This prairie in Governor Dodge State Park is dominated by grasses, Queen Anne's lace, yellow coneflowers and wild parsnip. It was beautiful on this 90-degree day of our camping trip, in between rain showers.
photo by A. Graf

This gorgeous luna moth was found near Lake Placid, NY on our trip earlier this summer. They only live a few days and are quite cooperative if you get them while slightly damp with morning dew.
photo by A. Graf

I'm waiting to see if I'll hear back from WhatsThatBug.com as to what this specifically is, but you have to be rather amazed at what's crawling around outside when you really take a close look. This was found on our tent while camping last week at Governor Dodge. One of the worst camping experiences of my life, I have to add. The kids wouldn't pose for me so I turned to the bugs. They were much more compliant and, of course, ubiquitous.
photo by A. Graf

Be careful where you park . . .
photo by A. Graf

Answer to my recent puzzler: The back of a cicada found in my yard.
photo by A. Graf

Where Disney gets their ideas - a cicada from my backyard.
photo by A. Graf

Guess what this is! I'll post the full photo in a day or two so check back.
photo by A. Graf

Single Rowboat, Southwest Harbor, Maine
photo by A. Graf

Bluejay feather on the coast of Maine
photo by A. Graf

Seaweed looking like a Chinese character - my apologies to those who read Chinese.
photo by A. Graf

Sailboats in the harbor of Bernard, Maine
photo by A. Graf

Dianthus against Acadian granite, Acadia National Park, Maine
photo by A. Graf

Rock "face", Acadia National Park, Maine
photo by A. Graf

Misty harbor and shoreline, Seawall, Maine
photo by A. Graf

Granite on top of Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park, Maine
photo by A. Graf

lobster traps in Southwest Harbor, Maine
photo by A. Graf

Rocks on the beach in Maine
photo by A. Graf

Boats in misty harbor, Mt. Desert Island, Maine
photo by A. Graf

Rain, Rain, Go Away

We left Maine this morning in the rain and it continued to rain all the way to Bangor. Then it cleared up for the rest of the day. We crossed into New Hampshire and then Vermont. At Lake Champlain we took a one-hour ferry ride across to New York. Now I type by the window in our hotel room under Whiteface Mountain in the Adirondacks. The 1980 Winter Olympics were held on this mountain and hosted right up the street in Lake Placid. It's gorgeous.

I have energy for nothing more than a hot shower and bed.

The Dawn of Civilization

I woke around 2:30 this morning to use the facilities, and stepping out onto our deck I saw the sky full of stars. This could only mean one thing - no fog! I woke Dean and we scribbled a note to our sleeping children before heading out to Cadillac Mountain to view the sunrise as it first strikes North America. I got lots of nice photos and we were back home before the children even knew we were gone (5:30am). Later in the day we treated ourselves to another ride through Acadia National Park, seeing it through a totally new lens, sans fog.

I did fall into the Atlantic Ocean today, just slipping on some wet rocks but landing rather hard on my left hip, leg and arm. Thankfully my camera was in my right hand and my extra lens was in my right pocket, so they were unharmed. I am bruised. I was also very wet, but we stopped for lunch at a nice restaurant where I hurried into the ladies' room to use their electric hand dryer on my shorts.

This will probably be my last post from Maine as we head towards Lake Placid tomorrow morning. What a week it's been, folks. I still have remnants of the hives, but the glands down my neck seem to be recovering. The bruises will be gone soon and my socks might even dry out before tomorrow. I have taken over 1000 photographs so far, and I'm sure that my memories of our adventures in Maine will only grow fonder with the passing of time.

What Rhymes with MAINE . . .

It's not pain, stain or drain, though I can make associations with each of these words quickly enough. I'll give you a hint. It's a form of precipitation. You got it! And so do we. It began raining last night and I awoke to a magnificent thunderstorm. I thought the pines were going to come crashing down on the cabin. It was still raining steadily when I awoke at 5:00am and again still at 8:30am. It finally let up around 10:00am, so I went out with my camera, a couple lenses and my tripod to photograph the swollen brook now loudly charging down behind the cabin.

