It's New Year's Eve day, and for the past few weeks people on the radio, TV and Internet have been sharing lists to mark the closing of 2009. These lists have only dimly penetrated my consciousness, I think because I'm simply not in a holiday mood this year. I suppose there's always ebb and flow in life, but this year I did not feel the Christmas magic at all. And the imminent switch to 2010 later tonight doesn't feel like any kind of big deal either. I suppose it's my year to "bah humbug." It can happen to anyone, right?
What I did do over the Christmas holidays was cook. The husband and I took on responsibility for the extended family Christmas Eve dinner, so we were on-duty the weekend before, the Wednesday before, and the day of Christmas Eve. Here is what we cooked, and I must say the meal came off quite deliciously. Ocean scallops rubbed with sugar, cooked in butter, and drizzled with an orange-cardamom glace/reduction. Puree of potatoes and celery root. Leg of lamb marinated in garlic-rosemary-lemon-olive oil. Roasted root vegetables (carrot, parsnip, rutabaga, potato, onion) in butter and herbs. Onion pie with Jarlsberg, thyme and tomato. Green beans. A variety of fresh breads. For dessert we had a trifle made with ladyfingers, frozen raspberries cooked down in sugar and cornstarch, and home-made custard. There were various cookies and bars in attendance as well, and some warm spiced cider kicked off the pre-meal appetizers of olives, cheese, crackers and pickled herring. Even though I was a grinch in my own mind, I ate incredibly well for Christmas.
The real highlight of my holiday week was Saturday and Sunday, Dec. 26 and 27. All the Christmas festivities were wrapped up, and the husband and I finished 3 days of watching our neighbors' pets while they were out of town (their being out of town for the holidays meant that we also got to be in charge of shoveling out their properties during a 3-day winter storm!) We stayed in our pajamas for two whole days and settled into our basement TV room to watch the entire 5th season of LOST. It was the best Christmas present ever, I tell you. We were underground, literally, in the basement, and figuratively, not answering our phones or going outside. If you didn't hear from me at Christmas, that's the explanation.
Now it's New Year's and I feel a tiny twinge of obligation to go out and find a party to attend or observe in some way the closing of 2009 and the beginning of 2010 - a new year, a new decade. But we had no firm plans, and no real motivation to find a celebration until two hours ago when I got an email from a friend inviting us over tonight for some food, spirits, video games and mindlessness. Bingo. I will not give in completely to my grinch tendencies and will finish out this holiday season with at least a muffled bang.
Happy New Year!(?)
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
happy world AIDS day
When I started this blog back in April, I wrote a belated 'Happy Earth Day' post just after Earth Day. But today I'm writing a punctual 'Happy World AIDS Day' post. It's strange to put the word "happy" in front of a call to remember the struggle and loss of those affected by HIV/AIDS, isn't it? But didn't it get your attention?
I haven't thought seriously about HIV/AIDS since late 2006. That's when I returned from living in Ghana where I served in the Peace Corps working on HIV prevention education and providing support for People Living With HIV/AIDS (PLWHA). Since then it's been a luxury to concentrate my energy solely on setting up my life back in this country - getting a job, buying a house, planning for the future, etc. But today is World AIDS Day, after all. It's a good opportunity to refocus my attention on the continuing global health crisis that is HIV/AIDS.
My contribution today will be to call your attention to current information about HIV/AIDS. Our president has issued a proclamation that contains up-to-date figures on the number of PLWHA and the recent progress made in decreasing the number of infections. Also from our government, www.aids.gov has not only basic information about HIV, but ideas for how you can stand in solidarity with PLWHA using the social media of your choice. I plan to attend an event later today at the university campus where I work, which will consist of an AIDS advocacy walk down a busy main street near campus followed by a conversation with several AIDS activists working on the local, national, and international level.
These are my first attempts to get back into the arena of AIDS prevention education and advocacy. They may be small steps, but they are something I can do to honor the memory of the PLWHA I knew in Ghana. Before I went to Africa, HIV was just a scary consequence of unprotected sex, something I had been educated to avoid at all costs. But for more than a year I worked on educating and supporting PLWHA in Sub-Saharan West Africa, where I was able to understand the disease on a whole new level.
I held the hands of dying AIDS patients in their hospital beds. I sat and kept HIV positive people company while they waited for test results. I visited AIDS orphans at their extended families' homes in remote villages. I attended the funerals of PLWA who finally succumbed. All of these brave people brought home to me the real consequences of this indiscriminate and life-altering disease. I thank them for allowing me into their lives during the short time I knew them, and for the rest of my life I will hold their faces and their stories tight in my memory.
I have the luxury of living in a country with a relatively low incidence of HIV infection, but the disease is here all the same. It would be a waste of all my learning to turn away from the effort to increase public awareness and understanding of HIV. I may not be an activist or a crusader, but if I am one person with access to a computer and the Internet, and electricity to power them, then I can contribute to public HIV/AIDS awareness in my own small way. It's the least I can do.
I haven't thought seriously about HIV/AIDS since late 2006. That's when I returned from living in Ghana where I served in the Peace Corps working on HIV prevention education and providing support for People Living With HIV/AIDS (PLWHA). Since then it's been a luxury to concentrate my energy solely on setting up my life back in this country - getting a job, buying a house, planning for the future, etc. But today is World AIDS Day, after all. It's a good opportunity to refocus my attention on the continuing global health crisis that is HIV/AIDS.
My contribution today will be to call your attention to current information about HIV/AIDS. Our president has issued a proclamation that contains up-to-date figures on the number of PLWHA and the recent progress made in decreasing the number of infections. Also from our government, www.aids.gov has not only basic information about HIV, but ideas for how you can stand in solidarity with PLWHA using the social media of your choice. I plan to attend an event later today at the university campus where I work, which will consist of an AIDS advocacy walk down a busy main street near campus followed by a conversation with several AIDS activists working on the local, national, and international level.
These are my first attempts to get back into the arena of AIDS prevention education and advocacy. They may be small steps, but they are something I can do to honor the memory of the PLWHA I knew in Ghana. Before I went to Africa, HIV was just a scary consequence of unprotected sex, something I had been educated to avoid at all costs. But for more than a year I worked on educating and supporting PLWHA in Sub-Saharan West Africa, where I was able to understand the disease on a whole new level.
I held the hands of dying AIDS patients in their hospital beds. I sat and kept HIV positive people company while they waited for test results. I visited AIDS orphans at their extended families' homes in remote villages. I attended the funerals of PLWA who finally succumbed. All of these brave people brought home to me the real consequences of this indiscriminate and life-altering disease. I thank them for allowing me into their lives during the short time I knew them, and for the rest of my life I will hold their faces and their stories tight in my memory.
I have the luxury of living in a country with a relatively low incidence of HIV infection, but the disease is here all the same. It would be a waste of all my learning to turn away from the effort to increase public awareness and understanding of HIV. I may not be an activist or a crusader, but if I am one person with access to a computer and the Internet, and electricity to power them, then I can contribute to public HIV/AIDS awareness in my own small way. It's the least I can do.
Friday, November 20, 2009
meet mia
Today marks one month (four weeks, perhaps not quite an exact lunar month) since I brought home our rescued cat. We are already quite used to having her around, and making the transition from loners to pet owners has been more seamless than I imagined. The most difficult part has been choosing and sticking to a name.
After my last post about the cat, I got great feedback on names from the general public, but everyone had a different favorite name option. That's what I get for putting forth too many choices. I had hoped there would be a clear winner and we would be able to name our cat via democratic majority. That didn't work out the way I had planned.
We've been calling the cat multiple names over the past 4 weeks; we tried Neko, as in Neko Case one of our favorite musicians, but that didn't feel right coming off the tongue. Then I tried Pixie for a few days, and after that I tried Freckle. None of the names we tried seemed to match the cat's personality and presence. She is a mature 2-year-old, don't you know, so none of the kitten-y names seemed right. Every morning when I get up to feed her I call her Meow-ers, because that's what she's doing, but that doesn't cut it as a proper name in my book. It's not what I'd want to put on an ID tag or on her file at the vet's office.
One of the name possibilities that got a few votes was Maeby. This name was on our list mostly because it makes us chuckle, referencing Alia Shawkat's character on the TV show Arrested Development. Plus, it represents perfectly the process we've been going through - maybe we'll call her this, maybe we'll call her that, maybe we'll call her Maeby! And we did try calling her that for about 4 days. But it felt like I was calling out to grammatical modifiers instead of a pet: "Come here, Probably;" "Here Somewhat, Somewhat, Somewhat;" "Where are you, Kind-of-Sort-of?!" Maeby was just a little too non-committal.
So I think we've settled on Mia. It's been 3 days so far, and it doesn't yet seem like a ridiculous name. Or far-fetched, over-serious, old-lady, or arcane. Plus, in French the onomatopoeic word for what a cat says is "Miaou," and that is definitely what this cat says a lot. In an effort to finally commit to a name, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our cat, Mia.
After my last post about the cat, I got great feedback on names from the general public, but everyone had a different favorite name option. That's what I get for putting forth too many choices. I had hoped there would be a clear winner and we would be able to name our cat via democratic majority. That didn't work out the way I had planned.
We've been calling the cat multiple names over the past 4 weeks; we tried Neko, as in Neko Case one of our favorite musicians, but that didn't feel right coming off the tongue. Then I tried Pixie for a few days, and after that I tried Freckle. None of the names we tried seemed to match the cat's personality and presence. She is a mature 2-year-old, don't you know, so none of the kitten-y names seemed right. Every morning when I get up to feed her I call her Meow-ers, because that's what she's doing, but that doesn't cut it as a proper name in my book. It's not what I'd want to put on an ID tag or on her file at the vet's office.
One of the name possibilities that got a few votes was Maeby. This name was on our list mostly because it makes us chuckle, referencing Alia Shawkat's character on the TV show Arrested Development. Plus, it represents perfectly the process we've been going through - maybe we'll call her this, maybe we'll call her that, maybe we'll call her Maeby! And we did try calling her that for about 4 days. But it felt like I was calling out to grammatical modifiers instead of a pet: "Come here, Probably;" "Here Somewhat, Somewhat, Somewhat;" "Where are you, Kind-of-Sort-of?!" Maeby was just a little too non-committal.
So I think we've settled on Mia. It's been 3 days so far, and it doesn't yet seem like a ridiculous name. Or far-fetched, over-serious, old-lady, or arcane. Plus, in French the onomatopoeic word for what a cat says is "Miaou," and that is definitely what this cat says a lot. In an effort to finally commit to a name, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our cat, Mia.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
world centric ecotainer
I've been making an effort to brew my coffee at home in the morning as a way to not only avoid the expense of picking up coffee on the go but also to avoid producing the surplus waste of paper cup and plastic lid. My track record is getting better all the time, but one morning last week I gave the husband a ride to his 8:00 class and was unable to fortify myself with a cup of homebrew. So I stopped off at a local cafe to pick up some coffee on the way to work.
Our neighborhood is home to many small, independent restaurants and coffee shops and one of my favorites is the Birchwood Cafe. They are a cafeteria-style restaurant featuring baked goods, multiple vegetarian options, and locally roasted and bike-delivered Peace Coffee. So I already felt good about my purchasing choice having not gone to Starbucks or another international chain. But then, my morning coffee got even better. When I inspected my to-go cup, I saw the words "World Centric" stamped onto the lid, and "ecotainer" printed on the side of the cup. Both cup and lid were compostable, so I didn't have to throw either into the trash can at work. Happy day!
