Northcountry

Just in time for the first day of classes at my alma mater, Sleepy Eye High School, here is my essay on the assigned topic, "What I Did On My Summer Vacation (Or, More Accurately, What I Did When I Actually Left Town On My Summer Vacation)".

*

"Is that thunder?"

It's a mid-July Friday afternoon, just past two o'clock, and we've already driven two hundred twenty miles. Cold air blasts through our minivan, defying the outside humidity. We stopped for lunch in Duluth, wandered in the sun for an hour, and returned to our van-turned-sauna to find foil-wrapped packages of melty chocolate soup in our ineffectual cooler. The air ripples with heat - it's perfect lake vacation weather.

As we drive north, the sky is clear but the temperature begins dropping. We keep track of its changes via a green digital readout that shows up just above the rearview mirror. At seventy degrees, Ali's voice takes on a note of panic: "I only packed one pair of long pants." In the summertime, even seventy seems cold. Another two degrees slip off the meter. "It was so hot in Lake City, I only thought to bring shorts!"

At Two Harbors, we choose the scenic route rather than the expressway. (Well, more accurately, Michal, the driver, chooses the scenic route and then tries not to get distracted by the scenery). We join a line of cars and meander, sandwiched between a RV and a truck pulling a speedboat, along the winding lakeside road. The sky becomes overcast suddenly, dark clouds tumbling over one another eagerly in an effort to make up for their tardiness, and fat raindrops begin to fall. At the first clap of thunder, the storm's full force is unleashed. Rain pounds the windshield with an unusual violence. Even with windshield wipers zipping back and forth, it is a struggle to see the road through this dense veil of rain. So much for the scenic route.

I begin to envision a weekend of looking out the windows at ever-increasing puddles. The forecast did call for showers every day, though by "showers" I didn't think it meant "torrential rains". As suddenly as it intensified, however, the rain lets up. The five minute deluge is over, and by the time we reach Beaver Bay, the only evidence of its short-winded fury exists in our recollections.

"Is that thunder?"

It's Sunday night, eleven-thirty or so. The steamy, sunstreaked weather of the afternoon finally broke at about nine, just as we were attempting a final scenic walk. Ali was all for pressing on as the lightning storm approached: "We can make it to the Point before the rain hits!" But Michal's wisdom prevailed, and we hustled for cover at the lodge, scurrying inside just as fast-falling raindrops started slapping the ground.

I thought the storm was over an hour ago; water ran in rivulets through the sloping parking lot and dripped down the windows of our room, but the sky had cleared and a cool breeze guided the metallic scent of freshly-fallen rain toward us. It seems I was wrong, though, or maybe half of the storm just got lost on the way and is only arriving now. I can't actually be sure if rain is falling, since the foul weather is actually miles away, raging somewhere over Lake Superior. In our darkened room, I can only hear the sound of thunder, accompanied by distant flashes of lightning.

The wall facing the lake is cut across by a solid band of windows, four in a row. With my head propped on a pillow and my body stretched beneath a sheet instead of the comforter, which lies in a scorned heap on the floor, I stare toward the windows through the thick stormy darkness. I can differentiate between the pine-paneled wall and the slash of sky and water only because of the lightning. Storms on the lake are different than storms on the prairie; prairie lightning stretches across the sky in jagged lines of brilliance that strain to reach the ground, but this lightning pulsates, blossoms, radiates out from a single point so quickly that it becomes difficult to mark the exact place of origin. The flashes follow each other closely, creating flickers of almost-constant illumination, and I watch them sweep from west to east across the great flat liquid expanse.

"Is that thunder?"

It's Friday evening, and we're standing on a rock promontory that juts eastward into the lake. The lodge dominates the view to the north, and a wilderness trail obscures whatever lies to the west, but from the tip of this point only water is visible to the east and south, where the world stretches into oblivion. We climb across boulders pressed together over time, marveling at the hardy wildflowers that can grow in these rocky, windswept crevasses. I walk down to the edge of the point, where the water meets the rocks, and turn into the wind as it blows spray past my face. The sun is setting slowly, shading sky and lake orange and gold and violet. From some far-off spot, we hear soft thunder, and we scan the sky for the misty clouds that indicate remote storms. But this time, the rain refuses to fall, or at least remains invisible, and the distant rumbles fade as the sun dips below the hazy greyblue horizon.

