A house without walls

Seventeen years.

Today is the anniversary of the death of my mother, Susan Mills. She was 50 when she passed away. I was just shy of 16 at the time, beginning my sophomore year in high school. It came as a shock and not at all as a surprise when it happened, like death so often does. She had been sick for two years, in the ICU at the hospital in Chicago for the past two months straight. Surgeries, brain damage, recovery, relapse, surgery, infection, and now, finally, almost mercifully, an aneurysm.

I was daydreaming in Algebra class when the school office sent someone to get me. It was a beautiful day outside. Sunny and warm but smelling of autumn. I knew immediately what had happened, without being told. I remember glancing at a friend as I walked out of the room. I remember the look in her eyes, which must have been reflecting back the dread in my own.

That moment is crystal clear and yet there's a lot about that period that is incredibly fuzzy when I actually try to dredge it up. That is, I can only guess, how the brain tries to protect itself from psychic damage after something so disruptive occurs. It's like a scab and then scar tissue over a wound, or bricks in the door to a room you don't want to go into anymore. But the thing is, so many years later now, I want to remember. Every second. Because now I find that I can't recall the sound of her voice, and sometimes even her face goes blurry, and I only have old, time worn photos of her to bring things into some semblance of focus again.

She has been gone from my life now for longer than she was in it. So this all makes sense, is all logical, is how time and memory tend to work. Time doesn't make something like this less sad, but it does give you more context, more experiences to hold against or next to it. Time makes the Terrible Thing one of many important life experiences, not The Main One. And that helps.

So I'm not looking to re-experience or wallow in her death. What I want, more than anything, is to be able to more fully celebrate her life. I suppose it's a little morbid to take the anniversary of her passing as a good time to do that, but I'd rather use the date for that than to mourn all over again.

My fellow members of the club will understand. We are an organization founded on both dark humor and hope, after all.

What I remember of my mother is a warm heart, a stubborn nature, a love of teaching, singing, casual piano playing that was limited to about three or four regular songs ("Theme From Love Story" was a particular favorite). She liked Neil Diamond and Mannheim Steamroller and Kevin Costner and thought Lars from Metallica was cute. "Gone With the Wind" was one of her all-time favorite movies. She wore sweaters with Scottie Dogs on them and was the most adorably stereotypical elementary school teacher you can imagine, in a lot of ways. She drank too much Coca Cola. She wanted to lose weight. For Halloween one year she dressed up as Sonny to my father's Cher and they sang "I Got You Babe" at a church talent show. She held me in her lap while I cried angrily over getting my first period. She liked to bake, and made incredible desserts. I blame her for my insatiable sweet tooth. When she was little she used to help her older sister sneak booze into her dorm by hiding it inside her doll house. She didn't punish me when I pushed my older brother down the stairs one day (he had it coming). She did punish me when she caught me canoodling with the neighbor boy. She and our shih tzu, Mitzi, were best friends. She made her own greeting cards. She sewed her own outfit so she could accompany me on my Civil War reenacting weekends. She always wanted to put me in dresses but generally let me choose my own, tomboy-tastic outfits anyway.

This is all a drop in the bucket, of course. I know almost nothing about her life before I was born, about what she was like as a friend, as a human outside the context of being Mom. That is my biggest regret, really--that I never got to know her once I'd grown up and become a little less self-absorbed. I think we would have had lots of differences, but many things in common, and that she and I would have gotten along pretty well even when she didn't entirely understand the shenanigans I was getting up to. I think she would have made a delightful and stubborn old woman.

But anyway, I've learned not to spend too much time on "what ifs." Unless you're writing speculative fiction, they're generally no good.

If my memory is a building with many rooms, I think of it like the Winchester Mystery House. Some of it connects, makes sense, has a clear through-line and plot. In other places there are staircases and doors that lead nowhere, and entire hidden rooms with no way to access them, no light inside. Maybe, like Sarah Winchester, we build these rooms as a way to run from restless memories, guilt, depression, sadness, all the things we're afraid to confront because we fear they will consume us entirely.

As the years go by, I find myself more and more interested in taking a sledgehammer to the walls. Creating an open floor plan. Opening windows to air out any stagnation. Letting more light in, having it all mix together. Even when it hurts.

It's going to take considerable work, I know. But I have to try. She would have wanted that for me. We have that in common.

The Lost Albatross 2009 Year in Review

Can you smell that? It's the sweet n' sour aroma of change. The turning of the year is technically an arbitrary milestone, a mere turning of the Gregorian calendar and an excuse for manufacturers of cheap eye wear to peddle, in this case especially, some painfully tacky gear.

But in my case, the end of '09 and start of '10 really does mark a major shift, something worth noting, and (hopefully!) something worth celebrating.

