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  Places to put your Nikes

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Orange in Minnehaha

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Lumber

The sapling digs his fingers in the soil roots becoming clenched fists crushing cold, wormed soil between rough-knuckled fingers like a fallen fighter gasping clawing shaking and unshakeable his body reaches reaches spine-straight for that scorching sun.

But something sharp lodges in his xylem-phloem flesh. Not much a fighter can do without arms. Not much a fighter can do with a two-part spine. Bu…

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Childhood Bedroom

Somebody’s sleeping in my bed. Their toes hang over the edge of the mattress and they have little black smudges under their eyes. They don’t quite seem like they belong under my rainbow blanket beneath my glowing stars and the artwork I’ve tacked up from school.

She left her suitcase on the floor with clothes pouring out and there are shiny new sneakers next to my beat-up boots. There’s a cup of…

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Anthropocene

The road was planned out and paved many years before, and the cars designed and assembled one by one over the last century. They almost certainly contained drivers that had stayed awake along this straight stretch of road once, or twice, or many times. I myself had gotten used to the steady hills and flat, grassy meadows broken up by barns and houses.

The birds, though, and the bugs and the deer…

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Frozen Farmland

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Walking on Water

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Robert Frost really liked his treks through the woods, almost as much as Thoreau. So, as I was trekking among the branches and frozen landscapes myself, I was thinking about the poems we used to read in English class. Frost’s most essential essentials like “The Road Not Taken” and “Birches.”

Most people have read at least part of “The Road Not Taken,” if not out of a book then on the front of a greeting card. They remember it for its lesson: take the road less traveled by, and that’ll make all the difference.

Analyzing “The Road Not Taken” in English IB a year and a half ago was one of those enlightening moments you never expect to have when you’re stuck in the concrete box that is high school thinking about how much longer it’ll be ’til lunch. I walked into class that day expecting a lesson on individuality and being a unique human. Inspiring, but the expected kind. On my way out, I was halfway through an existential crisis.

Here’s the full poem, for a refresher:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

As it turns out, “The Road Not Taken” isn’t so much about choosing the less traveled path as it is telling people you did. The persona admits halfway through that the paths are really about the same; it doesn’t matter which path he chooses. What he does know, though, is that there’s no going back. The decision he makes is the decision he made is the decision he will have always made. And one day, when he’s sitting in a rocker by the fire having taken a billion lefts and two billion rights, he’ll tell his grandchildren he took the road less traveled. Not because he actually did, but because he can tell the story of his life any way he wishes.

The decisions we make are irreversible. We can’t roll time backward. We can only take one step after another until the path inevitably splits and we choose again. All we can do along the way is learn from the path we’ve already walked and choose how we’ll look back on the journey.

Deep, right? We were still picking which colleges we’d be attending in a year. Like I said, existential crisis.

“The Road Not Taken” always seems to be relevant in one’s life, but as I stood above the river and saw two identical paths, I couldn’t help but think of it. Later, as I peeked my camera lens between pine trees glimmering in the sun’s setting light, I thought of Thoreau and his pine needle friends. Finally, on my way home, I swerved to the side of the road to snap a few pictures of a set of birches whose white bark was glowing orange, and I remembered Frost’s poem “Birches.” Can you tell I’m an English major?

The point is, as I pressed my footprints into the snow, I wasn’t alone. I was surrounded by the lessons given to me by those who’ve walked the paths of their own yellow woods; they let me listen as they describe the road they traveled by, and the difference it made. Be it Frost or Thoreau writing about paths, pines, and birches, my family, or my friends. We’re not alone, not really, when the path diverges and we choose which road to take.

  Two Roads Diverged in a Frozen Wood Robert Frost really liked his treks through the woods, almost as much as Thoreau. So, as I was trekking among the branches and frozen landscapes myself, I was thinking about the poems we used to read in English class.

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Drift

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The Women’s March in Wausau wasn’t a huge event, with about 250 participants marching around the 400 Block. Many brought signs, and many didn’t; many chanted, many talked together. Whatever the case, each and every person who attended showed that Americans are demanding change, even in Wausau, Wisconsin.

The main purpose of the march was to encourage every single person to vote in the next coming elections, but many came to show their support for other causes, as well.

At one point during the march I walked with a woman named Barbara Roberts. She told me about the bus rides she took in the 70’s, gathering protest participants across the state, and marching for gender equality in Madison.

