tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14553839371297280392024-02-20T13:36:19.181-06:00Woman of a certain ageJulie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.comBlogger251125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-79052222594402427402019-03-11T21:59:00.001-05:002019-03-11T21:59:09.327-05:00Believe in Vegan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have one new reader since I last wrote a post so it seems like I should write to celebrate her. And I will get back to her in a minute.</div>
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I have added a new follow link here on the main page to a very good vegan blog. This blog is written by my former college roommate and longtime friend, Cele. We don't see each other much but as anybody knows, college friends get a free pass, free range, free lunch and free access to come in and out of our lives as suits them or us. There are no rules except once they're in, they're never out even if they want out. Like the mafia. </div>
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I post the picture above of my vegan daughter who has sought baking inspiration from Cele's blog. My husband and I have been the beneficiaries of this inspiration. Since living at home again for a few months, she feels it's only fair to contribute to the household with a "weekly breakfast bread." Who am I to argue with this logic? This week's delight has fresh berries and lots of oats and isn't too sweet so can be enjoyed with or without butter and with or without heating. Over the past few months, I have been surprised just how easy it is to adapt many favorite recipes to vegan, substituting nut milks, applesauce and oils for dairy and eggy ingredients we assume baked goods must have. The food tastes different for sure but it never tastes worse and sometimes it tastes better. It almost always tastes like fruit or vegetables and of the earth and I mean that in a good way; in a way that meat never does.</div>
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My new reader and funny as hell friend has said say she would disown her kids if they stopped eating meat. Big talk. The universal truth is that our kids begin exercising the muscles of dissension from our parenting pretty early in life, especially if they smell any vested interest by a parent. My daughter reluctantly ate meat as a little kid and as she took charge of feeding herself, she was done with it completely (save the occasional fall off the bacon wagon). This dietary coup was not negotiated with us as parents and we were the ones who had to adapt if we wanted her to sit down to dinner with us. Her blood thirsty sister wasn't too impressed and it was annoying as a busy parent trying to feed one vegetarian in a meat eating household I'm not gonna lie. But these past few months, I'm listening hard to my young adult about what I don't know about living beyond recycling. If not elimination, why not try reduction of eating meat and dairy to improve the environment? As a result of her knowledge and cooking alongside her, I buy meat and milk less frequently these days and try new ways of preparing dishes without animal products. It does actually give me a feeling of some small control over helping fix a big problem and since I love control, it's a win-win for me and the planet.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notes from a powerful little woman up and coming in the world</td></tr>
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So to my new reader and friend, thanks for inspiring me to write again in my blog and I would suggest an easier way to go in the coming years may be celebrating your children's fierce and personal ideals. Otherwise these notes are gonna escalate.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com1Pullman, WA 99163, USA46.7297771 -117.1817376999999946.6427071 -117.34309919999998 46.8168471 -117.02037619999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-68504409918139295502017-11-22T19:17:00.000-06:002019-03-11T22:15:36.574-05:00The "scrap" is key to an enduring scrapbook<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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David Cassidy has died and along with him, a tiny piece of my gristled heart. When I was a little girl, I purchased with my own money an 8x10 black and white glossy poster of DC that hung in my bedroom for longer than was probably cool. Over my childhood, the childish bedroom art came down and the rock and roll record album posters went up. David stood tall in the shadow of that 4x3 foot Frampton Comes Alive poster. What I'm about to write feels true so I'll slip into memoir mode for just one second to say that my best friend Sherri (I'm smelling her armpit above because that's just solidly funny in a photo booth) made fun of David Cassidy still hanging on my wall. She had older brothers with scary blacklight posters of Ozzie and Alice Cooper and I want to say a panther, so I'm positive she would have shared her opinion about my little 8x10 dreamboat. I cared what she thought about a lot of things, but I don't feel like she instigated his eventual removal. A girl's bedroom is her sanctum at the end of the day, and while friends might tease you about your David Cassidy poster, those friends go home at night and....David stays.<br />
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I suspect that David actually finally came off the wall around 1977 when he married a Miss Kay Lenz. First marriage for both. They looked happy, she was a starlet television actress with gorgeous long chestnut hair and a lot of teeth. We would have been friends. I looked at her mermaid dress and her strappy shoes and then I took a good hard look in the mirror (#MeAt14 above) acknowledging that the ship of our romance had sunk. I released my crush on David, being a good girlfriend to Kay, and to be a really good sport about it I cut out the newspaper clipping and put it in my scrapbook. <i>I will BE the bigger person about this, David.</i><br />
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I went looking for my scrapbook last night when I heard he died, because I was pretty sure he was in there, and he was. My scrapbook is a chronological mishmash of stuff assembled on the whim of me as high school senior, maybe in summer with some time on my hands to create a portentous masterpiece of my life thus far. Invitations to bar mitzvahs and sweet sixteens are included, and the scrapbook ends with senior year graduation cards and corsages. Four critical years of basically, parties.<br />
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I never got into the scrapbooking craze of the early 2000s, which was an industry quickly decimated by the smart phone, thank you Jesus. The execution of these scrapbooks was about precision and tools and themes and <u>perfection</u>. It was about creating a utopic version of the current state of your family, omitting the fact or scarier yet including the fact pictorially that your toilet training kid pooped in the neighbor's front yard. So precious! Family stories were told through beaming faces in national parks and words of inspiration and calligraphy and borders and thought bubbles. To me, it was horrendous. And worth saying, many moms who had the toughest time managing their hellions had the most perfect scrapbooks. "<i>Let me just insert you right here inside this bordered page with a smile on your face and GLUE YOU DOWN."</i><br />
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"Scrap" is the key element in scrapbooking. Scrapbooks should be ragtag, right? A collection of paper and pressable relics; torn ticket stubs obviously for the BEST concert you ever went to by a band you can't remember, invitations, clippings from the newspaper of cute athlete boys who are "just friends." My scrapbook of the late 1970s, ungainly and dorky like myself, is surprisingly holding up fine without lamination or moisture control. Again, like myself. I can't recall the meaning of many of the handwritten references or even some of the events for which I had tickets. However, two best friends from childhood who have died in the past five years are represented through their cards and letters by beautiful accident, just like David Cassidy's wedding announcement. A lot of junk surrounding a few really precious scraps. As I flip the pages of my scrapbook I feel my thirtysomething parents, I feel the dread and excitement of school, I feel the music I loved and I feel the friendships I knew. I feel myself. It's a dandy time capsule for emotions and sensations without specificity that would otherwise be lost to me. RIP David, Sandra and Karen. I would never forget you, but I am so happy to still feel you.<br />
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I hope Bobby Sherman is still kickin'.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-75592774076104983222017-02-10T13:32:00.001-06:002017-02-10T13:32:14.320-06:00Focus and light<br />
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When our laptop died a few years back, I switched over to my smart phone for pretty much everything. I take pictures and troll Facebook and google everything and stay in constant touch with throngs of people and keep my calendar. Like you do. But the underbelly of this decision for me was that communication and correspondence with everyone has grown abbreviated and truncated. Efficient maybe, but lacking. Indeed with the immediacy of texting, transactional communication is a breeze. So helpful with quick questions, flight times and numbers, check ins, and don't even get me started on my love for Bitmoji. But I'm actually terrible at this efficient style of communication even when the subject is transactional. I wander wildly off course and it becomes defeating for everyone when I send fifty texts to the other person's one:</div>
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<i>Ally: What are the last four of Dad's SS# Need for work form</i></div>
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<i>Me: X-X-X-X. How are you? </i></div>
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<i>Me: Today was a hard day, I really missed Nana for some reason, I wonder why? </i></div>
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<i>Me: How is your weather? How is Billy? </i></div>
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<i>Me: Have you seen Hidden Figures? So good!</i></div>
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<i>Ally: Um im at work ttyl</i></div>
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I am pretty sure that the <b>Do Not Disturb</b> function on iPhones was invented by guys and gals to block chatty moms.</div>
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The one thing that is really impossible to do from a smart phone is write a paragraph. And sometimes I have a paragraph I really need to get out. The smart world is good for a tweet, a text, a meme, a petition, a list, and anonymity around true motive and being drawn in to a deeper conversation. It is so easy to disappear into the ether if the conversation gets complicated, yes I'm talking to you. I guess I'm also tired of the uncertainty of being understood in 140 characters, of being pushed around by a PUSH notification existence and a growing unsocial media. Now I'm not a FB quitter, no sir. I will never be the person who is left behind on the most current American cultural reference and if you suggest something like that, well you can...<i>"Cassshh me ousside, how 'bout dat?" </i> But in a somewhat regressive move, I bought another laptop. I am moving my own conversation back to a more appropriate platform for getting out all my feelings and probing for deeper understanding and communion with my fellow person. I think the occasional blog comment is more life affirming than a hundred likes on Facebook and imagine all the space in everyone's text feeds with me gone! You're welcome, Ally and Liv. </div>
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As for my photography, the iPhone camera technology has sadly kicked my camera's ass to the curb. Filters and editing compliment my slacker ways. I have a bit of artistry in me when it comes to seeing the shot, but meh, not so interested in learning how to technically make the shot. Let's leave that to the geniuses at Apple shall we? My real camera sits in a bag and I'm not even sure where. I had my problems with focus and light with my traditional camera, never made better because of my resistance to RTFMD*. The word <i>manual</i> implies labor which immediately makes me sleepy. It is a marital issue as much as anything and Chip finally agreed that I bring several other strengths to the marriage so we just let this one go. </div>
