no place like home

I'm back from my vacation. We returned on Sunday night, after 19 hours of traveling, which included two flights, a long layover in Chicago, and an unexpected two-hour delay on the tarmac. I know our two hours were nothing compared to those poor folks who, a few days earlier, sat on a grounded Continental plane for six hours—from midnight to six a.m. Yowza! Still, my back and knees ached with an unaccustomed sharpness, which lessens a little each day.

That said, the inconvenieces of traveling in the 21st century, coupled with the pains attendant to near-middle age, are well worth it for the adventure and foreign culture.

I'm glad to be home, sleeping in my own bed, drying off with fluffy towels, sharing my bathroom with just one person (or three persons, tops), eating abundant, locally grown produce, not needing to ask "do you speak English?" (every Swede does, still...). The cats are finally adjusting to having us home...Nancy, in particular, has required extra strokes, and I'm not surprised since she'd been abandoned. Though sometimes I swear the cats are wondering where that nice girl who feed them each day has gone.

Stockholm sparkled. Seriously. The city is situated on an archipelego in the Baltic. Water pretty much everywhere you look.

And, Visby—what can I say about Visby? This 13th century town is a hidden treasure. Now I understand its popularity among Swedes. We heard an occasional conversation in French or English, but most tourists were Scandinavian. Funny thing? When you remove the language, Swedes look just like Minnesotans. Perhaps that's a Big Duh, but I found it pretty astonishing. The photo captures the view from our room at the top of the house. The skies were amazingly blue like that every day. I shouldn't complain, but sometimes all that sunniness was downright oppressive.

I'd like to report more now, but I simply don't have the energy. In addition to jetlag, I am wrestling with technology. Due to unforeseen circumstances, such as my camera up and disappearing before the trip, we had to use our Olympus Camedia, a first-generation digital camera that still works perfectly well despite the fact that it's over ten years old and its memory cards are completely obsolete. Nonetheless, were able to buy a few cards on Ebay, and unbeknownst to us, they're corrupt. I can see all 186 photos on my camera, but I cannot upload them to any of our computers. Please don't tell my husband I'm having an expensive data recovery done. Now that I think about it, the price is less than what my therapist will charge as if she has to coach me through letting go. As soon as I have photos, I will post them.

Despite jetlag, I am rapidly reentering Real Life...must run Son #1 to drum lessons.

Stay tuned!

planning for a trip

For months, I have been preparing for our August trip to Sweden. For the most part, preparing for any trip starts with scouring travel guides. We tend not to schlep these doorstoppers on our trip, preferring to cull all the information we gather and create our own more usable document that incorporates sights and restaurants with hotel, flight, and car rental reservations. Also, I have yet to find a publisher that combines the meaty text of Rough Guides or Lonely Planet with the glossy, “I want to go to there” pics of the Eyewitness Guides. So, with some of our recent trips, I have started checking out travel guides from the library.

The first step was picking up travel guides, so I checked out the two that the library branch had on the day I visited—Rough Guide and Frommers. Both proved to be relatively useless. They had the same sort of information, beginning with the physical description of Visby (a walled Medieval city and I’ve often wondered why we need travel guides, visiting a walled Medieval city is all-inclusive but I need to know that there is more than Medieval week activities to do in this city).

In Stockholm, John and I will re-visit favorite sights…the ones that we said we would one day take our kids to see. Vasa, food halls, royal palace with armory, St. George slaying the Dragon. But we only have one day to overcome jetlag and hit these sights before we head to Visby for Medieval Week.

The internet is such a rich place to research a trip and must be changing the face of travel in unexpected ways. Keyword searches for Visby yielded an official site for the town, as well as one for medieval week. Wikipedia has historical, geographical, and meteorological information that is similar to printed travel guides. Blogs are also helpful as they contain uncensored suggestions of “must-dos” and “avoids,” as well as photos to pique the travelers interest.

Other things we do to prepare for a trip include the following:
~ eat the foods
just the one’s we’re familiar with…to whet our literal and figurative appetites. we need to leave ourselves open to discovering new things. salmon, herring, Jansson’s, Engebretsen’s
~ immerse yourself in culture
for Sweden, we’ve listened to music (ABBA, Hives)
~ read some books
aside from travel guides, these often include history, culinary essays and cookbooks, travel essays, memoirs, and fiction
~ brush up on how to say “where is the bathroom”

finishing up work

I can't believe how full this day has been, and it's not even noon yet. The boys had early morning dentist appointments. Just cleaning and fluoride treatments and x-rays. Oh my. Everything looks good for now, but both boys require orthodontic intervention. Then, a mad dash was made to Expo, where the boys are attending summer Discovery Club, so they could make the 9:30 bus for their field trip to Richardson Nature Center. Lucky them! I would rather be in an outdoor classroom than cleaning house and packing. Mad dash to the hardware store to have keys cut for the teenager who is cat sitting while we're away. Then mad dash home for a conference call with the author whose manuscript I have spent the past two months carving up. Deep cleansing breath. And a cup of coffee. My first of the day. I tell myself I probably didn't need the caffeine.

The conversation with the author went better than expected. When I last posted, I was hunkering down to do some serious molding and sculpting, which took five days. Typically during a developmental edit, I will scrutinize the manuscript for logic and clarity, as well as for tone and audience. In this manuscript, each of these elements required a lot of work. I did a fair amount of sentence and paragraph rearranging...all the while, leaving alone the errors in punctuation, spelling, and grammar. Those corrections will come later, when the author has made her revisions and I do a substantive edit, which is when I will make the author's prose sing.