A Contest!

The background: Michal's lovely new Prius arrived yesterday! It's a glossy little blue pod that starts at the push of a button, turns itself off at every stop sign, and beeps when it is put in reverse. So it's basically a glorified golf cart. She is most excited, and has managed to put ninety miles on the vehicle after owning it for under twenty-four hours.

The contest: what shall we name the car? Michal's first car was a grey Saab named Mazurka and her bike is called Goldenrod (due to its hue), so both of those are out. Anything else you can think of, though, might very well win the prize!! (Except Fluffy - I suggested it, was shot down, and am now very indignant.)

The prize: erm, well, I don't know quite what it is yet. But it will be SPECTACULAR. You can be sure of that.

Ready? GO!

Twenty-Three Years and One Day Ago

On a sweltering evening twenty-three years and one day ago, my parents went to a summer house party, and they danced on a cedar back porch as my dad sang along with the Too Fat Polka.

Now, you might think that this is just a clever (true!) story I'm using to segue into some announcement such as, "On a summer morning (late morning, around ten-ish; I've never been an early riser) twenty-three years ago, I was born. Cue the bells and whistles." But it's not. Well, not entirely.

No, on a sweltering evening twenty-three years and one day ago, my father called his very pregnant wife fat, and yet we all lived to tell about it. Now that is a truly noteworthy occurrence.

A Marvelously Splendid Day

[Ed. note: for optimal viewing of this post, kindly maximize the window and choose text size "smaller" (or the corresponding size - second-smallest of five - in non-Explorer-ese). These specifications ensure that the text appears correctly, at least in the two browsers installed on my home computer; anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem.]

How shall I start? To celebrate yesterday's festivities, I declared
A holiday, but that's old news; must find a new way to honor little Jeff.
Perhaps I will just begin a list of features that show off his splendor.
Predictably, the first thing that comes to mind is his talent for music.
Yes, as the Globe says, he is "a musician of consummate mastery."

But music isn't Jeff's only talent. No, he's a born storyteller too.
It's not just that his experiences are story-worthy; it's that he can
Relate them so well. The effusive ticketing agent ("the mountains..."),
The frantic stewardess ("Where is the passenger?"), the
Hastening cabby ("We must go!") - all are impeccably recreated.
During each rendition of these travel tales, I topple to the floor, laughing
As Jeff asks, "This is the Bologna Forli airport?" and replies not with the, "
Yes," desperately hoped for, but with an exquisitely-inflected, "Oh."

Just thinking about it makes me grin. And finally, at graduation, when
Everyone was trying to avoid getting soaked, he cleared my rain-drenched
Folding chair with the sleeve of his scholarly gown. Now that, kids, is what
Friendship is all about.

many happy returns, little jefe!

A Splendidly Marvelous Day

WHEREAS Margaret Alice Weathers is a splendidly marvelous individual and

WHEREAS she was born on this day in 1981 and

WHEREAS this anniversary must not go any longer without widespread acknowledgment

THEREFORE I hereby propose that we celebrate a national "Birth of Margaret Alice Weathers" Day.

This year's inaugural holiday kicks off with the latest in technological celebrations: your very own virtual bash. See, the tent is set up in that field over there. It's quite nice, really, white and airy (we're going for debutante rather than circus at the moment), and it houses the ever-popular refreshment table. The catering firm has done an excellent job arranging the buffet: ice sculptures of Graciela and Don are melting more quickly than expected, and the lobster rolls aren't quite up to par with those available at Charlie's Kitchen, but other than that things on the food front are going well. I special-ordered several varieties of Cheerios; see, they're being served in the huge cereal vats over there. Don't worry - Serafina has her own carton from which to nibble, and I already consumed my box of Honey Nut for the day, so I'm set. And there's cake - and lots of it - that we'll serve with afternoon tea.

Along with virtual bashes come virtual presents (in addition, of course, to the real thing). For this part of your gift, let me offer the following admission: because of your love of terrifying films, I sat through 28 Days Later, the one scary movie I actually recommend. You hear that, Meg? Resident Evil, Resident Evil: Apocalypse, Cabin Fever - all worth it. (Well, I'll say that for today, anyway.) What did the rest of you lot bring?