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I will try to find my new muse in the Inland Northwest and to find the funny. The Midwest was so dang easy for material that I'm not sure I can top it but I'll try. </div>
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<i>*read the fucking manual, darling</i></div>
Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-78335190692280364362016-05-24T17:02:00.001-05:002016-05-24T17:02:47.643-05:00May 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I turned 53 this month. Time to start eating my vegetables.</div>
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I turned 53. Too late to start eating my vegetables? Trying some vegetarian recipes in advance of Ally's return. Vegetarian crab cakes, sweet pea hummus</div>
Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-71649561872454432442015-09-03T12:10:00.002-05:002015-09-03T12:10:33.496-05:00So long summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My explanation for moving has crystallized into an oratory about family priorities and freedom from restrictive vacation policy. I'm boring myself to death and probably everyone else. Although as I tell women of a certain age my story of freedom, they look at me like Debra Winger in An Officer and a Gentleman, being carried off the factory floor by an officer dressed in white. I don't think too many people leave my health system willingly before retirement. And even those nurses that retire seem apologetic about it. Like they are letting down the team. Organizational culture is strong where I work, and it used to be an organization where people worked for their whole careers. I'm not sure now that the unions are gone that employees will still feel that same security or allegiance in the future.<br />
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Summer is done, fall is a welcome change as always. The garden is brown, the mums are for sale, the geese are flying, and the local produce, apples. <br />
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<br />Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-1813777774240590802015-07-24T23:30:00.000-05:002015-07-24T23:36:57.341-05:00The technology is all differentFiring up a blog after four years is like getting R2D2 up and running. Chip has started his drive westward HO with his mini covered wagon, and coincidentally I saw the friend this week who inspired this blog. Time to go looking for Obi Wan. So much has happened in five years that I'm unsure of this rickety e journal's relevance in 2015. But I know enough that it's less lonely on a journey if I can bring a few people along. Travel, transition, redefinition, relevance and now post-fifty melodrama. I have some stuff to say, if only to decrease the amount of spam this site receives when it's dormant. And that brings me to a thousand stories since 2011.<br />
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Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-6553336818824916582011-10-31T22:34:00.000-05:002011-10-31T22:34:57.314-05:00Halloween<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Homemade soup, butternut squash, Halloween, caramel apples, crunchy leaves, golden sunlight. It's fall and it's lovely. And tonight, a first! I broke my streak of 20 plus years of having way too much candy on Halloween. I actually ran out of every single last piece of candy in the joint with over 200 pieces walking away with Packers and Yankees and ghouls and witches and princesses and ninjas. Tiny tigers and pumpkins, round and clueless as they were cute, plunging pudgy hands into the candy bowl for candy I'm sure they would never eat. I'm not even sure they knew it was candy, it was just colorful. There's nothing more triumphant than running out of a reputable amount of candy. It kind of puffs you up. Ran out of candy, what can you do? I'm awesome. Really what I forget is that we don't have any candy coming in anymore on Halloween, just going out. No bags to raid for those last few kids that show up to the party late. I rooted through the pantry shelves and came up with single serving potato chips and Cliff bars. But in the end it was too tragic, so after about three kids I turned out the lights. <br />
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</tbody></table>Our street has evolved as the new drive-in street for kids across the way. It's an easy access street, close by, wide and car-friendly. Parents can hover at or crawl along the curb while the kids do a few houses at a time before hitting a curmudgeon's house. Then they get a whoop or a whistle from the car and all go hopping back in the car in search of more lighted houses. When I was young, it was mere feet between neighbors, but the little legs here have to go quite a bit further between houses for a hard won snack size candy bar. The kids come in big groups, all ages and sizes, some with costumes and some without, it really doesn't matter because most are wearing coats. There might be several moms or dads or just older siblings leading the way. Some families collect candy for the baby in the stroller, a favorite tradition of ours from our days in West Philly. The kids are fearful of stepping into the foyer presumably because they've been told never to go into stranger's houses (good rule), so I have to step outside to give the candy and get a look at their costumes. They say Trick or Treat and thank you without prompting. Some of them go off script and tell me how nice my house is which I find touching. They feel like neighbors but I don't know where they live and I wish I knew them better. Ally told me to stop giving two and three pieces at a time, admonishing me that I would run out. "I heard you out there sneaking them extra pieces, Mom. No wonder you ran out." I know, I can't help myself. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26R_2erCNhmn-zPtx83NsgSpDPdez0SubNDYnj0t1Kfwp1r-2XDynGep2YC4vBaGZ1IKiG6gDEnjIXY9TQ8b-xBxF3ck4V0SFtz-sfB2XGeD2dQ3rs44DOtb-FqotLLVVib5Zu0YImyBg/s1600/liz.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26R_2erCNhmn-zPtx83NsgSpDPdez0SubNDYnj0t1Kfwp1r-2XDynGep2YC4vBaGZ1IKiG6gDEnjIXY9TQ8b-xBxF3ck4V0SFtz-sfB2XGeD2dQ3rs44DOtb-FqotLLVVib5Zu0YImyBg/s320/liz.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ironically the mime is stuck outside the glass door</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Halloween is a special night for me, from growing up in the trick or treating capital of the world, Narberth, PA to starting a Halloween tradition in West Philly that continues today and now to Madison where I'm mostly the nice older lady who is a soft touch. Ah, whatever. It's one night and no need for limits. As my neighbor posted on Facebook tonight, and I paraphrase, "if I ever get tired of cute little princesses and pumpkins ringing my doorbell, commence with the beatings."<br />
<a href="http://ucreview.com/eve-of-all-hollows-celebrated-in-spruce-hill-p3031-1.htm">http://ucreview.com/eve-of-all-hollows-celebrated-in-spruce-hill-p3031-1.htm</a>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-41231886066793537922011-10-14T00:36:00.001-05:002011-10-14T00:40:34.805-05:00Six weeks. I know I know.Sometimes it takes six weeks to think of something to write about something that doesn't begin with "those darn kids of mine..." That's all I'm saying. They are mind suckers. Only I didn't say sucker.<br />
<br />
This week I'm feeling my dinosaur bones creak but I'm loving it because finally it has been revealed to me where my knowledge of the past is relevant! In the event of a power outage. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYCTcyDLdiw/TpfFUQtcP8I/AAAAAAAAD4M/7g4u4VZRyZ8/s1600/321592_2054065595579_1362731415_31791247_484867207_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYCTcyDLdiw/TpfFUQtcP8I/AAAAAAAAD4M/7g4u4VZRyZ8/s640/321592_2054065595579_1362731415_31791247_484867207_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">early morning fog over the Wisconsin Capitol</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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As part of our clinic's emergency preparedness, we have been walking through the steps we would need to take in the event of a cut in the power to our computers. Everything is automated in our little corner of the health care world, from parking to registration to filling prescriptions at Walgreens. The paper chart is gone, the consultation forms are gone, the prescription pads are gone--all information is stored in one giant program on the computer for the entire organization. And for most people, they can't remember working any another way. Coming from the school district where paper is still very much alive, this change to the paperless health care setting was probably the biggest shock to me, and it still is.<br />
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I run with what we call in nursing, the pumps and pearls crowd. Most of them are younger than me by about a decade. It keeps my wardrobe hip but in my brain I quietly identify with the ladies who wear Christmas sweaters and Sketchers. I run in a fast circle of power pals in business attire, attending meetings to discuss and strategize about things that nurses in patient care couldn't begin to care about and don't need to because I'm there. I do believe, I do believe, I do believe. It's been a learning curve over the first year to see the value in what I do. Policy, standards, regulatory, organizational, evidence based practice, quality improvement, meaningful use--buzzy buzz words that mostly make sense to me now. But I also clean clinic rooms between patients, I hold kids during procedures, I talk to parents pissed off because they've waited two hours to see the doctor and I help lost people find their way. I'm the rarest of pumps and pearls--I'm also a <i>mensch</i>. They've embraced me. It's been a year. Hurray, I'm through it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2DLyRjdw5rN8OFCHXBEHW78adx85zlTeA-eZn0GalJwq3dSy0NKdcrjMQesAmQz_0eloWttL-GUfE8f3mfOrD5Qydc8K38J36kTA4enEfonHNPjt8XK07fK6XPdMvTEY_v_paKb_69EI/s1600/297130_2054063595529_1362731415_31791244_754268022_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2DLyRjdw5rN8OFCHXBEHW78adx85zlTeA-eZn0GalJwq3dSy0NKdcrjMQesAmQz_0eloWttL-GUfE8f3mfOrD5Qydc8K38J36kTA4enEfonHNPjt8XK07fK6XPdMvTEY_v_paKb_69EI/s640/297130_2054063595529_1362731415_31791244_754268022_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kansas butterfly</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
So, back to "downtime". I can't even go into the details of an absurd conversation about coming up with a plan for running clinic during a full power outage. We can run as long as 90 minutes behind schedule when we're working with full power. Really, we're going to try to see patients with <i>no</i> power? I'm thinking we just tell everybody to go home. (and that right there is why I'm not in charge) I was willing, however, to entertain the possibility of how we would run clinic without the use of computers. The sheer notion of developing a work flow involving pen and paper or <i>gasp</i>, talking face to face is always perplexing for everyone in the group EXCEPT this woman of a certain age who during the dry run sat blithly in a chair and chirped, "...Heaven forbid we might have to use paper or talk to one another!" The group ignored the sarcasm and communicated with weary glances that this woman should sit quietly and keep thoughts of the good old days to herself while the real grown ups talked. Fine, whatever.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l2T7pQAaKLo/TpfFWHCkJkI/AAAAAAAAD4U/esElayZxw1s/s1600/298094_2054068395649_1362731415_31791257_979028347_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l2T7pQAaKLo/TpfFWHCkJkI/AAAAAAAAD4U/esElayZxw1s/s320/298094_2054068395649_1362731415_31791257_979028347_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late autumn Kansas sunflower </td></tr>
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<br />
<i>Them: "So, how will radiology know that patients are sitting out here in the waiting room?"</i><br />
<i>Me: "Somebody could walk back there and actually talk to the radiology tech."</i><br />
<i>Them: "Shut up Julie."</i><br />
<i>Them: "Anyway, and how will the lab know that the family has checked in?"</i><br />
<i>Me: "The lab person could walk down the hallway and talk to the front desk staff or vice versa?"</i><br />
<i>Them: "No, that won't work."</i><br />
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I'm just trying to keep it real.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-9859007818004945372011-08-28T21:04:00.001-05:002011-08-28T21:05:50.141-05:00One stick at a timeThe words haven't been coming to me this summer. Frustratingly, I've started lots of posts never to finish them. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eZfCooq8mCk/TlrkeoqEYCI/AAAAAAAAD3Q/rvE1h3CNDvU/s1600/securedownload-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eZfCooq8mCk/TlrkeoqEYCI/AAAAAAAAD3Q/rvE1h3CNDvU/s400/securedownload-1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daytime firepit...who knew you could enjoy that? My dad's a rulebreaker.</td></tr>