Thing is, I can't tell you why just yet. But trust me when I tell you that it's going to mean a serious shift in focus for myself and for The Lost Albatross - and I'm crossing my fingers and working my butt off to see that it'll all be for the better. The "official announcement" should come mid-January, so please do check back. In the meantime, let's get to that time honored tradition of mixing navel-gazing with list-making and enjoy THE LOST ALBATROSS YEAR IN REVIEW ('09):

Quick Stats

• Total site visits for the year: 22,843
• Most clicked post: "Big losses for progressive talk radio in Madison" (494)
• Top keywords: "emily mills" and "lost albatross" (people got here because they were actually looking for me - crazy!)
• Weirdest keywords: "clever name calling," "norm fjelstad" (who?), "emo techno bands," "huffy albatross"

Personal favorites

2009 wasn't the kindest year on record in general, but for me personally I really can't complain too much. I joined/helped start a new band that's been nothing but awesome thus far, self-published by first novel, increased my freelance writing work, went on a fantastic mountain biking trip to Moab, threw two successful burlesque events, and hit the vaunted five year milestone with my fella. Not bad, I'd say.

The uptick in activities meant a falling off in blog content, though, which certainly isn't the end of the world (and you can actually expect a significant uptick in content next year, oddly enough). Still, there were some fascinating and infuriating topics covered this year.

The year started off with major shake-ups at Madison's progressive talk radio station, The Mic, including the loss of Lee Rayburn and serious public discontent. Milwaukee County Executive Scott Walker, self-professed hater of government, officially decided to run for governor - a saga that will continue to play out until the elections next year. In April, the hilariously named Teabaggers descended upon Madison to wave grammatically and historically incorrect signs around for a little while. Wisconsin then (finally) passed a state-wide smoking ban, which goes into effect in July 2010. Major changes gripped the Common Council, and everyone marveled at Thuy Pham-Remmel's thoughtful, well-worded, and surprisingly concise speeches.

In August the bikes took over the streets for the first annual Ride the Drive event, which was, quite frankly, pretty cool. Throughout the latter half of the year, we watched as the Edgewater Hotel redevelopment process began to dominate public discourse--strange lobbying practices, immovable neighborhood associations, a mayor's single-minded quest. In the end, that particular proposal was cock blocked by both the Landmarks Commission and the Common Council, but it remains to be seen if its deathly specter might rise again.

At the beginning of November I began my tenure as the Isthmus Daily Page's newest regular blogger, something I'm hoping to continue in the new year. I also went to my first opera, where they forced me (OK, asked nicely) to sit in the lobby and blog for all the gawking masses to see and be baffled by.

So like I said, I've been pretty damn fortunate in that the Great Recession and general decline of the Roman...err...American society (due to all those people gay marrying terrorist abortions) haven't taken quite so terrible a toll on me. Which is to say, I've never had money to begin with, so there wasn't much for me to lose. But I'm also blessed with amazing friends and family, a great town, and relatively decent health (ulcerative colitis be damned).

I'd be a fool to complain.

Here's wishing you all a happy, safe, healthy and productive new year! Thanks to everyone who's been on this crazy blogging journey with me--really and truly, thanks--and I hope you'll stick with me as I enter what promises to be one wacky, eventful period of my life.

Recollecting my punk, jam band, emo, techno, rock-n-roll past

It's Friday, and as part of my continuing efforts to de-stress and get a grip after a couple of nonsense-filled weeks, I'm going to tell a story about my career as a musician.

Riveting!

No, wait, don't run away! See, I just had a fascinating blog pointed out to me--For Those Who Tried to Rock--and it got me to thinking about the various bands I've been in over the years. Bands with ambitions that varied from "just wanting to rock for the sake of rocking" to "we're totally gonna make it!" And how I reserve a special place in my rock-n-roll heart for each of those projects, regardless of their overall quality or longevity.

Here now, a comprehensive list of the bands and musical projects I've been involved in over the past nearly 27 years:

1) Grace Presbyterian Church Talent Show Band (year unknown)
Christmas, the late eighties: I got what ranks as one of the best gifts I've even gotten: a Fraggle Rock kids drum set. Shortly thereafter, I made sure to show off this new prize to the only captive audience I could find: the congregation of my dad's church. They were holding a talent show, so naturally I decided it would be the perfect opportunity to make my debut as the awesomest drummer of all time. I recruited a misfit band of fellow church kids with varying levels of musical ability--it didn't matter, because ultimately we'd be lip-syncing along to our chosen song.

There was the boy who had an actual guitar, the girl who was supposed to play a keyboard but ended up faking it with a plastic trumpet thing, the budding ham of a lead singer, and me with my rad drum kit. Our chosen opus? "Jump" by Van Halen. Oh man, we tore that shit up (well, pretended to, anyway), and my crowning achievement came when, every time David Lee Roth yelled "Jump!", I actually hit the bass drum pedal! Whoa man, those church deacons didn't know what to make of me! I was so in their face! It was an absolute triumph.

Major influences: Van Halen, Jesus Christ

2) The Shrooms (1994, for one month)
Finally, after a good year of saving every one of my weekly chore allowances, I had saved up enough money to pay for an actual drum kit. My parents took me to a local pawn shop, where we'd found a reasonably priced, ruby red, 5-piece CB 700 International set. Not wanting to waste any time on my rocket trip to stardom, and despite the fact that I could barely yet properly play an actual drum kit, I immediately set out to form my first band. In this endevour, I recruited three of my good girl friends: one on tamborine, one on guitar, one on bass. Only the girl who played guitar could actually, y'know, play--but that didn't stop us! Being in the midst of the mid-nineties faux-hippie revival, we decided on the very clever band name "The Shrooms", thinking that it sounded cool. It's worth noting that we had no idea what it actually meant.

