Con

I was leaving the parking lot tonight after a haircut appointment when a middle-aged guy in a new-ish number 34 Packer's shirt flagged me down, looking a bit desperate. I rolled down my car window and he said "do you live around here?"

"Why?" I asked and he rushed on to say, "do you know where Wisconsin Rapids is?"

"Well, vaguely..."

"The thing is, I live in Wisconsin Rapids and I got a call that my daughter was in a car accident 4 hours ago, and I just grabbed my grandson and my wife, and, well we got here but have no gas. I am about to sell my wife's wedding ring. I have collateral up the wazoo, but..."

I usually have no idea what is in my purse, but having temporarily lost my work ID this morning, I had gone through the entire thing searching for it. Since then, I had spent $2 for organic eggs from our medical consultant at work. I knew I had a $20 and a $1, and I knew right where they were. Leaving my purse on the passenger seat, I told him "I don't have any cash except for some emergency parking money." I pulled out a bill and handed it to him. He took off, as I cruised slowly from the parking lot. I waited to catch a glimpse of him getting into the car with his wife and grandson. Instead, I saw him grab a bicycle and wheel it away from the wall where it was leaning. I totally believed him...but at least it was only a dollar.

Commie Pinko Plot

I still remember the night that I was cruising down Monroe St. on my bicycle---long hill, after midnight, really moving--when the dreaded red and blue lights started flashing behind me. Of course my first thought was, oh no, (or something like that) SPEEDING. Well, it actually turned out to be riding without a bicycle light, but my point is, I considered myself to be equal to other vehicles on the road and perfectly capable of being pulled over for exceeding the posted speed limit. That is actually the way it works legally for bicycles, who are otherwise second citizens on the tarmac. Like many other bicyclists, I have had cars turn right into me as I waited to proceed though a green light at an intersection, and I have had passengers in moving cars reach out to touch me in the bicycle lane because they thought it was funny. In those cases I can perhaps excuse them for inattention or ignorance, but what can one say to excuse Wisconsin State Representative Steve Nass for his recent remarks?

The city of Madison recently piloted an idea from Europe in a couple of intersections. Simple really, a red box was painted in front of waiting vehicle traffic for bicycles to sit and wait for the light to change. Steve Nass is not actually a resident of Madison, although he frequently visits, apparently just to stir up trouble. This is what he had to say about the bike boxes.

"It's basically about liberal extremists in Madison who hate cars and think everyone should bike to work."

Really? I thought it was more likely to be about road safety. I guess I just fail to see how creating bike boxes forces people to ride bikes instead of driving their cars. I actually intend to continue driving my car, but I am also glad that when I ride my bike I will be just a little safer from those drivers who are looking left, and turning right. And God forbid we should bike to work, unleashing ourselves in a small measure from dependence on petroleum products, while simultaneously working on the national obesity problem.

No, this is too obvious. I must be missing something, and I suspect it is the fact that he bike boxes originated in Europe and they are RED. Of course! In the state that produced Senator Joe McCarthy, we have grown complacent---this shows all the signs of a Commie Pinko Plot. I understand that Mr. Nass intends to use his remaining time in the Legislature introducing a bill to ban the boxes. I am sure he will be able to make a really good case, especially if he has had first hand experience riding a bicycle in Madison. In fact, he can borrow mine. I will show him how to ride it and let him use my helmet, although I have to wonder if there is actually anything left there to protect.

Concha

Sometimes there is nothing better than a reconnection. Concha was a close friend of my mother's who, in 1996, hosted a three-generational trip to Ecuador for my daughter, my mother and me. It was wonderful in every respect. For me, It was a return to Ecuador, a country I love. For my mother, it was a trip with her daughter and granddaughter to see old friends while in remission from the cancer that would be her nemesis. For my daughter, it was her first, but not her last, exposure to another culture.

We have so many stories and so many ties. I still make the Ecuadorian recipes I collected that summer. Concha told me that her youngest son has three children now. He was a baby when we first met, and I have a little silver christening cup favor in my china cabinet to commemorate the day. My mother had a deep and abiding envy of Concha's ability to swing a scarf around her neck and have it look just right. On the other hand, they shared the need for tweezers always at the ready when they traveled by car together one summer. Neither could abide the molestia of a stray hair for even a minute. I also reminded Concha of the story I have told so often; when her children were young, they were all assigned to a piece of pre-Columbian art to shield in the event of an earthquake. They all survived and so did the Pre-Columbian art, now housed in a museum, presumably left to it's fate in the event of a tremor--no small children in pajamas to keep it whole.

I was sad to hear that the political situation has made it impossible for them to continue living in Ecuador. It is hard to imagine the country without them there to welcome me back. Nevertheless, I was so happy to talk to her again, as if no time had passed. A cliche, but like many, repeated for the truth it holds.

Conditioning

Oh how I hate it. I always have--even at my peak of physical prowess at age six or so. It seems unfair to put this much effort into building muscles and still not be able to run like a gazelle, or run at all, for that matter. Jesse, the trainer I work with, seems like an affable guy, but today he told us that he had experienced his first fatality in his training classes. Well, that gave me pause. Even after I realized that he had meant to say casualty, his description of the blood and facial swelling confirmed that this is not a benign activity, and that I was right to refuse to jump on the squishy ball.