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Our new lake house is a pleasant distraction from my distraction. The house faces west so the sun is a long time coming over the trees to the dock, but it makes for a pretty morning with the creep of the light over the rooftop cutting through the trees, casting the brightest light and deepest shadows in the yard. Superimposed fern silhouettes layer one over another in a feathery pattern of every possible shade of green. It's peaceful and natural. But then when that gets boring, just follow me five miles up the road for cocktail hour and a cooked meal in Minocqua.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The paths begin to take shape</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Olivia's gone to college and she's thriving according to local reports. I'm more than surviving and less than thriving with her departure. It's just weird. But as I've told my friends, all the registration stuff for high school came in the mail and none of it had Olivia's name on it so I knew she had to go. You don't have to be independent but you can't stay here. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Avi6ceezGnw/TlrkmuBw2WI/AAAAAAAAD3c/0VhzdLNqACg/s1600/securedownload.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Avi6ceezGnw/TlrkmuBw2WI/AAAAAAAAD3c/0VhzdLNqACg/s320/securedownload.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My dad and I headed north last weekend for a look at our house and it took him all of ten minutes before his knees were in the dirt. A huge woodpile/mudpile had been plowed/bobcatted against a little grove of trees to clear the way for digging up the old septic tank. A giant mess of tangled cut wood, plants and dirt that had been burrowed and co-opted by chipmunks who clucked and scampered and scolded whenever anybody came near. So much literal dead wood, I couldn't face it! Chip tried to tackle it a few weeks ago and I made him stop. It seemed insurmountable. But piece by piece, my dad, who doesn't heed me like Chip does, began to root through the pile pieces one by one for the most burnable to least burnable wood and stacked it painstakingly.<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>"Dad, stop. It's too much."</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>"Why should I stop? I love working like this."</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>"How can you love it? It's overwhelming. I don't even know where to begin out here in the yard, there's so much debris."</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>"Jul, you just move it one stick at a time until it's done."</i></div><br />
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One stick at a time. Big tasks have been scary lately. I don't know if it's been the unsettling nature of sending a kid to college, going back to work, or just getting older. But my dad's simple words freed me for the weekend, by simply telling me to start the task.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-77713124166656836952011-07-22T07:59:00.002-05:002011-07-22T08:03:49.349-05:00The heat was on.Blistering heat. It's finally moving east but the past week has been like a long plane ride for me. Trapped and airless days and nights strung together, stuck either inside work or inside the house. I felt and behaved like a caged wild beast.<br />
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I pushed myself to go to the Concert on the Square this week despite the hysteria that it would be so hot people would die trying. And what a good decision it was. The Wisconsin Chamber Orchestra, incidentally conducted by our darling friend and neighbor Andrew Sewell, performs Wednesday evenings on the grounds of the Capitol (that's with an O, teachers) all summer. It's free and a blanket and a bottle is the standard minimum-full on picnic dinners are common. It's a wine swillin' crowd generally. What's stopping anybody from attending is a mystery to me. This week, Andrew had recruited Revival, an ABBA tribute band, for the orchestra to accompany. The band used the rotunda as their back stage and "took the stage" in a grand fashion on the Capitol steps to the sounds of a <i>whoop whoop whoop</i> of a chopper, as if they had somehow just landed downtown from Sweden just for us! Hilariously cheesy but in the final analysis they brought some musical chops. Showmanship if nothing else with gold capes and entreaties for getting the crowd on its feet, which they accomplished and was no small feat given the temperature.<br />
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Back in the day, when I was at the mercy of the disc jockey on WFIL FM radio, I was not a fan of ABBA, despite enduring the song <i>Fernando</i> incessantly. The soaring melodies and the Swinglish lyrics made no sense to me as a kid, but then again, I hadn't yet traveled beyond Ohio and I loved the band, Kiss. I'm not here to judge. <br />
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My friend Martha, with whom I braved the temperatures only to be rewarded with a cup of homemade gazpacho for my trouble, is a cellist and a lifelong musician/biology nerd by her description. When I told her I didn't go for ABBA as a kid because I was pretty hard core rock, she replied, "For me, ABBA was hard core." That was funny and of course, a little sad. But the thing is, I did eventually grow up and began to see the merits of pop in my life. And I'm not giving Mamma Mia any credit for this because I think that show, despite it's popularity with women, is lame-O! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDYzmG8hmGXN4HgXGF-4HwR3LVafucerJHtTz22f0ux5dhUxvk7xP9_e-tBa5rZ5bcauS08j5mhhYlcUIEuTFh7TSL5cRPxtpvjzuoEC7_KSvRjpE_VGEjuPmrCk4itNTR6zLBEWlTWPbC/s1600/mms_picture-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDYzmG8hmGXN4HgXGF-4HwR3LVafucerJHtTz22f0ux5dhUxvk7xP9_e-tBa5rZ5bcauS08j5mhhYlcUIEuTFh7TSL5cRPxtpvjzuoEC7_KSvRjpE_VGEjuPmrCk4itNTR6zLBEWlTWPbC/s640/mms_picture-20.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nearly 100 degrees. Shout out to Chip Hunter for throwing out our blanket and <br />
babysitting it until mid afternoon when the temperature was more like 120 degrees.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The ABBA allure has got to be about its retro-ness and also generational shareability. As a middle-ager, you hear an ABBA song and for good or bad, you remember a moment or an event or even a vibe from the past. I don't even think you have to like the music to experience the nostalgia. And the crazy thing is, at the height of their stardom in the seventies, the band was probably the least popular in the United States than anywhere in the world. I guess that's the thing about retro is that it's more popular in its resurrection than it ever was in its hey day. <br />
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Martha and I watched over the course of the evening as pockets of people began standing up to dance or sway, young and old folks, moms and daughters, girlfriends, little kids, and even a few guys. We were swept up in the good feeling of the crowd and the music made the heat almost a non-issue. My kid and her friends knew all the words to the songs and they were eventually up dancing, although not until moving to a secure location away from me and Martha and our attempts to mimic all of the choreography of the background singers. Arm movements are easy to do from a beach chair but it does sometimes cause you to spill your wine, so it's important to take care.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_IpwMbGNPDd1NipPLh-ClAQm8HVRT3IvXgvh6F87rOnkaGGbeXavnZ05O_MBV7qgjrdqkEcLV8sz3Jy9We0aX8Slw59ahEjCGnozJm2HHILoZBjLzve_MKRH7rXmvfcqBiEYrcaI373p/s1600/mms_picture-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_IpwMbGNPDd1NipPLh-ClAQm8HVRT3IvXgvh6F87rOnkaGGbeXavnZ05O_MBV7qgjrdqkEcLV8sz3Jy9We0aX8Slw59ahEjCGnozJm2HHILoZBjLzve_MKRH7rXmvfcqBiEYrcaI373p/s400/mms_picture-19.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New generation ABBA fans</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-23168323423755053662011-07-09T16:31:00.000-05:002011-07-09T16:31:02.412-05:00Reunion 2011<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-68WxWDSbhEM/ThjG0XmYI3I/AAAAAAAAD2Q/6CLDUZTIRpY/s1600/0708112016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-68WxWDSbhEM/ThjG0XmYI3I/AAAAAAAAD2Q/6CLDUZTIRpY/s320/0708112016.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northwoods sky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My first official weekend at our cabin. Alone with the dog. Everybody else is busy as usual so Minnie and I ventured north to welcome a new bed being delivered and start surveying the work ahead. I'm surprised because I think there is more work outside than in. Paths are overgrown both front and back and I'm reminded of Burnt Offerings, the movie (and book) about a family that buys a rundown old house with a crazy lady in the attic and the mom becomes obsessed with the house to the point of maybe murdering her family, I think? I can't quite remember the whole story but I do remember that as the house got fixed up, she got crazier and eventually the family runs away and leaves her to be the new old lady in the attic. Hmmmmm.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wEaN53tScTE/ThjDbht99pI/AAAAAAAAD10/R4COJtknsEs/s1600/blog6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wEaN53tScTE/ThjDbht99pI/AAAAAAAAD10/R4COJtknsEs/s400/blog6.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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The past week has been full of 2 year old. The former preemie who battled uphill for much of her first year is now a skinny, wily, fast grabbing (no kidding, knives!), bilingual, sassyfrass beauty. And the gift and blessing is that...she <i>knows</i> me. I can tell by the way she looks at me that I'm a notch above random stranger. We have a connection and it's love, baby. Her parents are wonderful but they are like blurry shapes that satellite around our love affair. That's the cold hard truth and I can write freely since my blog doesn't penetrate the Great Firewall of China.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5fpVPkwXeQo/ThjDZtUWbNI/AAAAAAAAD1w/sDzBXGFoyeY/s1600/blog5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5fpVPkwXeQo/ThjDZtUWbNI/AAAAAAAAD1w/sDzBXGFoyeY/s640/blog5.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Genius marketing that set us apart and above the Lutz Family Reunion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>An amazing journey to Kansas for a 66 person-strong Hunter Family Reunion. Amazing in that our family (and that means America) is beginning to reflect the colors of our world. Chinese, African-American, Filipino, Latino in-laws and descendants blending in with each subsequent generation. The Hunters are turning beautifully brown. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KkW6rFQYLZA/ThjDXTenhdI/AAAAAAAAD1s/ppEWrdzcQDk/s1600/blog4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KkW6rFQYLZA/ThjDXTenhdI/AAAAAAAAD1s/ppEWrdzcQDk/s400/blog4.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Judy and Aunt Ann get the shirts divided up by family</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQvp5f0482riQgbtKTdsFLvQ16s8SnpbTCGPsUn4jslCxdLl27w9V6K0mhNX95Zvy7FERvoTH6HhSKdvYjeAmVjtMNUSYjo46PrbfvrcPJVlxWuPnufICECCxojygJhwH-cUXSQXGOeZb/s1600/blog7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgQvp5f0482riQgbtKTdsFLvQ16s8SnpbTCGPsUn4jslCxdLl27w9V6K0mhNX95Zvy7FERvoTH6HhSKdvYjeAmVjtMNUSYjo46PrbfvrcPJVlxWuPnufICECCxojygJhwH-cUXSQXGOeZb/s400/blog7.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">second cousins</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5pKcWSDojXU/ThjDRELklvI/AAAAAAAAD1g/rGQjlksjOeE/s1600/blog1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5pKcWSDojXU/ThjDRELklvI/AAAAAAAAD1g/rGQjlksjOeE/s640/blog1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWQ2sJAI2cbv3tDdhSLdpuW4VTbxbHzjx0LgGwBhaq0K2F0WXdBl-FVL4vIDTJaXky4dUzGc1OaORmM48lPfH-OiXYsUcJE28YbCoPLnZz6LnwC2QpQYPZw0oQip7M6nf6drHOoEdSF3M4/s1600/blog10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWQ2sJAI2cbv3tDdhSLdpuW4VTbxbHzjx0LgGwBhaq0K2F0WXdBl-FVL4vIDTJaXky4dUzGc1OaORmM48lPfH-OiXYsUcJE28YbCoPLnZz6LnwC2QpQYPZw0oQip7M6nf6drHOoEdSF3M4/s640/blog10.