Now go ahead, take your virtual gifts and go jump in the bouncy haunted house that's been inflated just behind the tent (can't be a debutante all the time, you know). You're sure to find some superintelligent sharks and zombie dogs and whatnot careening off the (plastic) walls in there - just what you need to test out your peril-eluding and gravity-defying skills. And because of my newfound respect for the genre of frightening film, I'm right behind you. Uh... really...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEG!

Minutiae

So far this day, I have:

-accompanied my mother to the Ford dealership in Redwood Falls, where Bessie the minivan had an oil change. Jason! met Bessie on our day of adventuresomeness. The conversation, as I recall it, went something like this:

J: You drive a minivan?
E: Actually, Ali's driving it today.

-toured an alpaca farm on the way back from Redwood (I admit, this was my ulterior motive for going with in the first place). There were nearly three hundred ridiculously cute alpacas on the Rich-Nes grounds - mothers with close-cropped coats (well, apart from the manes framing their faces), fluffy babies with enormous glossy eyes, and two penned-off males (fighters, those two) who paced and hissed and spit at one another and had stare-offs every minute or so. Michal and I spent an hour walking through the barns with Richard and Agnes, who pointed out the week-old alpaca and the nineteen-year-old (that is, ancient) alpaca and the wee little alpacas who didn't quite understand the concept of eating hay. To commemorate the occasion, we purchased a skein of charcoal grey wool; alpaca scarf, here I come.

-been head-butted three times by Chatty as I sat eating lunch. I think kitty just wanted attention, so after her proddings I picked her up and pranced about the room with her until she seemed bored and fed up with me. That should do the trick.

-finished a book (A Monstrous Regiment of Women by Laurie R. King - fluff, but enjoyably so). I estimate I've read it at least ten times over the years, because that is simply what I do.

-eavesdropped with my mother while shopping for a wedding present in New Ulm. We overheard the mother of a family friend consulting with a sales associate about an engagement present, and we both instantly hushed, trying to determine whether she was buying with her son in mind. Curiosity killed the alpaca, I suppose (that's what Richard said, anyway - "They just want to know everything, that's the only way they get in trouble.").

And you thought there was nothing to do in rural Minnesota...

Bobbing Along

I hadn't fielded a telemarketing phone call all summer, but within a single hour this afternoon I took two.

"Is Emily there?"

"This is." I wasn't thinking. Generally when unfamiliar tones come across the wires, I play dumb; most people assume I'm about twelve on the telephone anyway, much too young to make decisions about loan consolidation or mortgage refinancing. By the second call, I had wised up. This one wasn't for me, but with a bland, "I'm not the owner of the house, and my parents aren't here," I extricated myself from the conversation much more smoothly. The skill always comes back to you in the end - it's just like riding a bike.

In part, I blame my laxity in sensing tele-spam on the fact that I bonded over the phone with Bob last week. Bob, of course, isn't a telemarketer. He's a "telephone representative" in technical services; usually you call him. Bob works for the company that sells my mother computer virus protection. It's a download-it-yourself operation, which always means trouble in these parts. You see, now that Ian has moved down to embrace his inner Iowegian, I reign supreme as the tech guru in the Lowther house. This is sad, but true. But sad. But true. But saaaaaaaad. (Admittedly, I did single-handedly - or rather, no-handedly [heh] - fix a DVD player over speakerphone for Pat, Ali, and Mal. That brilliant repair, however, hinged on my suggestion that the TV-in/audio-in three-pronged cable thingies were plugged into the wrong spots.)

Michal purchased and downloaded her virus protection update at the beginning of the month, but didn't have time to run the program. She left it on the desktop and blissfully went about her non-technical business, recalling it only when a reminder e-mail arrived: "If not installed, your download will expire." So she double-clicked on the icon... and got an error message.

"Ian," - he hadn't left yet - "can you install this?" Ian double-clicked on the icon... and ended up with the same message.

I figured I'd have a go. "Error communicating with server." With the expiration date looming, Michal did the only logical thing: she called Bob.

Of course, she didn't get through to him right away. Instead, she sat on hold for a good twenty minutes. You could tell by the righteous indignation that steamed around her as she sat playing Spider Solitaire that this upset her to no end. I don't know what she said when she finally got to speak to a real live human being, but whatever it was got her a priority number and Bob.

But when Bob started to walk her through some troubleshooting, she stopped him. "Operating system? How do I know what that is?"

"It's XP, Mom."

