Hi! I'm Shane Dawson and I turned one on Jan. 6!

Shane is one-years-old. He has four teeth and says two words: “Mama” and “mum-mum.” “Mum-mum” means food. He can walk like crazy and when he does he gets really excited with himself and laughs along the way. He’s getting better and better and now can weave and bob across the house. It’s amazingly sweet. You can’t help but cheer him on. Even his sister, Gabriella, gets into the excitement and counts his steps. This is quite the coup as she’s a little jealous.

Shane loves unloading drawers in the kitchen and getting into cabinets. He gets scolded when he starts poking around under the sink. He’s claimed two drawers and a cabinet of pans as official areas of play. My wooden spoons and a white spatula are great for beating on the lids of my set of stockpots. I let go long ago and have approved.

Shane’s eyes are magnificent. They’re always changing colors. Sometimes they’re a cool, steely blue. At other times, they’re green. Sometimes they look bright blue; it depends on the light, his clothing and, I believe, his mood. This is a trait he’s inherited from his dad.

Shane loves banana-strawberry yogurt, Mum-Mums, Cheerios and quesadilla slices. When it’s time to eat, I’ll provide a spoon or fork and try to show the boy how to use it, but he prefers to mush things between his fingers. He’s all about how things feel right now. This is most evident by his form of saying “hi,” which is to poke you in the mouth and try to feel your teeth. He does this to everyone. My friend, Jasmine, claims he’s destined to be a dentist. If so, I wouldn’t mind!

My little boy is stout! Not fat, just thick. He weighs nearly as much as his big sister who’s three-years-old and certainly fills out his 12-month-sized clothes. He’s got muscular legs and a squinched little butt that I find utterly adorable.

Shane loves the bathtub. For Christmas and his birthday he got a bunch of bath toys. They are put to use, believe me! That boy has the most fun in the tub and has no fear in the water. When he shares a bath with his sister, it’s the one place where he dominates. He’ll just plow right over Gabriella to get to whatever he wants and he never complains about getting his hair washed – thank heaven!

The latest development is that Shane’s learning to wave “hi.” It’s something I’ve been trying to show him for some time, but two days ago, I swear, I saw the concept click. His eyes got large and he looked at me waving and then did it a few times himself. Now he thinks it’s hilarious and when I see it, my heart warms.

So, one whole year and the boy has survived our crazy family. He’s come so far and so have we all. It was hard having two little ones in the beginning. At times, I didn’t think I had it in me to mother both of my kids well. I keep saying that I need to find a rhythm, but I’m not so sure things we’ll ever get easier, I will just be more practiced to handle them. Not to be a braggart, but I’m now able to simultaneously do laundry, cook dinner, pop in and out of the living room to play with the two kids and sometimes chat on the phone. This is big for me. Despite all of my ineptitude, I’m thankful for my little guy. Shane is beautiful and we’re in this wild ride together. I just hope he can love me a measly fraction of the amount I love him.

Shane's unhappy expressions are even sweet to me.

Life IS good with this guy around.

Shane with his beloved Uncle Andrew.

Shane in the buff.

Shane was a little dinosaur for Halloween. Gabriella picked out his costume.

My little premie baby shortly after we came home from the hospital a little over a year ago.

There was almost a full moon.

Don’t snag a cup of coffee just because it’s the same thing you ordered. People are feisty about their coffee. If you’re wrong, you may just get berated in Italian as I did in an Organic Coffee Co.

Wear comfy shoes. You’ll be walking and typically at a fast pace. The crowd doesn’t slow down to accommodate a wobbly, unsure stride.

One block can make all the difference. For instance, just two and half blocks past Bloomingdale’s you’re in Crackville. I walked that direction to find the Warfield Theatre. I was out and about around 12:30 p.m. on a random Tuesday and I passed some interesting characters. The further I got, the more hyper-aware I became of my pink backpack and straight-laced look.

Anything can happen at anytime. I was right behind a man that did a B-line from the crowd and did a karate-kick, knocking the Salvation Army sign into a poor woman in a Santa hat. After the kick, he kept walking, so did everyone else. Then I realized what he was sipping was a giant can of Budweiser. Nobody seemed surprised except for the poor Santa hat woman. She yelled, “What’s your problem?” I wanted to ask if she was okay, but I didn’t. I kept walking too.

