Remembering a friend

One year ago today, my friend -- and Austin, Mason, Joshua, and Sienna's mommy -- lost her life in a car accident.

I think of Tristen and her family, of those four children and her husband Patrick, so often. But she's especially been on my mind this week -- and every hour of today -- as this first anniversary touches us.

It's a hard day -- and I cannot imagine how Tristen's family must be feeling today and everyday. Please keep them in your thoughts and prayers.

In remembrance of my friend, I'm posting the "Jen's World" column I wrote about her last year. It comforts me to put these stories out in the world, helping to keep Tristen's spirit alive in this small way.

* * *

Last weekend, I was supposed to visit my friend Karmen in Manhattan. We were going to catch an off-Broadway play, attend a reception for a new Monet exhibit, take a jog around Central Park. But plans change.

Instead of landing at LaGuardia on Friday afternoon, I was in northern Minnesota, saying goodbye to my friend Tristen.

One brisk morning last week, after a night of freezing rain, Tristen lost control of her minivan on an icy bridge and suffered a head-on collision. She died instantly. Of her four young children, two were buckled into the car with her. They survived.
The news hit me like a full-body slam. Since then, memories have played back as movie shorts and snapshots.

It’s seventh grade and Tristen and I are at the roller rink, where our tight-knit group of friends has gathered over Christmas break. Tristen has a permed, V-shaped bob that sways in front of me under the disco lights.

We’re in high school and Tristen’s standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, spraying her bangs with AquaNet as we sing along to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Her mom yells from the bottom of the stairs, “Trissy! Do you need a ride to the game?”
It’s 6:15 a.m. on senior skip day. We’ve all spent the night at Sarah’s parents’ hunting cabin, where we wake to Tristen’s video camera in our faces. “There are my sleeping beauties!” she laughs. “Rise and shine!”

We’re at one of our first college parties, where Tristen flirts with that cute RA from 3B Oak Hall. On the way back to the dorms, we blare Kiss songs in Sarah’s orange Granada.

I throw a Frisbee to Patrick — that former RA who has become the love of Tristen’s life — outside their new house. My husband stands at the grill and the sun peeks through the trees and we say it’s a perfect day.

We old friends share a 10-bedroom cabin at Itasca State Park and there are husbands and children and dogs in every corner. At night, after the kids go to sleep, we sit on the screen porch and laugh at our teenage selves.

Tristen’s in my kitchen, doling out juice boxes and PB&Js to her sons as I hold her baby daughter, whose cheeks I must literally restrain myself from pinching. After lunch, Tristen’s three boys pile on top of their mom on the couch and she calls them her “pumpkins.”

I’m reading an e-mail she sent just days ago. She writes about wanting the H1N1 vaccination for her oldest son, her seven-year-old, who hasn’t been struck by the virus yet. About the school referendum that just failed. About how she, Patrick and the kids are heading to our hometown for Thanksgiving. “Anyone else?” she writes.
And, now, the most recent snapshot: I’m sitting in a church holding hands with my old friends and watching Tristen’s grieving husband and their children — her suddenly grown-up Austin, her impish Mason, her sleepy Joshua, her pink-tighted baby Sienna — gather around that wooden coffin and listen to the pastor talk about how “’til death do us part” doesn’t mean “happily ever after.”

In her life, Tristen modeled love and loyalty and humor. In her death, Tristen teaches me that life can change with every breath we take. That we should live each day like it’s our last. That nothing’s more important than hugging our kids and saying “I love you” like we mean it.

These are life-changing lessons. But the price for them is too high.

It’s too high.

I would give up the enlightenment Tristen’s death brings — this newfound appreciation for life, this renewed closeness I feel to my old friends, this palpable connection I feel with Tristen’s family — to reverse what happened to my friend last week. I would trade it all if those four children could just have their mommy back.

Last week in Jen's World...

Last week's column is live on PostBulletin.com. You can read it here:

http://www.postbulletin.com/newsmanager/templates/localnews_story.asp?z=2&a=474698

Flashback Friday

Back in February, I wrote a column about one of the most sincere Valentine's Day gestures I'd ever witnessed. At the time, I received a few "Sweet story" and "Thanks for sharing" comments from readers. But I also received this one:

"Oh, Jennifer, so sad that you missed the real meaning in this husband's gesture. Such gestures of caring and kindness are evidence of a lifetime of mutual behavior between loving partners, and your lack of insight demonstrated a real failure to understand the love that God ordained in the sacrament of marriage. But, don't fret too much, you still have time to learn. Joanne Murray"

(meow.)

Whenever this kind of mail comes in to the P-B offices, managing editor Jay Furst loves to add it to his blog. You know, stir the pot a bit. Which he did with Ms. Murray's letter, with this kind preface:

"Some readers are harder to understand than others...here's a very strange and caustic note directed to columnist Jennifer Koski regarding her column Wednesday (not yet posted) -- Jen's beautifully crafted column could hardly have been more to this point, that the man's gesture was one of intimate kindness toward his wife, though I suspect this letter writer's comment is purely religious."


