best of New York City (Jan 2010)

Almost immediately after watching the ball drop in Times Square, I took a long weekend with a chunk of friends and headed over to New York City. We stared up at the mile-high buildings; wove through crowds of sightseers at tourist spots; found a hidden bar at the top of a hotel next to the Empire State Building; and re-connected with a group so lively it made me miss college all over again ... (though not "college things" like the after-effects of a particularly effective "all-you-can-eat/drink" deal from our friend Brendan...)



Roommates at the Ameritania Hotel, Molly, Ellen, Amy and I walked through Central Park on a particularly freezing morning. We found a little hill of stone above Wollman Skating Rink with an amazing view of the lower East side. Even though traveling through NYC in January isn't ideal if you don't like a face frozen beyond expression, it's awesome for avoiding giant groups of tourists and smells that bubble up from the underground sewer system.





A favorite day: Grimaldi's for pizza; Jacques Torres for wicked hot cocoa; and a walk back to Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge. Molly and Ellen hadn't been here before, and I think I noticed them click with the city during this walk.



Walking back to our hotel from the Columbus Circle area, the Christmas lights in the trees offset the light snow. Eric and Margit looked especially lovely that night.



I finally got to see the Bethesda Fountain - this is a detail of the sculpture at the top, and one of my favorite photos from the trip.



Here's my favorite little sister in front of my favorite cupcakes (Buttercup Bakery). It was an added bonus to spend some time with Anna and her professor parents, leading the St. Olaf art trip to Manhattan. Ellen and I took Anna on a particularly exhausting trek to the library to see the original Winnie the Pooh... totally worth it.



Molly and I spent some time on the Met steps with a pretzel from a cart; these little birdies scattered near us to grab crumbs and extra sun rays.





My love, my light, Ellen Roth indulged my childhood love for Matt Lauer and the Today Show by waking up at 6:30, walking a few blocks, and standing in sleet to catch a few glimpses of the crew. We were even on TV for a few milliseconds!





The friend celebration to end all celebrations (by 10PM... I think?)





The last few hours in NYC were spent at the Top of the Rock and in the surrounding area. A tiny little New Years ball... and a spectacular view of a cold, sunny city and one of its landmark structures.

Even almost a year later, I still crave more of the city. In two trips, I know I've barely found everything.

best of 2010 (to come...)

This is how I rung in 2010: blowing the rhythm of "Party in the USA" as the clock switched over.



My friend Rachel took this photo, along with QUITE a few others, during our friends' masquerade-mask-themed party. There's nothing we love more than whipping out some nice duds, creating a theme, and carrying it out full-force (especially with champagne/wine/PBR in hand).

This is how I will ring in 2011:



Not scaling the oil derrick, but in a snowy Casper, without the usual cohorts. I used to soak up New Years in my hometown as a time to connect with a few high school friends - but they have since (mostly) scattered, married, moved to Scotland, moved to Missouri. Weather in Wyoming is as temperamental and insane as Minnesota; this morning I woke to a phone call from United Airlines, notifying me of my canceled flight. It bummed me out, sure. I had plans at a few houses, and was especially looking forward to getting to know a new group of folks as the ball dropped. As it was, I enjoyed today (mostly snowbound inside), but I know I will need to get out and hopefully ski tomorrow (even in below-zero temps).

So, in lieu of a huge celebration tomorrow and tomorrow night, I think I'll chip away at some photos (/memories) collected during 2010 here at home, between shoveling and shoving leftover Christmas cookies in my mouth. Starting with last year's celebration, at a warm house of lovely friends, the year was actually pretty fantastic.



(thanks to Rachel Carlin for the first photo; Amy Sonnichsen for the third)

first-timer (January 2007)

It has been almost four years since my first night in New York City. I remember hustling into a cramped taxi cab and hurdling half an hour to our apartments. As I wrestled my suitcase across the curb and looked up, I remember never feeling more overwhelmed. Since I had just flown from Wyoming through Minneapolis to NYC, I went from one drastic landscape to the complete opposite. Everywhere I looked, buildings and sidewalks. Our apartment, on 54th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenue, was situated in a pretty active area of midtown.

That first night, our walk included "getting to know the neighborhood." A quick glance at our maps and some words of guidance from our professors helped us discover we were merely blocks from Rockefeller Center, Times Square, and 5th Avenue. In hindsight, we covered the territory that night -- but I think in our excitement, we didn't realize it. When we came upon 5th Avenue, the clouds were low and off-set the lights so incredibly, it was as if we fell into a Manhattan film scene. I remember seeing some leftover store fronts from the holidays, and Christmas lights in windows, and not quite believing I was finally in this city.

Over the month, we discovered more and less beauty in and around the city, but even so, New York was then solidified as a place I would have to re-visit over and over again. So far, I've made it back once, though I've barely scratched the surface.

vintage snow (ca. 1990?)

I am younger each year at the first snow.
When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am
in love again and very young and I believe everything. - Anne Sexton, 1958

This photo, via my best friend from home Erin (the one in the middle, with her hat tied around her face), instantly evokes the simple joys of winter as a kid. Icicle as snack, hanging out in warm clothes (and not caring if they matched), and prepping for some yard-skiing: nothing says "winter in 1990" more-so. My brother, the little pumpkin-faced kid on the far right, has since quadrupled in size. Erin is on the west coast, and while we don't talk regularly, when we do it's as if we haven't missed a day. My childhood partner in crime, Erin and I roamed our neighborhood creeks and streets, pranked our siblings, and shared so many meals at our respective families' houses it seemed natural to set another place at the table. In high school, Erin was my carpool buddy and ski season teammate - we shared after-school snacks of pickles and pudding before practice, marathons of trashy movies and junk food, and teen magazine-fests. I think about those days often - even just yesterday, after hearing of Leslie Nielsen's death. "Airplane" was our consistent pick for movie night at her aunt and uncle's house in Saratoga.

Going home always provokes the past. My bedroom is still intact, almost like a time-capsule of my adolescent/teenage years. I love sifting through piles of old pictures and remembering smells, the light, other people present, what I was wearing. I'm thankful for developed camera film. There is nothing like sitting down with a closetful of photos from the 1990s.

travel season (October 2008, 2009, 2010...)

I have developed a dependent relationship with my Garmin. I hear her voice more than anyone's, it seems. The little GPS device I stick to my windshield guides me through two months of navigating various rental cars on highways, parkways, interstates, exits, on-ramps, stoplights, missed exits, construction, traffic jams...