"Here, let me have you talk to my daughter." Michal got Bob, and Bob got me.

Bob started every sentence with, "Could you just..." They weren't questions, exactly; his voice didn't wander up inquisitively at the end of each phrase. His sentence construction turned his statements into requests, but his monotone plainly indicated that he had taken charge. His problem-solving would not by stymied by a technically ignorant woman or a precocious twelve-year-old.

Bob had to put me on hold once over the next half-hour plus, when all his normal fixes had failed to work. "Error communicating with server," the virus protection download stubbornly proclaimed in a yellow and white text box. We did all sorts of fun things - disabled the pop-up blocker, reinstated the default internet browser properties, uninstalled the old Norton software. But he still had to look for a new trick, and I had to listen to a tweedly hold MIDI while he did so.

Upon his return, Bob had me restart the computer in safe mode and then download and run the installation program. Success! As the installation began, he escaped: "Could you just write down this priority number again. If you have problems, call back and use it." Now, you'd think that spending a decent chunk of my afternoon on the phone with this man would make me more wary of telemarketers, more eager to ignore the unfamiliar disembodied voices that stream through the telephone wires.

But here's the thing: Bob called back.

As we were about to sit down to supper, I picked up a call in the kitchen. A now-familiar monotone reverberated through the receiver: "Hi, this is Bob. I'm just calling to make sure everything installed okay."

I hung up, clutching another scrawled copy of the priority number, unable to hide my astonishment. Michal watched me as I slid into my seat at the dining room table, tucking the small piece of notepaper under my plate. "Who was on the phone?" she asked, reaching for a bowl of broccoli.

From somewhere between incredulity and amusement, I replied, "That was Bob."

So, Bob, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to blame you for my afternoon woes. I'm over it now, of course, and have called to mind a host of stock responses to aid in immediate telemarketer avoidance. But don't worry - if a disembodied monotone begins its monologue with, "Could you just hold on a moment," I'll be sure to listen up.

If By "Classic" You Mean "Completely Unacceptable"

On Thursday, Ali and I were fortunate enough to spend a few hours with Jason! in the Mall of America, prior to his departure from our fair state. I, for one, had a splendid time. We commandeered the one comfortable chair in Caribou Coffee on the third floor, wandered pointedly back and forth in front of Chinese and Japanese fast food restaurants until we got free chicken samples, and spent copious amounts of time sitting in child-sized green Adirondack chairs in the children's book department of Barnes and Noble. While wedged between the glossy armrests, we read aloud from literary classics: Sammy the Seal, A Bargain for Frances, and, of course, Barbie as The Princess and The Pauper (based, as the cover proudly proclaims, on the video).

This last narrative wonder featured Barbie as Princess Anneliese, in love with her tutor, Julian, but betrothed to King Dominick. Fortunately, when Anneliese and Julian were in the market, they met Erika (also played by Barbie), a common dressmaker, who was identical (gasp!) to the princess but had dark hair instead of blonde and lacked a royal crown-shaped birthmark on her shoulder. Hilarious and suspenseful antics ensued, involving a gold mine filled with sparkling geodes, a geyser, two good cats and an evil dog, and a dastardly courtier named Preminger. (I feel that the names in this story are all either too complex to pronounce or have extraneous letters.)

All in all, the tale successfully horrified us to no end. There was, however, one saving grace: Princess Anneliese had a cat. When the princess was trapped in the dressmaker's shop, this clever kitty was entrusted with delivering a message to the castle. "Take this ring and this business card to the place," said the princess (well, perhaps not in those exact words...). "Then they'll know where to find me." Of course, the cat's efforts were ineffectual in the end because Preminger was the recipient of the message, but no matter - kitty was still quite brave.

The cat's name was Serafina.

Taking Flight

Two arms circled my waist and hoisted me nearly a foot in the air. Things look ever so slightly different from 6'5", and some detached section of my subconscious noted new angles and different shadows while I hung suspended, weightless for an instant. Then gravity reclaimed me, as my little brother set me down on the newly-purchased beige rug that covered his dorm room floor. "I'll miss you, my sister," he stated simply before turning toward our father.

After a summer of anticipation, Ian moved to college today.