Okay, so that's a lot of back story to get to the point of today's post: Most column-related mail comes in within a week of the story's printing. But sometimes I get mail on a column I've long forgotten about. That happened this morning, when a reader sent the Post-Bulletin this message, about that February 2010 column--and Ms. Murray's catty letter:

"Jay Furst 'read Joanne Murray right' in his response to her remarks on Jennifer Koski's beautiful column regarding the older gentleman's loving and kind gesture to protect his sleeping wife from the glaring sun. If Joanne is incapable of recognizing that Jennifer truly did comprehend that his gesture perfectly expressed 'understanding the love that God ordained in the sacrament of marriage', Joanne is obviously the one who lacks 'insight' and really missed the mark in her caustic comments. Perhaps Joanne still "has time to learn" what love truly is."

It may be eight months after the fact, but wow -- I love that this anonymous reader came to my defense! And now, here's the column that started it all...

* * *
Valentine's Day last year found me at O'Hare International Airport.
I'd been at a conference in Chicago and was waiting for my return flight to Rochester in front of a gate marked “LaCrosse/Winona.” Close enough.

The gate is surprisingly empty for a Saturday afternoon. I have an entire row to myself, as do the people sitting across from me and to the left a few seats.
They’re a couple in their mid-60s. He’s in brown loafers and ankle-high sweat socks. Below his chocolate-covered shorts, the hair on his legs is thin and worn along the shinbone. His calves are mildly sunburned. These are legs, I decide, that are used to hiding behind long pants in February — not exposed in a golf cart. He wears a short-sleeved, button-up shirt and a mustache. He’s balding and wearing glasses that are more rectangular than oval. Trendier than one might expect based on his footwear.

Below him sits a black gym bag and next to him a roll-on bag with a wide-brimmed straw hat on it. They’re returning from Arizona, I think. Or maybe Florida. Definitely south.
His wife wears peach pants — leisure pants, you might call them — and a pink-and-blue flowered short-sleeved shirt. Her gray hair, pulled back in a barrette, curls along the back of her neck. On her feet are blue slip-ons and white socks.

Both of them wear watches (his leather; hers gold) and have rings set so deeply on their fingers that I know theirs is a marriage that has weathered years.

They’re in adjoining seats, sharing the same armrest. And, it must be said, she’s sleeping. Her head rests on his shoulder. His left arm rests around her. Every once in awhile his fingers squeeze her arm.

In his other hand is a phone, and he leans forward playing with it. Maybe sending a text. Maybe just checking his messages.

I settle in. I thought I was going to be late for my flight, but I'm early. There are still 30 minutes until my plane boards. I'm drinking a bottle of water and eating from a small bag of Bugles that, together, cost me $5.77 at the Hudson News stand, and this annoys me a little, but I was hungry, and the combination was cheaper than the bottle of Sprite and $4.99 bag of Raisinettes I was eyeing.

I balance the chips on my black roll-on suitcase and set my water on the floor. My mind wanders over the things minds wander over when there is nothing pressing to do. I wonder if I'll need a cab when I return to Rochester. I wish I had bought my husband something for Valentine's Day while I was gone, but figure I can make a card on the flight. I become suddenly worried that I've lost my boarding pass and riffle urgently through my bag.

I look around for a clock, and that’s when I see it.

The man's left arm is still around the woman’s shoulder. But now, instead of his phone, he's holding the straw hat in his right hand, over his wife’s face. At first I think he's trying to talk to her privately. Then I think perhaps they're attempting a discreet kiss.

But I'm wrong. It's far sweeter than that. He's holding the hat to block the sun from her face, which is turned to the window where the sun has begun its descent on this Chicago afternoon so she can sleep undisturbed.

I think about all the grand Valentine's Day gestures people make. The proposals and vacations and jewelry. The flowers and chocolates. The professions of love and forever.
And I realize that the man across from me is demonstrating the most romantic thing I've seen in years. And his wife doesn't have a clue.

Flashback Tuesday

I got an e-mail today from a friend looking for the name of my piano tuner. I remembered his name was Paul... but blanked on the last name. Remembering that I'd written a column about him, I did a quick search of my computer and got my answer. (Oh, the wonder of technology.)

I also re-read that column, which reminded me (1) that I need to make an appointment to get my piano tuned; and (2) that as long as Paul Chick is working, he will be the only tuner I will ever call.

Here's why, from the files of Jen's World 2007:

* * *

Last week, piano technician and tuner Paul Chick proved to me again why he is a man of integrity. But before I tell you why, I need to give you a little back-story.

Last year, I got a free piano. A neighbor was moving and didn’t want the instrument in the new house.

