the grass could be greener

I have the day off work so this morning I put on my purple sundress and rode my bike to Marketplace to pick up a few things (mostly just an excuse to get out of the house... and to scope on Eric working in the bakery).  On the way home a sweat bee or some comparable creature found its way up my dress, got stuck in there, and started stinging my torso -- which is a particularly unfortunate experience when I have handlebars and a loaf of bread hanging from one of them.  To prevent my entire body from puffing up like a singed marshmallow, I grabbed the little stinger (presumably) inside the folds of my dress with my non-bread-holding hand and held it away from my skin all the way up Simonson and into my driveway, hoping to God no one was looking out their living room window at the scene I had created to rival the Polk County Fair going on next to me.

I'm really getting into this summer thing, and even learning to take bugs in stride (believe it or not!)  It's about time, seeing as Ann and I have had an all-access pass to a virtually endless, lush and lively natural habitat, and have hardly taken advantage of it at all.  (It helps that it's just recently gotten steamy enough to stroll the streets at night, and that tick season is by now pretty much over.  We haven't found one in almost a week, and that one was already a surprise again.)  I saw a mama and a baby deer in our driveway the other day, butterflies of every shape and color all over the place, and hummingbirds like bumblebee bullets.  There are beautiful picnic rocks just a few meters behind the llama barn, and the yard is full of playground equipment, cushy grass, wildflowers, and hammock trees.

I'm feeling a lot of decisions looming ahead of me right now.  It feels much less daunting than it did throughout the whole month of May, back at St. Olaf, probably because of the general atmosphere of that place.  Then, I was frustrated and resentful.  This time I'm feeling bittersweet and much sadder about the choices I have to make.  Maybe because of that more carefree, everything-is-beautiful-and-alive summer thing that's happening.

I'm feeling solid about my ability to grip whatever ground I do find with my own tan toes, I'm feeling a forward momentum that is both exhilarating and comforting.  And the best part is it's coming from myself.  At the same time, I'm finding myself clinging desperately to what I've found in these past few weeks/months: a fun but well-balanced lifestyle, a job where I feel at home, a body that is overall happy and supple, a beautiful home, a profound but comfortable relationship with an unbelievably good friend and roommate, and a guy who so far is so heartwrenchingly good that I can hardly bear to think about actually wrenching both of our hearts by leaving in a few weeks.  I'm asking a familiar question a lot these days: what's the use of putting so much of myself into a place, into a job, into a home, into relationships, for such a short time and then yanking it all back out before anything has time to bloom?

(I realize that it's relatively easy to get stuck in that mindset, the "I've put so much into this that I can't pull out even though it's tearing me apart" mindset -- but at this point I'm getting the sinking feeling that I am the one tearing this good life apart.)

The grass often looks greener on the other side, even though a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush.  Besides, the devil you know...

It's hard to make decisions when everything is so up in the air.  Because either way I'm investing in potential.  The difference is, by staying here I'm investing in potential I've seen; to totally pack up and bid au revoir a St. Crotch is to set forth with a blind faith that something good will come somewhere else.  Which I have no doubt it would, because there are good things everywhere and I am setting my whole self to the task of finding them.  Good things like people who look for them.

It's a process, and I have found there comes a moment when the decision just gets made.  I will agonize for days and weeks over choices like this -- measuring all the possibilities, getting excited about one thing after another, following criss-crossing leads...  Usually, eventually, something sticks, and when the moment comes I know what I'm going to do.  (My apologies to those who have historically been dragged along behind me on this wild ride, only to be suddenly released in a dizzy tizzy.)  Earlier in the summer I had to choose whether I would continue working at the Vegetarian before I'd even passed a shift at the Winery.  I basically decided to throw all my chips into a blind pot.  It turned out well -- I like my job now and I still say hi to my old boss and coworkers when I see them on the street, which happens relatively often.

What I think I have to do now is figure out which choice I should make for its own sake.  I can spend all the time in the world making lists of pros and cons, ranking my options from simplest to most daunting, run tests on practicality, weigh opportunity costs, calculate cost-benefit ratios...  It's all very scientific.  But what it all comes down to is: what do I really want?

Actually, I haven't quite worked out what it all comes down to.  The point is, instead of deciding on one thing over another because of a scientific analysis of how well it's going to work out in my life, I basically just need to do something.