Instead, I brought them home and put them in my outdoor compost bin. When we had our house-warming party a year and a half ago, I set up a special trash system where people had only two options: recycle or compost. We had bought compostable paper plates and provided people with real silverware rather than plastic. Then there were either bottles or cans for beverages. Our low-waste house party was a success, and I've been watching those paper plates break down in the bin over the past year. Now they're pretty much disintegrated and mixed in to the pile of humus-soil-foodwaste accumulating in our back yard.
I am a huge supporter of compostable take-out supplies, so I just wanted to give a shout-out to the Birchwood for making the move to compostable coffee cups. And if you're interested in world centric ecotainers yourself, check out their manufacturers' websites here and here. For me, that little bit of good news for the environment totally made my day!
Our neighborhood is home to many small, independent restaurants and coffee shops and one of my favorites is the Birchwood Cafe. They are a cafeteria-style restaurant featuring baked goods, multiple vegetarian options, and locally roasted and bike-delivered Peace Coffee. So I already felt good about my purchasing choice having not gone to Starbucks or another international chain. But then, my morning coffee got even better. When I inspected my to-go cup, I saw the words "World Centric" stamped onto the lid, and "ecotainer" printed on the side of the cup. Both cup and lid were compostable, so I didn't have to throw either into the trash can at work. Happy day!
Instead, I brought them home and put them in my outdoor compost bin. When we had our house-warming party a year and a half ago, I set up a special trash system where people had only two options: recycle or compost. We had bought compostable paper plates and provided people with real silverware rather than plastic. Then there were either bottles or cans for beverages. Our low-waste house party was a success, and I've been watching those paper plates break down in the bin over the past year. Now they're pretty much disintegrated and mixed in to the pile of humus-soil-foodwaste accumulating in our back yard.
I am a huge supporter of compostable take-out supplies, so I just wanted to give a shout-out to the Birchwood for making the move to compostable coffee cups. And if you're interested in world centric ecotainers yourself, check out their manufacturers' websites here and here. For me, that little bit of good news for the environment totally made my day!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
a cat with no name
This past weekend we got a cat. A friend of ours had been feeding a stray cat that had been hanging around her house for the last 6 weeks or so, but they couldn't take it in because her husband is quite allergic. After thinking it over, my husband and I decided to rescue the cat because winter will be setting in soon and our house was seeming a little big for just the two of us anyway. Last Friday I drove out to their house, about 30 miles away and almost in the country, to pick up the cat. The previous weekend we had bought the requisite kitty supplies, and I made an appointment with our local vet for Friday so I could bring her directly there for an exam. When I got there she followed some cat food into the cat carrier and away we went!
She meowed the whole drive back, and was really happy to get into our house and out of the carrier. The vet gave her glowing marks - about 2 years old, negative feline leukemia and FIV tests, no ear mites, really cooperative getting shots and being examined. He kept saying that she was "a stunner!" She had been de-clawed, so it's safe to assume that she's also spayed as that's often done at the same time. She's at a perfect weight for a cat her age and size, and the good condition of her coat shows that she had been somebody's pet alright, and was probably living outside on her own for just the summer, if not just the past 2 months or so. They checked her for a microchip that would indicate her owners, but there was none. Our friend had called in to her local animal humane society a few weeks ago and there was no match with any of the cats that had been reported lost. This kitty was in great physical shape, with a lovely temperament, and she was ours to take home!
So we took her home, and we spent the weekend helping her feel comfortable in our house, and everything has gone smoothly so far. She used the litter box right away when I showed it to her, so she definitely knows what's what with being a house cat. She shows a normal interest in people food, but is so overjoyed when we feed her twice a day that it will be easy to train her not to jump up on the dining room table. She meows to us a lot - she's a talker, this one - and follows us around, probably to reassure herself that we're not going to abandon her. And she's a purr machine once she's settled in a lap and being petted. I really do feel like we won the pet lottery. The only problem is we're having a hell of a time settling on a name for this charming little cat!
I now solicit your help, dear readers. Do you have any good ideas for a name for this kitty?
kitty outside our friends' house
kitty dozing in our living room chair
Below are just some of the potential names we've been kicking around. Leave me a comment if you think one of them is a good fit, or if you have your own suggestion. I'll appreciate the help!
And then the names just get sillier from there. My main goal here is to be able to call the vet and tell them to remove "No Name" from our cat's file and replace it with an actual name. I hope we'll be able to decide on one before Christmas.
She meowed the whole drive back, and was really happy to get into our house and out of the carrier. The vet gave her glowing marks - about 2 years old, negative feline leukemia and FIV tests, no ear mites, really cooperative getting shots and being examined. He kept saying that she was "a stunner!" She had been de-clawed, so it's safe to assume that she's also spayed as that's often done at the same time. She's at a perfect weight for a cat her age and size, and the good condition of her coat shows that she had been somebody's pet alright, and was probably living outside on her own for just the summer, if not just the past 2 months or so. They checked her for a microchip that would indicate her owners, but there was none. Our friend had called in to her local animal humane society a few weeks ago and there was no match with any of the cats that had been reported lost. This kitty was in great physical shape, with a lovely temperament, and she was ours to take home!
So we took her home, and we spent the weekend helping her feel comfortable in our house, and everything has gone smoothly so far. She used the litter box right away when I showed it to her, so she definitely knows what's what with being a house cat. She shows a normal interest in people food, but is so overjoyed when we feed her twice a day that it will be easy to train her not to jump up on the dining room table. She meows to us a lot - she's a talker, this one - and follows us around, probably to reassure herself that we're not going to abandon her. And she's a purr machine once she's settled in a lap and being petted. I really do feel like we won the pet lottery. The only problem is we're having a hell of a time settling on a name for this charming little cat!
I now solicit your help, dear readers. Do you have any good ideas for a name for this kitty?
kitty outside our friends' house
kitty dozing in our living room chair- Nutmeg
- Roxy
- Tortuga
- Maeby
- Mazy
- Hazel
- Izzy
- Butternut
- Reese's Pieces
- Punky
- Noemie
- Trouvee
- Milou
- Maple
- Gifty
- Leadpipe LaRue
- Joe Meower
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
hogback mountain supplement
This week, a friend who was at the Hogback Mountain Wedding with us sent her electronic photos out and she captured a few of the moments I had detailed in the previous post but didn't get photographic evidence of myself. Warning - if you are squeamish about meat, there are some lovely close-ups of the roast lightning pig below, so scroll down at your own peril.
the bride and groom at the lobster pound
the mule chariot on its way to the ceremony site for wedding party pick-up
a lovely shot of the wedding party table just before the reception
the slow-roasted, lightning-killed pig arrived in chicken wire in a truck bed
pig skin plate for pig meat eating
pig meat was served from the goat-shed bar
crazy like a giant bonfire
notice the taller-than-people wood pile and the carefully perched beer
the bride and groom at the lobster pound
the mule chariot on its way to the ceremony site for wedding party pick-up
a lovely shot of the wedding party table just before the reception
the slow-roasted, lightning-killed pig arrived in chicken wire in a truck bed
pig skin plate for pig meat eating
pig meat was served from the goat-shed bar
crazy like a giant bonfire
notice the taller-than-people wood pile and the carefully perched beerTuesday, October 13, 2009
hogback mountain wedding
When I say the words "Hogback Mountain Wedding" in my head, I hear a 12-string guitar, banjo and fiddle combo playing some old Americana tune. That’s what you should imagine as you read the following account of our weekend trip to a wedding in rural Maine.
I thought about calling this post “Kamikaze Wedding Weekend” because of the non-stop travel itinerary the husband and I undertook in order to attend our friends' wedding. But that reflects only our half of the story, the part where we travel relentlessly, almost continuously, in planes and automobiles, over a period of 48 hours.
We left home on Friday at 5:45 a.m. (driven to the airport by our very kind neighbor), flew from Minneapolis to Philadelphia, waited two hours and flew from Philadelphia to Boston where we picked up a rental car. We got on the road at 3:30 p.m. and proceeded to sit in traffic for an hour with everyone else trying to leave the city on a Friday afternoon. We broke out of traffic at around 4:30 and buzzed up through Massachusetts and New Hampshire into Maine. We were trying to make a 5:30 groom’s dinner at “Young’s Lobster Pound” in Belfast Maine (cue the music… the Lobster Pound is a big hall with tables where you can pick out your lobster, they cook it for you, and you supply the rest of your own meal.) But at 5:30 we had just crossed into Maine and were still about 2.5 hours away from Belfast, so we would definitely be missing the dinner. At about 7:00 p.m. a thick misty rain/fog set in and we discovered that the windshield wipers on the rental car were crap. But we were buoyed by being so close to Augusta and our turn-off from the interstate, so we carried on in good spirits. We ended up navigating our way to the house where the bridal party was enjoying post-dinner drinks via a cell phone conversation with one of the bridesmaids who was a childhood friend of the bride. It was dark and rainy, the roads were unlit, and the sparse landmarks to get us to the house were completely invisible because of the fog. Winding our way through the darkened town of Liberty, I felt like we might bump into Ichabod Crane on horseback just down the next hill or twist in the narrow road.
We got to the house by 8:30 p.m., having traveled more than 13 hours to get there. The husband was ever my patient hero, being the only man amid a dozen or so drunk women reminiscing about college parties and bad dates. His alternative was to have joined the groom’s party who were spending the night at a motorcycle bar and motel in Portland, so I think he was happier out in the woods with the women folk. We eventually went back to the local bridesmaid’s house for a full night’s sleep and the next morning began the wedding day activities. Our first stop was to visit the bridal party once more, and amazingly we were able to get in a short paddle at about 10:00 that morning since they were staying right on a lake.
a canoe ride powered by kayak paddle
We then left the bridal party to help set up the reception tent at the bride’s parents’ house.
decorating the dinner tent
We went over to the ceremony site at about 2:00 p.m., and the ceremony happened at some point after that. Everyone migrated to the bride's parents’ place for the reception dinner, and that’s where we stayed until about 12:30 a.m. when the husband and I got back in the rental car and drove back to Boston for our 6:30 a.m. flight. We got to the rental car office at about 4:30 a.m. and were bussed to our terminal for check-in before 5:00. We slept on the floor at our gate until it was time to board the plane, slept on and off during the flight to Philly, on the floor at our gate there, and on and off during the flight back to Minneapolis. We landed at 12:30 p.m. on Sunday and my father-in-law picked us up at the airport and gave us a ride home. We were tired and beat. We ate lunch, slept, got up to make dinner, and then went to bed again at around 10:00 p.m. Thus concludes the travel part of the story, which in itself helped reassure us that we can still live the rock n’ roll lifestyle of traveling, partying and staying up all night when necessary.
But the real story is the wedding itself. I did grow up in New England, it's true, but that was in the urban Boston area, quite different from rural Maine. Our friends the bride and groom, whom we met when we served together in the Peace Corps, grew up there in Liberty and in Montville, and having now experienced where they come from I have a more complete appreciation for who they are. It seems that growing up in rural Maine is quite good preparation for volunteer service in a developing country.
Similar to what the Ghanaians would call “Africa time,” the time of the wedding ceremony was told to us as “around 2’ish.” And true enough, the wedding guests began arriving around 2’ish, and continued arriving over the next half hour or so. The ceremony was held outside in a small open grove on Frye Mountain. We gathered and socialized for a while, and when the wedding party appeared, some music started up. The crowd sang the shaker tune ‘Simple Gifts’ to usher them in and a short, sweet exchange of vows written by the bride and groom followed. A reception crowd formed immediately afterward through which the bride and groom milled and greeted their friends and family. The mother of the bride began corralling different combinations of family members for photos. No one seemed to be technically in charge of the operation, and groups seemed to just flow in and out of photo poses, but it all got done in the end. The wedding party then climbed into a cart to be pulled by mules back to the reception on Hogback Mountain.
the bride and groom with the bride's parents
the bridesmaids mirror the fall foliage
wedding party RULES!
