ruminations (a true mixed bag)

*At the beginning of the Puddlejumper on the Orange City end is a saddle club/stables. The horses -- all brown -- were off in the distance tonight. I'd say they were chestnut mares. Of course, I have no idea whether they were mares at all. But they were definitely chestnut-colored. The word 'chestnut' automatically associates with Laura Ingalls Wilder in my mind. She called her hair chestnut brown. My sister also has brown hair, so I imagine calling hers chestnut, too, even though it's not really. We played 'olden days' a lot when we were little. She would be Laura Ingalls because she was younger and had brown hair. I had to be Mary because I was older and had blond hair. I didn't really enjoy listening to the books or reading them and I hated the shows, but I loved just playing olden days. That's a whole 'nother book.

*A friend today talked about heritages and homelands. Where am I from? Part of me says, "Duh, you're from Grandma's pasture." My grandparents own a ... I guess you'd kind of call it a hobby farm in Northwestern Minnesota. They don't grow anything or keep any farm animals anymore, but they have a good deal of rolling pastureland. What makes it even more spectacular is that it's at the end of the rolls -- someone once told me one of their hills was documented as the last significant one before the Great Flatness of the Dakotas. I'd believe it.

We didn't visit Grandma's that often, maybe twice a year tops. So I haven't even been to the pasture all that many times. But for all of us kids it was mysteriously sacred. Fascinating. Alluring. Rolling prairies. Nothing to see but maybe another farmhouse. A couple of cows. So serene. If you followed the right paths, you'd come to a good-sized pond. You really do have to follow the tire tracks, though. I've never been able to find the pond without them, no matter how hard I try.

I don't know why I feel that's where I'm from. Maybe because that was homeland (and is) for over a century to my mother's family. Sometimes I feel I'm from the river bluffs of La Crosse, even though I don't even remember them from when we lived there. But where I am really from is the small-town sophistication of Northfield, Minnesota. Truly, I believe, there are few other places in the country quite like it. I love it and it makes me crazy. In ways I love it more now that I can take more of an outsider's view of it -- the cleanliness; the ultra-chic, ultra-expensive downtown; the carefully preserved natural beauties of trees and prairies; the above-average regard for education; the extensive historical settings and intact architecture; the liberals I grew up believing were next-thing to devil-worshippers. And yet, it seems, all the things I like about it are things that are not of relatively high value to my family -- they buy cheap, live in the country, watch history on PBS... Don't get me wrong. I love my family. It's just a strange observation. We aren't the stereotypical Northfielders.

*It's been a year now since graduation, and I've come to some reluctant conclusions: This, right now, where I'm at in life, is not what I want. In a nutshell. (Is the problem the circumstances or is the problem how I'm looking at them? We won't get into that mess right now.) Okay, what do I want, then? Okay, what do I want that I can have?

I've started actively looking at help wanted ads again, and it's a little frustrating. (Trying to stop exaggerating so much. It's a bad habit.) First of all, I'm looking in a limited area. Second, I'm looking for a job that very well might not exist. Third of all, even if it does exist, who knows when it will come open again, or if I could be deemed qualified for it.

And then I ask myself -- will a new job really make me happier? Yes and no. At the least, the readers of my current paper deserve better. They deserve someone who will get their hands wetter and hunker down and talk to them instead of observing them. They deserve what they had before, but that's just not an option right now. Sadly for them, the chances of them ever getting anything like that again are pretty much slim to none. That's how life goes, I guess.

Back to the topic at hand: what I want. I want to drive through the Yorkshire dales with Jim Herriot and stand on the hillside with him on a blustery winter night while he delivers a turned calf. I want to dance with Tristan Farnon and have a glass of sherry with Mrs. Pumphrey.

And I want to be Jane of Lantern Hill. And ride the train across Canada.

I want to shed this social anxiety and work up the courage to chat with strangers.

I want to be known and humored anyhow. I want to make enough money to buy a car that I own. One with the gearshift down in the console like a sports car -- but not own an actual sports car. I want to work in red pen. I want to weigh 30 pounds less. I want to see the thesis in a book on my own. I want to "discover" a great new band before anyone else does. I want to speak every language. Help my mom figure out how to make a successful cake from scratch. Get a cable modem. Make a plant grow instead of wither. Photograph small children. Be five years old. To know somehow some part of my life made a difference (these things you forget you knew before). Eat chocolate. Do algebra. Be looked for. Dust. Cook raw meat. Choose a political party. Pet dogs and touch people.

Those are all (in a way) small things, though. What do I want that's big?

*I finished "A Farewell to Arms." It was entertaining, yes, but... I wasn't all that impressed, to tell the truth. It was lacking in overall conflict. Yes, it's about wartime, but... it almost lacks direction. You don't even know where the characters want to go. They don't really even half a problem. And even when they do have one, they're not really that upset... I'm sure I've totally missed big things. I'm not denying that. But... yeah. I just wasn't overly impressed. Was it even worth reading? You know, I'm not altogether sure.

*The mayor of this town owns a chain of funeral homes. He has such a baby face. You can't help but imagine him as a little boy.