is a constant struggle to get him to slow down enough to take any nourishment at all, and his physique shows it.

But tonight he evidently had some biological needs that he took heed of. While I was prepping supper he ate two collard leaves, stalks and all, and after I had rolled the leaves and cut them into strips he ate two of the resultant densely-packed wheels of green leafiness. Later, when we had steamed the rest to our liking, he dug into a plateful before asking, "Can I please have some V-8?"

Yes, yes you can.

A whole new everything

2009-09-18T22:58:00.002-04:00

Greetings from Sunny Ottawa!

As I dragged my little family away from everyone and everything we know and love, one of the things I was most sure of was that we would need to blog about it a LOT, both for the folks back home (and scattered far and wide) who will be missing us, and also for ourselves. So far, pretty much nothing has gone as expected, and it has been a pretty bleak time for us. Blogging has taken a back seat to survival.

But I need to start sometime. Every day lately there have been multiple little events that have made me say to myself, "Ah, I need to blog about that." And I never have. But tonight, time, energy (barely), and inclination have finally converged, and I am just going to say stuff until I run out of steam. Which will be soon. But hopefully this will be the pebble that starts the metaphors mixing, and I can find time and energy to pour forth the kind of pithy little updates I have been longing to post (and pictures, too!). I may even get around to whipping up some back-dated entries for the overwhelming early days of our family odyssey, so scroll down to check for those, too, at some point soon(ish).

And good night. More real news real soon. Maybe even a proper explanation of what we are doing here...

Tenting Again

2009-05-15T01:15:00.006-04:00

Ah, camping! It has been so great to get back out in the wonderful state parks this spring, reminding us how very long it has been since we tramped about in the woods with our growing little family. Last week we spent a glorious few days down at one of my favorite places in Minnesota: Beaver Creek Valley State Park, just outside Caledonia, MN. My parents rented the small cabin available there, and we joined them there for a couple days of long walks and restful nights. And then this week I took a Wednesday off and we headed down to New Ulm and Flandreau State Park. We pulled in a little before 9:30pm, located a pleasing site in the rustic campground, and set the tent up with the aid of the car headlights. We were, it turned out, the only campers in the entire park that night, and it was beautiful.

We had a leisurely morning before I spiffed up into my best suit for an interview with the bishop (about which more to come, I promise), then later we spent the afternoon exploring historic New Ulm, having lunch at the Kaiserhof, taking in the Herman monument and the Glockenspiel show, and generally having a wonderful day out. We decided to stay a second night, so after a windy night's sleep I popped up at 4.45am, bundled the sleepy boys into their car seats, broke down camp like a madman, and zipped back up to the Cities, just making it to work on time. A grand outing, all around.

It is tough to do any hardcore birding with little ones, but I found real joy in being able to spot and point out various birds to wife and son as we went about our camping activities. I can officially report the following list, just to show that we had our eyes open:

Red-headed Woodpecker (my first in several years)
American Goldfinch
Eastern Bluebird
Least Flycatcher (by ear only)
Cardinal
American Robin
Chipping Sparrow
Yellowthroat
Hermit Thrush
Wild Turkey
Ring-Necked Pheasant
American Crow (this is turning into a rather patriotic bird list)
Northern Flicker
Blue Jay
Canada Goose

We also found a baby Painted Turtle crushed and dead on the gravel road to the camp ground. His little shell was about the size of a fifty-cent piece (remember those?) and we carried him back to our campsite, where four-year-old Primus studied him intently for many hours.

Toilet Wisdom

2009-04-14T22:30:00.000-04:00

"The blood and juice in my body work SOOOOO hard to build my poop, and to bring my food to my blood and to my poop."

Yes, I guess that is pretty much how it works, Primus. But I am also reasonably sure that the phrase "build my poop" has not previously been found in recorded English. You are a linguistic gold-mine.

No Fooling

2009-04-01T22:57:00.003-04:00

Well, well, well.

It is a new year here in the Pond. Three months later than is traditional perhaps, but spring is a fitting season of renewal, I would say, so what better time to burst forth into fine green form than today?

We are all still kicking. The adjustment to two boys has proven multivalent and never-ending. Just imagining ourselves keeping up with them and their rapid development has been more than sufficient to keep us away from the keyboard and silent in the blogosphere.

But here we are again, and I hope not merely for the novelty of it. Connecting with the world outside our tiny thrumming circle of family life is a big deal for us, and while human contact and time out in God's green earth is a higher priority, we want to send our words out to all of you near and far who care to know what goes on in the life of this little quartet.

So just a tease, perhaps, but hopefully not. There is so much to tell, I really want to keep telling it...

Daddy wil do that

2008-11-21T17:09:00.001-05:00

"Don't worry, Mommy. Daddy will wash the dishes tonight."

So spake my firstborn when my wife suggested that he could be a big boy and help her clean up the kitchen the other afternoon. Evidently my reputation for late-night housework marathons is not confined to my co-workers; the children have now caught on as well.

A violet fluid

2008-11-11T19:55:00.000-05:00

Breaking out of a years-long hazelnut rut, I just tried -- and loved -- a violet latte at the J&S on Thomas and Hamline. I got a bit of a double-take from the solitary barista when I ordered, leading me to believe that she must not make a lot of that particular permutation, but the delicious result has certainly made me eager to try other flavors going forward, even when the choices are not quite so exotic (I could have also tried lavender).