When you're in the Warfield Theatre -- look up!

Smokers can feel the impact of a strong anti-tobacco campaign underway in California. Cigarettes aren’t easy to find. And although you can smoke as you walk, it’s can be difficult to stop and smoke. Fancy, schmancy restaurants and hotels require smokers to be more than 25 feet from their doors and if a smoker finds a nook to partake, then they must endure the abhorrence of serious anti-smokers who stare with expressions of disgust or tell their kids “Smoking is bad!” Here, smoking isn’t cool.

Grab a French panini to munch on when you're killing time before your flight.

There’s so much to do, see and get, you’ll likely blow your budget. Access to trendy shopping, eclectic eateries, the art and music scene, the beautiful Bay area landscape – all of this pulls at the purse strings. The key is to spend sparingly on items that you must carry, but be open to spending an additional $10 for an entrée. Take advantage of the free stuff. There is an abundance of free stuff everywhere as so many entities are competing for your time, your stomach and your pocketbook. Keep your eye out for the goodies. I’ve snagged a free lunch, specialty chocolate, newspapers, luggage tags, an energy shot, calendars, and even free beer. Hey, I’m all about the free.

DON’T WEAR A CONFERENCE BADGE AROUND TOWN. Not only does this look silly, but also you’re a sure-fire target for the crack-head on the corner. If you wanna get hustled keep it on, otherwise, only place that lanyard around your neck when you walk through the Moscone doors. Just sayin’. Coordinators even print the safety tip in their conference program, so take heed. Dress in layers. It can get hot, especially if you’re doing a great bit of walking. It can also quickly turn cold if you’re headed toward the water and it’s windy.

Take a moment and look up, look around. It’s beautiful! The buildings are amazing and they’re everywhere. Old stuff, new stuff, pillars, ornate moulding, manicured gardens on a rooftop, small oases and plazas — there’s plenty to admire.

The mega Rice Krispy Treat is sold on the UAF campus for $1.59. I was only able to eat half. This sucker's huge!

I haven’t written on this blog for a month. I realized this just moments ago and thought, “Hell, I better get work…but what do I write about?” The giant Rice Krispy Treat that I just purchased at the West Ridge Cafe was sitting before me and lo and behold, inspiration struck.

So, Rice Krispy Treats. They’re awesome and they’re easy, so therefore, they are one of my favorite treats to whip up. Although they’re not baked, I also seem to offer these up whenever there’s a bake sale I need to contribute to. Again, they’re not baked, but nobody seems to mind. I think everybody loves Rice Krispy Treats. Seriously, have you ever met a single person that didn’t like them? I know, weird, huh? They’re universally loved. There are millions of hits when you type the words “Rice Krispy Treats” into Google and they’re even included in Wikipedia. The entry’s kinda lame, but I did learn that the treats were developed nearly 100 years ago by the Home Economics Department at the Kellogg Company. They were designed as a fundraiser for Camp Fire Girls.

So, what else about Rice Krispy Treats… oh, the best recipe I’ve ever had for them is one where you brown the butter and you add salt. This may seem odd, but try it and show your love to the Rice Krispy Treat! Here’s the recipe:

Salted Brown Butter Krispy Treats

Makes 16 2-inch squares or 32 1- x 2-inch small bars

4 ounces (1/4 pound or 1 stick) unsalted butter, plus extra for the pan
1 10-ounce bag marshmallows
Heaping 1/4 teaspoon coarse sea salt
6 cups Rice Krispies cereal (about half a 12-ounce box)

Butter (or coat with non-stick spray) an 8-inch square cake pan with 2-inch sides.

In a large pot, melt butter over medium-low heat. It will melt, then foam, then turn clear golden and finally start to turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently, scraping up any bits from the bottom as you do. Don’t take your eyes off the pot as while you may be impatient for it to start browning, the period between the time the butter begins to take on color and the point where it burns is often less than a minute.

As soon as the butter takes on a nutty color, turn the heat off and stir in the marshmallows. The residual heat from the melted butter should be enough to melt them, but if it is not, turn it back on low until the marshmallows are smooth.

