jonathan friesen

True things

I know it's not fashionable to talk about true things. I remember this especially while I was getting my MA degree. We talked about degrees of truth. Societal truth. Cultural truth. Personal truth. We never did have the courage to let that word sit alone.

Kind of scary when it does. What if there are true things? For everybody. Always. No exceptions. And feelings aren't allowed in the equation. 

I'm kind of on a truth kick right now because I heard something today in church. Yep, found a true thing there. And it hit me as REALLY true. Sort of, more true than other things that are also true. I think it was Hemmingway who said that he was always trying to write the truest thing he knew. Might have been Dr. Seuss, I forget.

Anyway, today I heard a really true, true thing. I'm thinking you've heard it before, I sure had, but not like I heard it today. Ready? Here tis:

The truth shall set you free.

That's it. That's my new true, true thing. You can kick it, beat it, spit on it. You can hate it, laugh at it, delete it. Doesn't matter. You can object. You can say the truth has hurt you, got you in a heap of trouble, left you feeling small and stupid and insulted and you could be right. 

But the truth always sets something free. 

I like that. I like guarantees. For sures. Precious few black and whites floating around, so when you find one, hold on tight. 

That's all, back to editing. Just thought I'd spit out my true, true thing.

Uncharted

I have kids. Multiple kids. I am not octodad, but I have rushed to the birthing room more than once. I tell you this to gain credibility.

Today one of these children did something. I will not say what. Oh, don't let your mind travel too far. They are great kids. But one of them did something that those OTHER kids do. You know, the ones that aren't yours, the ones whose parents you judge. Bad Mom! Bad Dad!

Well, today was not a shining parental moment, nor was it a trophy example of blissful childhood. Today was ugly. And I need to do something now that the waters have calmed a bit.

Thing is, I've never been here before. 

Here I go.

Wish me luck.

The Three Best Years of your Life

Things I was asked to do in high school that have had no bearing on my life:

1. Blow into a cow's windpipe. Bugger's lungs inflated like a balloon, but I got a mouthful of grass for the effort.

2. Factor trinomials. I wouldn't know a trinomial if one bit me.

3. Bake a grasshopper pie. Technically, I don't think we baked it, but the memory fogs a bit. I think it was green.

4. Play daddy to an egg. For two days, I carried a raw egg around. I think this was to teach me the art of parenting a delicate baby. There are few similarities.

5. Read DEATH OF A SALESMAN. Yeah, go ahead and disagree. But THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH would have set me on a much better path.

6. Attend the opening pep-fest. A speaker, I recall him as funny, was brought in to lie to me. He said, and I quote, "These next three years will be the best years of your life." Hah.

I did learn some important skills. For example, how to jump out of a three story window (there was a fair amount of snow involved). But so as not to implicate myself further, I will simply say that these valuable skills were not part of any course syllabus. They just happened. Or better put, I did em while I was waiting for something important to happen. And since it didn't, they now constitute nearly all my memories from high school.

And somehow, and maybe this was the liar's point, whatever you learn will fade, and thirty years from now these will be the three best years of your life.

It's still not true. But if you have to go back to school, relax. Wait thirty years and you'll love it.

 

Broken and Blessed

I will list the items that are presently broken or quasi-functional in my home:

1. Refrigerator

2. Air Conditioning

3. Dishwasher

4. All three vehicles (I'm being kind here to place the pick-up in the vehicle category)

5. Gutters (We prefer to collect water in the basement)

7. Windows (five or six)

8. Downstairs sheetrock (My boy likes to send soccer balls through the walls)

9. Garage Door

10. My left thumb. (Early arthritis, don't cha know)

But none of this matters. 

Give what you can to Pakistan.

Fans of Nunavut

So in my ever widening interest in all things Nunavut, I found a 3,000 member Fans of Nunavut page on Facebook, which, of course I was going to join . . .

Until I starting looking at the members. They all seem to live in Nunavut. Or they lived in Nunavut. It's kind of a private little group. I think I'll join anyway. JONATHAN FRIESEN. AUTHOR. MINNESOTA. If you want to go to Nunavut, you need to start small.

And while I'm fixated rather compulsively with the place, why didn't my grade school teachers tell me about Nunavut? They talked about Wisconsin and Iowa and even went off the charts and mentioned Mexico. But not Nunavut. 

My junior high teachers were silent. So were my high school and university instructors. Almost TOO silent. What's in Nunavut that I shouldn't know about? What are they keeping from me?

Well, today, I found out the correct pronunciation. Nunavut rhymes with fruit, not hut. And the nun part? That's noon. So Tuna-fruit is my memory trick.

