ENGL 290 and POLS 312, no, CAS 312 and PHIL 211... wait...

I registered for my very last class at Calvin last week.

I'm not exactly jumping for joy. You have to understand that registering for classes is one of my favorite things to do. I drew up a semester-by-semester plan early in my freshman year of college (it's titled "Lerae's Life," if that gives you any clue of its significance to me). I eagerly awaited classes to be posted each semester, and painstakingly fit my classes and work schedule together, always taking into account the professors. I had first choices, second choices, and occasionally even third choices. My advising periods were record breaking; I laid my plan on my advisor's desk, they looked down at it and up at me with a hint of fear in their eyes, and signed off.

I like planning classes so much that I hired out my services to other people. Well, "hired out" might be a bit misleading; I begged people to let me plan their academic careers for them. My suitemate, my roommate, my sister, poor random freshmen on the path: no one was spared.

But now it's over.

It's not even a real class; Calvin has this January term they call "Interim," where you take the same class every day for three weeks. I'm taking this photography class that looks great called "Negotiating Documentary." Come January 27th, I'm no longer a Calvin Knight. Come February 2nd, I'll no longer be working or residing in the United States. Hard to believe. Sad. A bunch of "lasts" are coming up, and in some ways they're eclipsing the "firsts" that I know are around the bend.

Maybe my sister will let me register for her classes for her from Guatemala.

I'm a football star

From an article in my school newspaper entitled Fumblers fail to foil Les Jacques’ longstanding record of triumph: Through a superior show of strength, skill, bravery and dashing good looks, Les Jacques were victorious on the field once again.

"And none of the Fumblers defenders could keep track of “Quicker Than” Lerae “of Light” Kroon, whose blazing speed and unconventional passing routes fooled even the brightest minds in the Faculty secondary."

See, I am athletic. I've been fooling you all this time.

(http://clubs.calvin.edu/chimes/article.php?id=3834 if you want the whole facetious story)

Stay away, Fiskars

I consider myself a pretty brave girl. I love spiders, thrill rides, climbing up to high places, snakes and anything in the vein of skydiving, bungee jumping or flying through the air in some manner. (Ok, I have to admit those last few aren't based on any experience, but I can imagine that I would love all those things, if only given the opportunity.)

So I'm a little thrown off by a fear I've developed over the summer toward an unexpected object: scissors.

Unfortunately, I can tell you exactly when this aversion to the sharp utensils developed. Earlier this summer - back when the months ahead seemed to hold endless possibilities - I decided I wanted to sew a dress. You know, fulfill my crafty and indie potential. I played the situation over and over in my mind: someone would walk up to me, wowed by my style, and ask me where I got my new sundress. I would turn and respond casually, "Yeah, I made it. No big deal."

With this image in my mind, I headed to JoAnn Fabrics and spent an afternoon poring over the pattern books, trying innumerable combinations of styles and fabrics, until I finally settled on an olive green fabric and a vintage halter pattern. As soon as I reached home I realized what a bad choice this was, but at that point I already had the zipper, thread and various other notions so there was no turning back.

So where does my fear of scissors come into this story? Well, it was a warm June evening. I was kneeling on the floor of my house, cutting out the "Bodice Front." I turned to grab something and simultaneously stabbed the closed scissors about an inch into my knee. How I managed this graceful feat I know not. All I know is that as I watched the circle of blood seeping through my jeans quickly grow and I began to hyperventilate, my lifelong friendship with scissors came to an end.

I know it wasn't the scissors' fault, but I just don't like them anymore. Although I can now hold scissors in my hand again without my heart beating rapidly (it took a few weeks) I still get very nervous when I'm around them and avoid them if at all possible. Case in point: the extra 20 minutes I spent today at work trying to find precut labels for the inventory I was doing so I didn't have to cut the labels sitting on my desk to size. (I'm happy to report that although I was forced to team up with a red pair of 3Ms, there were no injuries.)

I have a haircut later this afternoon - I'm feeling a bit queasy.

Lies, Lies, Lies and Pies, Pies, Pies

For the past 5 summers, I’ve worked at a farm market a mile or so from my house. For the past 5 summers, I’ve hated my job.

To be fair, there have been some aspects of working there that I’ve loved: watching my sisters Anna and Jenice dress up as “Miss Cherry” and “Miss Strawberry,” for example. Kneeling on the floor stuffing balloons into their costumes and safety pinning their outfits really was a joy, as was watching the retired men waiting for their wives to select the perfect jam basket combination inappropriately hit on them (“Can I buy you by the quart?”)

But overall, I wasn’t a fan of making greasy donuts day after day, dreaded the inevitable drama between workers, and tired of the pastel clad tourists and their repetitive remarks about the smell, cuteness and quaintness of the store. When I found other employment this summer, I vowed never to return.