Remove the pot from the stove and stir in the salt and cereal together. Quickly spread into prepared pan. I liked to use a piece of waxed or parchment paper that I’ve sprayed with oil to press it firmly and evenly into the edges and corners, though a silicon spatula works almost as well.

Enjoy!

September 26 is T.S. Eliot's birthday (1888) and in celebration, I'm posting sections from a paper I got a real kick out of writing -- it was on "The Waste Land." Enjoy the chunks and then go out and read more Eliot!

There is so much to be learned when a poem is unlocked. The 433 lines of T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” haunts readers and critics alike. It’s an undeniable hallmark of Modern poetry and it’s ambiguity and fragmentation create much opportunity for those willing to delve into the rich work.

The poem was written amidst the Modern Art movement and the social trauma experienced as a result of World War I. It is a reflection of its time. The poem is confusing and chaotic, not only by its shifty and amorphous “I,” but also by it’s mosaic quality and garbled sense of time. Essentially, the poem is a collection of fragments that, when digested together, reveal a jumbled and confused outlook of the early 20^th century.

Eliot’s contemporaries in the visual arts influenced “The Waste Land’s” fragmentation. In the early 1900s, artists were experimenting with the notions of Cubism and Surrealism. These movements aimed to deconstruct form and reality and to embrace a chaotic sensibility. Some scholars claim that “The Waste Land” is the quintessential Surrealist poem because it’s broken into a multitude of fragments. Only when these fragments are taken as a whole do they create an impression of the world or reality. The result is a dreamlike quality.

Tour Eiffel aux arbres by Robert Delaunay is a great example of Cubism.

The influence of Cubism runs strong in the poem as well. A Cubist painter examines his model or inspiration from a multitude of angles and then merges the various views into a single image. Eliot does the same with his fragments in “The Waste Land.” The poet doesn’t just limit himself to a single point of view, a specific time, or place in the poem. Eliot captures many viewpoints and provides them all.

Published in 1922, “The Waste Land” emerged four years after World War I, yet the psychological toll of the war was still apparent. Society’s psyche had taken a tremendous blow, leaving masses of people anxious and hopeless. I read that between 1914 and 1918, eight and a half million soldiers were killed. Additionally, thirteen million civilians died because of massacres, military battles, starvation, exposure and the world’s most destructive outbreak of influenza. Obviously, Eliot and his generation were shrouded in melancholy and this obviously influenced “The Waste Land.”

The poems’ fragmentation parallels the sense of devastation prevalent during the time it was written, and mimics the symptoms of shell shock. Shell shock is considered the signature injury among soldiers of World War I. Helmets were not introduced until two years into the war effort and hordes of soldiers were exposed to exploding ordnances and the horrors of trench warfare. The result was a tremendous population of soldiers afflicted by traumatic brain injuries that had mysterious symptoms and no cure.

In “A Game of Chess,” this shell shock sense of paranoia, anxiety, and sensitivity to noise is most prevalent. Eliot would have been very familiar with this condition at the time he wrote the poem. According to psychologists that penned “Shell Shock and Traumatic Brain Injury,” ten percent of British battle casualties were categorized as some form of shell shock. By 1917, shell shock was responsible for one-seventh of all discharges from the British Army. These facts demonstrate the catastrophic impact this type of injury had on British society, and explains why these symptoms bled into poetry crafted in the early 20^th century.

It will be interesting to note whether there is a resurgence of fragmentation in the poetry of our time. Growing discontent over the American war effort in Iraq and Afghanistan, coupled with a resurgence of traumatic brain injury among soldiers returning from the war, could create an atmosphere similar to the one in which Eliot was writing nearly one hundred years ago.

“The Waste Land” — the poem’s title refers to a barren land, void of life. However, the poem is rife with possibility. The poem contradicts itself continuously and through it’s chaotic nature, some sort of order emerges. The poem speaks to its time and the social fiber in which it was created.

This picture of me was taken ~2000 in the Blue Loon parking lot. It was taken by my good friend Emily on a visit to the 'Banks.

