Behold the mighty oak

Without fail, the Captain and I argue over how to deal with the leaves in our yard come this time of year when the magnificent trees in our neighborhood morph into hideous monsters that do nothing all day but drop their refuse onto our yards and streets.

One year, capitulating to his hatred of all things yard work-related, I waited to collect them all once and only once rather than attacking them every week as I normally do. We had leaves up to our knees. Well, I did. They were more ankle height on Jeff.

But they swirled into the house as if seeking shelter. They blew into the cars, into my hair, into my mouth at the slightest breeze. Walking into the house was a crunch fest.

Alison loved diving into the piles. She could have probably jumped from the roof and landed safely the piles were so high. Bagging them all took forEVER and it was so cold. I vowed to never wait so long again.

This year, my strategy is to mulch them at least once a week. It requires a lot of passes with the mower, but it's a great way to rack up steps, and it doesn't result in a sore back. Jeff is gone to a beer event in Chicago, Ali is focused on homework and college applications so there was nothing holding me back from time in the yard.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself and optimistic about the idea of escaping bag duty. But even my additional time with the mower didn't get me to my step goal, so afterward, I took a walk around my neighborhood.

I noted how many of my neighbors' trees had already shed completely and now stretched bare, skeletal arms to the blue sky. I complain about the leaves, but the carpets of color they laid were spectacular.

Most of the yards wore one color, but one sported canary yellow as well as crimson, with a beautiful blur of both where they came together. On the one hand, I was sad that so many had fallen already. On the other, it meant less work for me in the coming weeks.


I got back to my house and was greeted by a mostly green yard with spots of leaves that I didn't dig out of the flower beds. I figuratively patted myself on the back for being so smart to use technology to fight my seasonal battle.

But then, I looked up. I'm pretty sure the squirrels in my oak tree -- and maybe the tree itself -- were laughing at me. Yeah, the shorter, lesser tress might have let go. This baby is hanging on.

Let's Keep This Week Going

In the past seven days, TeamReed has seen:

• The BoSox win the World Series the day before Jeff's birthday,
• Both Jeff and my fantasy football teams won their matches,
• Jeff did a stellar job arguing before the Indiana Supreme Court, and 
• Alison had some awesome moments on the sports, academic and social scenes. 

Then, this morning, on a walk after breakfast, Jeff and I saw a line of people filling the sidewalk in front of a strip mall that includes a Planet Fitness and a discount department store. At the far end of that strip was a polling site. The line started at the polling site, crossed the full length of the strip mall, and looped around so it looked like the returns counter on December 25th. And people were still strolling up to vote early.

It's too early to tell, of course, whether these awesome Americans are voting on my side of the ballot. But just the idea that they were out to vote -- and that voting is at an all-time high here in Indiana -- was enough to increase the bounce in my step.

But let's pause for a moment to officially laud the Captain, who hit a career high with his appearance before the Indiana Supreme Court.



You can watch it here, or you can trust me that he did a terrific job articulating why the court should agree with his side of Case No.18S-EX-0047593A02-1711-EX-02735, NIPSCO Industrial Group v. Northern Indiana Public Service Company, Office of the Utility Consumer Counselor which concerns Cause No. 44733-TDSIC-2 before the Indiana Utility Regulatory Commission.

If the title of the case isn't enough to dissuade you from watching it, you can fast forward 19 minutes to see him argue. It's been 20+ years since I was in a hearing room where he was working, but I was glad I went. Thanks to Andy Siewert for making time to sit in and others who watched it in live stream. Jeff had prepared really well, but the good vibes probably helped, too.

We had another record year of raising money for the local Ronald McDonald House at the annual Taste gala. Thanks to Peter Dunn for emceeing and support from IndyNewYears.com, Borshoff, Neal Brown Hospitality, Jack and Karen Shell and everyone who helped out. I just realized I didn't take any pictures there. It was a fun night and such a wonderful cause. If you ever find yourself with too much cash on hand, feel free to give to the House. It's an amazing place.

In other fun news, our friends Nick Wangler and Anna Zumbrun had a moment in the sun from WISH-TV, which highlighted their use of the beautiful and historic Union Station for a New Year's Eve party that's going to be THE place to be to ring out 2018. Get your tickets here. 