When I got the bride’s parent’s address to enter into Google maps for driving directions, the street address was on Hogback Mountain Road. During Peace Corps, the bride often told stories of her parents’ mountain back in Maine, but I always thought it was an exaggeration, a way of describing the landscape where she grew up. When I plugged their address into Google, it couldn’t find the location. I zoomed out a level and only typed in the name of the town, Montville ME, and then it came back with directions to Hogback Mountain Rd. It seemed like the whole town of Montville centered on her parents' address - maybe they really did own a mountain! Luckily, on the day of the wedding we were able to follow someone else up to the bride's parents’ place, which turned out to indeed be situated on its own mountain, and I was glad for the assistance. At least we didn’t have to try to find it on Friday night in the foggy dark!
turn here
we can see a party tent up in the distance
The farm on Hogback Mountain has several different work areas, as the bride’s older brother is currently in the process of becoming a small-scale farmer. He’s mostly raising chickens, goats and pigs, but I think he’s done some logging and other projects on the land as well. Turning onto the road we could see farming areas on the lower part of the mountain, and the house with the striped wedding tents up above. The sun had come out for the wedding day and the fall foliage was lit up in vibrant yellows, oranges and reds. When we had arrived at the parents’ house earlier on Saturday to help set up, the first person we saw was a shirtless man holding a beer and tending two large metal-drum meat cookers fueled by wood. Say hello to the wedding meal!
getting the meat ready to be served
The bride’s brother owns several animals, and as it happened, one of his pigs was struck by lightning over the summer and was killed instantly. He popped it in a large freezer and saved it up to roast for his sister’s wedding, of course. But he also provided chickens for grilling and at the last minute he threw in a goat for good measure. Apparently the goat in question had annoyed and provoked him one too many times, so he killed it. What else to do with a dead goat but serve it at your sister’s wedding? The goat and the chicken started off the reception meal, while the mostly thawed pig was still roasting in a larger cooker elsewhere on the mountain. All in all, there was an abundance of meat for the wedding guests; no one went hungry.
The reception was a family style sit-down meal, which was preceded by hors-d’oeuvres and hot drinks set out for the guests upon arrival from the ceremony. The sun was out, but the temperature wasn’t more than 50 degrees that day, so after the ceremony many of us changed into more casual clothes to stay warm for the out-door long-haul. There were two kegs of beer and an urn of hot coffee, so we were all able to warm up before dinner. There was a band of local folk musicians playing during dinner - a fiddler, accordionist, guitarist and keyboardist (a real ensemble, not just the imaginary one I conjured above.) After dinner some of the kids yelled out to us lingerers that it was time to dance. A few sets of contra dancing ensued, and if the beer hadn’t warmed us up already, the dancing did!
folkdancing on the mountain
After the dinner and the dancing, some of the older relatives departed and we younger folk moved the party a little ways down the mountain for a bonfire. At the bonfire site, a goat shed had been turned into a bar area with the two kegs and multiple bottles of liquor for mixing drinks. Someone fired up a generator to power a string of lights and an iPod dock at the shed, and the bonfire was stoked and blazing. People, I don’t know if I can rightly describe this bonfire. It was a sight to behold, and the certified Wilderness First Aider in me was a little on edge. A pit had been dug in the ground in which to place wood for the fire, but this was no ordinary fire pit. It was around 10 feet deep to begin with and perhaps 10 or 15 feet wide. It had been filled up with wood from previous nights’ fires, but on the wedding night they used a pile of lumber mill slab wood dropped off earlier that day in an 18-wheeler. The pile was about 7 feet high and 15 feet long, and people had to climb on top of it in order to throw the wood on the fire. Each time new wood was added, the pile would spread out and rise up until the bonfire was more like 20 feet wide and god-knows-how deep! Pretty soon we were standing on what we thought was the ground but was actually the far ends of the slabs whose opposite ends were burning in the pit. If you looked closely you could see fire beneath you, between the spaces in the boards. It was a tough call because you wanted to stand close to the fire to be warmed up, since the temperature had begun dropping with the sunset, but the closer you stood the greater the risk of falling into the fire. Maine’s motto isn’t “Live Free or Die” like its neighbor state New Hampshire, but it could have been the motto of the after party.
All this time, the lightning pig had been roasting and thawing, thawing and roasting, somewhere down the mountain. At about 10:00 p.m., a pick-up truck roared up to the goat shed and an enticing aroma drew the crowd around. There was the whole roasted pig, little face and all, wrapped in the column of chicken wire with which it had been suspended in the giant meat cooker. It was perfect timing, really, because not only had the earlier reception dinner begun to wear off, but we were all burning calories fast standing out in the cold. The pig was hoisted into the goat shed, the wire cut away, and the bride’s brother began carving into it with his pocketknife. He cut off sections of the skin, some of which still had bristly hairs attached, and used them as impromptu plates. I again had visions of Ghana where people would leave the tough skin on meat pieces and eat their meals with their hands. This was real pulled-pork, pulled steaming off the bone, and people had grease around their mouths and running down their fingers within minutes. Then, leftovers from the earlier meal began showing up – fresh cole slaw and homemade baked beans – perfect sides for the lighting-killed, slow-roasted pig. The evening revelry continued and was still in full swing at midnight when the husband and I looked at each other and said "We’re still feeling good and awake, we might as well start driving."
It was hard to pull our selves away from the celebration on Hogback Mountain. The bride was relaxed and happy – the big day had gone off without a hitch – or with the most important hitch, actually. There was a small group of us attending the wedding who had all served together in the Peace Corps, so in addition to being an important day for the bride and groom, it was a mini-reunion of sorts.
peace corps volunteers reunited in Maine
The circumstances of the wedding mirrored many aspects of our collective experience living in Ghana – livestock roaming around, generators providing energy for out-door parties, eating with our hands, and being surrounded by extended family and a large community. While I’d never experienced a wedding like this before in New England, nor here in Minnesota, I’m glad I did this past weekend. It was more than worth the crazy travel schedule to be able to take part in such an important day in our friends’ lives. And I saw that places still exist in this country where people greet every day with an adversity-be-damned attitude of self-sufficiency, living on the land with love, pride and commitment. Here's to the bride and groom, and here's to Hogback Mountain!
view from Hogback Mountain
I thought about calling this post “Kamikaze Wedding Weekend” because of the non-stop travel itinerary the husband and I undertook in order to attend our friends' wedding. But that reflects only our half of the story, the part where we travel relentlessly, almost continuously, in planes and automobiles, over a period of 48 hours.
We left home on Friday at 5:45 a.m. (driven to the airport by our very kind neighbor), flew from Minneapolis to Philadelphia, waited two hours and flew from Philadelphia to Boston where we picked up a rental car. We got on the road at 3:30 p.m. and proceeded to sit in traffic for an hour with everyone else trying to leave the city on a Friday afternoon. We broke out of traffic at around 4:30 and buzzed up through Massachusetts and New Hampshire into Maine. We were trying to make a 5:30 groom’s dinner at “Young’s Lobster Pound” in Belfast Maine (cue the music… the Lobster Pound is a big hall with tables where you can pick out your lobster, they cook it for you, and you supply the rest of your own meal.) But at 5:30 we had just crossed into Maine and were still about 2.5 hours away from Belfast, so we would definitely be missing the dinner. At about 7:00 p.m. a thick misty rain/fog set in and we discovered that the windshield wipers on the rental car were crap. But we were buoyed by being so close to Augusta and our turn-off from the interstate, so we carried on in good spirits. We ended up navigating our way to the house where the bridal party was enjoying post-dinner drinks via a cell phone conversation with one of the bridesmaids who was a childhood friend of the bride. It was dark and rainy, the roads were unlit, and the sparse landmarks to get us to the house were completely invisible because of the fog. Winding our way through the darkened town of Liberty, I felt like we might bump into Ichabod Crane on horseback just down the next hill or twist in the narrow road.
We got to the house by 8:30 p.m., having traveled more than 13 hours to get there. The husband was ever my patient hero, being the only man amid a dozen or so drunk women reminiscing about college parties and bad dates. His alternative was to have joined the groom’s party who were spending the night at a motorcycle bar and motel in Portland, so I think he was happier out in the woods with the women folk. We eventually went back to the local bridesmaid’s house for a full night’s sleep and the next morning began the wedding day activities. Our first stop was to visit the bridal party once more, and amazingly we were able to get in a short paddle at about 10:00 that morning since they were staying right on a lake.
a canoe ride powered by kayak paddleWe then left the bridal party to help set up the reception tent at the bride’s parents’ house.
decorating the dinner tentBut the real story is the wedding itself. I did grow up in New England, it's true, but that was in the urban Boston area, quite different from rural Maine. Our friends the bride and groom, whom we met when we served together in the Peace Corps, grew up there in Liberty and in Montville, and having now experienced where they come from I have a more complete appreciation for who they are. It seems that growing up in rural Maine is quite good preparation for volunteer service in a developing country.
Similar to what the Ghanaians would call “Africa time,” the time of the wedding ceremony was told to us as “around 2’ish.” And true enough, the wedding guests began arriving around 2’ish, and continued arriving over the next half hour or so. The ceremony was held outside in a small open grove on Frye Mountain. We gathered and socialized for a while, and when the wedding party appeared, some music started up. The crowd sang the shaker tune ‘Simple Gifts’ to usher them in and a short, sweet exchange of vows written by the bride and groom followed. A reception crowd formed immediately afterward through which the bride and groom milled and greeted their friends and family. The mother of the bride began corralling different combinations of family members for photos. No one seemed to be technically in charge of the operation, and groups seemed to just flow in and out of photo poses, but it all got done in the end. The wedding party then climbed into a cart to be pulled by mules back to the reception on Hogback Mountain.
the bride and groom with the bride's parents
the bridesmaids mirror the fall foliage
wedding party RULES! When I got the bride’s parent’s address to enter into Google maps for driving directions, the street address was on Hogback Mountain Road. During Peace Corps, the bride often told stories of her parents’ mountain back in Maine, but I always thought it was an exaggeration, a way of describing the landscape where she grew up. When I plugged their address into Google, it couldn’t find the location. I zoomed out a level and only typed in the name of the town, Montville ME, and then it came back with directions to Hogback Mountain Rd. It seemed like the whole town of Montville centered on her parents' address - maybe they really did own a mountain! Luckily, on the day of the wedding we were able to follow someone else up to the bride's parents’ place, which turned out to indeed be situated on its own mountain, and I was glad for the assistance. At least we didn’t have to try to find it on Friday night in the foggy dark!
turn here
we can see a party tent up in the distance
getting the meat ready to be servedThe bride’s brother owns several animals, and as it happened, one of his pigs was struck by lightning over the summer and was killed instantly. He popped it in a large freezer and saved it up to roast for his sister’s wedding, of course. But he also provided chickens for grilling and at the last minute he threw in a goat for good measure. Apparently the goat in question had annoyed and provoked him one too many times, so he killed it. What else to do with a dead goat but serve it at your sister’s wedding? The goat and the chicken started off the reception meal, while the mostly thawed pig was still roasting in a larger cooker elsewhere on the mountain. All in all, there was an abundance of meat for the wedding guests; no one went hungry.