Have you ever been on a blind date? I’ve been on one. It happened way back in 2001 (I think) when I moved back to Alaska. I was living in Anchorage and I didn’t know anyone except my sister and brother-in-law. I was pretty bored. I mean, the family was great, but I needed some friends and at age 24 I wanted to go out. It’s not so fun to indulge in the night life if you’re by yourself. So… I was bemoaning my loneliness to my mother and somehow the news traveled to an old friend of my mom’s who was also living in Anchorage. The result? I was set-up with a young man my mother’s friend worked with. His name was Fritz.

Well, actually that was his nickname, I don’t remember his real first or last name because the encounter was totally anticlimactic. Numbers were passed along and Fritz called one afternoon when I got home from work. He seemed nice enough on the phone and I was sort of impressed that he was willing to meet me. I mean, I would never have the gumption to just call someone out of the blue and say, “Hi. I heard about you. Want to go out?” He did, though. The scenario seemed promising. I learned he was at an entry level job at a large bank in Anchorage and had just returned from a whirlwind European adventure. Cool. I was down to meet. He gave me directions to a coffee house. It all seemed peachy.

Well, turns out the coffee house was off of this weird frontage road that only ran in one direction. I missed the road and then got lost finding my way back. You might wonder: Why didn’t you just call and get directions? Well, this was before every single living, breathing being had a cell phone, so it wasn’t so easy. I had to try and figure things out on my own. I showed up more than half an hour late. When I arrived there was a blonde fellow standing outside the coffee shop. I thought it may be Fritz, but he seemed really young, so I went inside to look around. Nobody inside looked like they were waiting or looked like their name might be Fritz. I went up to the counter and ordered a caramel latte. With coffee in hand, I plopped into a nearby table and contemplated what to do. Should I ask all of the males around if they were Fritz? That would be slightly embarrassing as I moved from table to table. Should I leave? I mean I don’t know if I’d wait after a half an hour. What’s the likelihood this guy would stick around just waiting and waiting? Just as I rose to head back outside to see if Fritz was the blonde dude by the door, in came Fritz. He was the blonde dude. He said, “Amy?”

He sat down and we proceeded to talk. Well, first I gushed with apologies because I really did feel bad that I had almost stood him up. Fritz seemed like a nice guy. I remember we talked about his trip and getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road when he was in the UK. I don’t remember what degree he had just graduated from UAA with, but what does linger is the fact that he seemed so young – teenagerish. The poor guy was just three years younger than me, but that seemed like an eternity in the early 20s domain. He seemed like a baby and although he was cute, I saw him more as a brother. Several ounces into my 16-ounce coffee I knew the chance for romance with Fritz was probably not gonna happen. I wasn’t even sure if we’d see each other again.

After about 45 minutes of chatting, I made up an excuse of why I needed to leave. I can’t remember what it was, but I wanted to zip out to my car and have a smoke, drive away and sorta reflect on whether I could date someone younger than me. You see, going younger has never been my thing. Ever since I was 14, I’ve dated people older than me. I remember, at the time, the idea of dating someone like Fritz made me feel old. Plus, although he was nice and seemed like he had his life together, I just got too much of a goody-goody vibe. Hell, I wanted to party. I liked loud music, dancing and drinking. He seemed like he was totally career-driven (even at 21) and did a lot of reading. Please, don’t misunderstand the 24-year-old Amy. I was into my career. I liked to read, but I needed to date someone more like me. Despite the potential match my mom and her friend thought they were making, I felt that I couldn’t comply. I decided that I wouldn’t call him again right there in my car before I ever even left the coffeehouse. I could even see him in the rearview mirror. I figured, if he called me, I would consider going out with him again. You know, give him a second chance. I didn’t want to be mean, but I wouldn’t be calling him.

Well, I never had the opportunity to decline another meeting. My ego took a blow as days went by and Fritz never called. I was a little upset because I felt rejected and although I had every intention of rejecting him, this sorta stung. I started thinking about the blind date more and more. What was it about me that he didn’t like? These questions spurred a week or two of self examination. I got a little reality check and learned that maybe I wasn’t all that. It was a good lesson to learn. I suppose that’s why all these years later, Fritz and that caramel latte come back to mind. Hmmm.

