Today marked my first foray into the world of extreme adventures. Just moments after the initial horror of realizing I'd accidentally signed myself up to participate in the Polar Plunge, I realized that I would do it. No such thing as an accident and all that.

I worked this morning in Lakeville and then headed over to Jodi's to pick up Grey, who I'd dropped off this morning.

We went and got something lunch at Arby's and then headed to the "staging area" aka Brunswick bowl. The bus ride to the lake left us there at about 2:45 or so. I don't recall the exact time. But our timing was all off because our jump time ended up being 3:30 instead of 2:30.

Other than the logistics, I wasn't worried about it. My biggest concern was the certain knowledge that NO ONE looks good in a flying pig hat, and being I'm about as fat as I've ever been, I, in particular, do not. Again, OH WELL!

We got to the warming house and shed our outer clothing, stashing our dufflebags and whatever else we had and then posing for a few pictures. Holding hands with Alex, who was flanked by her mom, LeaAnn, I trudged over the walkway and through the legs of the inflated polar bear until I stood facing the yawning stretch of open water that had been carved in the lake. I was vaguely aware of someone saying something about Affinity Plusicles, and then there was a splash and the next thing I knew I was hurling myself into the frigid water.

The burning cold of the water took my breath away and I could hear Alex shrieking in my right ear. Reassured by her screams that she was still sentient enough to make noise, and I was still sentient enough to hear it, I hung on and hustled through what felt like a quarter of a mile of ice-cold water and slogged up the exit ramp. There was a moment when I was pulling my body from the water that I felt a sudden drag and exhaustion. It was the extra weight of my water-logged clothing. Also, it's cold. Really cold. Prior to actually jumping, I thought that the water temperature would be warmer than the air temperature, but at that moment, honestly, what difference does it make? It's like contemplating the difference between hitting your head repeatedly with a hammer or a monkey wrench. Either way, you'd just like it to stop.

In the few feet from the end of the exit ramp from the Hole - as I've come to see it - to the hot tubs, my body started to shiver. I mean really shiver. That sickening quivering feeling that you get when you've had four cups of coffee and no food and it's only eight a.m. A mix of adrenaline and hypothermia. The hot tubs were being vacated - not fast enough - by the previous group of jumpers - people I saw at that moment as a lazy bunch of bastards in my hot tub. "Get OUT!" was the insistent scream that echoed in my head. Wisely, they beat it and our group slid into the most blissful tub of hot water that I have ever been in. We hooted and high-fived. Alex voiced what I think we all were either consciously or subconsciously thinking: "I DID IT! I REALLY DID IT!"

After the hot tub, we zipped to the heated tent and while I was not completely oblivious to undressing in front of people I'd never really hoped to get naked with, it was not at the top of my list of things to worry about. Top two concerns: 1) Get out of these f'ing wet clothes and 2) get into those f'ing dry clothes. Nothing else really mattered at that point. I kind of wish there'd been a stop watch because I'm pretty sure that I set some kind of world record for fastest change of clothing.

We exited the tent and reunited with our now BFFs outside. A few more woo hoos and I headed to find my sister and her family. I remembered that we'd exchanged a "we'll meet here," and saw them waving from the coffee stand up on the hill. Warmed by my Olympic changing event, I waited in line for the bus to return us to the Bowling alley and then to our car. I have to admit that while I had experienced the kind of cold normally reserved for accident victims, I felt pretty sorry for the spectators. I had adrenaline to warm my blood. They had only each other and Caribou. That's only one reason I think that next year they should also jump. Gives you something to keep you warm! (Ironic, no?)

Anyway, Starbucks Chai and salmon at the Depot rounded out my evening and I now have a new appreciation for my electric blanket. (Don't worry Electric Blanket, I always appreciated you.)

It's a two dog, two cat night and I'm just happy to have lived to experience it!

I have on my desk at work a photo of Marv, the kids and myself. It's a family portrait that I had done not too long ago - within the last year or so. My boss came over and told me that when I show the picture to someone new I should explain who Marv is because otherwise they ask her later, "So is that her dad?" She was kind of teasing, so I put a small post it note that said, "Not My Dad" with an arrow pointing to Marv on the picture. She and laughed so hard she said she wouldn't have to do sit ups that night.