Now I have to mention another small difficulty associated with life here in Maine. It rhymes with Mojito, but isn't as fun. You got it! And so do we. And apparently the species are different enough here that when they bite us Midwesterners, our bodies aren't used to their specific coastal juices and our immune systems react a bit overzealously. I was bitten on the back right side of my neck a few days ago. Yesterday I noticed a swollen lump in my neck, about an inch from a large bite. It seemed like a gland or lymph node or something, and it hurt. After my shower this morning, I discovered it was swollen even larger, and upon further inspection, I discovered another node, pea-sized, in my collarbone area. I try to tell myself that it's probably that large mosquito bite back there so close to a subcutaneous white blood cell defense center, but I have also been known to have a hypochondriacal bent. I begin to worry.

I am palpating my neck every few minutes. This isn't helping and the swelling is going up, if anything. I make Dean feel it. He says it's nothing. But then again, he thought the death of three of my Helichtotrichon sempervirens was nothing. Sempervirens, my eyeball - that was a disaster.

I find a phone book and call the local medical center here in town. The receptionist listens to my problem and tries to find a nurse. She can't locate one, but promises to have one call me back as she takes down my name and number. I put some Afterbite on my little wounds and sit down to treat myself to a bowl of Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal, which I bought the day before as a special vacation treat. I am still nervous so I eat another bowl. And another. There's no more Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal left when the kids start to wander in, searching for food. "Awwwww. Who ate all the good cereal?" Sorry.

Soon the phone rings and I jump up to answer it. The nurse listens to my complaint and assures me that my body is just trying to fight off this invasion caused by the mosquitoes. She asks where we're from, and when I say Wisconsin, she says that the bugs out here are probably different enough that our bodies are trying harder to get rid of this new variant of poison. "Give it about three days, and it should begin to go away on its own."

I am reassured, so this is when I head outside with the camera equipment. I wear my jacket with the collar turned up and the zipper zipped to the tippy top. I march through a lot of underbrush to get to the brook and then end up following the water all the way down into town, where it empties out into a pond full of reeds and frogs behind the town fire station. I roll up my jeans a bit and wade into the pond to gain access to a large rock. I climb up to get a better shot at some lovely water grass, then I wade back to shore and take the road through town to our place.

While walking, I start to feel a stinging sensation in my left thigh. I don't see anything stuck to my jeans, but I pick up my pace so I can get home faster. There's a huge, steep hill to ascend just before our driveway and I am beginning to sweat, but I don't dare take my jacket off for fear of more taquitoes. When I get home, I rip off my jeans and find hives sprinkled across my leg. What the heck? What did I do? I had my pants on the entire time I was out there. I go hunt down the Afterbite again and begin dabbing away. This helps. A few minutes later and a couple pop up on my other leg. There are none down where I rolled up my jeans to wade.

The sun came out for a couple minutes today, in a rather halfhearted way, but it quickly dodged back behind the clouds and the fog settled comfortably in its place. We went beachcombing and out to lunch, which is about when I started to notice the Captain Crunch effect. Does anyone out there know what I'm talking about? The Captain Crunch effect happens to folks who don't normally eat little, hard, round balls of sugary cereal for breakfast. A few hours later you notice that your tongue and the roof of your mouth are inexplicably sore. You ponder this fact for a while and then realize it was caused by the pleasing sensation of eating those hard pellets, mashing them against the tender insides of your gums and palate. It's 8:30 at night and my tongue still hurts.

So, swollen glands, hives, CC effect, and still no clear sky. Ah, vacation.

Soggy Little Cat Feet . . .

My apologies to Carl Sandburg. It's a foggy, overcast day here in Maine, and what started out as charming, New England fishing village coastal romantic atmospheric haze is quickly dissolving (oh, how I wish) into plain old crappy weather. The first day you kept saying to yourself, "Oh, isn't this beautiful? The mists are just like you always dream they are going to be in Maine." By the fifth day your shower towel still hasn't dried out, your Birkenkstocks are damp (though you've never worn them outside) and even the dollar bills they hand you back at the local market are moist. I am praying for just one clear, dry day. I think the locals are as well, but they don't hold out much hope. A Maine calendar I saw advertised today had these days noted in July: 2 - Winter finally ends; 3 - Spring begins; 4 - Summer is here!; 5 - Fall begins and ends; 6 - Winter resumes. I think they're serious.

