You're Stuck With Me!

Tonight at work, I was talking to one of the old ladies I take care of. She was telling me all about her family, and brothers and sisters, and likewise, I was telling her all about mine. (That's right, guys, I DO talk about you when you're not around, and I tell all the stories, too!). While we were talking, we found out we each had five siblings. All her siblings were still alive and lived relatively close by.

Anyway, she was talking all about her siblings, and offhand I asked her, "When was the last time you saw them?"

The light sort of went out of her eyes, and the smile died on her face. She got a sort of vacant look, and didn't say anything for several seconds. At last, she licked her lips and said, "Well honey, I guess it's been nearly ten years since I've seen any of them."

I felt like something coiled itself around my stomach and squeezed. How could that be? How could people--siblings!--who love each other, grew up with each other, stood at each others' weddings, cuddled each others' children, laughed and cried with each other not even VISIT each other for TEN YEARS?! How is that even possible?

And it got me (here it comes, you knew it was going to happen, it's inevitable when somebody says something semi-important or serious to Johanna) it got me thinking. Thinking about my own siblings. This woman's story was eerily similar to my own. I thought about my own family.

My little sisters, Rachel and Mary, who cuddle in my bed in the evening listening to me read Jennie McGrady mysteries until I force them into their own rooms to sleep out whatever is left of the night.

My little (big) brother, Josh, who does crazy, spur-of-the-moment things with me, staying up late playing Gin and having movie quote wars, laughing at Psych episodes and Weird Al Yankovich, playing games, and arguing about the rules of Risk.

My big brother, Jim, who loves to hang out with me even though he's newly married and busy with school, who makes me laugh harder than anybody else I know, and always stands ready to help you out with school, general advice, or chasing away bullies who are pelting you with snowballs. :)

My big sister, Nikki, who encouraged me as a young girl to excel, to learn, to be smart, to stand for things even (or maybe especially) when nobody else will, who used to let me sleep in her bed whenever I was scared or had a bad dream, read me books and told me story after story, teaching me the joy of using your imagination.

All of my siblings, I love them. I can't even remotely imagine going ten years without seeing even one of them. I love them too much. Even when we all get old and have families of our own and move to different states or whatever, I hope we all still make an effort to see each other. It just makes me so sad to think of siblings not ever seeing each other. Seriously. I want to cry just thinking about it.

So, this blog goes out to my siblings. You guys can't get away from me! Understand? There's nowhere you can hide. No way am I going to let ten years go by without seeing you, so you're just gonna have to come to grips with that. You're stuck with me, kid, and that's all there is to it.

"Many Roads" --Andrew Peterson

The Great Skunk Fiasco!

Why is it all my most exciting and dangerous stories begin with, "So there I was, minding my own business..."? I think maybe I need to stop minding my own business, it's far too dangerous. I need to start poking my nose where it doesn't belong and spying on my neighbors. Then, just maybe, I'll stay out of trouble. Or something. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, once again, I was minding my own business, and something terrible happened. It went like this...

I walked out to my car, stars twinkling above me and the crickets chirping their happy nighttime songs to whoever might me listening. I slid behind the wheel and immediately cranked the (recently fixed!) air conditioner. After selecting a good driving-home-after-a-long-day-at-work song, I drove away from my place of employment and headed for home.

I was excited. While at work, I had received a voicemail from one of my friends, Rachel, saying she wanted to hang out after I got off work. Ahh, the good ol' days, getting off work and hanging out with Rachel, drinking coffee to our hearts content, talking, laughing, and hanging out into the wee morning hours, when the rest of the city had long since said goodnight.

We hadn't done that in a long time, so needless to say, I was happy and excited to get her voicemail. But seriously, I didn't want to hang out in my scrubs. I'd been in them for nine hours already, and I was ready to get into something more comfortable. So I raced home (in the figurative sense...maybe) and changed into some capris, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. Ahh, much better.