I told Marv about it, and he said that one of the new waitresses at the Depot asked him, "will your daughter be joining you tonight?" I asked him what he responded, and he said that he said "no." I punched him and said, "You did not. What did you really say?" He said he ignored her. LOL

Anyway, it always strikes me as odd because we've been together almost four years now. At some point you just kind of think that everyone - EVERYONE - must know. Whether they know you or not. A friend of mine asked me why people even care, and I said that I don't think it's so much that they "care" per se, but rather that it's just human nature to try to put things into an understandable category. You see a much older man with a younger woman, and you have to put it somewhere, so you rifle through the files trying to figure out where this fits.

Anyway, so the man who is NOT my father and I decided to head out tonight and do something fun. It's been a while since I've had the energy. I arrived at his house, and he had built a shelf unit today and wanted to slap it into the red room. Not gonna happen. I said, This is how the room got to be cluttered in the first place. So we re-arranged the TV room so that it would be in a good spot.

Then we headed north to the Woodcraft Supply store, which had anti-fatigue floor mats for about half price. Then to Baker's Square for pot roast. Then to Starbucks for lemon poundcake and chai for me and mocha latte for Marv.

Then we stopped at Barnes and Noble where I got several magazines. Marv is fasting and didn't get anything.

Then around 9:45 we headed home. It's now about 11:50 (I'm practicing using the numbers) and I need to get to sleep. I'm wearing my "Sleeps With Dogs" nightshirt that Marv got me for Christmas and indeed the dogs are sleeping on my bed.

saturday I work in Lakeville and then will be hurling myself into a hole cut in the icy lake. Not really sure why, but there it is.

Anyway, I'm off to sleep now. :)

As I lit my green candle, and settled into bed with left over pizza and the dogs, it strikes me again, as it does several times a day: "My dad is dead." And some part of me pushes the thought away as quickly as it arises. I feel a rising tide of images - some visual, some sensory - of my dad. His scratchy cheek as he gives me a quick kiss. The warmth of his skin under his dress shirt that last day I saw him. I see his hands - fingers slightly bent from arthritis as they clutch a can of Diet Coke.

And I shove the thoughts violently away from the center of my mind into the recesses, where they can gather strength to attack me again tomorrow.

I wipe the flood of tears from my face, blow my nose, and try again.

I open the book of travel stories and try to accompany Catherine as she shoots the rapids on the Colorado River. Some of these stories I recognize from our week together at the Split Rock writing retreat. She didn't read her stories, but she would share them with the group as we traded our own stories amongst ourselves. Ever supportive, she left a lasting impression on me as a person of great strength and kindness. I like to think I share some of those qualities, but I doubt that I will ever share her prolific writing abilities.



I can't focus. An unmedicated victim of ADD no doubt. I made some cups with goats on them tonight and threw a birdhouse while I listened to "Unbroken" on CD. I read for a bit, wrote for a bit, cried for a while, filled the dog's water dish and meditated on this weird mole that seems to be growing at a disconcerting clip. My doctor says we should do something about it, but some dark and morbid part of me hopes that it will just consume me and let me off the hook from all the grief that I feel now, and that I know that I will face in the future. I realize that to anyone outside my brain, this seems horrifying and ridiculous, but it brings me a sort of comfort. Probably something my therapist would have loved to work with, though I'm sure it wouldn't have surprised her.

The dog came in from the cold, but it seems to have settled in her feet and her ears because she's burrowing her frosty little body into my leg, trying to get as close to the electric blanket as she can. She's given up her bobbing and weaving and is quiet now because the pizza is gone and there's no hope for her of getting even a smackerel and she knows it.




And as I sit here thinking of other things, there's a guy in my head with a little poker keeping that other voice away.

"He's dead."
I know.
Shut up.

It seems truly impossible. Unbelievable. I think if I just stay here, and NEVER look back, it will be like it's not there. This truth. This unbearable reality. The guy with the poker replies, "He CAN'T be. You don't know this guy. He doesn't die. It's just not something he would do." And I get the newsreel with the images of him in the garage a few months ago, handing me boxes of tiles and saying, "What are you going to do with all these?" He offers me a diet pop, which I decline, and invites me to sit on the couch. We are roaming the isles at Home Depot. Sitting at Arby's. And again I can't take it and I weep.