I love what I do, especially when the author says "Thank you for your hard work," and "You made great recommendations that will help me." And, I think it ameliorates the blow of drastic measures, such as cutting an entire chapter. If I were a surgeon, it would be like removing a patient's gall bladder, an organ that, even though it labors for the digestive system, the body can survive without. The author had a chapter that essentially formed the basis of another book, but didn't really fit into this one. I stewed over how to make it work, trying as many different angles as I could come up with, and nothing made sense.

So I made a case to the author for cutting the chapter. Most authors would blow a gasket, feeling like their time had been wasted but also that their very important scholarship would suffer. I'm not joking. I've seen this happen so many times that I worked myself into an anticipatory lather with this manuscript. Giving the author a reasoned decision, though, as well as some time to percolate, may have helped. Either that or she's the most awesome author on the face of the Earth. Or a bit of both. She saw my point of view, but also offered an alternative that I think will work.

But the manuscript is done and out the door so I may take a well-deserved vacation. I had forgotten what it felt like to work like crazy to meet pre-vacation deadlines.

live from Sioux Falls

Just a quick note to say that the boys and I safely arrived in Sioux Falls. The drive—interstate highways in two directions, all the way—was done in just shy of five hours. I have no idea if I was making good time, but we only stopped once. For Blizzards. And, I was able to drive 75 mph, which almost felt like flying. The boys plugged into their ipods and DSs. Didn't hear a peep from them the whole drive, which allowed me to listen to David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed in Flames and laugh. A lot. One piece in particular had Sedaris, on a flight, violently coughing a throat lozenge out of his mouth, right onto the crotch of his sleeping seatmate. That was funny, but what was funnier? Before she fell asleep, they'd had a tiff over changing seats with her husband, who was in a different row. In the bulkhead. Sedaris said No. She called him an asshole. On audio, Sedaris delivers this story—and you know this story because you've lived it once or twice—with the most impeccable comic timing, earning Genius status. If you ask me.

If we were having a conversation right now you might ask, Why are you in Sioux Falls? And I would answer Because my mother is attending the national Izaak Walton League—Defenders of Soil, Air, Woods, Waters & Wildlife—convention, and there is a great kids' program, which the boys are attending. Simon did this a few years ago, traveling with Grandpa and Grandma to Big Sky, Montana, for fly-fishing and a daytrip to Yellowstone. Certainly Sioux Falls, SD, offers less in the way of impressive vistas and irresistable sightseeing, but it's funny that the boys don't know that or care. Today they are collecting soil samples, the description of which didn't resonate with them until I told them they would be digging in the dirt. They're pretty excited.

Grandpa is chaperoning. Grandma is in meetings. I'm editing a manuscript in the hotel, staving off horrible flashbacks to the seven years I spent on the road for St. Martin's Press. I loved the job, but the travel was brutal and the only reason I left the position after Simon was born. I have often regretted leaving my position, especially when I see other women my age, with children, who are still doing it. When I sat down to my computer this morning, coughing up $10 to access the Internet for 24 hours (usurious!), I went right back to that dark place in my mind. The one that,—sitting in front of my laptop on a hotel bed in Omaha, NE in 1995—would ask "What the hell am I doing here?"

I turned on the TV for company and have promised myself a really yummy, off-campus lunch, in exchange for two good hours of work. Gotta go....

TGIF

Phew, the end of a long week. The Shepard household has been a three-ring circus lately, with kids vying for the most attention (no camp this year week). Hubby follows a close second, requiring extra love to mend the wounds of a difficult work and band week. And, last but not least, we’ve had housepainters here for past three days. They weren’t really in the way, but they were here, and I had to be here more than I would have liked. The crew, bless them, made repairs that often required consultations.

Also, a tree limb came down in our yard. The limb is, remarkably, hung up on a lower branch, but until the tree guy removes it, I feel like we’re dodging a lawsuit. Also, I interviewed architects for a very special home improvement (more on this later). But none of these stressors beat the insurance rep, who dropped by unannounced to take pictures and measurements of the house for our file.

On the upside, the house looks amazing! When the sun comes out this weekend, I will take photos and post them, as well as give a plug for our painter who was top-notch. I want you to find something that needs painting so he can do it. Our paint job is so fresh that the house looks new, thus restoring my hope for getting things in order. I’m more inspired than ever to sort, toss, file, replace, update.

We have a pretty low-key weekend in store. We’ll help a few friends celebrate birthdays and gorge on TdF coverage, but mostly we’ll take some time for rejuvenation.

Hope you get what you need from your weekend!

weekend review

We had a wonderful weekend, replete with some relaxation, some fun activities, some really good food, and surprise guests.

John and I kicked off the weekend with a lovely al fresco dinner at home with steamed mussels—finely chopped shallots, garlic, and fennel, plus thyme, diced tomato, and red pepper flakes sautéed in olive oil. Then a dash of Pernod and a half cup of white wine and 1.5 pounds mussels, covered, to steam for five to ten minutes. All served right out of the sauté pan, with a baguette and a leafy green salad and the rest of the white wine—I love summer evenings. The kids? They were content to have a “picnic” in the den, with a cheese pizza and Ice Age: The Meltdown.



We puttered around the house on Saturday, which always makes me feel at loose ends…tasks begun never get completed, the boys, not sure how they fit in the run-around, seem to become even needier. Finally I left the house to run some errands. John took a nap and the boys shot at each other with (Nerf dart) guns. And by the time I returned home, the atmosphere was much calmer so I treated myself to some cooking. Later, friends came over for a quick brats and baked beans dinner, thereby laying a hearty foundation for a massive junk food gorge at the DRIVE-IN.