So we were both pretty undecided on a place to hang out. First it was her house, and that didn't work out. I never suggested my house, because really, I live with like millions of people and it's not always the quietest place, even at night. Then we thought maybe a coffee shop, but they were all closed, so Rachel gets the bright idea, "hey, let's go to Holmes Lake!" Yeah, sure, why not? Little did I know...

We parked our cars by the dam and began walking towards it. Rachel wanted to go right up the side, and to be honest, so did I, but I was wearing flip-flops, and who knows WHAT is crawling around in that waist-high grass, so I made the decision that no, we're going to go around. It's not like we're on a time crunch, right? So that's what we do.

We walked across the dam once and it probably took us about fifteen or so minutes, time mostly spent trying repeatedly (and sometimes successfully) to scare each other (cause it's dark out, you know?), and talking seriously in-between the scaring bits. After a while, we turned and began making our way back.

We were a little more than halfway back when I saw it. There. Standing off to the right, not moving. I threw my arm in front of Rachel, stopping her mid-stride. My mind still hadn't registered what I was looking at, but I knew enough to be scared. "Rachel!" I pointed at the thing. My mind began to function through the haze of fear. About the size of a cat. Black.

"What is that?" Rachel whispered to me.

The thing hissed. My mind was still trying. Black. White stripes. Bushy tail. It could only be a..."SKUNK!" I shrieked. Rachel and I stood frozen and unable to move, and my mind was trying to speedily come up with everything it knew about skunks. I knew they did a handstand before they sprayed, and since it wasn't doing one of those I was slightly reassured, but the fact that it was standing there, clearly not happy, and staring at us, was beginning to freak me out.

Rachel and I began to back away, towards the edge of the dam. In hindsight, I probably should have lunged at it or something. Since it wasn't in a to position to spray me, it probably would've ran away, right? I mean, I'm no skunk expert but...

Anyway, from the moment I saw the skunk to this present time in the story, it's probably been no more than ten seconds. All I was thinking about was getting away and the fact that I was totally FREAKED OUT! And as Rachel and I began to back away, my mind brings up this ridiculous saying I've heard about a million times: "Don't worry, it's more afraid of you than you are of it." Um, whoever came up with that is STUPID because I'm pretty sure there is no "more scared" than I was right then, and I'm pretty sure that stupid skunk isn't scared at all because, what does it do? IT RUNS AT US!

When that thing came at us, I don't think I've ever been more scared of anything in my whole life. One of us screamed. And I mean really SCREAMED. Funny, I don't know who it was. For all I know we both did. And then we ran. Terrified, unashamed, down the hill, through the waist-high grass, we ran for our LIVES.

The going was slower for me because of my flip-flops. For the first three or so steps I was trying to stay alive WHILE keeping both my shoes on my feet. After that, I gave up on that, figuring that my life was worth more than a $10 pair of shoes. I made it part way down the slope through the grass before one fell off. I kept going. I couldn't imagine that the skunk was still chasing us, but then, I couldn't imagine it chasing us at all until, whoa, it's CHASING US!

Halfway down the dam, I slip. I lay there in the tall grass, my heart beating about a million times per minute, and I was trying to decide what was worse, staying where I was and hiding until the beast was gone, or making a break for freedom. I had no time to think about my erratic heartbeat or my shoe hopelessly lost in the weeds somewhere around me, though somewhere in the back of my mind, I vaguely wondered what had happened to Rachel. In all the terror and fight-or-flight reactions, I had lost sight of her.

I lifted my head, looking for her, and saw her run the last few yards to the safety of the sidewalk at the bottom of the dam. No, Rachel! Don't you ever watch movies? Bad things happen when people split up! Then it struck me, if this were a movie, I would be the expendable one. The one that tags along with the hero for most of the movie, then gets tragically mauled by a rabid skunk near the end, only to be forgotten by the closing credits. Oh well.

