happy on the first day

The first day of spring today means that the last day of winter happened yesterday. But that's not the only reason I feel cheery:

  • I slept well, despite my allergies.
  • A good writer read beautiful stories at school, and I got to hear them.
  • The fabulous people who take my creative writing class said fabulous things.
  • A nurse surprised me with pleasant news.
  • I ran into a delightful person on my walk home.
  • My mom has good advice.
  • Someone mailed me a letter—not just a coupon or a bill.
  • I sat in the sun and finished reading a book.
  • My cousin and her baby came on a walk to visit me.
  • I saw this; you wouldn't believe how important it made this English teacher feel:

Happy spring!

I made this

I made this video for my brother's band, Belly of the Whale:

Nothing fancy, but let me know what you think.

spring burnout

The combination of warmer weather and non-stop school since August 2007 is burning us out a little bit. A spring break sounds nice about now. But, alas, capital-S-Spring, capital-B-Break does not exist at our institution of higher learning. We have heard unreliable theories about why this is:

  • We finish school a week earlier than other schools, so we get to the good jobs first.
  • A shorter winter semester lets the university squeeze two terms into summer instead of one.
  • The school can earn more money during the summer by having an extra week to host hundreds of teenagers for efy.
  • The school board worries that an official Spring Break would encourage their good, christian students to use that week for binge drinking, recreational drug use, and casual sex.
We think that number 4 is not true. We would also be happy to whine about it if it were—because we don't need a week of excessive drinking (or maybe we do). We just need a second to breathe, to finish reading the 6 (7? 8?) more books we have yet to finish before April, and to clean up our cluttery little apartment so we can see the couch again.

We wouldn't even need a whole week.

My produce lady is better than yours

We went to hear Wendell Berry read last week at the Masonic Temple in Salt Lake. He read a piece about the economy which I want to post as soon as he's done writing it (Berry was still working on it).

But the best part, my farmer emailed me earlier that week to let me know about the reading.

Kathy and I already knew, but it made me happy to know my produce lady was looking out for me.

You can't get that at Wal-Mart.

I learned this year that 'neighborhood' also bears the same connotations as 'brotherhood.' It's not just about location, it's about friendship, and helping each other out.

Clifford Family Farms is at 1461 N. 2100 W. Provo.

The farm sells eggs, honey, seasonal vegetables, and homemade soap and lotion.

little things

My little brother's a good driver. He just got in a little car accident last week. And his car went a little airborne. And most of the tires got a little popped. And he felt a little lucky, because even though so little stood between him and major catastrophe, all injuries and damages were so little, relatively speaking.

I feel a little like that myself. I love my little brother and all the little things he does: wrestle my other little brother in the kitchen, and make little beat box noises, and offer to do anything for anyone. I'd do anything for that guy, too—even if it were something big.

Define: Colocation

Kathy and I saw the word "colocation" on a billboard, and ended up laughing about it for about a half an hour (it was past our bedtime).

Before you google it, tell me what you think the word means.

I thought it was a kind of vacation that you never want to go on.

does this bag make me a hippie?

This weekend, I needed to pick up some ingredients for dinner. I walked to the store because Christopher had the car—not because I thought of reducing carbon emissions. And I took my own shopping bag because I wanted a strap wide enough to carry on my shoulder—not because I was necessarily thinking of saving sea turtles from plastic shopping bags. It all seemed perfectly logical.

But when I whipped out my bag at the checkout counter, the person behind me in line chuckled and the cashier gave me a look—a look that said she wanted to call me a hippie. Considering some of the additional evidence against me, I can see how one might come to that conclusion:

I once attempted to create my own recipe for flax-seed cookies.
I really like vegan gummy bears.
I swear by my Birkenstock sandals.

I had never really thought of myself before as the tree-hugging type. But walking home on Saturday night—toting wheat flour and milk in my eco-friendly bag—I realized I just might be a hippie after all.