Budget permitting, of course, I am looking forward to spending some regularly-scheduled time in various coffee shops in the coming months as I work to get my writerly groove back in preparation for my upcoming adventure into an MFA writing workshop beginning in January.As the household/family routines (bedtimes, nutritious evening meals, sufficient sleep for parents, et cetera) gradually fall into place, my creative routines will, I am grateful to report, be next on the list to be acknowledged, accommodated, and encouraged. (My historical preference is to write in bars, but pints still seem to demand a higher price point than espresso drinks. Sad, but true.)

The Plot Against America by Philip Roth

2008-10-09T16:42:00.000-04:00

After a much-longer delay than I had hoped for I am finally reading Philip Roth's 2004 novel, a fictional memoir of his imagined childhood as Jew during Charles Lindbergh's presidency, covering roughly the years 1940-1942. I am currently about one hundred pages in, and it is a very compelling narrative so far, richly textured with observational detail, making me eager to find out what turn the story will take next.

I have never read anything by Roth before and I have the impression that this work is somewhat atypical of his writing, not just in terms of subject but in style as well. But I would be inclined to try more Roth in the future if this book continues to be as good as its first three chapters have promised.

"Did God Die?"

2008-10-08T22:26:00.000-04:00

I will be honest: I did not really think much at all about when the questions about religious beliefs would begin to come out of my son's mouth — I am not, after all, any good at forethought of any kind — but I am fairly certain that had I given this eventuality the planning it indubitably deserves, I would not have expected it to start at age three. But I should have, because that is when it has.

This morning, as Primus and I were eating our early breakfast, giving Mama and Baby a little extra sleepytime, he looks up at me and asks, very intensely, "Did God die?"

Not really expecting that one, I hemmed a bit, then said, "No, I don't think so."

"Jesus is dying on the cross in the office," was his reply, referring to the large crucifix in the other room, a gift from my parents and grandparents on the occasion of my confirmation and high school graduation.

Oh, that. "Well, yes, Jesus died for us, and Jesus is God. So, I suppose..." Seeming answered, he returned to his oatmeal.

So we (my wife and I) need to do some serious deciding about how exactly we want to approach our tentatively-shared faith with our ever-inquisitive offspring. Neither of us want to cram him full of glib rote catechetical formulae; we want to share from our hearts what the core beliefs of our faith mean to us as earnest believers. And to do that, I am going to have to snap out of my spiritual sloth and get my head around my personal faith, because it will prove singularly difficult to confidently share something with Primus that I am not consciously incorporating into my daily life.

Singin' In The Rain

2008-10-07T16:57:00.001-04:00

The Lad loves puddles, and rainy days mean fresh, full puddles that must be splashed in. Today was no exception: even though he is still a ways from getting over a ragged-sounding chest cold I bundled him up and headed out. We were about fifty feet from the building when gave a little skip-hop and started singing at the top of his puerile voice:

"I'm SINGing in the rain
just SINGing in the RAIN
what a GLORious feeling
I'm HAppy again"

Then came the amazing part. He brought his battered blue umbrella down and held it out at arm's length as he began a slow twirl, rotating the umbrella rather gracefully as he trailed the edge through the puddles all around his circumference.

Perhaps he will soon take up dancing as well...

Squidginess: chronic or reversible?

2008-09-26T23:57:00.000-04:00

I am not a fit person; I never have been. Oh, I was a slip of a thing in my youth, but scrawn does not really equal fitness. Never quite reaching six feet, I was a wispy 143 pounds when I started college, where I managed to gain sixteen pounds by the end of my first semester, twenty-three pounds by the time we broke for summer. I enjoyed the mandatory Phys Ed course, especially my first experience with weight training. By the end of two months I was able to bench-press 95 pounds (more than half my body weight, mind you), and felt more physically confident than ever before in my young life.

But it was not a routine I was capable of maintaining. I kept sporadically active throughout the rest of college, particularly enjoying intense games of racquetball with a few good friends. Regularly scheduled physical endeavors never lasted for long, however. Why? My explanation is that, growing up a country boy, there was never any need for me to seek out physical activity; the whole day was full of it, from throwing hay bales to milking goats to the mile-long walk to the mailbox and back (seriously). And when I wasn't doing chores around the farm, I was excavating pits in the grove with a shovel or breaking large rocks into hand specimens with a sledgehammer for my collection. Why would I need to exercise? When would I have the time, or the energy?

Unfortunately this was not a mindset I could easily shrug off when my lifestyle changed dramatically to an urban existence. By the time I had graduated and worked in retail for half a decade (including at least a year where my work lunches consisted of two doughnuts and a quart of chocolate milk) my waistline had expanded several inches, and my face was so round that I have difficulty recognizing myself in photos from that period. Then the Boy was born, the fiscal belt for our household was excruciatingly tightened, and to save the money spent on bus fare I began walking the two and a half miles to work each day, and frequently walking back home as well at the end of my shift. Combined with a dramatic reduction in calories (not only where the doughnuts out of the question, but food in general took on something resembling scarcity), this summer of privation was characterized by one colleague as the "Frog Daddy Less Input, More Output Plan", and the pounds literally fell away. On the eve of our son's birth I weighed myself in the hospital at two hundred twelve pounds avoirdupois (or fifteen stone two, for our British readers). By August I was a more familiar one hundred seventy pounds, a drop of more than forty pounds in just seven months without any real effort, just force of circumstance.

