(A wee poem for a Monday – because every day is better with bacon.)
Driving to Mecca, my piggy and me,
Two lost souls searching for sanctity.
He in the backseat and I in the front,
I’m humming showtunes, but he only grunts.
Driving to Mecca o’er sand and o’er grass,
I’m certainly glad that my pig’s not an ass.
Dear Piggy is clean and his spirit is true,
He has no idea the plans I pursue.
For Mecca’s a stockyard and Piggy the stock,
And soon he’ll be bacon,
One giant hamhock.
That’s me.
Chester’s Lawn and Garden Service Saint Paul, MN.
I work for food. Only food. Lots of food.
Menu of Services:
1) Fertilization: I utilize only the freshest organic nitrogen-rich fertilizer, administered warm to avoid temperature shock for the poor plants. Occasionally the degree of nitrogen-deprivation will demand additional treatments. My brother, Rafa, often assists with smaller applications.
Rafa
2) Shrub trimming and removal: Please rest assured that I only remove those shrubs that I deem unsightly or otherwise inappropriate for your garden.
This raspberry was poorly placed. I fixed it.
I removed this “perennial” hibiscus. Hello Zone 5.
3) Zone consultation: I find it best to simply eliminate plants that will not perform well following frigid Minnesota winters. Better to shed one tear now than a river of tears in the spring.
4) Digging: Please defer to my excellent judgment regarding hole placement and size.
5) Weeding: Anything I don’t like is a weed. Plan accordingly.
I added a nice hole beneath this drainage pipe. Instant water feature!
6) Water feature installation: I love envisioning how to unite water and holes in holy matrimony. Mud is an under-appreciated garden feature and I intend to rectalfy that situation.
I tested this corner of the house for lead. Results: negative.
7) Lead testing: I test all samples myself and will let you know if I develop symptoms indicative of lead intoxication.
8) Digging: Did I mention my digging skills? Fences do not present a problem. I’m fully capable of working around, under, and through fences.
9) Architectural consultation: If I notice a glaring anachronism in the structure of your home, I’ll be certain to identify it clearly so that you may correct the issue posthaste.
I removed this tacky gravel that covers up a lovely stone foundation and discovered cheap insulation. No lead.
The quality of this screen material is TERRIBLE. I notified the homeowners.
Note the dead hops vine that I nipped in the bud. I also modified the arbor – too symmetric.
10) Temperance monitoring: Selective winnowing of Crops of Libation (hops and grapes in particular) should be undertaken early and often. The most effective technique is to bite off the vines just as they emerge from the ground.
11) Relaxation reminders: I leave a series of stinky reminders at regularly timed intervals in the yard and garden. Thus, you are pulled from your home into the serenity of the garden at least four times a day. You’re welcome.
Please call me for an estimate. I work for food. And sometimes stuff that I mistake for food. But mainly food.
Here I am after a hard day’s work.
Rafa, exhausted after an intensive fertilization project.
I read a piece in the Washington Post this week: “Parenting as a Gen Xer: We’re the first generation of parents in the age of iEverything.” Frankly I’m perturbed, always a tenuous platform from which to write.
I, too, am parenting (and childing) as a Gen Xer. I helped my mother fix her Facebook privacy settings. I contacted my son’s school to inquire how much screen time to expect in a fourth grade classroom. I ran through all possible permutations of passwords, trying to help Mom get back into her email account. I look across the headphones and iPhones and iPads and smartwatches and I, like Wash Post author Allison Slater Tate, wonder if awkward John Hughes moments are even possible anymore.
Here’s what I want to say and I’ll make every attempt at diplomacy, because as we all know: Once Posted, Always Posted.
Slater Tate says, “What we are doing is unprecedented,” referring to parenting kids in a techie society. What we do as parents is always unprecedented in our ever-evolving world. Raising children in a community with a safe water supply and enclosed sewer system. Public educational standards in constant flux. Parenting in 1960, the year The Pill became available. The advent of antibiotics and vaccines.