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">um....what a production this was. you can see the level of cooperation on their faces</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pi3iTsOHxTA/ThjDTHSbMCI/AAAAAAAAD1k/KzhQiodYo9g/s1600/blog2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pi3iTsOHxTA/ThjDTHSbMCI/AAAAAAAAD1k/KzhQiodYo9g/s400/blog2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A quilt of all the t-shirts over the years</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Grabbing a signal at The Vine in Minocqua with a glass of syrah beside me while Misty Mountain Hop plays overhead. I must remember this in February.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXy7LSDBPiNAjSi5SYxCJjOPSHQHIDlkl3ws5R0WoM-kqBvTjCcqgl0xLEzbh-HMhnHbpe-Wf9Zj0T1pZtN23JmUw2c2Ryeg8h3U36RozRPNa5779y7O8w1sJ9EGwzoBbdtrqBi32zDsk/s1600/mms_picture-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXy7LSDBPiNAjSi5SYxCJjOPSHQHIDlkl3ws5R0WoM-kqBvTjCcqgl0xLEzbh-HMhnHbpe-Wf9Zj0T1pZtN23JmUw2c2Ryeg8h3U36RozRPNa5779y7O8w1sJ9EGwzoBbdtrqBi32zDsk/s320/mms_picture-19.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-85173128145797689492011-06-28T09:37:00.001-05:002011-06-28T09:38:19.455-05:00Jello at my age<div class="MsoNormal">A woman of a certain age acknowledges she has occasions for flights of fancy but when she has jello shots two weekends in a row, it makes her reflective.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hlVbIX38FVU/TgnfbqICGuI/AAAAAAAAD1I/NSXZtTLSHkc/s1600/mms_picture-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hlVbIX38FVU/TgnfbqICGuI/AAAAAAAAD1I/NSXZtTLSHkc/s400/mms_picture-16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My tailgating buddy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">The first week out of school has gone by so after going into liquid state, the girls have re-materialized into solid form and are into the swing of their summer rituals: babysitting, diving, running, piano playing, malling, lunching, TV watching. Jobs you ask? Well....Chip and I have them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The cats are having the summer I used to have as a kid. Out at 9am, home at 9pm. Dirty and up to no good, holding back their stories because I would worry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6iRHEweE9Ty6m3gZ6Tfx17DYQUYJw9u-Xgv-bFLWt83VhgqhGsINxcX1c-h-vwJmch5bJkSUPHb5BnKXM3HktQ2I16xtUSJPhzx93G-hrBX1MAPCaQGl9LhjSyLPXOnDyQHB27T_txk4/s1600/mms_picture-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6iRHEweE9Ty6m3gZ6Tfx17DYQUYJw9u-Xgv-bFLWt83VhgqhGsINxcX1c-h-vwJmch5bJkSUPHb5BnKXM3HktQ2I16xtUSJPhzx93G-hrBX1MAPCaQGl9LhjSyLPXOnDyQHB27T_txk4/s640/mms_picture-14.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darling girls at Jimmy Buffett, beautiful and chill</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">My first summer working in 10 years so far? Difficult. Teachers, stay-at-home moms and part-time professionals make up my social circle so while they’re working hard for their kids this summer back and forth to camps, the pool, family vacations, they are “off” in my mind. I wake up each morning wishing I could just sit in my garden and drink coffee for a few hours then head to the pool or take a bike ride or a paddle or even just clean out a closet. But then I remember how much that work pays. I want to say that it makes me savor the weekends and that I make the most of that time, but really it just makes me greedy and anxious for more. I’m still adjusting, is the politically correct answer and the one people close to me want to hear because they love me. I’m crabby and unsettled, is the reality.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BbActyqZdf8/TgnfoySwSKI/AAAAAAAAD1Y/rSQq1tKgBZg/s1600/0625112104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BbActyqZdf8/TgnfoySwSKI/AAAAAAAAD1Y/rSQq1tKgBZg/s320/0625112104.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glow bracelets really complete an outfit</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Outdoor lunch with a friend, Jimmy Buffett, Trivia Night at the pool, gardening, family reunion, glass of wine on the patio…our grown-up summer rituals have also begun. Despite the feeling that there's never quite enough time on the weekends, all possibilities are entertained and planning is rich with verdant and abundant blooms like my garden. Not until my ferns start to get crispy and I begin to look at weeds and think, “meh…” will I feel that wistful slide of summer on the down slope. I hope at that point I can look back and feel like I found that balance, enjoying both summer and working simultaneously. Jimmy Buffett works all summer, I tell myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rVUy8C7mdIc/Tgnfd0_QURI/AAAAAAAAD1M/Uj8hIerQ_to/s1600/mms_picture-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rVUy8C7mdIc/Tgnfd0_QURI/AAAAAAAAD1M/Uj8hIerQ_to/s640/mms_picture-17.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sun sets behind a sea of happy drunks--the steep grade of the hill at Alpine Valley<br />
is a cruel joke on all these people after dark. Many of those above us on the hill were below us later in the evening, <br />
not of their own accord.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-47533856600351800792011-06-14T23:42:00.004-05:002011-06-15T11:17:12.835-05:00A new perspective<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JHZAkCPc6zk/TfgmjxUQs5I/AAAAAAAADz8/-Q12S3-ARPc/s1600/mms_picture-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480px" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JHZAkCPc6zk/TfgmjxUQs5I/AAAAAAAADz8/-Q12S3-ARPc/s640/mms_picture-11.jpg" width="640px" /></a></div><br />
And the new view is not just out my window. Although that's changed, too. This lovely shot is the view from the porch of my new lake house. Ok, ours. That feels very weird to say aloud, even in print. And so we get to watch a new chapter in our family's life write itself from this vantage point, perhaps even quite literally if I can get Internet there. Liv and Ally are only mildly impressed and somewhat baffled. I don't think they see the relevance of a lakehouse to their lives right now and that's probably appropriate from the perspective of a teenager. It's just a place with a lot of attention-seeking dragonflies and sketchy cell phone service.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R2cDv4V0TvQ/Tfgv346CIFI/AAAAAAAAD0I/WXl4wSuI63A/s1600/CSC_0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R2cDv4V0TvQ/Tfgv346CIFI/AAAAAAAAD0I/WXl4wSuI63A/s400/CSC_0064.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">front and center which is how we see her</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Olivia's high school graduation was executed with Wisconsin precision. On time start, the reading of each individual's name graduating -- 480 plus students-- in addition to hosting five speakers all in under 90 minutes. Mussolini must have consulted here at one point in history as I've never been to a school, arts or public event that hasn't run on time or finished within 10 minutes of its scheduled completion. Compared to Philadelphia time, where start times are merely suggestions for the under part of an over/under bet, Madison time is laughably accurate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zChrpvuGZdA/TfgwCtYlhTI/AAAAAAAAD0Q/y4-Rr_QsM5A/s1600/DSC_0016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zChrpvuGZdA/TfgwCtYlhTI/AAAAAAAAD0Q/y4-Rr_QsM5A/s640/DSC_0016.JPG" width="640px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catching up with Aunt Pol</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And the million dollar question? How does it all feel? It feels like it's time. It was nice for our crazy families (ok, just mine is crazy and it may be a small betrayal to write that...and yet I write it anyway) to see each other again. It came together before the ceremony in a day's long arrival of family like stars on the red carpet one after the other building to a crescendo of an Italian feast at a local restaurant. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9iR_bzryHNE/TfgwGUrhwvI/AAAAAAAAD0U/FGKfMQKjsrw/s1600/DSC_0104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9iR_bzryHNE/TfgwGUrhwvI/AAAAAAAAD0U/FGKfMQKjsrw/s400/DSC_0104.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hear they all had fun</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U9nPsbQoLyk/TfgwJ7gUDTI/AAAAAAAAD0Y/new0Vc5iDaA/s1600/DSC_0109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U9nPsbQoLyk/TfgwJ7gUDTI/AAAAAAAAD0Y/new0Vc5iDaA/s640/DSC_0109.JPG" width="640px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scene from my kitchen window on many sunny summer days</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O2vueIVuC50/TfgwRBrhanI/AAAAAAAAD0c/incApRZhNXY/s1600/DSC_0119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O2vueIVuC50/TfgwRBrhanI/AAAAAAAAD0c/incApRZhNXY/s400/DSC_0119.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Absolutely no idea if Olivia is the brown haired one or the blond haired one.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span id="goog_876353996"></span><span id="goog_876353997"></span><br />
<br />
It resumed after the ceremony as a wonderful thank-you gathering for family and the neighbors who helped me bring this here child to adulthood with sanitys intact. Each friend in her own way has had a hand in making this kid feel safe and secure in this world. She calls them collectively the "aunties" and many live in our backyard. The phrase "it takes a village..." may be trite from overuse but it's not without absolute meaning. Because if you can raise a kid by yourself for 18 years, you deserve some sort of recognition or some sort of a job from the United Nations or the Pope or maybe Desmond Tutu.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8CrhCoWM9q8/TfgxRgsMYII/AAAAAAAAD0o/ebu9G7LkcGM/s1600/DSC_0030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265px" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8CrhCoWM9q8/TfgxRgsMYII/AAAAAAAAD0o/ebu9G7LkcGM/s400/DSC_0030.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">dinner at Bella Vita, new locally owned restaurant that shows some local love</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MFCzjvTeunU/Tfg2jRjL-3I/AAAAAAAAD1A/FBnoedzLF38/s1600/susliv.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212px" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MFCzjvTeunU/Tfg2jRjL-3I/AAAAAAAAD1A/FBnoedzLF38/s320/susliv.JPG" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almost as good as a hug from JJ Hardy...but not quite</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikAqTHnB9BB-lsOLuLjzXS_vNKXJHYmM-jymZbTyFv62r759HkzWNScDCfRwqERP7NCYpZrS4IxwQo8GkpEE2esefbsyemM404HDFD6dRAqpF3wkT8JsjNP-2pBG1KdDWTuwPjxb7Oola2/s1600/advice.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikAqTHnB9BB-lsOLuLjzXS_vNKXJHYmM-jymZbTyFv62r759HkzWNScDCfRwqERP7NCYpZrS4IxwQo8GkpEE2esefbsyemM404HDFD6dRAqpF3wkT8JsjNP-2pBG1KdDWTuwPjxb7Oola2/s400/advice.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Advice taken with some skepticism</td></tr>
</tbody></table>a video assembled by some girls in Liv's class. truly artful. liv at around 1:50 secs.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/galaY7w3nYI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-78404182669894046812011-06-01T22:39:00.002-05:002011-06-01T22:47:25.536-05:00Management 101I spoke up in a meeting today, a big monthly sort of deal with women all doing my job plus a director or two. I try to contribute, to be visible, because the truth is if I didn't show up they wouldn't even miss me. Just a little pediatric fish in a big pond of sickest of sick adult care practitioners. I'm alone in my sunny disposition and pediatric friendly colors. They rarely smile except when I alone try out some material on them and they think big thoughts about wound healing, urinary infections and heart disease. Some scary bitches I tell you, although you'd probably want them taking care of you if you were sick.<br />
<br />
Later, a woman introduced herself to me because she was "interested to hear my comments" at the meeting. Uh oh. Is that a good thing or an "I want to remember your name so I can avoid committee work with you."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0RMmXr8vLlI/TebuXXkPoHI/AAAAAAAADzU/NUjQpZow-a8/s1600/0531112018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0RMmXr8vLlI/TebuXXkPoHI/AAAAAAAADzU/NUjQpZow-a8/s640/0531112018.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