With a couple families, we schlepped to Cottage Grove to see Transformers 2, which was a loud mashup of machines and special effects. Simon declared it the best movie he had ever seen. The junk food was the highlight of my evening—dill pickle potato chips, taco Doritos, salsa rice chips (quasi-healthy? I doubt it), brownies, shortbread cookies with Hershey’s kisses, red licorice, Buddy’s grape soda, Point root beer, oh, and some white wine sangria with strawberries and white peaches for the adults. And no one threw up!! On another flip side—because you can't have an outing like this and not have it become an adventure—my car battery died just before the start of the second feature—Star Trek. We had to stick around for it so we could get a jump. In the meantime, I crawled into the backseat to nap—because I found myself suddenly very tired, uninterested in any more junk food, and worried about getting up for the 8:30 a.m. yoga class. Needless to say, we got home just fine but very, very late (3 a.m., yowza!).

Who thought this Sunday morning yoga routine was a good idea?! The class had a substitute teacher who was terrible. Uninspired and bored, she rushed us through each asana. I had a hard time keeping up. That said, my balance was amazing. I transitioned through many one-leg poses like a champ. After class, my friend Helena offered to take the boys off our hands (less a favor to us than a way to keep her kids occupied during a home-bound day) so John and I had a date at the St. Paul Farmers Market in Lowertown. I was verklempt—and not at all embarrassed to nearly weep—when I saw peas, potatoes, and zucchini, all making the season’s debut! I bought kohlrabi, small yellow creamer potatoes, a baby zucchini mix (yellow, green, and frosty light green), and snow peas. We will eat so well this week!


Moments later, my phone rang at Cheapos, where we were making an ill-advised music splurge. It was my mother saying, “How would you like company?” She and my father had came to town for the day because their plans were rained out and they wanted to see their children and grandchildren. We had a really nice time sitting on our patio, on the first bright but cooler and low-humidity day we’ve had in almost two weeks. We chit-chatted and drank wine and waited for brother Nik to finish a shift. Then we all went to Salut, where the food was large portions of mediocre, but we sat outside and everyone remained civil. My parents and brother left immediately after dinner, with hugs and "it was really good to see you's" all around. And, both boys, who stayed up stupid late the night before and spent the afternoon running with friends, crashed dead-asleep before the sun dropped on the horizon. I could not have imagined a lovelier day.

How was your weekend?

TGIF

Oh, what a week it has been. I started working on a new project, doing some developmental editing for one of my former employers. Fortunately the author can write. For the most part, I’m reading for logic and honing the audience, which is pretty broad at the moment as the author is attempting to include everyone. Sadly I’ve lost my work ethic and my ability to concentrate is sorely tested, but when I manage to focus, I am able to develop a rhythm in the reading and thinking and collating notes—and that makes me feel so happy. I feel alive again!! Earlier this week, I was sitting at Dunn’s, flipping through the manuscript pages, and the guy sitting next to me asked if I was an author. I proudly answered, “No, I’m an editor.” Deep sigh of relief.

The best part of the week has been spent recuperating from having attended my twentieth college reunion, the same weekend that I hosted a rock concert in my living room. Since January, John has been playing drums in a garage band. In fact, shortly after he was gainfully reemployed, John bought an electronic drum kit…a totally awesome thing to have on hand. Our friend Tom, who plays bass, has a coworker, Matt, who, not only plays guitar, but also has a boatload of equipment…amps and equalizers and gear for which I don’t even have the vocabulary. So they’ve jammed for months and were feeling good about that, then decided they needed to set a new goal: play for other people. The trio game themselves a name—Edward Upward—and set a date, June 20, for a friends and family concert.

Edward Upward rocked. The party was haphazardly planned—I won’t go into it, but suffice to say, I had nothing to do with the planning. But I did clean the house. Don’t ask. Also, suffice to say, this concert was a dry-run—we’re definitely doing it again, but I’m planning the whole gig. The logistics, the guest list, and so on. The guys did great establishing a playlist and practicing. And, lord knows, Matt has all the gear necessary to pull this off. And they sounded awesome! I am so proud of them for making something out of months of Friday night practices. Here’s the playlist:

Alternative Ulster (Stiff Little Fingers)
Brand New Cadillac (The Clash)
Freak Scene (Dinosaur Jr.)
Bad Moon Rising (CCR)
Breaking the Law (Judas Priest)
Cars (Gary Numan)
Brown Sugar (Rolling Stones)
Surrender (Cheap Trick)
Strychnine (The Sonics)
Last Night (The Strokes)
Night Time (George Thorogood)
Ever Fallen in Love (Buzzcocks)

Two sure signs that the evening was a success: none of our neighbors called the police and a surprising number of guests expressed an interest in playing an instrument/listening to more music OR getting a hobby of some sort.

doing

catching up
It’s getting harder to stay caught up online these days, both blogging and reading blogs. While I take full responsibility, I’d also like to blame summer. Life on the internets is just going to be slower. Until when? School starts?

