The Days Are Just PACKED

Prepping the balloon

I've been looking through the pictures I took while I was home last week: a sampler tray of beer from Corner Brewery in Ypsilanti; the flowers blooming along my parent's barn; our dog Molly grinning; Whitmore Lake reflecting the sky in such a way that I could see the depth of both sky and water simultaneously.

I was home for less than seventy-two hours, but they were wonderful hours. We celebrated my dad's sixty-fifth birthday as a family. My older brother and I discovered the beer garden that appears in a magical manner outside Downtown Home and Garden when the evening draws in. I had a chance to jam with some of the jazz musicians I worked with in college. The hours were packed with happy occurrences for me, and a list (however long) cannot convey them in their entirety.

Perhaps I am inclined to romanticize my time at home, because there are so many elements of home that I no longer have the privilege of enjoying. Things like making plans with good friends for tomorrow or next week—taking a walk around the yard while Molly races in loops around me—discovering that someone has made delicious food, and there are leftovers in the refrigerator up for grabs...really simple, stupidly simple, things that I miss every day.

And of course, nobody in Wisconsin is asking me if I'd be interested in going balloon chasing.

Balloon chasing turns out to be very close to what I expected. My friend Mike Ball brought me along as ground crew for a balloon launch. It involved a very early morning, a van trip trying to follow a balloon that didn't have to follow roads, 9am champagne, and (oddly enough) a Fox 2 news team. Despite the fact that I didn't actually go up in the balloon, it was weirdly exhilarating. Hot air balloons! TV cameras! Sparkling wine! This is not my every-day fare.

Bringing in the second balloon

Once again, the details aren't nearly as interesting when listed as they were to live through. My co-workers have been asking about my trip home, and I have yet to come up with a better answer than, “It was soooooo great!” In truth, it was even better than that—a mixture of familiar and new, of family and friends.

A Gathering of August Days

I haven't written a blog post in nearly a month, despite best laid plans, because life has gotten in the way. First I went home for a variety of reasons, so I didn't feel like I needed to write—everybody who reads this would see me in person, for as little as a hello or as much as possible in a week. Then I found a job, and an apartment, so I had all these beautiful feelings about life working out.

And then, after being very gracious (I felt) and hauling my trombone about a mile across town so I could do a sound-test for the new landlord, my lease application was unceremoniously dumped. I'm not saying there was a bias against me being a musician, although there definitely was that tension in the air. What did happen was a freak occurrence of both my new boss and my landlord being out of town and out of reach; this combination seemed to convince the landlord that I was lying about my job and leasing history.

All in all, it was awful. It rankled, and festered, and sucked maggoty gopher guts. Not only was I on the hunt for a new apartment with only a week left on my lease, but for maybe the first time in my entire life someone looked at me, looked at my blue eyes and blond hair and earnest habit of talking, and thought to themselves that I looked like someone who is untrustworthy. Someone who might play loud bass guitar at 2am. Someone who won't be willing or able to pay rent on time.

This made me feel highly insulted and also weirdly as if I had spent my entire life surrounded by a cushion of privilege.

In the end, though, I found a place to live in the same way that I found a sublet at the beginning of summer: I scoured Craigslist. I sent out email after email, made calls, toured single-bedroom flats, and met prospective housemates. With just two days to spare before officially becoming homeless, I signed a lease with four guys on an apartment in the more hippy-dippy, artistic, slightly pretentious part of Madison just off Williston St, right on the isthmus between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona.

So far, it's been going as well as can be expected. The washer in the basement doesn't work, but the front door lock was replaced. I wish I could have the entire shower ripped out and replaced, but at least the grout was re-done. It's a mile hike to work, and with the exception of days when I'm tired because I was on my feet for nine hours, I like the walk. Sometimes I stop to sit and look at the lake. Sometimes I merely look at the houses I pass and think about the lives that take place inside of them.

Most importantly, I have my own space—my own bed, my own kitchen, my own room. It'll take a few more books and posters to make it feel like home, but I'm working on it, and it will get there.