Weeds fear me.

The weekend before I went home for the 4th of July week, I spent Saturday with Chad and Sunday with the flower bed. For about six hours, I pulled weeds—every single weed—out of the front-moat of the house and piled jagged green stems in the lawn. Then I threw them all in a garbage bag, and then I tilled the soil, planted flower seeds from a shake box, and watered by using my thumb over the end of the hose to create a hefty, cold spray.

James and I also planted shrubs along the east side of the house—sharp, good-smelling Prince Wales Juniper.

And a tree in the backyard with the purple-grape-skin-colored leaves that I forget the name of. James laid fresh gravel in the driveway, by bringing one and half tons home in the red truck at a time. We measured where posts should go for the deck that will be built this Saturday, the deck that goes along the south end of the house and will be wide enough for grilling and sun-lounging and full dining, and carved a wide path into the formerly untouched acres of land that go back to the creek. Well, this is the part that James did with his lawn mower and weed eater while I got use of my garden hat in the front yard. He chopped through the long grass, curved through it, until he reached sort of an oasis of creek. He’d build a bench, he said, and put it back there, so we could park ourselves right next to the water when we needed to hide away. We decided where the fire pit would go, which will be next to where we put in the horseshoe pit. And then we commented about the day before, Saturday, and Chad. His impeccable horseshoeing skills are enough to make a girl blush. (And if you’re me, enough to make a girl threaten to shove horseshoes in dirty places or to beat one aside the head with them.)

And then today, I discovered that the greenhouse was having a clearance sale, that perennial and annual flowers were 12 cents a piece, that shrubs were marked 75% off, and that I had an empty back seat:
I went outside and planted for about four hours, played in mud, watched the sun go down, dumped top soil into a new pot and an old pot and filled them with begonias and petunias,:
wished I’d had bought one of those little gardener shovels, developed an appreciation for fertilizer and marigolds:

(look at that! dirt on my face, even)

and really got use of the gardening hat. It’s funny that I bought that thing ironically in the spring, that I’d always told myself I wanted a green thumb. But I know dick about flowers. I know dick about flower food, partial shade/partial sun, about shrubs or trees, or even what’s near death or a salvageable mum, or vine, or traveling petunia. But I had a good time this evening, all by myself in the front lawn, bent over either on my knees in the sharp grass or with my ass in the air, and the mosquitoes stayed away as I watered more and pulled more weeds and rocks from the flower bed.

Plus, I promise there is something romantic about planting half dead flowers in July, picking the crunchy curled-up leaves from the still-green stems, forcing the soft petals open with your fingers just so that bit of red or white shows from the road, rubbing and scratching the roots from the bell of dirt where they gather and spool around each other, pulling black dirt over the roots and marrying them with the new soil, tousling the top soil out of the leaves like you’re goofing with a toddler. I know there’s a poem in there somewhere, and I have a little crush on each half dead flower in the garden. Plus, I overheard the greenhouse guy say that the flowers that weren’t going to be sold today or tomorrow were going to be thrown in the dumpster. And: enter the same feeling I get when I go to the humane society. I sort of felt it was my mission to save these little guys. They’re so cute and innocent, these begonias! Why should they have to die, just because nobody has room to plant them? I suppose I came home with too many flower crates, like the spinster English teacher comes home with too many cats, and I suppose I talked to each flower and maybe even kissed a couple of leaves for good growing luck like a big weirdo, but at least the flowers aren’t getting thrown away to dry out and brown next to a half-eaten, stale box of Fruity Pebbles.

*
Regarding Saturday before I went home for the fourth, to sequence this post annoyingly out of order, I have to mention a couple of things. First of all, I sort of made a pie. With the help of James, who helped with the top part:

And Chad, who ate the pie, whilst reading Tampax instructions in French at my request:

The pie was raspberry, and with the new pie dish Jenny gave me, I promised that the crust would be homemade. (And I shaped my part into a country that the others had to guess. It was Somalia, but it didn’t really look it. James made Australia, which was obvious.) We had some difficulty sorting out some pronoun confusion in The Joy of Cooking, but we worked it out and the pie was amazing.

It was the next morning that brings me to my second point, which is ‘Smath:

‘Smath has been mentioned on this blog before, briefly, about its misuse of grammar. On Saturday, I found the game at the Goodwill for $2, and knowing that Chad was coming to visit, I bought it. If you can’t tell from the picture, ‘Smath (THE GAME THAT MAKES MATH FUN!!!) is played like Scrabble, but with equations. (We all know that Liz would love it.) The game took a good two hours, which was enhanced by delicious pancakes and about 4 cups of strong coffee apiece.