This, of course, should’ve sent up a red flag. But I wasn’t thinking clearly, because from the moment I’d heard “free piano” I’d been playing the scenarios in my head: My children glued to my side as I taught them scales. My family lovingly gathered ‘round, singing carols. Dinner guests entertained by my masterful playing.

We drove the minivan over that night, wild with anticipation. But it quickly became apparent why our neighbors didn’t want the piano in their new house. It was chipped. The legs were twisted. It was missing the entire front portion of its wooden case.
It also became apparent that this was not a minivan job. The ancient upright would, as my four-year-old is fond of saying, squash my van “like a grape.”

Plan B: It had wheels. We lived two blocks away. We could do this.

So there I was, knocking on any house with a light on: “Do you have a few minutes?” I’d ask. “Want to help move a piano?” (A little advice: It’s imperative that you determine that people are indeed free before you tell them you need help rolling a 700-pound piano down the street.)

Ten minutes later, my husband and six neighbors who were unable to come up with an excuse were pushing the piano ever so slowly down the middle of River Court. I followed in the van, my headlights leading their way down the dark street.

Our cluster made it halfway down the first block when we were abruptly stopped. A wheel had fallen off. Determined the rolling part of our adventure wasn’t over, I ran home and returned to the scene with two dollies and my seven-year-old’s X-Men skateboard. The skateboard worked.

A block-and-a-half later — after much giggling on the ridiculousness of the situation and some photo ops (“OK, stop — you can’t stop? Well, ok, everyone look up — Brian, stop grimacing! — and smile!”), I had a piano.

It looked bigger and uglier in my living room than it had in the neighbor’s garage. But I didn’t care. As soon as the crowd dispersed, I began to play. Due to the gaping hole in the front, I was able to watch the hammers strike the strings as I launched into the only song I knew by heart anymore — my ninth grade recital piece, Invention No. 2 by Bach.

Some keys didn’t work. Some stuck. Some played entire chords. All were off key.
Still, I’d play for hours in the evenings. “I’m not making mistakes!” I’d yell to my husband over the din. “It’s the piano. Some of the keys are off!”

When my children began saying things like, “That song gives me a tummy ache,” I called Mr. Chick — who told me that fixing my piano would be like putting a new transmission in a 30-year-old, rust-bucket car. “I could do it,” he said, running his hand along the keys. “But I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”

That’s when I first knew Mr. Chick had integrity. But it was last week that he left me truly impressed.

A few months ago, he helped me find my piano’s replacement — a used, but infinitely prettier and better sounding model. At the time, he told me he’d come back to tune the piano once it settled into its new home. I forgot. He didn’t. He not only took the initiative to set last week’s appointment — but he even made a couple of repairs when he was done tuning.

When I asked him what I owed him, he said, “Just put a little extra money in the offering plate on Sunday.” And I will.

Jen's World Wednesday

Welcome to a Wednesday!

Here's what you'll find in today's Post-Bulletin:

* * *

Last week, I received an e-mail message of which the subject line read, “[Fw: Fwd: Fwd: Best thing ever!]”.

Usually, I stop right there, hit delete and move on. But this message was from my fifteen-year-old niece, Alexa, who happens to be one of my favorite people in the world. I decided to give her a fair shake and open it.

It was one of those “getting to know you” question-and-answer things with a bold, highlighted introduction shouting messages like, “Don’t Spoil The Fun!” and “Send This To Everyone You Know Or You’ll Have Seven Years Bad Luck!”

I decided to play along. (Hey, the alternative was actually doing some work.) And since I count you, reader-friends, among the “everyone I know,” here you go:

Were you named after anyone? My middle name is the same as my mom’s.

When was the last time you cried? Sunday, when I watched 1,450 motorcyclists parade up to the Ronald McDonald House to make a $119,000 donation. (Crud. Now I’m going to start crying again…)

What is your favorite lunchmeat? Cheese. (Does that count?)

If you were another person, would you be friends with you? Yes.

Do you use sarcasm a lot? No, not at all. Except right there.

Do you still have your tonsils? Yes.

Would you bungee jump? There are many adventures I’d like to try—but bungee jumping is not one of them.

What is your favorite cereal? Cinnamon Life or Cocoa Krispies.

Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Nope. But when it comes time to put them back on, I always wish I had.

Do you think you are strong? Yes.

What is your favorite ice cream? Cookie dough. Unless I'm at Coldstone, and then it's definitely cake batter.

What is the first thing you notice about people? Whether they’re friendly.

Who do you miss the most? Too many people.

What color shoes are you wearing? Green. Wait. That’s just the grass stains on my feet.

What was the last thing you ate? Cocoa Krispies.

What are you listening to right now? The air conditioning. And wondering why it’s still on at 11:14 p.m. [Writing Jenny update: Since the writing of this column, our air conditioner has broken!]

