Was without a doubt The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Ironically, Edgar is also the last book I read this summer. Just finished it last night. I cried at the end, and then I reread a few passages and cried some more. Then I tried (and failed) to go to sleep. It's one of those books you can't sleep on; its magnificence presses on your mind until you find yourself rifling through your bookshelf at midnight, looking for something comparable. You fail, and ultimately have to rely on the Benadryl you're taking for your disgusting case of hives to knock you out.
Edgar Sawtelle is a mute fourteen-year-old boy who's family makes their living breeding dogs in the thick Northwoods of Wisconsin.* But when a Hamlet-esque turn of events results in his father's death, Edgar flees into the wilderness, taking along three dogs for company.
The esteemed authors on the back of my copy call Edgar a Coming Of Age Story, which I suppose is true, although one might argue that every single book ever written is a Coming Of Age of sorts (after all, when do we ever truly grow into ourselves? And what kind of author would depict a character as being entirely static, unless he/she was not aiming for realism?).
What I liked most about the book was the insight about the breeding and training of the Sawtelles' dogs. Also the insight into the minds of the dogs themselves. The dogs are truly characters in this novel, with as much depth and intelligence as anyone you've ever met.
Edgar is a pinnacle of fine storytelling, and as I'm sure you know, there are a lot of books out there that don't read like stories, that don't sweep you along and tangle you up and never really release you, even after you've finished the last page.
Only the very best ones do.
*I should tell you: Another one of the reasons why I loved this book was because I am very familiar with the setting of the book. We drive through the Chequamegon (believe it or not, I spelled that correctly without having to Google first)(also, it's pronounced Sha-Wa-Meg-Gun for you outoftowners) National Forest every time we visit our boat on Lake Superior.
Showing posts with label Dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dogs. Show all posts
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
I'm Very Sorry That It's True
***Note: This story is based on true events. I'm not sure if it's even a story, exactly; I just wanted to tell you something and this is the way it ended up. I'm sorry that it's disturbing. I'm sorry that it's not incredibly well written. I'm very sorry that it's true.
The kids down the street are possessed. This I know.
Deena, who lives across from us, caught them beating her dog Ritz with sticks, shrieking all the while. They continued to scream in deafening bursts that rose and fell like hail as Deena brought Ritzy home by the collar. She could almost feel the pellets of noise hit her back.
Deena called the children's mother as soon as she got Ritz settled on her pillow with a hunk of comforting hambone. She explained, in the nicest way possible, that the children had been hitting her dog and screaming like banshees. Deena tried not to convey the full force of her shocked disgust. She tried not to imply that the children could use a few whacks themselves.
In short, Deena asked the mother to forGod'ssakedoherjoband give her children a talking to.
The mother agreed.
The very next day, however, the kids were at it again. Ritz ran from child to child, looking for a way out of the flashing, stinging, shrieking circle. She decided, between a rap at her hip and a thwack aimed at her snout, that she was off sticks for life.
But there, breathless and mint green in her work scrubs, was Deena. Ritz dashed behind her as the children let their weapons fall to their sides. Miraculously, their screaming also stopped, and was replaced with slack-jawed looks of surprise. The younger girl's lip wobbled a little. For a split second Deena felt bad for ruining their fun. Ritz's nudge at her knee brought her back.
But the children were walking away, forming a slumped line across the lawn. Their steps were almost in sync.
Later, with Ritz's head resting in her lap, Deena tried to remember how many children there were. She never thought to count until afterwards. And anyway, they were like a little mob, a crazed band. They were everywhere at once. One couldn't stop to count the rioters; there was too much running for one's life to be done, too many hambones to be fetched in the dusty quiet aftermath.
I see the children every day on my way home from work. Yesterday, it was just one. A girl. She stood at the edge of her driveway, feet nudging against the street where I drove. I braked, thinking she was going to cross, but she didn't. She stared at me, and through my sunglasses and the windshield and all the particles in all the air that hung between us, I could see how very blue her eyes were. I sped up again, breaking her gaze with my 0 to 30 mph.
The kids down the street are possessed. This I know.
Deena, who lives across from us, caught them beating her dog Ritz with sticks, shrieking all the while. They continued to scream in deafening bursts that rose and fell like hail as Deena brought Ritzy home by the collar. She could almost feel the pellets of noise hit her back.
Deena called the children's mother as soon as she got Ritz settled on her pillow with a hunk of comforting hambone. She explained, in the nicest way possible, that the children had been hitting her dog and screaming like banshees. Deena tried not to convey the full force of her shocked disgust. She tried not to imply that the children could use a few whacks themselves.
In short, Deena asked the mother to forGod'ssakedoherjoband give her children a talking to.
The mother agreed.
The very next day, however, the kids were at it again. Ritz ran from child to child, looking for a way out of the flashing, stinging, shrieking circle. She decided, between a rap at her hip and a thwack aimed at her snout, that she was off sticks for life.
But there, breathless and mint green in her work scrubs, was Deena. Ritz dashed behind her as the children let their weapons fall to their sides. Miraculously, their screaming also stopped, and was replaced with slack-jawed looks of surprise. The younger girl's lip wobbled a little. For a split second Deena felt bad for ruining their fun. Ritz's nudge at her knee brought her back.
But the children were walking away, forming a slumped line across the lawn. Their steps were almost in sync.
Later, with Ritz's head resting in her lap, Deena tried to remember how many children there were. She never thought to count until afterwards. And anyway, they were like a little mob, a crazed band. They were everywhere at once. One couldn't stop to count the rioters; there was too much running for one's life to be done, too many hambones to be fetched in the dusty quiet aftermath.