I'm still on my back. I can feel the dew seeping into my clothes, and I'm still wondering what to do. I move slowly into a semi-sitting position. I turn my head around...and see the dark outline of the skunk not three feet from my face. The only thing that entered my mind was a vision of it jumping on my face and clawing my eyes out.

I jumped to my feet and sprinted the rest of the way down where Rachel was waiting for me. Once reunited, we raced to our cars. I absently wondered why there weren't any people outside on their porches, peering into the darkness, wondering what was going on, why girls were screaming. Sheesh, for all they know Rachel and I had just been brutally murdered by escaped ex-cons. I'm never moving to this neighborhood, that's for sure.

By the time we got to our cars, we were laughing hysterically, sharing dialogue of the past few minutes, and every so often, looking behind us, just in case.

It's now been several weeks. Somewhere out there, there is a skunk who is fearless in every way. A skunk who is the boss of Holmes Lake, and knows it. Somewhere out there, there is a black flip-flop, laying in the weeds, covered in mud and bugs. I think I might try to find it...y'know, do a little skunk hunting in the process. If those people don't care about screaming girls, I doubt they'd come running at gunshots. If anything they'd probably hail me their hero for saving them from the Legendary Skunk Of Holmes Lake. In that case, I'd better find an expendable sidekick.

"Captains Of The Sky" --Sky Sailing

How Did This Even Happen??

Clothes shopping. It hasn't ever been in my fave five things to do in the whole wide world, but it's not something I sincerely hate, at least, not anymore. When I was like, 9 I honestly, sincerely hated shopping for clothes. I didn't get why everybody thought I should care so much about what I wore. In my mind, clothes were just there to keep us from being naked. Nowadays, I don't mind it. It's pretty cool, I guess.

So there I was. In Kohl's with Rachel. Clothes shopping. Now, let me just take a minute here to point out that there are a lot of worse people to shop with than Rachel. She's really easy-going, has good taste, and loves jewelry and sparkly things almost as much as I do!

So she and I were nonchalantly browsing the various racks of clothes, scouring the clearance racks for the diamonds in the rough, and all of a sudden, Rachel asks me, "Jo, is this too old lady looking?"

I turn around, and she's holding a dress up to herself, looking at me with big innocent eyes, and in a millisecond, I was miles away, lifetimes ago, looking at my own big sister while holding something up to myself, wondering sincerely if I had made a good pick.

I've never been any good at matching up outfits or picking out clothes or color coordinating. I wasn't good at it when I was younger, and honestly, I didn't really care. It was never a huge deal to me, and I eventually I came to terms with my own ignorance.

But now...now my little sister is gazing up at me with big pitiful eyes, begging me to approve. And as surprised as I am that I am being asked this question, I am even more surprised to find that I know the answer! Unfortunately, the dress was indeed "old lady looking" as Rachel had so eloquently put it.

I broke the news as softly as I could, remembering all too well what it felt like to be told I had picked out something that didn't make the cut. And as we continued shopping, my mind wandered back through the previous days and weeks and months, only to remember time after time Rachel or Mary asked my opinion of a piece of clothing, or asked me to do their hair, or asked to wear my jewelry (or sometimes just wore it and skipped the pesky asking).

After Rachel and I got home, we'd barely gotten through the door before tearing our purchases out of their respective bags to show the rest of the family. Mom and Mary "ooh"ed and "aah"ed, while Josh and Dad looked on with glazed expressions. A few moments later, I was sitting with Mary on the couch, when she looked up at me and asked, "Jo, will you pick out a pretty outfit for me to wear to church tomorrow?"

There it was again! Not can you pick an outfit, but will you pick an outfit! It was then that I realized...I was it. I was the fashion authority. My word was law. Like it or not, somehow, somehow, I had gotten good at this. I had become the fashion guru for the Trexel household. How did this happen?!

