525: the blue canoe

It's actually green, but you wouldn't know it until you pull up her drapes. Ryan gave this to me a bit before we left for Wisconsin; he said he figured he couldn't hide it on the way there or even wrap it in much more than a tarp. He also told me on the phone that he had "left one of my presents lying around." Tricky boy, he is. Even trickier is how he picked it up while I was at book club, from the very home where book club was hosted; we bought the canoe from some very good friends who weren't using it any more.


I cannot wait for summer, for lakes and for introducing the minnow to the peace that is paddling along, enjoying fresh air and quiet.

It's a Wenonah canoe and cared for by the Urtels... I pity the poor thing in our hands, but I truly hope it will get to see many adventures with us, bruised or unscathed.

520: Duluth's shore

Just a few steps from our room in Duluth, we tapped along smooth rocks and took photographs of the water splashing up. On the last day of our trip, we drove out to the peninsula and visited the sandy beach, collected a few stones, skipped some others, examined driftwood and the sparkle of firewood.

One day we'll have a daughter, and we'll each take one of her hands, and we'll show her this town where her father spent his undergraduate days, where our relationship was young and we knew the things we always knew--that we'd love each other for the rest of our lives. There are places like this, where we trace our fingers in the sand or look closely at the way the tide shifts, and we know there is belonging between our hearts, and now, between three.

495: rush river blueberry picking

Last night, my darling husband spent two hours with me in baby-chaos, registering for all kinds of baby-shaped items, our eyes sleepy, a box o' crib bungeed into my trunk. He lugged that one hundred pound box out of the trunk and up the stairs, giving Kelly's ant comparison credence.

And this morning, Ryan woke me with this adorably wise plan to pick blueberries. Inside the car, I discovered he had filled up my tank with gas. Halfway to Maiden Rock, he said to me, "You're not terribly observant, are you?" Oh woe is the poet who cannot see the world so clearly. It turns out he took my car in and replaced all the tires--and there, none of the previous vibrations or shaking or car misalignment.

And now, I am winter-safe, full of blueberries. We brought three and a half pounds home, and I have plans for a crumble, muffins, freezing some to go with the raspberries that will become smoothies in winter. In Minnesota, it's all about winter-preparation. This one is going to be magical.

491: hello from bread loaf, happy 3 year anniversary

Meryl and I arrived safe and sound in Vermont; last year, I was trapped at the Newark airport, changing gates, finding out how many rotations of planes they couldn't give us (mechanical, mechanical, mechanical). Of course, it sounds as if Meryl might have gotten the bad luck--her husband's car decided its engine would no longer work, so she lost her four a.m. ride to the airport, the trains were slow, and she just might have been the last person boarding the plane, which certainly kept my knuckles quite white.

Instead of going straight to the conference, we spent the day and evening in rural Vermont, on a large swath of land, mostly wooded, complete with wild blackberries and toads, where Meryl's old college friend lives. Her aunt owns the property and lives in a house with her five adopted boys, and Heather lives with her girlfriend Lori in a camper at the back of the lot. Camper is, of course, being a bit liberal: the inside was plywood floored, the bedding was a camping mat and sleeping bag, the lighting was candles, and the toilet was the woods. Needless to say, it was quite an adventure for me, and I think I could have managed mildly better if I weren't pregnant, but everyone was so extraordinarily kind and generous that the surprise roughness of the accommodations didn't fully phase me. We had plenty of excellent vegan fare, a campfire, a rainstorm, and plenty of storytelling.

Here at Bread Loaf, I will be slowly updating this blog on the trouble that Meryl and I get ourselves into, though one qualm is that I have lost my dear camera battery charger somewhere in my summer travels, so I am not certain if I will upload pictures as I go. The toad above was actually found in our backyard before I left, as opposed to the wilds of Vermont, but I will let it substitute charm you in the meanwhile.