Most weeks, my goal is to try to keep up with my fellow trainees, one of whom kickboxes in her spare time and does push ups on her toes instead of her knees. Last week I mentioned that I would like to have enough aerobic capacity to talk on the phone while working out. The group, while usually supportive of my efforts, turned on me as one to tell me that if a person can talk on the phone, that person is not actually "working out" and should pick up the pace. I took that as permission to be too breathless to talk while doing any kind of exercise.

Here is what I hate: crab walking, bear walking, imitating animal activity in general, doing 100 push ups right after lunch, and being unable to raise my arms above my shoulders for the next two days afterwards. Here is what I like: draping myself over a large exercise ball and letting my body go limp.

What keeps me coming back? The satisfaction I feel when it is all over and I don't have to feel guilty about exercising for at least two days. Pathetic, yes, but who knows? If I keep it up, someday I might be able to jump on the squishy ball while talking on the phone.

C-Rations

A couple of weeks ago, we ran into our neighbors at the local bakery. They were buying baguettes and handing out fliers for a charitable effort they were organizing for Haiti. I have a fair number of friends who volunteer for worthy organizations, put on events of various types, and I generally try to participate. This one, though, was on an alarming scale. The goal: a half million meals for Haiti in three days. It seemed too big to succeed, but I figured I would do my part so I could at least hold my head up at the Memorial Day block party.

It was a bit unusual in a genius sort of way. Participants had to make a donation AND volunteer time--90 minutes, to be exact. This ensured that the cost of material would be matched 1:1 to the effort to assemble said materials. To be sure, one could donate money or time independently and the two would be united by the organizers. Like most people, I chose to do both.

I showed up at the site at my appointed hour in some remote industrial park. The place looked like an airplane hanger. Once inside, I was relieved of my $25 donation and ushered to the glove and hairnet station. It is a look that is a great equalizer, trust me. Seconds later, I was assembled into a team of eight people and we were each handed a cardboard box into which meals would be packed. We were led to our very own trestle table and given our instructions. By virtue of where I happened to be standing, my job was to hold a bag under a funnel while four fellow volunteers added soy, dehydrated vegetables, a scoop of vitamin powder, and a dollop of rice to each bag. Then to the weigher who added or subtracted rice, the heat sealer, and finally the packer. We may not have been the fastest team in the building, but we were pretty good. We finished our allotted 1700 meals fifteen minutes early, due in large part to the fact that we had no children on the team. (We did have some seniors, one of whom, as he was prompted again for the rice, admitted he was daydreaming about fishing.) As we exited the building, I was tempted to circle back around for another shift.

Alas, I could not, as we were expecting dinner guests. So, on to Whole Foods, where I spent the equivalent of 1000 meals for Haiti on appetizers, salad, and dessert ingredients. The worst part is that I did not even appreciate the irony at the moment. It is all well and good to participate in charitable drives, and I am glad I did. The hard part in amending one's behavior and learning to think on a global scale every day. I'm still working on that one.

In the meantime, Meals for Haiti exceeded the goal of 500,000 meals. Each meal feeds six--dinner for over three million people. Bon Appetite Haiti.

Canada, Oh!

Tonight we got an email from our son, who is proposing a trip along the north shore of Lake Superior with his girlfriend Rebecca. This is, I suspect, primarily a re-creation of a trip he took with his father in 1996, but that trip was itself a re-creation of a trip his father and I took in 1979. He probably owes his existence to that trip.

I had taken a contract job in St. Paul that year and was having a great time in the twin cities. Tom remained behind in a house we shared with friends in Madison, and I commuted home on the Greyhound bus every other weekend. It was a hellish trip and I resented having to make it. In between, I made calls from a phone booth on 7th Avenue in St. Paul--Tom would leave messages with the operators to ask me to call. It was all a bit more personal in the pre-cell phone days, even in a phone booth on the 3M plant-side of the tracks in St. Paul ( the whole neighborhood smelled of Scotch tape).

By the time he arrived to pick me up in St. Paul at the end of the contract, our future was a question mark. We spent the next two weeks, meandering along the north shore of Lake Superior, moving and re-pitching our tent every night. We got good at it--it became less of an ordeal and more of a smooth process. We learned a little something at each stop.

We (I) learned that you can lose a lot of money playing gin rummy for double or nothing, especially after many Amaretto shooters. We had the opportunity to mine amethysts and learned that you can't pay rent with the proceeds. We spent time in a town with the largest incidence of twins in North America, and learned that they don't walk around arm-in-arm for the benefit of tourists. We learned that a small chipmunk can make a very large dent in a pot of macaroni, and that it is never a good idea to engage in a tug-of war with a skunk over a loaf of bread. We learned that baby moose are still plenty large and that border guards (even then) don't appreciate humor that involves weapons. Somewhere between Thunder Bay and the Mackinac bridge we also found our future again.

So yes, my son, you can borrow the tent, the stove, the lantern and the cooler. You are on your own for the Amaretto.