The man stooped over in his backyard, shoveling down stray patches of grass and tossing them in the general direction of a red wheelbarrow. Various tools lay all around the area - buckets, hoses, different kinds of shovels spilling out from the bed of a truck, piles of earth and piles of excess concrete. He had been going all day, working at times with hired men, otherwise by himself. His wife and daughter had left the day before for summer vacation - he would join them in a few weeks. For now, and until then, he will work furiously, every day, to complete his increasingly toiling projects. His days will be long, maybe longer than they were during his school years. He had pulled out, yesterday, his ragged work shirts, the ones his wife had placed in the rag pile beneath the bathroom sink, so he could get them dirty one last time. He pulled out his jeans, his old shoes so he could work in them one last time.
Out of the corner of his sweat-stung eye, he saw his son, his youngest, return home from work. For a moment, he stood up and felt an immediate relief in his back and lungs.
"How was work?"
His son set down his sweater and backpack against the house.
"It was fine. Where'd you get that sod?"
"The university - they're turning the field by the concert hall into a parking lot."
"The soccer field?"
"Was that the soccer field?"
"It was the soccer field. That's what this is?"
His son walked over to inspect the neatly stacked and rolled grass.
"They're turning it into a parking lot? Whose truck is that?"
The man continued his shoveling. "Stan DeNoor's."
"Do I know him?"
"He teaches agriculture at the university."
"I don't know him."
His son crouched where he was shoveling and gathered the renegade tufts of grass, depositing them in the red wheelbarrow. He breathed in the air, tasted it. It was cold again. It had been cold in the morning when he was out in the field in his thin jacket. Then the sun had shone for a few hours and the earth had begun to yellow again. He thought he felt a drop of rain on his neck.
"Sod won't grow if it's on top of grass," the man said. "We have to clear these out before we lay it down."
His son picked up another shovel and began to slice at the grass on the other end of the lawn, both of them working towards the middle. The man grunted as he worked. He handled his shovel methodically, like a machine. Shovel down, foot press, grunt, scoop, toss. On the other side, his son bent over and jabbed at the grass until their roots released the earth and he moved on to another patch, stabbing it violently until he could toss it aside.
"Your mom and sister landed safely."
"They called today?"
Neither of them looked up as they spoke.
"While you were at work."
The dirt was sandy and coarse. Once all the old grass had been cleared, they rolled out the grass from the soccer field like new carpet, stamping it down and using a trowel to cut out puzzle pieces, filling in rhombus and L-shaped holes. The sky had dimmed when the last piece was set, making the green, green grass seem gray. When his son handed him the lawn sprinkler and turned to work the faucet, he had to walk slowly through the dark, being careful not to disturb the tools and piles. He set the sprinkler down where he estimated the middle of the lawn was.
"Okay, turn on the water."
Swish! Swish! Swish!
The sprinkler buzzed in a circle, touching the man's wrists and shirt for a brief moment. He looked down but could not see his hand, rubbing his fingers together and feeling mud begin to form on his palm. He was standing at the edge of his new lawn - behind him sat the red wheelbarrow and a large pile of the old grass, yellowed from refusing to grow. Knowing this, the man felt a short sensation, an immediate relief, and turned to take his old shoes off and go inside.

My parents presented me with a pig and a half's worth of spareribs - a little more than 13 lbs. or three full racks - yesterday and said,

"We're going out to dinner but we're having people over tomorrow. Do something with it."

"I'll be right back."

So I pedaled furiously to the caverns of my bedroom and stuffed my backpack with a few cookbooks, pedaled back, set up a desk in the kitchen and spent the night with cookbooks, a few short stories, Bob Dylan cake, the Pencil Box and a flying bottle.

They (the ribs) sat in a salt/sugar brine overnight and mom has one of them in the stove with her classic spicy sauce. I was drooling inside as I made a dry rub for the other rack. We decided to keep one of them out of play for today - two full racks and other food should be enough for everyone tonight.

So, dry rub and a maple glaze (it's Spring time, isn't it?) with ginger and a tiny bit of soy sauce. I'm sitting outside, next to the grill and trying to keep the temp. as low as possible. There's a muffin tin of water beneath the rack sitting on... the rack of the grill so that should divert away (even more) the harsh heat and the steam will keep 'em moist. I hope.

Mom just checked on it and she looked pretty impressed. "Wowowow..." so... that's usually a good sign. Mostly I wrote this and write about food other times to make my brothers jealous. Oh well. You live somewhere that has restaurants, you jerks. How's your Indian food?

This is a Sunday afternoon in the summer. Tomorrow is Memorial Day and Harriet said we don't have to work so... probably won't. Well, not a full day at least. Maybe take a drive or something - wouldn't that be nice? Anyway, I hope everyone else is getting a chance to enjoy some good food as well - especially on the weekends.

Isn't it a shame how slow mail is? The regular mail, I mean. If that were faster, even if it is more expensive now, it would probably be more popular.