Which I will.

Now.

daze of our lives

So, I guess a lot of you are probably wondering how my old-fashioned date went -- what was it, two weeks ago?  The simple answer is, it was great.  Homemade root beer in chilled glasses, sharing a hot fudge sundae, abstractly scored mini golf, Cars 2 (which turned out to be a greater movie than I dared anticipate, full of puns and hilarious references).  He drove me home and walked me to my door and went home.  Truly novel.  I can't remember the last time somebody was happy just holding my hand.

Maybe when I was 5 and I couldn't cross the street solo.

OK, I'm exaggerating.  But seriously, it's so refreshing to spend time with a really cute, really funny guy who really just enjoys being around me instead of holding out for night to fall, as it were.  And the more time I spend with him, the more I like him.  I'm surprised by him every day, and so far they're only good surprises.  I can tell that I'm still relatively guarded, like I can hardly believe that he's real and not just fronting.  But I do believe it, when it comes down to it.  And right now I'm just in awe.  Which is mainly why I haven't written in almost a week: I'm dazed from the heat and a series of really great dates.

getting out

I've spent a lot of time at work these past few days talking to people -- maybe all of us are trying to distract ourselves from the heat.  Anyway, someone in a book I read recently said there's a reason people talk a lot about the weather.  It's always relevant and human, automatic common ground: "Hey, you're sweating? Me too!"

On Sunday a couple of guys sat at the patio bar to smoke and eat hamburgers and watch Ari and I empty melted ice out of a six-foot beer canoe.  It was so hot and if I'd been at home I would have been soaked by the end.  As it was, we were toying with the line where it became throwing ice water at each other.  The one guy was pretty chatty, obviously the alpha male.  His name is David and he told me that he grew up in this town -- his first job was at Pizza Man, right next door.  He left to go down to the Cities and work, but he's back now.  "I swear I never wanted to come back here," he said, "but now I am."  I got the feeling there was more to it, but I didn't push him because the point was the feeling that you can never escape.

I said I knew what he meant and told a story about coming back to college in Minnesota after moving far, far away when I was 7 years old, but I was really thinking about Amsterdam, and how a huge part of me wants nothing more than to go back.  But those of us who have figured out how to escape for real often wrestle with an opposite problem: how to return from self-exile.  Lupe Fiasco is singing about going to war for the ghetto boys and girls, which is something Ludacris also sang about once upon a time and maybe still does -- but that's a bit of a different ball game from hoes in clubs and ridiculous suits and cars.

The couple who came in after David and Mike had a son who just graduated from St. Thomas, who now lives at home and doesn't have a job.  They seemed concerned about him, jealous and impressed that I have found a way to use my time and energy constructively.  (The conversation went kind of like, "Well, you didn't study to wait tables..."  To which I replied, "Yeah, but I need a break!"  They smiled and said, "Good for you!")  They expressed envy at the emphasis our generation places on studying abroad, and said they wished they'd had the opportunity to live Somewhere Else for a couple of months.  I told them about my parents picking up and leaving, and I told them about Woodstock...  But they've lived in the Twin Cities for most of their lives, and probably always will.

On Monday it was just me out front and Eric in the kitchen and a guy came in and ordered a Canadian Crown 7 and a chicken sandwich.  He knew Eric (half the people who come in seem to know Eric) and came to pick him up to run equipment.  But while Eric finished up a few orders, we got to talking.  He told me how he spent the morning roofing and at 11:30 they called it quits because it was just too hot to stay up there tarring shingles.  Turns out that's his day job -- his night job is bartending at the Tavern, and he gets his 8 hours of sleep in one- or two-hour chunks throughout the day.  "What I need to do is get a new job so I can quit both and just work that one," he said.

"So if you could do anything," I said, "what would it be?  What's your dream job?"  Thinking that's the kind of question people stop asking once you're halfway through college.  Because we're too scared to answer it once we know the stakes.

"Welllll... I used to have an auto body shop," he said, and told me how he turned it around from losing $10,000 a year to making $40,000+ per year.  Two years back, he told me, he got caught in some "corporate downsizing."  The guy who works his job now makes half as much as he used to.  "But if I ever did auto body again, I'd have my own shop.  I'm not working for anybody again."  He'd been burned and was obviously still nursing the scars, like someone heartbroken who can hardly believe in love anymore.  He perked up after a moment, switching tack: "A guy I graduated with works for a boat company and his only task is to go out on the weekends and test out boats, just tool around on the lake all day.  So I guess my dream job would be to test drive motorcycles and ATVs, that kind of thing.  But if I had enough money I'd retire and have fun, do all the things I don't have time to do now."