It's not just a good party, they're raising money for Dream Alive, there's an arts component via a partnership with the Harrison Center for the Arts and even more entertainment options. Check out the Indy Masquerade via Brenna Donnelly's Facebook live hit, where you get to know Nick and Anna, too.

Or, in case you missed WISH live, check out some more here.  If you're thinking you can't ballroom dance so you can't take advantage of all the things at Masquerade, folks from Indianapolis Ballet will be there to help you bust the right move.

For you Indianapolis folks, keep your eye out for art from Abi Ogle, which will signal a surprise, pop-up "Masquerade Moment" from now until the end of the year. 

The most important thing you can do this week, though, is vote. If you want advice on who to support, I'm full of ideas. But you're smart. You care about other people. You want America to be the place anyone can find a fair opportunity. Keep those things in mind when go stand to cast your ballot and you can't go wrong.

Then, ask yourself, "What are you doing New Year's, New Year's Eve....

 

Sometimes my stories may seem like a bit of a stretch

But not these...

Alison buried in goats courtesy M. Burlingame

With this being Alison's senior year of high school, I've taken to thinking of it as my last year with her. Sure, we'll still be related, and I suspect she'll come around every so often after she heads off to college and then her real life. But it's difficult for me not to see this year as the true beginning of the end of my "real" time with her.

So I'm actively looking for ways to insinuate myself in between her study/watch YouTube time, her swim time, her friends time, school and other non-Mom activities. Saturday was our day of yoga.

I didn't mean for us to have yoga sessions in both the morning and evening. I had already purchased tickets for yoga in the Indianapolis "Catacombs" before my friend (and Alison's "Aunt Margaret") asked me if we'd like to join her for Goat Yoga. They just happened to be on the same day.

Ali was attracted to the Catacombs option because she'd really enjoyed our trip through the Paris Catacombs -- a collection of millions of bones of people buried beneath the city. I'd warned her that the local version was bone-free and really an enormous root cellar that serves as a support structure for a community building that's long been replaced by the City Market.

The goat idea earned me a bit of a side-eye that was echoed by my friend Peggy Boehm's remark: "I get the goats. Where's the yoga?"

Let's start with the morning session at the Happy Goat Lucky Yoga session in Noblesville, just north of Indianapolis. On the drive up, Alison quizzed me about what we were in for.

"So, there are goats?" she said around her breakfast taco. "Won't they, like, pee and poop on us?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "Of course not. Well, probably not. Of course, because of the weather, we'll be inside, so maybe. But I'm sure they're prepared for stuff like that. It'll be fine."

(We cut here to me -- even before we'd gotten started -- discovering a pile of poop by my ankle and remarkably millimeters away from getting on me. Alison's "I told you, so" look was classic. She laughed so hard even the goats couldn't hear her.)

"So why are there goats?" she asked.

"Because they're cute," I said. "They're little goats. It'll be fun."

She had questions about biting and jumping and I assured her it would be nothing but fun.

(We cut here to Alison -- laying supine as instructed when one of the five little goats walked up on her torso. It was joined by another and she was giggling and trying to lay still as they came closer to her face. Then, "Ooof!" she exclaimed as third hopped up to see what all the fuss was about. She later informed us that the third goat had landed two of its little hooves on her vagina, which apparently brought her up off the mat and led to the goats' hasty dispersal.)

To get us started, we were given handfuls of goat treats. It's hard to know if the goats appreciate the yoga or the initial pampering and cooing they receive upon introduction. They do, however, fully appreciate the treats.

Having already had a deposit at my feet, I silently questioned the wisdom of stuffing the goats with goat treats before we all laid down on the floor while the animals remained free. Math isn't my strong suit, but I was pretty sure that the time we'd be down there and the time their little bodies would need to metabolize their snackage  was roughly equivalent. So I kept my eyes peeled for poopage.

Already assaulted, Alison,was, perhaps, even more vigilant. She identified -- but did not share her knowledge with the two of us -- which of the five goats was the prime pooper.

"When it came near me," she said later, "I would pray, 'Not that one. Not that one.'"

