After the Apocalypse or An Ode to D-Town

When President Obama made his speech about the fate of the American automotive companies, I listened with great interest since I live in Michigan and nearly everyone here is affected by them one way or another. A few minutes into the speech, however, some household duty distracted me and I went into the other room.

Almost immediately, I felt the insistent tug of tiny hands pulling my pant leg. I sighed and followed Emerson back into the living room, assuming he wanted help with some dysfunctional toy or something to eat that he shouldn't be eating. Instead, he dragged me over to the television and then resumed watching the rest of Obama's speech with intense 2-year-old interest. I guess he didn't appreciate my lapse in judgment.

The first time I came to Michigan, it was on a cross-country trip from Salt Lake City where Robbie and I met, to his school in Flint, Michigan. After hours of driving through the steamy, languid southern states (we had gone through Texas and Memphis so I could meet his friends and family) I woke up in Michigan, uncomfortably aware of the temperature drop. Despite the fact that spring was in full effect at the beginning of April in most parts of the country we had been in, winter still had its icy fingers wrapped tightly around Michigan.

After a bleary-eyed conversation with his grandma (who's house we were staying in - he would never let me sleep in Flint), we were off to see one of the great wonders of the state: a coney island. For those not in the know, this is a hybrid of greasy diner and greek restaurant that pop up in various forms throughout the state. In the morning, it means a dingy storefront filled with the smell of pancakes and cheap coffee. At night, they are a haven for 20-somethings to gather and eat off their night of drinking with chili cheese fries and gyros (it's counter-intuitive, but it works). As a fan of breakfast foods - especially cheap breakfast foods - I consider these restaurants to be one of the best features of this fair state.

Anyway, sitting in a coney island for the first time, I looked around at the well-worn faces of the regulars and thought: "This is a state of real, hard-working, down-to-earth people. This is the state for me."

When I recounted this story to a co-worker a couple of years later, she laughed and said, "Yeah, everyone starts out thinking Michigan is full of salt-of-the-earth people. Then you quickly realize they are just dumb-asses."

I admit, I laughed at this comment because by then, Michigan had long ago lost its luster. We lived in a string of metro-Detroit suburbs and realized that we were most definitely not suburban people. The endless, run-down strip malls combined with Michigan's interminably gray weather had me in a deep funk. Not to mention that the reality of Michigan's economy settled in when I went from being a PR person for Utah's biggest non-profit to a secretary for the University of Michigan. And it took me two months to find that job.

Like Tom Jones, I wanted to go home:


(Incidentally, this must be what a music video looks like for a professional karaoke singer.)

Despite my growing disgust, I was determined to defend Detroit and Michigan as a whole against outside detractors. When my best friend came up from Illinois to visit, she was terrified of even driving in the state by herself because she imagined it must all be like the movie "8 Mile." Not only did I have to talk her out of this, I decided I had to take her on a tour of Detroit to show her that it did have many good points.

I told her about my plans on the phone before she came, and she was very alarmed to say the least. "You know, my friend heard that there was a hammer killer going around Detroit beating people to death with a hammer when they got out of their cars to get gas," she told me.

I laughed hysterically. "That is ridiculous! I promise you, I have never heard of a hammer killer in Detroit," I assured her.

I knew our trip to Detroit was doomed when we pulled into a coffee shop on the way there and my friend immediately pointed out a newspaper for sale that had the headline "HAMMER KILLER CAUGHT."

"Well," I stammered, "He was caught wasn't he? So there's nothing to worry about."

The trip only got worse when I let my husband drive. He can navigate himself out of any situation - unless it involves driving in Detroit. Instead of showing her all the artistic and historical high points of the city, we ended up driving in circles through the most desolated neighborhoods imaginable.

Finally, we gave up and took them to swanky Birmingham a 15-minute drive away. My friend's husband, who had fallen asleep during the drive (apparently unaware that his wife was fearing for her life) woke up as we pulled into Birmingham's glittering downtown. He blinked several times and looked around in confusion. "Did we drive to another state?" he asked.

Since this escapade, I have traveled through more of Michigan's wild beauty up North and along the coasts. I have started attending an ecumenical seminary in downtown Detroit, which has introduced me to the strength and diversity of the people who live and minister in the city. And we have moved from the suburbs to Ann Arbor to be closer to our jobs. In Ann Arbor, we finally found our yuppie, hippie-lovin' utopia. I can write several more posts about this city alone, but for now let's just say that if I could move in an ocean, Ann Arbor would be heaven on earth.

All these events combined have led me to a renewed love of Michigan.

Watching the local news coverage after Obama's speech, I could hear the anguish and frustration of people who have been dealing with an economic apocalypse long before it made national headlines. When you walk through downtown Detroit, the crumbling buildings and deserted streets echo the apocalypse feeling.