If you were a crayon, what color would you be? If I was a crayon, I think “color” would be the least of my worries. Okay, fine. I’ll play along. I’d want to be one of those funky multi-colored crayons.

Favorite smells? Vanilla. Buttered toast. Babies.

Do you like the person who sent this to you? Love her! (But, seriously, who’s going to write “no?”)

Hair color? Depends on the month.

Eye color? Blue-ish, gray-ish, green-ish, depending on my mood and the weather.

Do you wear contacts? Nope.

Favorite food: Cold cereal.

Scary movies or happy endings? Happy endings.

Last movie you watched? Shrek 4.

Summer or winter? Fall.

Hugs or kisses? Why can’t I have both?

Car or truck? Car.

Favorite sound? My kids’ laughter.

Do you enjoy blowing bubbles? Yes—good, cheap entertainment.

Where were you born? Alexandria, MN

Do you have a special talent? I’m scrappy.

Rolling Stones or Beatles? Beatles. [Side note: My niece actually answered this question, “Who are the Rolling Stones?]

Jen's World: Can I Be Cloned?

This week, Flashback Friday is being replaced by Current Friday.

Granted, "Current Friday" doesn't have the same ring to it -- but since Wednesday's column went live on the P-B site today, I thought I'd post it here for you, as well.

I wrote this week's Jen's World column from my MFA residency in Vermont -- where I felt the pull to be in two places at once. You can read about it here.

Video Tuesday

Coming up in tomorrow's Post-Bulletin...

Jen's World: Lucky No. 11

Check out the latest Jen's World column here!

This Week in Jen's World...

What are you reading this summer? Here are my picks -- straight from this week's Jen's World.

* * *

When I was in grade school, my friend Kelly and I regularly sang the entire Grease album at sleepovers. We belted out “You’re the One That I Want” with diva-tude and layered on the drama for “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” But “Summer Nights” was our piece de resistance. Somehow, Kelly always landed the Sandy part while I was stuck with Danny.

While reminiscing and humming “Summer Nights” the other day (and taking both parts, thank you very much), I realized something: Instead of singing, “Summer lovin’…” I was saying, “Summer… reading.” As in, “Summer reading, had me a blast…”
What is up with that? Am I so boring now that summer reading trumps summer lovin’?

Geez, I hope not.

At any rate, it got me thinking about the book I just finished, which, seeing as it’s June, is officially summer reading. Now, I’ve got a personal problem and it’s called whenever-I-read-a-good-book, I-want-everyone-else-to-read-it,-too. I’ve told dozens of people—from my mom to my writing students to that guy at Kwik Trip who made the mistake of saying, “How are ya?”—about the book I just read. But apparently that’s not enough, because I thought, “Hey! Why not spread the word to all my reader-friends, too?”

So excuse me while I turn all Oprah on you and list my summer must-reads. Consider it the Jen’s World Book Club.

I get a little nervous about this, because the books I love you could think are absolute drivel. In fact, I once recommended a book I thought was pure genius (it's actually titled A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) to a friend who couldn't get through the first chapter. I later redeemed myself, though, when I recommended it to another friend who loved it so much that she claimed to want to “lick the author's feet.” So, you know, I'm going to take a chance:

1. Right now I’m reading Bill Bryson’s The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. You may be familiar with Bryson as a travel writer. In Thunderbolt Kid, though, Bryson writes about growing up in Iowa in the 50s. A gifted and entertaining storyteller, Bryson’s anecdotes are heavy on the wit and laced with humor. On a recent road trip, I read excerpts to my husband and kids, and had them laughing out loud.

2. Considerably less funny is Abigail Thomas’ A Three Dog Life. In this memoir, Thomas’—an author and teacher living in New York—writes about her life and marriage after a traumatic brain injury irretrievably changes her husband. Thomas writes sparsely, and the book isn’t heavy with emotion or sentimentality as you might expect. It had such an impact on me that I read it twice, back to back.

3. Population: 485 is written by Wisconsin’s own Michael Perry, who also happens to front Michael Perry and the Long Beds, a band that played in Winona recently. Population: 485 recounts the people Perry meets when he returns to his hometown as volunteer firefighter/writer. And really. Who doesn’t like a book that features an entire chapter on a cross-eyed butcher called Bob the One-Eyed Beagle?

I have more recommendations—ranging from Dr. Suess to Anne Lamott. (And if you’ve never read Joan Didion, find her essay, “On Going Home,” and just try not to shake your head and mutter, “wow” when you’re done.)

But I’ll hold those for another time. Until then, this has been the first edition of the Jen’s World Book Club. There’ll be no quiz later. But if you decide to pick up one of these reads, I’ll be interested to know what you think.

It's Ridiculous Is What It Is..

Today's Jen's World column....

