Fall

I love fall, it is an inspiring season.  It's also a busy season.  I've felt such a pull to stop. To sit down under a beautiful tree and watch the leaves float around me.  To write and to create art. 

But it's been so busy.  I've been focused on school and education and getting from one place to the next, and then getting pulled into the trap of believing that the couch is the only recharging station.  I fear this Indian Summer will pass by unappreciated.

I would love to post pictures of some of the incredible scenes I've taken part in this fall - an incredible pink sunset over White Bear Lake, a moment watching Marley sitting still on a bed of leaves in a fall garden scene, a walk along the Mississippi - but I have misplaced my camera.  I'm sure it will appear sometime, but it's been frustrating not to have it.  In lieu of a picture I'll turn to Claire Malroux and a poem of her's that I loved a couple years ago.

In October

October its brilliance
In its arms
     the condemned leaves
     the obsession
with dying beautifully

Whorls of more carnal
     flowers
and regal silhouettes which purify themselves
     at the borders
     in the reachieved rigor of gardens

Birds shriek across
transparencies

Engraved in the actual
in the insubstantial
     grooves
the mechanism cannot fail
even if human gestures
come undone

The obstinate
light
imposes loving hands
upon the cold

Translated from French by Marilyn Hacker

We're Painting the Roses Red!

Today I was admiring the variety of buttery yellows in the sweet corn I was about to eat when it occurred to me that once upon a time foods inspired Crayola colors, not the other way around. 

I purchased the corn yesterday from a farmer’s market near the Exchange Church in Uptown. At one stand filled with particularly beautiful organic vegetables I spent some time admiring the bell peppers, painted in dark greens and purples. The farmer addressed the four-year-old standing next to me, “Have you ever seen a purple pepper?”  The pepper was more beautiful than any of the  coloring book peppers the four-year-old and I are accustomed to seeing at Cub. 

When did we turn into Queens of Hearts, desiring all of our gastronomical pleasures to come in Red no. 40 and Yellow no. 5 ? (The most notorious example is the orange – until I went to Mexico it never occurred to me that our oranges are so abnormally orange.  In Mexico they are yellow and green and they taste like they were made by God.)

I’ve been reading about the speedway to extinction for heirloom seeds and livestock and about the traumatic effects that extinction will have on our palates and health in Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I would like to add one more traumatic effect and that is the loss of color. As the daughter of an artist - a person who finds more value in a purple onion as a painting subject than as a food - it depresses me to think that someday I might be telling my grandchildren mythical tales of enchanted vegetables painted in every color.

                                                                   Mom's radishes

*To Liza, Alice, and Weezie: I promise not to speak another peep on the subject of the book until book club meets and we can discuss it together. Who’s bringing the Bass Lake cheese?

The French Project : Part Deux / or Recap

So after a long drive home from Duluth I rolled into the parking garage just before three o’clock last Friday and I was crevée, totally deflated. I dragged my luggage and groceries into my 83 degree apartment, looked at the mess, looked at the groceries, decided to take a nap. Around 4:30 I rolled out of bed in my 86 degree apartment and committed myself to getting to work. But first I had to shower and reset the air conditioning. Around 5:15 in my 87 degree apartment I started to unload my grocery bags. I also tried resetting the air conditioning. 5:45 my apartment is still a mess, but the chicken is cooked and ready to be broiled, the brown basmati is almost finished, vegetables are chopped and ready to be thrown in the oven. It was 91 degrees in the apartment. I tried resetting the air conditioning. I started to set the table. I was so overheated I kept trying to will the dishes out of their cabinets with my mind power but, obviously, that didn’t work. When the first guests arrived, a little before 6:30, there were a couple of glasses on the table and one stack of plates. It was 95 degrees in the apartment. I couldn’t imagine eating in such heat, no wonder the French don’t eat until after the sun has started to set.

After such an introduction you may guess that the whole night was a flop. Let me assure you, it wasn’t. With my friends and a helpful brother (Lynn’s brother), we carried dishes, music, and food up to the third floor activity room where we spent the evening eating and chatting and enjoying each other’s company. We couldn’t bring the wine into the community room, but by the time we’d eaten through four courses it had cooled down outside and we were able to return to the apartment and catch a breeze. Glasses of wine in hand, somebody actually suggested we play a game. Let me tell you, I have a whole shelving unit full of games I’ve bought in hopes that someone will play with me. I was thrilled by this suggestion and immediately pulled out my latest favorite Hoopla, a Cranium game in which everyone is on the same team playing against the timer.

The games were followed by a celebratory trip to Sally’s for a couple of birthday drinks, Lynn’s birthday. By the time we got home, almost everyone had decided to stay over. So, around 2:30 am, 12 hours after I’d arrived home from Duluth, I tucked everyone into the couches and air mattress, put on a movie, and went to bed. Though I started the evening on empty, a few hours with friends and food restored me. It was great.

I did find out that it is hard to cook on $5 a person, harder if some people bring wine instead of money. Also, already this weekend there is Lumberjack Days and other things to do, so my original ambition to host Friday night dinner every Friday night has been modified. Friday night dinners will happen the second Friday of the month and it will cost $5 per person, bring your alcohol. The next Friday night dinner will be Friday, August 13th (though I think with Renee’s wedding the next day we’ll have to skip the trip to Sally’s that night).

The French Project

The title of my blog, “A little more than 140 characters” is a bit of a nod to Twitter, text messages, and our culture in general. A culture that I, for the most part, support by taking part in – I have a Twitter account I sometimes use, I get a lot of social information from Facebook rather than actually talking to someone, I read headlines and pretend to know what’s going on in the world.

