Thursday, July 26, 2018

The First Last

Milestones.  It's hard to escape them anymore; not sure if it's 'cause we love to celebrate so much or we are just that starved for attention, but every time you turn around someone has reached a magical moment that needs to be recognized.  "Congrats on your 200th day of not falling down the stairs!"  "You've just notched your 50th speeding ticket!"  "Was that the 75th cheeseburger you've eaten this month?  Party time!"  The "big moments" in life are accumulating so rapidly......well, if they're all special, can any one of them really be big?

Luckily we still have a few age-old milestones that hold nearly as much significance as they always have.  Graduating from high school comes to my mind because it hardly ever leaves my mind anymore, as eldest offspring soon begins her senior year.  With that senior year come many, many lasts....and tonight we observed the first one: the last night of summer league volleyball.

I won't rehash or link you to any of the numerous posts I've written here about my family's life as volleyballers.  If you've read my ramblings long enough you know that the sport pretty much dominates our lives nearly all year long.  Three years ago Daughter One was given an unexpected opportunity to play in a summer tournament; she performed well enough to be extended an invite to play in a weekly league the rest of that summer, and has continued to do so the following two summers.  And tonight, that part of her career, that part of her youth, came to an end.  No tears, no cake, no hoopla....a mini-milestone in the grand scheme of things.  But it was the first of the lasts that are going to mount in frequency and emotion as the next ten months pass.  So we took some pictures and I congratulated the dad whose only daughter is also a senior (his summer league days are over, lucky bugger) and we called it a night.  No biggie.  But yet....

Time slips away and leaves us with nothing.  Daughter Two has three more years of summer ball and right on her heels will follow Daughter Three so I've got plenty of opportunities ahead of me to sit on bleachers in the summer.  And, truth be told, I've never been a weekly attendee at the games - I make it to most but don't lose a lot of sleep if I have to miss a week now and then.  Even now with Daughter One being done I'm not feeling any regret at missing those games.  But tonight was a bit of a jolt, this first last, knowing that the march towards her big last, graduation, has begun.  All the little pieces that make her who she is right now have begun to fall away - to be replaced by new ones in time, of course - taking the girl I love so much with them.  I must have missed the chapter in the parenting manual that explained how hard this is going to be.

I no longer believe that time moves too fast.  Time moves at exactly the right pace - it's we who move too fast.  We are in charge of how we handle time, how we savor its moments.  If you've got school aged kids or younger I'm not going to issue the standard cliches about their school years being over before you know it; I just don't think that's true.  Yes, the days will pile up and suddenly become months before jumping together as years, but they will only fly by if we let them.  Be present in the moments, meditate to memory the highlights, find ways to clear the schedules now and then, engage in conversations about the activities....and you'll find a peaceful (but still hectic) rhythm to a child's passage through your life.  The lasts are going to arrive one way or another - they can appear too fast with regrets attached or they can be seen and prepped for, and enjoyed upon arrival.  You're in charge of both options.

So with the first last in the books we look forward to the last first practice, the last first game, the last first day of school, the last parent night, and so on....and on and on and on.  It's gonna be a tough year for Dad but I am so hopeful her year is nothing but wonderful.  Since, as we all know, life after high school graduation is nothing more than a slow descent towards our own grave.  Again with the greeting card material!

Daughters One, on the right, and Two played their final summer league games together tonight, and walked away with victories in both.

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Buckets of Blue

Day One - Friday, July 13

The heat alone would have been punishing enough.  The added humidity gave an air of cruelty to the day.  Together the temperature and moisture created the kind of oppressive heat that squeezes sweat right out of the skin.  Sweat that sits and waits for a breeze to cooly whisk it away, but on this day there was little wind to speak of.  This was a day meant for lounging near the pool or lake, or sipping an icy beverage under a shade tree, or retreating into the comforts of the great air conditioned indoors.

But none of those places are suitable habitat for wild blueberries.  If it's mid-to-late July in northern Minnesota two things are likely: 1) The heat will be unbearable, and 2) The blueberries will be ripe.  Berries make their own schedule and will not hang out for long waiting to be harvested; when the bushes are mottled with blue it's time to be in the patch, regardless of conditions.  So on a day best spent anywhere but a sun-filled patch of forest, that's exactly where I was as I bent to grab a cluster of blue from near my ankles.

Gathering wild blueberries can be, in a word, agonizing.  Soaring heat indexes, savage deer flies, clouds of mosquitos, and rough terrain are all to be expected on most blueberry days.  Add in the physical strain required of picking fruit that's generally less than a foot off the ground - sore knees, aching hips, and a lower back that screams for mercy - and it's easy to figure out why a wild blueberry patch is, more often than not, a rather lonely place to be.  

A day that started with a chainsaw in my hands before the sun had even begun to melt away the morning's dew, followed by a few hours on a tractor turning the soil of food plots with a plow, now found me knee-deep in regrowth foliage an hour's drive from where I woke.  Neither my parents nor my daughters are fond of pursuing the wild blueberry; my parents spent too many years accompanying my berry-obsessed grandfather on his all day picking parades, and my daughters have heard too many of my parents' grumbling musings about those trips.  So alone I made my journey, and alone I picked my way through the outer edges of this recently logged section of land that filled many of my grandpa's buckets with blue.

A feller can't stop along an interstate highway to pick wild blueberries.  No, scenes like this....


...are reserved for those who are willing to veer off the beaten path.  Wild blueberries and pavement do not exist in harmony; anyone lucky enough to receive directions to a blueberry patch will be challenged to remember the exact "turn left, turn right" cadence of navigation.  A common rule handed down by berry pickers of old says "the worse the road, the better the berries".

I had driven northeast on Highway 71, across the Gemmell bog and past the ghost village of Margie to Hicks' Ridge, always my grandpa's first destination when he thought the wild blueberries might be starting to ripen, as it has become for me.  Yes, I've committed a cardinal sin of berry picking by naming the exact location of my patch....except I haven't.  The Ridge is a labyrinth of "roads" and trails twisting through a mixture of pine forests growing out of sandy soil and coniferous bogs standing atop layers of peat moss.  Finding Hicks' Ridge is easy enough (there's a State Forestry Department sign along the highway announcing the entrance to the road, for crying out loud) but finding the best berries......well, that's your job.

And it appeared nobody had attempted that job as I meandered past the gravel pits and into the first of the soaring stands of pine.  Recent rains had pebbled the sandy road with the tracks of water drops, and my tires were the first to disturb the plinkety pattern they had left behind.  Twice I had to cross mud holes (with my Honda Civic, mind you) that a day earlier would have been impassable, and not once was I stopped by blown-over trees I feared I'd find.  Now that I was comfortably settled into my patch - comfortable in a "sweating profusely with an already aching back" kind of way - I pushed away the thoughts of "too hot" and "gosh darn bugs" to instead focus on the complete isolation, the near silence, and the above average berry crop.

Adding to the physical strain of harvesting wild blueberries is the time it takes to gather a worthwhile amount.  Most wild berries are smaller than tame blueberries, so filling a pail takes a lot of berries, and a lot of time.  Bushes like this:


certainly help - note the size, the lack of green berries, and how exposed they are (not hidden beneath layers of leaves).  Too often bushes like this are the exception and not the norm, making the filling of a pail a slow, tedious, and painful process.  And for some reason the upper half of the bucket fills much more slowly than the bottom half...perhaps the blueberry gods enjoy cruel pranks.