* * *
Last year, I did my first triathlon. I spent the entire summer getting ready for the big event. I swam between the buoys at Foster Arends. I biked up and down the Douglas Trail. I ran loops around my neighborhood until I was practically dizzy. I went so far as to drive out to Waseca the week before the race to try the course. And when the starting gun went off that fine August morning of the race, I might not’ve been the fastest athlete out there—but dang it, I was ready.

This year, I’m doing the Rochesterfest Triathlon. It’s being held in four days. I can’t help writing that last line without breaking out laughing. It’s ridiculous is what it is.

I haven’t been anywhere near as dutiful in my training this time around and I’m trying to figure out why. Am I not scared enough? Am I in denial? Has my mind been preoccupied with other matters? (School + Work + Family + Volunteer + Facebook does make for a full schedule.)

Until a few weeks ago, I thought I was doing okay. I’d even been doing the “interval” course on the stationary bike for up to 10 miles—which is how far the bike portion of this tri is.

But then, last week, I did my first training ride on the actual Rochesterfest course on 18th Avenue. I’ll tell you what: I could’ve stepped off my bike, laid down on the shoulder of the road, tucked in my arms, and rolled up that hill faster than I was biking it. Holy hills.

I huffed and puffed up 18th, making contorted expressions with my face and desperately trying to come up with an excuse to get out of this triathlon. (Quick? Do I know anyone with strep?) But by the time I rolled back into my driveway an hour or so later, I thought, “Well, I guess it wasn’t all that bad.” (Kind of like childbirth, now that I think of it.)

And besides, I convinced myself, I already signed up for the fool thing and paid my money. So I’m doing it even if I come in crawling. Which is a very real possibility.
The swimming portion feels tougher this year, too. When I train in the pool, I rotate between multiple strokes—usually the breaststroke, followed by the side stroke (so I can see what’s going on), and then the backstroke (to rest up). You may’ve noticed that I didn’t mention the freestyle (“the front crawl”). Apparently it’s the fastest stroke, which is why everyone does it. But it kicks my butt, and my goal isn’t speed, anyway. It’s completion. I’ll doggie paddle if I have to.

I bought a wetsuit this year. Not because I’m freaked out by the weeds or anything (actually, I kind of am)—but because a wetsuit adds some buoyancy. I’ll take any help I can get. Come to think of it, I haven’t even tried it on yet. I should probably get on that.

The last event of a triathlon is running. And, oddly enough, I’m not too worried about that. I figure the worst thing that could happen is that I’m so exhausted by that point that I end up walking those last three miles. Worse things have happened. As long as I make it to the run, I’m optimistic that I’ll finish, even if I do straggle in last.

I’d really prefer if that weren’t the case, however. I still have a few days left to build my endurance. And you can bet I’ll be using these days to their fullest. Watch for me: I’ll be the one biking up and down 18th Avenue in running shoes and a wetsuit.

Wednesday's Jen's World

Wednesday's column is up on the Post-Bulletin site. It's a bit dated now, but if you want to read about how I spent my Memorial Day, you can find that article here.

Happy weekend to all! I'm looking forward to the Farmer's Market in the morning and some hardcore triathlon training in the afternoon. (The tri is a week away and I'm justifiably freaking out!)

Then Sunday finds me and Christian at another 5K (the MacAttack down at Silver Lake), followed by a progressive deck party in our neighborhood.

What a fantastic weekend. Hope the same for you!

Flashback Friday

Traditionally, I've closed the school year with a Jen's World ode to my sons' teachers. But I'm not writing a sappy end-of-the-school-year column this year, and you can read into that any way you like.

Instead, Flashback Friday features the column I wrote last year -- about two fabulous teachers who taught my kids more than they know.

* * *

I always get sappy at the farmer's market. It just makes me so happy.

For starters, the number of people who come out to support local farmers blows me away. Last Saturday morning, as I joined the throngs crossing Fourth Street, I found myself immersed in an electric hum of music, conversation and laughter. From young families pushing strollers to old couples walking hand-in-hand, everyone just seemed so glad to be there.

And why not? They were carrying bags of hand-washed onions and artisan breads, tomato plants and jars of honey, baskets of flowers and bags of fresh salad greens — all bought directly from the people who produced them. How cool is that?

I wanted to hug everyone there — but especially the farmer who was so kind to the elderly customer in front of me that he put his arm around the man's stooped shoulders, leaned in close to hear his request, and carried his purchases to his truck. I bought my tomato plants from that vendor for that reason alone. It's also why I had to forcibly restrain myself from screaming, "I love this place!" on my way out.
But I'm always emotional this time of year. It's the end-of-the-school-year thing. It gets to me.

Don't get me wrong. I'm excited for summer vacation — for lazy mornings and long bike rides and afternoons at the pool. But, oh, the goodbyes.