On one level, his departure is an escape. Growing up in a small town is simultaneously liberating and confining. As you mature, you create a specific niche, and it's a perfect fit since it exists because of you. Take Ian: class president, decent hurdler, lovely singer - a bass. After a while, you don't have to work at defining exactly who you are; everyone already knows. But you become weighed down by the image you have created, by the boundaries of your niche. Throughout the summer, Ian was impatient for this day to arrive. I listened as he waxed poetic with countless variations on the ever-popular topic, "I can't wait for college." He was ready to go to school, excited for new experiences, and I know some of that excitement was based on the knowledge that when today arrived, he could flee from the pressure of constant examination. Anonymity can be a welcome refuge.

I suspect, though, that the majority of Ian's excitement came not because he took flight from Sleepy Eye but because he moved into an entirely unpredictable future. As of today, he is free to consciously create a niche instead of growing into one. Maybe some of the same elements will remain; I'm fairly sure he'll still be a bass when he comes home for Thanksgiving. And maybe it won't be a perfect fit; he'll have to decide which characteristics he wants to keep and which he has to leave behind. But I know he'll learn that having the liberty to choose makes you feel like you are soaring. So this flight is more about embracing freedom than it is about running away. It's about moving out from under the heft of the past. It's about not being afraid to lose track of gravity, to become weightless.

To my brother: enjoy the flight.

In Praise of Underthings

In recent weeks, two distinct sets of events have conspired to make me ever more conscious of the important role that underclothes play in life. The first set is quite dull, the second marginally more exciting. Below, I shall relate them from more to less boring, so as to fool you into believing either that the second set of events is truly thrilling when juxtaposed with the first, or that both sets of events when compared with only each other really constitute quite an exciting saga.

Ready?

My first encounter with the wonderment of unmentionables came just prior to a meeting with Dr. B, whose spinal adjustments are simply the ambrosia of our time. To set the scene, the chiropractic clinic here is located on a residential block in a building that masquerades as a ranch-style house. Inside, the space is divided by a lobby and an x-ray lab and a number of examination rooms, but the white siding and black shutters outside suggest chicken noodle soup and sectional furniture rather than ultrasound machines and large quantities of crackling vertebrae.

When I go in for a spinal tweaking, I take a seat in the lobby for perhaps one minute. Without fail, I pull the latest issue of People or Entertainment Weekly off the magazine rack and attempt to make it through the tantalizing cover story before my name is called; it never works, but I still try. A receptionist leads me to one of six exam rooms and inquires, "Do you need a gown?"

Now, since back adjustments involve the application of copious amounts of aloe-like gel, which goes hand in hand with the ultrasound machine, I reply, "Indeed I do." Or, "Yes." One or the other. Usually the other. When I say "gown", though, I'm not talking about one of those paper hospital bibs; these are blue or green cloth tents that reach my knees and fasten in the back with ancient pieces of Velcro. It is very easy not to reveal your underthings while wearing these gowns, especially when you slip them on over your jeans, which is the norm. It is slightly less easy not to reveal your underthings while changing to and from these gowns, especially when you have to remove your shirt in order to don said garments.

So one fine summer day, I found myself in an exam room at the back of the house, facing the alley. I was well out of my tank top before I realized that I was actually facing someone's backyard picnic table, but after noticing this I could see it oh so clearly, being that the curtains were utterly open and I was on the ground floor. Fortunately for all involved, the sun-drenched yard across from the clinic was completely devoid of life (other than vegetation, of course, which wasn't too interested in ogling the girl in Exam Five). Oh, and equally fortunately for all involved (so, just me, then) underthings were present. That was the point of all this, I had almost forgotten.

The second set of events that reminded me of the truly stellar nature of undergarments took place during the month of dress rehearsals for the play (this will be my last referral to theatricity, I swear). In my prior - admittedly limited - theatre experience, only one or two fully-costumed runs of the show occurred before opening night. For DY, however, Gary insisted that we start using our costumes the minute they were available. This meant that for literally the three weeks leading up to opening, I spent a few hours each evening frantically stripping backstage.

Now, there is a locker room conveniently located underneath St. Mary's High School Auditorium, which women could use for the purposes of changing with some semblance of privacy. The men's changing area, however, was inconveniently located in the stairwell leading to the locker room. Just in case my desire to avoid traipsing merrily through a host of trouserless gentlemen of varying ages was not a strong enough deterrent, the limited timeframe in which the majority of my changes took place would have rendered it impossible for me to make it back up the stairs before the curtain opened on the next scene.