The magic of my job is its perpetual shift in the task at hand. It isn't always like this, but in the thick of it, it's hard to remember what life is like without an airplane ride every week. For September and October, I become more familiar with hotel rooms and car rentals than with my own apartment and dented Honda; texts and Facebook conversations help me feebly attempt to sustain relationships with real people. I stare at my work Google calendar impulsively, as I prefer to know exactly when I must arrive to a college fair/high school visit/interview with student and attempt to time it just so. Thankfully, Garmin Lady gets me there on time. And to think this is my third travel season, and only my first year with her? How did I survive before?

constant replay (September 2007)

It's that season again. Cider has returned.

This evening, I woke up from my post-work cat nap with a strong desire for Goodbye Blue Monday Coffeehouse. All I wanted was a blue ceramic mug of cider, my laptop (with the motivation to actually write!), and something calm and familiar playing on the overhead speakers. I arrived and set up my laptop at one of the Formica tables near the espresso machine and counter, facing the doorway: my favorite place to watch the Blue Monday clientele shuffle through the entryway.

The above photo was snapped by my friend Molly in the fall of our senior year in college. I used to come here quite a bit (a lot with her, actually) under the guise of "studying." Usually, "studying" at Blue Monday meant sitting with books open but ignored, coffee in hand, and a laughing conversation about something funny this weekend or a quiet one-on-one chat about something deeper. I'm wearing the same sweatshirt right now, actually, but have a far less contemplative expression -- possibly because I can't help but be incredibly distracted by the conversations I can overhear right now. I'm sitting between two tables of college students, presumably studying. One table chirps loudly about Saturday practices and their mesa de conversacion; the other chats about the college search and how Boulder is a SWEET town. That table could be high schoolers, actually, but who can tell the difference these days? (PS. They are definitely high schoolers... they're talking about the ACT and complaining about their 30 and 32 scores. Oh, kids).

The point is, I still come to this place for the same comfort as I did two or even six years ago. It's more than just a coffeehouse. It's a social hub; a place for people to meet their friends at 6AM; to get a smoothie midday while strolling Division Street; or come in and sit (even loudly), with a group of friends under the front of productivity. Every bit of this place has been thought out and cultivated by its founders and owners -- but sitting here, you don't necessarily realize it. It's just natural that there are multicolored Formica tables, unique lamps, a cozily saggy couch, and random artwork hanging from the walls. It's part of the landscape of this place, and its owners are fiercely protective of its authenticity. Rightly so.

This place has served as more than just a vehicle for my coffee addiction. It was where my parents and I sat one last time before they moved me into my first-year residence hall, the first year of college. My dad told me the story of his tattoo as a rite of passage (and that story deserves its own post, at some point). Blue Monday is where I always came when my friends and I escaped the Hill for an afternoon on the town. It's where I sat, sipping a latte, when I first dreamed up my senior art show. My dad, who loves coffee more than me, always brought us to Blue Monday five times daily for a scone and large coffee when my parents visited (including his "large, dark, to go" order at 9PM). I was here when I got a phone call from a close friend, where, to my shock, out flooded his true feelings for me -- all the while pacing back and forth repeatedly, since it was snowing outside, until my friend/co-barista Laura made me sit down and process. When I faced graduation without any job prospects at my alma mater, I turned to Blue Monday for employment, promising my boss at least six months and my relentless dedication to all things Blue Monday and all things coffee. While I worked here full-time, I became part of a family so mismatched but complete, I actually survived months of uncertainty while living in a fungus-infested basement. When the area around my apartment flooded badly this past weekend (worse than the previous post ever could have foreshadowed), I couldn't simply cross the bridge to my coffee and it felt too strange.

This place is run unlike any business I've seen, down to the last detail when a new menu item is added or new piece of equipment introduced. The bosses/owners/managers keep it this way by investing themselves into it. In turn, they also became sort of mentors to me, offering anything from Catherine's thoughts on online dating to Dan's advice on how to remove fungus from carpet. Dan has a fantastic love of music, expressed without filter or hesitation, and uncanny ability to predict the next big bands (he predicted Yeasayer MONTHS before they exploded). Catherine, in her calm, even-keeled way, asks about life updates and offers glimpses of their kids' latest antics.

They have become part of my morning routine, a few minutes in my mornings there to jump-start my day. Now, as I'm a "barista emerita," I enjoy meeting the newbies and watching them become more comfortable with the rhythm of this place. It isn't for everyone, in terms of employment. But, Dan and Catherine seem to find a pretty incredible mix of people to trust with this place. And for what it's worth, I'm grateful to them for letting me in.

Back to this table, at this moment: ZachAttack working to close behind the counter, my mug cooling since I finished my cider an hour ago, and the satisfaction that I finally calmed my day enough to sit, listen, type, and sip.

season change (today, 2010)

I have bad news... for me, at least.

Somehow, my computer reloaded its iPhoto or something and my thousands of pictures over the last year or so are missing. Completely MIA. I talk about it in this way because it happened a week ago, and part of me clings to this tiny glimmer of hope that it isn't all erased. It is heartbreaking, in a way. In times like these, I wish I knew more about computers. Maybe all I need to do is simply hit some combination of "control + squiggly icon + fn"? Probably not. I don't even know the terminology...

I thought about this page twice today. This could mean a few things: 1. it has been forever since I posted anything of substance, which is embarrassing when you consider its name; 2. I thought about it in the way you remember an old friend who you knew so well for a short amount of time before he disappeared: fond but fleeting good memories; or 2. fall is approaching (well, here, as of this minute actually), which means winter follows. I always write more in the winter. Here's hoping.

Speaking of fall, as I write this, I hear rhythmic breeze against my window and I can't wait to see what awaits me when I leave for work tomorrow. Leaves are undoubtedly blowing from their stems and scattering in a matted mess across the cobblestones, along with the ceaseless rain. Fall in Minnesota always brings a monsoon season of sorts, but I haven't seen flooding like this in quite some time. Today, as I saw the river water rise hourly, I was reminded of the way catastrophe (or at least, impeding doom) can bring together communities. A few hours ago, in the dark, I leaned against my railing and watched the above scene as the sky was dark and the water even higher. Townspeople, high school kids, and college students walked across the bridge, stopping with frequency to take pictures. One brave student, along with his friend, propped up a tripod and rolled up his jeans to wade in the water. He didn't get far -- at this point, the water is coming in waves over the stone wall. The strobe-light effect of so many camera flashes made me realize how big a deal this must be. The riverside bar, Froggy's, was sandbagged at 4PM today and that probably didn't last until now. Sadly, tonight is Thursday night karaoke at Frog's. The painful irony.

It is also painfully ironic that after three solid days of travel (including two consecutive 5:40am flights followed by some harrowing hydroplane driving), I am still awake. Adrenaline keeps me awake on nights like this, but from what? I'm not sure. Fall travel season causes me to wake up in the middle of the night and stare into the darkness, wondering what I forgot to arrange for a flight, car rental, high school visit, college fair, interview... the list grows. Even as I wrote this, I logged onto my work email and wrote myself a reminder email for a call I need to make in the morning. Is this symptomatic of a workaholic, or just the excitement of this season of work? I will come to the realization as soon as it's over for another year.

