View the accompanying article here.

Wow, what a beautiful day! Let's go to the park.

The local laundromat is refusing to shovel the walk? Is this even a real business? How do customers get in and out? Ridiculous.

Perhaps this homeowner decided there is no point in shoveling if the business next door refuses to do it. Or maybe the other way around...either way, this is unacceptable.

Here we are, playing in the snow and juggling on a gorgeous day in north Moorhead's Northeast Park.

Dylan chasing his young "friend" he just met with a chair on the skating rink. Another citizen brought the chair to help her daughter learn to skate. Good times.

One of the worst offenders in my neighborhood completely refuses to remove the snow piled up by the plow at the cutout.

Wow, by far the best job in the neighborhood, this person not only does the minimum, but clears the snow right down to the sidewalk the entire length of the property including two cutouts to the street. Well done and thank you!

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As the snow continues to pile up, it is another tough year for shovelers and snow-blowers alike.  Motorola wielding motorists are forced to slow their SUVs down to the speed limit to avoid the accidents, mailmen forget all about dogs, and children are made to walk in the streets due to unshoveled sidewalks.

Only one man has the audacity to remove the offending drifts and deposit the snow where it belongs, piled against the doors and vehicles of the offending property.   Along with his quart-sized sidekick, Sled Boy, they patrol the streets of north Moorhead, clearing away the injustice of inaction.

Where did Shovel Man come from?  His origins are not shrouded in mystery, they are a matter of public record and common sense.  For too long has the city shifted the burden of reporting and enforcing snow shoveling ordinances onto the lower middle and working classes, for too long have three car garages proliferated as sidewalk-less cul-de-sacs spread further and further from elementary schools and grocery stores.

One night, our hero had enough.  Vigilantism was born of frustration as he was trying to pull his three year old son to the nearest snow mountain for an hour of pretending to walk on the moon and sledding.  Their progress came to an abrupt halt as the sidewalk first narrowed, then became an impenetrable wall of inconsideration.

“Groove Your Body,” the billboards exhort.  “Get more exercise,” the doctors advise, “Use less oil,” suggest the guardsmen on their third tour in Afghanistan.  And yet the roads are plowed while the sidewalks devolve into an impassable potemkin village of propriety.  Considerate homeowners clear their walk only to have it blocked up at the corner by the lout who is unwilling to clear the crucial area where the sidewalk meets the gutter.

24 hours after each snowfall, Shovel Man and Sled Boy patrol the neighborhood.  When an offending property is identified, they carve their symbol into the snow as a warning to the occupants that justice will be served.  The symbol is well known and need not be reproduced here as all who need fear retribution from Shovel Man and Sled Boy are quite familiar with the consequences.  When you wake up and find you are unable to leave your house or enter your car, please think not of the inconvenience and extralegal comeuppance you have received, but of the silent and long suffering masses who have finally found a voice, beating swords into shovels on the way to plowshares.

*simulposted to FamilyAndLiving*

Uff da.  We had a bad day yesterday.  Dylan, myself, and most of all Baby Julia.  The Juje has been on the edge of something big.  She has been saying a few words, signing others (ASL style), and getting into everything.  Part of the everything Julia loves to get into includes her brother’s face.  “No Julia!  Stop it!  Daddy!” has been the refrain.

We had the car for the day as Nelly carpooled with a friend, and it seemed a shame to continue our housebound streak when we had an opportunity to play with other kids, so I scheduled an afternoon appointment at the downtown YMCA playstation.

The playstation is great for at-home parents like myself, as it offers the all important two-fer: exercise for me, playtime with others for the children.  What could be better to cure the wintertime blues?  We had taken the bus downtown the last few times and really enjoyed it, but my muscles were like jelly by the time we arrived home, what with carrying baby and gear to the bus stop, walking from the Ground Transportation Center to the Y, working out for an hour, then getting us back home.

So there I was, fifteen minutes into a workout that was to include cardio, weight lifting, jumping rope, and sitting in a hot room with large naked men when a playstation attendant pulled me from the elliptical machine. She was sorry to have to do it, but Julia was inconsolable.