But it's not enough to cry. It doesn't fix anything and it doesn't make me feel better. He's still dead and I'm still sad. And even the word doesn't seem big enough to encompass this loss. And THAT word, LOSS, doesn't seem big enough either.

Next weekend I jump into a frozen lake. And I've gone from ridiculing the idea, to dreading it, to thinking, "Good. That will be a feeling that's totally new and which will seriously take my mind off this OTHER horrible feeling for a while." Like the only thing that could possibly divert me from the sudden flashes of realization that he's dead is to have a sudden flash of my own mortality. And maybe I'll have a heart attack and drown. That would also be distracting.

Sometime in the days before Dad died, I remember thinking with surprise that the depression that had gripped me for years seemed to be really gone. I felt anxious, sure, but not that clawing darkness that hovered in the background even when it wasn't actively gripping me. And now, it's back. Skirting around, trailing me like a shadow. Making it hard to be alone with my thoughts.


I was trying to find a poem today on my computer and came across one that I'd written about my dad just a year or two ago. And it's funny because I have a lot of them.

Anyway, I'm tired and now I'm going to put some lotion on my clay-dried hands and go to sleep. Tomorrow is Sunday, which means breakfast and crossword, which I always like.

It has come to my attention that I am exhausted. Not just a little exhausted, but that kind of "I think I'd like to just lie down in the middle of the bread aisle" exhausted that I think so many would love to succumb to except for the danger of carts.

So, with that in mind, I share the following story that shows my deep love for my children.

Last night after work I came home with the idea that I would heat up some lentil soup, make a sandwich and just chill out. However, when I got home, Greyson was just finishing up making chicken parmagian (or however the Hell you spell that.) He was going to throw in the pasta in 7 minutes because Maelee was expected in 15. Apparently it's 8 minute pasta. Anyway, they were having their Valentine's Day dinner a day earlier than expected. By me.

So Marv and I went to McDonalds where I had a salad. Then I was...well, Exhausted...so I dropped him off at home and came home to shed my work clothes, and climb into bed with a good book. But, because this is never the way my life goes, Gabe says to me, "Will you give me a ride to Archery?" It's only over at the fairgrounds, so I affirmed that I would, and put my shoes and coat back on. As we were on our short journey, he invited me to shoot with him.

I would like to interject that I was EXHAUSTED. And, also, I don't like to socialize with people I don't know, so, you know. I said, sure. How often does an 18 year old boy invite his mother to do ANYTHING with him? Not often.

So with much trepidation, I followed him into the Rice County Fairgrounds Archery building. I'd worried aloud that the other people who would be there would all be his age, but he assured me that there would be other "old people" for me to bond with, and there were, indeed others my age there. He grabbed a compound bow and arrows and we sauntered over to the range. A guy that I SWEAR I know - I think he's a cop or something - gave us a primer on how to use said bow and arrow. Apparently we had that shiny brand-new look upon us.

I was happy for the info, but Gabe was doing what kids his age do: looking around and saying, "Yeah, I know that." (I could tell that he didn't, though.) Anyway, I watched Gabe shoot at the pheasant target for a while before I felt confident enough to get a bow and a quiver-full of arrows of my own.

My target was a deer, who happened to be positioned about 18 inches from a beaver. I honestly can say that the idea of hunting beaver with any sort of weapon, much less a bow and arrow, had never crossed my mind. And I wasn't shooting at the beaver, but he did make me want to shoot him. He had a certain look on his face. Sort of smarmy and challenging. Like he knew that if he flinched, I would miss him anyway. Even if I was aiming for him.

I was pretty pleased with my shot that hit the deer smack between the eyes. I realize that with a bow and arrow especially that isn't where you want to hit the deer, but still it was satisfying.

The next hour or so passed pleasantly with Gabe and I sharing laughs and cameraderie over our pretend killing spree. And I like to think that I proved myself a worthy enough companion that he might invite me to share in his world again some day. But even if this was a one-time experience, it was a nice way to pass an evening, and I realized, on the ride home, while we shared my stash of Girl Scout cookies, that I wasn't as tired as I'd thought.