Each time I go to a free event in town I’m reminded why I don’t go to free events in town.

Sure you get some goofy-looking folks at county and state fairs.

However, when they are right in front of you, with no pronto pup stand to shield them from your view, well, it makes it that much worse.

For starters, there’s the requisite unattended kids that always look like they haven’t bathed in days. And there’s always one too-old kid wreaking havoc on the playground equipment, freaking out all the littles around him.

Then there’s the insanely young woman with eight kids. I hope the smile on her face doesn’t betray some kind of inner turmoil of having to mind all of them as her husband sits on his chair watching the free show.

Over there I see Mr. Skinny Barefoot guy, bare-chested with a long scraggly beard letting his unleashed dog roam the grounds, jumping on a much better behaved and t leashed, pooch.

Then I catch myself.

Judgmental much?

Yes, but that’s the risk they – and I, I suppose – take when being seen in public.

Maybe it’s because I’m hangry. I was told there would be food and beer trucks but there are none in sight.

This is obviously a truly free event.

Alas, I look around, trying to find something positive of which to end the evening.

Look, there’s the old couple solely and uninhibitedly dancing in front of everyone. And over there I see a couple laughing with two little kids sitting on their laps, bouncing to the music.

I may just attend another music in the park after all.

I’ll just remember to buy a sandwich at Subway and bring my own cooler packed with a couple of ice cold beers.

Ever Forward.

That’s how I get through most days.

I say those two words when I’m feeling stuck. When I am sitting at my desk staring off into space with a million tasks facing me on my to-do list.

Is it because I don’t know where to begin or am I trying to figure out which item seems less daunting than the next?

So for a perpetual procrastinator and self-proclaimed idler, I need all the motivation I can get.

Ergo, somewhere in the depths of my brain, I pull out that phrase – Ever Forward.

I’ll say it in my mind, or whisper it aloud, and then will get up to do something – anything – no matter how big or small.

It may be putting the towels in the washer.

It may be running upstairs to take my anti-anxiety pill that I forgot to in the morning.

It may be telling myself I’ll wipe down the bathroom sink only, secretly knowing once I start I’ll easily move on to the tub and toilet.

It may be simply filling up my watering can, heading outdoors, and tending to my container plants. Inevitably, I usually end up seeing some weeds in the flower garden that need to be pulled. Which then, after tossing them in the trash bin, I may be inspired to empty all the small wastebaskets around the house.

Next thing I know, I’m doing one of my favorite, albeit satisfying, tasks of all – crossing things off my list.

Sometimes it may be picking up one of my beloved colorful pens and just start writing…

Which eventually – and satisfyingly – often leads to a blog post…

Why does 8 p.m. in Minnesota summers feel like the beginning of the evening but the end of the day during the winter? It always amazes me how much the sun affects our lives.

I’m not a fan of the heat it produces but I love the light.

I love how it fuels my energy all through the day and into the night.

I love to see my broccoli and jalapeno peppers start to sprout in the vegetable garden.

I get immense pleasure in sitting on my deck, surrounded by the container flowers I planted in the spring, having a drink with my son and playing Scrabble with my daughter.

This month is the reason we Minnesotans live here. It’s the stuff of my dreams that I hold onto through our state’s icy winters.

If this quote doesn’t affectionately and accurately summarize my feelings, then nothing does:

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

     -James Russell Lowell

I did the most Minnesotan thing today. I walked my parents out to their car after a visit at my house and then proceeded to talk to my mother for three full minutes after they both got in the car and her door was still open.

Then my mother did another Minnesota classic – after her door was shut she told me through the glass to say hi to the rest of the family.

While trekking across the University of Minnesota’s immense East Bank campus in the fall of 1990, I overheard a snippet of conversation between two girls, who I assume were sorority sisters.

I don’t recall their exact words but they were discussing clothes. One girl said she was going to be purchasing a trench coat from London Fog.