At Logger's last night Ann and I met a bunch of actors from the theater.  A jolly gray-bearded man with glasses who'd come into the restaurant the day before asked the same question: "So you didn't study to wait tables...?"  (I love the phrasing.  Never fails.)  And in turn I gave the same reply: "I'm just figuring it out.  I'm not worried about it."  I used to say that defensively, to cover up the fact that I actually was worried about it.  But now I actually mean it.  I'm not worried.  I'm making more money than I spend so I can put some away.  I'm in shape, eating well, having fun, meeting people every day.  I hardly blink at ticks and flying insects anymore.  I haven't cried in at least a week, which in my case is sometimes more a sign of dysfunction than success, but mainly my life is keeping a pleasant rhythm and tempo these days.  I'm in tune, overall, and I'm gathering steam and ideas to take on the next step when it comes.  But I'm not running to meet it.  "Hey, I'm still figuring out my life too!" said the gray-bearded man.  "These kids are all worried about what they're going to do with their lives but really, we're all just figuring it out!"

We struggle with dreams, because sometimes they don't come true and then we feel like idiots.  We can't seem to situate ourselves at the happy medium between shooting for the stars and getting comfortable.  So many of us spend our lives striving for something so far-off we never get there, and then we never are anywhere for a second.  On the other hand, so many of us get stuck in not being worried about it, to the point of doing nothing ever.

And maybe some people balance the equation.

naked days

I'm writing from Day 3 of a forecasted week-long heat wave of sit-and-sweat proportions.  It feels mildly apocalyptic.  (Is anybody sensing a theme here??  I'm increasingly convinced that something big is about to change -- from an explosion of "we might not have tomorrow" pop songs to theories that cell phone towers are causing a drastic increase in tornadic activity to a struggling capitalist economy, it has to, right?  Something's gotta give...)

Everything is sweating.  People, glasses, cans and bottles, toilets, buildings, the ashtray at the library, our upstairs windows this morning...  I've been working long days since the heat wave set in and I'm sure I drink gallons of water, only to sweat it all out almost instantly.  I get home and spend the evening moving as little as possible, wearing as little as possible while simultaneously trying not to get ravaged by mosquitoes and potential bed spiders (Ann is convinced, but I'm willing to attribute the rampant bites to the fact that we were hanging out on the patio on Friday night).  The wind in my face on the way down the hill to work in the morning is a welcome stirring in the otherwise heavy air, but even the breeze is hot, like a desert wind but with water molecules filling it up instead of sand.  It's like monsoon, without the rain.  Everything is sticky.  Everything is growing mold.  Milk sours almost instantly outside the fridge.  Ice melts in minutes.  We sweat standing perfectly, painfully still.

the end of an era

So, last night Harry Potter 7 Part II aired at midnight on about 20084466 screens at Oakdale's Carmike Cinema alone, not to mention on screens nationwide.  On July 13, before the movie had even been released for public viewing, the movie had already sold more than thirty-two million dollars worth of tickets.

Honestly, it wasn't even that good.  There were some filming bloopers, some unedited moments, the screenplay was mediocre compared to some of the other movies -- part I, for example.  Hilarious moments abounded, yes, but the second part of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is not exactly supposed to be funny.

But we grew up with Harry Potter.  I read the first book mere months before my 11th birthday, all in one sitting in the blue vinyl recliner in the living room of a house we rented for barely one summer.  I spent the entire fall planning out my trip to Hogwarts when I got my acceptance letter, delivered by owl, on the morning of November 25, 2000.  It never came, but the annual adventures of Harry Potter & Co. arrived like aging clockwork.  I devoured each book as if it was the latest letter from my adventurous wizarding alter ego, or a friend on the run in exotic countries and planets galaxy-wide.

OK, maybe I'm taking it to the next level (I will gladly accept Harry Potter nerd-hood), but I'm not the only one and anyway my peers had the unique experience of having our adolescence shared and in some instances defined by a book series.  It's like J.K. Rowling planned it.