It is still a pretty place and my second lobster dinner was as good or better than the first. We've taken to beachcombing, where we can get free souvenirs just by looking down. I look up, too, occasionally to see if the fog has cleared enough to photograph a quaint grouping of fishing boats. Then I look down again and take more photos of rocks. The rocks are rather nice. Sam has taken to hunting down beach glass. I did have to explain to him that if the labels are still attached to them, they are considered litter. He's getting the idea.

I found a lovely photo essay book of the Maine coastline today here in town. It was a paperback and the corners were a bit wrinkled, I supposed because it was on display and had been thumbed through by tourists like myself. I asked the store owner if he had another copy and he went back and dug one up for me. I thanked him and explained that the first one looked like it had been a bit too admired. "It's the weather, actually," he said. "Hard to keep any paper products from curling."

I get the idea.

State of Maine

I am posting from the beautiful coast of Maine, among the mossy forests, lichen encrusted rocks and ocean vistas. And yes, I ate a lobster yesterday, fresh from the sea. And yes, I took a photo of it before I ate it. I even said hello to it before I ate it. Then I ate it with butter. And yes, it was delicious.

Other than the lobster traps and bouys hanging from houses as decoration, the word lobster advertised outside nearly every restaurant, and all things nautical in general, there are a couple things that seem peculiar to this part of the planet. Maybe it's because there is an abundance of them, but folks tend to use rocks as part of their decor, as part of their personal landscape. There are large boulders marking boundaries, corners of property, and mailboxes. Large rocks often line roads to keep traffic where it should be and one large rock near our cottage warns cars not to try to drive up that little road past our driveway. They are in the gift shops with holes bored into them for candles or bud vases. They are painted with animals or placed artistically in gardens where the lupine can crawl around and over them. All the doors in our log cabin have rocks near them as door stoppers and nearly every path, lane, trail and walk is lined with this local commodity.

The door stoppers lead me to the doors. Almost every building in this shipping village has what I would call a flimsy, wooden screen door with those simple metal handles on both sides. They do not latch, and due to the moist atmosphere of the island, they often no longer fit the frames in which they are set. They simply slam shut on squeaky springs, which is usually good enough to wedge the most warped into place. In our cottage, the front door has to be lifted up to fit, as does the back door. The bathroom door, which, along with the three bedroom doors all open onto the back deck area instead of into the main living area, has to be pushed downward to open. These doors are on the gift shops and houses and most of the restaurants. There are inner wooden doors as well that lock, but rarely do you see an actual aluminum or vinyl screen door. The sound of a slamming wooden screen door does bring me back to a simpler time, a summertime somewhere on vacation in my youth. The screen door I grew up with, and which is still on my parents' house, is metal and not much more functional than these Maine doors, though it does latch. It slams good and loud, too, which can still drive my mother nuts.

Rest assured there will be lots of photos to post when we return.

Most Recent Incident (or MRI for short)

I used to type magnetic resonance imaging technology patents for a lawyer from GE Medical Systems. I never understood the complex mathematical formulas and scientific explanations in the materials I was preparing, but the more civilian descriptions of what these machines are capable of has always been of interest. Today, years later, I got to take my first ride into that loud, cylindrical chamber to experience an MRI from the consumer end.

I actually had two of them: one of my left hip and one of my lumbar spine area, in an effort to determine the cause of the aches in this hip and the often accompanying nerve pain that has been plaguing my left leg for the past eleven months. An x-ray was inconclusive last fall, and a three-month hiatus from the gym seemed to improve things, but a few weeks back into a fraction of my former workout regime and the pain returned. I put off this next test for months, but finally made the call to my doctor, who surprisingly got me in for the procedure the very next day at what I thought was the local defunct hospital, St. Mikes. Turns out their radiology department is still in operation while they await complete takeover by the Wheaton Franciscans.