‘Smath! The Game That Makes Math Fun! was won by James, who dominated with 416 points (although Chad gave him a “douche penalty” that left him with negative points) and Chad came in second with 2 hundred some, and my tricks of 1 + 9=10 landed me in third place (hey—I thought I did alright, given that math is stupid) and I didn’t even break 200. Also, I’m pretty sure that ‘Smath! The Game That Makes Math Fun! was voted Retard’s Choice back in ’89 and ’92: Yeah.

*

The week off was good. I spent most of it at home, talking to Bourbon, my brother’s dog. I took him to the pet store, he shit on the floor, we got him a new name tag. He hogged the bed and pawed and growled in his sleep, I tried to move him from the exact middle and he put all of his 15 pounds into not moving an inch, and I wished so badly for my own dog to cutely complain about. Travis and I went to a greenhouse, bought my mom a crawling vine with purple flowers since she killed the potted plant I gave her for mother’s day (like in two days—yeesh) and then I convinced him to help me photocopy some work for class if I’d buy him fireworks. He lit off the fireworks without me. Also, I bought a lottery ticket and made him scratch it off, claiming that if I lost he’d be grounded. I lost; I also don’t have the authority to “ground” my brother, which is ludicrous.

David and I spent a good day watching movies, such as, finally, Teeth, the movie about a vag with teeth. It was pretty awesome, and on a scale of “No Penises” to “Severed, Rotten Penises eaten by dogs,” it gets a 10 for severed, rotten, dog-eaten. On Thursday Shan and I went to Matt’s new restaurant, which is Caribbean BBQ, and I ate some of the best food I’ve ever had in my life, such as deep fried corn bread and the best fucking Macaroni and Cheese that has ever been created—with bacon, with creamy, luscious cheese, tender noodles. I know it’s just Mac & Cheese, but I fucking swear on anything that there is no Mac & Cheese better. Shan and I scrounged around Stillwater, popped into antique shops, commented on old-lady smells of them, tried to fix $100 Star Wars alarm clocks that should work if they cost that much, and ate about 90 pounds of Salt Water taffy. (Oh, and Shannon, you were right about the white one—it didn’t taste like anything! What the hell flavor was that?) And on Friday I spent the day with David’s family at his sister Lisa’s house, and we drove around on the boat, ate shredded pork, and had 7 desserts apiece. That night, after my 4th of July nap, we met a friend of his for fireworks in Minneapolis. His friend lives downtown (with a gorgeous dog named “Yellow Dog,” a yellow lab) and we first watched fireworks from 10 different cities in the big skyline (they were far away, of course) and then went down to the St. Anthony bridge to watch the Minneapolis best. They were, of course, spectacular, and I was grateful for the silly patriotic music they always play in the background. Thank you, Lee Greenwood.

On Saturday, I spent the day with my family for my grandmother’s 90th birthday, which is quite a feat in and of itself, and also because for 90 my G-ma looks pretty damn good:

I'm grateful for my time in Elgin, because it's got me thinking about all the time I spent on the farm as a kid. I've been looking at old pictures lately and realizing that I'm more like my family than I've ever really thought. I think my grandpa's been watching me plant flowers and sort of laughing to himself, like--you're one of us, kid, you are.

My cousin gathered pictures from the entire family—the ten kids—for a slideshow, and it was absolutely amazing looking through the old photos. My dad complained that a funny photo of him grabbing himself wasn’t included in the show, a lot of pictures weren’t that were really funny, but I guess we were keeping clean for grandma—but these are some of the gems:

Family portrait:

Guess which one is my dad.

Grandpa on the farm, with 4/10 of the kiddos.

This is my grandma and her dog Snoopy in one of my favorite pictures. Dad said she used to wrap him up in that damn towel after every bath. Snoop was sort of the dog I had while growing up--he was around from when I was a kid, a young 'un and lived I swear for 20 years. My dad said he was an asshole, but what I mostly remember is whispering "Snoopy" at the dinner table so he'd run over and prop himself up on your leg with one ear up, one down. He also used to sneak over the "neighbor's house" when their female dog was in heat, and he'd come home walking all proud.
See? I loved Snoopy from the beginning. That's my cousin Stephanie with my aunt's dog, Pooh, who was sort of a slut. Also, it is evident that I need to have a talk with my mother about this haircut I had going on during the early elementary ears: Dear mom: Why do my bangs go back behind my ears so it looks as though I have a mis-cut mullet? It's okay for hair to cover my ears, you know. I guess I can be forgiving because that one-piece jumpsuit with the snaps on the shoulders is pretty fucking cool (until little Jean has to go to the bathroom that is).