Life has eased a great deal, and having learned no real lessons apparently, I have gradually swelled to a more generous girth than I find entirely pleasant or practical. This time, I really want to push myself to actually build up healthy habits of both eating and activity. I am starting with daily push-ups, trying to build up to a solid number of steady, confident reps. I have plans to start stretching extensively twice a day, in addition to my pedestrian commute each day (about three miles round trip). And more vegetables, less meat, nothing fried in my diet. It is a slow, sporadic process, but I have real hope that I can gradually push myself to become, if not a brand new me, at the very least a me I can take out in public again.

Don't love LE

2008-07-18T12:45:00.002-04:00

I don't love Louise Erdrich. To say "I love Louise Erdrich" would be a profoundly flippant statement dishonoring the deep respect I have for her writing. Bone satisfied may be more accurate. I have just finished Four Souls and Painted Drum.
Four Souls was a fleshing out of Fleur Pillager from The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse but the sentence that knocked my breath from me with it's power and truth was this [Nanapush speaking of Fleur]:

She should have known that it is wrong to bear a child for any other reason but to surrender your body to life.

Painted Drum took me by surprise because the first character voice we hear was more like a modern novel seemingly devoid of intuition and mystery. The painted drum draws us back to the reservation and the initial character comes back unable to ignore or hide the full dimensions of her life, history, love.

Pushing the swing higher

2008-07-18T06:21:00.000-04:00

We are swinging very high these days. It was only at the beginning of this summer that the Boy graduated from the bucket-with-leg-holes that is the playground Baby Swing to to the classic strip of rubber on chains: the Big Kid Swing.

So far no serious mishaps have occurred as I nervously indulge his gleeful demands of "Higher! Higher!" My own admonitions of "Hold on tight!" are only partly acknowledged as he shimmies his hips, lurching the swing about as it hurtles through its sweeping arc.

As nerve-fraying as his excited nonchalance is for me as a parent, as a former child it is impossible not to share in his exhilaration and wonder how long it will be before he is ready for the rigors of leg-pumping and the breath-taking rush of his first underdog.

impossible dream

2008-07-17T12:59:00.000-04:00

When I was four my mother took me to a college production of Man of La Mancha. Never imagining I would fully understand the upsetting bits she ended up carrying me from the auditorium bawling. So began (or solidified) my theatrical bent and empathetic support of the underdog. "The Impossible Dream" has been part of my psyche and unconscious mantra ever since. No wonder I cry every time I hear it or get misty when someone mentions Glenn Gould.

I was a little nervous when they announced on the Morning Show (MPR) they would be playing a different take on the song by Ken Boothe. First I heard the Reggae beat, my trepidation increased, I heard the first lines, predictably began tearing, still leery, then thank my stars I wasn't the one driving as I would have had to pull over. As moved as I normally am by the song it was nothing to my pregnant reaction, emotions rallied as never before, to hearing this new version. All who wish me ill now know my kryptonite.

splashing in the pond

2008-07-11T11:19:00.001-04:00

Well, I think I have left this blog go sufficiently long enough without an entry. If anyone is still curious, we are, in fact, still alive. Indeed, more of us are alive than ever before. In another month the Three of Us will officially become the Four of Us (although the new one's presence is VERY obvious already). Exciting stuff, and more could obviously be said, and hopefully will be very shortly. But I should start small here, and strive for consistency before I extend myself too far into verbosity.

Sprinkle, really?

2008-07-05T12:12:00.000-04:00

I've started reading mysteries again. I spent most of this pregnancy rereading Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery and introducing myself to Kingsolver, Erdrich, and various pregnancy/parenting topics. But this last month I have once again been craving the comfort of a good mystery. I don't like to be bothered with romance or too much suspense, I just love watching/reading about other people puzzling things out. I have recently broken away from my usual Laurie R. King and Ellis Peters and begun looking for Patricia Sprinkle. Not her Maclaren series, which is too light for me, but her new genealogy series. As my husband says nothing like a bit of history to give the illusion of depth. And while I enjoy some pulp to quiet the neurotic insomniac part of my mind I don't want to feel like I'm actually numbing my brain. So far Death on the Family Tree and Sins of the Fathers have been striking the balance for me.

Fourth

2008-07-05T00:33:00.000-04:00

I have fond memories of the Fourth of July as a child: going out to the golf corse, my little brother falling asleep on the same picnic blanket every year and staying up with my mom to watch the fireworks. We weren't just watching fireworks: we were describing our world, trying to devise the perfect name for each one. There were easy ones like popcorn and the slightly more interesting blueberry cobbler and prom dress and my favorites screaming yellow zonkers and fizzing mimis.

It wasn't just fireworks; my mom helped me capture sunsets. When I was older I switched dance studios and my lessons took us from our small town to the next following the sunset. They were all so beautiful I wouldn't want to go inside for my lesson. So the ride there was filled with descriptive phrases my mom would copy down while she waited to drive me home again.

I see now how vital it was for her to keep her hand in writing/describing everything from fireworks to family vacations, but I reaped the benefits of closely observing my world and solidifying each precious moment by our descriptions. At the same time never losing the wonder and awe that I could never encompass or remember it all. Eventually, I saw the value in that lesson, too.