My comment was in reference to a journal article about nurses needing to break through professional silence to protect patient safety. Never having been silent my whole life, it was hard to relate. But the conversation turned to communication and I reflected that as tricky as it can be for women to manage other women, ironically in the female dominated nursing field we end up spending most of our professional lives deftly managing everybody from patients to doctors without ever having any formal management education or training. A lot of nurses are just winging it so maybe as advanced practice nurses we should advocate better for management education for our staff groups. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aAUM79zGNQs/TebytNX023I/AAAAAAAADzg/jrtd_7-1vBc/s1600/mms_picture-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aAUM79zGNQs/TebytNX023I/AAAAAAAADzg/jrtd_7-1vBc/s640/mms_picture-15.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Speaking of women ineffectively managing women, there are 7 days of school left and somebody needs to finish 10th grade before her mother a) checks into Betty Ford or b) sells her to the carnival folk in the deserted defunct Italian restaurant parking lot behind the mall or c) both.<br />
<br />
As for the graduating senior, she's unusually sassy as hay'll. I literally waved a pencil under both their noses tonight and used the words "I'm your mother and I want respect." It was so absurd, I think it worked. Thinking that demanding respect will be my new thing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vHPklBAlm1o/Tebuh5vvZrI/AAAAAAAADzY/h1L1drscJBg/s1600/mms_picture-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vHPklBAlm1o/Tebuh5vvZrI/AAAAAAAADzY/h1L1drscJBg/s400/mms_picture-12.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thing 1<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJhvqu9X-ZhbmBLz98T34caisgmM7vzK9EDJ90MwDp5ZszJYLUe1e1zSVlHctMinEe-85ICBOeXlkp6txs_Le5P4-dd1e7eI8yfyMcci6tRu77z1-w-003ixJp3BMni99kpm7shi8NGHY/s1600/230210_1696251210443_1362731415_31430897_7587922_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJhvqu9X-ZhbmBLz98T34caisgmM7vzK9EDJ90MwDp5ZszJYLUe1e1zSVlHctMinEe-85ICBOeXlkp6txs_Le5P4-dd1e7eI8yfyMcci6tRu77z1-w-003ixJp3BMni99kpm7shi8NGHY/s400/230210_1696251210443_1362731415_31430897_7587922_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thing 2</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-6167048035133013862011-05-19T00:09:00.003-05:002011-05-19T10:22:55.074-05:00My first. There's only one.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L2vHXEbe9C4/TdSWEP6t3TI/AAAAAAAADyU/o1tzQ5iE0WU/s1600/butterbeer2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L2vHXEbe9C4/TdSWEP6t3TI/AAAAAAAADyU/o1tzQ5iE0WU/s400/butterbeer2.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's the face of butterbeer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><div class="MsoNormal">Liv’s prom pictures made me realize we are reaching milestones almost daily around here. The lasts of a lot of things…band concerts, forensics banquets, booster shots. As I consider all these lasts, I can’t help going back to that skinny yet improbably hard-to-carry toddler who never held on to us so much as used us as perches from which to view and delight in the world around her. Who she’s become and will yet become is largely who we always thought she was. Kids are puzzles in the box, the pieces are all a jumble. The keen observer can start to see the whole for those little pieces pretty quickly. And over time in our case, the edge pieces have all been found and framed a wonderful 18 year old that has emerged her senior year. I think back to some of my favorite Olivia moments and the puzzle pieces that have fallen into place. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oUCrTwIN4qY/TdSWhAdg7SI/AAAAAAAADyo/HJapxX4xkhE/s1600/selfie2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oUCrTwIN4qY/TdSWhAdg7SI/AAAAAAAADyo/HJapxX4xkhE/s320/selfie2.JPG" width="320px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my traveling buddy</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">As a toddler, with the precision and silence of the Stealth Bomber, she crawled from the kitchen while my back was turned, scaling a chair to reach the top of the dining room table where she teeteringly must have turned around to sit cross legged so she could carefully open a box of jelly beans that I assumed had been stashed above her view. The puzzle pieces here still remain. She has an amazing memory and she still loves candy. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">As a kid of 5 or 6 she once crept downstairs on a weekend morning and opened the back door triggering the whoop whoop of the burglar alarm. She scaled the baby gate off the back porch, walked down the side alley of our city block in nightgown and barefeet to the front of the house to get the newspaper. The house alarm blared and Chip and I went to the open back door with the cricket bat poised to brain someone, only to catch the tail end of that spritely little return walk back down the alley, Liv smiling to herself with newspaper in hand. And to this day, she cannot really start her morning without reading the newspaper.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7LG2r67wiwY/TdSWcQr_afI/AAAAAAAADyk/KMTNI3NcRjs/s1600/roofs2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7LG2r67wiwY/TdSWcQr_afI/AAAAAAAADyk/KMTNI3NcRjs/s640/roofs2.JPG" width="640px" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">On our trip to Harry Potter world, she was decidedly disappointed in her geriatric mom’s inability to ride the rides fanatically and repeatedly with her--<em>oh, yeah, that's why we made you a sister!</em> It was clear to me on our trip that NASA doesn’t know about this diamond in the rough living in Wisconsin, who could take space and time exploration to a whole new level with her love of physical sensation. Her preschool teacher said it first. She has always and still does love sensation of most kinds; fast, spinning, sweet, salty, sour, upside down. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">And she's a talker. She’s been babbling since she was about two weeks old, on trains and planes, in the tub, pointing and squawking from her stroller, following us around the house to chat sports or reflections of her day. Despite having to tell her to zip it occasionally, whether it’s a trip to Harry Potter world or a trip to the grocery store, she’s a low maintenance, sweet, positive, flexible companion at home or on the road, especially if there's a snack in it for her. I can’t really imagine what it will be like around here without her daily presence. But I’m feeling great so far, steeped in my denial.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xLg5z9y37_c/TdSWzZYiHVI/AAAAAAAADy0/Jbt0I6r9zEs/s1600/hulk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640px" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xLg5z9y37_c/TdSWzZYiHVI/AAAAAAAADy0/Jbt0I6r9zEs/s640/hulk.JPG" width="480px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">she went on, I did not. I could not.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SLJlwPBBnqQ/TdSWoK1OjWI/AAAAAAAADys/56zkki-meFQ/s1600/us.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SLJlwPBBnqQ/TdSWoK1OjWI/AAAAAAAADys/56zkki-meFQ/s400/us.JPG" width="400px" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic tourists...full of chicken fingers, soda and nachos.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div>I see many friends on Facebook are also facing their own firstborns leaving home this summer. Like the Decorah eaglets, they all seem big enough, they all technically look ready to fly, but it’s such a long drop down from the nest. Scary stuff. Their lives are starting “for reals” and in a way we as parents are appropriately being nudged unwillingly to bystander status. What can we do? I can't <i>make</i> her do anything. I think the police could arrest me for that now. And I resent those grownups who think they get to call the shots because they pay the bills--nuh uh, it's her time now. My parents were so good about letting me live my life that I want to honor them by doing the same for Liv, as much as it pains me to let her make the decisions now. If it keeps her out of living in my basement at age 26, well, the pain will have been worth it. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I am not weepy but I am sad and afraid to let go…let go of the baby, the toddler, the little kid we took to Disney, even that teenager I took to Harry Potter world just a month ago. And at the same time I can’t wait for her to have her chance at living her life without having me pawing at her daily like a lioness keeping her cub close. And I look forward to watching the rest of this puzzle come together. The edges were ours to put together but the middle is for her to fill in with the picture she imagines that is her life and her passions and her future. I'm going to miss you fiercely, kid, but I love you enough to not make it all about me this <i>one </i>time.<br />
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</div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-38287781112914851482011-04-26T21:37:00.000-05:002011-04-26T21:37:29.803-05:00The hookI bet you thought I would blog about Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey. And I will, but this post occurred to me at 30,000 feet and so I'm going with it first. Might be good, might be oxygen deprived drivel. I visited my friend's parents this past week in Florida and my friend's mom is a regular reader of my blog. I do have a small but devoted following of about 20, mostly friends and family. I'm OK with the fact that my blog never caught fire like <u>The </u><u>Huffington</u><u> Post</u>. Really what would I do with 315 million dollars anyway?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kb4e-s-xAw8/Tbd_-UVVozI/AAAAAAAADx8/D9O7FiojkqY/s1600/boat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kb4e-s-xAw8/Tbd_-UVVozI/AAAAAAAADx8/D9O7FiojkqY/s400/boat.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
She said, "You're a fantastic writer and you have a book already written. Memoirs are in!" And yet I still don't see it. Maybe someday, but right now I prefer belly aching about the relevance of my blog in my post-apocalyptic "I have to get up and go to work <i>again</i>?" state of mind. I'm hanging on by my fingernails to keep my life orderly and calm, which is how I like it these days. Sunday nights not having done my homework yet...ugh, that lifestyle, while seemingly embraced by me at every stage of my life, has actually never made me happy. I just can't go back to the seven foot high pile of laundry, the chore laden weekends and hot dogs twice a week for dinner as was customary of my family life coupled with a full time job ten years ago. It was de rigueur when I was younger, skinnier and cuter but middle aged women who don't have their lives together is just tragic. Must.maintain.order.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UObrd7PeDrQ/TbeAC2FtsrI/AAAAAAAADyE/ZbhOslSXd9g/s1600/lighthouse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UObrd7PeDrQ/TbeAC2FtsrI/AAAAAAAADyE/ZbhOslSXd9g/s640/lighthouse.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Qualifications for writing a memoir surely include some formal training somewhere. I'll admit to higher education, good fundies from expert teachers, good instincts and a good sense of humor...those are scant credentials I've got to hang my writing hat on--ending a sentence with a preposition aside. And unlike Sedaris, Burroughs, Wells, McCourt, I don't have the hook of an amazingly colorful past. Sure I've got the alcoholics, the slightly checked out parents (benignly so), the seventies, the youthful indiscretions and the European travel stories. I also have a firm grip on reality and the dynamic duo of my funniness, self loathing and sloth. I know myself and I'm willing to talk truthfully about it. That point alone seems valuable enough to keep blogging if only to help a friend take the pressure off of herself on a hard day. But reading blogs is a fading ritual for Internet readers, like waiting for holds at the library (really people? have you heard of the Kindle?) and actually blogs were a dying bird even as I took mine up. Twitter is where it's at. It's been fun and interesting being a part of a social media fad on the Internet and in the end maybe one of my grand kids will write a book report about her granny the blogger back in "aught 7". Who knows if any of it will even be here in ten years and what will replace it? <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S6z0NZCPpcc/TbeAGzvVzrI/AAAAAAAADyM/qYxUgsh9JUQ/s1600/rusted+light.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S6z0NZCPpcc/TbeAGzvVzrI/AAAAAAAADyM/qYxUgsh9JUQ/s400/rusted+light.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