Adam likes to discuss religion. He enjoys talking to folks about what they think and why. I think we're on a missionary circuit because we usually have visitors from two different faiths at our house most weekends. I know it's childish, but I don't answer the door when they come. Adam, on the other hand, will talk to them for an hour or more. I think he's good training for them!

On a recent Tuesday at about 11 a.m., Adam ran into a man he now coins “The Prophet.” He saw him at the West Farmer’s Loop Transfer Station, which is a nice way to say, “the Dump.”

As Adam unloaded the demolition debris from the bed of our pick-up, the Prophet approached. He asked, “Can I sing you a song?” Adam didn’t say “yes,” but motioned it was okay.

“He started off with a rendition of ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.’ Then he said, ‘If you don’t like rain, then you don’t like God. If you don’t like it, then you don’t like anything God does.”

The Prophet then erupted into song again – something, Adam believes, he made up from the Bible.

After his second song, he stared into the truck at our kids. Adam laughs proudly when he tells me that Gabriella looked at him and swiftly pushed the button to roll her window up, all the way.

After Gabriella’s rebuff, the Prophet then professed that if we all were to trust in Jesus, we wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Adam’s attention was taken for awe and the Prophet proceeded.

He told Adam about a trip to a village near Tijuana he’d made a pilgrimage to. There, the Prophet saw people making their homes from mud and growing food in poor soil. In that village, little kids would sit down and listen to him preach. He then quickly segued into the Permanent Fund Dividend and how it was the reason for his trip North. The Prophet wanted to use the Dividend for good, he said, but then felt too guilty upon his arrival to see it through. He was saddened by what the oil was doing to the earth and therefore, couldn’t use the dividend at all. Now, he claims to live a petroleum-free life.

The Prophet lives in the woods, somewhere near the transfer station across from the university’s Taku Parking Lot.

My husband, whose reverence always impresses me, wasn’t deterred by the indications of the balding man’s twisted mind. He engaged. He asked him what he heard when he prayed. He was surprised by the Prophet’s response, so much so, that we’ve talked about it several times since. The experience was moving enough for me to ask more questions – enough, at least, to write this post.

The Prophet told him that God is above the conscience. When you speak to God, you hear him through your own inner voice.

“I told him that that was the most intelligent answer I’d gotten from any kind of clergy about that. Then I told him that I asked God why I couldn’t see his face or hear his voice.”

Adam relayed a story of a time he’d thought those thoughts while driving on a long road trip. He explained that in his mind, he asked what God sounded like. Was he supposed to hear something outside of what he heard in his mind’s eye?

“About that time, I was driving down the road and a caribou darted in front of me. Then through my inner voice, I thought about how the beauty of a sunset, a pretty mountain, cloud formations, a perfect animal, anything natural that you enjoy looking at, was God’s face. His voice is then the sound of the wind in the trees, the water over the rocks in a brook, or the sound of a loon on a lake – all of this is God’s voice.”

When Adam told the Prophet this, he said the man’s jaw dropped.

If you can believe it, I came across this photo I took of "The Prophet" from May of 2009. Here he is near the University of Alaska Fairbanks with his train of carts filled with cardboard boxes.

“He said that all of his hair was standing on end. He said that he felt like the Holy Spirit was touching him. By that time, we heard the ‘beep, beep, beep’ of a dump truck backing up,” Adam said. He was eager to break free.

I asked Adam, “Do you think the guy’s nuts?”

“Yep,” he said. “I think he’s touched, but I think anyone that converses with God constantly, all day long, is cared for by God.”

He’ll be okay, we suppose.

“I think most of his conversations are one-sided, so to connect with the guy and have him actually listen was probably pretty rare.”

“I’d heard of him before, having conflict with other folks that had talked with him. I even had a little conflict with him when I tried to shake his hand. He said, ‘I don’t shake hands. If we talk about God, we’re embracing like brothers in the Holy Spirit!”

“I told him, I said, ‘God bless you, my friend — Can I tell you that?’”

The Prophet didn’t say anything. He just motioned it was okay.

This was the close of the two’s conversation. Adam hopped in the truck and only looked back at him through the rear view mirror as he drove away.