My sons have had, once again, excellent teachers in the Rochester public school system. My nine-year-old's teacher, Mr. Heins — whom Christian calls "the best third-grade teacher ever" — impressed me from the start. Way back at "Meet the Teacher" night last August, Mr. Heins told a room full of eager-faced parents that we were welcome in his classroom any time, that he limits homework so that we can prioritize family time, and that he expects a lot from our children.

But it got better. Over the course of the year, I learned that in addition to reading, writing and math, Mr. Heins also stresses the importance of ecology and environmental responsibility. That he encourages storytelling by helping his students publish their own books. That he rewards hard work with extra (and much-needed) time on the playground. And (I'd be remiss if I didn't add Christian's highlight): That he makes balloon animals for birthdays.

No, it won't be fun saying goodbye to Mr. Heins… but I hope we'll meet again when my seven-year-old moves up the grade-school ladder.

For now, however, my seven-year-old's final schooldays mark an even more poignant ending. By an incredible stroke of luck, we've had Bergen's teacher, Mrs. Hansen, in our lives for three years. She was, after all, his big brother's kindergarten and first-grade teacher, as well.

Mrs. Hansen is patient and positive, has a terrific sense of humor, and treats her students like people — which, when you're in first grade, is a very big deal. But mostly she really cares. She doesn't want her students to "get by." She wants them to succeed — and she works her butt off to make sure they get the tools to do that, whether it's extra services or extra face time.

Saying goodbye to Mrs. Hansen reminds me of that part at the end of the Wizard of Oz. Dorothy tells the Tin Man that she'll miss him. She tells the Lion that she'll miss him. And then she tells the Scarecrow that she'll miss him "most of all." That's how I feel. I'm going to miss all of my children's educators — but Mrs. Hansen, I'm going to miss you most of all. (Warning: This is the part where I get weepy.)

Thank you, Mrs. Hansen, for being an advocate for my children. Thank you for encouraging my boys to work hard and to aim high. Thank you for convincing them that they are smart and interesting and capable people. You have given them a foundation that will inform the rest of their lives.

Maybe my children don't realize how fortunate they are to have had Mrs. Hansen and Mr. Heins teaching them this year. But I do — and I couldn't be happier. Or more sad.

Video Tuesday

Here's what's coming up tomorrow in Jen's World...

This Week in Jen's World...

Here's this week's column... about an experience I'm repeating tomorrow! Christian and I will be up bright and early for the Chester Wood's Trail Run in the morning.

Today in Jen's World...

Little known fact about this week's Jen's World promo video: My son, Christian, is holding his head so (unnaturally) still because it's covering up a picture in the background that I didn't want in the video. Though, now that I type that, it seems to me that it would've been easier to just take the thing down...



Hmmm... for a reason I don't understand, Christian is cut off when I embed the video. To see the video in its entirety (and Christian's amazing head control!), click here.

Flashback Friday

The little-known fact about this column, which originally ran in March 2009 (and which I like to call "Why I Still Look at Cribs at Target"), is that I had to leave out one pivotal scene.

If you've ever had a professional massage, you know that massage therapists leave the room to give you privacy to undress and get on the massage table.

Well, not this time. When I left the steam room, the massage therapist walked me down the hall in my little white towel, led me into a room, stood next to the head of the massage table and said, "You can put your towel on the chair and get up on the table."

So there I was, climbing up on the table -- knee first, of course -- naked. While a stoic Asian woman stood next to me saying, "Get up there, now. Get up there."

Ah, good times.

* * *

For my birthday back in November, my husband bought me a gift certificate for an hour-long massage.

"You should really get that massage," Jay reminded me a dozen times over the next three months. And I wanted to. What I didn't want was to admit I'd misplaced his gift. ("Misplaced sounds so much friendlier than "accidentally threw out," doesn't it?)

Eventually I ran out of excuses and called the spa — Naoko Esthetics — and asked if they'd possibly believe that I had a gift certificate that I'd lost. Turns out they didn't need to believe me because they can track these things. In fact, they were able to tell me that my husband bought the certificate two days before my birthday and that it was not only for a massage, but a steam, as well.

The steam was news to me. I'd never had one before. I told Naoko, the owner, just that when she led me to the steam room the next day.

We stared at each other a few seconds before I said, "Umm… I don't know what to do."
"Just leave your towel on this chair and sit inside," she told me. "I'll come back for you in 25 minutes."

Easy enough. I stepped inside the steam room, which looked like a big, foggy shower fitted with benches. A digital thermometer on the wall read 110 degrees and I thought, "You aren't kidding."

I'm native Minnesotan. I've Norwegian blood in my veins. I'm not bred for prolonged high temps. What if it's so hot that I pass out? I thought to myself. Worse yet, what if I get dizzy and try to leave, but pass out on the way and am left lying, naked, half in and half out of the shower?

Once I realized I was going to survive the heat, I tried to figure out what one does in a steam shower. Should I be sitting? Lying down? Leaning against the wall? Should I be meditating? Stretching? Napping?

