Rain and Rewards

The cabin is filled with people. My wife's sister and her family from New Jersey are in town and enjoying a long week at Blueberry Lake. My in-laws are there and we have brought our entire crew. Lots of laughter, lots of fun, and yet very little elbow room.

Along with my wife and my five-year old, I slept lakeside in the tent. I awoke early to the sounds of rain. Silently I laid in the sleeping bag and listened to the calming rain. The lake is low, things are dry, and the rain is needed. But with the rain comes a very crowded cabin, and a couple of games of Scrabble.

After several hours of intermittent rain the skies cleared and it looked as though we were finally going to get some sunshine. Several of the adults moved outside to play some Bocce Ball. However, instead of participating in the game, I look for some brief solitude. I grab my rain gear, my fishing rod, and hop into my kayak. Because of the threat of rain I leave my camera behind. Truly a mistake.

There is a nesting pair of Bald Eagles on Blueberry, just north of the cabin. It has been fun this summer watching these adults raise their young. In May we discovered their nests atop a lakeside white pine. In late June we could hear the constant chatter of eaglets. In July my in-laws watched them trying to learn how to fly. Now, in early August their chatter is constant and their wings take them on short trips around our side of the lake.

As I paddle towards the lake's small island I can see the white head of a Bald Eagle perched on a branch and can hear the eaglets squawking. Although I am certain there are two eaglets I can see and hear only one of them running around and flapping its wings. Then as I move slowly around the island I notice that the second adult is also perched on a branch. Neither adult is looking over the water, but is instead observing their eaglet. But then as I move just a bit farther I see that there are indeed two eaglets on the ground. Silently I position my kayak so that I can drift by the island and watch the eaglets play with each other. And then it starts to rain.

Shortly after the rain begins I hear the call of a loon. I know it is close. Minutes later I hear the call again and this time see the loon off the starboard side of the kayak. I put my paddle in the water and noiselessly maneuver the boat. I try to stay out of the loon's space as I do not want to frighten it away. But instead the loon continues its haunting call and continues to paddle towards me.

I am captivated by the moment.

In front of me I am watching two adult Bald Eagles and two baby eaglets. To my right is the loon. I am so close to the loon that I can see its beak moving as it provides me with its call. Eventually the loon comes within about three to four paddle lengths of my boat, moves silently behind me, and eventually ends up on the other side. After several more minutes of observing these great fishers I paddle away, leaving the loon and the eagles to continue to do their thing. Thankful that I was able to witness this splendid theater.

What is a Pine Tree Worth?

My wife and I married in August of 2002. Along with the promise of our vows, so came a promise to my daughter (8) and to Carri's daughter (6). We knew that blending two families together would be a challenge and that our relationship would need to be strong and deep. We also knew however that the rewards could be long-lasting.

Because the four of us had already planned a summer vacation together before we got engaged, we decided to forgo a traditional honeymoon, and instead take a "family honeymoon." My friend Jeff Wiley provided us with his Spider Lake cabin, just east of Mercer, Wi. Here at Spider Lake we began to build the foundations of our new family.

After a week in the woods we made a trip to the back of his property and dug up a small white pine. It was 13 inches tall (probably in its second or third summer) and fit snugly into our tidy white pot. When we returned to Madison we transplanted the tree in our back yard. We surrounded the pine with mulch, watered it daily, and hoped for its survival. Its roots and its stability were an important symbol for our family.

Months later, after the warmth of spring had melted the snows, our seemingly fragile pine had sprouted its trunk upward and its branches outward. Amazingly, after an August transplant, it survived a Wisconsin winter. A good sign!

Then in the late winter of 2005, eight months after our third daughter joined the family, we moved to a larger home as we had simply outgrown our cozy ranch. When selling our house we added language to the sales contract that would allow us to come back in the spring to dig up our white pine once again.

This time we transplanted the pine directly out our front door, in a spot where we would see it several times a day. I was a little concerned that another transplant would hurt its chances for survival, but my wife assured me that it would be good for its long-term health. It appears she was right. After surviving a hot and dry summer, the pine then made it through another Wisconsin winter and was again providing us with its inspiring spring-time growths.

During the late winter of 2007 we were hit with a horrible ice storm. Everything was frozen and everything was shut down. My neighbor came over to find out why I had a hair dryer attached to an extension cord in my front yard, melting the ice off of the pine. He could only smile and nod his head as I tried to explain the significance of the White Pine.

