Our little skier

Our son started skiing four days ago.

He has made it to the bottom of the beginners' hill 24.5 times. The half occurred when he turned left into the line of skiers side-stepping up the hill and decided to go back up for another run rather than complete that one.

He can snowplow to a stop, which in my opinion, is the most critical skill. Most times, he can get back up when he falls. And in his last two days of ski camp, he has managed to stay up during the majority of his runs.

He hasn't mastered turning through the cones yet, often ending up at a standstill with his skis headed across the hill. Once there, he hasn't grasped the concept of pointing his skis back down the hill to get started skiing again. But he's working on that.

As parents, my husband and I help him gear up, give him pointers on form, and wait in the cold at the bottom of the hill to catch him or any runaway skiers and stop them from skiing out onto the creek.

Once he shows his instructors that he can turn through the cones and snowplow to a stop, they'll pair him up with a ski cadet to ride the ski lift up and come down the big hill.

My son doesn't seem to be too eager for that although today I watched him quietly sizing up the ski lift. I can tell that day will come too soon for Mom.

Simple winter pleasures

Sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows and eating fresh-baked gingerbread cookies after digging out from the snowstorm. Yum!

Looking forward to January slowdown

My 5-year-old son's social calendar is much busier than mine.

The ramp-up started just before Halloween, with a friend's costumed birthday party and ride on a hay wagon. Next came trick-or-treating, though he had to miss his pre-school's Halloween party because of swimming lessons.

His birthday featured three events: a party at pre-school with his classmates, dinner of his choice on his actual birthday with Mom and Dad, then a party at home that weekend with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and assorted friends.

The Thanksgiving feast was held at grandma and grandpa's. I had to bake pumpkin pies. Not to be outdone, my son had to bake and decorate turkey- and leaf-shaped sugar cookies.

As one of Judah Maccabee's brothers in the Hanukkah play, he threw rocks at and fought with swords against Greek soldiers.

He sang beach songs in two holiday concerts at pre-school and dreidle songs in a concert at our synagogue's Hanukkah dinner.

In between the musical events, we took gifts to nursing home residents and lit candles for eight nights. At his request, our first night's dinner was applesauce and potato latkes. He grated all of the potatoes.

Following that was another friend's birthday party, this time in an arcade. Imagine a bunch of 5-year-old boys playing ski ball, air hockey and video driving games for the first time.

Now it's ski camp and participating in relatives' Christmas festivities that were delayed by the snowstorm.

And he's not even in school full-time or organized sports -- yet.

More best books for children

My son and I just finished reading Return to the Hundred Acre Wood.

Eighty years after A.A. Milne's classics were written, author David Benedictus picks up the story of Winnie the Pooh with Christopher Robin's return from school for summer vacation. All of the classic characters are there plus a new one, an otter named Lottie.

The book is remarkably well done, although the chapters seem to be a bit longer than in the original stories. It has catchy little Pooh hums and misspelled words in Milne style.

My son seemed most impressed by "Chapter Six in which Owl becomes an author, and then unbecomes one." I, however, was most moved by "Chapter Ten in which a Harvest Festival is held in the Forest and Christopher Robin springs a surprise." But then I cry at the end of The House at Pooh Corner, too.

This is a book we will need to buy and add to our collection.

Some other recent best books we found at the library:

• A bad case of stripes (David Shannon)
• Anatole and the Piano (Eve Titus)
• Cat You Better Come Home (Garrison Keillor)
• The Jar of Fools: Eight Hanukkah Stories from Chelm (Eric A. Kimmel)
  

First biking mishap

My husband and I gave our son a bicycle -- a red Huffy, "Cars" model -- for his fifth birthday.

After the birthday party guests left, my husband and son stayed up late to put the bike together. They installed the handlebar and pedals, put the training wheels on and adjusted the seat to its lowest level. (My son, on tiptoes, can just touch the floor.) They checked the tires, deciding they need more air before he begins riding it.

They installed the bell, which my son excitedly rang then left this phone message for his uncle: "Guess what I got for my birthday." My brother phoned back to guess, "a new bell for your bicycle." He left a similar phone message for his grandma.

Next morning, my son was sitting contentedly on his new bike in the living room when he started to make it go. He rode into one of his birthday presents, a baking kit from an uncle, aunt and his younger twin cousins.

The can of pressurized icing exploded, spraying blue stickiness onto his new cowboy apron, cookie mixes, raisins and "spoonula." Fortunately, all of it was contained in the gift bag. The rider was not injured.

A whole hand

On the eve of his birthday my son exclaimed to his father, "Daddy, I'm not just four fingers anymore. I'm going to be a whole hand."

Neighborhood dog-napper

My husband took our son trick-or-treating at their uncle's home on Halloween evening.

The neighbor next door was dressed as Cruella De Vil, her two small dogs sporting shiny white coats with black spots.

"Mom, we saw the woman from 101 Dalmations," my son exclaimed when he arrived home. "Daddy took a picture."

Upon examining the photograph, I identified the woman and remarked to my husband that she's a former colleague of mine.

The next day, my son was recalling some of the highlights of Halloween night. "Hey Mom, you know that woman you used to work with," he said. Seeing my puzzled face, he added, "You know, the one who steals dogs."

To sanctuary

A sign hangs on a door in the basement of Chester Park United Methodist Church. "TO SANCTUARY" it reads in crisp blue letters on a background of white.

On election days, one of four election judge stations is set up directly across from this sign.

I really appreciate that the sign doesn't say, "TO THE SANCTUARY."

It's fun to to contemplate all of the possible "sanctuaries" that could be behind that door.

The beauty of being a stay-at-home Mom

My son and I sit on the living room floor, still clad in our pajamas.

Bright morning sunshine streams through our front window. A CD of piano music, written by a friend and colleague of my husband, plays quietly in the background.

We are learning to count money -- pennies, nickels and dimes.

Lists, lists, lists

My son is a great maker of lists.

It started in September, when he came home from preschool and announced he needed to practice his writing. Sometimes he asks me to spell out a bunch of words. Other times he copies words from a book or packaging labels.

For a while he would ask me to help him make an N or a U or a Z. Then he would ask me, "how do you make" one of those three troublesome letters. "Up, down, up," I would say to describe the N. As time passed he would ask the question, then pause and answer it himself. Now he no longer asks.

He makes lists of things we need from the grocery store, the things he wants to accomplish in a day, collections of objects that have something in common, the names of family members, his stuffed animals or characters in a book. Tucked in bed the other night, he asked me to get one of his lists so he could cross off the things he had done that day.

This morning he is making a list of each kind of Halloween candy he got while trick-or-treating last night.

"Wild Things" should be rated PG13

We took our 4-year-old son to his first movie in a theater Friday.

The theater experience was good. Our son sat perched on his seat entranced with the scene. He remarked that the screen was bigger than our TV. He marveled at the runway-esque red lights that guide people to the stairs and their seats. He enjoyed nibbling on cheese popcorn (in a small Ziplock bag from home) while his friend Rachel, her mom, his mom and his dad enjoyed theirs. And he was amazed at the brightness outside after sitting in the dark.

But the movie "Where the Wild Things Are" was a bad choice. Thankfully, much of it was over my son's head, and he had the distraction of being in a movie theater for the first time.

I had read the book many times, watched a movie trailer, seen some advertisements for it and read a DNT blog that it would be a good movie to take the kids to. The outing had been suggested by my husband and Rachel's mom, both teachers who love children. I was sold and didn't do any further research.

The movie has a few similarities to the book: the look of Max and the monsters, some memorable lines of dialogue and the scene where Max, dressed in his wolf suit, chases the dog with a fork. But it is dark and violent, focused on raging out-of-control anger and physical abuse.

Mom gets a D- for this one.

The depths of unemployment

There's an excellent article in this month's Hadassah magazine called "Breaking a Recession's Social Barriers."

As someone who has been experiencing the depths of unemployment for a year now, I found Ilana Goldhaber-Gordon's commentary to be thoughtful, hopeful and even comforting. It also could be helpful to family, friends and still employed colleagues of those who are unemployed.

Here's the link: http://www.hadassah.org/news/content/per_hadassah/archive/2009/09_Oct/commentary.asp

Coal

It was an unexpected find among the rocks and driftwood that had washed ashore at the very end of Minnesota Point.