The alternative? The "Women's Dressing Screen", labeled thusly by a formal sign printed on flimsy white paper. The problem? The space behind the "Women's Dressing Screen" was most often occupied by one of the other womenfolk trying to avoid playing an ever-challenging game of "Dodge Pantsless Men". When lack of space and lack of time combine, nothing good can result. In my case, I became ever so skilled at cowering behind clothing racks, removing stockings under a slip, and donning a tank top before removing a strapless dress. Oh, and making sure my underthings were properly situated before emerging from my chosen dark corner.

In conclusion, thank you, Underthings. Without you, I would surely have flashed a varied assortment of people and blades of grass.

And now, let us return to my regularly scheduled prudish existence, already in progress.

Of Pies and Men

Friends, may I tell you about the night I just had? I'm not talking about the play here; we've been over that, so suffice it to say that opening night was everything you might expect a rural community theatre opening night to be... in a good way. No, I want to share what happened after the curtains had closed and the doors were locked and all good young children stumbled home to milk and cookies and bed.

I may? Thanks ever so.

Going out on the town after a performance is traditional here, just as it is elsewhere. In Sleepy Eye, though, there's no place like Uno's. In fact, there's no place at all. So after shaking hands with all the audience members in the post-finale receiving line, I declared, "I'm hungry!"

Tom, Dan, Ian, and Gordo [a.k.a. Chris, but known from here on in by his abbreviated last name since that's what he goes by in the real world] were intrigued, and Geri was all for it: "Let's go somewhere!" Now, "somewhere" in the context of late-night eateries means New Ulm, and "somewhere" in the context of New Ulm means Applebee's or Perkins. After a speedy discussion, Perkins was decided upon; people were hungry for pie. Ian and I scampered backstage to collect our clothing and organize our costumes, then zipped home to inform the 'rents and pick up the minivan. Well, we tried to zip, but then Ian forgot his keys inside and had to walk all the way back from the parking lot to the auditorium and search through his props, and by the time he had rounded everything up Geri was rethinking her enthusiasm for a late night and requested a rain check.

Fine; we still had a crew heading to Perkins. Tom and Dan went home to get wallets and meet their foreign exchange student, Gordo drove ahead to New Ulm since he and his wife live there, and Ian and I were finally successful with the whole zipping thing. It was maybe half past ten, and we were set to go.

But Kaeti called Ian asking him to pick up some cookie dough that he had ordered for her fundraiser, and he got distracted talking to her, and by the time the two of us made it out of the house to pick up Tom and Dan it was perhaps 11.30. The drive to New Ulm takes fifteen minutes.

The four of us walked into the restaurant at 11.45 and were immediately informed by the host that the restaurant closed at midnight. "You can get pie to go, though," he said oh-so-helpfully, eager for the sale. We glanced around for Gordo, knowing full well that we had most likely missed him. My chagrin at our tardiness intensified when the girl behind the pie counter asked if we were from the play. Apparently a man with the remains of eye makeup had been waiting.

Ian looked up Gordo's home number in the phone book. "We're here now!" he said. "We were really late. We'll bring you pie!" As he listened, his shoulders slumped.

"Tell him we'll leave it at his house," we suggested.

"We'll drop off pie then, okay?" He perked up again, hung up, and informed us, "Gordo has to be up at 5.30 tomorrow, so he and Becky are going to bed right now. But he said we can put the pie in their mailbox." We ordered our Peanut Butter Silk pie to go, requesting two extra take-away containers. Just before we went out the door, Ian looked up the address of Gordo's wife; we knew he had moved in with her after their June wedding. 1910 Jefferson #1.

Ian, Tom, Dan, and I drove across town to the apartment building at 1910 Jefferson. The lobby door was open, so we traipsed in, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb the neighbors. The mailbox was awfully small, much too little for one piece of pie, to say nothing of two, so Tom set the containers outside the door to apartment one and draped a page of newsprint over them as a bit of camouflage. Meanwhile, Ian tore down a notice from the bulletin board - something about not smoking in the lobby - and carved the word "PIE" in it with a thumbtack. He stuffed it into the mail slot, and we left the building.

We made it back to Sleepy Eye and were eating our own pieces of Peanut Butter Silk when Ian said slowly, "You know... I don't know if Becky still lives there."

