No sooner did I settle back in Rochester than I hit the highway again. After a 12-hour road trip with my friend Nenna, I'm snuggled cozily in bed at my parents' house in Thief River Falls.
(The drive to TRF isn't usually a 12-hour trip. But seeing as our mantra was, "We have all day!", we took full advantage. Stops for bathroom breaks, pizza parlors, the cabin, a friend's house, and a photo opp with Paul Bunyan and Babe stretched the schedule.)
So what am I doing away from home again without my husband and kiddos? This weekend marks my 20-year high school reunion. To mark the occasion, I've been taking little walks down memory lane. Here are a few tidbits.
In 1990:
...a gallon of gas cost $1.34. In 1990, I was driving a cream-colored Chevette with fenders held together with bungee cords. And I only had to put in $5 of gas a week.
...Milli Vanilli was exposed! Lip synchers! This broke my heart, as my friend Lynn and I spent more time than I'd like to admit practicing Milli Vanilli's dance moves in front of the TV to their videos. ("Girl you know it's true...")
... the movie Dances With Wolves was released. I went to Dances in Bemidji during my freshman year at BSU. I sobbed so hard that my friend Cathy asked if I wanted to leave early. (I didn't.)
... Vanilla Ice sings "Ice, Ice Baby." A group of my friends made a special trip down to Minneapolis just to watch the Ice-man at club First Ave. I didn't go, but secretly wish I had.
...the first known World Wide Web page is written. I won't have an e-mail address (j1j2koski@earthlink.net) for another six years.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Friday, July 16, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
What Is this Phenonemon Called?
Well, I'm back from Vermont safe-and-sound -- sufficiently cooled and pooled after my 11-day VCFA residency. But the weirdest thing is happening to me. I'm seeing my MFA friends e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e.
Does this happen to you?
This morning at Dunn Bros., as I scrawled out next week's column, I heard one of the graduate assistants talking to her friend in the couch next to me. When I glanced her way, I realized the "grad assistant" had aged about 10 years over the weekend and cut her hair short. Also, she lives in Chicago.
At the pool on Friday afternoon, I saw one of the people from my workshop walking to the cabana in her flowered one-piece suit. Even though she's in Boston.
And at the Farmer's Market yesterday? I caught a glimpse of two faculty members and one of my dorm roomies. Wisconsin, Washington, New York.
It seems to be some kind of initiation of re-entry. After each of my four residencies, I've jerked my head in the direction of someone who isn't who I think they should be. Maybe it's my mind's way of connecting these two disparate worlds I love. Or maybe I'm jet lagged.
Whatever the reason, it's been nice to revisit VCFA -- if even in error -- for a few minutes these last couple of days. Though I miss my family tremendously while in Vermont, the opportunity to focus solely on school (no laundry, no errands, no cooking) is a luxury.
But now it's on to real world, back to balancing family and work with packet deadlines and writing exercises. Bring it on.
Does this happen to you?
This morning at Dunn Bros., as I scrawled out next week's column, I heard one of the graduate assistants talking to her friend in the couch next to me. When I glanced her way, I realized the "grad assistant" had aged about 10 years over the weekend and cut her hair short. Also, she lives in Chicago.
At the pool on Friday afternoon, I saw one of the people from my workshop walking to the cabana in her flowered one-piece suit. Even though she's in Boston.
And at the Farmer's Market yesterday? I caught a glimpse of two faculty members and one of my dorm roomies. Wisconsin, Washington, New York.
It seems to be some kind of initiation of re-entry. After each of my four residencies, I've jerked my head in the direction of someone who isn't who I think they should be. Maybe it's my mind's way of connecting these two disparate worlds I love. Or maybe I'm jet lagged.
Whatever the reason, it's been nice to revisit VCFA -- if even in error -- for a few minutes these last couple of days. Though I miss my family tremendously while in Vermont, the opportunity to focus solely on school (no laundry, no errands, no cooking) is a luxury.
But now it's on to real world, back to balancing family and work with packet deadlines and writing exercises. Bring it on.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Can I Get a V-C-F-A?
It's that time of year again -- time for me to trek over to Montpelier for my MFA residency at VCFA. (That's Vermont College of Fine Arts -- or, as I discovered to my great glee last winter when I sent a box that way and ran out of room on the mailing label: Vermont College of F.Arts. I'm still laughing about that.)
I have one last semester left of my program and it's going to be a doozie. Over the course of the next six months, I'll write a lecture AND finish my creative thesis. This residency is kind of the gateway to all that, though, and a chance to spend nearly two weeks with a bunch of great people. Also, I get three squares a day without having to wash a single dish.
I don't know how much time I'll have to blog while I'm away at school -- but I'll try to stop in more than a few times. See you then!
I have one last semester left of my program and it's going to be a doozie. Over the course of the next six months, I'll write a lecture AND finish my creative thesis. This residency is kind of the gateway to all that, though, and a chance to spend nearly two weeks with a bunch of great people. Also, I get three squares a day without having to wash a single dish.
I don't know how much time I'll have to blog while I'm away at school -- but I'll try to stop in more than a few times. See you then!
Friday, June 25, 2010
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.
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.
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