This is written in the morning. I started my first day of work at Seedtime Harvest, the organic farm, yesterday. It starts at eight in the morning, soon to be seven thirty. Eight in the morning is earlier than high school, if I remember correctly. The first day began in the fields for the four of us - Teresa working the tiller and Matt, Sarah and myself scooping soil over the potato seeds because that's how potatoes roll. Or grow. Anyway, that happened for... wow, about three hours and, aside from the beginnings of a blister on my thumb, it was very enjoyable. The field out there is gorgeous, the land cuts away into the sky and there is no sound except for the occasional truck driving by, the consistent Iowa breeze/wind, Teresa cursing the tiller , the swish-clap of shoveling and various songs by Guster and The National. I laughed at myself, now in my fourth active year of residence in NW Iowa and having a super fun time working out in the country, doing my small part in agriculture. The people from Grand Rapids would be so ashamed. Ha!
Anyway, I have to be off soon to start another day. I'm a little more tired this morning than I was last. Hopefully I learn to fall asleep before three AM soon. That would be nice.
OK - cool. Dan is playing Postal Service. Looks like that's what I'll be singing today.

click!

-

I just finished (the wrong word to use, but for class and grade sake, it's true) my short story for Fiction Writing class. Katy, specifically, do you want to read it? It's all messed up and whatever - like I said, I finished at 5 40 AM but I'll send you a manuscript if you do. (That's really exciting... sending a "manuscript," Ahhhh!) Everyone else... well, I'll be tinkering with it for awhile until the deadline for the class collaboration... which is sometime in July. But at least, for now, there's a step towards completion. And even if the entire story is total bunk and rubbish, at least that's something.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. One of you will receive this book, from me, when I finish it... which will be very soon.

[Homer's mom just died]

Homer: Does my mother know I feel bad about things I said?

Apu: Well, perhaps she's around us now. She might already have been reincarnated as that newborn baby or that tiny mouse in the nacho cheese.

Flanders: Oh for crying out loud, people aren't mice!

Apu: Oh, what a surprise! Joe Jesus Junior's gonna set us all straight!

Flanders: Look, Homer. People don't come back as anything, except for our Lord who came back as bread and that's it.

Homer: That's it.

Homer sighs, picks up his groceries and slumps out of the Kwik-E-Mart

Apu: That's the thing with your religion - it's a bummer.

Flanders: Even the sing-alongs?

Apu: No, the sing-alongs are okay.

Loss of All Control

It's 2 30 AM. I got here - the darkroom - at 7 45 PM, which means that I've been in here for almost eight hours. There are six speakers arranged within Elbert's room and mine. Yeah, okay. Only three of them work right now, but it's been very enjoyable to work with a booming bass and decent treble. Officially, I'm out of full-sized sheets of photo paper. On Monday, I hope to obtain a good stash.
Summer is here and that means a number of things. Most noticeably, campus has become a ghost-town, a shell. During the year, I wouldn't normally call Dordt full of life, but still something alive. Maybe it's not constantly in motion, but then, at least you could tell yourself that everyone is sleeping or on facebook.
Steady, tedious movements, but movements nonetheless.
Now there isn't even that - just an ominous wind that shoots around the caverns of what used to be the living quarters of students.
Again - yeah, okay. I know a good number of people that stuck around. And I'm looking forward to seeing you guys, regularly, this summer.
I found a few days ago that large amounts of sleep lead to bouts of depression in morning... or whenever it is that I wake up, lay in bed, and close my eyes again. It's better that I'm in here, working on images from the show. Hopefully Luke Society contacts me soon so I can start editing, so I can start working. Working, I mean, before I start a regular, wake with the sun, sleep with the moon, job. Organic farming, hooray!

A lot of people left for good the other day. Strangely, it took until the last couple hours of their residence here for Mary and I to have a lengthy conversation. It was really fun - heard an outrageous saga of fear, fear, near-death disaster, facades and then they got married and do things together like drive to Minneapolis for a puppy or purchase homes mostly for the sake of rebuilding it. Terrific - we'll see you guys sometime this summer.

Mostly, this post is something I'll use to put some thoughts into words. You know, to keep up on it. Also, for anyone else who will need some more time to adjust.

Best American Short Stories may have had their best year in 2004. The fourth story, Accomplice by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum came very, very close to my favorite short story ever. And then I read the very next one, Screenwriter by Charles D'Ambrosio. Perhaps just as marvelous.

Despite the first, winding paragraph of emo, I'm really looking forward to the summer - largely because of these short stories and a discussion I had with my mom. It started as one of those, "What are you going to do with your life," deals, but it seems she was very excited about my pursuing writing, film, photography and that jazz. She even supported a potential culinary venture. What the heck? Maybe it was exactly what I needed midway through my college career. (Yes, it's still jarring to say that.) (Oh by the way, my dad asked me before this discussion if I felt lonely without a girlfriend. Hahaha!) Mom thinks I should work as a journalist for awhile, initially after graduation, to gain some experience and practice. Super smart. And then I told her that I really don't like working for people (it's not that I hate all authority - I love working with people - I think I could more productive, however, if I didn't have a 'boss.')

A lot of my friends are headed to LA Film school for senior year. Should I join them or should I take Chicago instead? Film or Writing? Mom, I'll be taking photographs wherever I go.