Imagine the profound impact of the automobile on parenting. The car is the single most life-threatening gadget to which we, in the US, expose our children, most of us daily.
So what’s different? Why is technology the “trickiest parenting challenge” Slater Tate faces? I argue that the tricky part is not inherent to technology but to the parent. We, as parents, finally realize that we can’t necessarily trust Nestle and Joe Camel, Pfizer and Disney with the best interests of our children. Ignorance isn’t bliss. We sift through the 650,942 Google answers to various parenting questions, on an endless quest for The Truth. Give me a yes or a no! Will thirty minutes of Call of Duty per day produce any longstanding detrimental effects on my teenager?! Does texting damage interpersonal interaction? Is reading online equivalent to reading an actual book? Does websurfing diminish the capacity for undivided, deep attention?
The Truth is hard to find, and as Slater Tate states, we won’t know the long-term impact of these novel techie childhoods for decades.
Life in our technologically-driven time means that whatever decisions we make can be shared with and judged by countless other humans, both friends and foes. When we dangle our baby over the edge of a balcony or outfit her with a faux suicide bomber vest (so adorable (it’s sarcasm, folks)), the world can post its vitriolic, virtually anonymous opinions almost instantaneously. When we breastfeed in public, take silly videos of our kids in various states of dress and undress, and discipline our children, people feel entitled to judge us according to their own culture and morals and upbringing.
I’m not saying that any of the above is an example of good, bad, or sideways parenting. I’m saying that no matter what you do, people will judge you. And the excess of immediately-available information, no matter the veracity, often makes people feel like they know better, and so should you.
Most parents in the US are striving to raise healthy, kind, competent children. Even this is an unprecedented shift, relatively speaking. The concept of Child as inherently valuable with an independent intellectual and emotional life worthy of study is radical in the grand scheme of civilization.
Good for us! Now that we value our children, we wade through the glut of websites, ebooks, and blogs, trying to do the best we can.
We are not passive recipients in life. Technology doesn’t happen to us. We create it. We control it.
Let me respectfully suggest the following approach to Allison Slater Tate: Gather information. Weigh the risks and benefits. Make an informed decision. And then OWN IT. “This is the choice we made for our family.” If you’re uncomfortable, revisit the steps. Gather more information, weigh pros and cons, and make another informed decision.
I appreciate and share (empathically, not technologically) your ambivalence and discomfort. You’re doing the best you can – thank you.
I love the Oberlin College alumni magazine. I love the artwork, the articles, reminiscing about places I walked and people I knew. I read the class notes and giggle that some (crazy) folks in my year still feel young enough to have babies. Long live ovulation! Maybe it’s morbid, but I scan the deaths in reverse chronological order. Sometimes I take a trip to the attic, haul out my Oberlin yearbooks, and connect a face I recognize to a soul no longer earthly bound.
Alumni magazines contribute in large part to the cluttered state of my desk. I spot an article on permaculture that I’d like to keep for future reference or a photo of Tappan Square in the fog that triggers a specific memory and suddenly of course it just makes sense to tuck the whole thing back into a pile of similar periodicals.
I’m trying to get better. Over the weekend, I spent three days away from my messy desk. I enjoyed the blank slate of a bare expanse of wood, no dust, no visual chaos. To remedy my desk malady, I’d have to grab all the magazines by their spines, not even glance at the covers lest I be drawn back between the pages. Into the recycle! I feel a sense of loss at the idea. Ridiculous, really.
I can’t even tell you the name of the alumni magazine. It’s Oberlin so it must be something clever and relevant. Now I’m curious. I vault the dog barricade, climb over my purse, shuffle past a couple bags containing library books and paper flotsam from a breastfeeding conference. My Eventual Perusal pile sits to the left, with an approximate height of nine inches. Everything in this pile already survived the initial cut.