Just over two hours after the first rattling plunks of berries danced across the bottom of my bucket I dropped in the final handful, topping off my first five quarts of the day.  Being a slow picker, two hours is my barometer for measuring how good the berry crop is.  I pick slow because I pick clean - I stop occasionally to throw out leaves, twigs, or green berries - and I tend to let myself get stuck on bushes or areas that aren't necessarily "bucket fillers".  Or I walk more than pick, always thinking "If this spot is good, the next spot will be better."  I had done all of the above as I filled the first bucket, yet still managed to do so very near my two hour goal.  With one bucket done and time enough for one more, I found a semi-shady spot in the pines for a rest and a delicious lunch of luke-warm water.  My back ached.  My clothes were soaked with sweat.  My patience for the ever-present buzz of deer flies had worn thin.  But here I was, accomplishing a task two years in the making, with nary a hint of another human within miles of me.  The breeze that was too light to be felt on the ground was strong enough in the treetops to provide a murmuring rush as it passed through the pine needles.  The heavy air, suffocating at times, provided one benefit - it pushed the scent of those needles downward, creating a natural pine aromatherapy no candle or diffuser could ever match.  

Though the wild blueberry has been coveted by humans for centuries, the stars must align just so for there to be a crop to harvest.  A heavy snow pack for insulation in winter and moisture in spring is the first step towards bountiful berries.  The timing of the last cold night of spring is crucial; too often a mid-to-late May frost will wipe out any hopes of July berries by burning up exposed blossoms.  Finally, periodic soaking rains in June and early July are necessary for helping small green berries become full and juicy orbs of blue.  Last year a late light frost and minimal June rains wiped away hopes for even a below average berry crop.  But this past winter provided plenty of snow, the final frost was in early May, and the rains have fallen beautifully all summer....the perfect storm for a blueberry lover.

The first half of the second bucket was filled in less than an hour.  I was finding more bucket filling bushes and that, along with my renewed energy after break time, had me on an above average pace with hopes of being done sooner than planned. (Even the most ardent berry pickers get worn down by heat and bugs!)  But too soon the bucket fillers became sparse and thoughts of bluer pastures pulled me beyond the outer edges of the area I knew had decent picking.  Wild raspberry and Juneberry bushes were plentiful, but my rambling (and stumbling) explorations did little to advance the mound of blueberries closer to the top of the bucket.  Moving back to my original area I resumed picking, but the sweat was pouring off me now, dripping into my glasses and eyes and causing many delays each time I had to stop and wipe away the salty blindness.  The deer flies, present all day, had recruited mosquitos to help with their quest to drive me insane...probably should have sprayed on a fresh layer of bug spray during break time.

Bugs!  The bane of berry pickers young and old and in-between.  Rare is the berry patch, regardless of variety, free from the buzzing, humming, biting, and stinging of summertime bugs.  Thick applications of insect repellant helps, skin covering clothing helps more.  But therein lies the conundrum of the wild berry picker - wear long pants and long sleeves to keep the bugs at bay but succumb to heat stroke, or dress cool and get eaten alive?  Most prefer to take their chances with the heat stroke, but even long clothes combined with repellant can't stop deer flies from thumping against one's head, or mosquitos from finding the exposed skin the spray couldn't.

Finally, nearly two-and-a-half hours after starting, my second bucket was heaped to its top.  Five hours of heat and bugs had taken their toll, the joy of being done equalling that which I felt at the beginning of my first bucket.  As I rolled along the single-lane sandy road toward the highway that would take me home, water bottle empty but air conditioning on full capacity, I tempered the aches and pains and exhaustion with the knowledge that I'd have ten quarts of berries in my freezer, not enough to last until next summer but enough to give my daughters and I some berry sauces and muffins and maybe even a pie or two.  I had driven out of Hicks' Ridge with two full buckets a few other times, but never more than two and sometimes only one.  A tough day of picking was, in the end, worth it.  To echo the words of my grandpa after one of our final berry trips together - I felt like I was going to die, but at least I got my berries.

Day Two - Monday, July 16

It was happening!  Opportunity had knocked in the midst of blueberry season, and for once I was able to fling open the door and charge through.  For years I've listened to my dad's brothers spin tales of berry picking so good that filling a bucket in an hour is considered average.  Now, finally, my schedule aligned with their schedules, and the peak of the berry season was upon us to boot!  At 7:00 a.m. my Northome uncle and aunt and I began a 70 mile drive to meet the Baudette uncle, who had been scouting various patches in the Lake of the Woods region and would guide us to the spots he felt looked best.

Again I travelled north, straight north this time, and again my route crossed miles and miles of desolate bog.  If the Gemmell bog I traversed on Friday was lonely, the bogland north of Red Lake is completely friendless.  Both places are nice reminders that the planet still has plenty of undisturbed wild places left, but both places are undisturbed for a reason.  Deep, water-filled ditches line both sides of Highway 72 on its straight path towards Canada, ditches that appear as moats to keep intruders from the lands beyond.  As though anyone would intrude on these floating masses of moss, these lands fit for mosquitos and little else.

Bog crossed, uncle met, we headed west out of Baudette towards the patch deemed best due to less pickers and bigger berries.  The 70 miles to the meeting place now became another 30 to the picking place, and each time we transitioned from one road to the next the new road became less of a road.  Eventually roads gave way to grassy paths through the woods, the last few thousand yards unmarked by any vehicle prior to ours.  If the word "boonies" needed a photo, this was the area to shoot.

Some spots need to remain secret.  On a good berry year even an average patch will hold plenty of blueberries for any pickers eager to fill some pails.  But a below average year for berries will require an above average location if a picker has any hopes of putting blueberries in the freezer.  Wild blueberry pickers are a rare breed, but high quality blueberry patches are rarer still.  There are pieces of information in the world that should always be kept hidden - social security numbers, productive fishing holes, favorite cookie recipes - and wild blueberry patches top the list.

The stories I'd heard were true.  As we drove I began seeing blotches of blue along the path, and by the time we stopped I was so excited I thought I was going to wet myself.  It was hard to walk without stepping on berries, but easy to walk from spot to spot.  The lay of the land was flat with little to no undergrowth obscuring the berry bushes, many of which were loaded with clusters of blue.  My first bucket was full in 90 minutes, but before I could celebrate the speed at which I was picking I stumbled into an even better area.  In the midst of mature pines and adolescent spruces lay an open glade smaller than my house, nearly every inch of it covered with bucket filling bushes.  Large, bursting berries hung in clumps of six or more, each bush draped with six or more clumps.  I crawled from one side of the glade to the other, criss-crossing back and forth dropping handful after handful of blue into my pail.  In less than an hour my pail was full and still there were more berries to be picked.  When I had completed my passes across this blueberry utopia I had filled half of another bucket, and had most assuredly picked the best patch I would ever find.