...Wait...

Anyway, it's done now, and since Harry's cohort is now over driving age, over drinking age, and considerably over the legal age to use magic outside of Hogwarts,  we'll be hard-pressed to find something else to look forward to.  Car-rental age?  Careers we love?  Our desperate thirties?  ...For Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, Rupert Grint, etc. to actually be old enough to have three kids catching the Hogwarts Express?  Maybe in 15 years WB will release the box-office smash "Harry Potter: Epilogue."

We'll just have to wait and see...

courtship

I just got asked on a real, live date.  My first real live date in the real live world.

"Oh, were you thinking of going out to dinner?" I asked on the phone after work today.  (He asked me out last night after we'd been hanging all day with a group of sweet people.)

"Well, that's part of the plan," he said slyly, then proceeded to suggest that we go out to a drive-in diner with a mini-golf course right next door.

"I'll be at your door at 7, then, you know how it goes," he said.

I'm dying.


On a completely different note, I'm cursing the thought that crossed my mind back in the "I'm feeling overqualified" days.  Note to everyone who ever smacktalked waitressing, or ever considered working as a server: show me the person who is overqualified for serving.  I don't think that person exists.  Somehow, my best is always just short of Good Enough.

The upcoming weekend marks Wannigan Days, a festival weekend full of events, music, shows, games and contests, fireworks -- you name it, we've got it.  Not to mention what will feel like 746599 people blazing through the town and blazing through the restaurant wanting good service and good food.

Not that they won't get it, necessarily...  But speaking of blazing, Saturday's low is 100 degrees -- we're betting on 110°.  Let's hope we all make it out alive.

roll with the punches granola: not available in stores

I posted letters to a few of my homes today.  As I addressed one letter to my mom in Delaware and another one to Mrs. Greco in Amsterdam, with a return address I paid for in person, with my name on the application, I actually laughed at the thought that I've received mail at every address on those envelopes.  And those aren't even half of them!

When we were little and had spent hours/days/weeks in the car, my parents would turn around and say, "You guys are such troupers!"  I've always taken pride in this statement, although it's found expression in my life in different ways as I grow up.

This weekend Ann and I had some guests from Northfield, good friends of mine from freshman year.  Isaac and Matt are Sudanese, and on Saturday Matt was giddy with excitement about South Sudan's independence!  Needless to say we celebrated with them.

They were in awe of our lifestyle -- the fact that we drink out of jars; that we don't have air conditioning, TV or internet; that we eat very little meat; that we ride our bikes almost everywhere.  "You guys live so old-school!" they called from the patio above us as we pumped up our bike tires for a quick jaunt downtown to the farmer's market on Saturday morning.  They spent most of the day and night taking turns sticking their faces in front of the fans in our kitchen.

It was good to have them here, but it's definitely harder to feed three boys on top of the usual two of us -- especially when those boys don't like vegetables.  It's harder to share a bathroom with those boys as well, and on Sunday morning I walked into said bathroom to find the entire thing soaked and steamy because Matt had taken a shower even though we took the curtain down to make it feel less cramped.  Who knows what towel he used, but several of the ones we had hanging in there were slightly soaked.

They also don't eat granola, but Ann and I kept the canister on the counter all weekend so we'd see the label: "Roll with the Punches Granola."  It's been a good reminder on multiple occasions, and as Ann said while we were washing the dishes and reorganizing the food cupboard after they left yesterday morning, "We can dance with them all night... but we also make our own granola."  The main ingredients: honey, oil, vanilla, ginger, craisins, almonds, rolled oats, and a punch of good nature.  Crunchy granola girls who drink out of mason jars still can dance, and quite well too if I do say so myself.

what's luv

My handlebars are gummy and they crumble off and stick to my hands like tar.

***

I opened at the winery today and while I was cutting lemons in the kitchen Greg strode in purposefully as always and said, "There's one on the patio, did you see that?  He looks lonely."

I guess he did, so I poured him an iced tea and after a brief unsuccessful search for refill bar napkins I went out and asked him where he's from.  He asked my name and told me his middle name is Clair and then we talked about name heritage, and I ended up asking what he does.  His reply was, "What do I do?  Ha.  I'd like to see you guess."

I kind of hate guessing, but I thought for a second and suddenly it came to me: "A writer?"