Skipping both sauna and shower, I hustled while thinking to my snide self it was too bad they couldn’t handle a baby crying.  When I opened the door, I understood.  She was inconsolable.  Tired, cranky, and straight up screamy, she alternated between shrieking and shaking until she fell asleep in the car a few minutes from home.

Getting out of the Y and to the relative safety of our car was enough of a challenge, thank goodness we did not also have a bus to catch.  Dylan exacerbated the situation, adding his own growls and complaints to the melodramatic millieu.  His usual dawdling and insistence on the proper order of putting on his winter stuff could not be altered, no matter how eloquently I stated the need for his complete and prompt cooperation.  Uff da.

I handled things fairly well, but will admit that I was very snappy and out of sorts for the rest of the evening, until the children were safely asleep.  It was a tough day.

Early this morning, I crawled into bed expecting baby girl to be there, and I discovered what all the fuss was about.

“She’s still in her crib where you put her down last night,” Janelle told me.  “She slept through the night.”

Now how great is that?  Good days and bad, progress and regress, it is all time well spent here at the big house in Moorhead.

*simulposted to FamilyAndLiving*

One day I woke up and recalled that I had left a load of laundry in the washing machine overnight.  Whoops.  Next I realized that despite mashing the button repeatedly, the dryer had quit working.  Damn!  Janelle and I used the local laundromat as a stopgap solution, but we were unsure of what to do.  Should we buy a new energy efficient model on credit?  Perhaps find a $100 used dryer on Craigslist?  What would we do with the old one?  Luckily, Janelle’s parents came to visit and my father-in-law, Mike, convinced me that “It’s probably just the belt.”  Ok, let’s take this stuff apart!

It was indeed the belt, it slithered out like a skinny garter snake once the panels were removed from the appliance.  Mike and I bonded over tension wheels, the mechanics of rotating drums, transcribing part numbers and hoping that I would be able to reassemble the machine once the belt (ordered online) arrived.  My mind wandered to other projects over the years with my step-dad and my dad, and the inevitability of helping my children with such things down the road.  Who knows, maybe by then I will be better at pretending I know what I am doing.

The belt was still in transit when the lowest pressure system in local meteorological history (behaving like a hurricane does over open water) blew through Moorhead, throwing another home maintenance crisis toward this not so handy man.  The gutters were plugged and the rain was making its way inexorably down through my wooden house rather than taking the pre-approved metallic route, dripping water into our spare bedroom and front entry.  Heroic action was required, our house was depending on me.

Dylan understood my urgency as I placed Baby Julia in her crib/baby jail and crawled out onto the roof on my belly, instantly soaked and buffeted by the high speed winds of the storm.  Risking injury and the wrath of my children I was able to unplug the gutters, yet the damage was done.  The towel in our entry was replaced by a bucket and my sense of elation at battling the elements was doused by the shame of visible water damage.

The following day, the UPS guy knockdropped a dryer belt at my door.  I read the instructions and waited patiently for one of my two children to fall asleep.  While it is difficult to repair something with one child awake, it would be tempting disaster to start such a project with two eager assistants.  Julia nodded off, Dylan “helped” me for ten minutes and then was whisked off to Neverland with Peter Pan and Captain Hook while I replaced the part and reassembled the dryer, enjoying my newfound understanding of how the thing actually works.

I spent the remainder of the day in an unsettled mood as I wavered from the thrill of empowerment to the despair of futility.  The dryer was fixed, but the water damage remained.  I finally found some comfort in subterfuge as I stealthily laundered the accumulated dirty clothes without telling my wife about my handyman exploits and savored her reaction when she found out I fixed something.  Some day I will be the relative expert when stuff goes wrong, and I thank my fathers for showing me the way.