Under a high-res version of Pocket Jamie and a depressing Kaiser Health News article (“15-Minute Visits Take a Toll on the Doctor-Patient Relationship”) I find her: Lena Dunham. Specifically, “The Likeable, Lovable Lena Dunham page 20”, gracing the cover of the Oberlin Alumni Magazine, Spring 2014, aptly titled Oberlin. What? That’s it? Oberlin?
I confess, until a couple months ago, I’d never heard of Lena Dunham (Oberlin College class of 2008 and creator of Girls on HBO.) Suffice it to say, LD was likely toddling about NYC in an adorable organic hemp onesie the day I matriculated at Oberlin. Mind the Generation Gap. In this cover photo she looks innocent, dressed in a long-sleeve white eyelit situation. Her jewelry puzzles me: sterling silver box chain with what appears to be a microcassette tape sitting atop the Coco Chanel logo. Oberlin irony? Pop culture reference of which I’m blissfully ignorant? On further inspection, Dunham looks like she’s ready to spring out of the page into your face.
The magazine distracts me. The pages feel good, rough and recycled, soothing to my conscience. I can’t believe I ever considered tossing this volume, with its gorgeous graphic, “Major to Career Pathways for Oberlin BA Recipients, 1970-2009”, on pages 10-11. Reminds me of SpinArt at the State Fair. And clearly, I must read the piece about novelist Gary Shteyngart. I can almost feel his stubbly salt and pepper beard.
Before I finish with Lena and Gary, I’m tossed into Class Notes. Men marrying women and men and formerly-women-now-men. Novels written, films directed, babies birthed.
Now back to the Losses section. The youngest dead person graduated in 1982. My eyes scan back through time. Hiram Titus. My heart stutters. Oberlin class of 1969. I corresponded with him several years ago on email, asking for sheet music for his lovely composition that I heard on public radio. He replied that he hadn’t written it down – yet. Where is the email? Where are his words? Can I find a recording on YouTube?
I’m tired. It’s 10:10. A steady time, balanced. A good time to return Lena, Gary, and Hiram to the Eventual Perusal pile. Goodnight Lena. Goodnight Gary. Goodnight Hiram. Your yet has flown but your music lives on in my memory. Bon voyage.
Musical Moment (not the piece I seek, unfortunately)
During the ’90s I made several trips to Phoenix. I can’t recommend this city to anyone with a propensity for lung disease. To land at the airport, one must fly through a smog pancake. Oxygen mask, indeed.
Jess, Stace, Adam, Anne – ancient history
Jess and I braved reactive airway disease to see our dear college friend, Stace, on a visit that stands out in my mind for three reasons.
One: We took a teensy plane over to Disneyland. I felt sick – like bodyfever sick. In retrospect I blame the bad air, magnified by sharing oxygen with two flightfuls of cesspoolish germ-mongers. The s$#t literally hit the fan when I walked through the gate at Disney and a bird emptied the contents of its alimentary canal onto my face. My poor friends tried valiantly to stifle their giggles. I took to bed and stayed there for 24 hours.
Two: We visited the Grand Fog Pit. Most people know it as the Grand Canyon.
Three: Jess introduced me to Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander and permanently altered my life.
I won’t rhapsodize further about my undying devotion to this series and its author. Been there, done that. I simply want to thank Gabaldon for connecting me with approximately 2.5 million kindred spirits. Partial world harmony brought about by a set of historical novels. And we’ve all been waiting, some for a year or two, others (moi) for over two decades. For what, you say?
FOR CLAIRE AND JAMIE TO GET MARRIED ALREADY!!!!! Visually, you know. I’ve imagined their wedding, painted images in my mind with Gabaldon’s words. I fantasized about whom I would cast as Jamie (Alex O’Loughlin or Chris Hemsworth. Sam Heughan got the part – now there’s a man whose behind I can get behind.) The casting of Claire mattered less to me, even though Outlander is her story. Any strong-willed, curly-headed, incredibly intelligent, stubborn, deft, clever, passionate lass would do.
Let me now profess my abiding love for producer Ron Moore, the dude who was like “18th century Scotland? Time travel? Complicated love? Sadism and rape? Sixteen episodes per book? I’m in!” And a Starz Outlander series is born.