I see the children every day on my way home from work. Yesterday, it was just one. A girl. She stood at the edge of her driveway, feet nudging against the street where I drove. I braked, thinking she was going to cross, but she didn't. She stared at me, and through my sunglasses and the windshield and all the particles in all the air that hung between us, I could see how very blue her eyes were. I sped up again, breaking her gaze with my 0 to 30 mph.
Monday, July 4, 2011
This Year's Fourth of July
The best thing about having a blog for almost-three years is that you can look back at posts. You can say, "I wonder what the younger, dorkier version of myself was doing on this day two years ago?" And then you can check. Of course, this checking back usually does come with quite a bit of humiliation. I just hang my head at some of the things I wrote about almost-three years ago.
Luckily, though, for this post, I only had to look back one year. Not so very embarrassing. One year ago, I spent the Fourth weekend on Lake Superior. I got terribly sunburned and had to walk around Target for the next few weeks with my nose peeling gorgeously. I tried (and failed) to read Crime and Punishment.
This year has been a little different.
I woke up at 11:15 this morning (only because my alarm made me). I stayed in bed until 11:40.
I had Crispex and milk for breakfast. I cleaned my bathroom immediately afterward because Mom was coming home and I had put off doing it all weekend. I took a shower in Mom and Dad's bathroom because my shower was filled with hazardous cleaning chemicals. I watched some Cake Boss on TV.
At 2:30 I took the dogs out to run around. I brought Dear Old Hemingway with me, but didn't end up reading much; it was much more fun to chase Ruby around with the hose. And then to attempt to chase Annie as well until she got smart and cowered by the steps, where Dear Old Hemingway lay. Darn dog knew I would never risk getting a book wet. Especially a library book. Darn dog.
The family got home at 3:06 and 3:10, respectively. I was happy to see them.
Then we all sat down at the kitchen table to plot things out. We decided on mini golf, and then some sort of dinner/ice cream combo afterwards.
I won at mini golf. I also got the only hole-in-one of the evening.
But I don't talk about that.
We decided to drive to S*** for dinner, which started out being a bad idea (it was packed), and ended up being a good idea (we ate on the river and it was delicious). We then sought out a place that has ridiculously huge ice creams (I got chocolate peanut butter-best thing in the world), and nearly died of thirst on the way home (ice cream always makes you thirsty, have you ever noticed?).
Also on the way home, we drove through S*** (different S***). Mom mentioned the time when Grandma, Grandpa, Amy and I set off to go to a nearby driving range and ended up lost in S*** due to my poor sense of direction. In my defense, I was only about 11. Also in my defense, I have a poor sense of direction.
At home, we all settled down on the couch to watch Love Actually, which is actually a really great movie. I'm currently trying to decide who I love more: Hugh Grant or Colin Firth. It's a toughie, right? Witty and down-to-earth and awkward or stoic and romantic and awkward? Notting Hill or Pride and Prejudice? Will ponder this, and consider moving to Britain, where a Hugh-Colin combo platter perfect man has to be waiting for me.
Happy Fourth everyone.
P.S. It just occured to me that in my effort to *** town names for the sake of privacy, I actually succeeded in making it look like I was ***-ing out profanities. And when you read this post, mentally subbing in said profanities, it's kind of funny. Sorry. I'm immature.
Luckily, though, for this post, I only had to look back one year. Not so very embarrassing. One year ago, I spent the Fourth weekend on Lake Superior. I got terribly sunburned and had to walk around Target for the next few weeks with my nose peeling gorgeously. I tried (and failed) to read Crime and Punishment.
This year has been a little different.
I woke up at 11:15 this morning (only because my alarm made me). I stayed in bed until 11:40.
I had Crispex and milk for breakfast. I cleaned my bathroom immediately afterward because Mom was coming home and I had put off doing it all weekend. I took a shower in Mom and Dad's bathroom because my shower was filled with hazardous cleaning chemicals. I watched some Cake Boss on TV.
At 2:30 I took the dogs out to run around. I brought Dear Old Hemingway with me, but didn't end up reading much; it was much more fun to chase Ruby around with the hose. And then to attempt to chase Annie as well until she got smart and cowered by the steps, where Dear Old Hemingway lay. Darn dog knew I would never risk getting a book wet. Especially a library book. Darn dog.
The family got home at 3:06 and 3:10, respectively. I was happy to see them.
Then we all sat down at the kitchen table to plot things out. We decided on mini golf, and then some sort of dinner/ice cream combo afterwards.
I won at mini golf. I also got the only hole-in-one of the evening.
But I don't talk about that.
We decided to drive to S*** for dinner, which started out being a bad idea (it was packed), and ended up being a good idea (we ate on the river and it was delicious). We then sought out a place that has ridiculously huge ice creams (I got chocolate peanut butter-best thing in the world), and nearly died of thirst on the way home (ice cream always makes you thirsty, have you ever noticed?).
Also on the way home, we drove through S*** (different S***). Mom mentioned the time when Grandma, Grandpa, Amy and I set off to go to a nearby driving range and ended up lost in S*** due to my poor sense of direction. In my defense, I was only about 11. Also in my defense, I have a poor sense of direction.
At home, we all settled down on the couch to watch Love Actually, which is actually a really great movie. I'm currently trying to decide who I love more: Hugh Grant or Colin Firth. It's a toughie, right? Witty and down-to-earth and awkward or stoic and romantic and awkward? Notting Hill or Pride and Prejudice? Will ponder this, and consider moving to Britain, where a Hugh-Colin combo platter perfect man has to be waiting for me.
Happy Fourth everyone.