The reception was a family style sit-down meal, which was preceded by hors-d’oeuvres and hot drinks set out for the guests upon arrival from the ceremony. The sun was out, but the temperature wasn’t more than 50 degrees that day, so after the ceremony many of us changed into more casual clothes to stay warm for the out-door long-haul. There were two kegs of beer and an urn of hot coffee, so we were all able to warm up before dinner. There was a band of local folk musicians playing during dinner - a fiddler, accordionist, guitarist and keyboardist (a real ensemble, not just the imaginary one I conjured above.) After dinner some of the kids yelled out to us lingerers that it was time to dance. A few sets of contra dancing ensued, and if the beer hadn’t warmed us up already, the dancing did!
folkdancing on the mountainAll this time, the lightning pig had been roasting and thawing, thawing and roasting, somewhere down the mountain. At about 10:00 p.m., a pick-up truck roared up to the goat shed and an enticing aroma drew the crowd around. There was the whole roasted pig, little face and all, wrapped in the column of chicken wire with which it had been suspended in the giant meat cooker. It was perfect timing, really, because not only had the earlier reception dinner begun to wear off, but we were all burning calories fast standing out in the cold. The pig was hoisted into the goat shed, the wire cut away, and the bride’s brother began carving into it with his pocketknife. He cut off sections of the skin, some of which still had bristly hairs attached, and used them as impromptu plates. I again had visions of Ghana where people would leave the tough skin on meat pieces and eat their meals with their hands. This was real pulled-pork, pulled steaming off the bone, and people had grease around their mouths and running down their fingers within minutes. Then, leftovers from the earlier meal began showing up – fresh cole slaw and homemade baked beans – perfect sides for the lighting-killed, slow-roasted pig. The evening revelry continued and was still in full swing at midnight when the husband and I looked at each other and said "We’re still feeling good and awake, we might as well start driving."
It was hard to pull our selves away from the celebration on Hogback Mountain. The bride was relaxed and happy – the big day had gone off without a hitch – or with the most important hitch, actually. There was a small group of us attending the wedding who had all served together in the Peace Corps, so in addition to being an important day for the bride and groom, it was a mini-reunion of sorts.
peace corps volunteers reunited in Maine The circumstances of the wedding mirrored many aspects of our collective experience living in Ghana – livestock roaming around, generators providing energy for out-door parties, eating with our hands, and being surrounded by extended family and a large community. While I’d never experienced a wedding like this before in New England, nor here in Minnesota, I’m glad I did this past weekend. It was more than worth the crazy travel schedule to be able to take part in such an important day in our friends’ lives. And I saw that places still exist in this country where people greet every day with an adversity-be-damned attitude of self-sufficiency, living on the land with love, pride and commitment. Here's to the bride and groom, and here's to Hogback Mountain!
view from Hogback MountainMonday, September 28, 2009
i *heart* basil
This semester I'm taking a course called 'The Essay' in the graduate writing program at the university where I work. It entails writing numerous essays as assignments, as the title suggests. I'm having fun writing essays, but with a revved up writing schedule I'm finding less time and energy to devote to writing blog posts. So for now I'll post this little ditty I wrote for class last week. Enjoy!
_________________
In Praise of Basil
If there’s one scent of which I’ll never tire, it’s basil. At the moment, my laundry soap, all-purpose cleaner and body lotion are all scented with it. The effect is a sharp, clear aroma in my clothes and around the house. I’ve read that, aroma-therapeutically, basil is considered to increase productivity and to help relieve stress. It’s fitting, then, that the hand-cream I keep in my desk at work is basil-scented.
Not only does basil smell good, it tastes good in everything I season with it. If a recipe calls for a fresh green herb like parsley or chives, I throw in some basil instead, usually with great success. I’m known to finish off a sauce or a stew with a handful of the fresh green stuff. This reassuring little herb hasn’t failed me yet, and I tend to wonder if there’s anything basil wouldn’t complement.
To be clear, I don’t confine my use of basil to mere seasoning or garnish – I make a wide variety of dishes with it. One of my favorites is Caprese salad, with fresh mozzarella balls, succulent plum tomatoes, whole plucked basil leaves and generous amounts of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. It’s a quintessential summer dish – sharp and refreshing. Another favorite basil dish is what my local Thai restaurant calls “Holy Basil Stir-fry.” Although it calls for an Asian basil varietal, I use regular sweet basil as a substitute. The peanut oil and soy-sauce allow the basil to infuse itself into the sauce and its flavor is magnified to a surprisingly spicy simplicity. Versatile, user-friendly basil, employed on opposite sides of the globe, is a uniting force for such geographically disparate cuisines as Italian and Thai. Hard-working and well-traveled are added to the list of basil’s virtues.
Basil reassures in the garden as well as in the kitchen. Cut it back to harvest some sprigs for dinner and it grows in bushier. I can inadvertently neglect the plants I’m growing, but basil seems to last a good while without rain or watering, which my forgetfulness unfortunately inflicts upon it from time to time. I take heart at this little plant’s resilience, and feel blessed by its ability to persistently bestow its gifts.
I first grew my own basil in the garden-farm behind our house in equatorial Africa. The climate there produced perfect growing conditions year-round, and it was a thrill to watch the tiny seeds I sowed morph into tiny plants, then bigger plants, and finally the familiar herb from home. The plants grew so quickly and so well that I could pick basil for every meal I cooked and never run out. It was heavenly.
Back in America, when we bought a house the first summer I planted basil plugs I had bought from the hardware store out in the back yard. They provided flavorful leaves all summer long and we had so much at the end of the season that we made several batches of pesto for the freezer. It gave me a sense of self-sufficiency to be making my own food, especially a food that’s expensive when you buy it pre-made at the store. It also made me feel connected to the farm wives of the last century who, come every harvest season, preserved and canned the fruits of their labor to put up for the winter. Those fruits would assure sustenance for their families through the lean months of the year. Growing our own food in this modern, urban present provides a connection to our agrarian past.
Growing basil has made me feel self-sufficient, no doubt, but this summer basil brought me a new way to connect with my community. In the spring we agreed to split a CSA farm-share with our neighbor across the street. Fresh veggies began arriving weekly in mid-June and will continue into October. Even though I didn’t grow my own basil this year, there were huge bunches of it in the farm-share box each week of June and July, providing an abundant supply, even when split in half. Every Thursday evening I have a standing date with my neighbor to gather and divvy up our bounty. The veggie date guarantees that we two busy women with busy lives will have at least one opportunity a week to build our neighborly friendship, which is the basic connection that ties communities together.
The couple that runs the farm supplies fresh vegetables all summer long, with recipes for how to use them, and each fall they host a gathering of sharers out at the farm. In true communal style, the invitation asks each participant to bring a potluck dish, and of course they can feature the latest veggies from the share box. The event gives us city-folk a chance to tour the land that produces our food and to meet the farmers themselves – such rare personalities these days. There will be live music, fall colors, and the convivial camaraderie of sharing fresh food. I’d wait a long time to get any such invitation from the industrial agro-business complex.
In Europe, people go to the market every day to buy fresh food for the meal they will prepare that night. When French people buy fresh herbs like basil, they never go to waste, are never left to wilt and rot at the bottom of a fridge drawer. Grocery shopping for the French requires social interaction – they pay separate visits to the butcher, the fishmonger, the fruit stand and the bakery. By its very nature, buying food in France directly supports local vendors and local farmers. It is a cultural practice rooted in the agrarian past, and that past is kept alive in every day routines. The availability of and demand for fresh food in France contributes to a high quality of life, and it puts our frozen fast food nation to shame. But take heart! We can demand our own fresh food revolution in this country. My contribution to it will begin with a small plot of basil, growing cheerfully in my back yard.
_________________
In Praise of Basil
If there’s one scent of which I’ll never tire, it’s basil. At the moment, my laundry soap, all-purpose cleaner and body lotion are all scented with it. The effect is a sharp, clear aroma in my clothes and around the house. I’ve read that, aroma-therapeutically, basil is considered to increase productivity and to help relieve stress. It’s fitting, then, that the hand-cream I keep in my desk at work is basil-scented.
Not only does basil smell good, it tastes good in everything I season with it. If a recipe calls for a fresh green herb like parsley or chives, I throw in some basil instead, usually with great success. I’m known to finish off a sauce or a stew with a handful of the fresh green stuff. This reassuring little herb hasn’t failed me yet, and I tend to wonder if there’s anything basil wouldn’t complement.
To be clear, I don’t confine my use of basil to mere seasoning or garnish – I make a wide variety of dishes with it. One of my favorites is Caprese salad, with fresh mozzarella balls, succulent plum tomatoes, whole plucked basil leaves and generous amounts of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. It’s a quintessential summer dish – sharp and refreshing. Another favorite basil dish is what my local Thai restaurant calls “Holy Basil Stir-fry.” Although it calls for an Asian basil varietal, I use regular sweet basil as a substitute. The peanut oil and soy-sauce allow the basil to infuse itself into the sauce and its flavor is magnified to a surprisingly spicy simplicity. Versatile, user-friendly basil, employed on opposite sides of the globe, is a uniting force for such geographically disparate cuisines as Italian and Thai. Hard-working and well-traveled are added to the list of basil’s virtues.
Basil reassures in the garden as well as in the kitchen. Cut it back to harvest some sprigs for dinner and it grows in bushier. I can inadvertently neglect the plants I’m growing, but basil seems to last a good while without rain or watering, which my forgetfulness unfortunately inflicts upon it from time to time. I take heart at this little plant’s resilience, and feel blessed by its ability to persistently bestow its gifts.
I first grew my own basil in the garden-farm behind our house in equatorial Africa. The climate there produced perfect growing conditions year-round, and it was a thrill to watch the tiny seeds I sowed morph into tiny plants, then bigger plants, and finally the familiar herb from home. The plants grew so quickly and so well that I could pick basil for every meal I cooked and never run out. It was heavenly.
Back in America, when we bought a house the first summer I planted basil plugs I had bought from the hardware store out in the back yard. They provided flavorful leaves all summer long and we had so much at the end of the season that we made several batches of pesto for the freezer. It gave me a sense of self-sufficiency to be making my own food, especially a food that’s expensive when you buy it pre-made at the store. It also made me feel connected to the farm wives of the last century who, come every harvest season, preserved and canned the fruits of their labor to put up for the winter. Those fruits would assure sustenance for their families through the lean months of the year. Growing our own food in this modern, urban present provides a connection to our agrarian past.
Growing basil has made me feel self-sufficient, no doubt, but this summer basil brought me a new way to connect with my community. In the spring we agreed to split a CSA farm-share with our neighbor across the street. Fresh veggies began arriving weekly in mid-June and will continue into October. Even though I didn’t grow my own basil this year, there were huge bunches of it in the farm-share box each week of June and July, providing an abundant supply, even when split in half. Every Thursday evening I have a standing date with my neighbor to gather and divvy up our bounty. The veggie date guarantees that we two busy women with busy lives will have at least one opportunity a week to build our neighborly friendship, which is the basic connection that ties communities together.
The couple that runs the farm supplies fresh vegetables all summer long, with recipes for how to use them, and each fall they host a gathering of sharers out at the farm. In true communal style, the invitation asks each participant to bring a potluck dish, and of course they can feature the latest veggies from the share box. The event gives us city-folk a chance to tour the land that produces our food and to meet the farmers themselves – such rare personalities these days. There will be live music, fall colors, and the convivial camaraderie of sharing fresh food. I’d wait a long time to get any such invitation from the industrial agro-business complex.