Until we found a better one.  At this first stop I had filled three pails in far less time it took to fill two on Friday.  After the third we gathered at the car to rest and eat and share stories of past trips - my companions agreed that this was the best picking they'd had in this area, but not as good as two years prior in a different patch an hour west.  Enjoying the break we decided to drive a while and explore, maybe find another patch that could give us each another bucket of blue.  Remember, prior to this trip I had never picked more than two pails of berries in a single year....and already on this day I had picked......


Regardless of the patch, chasing the wild blueberry is a solitary pastime.  Whether picking alone or with others, rare is the sound of human disturbance.  The symphony provided by the berry patch includes the murmur of pine needles, the whistle of the chickadee, the buzzing of flies, and the scattered calls of various bird species.  The lonesome picker tends to have a patch to himself; even groups of pickers will scatter in search of their own best area, ultimately leading to the sensation of being alone in the wilderness.  Perhaps this is the lure of the berry patch for some, the deterrent for others.

We followed the grassy trails back out to the main dirt road and drove deeper into the wilderness, passing promising areas but nothing that caused our driver to lock up the brakes in amazement.  We stopped once and picked a bit in a spot that had nice berries right at the edge of the road, though nothing about the picking enthused us much, so before long we were driving again.  More woods, more twists and turns, more scattered bushes of berries.  And then we found it.  To our right, the side of the car my aunt and I were on, were thick clusters of bushes hanging with blue.  "Stop!" came from our mouths at the same time, but before we could pluck more than a few handfuls of berries my uncles, who exited the car opposite us, excitedly called us to their side of the road.  And there, laid out on a carpet of moss under a stand of black spruce, was a sea of blue my uncles would later say was the best patch they had ever seen.  Huge clusters of huge berries hung from bushes in all directions.  In less than 45 minutes my pail was full, and I'd have easily filled another had time allowed.  But Baudette uncle had an evening meeting, and Northome uncle's hips were begging for rest, so with one more full bucket each (and another half for me) we loaded up and admired our day's harvest:


Nature's only rule states that she will follow no rules.  Thus, expecting perfection from Nature overwhelmingly leads to disappointment.  Bright sunny days can have too much wind; a needed rain comes down too hard.  Fresh snow looks pretty as it falls but piles up too high for skiing or not high enough for sledding.  With so many variables at play - some dependent on others, others dependent on nothing - it can seem nearly impossible for an outdoor experience to elevate itself to a perfect status.  When...if an outdoor event plays out as positively as possible, savor every breath of it and hold it in memory for the remainder of days.

On the drive south I less than half-jokingly called this the best day of my life.  Certainly, without question, without even a hint of compare it was the best berry picking day of my life.  You've heard about the berries - what I didn't mention yet is the weather, which was stunningly perfect.  A mix of sun and clouds, temps that were warm but not hot, a northwesterly breeze that was cool but not cold.  The bugs that had been relentless during my picking on Friday were mostly non-existent on this day, whether because of the wind or the temps was unclear....but who cares?  No bugs!  I got to spend a day with family I see far less than I should while also having plenty of alone time while we all picked our own patches.  The utter exhaustion that consumed me following Friday's picking was absent on this day, replaced by a giddy enthusiasm that comes from having lived the rare day that far surpassed expectations.

Nearly 30 quarts of berries traveled with me to my home.  The last few muffins sit on the counter next to the last few pieces of uneaten pie, with another whole pie hidden in the freezer alongside the two dozen quart bags of berries I was able to freeze.  Never have I gathered as many wild blueberries as I did this year, and perhaps never again will I experience a day like last Monday.  The stains of blue are washed from my jeans, the bug spray washed out of my shirt, and the aches and pains of two full days of bending and kneeling and crawling are mostly gone.  But the memories of that berry picking weekend?  Those stay with me, with the hopes of someday recounting its tales to a new generation of pickers as we scour the great north woods searching for buckets of blue.


Wednesday, July 11, 2018

#The100thDay

Relax - the venting, slightly deranged version of me who took over this blog the last three days is gone.  The serene, stoic version of me is back.  For one last time......

Ninety-nine days ago I wrote this post (which I have since renamed) to begin my journey through #The100DayProject.  And now the journey ends.  For once I don't feel as though references to "time flies" are necessarily applicable; these 100 days haven't flown by, nor have they seemed to drag.  As I look across the nearly four months I've been blogging every day I see a steady pace to the days.  So I wonder - did the daily writing help me observe and soak in each day?  As I took time each day to search for topics and think through daily events did I become more aware of life and all it has to offer?

These 100 days have delivered a rich variety of experiences for me.....and again, had I not been forcing myself to write on each of them I surely would be less aware of all I've seen and done since early April.   I've written in the middle of a blizzard and on beautiful spring days and during heat waves.  You've read about fishing on ice, fishing from a canoe, and fishing from a boat.  Spring volleyball season ended, summer volleyball started, and track season came and went.  My family traveled across several states.  I got a phone!  I harvested mushrooms in May, strawberries in June.  I wrote my most-viewed post ever, and punched out quite a few that hardly anyone read.  And in the midst of it all I created a post I feel is the best writing I've ever done.

Some days the writing flowed, some days the words just wouldn't come, and some days I so badly didn't want to write I wished I'd never started the #Project.  Most days, thankfully, the act of sitting to write for this blog was a habit, a natural piece of my day.  When I began I intended to include an obscure new piece of vocabulary in my writing - that plan lasted about twenty days.  Kind of thought about finding a new word to use in this entry....that plan lasted about twenty seconds.

So what's the plan for the future of this blog, these posts?  Not sure.  I've been pondering #Day101 for quite a while.  I won't be posting every single day anymore, but I hate to let the habit of daily writing die.....I want to, need to, maintain this feeling of life moving at a pleasant pace.  I'm not sure what this blog should be - I've never liked the Natural Education title, and like it less all the time since I rarely write about education.  A successful blog is supposed to follow a topic or general area of interest, and I'm all over the place with my topics.  These 100 posts became more like an online journal or diary, and I don't know that I want to continue that trend.  I have non-blog writing I want to do which can keep my writing habit intact, but there aren't enough hours in my day to write here and there and everywhere (I'm a really slow writer).  So the satisfaction of reaching a goal that lasted 100 days is mixed with much conflict about what comes next in this little interweb space of mine.

#The100DayProject has ended.  Writing to this blog every day has also ended, though new posts will continue to appear when time and material are aplenty.  I make no promises on how often that will happen.  A big thank you to those readers who have taken this journey with me....I hope you'll continue to check in from time to time.

Done.

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Simply the Worst

No fancy introduction today.  I hate politics and politicians.  Local level politicians are excused from my venom because I do believe they join the fracas with real intentions of making a community or county or school district better.  But state and federal level politics and their players are equivalent to the stuff I dig out of my toe nails each year - dirty, slimy, useless, and foul smelling.  I hate them all.

Give me a reason why I should feel anything but detest towards the way our political system works right now.  Or doesn't work, as is generally the case.  Yesterday I wrote about taxes and why we should, at times, be thankful for the benefits our tax dollars bring us.  Taxes are an extension, a tool, of the political landscape in that they are collected and wielded by politicians.  If taxes are ok, does it not follow that those who are in charge of taxes are also ok?  No.  No, it most certainly does not.  Where to begin with the reasons why........