I was questioned by two different attendants before the test to make sure there were no possible metallic fragments lodged anywhere in my body. “Do you have any surgically implanted plates, screws, rods, shunts or a pacemaker? Have you ever been a metal worker? Have you ever had a tattoo?” No one asked if I had applied aluminum-laced deodorant that morning so I assumed that my armpits wouldn’t rip off my body or burst into flames. I left off my wedding ring and my watch, and even removed the earrings that have become a constant companion since my ultra short haircut last week.

There really wasn’t much to the test, other than lying still for about 20 or so minutes. I was given earplugs as the noises emitted by the magnetic monster were rather deafening. I lay on a narrow table that was raised up to the height of the tube, and then slowly advanced inside it, under the large white GE logo, so that my hip was at about the middle of its length. I took the advice of a nurse friend and began to breath evenly and think about being on the beach somewhere beautiful in a comfy chaise lounger. This was working wonderfully until Laurie Anderson showed up and began a sound check on the sand next to me. She then seemed to start a concert set, but after a minute or so her Moog stalled out on the same note, over and over. You never can tell with electronic musicians, so I simply waited to hear if this was part of the piece or not. Then her amps began to experience obvious feedback problems and I wondered where her audio tech gurus must have wandered off to. How embarrassing. But she didn’t seem to mind and plugged away, changing the frequency every now and then for creative effect.

The concert stopped suddenly, so much so that the silence caused a physical charge to run through my body. My mind wandered back to the sound of beach waves softly breaking on the shore.

Then the Irish step dancers showed up.

Now everyone knows you can’t rightly perform Irish step dancing on the sand, so the troupe set about building an enormous stage on the other side of my chair. They used about two dozen DeWalt D51845 20 Degree Full Round Head Framing Nail Guns and apparently an entire Lowe’s warehouse of ammunition before stopping just as abruptly as the Laurie Anderson concert. The sudden silence slammed into my body once again.

This alternation between Ms. Anderson and the Irish stage builders continued for the next 15 or 20 minutes. Every so often the table would more forward or backward slightly, and then it was over. The noises stopped for longer than usual and I heard the attendant push the door to the room open as he reentered. I hadn’t even known he had left. The table was scrolled out of the tube and lowered and I hopped off while he repositioned the padded sensor thingeys and replaced the white sheet. I lay down in the other direction this time for the lumber scan and was rolled in head first, nearly all the way to the other open end of the machine, though not quite. I guess I’m not really claustrophobic because none of this bothered me.

We began the same scenario again – more beeps, raps and banging as the concert set up, followed by the same electronic set and dancing construction crew and soon it was all over. Between this and the upper G.I. I endured earlier this spring, I have certainly increased my diagnostic medical repertoire to the point that visions of all my hypochondriacal future screenings don’t hold quite as much horror as they once did.

One Day to Spare

Just to follow up on our van repairs . . . we got the thing back from the shop late this afternoon. They were told we were leaving tomorrow. We don't actually leave until Friday, but as far as they knew we were going straight home to pack the car. That was cutting it extremely close. Good thing I learned from dealing with my perpetually tardy mother to give a padded start time for important events. This gives us a cushion of two days to drive the thing around and make the sure the wheels don't fall off.

For all of you praying folks, think of us as we drive across the country. There will be plenty of photos to post when we return. Thank you.

Yellow flower in the tropical dome at Mitchell Park, Milwaukee
photo by A. Graf

Playground ball, extruded with Photoshop Elements
photo by A. Graf

Long yellow and brown stamens surrounding the pistil of an earlier photographed white lily, Mitchell Park Domes, Milwaukee
photo by A. Graf

More of the same building off Greenfield Ave., Milwaukee
photo by A. Graf

Building off of Greenfield Avenue somewhere east of 60th street, Milwaukee
photo by A. Graf

One of three half-inch long baby praying mantids released into our yard this morning. Ain't he a cutie!
photo by A. Graf

Lily in the Mitchell Park Domes, close up. Milwaukee, WI
photo by A. Graf

Marge Simpson plant in the Arid Dome, Mitchell Park, Milwaukee
photo by A. Graf

Dented rain gutter off Greenfield Avenue, Milwaukee
photo by A. Graf

Ancient petroglyphs on outside of grumpy garbage can
photo by A. Graf

Grumpy garbage can on my kids' playground
photo by A. Graf

I Met a Man

Today on my walk to the bus stop after school, I met a man. I said hello, and something in his manner and his, "How do you do?" made me stop and ask how he was doing. We chatted a few seconds and I asked him if he lived nearby. He thought he lived on the other side of the block, but he wasn't sure. I asked him if he knew his address, but he wasn't sure of that either. He did know his name, so we walked back to my house and I looked him up in the phone book.