Janelle went back to work full time at the library on October 1st, so we have changed up our parenting strategy once again.  It was great for Nelly and the baby to have her working a bit less this past ten months.  By putting in 32 hours a week at the office, she was able to spend more time with both kids as I picked up additional shifts working as a professional caregiver to keep our financial boat afloat.  Our overall strategy has been to spend as much time as possible on non-market work like spending days with our children, and as much time as necessary at market work to allow for a more secure financial future.   So does this mean I am a “stay at home dad” again?  Perhaps, in the sense that my wife is clearly the primary breadwinner and I spend the majority of my time on parenting and household related tasks.  But who says we have to stay home?

Last year at this time there seemed to be no end to the cold, rainy bleakness that was October, now the sun does not seem to know when to quit.  The spectacular October days have allowed us to maintain our mobility despite having rejoined the ranks of one car families, and we have ambitious plans to ride the bus to the YMCA once it gets too cold to take the bicycle trailer.

We are not alone in acting on our belief that young children ought to spend as much time as possible with their parents, or our belief that flexibility in parenting roles is more practical and fulfilling than adherence to outdated ideas about gender and breadwinning.  At the moment, I am preparing to spend the next 29 hours with my mentally and physically handicapped clients, my contribution to the bottom line.  The shift is likely to involve dealing with cooking, dishes, violence, and excrement.  A small price to pay for the privilege of dealing with these same events each day with my own two children.

Last week while Janelle and I were watching the local forecast, the weatherman used the term “Indian Summer”, sparking a lively discussion.  Is it politically correct to use the phrase, and if not, is there a better term for the phenomenon?

A few days later, the kids and I were enjoying  a beautiful day out with the bicycle trailer, park hopping along the swollen Red River.   The rapids near the dike were  barely visible as we passed the Main Avenue bridge, water churning over the submerged boulders for a change.  We rode south to Lindenwood, playing at several playgrounds alongside others taking advantage of the spectacular fall weather.  Loading up again, we crossed the barely passable pedestrian bridge into Moorhead then on to Davy Park to eke out a bit more playtime before a mid-afternoon siesta.

The water fountains in Davy Park were still functional (a relief since we were running low) and the picnic table adjacent to the playground was occupied by a group of five Native Americans, four men and one woman.  We did not interact at first, but when I came back to refill a sippy cup one of the men commented on how it was almost “Indian summer” weather, but for the small amount of rain.  My mind flashed to the debate over the term and scored a point on the side of common usage over the protests of sensitive nomenclature.  The man produced a dollar bill, asking me to take it and “buy something nice for my baby”.  An open (and nearly empty) bottle of mouthwash sat in the middle of the otherwise empty table.

I accepted the dollar, thanking the man but insisting that I show him some tricks with my juggling ball by way of trade.  The group was impressed with my skills, so much so that the most intoxicated man began babbling about sorcerers and witchcraft.  Another man, also clearly drunk, saw that I was wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and asked if I knew what made him so great.  I confessed that I did not know, that I played a little bit of guitar but could never play like Jimi.  “It was the smoke,” he pronounced, and I politely agreed.

Finally, the man who gave me the dollar asked the question he had been holding, “Are you American Indian?”  My lame responses followed, about how I am not but that I went to high school near the reservation and count several natives as friends, and how I am occasionally mistaken for an American Indian due to my dark complexion and hair.  Dylan decided that our interesting cultural exchange was over by ramping up the volume of his voice so I made my excuses, wished them a good day, and set off for home.

So now that is settled.  If they are comfortable using the terms “American Indian” and “Indian summer” then so am I.   I wonder though, whether the dollar would have been offered if I were blonde and blue eyed?  I think so, and am proud to have taken the time and perceived risk to hang out and talk with some intoxicated American Indians here in Moorhead on an unseasonably warm autumn day.

On Sunday, August 8th, I jumped out of an airplane at 13,000 feet, fell through space at 120 mph for the shortest minute of my life, shot through double rainbows in the clouds, and managed not to get in the way as the guy strapped to my back brought us in for a safe landing.  Whoooo!

My father who art in Eagan surprised my stepmom, Diane, by bringing together all of the children and grandchildren in the family for a skydiving adventure to celebrate her 60th birthday.  As my brother Jordan put it, “It was super cool and we didn’t die.”