I attended Jamie and Claire’s wedding Saturday evening with four friends: one old, one newer, two new. Outlanderlove brought us together. Outlanderlove will bring us back every other week into perpetuity. Thank you, Diana Gabaldon, for the words that bind our hearts together in friendship.
In me weddin’ finery.
A wee shower gift for Claire – I suggested she put it on IMMEDIATELY.
Cranachan for the wedding feast. Whiskey+berries+whiskey+cream+whiskey.
Used my Gram’s linen napkins, sterling, and English (don’t tell) Spode.
The wedding guests.
*sigh* (No of course I don’t own this image. I photographed a Starz television show because I’m only slightly obsessed.)
Molly actually swooned just before the wedding. “James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser” took her right out.
(see above disclaimer regarding ownership)
I love the idea of eating off the land. Romantic self sufficiency. “Putting up” fresh produce by canning and freezing. But canning, really. You never know when the power will go out. Solar panels would take care of it. Yeah, solar panels all over the garage and house. We could go off the grid entirely!
Ace read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle several years ago. He became inspired. We dabbled in vegetables, ripped out non-edible shrubs, and even planted peanuts. I cocked my head, deep in thought. Hm, thought I. Kingsolver strives to lead an exemplary locavore life in Southern Appalachia.
Folks, I’m here to tell you that she lives in zone 6b. In practical terms, this means her growing season is about 2.5 months longer than mine. During her excess growing season, Ms. Kingsolver can plant and harvest an entire crop of Ace 55 tomatoes. (Yes, that is an actual variety.) Meanwhile, I can continue to wear polar fleece socks to bed and run my extremities under hot water before holding hands with my husband.
Once I put the whole situation in perspective, I felt fully justified in defining “local” food as originating from the continental US – at least during the desolation of November, December, January, February, March, April, and May. Oh, and the latter half of October.
Imagine my glee when I spotted shrubbery positively laden with plump violet berries. And not in my own yard. I inquired with the business owner: “Excuse me – do you know the identity of the berries out front there?” Remarkably, he knew! A child had eaten copious quantities the prior summer without the parent’s knowledge, prompting a call to the landlord. Chokeberries. Entirely benign.
“Really?” I said. “They make a gorgeous jelly!” Not that I had ever made jelly. That’s my dad’s realm. The business owner invited me to harvest ad lib.
The Big E and I picked an enormous basketful which I turned into 1.5 gallons of juice. The internet initially misled me. I became convinced that chokeberries are equivalent to chokecherries. The aren’t. The seeds of chokecherries turn into literal cyanide inside the guts of people. Nice. Don’t eat the seeds.
I decided to make chokeberry syrup. For pancakes. Because the last time I made pancakes was like four years ago. I started with a University of MN recipe for chokecherry syrup. Four cups of sugar sounded like two too many, so I substituted a couple cups of Trader Joe’s organic apple juice. Didn’t have 1/2 cup lemon juice. Used the juice from two limes instead. The recipe calls for “1/2 package powdered pectin.” Okey dokey.
I learned the hard way that pectin is like cornstarch. Dissolve it in a bit of liquid first, then dump into the big vat. It wouldn’t stir. It didn’t wisk. I resorted to the hand blender with tolerable results.
Since I don’t know how to can and take an exceedingly dim view of botulism, I refrigerated the aubergine sludge in two vintage green Ball Perfect Mason jars.
My “syrup” turned to jelly. And mighty tasty, too. If you stop by in the next week you can try it.
Bring a baguette.
Dear man at the corner with the cardboard sign:
You make me uncomfortable. Let me rephrase that. I feel uncomfortable when I pull up next to you in my relatively new Subaru Outback as I drive to our well-appointed home or to the coop where I purchase organic produce and lovingly-slaughtered animal flesh. I know that you need something. You say you’re a vet or that you lost your wife and son or you simply proclaim “Anything helps. God bless.”