How about the horrifyingly ineffective way our two party system operates?  Republican politicians, Democrat politicians....I don't care which party you represent, you're all awful.  The stubborn refusal to work with each other, the blame games, the hypocrisy.....you're all in it together, you're all responsible for the mess our country is in, and you're all awful.  Civil discourse over issues has given way to a "my way is best" stubbornness.  Problem solving is a thing of the past, replaced by finger pointing.  Progress made by one party is swiftly undone as soon as the other party gets enough seats at the table....revenge-minded politics rather than progressive politics.  I am absolutely not being facetious when I propose we could send a few hundred Kindergarten students to any state capital, or most certainly Washington, D.C., and get the same behavior and long-term results we get now from those in "power".

Republicans, shame on you for killing our planet with your small-minded and short-sighted. environmental policies.  Shame on you for pandering to your rich friends and burdening my children with a boneheaded tax reform.  Shame on you for allowing a moron to represent your party in the Oval Office.  Shame on you for always looking backwards with your approach to leadership.  You disgust me.

You bleeding-heart Democrats better not get too comfy, 'cause I've got some bones to pick with you, too.  Shame on you for losing the Presidency to an idiot.  Shame on you for pandering to the poor and downtrodden, for no other reason than to earn their votes, by enabling a never-ending poverty cycle with your policies of hand outs and free rides.  Shame on you for discriminating against me, a white male, by making me appear to be and feel like the enemy to your voters.  Shame on you for destroying everyone's freedoms by trying to regulate everyone's rights.  You disgust me.

Despite their wildly different and unproductive beliefs, both parties are equally adept at selling their souls to the highest bidder.  The influence of lobbyists and their money has destroyed any chance regular folks like me have of a) ever becoming a part of the solution to our problematic politics, or b) reaping the rewards of a fair and just government.  What chance do you or I have of ever reaching meaningful levels of political influence without the deep pockets of a lobbying special interest group paying our way?  Likewise, what chance do we have of our elected officials ever truly putting our needs first when all we can dangle is one little vote compared to millions of dollars in bribes?  Money has long been proclaimed the root of all evil, and its roots run deep in our political landscape.  The days of any child growing up to become the president are long gone - that's a rich child's dream now.  Our government has become of the rich, by the rich, and for the rich, regardless of party.  Sorry Abe.

Anyone else get sick of seeing a picture of Washington politicians and seeing nothing but old men?  Old white men, to be specific.  Old, rich, white men to be perfectly specific.  Oh, wait, thought of one more descriptor:  Old, rich, out of touch, white men.  There's a sprinkling of color and some women, but by and large when a politician steps into the spotlight you'll see saggy white skin.  That's extremely troubling to me, that our future is decided by those who won't see it.  That a country built on the premise of inclusion is led without it.  Term limits would help solve this, of course.....but good luck finding a politician who would volunteer to lead legislation intended to limit their own power.  I know, some Congressional members have tried.  And failed.  And always will.

I'm just getting warmed up.  I hate the lies spewed forth without hesitation, beginning on the campaign trail and continuing right on through until the end of a term.  I despise the political media with their slants and sensationalism.  The wastefulness and inefficiency of the entire government system and those who are a part of it boil my blood.  But I also hate, hate, hate pointing out problems without offering up solutions, so now I will become more helpful than hateful.

Obviously the best way to change the political landscape is by voting, the only (legal) weapon we have.  I just saw a blurb about a recent vote....a primary vote, maybe?.....in California that had a 60% increase in voter turnout!!!!  Wow!!!  But here's the thing:  That 60% increase led to an overall turnout of 37.something% of all eligible voters.  C'mon people - VOTE!!!  Just look through the windows of the White House to find out what happens when intelligent people don't vote!  And when you go to intelligently cast your vote, vote to cast out the incumbents.  Stop voting party lines and start voting progressively.  If the weasels in power won't limit their terms, we voters must start doing it for them.  I don't care how effective you think your representative is, he/she needs to go before the evils written about here set in.  And they will set in, whether it's party blindness or lobbying influence or old age - vote them out before it's too late!

Stop supporting political parties.  I'm so sick of being told that voting for an independent party is a wasted vote.  I've got news for the small minds who tell me that - voting along party lines wastes multiple votes all at once.  It's voting for a belief and not a person, a mindset and not a vision.  And look where it's gotten us.  Also, stop supporting political parties with your hard-earned dollars.  My parents, who have never had discretionary dollars in their lives, still send money to the political party of their liking.  That's my inheritance!!!!  Going to support hypocritical liars who already have more money than most of us can dream of having.  Aaarrrgggghhh!!!  No more handouts to the rich.  They certainly aren't going to return the favor.

Turn off the political news.  We all know the major networks slant left while FOXNews slants towards insanity.  Stop listening to them.  Start finding independent news sources.  Read comments from multiple intellectual sources on social media and look for trends.  Or watch the news, but then discuss what you've heard with others, preferably others with slightly different views than yours.  Remember, the media's primary job is to make money....they will parade out the idea they are doing you a service, but it's only a service if they're doing it for free.  They will show you what will get you to watch, and what will get you watching is the stuff you want to hear.  Beware the mainstream media.

Finally, support third parties.  If you really want to give your money away send it to me....and if you won't send it to me then send it to support third parties.  Give them your vote.  Display their banners and yard signs.  Boo and hiss whenever someone claims to be from one of the "real" parties.  Ok, don't do that....out loud.  But do something to strike a little fear into the current parties of power.  My ideal third party would be made up entirely of coaches and athletes from across the professional and college sports world.  We need leaders who know how to solve problems, work together, be inclusive, create strategies, communicate, identify talent, analyze competitors.....who does this better than the best of the best in sports?  What is a team if not a mini-government?  The head coach is president, the assistant coaches are the cabinet and congress, the athletes are citizens, the other teams are foreign governments.  Go ahead and tell me why a group of the best coaches in America wouldn't turn us into a well-run country in no time.  Go ahead.....tell me......I'm waiting.........that's right, you can't.  Because it's brilliant.  You're welcome America, I've solved all or your problems.  Anyone have Bill Belichick's number on them?

There.  If I didn't ruffle your feathers with my church rant on Monday, or my taxes celebration yesterday, your hide very well could be chapped by this post.  Tomorrow I will calm down and wrap up #The100DayProject with some introspection on what this lengthy writing journey has done for me.  Until then......VOTE THEM ALL OUT!!!

Monday, July 9, 2018

One of life's certainties

Still alive!  After sharing some not-so-favorable thoughts about religion and church in yesterday's blog entry I wasn't certain I'd cast eyes upon another day.  But here I are, so here I go again.

While my presence on the planet wasn't a certainty today, or any other day I suppose, I've been thinking lately about one of life's two certainties:  taxes.  July probably isn't the usual suspect when it comes to thinking about taxes.....February through mid-April take the cake when it comes to tax stress.....but they've been on my mind because of the road trip my daughters and I took last week to several other states.

