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.

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!

Flashback Friday: On the road again...

It seems I spend most of my summer behind the wheel.

Today we leave Thief River and head to Maple Lake, where we'll hold an early family birthday party for my almost-11-year-old at my grandma's cabin. The weather looks fan-tas-tic for nine cousins to play in the water, so we've lucked out there. (It's so much a better scenario than nine cousins chasing each other around the cabin...)

Then tomorrow it's the long drive back to Rochester. I'll sit pretty for just over 24 hours, then it's off to Vermont for my MFA residency. Good times.

In honor of this flurry of travel, Flashback Friday features a roadtrip story from last summer:

* * *

‘Tis the season for hitting the road. For throwing the luggage in the back of the car and heading out — to the beach, the reunion, the woods, the wedding.

Both my and my husband’s families live “up north,” so we spend more than our fair share of summer weekends on the road. I’d like to say we’re seasoned pros, but to be honest, there’s room for improvement.

On our last trip, we took my husband’s Kia Sportage. With no a/c. And with so many bags, backpacks, and portable DVD accessories that the stack o’ stuff on the floor in front of me was level with my seat. I had two available positions: legs folded “criss-cross applesauce” or feet on the dash.

And did I mention there was no a/c?

The space issue was my fault. I’m a chronic over-packer. I fill the vehicle like I do the dishwasher — wedging pieces into every last nook and cranny. I think it’s because I throw my stuff together fifteen minutes before we leave — frantically running around the house with an open backpack.

“Will we need the bug spray?”

“We’re going to an indoor waterpark.”

“Yah, well, I’ll throw it in just in case. How about the karaoke machine?”

“No.”

“OK, just the portable CD player with a couple of the disks.”

Even as I’m making my final walk out the door, I’m grabbing random supplies. Anything in my path makes it on our trip — a box of Legos, a couple of couch pillows, the kids’ baby books.

By the time I’ve gathered the necessities, everyone’s waiting in the car — juice boxes loaded, earphones plugged in.

“Are you ready, yet?” my husband pleads.

“Almost, I just need to get my knitting.”

“You knit?”

“I did. Once. I thought I’d start again.”

“During the drive?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were going to update the baby books.”

“I am.”

“And finish your article.”

“I am.”

“And build a city made of Legos.”

“…I am.”

“You do know it’s only a five-hour drive?”

Truth be told, those are the things I’d like to do… if I didn’t spend most of the ride sleeping.

It turns out that spending any more than 20 minutes in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle is my equivalent of taking a handful of Nytol. By the time we hit Pine Island, I’m usually out cold.

Which is unfortunate, because there’s no pretty way to sleep in the car. And I know this because I’ve seen others sleep in cars as they drive alongside me. Their heads pressed against the glass, mouths gaping open, the imprint of the door lock on their foreheads.

And I think, That’s Love. If they get where they’re going, and their significant other — the person who watched them drool on themselves for 150 miles — still wants to be seen with their door lock-lined face at the family reunion, that’s love. And if my husband, who has put up with me packing three suitcases for a two-day trip up north for 10 years, still wants to travel with me, then that’s love, too. Roadtrip love. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Flashback Friday

In honor of my parents' road trip to Washington this week, I'm pulling this old column from the vaults. It first appeared in the Post-Bulletin in May 2006.

* * *

Back in March, the P-B ran a story about a retiree who left his wife at a Wal-Mart when he drove away in the couple’s motorhome. Hours later, he realized she wasn’t sleeping in the back, after all. Outrageous, right?

Not exactly.

It was 1996, and my parents were driving across Minnesota in their Pace Arrow RV. A couple hours into their trip, my dad pulls over to check on his Harley, which is strapped on the back. My mom decides she could use some fresh air, too — so, unbeknownst to my dad, she hops out her side of the rig. She reaches the back of the motorhome just in time to see her husband jog up the other side — and pull away.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she thinks as she watches the RV fade on the horizon. “He’s got to realize I’m gone; I was sitting right next to him when we stopped!’”