Being the granddaughter of two coal miners, I recognized it immediately. "Check this out," I called out to my exercise buddy as I bent to pick up the dark black lump. The coal was unexpectedly light in my hand.

I had been searching for unusal rocks to take home to my son and already was happy with some granite and sandstone beauties we had found. Now I was downright excited. I thought of all the things I could tell my son about this "rock," even imagining him taking it to preschool on his sharing day.

Our family history, how coal is used, the likelihood of where it came from, how it came to be on the beach at Park Point, connecting the songs he's been hearing about men working and dying in the coal mines on Kathy Mattea's tribute CD, fossil fuels, global warming -- there are plenty of things to learn from that one black lump.

Roots

The bike trail in my home town of Glen Dale, W.Va., tools along the Ohio River for about 3 miles to Moundsville, W.Va., the town where my mother and father both grew up. The trail ends at a boat launch under a highway bridge, construction of which took my father's childhood home.

It was a grand old home with 12-foot-high ceilings, pocket doors into the parlor and dining rooms, a built-in china cabinet that extended from floor to ceiling, a large main stairway, a narrow back stairway out of the kitchen, built-in benches and fully paneled walls in the entry and a wooden mantlepiece around the parlor fireplace.

Every time my husband and I ride the trail, I bemoan the loss of my grandmother's and grandfather's home. I wish I could have shared it with my husband and son, even moreso, I wish they could have met my grandmother.

On this summer's trip to West Virginia, I learned something new about my family history, thanks to my brother's presence. He had taken his wife for a tour around Moundsville to show her the sights, which included the home of my grandfather's parents. My great-grandparents lived two blocks down from my grandparents in an even older home that still stands.

The next time we biked the trail, my husband and I stopped to take photos of the home on the corner of 14th Street and Lockwood Avenue. I wondered what it was like when Michael and Mary Novel lived there.

Happy anniversary

My layoff buddy and I celebrated the first anniversary of our unemployment from the DNT yesterday. We were a few days late as the actual one-year mark occurred last Thursday.

A friend of ours, one of the few former colleagues who has kept in touch with us, took us out to lunch at Lake Avenue Cafe. (The salmon wild rice soup and three-variety mushroom pizza were delicious, by the way.)

Afterward, we poked our head into Grandma's Marketplace, a gift shop that's headed out of business where everything is 50 percent off. (I managed to buy three Hanukkah presents and a gift for my mother-in-law for under $12.)

While there, we offered advice on navigating the world of unemployment to the store's sales personnel who soon will be losing their jobs. Unfortunately, our newly acquired expertise is in demand.

Happy anniversary Karen, Bente, Tracy, Ann, Ryan, Matt and Steve.

Warning

I took my son to the doctor for his annual check-up on Friday. He got a clean bill of health, a lollipop and a flu shot.

I got the flu.

It literally laid me flat for the extended Labor Day weekend. My accomplishments over those three days: filled three plastic grocery bags full of used tissues, read the fifth Harry Potter book, took a shower, managed to croak out one chapter of Charlotte's Web to my son.

My advice this flu season: Stay away from those doctor's offices. And a special thanks to my husband for being Mommy and Daddy the entire weekend.

The things kids say: X-ray vision

On the 1,000-mile drive home from West Virginia, my husband, trying to monitor traffic in the rearview mirror, asked our son to lower the Life is Good baseball cap he was waving high over his head.

The invariable "Why?" response came, to which my husband said, "I don't have X-ray vision. I can't see through your head."

Thinking about a favorite super hero who has X-ray vision, my son's response was quick: "If you had X-ray vision Dad, you could melt my head."

My Hebrew scholar

The wedding we attended was in St. Joseph's Cathedral in Wheeling, W.Va.

Once my son determined we wouldn't be leaving for some time, he settled in to look at the ornate statues and colorful frescoes. I thought he seemed most impressed by the elaborately painted ceiling and 140-foot high dome.

But then he leaned over to his Daddy and I heard him ask, "Daddy, why are there Hebrew letters on the ceiling?"

Sure enough, up with some angels in a blue sky were the gilded Hebrew letters: yud, hey, vav, hey.

The wedding

My oldest cousin's son, Michael, married yesterday.

Attending his sixth wedding in four years, I found my son to be poised and confident when participating in family traditions such as the bridal dance and more common traditions such as the throwing of the garter.

My son didn't hesitate to throw his dollar bill into the family's old yellow Dan Dee potato chip can and wait in line for his turn to dance with the bride.

He snatched up the garter after it landed on the floor in front of a group of much older young men, some already engaged, who weren't so enthusastic about catching it.

If you believe in tradition -- that whoever catches the garter will be the next to marry -- the young men in our families are going to have a long wait. When we got home that night, my son informed me, "Momma, I'm not going to get married until after I grow up."

The toy museum

Glen Dale, W.Va., where I grew up, was once home to the Marx Toy Factory, makers of the original Big Wheel, Rock'em Sock'em Robots, Johnny and Jane West action dolls and other toys of my childhood.

We toured the Marx Toy Museum in the neighboring town of Moundsville yesterday, and I was rocketed back in time. "I used to play with that," I found myself telling my son. "Your Uncle Mike had one of those," and "Your Daddy used to play with those."

He was entertained by it all and particularly enjoyed knocking the "block" off my robot.

A note to my cousins: They had the same dollhouse furniture we played with in our grandma's basement and those tiny cases of Coca-Cola that fit into the pop delivery truck she had in her garage.

The Indian burial mound

Originally called Elizabethtown, Moundsville changed its name to recognize the large Adena Indian burial mound, circa 200 B.C.E., in the center of town.

My husband, son, mother and I climbed to the top of the 69-foot-tall mound this week. Once there, we looked down on the buildings and landscape. I pointed out where my father had worked, where I attended elementary school and the bridge across the Ohio River, construction of which claimed my grandmother's house.

My mother, just shy of 80, announced that this would be the last time she climbed the mound. We took photos to mark the occasion.

The shoe store

I literally stepped back in time today at Allen's Bootery in Moundsville, W.Va.

The light blue leather and wood chairs my son and I sat on were the same ones I sat on when I was a little girl trying on shoes 40 years ago. The store still carried Stride Rite children's shoes and Buster Brown socks.

My 4-year-old son was a model of good behavior, patiently allowing the store clerk to measure his foot and following her directions to stand and walk over to the mirror in each pair of shoes he tried on his feet. We settled on a pair of Navy blue and neon green Stride Rite tennies, which he said "felt" the best.

Already sold on his choice, his eyes lit up when the clerk told him the green "slime" on the side glows in the dark and that the shoes, officially called "Snot Rocket Slimers," are advertised on Nickelodean.

My shoes never had such cool names. And I never took them to bed with me to see if they glowed in the dark.

Summer traditions: going to Grandma Edna's

Every summer we spend a week or two at Grandma Edna's house in West Virginia.

We've gotten the 1,000-mile trip (one-way) down to a pretty slick routine.

We drive across the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, stopping for lunch and play time at the waterfront playground in Marquette. We cross the Mackinac Bridge and stay overnight in Mackinaw City, usually at a different hotel, but always take an evening stroll along the beach by the lighthouse and fort.

We do a hard day's drive the second day, down through lower Michigan, across the Ohio Turnpike to Akron, then south and east. As we cross the bridge into West Virginia, I pop John Denver's "Almost Heaven" into the CD player. My son and I belt out the words.

But each year is different, due to the developmental changes in our son, now 4.

This year he's more observant of the world around him and much more articulate.

Among the highlights: taking pictures with his new digital camera ($6 on closeout at Sears) of the Mackinac Bridge as we crossed it, discerning Mack trucks from Peterbilts ("Cars" is one of his favorite movies), lots of comments about how long it takes to get to Grandma Edna's house, and his scream of delight and huge smile when he learned we were only 30 minutes away.

Summer traditions: bicycles and airplanes

Traditionally our first bicycle outing of summer is a short one. But it's a trip we repeat several times over the summer.

We load an assortment of airplanes -- balsa wood gliders, plastic war birds, foam passenger jetliners -- into my son's bike trailer. We also pack peanut butter sandwiches and fruit for lunch, or supper, depending on the timing of our ride.

We bike up to the UMD campus. We always swing by the "hotdog man" statue (not it's official name, but the map "Sieur du Luth" is holding sure looks like a hotdog to us) outside the Tweed Museum. Then we cross over to the "wild ricing moon" sculpture at the new science center.