In three states - Wisconsin, Indiana, and Michigan - we had the opportunity to travel on highways that weren't interstate freeways, the "backroads" if you will.  You don't really get a good feel for the land until you get off the main roads and travel some roads less taken, but the feeling I got from most of these less-taken paths was that of jarring and pounding and frustration.  The roads were horrible!  Narrow, cracked, potholes galore, shoddy striping....Michigan's roads were the worst, Indiana's and Wisconsin's not much better.  Beautiful landscapes in all three, and by most appearances all three would be nice states to live in.  As long as you don't have to drive anywhere.

So as we jostled along I used the opportunity to impart wisdom to my children.  "Daughters," said I, "the next time you hear one of your grandfathers whining about Minnesota taxes, remember these roads!"  They didn't seem to get the gist of my message, or any of my message for that matter, what with the thundering noise of tires hitting holes and all of their ears plugged with device connections.  So I kept the rest of my thoughts to myself.

Until now.  Minnesota is a heavily taxed state.  The extensive (five minutes worth) research I've done on tax burden rankings by state shows The Land of 10,000 Lakes could also be nicknamed "The Land of 10,000 Taxes".  Rankings vary a bit from source to source, but Minnesota consistently lands in the top ten most heavily taxed states, usually in the top five.  And yes, that stinks.  Nobody likes to pay taxes, and while we Minnesotans love seeing our state ranked highly in quality of life, education, and sporting venues (venues, not teams) we aren't clapping each other on the back over our high tax ranking, that's for sure.  However....

We've got pretty good roads to drive on, especially when weather extremes get thrown into the equation.  And not only do we have those roads they are kept astoundingly clear in the winter.  We've got that superb education system with teachers who are compensated well.  Having a strong quality of life depends on education, health care, safety, mobility....all tax-supported aspects of living in a "free" country.

Michigan's roads were the worst - a state which falls far behind Minnesota in tax burden.  Oklahoma is lightly taxed relative to the North Star State; their teachers seemingly make pennies to my Minnesota dollar.  Indiana and Wisconsin also lag behind Minnesota in tax burden, and they, too, had obvious cracks in their infrastructure.  Illinois, on the other hand, is right there with Minnesota in tax burden....perhaps that's why we all were so impressed with the modern beauty of downtown Chicago?

Again, nobody enjoys paying taxes.  But everyone loves a smooth ride on the highway.  We all want a strong education for our kids.  We want clean water and inviting parks.  We Minnesotans have all of that and more.  It took some bumpy rides in foreign lands for me to figure it out, but maybe the cost of living here is offset by the amenities I, you, and we take for granted too often.  So quit your whining and pay your taxes, and then be thankful to live in a state where our lives are positively impacted by the burden we all share.  Or, go away and try life in a land with fewer taxes...if you're a whiner here about taxes you'll assuredly be a whiner there about pretty much everything else.  And good riddance to you.

Ok then, another day, another touchy topic.  Lightly danced around this one I think, compared to yesterday's Bible bashing.  Tomorrow........tomorrow is going to be tricky.  I want to write about politics, but I absolutely hate politics and all things associated with them.  So I'm not sure how that will go....is it possible to type while frothing at the mouth?

Sunday, July 8, 2018

Divine indigestion

This morning I had to be at church, or as I have come to know it, "an hour of my life I'll never get back."  Daughter Two had to dress in a bathrobe and light candles during the service so there I was, stuck between an alter and an escape route.

Yes, readers, today I shall cut loose with my thoughts on religion, specifically the act of going to church.  I've got only a handful of posts left before #The100DayProject is complete so I figure it's time to tackle some sensitive issues without fear of alienating my entire pool of followers.  But frankly, there aren't many of you left anyway; my latest posts have received very few views, so apparently I've already driven away most readers.  And now to do the same to the rest of you.

I don't like religion, and I don't like going to church.  (audible gasp from the Bible thumpers)  I'm not about to rail against those who choose to believe; the freedom to practice a region of choice is an important foundation of our nation.  As is the freedom to NOT practice a religion, as is the importance of showing toleration towards both decisions....which is a supreme Christian virtue....which is odd since so many "Christians" have a hard time tolerating non-religious views.  Oops, wasn't going to go that direction.  I am also not intending to delve into my philosophies on religion and why it's not for me....not today anyway.  No, today I write specifically about church and its oddities.

You should know that I've spent the greatest portion of my life attending church and all its extremities.  As a kid I was a regular at Sunday school and Bible school (also known as "summer's longest, most painful week"), and as an adult I taught and volunteered at both.  I've been to Bible camp (blech), youth group retreats (those were ok), played in church softball leagues, and even gone Christmas caroling.  I've been baptized and confirmed as a Lutheran (uff da!), and later in life became quite involved in a Covenant congregation.  My disdain for religion and church does not come from a lack of exposure or from ignorance; it comes from finally stepping away from what I now consider to be the brainwashing effect church attendance can have on people and viewing religion as an open-minded theologian versus a mindless drone who just keeps shuffling back to the same pew each Sunday.

So here's what I did to give you what I've got:  I took notes throughout this morning's service.  I wasn't planning to do that but in hindsight I bet it looked very religious for me to constantly be scrawling something on my bulletin, as if I were devouring the Holy Word as a true believer should.  Ah, the irony, for my barely legible notes had little to do with scripture and everything to do with sarcasm, nitpicking, humor, and heresy.  So, like it or not, this is what I thought about today's service (in a Lutheran church), and church in general.  Remember, the truth shall set you free.

**Early in his sermon the Pastor talked about the book study he's doing which centers on ways to keep the church relevant with today's changing world.  His sermon lasted 20 minutes and was nothing more than him talking at us - a lecture.  In the education world lecturing is considered an out-dated and ineffective way of exchanging knowledge, and is nowadays viewed as a sin committed by teachers who have not had the wherewithal to advance and innovate their practices.  Yet every church service I go to, regardless of denomination or geography, is built upon the lecture/listener model.  And today's lecture...ahem, sermon, was on leadership!  With the intro being how to bring the church up to speed with the rest of the world!  Given in old-fashioned, traditional lecture format!  Hello!?!!  How about the leader lead some open discourse?  The sermon had a terrific message about the disappointment leaders often feel and the importance of carrying on in the face of such hurt - how about eliciting and allowing for some modern, real world examples from the longevity of life (more on that in a minute) in attendance?  This is a glaring example of one of my biggest problems with the church - say one thing, do another.  "We want to get modern....but we're not going to change to do so."  I realize the importance of tradition and not changing for the sake of change, but c'mon church - it's time to find a modern way to make traditional teachings resonate with your audience.

**Along those same lines, we chanted the same creeds and confessions and responses that Lutherans have been doing since before I was born.  So there we go again:  "We need to become more modern, but first let's confess our sins using the creed found on page 427 of your hymnal for those of you who can't quite remember the words we've been saying every Sunday for the past 500 years."  I haven't regularly attended a Lutheran church for over 20 years.....and I knew every word of every chant in the service.  So I ask you - how meaningful are words that can be spoken with no effort of thought?  And if these words are truly going to bring change, why isn't there a celebratory feel to them?  For instance, at the end of the confession of sin the Pastor used his divine power to declare all our sins forgiven.  Silence.  Crickets.  Creaking bones.  Shouldn't there be a "hip-hip-hooray" right there?  Some high fives?  At least a few sighs of relief?  The death and resurrection of Jesus Christ was the most pivotal moment in Christianity's history, the moment when believers' sins would then and forevermore be forgiven.  Doesn't that deserve more than a mindless chant followed by...nothing?  Gah!  The frustration!