We wrote, I think, lyrics for three songs, but never actually played any music together. Sometimes, half the fun of having a band is planning all of the great things you're going to do together.

Major influences: Phish, They Might Be Giants

3) Milk (1995-97)
This was my first actual, honest-to-goodness, writing-songs-and-playing-gigs band. Me and my two best friends at the time--Dave and Alicia--decided to start the project one bored suburban summer. Dave was actually a really good guitar player, and I had finally started to get the hang of the whole playing multiple percussive instruments at the same time thing. All that remained was convincing Alicia to take up the bass, which, even after our several years playing together, she only ever did half-heartedly. Still, skills aside, she was incredibly good-natured about the project.

We were, in essence, the "silliest punk band in the land," as we liked to say. We wrote a metric shitton of original songs, and spent countless hours in my basement writing and playing and recording it all on our little 4-track cassette recorder. We played a bunch of shows, too, either on our own (most notably at the neighborhood block party--PUNK ROCK!) or in concert with the several other local bands. One such gig ended with me learning a valuable lesson that I carry with me to this day: never let other drummers use your snare drum, especially "punk" drummers, as it will be returned to you looking like a topographical map of the Andes.

Milk was great fun, and even after the members began to drift apart at the beginning of high school (and when I moved away), I looked back on it fondly as a major contributor to the more formative years of my life. And even now, listening to those old songs, I think we were pretty decent for what we were--a totally un-serious, upbeat, very young punk band that realized right away we had nothing deep to say so instead wrote songs about ridiculous things.

Feel free to judge some of our work by checking out songs from our second album, "Non-Alcoholic White Liquid," right here.

Major influences: Operation Ivy, Ween, Mister Bungle, Minor Threat, Lamb Chop

4) Tumor Necrosis Factor (TNF) (1997-98)
My first foray into electronic music, this project was very lo-tech: just me, two friends, a 486 computer, an early version of Fast Tracker, a microphone and a boombox. We ended up composing an album's worth of material that was actually really popular at our high school for about three months. Ah, the sweet smell of success! It is one of my great regrets that I have since lost my only copy of that album ("Tripping on Ice"), and have not yet been able to track down another person who still has it. I'm going to keep looking, though, because I'm a sap like that.

Major influences: Moby, Tori Amos, the Dead Alewives, KMFDM

5) The Beat-Me-Ups (1999)
I looked around one day and realized, much to my dismay, that I was in an emo punk band. I blame Oklahoma, and a severe lack of options. Still, I had fun with these guys, and rocking out in my tiny, backyard woodshed/clubhouse with them was one of the things that kept me sane during the two years I spent living in Oklahoma. We played one show, in a friend's dad's warehouse, to a crowd of live-music starved adolescents who were remarkably appreciative of our stuff.

Major influences: NOFX, emotions

6) Forte Diem (2001-02)
Otherwise known as the "band with the worst name ever", Forte Diem was my first college-era band. We were all actually pretty good musicians, but weren't together long enough to become a cohesive unit. The guitarist wanted us to become a jam band, the bassist was thoroughly repelled by that idea, the singer belonged in a much better blues/jazz act, I just wanted to play music, and the guy we had playing auxilary percussion was just happy about everything.

Amazingly, the first proper gig we ever played was a Battle of the Bands, held at my school, in which we somehow managed to win first place against several much more well-established acts. There was even someone in the audience who claimed to worked with the Big Wu, and talked about having us open for them sometime. Like all still-green acts that are met with sudden success, we folded our cards soon thereafter, unable to resolve several key disagreements on direction between members. We did get in one last, really fun (and well attended!) show at the Electric Earth Cafe, though, before finally throwing in the towel.

Major influences: Phish, Victor Wooten, Widespread Panic, Sarah McLachlan

7) Aporia (2003-present)
One day, in a break between classes, I wandered into the commons area at my college with the intention, I think, of taking a nap in one of the big, over-stuffed chairs that were there. Instead, I came across a guy playing an acoustic guitar and singing "Little Plastic Castles" by Ani DiFranco. Intrigued by this rare creature, I promptly sat down, introduced myself, and expressed an interest in jamming with him sometime. Happily, that guy turned out to be current band mate and good friend, Justin.

Over the course of the last five years (wow, time flies!), we've gone from being a coffeeshop folk duo to being a four-person rock band, and during the course of that time, I went from being a I-will-literally-vomit-if-you-make-me-sing-in-front-of-people person to a lead singer who loves what she does. It's kind of mind boggling when I think about how much this band, and its members, have helped to change me.

Major influences: Sarah McLachlan, Ani DiFranco, Jeff Buckley, Tool, Fugazi, Peter Mulvey

8) Lick My Love Pump (2005)
With a Spinal Tap reference right in the band name, you know it has to be good. It's like Smuckers. Sadly, this was a short-lived side project, but it sure was fun. Only ever practicing in my basement and never playing out, we were three girls in search of the ultimate cock-rock cover song. We did "Rock You Like a Hurricane" (which was when I discovered just how hilariously awful and filthy its lyrics are) and had, like, three originals, one of which had a name that I can't print here for fear of earning eternal damnation in a fiery pit of lost souls.