We launch airplanes from the hill, eat dinner, take in the quiet of the campus, then head back home.

Summer traditions: beach babies

We spent an idyllic morning at the beach this week with our sister-in-law and twin nephews.

Lake Superior was warm enough (sort of) for wading and splashing. Conditions on the beach were great for building a sand castle with water-filled moat. And the twins have a newly constructed swingset in their backyard.

Lunch was quickly thrown together: tuna salad sandwiches, grapes and leftover broccoli and bow tie pasta. And we were home by nap time.

I'm sure we'll get some warm water sometime in August.

Summer traditions: baseball

One of our best summer traditions (OK, two years in a row now) is taking our son to a Duluth Huskies game, which we did last night.

We sat in good company, ate hotdogs and Cracker Jacks, and rooted for the home team, of course.

We left after an exciting fourth inning. The score was 3-2, the Huskies trailing the Beetles. The evening held all the promise of a good game. But it already was a half-hour past bedtime and our son wanted to go home.

The highlight for him was getting a free bobblehead of the Minnesota Twins bear upon entering the ballpark. When I tucked him into bed, he shined his flashlight on the bobblehead which he had strategically placed so it looked down on him from his dresser. A big smile crossed his face.

Whoops!

We captured the wrong villain last night.

My husband checked the trap around 5 this morning. Instead of the fish-killing, lillypad vandal of a raccoon, he found a black critter with distinctive white stripes.

Although the fellow most likely is one of the seven thieves who made off with my butternut squash a couple of weeks ago, we decided it would be best to let him go. We just couldn't settle on whose car to use to transport and relocate him.

As he waddled under our fence and into our neighbor's yard, we determined that the skunks don't live under our shed. They're simply unwanted guests from time to time.

We'll reset the trap tonight in a different location.

The trap is sprung

The varmint who has been raiding our pond visited again last night. But, alas, he eluded capture.

We believe he either pulled the trap down from the bench or knocked it off. In doing so, he sprang the trap. He sampled some spillage of the delectable bait (can of tuna fish) inside, but couldn't get what remained in the trap.

After foiling our trap, he went for a moonlight swim in our pond. This night, however, he didn't feast on any of our remaining goldfish.

We have discovered his point of entry into our yard. Tonight, we will place the trap more strategically and at ground-level.

I can only hope he doesn't follow my blog.

The trap is set

A friend dropped off a live trap last night so we can take care of our raccoon problem. (See "Call in Hercule Poirot" and "More destruction" posts.)

Not wanting to deal with relocating a live raccoon before teaching summer school this morning, my husband waited to set the trap until tonight. Just minutes ago, he was outside baiting the trap.

He laid the trap on the bench of our pergola. Our fear is that if we place it on the ground, we'll trap one of our seven skunks.(See "Stop thieves!" post.) And that could involve a rather stinky relocation, not to mention breaking up a family.

Of course, we could end up with a friendly squirrel or the crow that eats breakfast in our birdbath every morning.

We'll let you know how it goes.

More destruction

Our pond was raided, our fish terrorized again last night.

The varmint finished shredding the lilypad I just re-potted. He didn't get any fish.

But this time he left behind some clues: raccoon footprints -- really big sticky ones -- heading from my neighbor's broken hummingbird feeder up onto her deck.

We're now calling on friends to loan us a large live trap. This one's a big one.

Call in Hercule Poirot

Two nights in a row, our pond has been raided.

The night before last, the miscreants overturned our potted lilypad and bit the head off one of our goldfish. We found the body and head floating in the pond.

Last night, they struck again, shredding all of our lilypads and killing three more fish. It appears one of the casualties -- a 3-year-old coy -- was feasted upon by something with very sharp teeth. Our prize coy -- a hefty 5-year-old -- was swept out of the pond and onto the patio about two feet away. Either overlooked or forgotten, he likely suffocated.

My husband took pictures of the evidence before putting the bodies on a paper plate and serving them to our neighbor's cat.

Our theory is raccoons. But we'll have to call in one of Agatha Christie's famed detectives to be sure.

Stop! Thieves!

My clothesline reverie (see "Hanging out the laundry" post) was disrupted a couple of weeks ago when I stepped out onto the deck, full laundry basket in hand, to witness these guys.

Seven -- count them -- seven interlopers were lolling in my backyard, enjoying the sunshine and checking out the sights. Or so I thought.

A few days later, I was showing my garden to some friends who had stopped over for a surprise birthday party. I was speechless to behold two big holes in the ground right where my butternut squash had been.

I haven't seen the skunks since, though there have been reported sightings of them around the neighborhood. The skunk posse charges $65 to trap the first one then $50 for each skunk after that.

Hanging out the laundry

I really enjoy hanging laundry out to dry. In fact, I find that if I approach it in the right frame of mind, it's a task that can restore my soul.

There are plenty of practical benefits:

• You don't waste energy by running the clothes dryer.
• Clothing and bedding smell fresher.
• You can forgo ironing and put clothes straight into drawers or closets.

And then there are the non-tangibles:

• The peaceful nature of hanging the clothes out on the line. As you bend and stretch, you can't help but notice, even relish the warm sunshine on your back, the caressing breeze on your arms, the sounds of nature around you.
• The sense of accomplishment in a job completed and even done well. I consciously group similar items and colors -- the family's pajamas, my son's t-shirts, pants -- on separate lines, giving the clotheslines an order.

But to capture the non-tangibles, you have to stay in the moment. You can't become overwhelmed by the number of items you need to hang. You can't let your mind race ahead thinking about what you'll do next. You can't worry about running out of clothespins or line.

Of course, summer only lasts a few short months here in Duluth.

Roller babes

My son and I really get a kick out of this video. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQcVllWpwGs

Delivering the deliverables

I'm officially fully unemployed again.

If you recall, I started a contract writing job about six weeks ago. At 4:30 p.m. Tuesday, I "delivered the deliverables," as per the contract language, by deadline.

I give my first venture into reporting and writing for a client (as opposed to a newspaper, magazine or wire service) about an 87, a solid B. I've always been a hard grader.

The topics I reported on and wrote about -- such as the pressures facing Lake Superior and the North Shore -- were important and interesting. I learned a lot about the area's ecosystem, met a lot of great people who care passionately about the big lake and its inland natural areas, and spent a gorgeous day out and about in Grand Marais.

My "employers" were easy and fun to work with. They contributed creatively to the process of determing my budget of stories and suggesting potential angles and sources. The editing process went smoothly, which isn't always the case even when working with professional journalists.

My learning opportunities came in the areas of pricing and efficiency. The prices per story I initially quoted were a little low, given the hourly wage I had hoped to achieve. I hadn't estimated adequately the amount of reporting time spent in finding and connecting up with the right sources, or considered that some of the stories would have additional chapters to pursue. I also hadn't taken into account the long-distance phone calls and road trips.

And if I do this type of work regularly, from home, I'll need to move my computer from the living room desk to the guest room desk, get a better phone there and consider signing up for some sort of call waiting or voice mail feature.

But overall, I'm happy. The deliverables, actually six stories and some siders in journalism lingo, are quite good, if I say so myself. I'll come under fire of the critics in a couple of weeks.

Recipe: Idyllic Father's Day

Two fathers
Three sons
Five Thomas the Train engines
Tons of blue track
One too few switches
One bridge
One tunnel
Two stations
Five engine sheds
One turntable
Three yellow cupcakes with chocolate icing and sprinkles

Arrive just before youngest son's naptime. Bring train boxes upstairs from the basement. Get every male working on a different segment of track. Mix them all up. Let the engines run. Alter segments of track. Man the switches. Keep the trains from running into each other. Put back on track when necessary. Share cupcakes with the cousins. Pick up the train track and engines. Crash on the couch right after uncle and cousins leave while Mommy fixes supper.

Beautiful balloons

In February, my son brought home two balloons from an uncle's and aunt's joint birthday party. We spent days batting those balloons back and forth. They were a great way to relieve pent-up energy without destroying the house.

An idea formed. I could release some of the pent-up energy of my five kindergarteners and teach them Hebrew at the same time. I put the five Hebrew letters we were learning on different balloons and devised a game of batting, catching and freezing -- at which point someone had to announce what letter they held and say a Hebrew word that began with the letter. The kids had tremendous fun.