**I loved the introduction of the scripture readings:  "This is the second reading on the seventh Sunday after Pentecost taken from second Corinthians chapter twelve verses two through ten."  The reader had to towel off and get a beverage before she could actually read said scripture.  How about "Hey, I'm gonna read a little more, so listen up!"?  That second reading, as well as the Gospel reading, contained extremely judgmental language towards groups of people.....divisive, condescending, possibly racist language.  I'm as judgmental and intolerant as they come....but the hypocrisy of scripture bothers me.  I'm astounded at how often scripture tosses aside the "love thy neighbor as thyself" mantra when it's discovered thy neighbor is not living thee life in the way thyself thinketh thee ought to.

**More scripture dissonance:  In the sermon on leadership disappointments, Jesus was disappointed in the reactions to his teachings when he travelled to his home town.  Hang on - the guy could perform miracles, was the son of God...wasn't he omniscient?  Didn't he know what to expect from this stop along his tour of salvation?  Maybe this is an example of my own shortcomings of Biblical proportions, but it feels like another example of convenient truth.  Of which church and religion seem to be teeming with.

**Speaking of miracles, I witnessed one in my hour of spiritual immersion:  A roomful of 70-80 year olds sat quietly and listened to someone else talk, and none of them argued or complained.  Now THAT is one impressive piece of holy moly!

**I can't stand the offering.  I don't easily part with my money, so the act of passing a plate and begging me to fill it with cash for reasons unexplained (beyond the tithing requirements of scripture....another convenient truth) is hard for me to tolerate, or participate in.  So I sit, and I politely decline the extension of the plate, and I wait to be smote from above by lightning or brimstone.  Oh, and here's some fun news - this church my daughters attend takes two offerings!  And one of them is called a "noisy" offering, which adds an annoyance to the attempted robbery.  At least the second offering is peaceful and a sign the service is nearly over.

**Also not a fan of passing the peace, the greeting portion of the service where one must shake hands with strangers, wish them well, and pretend to enjoy it.  I'm not a germ freak, but yuck!  I'm not exaggerating when I say 98% of this morning's attendees were 70+ years old.....and do you know how hygienically careful old people are?  Regardless, I put on my best smile and thrust my hand into the hand of each stranger who cared enough to want to greet me.....including the old woman who almost made eye contact with me before seeing someone she really wanted to greet, at which point she withheld her wishes for peace in my life and bee-lined to whomever she deemed more worth her time than me.  May the Lord have mercy on her rude and snobbish soul.  I'm going to venture two guesses:  she's there every Sunday, and I wasn't her first snub.

Believe it or not I jotted down some things I liked during my hour among the chosen people.  Even though it was an ineffective lecture, the sermon message was solid and the Pastor a good speaker.  Rather than stand behind a pulpit he stood among the pews to speak, and rather than read from notes he spoke from memory.  So as sermons go it was a good one.....except for us not being allowed to utter a word.

I always love the benediction at the end of the service.  The admonition to go in peace with the assurance that someone or something is watching over us as we do brings the entire church ordeal to a very tidy close.

There's never a dull moment when the pipe organ cuts loose on a classic church hymn.  Despite elderly voices that still can't sing and every seventh organ note being wrong, the chorus of I Love To Tell The Story was pretty darned impressive.  But then the organist decided to do a key change for the last verse and everything went all to.....well, you know.

After the service I got to visit with an old (which goes without saying by now, right?) friend whom I don't get to visit with nearly often enough.  There are those in the world that are always, always a joy to talk with.  They are rare, but they're out there.  My old friend shares great stories, asks pertinent questions, listens to the answers, and never gets tiresome to be around.  And as we wrapped up our conversation we noticed free cookies on the table behind us.  Win-win!

To sum up, an hour of church isn't the absolute worst way to pass the time; root canals, staff meetings, and shoe shopping are probably a little more miserable.  To be honest, the act of actually going to church isn't what bothers me the most.  What really gets my sacrificial goat is the notion that those who attend church are somehow more spiritual than we who don't.  Or the attitude that belief in, and worship of, a chosen god is better than a different set of beliefs.  When I look at the actions within a church I see hypocrisy, half-truths, convenient truths, snobbishness, and false pretenses.  Not from every single parishioner, but more than should be present in a house of holiness.  So I'm done with that scene.

And I'm done with this post.  Peanuts character Linus once said, "There are three things you don't discuss with people: religion, politics, and The Great Pumpkin."  Sorry Linus, but I'm not heeding your advice.  Today, religion.  Tomorrow, taxes.  Tuesday, politics.  Wednesday, the 100th post.  I'm guessing I'll be writing to about three of you by then.  Thanks for reading.  Peace be with you.

Saturday, July 7, 2018

A day of blah

Is it acceptable to have a completely unproductive lazy day once in a while?

Today confirmed that I've slid fully into summer vacation mode.  I haven't known what day of the week it is for the last two days - but I still remembered to wish my youngest sister a happy birthday!  (a day early).  I can't find a single deadline to be stressed about.  And today I couldn't find a single reason to be stressed at all, thus my opening question.

How should we feel about days like these?  Most folks have them, some less often than others (hopefully).  With a finite number of days available in life, is it really ok to watch one pass by without accomplishing anything?  I have a hard time believing this is common behavior in the animal kingdom.  While it's pleasant to not feel uptight about anything or have stuff hanging over my head, there are plenty of things I could be doing or should be doing and haven't.  Is that really an ok way to spend a day?

Or could this be a healthy way to spend a day (on occasion)?  The early part of the week was exhausting with the traveling we did.  We came home and went right to work on gardens and laundry and lawn care....and today hit a wall.  It seems a bit slug-like to spend a day doing nothing when I've spent thirty-some days in a row NOT going to a job.  But maybe a lack of motivation isn't a sign of laziness....maybe it's a message the body sends when it's in need of a break.  That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?  And rational, acceptable....maybe even enlightening.  So there, I've accomplished something - I had an enlightening thought.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to.....nothing.

Friday, July 6, 2018

Papa Daddy's Pizzeria

As I stagger towards the finish of #The100DayProject I am grasping for topics to write about.  I had pretty much settled on forming a few paragraphs to describe the fungus I dug out from under my toenails when a better idea landed in my brain:  food.  Not sure how I went from fungus to food, but let's all thank our deity of choice that I did.  I've mentioned more than once that I enjoy cooking....it wasn't too long ago I wrote a post about making jam.....prior to that I wrote about canning and freezing foods......geez, maybe I've overdone it with food prose.  Nah.

I love pizza.  Don't have a favorite kind, don't have a least favorite kind, don't have preferred or dismissed toppings - just give me a slice and stay out of my way so I can eat it.  Folks will ask what I want on my pizza, and I just reply it doesn't matter 'cause you could throw dog poop on a pizza and I'd eat it.  They laugh at my funny joke until the serious look on my face tells them I'm not joking, that I really would eat dog poop pizza.  They then quickly order and spend the rest of the meal shifting awkwardly in their seats while sending worried glances my direction.  Pizza is not a laughing matter.