I am tired but content. From what I remember of last year, these ten days feel both an eternity and the briefest flash of time. It's a good way to end the summer, even if the baby sometimes decides it's a good time to wallop me with a sad stomach. I've been warning the other women on the floor that if they hear someone getting sick, it isn't a drunk at ten a.m. or a bulimic, but instead a four-and-a-half pregnant person who can't seem to get into the swing of things. (And for the record, my only moment was still at the camper, just after the sun rose, and with the sweating and trembling and urgency, it felt more like the flu than morning sickness, so I'm not sure if was something I consumed in the past twenty-four hours or the heat, but I'm grateful I have managed to gracefully survive campus without any upsets.)

I already miss home, but I think that's the wonkiness of the hormones; once the conference begins to swing, I will be too distracted to think of how much I want to fall asleep next to Ryan or tell him in person about my day and how today we are missing being with one another on our three-year-wedding anniversary (Bread Loaf, by the way, is having its 85th anniversary, so they are winning), will vaguely think it would be better with Penelope by my side or Zephyr to entertain me, will only ache a little for the cats to curl up in my armpit as I read volume after volume of poetry in bed. This year, too, I have one of my dearest friends with me, which is the biggest gift, since this is my last hurrah for some time. Baby will keep me planted, which is fine. I have a book to write.

xo

436

Today, the love of my life turned thirty-one, a very lovely age, I believe. He likes to spend them quietly, so we had dinner at the table, and before that, we took a hike up Memorial Buff, a striking difference with no snow on the ground. We read in bed together, but I couldn't fall asleep, so I've wandered downstairs to watch my Netflix'ed disc of Carnivale, carrying a leather-bound journal with the three graces tooled into it, where I plan to keep my doula notes. Today, I signed up for a membership with DONA International, sent an email for the May training session, and ordered the two certification packages. I'm on my way.

Happy St Patrick's Day. Kiss a leprechaun for me!

417

We drove here early in the morning, fog settled in, a hoarfrost glittering in the trees. Twenty-four hours, and I've finished a little pair of knitted somethings I will show in a few days, have plugged away at a larger project I will show in a few weeks, and picked up supplies to make sweet stuffed creatures.


I've considered grading, changed my mind, considered again.

I've gone to bed before ten o'clock, read to escape, found myself in possession of two new books (The Vegetable Gardener's Bible and Sew Liberated), and I'm finding myself well-paced, quiet, slit-eyed with sleepiness, breathing, breathing. Trying not to upset the precarious balance.

411: safe in the milkweed pod

A while back, I think I mentioned The Milkweed Project, and my own humble efforts at putting together a piece for the exhibition. Well, my installation is complete, and we measured it at book club: one hundred and forty six glorious feet of fuzzy yarn on its chilly way to Sheboygan to be assembled with other bits of a milkweed pod.

I bought the yarn something like a half dozen years ago, intending to make a lap blanket for a couple's wedding. I was to be a bridesmaid. But they never married, and I made a little something else instead.


These days I'm keeping my hands busy while watching old episodes of Northern Exposure and new episodes of Ace of Cakes. I'm fully aware of how strange my new cycle of medication makes me feel: my hormones are off-the-charts, though Ryan is patiently keeping up, keeping close, making me radiate from within. Every night I whisper to whomever-is-up-there (is it whom? I can't believe I'm a comp. teacher): Don't let me forget how lucky I am.

308: kooza!

For our anniversary: dinner, drinks, and a little death defying entertainment. We saw Cirque du Soleil for the first time, which left the audience embarrassingly child-like, our jaws open, gasping, grabbing the arm of our date. We asked each other, if we could have any job in the company, what would it be, and after chiding me, Ryan said tent-erector, and I said costuming. The pair in the wheel of death had pants that resembled lizard scales, the jester's hats were amazing, the flamboyancy of the flameco dress--it was all so impressive.

After a few years (tortured) in high school theater, on the adult-side of things, I have a slight bit more understanding of what might go into a production like this. I loved their "pit," which was instead, lofted above the stage, complete with two singers, and the drummer had a solo on what appeared to be a platform with casters, though I'm sure it was really pure magic.