As I rationalize turning my head away from you with a half-smile, a grimace really, I come up with all kinds of tales. You just want money for cigarettes or booze. You aren’t really a vet. I could ask where you served, for how long, in which capacity. So when did your wife die? Was it cancer? A car accident? Did you kill her?
Am I trying to guarantee the quality of your character before sinking a dollar into your cause? Tell me this please: Why are you(*) at nearly every freeway exit these days? When I was in gradeschool, my mom and I drove past a woman standing with her children at a street corner. “Hungry. Anything helps.” Mom was so distressed that we rushed home, packed a grocery bag full, and returned to deliver the food. My mom could now spend her entire life going corner to corner.
I discussed this issue with a friend who said she’d heard that many of the people on street corners are employed/manipulated/exploited by some shady mafia-like angency. I said gee, that sounds like salve for our nouveau bourgeois hippie conscience. Would you be there asking for “anything helps, God bless” if you could perceive any other workable option?
I came to a conclusion. I won’t give you money. I can’t stand the idea of contributing to addiction. Trader Joe’s sells a box of twelve granola bars for $1.98. I gave away the first box a few days back with a note taped to it about the Dignity Center. You took the box and said, “Bless you.” I said, “Have a nice day.” without registering the inanity of those words.
The second box is gone, too. Another version of you stopped me at the Farmer’s Market, said you have a $49 copay on your prescriptions. I told you about the Dignity Center, how you can get medical, legal, and housing assistance. (Watch the carbs in those granola bars.)
My gift to you is pitifully small, one drop of water on a five-alarm fire. But I’ll continue to give it freely. You have a need. I have a granola bar. And a potential first step toward a different future.
Bless you, too.
Anne
* Yes, I know “you” are not a homogeneous group. Hang in there with me anyhow.
You might think it’s been a quiet weekend at the in-laws’ cabin. A loon cries across the lake. September-green leaves whisper high in the treetops. No planes, no cars, no cell phones, no motorboats. Just the whir of the faithful 1950s Coronado fridge.
Open the freezer compartment by removing a chunk of styrofoam and you’ll find evidence of our excitement, frozen to a comfortable 28 degrees, patiently awaiting the artistry of Royce the Taxidermist.
The Big E and I drove up separate from Ace, two cars to better accommodate the massive rolltop oak desk we intended to dismantle and transport back to the Cities. I reminded The Big E to warn me early of impending bladder disgorgement. He did. We stopped in St. Michael, two miles off I94, at the rural equivalent of a 7Eleven. Giddy from surviving the parking-lot speeds of our trip thus far, I allowed myself to be conned into purchasing Cheetos (MSG + petroleum byproducts), peanut M&Ms, popcorn, and a Dove “dark chocolate” bar.
We snacked. He whined about the short story CD I thought he’d love. I drove.
Our second pit stop found us smack in the middle of an impromptu doggie festival. We met a lovely two-month corgie-husky mix, with one blue eye and one brown. “We call her Blue,” they said. Sasha, a Chihuahua-Yorkie mutt, joined us for a scritchy scratchy lovefest. We snuggled a blind poodle and silently judged the owner of two labs and a flatcoat retriever when he ignored his dogs’ excrement.
About thirty miles from our destination, all heck broke loose with my dashboard lights. Cruise and Brake began blinking just for kicks. Check Engine and Slippery Road Conditions stayed on, harbingers of imminent coincidental danger.
The Big E rang up Ace on the cell. “Don’t stop in Brandon!” he said. “There’s nothing there.” Convinced that my engine was about to erupt through the metal of the hood in an explosion rivaling any Fourth of July show, I clutched the wheel, eyes wide, pupils dilated, scanning. Who’s behind. Who’s beside. How big is the shoulder.
Ace pointed out (to The Big E) the extremely low probability of four simultaneous issues. As a former Volvo owner, I’m well familiar with electrical problems and suggested that my former electrical problems may have followed me into a Subaru.