"Yes, I am a writer!  I actually just submitted an article to a journal...  If that will give you any further hints."

Turns out he is a sociologist, and his article is about collegial relationships, and he found that the value of said relationships comes from the time colleagues spend focusing on the relationship itself and not the transactional nature of the relationship.

Hear, hear.

I love my job.

***

Yesterday I was in such a funk, for some unknown reason seeing as it was the only night this week I didn't do something stupid like run around 'til all hours, drinking a little more than I probably should have, hanging out with new friends until 2:30 in the morning and then getting up with Ann at 6:45 and working all day...  But by the time I got to the library and checked my email I could hardly process all the messages I had waiting for me.

And then Spencer messaged me.  For those of you who don't know, he's the catalyst for my realization that love and heartbreak is a big damn deal.  He's the one I've been hung up on for at least two years now.  He's incredible, and maddening, and utterly terrible for me at least at this point in my life.  He's the one that really drives home how irrational caring for someone can be, and how it's never cut and dry.  As much as I don't ever want to fall out of touch with him I don't think we have much to say to each other right now, and apparently I'm still angry about the way things turned out.

Only when I talk to him, though.  The rest of the time, my life is finally starting to be about me again.  I mean it.

***

The police chief's neighbor kids were manning a lemonade stand when I got home.  Now, I have entrepreneurial tendencies, and let me tell you how much I love and respect lemonade stands.  That is the #1 local business I like to support, and the #1 candidate for my first business investment if I ever have any cash lying around.  Plus, I just love lemonade!

The business angel (Mom) smiled at me as I leaned my bike gently in the gutter to make the transaction.  "You just moved in at the end of the street?" she asked.  "I see you and your friend riding your bikes all the time.  Do you work downtown?"

I love small towns.  I love our neighborhood.

***

We invited The Boys (which is getting confusing now that Isaac and William are supposed to show up any minute now, but apparently haven't left Northfield yet) over for strawberry shortcake.  The biscuits were fresh and from scratch and the strawberries got smushed in the plastic bag on the way back from the farmer's market last weekend.  But smushed strawberries make the best sauce.  They were tart and fresh and sweet and delightful.

Ann and I were running around the house wearing more clothes than usual singing "What's Luv" when the boys showed up at the door, and I couldn't have been more pumped to see the three of their faces poking around the doorjamb -- especially since they originally tried to just walk right in.  I love having walk-in friends.  Much better than a walk-in closet!

And they like fun!  We had a high school night, running around the park, swinging on the monkey bars.  We've started a list of fun things to do, which they're into: tubing on the Apple River, hiking and swimming in Interstate Park, mini golfing up on 8, going to see Harry Potter in the theater at midnight, playing Cranium, setting fireworks and playing glow-in-the-dark frisbee...

I love how we can just call them up and say, "Come over," and they're there.

***

I haven't been keeping up with the tuna.

List Cont'd
6. Tuna roll
7. Tuna sauce over biscuits
8. Surf-n-turf

We love tuna.

And Greek yogurt.

And Roll-with-the-Punches granola, and the boy at the co-op who let both Ann and I buy exactly the 1/2 cup of wheat germ we needed to make it.

What are we supposed to use wheat germ for?!

living the high life

Today is the day.

I've had a date for four years, since 7/7/07, at the Lunchbox Cafe in Amsterdam (which is probably closed by now anyway) that I'm going to have to miss.  Sorry, List Club.

On 7/7/07 Brigid, Dee, Chelsea, Jen, and Emma planned to meet up in four years for lunch, same time, same place (I think it was 11:30, so I guess I've already missed it even by Wisconsin time).

So where are we?

Brigid's in Potsdam, waitressing.

Dee is in seclusion in Alaska studying Kittlitz's murrelets, whatever those are.

Emma is in Amsterdam making mad dinero at Target.

Chelsea is in Amsterdam, doing something I don't know about.  Figuring out her life, probably, like all of us are doing in our own way.

Who knows where Jen is, or the last sighting.  She's probably somewhere interesting overachieving as usual.

And me?  I'm in rural Wisconsin, waitressing, setting off sparklers in my driveway, riding my bike all over town, making granola before work in the morning and cooking up ridiculous entrees for dinner at night.  I'm meeting people, slowly but surely, getting to know myself again, better.  Finding out what I like and what I'm good at.