But, of course, he doesn’t. My father, the career cop, assumes my mother has headed to the bedroom for a nap.

Back on the road, my mom’s assessing the situation. It’s about 9 p.m. on a moonless September night. Best as she can tell, she’s somewhere between Perham and New York Mills on Highway 10. This is, by the way, the definition of the middle of nowhere. She has no cell phone. No purse. No one to turn to to say, “What just happened?!”

So she starts walking. Certain my father’s returning for her any minute, she keeps potential rescuers (and “crazy people”) at bay by pretending to be out for a power walk — swinging her arms wildly whenever cars pass by.

About two hours into her hike, she’s passed a potato plant (no phone), a farmhouse (big dog), and spent a good hour walking the median (skunks in the ditch). At long last, she takes a ride with a truck driver who drops her at the first open gas station, about 20 miles down the road.

“You won’t believe my story,” she says to the clerk as she walks in.

Meanwhile, just north of St. Cloud, my dad and his brother, who he’s been following, pull their RVs off to the side of road. My dad decides it’s time to wake his wife.

Except, as you and I know, she’s not there.

This is where all hell breaks loose. When he doesn’t find her in the bedroom, my dad checks the bathroom. He looks under the table. He tries the bedroom again. As he tells it, “Honest to God, I was looking in cupboards.”

He calls 911. Admits he’s lost his wife. They’ve no one available to look for her, but they do have reports of a woman wandering the median on Hwy 10.

Commandeering his brother’s Ford Escort, my dad drives 90 miles per hour back up Highway 10 in search of his wife. (The poor car would rattle until the day they sold it.)

At about this time, my phone rang. “Have you heard from your dad?” my mom says. “I’m in Wadena and I can’t get his cell.”

"Aren't you with him?" I ask.

The story unfolds. I call an uncle, another cop, who promises to reach my father.

As it closes in on midnight and he speeds up Highway 10, my dad gets a call. “Is that motorhome so big you could lose your wife in it?” my uncle asks.

The rescue was swift. But the teasing and ribbing went on for years. In fact, it’s reached epic proportions. My parents were on vacation a few years back when a new acquaintance started telling a story. “Did you hear about that guy who left his wife on the side of the road in northern Minnesota…?”

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.

Video Tuesday

I was just in from swimming at Foster Arends when I remembered I had a video due today...

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!

I Can't Quit Writing About that Last 5K

I know, I know. I've gone on and on about this. But I saw the Post-Bulletin article on the Chester Woods Trail Run 5K today, and was blown away by the rankings.

I came in 51st. Christian came in... well, look here to find out: Post-Bulletin article.

Video Tuesday

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

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.

Video Tuesday

Here's a secret about this week's video: I purposely taped it outside in the wind so my bad hair day wouldn't be so obvious.

More School Stuff

From the "topic that won't die" file, I bring you another entry in the Rochester Public School budget cuts saga.

Tonight, at Willow Creek Middle School, there's a meeting for anyone interested in supporting the inevitable fall referendum. I don't know what to expect from this meeting, but I'll be attending to see how I can lend my hand.

Also, I got an e-mail recently from Chuck Briscoe, Century High School principal. He's always been kind and supportive of my work with the Post-Bulletin and I'd long hoped he'd be in place when my boys made it up the ranks to Century. Unfortunately for us, Briscoe has recently accepted an assistant superintendent position in the Anoka schools for next year.

Before he goes, however, he offered this advice for parents in answer to my, "tell us what we can do!" plea. Here's what Briscoe says:


I have shared this list of advice for parents for the past few years on how to work with teenagers:

For the past thirty-four years, I have had the good fortune to work with high school students. Each day at Century, I work with 1500 students. This does not make me an expert by any means. I have seen students and my own children make some very positive and, at times, courageous choices. I have had to love students at times when they may not have been the most lovable. I can promise you that 99.9% of all the students that I have had the privilege to work with will go down the right path, graduate from high school, and move on to the next level of learning.