Nikki has only been gone not even a year. Before she left, she was the one we went to with our fashion questions. She was the one to settle fashion disputes, the one to have the last word about anything pertaining to clothing or anything you could wear. Not that she enforced it, she just knew the most about clothes, that's all. Somehow when Nikki left, that baton must have been passed to me. Until further notice, I will be the acting fashion guru.

Heaven help us.

"I Will Glory In My Redeemer" --Sovereign Grace Music

Aaaaaaaand......BACK!

*cough cough* What on earth? *Blows cobwebs away* Wow. has it really been that long? what rock have I been under all this time? I'm sorry. there really is no excuse for my negligent behavior. except for the one about me not having a computer. yeah, that's definitely one. but if it wasn't for that excuse, I wouldn't have one, and I would feel totally ashamed.

Quick recap! I'm 21, still a Med Aide, I paid off my car, my back itches, coffee no longer effects me, I learned to play Pitch (my first game I bid nine without the ace, king, or queen and I made it! Eat it, Kelsey!), my back really really itches, and I'm planning on becoming a Phlebotomist. other than that, it's pretty much the same old me, back for more fun and fancy free. and now that I've got a computer, let's just assume that I'm back to stay! Woot!

And while I'm on the subject of new computers, I'm just going to take a minute here to give everyone I ever debated about how PCs were superior to Macs the chance to give a resounding, "I told you so!" yes, folks, it's true. I caved and bought a Mac. not that I was ever really against them to begin with, but back in the day I used to argue against them. just cause nobody else was. somebody had to. but now somebody else can. I've served my time.

However wonderful the new computer might be, it's at times like these when I wish I had a computer tech sitting on my shoulder. you know. like the devil/angel thing, but with a computer tech who would give me computer advice and then poof away so I can pretend I came to the answer by myself. my own personal Geek Squad Fairy, to say things like, "Uh, you really don't want to do that." or, "Psst, there's a faster way." or, "Hey, moron, stop clicking random buttons before you delete something important!"

For instance, a few minutes ago I was trying to move music from a file into my Itunes library, and a screen popped up and said, "You are running a script that Itunes does not understand." how is that helpful? what am I even supposed to do with that? explain it to Itunes? and here I thought I was the confused one. that's the bad thing, though; when a computer doesn't understand something, they mean it! they don't have a clue, and they're not interested in learning how to do whatever it is.

And having somebody explain something to me is even worse than trying to figure it out myself sometimes. they think they're speaking in common, everyday terms, but then they start talking about "interfaces" and "javascripts" and then they really get excited and start talking like R2D2 and using numbers instead of words, and by this time I'm usually half asleep and fading fast, forget about getting answers. I'm glad there are people in the world who can understand that stuff, but they need to stop trying to explain things to me. kudos for effort, but you're not going to make me understand.

Anyway. it's 2:30 in the morning, I have work tomorrow (today?), and I'm beastly tired, so I'm going to bid you adieu. I shall return, very soon...with endust!

--The Scientist, by Coldplay.

Part Two In The Saga, Which Also Happens To Be The Finale.

So there I was. sitting patiently in my deer stand, intently scanning the various fields and tree lines within range of the .25-06 rifle resting beside me. I was tired. apparently getting up at five o'clock in the morning three days in a row will do that to you. go figure.

Anyways. it was about four o'clock in the afternoon. the weather had started off nice enough. a little breezy, but warm (for northern Minnesota), around 40 degrees. but then, not long after I sat down, it started to drizzle, then flat out rain. I'm no deer antics expert, but if I was a deer and it was raining, I would stay in the woods, where I might potentially find some shelter. I definitely wouldn't go out for a stroll on the soggy field. then again, I'm not a deer. what do I know.

So I'd been sitting like a statue for close to two hours and I was more than ready for some action. all around me I could hear the rifle shots of various hunters, some lucky ("BOOM-THUD") others, not so lucky ("BOOM..."). whether or not they were hitting their hairy targets, I was feelin left out.