As a rule, I'm not very good at sitting still for more than a minute or two. I tried to do some deep breathing, but I'm too easily distracted. Breathe in, one; breathe out, two, I thought. Breathe in, one; breathe out two; I wonder if this is water or sweat running down my shoulders? Smells like water. Hmmm… tastes like water. Oh, eww… look at that; I really need to start doing sit-ups. What if I lie down… will that flatten…? Yes, better.

I'd forgotten all about the breathing by the time Naoko called from the other side of the door, "Are you ready?"

"Sure," I answered, jumping to my feet.

"OK, shower," she said. And I did.

A few minutes later, I sunk lazily into the massage table under a starry, blue ceiling and Naoko's expert hands.

"This is a birthday gift?" she asked.

"Yes."

"When is your birthday?"

"November," I said. "The sixth."

"Ah…" she said, getting all shiatsu on my back. "You are changing your job or your residence soon?"

"No," I answered. "I don't think so."

"Yes," she corrected. "I think by your birthday in 2009, you are changing your job or your residence."

"Oh!" I answered, suddenly aware I wasn't only getting a steam and a massage — but my future, as well.

"Well, we hadn't planned on moving…"

"And I think by your birthday in 2010… no, 2011… you'll have a baby?"

"I don't think so."

"No?"

"No. I mean… well, my husband doesn't want… well, no."

"I think by 2011 birthday you'll have another baby. Now, your husband — when is his birthday?"

"January 2."

"Ah. He's not very romantic. He's realistic."

I was about to answer "yes," but then reconsidered. He did, after all, buy me this massage. And it was shaping up to be one of my most memorable gifts yet.

Flashback Friday

Here's an oldie but goody I wrote for the Post-Bulletin almost exactly two years ago. Happy Friday!

* * *

My husband has this Mother's Day thing down. He's concocted what he calls a "win-win-win." Here's how it goes: He and the boys head north to spend the fishing opener at Grandma's house… and I stay in Rochester.

By myself.

Alone.

It's genius, really. Jay gets to fish. The boys get to see grandma. I get to be alone. (Had I mentioned this part?)

As they squeeze into the van on Friday afternoon, amid mountains of tackle boxes and fishing rods, snacks and stuffed animals, books and DVDs, I give my boys roughly 1,323 kisses. I remind them to be good. I remind them to eat healthily. I remind them that I love them more than all the stars in the sky and more than all the fish in the sea and all the way up to the sky and down to the earth.

My six year old says, "I love you, my cute, precious Mommy." My eight-year-old says, "Love you, too, Mom… can we start the movie?"

They pull out of the driveway and I wave madly. They drive down the block and I wave madly. They turn the corner — and even though I'm pretty sure they're not looking anymore — I wave madly. And then, right before they're out of view, I panic.

I think, "My entire life is in that van." And I fight the urge to sprint down the street and stop them from going. Or at least go with them, so if they end up in a fiery crash on the highway, at least we'll all crash together.

Which is a horrible, morbid thought. But it's true.

And just when I start thinking I'm the worst mother in the whole world for letting my kids leave on Mother's Day weekend, they turn the corner and I realize I'm alone.

Like really alone. Like I could do ANYTHING.

And suddenly, I'm literally jumping up and down and squealing. Right there in the driveway. I take three flying leaps into the house while squeaking, "Alone! Alone! Alone!"

But once in my living room, I just turn in circles. "I should read!" I think, grabbing my book. "No! Wash the lunch dishes first! No! Nap! Write! Clean! Call your sister!"

There are too many options. I want to do everything. I want to do nothing. I call Jay and the boys instead.

"Where are you?"

"At the SA on 37th…."

"Tell the boys I love them."

"I will."

"Be careful."

"I am."

"Do they miss me?"

"I'm sure they do."

"Call me from the road…."

Ultimately, I have a calm and productive weekend. I go to Bunco. I meet a friend in Minneapolis. I do no fewer than 10 loads of laundry. I sleep in — on sheets fresh off the backyard clothesline.

When I get the call a couple days later that my boys are in Pine Island — almost home! — I feel a mix of anticipation and panic. Sixteen minutes left!

My gut instinct says a sweet-tooth free-for-all is the only acceptable way to end the weekend. I ravenously pop a leftover May Day Tootsie Roll into my mouth while simultaneously opening the Neapolitan ice cream, which I eat straight from the carton. I wipe the chocolate from my lips. I compose myself. I take a final look at my spotless kitchen. (Goodbye, sweet, clean kitchen. I'll see you again next year…)

And then I'm there — just where they left me — waving and blowing kisses in the driveway as they pull back in.

School Resources

Today, my follow-up column on the Rochester Public Schools budget cuts comes out. I got an unprecedented response to the original column (originally printed in the 5/5 Post-Bulletin).