My son brought home a big yellow balloon from preschool last month. He shared with me a game of catch they had played at school. He'd smile brightly each time we caught the balloon.

Last week, Grandma Edna sent him a whole package of balloons in the mail. We blew up several and have been playing a game where we each use one balloon as a bat with which to keep other balloons up in the air. Some of these balloons are shaped like birds, snakes and caterpillars. We even decorated a long skinny orange one like a carrot and gave it to Grandpa Cook to not put in his garden for Father's Day.

Sacred moments

We enjoyed our Shabbat dinner, a light meal of grilled salmon and asparagus with parmesan, on the back deck this evening. (Could summer actually have arrived?)

After dinner, my husband whispered for us to join him at the railing that overlooks our two ponds. A robin hopped from rock to rock, dipping his various body parts into the water until his bath was complete.

"I like him," my son said, each time the bird did something different. I could hear his appreciation for the beautiful bird with the bright orange breast and yellow beak. Eventually, the robin flew. We fed the fish.

And now, it's bathtime for you, I told my son. Yes, it is, he agreed.

Running on empty

I'm not a big fan of cereal. But the other day, I had to be out the door early. Plus, I didn't feel like cooking breakfast.

I emptied the dregs of Great Grains with raisins and pecans into my bowl. That wouldn't be enough to fuel my morning. I weighed my options: add some of my husband's Grape Nuts, open a new box of Great Grains with cranberries and almonds. I decided to use the last of my son's Cheerios, a mix of plain and yogurt-coated.

Done. With full bowl of cereal in hand, I reached into the refrigerator. The milk jug felt awfully light as I removed it. Sure enough, about six drops were left.

On the bright side, my cereal stayed crunchy to the last bite.

Dream work

I had a dream about the newspaper the other night. It's one of many I've had since the layoff.

Most often I have these dreams after encountering a former colleague, hearing news of another layoff, or explaining my current job status to someone in the community. I believe this particular dream was prompted by the news that one of my favorite former editors had left newspapers after 30+ years for a different line of work.

Almost always, the dreams focus on me working on some task that has no end or some problem that has no solution. Sometimes, they involve me being treated badly by supervisors I thought respected and appreciated my work. I always wake up exhausted.

This dream was different: The DNT pressroom sat in a separate building on a hill directly above the DNT newsroom. I was the senior newsroom manager on duty, leaving for the night. I looked up as the electronic sign broke away from the pressroom building. A janitor stood outside, also watching the sign fall. Sparks flew. I could see flames in the pressroom windows. I frantically called 911 on my cell phone and the publisher, a former publisher who had just returned to the paper. My desperation to reach the publisher grew as I watched firefighters trying to rescue the workers in the newsroom, which now also was on fire. I felt I should run in and save my former colleagues, but to do so might cost me my life.

I shared my dream today with a former colleague. We laughed as we started to consider all of the potential hidden meanings behind the dream. My thoughts sobering, I commented on the fact that the former publisher, in real life, recently died.

Moving on, or still spiraling downward?

Two great movies

My husband brought home a couple of movies he had considered showing to his Mandarin Chinese class but deemed too mature for middle schoolers once he watched them. I highly recommend both.

Eve and the Fire Horse is about a young Chinese-American girl whose older sister discovers Jesus. Eve's mother decides that having another god in the house can only increase the family's luck, so she allows the girls to attend Sunday school at the Catholic church. I was delightfully surprised by several scenes, especially one that involves dancing. To say anything more, might spoil that moment.

Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress is an engaging movie -- and book -- about two boys who are exiled to a remote mountain village for re-education during the Cultural Revolution. I especially enjoyed the scene where one of the boys plays Mozart on his violin for the village chief.

Hiking checklist

It never fails. My exercise buddy and I get out on the trail and find ourselves wishing we had brought along ___.

Of course the blank changes depending on our locale, activities involved and the weather, but I promised to develop a checklist so we can at least consider our gear needs.

1. Camera -- To enhance my "out of doors" blog posts and so we can go home and identify creatures like those lavender butterflies that followed us on a recent hike along Amity Creek.
2. Field guides on birds, butterflies, trees, rocks -- Our packs could get quite heavy, though, and we don't want to slow down to look up everything we see. After all, the goal of our outings is exercise.
3. Water bottles.
4. Wrist pocket, fanny pack or backpacks -- Size dependent upon what all we need to carry with us on the trail and how big the pockets we're wearing are.
5. Lunch, wine -- This thought has occurred a couple of times, when we hit a particularly nice vista on a trail right about lunchtime.
6. Sunscreen -- Applied before we leave home.
7. Hats -- Consider wind, weather conditions before selecting.
8. Binoculars.
9. Rain gear, warmer layers -- Judging what's going to be just right can get tricky when we're making that call from our homes nearer the lake.
10. Lightweight gloves.

OK, exercise buddy, what am I forgetting?

The purist in me

On Memorial Day weekend, I tasted my first s'more. I roasted the marshmallows while my sister-in-law doled out the chocolate and graham crackers, and everyone assembled their own.

Some guests at our backyard barbecue were surprised I had never eaten a s'more in all of my 40-plus years. My brother-in-law theorized that it was because, well, you start eating the graham cracker or the chocolate and you just never quite get around to making them.

The real reason is that when it comes to treats, I'm a purist.

I like my pumpkin pie without whipped cream. I like my ice cream without toppings or sprinkles. I prefer my graham crackers dipped in milk and my marshmallows floating in hot chocolate. Dark Hershey's kisses are the only chocolates I cannot live without.

Don't get me wrong. The s'mores tasted good. My 4-year-old son and 3-year-old nephews loved them. I may even eat another one in my next 40-plus years.

Check your geography, please

My husband and I received a fundraising request in the mail yesterday from the SMDC Foundation.

It's been about four years since we last donated. (I remember because the donation was made in honor of the doctor who performed our son's bris.)

I haven't donated since, primarily because the hospital's next big push came for building a hospital in Cameroon, Africa. So I was happy to read that their "Soul and Science Campaign" has a goal of raising $9 million to support the health needs of people across our region.

Great, I thought -- until I read the six target areas of the campaign. The final one listed? Construction of a hospital in Cameroon, Africa.

The dirt dilemma

Now that summer is finally on its way, my son plays outside just about every day. And I have a new parenting dilemma.

He thoroughly enjoys being outdoors -- digging in the sandbox, rolling down grassy hills, picking dandelions and blowing the seeds off their stems, doing a little gardening work with me, kneeling at the edge of the pond so he can dip his rocks in and see how they change color.

His supply of clean blue jeans runs out by mid-week. We're talking about grass stains, dirty knees, yellow dandelion juice and, of course, rocks and wood chip debris in the pockets. (See "A boy's treasures" post.)

Food stains? There's no question -- straight into the hamper. But what's a little dirt? How many days in a row can a 4-year-old boy wear the same pair of blue jeans?

Think before you eat

Does it ever bother you that in this day and age -- despite all of our science, technology and social compassion -- people still starve to death? While we enjoy our thick juicy steaks, others are trying to eke out their daily nutrients from dirt. And things are likely to get worse.

I just finished reading "The End of Plenty," a special report in June's National Geographic on the global food crisis. The article is well-reported, excellently written and extremely thought-provoking.

Some key points: For the past decade, the world has been consuming more food than farmers have been producing. The population is expected to grow to 8 billion by 2025. Add to that the affects of climate change, pressures of ethanol production, growth in meat consumption and scarcity of fertile land. It's a scary picture author Joel K. Bourne Jr. presents.

It becomes even scarier when you consider the environmental and health problems that occurred since crop yields were greatly increased with the development of hybrids and the help of irrigation, pesticides and fertilizers from the mid-1950s through 1980s, the so-called "green revolution." And you consider that major corporations are working on launching a second "green revolution."

Aside from becoming an agroecologist, what can one do? Eat more meatless meals, for one. Buy local, organic foods. Drive less. Support sustainable agriculture. Read up on efforts such as the Soils, Food and Healthy Communities initiative. How's that for a start?

A boy's treasures

My son is a collector.

I think it all started when he went on a nature hike at his preschool last fall. He collected a zip-lock bag full of leaves and pine cones. It still sits on my desk.

He comes home with pockets full of rocks and wood chips from the playground. He's generous with his collections. He picks out special rocks for Mommy and others just for Daddy.