Preparing to Land

The level of anticipation is almost unbearable while waiting to skydive.  I told myself many soothing stories about how safe it is, and how there would be an expert running the business end of things while all I had to do was show up, and how the most dangerous part was probably the drive on I-94, but then there were an awful lot of forms to be signed and initialed, and there was a ten minute video to be viewed.  The film featured a man who was dominated by his beard, a kind of eastern mystic meets ZZ Top.  He passed on the zen like wisdom that once you choose to jump out of an airplane you are on your own, liability wise.

Although my lovely wife and children chose not to join in this adventure, I had the joy of spending time with my siblings and nieces while awaiting the jump.  Several of the kids got into some muddy mischief while our infants dozed under canopies, oblivious to the ridiculous lifestyle choices of their primary caregivers.  Watching the tandem jumpers land periodically was both reassuring and terrifying.  If they can do it, why can’t I?  Some of the more experienced skydivers displayed their skills by skating across the landing field as though on ice.  Show-offs.

I was on the third flight with my brother David and his wife Nikki, so far everyone had survived.  We took off and it was on, this was really happening.  I tried to calm my mind with some deep breathing techniques and was interrupted by a joke from my jumpmaster, Brian.  “It’s like the dog whose tail got run over said,” he yelled over the engine noise.  “It won’t be long now!”

It occurred to me that although I had seen many people wearing helmets, none of us were.  Apparently it was all or nothing.  Suddenly the door opened, the jumplights switched on, and my brother dared gravity to do its worst as he disappeared from view.  I swung my legs out and responded to Brian’s insistent slap on my shoulder by jumping out into nothing.

We were off, falling fast and raising our hands into the wind.  The jumpmaster directed our hands to turn left, then right, and as we approached terminal velocity the sensation was like that of flying as much as falling.  Abruptly, the parachute deployed, jerking me up in the harness and slowing us dramatically.

We floated above and through the cumulus with the distant cirrus overhead providing some perspective on how near to earth we really were.  After flying through the shadow of our own parachute surrounded by a double rainbow several times (we aimed for it using the hand straps as though it were a target), we were finally through the cloud cover and the earth took on its more familiar form.

The cars crawled like ants, the roads formed a perfect grid of fields, and a backyard pool was observed as we neared the airfield.  “Belongs to the guy who runs the bar in town,” Brian explained.  I knew which bar he meant, we had each received a free drink coupon as part of the experience.  At the last second, he directed me to land on my own feet, rather than relying solely on his, and my adrenaline surged once again.  I had done it!

One of the short term effects of skydiving is the sense of perspective it brings to fear.  Two days after the jump I was about to perform at a food co-op picnic in Gooseberry park, and the familiar pre-performance jitters started up.  “Shut up,” I told them, “you just jumped out of an airplane, and now you want to be nervous about playing guitar and juggling for a small group of exceptionally nice people?”

The perceived risks of both skydiving and creative performance are outweighed by the adrenaline rush and the feeling that comes after the fear.  You know the one.

Accomplishment

At precisely eleven-eleven pm, Abel glanced up at the clock and listened carefully as the second hand swept noiselessly onward.  One of the periodic breaks in the crying had occurred, and the neonatal intensive care unit was silent.  As a medical resident, Abel had two major responsibilities: to do the jobs none of the other doctors wanted to, and to do them for thirty hours at a pop.  A copy of Stephen Hawking’s “The Theory of Everything” lay open on the desk, and the barely audible radio hummed the inoffensive tunes of adult contemporary.  His shift was nearly at an end, and Abel was finally alone with his thoughts.

“So, if the second law of thermodynamics holds, and Hawking is right about the nature of time and space…” he mused aloud.  “Then the Big Crunch would be the collapse of not only all space, but of all time…right?”

Skip had finally died in this same hospital two months earlier, and Abel preferred to think about the cosmos than about all of the suffering his brother had endured.  It was bad enough that he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer at age 31, but then to not die, for so long, and for so many times.  Abel no longer planned to be an oncologist, having seen firsthand how messy the end of life can be.  How utterly painful and embarrassing.  But now, as the cacophony of crying resumed, he had second thoughts.

