For Robert

October 10 dawned sparkly and cold. Rushing across the street juggling dirty laundry and mason jars, late for a practice ACT and choosing to forgo the sidewalk near the stoplight for the middle of the street, I landed squarely on my butt. Glass crashed and my grungy socks fluttered to the ground. I sensed this fall would be an uphill battle.

The weather, at least, has not disappointed. Wet, snowy, cold, rainy, sloshy, gunk. And then, a dazzling sunny afternoon on my chaperoning trip to St. Mary's University in Winona, Minn. At first, we pulled away from the gray of the city slowly, crossing the Mississippi in a state of morning glory that can only be described as sublime, with flecks of scattered sun. The cloud-dappled red and gold hills started slowly, with short inclines becoming towering masses of fall-colored trees. Keeping the bus between the rail line and Lake Pepin, we sailed around the curves. I hardly noticed the three hours as they melted away.

And somewhere in my chest, I felt pains from a phantom heart. I know my real heart is fine, ticking away at regular speeds except when altered by drugs (caffeine) or stress (commuting), but mon coeur ached with a regular, dull pulse. The yellow of southern Minnesota's fall finery was not too far from the trees in St. Emilion come November. Where was the wine-drinking, hair-chopping pixie who just two short years ago took faltering steps in the Gare de Lyon of Paris? She's around, I guess. I read her notes sometimes, tucked away in books, with pictures and souvenirs, both kinds. But fall always sends me searching for her in a more real way, searching for that feeling I had for a couple hours on the train to Austria. For that rushing of blood as I stood in the streets of Cannes speaking to old men gathered around a game of Petanque. For the beauty of fall in Uzes, which looks a lot like Winona in retrospect.

Booger Rocks

Meandering through pleasant memories as autumn falls all around, I happened across a short article in the Star Tribune travel section about sea glass. Looking at the pictures of rock-like chunks of old beer bottles and discarded glassware, I laughed to myself.

On a Duluth vacation many years ago with all seven family members in tow, we combed the beach for treasures. A very young me, maybe eight or 10, picked up some sea glass and rolled it over in my palms. I remember it was green, so it probably belonged to a now-defunct wine bottle. I proudly proclaimed to my brother Thomas that I found a "booger rock." I kept it for a long time before recently depositing it in the garden, where I hoped someone might eventually dig it up. So much for classy euphemisms.

USA CUP: The saga begins

If you've been around events at all, you know that feeling you get the night before everything is set to go down. Every sort of insect is crawling around in your stomach even though you triple-checked your to-do list and battened down the hatches. All that's left is to pray and wait. Tomorrow morning the sun will rise on the first day of Schwan's USA CUP 2009. Over 13,000 athletes will compete over the next nine days, bringing with thousands of refs, volunteers, coaches and fans. I will be in the thick of it with a pencil and a voice recorder. Have I ever been this nervous? Maybe before freshman finals, but otherwise probably not. Wish me luck.

Today I walked across the Sun-Sailor community newspaper plastered all over the blacktop. Right under the sports section, "USA CUP" jumped from the headlines. You mean somebody actually read that media guide I spent hours putting together? Hooray! Sending out information to the working media is like all those hundreds of prayers a person sends out silently every day. You're just hoping one or two get heard. And then, suddenly, an answer floats into your life and lands on the pavement. And you can only smile (even if it is slightly factually flawed).

So, tomorrow. It's coming, and I can't stop it. And of course, I will survive and manage to look back on it fondly, forgetting the ulcers it's given me. I'll be sending out at least 200 prayers tomorrow. Please answer one if it comes your way.

I'm proud to drink Church Basement Coffee

Though I'm not a Lutheran , I am marrying one and I have spent my share of time in the church basement. My favorite is the coffee, so thin you could see right through it if you drank out of a clear mug. Sure, it's caffeine concentration is weakened by the 2:1 (water:grounds) recipe, but how would you sit through church breakfast with five cups of coffee at full strength? I would be wound tighter than a twine string on a wet hay bale.