In Europe, people go to the market every day to buy fresh food for the meal they will prepare that night. When French people buy fresh herbs like basil, they never go to waste, are never left to wilt and rot at the bottom of a fridge drawer. Grocery shopping for the French requires social interaction – they pay separate visits to the butcher, the fishmonger, the fruit stand and the bakery. By its very nature, buying food in France directly supports local vendors and local farmers. It is a cultural practice rooted in the agrarian past, and that past is kept alive in every day routines. The availability of and demand for fresh food in France contributes to a high quality of life, and it puts our frozen fast food nation to shame. But take heart! We can demand our own fresh food revolution in this country. My contribution to it will begin with a small plot of basil, growing cheerfully in my back yard.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
why does your house smell so bad in the first place?
I was flipping through an O magazine this morning, and I saw three full-page ads for different odor-reducing products: a spray, a plug-in, and a candle-inside-a-pretty-box thingie. Wow, I thought, there seem to be a lot of odor reducers on the market these days.
What I want to know is, to whom are these products being marketed? And who buys them? And why do they need them? If your house smells so bad that you need to plug in an artificial scent producer in every room, wouldn’t you try cleaning the house first? Are these products meant to be band-aids to keep people from addressing the real problem of having to do house work? Like, if I just cover up the smell of my overflowing trash cans, then I don’t have to take them out and I’ll have more time to sit around reading O magazine? What gives?
And why do we need products to improve the smell of our homes that are meant to be tossed into landfills when they run out of their chemical scent? What happened to just plain opening the windows? Or baking something that will send good smells throughout the house? Or baking soda? Or, like I said before, cleaning up your house from time to time? Seriously people, why does your house smell so bad in the first place?
What I want to know is, to whom are these products being marketed? And who buys them? And why do they need them? If your house smells so bad that you need to plug in an artificial scent producer in every room, wouldn’t you try cleaning the house first? Are these products meant to be band-aids to keep people from addressing the real problem of having to do house work? Like, if I just cover up the smell of my overflowing trash cans, then I don’t have to take them out and I’ll have more time to sit around reading O magazine? What gives?
And why do we need products to improve the smell of our homes that are meant to be tossed into landfills when they run out of their chemical scent? What happened to just plain opening the windows? Or baking something that will send good smells throughout the house? Or baking soda? Or, like I said before, cleaning up your house from time to time? Seriously people, why does your house smell so bad in the first place?
Sunday, August 23, 2009
getting LOST
In mid-2006 when we were living in Ghana, the husband became seriously ill with malaria and/or dysentery. He needed medical attention, so I requested a Peace Corps car to pick us up in our village and bring us to the nearest sub-office in Kumasi. Those four hours was as far as the husband could travel in his condition. Once we arrived, the plan was for him to recover over the weekend and then we’d travel the rest of the way to the capital, Accra, where he would get a full medical work-up at Peace Corps headquarters. The Kumasi sub-office had flush toilets, showers and a real kitchen, and four days there would help him gain back enough strength to endure the 12-hour bus trip to Accra. We laid claim to the 'recovery room' in the bunk area, and settled in for a long weekend.
When you're sick, there's not much market-going, internet-café-ing, or Peace-Corps-ing you can really do. The only viable option to pass the time that weekend was to jump on board with the other volunteers who were around the sub-office. One of them had received a package from home that contained, among other things, the entire first season of the TV show LOST on DVD. While there was no actual TV in the sub-office, it was standard practice to co-opt one of the two computers for DVD watching. An entertainment camp was set up in front of the computer in the resource room, and about a half dozen of us made the commitment to get LOST for the weekend.
I remembered the show arriving on the air back in 2004, when we were still in the process of applying to Peace Corps. Seeing promos for the show on ABC, I would think, "How melodramatic and ridiculous that sounds! An airplane crashes on an island and we have to tune in each week to see what happens to the survivors?" Just the presence of the word 'survivors' in the plot synopsis conjured visions of inane reality-TV shows. The whole 'LOST' gig wasn't going to be for me.
But, less than two years later, there I was, ready to be sucked in to the strange world of LOST. As I settled in to the pilot episode, I admit I was skeptical, but within the first 5 minutes I was deeply invested in the fate of these plane crash victims and the island they were now forced to call home. I had unintentionally suspended all disbelief and dived whole-heartedly into a bizarre and fantastic story.
Though I generally have good stamina for watching long movies, I admit I got fidgety watching ‘Lord of the Rings: Return of the King’ in one sitting at the theater. Not so for LOST. There in the resource room of the Peace Corps sub-office we hit ‘play’ again and again, watched episode after episode, drinking in the mystery and adventure playing out on the computer screen in front of us. We hardly felt the weekend pass, so absorbed were we in the show. Back in off-screen reality, however, spectators eventually have to eat.
Since the husband was in a fragile state of health, it was my job to go into town and rustle up some food for us to eat that weekend. I tore myself away from the encampment in the resource room to take a Tro-Tro (public minivan taxi) with a fellow volunteer into downtown Kumasi. We went to a store where we could buy such exotic delicacies as tuna in a can, real dairy products, imported Asian cookies, and Pringles. Since the husband was still trying to achieve the elusive feat of keeping down his food, I didn't have to buy anything too extravagant. But what's better than chips and soda when you're sick and/or watching a TV marathon?
When I returned with our food supplies, I had missed several episodes in the middle of the season. I jumped back into the fray and finished out watching Season 1 with the group, but having a major hole in the plot line it wasn’t quite as satisfying. No matter how much someone tries to explain the action of LOST to you, you don’t really *get* it unless you watch it for yourself. But alas, our LOST weekend came to an end and we moved on to our medical meetings in Accra. I let go of trying to catch up on those missing Season 1 episodes.
I lost track of LOST after that. Our volunteer friend mentioned once that Season 2 was expected to arrive soon in a package from home, but we never found ourselves in the sub-office with her again at the same time; the conditions never presented themselves for us to participate in a Season 2 marathon. We went about our daily lives and I let the gripping experience of LOST Season 1 sink down into memory. Eventually we ended our Peace Corps service, left Ghana to return to the states, and landed back in Minnesota during prime winter holiday time.
_______________________________
In January 2007, after our return and after the holiday season wrapped up, the husband and I got our own apartment, borrowed a friend's car, and sent out lots of resumes. We got jobs, started working, and developed daily routines that brought with them a nascent sense of normalcy. Eventually we started watching TV again, and one wintry weeknight evening we stumbled across an episode of LOST on ABC. “Well hello there, old friends!” I thought as we sat down to watch, happy to reconnect with this story that had so unexpectedly grabbed hold of me back in Ghana. But by this time the series was in the second half of Season 3, and with all that had occurred in the season and a half we’d missed, we were utterly lost. We watched a couple of the mid-Season 3 episodes, but we had no idea what was happening. Fond memories of our LOST weekend in the sub-office aside, we weren’t up to the challenge of deciphering the new order of the show. I let it go again.
Fast forward two years to winter 2009, when one Wednesday night I came down to the basement of our house to find the husband glued to the TV. He was watching a LOST re-cap show summarizing the major plot advances and character developments of the previous season - preamble programming to the Season 5 premiere. I hadn’t been planning on getting back into the show, but I sat down to watch an interview with two of the writer/producers, and - BAM! - I was sucked in once more. With only our scant Season 4 recap knowledge as a guide, we watched the Season 5 premiere the following week and away we went! Swept away on the tide of another twisted, mind-boggling season of LOST.
With SO much missing from our grasp of the LOST universe, it was disorienting to take up again with these characters and their plight on Crazy Island, but we watched Season 5 as it aired weekly nonetheless. By the time we reached the season finale in May, we just HAD to know what all had happened between the bookend seasons 1 and 5 we now had under our belts. We did what we had been holding off on doing since we returned from Peace Corps; we joined Netflix.
That was in May, and now it’s August. We’ve been embroiled in an all-out, whole-series, chronological LOST re-watch this entire summer. Every three or four days we get a new disc in the mail from the nice folks at Netflix, and we plan our weeknights and weekends around LOST viewings. While summer in Minnesota is prime time to get outside, this summer, when I’m not at work, I’ve spent most of my evenings in the cool dark of our basement TV room, engrossed in episodes of LOST. Upstairs and outside, crickets are chirping, a warm breeze is blowing, kids are playing, and neighbors are outside chatting. I should be out there with them, enjoying summer’s fleeting freedom, but the mission I’ve chosen to accept – rediscovering LOST – is somehow more urgent than the fast fading of summer.
Thanks to Netflix, I’ve filled in the gap in Season 1 that once nagged at me, and Seasons 2, 3 and 4 have provided a much deeper understanding of the story we witnessed in Season 5. With each episode I watch, I appreciate more and more the dedication, talent and artistry of everyone who contributes to making this monumental feat of entertainment. I can honestly say that I have no shame about my love affair with LOST, and I have no qualms about spending my summer leisure time in front of a glowing box instead of interacting with people or the environment. Some things deserve undivided attention, and in my opinion, this TV show is one of them.
______________________________
It’s true that the husband I haven’t been very good with phone communication since we got back from Peace Corps; some of our friends and family have remarked that we seem to never answer the phone. Maybe that’s because we internalized so deeply the daily reality of not having cell phone reception where we lived in Ghana. It still seems like that should be the norm, as if the ability to call people is a special power, to be used sparingly and strategically. So, if we don’t answer our phones when you call us, or if we don’t return your call right away, it could be because of this Spartan communications attitude held over from our time in Ghana. Or it could be that we just can’t hear the phone because we’re in the basement watching LOST.
When you're sick, there's not much market-going, internet-café-ing, or Peace-Corps-ing you can really do. The only viable option to pass the time that weekend was to jump on board with the other volunteers who were around the sub-office. One of them had received a package from home that contained, among other things, the entire first season of the TV show LOST on DVD. While there was no actual TV in the sub-office, it was standard practice to co-opt one of the two computers for DVD watching. An entertainment camp was set up in front of the computer in the resource room, and about a half dozen of us made the commitment to get LOST for the weekend.
I remembered the show arriving on the air back in 2004, when we were still in the process of applying to Peace Corps. Seeing promos for the show on ABC, I would think, "How melodramatic and ridiculous that sounds! An airplane crashes on an island and we have to tune in each week to see what happens to the survivors?" Just the presence of the word 'survivors' in the plot synopsis conjured visions of inane reality-TV shows. The whole 'LOST' gig wasn't going to be for me.
But, less than two years later, there I was, ready to be sucked in to the strange world of LOST. As I settled in to the pilot episode, I admit I was skeptical, but within the first 5 minutes I was deeply invested in the fate of these plane crash victims and the island they were now forced to call home. I had unintentionally suspended all disbelief and dived whole-heartedly into a bizarre and fantastic story.
Though I generally have good stamina for watching long movies, I admit I got fidgety watching ‘Lord of the Rings: Return of the King’ in one sitting at the theater. Not so for LOST. There in the resource room of the Peace Corps sub-office we hit ‘play’ again and again, watched episode after episode, drinking in the mystery and adventure playing out on the computer screen in front of us. We hardly felt the weekend pass, so absorbed were we in the show. Back in off-screen reality, however, spectators eventually have to eat.
Since the husband was in a fragile state of health, it was my job to go into town and rustle up some food for us to eat that weekend. I tore myself away from the encampment in the resource room to take a Tro-Tro (public minivan taxi) with a fellow volunteer into downtown Kumasi. We went to a store where we could buy such exotic delicacies as tuna in a can, real dairy products, imported Asian cookies, and Pringles. Since the husband was still trying to achieve the elusive feat of keeping down his food, I didn't have to buy anything too extravagant. But what's better than chips and soda when you're sick and/or watching a TV marathon?