Major influences: Spinal Tap, Sleater Kinney, Scorpions

9) The Buffali (2007-present)
The first band I've ever been in that I joined in-progress. I had nothing to do with their awesome songs and decent level of popularity, just came in and started playing the drums for them when they asked me to. Aporia had played several shows with them back when we were all just starting out, and I was impressed with them from the get-go. So I was flattered when they asked me to join up and help out.

10) The Shabelles (2008-present)
The second band I've ever been in that I joined in-progress. When their last drummer left, the lead singer asked me if I'd like to join up and play with them, which I happily did. At this point, I've only played two gigs with them, but already I'm having a blast. Diabolical future plans involve them playing with Aporia for our next CD release party, and possibly learning how to surf while playing the drums at the same time. It would feel somehow appropriate.

And that's about it! There are a number of smaller projects that I've been involved with over the years, but these are the more notable, substantial ones.

Will I ever make it big as a musician? I don't know. Do I want to? Really, my biggest dream is to be a working musician--that is, someone who can make enough to get by (and get health insurance) through music and writing alone. Even that, though, I recognize to be a pretty hard-to-reach goal. Still, regardless of what level of success I ever reach with it, music has always been, and always will be, an essential part of my life. I've learned so much from it and the people who share it with me, and I wouldn't trade anything for that. Not even winning American Idol.

Come to think of it, that's about the last thing I'd ever want to do.

Have a great weekend!

Relic of my past

Gather 'round children, it's time for me to ramble a story at you.

I've been playing with my new camera lens a lot, exploring its features and trying to become more proficient with the camera itself. The other night, I dug deep into my closet and found my old Civil War reenacting uniform, deciding to use the hat as the subject of a photograph. In the process, I managed to dig up quite a few memories, too.

For some reason I've never been able to fully explain, I've been fascinated by the American Civil War era since I was very young. I've always been a history buff. I love studying humanity: our triumphs, failures, inventions, misdeeds, everything. The personal stories of regular people tend to interest me the most. Still, my specific focus on mid-nineteenth century America came out of left field. I suppose the impetus of my obsession can be traced back to the older brother of my childhood best friend. He was a reenactor, and I often saw him coming or going from various events, dressed in his blue uniform and looking, I thought, super cool.

It was during this time, too, that the movie "Glory" first came out. I still contend (with little dissent) that it's a great movie, and I remember watching it several times when it first came to video.

Several years would pass, I moved to a new state, and eventually became friends with a boy whose family was interested in Civil War reenacting. It was through them that I eventually had my chance to participate. And between my love of history and my love of acting, it quickly became my number one hobby.

Happily, my parents were pretty supportive of me. I suppose having a kid who likes to learn about history, play dress-up and go camping every weekend is a lot better than some alternatives. Still, it's not exactly cheap. I spent a lot of time saving my allowance to afford the various pieces of my uniform before I could officially start reenacting. It was (is) very important to appear "authentic" - or as authentic as any 20th century person can be, anyway.

Keep in mind, too, that I had no desire whatsoever to portray a member of my actual sex. Hoop skirts and bonnets had absolutely zero appeal to me, so I would, quite naturally, act in the role of a young girl who dressed as a boy and went off to soldier. And contrary to what several older gents tried again and again to convince me of, my portrayal was quite authentic. While not super common, there are hundreds of documented cases where women passed as men so they could go off to fight in the war. They did it for every reason under the sun: to follow husbands and sweethearts, to get away from home, to fight for their country, to find adventure. They fought on both sides, north and south, and a handful even managed to become officers. Some served as spies, others as musicians, many as regular enlisted soldiers. They fought, they were wounded, killed, captured--some discovered for what they were, plenty who made it through undetected.

There was at least one documented case of a woman bringing a baby to term, only to be discovered when one of "the boys" gave birth in the middle of camp one day. A fellow soldier, remarking on the occasion in his diary, said that the Union would certainly win if they could keep up their numbers simply by having other soldiers give birth to new ones.

Point is, I realized very quickly that I was more "authentic" than the many late-middle-aged, overweight guys who were out there with me. I had just as much of a "right" to be there, and did my best to maintain my subterfuge. There were plenty of people who never suspected that I was actually a girl, and plenty of people who did know and had no problems with it. Sadly, however, there are still reenactors who don't believe women should be allowed to portray men, and it can be hard to find a unit to join up with. Luckily, my unit was comprised of friends, and it wasn't an issue.

Being that I was too young to drive, most of the reenactments I attended were near my home in Illinois. But in '92, I convinced my folks to take us on a "vacation" to Gettysburg, PA, where my unit would participate in the annual recreation of the famous three-day battle there. I still look back on that trip as one of the best things I've ever done. My unit, the 8th Illinois Cavalry, Co. E., took part in the first days' reenactment which, for the first time in several decades, the park was allowing us to do on the actual battlefield. Even a torrential downpour couldn't dampen my excitement. The accompanying lightning, however, brought an early end to our day.

We spent the following few days touring the park, wandering through the various encampments, and generally exploring. It was a blast, and I promised myself that I'd come back some day (which I did).