However monotonous, cold, and damp the transition into the colder months in Minnesota may be, I appreciate the side-effect of coziness. I love summer for wonderful, lively days outside, but in more ways than one, this raw cold weather makes me feel alive.

There are no rules at the Wagner cabin. Actually, I take it back. There is one rule: you do whatever you want to do. There is no pressure. If you want to fish, go fishing. If you want to take the kayak for a spin across Johnson Lake, take it for a spin. If you want to drink a Summer Shandy while laying on the wooden dock with your book, do it. I identified so much with this lifestyle during my four-day weekend at the cabin over the 4th of July. Total, complete, 100% leisure and pleasure.

My friends, siblings Dave and Laura, are fantastic and wildly entertaining together and separately. On one particular night, during an incredible sunset, their individual pursuits of happiness collided in one display of woman vs. man in nature. Dave wanted a nice, refreshing sundown swim, and Laura (though she hates fish to the max) wanted to cast in her line to see if she could get any bites.

summertime (june/july/aug 2010)

My intention never was to kill this blog. I just somehow drifted into that summer state of mind, where going outdoors or lounging at the Tavern with friends seemed a more viable alternative to, well, sitting indoors and typing on a keyboard. The truth is, I have missed writing. So many times over these past three months, I have wanted to jot things down here, at least to jog my memory for later, but haven't quite put two and two together well enough to make anything legible.

A lot has happened this summer. And, a lot hasn't, but I think that's okay. I think I've managed to (almost) conquer my third summer as a true Minnesotan. Humidity, mosquitoes, warm nights in the city and down here in this little town -- it all seems like part of my soul now, almost to the degree I feel when I'm home. I went on more excursions to lake cabins (as seen above) than in years past, which led me to discover something I never knew I missed so much as a child: LAKES. Up at the Wagner cabin, I spent the 4th of July in a blissful heatstroke, laying on a wooden dock and reading until it was too hot to bear, then walking into the lake when it felt too hot. Nights were spent laughing until I couldn't sit up at their father's hilarity and mom's even-keeled humor. During a different weekend, my friend Kelsey's cabin brought my first pontoon experience, complete with me emerging as hero after a particularly intense tube rescue. Later, we sat around the fire with our Summer Shandies, played charades, and from what I remember, entertained ideas about our bigger life plans.

Speaking of life plans, whew. This summer brought my first wave of friends' wedding invites, mainly for the fall. As I write this, I'm fresh off attending my first friend wedding, which was like nothing I've ever experienced. A complete celebration, lavishly tasteful, and full of so much love it sort of renewed my outlook on a few things. However, on the other side of the spectrum, I've witnessed some dear friends go through the kinds of breakups so gut-wrenching it's hard to believe you'll come out alive.

I said goodbye to one long-term roommate; hello to a lovely short-term squatter; and finally welcomed my third roommate to our little apartment for the coming year. It will be full of so many laughs, I can tell already. You know when you have a friend whose laugh alone makes you chuckle? This is how it will be with this one. Just tonight, we had Ryan Reynolds Night, unintentionally -- our viewing of "The Proposal" was punctuated by her frequent comments of "...I MEAN CAN YOU BELIEVE HIS BODY RIGHT NOW?!!!! SICK!!" and my agreeing.

Finally, I took two trips to see the people I love dearly: my best friend in LA, and my family in Wyoming (the Wyoming trip for 2 weeks, amazingly). It was difficult to leave home this time, for reasons I can't seem to completely grasp. I realized (especially during this particularly horrendous bout of humidity and heat this past week), that I genuinely miss home. Wyoming has a way of exposing even the strongest to a point where it feels like there's no return. You feel a sort of self-reliance in Wyoming, which I miss. I miss its raw quality. And, I miss my parents. Two people so incredibly full of love, and dedicated to each other and to our family, I constantly wonder how I'll ever be able to find that kind of best friend.

I will try to post more frequently, especially as I begin to unwrap these summer months and get deeper into my upcoming travel season for work. In the meantime, I'll enjoy what weeks are left of summer and try to grasp the start of what is my "junior" year of real life.

if tomorrow wasn't such a long time (May 09)

Not everyone who leaves a campus wants to come back, and I understand this. Attending reunions, donating to the college, and roaming the buildings post-graduation is not appealing to some people. But, for a good number, returning to a place like this provokes such an overwhelming response, sometimes it's best to pause and take it in.

Hopefully Liv won't hold this photo against me. Last May, she came to visit our little group of friends in the cities, and had time to come down to Northfield over the weekend. As it turns out, her visit to town was the same day as our college's graduation. Unlike our own ceremony the previous May, this occasion was sunny, warm, and picturesque (ours was held indoors to avoid rain, turning the entire auditorium into a sea of sweaty parents and dripping mortarboards). I sat with Liv on the hillside, watching the Class of 2009 process down the side of the hill and to the stadium. We trailed them to a vantage point above the field, where we could see them diligently line up in rows to sit and listen to the commencement speakers. The college hymn began, and it was all we could take; Liv, wiping her eyes, took a moment. My parents, who trailed behind me, both got choked up as they realized one kid graduated the previous year and the last kid would graduate in the coming year. And, there's no better recipe for a show of public emotion than when you mix the beauty of our campus with our college hymn AND the celebratory nature of the day.

So, this week, we say goodbye to the Class of 2010. I am blue. It is infinitely worse to attend graduations when siblings are involved, as my brother is graduating. I know I'm not the only one, but there's nothing I can't stand more than when I cry in public. Unfortunately for me, there's also nothing like 1. the Olympics, including commercials (heart-wrenching!), and 2. graduations to make me blubber. It's tough stuff. I think the tougher situation is the realization that for both kids in my family, it's time to grow up, and move on into the stage of "real life." The relatively carefree days of college classes, breaks, and summer vacations have come to an end.

To maintain any sense of the past, it's a good idea to return to places of significant impact. Even though I roam this campus on a daily basis, at times I have flashbacks of moments I knew would leave a mark. I'm fascinated by the effect a simple plot of land with buildings can have on a person.

just a plot of land (July 09)

Summertime in my backyard. There is no location more peaceful than this piece of land. Forts in the corners, near the trees; spying on neighbors from the top of the shed; sprinting back and forth with dog; playing catch and batting practice while waiting for the steaks to grill. Before laptops, before high-speed internet, before freedom from parents' "no TV during the day" rule (until Nick-at-Nite came on and we were allowed a few episodes of something vintage).

