Archive for the ‘Misc. Griping’ Category

I have to say, to all of you who actually get to go somewhere and enjoy summer, I am sooo jealous.

Unfortunately, due to budget constraints (buy more books, dammit!) and over-scheduling, I have to bow out of two-count ’em-two weekend getaways this summer.

The first was my husband’s family reunion in South Dakota. I really wanted to go to that because my Third Book takes place in that area.

The second was the “girly trip” that I take with my mom, sister, mom’s friend and other female aunts and cousins that migrate in and out every year. This year we were going to the South Shore of Lake Superior near the Apostle Islands.

Vacation is just not practical right now, and even if I could get the time off from my two jobs, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself anyway because I’d be too worried about money and the stuff that wouldn’t be getting done.

Instead, I wander around my tiny new garden every morning and ooh and ahh at every single new blossom that decides the grace me with its presence. I grab a book and give myself twenty minutes of peace before bed. I sneak in a bike ride down the trail near the house, peddling as fast as I can to outrun the deer flies.

I’ll do my best to glean whatever joy I can in between necessary chores. Even as busy as I am, the fleeting urgency of the nice weather is not lost on me. I know all too soon, another winter approaches.

I hope the rest of you take some while you can too. Heck, take some extra time for me. Take my books with you on your next well-earned vacation. Perhaps, as you sit on the beach or in some quaint cafe, you can read my books, and I can live vicariously through you. However, if you’re going to flirt with the swarthy towel boy/waiter, make sure he’s cute.

I will readily admit, I started the day out kinda crabby.

The tranny’s going on my truck, so I had to limp down to my parent’s house, thirty miles away, before borrowing my mom’s car to take my aunt to a special dentist appointment in the northern suburbs of the twin cities at noon. Round trip for that was 80 miles.

By 3pm I was back at my parent’s.  I scrounged up a can of ravioli for my brunch and borrowed Mom’s car again to drive to Hastings, MN for an appearance with a book club. The way there was 75 miles, half of it freeway. I hate freeways. Considering no-one else that I drove by looked thrilled, I’m guessing it’s a common hatred. Nevertheless, I was late, and freeways are ugly but quick.

Up to this point I was pretty oblivious to my surroundings. I blame the chunks of construction that I had to mire through during the course of the day.

Construction season in states above the 42nd latitude coincide with the growing season, when the ground’s not frozen solid. Instead of sprouting flowers and trees and crops, however, construction season sprouts cement medians, orange traffic barrels, and the nomadic tribe of construction workers, clad in yellow vests and armed with stop/slow signs and surly expressions (though who can blame them. Nasty work).

So after a very validating book club appearance (thanks for the support, ladies!), I was much happier going home.

Instead of taking the dreaded freeway back, I crossed the border and went into Prescott, WI. Just the three miles it took to get into town, I was quickly reminded of why I live here. The Upper Mississippi River Valley is a breath-taking piece of US real estate. The last hunk of glaciers that went through a couple hundred thousand years ago left behind an amazing sculpture of bluffs and valleys that vegetation happily filled in to form gorgeous green vistas and peek-a-boo views of the mighty river.

Like it’s sister city, Hastings, Prescott is a classic small town with a really cool bridge that welcomes folks in with its old-fashioned charm.

I took State Hwy 35 the rest of the way back up to Hudson, WI. That’s where the Mississippi moves into Minnesota and meets the St. Croix River. There the St. Croix  separates the two states for the next hundred miles north. In country was just as pretty. Little farms with grazing livestock were nestled around the bumpy hills topped with trees. In some spots the highway was actually cut through the hills, revealing thick layers of solid limestone.

It was like everything clicked. Suddenly the music got better on the radio. 8:30 on a beautiful June night, and I’m smiling at the scenery around me and wailing at the top of my lungs with the classic rock coming from the dash.

The way from Hudson to my home town was road-trip nostalgia. You drive the same back roads on and off for twenty years, your brain makes mental comparisons of the evolution going on around you. Your heart falls when you see that cool old farm has been replaced with Mcmansions. You can’t believe that weird little bar (aptly called “Corner Bar) on two barely discernible county roads is still alive and kicking.

It was very late by the time I hauled my road-weary ass home. I crawled in bed with the husband. I mumbled, “You know, we live in a beautiful place.”

“I know that,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I think that just about every day that I walk from the house to the office. Our town has flowers on the posts and all the pretty trees lining the streets. We’re really lucky.”

Yah, we are.

Maybe it’s because we live in one of the richest, most stable countries in the world, but there appears to be a passive-aggressive apathy when it comes to the political system amongst our neighbors and fellow citizens.

As you know (or do now if you’re just discovering this blog), my books take place (mostly) in Northwest Wisconsin, land of the cheese, and home of the brave-when-nobody’s watching. We just had a recall election for our governor. He apparently pissed off a bunch of people, some with good reason, though others might disagree (notice my precarious fence balancing). As a result, he was forced to defend his governorship in a perfectly legal checks and balances process called a recall election.

After all the hoopla, visa vi: the signature collecting (over half a million by the way); primaries, complete with “protest candidates”; superpak-backed political TV ads that made everyone either pause their DVR, change the channel, or get up to pee; the thousands of poor trees that had to die for the slick card stock flyers that clogged everyone’s mailbox for no apparent reason beyond sheer stubbornness (which is natural here); and all the silly recorded phone calls, cherry-picking issues to get people to vote for their guy; the vote was yesterday.

The governor won. Some will feel vindicated. Some will feel cheated. Both are perfectly acceptable…if you took part in the process. If you didn’t, too bad. What’s done is done.

When I was a young pup long ago and far away, I worked for a media outlet. The head guy there asked me if I had voted in that particular election. I said no, I had worked two different jobs that day, and I wouldn’t have time to get to the polls by 8pm. He gave me an hour off with pay. I said, “Why? It sounds like my side’s probably not gonna win anyway.”

“Well, if you don’t vote, you can’t bitch. So vote.”

So I did, and they lost. “And I’m really pissed about it,” I told him the next day.

“Good!” He said and walked away.

It’s fine to get pissed about the political process. It’s important to exercise your right to vote in this country. It’s a privilege that we take very severely for granted. The tides of change come to us all whether we want it to or not, and it’s up to us whether we choose to swim with the tide or work against it. Sitting on the shore and being a spectator doesn’t change anything. Sitting out and bitching about it anyway just makes you a hypocrite and an ass.

Don’t be an ass. Vote or shut up about it.