After what felt like a very long time, I started seeing deer coming out of the woodwork (ha! get it? woodwork?), but none that I especially wanted. come to think of it, since they were all does and fawns I wasn't really legally permitted to shoot them, either, because my tag is bucks only. and really, that's a blessing and a curse, because when hunting season rolls around, I'm tempted to take a pot-shot at anything that moves. practically. my parents always taught me that shooting people was wrong, even if they are game wardens.

At about five o'clock, it's starting to get dark, and my main motivation is just that I really really don't want to get up at five o'clock tomorrow morning. then a little buck meanders out of the woods to my left, only about 100-150 yards away. I pull up my gun and scope him, ho-humming about whether or not I want him. he's not big. heck, he's a spike, maybe a fork at best. and there's something weird about his antlers, but since it was getting close to the end of legal shooting time, added to the rain, I couldn't tell what it was.

I debated a little more, and he continued to meander through the field, on his way to who-knows-where. aw, well, what the heck. I raised the scope to my eye again, and lined up the crosshairs to my satisfaction. back when I first started hunting, when I was thirteen, I would always shut my eyes a split second before I pulled the trigger. now, though, I think it's fun to watch the bright orange flame erupt from the end of the barrel (it's a rush, what can I say). then, after I shot, and the deer went down, I felt the familiar blood pounding in my head and the aftermath of an adrenaline rush I can never feel until after I squeeze the trigger.

As always, I spent a minute to calm myself down, slow my breathing, and will my trembling hands to still. (Note: I'm not a basketcase with a gun, I swear. I'm always nice and calm before I shoot. for some reason, though, after I shoot...pent-up adrenaline? I don't know).

After that, I took out the empty shell casing, and chambered another round, just in case. they've got an overabundance of Timberwolves around here, and there's no way I'm gonna let them tear into the deer I just shot, dang it. so I kept a steady watch over my kill, ready to shoot wolves, should I see any, no matter how supposedly "endangered" they are. (But I never saw any, or shot any, so you can't turn me in to the wardens. haha.)

Anyway. we eventually got it down to the river and gutted, skinned, and finally, hanging peacefully in the shed. turns out, his second antler was pointed sideways, making it non-typical, which is cool, even if the buck itself is small. it also turns out that I blew up both of his lungs with that one shot. that was cool, too. and so now, for the duration of my vacation, the pressure's off and I can relax and SLEEP and hang out on the farm.

*Deep, contented sigh*

Well, that's it for the Saga of Jo's hunting Extravaganza. hope it wasn't too boring or lame. See all you blokes in four days. Peace out.

P.S. GO HUSKERS!

The Calm Before The Storm

At this moment in time, all is right with the world. I'm leaning back in the recliner at my grandparents' house, enjoying the familiar view of the Bigfork River weaving through the backyard on its lazy journey to the Canadian border, about five miles away. past the river, there's the woods. actually, in pretty much every direction, as far as the eye can see, there's woods. that's what I like about this place. everything is so simple. in every direction, there's woods, above you, there are stars, and below you there's grass. and that's the way I like it.

Inside the house is familiar, too. a fire crackles and pops in the large stone fireplace, dear heads with impressive racks tastefully adorn the various walls, good smells are coming from the kitchen, and from somewhere far away I can hear four-wheelers as my dad and grandpa are making last-minute deer stand inspections.

We arrived last night, my dad, my brother and I. This trip up to Minnesota was far less eventful than my last one had been, when my big brother and I had gotten the bright idea to drive through the night. no big deal. it would be a snap. we'd seen our parents do it countless times over the years. by about two in the morning, we were both cursing our stupidity. finally, at around five in the morning, eyes bloodshot and virtually dead to the world, we rolled to a stop in front of the small farmhouse near the Canadian border and stumbled out of the car, solemnly swearing to never do that again, ever.