So what would be the hook of my memoir if I wrote one? As I sat on the beach this past week and my brain was re energized by Vitamin D, my muse finally came to me! Because as I try to juggle work, kids growing up and going to college and the maintenance of my house and what little of my sanity remains, the one thing I am sure of is that I love to tell a story and edit it for the reader's pleasure but I simply cannot f*cking do this while my family peppers me on the quarter hour with inane questions like, "Did you wash my sliding shorts?"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5vDZ9ekJFv0/TbeAAu4ExsI/AAAAAAAADyA/qbNxiJOmXp0/s1600/castle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5vDZ9ekJFv0/TbeAAu4ExsI/AAAAAAAADyA/qbNxiJOmXp0/s320/castle.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This post is about a child so dear that it's going to take a little while to craft</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It also occurred to me that nobody ever comes looking for me while I'm doing the wash. My respite. My haven. My salvation. I've blogged numerous times about it before. The laundry is my muse. Life as I know it from the subterranean recesses of my house--the underworld, Atlantis. It is all finally coming together in an arc so mundane that it might make Erma Bombeck seem funny.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-16838464134978380272011-04-03T21:42:00.004-05:002011-04-03T21:52:28.021-05:00Pushing through the pain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2A_9r7hRLTU/TZkf0YD9lmI/AAAAAAAADwo/L1QUjA-dmec/s1600/grouphug_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2A_9r7hRLTU/TZkf0YD9lmI/AAAAAAAADwo/L1QUjA-dmec/s320/grouphug_0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1981...not really sure what's going on here</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eH9Of7E62LE/TZkgPVMDD0I/AAAAAAAADws/LPFSBdBHTNk/s1600/208362_1632147527891_1362731415_31345812_6745209_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eH9Of7E62LE/TZkgPVMDD0I/AAAAAAAADws/LPFSBdBHTNk/s400/208362_1632147527891_1362731415_31345812_6745209_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2011...we don't lie together on the floor anymore, intentionally.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Although I only spent a year with them in high school this group of people has become more gracious and welcoming with each passing reunion. But the one thing I can’t recreate with most of them is a history, because we have none. I haven’t met their parents or their siblings, we never played together once upon a time in pre-school, we weren’t ever best friends in the 4th grade. Those friends are in Philadelphia for me. The three friends I made my senior year in New Orleans, well, we've never lost touch. There’s lots of history but no need to catch up as we chat weekly at minimum. So this weekend was a bit like being a spouse at my own reunion. I watched as my classmates reconnected and delighted in their entwined childhoods and it was charming and beautiful to see. And like a spouse, man, whatever! It was a party. The company was great, the food was great, the surroundings were lush...from a 44th floor view over the Mississippi to dancing the night away at a mansion in the Garden District. It was all good.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GkmiA4xFJw4/TZkensICLgI/AAAAAAAADwY/0TwDgYCQ4zM/s1600/CIMG1412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GkmiA4xFJw4/TZkensICLgI/AAAAAAAADwY/0TwDgYCQ4zM/s320/CIMG1412.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">two of the three dearest friends I'll ever have no matter how old I get</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My gals and I dubbed the weekend <i>Push Through the Pain 2011</i> for its late nights and early mornings (because, of course, we're women of a certain age) and doing it over and over again for four days straight. Monday morning, I had to leave. My life depended on it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vrePu2sTdtY/TZkhyos3pjI/AAAAAAAADw8/BQ4SMa8NZyY/s1600/0325110930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vrePu2sTdtY/TZkhyos3pjI/AAAAAAAADw8/BQ4SMa8NZyY/s320/0325110930.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debris with grits at Mothers...that's exactly what you need after a night out on the town. <br />
It soaks up everything.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-66GccwuBaas/TZkezGMdr9I/AAAAAAAADwc/iHhJRErGu5c/s1600/mudbugs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-66GccwuBaas/TZkezGMdr9I/AAAAAAAADwc/iHhJRErGu5c/s320/mudbugs.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">gittin' our mudbug on</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-42U8cFCwhEc/TZkeaNW4ZaI/AAAAAAAADwQ/e9Bn3BTEk8U/s1600/CIMG1401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-42U8cFCwhEc/TZkeaNW4ZaI/AAAAAAAADwQ/e9Bn3BTEk8U/s320/CIMG1401.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brennans' Eggs Shannon. Trout and creamed spinach with a hint of nutmeg. Now that's brunch</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Positively N'Awlins.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNziPeLBS_toD1g8cMbhFfj_QpZUQeTLs8gcnq8eCh8ANmN-fTfbhvEyqLui8EAJDrNNP7wM7KpJClXIoLcIAR5yrFBnmiEbGPUoLHS0nw-SbOm2W0wXQB30_M_DEYUOviFgX_qs76_NEN/s1600/CIMG1417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNziPeLBS_toD1g8cMbhFfj_QpZUQeTLs8gcnq8eCh8ANmN-fTfbhvEyqLui8EAJDrNNP7wM7KpJClXIoLcIAR5yrFBnmiEbGPUoLHS0nw-SbOm2W0wXQB30_M_DEYUOviFgX_qs76_NEN/s640/CIMG1417.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">oysters on the grill, as you do in new orleans</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nFMbHhV94T8/TZke4zFUjRI/AAAAAAAADwg/pe6sFByXLS8/s1600/missis.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nFMbHhV94T8/TZke4zFUjRI/AAAAAAAADwg/pe6sFByXLS8/s320/missis.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">room with a view</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2em7U37toUBL8Yu7l9ZLxkZSld_uCXGrAlzcEgtOt3EmWNyfFvBe59z094eOSs7b0Ki8N3Xwb6fDN4w1r7oOLOqpxK3fE1oiD-nvMHDYp4tj1Np7EA3PDCHleSlbrpkCgKJszahAG21_j/s1600/CIMG1392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2em7U37toUBL8Yu7l9ZLxkZSld_uCXGrAlzcEgtOt3EmWNyfFvBe59z094eOSs7b0Ki8N3Xwb6fDN4w1r7oOLOqpxK3fE1oiD-nvMHDYp4tj1Np7EA3PDCHleSlbrpkCgKJszahAG21_j/s320/CIMG1392.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hurricanes at 1am</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pBQyLsrScNZ-FWty8paq4xdqo3SczX9aJTOfcAYWBFhwbPiCv8iEzZ6Hr9PAgyYIaaE0Gtf6xhK414_BJ9p_jALVTPrwtYRuI3IvUHcW_BSuoCyMJtmDTSpxhhUDTdQv3P5RGLNrPekm/s1600/beignets.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pBQyLsrScNZ-FWty8paq4xdqo3SczX9aJTOfcAYWBFhwbPiCv8iEzZ6Hr9PAgyYIaaE0Gtf6xhK414_BJ9p_jALVTPrwtYRuI3IvUHcW_BSuoCyMJtmDTSpxhhUDTdQv3P5RGLNrPekm/s320/beignets.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">beignets and coffee at 3am</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The reunion continues on Facebook this week as we reminisce about our reminiscences. Those who couldn’t attend post desperate entreaties to “tag” people because nobody’s recognizable in the pictures. Life has been good to most of us and we look durn good, but maybe not enough like our 18 year old selves to be easily identified in a still photo. In person it came slowly, but with animation we would break into smiles as the 18 year olds in us emerged and passed over our faces fleetingly. A kiss on the cheek, a gentle embrace, kind words. Smart, cultured, warm and genteel people. I am looking forward to the 35th already, but first I've got to see about getting rid of this pesky liver.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Mollie requests the waiter not set her hair on fire</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gmUlBcHdvNQ/TZkuQ7KKSAI/AAAAAAAADxI/WL-jl2n909U/s1600/0327111418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gmUlBcHdvNQ/TZkuQ7KKSAI/AAAAAAAADxI/WL-jl2n909U/s640/0327111418.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">He obliges...voila, bananas foster</td></tr>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div></div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-46578232949839391832011-03-20T21:37:00.000-05:002011-03-20T21:37:19.929-05:00Stolen minutesJames Taylor was singing on the television as we were cleaning up from dinner tonight.. ahh, there's a way to get ladies to support public television. Where do I send the check? Ladies like me, raised up on JT's sentimental crooning, songs sung with girlfriends with arms slung around each other's shoulders and usually a few beers under our belts. Then, ten years later singing those same songs quietly in the dark to my dozing babies because the lyrics came automatically in my own foggy brain. I was weepy tonight and I grabbed Ally as if to dip her, instead cradling her head and shoulders and we stood swaying as I rocked her and sang <i>Sweet Baby James</i> along with the TV.<br />
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<i>"Do you remember me singing this song to you?"</i> Nope. But she let me hold that portion of her that I can still fit in my arms and she didn't pull away. I grabbed Olivia as she walked out of the bathroom still fixing her hair and I squeezed them both very hard one in each arm, kissing their foreheads and telling them how much I loved them. A little weird but they're used to the odd grab and kiss so not sure it registered how badly I needed to hold them at that moment.<br />
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I blogged in September about Ally and her friends doing a benefit walk for cancer in honor of their friend battling leukemia. That friend lost her fight this weekend. Her mom blogged during the last nine months and reflected this weekend that this arduous walk with leukemia took the same amount of time it took to bring M. into the world--a crushing and ironic connection of the dots that felt for me suddenly like I was walking on the floor of a cruel fun house--how does a parent stay upright through all of it? Her posts were written with raw and sublime honesty so that we could be witness to the purity of her love, the agony of her fear and in the very end those final moments as her daughter slipped peacefully away. As for M, I mostly knew her through the funny stories I heard from Ally and Chip and then lately from her own mother's words. M. was fierce and funny, honest and original, a tomboy and a princess. She was the quintessential daughter, sugar and salt and fire. <br />
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I find retreat these days in being as thoroughly present in my own happy life as I can be in as many minutes of the day as I can remember to be. It's not easy to always be grateful <i>and </i>present, but it's sort of like yoga in that it can't ever be bad for me to try. Much of the good stuff in my life is within my control, the rest is simply luck. What I can control, I can strive to honor. I can hug my kids and my husband willy nilly and enjoy every minute with them when I'm not yelling at them. I can express my love whenever I feel it and that may get weird for the occasional stranger who treats me right. I can take the odd minute each day to enjoy a moment of sun on my face, stroke a baby's cheek in a hallway at work, listen to the birds as I sip my morning coffee and smell the flowers soon to come. It's a small offering of karma to the universe in the name of a girl who unjustly lost the luxury of spending her own stolen minutes.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-41670983139462204372011-03-14T22:22:00.000-05:002011-03-14T22:22:01.827-05:00So much stuff going onThe early March scene in Madison is upon us, when winter is not really over but we're all kind of getting a bit done with cold weather activities and therefore, the cold weather. The snow is old and crunchy. My XC skis lean with a detached mood against the side of the garage, without much appeal to me or me to them I think. The temperatures will keep popping up into the high thirties from now on and so the occasional flurries or freshening snow here and there won't do much except turn what's left of the snow into a dirty ice pack that will melt and freeze into a composite similar to the surface of Neptune. So much for the snow.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Minnie didn't know whether to bark at it or pee on it. She did neither in the end.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheese or pepperoni?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The past three years I have played host to hundreds of hungry teenagers at the home forensics tournament at the high school. Rounding up enough parent donations of fruit and drinks to augment two pieces of pizza and charge 5 bucks without the kids complaining of the value. It was my calling these three years as it turns out. And so once again, I spent an exhausting day off (precious this year) waiting on children who are old enough to wait on themselves. I'm done volunteering for this event as my senior is outta there and my sophomore doesn't see a future in the spoken word. So much for forensics. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first year I was freaked out by hundreds of kids talking to the walls. This year I barely noticed them.</td></tr>