Her silent pressure apparently worked for all of us. Afterward, though, a group of women assumed the "Table Top" position and another woman positioned four of the goats on top of them for photos. The goats seemed willing, but apparently the ladies took too long to get the perfect shot. One of the goats peed on one of the ladies and the tables quickly collapsed.

It was fun. For us. I can't speak for the goats.

We went to lunch where we learned in full detail about how Alison had suffered hoof prints on her hoo-hah. Ali's stories tend to increase in volume as the drama builds, so I'm afraid all of Courtney's Kitchen learned of the incident, as well.

We came home, rested up, set out candy for the neighborhood Halloween fest before going downtown for our next yoga experience. We were encouraged to dress up, which Ali took to heart and wore a yellow racing catsuit. I borrowed her devil-horn headband and slapped some lipstick on.

We met Julie Miller and Alisha Valentine there -- both much more experienced in yoga than Ali and me -- and about a 100 other people. No joke. So many people signed up for this spooky class that they had to add a later class. Which was great because the class was a fundraiser for the YMCA.

So our descent to the bowels of Indianapolis was good for the community as well as good for us. And it was taught by a yogi in full "Day of the Dead" makeup from a previous gig at the Eiteljorg. We were surrounded by a bunch of people some there in costume and some there just for the yoga.

This was a more seriously focused yoga experience. So much more than our morning session that at one part, Ali and I looked over at each other in alarm/pain. Proofing our genetic and non-yoga-expert connection, we said to each other :"I miss the goats."

Later into the hour-long session, our instructor was telling us to move in a rotation of movements that included "downward dog" "three-legged dog" "cobra" and the "chaturanga" process. At one point, she said people could do what they wanted, work harder or rest. I've been trying to get back to doing "planks" at they gym, so I was working fairly hard.

To my right, Alison had taken the instructor to heart. "I looked over at you and saw you working and though, "Yeah, you go, girl," she said later, confession that she'd taken a long break.

It was, Alisha told us later, a milder form of class than that particular instructor usually offers. I was grateful for the leniency. I'd also always wanted to see the Indy Catacombs, so all in all, it was a great experience. The venue isn't one for a daily work out. The floor is packed dirt, and there are drips from above, some more steady than others. It's chilly, too, and spooky enough that you're glad to have the lights on.

Many of my friends love yoga. I wouldn't say I'm there yet, but the stretching alone is good for my aging body. I don't know if I'll ever be able to breathe from my belly button or roll down vertebrate by vertebrate. Also, after two sessions of yogo and going to and from, in addition to an evening out with the Shells and their friends (super fun but a story for another day) I recorded only 5,846 steps on my FitBit.

Until I can get step credit, I don't know how I can devote an hour a day to yoga.

Unless Alison wants to do it with me, of course.

Voting and Remembering My Dad

I never feel more American - or closer to my father - than when I vote.

Since I turned 18, I've voted every Election Day, usually in the morning before work or other obligations. I voted early for the first time today because I'm going to work the election and don't yet know where I'll be assigned.

Most of you are tired of my stories about Election Day in my childhood home where we turned the living room into a polling place and folks from our rural area came by to chat and vote. My dad was a precinct committeeman and my mom spent her morning and afternoon feeding the poll workers. We'd all watch the election returns in the dining room where the living room furniture still crowded all the nooks and crannies.

We were Democrats, of course, so I remember the shock of realizing we lived in a Republican state. I remember my dad chuckling when I turned to him to question why Indiana had been colored in red while the other states were still showing white on the TV screen map of the USA. It was probably 6:01 p.m.

My dad in his Army days. Apparently winning.

Jimmy Carter would win that year, but not with Hoosier help. Doc Bowen was our governor, but not up in 1976. Dick Lugar won his first U.S. Senate spot. He'd become the unusual Republican office holder my Blue Dog Democrat father would support.

This is an interesting year with Alison still a year away from being able to vote but vocal about her views on the political world. She was making fun of some ads the other day -- we're drowning in Donnelly v. Braun messaging -- picking apart elements that she thought were ridiculous.

"I mean, I like him because you told me I should," she said. "But really, he's splitting wood!"

I laughed at the idea that she was following my advice but hugged it tight just the same. It's anyone's guess who she'll be listening to this time next election.