reuniting
Over the weekend, I attended my 20th college reunion. Yikes! My friend Caryl convinced me to go. I agreed, somewhat at the last minute. In the week leading up to the event, I spent a lot of time reflecting and reminiscing, and in all the happy moments and the (few) regrettable moments, I felt so much bittersweetness. Only natural, I know, but a little unexpected. The Friday evening party was poorly attended…just 10 people...but I understand other weekend events were livelier. Still, I couldn't put a price on how awesome it was to hang out with friends Caryl and Sue, who flew in from Virginia to attend. I honestly hadn’t had any contact with Sue since graduation. We had a wonderful evening, picking up where we left off, remembering that summer we all lived together on St. Clair (the house, admittedly a blight on the block, has long since been torn down by Macalester, which owned it), theater performances and cast parties, and countless nights at Sweeney's.

eating
arugula-pistachio pesto on pasta; fresh, local strawberries that will become ice cream; apricots and white peaches; Alaskan king salmon; The Cheesemonger (soppressata, provolone, pepper relish) from France 44’s new St. Paul outpost; Edy’s coconut popsicles

knitting
The olive-green tilting blocks scarf is humming along. Now that I've successfully hit the half point, dare I say that the pattern has become a tad bit tedious. It's gorgeous, though, and I've struggled, so no complaints. I am taking short breaks from the scarf to do a little automatic knitting—a neckwarmer, knit on a circular needle, with a knit 3, purl 3 pattern. For the neckwarmer, I'm using Malabrigo worsted in mariposa, a hand-dyed, variegated yarn in mustard yellow, seafoam green, and greenish-grey. The effect is neat and mesmerizing as each stitch forms. On Sunday (Father's Day), with little family in tow (no good for browsing), I made my inaugural visit to Borealis Yarns. Treasure trove. And, Borealis carries Noro!! I'm scheming a project for this gorgeous Japanese yarn. In the meantime, chainmail tunics (hauberk) are in the works, for the little boys and their cousin, Bjorn, to wear during Visby's Medieval week. More to follow, including photos!

reading to myself
Kate Atkinson’s Case Histories (for book group, which meets next week), David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (for the Infinite Summer challenge and because it’s about time I did), Elin Hildenbrand’s Barefoot (meaty beach read)

reading to others
Race to Dakar, actor Charley Boorman’s riveting account of riding the Dakar Rally (to John), Maze of the Beast, book 6 in the Deltora Quest series (to Winston), Darkest Hour, the sixth and final book in the Warriors series (to Simon)

listening
Peaches’ cover of “Search and Destroy”, Swoon, the new Silversun Pickups, Edward Upward live

on having survived a rainy weekend

The weekend wasn’t just rainy, but it was cold, too, which had all of us scrambling to find the warm clothing items I had, about a month ago, packed away. I truly don’t mind a wet weekend. It gives me an opportunity to hibernate, attending to all those inside-the-house projects I have been neglecting in favor of playing outside. Plus, my herb garden and the hostas and the grass in the front yard got a long drink of water. Still, the warm, sunny days of June feel like such a novelty.

Over the weekend, I managed to knit a lot. I started the Midwest Moonlight scarf again. And stopped and ripped out and started again. But now, on my twenty-third start, I’ve knitted further than ever, and I have a good feeling about this. But, I also pulled another skein out of the stash and started a back-up project—a neck warmer in a super-soft worsted-weight Malabrigo. This yarn is so gorgeous, hand-dyed, mostly a creamy yellow shot through with sage and olive and aqua (the label says "mariposa" for the color). I cast 80 stitches onto a 16” size 10 circular needle, and I’m knitting a criminally easy knit three, purl three rib.

When I wasn’t knitting, I helped the little boys with a 500-piece puzzle. The picture is an Egyptian scene with tons of hieroglyphs so I’ve had to go against my jigsaw best practices by looking at the cover to see where each piece must be placed.

And, I had a chance to read a little more in Junot Diaz’s brilliant Oscar Wao. It’s been awhile since I have read such a dense book so I’m feeling a little unskilled in that department, and my attention span is sorely challenged. I wish I could read more in one sitting.

In a total stroke of genius, John proposed going out for breakfast on Sunday morning. We took the boys to Highland Grill, where I had the special scramble—eggs with andouille sausage, caramelized onions, mushrooms, and pepper jack cheese on a bed of my favorite hash browns. I could easily pick this as a Last Meal. We killed time at a nearby bookstore so the boys could each pick out their first summer-reading titles. Then we saw Up at the Highland Theater. I love the Highland Theater. It reminds me of the two-screen theater just off the “town square” in Watertown, now closed in favor of a “multiplex” near the mall on the outskirts of town. Up was fantastic—heartwarming story coupled with striking animation.

Would that all weekends could be like this. But with a little more sunshine.

on knitting but having little to show for it

Dipping into my newly acquired yarn stash for the first time was a little like being a kid in a candy shop. I wanted to rip into every single skein and do a little stockingette, just to get a feel for the yarn. During this exercise, perhaps the yarn would tell me what it wants to become. Okay, I confess, I don’t roll that way as a knitter. I’m more firmly planted in the “find an irresistible pattern, buy some yarn, knit it up following the pattern to the letter of the law” school of knitting. It’s the same way with cooking. I am drawn to recipes by way of gorgeous color photography. I buy the ingredients and cook them up rather than dig through the fridge pulling out whatever lurks, whipping them into something edible. So it goes with music. I can read music like nobody but I struggle to memorize it, and I certainly don’t play by ear.

Though I yearn to be a more intuitive knitter, I know it will only come with more practice. Also, I need to branch out of beyond my comfort zone of stockingette and garter stitch to try lacy openwork and cables and intarsia or color changes—and I want to do it all. To avoid commitment anxiety inherent in the question of where to start, I closed my eyes and reached into my stash. When I opened my eyes, I was not disappointed to find a small, super-soft skein of olive-colored Rowan Classic yarn (50% merino, 50% silk in a DK weight). Fortunately I remembered that when I purchased this yarn at the Yarnery’s sale, I made plans for it to be knitted into a scarf.