I stopped in Evansville at Len’s gas station. Though he departed our home an hour later, Ace was by that time five minutes behind us. Len guided me to Evansville Automotive. “They have one of them computer diagnostic things,” he drawled. At least he drawls in my memory.
The gentlemen at Evansville Automotive did indeed have a computer diagnostic thing. They did not, however, have the program for a 2010 Subaru Outback. Being practical menfolk, they turned the key to observe the lightshow for themselves before concluding that I likely had myself a faulty wheel sensor. I gasped and asked if “we” should check the tire pressure. “Oh no,” they said, “it has nothing to do with tire pressure.” “So it’s safe to drive back to Saint Paul?” I asked. “Yep.” “Can I give you some money?” “Nah.” Welcome to Evansville.
One guy gave The Big E a tour of his son’s demolition derby car. “You put the gastank in the backseat. See it here under this sheet metal? And the battery’s up on the floor there.” He fired it up, literally, flipped the ignition switch and flames shot out of the two exhaust pipes that rose like twin silos from the hood. 
The man took us over to a gorgeous baby blue station wagon. “We’re gonna turn that one into an ice car.” “A what?” “It’s like demo on ice, you know, you got the snow for bumpers.”
Ace led the way as we got back on the interstate. He wanted to stop and look at a vintage Airstream with genuine Airstream trailer attached that he’d seen on the last trip up. The Big E and I pulled over after Ace and ogled the enormous Airstream-Airstream spectacle.
I got real close, took a picture of the For Sale sign, and the mangiest stinkiest creature trotted out from around the bumper. He appeared to be a Saint Bernard, all droopy-cute eyelids and slobbery tongue. We scouted out the surrounding buildings, searching for an owner. I became increasingly concerned for the dog’s wellbeing when he lapped water from a murky puddle. I’d have to give him a bath before taking him home to St. Paul. He’d do fine with Chester but would he eat Rafa?
We finally knocked on a neighbor’s door. “Is this your dog?” “No, he lives at the business over there.” “Do they take care of him?” “Well, he’s kind of on his own a lot but they do feed him.” We reluctantly left him to his life of presumed neglect.
Ace took off down the increasingly windey road. I followed at a safe three-second-rule distance. Ace swerved to avoid something and that’s when I spotted her, belly up just on our side of the midline, her four little paws churning the air. “E, call your father and tell him I’m stopping.” Ace had passed the animal with me in hot pursuit and knew it was trouble. He told me he’d wait at the Shell station up the road; his parents wanted to meet us there to give him a key.
I couldn’t stand the thought of the poor creature suffering alone, waiting to die in the middle of the two-lane highway. I circled around and pulled over on the shoulder, weighing risks in my mind. I left The Big E strapped in his booster seat and handed him the pre-dialed phone before turning on the hazards and cautiously exiting my vehicle.
I watched two other cars swerve to avoid the furry mass. With a clear coast, I leapt to the middle of the road, made a quick assessment (dead), and grabbed the warm body with my gloved hands.
I always carry plastic bags in my car.
Not ten seconds after I deposited the groundhog in my trunk, a pickup truck slowly pulled up. I waved and flashed a just-out-collecting-roadkill smile. A ten-year-old boy sat, unbelted, in the passenger seat. He leaned out the window, unsmiling. I could almost hear his brain’s cool appraisal of me in my tie-dyed shirt and wild hair: “City folks.”
His dad peered around. “You got trouble?” I blathered something about a poor groundhog waving her little paws in the air, but now she’s dead, so everything’s fine, but thanks for stopping. They left.
We finally arrived at the cabin. I gently poured cool water over the groundhog’s adorable head, cleaning her ears of the blood. Then I double-bagged her and popped her into the freezer compartment. Her name is Charlotte.
Royce, you haven’t seen the last of me yet.
Sunday night. I just consumed cherries, a Tosca pear, orange sweet pepper, raspberries, and eight ounces of Citrucel in my after-the-fair cleansing ritual. Begone mini donuts! Get thee away deep-deep-deep-fried perch!