When I returned with our food supplies, I had missed several episodes in the middle of the season. I jumped back into the fray and finished out watching Season 1 with the group, but having a major hole in the plot line it wasn’t quite as satisfying. No matter how much someone tries to explain the action of LOST to you, you don’t really *get* it unless you watch it for yourself. But alas, our LOST weekend came to an end and we moved on to our medical meetings in Accra. I let go of trying to catch up on those missing Season 1 episodes.
I lost track of LOST after that. Our volunteer friend mentioned once that Season 2 was expected to arrive soon in a package from home, but we never found ourselves in the sub-office with her again at the same time; the conditions never presented themselves for us to participate in a Season 2 marathon. We went about our daily lives and I let the gripping experience of LOST Season 1 sink down into memory. Eventually we ended our Peace Corps service, left Ghana to return to the states, and landed back in Minnesota during prime winter holiday time.
_______________________________
In January 2007, after our return and after the holiday season wrapped up, the husband and I got our own apartment, borrowed a friend's car, and sent out lots of resumes. We got jobs, started working, and developed daily routines that brought with them a nascent sense of normalcy. Eventually we started watching TV again, and one wintry weeknight evening we stumbled across an episode of LOST on ABC. “Well hello there, old friends!” I thought as we sat down to watch, happy to reconnect with this story that had so unexpectedly grabbed hold of me back in Ghana. But by this time the series was in the second half of Season 3, and with all that had occurred in the season and a half we’d missed, we were utterly lost. We watched a couple of the mid-Season 3 episodes, but we had no idea what was happening. Fond memories of our LOST weekend in the sub-office aside, we weren’t up to the challenge of deciphering the new order of the show. I let it go again.
Fast forward two years to winter 2009, when one Wednesday night I came down to the basement of our house to find the husband glued to the TV. He was watching a LOST re-cap show summarizing the major plot advances and character developments of the previous season - preamble programming to the Season 5 premiere. I hadn’t been planning on getting back into the show, but I sat down to watch an interview with two of the writer/producers, and - BAM! - I was sucked in once more. With only our scant Season 4 recap knowledge as a guide, we watched the Season 5 premiere the following week and away we went! Swept away on the tide of another twisted, mind-boggling season of LOST.
With SO much missing from our grasp of the LOST universe, it was disorienting to take up again with these characters and their plight on Crazy Island, but we watched Season 5 as it aired weekly nonetheless. By the time we reached the season finale in May, we just HAD to know what all had happened between the bookend seasons 1 and 5 we now had under our belts. We did what we had been holding off on doing since we returned from Peace Corps; we joined Netflix.
That was in May, and now it’s August. We’ve been embroiled in an all-out, whole-series, chronological LOST re-watch this entire summer. Every three or four days we get a new disc in the mail from the nice folks at Netflix, and we plan our weeknights and weekends around LOST viewings. While summer in Minnesota is prime time to get outside, this summer, when I’m not at work, I’ve spent most of my evenings in the cool dark of our basement TV room, engrossed in episodes of LOST. Upstairs and outside, crickets are chirping, a warm breeze is blowing, kids are playing, and neighbors are outside chatting. I should be out there with them, enjoying summer’s fleeting freedom, but the mission I’ve chosen to accept – rediscovering LOST – is somehow more urgent than the fast fading of summer.
Thanks to Netflix, I’ve filled in the gap in Season 1 that once nagged at me, and Seasons 2, 3 and 4 have provided a much deeper understanding of the story we witnessed in Season 5. With each episode I watch, I appreciate more and more the dedication, talent and artistry of everyone who contributes to making this monumental feat of entertainment. I can honestly say that I have no shame about my love affair with LOST, and I have no qualms about spending my summer leisure time in front of a glowing box instead of interacting with people or the environment. Some things deserve undivided attention, and in my opinion, this TV show is one of them.
______________________________
It’s true that the husband I haven’t been very good with phone communication since we got back from Peace Corps; some of our friends and family have remarked that we seem to never answer the phone. Maybe that’s because we internalized so deeply the daily reality of not having cell phone reception where we lived in Ghana. It still seems like that should be the norm, as if the ability to call people is a special power, to be used sparingly and strategically. So, if we don’t answer our phones when you call us, or if we don’t return your call right away, it could be because of this Spartan communications attitude held over from our time in Ghana. Or it could be that we just can’t hear the phone because we’re in the basement watching LOST.
Friday, July 3, 2009
a year in plastic
In their bi-weekly pick-up of recyclable materials, the City of Minneapolis accepts paper, glass, aluminum, and plastics; but only plastics numbered 1 and 2, and only with a bottle-neck shape. This restriction leaves out a major portion of the plastic containers we use on a regular basis, and that frustrated me.
Until I learned about a facility in the northwest suburbs that will recycle all plastics labeled 1-6. You have to drop them off yourself, and it's around 20 miles from our house, but I was glad to find a way to recycle all those yogurt containers, so I wasn't about to let distance deter me. I began collecting all my plastics 1-6, saving them up until there was a load worthy of driving out to Coon Rapids for the drop-off. (I know, I should want to go there just to be able to say I've been to a place called *Coon* *Rapids*, but it has failed to lure me out there thus far.)
My plastic amassing began in mid-June 2008, and I succeeded in collecting the following pile of plastic waste over the next 12 months.
And here I am with that plastic, to lend a sense of proportion.
It isn't actually that much, come to think of it, but it is striking to see gathered all in one place the amount of plastic waste we produced in a year. An average household probably produces much more than this, and if the municipal recycling program doesn't collect it, it goes straight into a landfill. Here in America if trash is out of sight, it's out of mind.
In Ghana, we were confronted with our waste and the problem of how to manage it every single day. We had our own mini-landfill right next to the house where we burned our trash regularly to prevent local kids from digging through it for discarded treasures. The sight of that waste, day in and day out, prompted us to start composting so we wouldn't have to burn so much in our trash pit. Now that we have a back yard in America, we've started a compost bin here for the same reasons, even if we don't get to see in-person the land our trash fills in each week.
The point is, when I look at that pile of plastic waste I produced over the span of one year, I think about how much waste I've produced in all of my 33 years, and will go on producing for however many more years I'm around. Imagine that pile times 81, the average life expectancy of a white American woman. Is that the legacy I want to leave behind me when I'm gone? Not so much. With that thought in mind, why wouldn't I do whatever I can to reduce, reuse and recycle the resources I consume?
The good news is I didn't have to drive the 20+ miles out to Daniel Boone Rapids in order to recycle my plastic after all. Halfway through my year of amassing, I learned that one of the Co-ops in Minneapolis had a plastic recycling program. In mid-June 2009, I rounded up my various bags of plastics, sorted them by number, and drove them just 7 miles over to the East Side Co-op. On Thursday evenings and Saturdays they'll take in your plastics numbered 1, 2, 4, 5, or 6 (no 3 or 7 at the moment). It's quite easy, really, and I don't have to save up my waste for a year in order to have a quantity worth driving out to the suburbs. I can just pop over whenever I have a bagful of latte tops and cottage cheese tubs, and it gives me a great excuse to explore the Northeast neighborhood.
Maybe your town already collects all recyclable plastics on your regularly scheduled collection day, and I salute your town. Mine doesn't, so I needed a way to recycle what falls outside the municipal box. It's a good thing to do for the common good, and this way the pile of plastic waste I leave behind me will be that much smaller.
Until I learned about a facility in the northwest suburbs that will recycle all plastics labeled 1-6. You have to drop them off yourself, and it's around 20 miles from our house, but I was glad to find a way to recycle all those yogurt containers, so I wasn't about to let distance deter me. I began collecting all my plastics 1-6, saving them up until there was a load worthy of driving out to Coon Rapids for the drop-off. (I know, I should want to go there just to be able to say I've been to a place called *Coon* *Rapids*, but it has failed to lure me out there thus far.)
My plastic amassing began in mid-June 2008, and I succeeded in collecting the following pile of plastic waste over the next 12 months.
And here I am with that plastic, to lend a sense of proportion.
It isn't actually that much, come to think of it, but it is striking to see gathered all in one place the amount of plastic waste we produced in a year. An average household probably produces much more than this, and if the municipal recycling program doesn't collect it, it goes straight into a landfill. Here in America if trash is out of sight, it's out of mind.
In Ghana, we were confronted with our waste and the problem of how to manage it every single day. We had our own mini-landfill right next to the house where we burned our trash regularly to prevent local kids from digging through it for discarded treasures. The sight of that waste, day in and day out, prompted us to start composting so we wouldn't have to burn so much in our trash pit. Now that we have a back yard in America, we've started a compost bin here for the same reasons, even if we don't get to see in-person the land our trash fills in each week.
The point is, when I look at that pile of plastic waste I produced over the span of one year, I think about how much waste I've produced in all of my 33 years, and will go on producing for however many more years I'm around. Imagine that pile times 81, the average life expectancy of a white American woman. Is that the legacy I want to leave behind me when I'm gone? Not so much. With that thought in mind, why wouldn't I do whatever I can to reduce, reuse and recycle the resources I consume?
The good news is I didn't have to drive the 20+ miles out to Daniel Boone Rapids in order to recycle my plastic after all. Halfway through my year of amassing, I learned that one of the Co-ops in Minneapolis had a plastic recycling program. In mid-June 2009, I rounded up my various bags of plastics, sorted them by number, and drove them just 7 miles over to the East Side Co-op. On Thursday evenings and Saturdays they'll take in your plastics numbered 1, 2, 4, 5, or 6 (no 3 or 7 at the moment). It's quite easy, really, and I don't have to save up my waste for a year in order to have a quantity worth driving out to the suburbs. I can just pop over whenever I have a bagful of latte tops and cottage cheese tubs, and it gives me a great excuse to explore the Northeast neighborhood.
Maybe your town already collects all recyclable plastics on your regularly scheduled collection day, and I salute your town. Mine doesn't, so I needed a way to recycle what falls outside the municipal box. It's a good thing to do for the common good, and this way the pile of plastic waste I leave behind me will be that much smaller.
Friday, June 5, 2009
freewheeling
This week, in a major step toward eco-footprint reduction, I bike commuted to work for the first time. In a previous post I had laid claim to bike commuting as one of the things our household has done for the Earth lately. But up until now it's been the husband doing all the biking while I've been taking our shared car to and from work. That's all going to change now!
The first step in my transportation transformation was for me to actually get some wheels. It was hard to be a bike commuter when I didn't have a bike! Two weeks ago we went over to Freewheel in Minneapolis to look at bikes that would fit my specifications: somewhat upright in position so I didn't have to lean onto my arms all the time, nimble enough to carry me through city streets, light-weight enough for me to lift onto the bus rack if needed, but sturdy enough to feel solid. Mostly I need a bike that fits me correctly so I don't fall over when I try to put my feet on the ground! I'm not the most coordinated or athletic person out there, and I can foresee some comical, or even tragic, biking scenarios befalling me.
Two different Treks at the shop fit my profile, but they were in their boxes needing to be assembled. I agreed to come back the next day to test-drive my options, and when I arrived, the bikes were ready so I hopped right on to one. I left my husband at the store as collateral, and rode off into Cedar-Riverside to try it out. The Trek 7.1 commuter bike was much smoother than previous bikes I've owned, the most recent being the bike I had in Ghana. Volunteers in our Peace Corps group had two options for bikes and we chose the multi-geared, mountain-bike-tired "California" model, which, though less crappy than the single-speed "Phoenix" option, was still a crappy bike for riding on unpaved roads through potholes and mud pits. The only bike I had owned before that was in junior high, circa 1988: a three-speed pink and gray Huffy bike that I rode infrequently around my Boston area town because it was more convenient to take the subway. My historical bike standards were pretty low.