It's starting to feel silly, putting a considerable amount of time and energy into setting up my living space and my life, building relationships, actually getting involved in the community here, when I'm presumably going to be hightailing it out of here in August.  I'm so tempted to stay here, keep working my job and find another one more specific to my interests.  Find a more permanent and practical living situation.  Get to a point where the people I meet (like boys who went to high school with Emilyrose and now take us out to Loggers' and buy us rounds of Miller High Life) can count on the fact that I'll be around for awhile.  I like it here, despite all the small-town drama, the near-death weather experiences, and the long-ass mountain-bike-trail driveway.  And while I once received a text message that read: "You travel like no one I've ever met," I don't want to get in the habit of bouncing around like my family did.  I want to be part of a community so I can be old in a cafe with people I've known my entire life.  I desperately want to be accepted somewhere.  Thanks to the person who pointed that out to me.

On the other hand, I'm finally figuring out, here, that I can be an Interesting Person -- a real, alive, existentially interesting person -- and still be accepted.

Or at least, I can be interesting, not your typical waitress-in-a-box, and still get mad tips.

cohabitat

So I have lived with people before.  But conducting all of life's business with another person is another story entirely.

Ann and I trade off paying for groceries, gas, drinks, toilet paper, and whatever else we both use.  We cook and eat together, which has been an endlessly interesting and enriching experience.  For example, Ann ate rice and beans almost every day for four months because it was cheap and easy; I have zero interest in doing that.  I think it's healthy to like food and not to get sick of eating the same thing over and over.  So I encourage creativity and well-balanced meals with animals, vegetables, and minerals.  Ann is gung-ho about this except when we have leftovers or aging pasta sauce chilling out in the fridge that need to be eaten before they get moldy.  Other interesting moments include the fact that yogurt is one of my main food groups, and Ann habitually thought it was gross until about 3 weeks ago (same with tuna).  Ann's house growing up was bare of condiments and milk with fat, and she had never eaten Spam before -- not the case for me.  Today's disparity is that I like to mix fruit in anything I can think of, especially breakfast cereal, and Ann, in her own words, is "weird about fruit."  I.e., she really only likes to mix fruit with anything if it's craisins.

My friend Amanda lived with her boyfriend for awhile and they had almost no food in the house, because they worked opposite shifts (she during the day, he overnight) and liked opposite foods.  So they each bought what they wanted when they wanted it, and just ate different food -- except in the case of salt and vinegar chips and Arizona iced tea, which could be found in the apartment in spades.

Ann and I have different ways of doing things, of organizing the kitchen, of storing and using food, of measuring and cutting and serving and eating and shopping and cleaning up broken glass.  We laugh sometimes about the language we've developed to discuss and negotiate these delicate balances,  one part passive-aggressive, one part brutally honest, one part careful or analytical, using stories about our upbringing and our past living experiences.

Cohabitat.  We share space.  We have to live in each other's messes, which so far hasn't caused much stir.  We share tasks, and while the division of labor rarely falls out of balance, we each get used to doing certain things and letting the other do what she does.  For example, Ann mows the lawn.  I do laundry.  She makes tuna sauce and coffee.  I make oatmeal.  Ann drives the Rover.  I keep track of our joint expenses.

We do everything together, we go everywhere together.  Our separate time at work with other people is necessary and refreshing, and every now and then it works out so one of us has the day off when the other doesn't.  Although we rarely get sick of each other, the alone time is welcome and helps us to recalibrate, reset and breathe our own fresh air before coming back together.

These are some valuable life lessons about living in community.  Not always easy, but endlessly interesting and more than worthwhile, when it comes down to making rhythms out of the drumbeats of our lives.

the last [two hundred and thirty-] five years

Five years ago on the Fourth of July I had just got back from India/Germany, maybe a week before, and it was the first time I’d seen Alex since being back.  It was a Tuesday.  I still wasn’t used to seeing white people everywhere.  We walked to Fariello’s ice cream shop for sundaes and stopped at Ben Marsh’s house on the way home.  (The last time I'd seen Ben we were dating, and his new girlfriend was over.  Awkward…)  Then we decided we wanted smoothies, so we walked to Hannaford to buy frozen raspberries and by the time we got there we were so wiped we just went to Applebee’s for dinner instead, and called my mom to come pick us up when we were done.