Then later in the spring we noticed that the entire pine had very suddenly turned brown and that its needles were falling off. I panicked. I thought we had lost it. I thought I had killed it. I poured over books and reference pages and came to the hopeful conclusion that the browning of its needles was natural. That sometimes white pines just shed their needles. But all we could do was wait. Then almost as quickly as the needles turned brown, they recovered, and once again lifted themselves towards the sunshine. Another good sign!

Now, during its 10th or 11th summer, the pine has grown taller than me. It's no longer a fragile tree, but one that can withstand strong winds, deep snow, drenching rains, hot, dry weather, and even neighborhood children thinking it is a toy. It is healthy. It is growing.

Sure its just a tree, but when I leave my door in the morning I see a companion and a protector. I see widespread roots and growing branches. I see shared struggles and shared joy. I see a symbol of strength and courage. I see a white pine, the most majestic of all Wisconsin's trees.

A Pileated Performance

Traveling to Minneapolis to see some friends last week, I decided to stop by the cabin for one night on the way. Although the detour added an extra 2.5 hours to the trip I didn't hesitate to make the drive.

On Friday morning I decided upon a kayak trip instead of a hike. I believe I made the right choice.

Although I wasn't feeling great motivation to fish, I still grabbed a fishing rod and hopped into the kayak. Force of habit I suppose. After only a couple of casts I was distracted by the distinct hammer of a woodpecker.

I put aside the rod and silently paddled to the shore. Even though I did not capture a good photo with my camera, I was fortunate to get the following video:



And then I paddled away, leaving him to his work, and me to my fishing.

A Morning at the Lake

John Muir admitted in his journals that "[he] shouted and gesticulated in a wild burst of ecstasy..."

It was kind of like that:

Up for the sunrise...














but someone beat me to it...














A tree to dance beneath... (need my wife around for that one)




















The boats beckon...















A Pileated moment...

The Rewards of an Early Start

Sunday morning promised rain. I therefore awoke early, knowing that I needed to get outside for a bit. What awaited me was an absolutely glorious morning.

My reward for waking before sunrise was arguably the most spectacular dawn I have ever witnessed. The fiery eastern sky drew me out of the cabin and towards the lake. The silence was as riviting as the sky: no one was around, the lake was still, the birds were just beginning to stir and a bright mix of pinks and purples were lighting the horizon. An inspiring sight. I felt fortunate to have witnessed it.

After a quick breakfast and a bit of coffee, Ezra and I headed out for an early morning stroll. Even with a light rain just starting, my hike through a mixed northern forest added to the splendor of the day. This ATV trail is the closest thing we have to a trail around here, so there is always the reality that a four-wheeler could come around the corner. But considering the time, and the fact that I am near the end of a dead-end trail, the chances of being disturbed by these machines are quite slim.

As far as hikes go their is very little to rave about. Because it is an ATV trail, it is wide and fairly well used, there is very little terrain to speak of, and in the middle of a hike are the results of a "100 year" forest-cut. Although the hike makes its way through a pleasant woods it is not difficult to recognize it as a managed forest. I see no "old trees" and the majority of what I see are similar in size. But at least I am alone and moving.

Towards the far end of my out and back hike I stumble across a decomposed carcass. It is the remains of a large animal, probably a deer. What is interesting about this is that the carcass is pretty far gone, and yet when I walked this exact same path on Memorial Day weekend I saw nothing. The only thought that makes sense to me is that of a poacher. I hope I am wrong. I hope it is wolves, or wild dogs.

But after seeing the carcass I moved forward, eventually turning west onto what is called Boundary Road. It is a seldom used gravel road that cuts around Blueberry Lake and connects Hwy CC and Hwy H. I had not taken this route before, and because of the rain I figured this would be less wet. The road was quite straight with a small gradual climb up a lengthy hill.

As my eyes climbed the hill, trying to decide where I should give up on this weather and turn around, I noticed two black spots at the top of the gravel road. Before I could make sense of it they had moved across the road. "Damn! Those were bear" I said aloud. I stopped, angry at myself for not recognizing it quicker, and for not having my camera in my hand. Then just as I grabbed my camera they reappeared, one at a time. Just for me. They hung around for a bit, and then both slowly moved off to the woods, back to where they came from.