The second bike I tested, the 7.2, felt noticeably smoother than the first one. I felt it in the gear shifting and the pedaling, and although the seat was smaller and less cushy, I ended up getting the 7.2 after test riding both bikes multiple times. The store rep was helpful and patient, and after I had made my choice he walked me through the different biking accessories I would need. We drove away with my new bike on our roof rack and a bunch of biking supplies - front light, rear light, water bottle, bottle holder, lock and cable - to set me on the road to bike commuting. Now all I had to do was practice.
When we got home, the husband and I went for a spin and rode from our house over to the Mississippi River parkway, taking the bike path down to Minnehaha Falls. It was a gorgeous day and it seemed like everyone in the Twin Cities was out on their bikes - I could finally be part of the bikereation! We came home up Minnehaha Ave. which has a designated bike lane, and I got a feel for what it's like to have traffic constantly whooshing by on the left. Not too bad.
The next day we did another bike ride - much longer this time. We drove our bikes over to southwest Minneapolis in our car and then biked around the lakes with my brother-in-law and his family. We started at their house and biked around Lake Harriet, Lake Calhoun, and Lake of the Isles. On our way back home we stopped at the Lake Harriet band shell to grab an ice cream cone and listen to two guys drumming on whatever they could find - trashcans, buckets, sign posts, etc. It was good family fun, but I must admit my butt was sore when we were done.
I had biked two days in a row, but I still didn't feel ready to bike all the way to work. My office is 5 miles from our house on a route that includes a long, heavily-trafficked hill. I wanted to boost my bike-confidence before seriously attempting the ride to work. Remember, my experience biking up until this point has been negligible; I biked a few times a year as a teenager, and then a few times during my year in the grimy tropical heat of equatorial Africa. I wanted to bike a few more times over that next week to gain more city bike experience.
One evening after work I went with the husband on an exploratory ride down the Greenway (old train tracks converted to designated, paved bike path). It was a revelation - a whole underground, undercover world of bikers, bladers, and joggers all transporting themselves using their own two legs, with no cars in sight! There are little exit ramps and signs to tell you which road you're passing under, and when the path goes past the newly re-developed midtown market, there are cafe patio tables just to the side of the trail. Freewheel has another bike store location right on the Greenway as well, and there is easy access to other bike lanes and trails. Mostly I was struck by an overall sense of congeniality among the trail users that you don't find out on the roads. Is this what life would be like without cars? Sign me up.
Over the weekend we made a practice run of the daunting work-route hill. My work commute takes me over a bridge across the Mississippi River; Lake St. on our Minneapolis side and Marshall Ave. once you cross to the St. Paul side. Lake street is flat and even, and then the bridge has a small rise and fall through its center. The Marshall avenue hill looms up at you immediately once you've crossed, and it stretches over five blocks on its rise to the top. When we crossed the bridge and started up the hill I shifted down to my lowest middle gear. Surprisingly, it wasn't as difficult as I had anticipated. I had imagined myself giving up half way through and walking my bike up the rest of the hill. But I was able to pedal all the way up the hill and had time to recover at the top while waiting for the stoplight to turn green. It was a success, and it gave me the confidence I needed to bike to work the next day.
This week I biked to work on both Monday and Friday and it worked out pretty nicely. It's ten miles round trip, separated by 8 hours of sitting at a desk, so I get plenty of recovery time in between trips. The weather has been cooperating nicely this week as well: 50's in the mornings and 70's in the afternoons. I do get a little sweaty in the morning, which is the uphill leg, so I brought a change of clothes on Friday and that helped. I'll have to see what my stamina is like once the weather changes to 70's in the morning and 90's in the afternoon (those conditions did not work out so well for biking in Ghana...), but overall I've been surprised and encouraged by my ability to bike to work with this much success right off the bat.
Most of all I am elated by the sense of freedom that I've discovered with biking. In a car you have to make sure the gas tank is full, that your blinkers work, that you follow the speed limit, etc. With a bike, you just get on and go (making sure to follow traffic rules when riding in traffic, to be sure.) Not only is it a way to get from point A to point B, it's a fun activity to share with friends and family. Now, I have clearly stated that I am in no way a serious athlete, nor am I a social activist, but bike commuting provides both regular exercise and a way to actively contribute to sustainable societal change. Two additional perks to an already highly beneficial activity.
See you on the road, comrades!
The first step in my transportation transformation was for me to actually get some wheels. It was hard to be a bike commuter when I didn't have a bike! Two weeks ago we went over to Freewheel in Minneapolis to look at bikes that would fit my specifications: somewhat upright in position so I didn't have to lean onto my arms all the time, nimble enough to carry me through city streets, light-weight enough for me to lift onto the bus rack if needed, but sturdy enough to feel solid. Mostly I need a bike that fits me correctly so I don't fall over when I try to put my feet on the ground! I'm not the most coordinated or athletic person out there, and I can foresee some comical, or even tragic, biking scenarios befalling me.
Two different Treks at the shop fit my profile, but they were in their boxes needing to be assembled. I agreed to come back the next day to test-drive my options, and when I arrived, the bikes were ready so I hopped right on to one. I left my husband at the store as collateral, and rode off into Cedar-Riverside to try it out. The Trek 7.1 commuter bike was much smoother than previous bikes I've owned, the most recent being the bike I had in Ghana. Volunteers in our Peace Corps group had two options for bikes and we chose the multi-geared, mountain-bike-tired "California" model, which, though less crappy than the single-speed "Phoenix" option, was still a crappy bike for riding on unpaved roads through potholes and mud pits. The only bike I had owned before that was in junior high, circa 1988: a three-speed pink and gray Huffy bike that I rode infrequently around my Boston area town because it was more convenient to take the subway. My historical bike standards were pretty low.
The second bike I tested, the 7.2, felt noticeably smoother than the first one. I felt it in the gear shifting and the pedaling, and although the seat was smaller and less cushy, I ended up getting the 7.2 after test riding both bikes multiple times. The store rep was helpful and patient, and after I had made my choice he walked me through the different biking accessories I would need. We drove away with my new bike on our roof rack and a bunch of biking supplies - front light, rear light, water bottle, bottle holder, lock and cable - to set me on the road to bike commuting. Now all I had to do was practice.
When we got home, the husband and I went for a spin and rode from our house over to the Mississippi River parkway, taking the bike path down to Minnehaha Falls. It was a gorgeous day and it seemed like everyone in the Twin Cities was out on their bikes - I could finally be part of the bikereation! We came home up Minnehaha Ave. which has a designated bike lane, and I got a feel for what it's like to have traffic constantly whooshing by on the left. Not too bad.
The next day we did another bike ride - much longer this time. We drove our bikes over to southwest Minneapolis in our car and then biked around the lakes with my brother-in-law and his family. We started at their house and biked around Lake Harriet, Lake Calhoun, and Lake of the Isles. On our way back home we stopped at the Lake Harriet band shell to grab an ice cream cone and listen to two guys drumming on whatever they could find - trashcans, buckets, sign posts, etc. It was good family fun, but I must admit my butt was sore when we were done.
I had biked two days in a row, but I still didn't feel ready to bike all the way to work. My office is 5 miles from our house on a route that includes a long, heavily-trafficked hill. I wanted to boost my bike-confidence before seriously attempting the ride to work. Remember, my experience biking up until this point has been negligible; I biked a few times a year as a teenager, and then a few times during my year in the grimy tropical heat of equatorial Africa. I wanted to bike a few more times over that next week to gain more city bike experience.
One evening after work I went with the husband on an exploratory ride down the Greenway (old train tracks converted to designated, paved bike path). It was a revelation - a whole underground, undercover world of bikers, bladers, and joggers all transporting themselves using their own two legs, with no cars in sight! There are little exit ramps and signs to tell you which road you're passing under, and when the path goes past the newly re-developed midtown market, there are cafe patio tables just to the side of the trail. Freewheel has another bike store location right on the Greenway as well, and there is easy access to other bike lanes and trails. Mostly I was struck by an overall sense of congeniality among the trail users that you don't find out on the roads. Is this what life would be like without cars? Sign me up.
Over the weekend we made a practice run of the daunting work-route hill. My work commute takes me over a bridge across the Mississippi River; Lake St. on our Minneapolis side and Marshall Ave. once you cross to the St. Paul side. Lake street is flat and even, and then the bridge has a small rise and fall through its center. The Marshall avenue hill looms up at you immediately once you've crossed, and it stretches over five blocks on its rise to the top. When we crossed the bridge and started up the hill I shifted down to my lowest middle gear. Surprisingly, it wasn't as difficult as I had anticipated. I had imagined myself giving up half way through and walking my bike up the rest of the hill. But I was able to pedal all the way up the hill and had time to recover at the top while waiting for the stoplight to turn green. It was a success, and it gave me the confidence I needed to bike to work the next day.
This week I biked to work on both Monday and Friday and it worked out pretty nicely. It's ten miles round trip, separated by 8 hours of sitting at a desk, so I get plenty of recovery time in between trips. The weather has been cooperating nicely this week as well: 50's in the mornings and 70's in the afternoons. I do get a little sweaty in the morning, which is the uphill leg, so I brought a change of clothes on Friday and that helped. I'll have to see what my stamina is like once the weather changes to 70's in the morning and 90's in the afternoon (those conditions did not work out so well for biking in Ghana...), but overall I've been surprised and encouraged by my ability to bike to work with this much success right off the bat.
Most of all I am elated by the sense of freedom that I've discovered with biking. In a car you have to make sure the gas tank is full, that your blinkers work, that you follow the speed limit, etc. With a bike, you just get on and go (making sure to follow traffic rules when riding in traffic, to be sure.) Not only is it a way to get from point A to point B, it's a fun activity to share with friends and family. Now, I have clearly stated that I am in no way a serious athlete, nor am I a social activist, but bike commuting provides both regular exercise and a way to actively contribute to sustainable societal change. Two additional perks to an already highly beneficial activity.
See you on the road, comrades!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
happy belated earth day
I didn't write a post on Wednesday, April 22, as I had planned. In fe-mmage to Janet Jackson, I was fired up to write a post entitled - Earth says: "What have you done for me lately?" It's quite fitting that I wasn't able to follow through in time (as many of us want to do something for sustainability but find it hard to follow through on change) and am now belatedly weighing in for Earth.
There's a lot of buzz about green living these days. It's a phenomenon whose development the husband and I noticed sharply when we returned from serving in the Peace Corps. We met each other serving in Americorps in 2001, working on outdoor environmental restoration projects for the Minnesota Conservation Corps and the DNR. We wore steel-toed hiking boots and Carhartts to work, and our office was a field of prairie or a stand of pine forest. During that year, every day of our 40-hour work week was Earth Day.
Then we moved on to work in more office-based positions in the environmental field. He became a landscape restoration technician, planning and leading native plantings and erosion control projects. I led volunteer exotic species removal events, and then went on to work on development and grant writing for environmental organizations. Instead of working 'four tens' in the state parks, we got our quality time outdoors by taking camping, hiking and canoe trips in the wilderness, and leaving no trace when we did.
When we applied for Peace Corps, we both presented strong skills for the Environment program, and even though I was assigned to a Health/Water and Sanitation post and the husband to an Environment post, the environment was the star player in both of our projects in West Africa. Water borne diseases and malaria? Issues with both environmental and behavioral factors. Bush fires and deforestation? Issues with both environmental and behavioral factors. We were taking our domestic experience with environmental work to a whole new level.