Sushi Feast

2007-02-15T18:39:00.000-05:00

Mama Fish Head made sushi last night — from scratch. It was as far as I know her first attempt at crafting this most exotic if foods (in the eyes of most Minnesotans at least). The result was quite simply excellent and delectable. It was deliciously paired with a Kloster Eberbach 2001 Steinberger Reisling which the fellow at Haskell's recommended very enthusiastically. Evidently "2001 was an awesome year in Germany," at least where wines are concerned.

And today, when I got to take a freshly sliced roll of leftovers to work for my lunch, it was difficult to contain myself. I really wanted to stand up in my cubicle and wave my arms in the air crying, "I am feasting upon delectable homemade sushi, you suckers!" But really, what would that have accomplished?

Quieting

2007-01-31T06:23:00.000-05:00

I reread Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver and I am still recovering. I know it didn't hit me this hard the last time because until I reached a few pivotal moments I wasn't sure I had read it before. I remember enjoying it but inexplicably unable to keep it and Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich straight. I think this is the first time I've read a book where all the major points of my life have been reimagined and fictionalized. Is the oldest sister experience so universal? The plot was different enough from my life but the emotional experience rang true every time resolving in ways that kept me up until 3a.m. waking my husband with almost silent racking sobs.

This intense experiencing of a book/movie/poetry/play was a regular occurrence until mid-college when body sobbing was no longer cleansing. That's not to say I haven't wracked my body sobbing, but it's been mainly reserved for the death of a loved one and I never feel finished or cleansed. I miss feeling the world around me so completely. I miss the abandon with which I would throw myself into the heartbreaks of the world and my own. I miss that magical sensitive self and wonder if she was a sacrifice to growing-up or if I will see glimpses of her again as I continue to heal from private wounds. Perhaps the latter.

At any rate I think it's time to go into a contemplative ghost period. In casual conversation I've been babbling about things I didn't intend to mention just to fill in the silence my social awkwardness inspires in people. I find when I am saying a whole lot of nothing it's time to listen to silence and let the world pass through me as if I were just an outline. Meanwhile my substance quiets and heals and waits for something meaningful to say.

At the game

2006-06-01T11:43:00.000-04:00

The Boy attended his first Sporting Event yesterday. My big little brother's high school baseball team is in the playoffs, and we went to see them play. He got to see his strapping young uncle get a solid base hit, and make a great catch in deep center field. It was a fine example of the sport all around, and they won 2-0, moving a step closer to the State Tournament.

Of course, the real highlight had nothing to do with Sport (or perhaps everything to do with it): the bleachers full of tanned teenaged girls in tank tops screaming my brother's name when he got up to bat. That sort of thing really makes the trip worth it.

Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer

2006-05-18T02:00:00.000-04:00

The other day I was flipping through a notebook from college, seeing how many pages I had used up taking notes (not very many). But then I got to reading what notes there were, and inspired by what I read (yeah, I know: by my own class notes) I pulled this book off the shelf and read it over again.

I have read all three of Krakauer's full length books, and this is, without qualification, my favourite. The journey of Chris McCandless fascinated me from the moment I read the book's cover, and he has never entirely left my thoughts since.

For those of you who have not read the book, you should. At the risk of courting a charge of pretension (not that it would be a first) I would say that Into the Wild is an important book. Certainly it was important for me when I first read it, and it held up very well through a second reading.

The book opens with the discovery of a young man's body by moose hunters in Alaska. Krakauer, initially commissioned by Outside magazine and then driven further by his own fascination with the story, traces the journey of this Chris McCandless from his privileged life in suburban Virginia to his lonely death in the Alaskan bush, with as much detail as he can discover of the in-between. It is not a journey you will easily forget.

In the years since I first read it, this book has continued to be active in my mind, and the questions it raised are still there as I search for the answers in my own soul.

Son calls father

2006-05-17T23:59:00.000-04:00

My son called me at work today.

Now, given that he is 16 months old, I should probably note that he did technically call me, not by himself. I answered the phone in my cubicle, and my wife said simply: "Your son wants to talk to you."

Apparently what he actually wanted to do was listen to me, and I obliged him, chatting brightly to the expectant silence at the other end of the line. I asked him about his day, what new things he had learned or discovered, whether he had eaten anything. After a few minutes of this my wife came on the other extension. She explained that stretched as tall as he could, reached the phone cord and pull it off the hook onto the floor. This feat accomplished, he held the handset in both hands, looked at my wife eagerly and said "Da?" repeatedly until she dialled me up and put him on the line.

It is hard being away from family all day as I am. It is suddenly that much harder now that he actually misses me when I am absent. It is both touching and devastating, depending on which end of the day I am on.

Ducks in the yard

2006-04-05T21:22:00.000-04:00

Spring is really springing this week. Today my wife and son walked down to meet me on my way home from the Job. Free from my cubicle for the rest of the day, a cool breeze on my face and the warm rays of the sun upon my back, it was a very nearly perfect afternoon.

Just a few blocks from our apartment is a house whose yard is a sort of best-effort inner city version of a "wild space" which, to be fair, is a pretty good effort. Most of the yard is taken up with a large multi-tiered pond, ringed with rough blocks of limestone, surrounded by cattails, small trees, and marsh grass.