The song about life being a highway ended, and the one about how only the good die young began.  Skip, always the comedian, had tried to use that line at their mother’s funeral, the one about how only the good die young.  Abel had been mortified until their Nana spoke up from behind him.

“It’s true you know, about only the good dying young.  Your mother was such a good baby.  She never cried.  Well, never for no apparent reason anyway, and she never got upset about things the way your aunts and uncle did.  And to pass like this, so suddenly and peacefully, well that was your mother for you.”

“She got hit by a damn bus!” Skip protested.  “How the hell is that peaceful?”  The tightness in Abel’s forehead ratcheted up another notch.

“You know what I mean,” said Nana.  “She didn’t suffer, and that’s what counts.”

Abel found that the babies in the ICU took turns crying for the most part, but on many shifts there would be an example of the extremes, an infant who screamed non-stop, or more unsettling, one who did not make a peep.  One such angel lay just four feet from him, wakeful and calm.  Abel fought back a sudden urge to pinch her toes just to make her cry.  He hadn’t cried yet himself.  Not since Skip finally left.

How many times had Skip died already?  Eight?  Nine?  Too many.  Too many goodbyes, too many jokes that were not funny, too many awkward silences about how Skip was supposed to die first, not Mom.  And now he was gone for real.  Gone for good.

People didn’t remember his real name was Cain until they saw it on the gravestone.  Just like in the bible, only Abel died first in that story.  Abel barely remembered the funeral.  Alone in a room full of people.  Nana had been there, strong as ever, and she noticed what the others had not.

“I’ll cry for you, dear boy,” she had whispered.  “I know how it was with you, how long it was.  It was so hard for you, and for him.  That part is done now.”

“Thank you, Nana.” He had mumbled politely.  Another well intentioned condolence in an incomprehensible series.  Now he wondered.

Abel flipped open his phone, then snapped it shut.  “It’s too late,” he thought, looking back up at the clock.  Eleven-thirty.  She would be up, likely watching television.

“Call Nana,” he over-enunciated.

“Connecting,” replied the disembodied voice.

“Nana, it’s me.  Are you up?”

“Wouldn’t answer the phone if I wasn’t, what’s up with you?”

“I need to know if Skip cried all the time when he was a baby,” Abel began.  “And if I did.”

“Oh, you cried all right, but only when you needed something.  Or when he punched you.  Other than that you were an angel.  Now your brother was another thing entirely.  ‘Course he wasn’t Skip then.  Skip was always funny even when you knew he was hurting bad inside.  I’m speaking of Cain.”

“I’m listening, Nana.”

“Your mother would feed him, burp him, rock him and just about sock him and he never would be quiet.  Lord, how he must have suffered!  Doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with him, kept saying that some babies just cry and cry.  Colic, they called it.  I called it horsepucky then and still do.  Your mother should have had her head examined naming you boys like that, people naturally assumed all of the crying and the carrying on was due to the story.  Well that’s a bunch of bologna too.  Some people just suffer more than others, that’s all.”

“Thanks, Nana.”

“Guess that’s my cue!  See you soon, Abel my boy.  Don’t work too hard.”

The phone clicked shut and the babies resumed their chorus.  Abel watched the clock and waited.  The angelic infant nearest to him continued to observe the world into which she had recently arrived.

Walking to the newborn baby girl, he took in the slate blue eyes, the bald crown of her head, the delicate yet tenacious existence of new life.  He thought of his brother’s suffering, both at the beginning and at the end, and he thought of his own.

Smashed drinking glasses never reassemble themselves, cars never un-crash once they have collided, and the dead never awaken, but babies don’t know that yet. They are not yet aware of the arrow of time, which goes only in one direction, toward greater entropy, greater chaos, greater darkness.  But what else was there?  Something about how the perception of time is an illusion, that the beginning is the end, and in a finite yet expanding universe there is always room for hope.

“Maybe we’ll be on the same plane when it falls out of the sky,” he told the peaceful one.  “Try to have fun in the meantime.”