No this wasn't the same heart-stopping, pulse-racing bear encounter that I have had in the past. It was nothing like the face to face meeting I had when I was backpacking and fly-fishing in "The Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness" in Idaho in 1997; or the "sow and her cub" crossing the trail 50 yards in front of me in Colorado in 2007; or even the big male running in front of our van in Rusk County in 2002. It was nothing nearly this exciting. Yet it was still a bear. Two of them to be accurate. And bear are good karma. Bear are good for the soul. I know my summer will be better because I saw a bear. Two bear to be completely accurate.

A Blueberry Kind of Day

Last July my in-laws bought a cozy cabin near Hayward, Wi. It's a great spot and one that we hope to get to know quite well over the years.

Here are some photos from a peaceful late-June morning on Blueberry Lake:

Looking east, around 6:15 a.m., nearly an hour after sun-up...

The pier at rest, long before the kids set up camp for the day...

The cabin in the early morning sunshine...

Mom and daughter, covering "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..."

An afternoon and a magical moment to cherish...

Now That's a Father's Day

Father's Day in America has become like so many other Hallmark Holidays. Although meant to spend time with family, too many of us head to the stores to try and find what we can buy dad. I personally am tired of these consumer based holidays. For my Father's Day this year I wanted quality time with the family, and I got it.

The day started off at 5:00 am. I know rising at 5:00 am might not be every dad's ideal start, but today I was up to see my nearly 15 year old daughter off to Europe. She is leaving the country with her mother and her 10 month old sister for 15 days, so I got up with her to spend a bit of time with her before she headed to Chicago and Boston and eventually Paris.

Next week she is going to spend a day in a French classroom giving a presentation to a bunch of 15 year old French students. She is excited, although this did create a bit of work for her. She put together a neat little picture portfolio of her high school and classmates here at Madison West High School. It was fun to help her put the finishing touches on the project. I'm guessing she is going to be able to add a bunch of friends on her Facebook page.

I then helped her create a blog, mainly so we can stay in touch while she is traveling abroad. We took a few pictures, had a breakfast together, and talked about her trip. She's a great kid, she had a terrific freshman year, and is incredibly interested in cultures and languages. Even though I will miss her, I am excited for her and this opportunity.

Later I took the dog and headed over to Elver Park for a nice long stroll through the woods. I left the house, was inside Elver within 10 minutes, and was able to hike for about six miles, only backtracking at the very end of the hike. This urban park is also amazing simply for the manner in which I am able to isolate myself. I was gone for nearly 90 minutes and after I got beyond the frisbee golfers I didn't see another soul.

These trails sit far away from city traffic, and run completely through a woodland forest. The trails in the photos are wide enough to bike on, although only foot traffic is allowed in the summer. In the winter months these trails are filled with cross-county skiers. Madison has a large cross-country skiing population as many skiers use these trails to train for the American Birkebeiner. Yet the beauty of these trails is that within 15 minutes of my front door I can be away for the people and the traffic. Today it was a great hike.

After returning home and grabbing a quick lunch, my wife and I then took our youngest daughter to the neighborhood pool. Our five year old could not swim as of last SundayBut after spending a week in the water and taking a couple of lessons she is cruising all over the pool. Watching her figure out how to swim has been really cool. The smile on her face says it all as she absolutely loves playing in the water. I have a feeling we will be at the pool nearly everyday this summer.

Now that's a Father's Day to remember. No commercialism, just kids.

I'm on Summer Vacation... (the late childhood years)

It was late May in 1992. I had just finished my first year as a high school English and Journalism teacher. I immediately left the small northern town of Medford and went north to the Chequamegon National Forest for a long Memorial Day weekend. I returned to Medford for a couple of days of golfing before heading to Quetico for a week long canoe trip. After some very successful walleye fishing I returned in time to load up the truck and head off to the Rocky Mountains. I spent six weeks travelling from Colorado to Seattle to Idaho and to Montana. With the exception five days in Denver and Seattle, I was alone and in a tent for the rest of the trip.