The Billion Bubbles Machine: The best five bucks I've ever spent! This was a hit at Gabriella's party. The kids loved this thing. They'd move their chairs so the machine would blow the bubbles right in their face! It was weird. Here's a bubbly Gabs with her long-time bud Jade.

In the last week or so, we’ve celebrated a birthday, sold wood, sold burgers and I read a book, spurring a nice dinner with some friends. It’s not the glamorous life, but it’s a good one.

On July 31, we celebrated Gabriella’s third birthday! Watching her excited face when friends and family sang “Happy Birthday” was awesome! You could just see the pride beaming from her. That will definitely be a memory that’s burned into the brain. When I think back, years from now, I hope what I remember is her little face at that moment. Right now she’s playing with a puzzle and trying to avoid her bedtime. She’s a stinker.

Adam’s been a wood-cutting madman. He says we should change the family name to “Sawyer” because he’s been spending most evenings up near Mountain Runner, clearing land and harvesting the logs. Most people want birch and there’s certainly a demand even though we’re in early August. The weather’s changed. Even when it’s sunny there’s a chill. Plus, there’s more rain. I think folks are getting a little taste of what’s to come, so they’re being proactive. I wish I could be that forward thinking. Unfortunately, I spend most of my domestic life in a constant state of defense. Hopefully, this will change once my kids aren’t so little.

This was the best out of the six photos I took of Adam and the kids. We have some squirmy kids!

This was the first weekend of the Tanana Valley State Fair and I worked a shift at the UAF  Alumni Burger Booth. It’s cool because we’ve got a returning crew. We got the name the “Journalism Junkies several years ago” and, as you would guess, all of us have a Journalism connection. Most have worked at the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner and all of us got our BAs over the last three decades through the UAF Journalism Department. We’ve all been journalists and then shifted into motherhood and cushier jobs at the University — you know, we needed benefits and maybe a more predictable pace. It was rainy most of our shift, so I think we ended up selling more coffees than burgers. I still had fun, though. I like the chit-chat over the grill and the pretzels with cheese were the bomb.

July was my month to make a selection for the book club. I chose a novel from the 1990s called Sleeping Beauties. It’s by Susanna Moore and is full of sensual Hawaiian scenery and, I guess I’d say, it’s a little racy. I enjoyed the story of Clio — an island girl who has a watery spirit and the weight of her lineage pushing her to explore the world beyond the islands. She’s Hawaiian royalty and lives with her aunt that’s an expert on all island things — plant life, legend, family history. Clio marries on a whim and leaves the islands, she never fits in, though. She relocates to L.A. where everything is synthetic, even the body parts of her husband’s entourage. She returns to Hawaii, rekindles the love of her birthplace in Molokai and forges a connection with a man she remembers from childhood. I’m still trying to figure out the symbolism and what it all meant. It’s a whirlwind I’m trying to sort out. The dinner and pitcher of margaritas had over discussion were just as enjoyable as the book. I had some awfully good company — my book club ladies are inspiring, intelligent and funny. Love ‘em!

Diana, gettin' serious with cheese sauce prep., Ms. Bohman on the grill in her chic pink glasses that I always ask her about and the newbie -- Reba. She graduated in '09 and was on the burger-wrap station. I think Marmian initiated her into the Journalism Junkies by making her cut up all of the onions. Poor girl.

Anyways, so those are the latest odds and ends of my life here in the far north. Next up: berry-picking and scooping some salmon out of the Copper River. I’ve got to figure out a way to make it happen as the days are going by so fast! Wish me luck.

According to my three-inch-thick Gardner's Art Through the Ages, the work of Abstract Expressionists "had a look of rough spontaneity and exhibited a refreshing energy; their content was intended to be grasped intuitively by each viewer, in a state free from structured thinking."

Mermaid hair billowing under the water. The thick, sudsy ribbon-like things that hang down and slither soap all over your vehicle in a car wash — on acid! Rainbow sea grass and anemones on some faraway reef. These are what came to mind when I looked at this little masterpiece my daughter created.

I don’t believe my daughter had any predisposition about what she wanted to create when she loaded up the painting app on my iPhone and began selecting colors and running her fingers over the small screen. She’s not yet three. I believe the act purely spontaneous, spurred along by the fun and excitement of it all. She was creating and it made her feel good.