Still giddy from my Friday Fair success (I went home with the correct number of children – 2 – one mine and one borrowed.), I returned to the fairgrounds today for round two. We escaped before the heat index became unbearable. The Big E and I took to bed and I now find myself sufficiently refreshed to write The Top Ten Reasons I Love the MN State Fair.
In other words, petroleum products.
10) Free pass on questionable parenting decisions. Comes with the entrance ticket. You can feed your kid whatever awful food you like and no one will judge you. Foot long corn dogs. Deep-fried butter. Funnel cake. 
Anything goes. I even let my son and borrowed daughter play with pretend firearms at the BONANZA Old West shooting gallery.
9) Speaking of Food. You can devote the entire duration of your visit to food. Thinking about food. Searching for food. Coveting food. Eating food. Critiquing food. Observing food over its life cycle (conveniently-located restrooms litter the grounds). You can even purchase and consume alcohol early Sunday morning! 
Dead cookie.
No, it’s not octopus poop. It’s Funnel Cake After the Rain.
Foods consumed during the fair are exempt from medical censure. And anything you can think of is available in a deep-fried format. 
Better yet, try your favorite foods…
Smoked Salmon on a Stick with lingonberry jam. AWESOME.
8) On a Stick. I don’t know if this on-a-stick fascination is peculiar to Minnesota or if it generalizes to all fairs. Some foods lend themselves to sticks: dill pickles (“pickle dogs”), deep-fried buckeyes. Others do not: steak for small children. Lacking a knife, I ripped the cow into bite-sized chunks with my fingers and handy opposable thumbs. Borrowed Daughter’s loose tooth thanked me.
7) The State Fair gives me ample opportunity to enjoy my earthbound state. I watch the Human Slingshot hurl people seven stories up and shudder. Thank you sweet baby Buddha for gravity. With names like Stinger, Viper, Zipper, and Kamikaze, the Fair rides hold absolutely zero allure. More money for food-on-a-stick!
6) People. According to the Star Tribune, 178,498 folks attended the Fair on Saturday August 23. Ironically, about 180,000 people die each year from consumption of sugary drinks. But back to living people. The Fair provides a lovely smorgasbord of people. As usual, I noticed a large number of pregnant women. (We used to send expectant mother to the State Fair to induce labor.) I was in the distinct minority with my lack of tattoos.
The Best Hair of the Fair award goes to this anonymous couple (photo taken without permission).
5) Crop Art. Lillian Colton, the Goddess of Crop Art, passed away in 2007. I’m certain that her residual spirit energy is coalescing into a grin at this year’s entries.
4) The Creative Activities Building – or What Minnesotans Did Last Winter.
Leather Lincoln hat
Gorgeous fused glass platter
Woolies with penis protector
3) The Fair allowed me to continue my love affair with all things Outlander.
2.5) Animals. Doggies, bunnies, horses, muskelunge.
2) The Fair helps restore my faith in humanity. From the wholesome teenagers hanging out at the Midway discussing where they go to school to crowds cheering for a newborn lamb at the Miracle of Birth Center. I’m continually impressed with the lack of crabbiness as thousands of people mill and swarm over the 360 acres.
The Gadget Guy – A MN State Fair institution!
Butter princess sculptures
Jello Salad Ice Cream is ONE ITEM
1) And the number one reason I love the State Fair is that it allows us to celebrate what makes Minnesota unique –
celebrate in an understated, self-deprecating manner, of course.
Last week I completed my 45th year on earth. I feel like I’ve hit true mid-life, though statistically speaking I suppose I could be well past.
My mom sustained a spinal cord injury in the 1950s that left her with legs that can walk but not run. Her doctor had no idea what might happen if she tried to get pregnant. Well, she got married, got pregnant, and gained the (at the time) recommended exactly 15 pounds over the next nine months. The doctor suggested a planned c-section. Since he was taking off on vacation (probably martinis and golf) on my mom’s due date, the doc said Gee, what birthday do you want? My parents thought Gosh, wouldn’t it be fun if the baby shared a birthday with her/his grampa?