And though I stopped reenacting by the time I hit high school (it had become much harder to pass as a boy right around then), my fascination with the time period never ended. I still get this unexplainable thrill every time I read a book or watch a movie or stumble onto a reenactment of the era. And I've kept my uniform. The pants don't fit anymore, but (miraculously) some of the other pieces do. I won't lie: some day, I'm going to find a way to hit the field again, hardtack in one hand and a beeswax-lined canteen in the other. For whatever reason, I'm always drawn back to it--to take a photo, wander a battlefield, read a book, or just to reminisce on my stupid blog.



Further reading about women in the Civil War:

• "They Fought Like Demons: Women Soldiers in the Civil War" by De Anne Blanton and Lauren M. Cook
• "All the Daring of a Soldier" by Elizabeth D. Leonard

Canvassing for the human experience

A number of years ago, after ending my career as a nighttime driver for the now defunct Women's Transit Authority, I was in need of a good-paying job that would get me through the summer until classes started again. Since moving to Madison for school, I'd been seeing fliers all around town that said things like "SUMMER JOBS!" and "JOBS FOR STUDENTS!" - fliers claiming that said employment opportunities would pay "UP TO $1000/WEEK!"

Word on the street, though, was that these were all canvassing jobs, the kinds of things where poor students were put to work pressing bricks all across the city in search of donated money for one political cause or another. Honestly, going door-to-door gives me the heebie jeebies, always has. I couldn't do it when I was selling delicious cookies for the Girl Scouts, so what on earth would possess me to do it now? Still, the promise of such amazing pay was mighty tempting. I'd been making around $400 a month prior to that, surviving off of Easy Mac and whatever snacks the theatre department's costumer would think to bring in for me (God bless her).

Because the prospect of canvassing scared me so much, though, it pushed me to go ahead and apply for the job anyway. My motto has always been to face my fears. The success rate has been mixed, at best, but I still cling to it.

I called and arranged to come in on a Saturday morning, ready for a trial day of work to see if I could hack it as a canvasser on behalf of the Democratic National Committee, or DNC.

They had me fill out the usual application forms, detailing what kind of work experience I had and if I had any "leadership" experience. Apparently, my position as co-editor of the college newspaper counted as "leadership," and a very enthusiastic and bubbly girl told me that I would be a prime candidate for a "field coordinator" position if I stuck it out. Oh yes, love the ego stroking.

New recruits sat in a circle and listened intently as the current student employees raved about the great benefits of the job. "I made $5000 last month! And so can you!"

That kind of money was mighty appealing. I could practically taste the long-neglected grocery shopping trips that were in my future.

And then they dropped the "c" word: commission. Our pay would depend upon how much donation money we were able to solicit from complete strangers. OK, I told myself, you can still totally do this. How hard can it possibly be?

Oh naive, naive girl that I was.

We were separated into groups of about six and sent out in cars to different parts of town. My group ended up in a middle class neighborhood on the near south-east side of the city. I was given a buddy for the day--we'll call him John (not for anonymity's sake, but simply because I can't remember his name)--and he would be showing me the ropes, getting my back, making sure I didn't run screaming for the hills.

We were assigned a section of streets, or "turf" as it's called in the biz, to canvass. John shook his head and mumbled something dour sounding.

"What?" I asked.

"It's not great turf, but we'll be OK," he answered. Somewhat mollified, I nodded in understanding. We weren't on the near east side of Madison anymore, that was for sure. Still, we weren't that far out from downtown, so it couldn't be too bad.

We set off on foot, going from door to door, knocking and giving our preplanned spiel about giving money to support the DNC and campaigns for Democrats across the country. As soon as someone said "I'm a Republican" or even just "No thanks," we smiled politely, said thanks, and moved on. As much as I wanted that commission, I was still unwilling to be the pushy solicitor. If someone was going to give, they would give. There would be no extended sales pitches from me.

Of course, there was also the fact that knocking on the doors of strangers and asking them for money absolutely terrified me. Each time I walked up to an unfamiliar edifice, fist poised, I had to actively swallow down a lump in my throat that threatened to turn into a full-on gag. Still, with the help of my friendly buddy John, I persevered. I smiled, was courteous, informative and calm. This even though I wanted to commit seppuku every time someone turned us down.

And turn us down they did, one after another, house after house, street after street. Weren't nobody in a giving mood. The further along we went, too, the bigger those homes got. Lawns became expansive kingdoms of carefully manicured grass. Driveways were filled with hulking, shiny SUVs. The people at the door looked more and more annoyed with our very presence.

And then it hit me: oh shit, we're in Fitchburg! Not only that, but we'd wandered into one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the county. Absurdly huge homes, not a single junker car in sight, and plenty of withering glances from bronzed wives.

I was vacillating between being horrified and fascinated by this trek through foreign territory. The houses were often huge and glorious on the outside, but our brief glimpses through their front doors revealed bare walls and cavernous rooms, as though the occupants had spent their last dime on the place itself and left nothing for decorations or even furnishings.

There was one home that we skipped outright, sure that it wasn't worth the trip up the long, winding driveway, through the wrought iron gates and up to the butler-manned doors to what honestly looked like a small castle.

We visited over fifty homes that day and, by the end, had only received two donations. They were the refreshingly bright spots in our otherwise soul-crushingly bad day. John called it the worse turf he'd ever seen.