His hobby has its challenges. One day, after another hike at his preschool, he couldn't get up the stairs to music class without his blue jeans falling down. He had packed too many rocks in all of his jeans pockets. I have to turn out his pockets over the trash can before I wash pants.

And of course there's the obvious, what do we do with all of these rocks? We've settled that issue. In the winter, they go in his rock box. When summer arrives, we throw most of the rocks into our pond. Special ones go in our planters around the house.

I'm thankful his collections have involved inaminate objects, so far. Just yesterday, he showed me something he found (see picture) when he and his Daddy rebuilt our pond's stream bed.

Does anybody need any wood chips?

Age-old question

My son fell on the playground a couple of days ago and skinned his knee. Last night at bedtime, he worried out loud about when his "owie" is going to heal.

I assured him that it will, adding that the human body has an amazing capacity to heal itself. "How?" he asked. I struggled to explain -- in a 4-year-old's terms -- about skin cells and how they regenerate. I anticipated his next question, "Mommy, what are cells?" I explained again, as well as I could.

He was quiet for a few minutes, seeming to take it all in. Out popped the next question, "Mommy, why did God make us?"

I often wonder that myself.

Breakfast on the birdbath

Every morning, a crow alights on the edge of my birdbath, not to clean or preen, but to eat his breakfast.

At first I thought he might be attracted to the shiny glass beads in the birdbath. But no, the beads are still there.

The huge black bird stands on the edge of the little bowl, chomping away on his breakfast. Sometimes he drops his food in the water, then fishes it out. Sometimes he finishes it completely, then flies off to a telephone line or the neighbor's tree. And a couple of times, he has discarded what looks like greasy chicken bones in the water.

Which leads me to wonder, just where is this bird getting chicken bones so early in the morning?

Returning to work

I return to work today -- sort of.

This afternoon, I'm scheduled to meet with my new employers for a contract writing job that will last about six weeks. I don't know what all I'm writing yet, but I do know the deadline.

I should be excited about getting back to work, even if it is temporary. (I still sense a loss of purpose since my September layoff.) But there's a sadness here I didn't expect.

I've come to like my new routine. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays are my stay-at-home Mommy days. And I've learned to be happy and content if I don't get anything else accomplished on those days but being with my 4-year-old son. Tuesdays are my errand and housekeeping days. Thursdays are reserved for my major exercise outings and working on projects of my choosing.

This morning, that routine changed. I took my son to preschool, explaining that he will attend more days a week now until my new job is completed. I traded my blue jeans for work clothes. I printed out my contract and directions to the office. I prepared my thoughts on the overview piece that I will be researching and writing.

Don't get me wrong. I look forward to the work. But I'm losing time and freedom -- for about six weeks.

Ode to the bloodsuckers

I struggled for two days to compose an ode to the three wood ticks that accompanied me out of Jay Cooke State Park Thursday afternoon. I always have believed I am a stronger editor than writer. So today, I deleted the entire thing.

My exercise buddy and I hiked the Silver Creek Trail on another sun-drenched (though cold) day. We enjoyed a late lunch at Mexico Lindo, which now has my nod for best Mexican restaurant in the area.

But the restorative sense of wholeness I usually get on such outings was shattered by those hitchhiking bloodsuckers. The very thought of them can still make my skin crawl.

Best books for children

My son and I checked out a great book from the library this morning. When I can afford to buy books again, I plan to make it one of my hallmark gifts, at least for young boys in my circle of family and friends.

It's The Kingfisher Book of Great Boy Stories, and it contains excerpts from 17 children's classics, including The Jungle Book, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Pinocchio, Oliver Twist, The Sword in the Stone, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Flat Stanley, and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

And now to start that running list of library books we liked the best (just in case we want to check any of them out again). Hmmm, more than half contain pirates or sword fighters.

• Skippyjon Jones (Judith Byron Schachner)
• Peter Pan (James Barrie)
• Anatole (Eve Titus)
• Anatole and the Cat (Eve Titus)
• How I Became a Pirate (Melinda Long)
• Ooey Gooey (Mercer Mayer)

Editor's note: My son and I are at odds over whether or not the list should contain SpongeBob Airpants: the Lost Episode. But it is my blog.

More on fighting city hall

In all fairness, I received a call from a police officer today regarding the recently assessed late fees on my husband's parking ticket. (See One good reason not to live in Duluth post.)

She had gone through the investigating officer's files and checked on the date of the hearing and the time our payment of the parking fine arrived. She was willing to forgive $40 of the additional $45 we had been assessed. Apparently, my husband should have sent the payment when the officer called him and told him his findings, not when we received the official notice of them in the mail.

Technically, we were late in paying the fine. We needed to pay the $5 late fee, she said, but she would forgive the $40 that was tacked on for us not paying the late fee.

So you can fight city hall -- for $5.

But two street sweepers and another sprinkler truck came down our street early this morning. (See One good reason to live in Duluth post.) Our wonderful chalk drawings have been washed away.

One good reason to live in Duluth

My son and I were digging up dandelions on our hillside Monday when a city truck that cleans the sidewalks headed down our street.

"Oh no," I cried to my son, as we watched water being sprayed on the sidewalk. "There go our chalk drawings."

The driver slowed and turned off the sprayer as he drove past the colorful sailboat, train, rainbows, gulls, flowers and Mother's Day greetings we had drawn in chalk yesterday. He waved to us, then resumed his work farther down the street.

One good reason not to live in Duluth

"You can't fight city hall." That's a motto that certainly rings true in Duluth, Minnesota.

My husband received a parking ticket on Dec. 26 for not having moved his car 24 hours after a snowstorm. Our family had traveled to a holiday event on Dec. 24 in our other vehicle. We all stayed home on Dec. 25. There wasn't any reason for us to move the car.

Except for the city's parking rules.

Believing the ticket to be frivilous, my husband went to city hall to appeal it. Because of the holidays, he couldn't have a hearing until after the first of the year. The city worker assured him he wouldn't incur late charges for not paying the fine on time since the hearing was scheduled for after that deadline.

The police officer who investigated his appeal sympathized with him over the ridiculousness of many of Duluth's parking laws, including the one he had violated. However, he had violated the law even if it was a disagreeable law. So, we had to pay the $21 parking fine. (I mailed the check.)

Today I received a "delinquent violation notice" in the mail. Although the fine had been paid, it hadn't been paid on time. I owe another $45, or I face 1.) being turned into the credit bureau, 2.) losing my driver's license, and 3.) having my vehicle(s) towed.

Prophetic

I use puppets and props in teaching Torah to my group of preschool and kindergarten students. On Saturday, we were studying Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.

Maybe we spent too long gluing the first 10 letters of the Hebrew alephbet to our tagboard tablets, but by the time Moses was climbing Mount Sinai, the children were, let's just say, a bit unruly.

"Whack." (That's the sound of one puppet hitting another.) One child and his puppet were gently kicked off the mountain and assigned to wait at its base. "Whack, whack." Another two children and their puppets were scrubbed from the mountain.

By the time we got back to the story, only one Moses puppet remained atop Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. The rest of the puppets were misbehaving at the bottom of the mountain.

Unemployment blessings

Thursday was one of those incredibly rare spring days -- brilliant sunshine, temperatures expected to climb above 70 -- a portent of summer in Duluth.

My exercise buddy and I had just hiked through Hartley Field. We had climbed Rock Knob Lookout then trekked through marsh and woodland before returning along one of the ski trails. We spotted bluejays, robins, chickadees, another downey woodpecker. We watched several water spiders struggling to swim against the current of a clear stream. We examined moss and lichen growing on some trees, felt the hardness of a mushroom thriving off a dead birch, side-stepped a fern just poking out of the ground. We talked about whatever came to mind.

At one point, I paused to stretch my arms skyward, my body embracing the warmth of the sun. A thought crossed my mind: I wouldn't be here enjoying this if I still worked at the paper.

Not wanting our outing to end abruptly, we decided to have lunch at Hacienda del Sol. On the drive downtown, I saw the signs for Pancake Days. A familiar thought flickered across my mind: If I still worked at the paper, I'd be eating (and smelling like) pancakes in the cavernous DECC. Instead, my friend and I were dining out on the Hacienda's patio, the first day it was open.