And, some time shortly after my knitting class ended, oh, back in April (the 20th, to be precise), I picked up my #6 wooden needles and cast on 49 stitches. The stitches are easy to execute, even though my needles are a little grabby—they’re splintering and catching in the yarn. I found the the Midwest Moonlight scarf in Scarf Style—part of a fantastic series from Pam Allen and Interweave Press—where it was photographed in an icy blue. The scarf’s pattern is a variation of Barbara Walker’s tilting blocks pattern, which becomes quite evident after you get through the first 16 rows, with eight rows leaning in one direction and the next eight in the other.

A google search for “tilting blocks scarf” and “Midwest moonlight scarf” yields many references, as well as photos of finished objects. Here are a few. Popular indeed. A few knitters even noted the length of time it took them to knit the scarf, ranging from one sitting to four or five, which I imagine is reasonable for an intermediate knitter. But one knitter went so far as to call the pattern tedious.

Here’s what I have knitted.



And I’m ripping it all out. Somehow, I messed up the pattern, which is now difficult to distinguish. The frustrating thing: I have started this scarf no fewer than twenty-two times. Yes, I’m counting. For some reason I can’t knit the pattern for more than two sets before I completely screw it up.

A few weeks ago, I decided that I would learn how to “unknit” (knit back) as soon as I realize I have made a mistake so that I don’t go for rows, getting myself further in a pickle. Knitting in hand, I went to The Yarnery and got help during clinic. The nice ladies who were at the yarn shop, knitting during the middle of the day, gave me lots of advice. I came home, feeling pretty smug about being further along on this scarf that at any of my previous twenty-one attempts.

Eight rows later, I’d bungled the pattern AGAIN.

Sensing my mounting frustration, John has asked me to start a different project. I do have stash, after all. But, there is the commitment anxiety. And, something about this scarf is compelling. So I will rip out all the stitches, and start one more time.

A back-up plan would be wise…

trip preparations

In this day and age of travel, if you forget to pack an item, you can replace it pretty easily, almost anywhere in the world. Pain reliever, toothbrush, tampons, contact solution, reading material for the plane, ties and scarves—you name it, the airport has it. Or, if you’re traveling in the U.S., chances are good that on the path from the airport to your hotel, you will pass a Target store. Heck, you can even leave your plane ticket at home. Since the advent of e-tickets, a swipe of photo ID or a credit card brings up your flight information and allows you to print a boarding pass. Brave new world! Still, I overpack. Without exception.

You are, however, shit out of luck if you're leaving the country and forgot your passport at home. There’s no passport kiosk in the departure terminal. Yet. Hmmm, I wonder if there's a market for this? Personally, the possibility of forgetting my passport induces bad dreams the night before a trip. The Shepards leave for Stockholm/Visby in eight weeks, and guess whose passports have expired?

My passport expired a year ago, almost to the date. I am so glad to have a new book. Ten years younger and forty pounds lighter, but looking simultaneously hungover and startled, like a deer in the headlights, I have always despised the photo that I've had to face since 1998. I wish there was a way to continue filling the old passport, until it's full, with souvenir stamps. Mine holds many stamps for Schiphol (Amsterdam, the gateway to all of Europe in the 90s and early 00s) and Canada, and my older passport—the one previous to my previous passport—has my British alien residence card, a visa allowing me to travel in France (how old school?!), and an amendment changing the bearer's maiden name.

And, yes, I said passports, plural. Simon’s and Winston’s passports expired ten days ago. Children’s passports are valid for only five years—for obvious reason, but Winston’s old passport perfectly illustrates why. He had just turned two when he got his first passport—i.e., he was practically a baby and little resembles his current self.

On Saturday, the four of us schlepped way up to Roseville—Lexington and County Road C—to the one passport center within 20 miles that is open on Saturday. Both John and I needed to be present to apply for our minors’ passports. No kidding. I’m sure this is for our own protection but incredibly inconvenient when the post offices nearest to us only process passports Monday through Friday, 8 a.m.-1 p.m.

So we arrive at the passport place in Roseville, and we wait for 45 minutes before we’re granted an audience with the sole agent. As we’re waiting, I read a Donna Leon mystery, dreaming of a vacation in Venice, and eavesdrop on each person ahead of me in line as they face one bureaucratic obstacle after another. I felt pretty prepared for making our application. I had filled out the paperwork ahead of time and remembered to bring the old passports. To be honest, I left a few fields on the application blank—those for occupation (student?), work phone number, email (kids have them but hell if I’m giving them to anyone other than close friend/family), social security number—but I didn't think these would cause a problem.

And, wouldn’t you know, when we finally had our turn at the window, the first thing that agent noticed was that we hadn’t filled out the SSN. John asked politely, “Since it’s not considered legal identification, why do we need to have a SSN?” The agent answered, “It’s the law.” John challenged, “Show me the law.” Agent: “I don’t have time to know where it is, I just know it is.” Recognizing that this “logic” was something not to be messed with, John dropped the ball. And, I picked it right back up, “What if the kids didn’t have social security numbers?” Agent: “Then you’d fill in 000-00-000.” John, “So let’s do that.” Agent: “If you have a SSN and don’t fill it in, then you won’t be issued a passport.” John: “But they’ve already been issued passports.” Time to drop the ball again.