The house was recently on the market, and the new owners have been there only since last summer sometime, I think. As we walked by this beautiful spring afternoon, a middle-aged woman emerged into the yard carrying a rake and said, loudly and (to me) somewhat disconcertingly: "Okay, ducks, what are going to do now?" Before I had time to wonder why she was thus declaiming, a pair of Mallards flew up out of the pond and went winging off over the interstate just behind the house.

The woman then turned to us conspiratorially and said, "The ducks just won't stay out of my yard."

I just smiled at her. I wanted to say very carefully: "You have a freaking duck pond in you yard. What part of this is surprising or confusing for you?" But I didn't want to seem hostile, or smarter than her.

The boy is too much of me

2006-03-15T23:14:00.000-05:00

The Boy takes after me more than I can begin to explain.

Let me just say this for the benefit of those who know me well, then I will attempt to explain:

The Boy twirled today.

That's right, he just started walking yestreday, and tonight he made this beautiful, smooth, controlled and completely random 360º as he strolled along the edge of the coffee table. Wow.

In case you don't know, I twirl. Not so much of late, because life hasn't made me feel so twirly these days, but historically I am known to twirl quite a bit for someone of my age and lifestyle choice. Some have even gone so far as to claim that I flit, the veracity of which I can neither confirm nor deny at this time.

And now my first-born son, who already looks more like his father than can possibly be permitted, is twirling with some of his first steps? It is quite too much to be borne, not just by me his overwhelmed proud papa, but by the world, which did nothing, nothing at all to deserve another creature like me. I have to keep reminding myself: he is his own person. He will have his own things. He will not be another you. I hope this is true. He can look like me, and stuff like that. That's pretty cool. He can have some of my more desirable personality traits; I'm okay with that. But Lord, a twirler? It is too much...

Traci DePree

2006-02-16T13:27:00.000-05:00

Well I've done it. I've read not one, but two Christian novels by Traci DePree — a can of peas and dandelions in a jelly jar. If I came upon a third I'd probably read that too. While the writing started out immature, by the second book of the Lake Emily series she had found her voice and rhythm. It was not saccharine like a Chicken Soup story and the deus ex machina was only slightly convenient. The vignettes and plot lines are wholly plausible. While her multiple characters seem to be fixated on avoiding "self-pity" the lack of sex scenes is refreshing and the awkward prayers endearing. I cried healthy cries (a lot), laughed a bit, smiled with comfort and was inspired to tackle the dishes. There's my confession: I read a Christian novel and I liked it.

The Hamlet by William Faulkner

2006-02-16T13:25:00.000-05:00

I just finished my first Faulkner novel The Hamlet. I just didn't enjoy it. Between his use of subtlety, euphemism and symbolism I never felt I knew exactly what was going on. I felt like this fluid writing was describing a panorama of culture, scene and plot. But I was looking through a cardboard tube and try as I might could not get the whole picture. Now I am comfortable with the surreal and postmodern, Shakespeare and Austen but I cannot fathom the point Faulkner was trying to make with this book. I'm sure if it were explained to me I would have enjoyed it more.

The Barn at the End of the World by Mary Rose O'Reilly

2006-01-25T13:11:00.000-05:00

I truly sank in and savored this book. It explored the author's experience (and my pet interest) of practicing Buddhism as a way to practice Christianity in the barn, monastery or wherever you happen to be. It helped me to quiet my "what next?" brainstorming and listen. It was most satisfying to read of a spiritual journey where the author is not in the end docile. O'Reilly is as feisty and testy when she ends the book as when you meet her, and yet genuine spiritual growth is evident. Something in my questing soul was answered when I read this book.

The Zahir by Paulo Coelho

2006-01-19T11:27:00.000-05:00

I have long wanted to read Paulo Coelho and I was not disappointed. At times I felt I was reading a book of magical realism like Nick Bantock. In the end it is a book about the nature of love and the stories we tell to obscure its true meaning. It is written conversationally with the gloss of popular culture and the mists of mysticism. I throughly enjoyed it and will now have to add Kazakhstan to my travel wish list.

Labyrinth by Kate Mosse

2006-01-15T19:30:00.000-05:00

I picked up the book hoping for a feminine version of The Da Vinci Code and got much more. Immediately it was apparent this was a more intelligent book with a different, but no less mysterious/mystical, subject matter. Mosse hovered between thriller and literature. There were the thriller plot devices but woven in with real skill and thought to the consequences. Unlike The Da Vinci Code I was not disgusted with the ending, but found I had spent my time pleasantly and picked up something new about the langue d'oc.

Life with Mother by Clarence Day

2006-01-11T14:25:00.000-05:00

Life with Mother does not remind me of my grandmother, but I enjoyed it none the less. The essays are similar to those in Life with Father, some making me laugh out loud, however they tend to be more descriptive, longer, and less focused. This unedited feel can be attributed to the fact that some were published posthumously.