You may also observe the haircut here, as I wear the favorite dress of my youth--a pink shiny thing that I wore when I did my homemade dance routine to "Everybody Dance Now" by C&C music factory and performed it for my parents. (And commissioned my brother Craig to learn the rap part of the song so he could participate too.)

And here, at my first communion, next to dad and his amazing mustache, in front of our awesome wallpaper.

And, again. Looking at the cake instead of the camera at my cousin's birthday.

The grandparent's wedding photo--and both of them are pretty hot--

And they're still at it years later, which is both cute and gross. And who took this picture? C'mon.

Grandpa in the 40s with the eldest daughter, Mary Jane:

And this picture makes me laugh because it's my mom with a bunch of my cousins. Because my dad married a girl so young, and because we're a huge family, my mom is younger than some of my cousins. So, I guess for this picture they were like: Hey Barb (she's the one with long hair in the back and in that cool plaid shirt) why don't you take a picture with the rest of the kids? I'm sure she was totally happy about it, too. At least she wasn't wearing a magenta velour top, like cousin Pammy.

The great thing about being so damn Polish, as we all are, is that everyone’s a dupa, and you can see where I get my nose from, and finally, I can sort of see where too. A lot of these I hadn’t seen. I sort of get those essays now, the ones where the narrator finds stuff out about her family and it miraculously explains who she was even though she knew nothing prior. In fact, I find myself wanting more. I want to talk to my grandma about all of the dogs she had, and loved, and babied. I want my grandmother’s bread recipe more than anything, those loaves she pounded out on the kitchen table with a handkerchief over her head, but she hasn’t written it down. She doesn’t know what goes in it at what time or how much. She just does. It just needs. And second-best, I want her coffee cake recipe—the classic family coffee cake that appeared at every family event from my birth until she left the farm when I was 20, and that as a kid I actually thought tasted like coffee—but it takes a whole day to make. My aunt made it for the birthday, and I asked her for the recipe, and she said we’d have to get together for an entire day for me to learn it. I suppose there’s a poem in there somewhere too, but maybe there’s more of an awkward day of me watching the swears around my over-religious aunt Jeannette, the one all of the brothers nicknamed “ca-ca” because she didn’t know it meant “shit” in Spanish, the one who told me when I was young that watching scary movies would cause the demons from the movie to invade my soul (I stayed out of the scary movie section of movie stores for years—I didn’t want to look at a movie cover and get possessed by an evil plastic doll).

I suppose this is where I’m done catching up. I have 8 days of school left until a month off for the rest of the summer, the month I’ll spend trying to understand the curriculum, watering the flowers, and finally doing all of that reading and essay editing and poem writing I’ve been wanting to get to. And painting the house, and the large barbeque, and a trip to Wisconsin for a week, too. It will be a good month, as it has been a good summer. I find myself confused most mornings, and I talk myself out of it by saying in my head: “You’re not going to the cube. You’re doing what you want, and it’s for yourself.” And then I feel better. But still, everything—even my vision, oddly—is a bit foggy, and I’m sort of searching for lost days like they’re hiding in the couch cushions. I don’t remember some mornings, or afternoons, and I don’t know what will happen to me when fall comes, or even next year, if I’ll get the job I want (as everyone at my cousin’s wedding said—“yeah, but the job market’s rough—are you even gonna get anything?”) but I’m convincing myself to live in the moment, to take in the little things I never realize I wanted. Like greenhouse clearance sales, like the neighbor’s corn that literally one can watch grow (and I never believed all those farmers and their tales) in the backyard, or even like the rows and fields along Olmsted County Road 21 that I watch when I drive into town. The corn is so thick now, so dark that as you drive by and the wind blows it looks like the Wave. Little hands ripple across the hills, and it even continues on as it moves to the lighter colored crops, the bright green of the soy. Or, I think sometimes the crops look like acres and acres of fabric, up close, stretching out or being shaken.

Hi, I'm 26 now. Here's an update on the shit I do and think about.

Happy birthday, Jeano.

You were just a little bit sad this weekend, so you didn't go nuts, didn't call all the people you should've who would've helped you bring in your birthday, but the Good Doctor was there for the most part, to buy you drinks, and you asked the host at Friday's for red and white birthday balloons that you later let free off the porch, the four of them together forming the shape of a clover leaf, and they floated straight up because there wasn't any wind to take them away.

You opened the present from the Good Doctor Sunday morning; two boxes of contacts and a stainless steel knife set. Way too much, but the knives are amazing, and when you put that big butcher knife in the wood block and whip it out, it sounds just like the fwing sound effect from Top Chef.