Here, my mom watches as the new pup Lucy explores the yard. I can identify. As a kid, the backyard was a blank canvas, a place where my brother and I could create our own little worlds of fantasy and unaccountability. I would go outside for hours, dragging along simply my imagination, maybe a dress, and a blanket. Every element to the yard came alive, from the birdbath (used to wash clothes) to the grove of pine trees (makeshift shelter from the outdoors, naturally). My favorite times were when I could invite my best friends over to get wrapped up in my own little world, as well. I still have such vivid memories of playing, so vivid, in fact, sometimes I confuse them with real memories of childhood. I guess it is hard to explain, but hey, it happens.

Always, I've been grateful for my parents, who simply let me go and be a nut in the solace of my own fenced-in yard. I wonder what they thought when they saw me drag item after item of kitchen-ware and vintage dresses out into the yard.

These days, when I return home, my backyard has the same effect on me: a place to lay, relax, listen to the birds near the creek, and let the humid-free Western air wash over me.

breathe in, breathe out (Aug 09)

Finally, it's springsummer and we can all go to our favorite outdoor bar decks, order summer drinks, listen to the river, and watch the town come alive as everyone shakes off their collective cabin fever. After a week of dreary, cold rain, yesterday finally brought bright sun and blue skies. No better kind of day for a post-work happy hour that turned into squeezing every ounce of sun from the Tavern deck.

When we have visitors to our little town, these outdoor drinks are a necessity, as it was last August during a visit from my friend Peter, pictured above. There's a sort of serenity that comes with sharing outdoor air together. Maybe this is why summer is so addicting for everyone... and why Minnesotans love it so much. After months of toiling in negative degrees, beautiful days like these make us forget the challenge of what can seem like endless winter.

That said, I'm heading out to enjoy it.

farewell, dear friend (July 09)

from his witticisms at staff meetings and the boisterous shouts down
the hall from his office, to the wisdoms read from warrior of the
light, thoughtful advice, and engulfing bear hugs, the spirit of piotr
dabrowski is one to be reckoned with. as a colleague, he brings a
spark and dynacism to the office; as a friend, a lively, thoughtful,
and adventurous spirit to even mundane activities. when i consider the
absence we will feel next week, it's hard to believe this unique
person will ever be replaced.

in my first "real" job out of college, i had no idea i would come to
work with this variety of characters in admissions. from the first
time i met him, piotr has been a large part of this past year's
transition for me, and a big part of our fellow northfield residents'
lives. a fellow "townie," we became fast friends with the help of our
little northfield contingent, always ready for a drink with the
incomparable "baby-mama" at the Cow or some music at the Tavern. the
quieter times included half-price hot dogs at Tiny's or a reading
session at Blue Monday; the larger blowouts involved hours-long
sessions of Rock Band, wiffle ball tournaments, or pounding music at a
minneapolis club on valentine's day. nothing slows him down, and in
turn, those in his presence (us) feel a new spark to life when we
spend time with him. from the first few times we hung out, i realized
"this is someone who is always game." piotr told me early on about his
personal rule not to turn down any invitation "unless i already have
plans." this made for some epic adventures. and adventure? the word is
synonymous to piotr. he embodies it in the way i've come to embody
"caffeine." he lives it, breathes it, and is always up for it -- if
it's not fun, he makes it that way immediately with simply a radical
outburst (i.e. "I'M GETTING JACKED FOR JANUARY"). in the past year,
without hesitation, piotr traveled to multiple foreign destinations,
including a lovely five day trip to ireland with kevin. he meets new
people with the ease of flipping a switch. his natural charisma is
undeniable, yet contributes to his genuine personality. these made him
a fantastic admissions officer (and according to some, "the best in
all the land"), but more importantly, it makes him someone who is
eager to see the world. and, in this case, the world is eager to get
to know piotr.

in piotr's absence, we will miss a fantastic, hard-working, passionate
colleague; a lively presence all around the office; "piotr points" and
the prizes they entail; super-human tolerance of sweets (especially
chocolate and mini-eclairs); and a spirit of levity, appropriately
present to calm a tense situation. piotr has an innate ability to
unite and include people -- not only among the officers, but also with
support staff, student workers, and people around campus, like penny
in the cage. in my four years as a student, i never saw cage employees
be so easily charmed into passing over a free doughnut to someone.
piotr could convince them without their immediate realization.

however, along with this humorous, outgoing side to piotr is an
incredible sensitivity for others' feelings. i have never heard piotr
say anything negative about anyone -- and in an office with such a
variety of personalities, this is pretty incredible. a lot of us share
this observation: piotr inspires us to be better. i am inspired by the
way he refrains from even the most flippant of complaints or
criticisms. his honesty is always certain, but never mean-spirited.
this is probably one of the reasons why he will be a Chinese
television reality superstar...

so, we all agree: we will miss our buddy, but this is an incredibly
fitting next step for dear piotr. for someone who will see the world,
we are lucky to have had him here as long as we did. from poland to
chicago to northfield (by way of san diego, denver, pennsylvania, and
where else?) to China, it has been quite a ride. we're excited to see
where his spirit leads him.

in the spirit of the warrior of the light (or is it the michigan
tourist board?): "when we get to a place where no one knows us, we
become most ourselves."

congratulations on this next opportunity, friend. be well and prosper!

(The above was written last year for a send-off for Piotr, currently working and thriving in China. My apologies for the hastily-written/punctuated format - saying goodbye to a close friend made it hard to dot i's and cross t's at the time.)

summer visit (July 06)

I want to go camping in the Big Woods. I don't care so much if it's record heat, including the kind of humidity that soaks the day and lasts into the night. I want to cram into a tent in a row of friends, wearing only my bathing suit on top of my sleeping bag, stretching out as much as possible, and spend half an hour trying to fit everyone inside the camera frame. You know the drill: it's dark, the flash is on, and the friend with the best aim or the longest arms raises the camera above, lens facing down. It's a skill and it takes many, many re-takes to master.

Summer break is a thing of the past for some of us in our post-college careers, yet our reunions still bring this kind of retreat into memories. More than anything, I crave the conversations after night falls, when stories are told without hesitation. Camping - in the wild, away from technology and electricity - the only device left for entertainment is storytelling. Sometimes, our stories fall into categories: "tell the story of your first make-out!" or "what is your MOST embarrassing moment... in childhood AND in college?" or "when did you know you had hit ROCK BOTTOM...?" The questions sound sort of simple, and they are, but they can lead to deeper conversations without even trying (relationships, who we want to become, our confidences and hesitations about the future, etc). Of course, sometimes, our constant laughing and interjecting is nothing but that: friends enjoying each other's company, even when it's too hot to move (as it was in this case, when I think Christine finally got our winning shot).