Yet despite all this, I can't help feeling optimistic and even excited about the state's future and Detroit specifically. I know that coming from an upper middle-class Ann Arborite, that means absolutely nothing, but it's how I feel. Sometimes it takes hitting rock bottom to mobilize the creativity and passion needed to make major changes. And since Detroit hit bottom first, the eyes of the country are turning back to Detroit to see what efforts are in place to rebuild. And there are many efforts - from artists moving in and creating art out of destruction, to locals creating community gardens on vacant lots that not only provide fresh, local food for the surrounding poor neighborhoods, but also help green the city and bring up house prices.

If you are local, check out these two great organizations and get involved:
Georgia Street Community Collective
Michigan Land Bank

If you aren't local and want to see some amazing pictures and read equally incredible stories about Detroit - from packs of wild dogs to artist communities to deserted schools full of supplies left to rot - check out Sweet Juniper.

I don't "wanna go home" anymore - I do feel at home in Michigan now. And even more exciting (this is where I really cheese it up), if I make time to get involved, I can be part of something big. A new way forward. A new definition of growth.

2 thumbs up.

In the Land of Lollipops

A couple of weeks ago, Robbie and I were sitting on the couch eating pudding and watching "The Biggest Loser" (that show always makes me hungry). Suddenly, the pudding triggered a memory and I burst into a fit of giggles. Robbie of course wanted to know what was so funny, so in between my microbursts of laughter, I attempted to tell the story.

"When I was little, my mom once let me take a bath in pudding."

"WHAT?! No she didn't!"

"Yes she did! It wasn't a full bathtub, but she made several packets and put it in a big pile on one end of the tub."

"That does not sound like your mom at all."

"I know, that's part of why it was so awesome!!! A friend of mine got to do it, so I asked my mom if I could do it too and I was really surprised when she agreed."

"Your mom would never let you do something that messy."

"It wasn't that messy - all she did was turn the water on and rinse it all down the drain afterward."

Robbie gave me a look that clearly said he wasn't buying this.

"Why would I make this up? I will call my mom tomorrow and prove it to you!"

He shook his head and made some derogatory comment about my memory.

"Oh, and when has my memory failed me before. Name one example."

I was getting downright indignant now.

"Um, how about the time you tried to convince me that you once caught a fish with nothing but marshmallows tied to the end of a string on a stick?"

I pursed my lips together tightly in an attempt to look strong while fighting back laughter. He had dealt a damaging blow on that one - when we first got together I made the mistake of relating this fishing story and he enjoyed recounting it to everyone we met for months afterward. I quickly realized that pulling a fish out of the water with nothing but a marshmallow defied the laws of nature, but out of spite, I refused to back down.

Finally, we went on a fishing trip with a friend and Robbie challenged me to reenact my angling feat. I stared so hard at that limp fishing line, willing a fish to prove me right, but it didn't budge. In my defense, we didn't have any marshmallows.

Also in my defense, I was defying a man who - along with his father - spent months trying to convince me that his grandpa trained monkeys to drive trucks. The piece de resistance was when his dad found a photo of a monkey standing on a tractor with its hands on the steering wheel. "They have to start their training somewhere," Robbie insisted.

But back to the pudding.

The next day, I called my mom, anxious to be vindicated. After recounting the story, there was a pause on the other end of the line.

"No, I never let you take a bath in pudding!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"I let you finger paint in it while you were in your highchair, but I would never spend that much money to let you bathe in it!"

"But it wasn't a full bathtub - I remember being slightly disappointed about that. If I was going to make up a memory, wouldn't I imagine an entire bathtub full?!"

We argued for a few more minutes and then I gave up. "I'm going to call my sister - she will remember."

I knew she was at work, so I sent her a text message. Several hours later, I got a message back saying, "Yes, I remember the time mom let you take a chocolate pudding bath." I gave out a triumphant yelp and did a victory dance as I read the message out loud to Robbie.

After I calmed down, I sent her a message thanking her for giving me proof. I gloated for the rest of the day, but the next morning, I woke up to find this message:

"Proof of what? That you're delusional?"

Now I was confused. I went back to the original message and quickly realized I hadn't scrolled all the way down. This was the full message:

"Yes, I remember the time mom let you take a chocolate pudding bath, that was the day after we ran through the candy cane forest and climbed gum drop mountain."

Damn.

A few days later, Robbie recounted this whole story with glee to a friend of ours who's getting her Ph.D. in psychology. When she stopped laughing, she told us about a study on memory where researchers got parents to share stories about their children's early years. Then the researchers would tell the stories back to the adult children, mixing real memories with fake ones. At first, the adult children wouldn't remember the fake memories, but a few days later, they brought them in and questioned them again. By this time, they had fabricated the details of the fake memories - completely convinced that they had actually happened.

I saw her point, but I can't let go of the fact that I wouldn't fabricate a memory about a bathtub with a big pile of pudding when I could have fabricated a memory about an entire bathtub FULL of pudding!