Your mom was going to go to the beach with you, but she cancelled because she was tired, so you spent the day finding ways to spend the money she and dad gave you for turning 26--and you found yourself in the Apple store, exactly where you were planning on going, really, and you bought the new adapter for your ipod/Nike running shoes. It's amazing. Today you used it for the first time, and you ran your little route, and you callibrated your steps with the track so you knew the timing was on. Turns out you've only been running 2.09 miles a day, but that's not so bad considering it's really hot outside and you lift weights...sometimes. And when you're done working out, Lance Armstrong's voice comes in your ipod and says "Congratulations! This was your best workout yet!" And it was, because it was your first with this new amazing little device. All outdoor runners should have this. It's treadmill without the treadmill, which is amazing because treadmills fucking suck, in their gyms, all set up under low ceilings and nowhere near the fan you need to dry some of the sweat dripping down your neck. Because you were ambitious, Jeano, you also bought a new sport ipod band that is Nike, of course, because I guess you're their new, average-chubby-girl sponsor.

Of course, you really still wished it was the night before, how you'd spent the first hour of your birthday, a little buzzed off a Big Ginger and then at the downtown Minneapolis fountains with the Good Doctor:

I enjoy this picture, but it disturbs me just a bit. Look to the back left of that concrete square near the front, where the water has run off the last step into the big pool. Why does it look all gooey and phlegmy? Or, ahem, like cum? It wasn't like that when we were there, but I guess if anybody is going to make this expression in a fountain of ghost semen, it's gonna be David.

Later that night, David and I lit a huge firework in his driveway, and he was so scared the "cops would come" he hid in the garage while I watched the sparks on my own.

II. Thursday.

James and I had a couple of beers and lit off fireworks in the driveway, and again, it was one of those nights that define June, or summer, or, I suppose Elgin. Full moon, 11:30. We could hear the neighbor girl and her friends' faint voices from over the corn fields, although the glow of the bonfire they'd had earlier had turned to just smoke. I convinced James to scream go to bed, Kelsey! From across the field, just so she'd have something to think about her neighbors, and we lit off the firework called "St. Helens" in the tall grass, and when it was done sparking we dumped water on the cardboard remains.

Of course, what was most exciting about the night, really other than the large sparklers and smell of powder and sulfur in the air, was where we'd just come from: Viola, Minnesota, the next town or two over, home of Gopher Count. Read below, please. Just do it:

Voila! No, it's Viola, Minnesota, and there ain't no magic here, though the ghosts of millions of huggable little gophers may very well be haunting the fields around this farming community -- looking for their legs. Legs? In the heart of the Gopher State, the sub-100 person village of Viola has been plagued by galling gophers since local farmers first settled here in the mid-1800s. Not only can a gopher mound really screw up farming equipment, but the little buggers have eating habits that can mean the cancellation of crops. Marilyn Shea, the 1999 Gopher Queen, explains, "They go down the rows and eat up all the little corn kernels and alfalfa seeds that the farmers planted. And they just couldn't get a good crop."

So, like any good Americans would do, Violans put a bounty on gophers' legs and started slaughtering the sons of bitches. Their fuzzy front digits are worth cold hard cash, about $1.25 a pair, which is dished out at the annual Gopher Count celebration held every June. How are they stored until this fateful summer day? Queen Shea explains: "People sometimes stick the legs in a jar and keep them in their freezer until the counting. But some also put them on a line and hang them out to dry. That way they won't smell and the cats won't run off with them from the garage." In 1999 the village paid out almost $1,500.00, which translates into about 1,200 goner gophers.

So it comes as no surprise that as of late the Gopher Count has been targeted by animal rights organizations. But Shea, like all Violans, thinks the outside world just doesn't understand. "We don't, you know, trap gophers here to be cruel to animals. And we're not teaching our kids violence. It was something that was started a long time ago, and we keep it going through thick and thin." Ah, good old tradition, the global excuse.

Because I figured I'd get some poem out of it, the animal-loving part of myself overlooked the possiblity of gore at Gopher Fest and hopped into the Intrepid and drove the way. But we'd missed the feet and the bounty collection, which had happened the night before. Also, I was devastated to hear, we'd missed the town talent show. (Can you imagine how amazing something like that'd be in small town Minnesota?) But the dance that was held on Thursday night was nothing to be missed. $8 to get in, but no drinks or food free--$8 for the local band, playing in the pavillion, while 20 or so girls dressed in their nights-out finest grind up against each other until they realize their can of beer is empty and have to buy some tokens for new cans of beer.