I lived with a tent, a camp stove, a food cache, and some biodegradable soap. I slept in the front of the truck in a wayside on Interstate 80 somewhere near North Platte, Nebraska. I slept in the bed of the pick-up twice, once on the edge of the Wind River Mountain Range in Wyoming, and once along the Salmon River outside of Stanley, Idaho, right smack in the middle of the Sawtooths. I caught trout in five different states that summer (six if we include Wisconsin); I set up a tent in four states; I bathed in hot springs; I made coffee on my truck's tailgate nearly every morning; I drank fresh and tasty local brews in front of a campfire nearly every night. I even remember collecting as many newspapers as possible to put on my bulletin board back in my classroom. Back in my real life.

Weeks later on my way home, and as the Mississippi River valley drew closer, I reflected upon the summer. I had less than 10 dollars in my pocket, my MasterCard was nearly maxed out, my gas tank was getting low, I had been eating crackers since eastern Montana, the Ranger was a little temperamental, yet I was joyful. Tired but refreshed! Lonely yet fulfilled!

Over the previous sixty days I had spent nearly all of them out of doors and nearly 45 of the nights pitched in a tent. I had seen a lot of America. I was hooked!

Next Up: Fast forward 18 years!

Autism, Police Officers, and a Little Zen?

Last week I picked up a book some of my students have been raving about. It's called Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell, and is subtitled The Power of Thinking Without Thinking. It's a fascinating premise. His opening chapter introduces us to the J. Paul Getty Museum and their investigation and subsequent purchase of an ancient marble statute called the kouroi. It was estimated to be from the sixth century B.C. and, if authentic, would be worth millions of dollars. The opening chapter is riveting. It absolutely hooked me.

After the opening chapter I found the work quite compelling, but not nearly as much fun as the opening investigation. That is until his chapter entitled "Seven Seconds in the Bronx." The chapter begins with four New York City police officers horrifically shooting to death an unarmed and innocent citizen. Gladwell investigates these seven seconds all the while weaving the lessons of autism into his analysis.

Over the past several years the amount of students who have autism entering my classroom has swooned. I work in a wealthy, suburban school district, one that has enough financial resources to provide mainstream opportunities for most of its students. We have a full-time instructor and several aides working with a growing population of children with autism. These students are part of a continuum in which some are severely autistic and others fall into the high functioning Asperger's Disorder.

This year I had a student, George*, in my classroom. He did well in class. He was very conscientious, motivated, polite, and responsible. He got good grades. And he was quite autistic. Although I have taught students with autism before, I had never quite developed the relationship that I did with George.

I have been told many times that students with autism don't understand emotions. They can give a definition of anger, but they seldom can recognize it in someone else, and find it especially difficult to notice while reading literature. In my 10th grade English Survey class George could provide all the facts of the story, some seemingly meaningless ones that most other readers ignored and skipped right over. But his ability to recognize and understand satire, symbolism, irony, or theme were nearly impossible. He could easily provide definitions and examples that were discussed, but there is no way he had the intellectual make-up to dig deeply, or to make connections into those fictional manners.

At times I was uncomfortable with George's eye-contact. When he asked a question, he stared intensely, and stayed locked in until he was able to release. I learned some clues I could use to let him know I was finished, but mostly George stayed focused on his task at hand: listening to what I was saying. Intellectually I knew that it had something to do with his autism, but emotionally it could be disarming. Our relationship however did grow, and we were able to make some progress throughout the school year. I grew to enjoy his presence and his dedication.

But it wasn't until I read Gladwell's chapter on "Seven Seconds in the Bronx" that I came to understand and see things with a bit more clarity. It was in this chapter that I developed a picture as to what it means to not understand emotions. Gladwell summarizes British psychologist and autism researcher Simon Baron-Cohen's idea that people with autism are "mind-blind (214)." Baron-Cohen says that a person with autism has virtually no ability to read non-verbal clues and cannot read other people's minds. Because these two aspects of communication make no sense to a person with autism, they can only take the words at face value. Only the literal meaning matters.

Gladwell then describes the work of Yale University's Ami Klin, one of our nation's leading experts in autism research. Klin describes his long term patient as one that "focuses very much on what I say. The words mean a great deal to him. But he doesn't focus at all on the way my words are contextualized with facial expressions and non-verbal clues (215)." I often wondered why George stared at me so intently. It was because he needed my words. He didn't need the smile, the big-eyes, the slight tap on the shoulder...those gestures meant nothing to him. What he needed was me saying clearly and repeatedly what I wanted him to get out of the lesson or for me to describe slowly and completely the homework assignment, or for me to say, that is all.