"What?"

He pulled out the most recent phone book, and paged through until he found Becky's maiden name. "5-- Fifth Street North." Oh.

"I don't ever think I've seen you laugh so hard," commented Tom an eternity later as I stifled yet another fit of giggles at the absurdity of the whole situation.

Entertainment and guilt set in simultaneously, though, and so at one in the morning, Dan and I hopped back into the minivan, dropping Tom off at his house before heading back to New Ulm to rescue the pie. We slunk back into 1910 Jefferson, tiptoed to apartment one, and removed the dessert and newspaper (couldn't really do anything about the notice inscribed "PIE"). We crossed town and parked on the five hundred block of Fifth Street, walking up and down until we found the right building, a blue (in the dark, anyway) house with a sizeable mailbox. And then we stood in the middle of a dark city block for ages, trying to think of how to word our note in order to properly convey the events of the evening. It was 1.37 when we departed, pie safely nestled on top of the ziploc bag Gordo had left in his mailbox.

On the way home, I avoided hitting:

-a white cat
-a skunk
-a blue car that was parked on the side of the road (and by "side" I mean "my side, somewhat in my lane") sans flashers
-a man wearing a navy flannel shirt and grey sweatpants who was riding a bike in the middle of the oncoming traffic lane with only a dim headlamp and a single wheel reflector marking his existence (this was at 2.01, mind you)
-a possum (and to miss it, I actually had to come to a complete stop on the highway just inside Sleepy Eye's city limits)

And that was my night. So, uh... sorry, Gordo. Hope you like the pie.

Floodlights

I'm not an actress. I have no talent for forgetting who I am, for letting go and turning into someone else. I've forgotten how it feels to put on a show, simultaneously magnifying yourself to achieve a spotlit reality and being magnified further under the lens of an audience. Maybe performers get used to it after a while. I wouldn't know; I'm not an actress.

I sprint across the cluttered backstage, a basketball court bisected lengthwise by black curtain, tearing the red ribbon from my ponytail. We're thirty seconds into the first scene, and it's time for my second costume. All told, I'll change ten times in the next two and a half hours, twelve if you count the swap of street clothes for costume and vice versa at either end. Switching skirts and stockings and shoes a dozen times seems excessive to me, but then, I'm not an actress; perhaps they do this all the time without batting a heavily-mascaraed (or perhaps altogether false) eyelash.

I think about dance steps and harmony first and then recall characterization; I'm not an actress. But I give the alto notes a brittle edge in the first scene, when the female ensemble plays a gaggle of crotchety old women, and I paste on a smile while trying to hit the right rotation speed on my double pirouette in the overture. My eyes widen in shock as I stare into the balcony, ostensibly watching the longest-hit baseball anyone has ever seen disappear over a distant fence. I take tiny clicking steps in black heels, muckraking to my heart's content, and use the same shoes to approximate as much of a luxurious strut as I can muster three scenes later, dancing with the devil in a kickline. And in fishnets and jazz shoes, I breathe in the sweet chalky thickness of baby powder puffed through a fog machine, tossing my now-unrestrained hair and hoping that neither hot-rollered curls nor strapless cocktail dress choose this night to fall in view of the audience.

I'm not an actress. But starting tonight, I play one on stage.

The Flesh is Willing, but the Spirit is Weak

You know when it's rather late and you've been stretched under your quilt for an expanse of time and your limbs are heavy and your eyes are more comfortable closed than open but your mind is spinning and zipping and generally misbehaving, and you know that it's no use trying to force yourself to sleep because, for better or for worse, you're on?

Well, it's no use: I'm on.

Now, if you'll excuse me, having said that, it's back to the dark of my bed. I'm going to attempt to be off.

Oh, and...

Jason! is in Minnesota.

Let the good times roll.

Physically Therapeutic

Two dark eyes were trained on me, gazing unabashedly from across the room. I pointedly stared back, noting the angles of the face, the protruding nose and mouth, the summary orange skin, but my silent confrontation was ineffectual. The eyes, unblinking, remained locked with mine.

A bulbous goldfish was staring at me, and I didn't like it one bit.