So not much is happening today. hunting season doesn't start until tomorrow, so today is really just devoted to planning which tree stand to sit in and caressing our guns. today is a day to relax before the hubbub begins. although, I've got to say, I like the hubbub, the chaos, the adrenaline, the intensity that is hunting season.

For now, though, relaxing here, basking in the familiar sights and smells and memories...this is okay, too.

Morning Ritual, New And Improved!

Y'know what needs to be invented? I'll tell you. but first, I think I'd better tell you a story to further accentuate my point. so I guess I will. here goes nothing.

Okay, so, almost every morning without fail, this is what happens. I wake up. but that's not all. sometimes I wake up to sunlight, sometimes I wake up to the beep-beep-beep of my alarm, sometimes to some sort of musical instrument (i.e. piano, flute, saxophone, guitar, ecc). whatever the thing is that wakes me up, the second thing I always notice is the smell of coffee.

I started drinking coffee when I was seven years old. I didn't like it at all, actually. I just wanted Dad to think I was cool. I hated it for the longest time, but the glances of approval from Dad were enough to keep me drinking it. and then, somewhere between seven years old and seventeen years old, though I don't know when exactly, I actually started liking it.

Nowadays, I couldn't care less if Dad approves or not. I gotta have it. my record is five pots in a day, and I wasn't even really trying. it just happened. it also just happened that I didn't eat anything all day (who needs food when there's coffee, right?). finally I realized, "Hey, I'm about to pass out and my body is convulsing. maybe I should eat something." Oh brilliant me.

Anyways, I've drifted from my story. after I smell the coffee, I push my feet to the floor and stumble along, still half asleep, just following that smell. I plod down the stairs in my quest for coffee, coming in contact with various family members who always try talking to me or asking me about things I don't understand, and won't until I've got caffeine in my bloodstream.

"Hey, Johanna, what did you do with my bag of clothes yesterday? remember? it was in your car? You said you'd bring it in? Johanna?"

Coffeecoffeecoffee...

"Johanna, I need you to pick up Mary from flute lessons at three o'clock today, okay? Johanna?"

Coffeecoffeecoffee...

Eventually, I make it past everybody into the kitchen where, without fail, somebody is always taking the last of the coffee. I stare with bloodshot eyes as the last of that hot, bitter liquid is drained into the offender's oversized mug, which has probably been refilled several times already this morning.

And whoever it is will smile at me as they walk away, ignorant to my distress, while I stare, mesmerized by the steam wafting up from the rim and the enticing aroma that's sure to follow. and I'll stand there for a few seconds more, willing more coffee to appear in the pot, without success, usually. in the event that no more coffee appears, I'll pad over to the empty pot and begin the long process of making more. (it's the unspoken rule that the person who takes the last of the coffee is supposed to make more. however, since the rule is unspoken, it is also often unheeded).

After I dump the old filter and replace it with a new one, fill it with the grounds of my choosing, add the water, turn on the burner and close the lid, there's really nothing left to do but squat down until you are at eye level with the pot, less than an inch away from singing your nose on the scalding glass, and watch the dark brown liquid trickle into the waiting pot.

"Johanna, I need you to clean your room today."

Coffee.

"Johanna, what are you doing?"

Coffee.

"Johanna?"

Oh, please, coffee.

And then, at long last, when the incessant drip-drip-drip is over, you can begin the pouring process. but see, I've been waiting (so patiently) for a long, long time, and I'm tired of waiting, and I want my coffee NOW! so in my haste, I pour really really...fast. and in pouring fast...I spill.

So back to the beginning. they need to invent some sort of coffee pot that only spills if you pour too slowly. if you pour FAST, you're fine. it won't spill. it's for the slow-pourers that it'll gush all over the counter and make a huge mess. but it'll work great for me. yeah, they definitely need to invent that. how 'bout it, Science?

"Morning" --Iron And Wine.