Lots of pregnant girls there, oddly. Lots of girls dressed in the type of clothes new 21-year-olds wear when they "go out to the bar" for the first time--black, shiny halter tops, short, white jean skirts, too-high heels, too much hairspray. Lots of drunk men with beer bellies harassing the folks at the beer tent. Options of beer were Bud, Bud Light, or Mich Golden, and they only came in cans. Mini donuts, big greasy burgers with onions and cheese. In one pavillion, the younger people danced to Sir Mixalot, of course, and other top 40 songs--and inside, in the town hall, the old people gathered for a one-man band. A man with a keyboard and an accordian, playing classic country and polka music. And so, old women in kulats, dancing with men in western shirts and those Wrangler polyester jeans that are sort of dress pants (they come in brown, black, or gray--you know what I'm talking about). Both women and men wore cowboy boots. Some old couples sat at the picnic tables that had been set up inside and watched the others dance. The dance floor was huge, and everyone moved counter clockwise in a big circle. If they were in water, they'd have created a whirlpool. But they weren't in water, they were just surrounded by wood paneled walls and the floor tile that is brown, cream, and tan. The floors you find in every old church basement or bar in Minnesota that was at its height in 1973. Did I love it there? I loved it there. I was really a breath away from asking James for a polka dance.

I suppose its the next best thing to seeing buckets and buckets of half-frozen gopher's feet, trapped by 12-year-olds who consider the Gopher Count their best source of income for the year.

III. Nightmares.

To be real-life scary, James found out where all of the spiders have been coming from. 40 of them, he said, he killed in the basement. He told me this and I squealed, held my fingers over my mouth, and tried not to imagine legs and legs and legs and legs. They lived by the water heater. They live no more.

To be not real life scary, I've started doing research on nightmares. I have found myself in a pickle. The nightmares are bad. I dreamt I was kidnapped by John Wayne Gacy, last night I had another tornado dream where tens of funnel clouds dipped from the sky and stealthily chased me, and in that dream my brain referenced another dream that I'd had about tornados. I don't have the energy to write the dreams down, but there are more. I find that I think of them not right when I wake up, but they'll come to me hours later, in the middle of class. I'll be listening to a lecture, and the thought of running from tornados or running for my life will suddenly pop up like a memory. Sometimes I think: dream, or real? And a random image or the sense of tone will follow me around all day.

The research says that less than 1% of adults have more than 5 nightmares a year. I have at the least one a week. Sometimes I have three a week. But the question is--do I have more than normal, or do I just happen to remember them? And why do I remember them so vividly? Why don't they just disappear? Is it medication? Is it because I eat sometimes before I go to bed? Is it why I'm so tired all day?

IV. More sulfur.

I took the leftover fireworks home, and my dad, Travis, and I lit them in the driveway. The best part was watching dad and Travis, lighting the sparklers, running around the cul-de-sac through the smoke and mosquitos. Both of them waving their arms ignoring the sparks of orange and yellow.

Da Dells and more time wit da Farmer.

We all arrived later than planned; David and I got stuck in unneccessary traffic for forty-five minutes while he showed onlooking truck drivers his man-parts; we found a giant ceramic bear near our hotel and David suggested we "pig-fist" it or that it could be a "pig-fisting bear"; I forgot razors and deodorant, we watched Rick Wilcox and his magic show while screaming "Suzan!" the name of his assistant wife the entire time and calling Wilcox (to ourselves) an obvious pedophile; we did the double track of go-karts, which I won the latter of; we ate a too-fast dinner served by a French (and German, apparently) waiter; we had candy cones at Dairy Queen; we got married at the Dells Bells wedding chapel; we went to the torture museum, which had a very detailed account of the evil clown man John Wayne Gacy, which I later had horrific nightmares about (he cut of my fingers in the dream--I felt it all); we bought a plastic ball for the hotel pool, which was later named "gay ball" and if you got hit with it, you turned gay; we bought sandwiches and Lunchables for Noah's Ark; we ate fudge with real caramel; P got me amazing berf-day gifts; we questioned all day whether it'd rain at the Ark; it didn't rain at the Ark; we got to the park and were almost the only people there; we waited in line the longest of three minutes; we went on black anaconda 4 or 5 times; my swimsuit went up my butt; David lost his voice--we all did; Mary and David were named the "scream team"; Dan named himself Koala McNasty, and then we all took names of foreigners visiting the Dells--I was Nastenka (Nasty for short), Jenny was Herzgovenia (or Herzi), David was Svetlana MiCock, Mark was Gunter, and Mary was Mexicali; wave pool; SpongeBob theatre; commenting that women wearing nets over their swimsuits were "surfing the net;" a ticket scalper at the go-karts; a big, fat buffet with crab legs and prime rib; 6 in Mark's car; sunburn on the nose and feet; Mr. Pancake's corn pancakes; a dry Lake Delton; switching hotels in the middle, to the better hotel; a short drive from Rochester; Bubble Tape, moose hats, and Ring Pops; a very brief electrical outage; lunch at the picnic tables at Noah's Ark; 17 of Jenny's amazing cookies; Dr. David fixes Gunter's eyes (sort of); hot tubs that are too hot; snippets of HBO movies; David's first time on the Point of No Return; too much adventure on the adventure river; etc.