We lived at the edge of a village with the African bush right outside the door of our cement block house. We had to hike a half-hour up to the rim of a canyon, among farm fields and overgrown bush, to get any cell phone service. We had to burn all of our own trash, as there was no waste removal system, so we dug a compost pit at the edge of our "garden" (it was more like a mini-farm where we grew row upon row of vegetables and herbs) to decrease the amount we had to burn. We had electricity some of the time, and running water some of the time. The rest of the time we had to strategize how to most efficiently use the supply of water that stood in a blue plastic barrel in our kitchen. Every day we woke to the sound of insects, chickens, and livestock roaming free outside our window. Every day we had a chance to live with minimal impact on the land around us. For another stretch of our life, every day was Earth Day.
Then we came back to Minnesota in the winter. So many cars! So many rows upon rows of packaged food rising up to the ceiling at Cub Foods! Totally overwhelming. We didn't have a car in Ghana, and we didn't have a car when we first got back either. (Eventually we did buy a car, but now we share the one instead of each having our own.) There was so much, of everything, everywhere, and it seemed so excessive in contrast to our simple life in the African bush. We've been back for over two years now, and we are still adjusting.
One of the strikingly strange things when we returned in 2007 was how often the term 'green' was being used in the media and in common parlance. We were used to being part of a minority who always thought about leaving the campsite, the park, the city, the world... in better condition than we found it. We were used to constantly thinking about how to make sustainable changes to the way things are done. But now that concept had a name, and it was being used as a marketing tool. NBC had an entire "Green Week" where all of their programming had a strain of 'green' messages in it. But it seemed too slick, too gimmicky, and completely off the mark of personal responsibility. Compared to the entirely green life we had just been living, out of situational necessity, this new spotlight on 'green' seemed completely void of meaning. A lot of things seemed like that when we first got back.
And even though this new over-use, and misuse, of the whole 'green' concept seemed to cheapen the idea and strip it of its potential power for change, it has at least made 'green' into a household name. I must admit that, in some cases, any awareness is good awareness.
Regardless, with the help of perspective gained living in Ghana, we now approach life in America with a strong value of minimal impact. We began as environmentalists working to conserve the natural resources of our state. Now neither of us works in the environmental field, but we believe in the importance of taking responsibility for our personal impact on the environment. Our focus has shifted from trying to get other people to decrease their ecological footprint to continually decreasing our own. Maybe that way we can be the change we want to see in the world.
So, Earth, here's what I've done for you lately, though there's always more I can learn to do: we've installed rain barrels at our gutters, we compost, we are a one car household, we use bike and bus commuting, we joined a CSA farm share, we're now mostly vegetarian, we've reduced our energy use (with power strips, CFLs, thermostat set-backs and drying clothes outside on the line - just like we did in Ghana), we shop at the coop and support local businesses and artists when possible, and we tell our family, friends and neighbors all about it!
Gradually-Gradually, as the Ghanaians say.
There's a lot of buzz about green living these days. It's a phenomenon whose development the husband and I noticed sharply when we returned from serving in the Peace Corps. We met each other serving in Americorps in 2001, working on outdoor environmental restoration projects for the Minnesota Conservation Corps and the DNR. We wore steel-toed hiking boots and Carhartts to work, and our office was a field of prairie or a stand of pine forest. During that year, every day of our 40-hour work week was Earth Day.
Then we moved on to work in more office-based positions in the environmental field. He became a landscape restoration technician, planning and leading native plantings and erosion control projects. I led volunteer exotic species removal events, and then went on to work on development and grant writing for environmental organizations. Instead of working 'four tens' in the state parks, we got our quality time outdoors by taking camping, hiking and canoe trips in the wilderness, and leaving no trace when we did.
When we applied for Peace Corps, we both presented strong skills for the Environment program, and even though I was assigned to a Health/Water and Sanitation post and the husband to an Environment post, the environment was the star player in both of our projects in West Africa. Water borne diseases and malaria? Issues with both environmental and behavioral factors. Bush fires and deforestation? Issues with both environmental and behavioral factors. We were taking our domestic experience with environmental work to a whole new level.
We lived at the edge of a village with the African bush right outside the door of our cement block house. We had to hike a half-hour up to the rim of a canyon, among farm fields and overgrown bush, to get any cell phone service. We had to burn all of our own trash, as there was no waste removal system, so we dug a compost pit at the edge of our "garden" (it was more like a mini-farm where we grew row upon row of vegetables and herbs) to decrease the amount we had to burn. We had electricity some of the time, and running water some of the time. The rest of the time we had to strategize how to most efficiently use the supply of water that stood in a blue plastic barrel in our kitchen. Every day we woke to the sound of insects, chickens, and livestock roaming free outside our window. Every day we had a chance to live with minimal impact on the land around us. For another stretch of our life, every day was Earth Day.
Then we came back to Minnesota in the winter. So many cars! So many rows upon rows of packaged food rising up to the ceiling at Cub Foods! Totally overwhelming. We didn't have a car in Ghana, and we didn't have a car when we first got back either. (Eventually we did buy a car, but now we share the one instead of each having our own.) There was so much, of everything, everywhere, and it seemed so excessive in contrast to our simple life in the African bush. We've been back for over two years now, and we are still adjusting.
One of the strikingly strange things when we returned in 2007 was how often the term 'green' was being used in the media and in common parlance. We were used to being part of a minority who always thought about leaving the campsite, the park, the city, the world... in better condition than we found it. We were used to constantly thinking about how to make sustainable changes to the way things are done. But now that concept had a name, and it was being used as a marketing tool. NBC had an entire "Green Week" where all of their programming had a strain of 'green' messages in it. But it seemed too slick, too gimmicky, and completely off the mark of personal responsibility. Compared to the entirely green life we had just been living, out of situational necessity, this new spotlight on 'green' seemed completely void of meaning. A lot of things seemed like that when we first got back.
And even though this new over-use, and misuse, of the whole 'green' concept seemed to cheapen the idea and strip it of its potential power for change, it has at least made 'green' into a household name. I must admit that, in some cases, any awareness is good awareness.
Regardless, with the help of perspective gained living in Ghana, we now approach life in America with a strong value of minimal impact. We began as environmentalists working to conserve the natural resources of our state. Now neither of us works in the environmental field, but we believe in the importance of taking responsibility for our personal impact on the environment. Our focus has shifted from trying to get other people to decrease their ecological footprint to continually decreasing our own. Maybe that way we can be the change we want to see in the world.
So, Earth, here's what I've done for you lately, though there's always more I can learn to do: we've installed rain barrels at our gutters, we compost, we are a one car household, we use bike and bus commuting, we joined a CSA farm share, we're now mostly vegetarian, we've reduced our energy use (with power strips, CFLs, thermostat set-backs and drying clothes outside on the line - just like we did in Ghana), we shop at the coop and support local businesses and artists when possible, and we tell our family, friends and neighbors all about it!
Gradually-Gradually, as the Ghanaians say.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
andrew bird is my own personal elvis
I went to the Andrew Bird concert at the State Theater last weekend, and I have to admit that I swooned a little bit in my seat. I was with the husband, so I couldn't swoon too dramatically or anything, plus I was sitting down the whole time, but in my mind I was swooning like an Elvis fan at the ground-breaking, hip-swiveling height of his rock 'n' roll fame.
It may seem strange to swoon over a skinny, introverted guy wearing a scarf and dancing jerkily to his own violin playing, but that's just the kind of thing I go for. I had never seen Andrew Bird play live before, so I was struck immediately by his mild-mannered, self-deprecating humor, and his impassioned whistling and violin finger-picking. Who knew that two such traditionally un-rock 'n' roll moves could knock my socks off?! Consider them knocked.
What I loved about the show was the blend of instrumentation and computer assisted mixing that all happened simultaneously with the help of multiple mics and foot pedals that Bird used interchangeably and instantaneously. That there was some multi-tasking! Even more impressive was the double-horned gramophone-looking contraption at the back of the stage that I initially thought was part of the artsy set design. That too was part of the music-making accoutrements. Bird would step on a foot pedal at the height of a song's arc and then the recorded loop would echo forth out of those double horns - that were spinning no less! It was simply awesome.
Now, I am fully into my thirty-somethings, and I have come to realize that going to shows at First Ave - no matter how much I like the artisit playing there - are no longer a good time. You get pushed around as people jockey for positions closer to the stage, strangers shout their conversations into your left ear as they try to talk over your head and over the music, people spill their beers on your shoes, and your feet hurt from standing on the cement floors starting when doors open two hours before the show and all through the often times crappy opening act. Last time I went to a show there I left feeling like I hadn't really been able to experience the music I had gone there to hear because there was so much else going on around me.
Behold the State Theater as my new favorite venue for grown-up concert going! We had tickets that got us right in the door, seats that were assigned to us alone, and the people in front of us were not only sitting down as well, so we could see the artists on stage, but because we were in an actual theater, their seats were a bit lower than ours. Similar to stadium seating at movie theaters - what a concept!! I fully acknowledge that the First Ave scene is still great for many a twenty-somthing who wants to dance the night away and be seen at all the happening shows. No argument there. But that scene is no longer for me, and that's why I was glad to discover the State. The experience of seeing the show there enhanced my enjoyment of the music I was already going to love.
Back to Andrew Bird. To put it simply, he's a genius. I so appreciate the intelligence and passion he puts into his albums and his performances. I loved his music before, but I love it even more now that I've seen him play it live. I highly encourage anyone who reads this to go right now and get thee some Andrew Bird tunes for your listening pleasure.
Bird is the word.
It may seem strange to swoon over a skinny, introverted guy wearing a scarf and dancing jerkily to his own violin playing, but that's just the kind of thing I go for. I had never seen Andrew Bird play live before, so I was struck immediately by his mild-mannered, self-deprecating humor, and his impassioned whistling and violin finger-picking. Who knew that two such traditionally un-rock 'n' roll moves could knock my socks off?! Consider them knocked.
What I loved about the show was the blend of instrumentation and computer assisted mixing that all happened simultaneously with the help of multiple mics and foot pedals that Bird used interchangeably and instantaneously. That there was some multi-tasking! Even more impressive was the double-horned gramophone-looking contraption at the back of the stage that I initially thought was part of the artsy set design. That too was part of the music-making accoutrements. Bird would step on a foot pedal at the height of a song's arc and then the recorded loop would echo forth out of those double horns - that were spinning no less! It was simply awesome.
Now, I am fully into my thirty-somethings, and I have come to realize that going to shows at First Ave - no matter how much I like the artisit playing there - are no longer a good time. You get pushed around as people jockey for positions closer to the stage, strangers shout their conversations into your left ear as they try to talk over your head and over the music, people spill their beers on your shoes, and your feet hurt from standing on the cement floors starting when doors open two hours before the show and all through the often times crappy opening act. Last time I went to a show there I left feeling like I hadn't really been able to experience the music I had gone there to hear because there was so much else going on around me.
Behold the State Theater as my new favorite venue for grown-up concert going! We had tickets that got us right in the door, seats that were assigned to us alone, and the people in front of us were not only sitting down as well, so we could see the artists on stage, but because we were in an actual theater, their seats were a bit lower than ours. Similar to stadium seating at movie theaters - what a concept!! I fully acknowledge that the First Ave scene is still great for many a twenty-somthing who wants to dance the night away and be seen at all the happening shows. No argument there. But that scene is no longer for me, and that's why I was glad to discover the State. The experience of seeing the show there enhanced my enjoyment of the music I was already going to love.
Back to Andrew Bird. To put it simply, he's a genius. I so appreciate the intelligence and passion he puts into his albums and his performances. I loved his music before, but I love it even more now that I've seen him play it live. I highly encourage anyone who reads this to go right now and get thee some Andrew Bird tunes for your listening pleasure.
Bird is the word.
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