Anyway, it was nice to think about you Dad. Pretty sure you'd be happy with my picks.

Mustang conversations

Ali and I have had some of our best conversations in the car. She's also puked all over herself in the back while I was driving her to school, but she wasn't yet walking so I don't hold that against her.

It was super gross, though, and I sometimes wonder if the passengers of whoever bought that Honda sedan ever gets a whiff of the worst mark she put on its cloth upholstery.

Flash-forward to her current passenger status. She's not a puker, but her language can get a bit salty depending on her mood. She's also quite the backseat driver when she's not behind the wheel. I haven't taught her how to drive my Mustang, so she's a perpetual co-pilot. The other day, I was driving her to meet a friend and trying to get my FitBit off my shoe. (We'd ridden bikes to the library before our car trip downtown and she was still bitter as her ears thawed.)

I was approaching a red light and had shifted to neutral while I reached down to unlatch the FitBit closure, which was proving trickier than I'd anticipated.

"I don't think this car has ever gone this slow," she remarked as we drifted toward the light.

I snagged the FitBit and shot her a look as I strapped it to my wrist. "I don't always speed," I said.

She arched her brow and silently judged me.

"I don't!" I said, braking as we came to the light. She just kept looking at me.

As a student driver, Alison is hyper aware of speed limits no matter where we go. It's maddening.

On that same trip, we encountered a Mercedes vehicle that looked like a cross between a Land Rover and a vintage Bronco. It was hideous and I made mention of it.

"It looks like an old fashioned ambulance," I said. "But ugly."

"Or one of those cars when the ambulance doesn't work out," Ali mused, agreeing but stumbling for the appropriate word.

"Do you mean a hearse?" I asked, starting to laugh.

"Yeah," she said. "That's it."

Here's hoping your ambulance always works out...

On zippers and fasting and fast friends

I don't know why I thought I could slip easily into the dress I was married in 21 years ago, but I did.

It's a cool dress. It was ivory, velvet and not really wedding dress-y. It was actually a bridesmaid dress I found out wedding dress shopping. It had an asymmetrical top part and was kind of snug as it went to the floor. It seemed perfect for a photoshoot that will be used to promote a super fun party you should go to this New Year's Eve at Union Station in Indianapolis.

I was optimistic because after a year or three away from my strict WW diet, I've got a little more junk in my trunk than needs to be there. As I learned when the dress started slithering down my torso and stopped at said trunk.

It reminded me of the time I was a bridesmaid for my sister Nancy. Her BFF from high school, the twig-like Tracy Price, and I were standing up for her. We had bubble-gum pink satin dresses that I think my sister Donna made. Mine was double-digit sized. Tracy's was probably sub-zero. I was home for a fitting.

It was a bright, sunny day and I was standing in the kitchen/dining room area of the house I'd shared with Nancy before moving to Evansville. I stripped down to my underwear and slipped my dress over my head. It got a little lower than the wedding dress this week, but that wasn't good news because it got stuck. I was standing there with my arms sticking out over my head trapped in pink satin. No amount of tugging or swearing or jumping about did anything but jiggle the fat sticking out the other end.

I wailed. I cried. I was unhappy with the original size, had been dieting and now it was worse than the first fitting when we had to go up a size. Nancy tried to help me out of it, but as I recall was laughing too hard to be of much assistance.

Turns out, I was trapped in Tracy's dress. I don't know how I got out of it but I know Donna had repairs to make to more than a few seams. We're lucky we didn't have to call the fire department. I still hate pink satin.

Anyway, I didn't have to destroy my way out of the ivory velvet, and I have a new goal for the next few months: I'm wearing that damn dress to NYE. Just you wait.

What that means is no more trips to Chicago with my Bunco squad. I could tell you about the excesses that happened there but Chicago is my new Las Vegas. But I have to share a pic of the birthday boy when he was at least fully clothed...

Below is from last night's photoshoot where I did not wear the dress I'd planned. It's going to be an awesome night. Especially if I lose 100 pounds or so. Kelsey Taylor, who you see below, is more than ready right now. You know, even if I don't get back into that dress, I'm in excellent shape friends-wise. Maybe I should start measuring that way...