***

Last week, I got a pink flash drive (2 GB) that held the curriculum for the classes I will teach next year--English 9 honors, English 11 Honors--World Lit, and English Senior Values Honors. I opened the folders, and the folders, and the folders, and the folders. There are so many folders. There are piles of folders that never end, folders hidden in folders, archive folders, standards folders, Minnesota folders. It is, quite possibly, the scariest thing I've ever seen. And so. One of the first big steps I'll take forward as I become a public educator. All of the folders, the standards, and the scary parts. No more college syllabi, no more selecting my own books, no more TA advisors telling me to "just go ahead and do what I want."

And today I had a test in my class, a multiple choice fill-in-the-blank of a beast that reminded me of my undergrad non-English class years. There were two essays, so I think I passed, but mostly multiple choice tests make me want to throw up.

***

Oh, I have so much more to tell you, too. Not right now, because I have work to do and lunch to eat, but you should know that on Friday James and I finally went to bring farmer Reed his home(Jeano)made pumpkin bread and raspberry coffee cake. Farmer Reed, down the dirt road behind us, told us about his house, how he lives on the old school house land. When they built his house, back in the 60s, they plowed the school house down and buried it in the ground--instead of removing it--so on the corner of his lot the one-room school house is old knotted wood and concrete beneath the soil. Maybe more school houses will bloom, some year. Farmer Reed has horses--two of them--and I hadn't even known they were there until he took James and me back to the stable where two gorgeous horses pranced around in the mud and dark shit. One was tan, the younger, who came over to us right away. Blonde hair, and her ears went back as the older, more dominant horse came over to us afterwards. She's the one you'll ride, he told James.

Farmer Reed's wife, Tammy, needs someone to ride with her. James has ridden, and I never have, but I'm nearly certain by the end of the year I'll be watching James and Tammy ride and then be convinced to hop on the back of the young horse.

The dominant, older horse, Tammy's horse, has dark, chocolate fur and black hair. She feels like velvet--all of her, and to stop petting and poking was certainly a tragedy.

Not to mention the two dogs of Farmer Reed, the darling fat thing with the displaced hip who could barely move as James pulled his red truck into the driveway. Her name is Nikki, and she was hit by a truck near our house a couple of years ago; and also there is Roy, the young Yorkie pup who licks your feet whether or not you're wearing flip flops.

Every year, Farmer Reed has a Christmas tree burning. This happens, most often, in the spring. The neighbors bring their old trees to Farmer Reed, where he has created a special Christmas-tree burning device in his yard. But this year, they didn't get around to it. So now, June, there is a pile of tan-orange pines sitting between two spruce trees in his yard. In the fall, he says, they will have their Christmas tree party. They, and all of the neighbors, a fair portion of Elgin, will gather together, barbeque, get lit--and then light the trees. You throw them into the device, and the flames shoot higher than you could ever imagine, Farmer Reed says. He offers an invite, and I accept it quickly, offering to bring a pasta salad for the big dinner. Hopefully, we'll all do it at night--around a huge bonfire, sipping cider, right on the cusp of fall. I'll take a break for awhile to walk over to the horses, then walk back to my chair and pet Nikki at my side, while the fuzzy cat rubs against my legs with full force.

James and the farmer talked about trees, where to buy them, how to plant them, basements flooding, sheetrock, trucks, home planning, deck staining, lawn care. I sort of followed behind, thanked Farmer Reed's daughter when she ran outside with a full mouth to tell me that the raspberry coffee cake was especially good, and then that the neighbor to their left was sort of an asshole. She's the youngest of three daughters, and the other two are at school. After we left Farmer Reed's an hour later, we frove her downtown for a quick ride--it was Elgin Cheese Days this past weekend. She was meeting friends, going to watching fireworks.

