5.31.2008

I love you forever... or until you take a dump on me


Jackie loves animals, or "aminals" as he still calls them. On a walk by the Wisconsin River he found a caterpillar, pictured on his sleeve.

"I love you caterpillar, forever and ever," he professed, patting it gently. "You are so fuzzy and awesome."

He brought it to a nearby playground. He brought in the car on the way home.

Then suddenly I heard, "Eewww!" from the back seat.

"Lookit!" he said, holding up his chubby index finger to reveal a little brown blob.

"It pooped on you," I said. "We'll wipe it off when we get home."

A moment later he announced, "I threw my caterpillar out the window."

"That wasn't very nice. I thought you loved him."

"Yeah, but he pooped on me."

"That's what animals do. They poop wherever they want."

"Well, he didn't have to do it on me."

5.30.2008

How much for the baby?

My neighbor has had what appears to be a fairly unsuccessful yard sale going on for the past couple of days. Today I noticed he was placing his baby in the various baby contraptions on the lawn, as if to say, "Look, they're still good!"

Once I posted this photo I realized it had a really dark mood look to it. But I'm guessing there's something kind of dark and sad behind the yard sale. It's a loud and poor and messy family whose struggles and strange visitors often spill out onto the sidewalk. Plus, why would you sell all of your baby things when you still have a baby?

5.28.2008

Like a monkey, or a cat

Eli has taken up tree climbing. The only climbable one in our yard is a young ash, or poplar, or something small and bendy that seems to cry out, "Why me?..." whenever Eli starts his ascent.

Here, you see his tree-climbing face. It says to me, "Oh, yeah, I'm gonna boy you up, tree. You best watch out."

5.27.2008

Wherein I talk about boobs and Bob Dylan

I spent the weekend on the edge of the Iron Range in northwest Minnesota, searching for Bob Dylan.

Since my parents moved to the area five years ago, I’ve known it was the red iron ore soil that birthed Dylan – and the same place from which he turned his back and tried to cut his tangled ties.

I'm an overthinker, especially when it comes to issues of home and memory and shared history and song lyrics, so my brain hurts a little from taking it all in. But here are a few highlights:

First of all, my sister and I went to the Dylan Days music fest together and saw some awesome and gritty old folkies, and we made these awesomely gritty t-shirts:



In case you can't read them, they say, "ROCK ON/IRON ON," which we figured was an Iron Range pun. Somehow. We surprisingly got beaucoup compliments on the shirts in Hibbing, Bob's hometown and site of the show, but I got the feeling nobody really got it but us. A lot of things are like that with our family.

A side note: My sister did the actual ironing on, which commenced by really effing my shirt up. The "r" and the "c" in "ROCK" are both backward, which at first I was a little pissed about but later decided made it more authentically "Range." Also, on the ride to Hibbing my sister kept staring at my boob, and I said, "Why are you staring at my boob?" and she said sorta glumly, "Your 'R' is peeling off." So I said, "Oh, I'm sorry my boob is disappointing you," and she said, "I'm probably the first one who's ever been disappointed by that boob." And I laughed, really hard.

A secondary side note: Before the folk concert, in front of Hibbing High School, we asked a guy to take the above picture of us in our shirts. I said, "Be sure to include the full majesty of our homemade shirts," and some big local guy walking by said, "Huh. That won't be hard."

THIS JUST IN: I'm hearing from my sister via text that the entire word "IRON" came off her shirt in the wash, and it now says, "ROCK ON... ON." Now that's a disappointment.

We found the house where Dylan grew up, appropriately on this street:



...and saw the current owners' garage door mural "honoring" him:

The next day we visited -- I'm not making this up -- a museum called "Ironworld," situated on the rim of the world's largest open mine pit.

Pretty, but also pretty messed up. Nearly 2 billion tons of earth were dug out over the past 100 years to make this "scenery."

Ironworld did have a good exhibit about Dylan, and his complicated relationship with his hometown. Good stuff if you're headed toward the Range.

An original (not revisited) sign from Highway 61:



I probably should have saved some of these for another post. We might be getting some more pictures of my foliage tomorrow.

5.22.2008

The symbol of first love


I'm taking the boys to visit my parents for the long weekend, and sadly I think I'm going to miss my lilac bush's moment of full glory. (See the buds on the tip, about ready to unclench their little purple fists?)

My grandma had an enormous lilac bush in her backyard and I found it just entrancing, and I always said when I had a home of my own I would get one. So the first Mother's Day in our first house, Erik planted one for me.

Additionally, it's further proof that I can grow a living thing without causing it irreparable damage or death. As supporting evidence, I cite the peace lily I've had for nearly one (1) year in my dining room, and my two (2) kids. The three doomed cactuses from my sixth grade bedroom are beyond the statute of limitations.

Happy Memorial Day. I hope to post some photos from the Hibbing DylanFest when I return.

5.21.2008

These are the eggs the Lord has made

So I got these odd-brand eggs from Aldi, which is another post in and of itself because that's such a wacky place to shop, and I open the carton to find this:


And I was like, "Oh, great, Jesus eggs."

But then after making my omelet I closed the carton, and check out what as on the outside:



I was kind of on the fence about faith already, and now it seems even the eggs are testing my compass.