wearing one's heart on one's sleeve

In a small community, it seems much more vital to make nice.

Thinking before I speak out doesn't come easily to me. I've often felt I should invest in a vanity plate that reads "BLURT." Politically, my opinions have only become more passionate with the years. Studying racism and community organizing has spurred me to take more active roles in public action. I've marched with my church in Gay Pride Parades, and stood in the rain to protest a white supremacy rally. Even though it hardly came naturally, I've pushed down my discomfort and joined with others to visit my legislators in Madison. I've attended dozens of meetings, written articles, joined prayer vigils, signed countless petitions. I've agitated for paid sick leave, early release, treatment instead of prison, and minority hiring. Living in the city, I never hesitated to put my beliefs out there.

We had some concerns that a move into this rural part of the state might land us squarely in Tea Party Central. (The rodents might not be the only "squirrels" in the new neighborhood!) Driving my parents to farflung doctor appointments and seeing the bucolic landscape marred by hulking SCOTT WALKER GOVERNOR billboards seems to confirm our worst fears. My husband and I both feel strongly that Walker needs to be recalled. His attack on collective bargaining alone reversed a long heritage of labor rights in the state. Time and again he has funneled tax breaks to corporate cronies and then argued that public employees need to sacrifice because the state is "broke." It's hard to decide whether he is misguided, conniving or deeply evil.

But then there's the matter of the yard sign.

My husband thinks we should announce our presence with a bang, and slap a bright red RECALL SCOTT WALKER sign in front of the house. I'm dragging my feet. I'm reluctant for a political sign-- any political sign-- to be our first introduction to our neighbors. Add to that the fact that my parents have lived at the lake for 35 years. Of course they'd hardly be responsible for our actions-- good heavens, I'm finally understanding that I can't be held accountable for my husband's choices, silly as that sounds!-- but I hardly want to burst onto the scene as "Jim and Mary Ann's obnoxious daughter." I'd rather they know a little more about me before they see me as a rabble-rouser.

The best alternative is probably to duck into the Recall office in the next good-sized town. Perhaps I'll meet some of my parents' friends there. There have to be at least one or two other liberals at the lake.

honey, i broke the laptop

It just doesn't make any sense.

I'm a fairly bright woman with a college degree. I've been using computers for some thirty years now. So why oh why oh WHY does it seem that I'm incapable of completing the simplest tasks independently without having to ask my husband to get me out of a jam?

I started this blog maybe three days ago. My first "trick" was composing my post on the blogger page, previewing it, and then having it crash before I could save or post it.

Back to start. Think I've heard that others had made that mistake--

Yesterday was a busy day, with doctor appointments for my parents and then collapsing with the husband. No writing, til I couldn't sleep at 11 pm and got up and wrote until 12:30. . .

At which time the computer locked up.

Tight.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm no fan of laptops. That whole touchscreen business makes me goofy, particularly when you take a breath and it highlights and quickly deletes whole paragraphs of your work. "Hey presto," as Kurt Vonnegut would say. But at this point the cursor wouldn't respond to ANY ACTION on the keyboard, including trying to save. I finally gave up on it and went to bed.

We have a standing joke that whenever I get in trouble, in issues electrical or mechanical or electronic, the pat response is, "That's why I married an engineer." In almost every case, Rich will pick up whatever offending object has been terrorizing me, and in his hands it will instantly become docile and anxious to please. It's uncanny-- not to mention maddening, not to mention devastating to whatever shreds of competence I try to maintain. Today, however, it took awhile before the computer behaved any better for him than it had for me.

But then, suddenly, it righted itself again.

I don't suppose it's possible to blog in longhand. . . ?

urbanites, transplanted

If you asked six months ago, we’d probably have said that we’d never leave the city.

Sure, we loved the lake. We’d spent a week of our honeymoon there. We’d purchased a wooded acre on a hill on its outskirts early in our marriage, and dreamed about eventually building a home. My parents bought a lot there, camped at the campground, first in a tent and then a trailer, and eventually built a home where they relocated year-round after retirement.

Still, our roots in the city ran deep. We were deeply invested in our church, and I loved my job there. My husband was treasurer at the Coffee House, and active in the local folk music community. We slept easily through sirens, airplane traffic, and the flow of Harleys to and from the nearby biker bar. At our most recent address, we relished the dueling carillons between the stately Catholic church across the street and the nearly as imposing Missouri Synod Lutheran Church in the next block.

But then the couple up the hill from my parents put their home on the market. My husband pointed out that Mom and Dad could use some more help, and he thought his employer would probably let him work from home. It didn’t take too many meetings for management to agree to his proposal. And in a matter of months, we were packing and filing address changes.

Now, after several hundred-year-old bungalows, we’re living in a very contemporary house—and feeling right at home, thank you very much. The closest town is tiny and 4 miles away; the next larger town, all 9,500 residents strong, is another 8 miles further. Grocery inventories are sparser here, of course, but the stars are flung across the sky every night in wild extravagance. Traffic isn't a concern, unless you find yourself stuck behind farm equipment or the occasional Amish buggy, but deer and raccoons may venture onto the roads particularly after dark. And when inspiration flags, my eyes are drawn to the woods behind our home, or the rolling hills and lake in the distance. Even now, in that bleak pause between autumn and snow, there is much to appreciate.

I think we're going to like it here.