Of course, Elgin is no longer known for cheese. Our creamery no longer exists, and to quote Farmer Reed, "the town is dying." But everyone still owns land out here, knows the exact location of their property lines (Farmer Reed's property is exactly in the shape of Minnesota), everyone still knows Elgin history. The other neighbor still stops by--in his tractor--when James gets home to introduce himself. I still spend nights paging through my cookbook thinking about what to make next, sit on the windy porch with books in tow, clean my room because I find myself with the time instead of the opportunity to ignore it (I've just finally, though hung things on the walls); I still sniff the air hard when I walk outside and drive with the windows down, letting all the summer in. How is it mid-June already? How has this first month of summer snaked by under my feet?

If this town is dying, I wonder what it was like when it was alive.

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.

Great. So I've joined the losing team.

Yesterday I learned that Minnesota has the highest achievement gap in the United States, and that good ol' Crochester, Minn., home of that water tower that looks like corn, has the highest achievement gap in the state, meaning, of course, that Rochester has the highest achievement gap in the country.

What's an achievement gap, you ask? Well, I know it sounds nice. "Achieve" is my favorite thing to do, and "Gap," is my favorite place to shop, so you think I'd be ecstatic about this honor. Unfortunately, in the world of Education, achievement gap means: Our white people are smart and our minorities are dumb. The difference between the success of white students and the success of minority students is huge. It's a gap as large as, like, Paul Bunyan's wife's vag.

Only 34% of black students graduate high school in Minnesota. What the fuck. I suppose the only way we have to go is up, unless we start making all of our white kids stupid, so as to close the gap. (I think some of the students at MSU had a good start to that, no?) And the funny thing is that it's gotten worse since No Child Left Behind went into effect a couple of years ago. Giant vag-gap? ... Crotch-chester? Coincidence?! No. But I think I have a lot of work ahead of me, as I have single-handedly decided to close this giant Minnesota gap. Seriously, Minnesota. Black students in Mississippi, where there is still blatant racism are more successful than they are here, huh? Good thing the state legislative session gave money to our schools. Now the schools can spend it on literature that isn't about white people--and when it's minority-oriented, doesn't just talk about slavery and civil rights.

*

On the selfish, lighter side of things, Elgin, Minnesota, home of Elgin Cheese Days, is probably one of the greatest places I've lived. In the sense that I can leave, I suppose, and drive to Crochester when I need to get "into town." But the other day, after a long nap, I walked outside to get something from my car, and across the street a long-legged deer galloped through the field. In fact, it looked from far away, much like the John Deere emblem that's on all of the tractors out here. I watched it for awhile, as it crossed through the mud. James told me that a woodchuck has claimed our backyard as his own, and he wanders around through the long grass and swims up and down the creek. I only hope one day to find him out there, wearing a pink swim cap and flippers, or to be sitting on the sun lounger out on the deck, commanding I bring him a "foofy" sort of drink so he can relax after all that exhaustive back stroking. And yesterday--yesterday while James was fixing the lawn mower in the shed, a farm cat from any number of the farms around here started to follow him around. James came in to get some bread to feed the cat, and at the mention of the word "kitty" I ran outside to commence petting. The cat climbed on the lawn mower seat, purred and meowed as though he had something really fucking important to say, and then put his paws on the steering will. He lent his round head to the cups of our hands.

It took us awhile to determine boy or girl--with lots of inappropriate and awkward tail-lifting that James claimed "was likely illegal," but there was a set of fuzzy gray cat stones. A tom cat, perhaps, or a cat that had been in a fight with a tom cat. (Or perhaps a territory battle with the woodchuck.) His ear was cut and there seemed to be dried blood on the inside, little chunks of fur were missing. James and I debated we should "heal" his ear with some kind of people medicine, but the wound didn't seem to have phased him, so we didn't risk making matters worse. His fur was what my brother and I always called "Tiger fur" on the especially pretty farm cats, but for some reason it took an odd pattern on the higher end of his back, above his legs, to look like a vest. And funny--he didn't eat the bread James brought him. He sat on the mower seat, waiting for us to continue our petting and our "kitty kitty cute-kitty"s and mewed some more. I went in to get a small bowl of milk, he followed me to the house from the shed; I shut the door and could still hear him meowing through the large front door into the kitchen. I brought out the milk, he didn't drink. Instead he sniffed, rubbed his body against our legs, followed James to the garage.