One of the kind souls who took pity on us actually invited us inside for cold drinks (it was an immensely hot day, on top of it all). She said that both she and her husband were teachers, probably the only two Democrats in the entire neighborhood, and boy she sure didn't envy us our jobs. We smiled and gratefully drank the offered sodas before taking her donation and heading out again.

It was at that point that John told me it was time to fly solo for awhile. I was to prove my mettle, make my own way. Needless to say, I was not overly enthused by the prospect. Still, off he went, leaving me to canvass what looked to me like the richest section of this very rich neighborhood.

About thirty seconds passed between John disappearing down the road and me deciding that I didn't give a flying fuck anymore. I'd had more than enough of the relentless rejection. Instead, I wrote down a long series of addresses on my little clipboard, marking each with a "no donation" or "nobody home," and then decided to simply explore a nearby park.

This decision made me feel immeasurably better.

I traipsed through an overgrown field, chased butterflies, and inspected tiny insects before becoming distracted by the prospect of exploring a nearby unfinished home. It was an old habit. Part of my adolescence was spent living near a rapidly developing subdivision, which meant ample opportunity for running around in the frames of houses at night with friends. There was something thrilling about messing around in structures that would someday house families who would be totally unaware of our past exploits. We never vandalized the places, we just looked around. Sometimes we'd find a corner that was hidden from the road and just sit, shooting the shit and fooling around. That's what you did for fun in the 'burbs, yo.

So it was that I found myself climbing over a trench that surrounded a large, unfinished house, and pulling myself up through what would eventually become the front door. I walked around and inspected the plumbing work, checked out the upper levels and generally snooped around. My fun was ruined, however, when I noticed someone in the house next door watching me through their window. I hurriedly climbed back out of the house and ran across the street into the protection of the overgrown field. The neighbor didn't disappoint, either. A few moments later a squad car rolled by, slowing as it approached the unfinished house and lingering for a bit before moving on.

Finally, the day came to a close and it was time to report back to the car. I felt a little bad for lying about what I'd actually done that afternoon, but to hell with it, I was done. My canvassing career was over before it had really begun. We went back to headquarters, turned in our sheets and our donations (what little we'd all made, anyway), and got the final speech of the day. I informed them that it wasn't for me, but thanks for the opportunity anyway.

I came away from the day with absolutely zero dollars in pay.

Happily, about a week later I landed a decent job as a barista at a local coffee shop. Still, I don't look back at my day as a canvasser as a total loss. I had faced my fear and given it a try, at least, even though it ended with me having a renewed and strengthened resolve never to do that again. Too, it had given me a fascinating if brief glimpse into a hidden world.

It also made me wonder how many well-intentioned, young, potential political activists walk into a canvassing job only to be totally burnt out by the whole experience. The work sucks. The pay is sketchy at best. How long can you do that before getting totally turned off? It seems like a mild abuse of the very people who should be getting the most encouragement to become active and engaged in politics and social movements.

Whatever the case, I'm not sorry for giving up so quickly. It was for the best. It's entirely likely I would have ended up punching someone in the face eventually, and no one wants that.

Thanks, Sarah

And now for something completely different.

I don't normally make a habit of posting personal essays, but in the end, I write about what's on my mind. So, take it or leave it, I guess, and have a lovely day.


Anyone who knows me is likely to tell you that I am a little...obsessed...with Sarah McLachlan. Honestly, being that I’ve never actually met the woman, I’d say it’s more accurate to say that I’m obsessed with her music. That’s the truth of the matter, really, plus it sounds a little less, well, creepy.

My love affair with her music dates back to some unremembered time in 1995 when my older sister bought Solace, McLachlan’s second album. This was followed in short order by her purchasing Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, McLachlan’s more recently released third album. Every morning before school, I’d awake to the sound of my sister singing along to one or another track while she showered. And every morning, my groggy, prepubescent brain would say to itself, Emily, you should find out who this is, because it’s really fucking good.

Finally, I asked, and sis made me a tape copy of Fumbling Towards Ecstasy that would soon be getting frequent play on my Walkman. I listened to it on the bus to school. I listened to it when I rode my bike around town. Terrified of singing in public, I nonetheless took to memorizing every lyric to every song and belting them out when I was sure no one was around. I was in love with this album. It was perfect from beginning to end, like a well-orchestrated symphony, and its themes seemed both timeless and extremely relevant to me.

I’m sure this was only magnified at the time by my boisterously chaotic hormones, but even now, I hold fast to my assertion that it’s one of the greatest records ever.

I was an awkward looking teenager; a tomboy who played the drums, loved softball, climbed trees and had boys for best friends, one of whom I also secretly harbored a perfectly serious crush on. This, my soundtrack for all of the angst that this entailed, stayed in my Walkman for days on end.

Somewhere in the midst of all that, my mother got sick. The illness turned into something I could barely wrap my head around, something that dragged out into years of surgery, rehabilitation, more surgery, brain damage, and yet more surgery. My older brother and sister were away at college, so my father and I were left to take care of her. There’s no resentment there, just fact. Still, it was a lot. Music turned into the one thing I could always escape into when things got too complicated. Sometimes that was my raucous punk band. Sometimes that was donning my headphones, disappearing into my tree fort and staring up at the sky and just listening.