I've spent time in two physical therapy waiting rooms in the past six years. The first was located in the basement of Cambridge's University Health Services, a fine medical establishment indeed. (Pay no attention to the coughing you may have just heard; it was only me trying to stifle my laughter.) A trip with my parents to UHS on the very first day of move-in to meet my general practitioner - who was out - resulted in an urgent-care diagnosis of strep throat and a referral to physical therapy for the lasting results of a simultaneously broken and jammed finger. (I never did meet my GP, incidentally, in four years of being under her care.)

Entering the PT lobby all by myself a few days later was intimidating, and I snuck to a wooden-armed chair and tried to blend in with the decor. Fifteen minutes after my appointment was set to commence, a dark-haired woman with a clipboard called my name. She looked surprised when I stood up and moved toward her, and as we walked down the basement hallway she commented, "You should be sure to check in at the desk next time. I didn't know that you were here." I hadn't even thought about announcing my arrival to the receptionist; I never had to in Sleepy Eye, mostly because the receptionist was a family friend and probably knew everyone in town.

The UHS physical therapy department had many things: a competent practitioner, a successful therapy regimen, cool red and yellow resistance clay that could be used to strengthen fingers or release stress. It did not have an aquarium.

That's what sets the second physical therapy waiting room apart. Sure, the layout is more open, the seating area is smaller, and the accents are a wee bit rounder in New Ulm. But the aquarium is what really makes the place stand out. "Go downstairs and straight down the hall," the nurse told me last week, when my initial examination yielded a PT prescription. "When you reach the aquarium, you're there."

Apart from the unwelcome attentions of a staring goldfish, the therapy experience in New Ulm is essentially intimidation-free. Most-helpful therapist S measured the range of motion in my shoulder (135 degrees, thank you very much) and pointed out that the strange protruding of my right shoulder blade is due to the fact that my serratus anterior and rhomboid muscles seem to be "slacking off". This sort of "winging" (which seems to be the preferred technical medical term) is often associated with nerve damage. From the attention that I get when my case is presented, I feel as though winging without such damage is unusual; last week, the doctor asked my permission to show my lopsided shoulder blades to a nurse for novelty's sake, and today the therapist who peeked around a receptionist at my chart on the day of my referral stopped S's measurings to poke at my shoulder himself. "No neurological damage?" he asked her over my head. Shocker, I know.

But as far as I can tell, all is neurologically sound here in Sleepy Eye, and I have been assigned a slough of strengthening exercises, a few of which involve a red resistance band that I am most interested to try. Two to three sets a day is the prescription until Thursday afternoon, at which time I'll venture back to the New Ulm Medical Center for session the second. If I'm super strong, we'll trade the red latex therapy band for a more resistant one of a different color, or maybe some little free weights. If not, well, at least I'll be ready for that goldfish - a red latex therapy band makes a keen blindfold.

Becoming a Soccer Mom in Four Easy Steps

It's official: come September, I turn into a soccer mom, becoming the proud owner of 2.5 children, a house in the suburbs, a good sized mutt named Spot, and a four-door minivan.

I mean, if you want to get technical, I won't be living with 2.5 children; rather, I will be living with Ali, and I'm sure she won't be too keen on borrowing 2.5 random children from some park and housing them for the year. So I guess we're more like spinster aunts than soccer moms - cranky spinster aunts who really don't want to spend too much time with their nieces and nephews but have to give an hour of free babysitting here and there to appease the rest of the family - but we'll gloss over that for the time being.

And I guess the house is in the city, not the 'burbs. But it is a house, and it is to be rented on contract for deed, which means that after Ali and I pay our father enough rent to cover purchase price, we'll become our own landlords. It's a good thing, too, because spinsters need to have independent living conditions.

And the mutt probably won't factor in either, seeing as 1) we have our beloved Chatty, who rules the Sleepy Eye roost, to consider, 2) I'm still getting over my childhood fear of dogs, and 3) what, are you crazy, I'm not ready for that kind of responsibility! Don't put a life in my hands; I'll put it down and then wander off somewhere and forget where I set it!!

But the minivan is all mine, baby. Today Michal made an over-the-phone deposit agreement on a new Prius, which, if all goes well, she should be receiving at the end of August. This means that in a scant month, our beauteous silver Chrysler Town and Country (2000 model) will be packing up and moving to St. Paul (yes, yes, along with me and Ali; couldn't let it go by itself, you know, it's too young to be finding its own way around).

Drivers of the Twin Cities, beware - soccer mom Emily is being unleashed on a highway near you.