My recent trip to France was as revitalizing as the last. I came home feeling like I was glowing and someone even said, “You have that French glow!” It got me thinking about what is it about lazing about Cahors for two weeks that is so superior to lazing about Minnesota for two weeks. First of all, the obvious answer, is that you’re allowed to be lazy on vacation, I could have gone anywhere in the world and allowed myself the privilege of rest. But there’s something else, the French culture: taking hours to enjoy an outside barbeque dinner with friends and strangers and sheep on the French countryside; taking a real lunch break to meet up at a restaurant in the middle of the day; finishing work with a 15 minute café break with coworkers.


The French I met, this time around, all had good jobs, they were mainly nurses and gynecologists, there was an “Urbanist” thrown in, they worked 9-5 most days of the week, but unlike us Americans, they didn’t define their identities by their work. Upon being introduced to the friends’ of my friends, job titles were not the first evidence of identity. In fact, it was a week and a half into the trip before I learned that Nicolas, my friend’s boyfriend and therefore the excellent cultural guide for my stay, is in the medical field.

Par contre, my introduction was more like this: “Nice to meet you, my name is Abbie, I just finished a year of working with special education kindergarteners and I’m a ballet teacher.”

I’m trying to imagine how much easier it would be to find a job if I weren’t aiming for the top of Abraham Maslow’s pyramid of needs – do I really need to find self-actualization in my job? The idea now seems ridiculous to me. But this is our culture. A culture in which it's not good enough to make enough money to support a healthy lifestyle for yourself and your family, you also have to love your job and get recognition for it. (For example, I could make more money being a trucker or working in waste management than I could doing a variety of other socially acceptable jobs, i.e. wedding planning, but upon being introduced to new people would I rather be 'Abbie the wedding planner' or 'Abbie the garbage truck operator'?)

In this new season of my life, restarting the job search, I’m going to try to be a little more French in my lifestyle. So here it is: The French Project. Every Friday I will cook for anyone who wants to eat dinner together. The goal is to get people together to socialize and enjoy food with each other – real home cooked food that is not spoiled by waitresses waiting to change over your table. Let me know by Thursday of each week if you are coming so I can cook accordingly, and when you come (because, after all, I am unemployed) bring $5 or a bottle of wine.

June 15th - Last day of school

Quotes from the kindergarten room:

"Two and four make six? Ha! What a funny Joke!"
(My little Sammy)

"Does anyone remember what the word 'estimate' means?"
"Um. um. uh. it's the kind of way that an elf talks!"
(Isaiah)

"Hey, can I tell ya somethin'? Can I tell you somethin'? I got a new growl! RAWR!"
(Sammy)

"Duuuh!"
(Mikey)

M and S

I'm nearing the end of my year in the crazy pen, the booger factory, the big stuffy room without air conditioning. I've caught every cold that went through the school this past season without receiving any health benefits. I've carried kicking, screaming, pinching kindergarteners to the principal's office and I've gotten peed on. And this the only place I have ever been at the absolute bottom of the totem pole in terms of position. But it has been a funny year and a great experience. There are fun stories to pass on, Sam and the Fire Truck Man, the abandoned pair of underwear with turds in the hallway, the toot that closed the Starlab, and the political debate. What has been truly enriching has been getting to know my little guys on an intimate level. To learn about how big a personality can be even without the ability to talk or walk or count past ten. To learn how exciting it is to be able to count to ten! Working with M has taught me so much about communication and I've learned how to read his expressions and moods, I've learned how to anticipate his needs, and I've learned how to tell when he's making fun of me. It has been great.

So, if you hear me grumbling in the hall with the other staff members - staff members who are talking about writing letters to the capital to protest the lengthy school year or the lack of air conditioning - just know that I will always consider my year as a special education para as one of my great experiences.

Impossible not to love these boys. Most of the time. :)
M, Z, & S

A Couple of Stories

Sammy can't say words that start with two consonants:

On Fire Safety Day the retired fire chief came to visit the kindergarteners. He brought with him an old Bert doll, some pretend matches, and a semi-functioning electronic dalmatian that would have been totally awesome in the early 90's. The former chief gave the presentation he's given multiple times per year for many years in his old tired voice. At the end of his presentation the kindergarteners were allowed to ask questions. Throughout the presentation I was so proud of my little Sammy, who usually has zero patience, but who managed to sit still through it all. He was the first to raise his hand. I was astounded by the patience he showed while his hand stretched up as far as it could, energy bursting out of his fingertips. I thought, "Call on him, call on him, he can't hold it in much longer." And he couldn't. Suddenly he started yelling in his squeeky little voice, "Hey! Fire F***! Fire F***! Hey, Mr. Fire F*** Man? I gotta ask ya somethin'! Mr. Fire F*** Man, I gotta ask ya somethin'!" Fortunately, unfortunately, the chief didn't hear Sam too well. Those of us who did stood behind the seated children with tears of laughter streaming down our cheeks. According to the Speech pathologist at our school, many parents come to her and ask her to "just please teach my kid how to say truck!."

Politics among 5-year-olds:

Savannah: "Obama is the best president we've ever had."
Jake: "Should've been McCain."
Savannah: "Obama is better"
Jake: "No Mccain is better. Mccain thinks everyone should be treated the same."
Savannah: "No, Obama does"
Abby: "Well, everyone should believe in God."
Dylan: "Well, we all believe in Santa Clause, don't we?"