Sarah McLachlan’s next major record, Surfacing, came out in July of 1997. Just a few months prior, I’d discovered an online mailing list of Sarah fans who called themselves Fumblers. The magical and sometimes bizarre world of the internet was still somewhat new to me then and the idea of an international, easy-to-access fan club and information hub was extremely exciting. I promptly joined and learned about the formation of Lilith Fair, about various Sarah b-sides I’d never heard before, about concerts from long before I’d discovered her, about other artists, about how to refer to her by her first name only.

I went to Lilith Fair that summer when it stopped in Chicago. It was me and my sister and a few of her friends. They’d all gotten tickets for the lawn, but my sister and I had scored pavilion seats up front. We stayed back on the grass with our friends for most of the acts, but when it came time for Sarah to take the stage, there was no stopping us. We took our places up front and were promptly lost in reverie as the music began.

When she played “Hold On,” we couldn’t help but get a little misty-eyed. It seemed all-together too timely, considering the situation with mom. During the chorus to “Witness,” several red glow sticks appeared throughout the crowd: the Fumbler’s bat signal to recognize one another at shows. They were out there. And then, when it came time for the traditional sing-along to “Ice Cream,” I had a moment. It was sort of transcendental, I guess, this feeling of awe and of being part of something huge and wonderful. Or maybe someone nearby was smoking something special, but whatever. This whole stadium of people was singing these lovely lyrics back to the woman who’d penned them. It was almost overwhelming, that sound. And it made me want, more than anything, to have the chance to do something similar, to stand on stage and make people feel something, anything good, with music.

It would take years to get at all close to achieving that goal, but that was the starting line.

That fall, just over a month into my sophomore year of high school, my mother finally succumbed to her lengthy illness and passed away. I can’t explain what that was like, except to say that it sucked. It really, really sucked.

In the mental haze that followed, I sent a brief email to the Fumblers, explaining what had happened and why I would likely be incommunicado for awhile. There was an immediate outpouring of support from the list, something I hadn’t really expected from strangers, but there was still more to come.

On the morning of my mom’s memorial service, I awoke to my dad standing in the doorway of my bedroom. He had the most impressively gigantic basket of flowers clutched in his hands and he was chuckling (which was good, because none of us had done that in days).

“Who is this from?” he asked, incredulous. I sat up in bed and examined the little card buried beneath layers of foliage.

It said: “From the Fumblers.”

I nearly cried, of course. These people hardly knew me. And wait a minute, how had they gotten my address, anyway?

As luck would have it, the answer was far less unnerving than it might have been. One of the secretaries at my father’s church, which was just a parking lot away from our house, was good friends with a woman on the Fumblers mailing list. This woman had simply asked for the address at the church and then had the flowers forwarded on. This was also how I got my second Fumbler gift; a book, called Motherless Daughters, that ended up helping a great deal with getting me through it all (which is saying something, because, as a general rule, I don't like self-help books). This woman, too, had lost her mother, and the book had come to her at just the right time as well.

I wish I could remember who she was, because I’d love to send her another thank-you now, even so many years later.

And maybe it’s weird, but someday I hope I get the chance to thank Sarah herself, both for making the music that’s seen me through so many good times and bad, and for providing the impetus for people like the Fumblers to come together and generally be awesome. I’d be lying if I said I also didn’t secretly hope to someday get the chance to jam with her and her band. A girl can dream, right?

In the meantime, I have the music. I also have the good example set by a musician who has given so much to promote and fund charitable organizations, good causes, and fledgling musicians alike.

I’ll likely never be half the musician that Sarah McLachlan is, and no matter what my id might pretend otherwise, that’s not really what I’ve ever wanted. I’ll find my own path through music and through life.

Regardless of the outcome, though, I’ll have an excellent soundtrack to see me through it, and I’m grateful for that.

The Tree Forts of Our Lives

Long, long ago, in a land not so far away (the far western suburbs of Chicago, that is), there lived a young girl called Emily (that’d be me) who loved, more than anything, to spend her days outside, exploring and hanging out with her friends.

Summer, fall, winter and spring: every season had something to offer. When the snow came, the plows followed, and they pushed great heaps of snow into small mountains behind my home, and I’d dig and pack and scrape them into ice fortresses. When the snow melted it formed rushing rivers in the gutters and trenches of my neighborhood, and I’d wade through them pretending to be an intrepid explorer, crafting small boats from tinfoil and sailing them through the rapids. In the summer, when school was over and there were no other obligations, I would team up with my friends to build tree forts all throughout town.

One fort went up in a tall, skinny pine tree in my front yard. Another was built in a nearby forest preserve. But the crowning achievement, a collaborative effort between a whole gaggle of local kids, was built in the most perfect tree fort tree ever, in the woods that lined the bike path separating an old subdivision from a vast wasteland that would soon be a new subdivision.

Me and my two best friends stumbled onto the initial construction of the fort one day early in the summer. Someone had built a very solid platform into the strong, supportive branches of the tree. We approached the thing in awe, admiring the sturdy design and thrilling over the future building possibilities inherent therein. And since the fort was on public ground—nestled into a thin strip of woods between the path and the new subdivision—it was, according to the unwritten rules of neighborhood kids, fair game.