I don't mean to make sweeping generalities about the grandeur of deep, philosophical conversations in the dark. Far be it for me to call most of our side-splitting laugh-fests "philosophical." But as I get farther from college, and life in a pod-suite with a roommate in the bunk next to me, the more I miss the constant presence of immediate community. I need quiet time as much as anyone, even though apparently I'm 30/30 on the Briggs-Meyers extroversion scale (another issue altogether), but there's a lot to be said for piling on a couch like puppies, talking over dinner in the cafeteria, passing each other on sidewalks between class. It's a theme I turn over and over constantly: the small banalities that make up what I value. And this picture, with six beaming, fresh-faced college friends, reminds me that for four years, I took it all in as much as possible.

misty watercolor memorieeeees (August 09)

This serene view of a post-rainstorm Minneapolis rooftop scene is hardly what I remember when the two words "PARTY BUS" are uttered. I recall chaos, as the giant raindrops we dodged soaked us while we sprinted across a parking lot to Nye's Polonaise. I remember the madness that ensues when actual BEER is allowed in a MOVING VEHICLE. Scouring new (to me) bars, frequented by my friends who actually live in the city, was a new experience altogether. After the rain subsided, our little band made it to the rooftop of Brit's Pub, with its appropriate British flags. Knowing my pride for my homeland (great-grandfather came to the US of A from Cornwall, England through Ellis Island, that's right), I am sure I announced "THESE ARE THE FLAGS OF MY PEOPLE!" repeatedly. Prior to this photo, there are at least four of me, with and without flash, posing with my flag; one of my friend Eric saluting it triumphantly. Ah, party bus. I'm glad I know ye.

Sure, it's not late August, but we revel in the springtime when it comes. Something is refreshing about rainstorms like these with their elements of danger. We had our first tonight. The air, now humid yet exhausted of moisture, has just enough of a chill to remind me of the near flash-flood I witnessed from my apartment tonight. For a few minutes, all I could see from our sliding doors was ...white. Wind, rain, branches blowing, hail. Then, a few minutes later, all cleared up. The sunlight came back for its last few hours, reflecting calmly off the river, and the diligent fisherpeople jumped back to their respective places to snag their last carp of the day. I felt like walking across the bridge to the coffeehouse, to escape the prison of my own making (home for 2 days straight with some kind of virus, who knows). Along the way, I took in this unique, incredible air with a mix of relief and gladness. The brief terror of the storm squall and it's subsequent after-storm serenity does this to a person.

The cloying smell of humidity and blossoms is completely Minnesota, whether on a late August night in the city or down here in Northfield in late April. In my constant struggle to define what exactly constitutes home, I would have to say this kind of spring night puts one giant notch on this side of the country.

sounds of... (early May 08)

I lay in bed, the window near my feet open enough to let in a hint of the river's rush, the low hum of a passing car or truck on the nearby highway, the occasional footsteps on the sidewalk below... and... nothing. Earlier, I turned off the fan I usually keep on for white noise to block weekly noisy occasions, such as after the hour when the Thursday night college bar crowd disperses. Tonight is a Sunday night, so it is traditionally a little calmer, more serene. After putting fresh sheets on my bed and cracking my window, I hesitated before pressing play on my iTunes. Nights like this don't need anything else.

I experienced a moment of serenity when I snapped the photo above. This tranquil slice of early green trees, grassy hillside, and stairs descending downward comes alive especially in early morning April or May light. Part of the beauty of my college's situation on top of a hill is the sun's uncanny ability to reach us first. Mornings like this were a rare sight for me while I was a student; however, this particular 6:15AM occasion was to prepare a piece of nature art, outside our manor of a history building, for a philosophy class I passed with a sliver of luck. I reached the hill first, watching for my friend Julie to appear with her bucket so we could collect dandelions (mini Andy Goldsworthys, we were). I have a series of photos from this morning, and I remember taking them with the thought "wow, I have been here for four years and it's like I'm seeing this for the first time." I recall Julie and our friend Leah thinking the same things as we put together our little art exhibit outdoors.

Yesterday, almost two years later, I stood in that spot in another capacity: preparing to host over 200 students as part of the admissions office for our college's admitted student day. The light, the beginnings of green was almost identical. Around 7AM, as I rushed back to our commons center from that side of campus, I passed the little spot where my two early-morning accomplices and I had watched the sunrise while we decorated a triangle of grass with dandelions. The sun fell almost the exact same way on the hillside; even though recent renovations have drastically changed our little plot of land, it's still there in some form.

Those occasional, valuable flashbacks -- quick images provoked by sunlight on trees, the smell of Malt O' Meal, and mistaking current students for old friends -- are there, in a way, to remind me why I remain dedicated to this cluster of buildings on a hill: to bring new people into the story.

To quote an alum I met as a first-year, from the class of 1955: there's an intangible magic to this place.

tasty delights (LA, vol II, Aug 09)

While I peruse my extensive library of photos, I've discovered my affinity for up-close shots of food. I can think of a few times my camera lens got embarrassingly close to a sauce or ice cream product (mmm, hungry). Maybe it's because I believe subconsciously the more detail I capture, the more I'll remember the taste.

For example, the fresh fish/cilantro/zing of pepper fish taco, wrapped in a flour tortilla, devoured from a simple paper carton on the Pacific Coast Hwy in Malibu. I can still taste it. My best friend Liv took me there after a somewhat harrowing drive to her grandparents' condo, just up the PCH a bit (harrowing, you ask? Well, as we pulled into the secured gate, Liv asked for the keys for the condo... my only job was to hold the keys... said keys had fallen between seats... my heart stopped and I had visions of Liv tossing me out to be devoured by beach bums and sea animals and kids with plastic shovels. BUT we found them. Wow, heart palpitations come back just at the memory, but I digress). Obviously a near-fatal failure of responsibility drums up the hunger, so we decided to quit with the driving already and have a nice stroll down the PCH to the legendary biker restaurant, Neptune's Net. Our "nice stroll" turned out to be a balancing act between a ledge above the rocky hill to the beach and the line of cars/surf vans parked along the highway. Upon meeting some leathery middle aged men who drank from beer cans while lounging in their open surf van, beach stretched to the sky from below, I realized my reincarnation wish: come back as surfer dude with skin the texture of 40-year old tanned leather. Surf, drink, sit in sun, surf, maybe eat, talk to strangers, sit in sun, drink... what a life.

Upon entering the buzzing, sun-bleached biker haven, we grabbed a table near a hanging net with beach/Malibu-related memorabilia. Sweaty, sticky, and smelling of sea salt, we collapsed in the booth after ordering from boisterous, hair-dreaded employees. When the little paper plate of heaven appeared in front of me, it was all I could do to resist jumping in face-first.