“I can’t believe we’re still not there yet,” she said. “Women still aren’t equal.” Barbara is in her 90’s now, and walked around the block with her sign attached to her walker. For awhile, she even led the march.

Today, I marched because the same issues that Barbara fought for in the 70’s are the ones we’re still fighting today.

I remember when, a few weeks ago, my mom and I were talking about the Me Too movement and the countless women speaking out against sexual assault. She looked me in the eyes and said, “I will not let you go through the same things I did.”

She could have said she wouldn’t let me live in a world where I’d be sexually harassed, or victim blamed, or payed less because of my gender, or any number of inequalities. She said “things.” Certainly because there are many of them, but I think it’s also because we’re so used to keeping quiet and pretending they don’t exist.

And that’s why we marched today, and last year, and why so many of us have typed “me too:” because women like Barbara Roberts shouldn’t still be fighting the same cause of 50 years ago. Because we are not alone, and we demand change.

So thank you to everyone, young old black white yellow brown female male and even the puppies, who made clever signs, marched, or chanted today so that we can create a better tomorrow.

This Is What Democracy Looks Like The Women's March in Wausau wasn't a huge event, with about 250 participants marching around the 400 Block.

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Finals Week

This is what being a zombie feels like. Back curved under the weight of lifelessness, hands awkward at my sides, swayless, feet dragging one after another, stomach snarling for gray it-doesn’t-matter, a low groan from my throat, but the difference is I can collapse and sleep.

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The Weather Outside is Frightful

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Glimpses From the Bus

A glimpse out the filthy windows reveals– as the bus turns an icy corner and groans one end to the other, as my hands tighten on a metal rail and my feet grow roots in the aisle– a snow crusted street striped with tire-tracked slush and lined by big lego houses, vanilla frosted, and in the exact center a single figure, curled, hands in pockets, against the whipping wind turning his nose red.

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Mississippi River

O’Slaughnessy: The place to see authors

Selfie time

City in the distance

When in Minneapolis…

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I’d been scrolling through Facebook when I came across something wonderful: Cat Yoga, an event at the local Humane Society taught by a local yoga studio with adoptable cats roaming around the room. $10 entry, all proceeds going toward pets in need. And all you needed to bring was your own yoga mat.

I can understand why this event might sound hellish to the pet-allergy-inclined population, but I realized at that moment that my version of heaven probably included Cat Yoga, and that this was an opportunity I couldn’t miss.

Finally, the day arrived. I held my yoga mat in hand and entered a room where felines, a litter of sibling kittens and half a dozen other cats were already slinking from one corner to the other or falling from a cat tree in the middle.

I realized that I was the only person there, apart from the yoga instructor. Apparently  I’d gotten the time wrong, and I was 45 minutes early. I was smiling from ear to ear– 45 extra minutes!

My friend showed up soon, and we spent the next 45 minutes petting and playing and wondering why we both wore black pants.

About twenty others had appeared, all equally as excited as we were. One cat, which we later found out had been adopted, was hissing at all the others and trying to escape every time the door opened. Another was clawing at yoga mats, others inserting themselves into cross-legged laps or swatting toys across the floor. Every once in a while one of the kittens dropped from the top of the cat tree, plunk, and everyone held their breath. Then he would roll to his feet, spy one of his brothers and leap onto his back as if his great fall hadn’t even happened.

When the yoga started, we began on our backs (so we could easily pet the cats, I assume), and an older feline decided to make a nest in my friend’s hair while one of the kittens called her legs home.

Photo credit: 5 Koshas Yoga & Wellness

Photo credit: 5 Koshas Yoga & Wellness

  The room would be silent, calming yoga music flowing in the background, when a giggle would ring out from across the room and we knew one of the cats had crawled beneath someone’s downward dog or a cat fight had broken out. Or we’d hear another plunk, and glance over, and sure enough one of those kittens was hopping over from the cat tree again.

The best part about Cat Yoga was that, while it was fun to pet and play with the cats and do yoga, it was equally benefiting the cats themselves. Our admission was helping to pay for their care, and our presence was helping them become more comfortable with humans, and even other cats. Plus, they were adoptable: already, one of the previous Cat Yoga sessions had led to the adoption of two cats, and I’m confident future sessions will lead to more adoptions for more felines in need.