I don't have access to any sort of television, in Elgin, which I have turned into a personal goal and project for the rest of the year. I told James not to get cable, especially not on my account. As such, my MPR listening has gone through the roof, as has my record-listening, as has my number of hours slept per day. It's absolutely wonderful. I find that without TV I have freed hours--literally hours--of my day. I wake up and start doing what needs to be done without wasted time; I take time to bake food, and I'm already making lists of new recipes. I've baked two loaves of bread so far--one from old bananas, the other a new pumpkin bread recipe that is even better than the last. Yesterday I spent adequate time sniffing nutmeg. I do the dishes right when I'm done using them. I do laundry before I have 17 loads worth. I've already cleaned the shower just a bit. I read, and I look forward to reading. I read instead of eat. I take my time with food, instead of rushing, rushing to eat just so I can sit in front of the TV and turn my mind off. Seriously, I've ingested 50% of the amount of food I used to, and I really think it's just the lack of television. Does that sound ridiculous? It does. My life has turned into a health-idea book that I would never, ever read, let alone try, let alone be persuaded was successful. But I don't stuff my face with food just because I forget I'm eating it, like easily happened as I watched CSI or the Cartoon Network. I'm fully conscious and aware of everything I'm doing, of the food I'm preparing, and how much of it I'm consuming. If you weren't watching TV, do you know how long it would take to eat a full bag of chips? I'd get bored with it. Sure. There are still movies to watch and Internet websites to peruse with food in hand, but personally, this is a very good start for me.

While he was working in the shed yesterday, I brought James out a piece of warm pumpkin bread, out of the oven. When I stepped outside, even in the humidity, the bread steamed in the paper towel I'd wrapped it in. He thanked me, and then we just sat outside, on a "June" night, under the yellow lights of the garage and shed, while everything else was dark and hiding, and we talked for awhile. It was summer. Gnats formed in frantic groups. It was change, and the air was still. James stayed outside until 12:00, and as he came in, he said that the lightning was starting to flash pink in the sky to the west. We wondered whether the storm had persuaded that cat's odd behavior. Perhaps tonight, I will cook a dinner. Instead of a frozen pizza, I'll make a fresh mozzarella, basil, and tomato pizza. Maybe I'll even make my own sauce, and maybe I'll be able to make even more check marks in the 4000-reciped The Joy of Cooking. They have recipes for Beer Bread in there. I am definitely going to make every single bread they've listed--I've already killed two in just a week.

What do I go home to? A warm shower, a real house, and acres of farm land around me. Small, 1/4 inch thick phone books in the mail addressed to the farmer who died in this house years ago, with small maps of land squared off with farmer's/owners names listed in the center--so all of the town can know where the boundary lines begin and end. Phone numbers, actually, listed by "phone number," instead of name, assuming we all know the beginning of our neighbor's digits. James wondering whether the neighbors have judged him for letting the lawn grow too long, the dandelions too vast. News radio telling me when storms are coming, instead of the bleeps and colors on the bottom of the TV screen (which I do miss). --And tonight, well, here in Crochester, we've nearly been guaranteed 50% chance of straight line winds and tornado. Tonight the lighting will flash frequently over the hills of green, allowing us to see the outlines of the heavy, dark and low clouds every 1.5 seconds--and they'll be circling over us instead of moving fast and through like they normally do. It's going to be a black storm.

But before then, I'm off to the gym, which I've had to watch a 55 minute instructional video in order to use. Silly. But I'll be grateful in the winter, particularly for the indoor track. I can't run on the dirt roads in Elgin. The dry air, the rocks I kick up--they make me miss Lake Nokomis too much. I get mad at myself for not taking advantage of all those amazing trails I was surrounded by in Minneapolis. I am regretful. I was too sad too run, and now I'm too motivated not to--starting a summer diet (which I hope can be successful with the lack of TV) and a self-motivating exercise program with the help of the Good Doctor and new running shoes I hope to order from the kid in Oregon. So, I will run here, on campus. Yesterday I found an odd path that is half bike-trail, half parking lot/around baseball diamonds and malfunctioning baseball scoreboards with blinking lights, and as summer moves through June I'll visit the parks I've found on the website that will hopefully at least have man-made lakes. And I'll lift weights with the few buff and motivated Rochester Tech College/Winona State undergrads, run on the treadmills with my new running headphones as the severe weather starts to come during the day instead of in the evening.

Everything is falling into place. I've completed 5 graduate credits already. I've over-achieved and stayed up too late working on a journal for class. I've proclaimed my love for scented markers in front of our peers while we made a poster in class. What else is there? Oh, yes. The student teaching in the fall. Tomorrow I meet my mentor, and my financial aid files into my bank account. I then buy University insurance. This weekend I go antiquing and finish my coursework/homework. I eat the Walleye James fries for me. Next weekend I go to Wisconsin Dells. It is summer. It is June, and I couldn't possibly feel any more like I'm doing the right thing right now. How, I wonder, could I not be here?