That’s the cool thing about art. It has a ripple effect — sending a surge of emotion beyond the self and out into the world. I came upon this virtual painting in my phone’s photo album. My daughter had inadvertently saved the image there and I came across it a day or two later. At first, I was a little miffed to have 32 such paintings residing in my photo album, but then I got to really looking at them and I found that I was taken with a few. They caught my attention, made me stop and analyze. They ignited a fuse and my brain went on a wild path of thought from abstract expressionism to Sartre to the idea of improvisational Jazz. All that — I’m not exaggerating! — from the artwork of a three-year-old rascal that giggles and finds it tremendously funny to blow bubbles, step in puddles and rip the pages from her coloring books. Again, though, isn’t that the purpose of art — to stimulate thought or to create an emotion? I always thought so. Therefore, I now proclaim my little Gabriella an artist!

This is good news because her birthday is in 13 days and she’s getting an easel, paints and an artist’s smock. Maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better for footing the bill for another huge kid-thing that will live in the corner of my living room, or maybe I already had an inclination that she would be up for art since her dad and grandmother are artists. I’m not sure, but I’ll keep you posted.

A dose of mountain energy is apparently good for the soul.

“I’m going to put my head over that sink. I need to pour some cold water over my head.”

About 48 hours ago (at the time I wrote this entry), Adam wasn’t home, he was running on the flank of Mount St. Helens in southwestern Washington. He was there visiting his family and they all made the trek to the volcanic monument.

Adam said he was surprised by the size of the trees, especially when he saw the part of the mountain that exploded in a volcanic eruption in 1980. Massive trees were blown over, snapped like twigs.

“A round of one of those trees could fill your dump truck,” he said.

Adam is not a city guy and his family knows this. Therefore, they kindly created an outdoorsy schedule that energized and renewed my husband. This is just what I was hoping for. Adam came back excited. He says it was the pure energy of the mountains he got to romp on when he was away — Mount St. Helens and Mount Rainier.

It was on Mount St. Helens that Adam decided he’d run, again. The mountain hovers around 11,000 feet. He was on a ridge above the lava dome on the northeastern side at about 5,000 feet.

I asked Adam, what he was thinking when he was running. I was curious. Did he think about how long it would take, the scenery, did he listen to music? What was pushing him along?

“I was thinking about how thin the air was and how I needed to fill my lungs to their complete capacity as fast as I could to keep an oxygen reserve in my blood bank,” he said.

“That’s all you were thinking? What else”, I pushed, skeptical.

“No, I was thinking about my brothers and sister at the viewpoint watching me run. Wondering how long it would take me to get to a spot where they would see me again.”

While Adam ran, his family was watching through a bank of telescopes at a viewpoint. Earlier, the group had seen about 20 elk on a knoll. From afar, they’d peered at them too. On the ridge, as the evening started to cool, Adam would come close to one of the elk again.

He heard an elk very near to the trail. It’s funny because Adam can mimic the sound of it. He’s one of those people that can contort his hand into a whacky fist, put it up to his mouth and manage to echo the sound of a moose, bird calls and more by blowing into it. I like this trait. He doesn’t fail this time. He makes the gutteral oowh and a funky whistle.

Spotting the elk was reminiscent of Adam’s previous visit with his mother and sister. The two had met us in Alaska and traveled to Valdez. On our drive back to Fairbanks we saw a stand of buffalo south of Delta. There were about ten calves, we all took turns checking them out through the binoculars. Everyone was surprised that we saw them. They were perfectly camouflaged against the grassy river valley.

Adam’s quick eye had spotted them from the highway, while driving. He quickly pulled over and hopped out with the binoculars. We followed suit. I don’t know why this was such a poignant moment for him, but it was somehow. He was glad to have been able to show his mom and sister the wildlife. I think Adam likes to be their link to nature. They all seem to have an appreciation for it. From what I see, on the outside, it’s like deja vu, something they were close to once before that now is even more special when it’s re-experienced together.

Gloria, Bill and Dora.

This book came out in 2009. Find out more about the book and Antonya Nelson at www. bloomsburyusa.com.