Then, as if there was actually a chance that we’d get our paperwork processed that day, the agent asked to see birth certificates. I hadn’t brought them because, according to the instructions on the application, a previous passport is sufficient to establish citizenship, as well as identification. Then the agent said, “You need a birth certificate to show the link between you and your children.” I had my ah-ha moment when I realized all these hoops were to insure that we weren’t trying to smuggle children-not-our-own out of the country.

In my head, I silently screamed: Look at these kids. I ask you Is there any doubt that they’re ours? Does the fact that they’re comfortably flipping and flopping and bouncing off the walls in this little lobby suggest in the slightest that they might be afraid of us or what we’ll do to them? Is child smuggling rampant? I’m not saying that an angry, estranged spouse wouldn’t be above kidnapping his or her own child, but do we really need these hoops FOR OUR PROTECTION????

Yesterday, John took the afternoon off so we could try, again, to get passports for the children. The clock is ticking—processing takes six to eight weeks. This time, we try the post office in St. Anthony, where nice clerks helped us five years ago. This time, I filled in the social security field, and I brought the birth certificates. We flew through the process with little grief, pleasantly chit-chatting with the agent. The boys were barely present, running around outside on the sidewalk. Sure, we came into the post office with two kids but were they matched up to their applications, photos, and old passports? Did the agent even get a good look at them? I...don't...think...so.

The boys are really concerned about not having their old passports returned.

Deep cleansing breath. The applications are in the mail.

hello june

Here we are in June. Can you believe it? I can’t. To me, summer isn't marked by Memorial Day—especially not this year, when Memorial Day came so early and the kids were still very much in school—nor by the solstice, the official start of summer, at least as far as the calendar goes. Rather, summer begins in June. The days are warmer and longer so one can comfortably do summer-ish things, such as riding a bike or gardening.

The arrival of June is a relief, too, because May wasn't such a great month for me. We were super busy, and at the same time, many plans were in limbo so I felt like I was in a holding pattern. We had a lot of family visits, which increased my stress level significantly and derailed my personal agenda. I didn't get much done and the house got messier and messier. My writing suffered. But it's done. Time for a fresh start!

With my family, I managed a few great activities this past month, though I think the biggest highlight had to be adopting cats. Becoming pet owners has been a very positive step for all of us. The boys love to play with Trixie, the kitty, and chase her around the house. The boys have also, with prompting, cleaned litterboxes and cleaned up the attendant mess. John likes to spend quiet time with Nancy, who barely tolerates Trixie and hides from her for most of the day. Oh, the cats are far more fun than I imagined they would be.

We're also deep into our soccer season. Winston is playing in the Littlehawks league on Saturdays, which is mostly skill building through fun games and a short scrimmage. It's an awesome hour of runaround. Simon's Blackhawk team is starting to gel as a team. Each player is playing better than when the season started. They've got excellent foot skills—one of the things at which Blackhawks excel—and they're not afraid to use them. Simon, who has always felt comfortable at defense, is now also playing a bit more aggressively at midfield.

June heralds
~ warmer weather, which may even creep up toward hot
~ sleeping with the windows cranked open
~ stone fruit (hallelujah! I’m climbing off the locavore high horse to gorge myself with peaches, cherries, apricots, plums)
~ summer break from school (no more homework or rigid bed-and-bath schedules)

June is also for hunkering down. Here are a few things on my to-do-list:

~ clean the yard (pull weeds, pick up sticks, landscape, plant herbs and flowers), a perennial
~ throw away ALL the clutter that bogs down our existence (do I write this every month?)
~ have a blast with the little boys as they have a fun summer ahead of them

June, I'm really glad to see you!

what's in a [cat's] name

Whenever I overhear anyone talking about baby names, I will insert myself into the conversation, even if uninvited. I love names. Before we even had the kittens, we’d decided to call them Pablo and Emmett. Of course we assumed we would be getting male cats. Instead, we’ve got these beautiful girls, which we have named Trixie and Nancy.

Trixie is a name I’ve always loved. My paternal grandmother—who I admired because she was a dedicated teacher, as well as being creative, artistic, and well-read—was named Beatrice, and, for as long as I knew her, she went by Bea. During my first pregnancy, I really wanted to name a girl baby after my grandmother, but call her Trixie, after my favorite teen-girl sleuth, Trixie Belden. This name was declared—by many, not just my husband—a hooker name and was shelved. I forgot about the name until we had a female kitten and proposed it to the boys. And, she’s a perfect Trixie…cute, energetic, curious, unafraid, sticking her nose in places it doesn’t belong.

Then, we had this other cat. Most of the names that were suggested seemed too immediate. I had this same problem when John and I were trying to decide what to name our children. If we knew someone with the name, good or bad, friend or foe, it was vetoed. It occurred to me that if we could follow the girl-sleuth theme to its logical conclusion and name the older cat Nancy (Drew Shepard). Amazingly, all my guys agreed.

Mostly I call her Fancy Nancy because she has a sleek, gorgeous blue coat. Or I call her Nancy Cat, which also seems to suit her.

now with cats

Yes, hell has frozen over. Succumbing to pressure from our children—and this is no small thing, as I am the queen of “I’ll think about it”—John and I adopted kittens. I know: we’ve always contended that we’re not pet people. Though, if we had to be pet people, we’d have a cat.

A month ago, Winston began making his case for a dog. Winston is scared of dogs, so he was thinking Chihuahua-size would be okay for him. And, when I asked why he wanted a dog, since he avoids them at all cost, he said, “Because if you have a pet, you get less stress and live longer.” Well, I want that, too. So we asked Winston if he could live with a cat, and it turns out that he’d love a kitten.