P.S. It just occured to me that in my effort to *** town names for the sake of privacy, I actually succeeded in making it look like I was ***-ing out profanities. And when you read this post, mentally subbing in said profanities, it's kind of funny. Sorry. I'm immature.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
One and a Half Naps, and Then a Revelation
A warning before I begin: This will probably be a very personal post. And not that people who don't know me really read this blog anyway, but if you don't know me, maybe you should stop now. That's not an order, as this is the internet, (and therefore anything I post here is pretty much fair game) but it is a suggestion.
I was about to take a nap just now. I finished reading Paper Towns (magnificent) on the couch in the sun room, and then I started to doze off. The thing is, my left earring was pressing into my skull, and I was still wearing my Target red and khaki, and I was worried about the dog sneaking over while I slept and eating the pear core I had laying on the rug beside me and getting sick and dying or something while I slept on like a masochistic infant. So I abandoned the couch, locked the dog in the kitchen, threw away the core, changed into sweats, and got into bed.
I was so tired that I didn't even bother to set my cell phone alarm (I usually do when I take naps or else I will pretty much sleep for the next 2 days). I was so tired that when my knee nudged against paper under the covers, and when I remembered that the paper was the Sunday crossword that I had hidden from my sister this morning (Sunday crosswords are sacred to me, and she has bad handwriting. Don't tell her I said that.), I didn't even bother to set the paper on my nightstand. I decided to sleep with it nudged against my knee.
The thing was, as I was drifting off to sleep for the second time, I started to think about the guy I like (Don't be scared; I'm not going to go middle school on you. Promise). I was thinking about how cute he is, and how smart, and how funny, and I was imagining us hanging out together. And then I started to worry, the way I often do when I think about a guy that I like (and I don't think I'm alone in this). I started to wonder why he would ever like me. I'm not a supermodel, I'm not outgoing, I'm not bubbly, I'm not chill or calm or neutral, I have a big nose, sometimes I can be a major space cadet, I can't dance, I'm not graceful in any way, and I make mistakes constantly. Why would he ever, ever like me back, I thought.
And then, suddenly, like someone was shouting it in my ear, I heard this:
You're perfect.
I'm perfect.
The more I thought about this, the more of a revelation it became. I actually started crying, and as I stared at my turquoise bedroom wall, black mascara tears on my cheeks, I realized that I am perfect. That someone (namely, God) took the time to make me the way I am. He didn't make one mistake with me. He didn't make one mistake with anyone. Every bit of me, inside and out, is deliberate. Everything I am has a purpose, and everything I strive to be will only add clarity to that purpose.
And while I generally view myself as a pretty confidant person, I don't know if I really am. I think in the past, when I've embraced myself, I've done it one-handedly; I've left the flaws out. I haven't liked to think about them much because they're flaws. They're bad. But now I don't know if I believe in the flaws at all. They're really only bits of sin and lint and doubt that I've created for myself, that I've let hang around me because, well, this is Earth and I am human. And I wanted that crossword for myself, darn it!
Do you see yet? As a being I am perfect because, lucky me, I was made in God's image (that's right, I'm one of those). As a human, things get a little shady. But these things shouldn't stop me. If I create the shade, then surely I can be the one to wave it away. I know that I can't save myself completely without help, but I also know that I can save myself a little bit just by realizing how lovely the essence of me really is. (P.S. Your essence is quite beautiful as well).
I think I went around in a circle, you guys. I don't know if I ended up where I intended to, or if you were able to follow my tracks, or if I even left clear enough tracks to follow. I hope I did. I also hope that I didn't come off as some sort of motivational speaker. (There's that self-doubt again. Hello.) I didn't mean to. I just tried to take a nap about a half hour ago, and ended up not wanting to sleep after all. I hope you understand why.
I was about to take a nap just now. I finished reading Paper Towns (magnificent) on the couch in the sun room, and then I started to doze off. The thing is, my left earring was pressing into my skull, and I was still wearing my Target red and khaki, and I was worried about the dog sneaking over while I slept and eating the pear core I had laying on the rug beside me and getting sick and dying or something while I slept on like a masochistic infant. So I abandoned the couch, locked the dog in the kitchen, threw away the core, changed into sweats, and got into bed.
I was so tired that I didn't even bother to set my cell phone alarm (I usually do when I take naps or else I will pretty much sleep for the next 2 days). I was so tired that when my knee nudged against paper under the covers, and when I remembered that the paper was the Sunday crossword that I had hidden from my sister this morning (Sunday crosswords are sacred to me, and she has bad handwriting. Don't tell her I said that.), I didn't even bother to set the paper on my nightstand. I decided to sleep with it nudged against my knee.
The thing was, as I was drifting off to sleep for the second time, I started to think about the guy I like (Don't be scared; I'm not going to go middle school on you. Promise). I was thinking about how cute he is, and how smart, and how funny, and I was imagining us hanging out together. And then I started to worry, the way I often do when I think about a guy that I like (and I don't think I'm alone in this). I started to wonder why he would ever like me. I'm not a supermodel, I'm not outgoing, I'm not bubbly, I'm not chill or calm or neutral, I have a big nose, sometimes I can be a major space cadet, I can't dance, I'm not graceful in any way, and I make mistakes constantly. Why would he ever, ever like me back, I thought.
And then, suddenly, like someone was shouting it in my ear, I heard this:
You're perfect.
I'm perfect.
The more I thought about this, the more of a revelation it became. I actually started crying, and as I stared at my turquoise bedroom wall, black mascara tears on my cheeks, I realized that I am perfect. That someone (namely, God) took the time to make me the way I am. He didn't make one mistake with me. He didn't make one mistake with anyone. Every bit of me, inside and out, is deliberate. Everything I am has a purpose, and everything I strive to be will only add clarity to that purpose.