Remembering this in our own life could be wonderfully beneficial. Is it even possible to perceive how much we utilize non-verbal clues to successfully understand and comprehend the conversation we are a part of? When my wife is frustrated with me she does not need to say a word; I can tell by her posture and her look that we need to discuss the moment at hand. My teenage daughter has a look that says so clearly "my goodness dad, you are so (early) 1980's." And my five year old daughter has already developed a look that tells her mom and me that she didn't like the answer we gave her. And yet we are not taught any of this. By simply being human we learn the nature of body language and the power of facial expressions. We learn to use it ourselves and we absolutely learn to read it in others. We take our ability to mind-read for granted, not having any clue as to how important this skill/behavior is to us understanding, interpreting, and interacting with the world around us. If we suddenly lost the ability to interpret body language it would be devastating.

So what does all this have to do with four police officers, in about 2.5 seconds, shooting 41 bullets into an innocent man? This is where it gets interesting. Police organizations today are continually trying to establish proper procedure, not only as a safety measure for the community, but also as one for themselves. Maintaining the ability to "mind-read" throughout a critical conflict is essential to avoid mistakes. All police officers, all humans, come to the table with built-in prejudices. Although we often will not acknowledge our own biases, when in stressful situations we will turn towards our most basic instincts. If you live in American society, you have undoubtedly been inundated with the seductions of bias. We, like police officers, must train ourselves to combat those prejudices and those subconscious instincts. Teaching, learning, and practicing proper procedure can eliminate mind-reading. Learning to slow down and breath and practicing to observe rather than judge can help all of us stay wide-awake. The lesson of those police officers is that they reacted on bias and not on reflection. They saw a situation, read it to be something it wasn't, yet something they had seen before, and reacted. The wrong way. They misread the victim's body language and actions. Instead of the police officers seeing a scared and cowering citizen handing over his wallet they saw one that was running away from them, hiding, and pulling a gun.

Gladwell's argument is not meant to justify that because these police officers were under high stress that they are without responsibility and guilt. Neither does he say that they were completely irresponsible and therefore guilty. Instead he simply shows how it did and can happen. How it might not happen. He then shares a veteran police officer's story about staying clear and focused, about breathing and slowing down, about making the right decision.

A simple lesson ... maybe ... pay attention ... stay in the moment!

It's about clarity.

* Name changed

"The Creaking Machinery of Humanity"

In the 80's I discovered Hayduke. Twenty years later I discovered Skink. Edward Abbey invented his crazy ex-Nam vet to wreck havoc on the industrial tourism of the southwest. Carl Hiaason invented his crazy ex-Nam vet to wreck havoc on the greedy scum and idiotic tourists of south Florida.

Hayduke is a long-haired and scraggly recluse who feared no one and believed his vigilante justice needed no defense. Skink is the long-haired and scraggly ex-governor of Florida, who disgusted at dealing with the corrupt politicians and crooked developers, disappears into the Everglades, living largely off road-kill, and living a morally correct life delivering his own brand of vigilante justice.

I've missed Hayduke, and in trying to keep him in my consciousness I have reread The Monkey Wrench Gang a couple of times. Thank god Carl Hiaason has given us another environmental maniac. Hiaason introduces us to Skink in Double Whammy, but the former governor is arguably at his comic best in Stormy Weather, a satirical look at the aftermath of Hurricane Andrew.

Towards the resolution of the novel we hear Augustine quote from the book The Tropic of Cancer. Although the words are originally Henry Miller's, Augustine is reading from a book in which Skink has underlined the passage:

"Today I am proud to say that I am inhuman, that I belong not to men and governments, that I have nothing to do with creeds and principles. I have nothing to do with the creaking machinery of humanity--I belong to the earth!"

For those of us who love Hayduke, could not these be his words? For those of us who know Skink could there be a better description? The ex-governor is a one-eyed, Moody Blues singing, toad smoking, possum-eating, hurricane loving environmental wacko living passionately among the alligators, rodents, and mosquitoes of his Crocodile Lakes camp.