I have to admit I have taken my love of Church Basement Coffee around the world and back. In France, the only thing you could get me to order with coffee in it was a cafe au lait or an espresso chocolate dessert. Tiny demitasse cups full of steamy tar were politely decline. "Non, merci." Back in the states, working at my summer internship, I secretly make Church Basement Coffee from the office pot. It comes out thick, smoldering and smelling vaguely of sausage (why is that?). I pour half a cup in my mug, add half a cup of hot water and one-quarter cup of cold. Wait 10 minutes, and it's perfect.

I've tried to love regular coffee, but I can't. In college, I would order it from O'Connell's and sniff its seductive scent from my shiny green travel mug. At the end of the paper I was writing, I would still have half a cup left, now chilled and filmed over with what looked like an oil slick. I struggled through my late writing shifts with black tea and copious amounts of water.

Post-college, I've settled into my Church Basement Coffee drinker heritage, and I find I'm proud. Religion has done some terrible things, but in the basement of a quiet town church, women have quietly knit the threads of community over many pots of coffee.

Ahh, the Codex

Sometimes I'm reading a book, and there's a perfect little excerpt that jumps out of the pages and into my life. Nick Hornby does that a lot, but I've read all his books, so I had to find someone new. Frankly, I picked this off the shelf because it said "marriage" in the title, and I'm going to get married soon(ish). The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer. Fiction, definitely leaning on the literary side, but full of surprises and little thorns that poke you in places you'd rather remained complacent.

"But nobody is strong or wise or good or faithful, not really. It turns out everyone is faking it as best they can."

~p. 175

The City that Sleeps

Breezing through the stoplights on Rockford Road Saturday morning, I sighed with relief. At 6 a.m., I was nearly the only car on the road. Little glimmers of sunrise poked through the overcast horizon, and I smiled as every light turned from red to green just for me.

It felt good to know that even those most busy Minnesotans, the Twin Citians, sleep on Saturday morning. Even more so, I loved not having to wrestle with traffic. Only the occasional sleepy goose hampered my commute, sitting in the middle of the lane and staring quizzically at me.

I am working at the National Sports Center, and this weekend was my first soccer tournament. Whizzing around on my green golf cart and wearing my tournament-sponsor gear, I felt pretty cool. It was also nice to be the person with answers for once. "Concessions are just around this stadium, take a right." "For field A3, you're going to want to follow this road around the building and then it should be across the parking lot." "Yep. I can get you more rope and a hammer."

I was only a little disappointed that no one asked me any tough questions, since I've been studying up on the NSC and the amateur sports community in Minnesota. All that wasted knowledge. But, this is only the beginning of summer; there are plenty of tournaments to come. The tough questions, I have no doubt, will find me.

Wayzata Wandering

Driving down from Blaine this afternoon, I marveled at how lucky I felt to be in the moving lanes of traffic and not the stalled ones. My previous work commutes were:
1) walking
2) 45 minutes of country roads hampered only by occasional stray livestock
Fortunately, I seemed to have landed another winner.

Because it was hot today, and my car has no air conditioning, things were lethargic. Coasting into a red light near an elementary school, I noticed a pair of males, one little and one big. Both decked out in red T-shirts with matching baseball caps, the larger one attempted to teach the smaller one to hit a T-ball.

Screwing his body into what looked like a respectable hitting stance, the child swung at the ball and with a sturdy "thwack," knocked over the T. Not showing a smidgen of impatience, the man took the bat and began to make slow, elaborate gestures. The light turned green, and I smiled as I rolled through one more intersection.

After supper, I walked into Wayzata on a mission to add another Minnesota library system to my card (I proudly belong to two already). Mission accomplished, I walked out with a book about the French impressionist artist Renoir and the hope that the other popular novels, which I never get to on time, would be returned soon.

The wind did it's best to make white caps on the lake, and I wandered aimlessly, trying to shake off the "new job" stress I'd been harboring and the little bit of loniless that crept in from somewhere. Lake smell is an effective tonic for that. Marveling at the rich people and their rich lifestyles, I admitted I might do the same if I had money.

Right after crossing the bridge, I saw some kids hanging out in a pack and waiting for something. They must have had a secret signal, for with no warning, they took off down the hill pedaling like little bats out of hell. And the youngest boy was last, his blond hair flopping around his face as he pushed his scooter faster and faster. Not fearing the force of his speed and the proximity of the concrete, his leg swung out behind him, and he hollered with delight. And I admitted I wished I was doing the same.