And while I generally view myself as a pretty confidant person, I don't know if I really am. I think in the past, when I've embraced myself, I've done it one-handedly; I've left the flaws out. I haven't liked to think about them much because they're flaws. They're bad. But now I don't know if I believe in the flaws at all. They're really only bits of sin and lint and doubt that I've created for myself, that I've let hang around me because, well, this is Earth and I am human. And I wanted that crossword for myself, darn it!
Do you see yet? As a being I am perfect because, lucky me, I was made in God's image (that's right, I'm one of those). As a human, things get a little shady. But these things shouldn't stop me. If I create the shade, then surely I can be the one to wave it away. I know that I can't save myself completely without help, but I also know that I can save myself a little bit just by realizing how lovely the essence of me really is. (P.S. Your essence is quite beautiful as well).
I think I went around in a circle, you guys. I don't know if I ended up where I intended to, or if you were able to follow my tracks, or if I even left clear enough tracks to follow. I hope I did. I also hope that I didn't come off as some sort of motivational speaker. (There's that self-doubt again. Hello.) I didn't mean to. I just tried to take a nap about a half hour ago, and ended up not wanting to sleep after all. I hope you understand why.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
In Which Holly Gets Off The Couch
I haven't done much today.
Actually, I haven't really done anything all week. Well, that's not true. Yesterday Mom and I went to the Apple Store so I could get my computer's battery replaced. Once that was done, we walked through Macy's on our way out to the parking lot. Darn Macy's! I knew there was a reason why I hate department stores!
I dropped my laptop in Macy's.
And even though it was in its case, the bottom right corner of the screen got bent, so that whenever I try to close my laptop, the bent corner scratches the corresponding corner of the base.
So tomorrow I get to bring Mac back in to the Apple Store for another repair.
Anyway, I haven't done much today.
Amy's working on sewing her prom dress (long story), Mom's grading middle school science fair projects (she has the same spring break as me), and Dad's at work...working.
As for me, I've been lying on the couch all day reading the Duggar's book (how I love that family) and petting the dog, who has finally gotten over her traditional 2-day aversion to me (happens every time I come home on a break from school).
To make up for my lack of productivity, then, I volunteered to make dinner. Now, this isn't really such a big deal. I'm not one of those kids who has never had to make dinner in her life. On the contrary, one year both my parents had to work extra late, so guess who had to cook every night? Plus, I watch the Food Network religiously. Plus, I actually LIKE to cook.
But still, you just never know how things are going to turn out.
So here goes-Pizza Margherita, courtesy of Emeril Lagasse. It's nice to be off that couch.
Actually, I haven't really done anything all week. Well, that's not true. Yesterday Mom and I went to the Apple Store so I could get my computer's battery replaced. Once that was done, we walked through Macy's on our way out to the parking lot. Darn Macy's! I knew there was a reason why I hate department stores!
I dropped my laptop in Macy's.
And even though it was in its case, the bottom right corner of the screen got bent, so that whenever I try to close my laptop, the bent corner scratches the corresponding corner of the base.
So tomorrow I get to bring Mac back in to the Apple Store for another repair.
Anyway, I haven't done much today.
Amy's working on sewing her prom dress (long story), Mom's grading middle school science fair projects (she has the same spring break as me), and Dad's at work...working.
As for me, I've been lying on the couch all day reading the Duggar's book (how I love that family) and petting the dog, who has finally gotten over her traditional 2-day aversion to me (happens every time I come home on a break from school).
To make up for my lack of productivity, then, I volunteered to make dinner. Now, this isn't really such a big deal. I'm not one of those kids who has never had to make dinner in her life. On the contrary, one year both my parents had to work extra late, so guess who had to cook every night? Plus, I watch the Food Network religiously. Plus, I actually LIKE to cook.
But still, you just never know how things are going to turn out.
So here goes-Pizza Margherita, courtesy of Emeril Lagasse. It's nice to be off that couch.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
An Appropriate Fall
I didn't sleep very well last night. Earlier in the evening, Annie (our older dog) had gotten into my Christmas stocking and eaten 3/4 of my peanut M&M's, plus part of a hand warmer (I don't know either). Thanks to Google, we learned that to make dogs throw up, you can dose them with peroxide. We did, and she threw up a few times outside before settling down on her pillow in the kitchen to gaze at us with mournful eyes.
I think the reason I didn't sleep well was because I was worried about her.
Anyway, when my alarm went off at 9:30 this morning, I was less than thrilled. In fact, I was downright cranky. Mom, Amy and I were supposed to go cross country skiing in a nearby state park, and this morning, I had absolutely no desire to go.
I had every intention of going back to sleep, when I suddenly had a thought: "you should really go, Hol."
Why should I go?
Because it'll turn out well I think.
Honestly? Right now I'm in no condition to go on some family outing. I'm tired and I'm crabby and I just want to lie in bed and pout for the rest of my life.
Just go please. You won't regret it.
Oh, fine.
So I struggled into my long underwear, wool socks, long-sleeved shirt, snow pants, jacket, hat, mittens, goggles, and boots, and we set off.
Wild Rive State Park is really a beautiful place. Even I admitted that this morning, despite my moody impatience.
We've been going there since I was little. Initially, Amy and I would just sit in our big pink sled, plump with layers, and be dragged through the woods by Mom and Dad. As we got older, though, we'd go there to cross country ski, often going on the special nights when luminaries were lined up along the trails.
It had been a while since I had seen the park, though.
In fact, it had been a while since I had skied period.
Once at the head of the trail, I clipped my boots into my skis easily enough, threading my bulky mittens through the straps on my ski poles expertly.
Amy finally managed to wrestle her own boots into her bindings, and then we started into the woods.
Not 10 feet down the trail however, and still in plain sight of the chalet filled with people, I suddenly lost my balance,
flailed my poles uselessly in the air for a few seconds,
and tipped over backwards
landing flat on my back
in the snow.