I am certain Edward Abbey would have been very proud of the moment in Sick Puppy when the former ethical governor Skink pulls down the pants of the current corrupt governor Dick Artemus and carves the word "SHAME" across his butt using only a buzzard beak. Oh Cactus Ed...it is a beautiful moment, one we would have expected and understood from you. Yes, I certainly still want Hayduke around, but Skink is a pretty darn good substitute, and one that helps us once again relish in the magnificence of a fictional anarchist.

The Hill

Elver Park sits on the far west side of Madison. It's a terrific urban park with a little something for everyone. In the warmer months it has biking and hiking trails for the outdoor type, tennis courts, softball diamonds, and basketball courts for the amateur athletes, frisbee golf for the alternative athletes, and during the winters months it remains busy with a lighted cross-country skiing trail and the biggest and most exciting sledding hill in Madison. Whenever snow envelopes the ground the Elver Park sledding hill and the cross-country ski trails come alive with wintertime enthusiasts.

But after the snow melts and spring time weather hits the hill becomes a haven for the silent sport athletes, a training ground for those trying to improve their endurance and health. Currently the hill beckons me often. I turn 50 in February and am trying to recapture my fitness. In September my wife and I and two other couples are going to run a team marathon, next February I would like to ski the Kortelopet, and in February of 2011 the American Birkebeiner. In order to make this happen I need to get myself in great shape. And that is where the hill comes into play.

The hill is the signature landmark of Elver Park. The Wisconsin Badger Men's basketball team spends every fall attacking the hill. They start by running up it six to eight times and finish the fall training season by making it to the top about sixteen to eighteen times.
It is a brutal hill and a grueling experience . Unofficially I have heard that it has a 12 degree gradient.

Today I went to the top one time. And I was exhausted and whipped. Tomorrow I go again and will continue to attack it until I can hopefully get up and down it eight times.

In Search of Trillium

Today I am hiking an ATV trail in Sawyer County, just south of the Chippewa Flowage, in northern Wisconsin. It is just me and my dog. The forest surrounding us is a deciduous mix of hard and soft trees, interspersed with patches of white and red pine. It is early and the sun is just starting to stream through the upper canopy.

My attention however is not towards the sky, but instead towards the forest floor. My eye is in search of the wild and fragile trillium. Today they are sparse, much more difficult to find than I expected. At times I come across small patches, but nothing like I have encountered in the past.

Many times in my life I have been lucky enough to stumble upon large patches of these inspiring flowers. The most memorable happened seven years ago on the Memorial Day weekend my wife and I got engaged. We were camped near Crandon, WI. and our campground was flush with trillium. On Saturday of that weekend we were met with a late May snowstorm. As depressing as it was for us, for the lively and vibrant trillium it appeared to be devastating. Bent over with the weight of a heavy spring-time snowstorm, I still recall Carri commenting how sad and dramatic those trillium looked. However the next morning we awoke to sparkling sunshine and terrific warmth. Not only were our spirits high, we were also inspired by the trillium dancing happily in that fresh sunshine. By the way they sparkled that morning, who could tell that only the day before they were cowering under the weight of cold, wet snow. Their toughness, oh so apparent then, has forever stayed with me.

This beautiful and simple white flower is unarguably my favorite. Although my wife and I have three small clumps of trillium growing in our poorly managed garden, it is the trillium of northern Wisconsin that always catch my heart.

Me a blogger?

This all seems a bit strange to me. Maybe even a bit self-indulgent. For the life of me I could not imagine anyone else being interested in what I have to say. I am simply this small spot on the world wide web, and I live a relatively simple and anonymous life.

I have been inspired by my long-lost friend Robb Kloss. I met Robb on the basketball courts in Madison, WI. We were both university students and found our games compatible (I was a pass first shoot second point guard, and he was a natural scorer who was always ready to catch and shoot). Eventually we became friends off the court. A few years after graduation we met back up again in Minneapolis and continued to play hoops and socialize together. But then life drifted us apart, until recently.

Robb met and married a woman from New Zealand and moved to the other side of the equator. I did see Robb at his Wisconsin wedding reception, and he did track me down a few years ago (via e-mail), however there has been virtually no contact since we left Minneapolis. Two weeks ago Robb sent me another e-mail, but this time he included his blog address: http://ruahineramblings.blogspot.com/ . We've reconnected. I've learned a bit about his wife, his boys, his life, and his venture as an expatriate.

So although I've contemplated writing a blog for a few years now, Robb has inspired me to give this whole self-indulgent fantasy a shot.