He wan't listed, and I began to worry just a bit. I asked if he had someone at home that I could call. He said he had a lady, but he hadn't used her actual name in so long, he couldn't remember it. I suggested looking in his wallet for something with his address on it. He pulled out a small stack of cards and on top there was a woman's name and an address, ten blocks east of here. I read out the name and he said, "That's my woman! Don't ever tell her I forgot her name."

"Should I call her to come and get you?"

"Oh, no. That would be embarrassing."

My husband had just left with our van, so I offered to walk him home. He said I didn't have to, but he seemed happy to have company. Besides, I rather doubted he would have made it back without help. There are two extremely busy, uncontrolled intersections between my house and his that can be very difficult to cross, even for someone who has no trouble walking. At this time of day it would be downright dangerous. I made a quick mental note of the number on the paper now in his hand and told him I would just go get my keys.

While inside, I dialed the number that had been in his wallet and spoke to Ann, his lady. I explained what was obviously not an unfamiliar situation to her, and told her I would begin walking with Lou east on our street towards home. She agreed to drive up and meet us.

I came back out with my keys and we set off. He gripped our rickety railing and went down our stairs very slowly and carefully. I mentally prepared to catch him should he fall. He must be at least in his 80's and his tall, bony frame wobbled a bit as we made our way. He blamed the wind when he wavered towards the edge of the sidewalk. "It's trying to blow me over." He told me about being a kid on the south side of Milwaukee and how his grandmother spoke nothing but a dialect of Polish unintelligible to most of the Milwaukee Poles around her. He also told me how he took off four months ago and walked 75 blocks. Then he got tired and sat down. The police picked him up and took him home. He said this with a tone of how nice of those policemen to drive me all the way home!

We walked less than two blocks before a brown sedan pulled over and rolled down the window. His lady had arrived. Not to embarass him, I said she must have come looking for him. They both thanked me profusely, she in English and he in both English and Polish.

Can someone please give me a plausible explanation into this current fashion trend? Is there any function, statement or excuse for wearing your pants thus, as this young man was doing last night at my daughter's track meet? I've seen fashions come and go, styles that I don't appreciate, such as the miniskirt, gauchos or pointy-toed shoes - but this one goes beyond comprehension for me. It just looks plain stupid.
photo by A. Graf

Underwater pilings in the quarry at Harrington Beach State Park, Memorial Day, 2006
photo by A. Graf

Run-Ins With Local Wildlife

Few folks can boast the recent run-ins with local wildlife that I can.

In January, I hit a full grown deer at about 45 miles per hour on a dark country road. Three days ago a jaguar ran into our mini-van on a quiet residential street. A 2004 Jaguar X-Type, that is, at about 35 miles per hour. He was speeding, but he also had the right-of-way so I'll probably get pegged with most of the blame. I can so clearly remember my driver's ed teacher admonishing us about the most commonly given excuse after an accident, "I didn't see him." That was about it. By the time I did see him, we were T-1 second to impact.

His jag still looked better than our van when all was said and done. No one was hurt, physically. I was pretty shaken up, and then, of course, all the wheels started spinning as the numbers began dancing through my head: deductibles, increased insurance premiums, number of days without this vehicle while it's being worked on, the number of days remaining until our long-awaited family vacation to the east coast, and the difference, if any, between those last two items. Might we not even have a vehicle for our trip?

The next couple of days were a blur of phone calls to and from insurance, the body shop and our local mechanic, who took a look at our other, older van for us to see if it was okay to drive while the newer van was being fixed. This old van has been sitting on our back slab for about eight months during our half hearted attempts to sell it. My husband jumped the dead battery and I got it to the garage where they gave it a surprisingly good report. Needs a few things, but nothing grossly expensive or immediate, and is a better alternative than squishing the six of us into a Ford Taurus for a month and then paying $450 to do it. It's at times like these when you discover what's really on your auto insurance policy and what isn't. Rental car reimbursement wasn't. During one phone call yesterday, I added this benefit for only $18 a year.