I've discovered, though, that I enjoy creating pizza almost...almost...as much as I enjoy eating it.  And because my pizza creations have become pretty darn good, pizza night at my house is a win-win for dad!  My daughters have named my creations Papa Daddy's Pizzas, and they too get as excited as I when they smell a from-scratch crust dough rising in my bread machine.

That's step number one for creating a top-notch pizza: my crust.  It's also the easiest step - throw some olive oil, flour, salt, and yeast in the bread pan and let the bread machine do the work.  I do a bit more, though, to make sure my crust is perfect.  First I add some Italian seasoning and garlic powder.  The seasoning becomes noticeable in the finished crust, making it look like it should taste better than a plain crust.  The garlic powder gives the crust a warm aroma as it rises, building anticipation for the finished product.  Getting the crust to rise a little before baking is a crucial part of the pizza process, and it's taken me a while to get that part right.  But a warm oven and a dish towel for the right amount of time now give me a soft, fluffy crust every time.

Once the crust is done the fun begins when the toppings come out.  I suppose about half the pizzas I make are the standard pepperoni or veggie variety, but I love trying different topping combinations.  Tonight I experimented with two pizzas and came up with one winner and one that was decent enough to be added to my menu.  The decent pizza was chicken-bacon-parmesan (I bought a bottle of parmesan spice blend stuff while in Indiana, so I sprinkled a layer on the toppings before adding cheese) with a little bit of chopped onion on traditional red pizza sauce and topped with mozzarella cheese.  The winning combo was a pulled pig pizza; pulled pork, bacon, and chopped onion on a thin smear of BBQ sauce and topped with Monterey Jack cheese.  Hang on, my mouth is watering...

So what makes my pizzas so tasty?  Well, I've started adding onion to almost every pizza I make, but not too much.  I want the onion to whisper in the background of the toppings flavors, not stomp all over them.  I chop the pieces small and spread them conservatively.  I've also started using about half as much cheese as I used to.....about four ounces per pizza.  My daughters aren't totally on board with this but eight ounces of cheese does three things:  1) drowns the rest of the toppings,  2) makes the crust soggier, and 3) adds inches to my waistline.  Not to mention cheese is getting expensive.

I grill the pizza every time during the months that aren't below freezing.  I set the pizza pan on a deep aluminum baking pan so it's up off the grill grates, that way the crust doesn't burn while the warm smokey air circulates around the pizza.  The taste difference between oven baked and grilled pizzas is subtle but it's there....and it's fabulous.  I've also become bolder with my toppings experiments, and made mental notes on what works and what might work better.  For instance, we all loved the pulled pig pizza, but I've got an idea for the next one that might be even better....cream cheese.  Dang, mouth water again.

Yup, I love me a good pizza....and I love making my own good pizzas.  Just like my jams and jellies and other preserves it's taken a lot of trial and error to get my pizza creating methods perfected, or nearly perfected.  Luckily there's no such thing as "bad" pizza, so even my experiments are edible and enjoyable.  Sure, pizzas aren't the healthiest food I create, but by making them from scratch I can keep them a little healthier than frozen or restaurant varieties.  Plus, mine come with one additional ingredient:  mine are always topped with love.  Unless someone grabs the piece that I wanted.  Friends and family become nothing more than enemies once the pizza gets sliced.  Why do you think I'm joking?  Pizza is no laughing matter.

Thursday, July 5, 2018

Chicago, in words

On Monday my daughters and I, along with my sister's family of five, journeyed by train into downtown Chicago for a day of exploring.  With my preconceived notions of Chicago running wild I was pretty sure nine of us would get off the train but only eight or fewer would survive long enough to get back on.  When I thought of Chicago I instantly thought of crime, murder, drugs, poverty, corruption, Walter Payton, and pizza.  Mr. Payton passed away long ago and pizza can offer only a wee bit of comfort in crisis situations.....so with what I thought I knew of Chicago I was convinced we were doomed.

We were not.  It's no secret The Windy City has suffered from all of the awful things I listed, but what was a secret (to me, at least) is how beautiful the downtown area truly is.  As our train rolled through the south side of town it was clear that wealth has not found the southern suburbs.  When we stepped off the train there was an odor in the air that reeked of filth.  The stairs we climbed towards street level had clearly been traveled by millions of feet, the signs of age and decay not hard to miss.  But the instant we stepped onto whatever street we stepped on the Chicago I was surrounded by looked completely different than the Chicago I expected.  It was clean.  It was modern.  It was gorgeous.

Now, to our credit (wink, wink) we chose the most perfect summer day to be in a big city.  The oppressive heat and humidity that had suffocated the Great Lakes states the previous three days was gone, replaced by high blue skies, a light breeze, and warm-but-not-hot temps.  Everything, from plants to trees to light posts to skyscrapers, glistened in the summer sun.  Within minutes of stepping off the train we were surrounded by perfectly trimmed lawns and gardens overlooking a sparkling Lake Michigan.  Whatever park we were in (Grant, maybe?) was as beautiful as anyplace I've ever been, urban or rural.

We strolled lakeside for a while, taking pictures and drinking in the scenery.  We went into Shedd Aquarium for a few hours.  We rode a water taxi from the aquarium end of the harbor to the Navy Pier end, where we were met by my daughters' favorite cousin of all time, who now lives in Chicago. She became our tour guide, and marched us through the streets to Gino's East so we could have a deep dish pizza supper.  After supper we walked the Magnificent Mile, saw The Bean in Millennium Park, and let the younger kids play in the Daly playground area.  And I loved every single second of it.

It's not like we were in some kind of urban utopia - the people didn't seem very friendly, the drivers were terribly rude, the homeless made their presence known, and the sidewalks were very crowded - but I still can't believe how beautiful that downtown area was.  Planters of flowers lined many of the streets.  The storefronts were inviting (of course).  Each skyscraper looked taller and cleaner than the one I had just decided was the tallest and the cleanest.  Even with the ornery people and rude drivers I felt perfectly safe.  The area was easy to navigate, and was obviously designed with families and tourists in mind....which, according to tour guide Sarah, it was.....what with the parks in the center surrounded by museums and aquariums and attractions, all just a short walk from transportation.

Would I live in Chicago?  No chance.  Would I visit it again?  Absolutely.  I haven't been many places, haven't seen many big cities, but Chicago vaulted itself to the top of my list of favorite vacation destinations.  As we walked the Magnificent Mile my sister asked "Did you ever think you'd be walking the streets of Chicago?"  No, never, not even once.  But I can't wait to do it again.

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

Clearing the bar

As the movie Christmas Vacation wraps up, Clark W. Griswold takes a deep breath and says, with a maniacal look in his eye, "I did it."  He's referring to completing his quest of putting together a "good old fashioned family Christmas" so his children can carry with them the same special memories of the holidays that he has from his own childhood.  And yes, after many hilarious misadventures, he really did do it.

At 7:45 this evening my weary daughters and I pulled into our driveway, roughly twelve hours after leaving my sister's driveway in Indiana.  Planning this little vacation was my quest the past couple of months, my attempt to give my daughters some memories powerful enough to last the rest of their lives.  As I put the car in "park" and turned off the key I quietly thought to myself - "I did it."