June can't come soon enough!

firenze, vol. I (January 08)

Just another January day before class. On the professor's terrace with take-out sandwiches from the cafe down the street, a few of us relaxed in the sunlight we craved in the company of Florence's centerpiece, the Duomo. After days of soaked-through shoes, drenched umbrellas, and unfortunate humidity-ridden hair (ugh), the last week and a half finally brought relief to our little band of art historians.

I appreciate the sun a billion times more when I haven't seen it for awhile. Now that it's light until 7:30PM (!!!!!!!), I feel... bouncier. Or something. When rays of sun creep around buildings and smack you in the face, you can't help but to be re-energized.

wyoming horizontals (March 09; Aug 09; unknown 09)

Southern Wyoming, early spring, barren but somehow lively with snow.



Layers upon layers of foothills, mesas, mountains - the Bighorns in the summer.



Sometimes it is fun to try to see where exactly the sun sets, behind the hill over there.

I don't have much to say for now, but I do enjoy a view of all this open air.

visual cues (August 09)

Lucy relaxes for a second to take in the view from my bedroom window, and depending on the street's activities, lays there to quietly observe or loudly barks at what she sees below. The bed in my room at home is situated under one of two windows, allowing for ample light - and a prime view of Green Meadows Drive.

Sometimes I wonder how many cumulative hours I've spent staring out this window, with or without dog. The view hasn't changed much. Up the street a bit, a blue house; the slight shadow of Casper Mountain seems to stretch above it. A few years ago, the neighbors directly across the street renovated their (not pictured) house's exterior, a much-welcomed facelift. They have a spruce tree I thought I remembered as a few feet tall; only on a recent trip home did I notice it stretches tall and skinny, almost taller than the house itself. There is an alleyway between the garage and Garden Creek. I've watched deer, dogs, and unruly teens amble around in the gravel, often disappearing where the alley curves and disappears behind their house. In the summer, the trees and brush from the creek spill into the alley and make it so green, I think I'm in Minnesota.

Since this is my childhood home, even the most simple of visual cues rush to me. In the summer, I used to leave my window open all night, braving the dry cool to take in my favorite scent. The Russian olive trees next to my house and lining the creek have a scent completely unique to home - maybe I haven't looked hard enough, but I've never come across it here. It's sweet and tangy, and to some degree, I couldn't stop breathing it in, almost to a point of accidental hyperventilation. Sometimes in the summer, when I fought to try and sleep, simply resting my head on the windowsill and screen and watching for nothing was enough to lull me back to my pillow.

I probably took this picture last summer to show my dog in her constant state of hyper-awareness. And tonight, I'm happy to see it. Sometimes I miss home so much, the weight of the little things I remember kind of throws me off guard. On nights like this when I can't quite turn off my thoughts, I could use an open window and some fresh creek air to calm them.

late-winter survival guide (April 09)

You know those spring afternoons that balance just the right amount of warmth with the perfect sense of crispness? Those will get me through until May. Days like today -- with it's 40ish degree, sunlit weather -- remind me of the inevitable arrival of spring and summer.

Last year, I put a good amount of effort toward the discovery of new places in Minneapolis. The afternoon pictured, two good friends from college and I settled upon Crema Cafe and Sonny's Ice Cream in Minneapolis (34th and Lyndale, to be precise). I'm pretty sure it was a late April day, and the leaves weren't quite ready to come out, yet the weather was warm enough. The light is refreshing, cleansing, and totally unique to this time of year. We took this afternoon to enjoy a light lunch, marvel at the emerging buds, and share stories of our lives in the first year after college. Ellen, on the left, had just moved to Madison and we were all still adjusting to her noticeable absence.

Maybe this winter has been a little colder than usual, and maybe I've found enough of a warmth in my little town to keep me from venturing out so much. However, I am convinced my recently-adopted homebody ways will melt with the drifts outside. Spring and summer will take me to the city, because there are those little alleyways with a table and a coffee for friends, staged perfectly for us to meet halfway.

The beginning of March always seems hopeful, but it teases us: we've survived February (thank God), yet there are still enough cold days to balance with the sunny days. It isn't spring, but it is just enough to know the warm days are coming.

freedom-party-celebration (July 08)

The last real summer I had lasted for almost exactly two months. By "real," I mean: carefree days, stress-free job, late nights, maximum outdoor time, and a sense of freedom unchallenged by constraints of class and lab schedules. In early July, as soon as I received the phone call that offered me my (current) job, I knew my days in the sun (sure, pun intended) were over. And that was okay. It was time to move on. But for this reason, that summer remains two of my most idealized months in recent memory.

It isn't a pretty picture. By the standards of most living situations, mine teetered on squalor. The morning following graduation, I hauled everything accumulated during college to a basement room of a house occupied by a girl, Lindsay, and her lively group of semi-transient friends (by "transient," I mean I never knew who would be crashing on the upstairs couch in the morning). Lindsay and I only knew each other through a first-year French class and subsequent mingling at Froggy's for karaoke Thursdays. Good fortune had my side when I mentioned to her in passing, close to graduation, that I had nowhere to live but was working at the local coffeehouse for the summer. Quickly she offered me a room, to sublease until August. A friendship was born. Boom.

The morning I moved my things into the room, I sat on the two stacked mattresses and stared at the boxes around me, dumbfounded. This was going to be my first bedroom after college. It was messy already, and a little dirty as the previous occupant had to move out quickly, but it was the first space I'd occupied alone since my childhood home. I was dumbfounded not so much from the state of my new bedroom, but by the fact that I was now truly on my own.

When I started the 6am-noon daily full-time shift, it left afternoons for getting better acquainted with my new housemate (and co-barista), Lindsay. In stark contrast to my fungus-infested, flooded bedroom (seriously, I don't lie), Lindsay had the penthouse: a large room on the top of the house that stayed dry and fungus-free. The temperature difference alone was astounding for two bedrooms in the same house. Our kitchen, the meeting spot, served as our restaurant, our bar, our meeting place.

A few exhausting first days into the job, as I crashed on my bed after 6 hours on my feet, Lindsay barreled down and asked me if I "would be boring like this ALL SUMMER." Someone of her energy is hard to match, but I am proud of the way I kept up. In our little house, with the dirty carpet rug, black leather couch (that smelled of old booze from its former residence), Lindsay and I forged a family bond. In the little sunken backyard, we pitched a badminton net and lounged in our bathing suits on semi-broken chairs, listening to music and chatting over a beer or two. It is a scene, in my mind, that warms me with bliss.

Often after our days at home in the yard, we would shower, put on "real" clothes, and venture on down to town. Lindsay lived only a short walk from our favorite hangout, the Tavern, which made it all the easier to make the quick commute. Because it's impossible to simply enjoy a quiet drink with this girl, she taught me a few games to make it even MORE fun (as pictured above). What makes me happy about this picture is that here, we were celebrating her freedom: finishing a 10 day shift filling in as owner to the coffeehouse with mornings starting at 4am. For her "Freedom Party," Lindsay and I dressed up and played her favorite game on our stunning carpet. I lost dismally, and we headed to town.