The House on the Point, by Benjamin Hoff

2005-12-17T03:38:00.000-05:00

Benjamin Hoff, who wrote The Tao of Pooh (which I liked) and The Te of Piglet (which I did not), has set out to rewrite his beloved Hardy Boys. I must begin by saying I have never read a Hardy Boys novel, only a couple of Nancy Drews, so perhaps this book is not meant for me anyway. Actually I enjoyed the story; not having read the original it was based on, The House on the Cliff, I think the reworking worked. However some of the lingo from the 40's and 50's is a bit unnatural to read and clusters around certain scenes rather than organically sprinkled throughout. His lists of items included in various kits are a bit tedious. Another minor annoyance is his tendency toward being pedantic and bemoaning the ills of an unenlightened society (which is why I did not like The Te of Piglet). He simply cannot resist trying to teach us a lesson and includes a 25 page essay on "The Art of Seeing" which I skipped because my @** was twitching. These annoyances oddly enough did not actually detract from the story. They simply highlighted Hoff's inexperience with period fiction.

Jon Nicholson, "A Lil Sump'm Sump'm"

2005-12-17T02:12:00.001-05:00

Please regard this album cover.

There are definite impressions made, are there not? You expect a particular sound on this album, based on what you are presented with on this cover. At least I did. I expected, to be quite specific, redneck rap, another Bubba Sparxxx perhaps, white Southern hip-hop from the hills, that sort of thing.

I did not expect, nor was I emotionally prepared for, pop standards. If you are familiar with Michael MacDonald, former Doobie Brother and AT&T shill, you will have a very good idea of the overall sound of this album: jazzy, free-wheeling, with a saxophone on every single track.

That being said, however, the album is pretty enjoyable. Nicholson's lyrics range from quaint to downright cheesy, and it is not my typical first second or fifth choice of musical styles. But the final track, "Grandma" -- with backing vocals by Big & Rich -- is a special treat.

Doing no longer

2005-12-14T14:40:00.000-05:00

Since I was pregnant I've been agonizing over something nameless. Even when I escaped the dreaded bout of post-partum depression (I think partly because I was fulfilling one of my true vocations) there was still a struggle muddling my happiness. Reading Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak today while my baby slept beside me, I finally had a moment of clarity.

Since Aidan's birth I've been trying to establish goals, guidelines, figuring out reasonable expectations of myself (and my husband). I was constantly tempted to compare myself with my idea of pioneer women as well as getting overwhelmed with interior design ideas. All the while trying to live by affirming beliefs about breastfeeding, attachment parenting, and spiritual/natural living. Essentially my unnamed struggle was between Doing and Being. I'm rebellious by nature and have always resisted labels put on me like dramatic, emotive, perky, muppet-like, a tease etc. What I was blind to were the labels I was creating for myself: strong woman, progressive catholic, musician, actor, feminist. It makes casual conversation less personal, less time-consuming if we can flash those titles into someone else's mind. But as my life changes there are labels I can't deny like wife and stay-at-home mom that don't create an accurate picture of my life in my own mind or anyone else's. This is not an original epiphany, but it is my current experience — the interior work of being right now blows away all those doing labels. When people ask how I'm doing I'm flummoxed because the answer isn't very interesting/telling — I did laundry or dishes (but I'm not a very good housekeeper) — I am doing some singing but that's not going to fill a Christmas card, neither is my husband's job switch from the romance of bookselling to something with more financial security. The struggle has been how to describe our being with a doing vocabulary and it has finally sunk in that I don't have to. I am still gifted and using my gifts but (and this goes beyond getting a paycheck) I can no longer hide behind labels to define my being.

So this year's Christmas card and hopefully my conversation will reflect this revelation. Let me tell you how I am. I am practicing being responsible, honest, intuitive, and graceful in ways that are challenging. I am beginning to align my head with my heart, "my insides with my outsides" (28 Days). I am not cooped up at home, my talents wasting away. I am vibrantly being, using the gifts I have in nameless ways, because they "must be given" (Palmer). I don't need to prove it by writing a mental resume. It is enough to be.

Life With Father by Clarence Day

2005-12-13T18:16:00.000-05:00

In preparing for our latest storytime (for grownups) I reread Life with Father by Clarence Day. It must be read as a product of it's day, late Victorian New York, but even so I had to do very little in-my-head editing. The stories were written by the son for the periodical The New Yorker, appearing in the 1930's. As a child visiting my maternal grandparents I would watch the movie of the same title. It was a favorite there because the 'Father' was so like my own grandfather. Almost all of the stories make me smile, several make me chuckle, and my favorites make me laugh out loud and want to read it again.

Whole Child, Whole Parent by Polly Berrien Berends

2005-12-13T14:34:00.000-05:00

This is one of those rare books I will buy whenever I see it (it's out of print) because I know I will want to give it to everyone I know. Even though I have yet to finish it I foresee reading it on a regular basis, even semi-annually. It is wise, non-judging, and true true true.

He is so beautiful it breaks my heart

2005-12-13T00:48:00.000-05:00

[After working on this piece in some form or another for the past half-year, I finally offer it to the reading public. I considered back-dating it to sometime when these thoughts mind seem to "fit" into some kind of context, but then I thought, no: it's done, it's new, and you should read it right now. Enjoy.]

I have a son. Not particularly unusual, that, but I do want to make a big deal of it. I love him. I was certain that I would, even though things did not turn out as I had expected.

We had planned on a daughter, or at least I had, since I knew my wife dearly desired a girl for our first-born. She herself is the fourth generation of first-born daughters, and I wanted more than I have ever wanted anything for her to be able to continue that wonderful legacy.

But it was not to be, as she had suspected all along. And so, having planned for eight months or so that it would be a tiny daughter we would be welcoming into our lives, I had absolutely no idea how to react, how to feel, when a little boy emerged at the end of that heartbreakingly-long day.