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We've welcomed back our Wisconsin 14 but our state is angry and divided, the many now without collective bargaining, a fundamental human right btwubs, against the few on a raging power grab against the middle class to further line pockets that don't even sit in Sconnie pants. I don't know how all them rich guys can even fit all their money in their pockets with so much fleece in there.<br />
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Social media can be both instructive and informative but also repetitive, reactionary, inaccurate and at times in need of spellcheck. Capitol, Capital, capital. C'mon folks. You're teachers for God's sake! Facebook has become a sea of armchair postulation as activism. <i>I'm bored of it</i> as my kids used to say. So much for politics.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It is fun attending the protests and seeing friends even in a crowd of 85,000. <br />
Tony Shalhoub and I exchanged two thumbs up but obviously with my <br />
thumbs up, I couldn't take his picture. We had a moment though.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My 30th high school reunion in New Orleans is teed up for ten days from now. They're not the kids I cut my teeth with but they are the ones with whom I stepped out into the world back in 1981. I'm perhaps a little thicker around the middle than I'd like to be and well, not sure there's anything to be done about that before next Thursday. But two of my three buddies are headed back with me and that will be just fine to sip a few drinks on the porch of the Columns Hotel as the streetcars <i>vzzzzzz</i> by and their metallic smell mixes with the sweet olive and the night blooming jasmine and whatever other brilliant things might be blooming . So much for caring about being thin.<br />
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Thanks Cath and Nat for kicking me in the ass to get this written. It needed saying and I couldn't find the words.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-18427679806332985282011-03-03T23:33:00.004-06:002011-03-04T05:52:52.559-06:00A capital post indeed, or is that capitol?I just can't seem to concoct an interesting post about how the ice in the driveway keeps freezing and melting, freezing and melting so I'll have to turn to the topic of my state recently being sold to the Koch Brothers. <br />
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We're all a little freaked out, angry, confused, divided and unsure about the future. Not exactly fertile ground for a feel-good blog that generally tries to make thoughtful but lighthearted observations about life in Sconnie Nation. Here I sit. <br />
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I got my first hostile comment from a crabby anonymous after my last post, so that was a very exciting new twist after four years of blogging. I started to consider my response to the comment and then contemplated briefly that while my blog is not a plutocracy like Wisconsin, it is a monarchy and I'm the queen... so I just deleted it.<br />
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My kids have returned to school with a renewed energy after boredom had set in with their time off protesting and sleeping at the Capitol and watching reruns of Jersey Shore. Teachers and kids in catch-up mode is a good thing in the winter doldrums of February and early March. There's energy in the air and it's unsettling but at least it's something to feel. Usually, we're deep in our frozen cups by now just hunkering in hopes for spring.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cookies for the Oscar party sent by beloved NYC uncles to offset the drama in our own lives</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Governor Walker is not honorable. He's got an agenda set by some very rich and connected guys who don't even live in Wisconsin to dismantle the Democratic base by vilifying those in public service, while the bankers and the hedge funders and the wall street guys all roam free. It's entirely laughable each night as we are greeted by new pieces of mail from non-profits, quality of life programs and public service anythings as they sound their death knells by postcard and letter. Bike Federation, PBS, Planned Parenthood, farmers markets, kitties, bunnies...basically anything a hippie might like. Many teachers are on facebook hourly with updates about Walker's dishonorable tactics and I think it helps to keep morale up. But I wish more of these teachers would spell Capitol correctly and/or refer to the capital of our state. Bad grammar, even ironically, does not help the cause. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-7pUiTJucu9Y/TXBw_xRxvcI/AAAAAAAADt8/y2jcRceKHUI/s1600/DSC_0392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-7pUiTJucu9Y/TXBw_xRxvcI/AAAAAAAADt8/y2jcRceKHUI/s640/DSC_0392.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It really shouldn't be a surprise that I immediately tucked into Colin Firth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Work is weird. Represented and non-represented workers sitting side by side in team rooms, carefully moving their chairs around the elephant in the room. I was a union member in the school district who paid my dues but didn't pay much attention and that characterizes probably too many people in unions. I feel like maybe there's been some overreaching over the past decade, holding out for raises in pay and benefits even during difficult economic choices. I hear mumblings even from those sympathetic to unions that it's time for them to stop being so grabby. But the misplaced vitriol on twitter and in the editorial sections of the paper aimed at teachers, of all people, is crazy. Public sector unions didn't get us into this global financial mess--that's just smoke covering the real fire. I want to say to these private sector cry babies in the editorial pages, who have had opportunities and will again to make bonuses and set their own hours and move up the corporate ladder or fire at will, you are free and encouraged to go back to school and become a teacher or a nurse or a cop if the private sector isn't treating you right. And earn a whopping 65K after twenty years on the job and drive a Ford Fiesta. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-872Lyua1FcAjUs8KshnNFoYt-9BuB9ojZWwNlLKEN-DefyyYV_IH-RiV2vUQ1zs9SilNTtHl0FacqDgnaLAaxcNE9WxY50uq-ca3LxxAgyI3-AtOwHhyphenhyphenFAj9-wbby4yi7qCwfSsIbu5e/s1600/DSC_0393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-872Lyua1FcAjUs8KshnNFoYt-9BuB9ojZWwNlLKEN-DefyyYV_IH-RiV2vUQ1zs9SilNTtHl0FacqDgnaLAaxcNE9WxY50uq-ca3LxxAgyI3-AtOwHhyphenhyphenFAj9-wbby4yi7qCwfSsIbu5e/s640/DSC_0393.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In homage to my friend Karen, we played Oscar bingo and of course she was with me so I won</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tonight the Capitol is empty for the first time in almost three weeks. But the protesters are outside camping for the night and intend to return to the rotunda in the morning. The fight continues and we are all weary and worried about poor ol' 83 year old Fred Risser.<br />
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</div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-2356175025638572582011-02-17T21:35:00.001-06:002011-02-17T22:18:16.705-06:00Collectively we stand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiow2JoDqEyY70L7SxlZmET47NrlUuGezBwIh8PmvBWunLAlPm8NuIPnhXd1S3RTpyRzErRMo5k9v_M6ml_vIdVg1lH0kCLh2_3E1WRoYD-jwBjFX5OlbVvAgVPnmvJwJ6Q-mPRfrm3BPJu/s1600/171760_1868903489313_1442850524_32130745_4583509_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiow2JoDqEyY70L7SxlZmET47NrlUuGezBwIh8PmvBWunLAlPm8NuIPnhXd1S3RTpyRzErRMo5k9v_M6ml_vIdVg1lH0kCLh2_3E1WRoYD-jwBjFX5OlbVvAgVPnmvJwJ6Q-mPRfrm3BPJu/s640/171760_1868903489313_1442850524_32130745_4583509_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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Not much going on here this week, just good old democracy in action. <br />
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Whatever the outcome of the governor's harsh and sneakily swift attempt to bust up Wisconsin's unions, this week has been a living, breathing history lesson. I'm "the man" now so it's been off to work for me every morning. But as the sun came up Wednesday and I headed out, I whispered in their sleepy ears that watching bad TV all day would be a poor tribute to their teachers and to freedom. But they were on it long before I said anything, via Facebook and Twitter. Students at both high schools had amassed virtually on Tuesday night to plan their march to the Capitol. They arranged rides, assembled at appointed locations, made clever signs and marched peacefully with teachers, friends and strangers to the Capitol to participate in a sit-in, chanting "Kill the Bill!" Gyros and ice cream and a bit of State Street shopping also turned out to be part of the plan as the unusually warm weather this week has created a festival atmosphere. Lost mittens and frozen fingers have not been a part of the peaceful demonstrations.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_MPjesE8pYA/TV3jWcA6EUI/AAAAAAAADsA/0vhu01I-njc/s1600/DSC_0312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_MPjesE8pYA/TV3jWcA6EUI/AAAAAAAADsA/0vhu01I-njc/s320/DSC_0312.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">War paint still visible</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After two days of protests, their feet are tired and their minds are truly engaged in the world outside the walls of their high school. They've been watching the news from Cairo. Even with the distractions of Bieber fever and impending spring training, the <i>power to the people</i> part of democracy has penetrated the teen consciousness. And Governor Walker doesn't seem like a very democratic guy to them or me this week. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CGyBn__p9O4/TV3MDkHTLYI/AAAAAAAADr8/Sjyx9eWZrX4/s1600/179819_1877671261646_1237175637_32300649_1374299_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CGyBn__p9O4/TV3MDkHTLYI/AAAAAAAADr8/Sjyx9eWZrX4/s640/179819_1877671261646_1237175637_32300649_1374299_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At minimum, they come away knowing the name of Wisconsin's governor and about their right to freely assemble and that's definitely more than I knew about the government when I was their age.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-72259765936702542312011-02-13T19:18:00.001-06:002011-02-13T20:18:17.402-06:00we were just kidsMy bedside table reading is Patty Smith's biography, Just Kids, about her life with Robert Mapplethorpe. Almost frighteningly exposed in the world, she and Mapplethorpe stumbled through late teenage life together in NYC in the early seventies without food, money or places to sleep, but with an abiding dependence on one another in the feral vulnerability and intimacy of stray kittens. The book is surprisingly detailed given the many years that have passed, maybe because it describes a time in life when we all are still made of clay--malleable, changeable, able to fold all sorts of things in to ourselves--and the experiences of that time remain vivid because they are actually part of us. And as artists, Smith's and Mapplethorpe's influences on one another were profound and tangible. I reflect deeply on this as I now face walking in this world without my childhood friend, Karen, who passed away unexpectedly last week. <br />
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Travel (never together, as it turned out) was so much a part of our lives and reminscences, so I imagined myself this past week standing alone on a train platform holding a suitcase full of comically poor decisions and thousands of random memories, inside jokes and stories over countless days and years spent together. What am I supposed to do with this suitcase now? It's too heavy to carry by myself. I'm surprised how vulnerable I feel. There was obviously more dependence for me than I realized and I think she was in touch with that fact more than I was. She was an authority about me. She knew me long before my internal Captain Picard issued the order for shields up. She was the friend that sat with me the night before my wedding and asked the bold best-friend question, "...are you <i>sure</i>?" (I was), she was the friend who didn't pooh-pooh my insecurities and without judgment or drama told me to get over myself lots of times, she was the friend who held my parents accountable for their crap because she was there, too. In summary, she was one of those friends who probably cared more about me than I care to care about myself. <br />
