This past week we helped two of our sons move to new apartments. Now that they’ve moved, we’re moving with the stiff and sore aftermath of walking up and down too many steps while carrying heavy boxes, heavy furniture, and heavy anything else that doesn’t fit into boxes.
As I’ve mentioned before, I do not like airplanes. So sorry, Orville. Maybe if I did it more I wouldn’t feel like any second the airplane I’m on is going to take a nosedive. When on a flight (the few times I’ve been) my legs are always tense, holding up off the floor just a wee bit because I’m afraid the belly of the plane is going to scrape the ground.
Calli took the book from Table 6 to the register. She’d be sure and wash her hands after taking it back. That diner looked like he had the plague. She felt sorry for the old man, but she couldn’t afford to get sick. Inside the book was a twenty dollar bill. The total was nine and change.
After attending a funeral last week for a friend my age, my mind turned to thoughts and processing of death and what that means. Death is a prevalent part of life. But as many have observed before, our society does little to prepare us to deal with it ahead of time. Many current resources can help us when life catapults us into the sudden face of dying and death, but most of us just don’t go there until we have to—at least we adults who are mostly in control of our behavior and faculties.
The Defenders Monument, erected in honor of those who died defending New Ulm during the U.S.–Dakota War of 1862, including Jason's great great grandfather, Max Haack.
On August 17, 1862, the Uprising began when a few raucous teens made a really bad decision which then escalated until there was full out war. After years of oppression and failed promises, outright theft and violence against the Dakota Natives by the U.S. government, Indian Agents, and a flood of ignorant (and some not so ignorant) settlers, the proverbial straw came crashing down and all hell let loose.
When You're Standing in the Middle of the Philadelphia Zoo, Communication Is Cut Off, Your People Have Left, You're Only Four, and You're All Alone
When I was four (to the best of my recollection) I went on a family vacation to Pennsylvania. The only reason I remember even that much is because of what happened later. I have very few memories from that age, probably like most people. The ordinary day to day details certainly don’t stick in the minds of persons of low language proficiency, of which I certainly was one, being only four and all. Probably most regular four-year-olds are low language proficiency, relatively speaking. Only certain events—either wonderful or traumatic—sear themselves into the psyche of young children.
Getting ready to hit the road in our "new" car, Mini Van Gogh
When the kids were five, we took our annual road trip to Minnesota. Before leaving, I made lists, gathered supplies, checked items off lists, and packed an incredible amount of stuff to get through a week away at the farm. For the kids, I used a huge red duffel bag, designed and made by Jason’s cousin who had a cottage industry of outdoor and camping gear. It also came with an identical cosmetic bag, a tiny replica of the big one, in which I packed some of my stuff. The giant duffel was perfect for a week’s worth of clothes for kids exploring and playing around a farm.
When I was a kid, my great Aunt Annie came to visit us periodically in Greeley from the east coast. She was a single school teacher who made everything a teachable moment. Stern but kind, she earned my siblings’ and my respect and admiration. I remember quite vividly her taking us on a walk around the neighborhood one autumn. It wasn’t just an ordinary walk. It was an educational excursion. She directed us to find leaves from different types of trees as we went along and we identified what we could, and she taught us about what we couldn’t. I didn’t even know there were different kind of trees, let alone that they each made their own kind of leaves.
Bowling is near and dear to my heart. But I’m terrible at it. If I reach a score of 60, I’ve had a good game. With baseball as the only sport I’ve ever really followed, I guess I’ve applied what I know about baseball to bowling: strikes are bad. You don’t want them. So I steer clear of them. And sometimes steer right down the middle of the slippery lane—on my belly—as balls have been known not to release from my hand and pull me down the shiny wooden floor. It’s so hard to find a ball light enough to control but with finger holes large enough not to get stuck. The kiddie balls—the only ones I have a chance of keeping out of the gutter—are just too tight around my fingers.
Rank pocketed his winnings at the Las Vegas counter. Right then, he decided it was time to begin his campaign. He’d get famous.
On the Today show, Rank sat with Savannah under the hot spots, the green light glowing over the camera. “Would you explain again for all of us how your ability works?”
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Life with Quadruplets
As a mother of quadruplets, I've had plenty of crazy experiences raising "supertwins." I blog a lot of memories about my kids. Sometimes just my thoughts on things. I get those sometimes—when my brain works. Which is about one third of the time.