My mind started a list of other things I wouldn't have done that week if I still worked at the paper: "fielding grounders" with my 4-year-old after finding a ball on a mid-morning walk up to the neighborhood baseball field, arriving on time to my twin nieces' birthday party, reconnecting with a friend I worked with more than 20 years ago.

Little hurts

"Momma. You're' hurting me!" my son sobbed, tears flowing down his face like water from a faucet. My heart wrenched, but I steeled myself for the job of removing the deeply imbedded splinter from his finger.

When it became obvious I would need more than a pair of tweezers, I went upstairs for a needle from my sewing kit. "Owie, owie, owie," my son screamed from the living room. "Momma. Come down here. You have to get it out. You have to get it out," he cried hysterically.

Now, both determined, we settled into the big chair and turned on the nearby lamp. I calmly showed him the needle. I told him it would hurt, but then the hurting would stop. We practiced breathing deeply. I poked his finger with the needle, then pushed the splinter out a bit and grabbed it with my tweezers. It slipped out. The ordeal was over, but my son was still crying. He had wrinkled the Spiderman band-aid he grasped in his other hand. I smoothed it out and put it around his finger.

We studied the offending splinter of wood. Then we went to the kitchen for some grape juice. "I want you to have some, too," my son said. An hour later, he paused from his play. "I don't love you when you hurt me like that."

Time and money

I received an unexpected $50 in the mail today, a mother's day gift from, of all people, my mother. Buy yourself a new pair of jeans, the card said. Obviously, she hasn't read my blog. (See "Life's necessities" post.)

I felt like a kid again, when that visiting aunt you never met before tucks $5 into your pocket and tells you to splurge on something you've especially wanted. I started making plans for what I'm going to buy -- either the life jacket or the water shoes and garden clogs. I called my mother immediately to thank her.

It's funny. When I was working full-time, it would take me months to deposit the birthday or holiday check she sent and even longer to get around to spending the money. But now I've got plenty of time to shop -- and an unexpected $50.

On crossbills and finches

I was talking to my mother-in-law on the phone yesterday when I glanced out the back door. Three chubby brown birds with orange-red heads, chests and backs were sitting in my neighbor's small, leafless tree. Redpolls, she said, as I described them.

Carrying on my conversation, I moved to the living room to pick up my Birds of Minnesota Field Guide. Turning to page 76, I ruled the common redpoll out. No, I said, they don't have that much white on them. I returned to the kitchen, book in hand, but the birds had flown.

Maybe they're house finches, I said, thumbing through the red tabbed pages of the book. But these birds looked a lot fatter than the one pictured. Two pages later, I landed on the red crossbill. I declared them thus and finished my conversation.

But as I read more about the red crossbill (Loxia curvirostra), my certainty faltered, especially when I noticed that the map only puts them in our section of Minnesota during winter. I called my layoff buddy, who knows a bit about birds. She and I wavered between house finch and red crossbill. I rued that I hadn't taken better notice of their beaks. I don't always trust those maps, she said, finally. I renewed faith in having seen three red crossbills.

That night my son wanted me to show him all the birds I had seen. (I had told him about how my exercise buddy and I must have gotten too close to a killdeer's nest while we were walking on the Park Point beach that morning.) As I was showing him pictures of killdeer, ring-billed gulls, crows and robins in The Big Golden Book of Backyard Birds, I came across a picture of a house finch. This one was much puffier and looked eerily similar to the red crossbills I'd seen in my backyard.

Life's necessities

Being laid off has changed my personal shopping wish list -- dramatically.

The first necessity in this unemployed's wardrobe was a new pair of blue jeans. When I was spending most of my waking life at work, I could get by with the pair of tatty jeans that I wore for gardening and cleaning the house. Not anymore. I needed a pair that look good enough for running errands or visiting the in-laws.

Unemployment-ville requires a casual look and entirely different gear than corporate-dom.

Forget that versatile black jacket, I need a life jacket that's short enough it doesn't interfere with paddling a kayak. For years I tried unsuccessfully to replace my low black pumps. No longer. Now I'm in need of plastic garden clogs so I can head out into our soggy backyard, rainboots so I can stomp around in puddles with my son, water shoes to wear this summer in Sweet Lake and snowshoes for trekking outdoors next winter. Instead of nice wool dress pants, I need to find a pair of waterproof lined workout pants that will keep me dry and warm.

As to blue jeans, yesterday I bought a second pair, so I have some to wear when my other pair is in the wash. They were on sale, plus Jacques C. Penne' had sent me one of those $10 off coupons on any item that costs $10 or more. (More on the art of penny-pinching later.)

If you think you might be laid off, the experts advise you to save six months of salary and get your medical, dental and eye exams while you're still working. But I see nothing wrong, too, in gearing up for that lifestyle change.

Pooh and me

Perhaps I was inspired by reading A.A. Milne's Now We Are Six to my son last night. But I awoke this morning, thinking about Ernest Hemingway. And in the manner of Pooh -- "because poetry and hums aren't things which you get, but they're things which get you" -- I offer this ditty that popped out of my head.

The matador paused, quite pleased and quite proud,
His cape billowing as he surveyed the crowd.
The bull, seeing red, turned and stamped the ground,
His horns charging, as the bullfighter went down.

At the paper, we banned all poetry from the Eh? column. Can you tell why?

Missing them

My exercise buddy and I hit the hiking trails of my favorite park today. We had limited our last two outings to the Lakewalk to avoid mud and snowmelt. But the glorious sunshine and promise of 60-degree temperatures called for a more adventurous venue.

As we set off from my house, I warned my friend that this could be a mournful journey.
Everywhere reminded me of Reba, my pretty, long-haired German shepherd I had to put to sleep winter before last. In my 12+ years with her, we had explored just about every trail and and deer path in Chester Bowl. A couple of hours before we went to the vet, I took her on one last promised walk up to the park.

I hadn't been fully out on these trails since Reba's passing, partly because I no longer am protected by her presence in more isolated parts of the park and partly to avoid the painful reminders of my lost companion. I thought a lot about her today.

I missed the tug of her leash, helping me to climb the hills. We often would sit side-by-side on the rocks at the very top of the park, me taking in the breathtaking view of Lake Superior and she alertly listening for other creatures. Sometimes she would raise her nose into the wind, smelling deeply. I would stroke her sun-warmed fur. Inevitably, someone or something would break our reverie and remind us it was time to return home.

I thought a lot, too, about my husband's grandpa, who is memorialized on a headstone near the old tennis courts. He was a champion ski jumper in his day. As a boy he leapt from daring heights into the Chester Creek swimming hole on hot summer days. When first married, my husband and I would walk Reba over to Grandma and Grandpa Storm's house on Chester Parkway. We would eat chocolate chip cookies and listen to their stories while Reba waited on the front porch.

My friend and I startled four deer as we approached the top of the hill, just like Reba and I had done many times past. We closed our eyes and breathed deeply at one of the peace poles my husband's uncle planted. On our way out of the park, I plunged my hand into the cold water that rushed over the dark rocks. We paused to watch a black-capped chickadee flit from twig to twig and a downey woodpecker with a touch of red on his head do a quick high-wire act on an unsteady branch.

It was time I returned to this home.

Information-less

I need a newspaper. And finding one that suits me isn't easy these days.

In September, after 19 years as a home subscriber to the Duluth News Tribune, I ended the relationship. Initially, it was because of my layoff as the newspaper's managing editor. I could no longer afford it. And I couldn't bring the paper into my house without getting angry. My husband urged me to suspend my subscription, at least for awhile. In fact, he offered to cancel it for me.

Time passed. I scanned the DNT whenever my neighbors left theirs on my front porch or when I visited my mother-in-law. I don't like the new format. I don't like the scaled back content. No offense to former colleagues, but there isn't much in the way of news in there since they shrunk the paper and its news-gatherering staff.

I signed up for the Washington Post and Star Tribune online. The former is great for following what's happening in Congress and big national stories. While I do find more news about Minnesota in the Strib, I also find that block of fluff and oddball contests that dominates the top left of their Web page annoying. I've considered The New York Times, but now that I'm no longer in the business, their self-aggrandizing ads about winning Pulitzers seem pretentious.

So far, this age of 24/7 newspapers is less than satisfying.

The black spot

One of the best things about having a child is being able to read your favorite children's books again, as well as ones that you hadn't read. In two months, we've completed Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Charlotte's Web, Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. Last night we started reading Treasure Island.