Now, still being rather cranky, my first inclination was to just remain on the ground and burst into angry, humiliated tears.
What I did instead was start laughing.
I laughed as Mom stuck her pole in my bindings to release my boots so I could stand
I laughed as Amy retrieved my own poles from where they had landed in the deep snow to my left.
I laughed as I turned to see perfect strangers laughing at me from the warmth of the chalet.
And you know what? I felt better after that.
We skied to the visitor's center to look at the fascinatingly disgusting display of pelts and stuffed birds, and then we skied back to the chalet, where we gathered our stuff and walked out to the parking lot.
I don't think I stopped laughing all day.
Sometimes I think that the reason I'm so painfully, annoyingly, incurably uncoordinated is because it helps me not to take myself so seriously.
Nothing gives you perspective quite like a good fall does.
I think the reason I didn't sleep well was because I was worried about her.
Anyway, when my alarm went off at 9:30 this morning, I was less than thrilled. In fact, I was downright cranky. Mom, Amy and I were supposed to go cross country skiing in a nearby state park, and this morning, I had absolutely no desire to go.
I had every intention of going back to sleep, when I suddenly had a thought: "you should really go, Hol."
Why should I go?
Because it'll turn out well I think.
Honestly? Right now I'm in no condition to go on some family outing. I'm tired and I'm crabby and I just want to lie in bed and pout for the rest of my life.
Just go please. You won't regret it.
Oh, fine.
So I struggled into my long underwear, wool socks, long-sleeved shirt, snow pants, jacket, hat, mittens, goggles, and boots, and we set off.
Wild Rive State Park is really a beautiful place. Even I admitted that this morning, despite my moody impatience.
We've been going there since I was little. Initially, Amy and I would just sit in our big pink sled, plump with layers, and be dragged through the woods by Mom and Dad. As we got older, though, we'd go there to cross country ski, often going on the special nights when luminaries were lined up along the trails.
It had been a while since I had seen the park, though.
In fact, it had been a while since I had skied period.
Once at the head of the trail, I clipped my boots into my skis easily enough, threading my bulky mittens through the straps on my ski poles expertly.
Amy finally managed to wrestle her own boots into her bindings, and then we started into the woods.
Not 10 feet down the trail however, and still in plain sight of the chalet filled with people, I suddenly lost my balance,
flailed my poles uselessly in the air for a few seconds,
and tipped over backwards
landing flat on my back
in the snow.
Now, still being rather cranky, my first inclination was to just remain on the ground and burst into angry, humiliated tears.
What I did instead was start laughing.
I laughed as Mom stuck her pole in my bindings to release my boots so I could stand
I laughed as Amy retrieved my own poles from where they had landed in the deep snow to my left.
I laughed as I turned to see perfect strangers laughing at me from the warmth of the chalet.
And you know what? I felt better after that.
We skied to the visitor's center to look at the fascinatingly disgusting display of pelts and stuffed birds, and then we skied back to the chalet, where we gathered our stuff and walked out to the parking lot.
I don't think I stopped laughing all day.
Sometimes I think that the reason I'm so painfully, annoyingly, incurably uncoordinated is because it helps me not to take myself so seriously.
Nothing gives you perspective quite like a good fall does.
Friday, December 24, 2010
No Assembly Required
It's funny to think that almost exactly a year ago, I was lying on the couch at Grandma's, staring at a fake Christmas tree, and blogging about the Minivan Miracle in Marathon, Wisconsin (for the full story, see last year's post).
This Christmas, I'm quite displaced. For one thing, I'm in my own bed. At home. In Minnesota.
Two German Shepherd dogs lie on the kitchen floor. The younger one (who wasn't even alive last Christmas) is sleeping comically on her back with her paws up in the air. The older one sleeps more sedately, and she pricks her ears as I wander past to look at the tree.
Our tree is very real (evidenced by the constant dropping of pine needles, which drives Dad nuts), very tall, and surrounded by presents of various sizes (displaying various levels of wrapping expertise). As I stare at it, bare feet cold against the wood floor, I can't help but think that by this time tomorrow, Christmas will be ending. The magic of the season, which has been present ever since Thanksgiving, will be packed away with the bulbs and nut dishes and empty, sad stockings. The tree will remain for a week or so, but then it too will be cast aside, thrown up and over the deck rail to slowly rot in the snow. In the spring, what's left of the tree will fuel a bonfire down by the lake. By this time tomorrow, all of the presents will be unwrapped. They will be glorious, undoubtedly, but they will lose a little of their glimmer as soon as they are opened.
I've watched quite a few Christmas movies over this past week, and it seems that in every single one, the 'moral' is that Christmas is about more than presents. Christmas is a feeling, a state of mind, and even an action. Christmas, it seems, is good old generosity and kindness all wrapped up in red and green and gold. The 'moral' part of Christmas is truly the part that doesn't dim over time. Generosity doesn't run out of batteries. Kindness can't be cracked or broken. The very best part of Christmas is the lasting part.
So may your caskets remain unblown, may your stockings bulge with promise, and may you enjoy this blessed holiday surrounded by those you love most.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
This Christmas, I'm quite displaced. For one thing, I'm in my own bed. At home. In Minnesota.
Two German Shepherd dogs lie on the kitchen floor. The younger one (who wasn't even alive last Christmas) is sleeping comically on her back with her paws up in the air. The older one sleeps more sedately, and she pricks her ears as I wander past to look at the tree.