I have to say I'm feeling unsettled about the follow up. I received so much information that I would've liked to bring to readers' attention -- including the entire transcript of my interview with Dr. Dallemand -- but I just didn't have the room to do it. This is a topic with much weight in Rochester, and I'm disappointed that it hasn't been covered with more ink in the Post-Bulletin.

I did send two files of supporting material to the P-B for inclusion on postbulletin.com -- including the full interview with Dr. Dallemand. I don't know that they'll make it on, however. (The downside to being a lowly freelancer. I guess my editors didn't take me seriously when I asked, "How many pages do I get this week?")

I'll watch the P-B site and provide links if the interview with Dr. D goes live. And if it doesn't, I'll post it here. In the meantime, here's some advice and resources from two Jen's World readers:

Long-time teacher Chuck Handlon from Century High School, for instance, offered these suggestions for taking an active role in your child’s education:

1. Be involved in your child's school. Volunteer to help, visit sometimes, show you care.

2. Be positive in your comments and interactions with the school. If you are constantly complaining and critical of school, teachers, district administration etc. you are training your child to be negative.

3. Be informed. Ask questions, try to understand what your child faces at school.

4. Advocate for your child. You know your child best and you can help the teacher understand your child's needs. As our class sizes balloon we are less able to have the time to spend with your child. We make mistakes, but most of us care about your child.

Handlon wrote, "As an educator with 34 years experience I have seen the huge difference between students who have supportive, involved parents and those who do not."

Handlon also offered a link to an organization that has information related to school. It’s called Parents United, and it’s an advocacy group in St. Paul: http://www.parentsunited.org/.

Additionally, a parent with children in Rochester public schools wrote this message:

The Minnesota 2020 website has a treasure trove of information on the education situation in Minnesota, especially their Hindsight Blog. It can be found at: http://www.mn2020hindsight.org/?cat=6

They just had three great articles in a row: one on Race to the Top, another on the claim that teacher’s salaries are too high and that’s the problem with school funding, and a third that has some great info on how state aid to Minnesota K-12 public schools has been cut by $1,400 per pupil in real (i.e., inflation-adjusted) dollars since Pawlenty has been governor. These are all factors in what we face here in Rochester.

Reactions?

Racing the Clock

So it's a bit after 10 a.m. on this beautiful sunny Tuesday -- which means I'm roughly one day late with tomorrow's column. So what do I do? Start a new blog post!

Honestly, I can really be stellar at procrastinating. The truth is, I wrote most of this week's Jen's World in the shower this morning (where I do my best thinking). Now I just have to get it down on paper.

Yesterday was my big interview with Dr. Dallemand, the superintendent of Rochester public schools. Once I got around my pre-meeting jitters (I went to the bathroom at Dunn Bros. no fewer than four times before he arrived), I had a good conversation with Dr. D. I have to say I believe this man has honorable intentions -- and I'm interested in how readers will respond to this week's column, and what Dr. Dallemand has to say.

Of course, first there has to be something to which to respond. I'll get on that...

Early Morning, Big Day

After a wonderful weekend at Wisconsin Dells with our friends the Winklers, it's back to the grind. I'm up MUCH earlier than usual this morning preparing for a big day. (By "MUCH earlier," I'm talking several hours here, people. I've been sitting at this computer since 4:45 a.m. -- and I don't usually roll out of bed until at least 7:30, when Christian -- dressed, fed and brushed -- literally stands at the head of the bed and says, "Mom! Time to get up!")

But I needed no responsible 10-year-old or even alarm clock today. This afternoon, I have the rare opportunity to sit down with Rochester public schools' superintendent, Dr. Romain Dallemand -- a meeting I've been thinking about all night.

Nearly two weeks ago, I wrote a Jen's World column about the state of Rochester public schools, and my concerns about the massive budget cuts we've undergone over the past two years. For me, the biggest single detriment of the cuts (which have reached $15 million) revolves around class sizes. Thirty kids in a second-grade classroom is too much, and my own sons are feeling the crunch. But many of my readers expressed other concerns about Rochester Public Schools, from teacher tenure to unfair pay raises for upper-level administrators.

Frankly, whenever two or more parents get together anymore -- at a playground, a garage sale, the grocery store -- talk turns to the schools. And it's not usually very pretty. Parents are frustrated. And Dr. Dallemand has taken a lot of the blame.

Dr. Dallemand has his detractors -- and many of them. To this point, I have not been one of them. I believe in his plan to educate ALL the children of Rochester, and bridge the "opportunity gap" in our education. And I have long been a staunch supporter of Rochester public schools. But as I stated in my column, it's getting harder.

I have the opportunity to ask Dr. Dallemand some difficult questions today. And I don't want to mess it up.

So tell me, what would YOU ask your school superintendent if you had the opportunity? And what do you think I shouldn't leave out?