We read three to four chapters a day: first thing in the morning, just before naptime and just before bedtime.

Sometimes it's a challenge to answer my son's questions -- on a 4-year-old's terms -- about what's happening in the book. "Why did Peter Pan's mother bar the window?" "Why is the Queen of Hearts always beheading everyone?" "Why does the farmer want to eat Wilbur?

As a girl, I never read Treasure Island. But I can tell that it's going to be a good book. As my husband came in and out of the living room last night and this morning, he kept inquiring excitedly if we had gotten to the black spot yet. This book obviously made an impression on him when he was a child. Not yet, but we have met the Black Dog, I replied.

"Is the Black Dog good or bad?" my son asked. So far, I haven't been asked to explain why Captain Bill's fingers shake when he hasn't had his rum.

The little wagon that could

My husband started walking to work this week, part of his plan to gear up for summer cycling and other outdoor activities.

My son and I were invited to rendezvous with him Monday afternoon on his walk home. Knowing the uphill trek might be too much for my son, I carried his bright red Radio Flyer town and country edition wagon up from the basement. He happily climbed aboard and we set off.

The initial hill, a block-long climb up from our house, was easy. So was the straight shot to and across the bridge. But midway up the second of three hills we had to climb, I could feel the pull on my upper back and chest. Our pace slowed. Too-high curb cuts, lingering snow piles and muddy spots became a challenge.

We met Daddy midway up the third hill. "I'll drive," he volunteered cheerfully, turning the wagon around and heading downhill.

"Best years ever"

USA Today founder Al Neuharth's "Plain Talk" column April 10 references the owner of my former company as Neuharth opines about a feeling of hope and optimism about the economy that he has found in mid-America.

With some necessary staff reductions at The Forum, the company, which includes 11 daily newspapers in North Dakota and Minnesota, is having "one of our best years ever," Bill Marcil is quoted as saying.

His comment disturbed my inner peace so much that I exploded in anger over the simple matter of misplaced objects in one of my kitchen cabinets.

I am one of those staff reductions, though not from Marcil's Forum. And I personally know many of the other staff reductions from his recently acquired Duluth and Grand Forks newspapers. (My incomplete tally puts the number of employees he has laid off since March of 2008 at 85. And that doesn't include employees who received buyouts, were fired or simply left -- but were never replaced.)

I can't begin to imagine what happens during one of his company's worst years ever.

Chickens (part 3)

My kosher chicken did arrive -- around 1:30 Wednesday afternoon. It was too late for my matzah ball soup, of course, as my chicken stock was cooling already in the refrigerator.

To be fair to the kosher meat man, whose efforts we truly appreciate, he forgot my chicken on Monday, then got home from work and running errands with his wife way too late on Tuesday to drop it by our house.

No matter. My soup received rave reviews from the other seder guests -- "matzah balls so light they float on air". And my family and I enjoyed an excellent lunch of grilled chicken on Thursday.

I'll be sure to let you know when I pull that kosher pullet out of my freezer.

More about those chickens (part 2)

So.... I happened to be in the office of the education director while he was placing the order with the kosher meat man for the synagogue's second night seder and his first night seder. "And a cut-up chicken for Mrs. Buck," he added, knowing that I had matzah ball soup detail for the first night seder my family was attending.

The synagogue's order arrived late last week -- sans cut-up chicken. The education director, concerned about us keeping kosher on Passover, set aside a frozen whole pullet. It was waiting for me Saturday morning. I took it home and put it in my refrigerator to thaw.

Then the kosher meat man called. He would deliver my cut-up kosher chicken to my house on Monday, sometime after 7:30 or 8. I put my nice, plump, still-frozen kosher pullet back into the freezer. Monday came and went. He must have gotten behind, I thought. He's sure to drop off my chicken after work on Tuesday. That night, my husband called the kosher meat man. No answer. He probably already left town for second night seder with his relatives, my husband theorized.

How goes that saying, "a bird in the hand?"

Up with the chickens (part 1)

It's 5:20 a.m., and I'm off to the grocery store to buy an Amish chicken.

I wasn't going to get kosher chicken for the matzah ball soup I'm fixing for Passover. That would have required a drive to the Twin Cities. And my Passover seder hosts had assured me an Amish chicken would do just fine.

But then two men offered to assist me in getting a kosher bird. It's a complicated tale that I will return to once my chicken is stewing on the stove.

Waiting out the storm

I noticed her around 7: 30 a.m., when I checked on Tuesday's snowstorm from my living room window. The female rock dove (Columba livia) was hunkered down on the southern side of our porch post ledge, struggling to stay out of the snow and wind. I pulled the window blind all the way up so my son and I could check on her while we finished re-reading Peter Pan.

"There's another one," my son cried out excitedly. A male rock dove had landed on our porch roof, awaiting an invitation from the female. They huddled together on the ledge, her head often buried under his wing, as the snow swirled around them. They stayed for about 5 1/2 hours. During that time, my son and I marveled at the different markings on their feathers and the delicateness of their tiny beaks.

They left during a lull in the storm. The female stopped back a couple of times today. But the feeling of connectedness is gone. They're just a couple of pigeons we pitied during a storm.

Fascinated by fire trucks

The fire must have broken out while my son and I were away, having lunch at Grandma and Grandpa Cook's house. We were getting home for nap time a little late, which is OK because visiting grandparents ranks high on my list of special things to do.

I turned at the corner and saw the fire truck and assistant fire chief's SUV parked mid-way down our street, lights flashing. As I backed my car into the intersection to go another way, fears flickered across my mind: Was there a fire at our house? Had one of our elderly neighbors fallen or had a heart attack? I backed up our street from the other end and parked. The call had been to the college student rental house three doors up, a kitchen fire, neighbors told me later.

Firefighters were milling around the truck, talking and putting their gear away. One waved to my son as he stared on his way up our steps. He decided he was going to watch from the porch, while I put our belongings inside. I considered making him come inside from the cold and watch from the window. But it isn't every day that a fire truck shows up in front of your house. I grabbed a blanket instead, cleared his sled off our porch swing and settled in with him.

Soon enough, the firefighters were leaving. They sounded the fire rig's horn as they drove past our house. I encouraged my son to wave. All waved back, making one little boy's day just that much more special.

The karma of Hiroshige

My husband and I donated a 19th century Hiroshige woodblock print to a fundraising auction for my son's preschool. It was part of a larger group of Japanese woodblocks we had purchased several years ago when we had a case at a local antique store. We had never framed it, as we much preferred the two Hiroshiges we already had hanging on our living room wall.

A week after I dropped off the print, my husband received an e-mail from a man in Kansas. "Do you still like Hiroshige?" he was asked. We failed to connect the man's name to anyone we knew though my husband answered the e-mail in the affirmative.

In the mail soon after, we received a gift of a Hiroshige. It was from an old friend of my husband's who had purchased a collection of art from the man in Kansas. Not a fan of Japanese woodblocks, he had told the man to send the Hiroshige on to my husband.

It's of Nihonbashi, one of 53 stations along the Tokaido Highway, framed in traditional style and much more to our liking.

Fading into oblivion

I bumped into our retired police chief at a fundraiser for my son's preschool this weekend. "How are things at the newspaper?" he asked. I informed him that I had been laid off in September. "You," he stated, rather incredulously. We talked about a variety of things: the state of the paper, what I plan to do now, the hidden blessing that I have this time to stay at home with my son before he starts elementary school.

The 10-minute conversation took place between the Epicurean cutting board and the collection of four bottles of St. Croix Vineyard wine upon which I was bidding. It was repeated several more times that night as I encountered other people I hadn't seen since the layoff.

I felt bad that I couldn't bid with abandon on the silent auction items or dare enter the fray of the live auction. I felt even worse that I hadn't given more in previous years when I could have afforded to. But worst of all, I felt what a downer it must have been for these people to have to hear about my misfortune. (My husband assured me that I did talk about other things, and even laughed and joked with closer friends and acquaintances.)

I went home with the cutting board but not the wine, as well as a sense of fading into oblivion.

City slicker -- not

A friend and I drove to the Twin Cities this week. Our meeting was in a newer office building downtown. We could park in the nearby outdoor lot or the underground lot, whichever we preferred.