After yet one more phone call to our insurance company to add coverage to the old van, and the requisite trip to the DMV to get license plates, we are once again free to purchase $3.00/gallon fossil fuels and then burn them to destroy the ozone layer like the rest of America.

So the saga continues, and we'll see what comes of it. Will the auto body guys be done with our van before our trip? Will I be slapped with total responsibility for this accident? Will our premiums skyrocket? Will we ultimately become more familiar with MCTS (a.k.a. the bus)? Will George Bush's latest tax cut help me pay for all of this?

Stay tuned.

My Finest Hour

You know it's not the best day you've ever had when you spend it waiting for the last feedback to come in that will change your eBay rating from 99 to 100, thus replacing the long-held royal blue star next to your name to a shiny new sky blue. This will be my third star color, and I have to wait a long time until I see purple, the next hue in line at 500 transactions.

Sorry for the boring entry. It's cold, dull and rainy here in the Midwest. I guess it's rather the same in my head.

Fence behind Fiesta Garibaldi Mexican restaurant, Milwaukee, WI.
photo by A. Graf

Reading the Dictionary for Fun

My ten-year old has been reading through, cover to cover, her phone book-sized dictionary. Today at school on the playground, toting this heavy tome, she asked me, "If I read through the entire dictionary, will I remember everything like Grandpa, or will I have to do it twice?"

Two quite cooperatively posing leaves in the tropical dome.
photo by A. Graf

Tulip in the show dome - it looked almost dirty, but those were natural speckles.
photo by A. Graf

Two Easter lilies in the Mitchell Park show dome, 4/30/06.
photo by A. Graf

The same street, close up.
photo by A. Graf

A black asphalt street in our neighborhood, covered in maple tree blossoms, 4/30/06
photo by A. Graf

Speaking of Faith

"We don't make progress by denying our experience." I am quoting John Polkinghorne as he was interviewed this afternoon on the NPR radio program Speaking of Faith. Rev. Dr. Polkinghorne is a physicist and Anglican priest and was discussing one of my favorite subjects of late, the happy coexistence of the Christian faith and science. It does no good to deny truth when it doesn't fit your understanding of faith. Christians should never fear truth, as all truth is truly God's.

Apparently Dietrich Bonhoeffer said something to the effect that since God is unknowable, as man discovers more and more "truths" in the scientific world, God is pushed farther and farther away from us. Mr. Polkinghorne countered with the idea that since the Christian God is a god of truth, whenever we uncover more scientific truth, we get to know God better. I embrace the second theory. Our universe is amazing and we should not be afraid to discover how it works.

Too Many Poets?

The following quote is taken from Ted Kooser's (current Poet Laureate of the US) recent book entitled The Poetry Home Repair Manual.
--
A noted contemporary poet and critic has said we ought to keep poetry a secret from the masses. Another, the editor of a prestigious anthology of poetry, said that each nation ought to have no more than a handful of poets. Both sound pretty elitist, don't they? Well, we'll always have among us those who think the best should be reserved for the few. Considering the ways in which so many of us waste our time, what would be wrong with a world in which everybody were writing poems? After all, there's a significant service to humanity in spending time doing no harm. While you're writing your poem, there's one less scoundrel in the world. And I'd like a world, wouldn't you, in which people actually took time to think about what they were saying? It would be, I'm certain, a more peaceful, more reasonable place. I don't think there could ever be too many poets. By writing poetry, even those poems that fail and fail miserably, we honor and affirm life. We say "We loved the earth but could not stay."
--
So, instead of taking a gun to someone's head, or your own for that matter, write a poem. Spill your guts metaphorically across a clean, white page with carefully chosen words and lucid linguistic imagery. You'll feel better and so might someone else.

