Visit from da Neighbor, Farmer Reed, and his missus, Tammy.

Because James was in Dublin for a month and I didn’t know how to use his lawn mower, the grass grew to a radioactive length. Yesterday we found ourselves in the backyard, swishing through knee high grass as though we were wading through water. We were searching for the raspberry bushes, little babies, that James planted back before he left. But instead of the nine bushes lined in a row behind the house, we found tall grass, a small patch of daisies, and foot long dandelion stems. Instead, we found the evil, inedible rhubarb that sprouts up on its own and starts to take over the yard—the big green leaves that suggest ripe vegetable, but really lead you to tasteless, prickly pink and green stems sprouting like erect arm hairs out of the black dirt.
After fixing the mower, James mowed. I continued to search for the bushes in back as he dipped in and out of the front ditches on the riding mower, slowing down as bigger, deeper patches came along. He pointed out a toad hopping away from the sharp blades. I took long steps through the grass and rhubarb bushes, wondered where the garden had gone, and parted the grass in between my hands as though I was peeking through a velvet show curtain. He was covered in green shards of grass that were sticking to the sweat on his face. I put on my gardening hat, which for yesterday took the name of adventure hat—or fruit hunting hat. He mowed rectangles in the grass; I kicked through the grass and still found nothing.

Naturally, I gave up and came inside to take a nap. I’d had a long day at school, suffering through the miserable ITV class (that takes place in Winona and is transmitted to Rochester and shown on 2 big screen TVs at the front of the room) and then the next three hour class. I read one page of the novel my ninth graders will be reading in the fall, fell asleep, and woke up when James came in. He showered; I slept, and then woke again, and he was making dinner.

As he was at the stove and I was paging through my Glamour at the counter, he looked behind me out the dining room window with a terrified look on his face—one that would suggest that, perhaps, a cougar was coming up behind me, claws out. But it was the neighbors—not Farmer Bob, but the other neighbor and his wife—dipping in and out of the ditch on a four-wheeler. They parked, came to the door. I hid. I was in my pajamas. James answered, walked on the deck to chat with them. He was in his pajamas. Then he came in and said that they’d offered to mow the rest of our lawn; the neighbor had a tractor with a combine-mower thing, and the mowing time would go much quicker. James was ecstatic, especially since he didn’t know how much more the Cub Cadet could take of the super-grass.

He finished dinner. He ate; I ate. He said they’re coming tomorrow. I should make them bread.

I’ll make them bread, I said. I’ll stop for groceries after class tomorrow, and we’ll make them pumpkin bread. And maybe some blueberry coffee cake, too.

Then I got no sleep, decided to forego the morning run, went to class, to the grocery store, and then I came home and baked their desserts. And I made the neighbors a little card that said “Thank you!” and drew a picture of James in the knee high grass waving. And then I thought, again: I never want TV again, ever. I finally bought produce at the grocery store, a la Christina, meaning rushing through all of the greens, sniffing, selecting and twisting bags and throwing them in the cart to mark an item off the list. I page through my cookbooks every night, and when I get home, I’m not very hungry. I just want to make food.

***

Chad and Mike came to visit this weekend, and I spent Friday and Saturday watching night turn into morning. We stayed up until 5 Friday night, had homemade pizza dinner—fresh mozz—and white mocha nutmeg dessert, and we killed four bottles of wine while playing Pictionary. We spent Saturday morning in the tree house, playing with sticks and the video camera on Chad’s camera:

As we sat on the muggy porch during the early afternoon, Chad said You know, in February we’re gonna think about this weekend, and we are just going to cry.

These are true words. I think that come anytime after August I will look back at this summer and cry, much like I think about the one summer I spent in Mankato with Christina and Ben. The best summer of my life, only to be challenged by this one. But I find myself mimicking here what I loved about that summer—late, late nights, staring out the window as though I’m afraid if I look away the green will vanish. Looking forward to car rides with summer music, even if they’re just to work or home. Beer, with lemon and orange slices that dry out on the counter overnight after I go to bed too drunk to remember them.

***

I miss Liz. (Liz, I miss you.) While I was in the tree with Chad and Mike, I wondered how caterpillars smelled—with their feet? So we called Liz. I said I miss having all of my questions answered when I need them answered. I miss Liz. I miss her knowledge and her company and our routines and her mashed potatoes.

***

Oddly, my progressive headaches have reappeared. I’m not sure why, but the nightmares come along with them, and I spend many nights rubbing my shaved legs together under the covers trying to get comfortable. School has reminded me of how difficult I find it to concentrate. Also, how much I enjoy writing papers, and also how capable I am at procrastinating and letting myself save my first major assignment until the night before, completed time, 4:00 a.m.

I’ve met my mentor for next year, and he’s given me the 6 inch textbook for World Literature, and a fresh copy of Hamlet, a novel the 9th graders will tackle, and the 9th grade textbook. Next year I’ll teach all honors classes. Starting in January, I will be teaching full time—including prep work and grading, and 5 classes a day, every day. I’ll be taking graduate classes at night, convincing myself to go for a run thereafter, because I absolutely need the routine and the feeling as though I’m moving away from something.

The spot where my tooth has been removed has smoothed over into a slick gum that almost feels sweaty when I touch my tongue to it. I still keep the tooth by my bed, show the company. There is a piece of gum stuck in between the roots. The roots are almost wrapped around each other because of the constricted space in the back of my mouth, and the tooth looks like a dying squid. The doctor had given me gas, Nitrous Oxide, while I was in the chair, and I miss the feeling even after only that one fix. Yesterday, as I was trying to find sleep, I felt as though the room as smoky and preventing me from taking deep breaths. The room was not smoky. I was dizzy, and nightmarish visions were painted on the backs of my eyelids.

I wrote a poem last week, I’m going to Wisconsin Dells next week, James and I will soon put in the fire pit and then I’ll command Darren and Liz come down and bring with them a solid, sweet stogie for me to smoke in a lawn chair at dusk. I made a joke about Helen Keller in class to a friend, and she laughed. Yesterday she gave me the list of restaurants to try in this town. It’s been posted on the fridge, waiting for me to get over my cooking phase. Sometimes I wonder how often, exactly, I should apologize for how I feel, buy I’m going to keep riding this good wave until I have a real reason not too.