Expectations are such a tricky process.  Set them too high and run the risk of being, oftentimes, terribly disappointed.  Set them too low and get nothing but low results.  Read enough of my posts and you'll notice two trends with my expectations; I often talk about setting the bar low as to avoid disappointment, and rather than get excited about anything I instead tentatively hover at "cautiously enthused".  I threw my own caution to the wind in both cases for this trip, and now that it's over I can say, with great relief, that it was far greater than I ever imagined it could be.

The driving was fine - we sailed through downtown Chicago today and rarely had to let off the gas!  The activities provided nothing but positive memories (aside from the scarring on our feet from yesterday's adventure).  My sister took great care of us in her beautiful home while also making sure we stayed very busy, in a good way.  My kids and their cousins got many hours of time together.  And most importantly, we brought back a mountain of memories that none of us will soon forget.  Expectations set, met, and surpassed.

Now I know many readers will read these posts about this trip and think "Big deal, they went a few states away to do nothing different than millions of people do on vacation."  Very true, but you've got to understand - a trip like this, small as it was, is not a common occurrence in my lifestyle.  I don't do trips or travel or adventure.  Or at least I didn't.  My choice to make this a year of exploration pushed me to do something that I've (foolishly.....stubbornly) put off for years.  But I took that step to take that trip and lo and behold it was everything I could have possibly wanted and more.  So now that I'm back and feeling growth and confidence I've decided I need to change the way I talk about the vacation.  I've been calling it "the trip we took......"

I'm now calling it "the first trip we took....."

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Michigan memories

You know a day trip isn't going to go as well as planned when you're greeted at the gates of a state park with news of a swimming ban due to high levels of e coli in the water.  And then things got worse.....

Today we drove from our home base in Warsaw, IN, to the eastern shore of Lake Michigan - Warren Dunes State Park, specifically - to enjoy an afternoon of hiking the sand dunes, swimming in the lake, and picnicking.  The bacterial warning took care of the swimming, which was unfortunate since the 90 degree heat and high dew points returned today.  So rather than cool off with a dip in the lake we trudged through scalding hot sand to the top of this:


Ever heard of the Bataan Death March from WWII?  I've now survived the Dune Death March.  From bottom to top it was only a ten minute trudge, maybe fifteen, but did I mention the heat?  And the complete lack of breeze?  And that every step felt like plunging my foot into burning coals?  And that  by halfway up I was soaked with sweat, so much so that the sand was forming mud on my legs?  There's just no way around it - this climb was an awful experience.

But when we all finally staggered to the top this view was waiting for us:




                          

Fortunately it waited very patiently so we could catch our breath and get the sweat to stop pouring into our eyes so we could see clearly.  But yeah, it was a nice view of the lake....and there was a coolish breeze at the top!  And just about the time we recovered from the ascension, we headed back down.  No, it wasn't much easier - the sand was still burning our feet, and instead of working hard to go up we had to work hard not to fall over in the shifting sands of each step.  Instead of getting to the bottom and swishing off in the lake we got to the bottom and stood in the hundred degree parking lot.

It would have been really tough to top the incredible experience we had in Chicago yesterday, so it was kind of like today was doomed for failure no matter what.  But all was not lost - we got to drive county roads most of the time in Michigan rather than an interstate highway, so we got a good look at authentic Michigan landscapes.....that, once again, looked pretty much like Minnesota.  Not being able to swim opened up some time in our day, as did trying to picnic in stifling heat, so we stopped and bought some Michigan fruit (that I'm mostly convinced came from the shelves at Walmart) and stopped again for ice cream and snacks.  AND when we got back to Warsaw we spent a couple of hours shopping at specialty shops and a clothing store.  That's how bad the Michigan trip was - the highlight of the day was shopping.

Tomorrow we drive home.  We've had an absolute blast for the last four-plus days, so much so my girls are begging for one extra day.  But "leave 'em wanting more" is the rule I'm following; as much fun as we've had my gut tells me one more day would be one day too many.  It's time.  Time to gather up our dirty clothes, our new purchases, and, most importantly, our memories and return to the place in this world we belong right now.  This trip has been everything I'd hoped it would be and more, but we can put life on hold only for so long.  So my next post will be brief (we've got at least eleven hours of driving tomorrow, maybe more) but it will be from my usual couch or kitchen table spot.  I still need to give a better description of how much we loved Chicago, and a summation of what this trip has meant to us.  Tomorrow night will probably be just a "hey, we're home" kind of message.

And with that, I sign off from Indiana one final time.


Monday, July 2, 2018

Chicago, in pictures

Chicago.  Was.  Fantastic.

Waiting to board the train in Chesterton, IN.


Taking our first steps off the train in downtown Chicago.


On the shores of Lake Michigan.


Shedd Aquarium


On board the water taxi taking us across the bay to Navy Pier.


Arriving at Navy Pier.


Waiting for our deep dish Chicago pizza at Ginos.


Standing sort of in front of Trump tower.  The stench was unbearable.


"The Bean" in Millennium Park. (I think that's where we were)


Bean selfie.

So much to say, only two minutes 'til midnight to say it.  For now - exploring Chicago was nothing but fun!

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Dryland

Today was a "stay home" day for the most part on this Indiana vacation of ours.  My sister has a couple of mini-roadtrip activities planned for the next two days, so today we decided to stay local.  The kids played outside this morning while the adults did some visiting in the three-season porch.  This afternoon we went to the city park/beach on the shores of Lake Winona so the youngest kids could swim, then we walked around and checked out the little shops in the area.  My sister gave us a car tour around the city of Warsaw on the way home from the beach.  Yard games in the late afternoon, card games this evening.  Plenty of activity without having to spend plenty of time in a car.

In yesterday's post I made mention of watching fireworks over one of Indiana's five lakes (which, incidentally, was the same lake the kids swam in today).  The crack about "five lakes" was mostly in jest......but not really.  We passed a few beautiful lakes in western Wisconsin Friday evening, but from Madison to Chicago to here we rarely saw a lake, or even rivers for that matter.  Remember the movie Waterworld?  If not, that's ok; only about 48 people saw it.  Waterworld was a futuristic story about a flooded Earth, whose few remaining survivors believed in one last unflooded area called "Dryland" - I'm thinking they should have looked in the Southeast Wisconsin/Northern Illinois-Indiana region.

Apparently Indiana has "hundreds" lakes, but you'd have a hard time proving it by me.  I know Wisconsin has plenty of good fishing waters.  I don't care enough to research Illinois lake stats.  Bottom line is this:  I've now made two trips this direction, and both times the one glaring characteristic of the land I've driven through is how lake-less it is.  It's easy - so easy - to take lakes for granted after spending my whole life in Minnesota, where it seems an hour in any direction from any point in the state has at least one lake, if not dozens.  And if you drive that hour to that lake, you'll likely pass dozens of boats behind vehicles.  And that's the other thing I notice when I travel through this area - no boats on the roads.  Different region, different landscape, different lifestyle.  How sad.

Tomorrow we head to downtown Chicago by train.  Gonna sightsee on foot for the day.  Probably get mugged or killed while we're there.  I've got a cocktail of enthusiasm and fear going on inside me towards this activity.  Hope to return here tomorrow evening with happy tales.