I bought Winston a great book about being a cat owner so he could see what he was getting himself into. He would read diagrams and captions aloud to me whenever we were in the car. He knows what to feed a cat (pasta, good) and what not to feed a cat (milk and tablescraps, bad), also how to train a cat to sit (reinforce with a treat, of course). But, Winston also read that if you have a busy family and are away from home often, you should get two cats so they can keep each other company instead of, out of boredom, ripping up your home. I have kids ergo I follow the logic.

After Winston’s soccer practice on Saturday, we headed to the Animal Humane Society, which, at 11 a.m. had many kittens available. But, by noon, AHS had one kitty. And she’s a cute kitty, at that. I thought maybe we’d come home with just that one, even though the plan had been to adopt two kittens, preferably littermates. Then, a blue-cream calico tapped John on the shoulder. They quickly became friends, and her fate to have a good home was sealed. The calico is a year old, so she’s a young cat, too. We’re hoping the kitty will keep her active since she’s a little overweight—not that it’s obvious, either.

The boys are both soooo awesome with their new pets, preferring to play with the kitties instead of with their electronics. Hallelujah!

Introducing Trixie


and Nancy

ipod shuffle, with annotations

I am anesthetizing myself with music today as I prepare for double-whammy, back-to-back overnight guests. John’s father arrives this evening, stopping over on his way to Coloma, WI, where he has a cabin. As soon as he leaves tomorrow, my mother arrives. She’s spending the night before taking a morning flight to Albuquirky to see my sis.

~A Forest (The Cure)
More than my own high school experience, The Cure always makes me think of that girl who hung out at Cahoots in the mid-nineties. I used to take manuscripts there, leaving behind the pages I read rather than schlepping around stacks of paper. Anyway, that girl skulked into the back room one day and spilled onto the sofa. In her hand was a Cure album, vinyl. She put the record on the turntable and sighed, declaring her devotion to Robert Smith. Ten years later, I wonder what happened to that girl and if I would recognize her. Certainly, though, she's still spinning "Head on the Door."

~Perfect (Flyleaf)
John gave me the Flyleaf album for Christmas. Not sure I like it. Certainly haven’t given it much of a listen. Just thrilled by the thoughtfulness of the gift, especially since he did a ton of research. That, and we have some overlap in our musical tastes, but ultimately listen to some really different stuff.

~Puttin’ on the Ritz (Taco)
A few years ago, when invited to our friends’ houses for dinner, we would bring a “mix” CD, constituting whatever music we were enjoying at that moment, as well as the requisite bottle of wine. Friend Scott reciprocated with a mix CD of his own that had such unexpected tunes as Taco’s one-hit wonder.

~Rockaway Beach (Ramones)
It’s the Ramones.

~The Barry Williams Show (Peter Gabriel)
A lifelong dream fulfilled when I saw Peter Gabriel in concert on the tour promoting Up. Gabriel’s later music isn’t my favorite, but I appreciate that he continues to buck convention. This song is seven minutes, long.

~Listen Up (Walt Mink)
I wish this local band had enjoyed the same sort of album sales as Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins—they certainly had similar accolades from critics and fans.

~Protex Blue (The Clash)
Minor and barely tolerable song; let's face it, the world's greatest band had some klunkers.

~Does Everyone Stare (The Police)
I’m always happy when The Police are shuffled, although since they constitute a large part of my ipod, I don’t know if their appearance here is entirely random.

~Tongue Dance (Les Rita Mitsouko)
Cheeky.

~War on Culture (Carbon/Silicon)
Preachy lyrics set to unbelievably catchy melodies, which has always been Mick Jones’s weakness.

in which I leave the residue of my estate to my husband

This morning, John and I had our will executed, which means that we went to our lawyer’s office and signed on a couple dotted lines. Once for the power of attorney. Once for our respective wills. And, once for a health care directive. In the end, it was less painful—and less expensive—than closing on real estate. Voila!

We can die now and know that our children will be in good hands…or will they? I’m not worried about our choice for guardians, but should they be called upon—god forbid—they must pass muster by a court of law. So, the guardians are mostly a done deal, as notorized in a legal document. And, I thought assigning a guardian was the really important part of signing a will, at least for those who have children.*

However, the lawyer informs me, the health care directive is a much bigger deal. The health care directive, while not a do-not-resuscitate order, was hard to complete. If I am not terminal and have a rapidly deteriorating condition would I want oxygen? antibiotics? pain medication even though it may be lethal? I have no idea.

We have been volleying the will around for the past three years, so it is with great relief that we found a good lawyer who was patient and understanding, who started the questionnaire last October and had a document for us by December. But, now it’s done and I can cross off another line item from my metaphysical checklist!

*Don’t get me wrong, though, cuz if you have children, you should have a will. Verbal agreements for your sister/brother/Aunt Sally to take care of your children upon your untimely death don’t hold any weight.

going to villa villekulla

It’s official. We’re taking another Shepard-family vacation this summer, with John’s mother and husband, as well as his two brothers and their little families. We’ve taken a number of these vacations over the past eight years, as they’ve been a great way for this far-flung family to assemble. I think we all agree that it’s important for the cousins—Simon (9), Winston (7), Bjorn (7), Dodi (6), Sophia (4), and Scarlett (2)—to see each other on some occasion other than Christmas. And, I miss watching my nieces and nephews grow!