My first reaction was acute disappointment for my wife's unrealised dream, followed almost immediately by overwhelming guilt for not being able to give her what I thought she wanted most. I was exhausted anyway at this point, so beyond exhausted into some other place that this additional weight of negative emotion was literally incapacitating.

But then I held him.

Those of you who know me will know that I am not the most masculine of men; aside from my natural ability to mimic the sound of flatulence with my armpit and my occasional urge to lie shivering in the woods and slay large gallinaceous birds with my own hands, I am somewhat lacking in stereotypical maleness, at least as commonly defined in this country we call ours. So the desire for a son was not a strong one for me. Yes, I wanted a child (at this point) and children (perhaps one at a time, like an installment plan). I looked forward to teaching them about life and the world and God, sharing with them the things and activities that most bring me joy, and generally sharing and facilitating their respective paths through life. All pretty non-gender-specific dreams. The whole "carrying on the family name" thing was pretty far down on the list of things that ever cross my mind; a quaint and useless fixation at best these days, and especially so for me, given the fact that my surname is an (apparently arbitrary) fabrication of the United States government, or some impatient agent thereof who could not be bothered to ascertain the actual names of yet another clan of Norwegian immigrants.

So I didn't want a son and heir. But there he was, and as I met him for the first time, my emotions were overwhelmingly, well, paternal. I kept saying to myself, over and over again in my head (although I was so tired at that point I could well have been saying it out loud for all I know) "I have a son." I have a son. I have a son.

I love him. I gaze at him now as he lies sleeping and wonder what will become of him, what amazing things he will see and do in his life, almost all of which stretches out into the dizzying distance beyond my poor sight. Will he love me, or resent me? Can I ever hope to be such a father as to deserve such a marvel for my son?

The Italian Secretary by Caleb Carr

2005-12-10T14:42:00.000-05:00

This is a good story and an okay pastiche. There is a mildly worrying spiritualism about Holmes that is satisfactorily resolved. Watson is pleasantly sharper on the uptake (the possible result of tea brewed in one of Holmes' beakers?). Mycroft has most troublingly lost his aura of omnipotence; despite mentions of his genius, he is not much quicker than Watson and certainly no match for his brother. However the most telling point besides language nuances is the author's modern willingness to detail violence and perversity in Watson's voice. If you don't expect Doyle you'll enjoy the read.

Why not?

2005-12-10T12:16:00.000-05:00

For those who have not met me I have (as my husband nervously admitted when confused and pressed) a dominating personality. Before I was aware of this about myself I would use my various talents to get anything I wanted, no matter how false. I have been aware of this quality (both weakness and strength) for quite a few years now and if I am not vigilant it will twist my strengths back into well worn weakness. My mantras for at least a decade have reflected the various ways I have needed to give up control: "let go and let God", "Breathe", "Let God be God", "Mercy", "Relax (your jaw)", "Release (your shoulders)" "Be empty", "Be still", "Be quiet", "Listen". The latest incarnation reflects my new role as mother, "Why not?"

Our son is 10 months old and finally has the means to become the physical manifestation of scientific inquiry. I try to keep his "laboratory" safe and vaguely ordered. Generally I can figure out his why's. Mostly my criterion for letting him do or not do something revolves around "Why not?" The not's revolve around safety, maintaining functionality (mainly of electronics) and keeping treasured books out of reach. The do's keep our toy budget way down - small stiff h.s. senior photo albums, laminated maps, and a million other found "why not?" objects.

This question "Why not?" has extended into his care as well. Why not change his diaper standing or draped over my leg face down and let go of my idea of his once docile way of laying on his back until I was done? Why not nurse on the go in every conceivable position (as long as it's not painful for me) and let go of our pre-nap snuggles from two months ago?

Most of my earlier attempts at self change were self imposed and sporadic. The efforts doubled when I had to face the consequences of inauthentic living. Coupled with my struggle to let go is my reticence to accept change. Every parent tells you "It goes so fast". You could also say "Constant change has never been so visible!" Parenting has been a (mostly) welcomed forced confrontation of change and letting go. Several times a day I question how I live, why I do things, why I do them a certain way, and if doing/thinking it another way would be more practical/truthful.

My epiphanies are only new to me and hardly revealed in a vacuum. I will try to keep a running tab on my reading material etc in flies and minnows.

Ikea

2005-11-28T22:13:00.000-05:00

We are becoming Ikea people.

We long held out, not so much in the deliberate sense, like I held out for years from reading the Harry Potter series; we just didn't go. Friends would ask us: "Have you been to Ikea yet?" and we would say, "No, we haven't gotten out there yet. One of these days..." Of course, in those new-baby-without-a-car-to-take-him-places days, we didn't go anywhere we didn't have to go. It was a narrow cycle of grocery stores, doctor's appointments and the occasional visit to dear friends. Ikea seemed a long ways off, and what money did we have to spend there, anyway?

Well, we have been there now, and it is, I must say, pretty sweet. The prices are excellent (although there are certainly some prices I could not begin to sneeze at) and the quality seems pretty good (coming as it is from dirty Swedes). My wife and I agree that much of the Ikea "look" is not our "look"; we hanker more for classicism rather than contemporary Euro styling in our home. So I don't think we will be setting up any big Ikea items in our pad anytime soon. But for useful everyday things, the verdict is simple: we love Ikea!