Guess where I started working two weeks ago?

Yeah, they needed someone to come in to make pies, and in a moment of weakness I volunteered. The only redeeming factor is that the market is closed by the time I get there. I get to mass produce cherry, cherry crunch, apple and dutch apple pies in peace and quiet - after I turn off the dulcimer music that is usually piped over the intercom, that is.

Usually, after looking at pies for a few hours I start serenading them, switching the lyrics from "Lies" by The Swell Season (the adorable duo from the movie Once, who I can't wait to see in concert next month) from "breaking us down with your lies, lies, lies" to "breaking me down with these pies, pies, pies," etc.

Playing this week in the bakery: Lerae's rendition of "American Pie."

Oooohhh yeah

Living in Atwood ("the Adorable", proclaims the stickered lettering added to the road sign attempting to alert those driving through that Atwood is more than a cluster of houses and a church on the side of a highway) has its ups and downs. For example, not many people can say they live here. So few people can claim residence, in fact, that the powers that be removed our town from the map a few years ago (presumably so others don't get jealous.) We can also claim the miniature roadside chapel, Friske's Farm Market and Rex Beach - author of one of the best selling novels of 1906 and silver medal- winning Olympic water polo player.

We named a road after him.

But a benefit of living in Atwood that I only recently discovered is its convenient location when it comes to attending the many, many festivals of Northern Michigan. This may not sound like that big of a deal, but let me assure you, it is. Every town - no matter how small - annually gets together to celebrate... something, and it's a huge part of summer.

Love bass? Try the Mancelona Bass Festival! Cherries? The National Cherry Festival in Traverse City. Are lilacs your thing? Mackinac Island has you covered. We've got the Boyne Falls Polish Festival, Alpenfest in Gaylord and Charlevoix's Venetian Festival. If you've got the itch to partake in all things patriotic the Freedom Festival in East Jordan will be right up your alley.

Oh, and my personal favorite: Morel Mushroom Festival in Boyne city. Those ugly, hard-to-find delicacies completely deserve their own weekend.

Even Atwood gets in on the action, although we team up with the slightly larger Ellsworth (complete with Post Office and three - count 'em, three - churches.) I usually avoid the Pig Roast weekend. Although my family tells me that there are plenty of games, parades and concessions to keep me busy, I'm too afraid I'll run into that huge, roasting pig. Yes, I'll admit it: I'm afraid of dead livestock. I'm positive they're going to suddenly come back to life and attack the cruel humans who revel in cooking them. Although as a vegetarian I'm probably exempt, better safe than sorry.

What is it about Northern Michigan that breeds so many three day homages to the obscure? I have a few theories:

1. We have nothing else to do. I mean, the lakes are great, but after a while even the sailboat starts feeling a little old. Festivals are a convenient excuse to bum around town, challenge your companions to contests of who will run into the most people they know (maybe that's just me), and show off your superior knowledge of the area to the many tourists sporting their "Up North" sweatshirts and the occasional fanny pack.

2. It allows us to take full advantage of those tourists. Once you've got them all decked out in T-shirts and full of Northern Michigan produce, you have to give them another way to keep occupied and avenue to spend their money. Carnival rides and lemonade stands work wonderfully.

3. We love fireworks. I actually find this reason the most compelling, based on the sheer number of fireworks displays that take place during the summer months. Every town has their own 4th of July display, but I guess that's not enough. I've discovered that you could go watch a show almost every weekend during the summer.

Last night Anna, Jenice and I met up with our friend Stacy to head to Harbor Days in Elk Rapids (voted #2 Festival by listeners of WTCM.) After buying our ice cream and meandering through the elephant ear stands and the Tilt-a-whirls, we found a spot on the harbor to watch the fireworks. As the sun set behind the sailboats, more and more happy little families with their matching t-shirts, khakis, blankets and cotton candy joined us. Oh tourist bliss.

It was all peaceful and good until a group of 50-something locals sat behind us, bringing a cooler and the too-loud voices that result from a night of drinking. At first I was annoyed by the man sitting a little too close to me, but as the fireworks began my irritation turned into amusement. With every firework came an exclamation; typically "Ooooh yeah" was uttered (with identical intonation each time), followed by either "That's a thumper" for big booming explosions, "Fire in the hole" for those that exploded lower in the sky, or "where are the 'shrooms?" for lingering, floating lights. He kept this up for the entire 30 minutes of the display.

I don't think the perfect little families were so thrilled about his regular and loud exclamations (I saw the mother next to me covering her little boy's ears on occasion) but Anna and I were reduced to giggles. I mean, what are festivals for if not public drunkenness? Yay Harbor Days.

Now THAT'S a thumper.


Disclaimer: Anna thinks I'm being too hard on my area. Northern Michigan, I love you. Don't be offended. I'd throw you a festival, but...