Freshwater Drum weekend

Christian and Bergen caught their very first Freshwater Drum this weekend. Unfortunately, I could not get the camera in time for Christian's fish.... and this video proves to the world that I am actually going through puberty (again).

- Jay

Column Catch-up

Hey everyone! The boys and I were gone for the last week, visiting our family "up north." We gave the gas companies a big payday, as we managed to spend time with both aunties, all seven cousins, Grandma Penny and Grandpa Jim and Grandma Marvel and Grandpa George.

There was swimming and freeze tag and bonfires and go-carting and pain-inducing games of Red Rover, Red Rover.

A good time was had by all.

I'll attach pictures soon. Until then, I've posted some recent columns below. Enjoy!

Jen's Column / Phone

My kids are mesmerized by a rotary phone.

We bought the cream-colored 1970s model a couple weeks ago from Goodwill for $4.99. My son was asked to bring an old electric appliance to Camp Invention, and we couldn't find anything around the house we were ready to part with. (We were promised that whatever we sent wouldn't be returned in working — or even recognizable — condition at the end of the week.)

The phone caused such excitement at our house that you would've thought my husband had brought a garter snake into our kitchen. A chorus of, "Cool!" and "How does it work?" came from the counter, where the boys were poking at the holes in the clear dial and lifting the oversized receiver from its cradle. To them, the phone was alien — something they'd seen on TV, maybe, but had never experienced close up.

For me, the familiar sound of the dial turning in its place was like traveling in time. When I got up to demonstrate how the dial worked, my fingers automatically dialed 681-4565 — my Grandma Haugen's number. Even though it's been years since anyone was alive to answer it.

I was instantly transported to my childhood — and to the phone that sat on the ledge in my parent's split-level basement. It was black with off-white numbers and the kind of cord that didn't snap into the wall, but was permanently built in. I remember the stiffness of the dial, the "zing" as it returned to its original position (or "ziiiiiiing" if I was dialing an 8 or a 9), and the frustration of misdialing the last number and having to start over from the beginning.

The numbers I dialed on that old black phone are numbers I still know by heart, even though I haven't used them in years: My friend Kelly (681-4872), my dad's office (681-6161), the time-and-temperature lady (681-2710). But the first number I ever memorized was my Grandma Haugen's — the one person I could always count on to be waiting to pick up on the other end.

How I'd love to sit on that ledge, lean against that window, and call her one more time from that old black phone. I'd ask her how to make lefse and knit wool socks. I'd ask her to tell me the story about how she lied to Grandpa so he'd marry her, telling him she was older than her 15 years. I'd thank her for all the New Year's Eve's she spent as my party companion (a.k.a. babysitter) and the thousands of hours she spent playing Crazy 8s with me.

I wouldn't correct her and tell her that it's "wash" and not "warsh," and I'd pretend I was going to obey when she'd say, "Make sure you wear socks." I'd tell her that my youngest son's favorite mittens are the red-and-gray striped ones she made when I was six — and that I still think about her everyday.

Camp Invention is over. My son ended up taking an old radio and leaving the phone at home. And not because I'm a big sap who couldn't bear to part with the memories it brought. We actually reread the brochure the night before camp and realized that rotary-dial phones weren't allowed. In fact, they were listed under "dangerous" items. (Perhaps they feared a bloody fingers-stuck-in-the-dial accident?)

My husband helped the boys take the phone apart at home instead. The bells and wires and screws now reside in a large red bowl in our bedroom. They plan to make a doorbell out of it. As long as it doesn't involve any snakes, that's cool with me.

Jen's Column / Bees

Our bees are out in full force. I say "our bees," because I suspect they have a home under our siding. I notice them swarming the house just above our deck — but they're being coy about it. Like they don't want me to know. Just when it seems they're about to head in — they shoot a suspicious glance in my direction and fly away.

My kids are, as kids generally tend to be, afraid of bees. Oh, who am I kidding? We're all pretty much afraid of bees, aren't we? (As my friend Jen said about her husband, "Bill has climbed mountains, has climbed rocks, has jumped off very tall bridges without a rope. Yet he runs from bees.")

The old "they won't hurt you if you don't hurt them" holds no ground at my house. My boys have both been on the wrong end of a stinger and swear they didn't do anything to trigger it.

But that's not true.

My youngest was big into stomping on bugs when he was a toddler. He'd see an ant, a small black beetle, a leaf that resembled a moth, and he'd launch his pudgy little bare feet on the offensive. "Got 'em!" he'd say. Until the day he stomped on an unforgiving bee. I think it's safe to say he provoked that attack.

My oldest son didn't get his first sting until just a few years ago. He was pushing a stick into a hole at the top of our swing set — a perfectly natural way for a little boy to spend an entire afternoon — when a bee flew out and got him on the shoulder. Based on the screaming involved, you would've thought the bee had not only stung him, but then threw rubbing alcohol with a salt chaser in the wound.

I can sympathize. I got my first bee sting pulling on a pair of jeans — with embroidered ponies on the back pocket, no less — when I was in kindergarten. The bee, who had apparently been hiding in the pants leg, landed his tail firmly in my bottom. I haven't been able to wear pony jeans since.

My husband Jay has the best sting story. He was mowing the lawn around a large bush — a bush that we now know was camouflaging a giant wasp nest. Apparently the lawnmower freaked out the wasps. They came out en masse and enraged.

Jay ran into the house so fast his wallet flew out of his back pocket and his glasses hung off his face. You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not exaggerating.

The wasps got his face. His ankles. His arms. But he was still standing as we watched the inhabitants of the entire hive attack the lawnmower — circling it in a buzz we could hear from the other side of our kitchen window.

"I've got to go back and get my wallet," my husband said after a few minutes.

"Can’t you wait?" I asked. "I don't think they're going to run off with it." But apparently it was a matter of some urgency.

"OK, I’m going for it," he announced. I stood in the window and watched as the blur that was Jay turned the corner into the backyard, palmed his wallet, and was back in the kitchen before I could say, "Don't go!"

This second trip left him relatively unscathed. Still, the memory is indelibly imprinted on his brain. "It was a hot and sunny day," he'll say when we talk about it, his eyes going blank. "I was wearing my plaid shorts and a T-shirt…"

Still, his most impressive bee story, Jay assures me, happened when he was a kid.
"A bumblebee hit me in the eye once," he says proudly. "And my eye got as big as a softball."

I'm going to try very hard not to top that one. Ever.

Proof I'm not 21

We just had a new oven delivered... and I'm giddy. It's so clean and nice and new and I got to wash the under-oven floor before they put it in.

I'm so happy. :)

Overheard conversation

So cute. Must share. :)


Bergen: KitKat (our cat) isn't going to have a kitten. She's not a girl.

Christian: I know, but once he gets married he can.

14-0 SEASON!

Christian finished up his year of baseball with 14 wins and 0 losses. Did I mention that I am the assistant coach? :) An end of the year baseball party was held and all the kids were given trading cards of their team along with personalized trophies (wow).

If anyone would like a Christian Koski baseball trading card let us know and we will drop it in the mail. We have a couple extra.

Bergen and his team finished on the same day. I am not sure of their record, if fact, I don't think they keep track. At Bergen's age... baseball is a place where he and his friends meet to be silly and to eat end-of-the-game snacks.

Wow - to be young again.

Later
Jay