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I was the jester over our life together and I loved the sport of <i>undoing</i> her against her will. I would pepper her like a pitching machine on its highest setting, throwing jokey balls relentlessly until she succumbed to my comedic strong arm. She would tell me to stop and try to get us back on track with whatever we were doing, or discussing, but I was relentless because it was simply fun to make her dissolve into laughter. We spent thousands of hours alone together for good or bad of the universe. We ate our weights in raw cookie dough and tore up the Franklin Institute more than any two kids in Philadelphia. As young adults we crossed paths lots and as middle-agers settled a thousand miles away from each other, we fell into the regular calls and occasional visits of adulthood. There was certainly no danger of losing touch and it was comforting just knowing she was out there. And if there is tangible proof of her artistry in my life, it is the tapestry of friends she crafted thirty years ago, one that I still carry with me today.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NuWRZ4cq2Xw/TVa7oR4PcbI/AAAAAAAADrw/4ne28uHAjEs/s1600/DSC_0218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NuWRZ4cq2Xw/TVa7oR4PcbI/AAAAAAAADrw/4ne28uHAjEs/s640/DSC_0218.JPG" width="424" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">What is so powerful about childhood friendship? I have no other explanation than it has got to be love. Clearly Facebook appreciates that power and has built an empire upon it. Is it imprinting when the brain and the heart are uncluttered? Or is it the access to a powerful filter, which gets gummed up as we age, that bypasses all the insecurity and duty and "shoulds" and bullshit that constitute too many relationships in adulthood and instead sifts and sorts for the very essence of real connection with another person? Kids zero in efficiently, looking past failings and imperfections and even logic if it feels right. I think some childhood friendships, romances even, are matches-made-in-heaven that get broken by mere physical distance or a perception that diverging paths means having to say goodbye. Karen and I obviously chose to reject the conventional drifting our separate ways, but we've reached a fork in the road abruptly and I wasn't prepared. I miss her terribly. I'll be standing here awhile trying to figure out which way to go without her. </div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-30677619535230949302011-02-01T22:03:00.000-06:002011-02-01T22:03:08.175-06:00Agreements<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Xh6OXKhiZ4Y/TUjOjVw6DtI/AAAAAAAADrY/Itbj4StHYak/s1600/DSC_0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Xh6OXKhiZ4Y/TUjOjVw6DtI/AAAAAAAADrY/Itbj4StHYak/s400/DSC_0102.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">otto's</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Well, it's a blizzard. Might as well blog it out. So far I'm the only one still scheduled to leave the house tomorrow. Madison schools and unbelievably the University are already closed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqv6BCLXD77ztJ5RfmkzTepPO1_eTqoSYbvgO-KmNT5XkVopCNyLqHfxnVqXbOuq-3jwpZxWoJEIhZEzCZcGNrLuDgemaxB8gcSFoO-OlceH0asjDeyrkqPkFp4Unzf4vglHajkuMUiwZ4/s1600/DSC_0105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqv6BCLXD77ztJ5RfmkzTepPO1_eTqoSYbvgO-KmNT5XkVopCNyLqHfxnVqXbOuq-3jwpZxWoJEIhZEzCZcGNrLuDgemaxB8gcSFoO-OlceH0asjDeyrkqPkFp4Unzf4vglHajkuMUiwZ4/s320/DSC_0105.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">different agreements are brokered at otto's...usually involving cosmos</td></tr>
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So I've been doing a little emotional growth lately, what the hell, it's winter. A group of roughly ten of us have met weekly for a month working together through the principles outlined in an almost too obvious self-help book called The Four Agreements. I was dubious at first. <i>Really, I paid ten bucks and ventured out into the frigid night to discuss "doing my best"? </i>But the book has taken on a load of meaning for me both personally and professionally under the unassuming guidance of a man who felt the the four agreements held so many answers for him he wanted to share it and learn from others. At first glance it seems simple enough to follow the four agreements: be impeccable with your word, don't take things personally, don't make assumptions and do your best. The concepts are simple, but after a lot of thought and discussion in our group it feels to me that putting them into consistent practice takes time and thoughtful endeavor. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZQspX2J5yyMcc0DsM0RDnIA29Gh41ZvOsf37LXb0hZ09c9WL3A-FHyMsTTnZ0we3ryXIODSBkwprBey-SKYictMUJ8Wogx089r8KrBHFvRwaNiwXs8N8YOvqJWYawvNWiXJ-vbBjBLRs/s1600/DSC_0169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZQspX2J5yyMcc0DsM0RDnIA29Gh41ZvOsf37LXb0hZ09c9WL3A-FHyMsTTnZ0we3ryXIODSBkwprBey-SKYictMUJ8Wogx089r8KrBHFvRwaNiwXs8N8YOvqJWYawvNWiXJ-vbBjBLRs/s640/DSC_0169.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">night falls on our neighborhood as the wind picks up tonight<br />
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I've been working on not taking things personally for a few years now. My failing estrogen has made it a pretty dangerous slide into a carefree attitude about what others think of me, so I would say middle age has nudged this agreement into practice pretty seamlessly. Being impeccable with my word, however, that's going to take some work. I still do a lot of talking before thinking and as Sipowicz would reflect, I still get myself jammed up on occasion. This agreement unfortunately bears monitoring along with that of not making assumptions...I do so enjoy judging others borne out of assumptions about motives and general characters flaws. It will take real spiritual digging on my part to put this agreement into action. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQWnjrxfOjE3RPp3U9XDPwkEVCEvhNYkImDjfGjzF_84r9u8xJwL7JNimUaCLswa9nIIEHb9Q9RoWmDm1x3UeJvQ8t0HyFSnclDhVtvcyFmW_LQazYBSX2OQNmLljyXRQSa4MRYHKXmlB/s1600/DSC_0172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQWnjrxfOjE3RPp3U9XDPwkEVCEvhNYkImDjfGjzF_84r9u8xJwL7JNimUaCLswa9nIIEHb9Q9RoWmDm1x3UeJvQ8t0HyFSnclDhVtvcyFmW_LQazYBSX2OQNmLljyXRQSa4MRYHKXmlB/s400/DSC_0172.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my locust tree stands firmly at the ready</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Finally, to do my best but <i>not more</i> than my best. That means not feeling guilty for pushing back my chair for a long chin-wag with my office mate, reading <i>People</i> instead of my book before bed and swinging through McDonalds drive-thru to pick up dinner for the fam every once in awhile. That's my best and it's better than good.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-65142626872142294862011-01-23T23:36:00.004-06:002011-01-24T19:02:54.985-06:00Northwoods dream <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Xh6OXKhiZ4Y/TT0TtWMoGMI/AAAAAAAADrM/IU9NN3nF_zY/s1600/DSC_0140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Xh6OXKhiZ4Y/TT0TtWMoGMI/AAAAAAAADrM/IU9NN3nF_zY/s640/DSC_0140.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can't beat home for a good vista</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We hopped into the car at 5am Saturday and drove north in darkness for three hours toward Minocqua, WI. We were greeted by our realtor, a great gal with high hair and a big heart at the gas station at the corner of 51 and K. She jumped out of her car with open arms and an embrace at our first meeting…familiar and friendly in contrast to Madison’s smiling cool and careful. She brought her husband to help read the GPS and shovel us in to the six properties we arranged to see. Turns out my peeps are up nort'. What’s the Norwegian word for “mensch”?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW6-OrEQcvqzieSgShd4JClFwyrad_J0QZlmkHIPLYpsefVdbJ2C2ZdcJe_i3I348cgKvuUoG5phiDAtwh6Ee4zxXK9W4blk4GQsetkhcUhTOEucorGoTZN65PIygl8-APRt14I9smAsk/s1600/DSC_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW6-OrEQcvqzieSgShd4JClFwyrad_J0QZlmkHIPLYpsefVdbJ2C2ZdcJe_i3I348cgKvuUoG5phiDAtwh6Ee4zxXK9W4blk4GQsetkhcUhTOEucorGoTZN65PIygl8-APRt14I9smAsk/s320/DSC_0129.JPG" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How I wished this could have been a lager at lunch</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSDWdTkjCQt_Mz3GHbQjyvtohq8bsfBE7SDzqxEOEdawaWtFAxwVOXIdPhu8A3EJfLCvdbyNRNvY2LLLiLLpywXwYkR0RUw6Qw1pOQrZ_gBwQcWji0xgDMTwd-SZLsDWA5rUAGpIijTld/s1600/DSC_0132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuSDWdTkjCQt_Mz3GHbQjyvtohq8bsfBE7SDzqxEOEdawaWtFAxwVOXIdPhu8A3EJfLCvdbyNRNvY2LLLiLLpywXwYkR0RUw6Qw1pOQrZ_gBwQcWji0xgDMTwd-SZLsDWA5rUAGpIijTld/s400/DSC_0132.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helmet table by the trail map. Drain one or two and it's off to the next bar en route. Sure, feels totally safe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Our search for a lake house has begun. I’ve wrestled with location, location, location for a couple of years and come to the conclusion that a house in the middle of East Jabip, cheap and peaceful as it might be, is not where I want to spend my weekends and summer vacations. Packing groceries and toilet paper for a trip to the lake house is not relaxing. It’s camping. And so the busy and developed Northwoods town of Minocqua will serve as anchor for our search. I’ve let the lake house move into the place in my heart long reserved for my Jersey shore house--no longer a practical goal. Too far and too beastly a drive. I’m over it. Snooki, Pauly D and the gang in Seaside Heights will have to fill any remaining void.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P_3lG3gr5M4po_43rVU2gPrZtj9Kb8XaM4k3ThLo3pw5jJ1PM9rYC9de6e5Xue20-d8s-ZOET4NY81Y9QqC3mc7kdYQwJqSYiZaW0N60eyr9FE_vMSU8niMdhDUie-Eejq33fj8kaPjQ/s1600/DSC_0135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6P_3lG3gr5M4po_43rVU2gPrZtj9Kb8XaM4k3ThLo3pw5jJ1PM9rYC9de6e5Xue20-d8s-ZOET4NY81Y9QqC3mc7kdYQwJqSYiZaW0N60eyr9FE_vMSU8niMdhDUie-Eejq33fj8kaPjQ/s640/DSC_0135.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snowmobilers in January : Boaters in ___________</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">Winter sports are about as popular as summer sports in northern Wisconsin. The Thirsty Whale had a full and happy bar full of snowmobilers and had it not been for the helmet table and jumpsuits it would have been hard to distinguish the patrons from those on a summer Saturday. We ate lunch, a Wisconsin po’boy made with fried perch, overlooking Lake Minocqua as snowmobiles zoomed by at top speeds. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">As one would suspect, I now want a snowmobile.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I asked the realtor if these were rentals, to which she gently explained as one might to a child<br />
that no, these were actually driven to and parked at the restaurant. Newbie miscalculation.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6RQaSZRa-vJCJC0wrGkMvTxvmWaph-Bo83StHZRkc1mpU2tgX_kPHyNQBnFF8tm9zt2lJR91PaOy2kRkPwMV8uUUlXBqzj5Cup2YKEYmFVdMd0jDlF99-3OcpfElvXCa8CkxIrwFfseL/s1600/mms_picture-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6RQaSZRa-vJCJC0wrGkMvTxvmWaph-Bo83StHZRkc1mpU2tgX_kPHyNQBnFF8tm9zt2lJR91PaOy2kRkPwMV8uUUlXBqzj5Cup2YKEYmFVdMd0jDlF99-3OcpfElvXCa8CkxIrwFfseL/s640/mms_picture-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In continuous prep for my northwoods recreational life, I'm working on my cross-country skiing. Today I set out for one rigorous loop of the golf course, Pleasant View, which is aptly named. There are some pleasant views atop hills that are a bit tough to get on top of in golf shoes, let alone skis. My XC skiing is improving especially on the downhills which have kicked my ass until now. All credit goes to my friends Amy and Ann for impressing upon me the need to lean forward on the fronts of my feet and also for acknowledging that free boot heels feel like skiing on spaghetti noodles. Only one topple today while standing still, as is customary of my style. I’ve just got to keep moving.</div>Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1455383937129728039.post-18756513247153410892011-01-15T23:42:00.000-06:002011-01-15T23:42:21.323-06:00for our comrade abroad...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Xh6OXKhiZ4Y/TTKDd1snlMI/AAAAAAAADpw/D0JTKtL7Ebw/s1600/us.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Xh6OXKhiZ4Y/TTKDd1snlMI/AAAAAAAADpw/D0JTKtL7Ebw/s640/us.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve suggested an inappropriate prop--we grabbed the Roundy's brandy.</td></tr>
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We missed you.Julie DeBrandt Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09371405317589588583noreply@blogger.com1