Four years ago I must have spent the Fourth of July in Amsterdam, but I don’t remember exactly what I did.  I kind of think I was with Alex that year too, and we laughed about it.  I think that within a week I was about to take my driver’s test, pack up my car, and move out.  Independence indeed.

Three years ago I spent the Fourth of July somewhere in India with my family and the Rollinses and Alex Steele.  Maybe Manali…  Actually, I think that was the day I went out on a zipline across the river and then we hiked all the way to the temple full of cows before it started pouring and we spent the afternoon in a café with a giant old tree growing out the middle of it.  But I can’t be sure.  We really could have been almost anywhere in the northern end of the country at that time.  Indian Independence Day (August 15) was a much bigger deal that year.

Two years ago I spent the Fourth of July mountain biking down Cotopaxi, one of the world’s highest active volcanoes, and arrived back in La Mariscal to the unexpected street-shaking rhythms of Quito’s Gay Pride Parade.  To celebrate my country’s independence amidst this ruckus, I traded off evening shifts at the hotel with Taylor to pitch in for 2x1 pitchers of Pilsener at Papaya, the closest internet café in the district.  Again, Ecuadorian Independence Day caused a much noisier splash.

Last year I spent the Fourth of July in New York City.  We got up before the crack of dawn and rode the train through sunrise to walk through 3 different Urban Outfitters and a few other stores as well.  (At Forever 21 I bought the pair of shorts I’ve been wearing this whole summer.  Good investment.)  We visited the Brooklyn Bridge (dangerously close to where my V is not deep enough to go – into Hipsterville) too near sundown to make it all the way across town for the fireworks, so Dan and Crystal and I glimpsed the last fading sparks before heading back to ravage Whole Foods for a late dinner, and then caught the train home.

This year, I’m spending the 4^th of July in Wisconsin.  The Erickson family of Hudson took me out on their boat to see the fireworks this evening.  The river full of nearly invisible boats, we commented on each type of firecracker – a totally different viewing experience.  And in my head I went all over the country, all over the world.  To my “home” at 249 Guy Park Avenue in Amsterdam, New York.  To mortifying, but also somehow kind of pleasant (and life-changing?!), moments with a guy named Ryan.  To the possibility of someday drinking with my brother…

Not a linear progression or geographically-organized route for my thoughts to take by any means, but definitely natural, and oddly in rhythm with the river’s rippling and fizzling firework shells.  Definitely part of my Independence.

Tomorrow I will spend the day serving food to what feels like hundreds of people passing through St. Croix Falls and what will more likely turn up as 30 or 40 on my clock-out report at the end of the day.  Maybe when I get home Ann will have mowed the lawn, or will be mowing it, and we might have some beers and/or light off a few firecrackers.  I feel American, and after a considerable amount of time feeling confused/ashamed/frustrated about my identity, I’m proud of that fact.  (Even though, yes, I’ve spent only half of the last 6 American Independence Days in this country, and I’ve spent half of them also with Alex, amusingly, and not ironically I’ve spent more than half of them doing my own thing.  My family has always seemed to struggle a bit with established or institutional traditions.)

It’s been 235 years since 1776.  Maybe one of those tacky “you’re-getting-old” jokes on a greeting card would be ironic enough for a hipster 2011 birthday party in the USA…?

surviving the apocalypse, part ii

Cont'd from July 2...

When the wind took a brief respite from whipping signs, branches, and can recyclers up Main Street, Ann ran outside to roll up the windows in the Rover (which would debatably get us home at some point in the evening) and lock up my bike.  The wind started to pick up again, now accompanied by body-quaking thunderclaps and a gathering deluge.

In an effort not to get stuck in the drugstore for the rest of the night, we decided to make a break for the Tavern up the street.  "On the count of three..."

On our way up the street we heard fireworks going off behind the hardware store, and assumed some hoodlums were taking advantage of the apocalypse to wreak a little extra havoc.  After a split second, though, we realized it was actually a power line sparking like the fourth of July.  As we took cover over beers safely inside our usual haunt we saw firetrucks racing up the street toward the impending Great St. Croix Fire of 2011.  (Fortunately they managed to get it under control -- the town survived.)