What I love most about Cirque du Soleil, besides the lack of animal-cruelty, the impressive fabrics, the incredible athleticism, the intimacy, the sheer joy on the faces of the performers--besides all that, I love the focus on imagination. In this particular touring production, the story is the gift of one boy's imagination come to life, complete with jesters and skeletons and a strage ruling king.

I hadn't realized, also, the audience participation factor: the band teacher from the local high school was pulled onto the stage during the pickpocket act. Yup, from RW, living on Bush Street ("Are you serious?" the clown asked)--I knew it was him.

A lovely little world of fantasy; we held hands under the big top.

307: so, this is ten.

Ryan and my first date was ten years ago today.

We met the summer of 1999 when I had just finished my first year of college, a series of strange circumstances with missed opportunities, switched room mates, and me not anywhere near single.

Despite all this, we wrote each other letters, gave each other mix tapes (me) and CDs (him, always the more technologically advanced).

Our first date was at Z Harvest, one of those local-friendly, health conscious restaurants that are a rarity in Green Bay's ever-growing chain infatuation, and after, we walked along the bay. I wore a wine colored dress; he wore a white button down shirt and khakis. He drove his father's car, which now belongs to his sister, with two baby-seats in the back. He was looking at an apartment in Milwaukee the next day, and invited me to join him, so our date extended into the next day. We watched Othello and sweated on the balcony of his friend's apartment on the third floor, the trees stretching into the sky.

The next day, I left for Hawaii with my family and wrote to him every day, fell asleep listening to the music he played on his guitar and recorded onto a CD for me. I was nineteen, and he was twenty, and the years have been good to us.

I never imagined what it would be like to grow old with someone. I had never gotten beyond the first apartment in my mind. But when I met Ryan, I knew. It's strange to say that, and some might shrug it off, but I knew. Inside, I knew that I would love this man, I knew that I would want him to be in my life in whatever way possible, for as long as I could keep him. And somehow, some way, I got lucky. Because he felt the same way about me.

So many other things have fit into these ten years: we were both undergraduates, both got a Master's degree, and I went back for more. We've owned our house for four years now, been married for two. We've got two cats, two dogs, two cars. We plant a garden together in the spring, cut down the heads of sunflowers and feed them to the squirrels in the fall. We walk our dogs along the bluffs, hold hands while watching movies, make dinner together in the late evening light. We've loved each other every day, been frustrated with one another, fought without speaking. We've never broken up, or even meant to break up, we've surprised each other with visits when we've lived apart, we've given each other the gift of music, of laughter, of one another. We've waited for one another, we've been patient. We kiss each other in the morning and before we go to bed. We say I love you and mean it. We support each other in the difficult moments of life, we celebrate the victories, we tell each other, It won't always be this hard when we think we cannot make it one more moment. We've seen each other through phases in our lives and made it through, from unsteady college student to someone with a career.

I'll be lucky with each day I have with him; each decade is an immense gift. He is the man I want to grow old with: I am proud of him in so many ways, his intelligence and patience and unfaltering kindness. But most of all, I love who I am when I am with him, and I love who I have become because of him. He makes me want to be a better person, has inspired me to do better things with my life, with my time, with my energy. He's the perfect person to grow old with and to be the father of my children.

Each day is a gift. I've had ten years of them so far.

270: a bit of duluth

I remember Duluth as being this: cruelly cold in winter, that lake is no comforter. In the spring, fog, and summer too, and that fog horn, lonely and beautiful, plaintive and perfect. The lake like an ocean. Longing for the ocean. Summer writing workshops on campus. Autumn and spring brief, winter lingering, smoking cigarettes on the old porch, quilts draped across our shoulders. Hiking up the bluffs. Spotting hawks and eagles over autumn colors. Long kisses next to the fireplace. Dallas, young, falling into a wading pool, fetching the tennis ball. Again. And again. The fog and the early love and the lake. I loved it like this, the bitter cold, the smoothies we made in the tiny kitchen, the white cabinets, your hamster on a wheel in the night, posters curled, tacked up on the walls, everything blue and grey and beige, my hand in yours, and that love, our love, so early, so new, where it all began.