When John and I were casting about for a summer trip with the boys, we were initially thinking about national parks. Yosemite, Yellowstone, Voyageurs, Crater Lake, Rocky Mountains, all came up in conversation. So, too, did Canada—Vancouver, Lake Louise/Banff, Montreal. On the flipside from the rugged nature, I’ve been fixating on England, a trip that would have been totally extravagant, but that would have mended a big gaping hole in my heart. All of these would make fine vacations and will go on a very long list of places to visit before we die or the boys grow up and get complicated lives, god forbid.

Then we came back round to family, deciding this might be the perfect year to visit John’s brother Will, who lives in Stockholm, Sweden. For years, Will has been begging us (and shaming us with stories about all the other family friends who’ve made this particular trip) to spend a week in Visby, the walled city on Gotlund island. It wouldn't be just any ol’ week, either. We would come for Medeltidsveckan—medieval week. Yup, like the Renaissance Festival, all day, every day, for a week. I’m excited and I’m fearful. I can usually take a few hours of the RenFest before I want to run screaming from the oppression of giant smoked turkey legs and being called “m’lady” or "wench." I'm mulling how into this I'm going to be—twenty-first century innocent bystander or eleventh-century costumed persona??

So we're going. When I told the boys that I had booked our tickets to Stockholm, Simon asked if we were going to Villa Villekulla. His class is reading Pippi Longstocking right now, which pleases me to no end because it's an awesome children's book and because I wanted to be Pippi when I was nine. I said, “Yes,” we’ll go to the Pippi playground in Stockholm, but little does he know that the Villa Villekulla movie-set house is in Visby!!

If only Villa Villekulla took reservations...

another banner day

Following an exhausting yoga practice with Joel the Dancer, I accompanied my little family and a couple other families to Taylors Falls. We hiked the River Trail on the Minnesota side of Interstate Park. The boys and their friends climbed the jumble of glacier-moved rocks and stuck their heads into the potholes. Despite the beauty, Interstate Park makes me a little crazy. The boys tend to push their play a little close to the edge of the bluff...and consequently my comfort zone. I'm not an overfraught mother, by any means, but I'm always sorely tested here. Nonetheless, we had a great hike, then hightailed it back to St. Paul for a special soccer practice and scrimmage. I got to read aloud from James and the Giant Peach, there and back.

banner day

~ Free Comic Book Day: stopped by Uncle Sven’s for free comic books. Not just for kids, John and I received a pack with a dozen or so comic books.
~ Lunch at Groveland Tap, next door to Uncle Sven’s: happy hour-priced Summit beer (tried the Horizon Red, didn’t love it, though cold beer is always refreshing) and pierogies. Yum.
~ All-day playdate for kids; John and I got stuff done around the house and rode our bikes up the hill to Grand Performance where, courtesy of an air compressor, I had the grips popped off the Milano's handlebars.
~ Family bike ride to SeaSalt, a seafood eatery at the foot of Minnehaha Falls. Gorgeous, if slightly chilly night. We were the only fools not wearing polar fleece. Two sweet Barren Point (WA) oysters to start, followed by grilled marlin tacos for me. An Australian chardonnay in a plastic cup…not bad.
~ Homemade lemon ice cream for dessert. Cannot stop eating it. Maybe the best ice cream I have made in the four years I’ve owned an ice-cream maker.
~ Another full day on the horizon. Good night!

spelunking

Yesterday I accompanied Simon’s third-grade class on a field trip to Crystal Cave in Spring Valley, Wisconsin (don't you know that Crystal Cave is one of the most popular names for caves). First, I have to say that I was only vaguely aware that this cave existed. Second, I urge you to visit it. Spring Valley is approximately forty-five minutes from the Twin Cities, making it an easy day trip.

The cave was discovered in 1881, by two teenagers, who were allegedly chasing a rabbit that disappeared down a hole in the ground. Legend has it, the boys probed the hole with a stick, which then dropped. As the stick clattered down the hole, the boys knew that this was not an ordinary hole. They returned later with kerosene lamps, tied a rope around a nearby tree, and lowered themselves into a hole, discovering the cave. The cave was later developed for commercial purposes. It has always been privately held, and is currently owned by former geologists who maintain it for educational purposes.



In the early 90s, new exploration of the cave was begun, and the length of the cave tripled. Crystal Cave, at a mile long, is the longest cave in Wisconsin. To enter the cave, you descend a staircase, just as if you were going down into a basement—and voila! You’re standing in a limestone cave. It was amazing and beautiful and I totally get the appeal of spelunking. Everywhere you turn, there is something interesting to see. Yes, there are bats, which appear as fuzzy growths on the walls. Though the bats were smaller than I anticipated, I did not find them cute. Fortunately, the bats were, for the most part, still in hibernation. And, there weren’t that many that we could see.


The guides were really fantastic, giving informative short speeches in various underground chambers. I learned a ton of new vocabulary, including speliothems (any cave formation, such as stalactites and stalagmites), cave bacon (a rippled effect), and drapery (kind of self-explanatory).


The kids were also fantastic, not straying from the group. I think it helped that only the rooms we were occupying at the moment were lit, which discourages moss growth. Otherwise, most of the passageways were dark. Also, the kids asked a ton of questions, and the guide wearied of them quickly.

Naturally, I want to see more showcaves—neighboring Wisconsin has seven—and read books about caves. Cary Griffith just published Opening Goliath: Danger and Discovery in Caving, and I heard him on MPR's "Morning Edition" just the day before the field trip. He'll be at the St. Paul Central Library on May 17.