Our tree is very real (evidenced by the constant dropping of pine needles, which drives Dad nuts), very tall, and surrounded by presents of various sizes (displaying various levels of wrapping expertise). As I stare at it, bare feet cold against the wood floor, I can't help but think that by this time tomorrow, Christmas will be ending. The magic of the season, which has been present ever since Thanksgiving, will be packed away with the bulbs and nut dishes and empty, sad stockings. The tree will remain for a week or so, but then it too will be cast aside, thrown up and over the deck rail to slowly rot in the snow. In the spring, what's left of the tree will fuel a bonfire down by the lake. By this time tomorrow, all of the presents will be unwrapped. They will be glorious, undoubtedly, but they will lose a little of their glimmer as soon as they are opened.
I've watched quite a few Christmas movies over this past week, and it seems that in every single one, the 'moral' is that Christmas is about more than presents. Christmas is a feeling, a state of mind, and even an action. Christmas, it seems, is good old generosity and kindness all wrapped up in red and green and gold. The 'moral' part of Christmas is truly the part that doesn't dim over time. Generosity doesn't run out of batteries. Kindness can't be cracked or broken. The very best part of Christmas is the lasting part.
So may your caskets remain unblown, may your stockings bulge with promise, and may you enjoy this blessed holiday surrounded by those you love most.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Things I'm Thankful For
Happy Thanksgiving. I recall last year (or was it the year before?) I didn't want to talk about Thanksgiving. Not because I don't love it, but because there didn't seem to be anything new to say about it. Same old food, family, gratitude, etc. Rinse and repeat.
The thing is, though, this year the repeat part is what I'm especially thankful for. I'm thankful that we have a tradition like Thanksgiving that is the same year after year.
Right now I'm laying on my back in my old comfy bed. My laptop is propped on my knees. My throat hurts like the dickens. So does my head. Of course I haven't had so much as a sniffle the whole semester at school, but the instant I was home I got sick. So it goes.
I'm thankful for Nyquil. Is it okay for one to be thankful for drugs?
Other things I'm thankful for (besides the obvious (but still important) friends family health food shelter etc):
1. Sweats
2. Books
3. Cousins that aren't so little anymore
4. Dogs
5. Paul McCartney
6. Optimism
7. Garfield comics
8. The color blue
9. Strangers who smile
10. Part time jobs
11. Snow
Goodnight everyone. I'll see you tomorrow for some mad Black Friday shopping. I'll be the red-eyed one toting the Kleenex box. Hopefully I'll be smiling.
The thing is, though, this year the repeat part is what I'm especially thankful for. I'm thankful that we have a tradition like Thanksgiving that is the same year after year.
Right now I'm laying on my back in my old comfy bed. My laptop is propped on my knees. My throat hurts like the dickens. So does my head. Of course I haven't had so much as a sniffle the whole semester at school, but the instant I was home I got sick. So it goes.
I'm thankful for Nyquil. Is it okay for one to be thankful for drugs?
Other things I'm thankful for (besides the obvious (but still important) friends family health food shelter etc):
1. Sweats
2. Books
3. Cousins that aren't so little anymore
4. Dogs
5. Paul McCartney
6. Optimism
7. Garfield comics
8. The color blue
9. Strangers who smile
10. Part time jobs
11. Snow
Goodnight everyone. I'll see you tomorrow for some mad Black Friday shopping. I'll be the red-eyed one toting the Kleenex box. Hopefully I'll be smiling.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Something Russian
Okay so I'm just going to blog I think. It's about 1:39 a.m. here, and I've been trying to fall asleep for the past 4 hours. No joke. I've done just about everything to try to help myself fall asleep:
I started reading Crime and Punishment.
I put aloe on my sunburn.
I crept out of bed and turned on the air conditioning.
I imagined things.
But if there's one thing I've learned in my almost 20 years of life, it's that there's absolutely no point to tossing and turning in bed when you know you won't be able to sleep.
My Fourth of July (if you'll excuse the abrupt change of topic,) has actually been fairly uneventful (in fact, if you're having trouble sleeping as well, this post may help you). We spent part of the weekend anchored in Big Bay, Madeline Island, Lake Superior, Wisconsin (sorry but I felt clarification was necessary). While Mom and Dad chatted and waded on shore with a bunch of other, older boaters, Amy and I pretty much sat on the back deck with the dogs and read all day Saturday. Hence the sunburn.
We headed back to the harbor Saturday night, and I happily slept through the first few hours of the Fourth. This morning (or yesterday morning technically, but you know what I mean) I awoke to the boat rocking fairly violently. Apparently, there was some sort of storm coming, so we decided to just pack up and start the drive home early so as to avoid it. While everyone else carried stuff to the car, I sat by the dogs to make sure Ruby didn't do another nose dive into the water (she did one Saturday morning and one of our neighbors had to rescue her; she can swim and all, but since she was tied up the leash was sort of strangling her as she paddled).
Once we were home and unpacked, I promptly got into bed and slept for three hours (certainly a factor of my current insomnia). After dinner we played Mexican train, and then drifted off to do separate things. I showered and headed back to bed. And here I am, 4 hours later. Still here, still awake.
You know, I wouldn't mind this at all if I weren't so sure that work will be an absolute nightmare tomorrow if I'm exhausted from lack of sleep. I really do like this time of night (or day (again, if we're being technical)).
Crime and Punishment, eh (gosh, I fail at segues)? I guess I can elaborate on that a bit. I got the book for a graduation present from a neighbor who lives down the street from me. It was actually really sweet of him to give it to me; I don't know him especially well or anything like that. It's a beautiful edition, too. Heavy and green and embossed with gold on the side. Beautifully intimidating.
I've been meaning to read it for this past year, but just haven't got around to it. It is a rather large undertaking. It is Russian. But I'm hoping that if I make a goal of getting through a few chapters a day, and if I have another book going on the side, it won't be too bad. Oh no, I'm sorry if I'm making this out to be a punishment (no pun intended with the title) of sorts. I'm sure that I'll enjoy it once I get started (it's not a classic for nothing), it's simply that with books like this, getting started is usually the tough part.