She brought life to the mundane things, a true talent. Lindsay has limitless passion and intelligence for the world around her. After we moved out of our house, Lindsay took a stint in Peace Corps Madagascar, before her emergency evacuation last March. She lived in town (and with me for a month) until last August, when she landed herself quite a job and quickly moved to Madison. Simply put, I miss her all the time, as she made things joyful in her own unique way (like wine and an Audrey Hepburn movie on Sundays). Our reunions are just as sweet as our brief but sweet time as sister/housemates. Luckily, I see her tomorrow.

old friends, all together now (July 06)

Pete, Brian, Leah. I almost didn't get to take this picture. My friend Brian, center, argued enough over the $3 entry fee to the Rib Mountain State Park just enough to get on the guard's bad (or at least irritated) side. Some sweet, older gentleman who just wanted to promote the beautiful view to enthusiastic onlookers spent a few minutes of his Sunday morning answering questions like, "so, if I park my car at the bottom of the mountain and WALK up, do we still have to pay?" When we finally realized it cost $3, we sheepishly paid up and drove past the guard to see the sights.

The summit of Rib Mountain, outside of Wausau, WI, was surprisingly beautiful to me. As a soon-to-be-junior in college, I had resigned myself to the assumption that the midwest held nothing of comparison in altitude to Casper, Wyoming. As a comparison to home, I attended college about 20 miles from the bump known as Buck Hill, which provoked my incredulous laughter the first few times I saw it (and now boasts itself as the original training ground of Olympic champion Lindsey Vonn, so, who got the last laugh here?) But, I digress.

What I remember about this day in particular was feeling completely serene, with the nagging sense it was all about to shift once again. Inertia, my friends: Brian, soon to be on his way to Germany for a year; Pete and Leah, to Ireland and Florence, respectively. I would stay at St. Olaf, live on campus, and continue about daily life without a sizable portion of my friends who scattered for study abroad. We took our day in Wausau as a pause to everything else: a time to enjoy each other, talk about soccer, cook dinner, drink beer... and really, without knowing, consider the transition that comes with the shift from the first half of college to the second. I had a sort of weight on my chest all weekend, knowing my trek out to the Midwest would end with prolonged goodbyes to these people. The next time I saw them, we would all be a little different, naturally. Though I can't speak for them, this completely un-posed photo exposes certain unspoken vulnerabilities in their facial expressions. Only they know what those were, and that seems to be the beauty of it.

Sometimes I hesitate to write entries with "aww, friendship!" as the overarching theme, but what started as a tribute to this July day brought up more than I predicted. That's the thing with lingering friendships, I guess. They are impossible to simply gloss over. Some are deeper than others, but the mutual understanding of "keep in touch" works. It works just fine.

to my travel companions (January 10)

"One belongs to New York instantly. One belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years." - Thomas Wolfe, American writer

Seeing New York for the first time is an incredible experience, similar to the deep kind of personal emotion you only express to those closest to you (if anyone at all). Stepping off the subway, weaving through the crowd on the platform, climbing the stairs and emerging onto a Manhattan street, you emerge into a frenetically paced yet graceful city. Honking horns, bright colors, yelling people, lights stretched to the sky... it is hard to take in at once.

To have this experience for yourself is one thing; to witness it for two of your best friends is something else. New York is one of my favorite places on Earth, in and of itself, but it was that much better in the company of our little group. Crammed cozily into a 2-bed room in a hotel above the David Letterman studio, we became our own little travel guide to the city. Ellen, your constant proclamations of surprised love for New York and its hidden quirks -- hilarious. Molly, your thoughtful processing of the world in front of you (and surviving it like a champ with that vicious cold) -- impressive. And Amy, our navigator, another month-long former New York resident like me -- so subtly enthusiastic. Sometimes along with other Minnesotan buddies and NYC transplants, we toured with the best of the tourists (the Today Show, Rockefeller Center's tree, Top of the Rock) and fit in with the most authentic of New Yorkers (the heated rooftop bar in little Korea, next to the Empire State Building; Grimaldi's Pizza in Brooklyn; a night bar-hopping, starting at Brendan's place of employment, Choice). What I loved about this trip was the gusto with which we all took it on. We didn't take much time for rest, but we took time to soak it in. When someone wanted to see something, we unquestioningly made it happen for them. When someone needed a break to sit down and have a pretzel, it was okay. And, when someone so unashamedly declared her love for Matt Lauer by taking 20+ pictures of him with her 10x zoom lens, she was wholeheartedly supported.

This is the way to see the city: mix a few days with good friends, an understanding for a full schedule, and a curiosity to see every facet of what it has to offer. And then, know that you will undoubtedly be back. It is the only way to see it all.

happy vday (February 06)

Valentine's Day. Dateless. In college. More specifically, a small, 96% residential, female-heavy college. Not necessarily the stuff of great romance.

For four years, the build-up to February 14 was a melee of red paper hearts, conversations about relationships, love song (and breakup song) playlists, and the student body bleeding red and pink skirts, shirts, dresses. It was enough to get you in the spirit, if V-day was your kind of thing. If it wasn't, it had the potential to send even the most confident of girls into a spiral of self-pity.

Sophomore year, a group of friends and I decided to have some fun with this depression and wear all black, buy copious amounts of sugary foods (i.e. entire cartons of mint chocolate chip), and line our eyes with black while sob-laugh-crying to Mandy Moore's worst, "How to Deal." It was purposely pathetic, awesome, and in that way, completely memorable. I laughed more in that little Larson Hall room than I probably would have on some awkward date. It was the exact opposite of depressive and sad and bitter.

For me, college Valentine's Days were actually lovely. Junior year, my hilariously quirky friend Ellen made me a Valentine with "Happy VD" inscribed on it. Nothing like a little STD humor to spice up a holiday. I had never felt so appreciated than first-year V-day, when every freshman girls' corridor woke to pink and red paper hearts hanging in front of our doors. A poem and two Hershey's kisses were attached, simple gestures from "The Men of St. Olaf" to warm our hearts. Later I found out, unsurprisingly, it happened to be the work of three of my favorite male classmates. I think I still have that little paper heart somewhere in my boxes of college memorabilia.

Everyone takes this day in a different stride, and I'm no different. I've always been a little apathetic about Valentine's Day as a romantic holiday, mainly because it's been more of the "single's awareness"-style post-high school (and because, regardless, Mom will always remember to send a little something special). And that's okay. Honestly, bitterness dissolves. If anything, February 14 is simply a nice excuse for me to pause, consider the people who I value the most, enjoy some extra chocolate, and, yes: enjoy the glow of warm-hued holiday attire all over town.

travel season (late August 09)

We met this guy while on a week-long work roadtrip to all corners of Wisconsin and back. On a pleasant late summer day in August, why wouldn't you bust out the black jeans, slap on some shades, mount the unicycle and let the wind whip through your (chest)hair?