Tomorrow, I start my poll. I am going to ask one hundred adults if they know where Nunavut is. I'm going on record right now: 4. I say four will know. Ninety-six have, like me, been sucked into the Nunavut conspiracy. They are completely ignorant of its existence. Like I am. Well, like I was.

Oh, and off topic for a writer's blog: I admit to being the last person on earth to read The Hunger Games. My take? Beautiful. Well worth all the accolades. What a stinkin' gorgeous book. Ms. Collins, well done. The only other popular YA books I had the same reaction to belong to the same author. I AM THE MESSANGER and THE BOOK THIEF. Stick a fork in it beautiful. Well written, Marcus. 

Hah. As if he and I speak on a first name basis.  But he, being an Aussie, likely has NO IDEA where Nunavut is. And if an author does not know at least a few basic shards of Nunavutian information, no matter how stellar the work, I may have to pass. 

But don't pass those books. 

Fans of Nunavut, here I come!

 

Nunavut Part 2

There are people all over Nunavut. (All over is an exaggeration.) But they got it going on! Nunavut Arctic College. How's that for a cool name? That's where I want to visit.

Any professors from Nunavut Arctic College reading my blog? How do you get where you are? Are you airlifted? Helicopter dropped? Dog-sled? Or are there roads? With gas stations and rest stops? Can I come year round?

Man, so much to learn. Nunavut Arctic College. It didn't beat Harvard or Princeton on the top 100, but I bet you didn't have adequate . . . wait, you're a Canadian college. My bad.

NAC rocks.

Nunavut

Yes. If anybody reading this lives in Nunavut, the answer is yes. Yes, I want to come for a visit! Winter? No problem (at least I don't think it's a problem--maybe you can't visit Nunavut in winter).

Does anybody live in Nunavut? My map doesn't show any cities, but there have to be some towns. What's it like in Nunavut? What do people do, if there are full-time people there?

I love Nunavut. Love it. I love it because of the name. You can take the letters in Nunavut, mix 'em up and have tons of fun.

TUNA

NUN

VAN

NUT

VAT

The tuna-eating nun jumped in her van and ran over a nut holding a vat. 

I'm in word heaven!

If your uncle or great-brother twice forgotten lives in Nunavut, I need to hear from you. I need a place to stay, don't cha know.

Running Legs

My chiropractor asked if I had done anything unusual. He said my back "felt" different. 

"Well, I did go for a jog." (For the record, it was a ten minute jog, so I don't know if it counts.)

He looked at me all serious and said the words I can't forget.

"Your running days are over."

He continued,"Look who wins marathons. Thin, 110 pound Ethiopians. Your are none of those three things."

Okay, he's right. I am no longer skinny, I'm close to double that weight, and I have no Ethiopian ancestry. But doggone. I still have legs. Two of them. And sometimes, they just want to move. Really move. They want to remind me what it felt like to be twenty. They want to run.

For about ten minutes. 

Then they are satisfied. Mission accomplished. They know they still work. They could still flee bears and wolves. They can still play tag and softball.

"Your running days are over." Over? Shoot, I'm not privy to the Good Lord's plans but I might have another fifty years down here. Fifty years of walking? Of strolling? Blek.

So, against the wishes of my chiropractor, I have embarked on a new regiment. I've named the program JJJ. Jonathan's Joints can Jog. My goal? Ten minutes of in your chiropractor-face jogging every day. If I feel good, I go fifteen. If I'm nutty, maybe twenty. Yeah, yeah, it might hurt the knees. Sure, it might tweak the back. But I'm here to say Jonathan's Joints can Jog!

I'll start tomorrow.

Camp

I camp. Last night proved it. Tornado warnings, no worries. I took our family of five, ducked into a sturdy shelter that looked a lot like an REI tent, and watched the storm.

This was not wise. I know it. But for the hardy, the true camper, no storm can stop the fun. 

It was hot. Ninety muggy hot. So we went to Fort Snelling, sat in the vistor center, hung out in the car, drove off the campground to a Borders Book Store (all air conditioned), so maybe I don't REALLY camp. I sort of camp.

Yes, I sort of camp. Struggled a bit with the tent and the propane stove, left all the shoes outside so they became little boats. Maybe 'I try to camp' is more accurate.

That's it. I try to camp. I had trouble with fire, food, clothes, shelter and light--pretty much all aspects. It's hard. Somewhere last night I decided: I don't camp.

But, I did survive, and that counts for something.  

Hair part 2

I began hacking away this afternoon and paused. I discovered a middle ground, somewhere between an O and a D. My son's profile is now somewhat of an O. I just couldn't do it, couldn't take all that hair.

He now looks neat and trim. (Two words you never tell your nine year old.) 

Thought I'd let y'all know the outcome here.