What is really making me adamant about reading Crime and Punishment (you might as well know before you erect a statue in my honor), is that I had a dream about it the other night. I don't remember much of the dream, just that in it I read Crime and Punishment, and I was telling someone that I had read it, and they were quite impressed with me. That's it.
Above all else, though, I think I'm slightly being guilted by the fact that a 19-almost-20-year-old English major who has never read anything Russian is slightly disappointing, and slightly at a disadvantage to all the other 19-almost-20 English majors who have read heavy Russian novels.
Alright, I think I'll leave off on the rambling and try once again to get to sleep.
A final shout out to the neighbors: the Fourth of July has been over for two hours and twelve minutes now. Please cease the fireworks and the wild hollering so that your lovely neighbor's upcoming attempt to drift off will not be in vain. Thanks much.
I started reading Crime and Punishment.
I put aloe on my sunburn.
I crept out of bed and turned on the air conditioning.
I imagined things.
But if there's one thing I've learned in my almost 20 years of life, it's that there's absolutely no point to tossing and turning in bed when you know you won't be able to sleep.
My Fourth of July (if you'll excuse the abrupt change of topic,) has actually been fairly uneventful (in fact, if you're having trouble sleeping as well, this post may help you). We spent part of the weekend anchored in Big Bay, Madeline Island, Lake Superior, Wisconsin (sorry but I felt clarification was necessary). While Mom and Dad chatted and waded on shore with a bunch of other, older boaters, Amy and I pretty much sat on the back deck with the dogs and read all day Saturday. Hence the sunburn.
We headed back to the harbor Saturday night, and I happily slept through the first few hours of the Fourth. This morning (or yesterday morning technically, but you know what I mean) I awoke to the boat rocking fairly violently. Apparently, there was some sort of storm coming, so we decided to just pack up and start the drive home early so as to avoid it. While everyone else carried stuff to the car, I sat by the dogs to make sure Ruby didn't do another nose dive into the water (she did one Saturday morning and one of our neighbors had to rescue her; she can swim and all, but since she was tied up the leash was sort of strangling her as she paddled).
Once we were home and unpacked, I promptly got into bed and slept for three hours (certainly a factor of my current insomnia). After dinner we played Mexican train, and then drifted off to do separate things. I showered and headed back to bed. And here I am, 4 hours later. Still here, still awake.
You know, I wouldn't mind this at all if I weren't so sure that work will be an absolute nightmare tomorrow if I'm exhausted from lack of sleep. I really do like this time of night (or day (again, if we're being technical)).
Crime and Punishment, eh (gosh, I fail at segues)? I guess I can elaborate on that a bit. I got the book for a graduation present from a neighbor who lives down the street from me. It was actually really sweet of him to give it to me; I don't know him especially well or anything like that. It's a beautiful edition, too. Heavy and green and embossed with gold on the side. Beautifully intimidating.
I've been meaning to read it for this past year, but just haven't got around to it. It is a rather large undertaking. It is Russian. But I'm hoping that if I make a goal of getting through a few chapters a day, and if I have another book going on the side, it won't be too bad. Oh no, I'm sorry if I'm making this out to be a punishment (no pun intended with the title) of sorts. I'm sure that I'll enjoy it once I get started (it's not a classic for nothing), it's simply that with books like this, getting started is usually the tough part.
What is really making me adamant about reading Crime and Punishment (you might as well know before you erect a statue in my honor), is that I had a dream about it the other night. I don't remember much of the dream, just that in it I read Crime and Punishment, and I was telling someone that I had read it, and they were quite impressed with me. That's it.
Above all else, though, I think I'm slightly being guilted by the fact that a 19-almost-20-year-old English major who has never read anything Russian is slightly disappointing, and slightly at a disadvantage to all the other 19-almost-20 English majors who have read heavy Russian novels.
Alright, I think I'll leave off on the rambling and try once again to get to sleep.
A final shout out to the neighbors: the Fourth of July has been over for two hours and twelve minutes now. Please cease the fireworks and the wild hollering so that your lovely neighbor's upcoming attempt to drift off will not be in vain. Thanks much.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Ruby
I came home for Easter today. Rode on a bus for 3 and 1/2 hours, then drove in a car with Mom for another 45 minutes. I read, I listened to my ipod, I talked.
Then I walked into the kitchen of my own home to find my dad sitting on the tile floor, holding a puppy in his lap. A new, nameless, adorable German Shephard puppy.
I was so surprised I didn't know what to say. I petted Annie (our 8 year old dog) first, so she wouldn't be too jealous when I moved on to the puppy.
I think you forget how very precious baby animals (and humans) are until you hold one again.
After the introductions, we all sat down at the kitchen table and tried to think of names. We suggested name after name, and then rejected all of them. Finally I mentioned the name Ruby. Everyone kind of liked it, but we weren't completely sure, so we kept thinking of other ideas.
It wasn't until my sister accidently called the puppy Ruby that we decided to keep the name.
The girl of the hour is asleep right now, with Annie warily watching from her own bed. I have a feeling, despite Ruby's current docility, that it will be a long, puppy-whine filled night.
I think I can handle it.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
A Dog Named Oscar
Do you want to know the thing I miss the most about home while I'm away at college? It's not my family, my dog, or even my books. It's my bed. Or more specifically, my ability to jump unto my bed whilst I'm at home.
Throwing myself on my bed (often after a running start down the hallway) is a long-standing tradition for me. I do it when I'm sad, mad, silly, or just tired.
And though these feelings are present even when I'm in my dorm room, I find that I can't relieve them in the same way. Why not, you ask?
Because of the darn loft bed.