Every Second

In lieu of a standard morning greeting, I overheard this exchange between the Captain and our daughter who was studiously working through the college application process:

"Alison, did you really eat an entire package of pita bread?"


"In my defense, there were only four of them, and they were small."

"Did you have any fruit or anything healthy with it?"

She mumbled something about orange peppers but happily accepted a package of raspberries.

"Cool!"

Jeff harrumphed his way to the porch where we had settled to read the paper. I kept my eyes glued to the magazine insert. The Captain is having a hard time realizing this is really the beginning of the end of us being routinely included in the majority of the formerly little redhead's waking hours.

"Our daughter is applying to colleges," he informed me on a walk the other day.

"She's going to be leaving soon," he'd said earlier in the week.

"This is really happening," he'd intoned after she'd asked each of us to give her comments on her common essay.

I've refrained from talking much about "this" because:

A: I've been freaked out about her being a grown up at every developmental stage;
B: I'm starting to freak out about the idea of having just Jeff and me rattling around in the Broad Ripple starter home I've never felt compelled to leave; and
C: I'm planning on making the most of every second still available to me.

Plus, she's asking us -- sincerely -- to be a part of this process. She hasn't completely shut us out of her life. We spent a lot of time this weekend discussing her essay, her use of the semi-colon and particular word choices. She asks us separately because our approaches are so different and she wants to have as much information to consider as possible.

Jeff likes to dive deep in his editing. I've learned to ask before I apply the red pen because sometimes she's just looking for content help and will address grammar last. Also: "I know how to properly use a semi-colon, Mom."

The required essays are short, and anyone who's ever tried to "write short" knows it's a harder process than having the luxury of waxing poetic for pages upon pages.

I forget the exact prompt for the essay. It was something about naming a time you questioned a belief. She used her frustration with her K-8 catholic education when she routinely would hear "It's God's plan" in answer to questions. She discovered and dove deeply into chemistry and the scientific process at Herron High School. She's hoping to continue that in her college career.

It's a good essay that I hope gets her where she needs to be next, even though it's going to be hard to have her gone. I'm by turns incredibly proud of her and eager to see what transformations she has left to make and weepy over the thought of her having a life that doesn't include waking up at home and getting in trouble with her father for powering through a bag of dried mango strips or hiding sea salt caramels under her bed.

She's still not gotten her driver's license. The other day we were coming home from school and I was driving as we're putting off teaching her the magic of the stick-shift until she's gotten authorization for solo passage in the Subaru.

"I pray a little every time you pass another car," she volunteered from the passenger seat.

I laughed because she works really hard to convince people she doesn't subscribe to a faith. She's been all in to the idea that I'm a bad driver for a long time. It's been a while since she blared "Highway to Hell" when we've been in my car together, though. I was kind of hoping she'd decided I've improved on the roadway. I do use my turn signals more often than I have in the past, but her routine scan of the speedometer hasn't slowed me down much.

She's been battling a cold for the last few weeks and it wasn't until 4 p.m. on the Friday of Labor Day Weekend that she confessed that rather than getting better -- which allowed her to go to a sleepover with friends -- she was worse and needed medication. Not able to get into the doctor, we ended up at Urgent Care Saturday morning.

Unusually, Jeff joined us. I think he was expecting she'd go with us to shop for a new bike for me. Ali, who's taller than me now, has been using my bike rather than her own, and we plan to let her take it to college.

I handed her the patient paperwork. Jeff gave me a look. Usually it's him who's pushing the teachable moments.

"If she gets sick in college, she'll have to do all of this by herself," I said.

She filled out the form and said she was fine going back to the doctor alone.

"I can do this," she said, unintentionally conjuring up all the times she's used that phrase in the past: tying her own shoes, filling her own glass, riding her bike.

The Captain shook his head but didn't protest. I swallowed hard. We let her go home while we bike shopped and waited for her prescription to be ready. We came home with meds and a new bike that Jeff was itching for me to try out.

But Ali put her sick little head on my lap and I suddenly had zero interest in going for a spin.

Every second, man. Every. Single. One.

Her love of junk food started early. That's a Hostess donut she's focused on. I LOVE this photo. Alex is over six feet now, I think. Hannah is in college. Gulp.