The following list is what I believe you can do as a parent to, not only survive your years with your teenager, but also to be able to look back and say those were some of the best years as parents.

Ten Tips to Stay Ahead of the Game

Be a parent not a pal. As parents we need to be our teens’ anchors, not their best friends. Set clear boundaries, yet approach your teen with love and respect. Ignore the attitude. Save your energy for the big stuff. Is it really worth arguing about blue hair? You will find that by practicing my 24 hour rule (wait for one day before saying anything) many things will look different.

Talk the tough talk. Teens need to know your perspective on tobacco, drugs, alcohol, and their friends. Explain why you feel the way you do. Ask them are their friends taking them in the right direction or in the wrong direction?

Compliment your teen. Make it a habit to say at least three positive things to your teen every day. Some days this may be a challenge but there is something nice you can say each day. It is very easy to notice the negative; no teenager or adult who I know has complained about receiving a compliment.

Get to know your teenagers’ friends and their parents. Friends are a big deal, but connecting with the parents of these friends will become your lifeline. By consistently checking in with parents you will have your finger on the pulse of their activities.

Don’t be a maid. It is important for every teenager to have a meaningful role in the family. Every teenager is capable of mowing the lawn, shoveling snow, helping with laundry, and cleaning their own room. Who will be there to assume this role when they leave home?

Make respect and trust a two-way street. If you expect respectful behavior from your teen, parents and principals need to demonstrate how they handle issues in a respectful manner. Explain to your teenager that they will earn a great deal of trust by consistently doing what they say they will do.

Listen, don’t lecture. When kids are ready to talk, be ready to listen. This may not be at a convenient time for you, but please try and take the time to listen at that moment. Please resist offering too much advice but helping them think through their issue by asking them questions.

Agree to disagree. It may seem like you disagree about everything with your teen. Don’t worry, they are figuring out for themselves where they fit into the world and may be using you to try out different perspectives.

Have fun together. These can be challenging years as a parent, but there can be plenty of fun times and good memories. At this stage, you be the last person your teen wants to be seen with in public, but offer to drive them and their friends to school and athletic events. Listen to their conversation during the drive; it will provide a wealth of information about your teen. Remember to smile and search for things you can do together.

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?

Video Tuesday

So, the Post-Bulletin has me make little online videos to promote the column each week. They're quick little things, but I always dread them because: (1) In order to look decent on video, I have to wear a ton of make-up; (2) I'm always throwing these videos together at the last minute, without the time nor ambition to throw on a ton of make-up. Or, in most cases, any make-up. Because, really. I work from home. It's far too much effort to get all dolled up for the cat.

So that's my disclaimer. :)

And here's today's video:

New blog!

Humorist, newspaper columnist, and Algonquin Round Table member (who I'll forever envy for getting to hang out with Dorothy Parker), Robert Benchley, once wrote this: "Anyone can do any amount of work, provided it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment."

Well then. I guess that explains why I've meant to create this blog for years, but have never gotten around to it. With all the "real work" that I find myself tied up with, fun projects like these too often take the back seat.

But no longer! Welcome to my new blog, Writing Jenny. (It's like Waltzing Matilda... except my name isn't Matilda. And I'm not waltzing.) I plan to share links to my Post-Bulletin columns, certainly, but also other writing.

In fact, let's start with a link to a Rochester Magazine article I wrote this month on my new hairdo -- and how my grandmother unwittingly played a role in its inception. (Or perhaps it was wittingly. She can be a crafty old broad.) You can find it here:

There's a Change in the Hair

Thanks for joining me here! I look forward to hearing from you.

P.S. With the launch of Writing Jenny, I've joined the world of Twitter, as well. You can follow me at JenniferKoski.