So, two weeks ahead of the due date (now considered “early term”), I emerged into the world totally gorked on general anesthetic. Ten days later, my parents laid me in a box on the floor of the back seat of their ’65 candy apple red mustang hardtop. Homeward bound.
One of my favorite activities as a pre-walking toddler was to take my mom’s straight pins and line them up in pretty patterns along the arms of a red upholstered chair.
From kindergarten through third grade, I walked a mile each way to school. Judge, a pony-sized black Great Dane, chaperoned the handful of young kids down our one-block street. My imagination wishes he accompanied us all the way to school and perhaps stayed to attend to any disciplinary issues that cropped up in the course of the day. As it was, Mr. Neegard, our assistant principal, managed discipline issues with help from an aerodynamic holey paddle.
I walked home alone one snowy winter day. I might’ve been six. D.E., who appeared to be on the tattoo (ink & needle variety)/motorcycle/impregnation track, stalked me and shoved my face in a snowbank for no particular reason.
Kids on our block knew to cross the street at the very crest of the hill, so cars could at least see you before they hit you. We rollerskated up and mostly down either side of the hill, helmetless, collapsing in a flail of limbs in whomever’s grass was free of poop. If we didn’t feel like rollerskating, we biked up and mostly down either side of the hill, helmetless, zipping across blind driveways.
Eric and Chad’s backyard boasted a chin-up bar, the horizontal aspect maybe six feet off the ground. We’d hang by our knees, swinging back and forth, back and forth over the asphalt driveway below before cooling off in their wading pool, in good company with the squiggly mosquito larvae.
The playground at school featured a series of sawed-off telephone posts, creosote dripping down in artistic lines. We would leap from post to post, leaping because the adult who had decided it would be cool to walk from post to post had a much longer stride than a child. When the bell rang to signal the end of recess – I believe that bell was our only proxy for an adult presence – when the bell rang, I jumped from the tire swing at the very zenith of its arc. And landed exactly on a sawed-off telephone post.
I remember briefly regaining consciousness in the arms of an enormous man dressed all in white who reeked of paint.
The school called my mother. Your child got knocked out on the playground. (Which, I suppose, is better than knocked up on the playground.) You might want to take her to the doctor. And my mother, my five-foot-two, 110-pound mother, carried me to her car and drove to Fairview Southdale emergency room where I was admitted with a severe concussion and two lacerations a half-inch above my left carotid artery.
The kids at church teased me about the white bandage “shaving cream” on my chin, the bandage that covered fifteen stitches.
Why am I dragging you along on my trip down memory lane? I’m dragging you on behalf of the mother who was arrested after allowing her 7-year-old to walk to a nearby park. (Her bail was close to $4000 – and don’t even get me started on the equity issues around being able/not able to buy yourself out of jail.) Or the mother who swore (once) in a grocery store when her family, including her husband, insisted on squeezing the bread after she reminded them not to. She found herself arrested for disorderly conduct. Or the mother (I’m seeing a trend here…) arrested for leaving her kids at a park while she waited in line at a food shelf.
We have at least two potential routes of action:
1) Demand Equal Criminalization: Arrest the father-of-two whom I spotted wearing a t-shirt that read “Because Badass Mother F**ker is not an official job title.” Didn’t anyone tell him not to start a sentence with “Because”? Retroactively sue my elementary school (now condominiums) for moving me without stabilizing my cervical spine, failing to call an ambulance, and making my teeny tiny mother carry me out to her car. Hell, golly, you could arrest my husband, father, brother-in-law, father-in-law, and contractor for swearing in front of my child. Ooh! How about arresting everyone who smokes around a child!
2) The other route involves widespread policy change to support families including equitable access to family planning information and technology, healthcare, education, childcare, housing, nutrition, etc.
The second option seems so daunting and socialist. Much more fun to fill up our jails.
What did your parents do that would get them arrested now?