I don't care what my family thinks - maybe I didn't climb gum drop mountain or lure a fish out of the water with a marshmallow. But I DID take a bath in pudding.

And it was awesome.

Get Down with Your Bad Self

Home sweet home. We had a lot of fun this weekend, but it's nice to be home again. Emerson's long days of partying finally caught up to him, so he's been passed out cold since we left the airport. There's a lot to write about, but my tired brain can't form coherent thoughts. Instead, here's some video of Emerson's first dance party at the wedding.

The moment the music started, he and his cousins were out on the dance floor. (I'll let Robbie take credit for those moves):



By the end of the night, he didn't have much energy, but his 3-yr-old cousin JoJo certainly did. And he actually has rhythm:

Everything's Bigger in Texas

Right now I am sandwiched between two exhausted little boys in a hotel room in Dallas. This past week has been a blur preparing for this trip and traveling for the first time with all four of us, but so far we're holding up extremely well. Although it is frustrating because we've got a lot of family in town right now for a wedding and family adventures make great blog fodder. Unfortunately, many of the main players would eventually hear about it if I sent these stories into the blogosphere, and I'd rather not make future family reunions...tense.

Suffice it to say that between Robbie's six brothers and sisters, 5 nephews and nieces and our two kids (and all the adults that go with all those kids), we are every wait staff's worst nightmare. Despite the astonishing noise level, it has been a blast to watch Emerson interact with all his cousins and aunts and uncles. He's close in age to three of them, so they run in a pack like tiny wolves. And when they're not running around, his sweet aunts and uncles are always right there to entertain him or lend a hand. At one point, as my 15-year-old sister in law retrieved an escaping child for the 100th time, she sighed and said, "I'm never having kids." Good lord - I don't blame her.

One high point in our trip so far was our momentary brush with fame. We ate at some sort of seafood place tonight and a crew from ESPN came in to film people watching March Madness. Never mind the fact that no one was really watching it (it was karaoke night - and nothing is more entertaining than a 50-year-old overweight man in a Hooters t-shirt crooning "That's Amore.") The crew had our giant table turn to the tv behind us and pretend like we were watching the game that was on. We were instructed to cheer for whoever made the next basket while they filmed and we performed perfectly. It wasn't until after the shot was over that I realized it was Arizona vs. my alma mater University of Utah and I had just cheered on national television for Arizona. I guess it's a good thing that I don't have much school pride - when I was in college, we never won at any sport and yet we spent all this money on new sports equipment while those of us in the journalism program had to bring our own computer paper from home to print our work. Not to mention our fight song is a uninspiring ditty called "I Am Utah Man" that actually involves the word "muss."

But I digress. Tomorrow is the big wedding and the following day we take family pictures. Robbie made us do this during our last visit two years ago and by the end of the session, the poor photographer was on her last nerve. She went from polite requests at the beginning to shouting "You, shut up. You, sit down. You, SMILE!!!" Needless to say, we made a beeline for the closest restaurant afterward and started ordering drinks. This year, Robbie actually planned where we would go drinking ahead of time.

Well, I should force myself to get some sleep now. When you're in Texas, you never know what tomorrow will bring...

Scenes from Daily Life II

Robbie: Is that a rutabaga in our backyard?

Cassi:(sheepishly) uh.....yes.

Robbie:How did it get there?

Cassi: uh.....I sort of rolled it out the dog door a few weeks ago.


Robbie pauses for a moment to take this in.


Robbie: Why?

Cassi: Well, that extra one you bought a while back ended up going bad and I felt guilty for wasting it. Since we don't have a compost pile yet, I thought I would roll it out into the snow and it would eventually decompose.

Robbie: Do you know how long it will take a rutabaga that big to decompose, especially in the snow?

Cassi: No.

Robbie: A long time.

Cassi: Well, Janet said she throws her food waste straight into her yard during the winter.

Robbie: But at least Janet has a private backyard - not a backyard with a chainlink fence and only a few feet away from the neighbor's door!


Cassi: Point taken.


This conversation occurred a few weeks ago and every time I think about it now, it makes me giggle. Mainly because it contains the word rutabaga, which is inherently funny. I did eventually remove the offending rutabaga from the yard when the snow melted (along with a huge amount of dog poop of various bright colors and textures, depending on what object Kenya had eaten that day. Our poor, poor neighbors.)

Sure rolling a large vegetable out a dog door seems silly, but in my defense 1) Pregnancy and breastfeeding remove brain cells 2) I'm sleep deprived and 3) Just yesterday I read an article in Sierra Club magazine about a guy who made a compost bin, but it got infested by rats - so he tried vermicomposting (worms) and it got infested with fruit flies. As a last resort, he started packaging food waste in newspapers and putting them in the freezer without telling his wife.

So Robbie...it could be worse.