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...

Summer squash and blueberry muffins

I walked into my mom’s kitchen after returning from a weekend jaunt to Grand Rapids and Virginia to find a bowl of black sweet cherries on the island, a homemade blueberry pie in the oven, fresh basil in the sink and summer squash, zucchini and green beans piled on the counter.

Hallelujah. We’ve officially entered the glory days of summer in Northern Michigan, aka the only time of year in which I can afford to eat my preferred diet of berries and sautéed veggies.

Even without taking into consideration the environmental implications of eating locally grown food, there's something beautiful about munching on raspberries you picked from your own garden, or eating blueberries that you bought from the grower at the farmer's market. (I happened to be doing both of these things on the trip down to Virginia while Taylor - appropriately enough - read excerpts from "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.")

Actually, the past week or so has been filled with delicious food. Although I’m discovering that I’m pretty skeptical of a lot of elements that traditionally go into weddings, I’m still a big fan of the food. I love when the menu choices reflect the couple’s personalities. Colin and I went to a wedding Saturday evening with an incredible appetizer table – I filled up on spinach and artichoke dip, flatbread and kalamata olives – that perfectly echoed the classy but relaxed tone of the whole event. Oh man, that wedding was fun. I danced my face off.

The food at my dear friend’s wedding in Virginia on Monday was, again, a reflection of the couple. The elaborate place settings, sorbet to cleanse the palate between courses, and wine were the perfect choice for Clara, who believes in the importance of appreciating the food you eat. Although I felt a little shame at being “The Vegetarian,” as Clara’s caterer deemed me, the plate of roasted vegetables and portabella mushroom were totally worth the embarrassment.

My favorite meal of the trip, however, was a picnic lunch that Sue, our gracious and wonderful hostess in Blacksburg, VA put together for Colin and me to eat on our hike up to the Cascades waterfall.

Sue is my hospitality idol. She and her husband opened their big, lovely house (somewhat empty now that their children are scattered around the country) to some of Clara’s friends, including me and my two road trip companions. I was worried about barging into a stranger’s house, but by the end of our stay I felt a lot more like a family member than a guest.

Somewhere between Con (the husband) taking our picture and putting it up in their digital frame and the warm muffins and warmer conversation Monday morning, I fell completely in love with this couple. That feeling was solidified when I watched them dancing their hearts out at the reception. It is so clear that this couple enjoys life, and it was infectious. I miss them (and their ice cream dessert) already.

Lewis and Clark were here

After a brief hiatus from blogging, I've returned. My need to be present in the online world trumped the embarrassment I experienced when I found out people actually read this thing sometimes.

My family returned yesterday after a very long trip to Nebraska for a family reunion. I thought cramming all eight of us into one house for the summer was rough, but it's nothing compared to the chaos that comes from packing us into Big Bertha the Astrovan. Yes, the car manufacturer put eight seats in, but I'm sure they really didn't intend for an entire family of opinionated, loud and easily provoked Michiganders to occupy the van for 18 hours straight. Let's just say that judging from the number of death threats uttered, it would be a sage move to split us up into two cars next time we attempt a journey of that length.

Every time I venture out west, I wonder what inspired people to migrate across the country. And why did they call the plains “Great”? I’m sorry; perhaps there is some beauty in the wide open spaces. However, after hours and hours of nothing but cornfields and signs for Wall Drug (anyone who’s ever ventured down I-80 through South Dakota knows what I’m talking about) I would give anything for the sight of a hill. Or lake. Or something that breathes that isn’t a black-and-white milk producer.

(Side note: I apologize if you love South Dakota. I’ll admit you possess the most epic thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced, and there are few things as brilliantly bizarre as the Corn Palace in Mitchell. Last year my dad insisted on stopping at the castle -covered annually with corn, beans and other natural decorations- purely for the story. We also made a pit stop at Wall Drug, but the 5¢ coffee and the free water couldn’t disguise their blatant prey on exhausted vacationers who are willing to buy overpriced souvenirs to placate the kids who just didn’t find four heads carved into Mount Rushmore as exciting as they thought they would.)

We finally arrived at our destination, a little campground on the banks of the Missouri dedicated to and named for – who else – Lewis and Clark. I wonder if those two knew that their legacy would live on forever at every rest stop, visitor center and park within 30-miles of their path? “Gee, Clark, methinks we should camp here tonight. Someday an interstate will go through here and people are going to need a history lesson about us after they empty their trash cans and bladders.” “Good thought, Lewis. Look! A weed we haven’t documented yet!”

Although the trip was killer, the weekend was fantastic. I spent most of my days out in the sun – horseback riding, Frisbee-ing, wakeboarding, etc. I badly bruised and scraped all my appendages after subjecting myself to tubing behind my maniacal uncle. You’d think that after the first 6 experiences of flying 5 feet into the air and crashing into the water would be enough, but I kept going back for more.

I also quadrupled my freckle count. It’s truly summer now – they’re starting to grow into each other, creating lovely blotches.

Family is a strange concept, and one I take for granted far too often. The 30 of us gathered there rarely see each other all at once, but there’s still a comfort level that I doubt would be there with any other group of people who only get together every 3 years. We’re stuck with each other, we’ve been there through every stage of each other’s lives, and there’s no doubt that we’ll still be part of each other’s lives 10 years from now.

It’s that same unconditional love and connection that makes me grateful to be home this summer. Although there have been hundreds of times this month when I’ve wanted to be anywhere in the world but my family room listening to my brothers and sisters fight with each other, and probably even more times when I’ve had to bite my tongue to keep from calling my dad something that would put me permanently on his bad side, I’m always reminded how grateful I should be for them. No matter how bad I am at communicating or how many stupid choices I make, they are always, always there. They will always, always take me back. There’s nothing a hug and a trip to DQ can’t solve.