Mineral first discovered here in the 1820's, Mineral Point, WI. Or so said the nearby sign. I don't know which mineral(s) they're talking about, but I liked the face in the rock.
photo by A. Graf

Trees in the Mississippi River, Wyalusing State Park
photo by A. Graf

Barn wall detail, Mineral Point, WI
photo by A. Graf

berry vine and shadow, Mineral Point, WI
photo by A. Graf

clay and glass marbles in an antique store window, McGregor, Iowa
photo by A. Graf

A slice of what I believe to be the Pigeon River, at dusk - Sheboygan, WI
photo by A. Graf

More colorful detail on the bottom of a friend's boat
photo by A. Graf

Boats viewed from behind brush on the beach at Elkart Lake, WI
photo by A. Graf

Colors on the bottom of a friend's boat, Elkart Lake, WI
photo by A. Graf

My happy Easter reminder - has she laid those 50 to 100+ eggs yet?
photo by A. Graf

Resurrection and Reappearances

It's almost Easter again and Christians around the world are reminded of the resurrection of Christ, rebirth and new life. I am reminded of something else.

My recently latent fears have been resurrected by a collection of 30 limbs radiating from a sleek and slender, striped little body clinging to the cinder block wall above the laundry sink in our basement tonight. That's her above. Remember last Easter Sunday morning? The day I learned that two-and-a-half dozen little grippers sometimes just isn't enough to keep a centipede on the wall? Oh, yeah. I'm thinking about Easter, all right. What was God thinking when he made these things? And why do they seem to be developing a habit of showing up at the most hopeful time of year?

I Love Brussels Sprouts, But Barium I Can Do Without

A few years ago when we first invited James to come to dinner, I asked him if there were any foods that he couldn't eat or didn't like. He replied that there were indeed two things in life he simply would not eat: Brussels Sprouts and barium. I carefully avoided both of these in the evening's meal.

This morning I had my first upper GI and with it, my first taste of barium. I have to say it was not all that bad. I wouldn't want to drink it if I didn't have to, but it certainly wasn't as awful as some would make it seem. It was thick and chalky, yes, but thankfully bland, and I had no trouble swallowing it.

First, they gave me what basically amounted to a small dose of Pop Rocks. Then I chased that immediately with a thick barium shake. While I stood there gulping the glop, they took pictures of my suddenly gas-distended abdomen as the white goo slimed down my digestive tract. The attending physician pointed out a bunch of my interesting internal landmarks to the two radiology interns who were taking the x-rays and watching the journey down my throat on a monitor above my head.

Once this dose was down and the doctor was satisfied with the pictures, I was carefully tilted back down onto my back, rolled gently from side to side to allow the gunk to fully coat all sides of my innards, and then x-rayed from various degrees around my body. Halfway through this I also had to drink another larger cup of thinner barium. This was slightly more difficult as I was already full of gas bubbles and the thicker first serving, but I managed okay, only dribbling a little onto the table and pillow. More photos and then it was over.

One of the nurses handed me a warm, wet washcloth to wipe the white residue off my lips. I hadn't realized I had made such a pig of myself. Got barium?

I bought this really cool underwater camera while on vacation last week in Florida . . . well, okay - the Milwaukee Public Museum has some nice exhibits.
photo by A. Graf

Time Warp

A friend just forwarded me an e-mail in which it is explained that on Wednesday of this week at two minutes and three seconds after one o'clock it will be 01:02:03 04/05/06.

Reading this e-mail, I was transported back in time to Camp LuWiSoMo on the shores of Round Lake, where I attended a weekend retreat in middle school. Our youth pastor at the time, Pastor Chuck, made us count down the seconds until the clock struck 12:34 pm, making the time and date read 12:34 5/6/78. I have always remembered this. I think at the time Pastor Chuck must have hoped we would.

Wet Sunday

We tried to take a family hike today out at Lapham Peak State Park. Even bought our annual sticker. The skies started misting on the drive out and it was a regular spring shower by the time we hit the parking lot near the observation tower. Rats.
The kids fought the entire way back to town. By the time we pulled up in front of our house, my husband and I were ready to kick the kids out of the van and speed off by ourselves. Instead, he kept them in the vehicle and gave them a talking-to while I grabbed the tripod I hadn't been able to use in the park and my macro lens to shoot the first wet blooms of spring in our own front yard.

Wet crocus poking up through leaves in our front yard
photo by A. Graf