Cod: Biography of the Fish That Changed the World by Mark Kurlansky

2005-09-23T18:01:00.000-04:00

What a fine little book. I have been sitting on this for something like three years, and I finally dusted it off. I am not typically intrigued by matters of economic history, but this was just fascinating. Who knew a fish could be so important to the unfolding of a thousand years of world events? Although having grown up with a fifteen-foot statue of a cod at the entrance to my hometown, I might have guessed that something bigger than lutefisk was at stake. Highly recommended (the book, not the lutefisk, although I do enjoy a small bowl at Christmas).

The Men Who Stare at Goats by Jon Ronson

2005-04-01T01:20:00.000-05:00

I don't usually go for paranormal-heavy conspiracy theory stuff, but I couldn't pass this one up. Imagine an ultra-secret Black Ops program to train American soldiers to walk through walls, achieve invisibility, and even have the power to kill a goat just by staring at it. According to Ronson's research, just such a program existed in the late 1970's, and his interviews with the various people involved indicate a renewed interest in such bizarre schemes as part of the War on Terror. An absolutely fascinating little book. I couldn't put it down for a minute, which is something that I haven't been able to say for a long, long time.

I am a father now

2005-03-30T11:44:00.000-05:00

I am a father now. This is something that I have always wanted to be; even during the years I was studying to be a priest my thoughts were often turned to the family it appeared I would never get to have. And now here I am, a little baby boy asleep on my shoulder, a little person who will look to my wife and I for his every need for the next, well, for many years to come. This set of circumstances seems to have a particularly difficult time in seeming real to me. I am not in denial or anything, but this is taking more getting used to than I had expected.

He is a beautiful little fellow. I know this is because he looks so much like me, but it is still something I marvel at. He is an exquisite creation, with his tiny little fingers and toes, his toothless grin, his querelous hairless eyebrows. I treasure him, for I know that I am undeserving of such a wonderful charge. I hope I do not fail him, I hope he will not be disappointed when he grows up and learns that I am his father. I hope that he will love me, as I most certainly love him.

I am a father. I have a son. I am happy.

Heads on backwards

2005-02-05T19:48:00.000-05:00

Why is it that whenever babies lie on their backs with their head turned to the side, it looks as if their heads are on backwards? It never fails, and it puzzles us.

We have a son!

2005-01-18T09:58:00.000-05:00

Oh strange and overwhelming day! After the longest day I can ever remember, after unspeakable suffering on the part of my beloved wife, at half past midnight our beautiful little baby came out into the world. I cannot wait to tell you more about him, but there is a lot of sleep to catch up on first.

At the end of a dungeon crawl ... a Wild Baby!

2004-11-20T22:31:00.000-05:00

I was out late last night, over at a friend's house playing Dungeons & Dragons until two o'clock in the morning. I haven't done that in quite a while, and it was a lot of fun!

When I arrived home, Anita was deeply asleep. The baby, however, was not. "Like a typewriter in reverse," I told my sisters tonight; "Like some sort of crazed octopus," I told my co-workers. Our child was just going nuts in there! As I slid quietly into bed next to my slumbering wife, I put my hand on her tummy as I always do, just to have my whole family there in my arms, and holy cow! A flurry of activity such as I have not felt before, all over the landscape of Anita's belly. I cannot imagine which limbs were involved, but there were a powerful lot of them, all flailing away like a gang of people who flail at things with their limbs. It was overwhelming; I nearly cried, I was so excited, but I did it quietly so as not to wake Anita, who really needs all her sleep.

Names

2004-09-13T11:36:00.000-04:00

People have to have names. I mean, how confusing would it be otherwise? We have finally settled on a pair of names for our new little person: Anwara Mairead for a girl, Aidan McGrew for a boy. Pretty neat, huh?

A bit of background is called for, I suppose. Anwara is the name of the mother character in The Moorchild by McGraw, a book we listened to together on our honeymoon. It also, coincidentally, means "to bring to light" in Arabic. Mairead is the Gaelic spelling of Margaret, and is pronounced may-read.

Anita has always liked the actor Aidan Quinn, so that brought Aidan to the table. But as we looked into it, there were a lot of reasons for us to pick this name. There were no fewer than fourteen Irish saints named Aidan, which is the diminutive, or nickname, of Aodh, the ancient Irish sun-god, which ties in nicely with Anita's love of the sun and especially early morning. McGrew is the little brother character in The Facts and Fictions of Minna Pratt, one of Anita's all-time favorites, and a book that Aldean had to read and be quizzed on when we first started dating before the relationship could proceed. (Thankfully I passed!)

We found a midwife

2004-07-28T20:15:00.000-04:00

I think we have found our midwife. It was a pretty easy decision for us to make regarding our desire for a home birth; I have some vicarious experience with the home births of my two youngest siblings, and Anita has no interest in having such a personal and spiritual event as a birth medicalized in a hospital setting. But actually seeking out and selecting a midwife? That sounded like an awfully grown-up undertaking!

But we found her! Anita did a lot of online searching, and we interviewed and selected Rachel McGraw. She is surprisingly young; as Anita put it, "When I think midwife, I think old wise woman, I think crone." But she is well-qualified and we think we will have a wonderful experience of pregnancy and birth with her assistance.