Memorial Day, May 29, 2006

Margaret and Mother tending the graves at Calvary Cemetery in St. Paul, Minnesota.

We make the pilgrimage from Minneapolis to the cemetery in St. Paul every Memorial Day. The Nolan Family Plot. My Father's people. We usually attend the Memorial Mass, but this day was oppressively hot -- we chose to stay close to the relatives and remain still in the shade. Madge cleared the overgrowth from the edges of the stones, keeping the struggling hosta alive for another year. Mother read the names and dates out loud -- some names recalled a veiled moment: Stella and Edmund Nagan. Other names delivered abundant, complex memories: William Joseph and Thomas Edward. Others, still, remained faceless: uncles who died during WWII or as young boys, from disease.

We acknowledge those who have come before us. We commit them all to memory for another year.

Peacefully rest.

Teen Angst Never Changes

It's difficult to say exactly what is going on in these teenagers' minds. "Should we pretend like we're not posing -- or make it obvious? Should we look cool, or look like we don't really care? Should we seem to be filled with trepidation at this thing called life? Should we text someone to find out? Should we listen to some music first? Should the photo be tied in with music? Do we want to post this on MySpace? Do we care about MySpace? Are we over-thinking this?"

Really, I think it's still as simple as recording the moment and seeing if we like it or not.

Fuzzy's World

After 21 years in Minneapolis, the last four spent at the University of Minnesota, Mary Clare will soon leave the comfort and predictability of her familial home and venture east. New York City is her final destination: subways replace the MTC, the general public is multiplied by at least 10, there is a deli/coffee shop/grocery every half block and the city is ablaze from midnight to midnight. Every day is an adventure. What will the city hold for an English Major from the Midwest?

My Window on the World

Last month, on a 10 day trip from Spokane to Seattle, we found the perfect beach cottage.

Down a back road on a 20 mile strand that juts into the Pacific Ocean from the Washington coast, we spent two and a half days watching the sky turn infinite shades of winter blue/grey. Perched on the edge of sand dunes we waited for a glimpse of sun that never fully appeared.

Late one afternoon, we stood on the shore with our backs to a 20-MPH wind -- our jackets whipping around us like coast guard warning flags -- we could barely hold ourselves upright. The wind blew swirls of sand across the beach -- creating moving patterns that reshaped themselves and appeared over and over again -- sand amoebas moving off into the distance. The sound of the wind merged with the power and noise of the surf -- there was no other discernable sound -- just this roar of nature. Even the birds were silent. As far as we could see in both directions, we were the only people on the beach.

We felt like we were standing back in Minnesota, bracing ourselves against a whirling winter white-out. We laughed at the irony of it. But if we squinted just perfectly, it was sand. And it was snow. An exquisite lenticular image.