Lying and sexual impulse: Just how much are we willing to tolerate? How do we justify our own indiscretions? These are the questions explored by the characters in Antonya Nelson’s “OBO” in the Nothing Right collection.

Since I missed the last book club discussion I felt compelled to do some homework—you know, prove that I gave the book a shot, so I’ve chosen to blog about this particular story. It was the one that captivated me the most. It lingered well after I’d moved to others in the book.

OBO —“Or Best Offer” — appears in the discussion among a divorcee’s teenage daughters. They’re laughing at their mother’s desperation as evidenced by the responses she nets through an online dating service, including one from a DWM who’s in search of an LTR, “OBO.” The idea of simply settling for the best one can get haunts the text. Characters seem to pursue an idea of love, one that isn’t attainable or simply non-existent.

This rings true for the creepiest of the story’s characters — Abby Mills. Abby is a deceitful graduate student that forges a connection with one of her professor’s families. She covets Dr. Shapiro’s wife, Lucia. She endures the woman’s two young children, in order to get closer to her, to forge an intimacy. Abby’s desire is intense: “Abby sat enraptured as Lucia performed the ordinary miracle of coming into the room, preparing a snack, feeding herself and her baby and son…One of her pink earlobes had grown infected, swollen pink — Abby longed to hold it, like a berry between her fingers.”

Dr. Shapiro sees Lucia as neutral, almost blank. She’s agreeable, doesn’t ask too many questions of him, but she’s become too domestic, too motherly after their twelve years of marriage. However, these traits are worshipped by Abby. She even orchestrates an elaborate plan to crash a family gathering with Lucia’s family in Wichita over the Christmas break. There, she hopes to get even closer to Lucia, enveloped in the family home full of secrets and information about Lucia’s past. Abby pilfers through the family’s belongings and takes a few insignificant things, she cooks ravioli for the family and spies on Lucia and her sister speaking candidly about marriage in the kitchen. She’s deceitful, but it’s fueled by desire. Is this okay? The author, Nelson, seems to present this question to the reader. My answer is no and I think most would agree with me. Abby’s on the extreme end of the spectrum, while the other characters’ longing and lies in “OBO” seem more understandable in comparison, even the infidelities of Dr. Shapiro.

Dr. Michael Shapiro is a lovesick romantic, but not over his wife. He seeks passion and a secret love, one hot because of its intense highs and lows. Brief encounters with lovers fuel him, fill him, until his next tryst. Shapiro’s had a series of lovers. Some last longer than others, but in the timeline of the book, he’s dealing with the breakup of his current affair with Christine. We learn from Dr. Shapiro that Christine isn’t much to look at. She’s no overwhelming heart-breaker, yet her peculiarities are what lure him.

Lane is Lucia’s sister. She’s bitter after a divorce and skeptical that love truly exists. She suggests Lucia begin an affair of her own and says that losing a husband to death is more dignified (and socially accepted) than simply not being able to make it work. Despite her bleak outlook, she’s enrolled in an online dating service — an activity that she doesn’t share with her family. Unfortunately, for Lane, her two daughters not only know, but also tease her about it behind her back. Even for Lane, companionship is sought, even if it isn’t the ideal.

Some characters may be jaded, while others deceive, but despite their outlook, these characters demonstrate that all people are in some kind of pursuit for love, sex and intimacy. The cast of characters in “OBO” are all looking for something more. How they go about getting it is what differentiates them and it’s up to the reader to decide what’s okay, what’s too much and what’s just plain obsessive.

I’m still unsettled about the story. It’s loaded with information and you could analyze this piece for days. That’s a pretty great feat considering the story’s only 32-pages-long. Here are some reviews for the whole collection:

“Delightfully messy…Nelson gives readers plenty to ponder as her frequently baffled characters struggle to makes sense of the circumstances in which they find themselves…This weary hymn to coping with life’s cruelties is a tour de force.”
-Library Journal

“Antonya Nelson’s Nothing Right [targets] the romantic poseurs in all of us.”
-Vogue

“They are funny in a dark, subterranean way, gracefully told, and populated by characters you wouldn’t want to know but already know intimately.”
-Bust

Have you read this story? Any other works by Nelson? Weigh in.