A small crowd had gathered to wait out the tempest over beers and strawberry 7-up specials.  The bartender recognized us, as did one of the Winery's cooks and a curly-haired boy who spends almost as much time at the library as we do.  He put a dollar in the jukebox to play two Lynyrd Skynyrd songs while everybody hankered for cigarettes and stared in disbelief at the carefully manicured downtown being ripped apart by wind and drowned by rain pouring from the sky.

When the rain let up a bit more, we ran back up the block to rent a season of Weeds and order a BBQ chicken pizza, and then dashed madly one more block back to the Rover, praying it would get us home.  We chugged up the hill with our fingers and our toes crossed, not sure whether to be more nervous at the blinding camera-flashes of lightning or the steady whine threatening to drown out the thunder from under the hood.  By the time we reached the entry to our driveway Ann had discovered that our brakes were virtually useless, so we rolled to a stop roughly in the right place behind the house and darted inside as fast as we could, fumbling with the lock in the darkness.  We were soaked by the time we slammed the door behind us.

We unplugged everything, put off our showers until the morning even though we were both coated in sand from the tornado, and gathered candles and flashlights around us while the storm raged outside.  Every door and window that ever rattled in the house sounded like something was trying to get in.

In the morning, though, we woke up to copper sunlight streaming in through our library window.  I scrubbed the sand off my skin and out of my hair, although I didn't manage to get it all out of my eyes before I got to work.  And as I set off for town to hit the farmer's market, the library and a long day of work at 11, the whole drenched yard sparkled like St. Patrick's Day.

It took me 22 minutes to reach my bike, locked safely to a post outside the quilt shop on Main Street.

We both survived.

surviving the apocalypse

In case you were wondering, it takes approximately 22 minutes to walk downtown from our house.  And that's with a shortcut through the perpetually buzzing field by the assisted living center, which cut the walk by at least 2 minutes.

Now you might be thinking, "But Clara, you ride your bike everywhere.  Why would you walk downtown on a busy morning like today when you could get there in 7 minutes with just a pair of wheels?"  Well, I'll tell you.

I got off work last night just before six, after sweating all day even in Indian Creek's air-conditioned interior, to a gathering darkness in the sky.  The air was even heavier than it had been all day, but I had to write an email and I wanted to see the Atlantis Jazz Quartet play in the park, and say hi to Tony and Ali serving gyros under a tent on the grass.

Ann was going to drive down, since neither one of us was sure I could make it home on my bike, even if I left right away, before lightning rent the sky.  So I rode down to the Overlook, locked up my bike, and sat down at a picnic table with one of the Winery regulars to wait.

She called me frantically, saying, "I just drove the Rover down here and the hood is smoking."

"Where are you?" I asked as the band cast nervous glances over their shoulders at the black clouds racing across the sky and the tornado siren sounding across the river from Taylors Falls.

"You're right across from me.  Come over."

We popped the hood and looked around for the source of a lot of pale yellow fluid dripping steadily out of every crevice and eventually discovered a leak in the brake line.  As we patched it temporarily with gorilla tape I looked up and saw a menacing white-crested cloud advancing speedily on the small crowd frantically packing up lawn chairs and jazz instruments.  By the time I got back there and unlocked my bike, sand was biting my face and bare legs and hanging baskets were starting to blow off lampposts and into the streets.

A young blond mother held one small boy by the hand while her other son, sitting in a wagon behind her, screamed in terror, "AAAAUAAGHGHGHG WE'RE GONNA DIE!  MOM!  WE'RE GONNA DIIIEEEE!"

"We're not gonna die," she assured him firmly as I ran past with my bike, trying in vain to shield my eyes from oncoming sand.  "Hey!  Need a ride?" a man called from the parking lot.

"No thanks, I've got a friend with a car!" I yelled back and turned to see Ann yelling at me, "Drop the bike and run!  We need to get inside!"

"Are you sure?!" I hollered back, even though we were 3 feet away from each other by this point.

"Yes, drop it!  We have to get inside!"

I propped the bike against a garage and we raced across the street breathlessly into Tangen Drug, where the manager grinned at us, "It's bad out there, huh?"  And two teenaged clerks stared wide-eyed out into the tempest.

"I left the windows open in the Rover," Ann said.  In shock we stared out the storefront windows, blinking sand out of our eyes as the tornado siren blared up on our side of the river.

To be continued...