Sights like this epitomize my work travel season in the fall: I just never know what local flavor I'll meet on the road. For this trip, I traveled with my coworker/friend/caretaker Miriam who had the wheel at this point. Right off the highway, outside of Wisconsin Rapids, exiting the local gas station... where was he going? From where did he come? Did he see me with the lens pressed to the window like a creep as Miriam eased down on the brake? What is his story?

People are so strange and funny and fascinating. I can't get enough.

what a life (December 09)

You know that moment when FINALLY the puppy has CHILLED OUT for the evening, in sync with your desire for a quick nap? To me, there are few sweeter moments than when the family dog willingly jumps onto the couch next to me and wiggles her way under my arm. I love my parents' 2-year old Lab, Lucy, because of this very reason: like me, she is an extrovert, but needs her time to recharge. I relate to her desire to nap when others are away and exert herself beyond sanity when people are home.

I talked to my dad on the phone today, and even his quick mention of taking "the little sh*tter" on a walk provoked a little pang of jealousy. When Lucy's in the state opposite of what's pictured above, she is something. She hasn't quite mastered leash obedience, and in that way, she's not too unlike the kids you see harnessed up on leashes in big cities: curious, unaware, and blissfully in love with discovery.

On nights like this, everything else becomes neutral. Lucy positions herself next to those who don't mind a little extra dog hair on the clothes and, in return, need a little bit of puppy love.

vistas (wyoming, vol. 1, November 09)

This view of the National Elk Refuge from across the highway (at the National Wildlife Art Museum, naturally) makes me crave Wyoming. I always revert back to writing about my home state, especially during times when the winter's forced solitude forces me to turn life over and over to examine. I'm sure I've made the right decision with my permanent move to Minnesota. But sometimes, what I wouldn't give for a vista like this.

Over Thanksgiving, my mom and I met up in Jackson Hole to do work and some play. As I drove from the Art Museum into town, I realized: I miss this place. Sure, my own hometown isn't exactly the Tetons, but the view from my bedroom and our miles of perfect skiing aren't too shabby at all. To experience the raw wilderness of Wyoming (when, for example, driving across the state), one must get to a point where you feel completely vulnerable.

It's imperative to get to a place where you feel so incredibly tiny, it forces you to believe in a larger presence than humanity. To be in nature helps me find spirituality, and staring across the elk refuge in the first few hours after my flight provoked this. Majesty is commonplace in Wyoming. I realized this profoundly when I left these wide-open-spaces (cue Dixie Chicks) for the hilly, treed landscape of Minnesota. I was aware as a kid, but it wasn't so apparent during the high school sports bus trips across the state, or from lookout point on Casper Mountain, or swimming in a mountain-top creek pool after a 7-hour hike. When I moved to Northfield in 2004, it dawned one me: Wyoming, my home, is truly spectacular.

Everytime I go back, I become a little quieter, dress down a little more, and revel in the solitude of my home and the view of Casper Mountain from my bed. We all probably have our own little vistas to keep us cozy.

perusing local literature (October 04)

The other night, my friend/neighbor/coworker/part-time caretaker Miriam and I zoned out while Facebooking - lethal to productivity. Among the oldest pictures tagged of us, of over 1,000 each, is this little gem from college.

I remember my first year vividly, with all of its adjustments, new experiences, different perspectives, and - more than anything - the fantastic array of people who were thrown together in the class of 2008. My favorite class, American Conversations (or AMCON!) was an example of this. I got to know personalities from our class' top scholars to our football recruits, Conservative and Liberal viewpoints, urban and rural backgrounds, students from all corners of the country. All so different, all so appreciated. As we unpacked American history and cultural practices, we also unpacked each others' stories. In the process, under the watchful wing of the accidentally-maternal professor, we became like one big happy family of 40. With finals came my first literal all-nighter, culminating in witnessing a magnificent springtime sunrise from the Hoyme Hall student lounge and an almost-breakdown of a sweet friend when her computer crashed at 6AM. I took about 5 minutes to close my eyes while my other sweet friend drove to Caribou and bought me a large latte... after downing that, the next few hours ranged near-crash to a jittery, heart-racing two hours in the final. I still remember that caffeine rush as possibly more terrifying one of my life.

After sophomore year, as scheduling requires, our time in AmCon came to an end. This photo, taken by my perpetual-photographer friend Lauren (thank god, someone's got to do it!), brings back a few things vintage: my blonde highlights and the now-defunct college equivalent of The Onion, satirical looks at campus life. I also still own that sweatshirt, though it's faded a few shades lighter with a few more holes. Magdalena and Miriam remain close to me, and yes, I still wear my glasses after I've been up all night.

Those few minutes reading The Pickle together, laughing over its sarcastic, anonymous articles, somehow capture the warmth of our little class. It's unlike any other community - or family - I've known.

mmmm mmmm good (Novembers since '86)

If a collection of pixels can provoke my mouth to salivate, this one takes the cake. It may not be the most amazing photo, but it's what inside that counts. My absolute favorite food is my dad's FAMOUS Thanksgiving(-and-sometimes-Christmas-when-we-guilt-trip-him) AMAZING, MINDBLOWING STUFFING. We don't actually "stuff" anything with this, however, because this deserves its own fancy platter. It would be sacrilege to shove this up the cavity of some dead bird.

My favorite part of Thanksgiving Day are the two hours when all other production is shut down in the kitchen for Chef Bob to focus. What I love about my dad in the kitchen is what a PRODUCTION it is. To his credit, making this dish isn't like tossing an egg on the frying pan. There are many things to chop, season, simmer, saute, butter, taste, and let me sample. Dad goes about it like he does all other tasks: with tenacity and desire to be the best. For once, my precious mom plays sous-chef. And it is the best. Arguably, it Dad's stuffing is the most popular dish at all holiday tables in the family.

Every year, there's something different added or taken away. Ingredients include pine nuts, bread, celery, rosemary, thyme, craisins, oregano, sometimes apple chunks, sometimes orange zest. There is something so unique about the flavor. It's buttery and tangy and salty and sweet and I always demand he make extra so we can enjoy days of leftovers. I take no shame in reheating it for breakfast.

Maybe he's no Bobby Flay, but Chef Bob earns his kitchen bragging rights and even more of our adoration every holiday. It lasts for those other 364 days. One of my fears is that I won't ever get some kind of recipe from him because he never writes it down and always improvises. I do take some comfort, and confidence, in my years and years of taste-testing. Plus, it has to be in the genes somewhere.