Nearly every day that followed saw me and my two friends returning to work on the fort. In addition to our own additions—walls, ceilings, rope ladder, a pulley system for hauling things up the tree—we could see that others were also putting work into the thing. It was shaping up to be the very best fort in town, and it needed a name that reflected its glory. The three friends played on a cul-de-sac league street hockey team with an undefeated record, and so they decided to name the fort after the team: Fort Black Cat. The name was fierce, sleek, and totally rad: they loved it.

Some days, when my two friends were otherwise occupied, I would go to the fort on my own. Sometimes I’d work on it, adding a support board here or a spy hole there, but sometimes I’d just lie down on the floor of the first level (for there were three levels, you see), Walkman playing Bjork’s first solo album, eyes trained on the canopy of leaves and the blue sky overhead. I’d think about all sorts of things: the crush I’d had on my best friend for so many years, new songs lyrics for our punk band, how much junior high sucked and how much I looked forward to college, whether my mother would ever get well again, and how cool Sarah McLachlan and Ian MacKaye were.

Your typical rambling thoughts of an adolescent tomboy, I suppose.

I looked forward to those days as much as I did to the days when me and my friends would hide in the branches for hours, working, spying on passing cyclists, and waging guerilla warfare on other nearby forts.

These other, far less glorious structures were sprinkled all along the path. Some were the sole domain of the kids whose backyards they sat in. Others were similarly operated by a collective. None were as magnificent as Fort Black Cat. There was one fort, however, that had attained its own sort of mythical status, one not earned for its strategic location or expert construction, but for something that held far more power over the teenaged mind. It was known only as the Porn Fort, and its walls were covered with clippings from various pornographic magazines.

We had first discovered the Porn Fort quite by accident. We were out exploring the woods, looking for bits of trash that might be useful for our own fort, when the foreign base loomed up in front of us. It was two “stories” tall and built almost completely free-standing, one side simply leaning lightly against a very put-upon looking tree. The bottom floor was empty and unremarkable, save the small ladder that led up through a hole in the ceiling that let out into the top floor. It was a bit of design genius: there was no way to see the interior of the top level from outside, you had to climb up through the hole to get there, and as your head rose through the floor, your eyes were suddenly inundated with the fort’s impressive gallery of filth.

It would have been a far more popular place to visit had it not been for the foul tempered shitheads who watched over it like pubescent hawks. They were high school freshmen, and therefore far more imposing a foe than any of our fellow middle school peers might have been. So it was that our first visit to the fort was our last, both because its owners happened upon us gawking and threatened to kick our butts and because, about a month later, someone’s parents found out about it and tore it down.

But what did we need the Porn Fort for, other than to assuage our curiosities? We had Black Cat, and no other fort around could match it.

By the time summer came to a close, our fort had become the crowning jewel of tree forts, a real work of tree fort art, born of blood, sweat and a few tears. We were so caught up in the initial euphoria of the thing that, at first, we hardly noticed that it was becoming less fun just to hang out there. Building it had giving us purpose and drive, but now that it was finished, what more was there to do? We could sit inside and watch the bulldozers in the nearby field as they prepared the way for the new housing development. We could play cards, scare off other kids, and have little picnics. Eventually, though, the initial luster wore off, and as the school year began and then progressed, we just forgot to go out to the fort at all.

When winter had come and gone, and spring was beginning to drown the world in melt water, I realized how long it had been since I’d gone to check on the place and decided to go back. I rode my bike to the hidden path in the tree line, followed it over the low mound of dirt and into the clearing under the tree that held the fort—only there was no tree, no clearing even. The bulldozers had cleared the woods on that side to make way for the backyards of the new homes that had suddenly sprung up there. The fort was gone.

High school came and went with its usual combination of drudgery, drama, good times and bad times. My mother passed away. My band broke up. We moved to another state entirely and I started all over for two years before leaving yet again for college. I never built another tree fort, but I always thought about it. I still do. And someday, maybe when I have kids of my own or maybe just for my own shits and giggles, I will build another tree fort. And I will give it a totally awesome name, like Fort Skull or Fort Puma or something. Still, I’m not sure anything could ever live up to Fort Black Cat, and all the memories associated with its time. I’m not sure that I mind.

…for D. and A.

Top Things I've Forgotten This Year

Seriously, with all of the end of the year best-of lists floating around these days, you'd think my own memory for the aught-seven that was would be a little more refreshed.

I've committed myself to writing a "Top 5 Strangest/Most Interesting Madison Related Events" list for dane101, and I'm worried that my poor, swiss cheese-like memory may not be up to the task. It's like everything prior to the ACT ride in August has been clouded over by all of the bike training I was doing.

Anyway, I realize that I don't have the highest readership ever, but I thought I'd go out on a limb and ask--what Madison related events/people/whatever stand out the most to you from this year? And no, I'm not asking you to make my list for me. I'll figure that out, one way or another, even if it ends up just being a list of what parts of my body all this biking has been effecting most, for better or for worse. I'm just curious about what I've forgotten, and what was notable to other people. It's a good way to get out of my own head now and again.

The comments section is yours for the memory lane-ing!

In the meantime, it's time to start hitting the whatever that herb that's supposed to help improve memory is called.