    Yoga for Felines I'd been scrolling through Facebook when I came across something wonderful: Cat Yoga, an event at the local Humane Society taught by a local yoga studio with adoptable cats roaming around the room.

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There’s more to Sandwich than meets the eye.

At first, its an interesting place on the map. My finger almost scrolled over it, and then I was zooming in, thinking, “someone really named a town sandwich?” And as my family sorted through our itinerary for our trip through the great Midwest, and I suggested a stop there, my brother’s ears pricked up.

“A town called Sandwich? We have to go there, I need a picture of the Sandwich Police!”

As we drove in, the place was booming. Apparently we’d arrived just in time for an art’s festival, and hundreds of people were milling about.

We marveled at the signs: “Sandwich Freedom Hall” and “Sandwich Floral” are just two examples. Then we spotted the Bull Moose Bar & Grille and our hunger propelled us inside.

The secret about finding cool places is that it doesn’t always take a great deal of looking and planning. Sometimes its spontaneous and accidental. When we sat down in the Bull Moose Bar & Grille, we discovered that we’d stumbling upon something great.

The Grille was inside what seemed to be an old converted train car, a really cool  train car. The menu included sandwiches, with the header “Best sandwiches in Sandwich.” Everything looked delicious. But the most amazing part was written on a little laminated card on the table, which told the story of the restaurant: we really were eating in what used to be a train car, and that train car had carried Teddy Roosevelt from coast to coast for 13 years, from 1900 to 1913.

In 1912, Roosevelt had been giving a campaign speech when he was shot in the chest in an attempted assassination. Despite this, he finished his speech. Afterward, as he was rushed to a hospital, he declared: “I am tough as a bull moose! I will continue this campaign!” And that is where the Bull Moose Bar & Grille got its name.

The history of the space was astonishing, and so was the food. Our waitress told us everything about her town, from its history to its festivals to its schools, and the pride for her home showed through in every word.

After our meal, we went on an expedition to find the Sandwich Police. While we couldn’t find any of their cars, we did find the Sandwich Police Department. And yes, we took a picture:

My brother and I, Sandwich Police Department, Sandwich, IL

Even though we made it a point to go to Sandwich because of its name, we found so much more there. We found history and a community, and there’s no doubt in any of our minds that we’ll return.

The Substance of Sandwich, IL There's more to Sandwich than meets the eye. At first, its an interesting place on the map.

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  In Ottawa, IL there’s a statue on the northwest corner of Clinton and W Jefferson of a girl holding a wilting tulip. The tulip is wilting, of course, because the girl has radiation poisoning. She represents the women who worked at the Radium Dial factory in the 1930’s, putting delicate strokes of glowing paint on wrist-watch dials. The girls were told to lick their paint brushes to gain an extra sharp tip, unaware that the paint contained radium.

The toxic effects on the women were anemia, fractures and necrosis of the jaw, cancerous tumors, and amputations. The ill-health– and deaths– of workers was attributed to anything except radium exposure: x-ray machines used in medical examinations, or even syphilis, in an attempt to smear the reputations of the women. The women didn’t know what was happening to them, and their employers even convinced them that the radium was good for their health, that “it made their cheeks pink.”

Eventually, seven women dubbed the “Society of the Living Dead” stepped forward to sue the company that had knowingly poisoned them. In the end, the case traveled all the way to the Supreme Court, and the the women won.

The badass name for those women suited the badassery of their actions. After all, this was 1934, and labor laws like worker’s compensation and safety standards were still developing. In fact, the case was a catalyst for improving those labor laws in America.

Despite what seems like victory, the people of Ottawa associated the women with the loss of jobs during the Great Depression, and tried to forget the entire affair.

Now, more than 80 years later, a school project by a local girl inspired appreciation for the terrible circumstances the Radium Girls endured and their fight for the right to work in safe conditions. A statue was built on the same corner where the factory once was.

A couple weeks ago, I went to see the statue in person. The history behind it wasn’t the only fascination thing I found there, though: fresh flowers were lain at the feet of the statue, and an older bouquet was nestled behind an informational sign nearby. Not only that, but a small waterfall was built into the space, around which a garden flourished.

The Radium Girls, despite their suffering, helped to create a safer, cleaner, world. The girl’s tulip may be wilting, but she stands at the center of blossoming life.

Witnessing some of history's female badassery In Ottawa, IL there's a statue on the northwest corner of Clinton and W Jefferson of a girl holding a wilting tulip.