Though I'd like to end on that resounding note, I think I should probably explain the post title. My family has been planning for a while now to get a puppy in the spring. Our current dog, Annie, is 8 years old (which is pretty old for a large dog), and we want to get another dog while Annie's still around so that the puppy can learn from her (though it kills me (no pun intended) to even think of Annie dying...).
Anyway, earlier today, while watching my sister's volleyball tournament, I started to think of possible dog names. My all-time favorite is Atticus. Isn't that just the greatest name for a dog, or for a German Shepherd, more specifically? (All of our dogs have been that breed; they're the best.)
My family unfortunately doesn't like the name Atticus (apparently they don't love To Kill A Mockingbird like I do), so I kept brainstorming. I know I want the dog to be named after something, preferably a book character or a Beatles song. I'm currently reading The Brief Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao. "Oscar!" I thought, "What a cool name for a puppy!" Everyone loved it until my parents decided that we would be getting a female dog because they're less aggressive than males.
Darn it.
Well, here's the female name list so far (though I'm still a tad bent out of shape about the loss of Oscar):
Juno or Juneau (May fly with Mom and Dad-they haven't seen the movie, but they love Alaska)
Jude (Hey Jude-think about it)
Mina (From Dracula-read it!)
Saoirse (An actress I like. Pronounced Seer-sha. No offense to the person, but her name is also great for a dog.)
Farrah (I'm kidding. Mostly.)
Lucy (Though I think this name is already fairly popular for dogs, and I want something original.)
Yoko (Hahahaha)
Liesl (Very German. Appropriate?)
Rosie (Yes, I had to sneak in some Neil Diamond.)
Okay, that's all I've got. Maybe you have some suggestions? Props for allusive names.
Throwing myself on my bed (often after a running start down the hallway) is a long-standing tradition for me. I do it when I'm sad, mad, silly, or just tired.
And though these feelings are present even when I'm in my dorm room, I find that I can't relieve them in the same way. Why not, you ask?
Because of the darn loft bed.
Though I'd like to end on that resounding note, I think I should probably explain the post title. My family has been planning for a while now to get a puppy in the spring. Our current dog, Annie, is 8 years old (which is pretty old for a large dog), and we want to get another dog while Annie's still around so that the puppy can learn from her (though it kills me (no pun intended) to even think of Annie dying...).
Anyway, earlier today, while watching my sister's volleyball tournament, I started to think of possible dog names. My all-time favorite is Atticus. Isn't that just the greatest name for a dog, or for a German Shepherd, more specifically? (All of our dogs have been that breed; they're the best.)
My family unfortunately doesn't like the name Atticus (apparently they don't love To Kill A Mockingbird like I do), so I kept brainstorming. I know I want the dog to be named after something, preferably a book character or a Beatles song. I'm currently reading The Brief Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao. "Oscar!" I thought, "What a cool name for a puppy!" Everyone loved it until my parents decided that we would be getting a female dog because they're less aggressive than males.
Darn it.
Well, here's the female name list so far (though I'm still a tad bent out of shape about the loss of Oscar):
Juno or Juneau (May fly with Mom and Dad-they haven't seen the movie, but they love Alaska)
Jude (Hey Jude-think about it)
Mina (From Dracula-read it!)
Saoirse (An actress I like. Pronounced Seer-sha. No offense to the person, but her name is also great for a dog.)
Farrah (I'm kidding. Mostly.)
Lucy (Though I think this name is already fairly popular for dogs, and I want something original.)
Yoko (Hahahaha)
Liesl (Very German. Appropriate?)
Rosie (Yes, I had to sneak in some Neil Diamond.)
Okay, that's all I've got. Maybe you have some suggestions? Props for allusive names.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
It Might As Well Be Spring
To be completely honest, I've been opposing Spring ever since it dared to show its green head at the end of February. It's not that I'm against the idea of new life, or blooming flowers, or warm weather. It's just that for me, spring has always meant the end of something. The end of school, to be specific.
Yes, you have me. I'm the kid who just about cries on the last day of school, who dreads May beginning in September, and who feels like an era has come and gone with the closing of each school year.
And folks, I'm not ready for my freshman year to be over. It's been really wonderful; perhaps one of the best years of my life. I've been exposed to so many things, I've met so many people, and I've learned so much about myself that I'm loathe to let this beautiful time end.
I realize that I'm still young, and that I still have most of college in front of me, but I have a gut feeling that things won't be the same next year, and that there will be a different quality in the air. You can never, ever go back to the way things were, I suppose.
Anyway, my original point was not to slather on a layer of melancholy, but to inform you that I've warmed up to (if you'll excuse the pun) spring. When it's 60 degrees and you're outside shooting baskets with your dad and the dog is muddy running this way and that way, orange ball rolling against red tongue, you know that spring cannot be all bad.
Here's a bit of an E.E. Cummings poem to make up for it all:
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
Yes, you have me. I'm the kid who just about cries on the last day of school, who dreads May beginning in September, and who feels like an era has come and gone with the closing of each school year.
And folks, I'm not ready for my freshman year to be over. It's been really wonderful; perhaps one of the best years of my life. I've been exposed to so many things, I've met so many people, and I've learned so much about myself that I'm loathe to let this beautiful time end.
I realize that I'm still young, and that I still have most of college in front of me, but I have a gut feeling that things won't be the same next year, and that there will be a different quality in the air. You can never, ever go back to the way things were, I suppose.
Anyway, my original point was not to slather on a layer of melancholy, but to inform you that I've warmed up to (if you'll excuse the pun) spring. When it's 60 degrees and you're outside shooting baskets with your dad and the dog is muddy running this way and that way, orange ball rolling against red tongue, you know that spring cannot be all bad.
Here's a bit of an E.E. Cummings poem to make up for it all:
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
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