Spying the sign for the underground lot first, I pulled in. The garage door opened automatically. I drove into the dark cavern, slowing at several empty parking spaces and noting that all were marked reserved. Stopping at the posted stop sign, I realized I had pulled up alongside a counter. "It's valet parking," the man responded quickly and kindly to my puzzled look.

I gathered the belongings I needed, handed him my keys, then started looking for the exit. "What's the address?" he asked, then smiled at my friend's reply. "Right through that door and onto the elevator," he said. "You're in the basement."

The wound is deep

I stepped onto my front porch Saturday afternoon, tired but upbeat after a couple of intense hours teaching Torah and Hebrew to a group of rambunctious kindergarteners. A package notice had been left in my mailbox. My husband receives a lot of packages, so I thought nothing of it.

It wasn't until after I briefed my husband on my morning experiences and put my son down for his nap that I turned my attention to the mail I had tossed on the couch. The notice was for me. A certified letter from my former employer awaits me at the main post office. I stopped cold in my tracks.

They took away my livelihood, cut off my benefits and ended my chosen career of 24 years -- all on one sunny afternoon in September. Now, six months later, what more could they possibly want from me? I am forced to wait and wonder until the post office reopens on Monday.

The wound is much deeper than I believed.

Alive in the moment

My exercise buddy (not to be confused with my layoff buddy) and I braved the sub-zero temps Thursday morning to snowshoe in Hartley Field. The air was crisp, the sky was clear, and the sunshine was brilliant. Few others were making use of these city-owned woods. And I knew after five steps that my first time on snowshoes was going to be a glorious adventure.

We set off across Hartley Pond, whereupon we ran into an aquaintance of my exercise buddy's. All three of us are in various stages of beginning new careers -- due to either layoffs or forced early retirement. One upside, we all agreed, was that we were fully enjoying this moment outdoors.

My friend and I headed up toward Rock Knob Lookout then down into deeper woods. Our conversation covered a variety of topics: Jack London's "Call of the Wild," pondering when bears awaken from their hibernation, how we enjoyed watching trees we planted grow over our lifetime. I remembered how well I knew the woods of my childhood and marveled that my husband, who had played and camped out in Hartley Field as a child, likely knew these woods just as well.

After a couple of hours, my friend and I made our way back to the pond, hugging the cattail-laced shoreline until we reached our initial crossing point. We watched a red squirrel and a variety of birds in Hartley's "deer-free" enclosure. Alas, it was time to return our snowshoes and attend to our day's errands. But that sunshine has stayed with me.

Expecting nothing and still disappointed

I received a call from a woman from my bank yesterday afternoon. She had reviewed my accounts and was happy to inform me that, as a preferred customer, she could move my savings into a higher interest money market account or certificate of deposit, whichever I preferred. Oh and, of course, I'm pre-approved for one of the bank's credit cards, too. I asked her a few questions about any conditions attached to the money market account and if she could make the shift without me coming down to the bank. She would make the change to the higher interest account right away, she said.

She commented on the commencing snowstorm and asked if I was lucky to have had the day off or gotten home early. I'm recently unemployed, I told her.

This morning, I got a call from the same woman. It turns out that she can't offer me the higher interest money market account unless I have a "premium" checking account. That would require that I always have automatic deposit of a paycheck into my checking account. And since I won't have any check to automatically deposit when my unemployment runs out, I don't qualify for the offer she made me yesterday, she said.

Having never expected much in the way of service from this national banking firm, I shouldn't have been disappointed. But she's the one who called me with the offer then failed to deliver. At least this incident settles the decision of where my husband and I set up the accounts for our new business. That will be at his credit union, of course.

Avoiding the dressing room monitor

I was shopping for workout clothes -- now that I actually have time to exercise -- at one of those stores that discounts last year's name-brand clothing. I loaded up my shopping cart with two sizes of every shirt, sports bra and pant that might appeal to me and headed for the dressing room. Signs at the door told me to park my cart. I vaguely noticed the cards numbering one through eight, but nobody stopped me as I carried about 30 items through the door. I had arrived before the dressing room monitor started her shift.

I weeded out a third of the items -- the ones that absolutely didn't fit -- and took them out of my little room to the empty racks near the door. A woman took them out of my hands, asking casually if any of them worked. "Nope, not these," I said, then headed back to my little room. I was a little puzzled when she started counting the hangers. I ruled out another third, the clothes that weren't that comfortable. "Not these ones, either," I said, handing her another pile. Once again, she started counting. I went back to my little room to decide what I was going to purchase out of the clothes that were left.

I emerged with six items to buy and handed the rest to the dressing room monitor who again began counting hangers. As I walked out of the dressing room reveling in my shopping success, those numbered cards began to haunt me. I wandered through the store a bit longer, checking out the children's clothing, household goods and more women's clothing. I considered trying on a pair of pajamas. But then I remembered the dressing room monitor. Better to forget that kicky spring skirt, too.

You just can't delay one's birthday

Yesterday was my husband's 48th birthday. We weren't going to celebrate, as we plan to have some friends over this-coming weekend for sushi and sword study. But any possibility of not marking the day flew out the window when I told our son it was Daddy's birthday. Having crawled into bed with me so that I could eke out a few more minutes of sleep, our 4-year-old proceeded to plan the big event. I, in a semi-conscious state, agreed to everything.

First, we would get some presents. Then we would bake the cake -- devil's food cupcakes. Next we would go to the grocery store to pick up the missing ingredients for the cream cheese frosting and some milk, since we were out of milk. Then we would wrap the presents: his Superman ring to protect Daddy during scary parts of movies, the book Treasure Island because it has one of Daddy's favorite pirates in it, and some smelly fish foods (sardines, kipper snacks, mackerel) that Daddy likes so much.

Throughout the day, my son would announce excitedly to one of his stuffed animals, "_____ (insert animal's name here), today is my Daddy's birthday." He even went upstairs to put on a clean shirt just before Daddy arrived home from school. For me, there was no better moment than seeing the look on both my guys' faces when my son yelled, "Surprise!" as Daddy walked through the front door.

Doing my part to stimulate the economy

I received a call Monday from the man who sold me my Honda CRV about seven years ago. He has a $500 check with my name on it just waiting for me -- that is -- if I buy another car from him. Honda is trying to do its part to help stimulate the economy, he said.

I told him that my husband and I had intended to replace one of our vehicles this year. However, I explained, the money we had saved up for a new car will be going toward our living expenses once my unemployment runs out. He was apologetic about having called. No problem, I said, adding that I was very happy with the performance of my CRV.

Which got me to thinking about how long it had been since I had the CRV serviced. So I made an appointment for an oil change and 27-point inspection. On Thursday, with $116.90 less in my checking account, I had done as much as I could afford to stimulate the economy.

By the way, how does one's radiator resevoir cap go missing?

Battling the Bumblebeeto Bandito

My son made his first trip to the library this week. He wanted to read Peter Pan. I was surprised we didn't have a version of this classic in our house, given all the children's books that we have -- until I started reading it to him. The first two chapters are a bore, which my son confirmed when he began softly snoring last night while I read to him.

The highlight of our book selections is Skippyjon Jones. Sent to his bedroom for a timeout, the Siamese cat becomes the great sword fighter El Skippito who takes an imaginary trip to Mexico to battle the Bumblebeeto Bandito and become hero to a band of chihuahuas who call themselves Los Chimichangos. We sing the songs about Skippito to the old Frito Bandito jingle, dance to Chuck Rio's Tequila when we get to the fiesta page, and I try to use my best Spanish accent in just the right places. It never fails to set my 4-year-old to giggling. High praise -- indeed-o.

Of course, we're still waiting to get to Captain Hook.

At a Holiday Stationstore

While redeeming my Cub Foods fuel rewards at the Holiday Stationstore the other day, the store clerk commented on how she loved it when people used the coupons to save a few dollars on the cost of gas. And she had been seeing more and more people using them.

I found myself telling her I had joined the ranks of the unemployed. "Oh, hon," came her response, with the sincerity of someone who knows financial hardship and wants to do something to help. "Holiday's always hiring. Just go to their Web site on the computer. Do you have a computer?"

She asked me where I had worked and for how long. "The newspaper," I replied. "Nineteen years." She looked at me, a bit incredulous the paper would lay someone off after so many years. "It's that bad down there?" she asked. "Well, take some time off. You deserve a break."