Oh, how the brand rolled off her tongue like butter! There was not one hint of wondering if she had the money for the jacket or that she finally saved up for it herself while working extra shifts at the bar. It was a fact. It was imminent. She would be, very soon, buying a piece of clothing that, at least at that time, cost more than the outfit I had been currently wearing and the outfit I’d be wearing the next day. And possibly even the day after that…

But it was more than just the jacket. The entire discussion, though I didn’t hear it in its entirety, embodied everything I wished I was – rich, popular, and beautiful. Yes, my family always had plenty of gifts at Christmas and I had friends all through my school years. It wasn’t, however, until my first year of college, that I discovered a curling iron and makeup worked wonders in getting guys to look at me.

But every one of those things I had to work at – money, looks, any kind of social status.

I envied those to which, correctly or not, all three seemed so effortless.

Nonetheless, college offered me, as it does everyone, a chance to reinvent myself.

It wasn’t a bad thing. I wasn’t trying to be someone I wasn’t. What that conversation between the two girls did was make me aim to be who I wanted to be. It motivated me to cultivate a well-tailored wardrobe with money I made from working hard.

It was sometime in my mid-20’s that I discovered Banana Republic, when the store was filled with well-made safari jackets in brown, black, and that God-kissed hue – khaki.

And, as it turned out, trench coats.

At the full price of almost $200, I splurged on the perfect double-breasted khaki (!) piece and wore it with everything.

The coat instantly elevated any outfit I was wearing, from jeans and ankle boots to a blouse, skirt, and heels.

My favorite look with it by far was when I wore my shoulder-length hair pulled forward, collar up, and sunglasses.

Done.

I may not have had more than $50 in my bank account afterwards, but I strutted around like I had a thousand.

That trench and my subsequent purchases all veered towards the preppy side, perhaps as a subconscious nod to the sorority girls I felt were still walking behind me.

It’s a look of which I aspire to yet today – clean, classic, and timeless. There’s pants and button-down shirts in my closet that I’ve worn for years.

I still don’t have the limitless funds I perceived those girls probably had/have but I’ve learned to mix high and low. My high being, of course, a J Crew blazer and low being a witty, tight-fitting t-shirt underneath it – such as “I Just Want to Drink Wine and Pet My Dog.”

So imagine the smile on my face when, a few years ago, I was perusing the racks at TJ Maxx and came across an item from another world.

It was a lovely caramel colored alligator leatheresque handbag.

And the label said it all – London Fog.

I bought it immediately.

Sometimes, deep down, I feel each day is secretly, subconsciously spent waiting for when it’s time to go to bed.

Sometimes all it takes for a perfect day is good friends, a few beers, plenty of snacks, and great conversation.

Even though my friend’s father passed away a few days prior, and though it was expected and he lived a full life all his 91 years, to laugh and chat away, occasionally going up against each other in politically-heated discussions, the love was felt all around the table. Five of us talking, joking, and loving on each other was the only way to help our friend through this difficult time.

I don’t even want to think about my own dad’s passing. He’s not ready, nor am I. But when the time comes, hopefully in the distant future, I hope my same friends come over to spend the exact same night with me.

Had the best Mother’s Day. Really, any day, with my husband and kids hanging out with me and laughing is a mother’s day to me.

As in most holidays-non-holidays (which I include as most “Days” – both Mother’s and Father’s, Grandparent’s, Valentine’s, etc…) I didn’t expect a ton.

I woke up thinking all I really wanted was for the four of us – husband and two kids – to attend church in-person together.

Amazingly enough, it happened, without me even voicing my desire.

There were, the four of us, all riding in dad’s truck together.

I smiled as we pulled into the parking lot, thinking that if that’s all I got today, I’d be a happy mother.

But then we got home and, as I apparently was engrossed in my daily crossword puzzle (Sunday mornings are my favorite time to work on one) I hadn’t noticed that my kids went shopping for me. As I was filling in the last answers, they each presented me with a heartfelt hand-written card. I noticed thought was put into buying the cards – one was a pig with a daisy in its mouth – I’ve always loved pigs – in fact, I used to collect them by the dozens for decades. The other was made to look like the cover of a book, which of course fits me perfectly as I’m a rabid reader.

The cards accompanied a gorgeous hanging plant with flowers representing my two favorite colors – red and hot pink. Lush green leaves filled out the rest of the basket.

The evening was topped off by a delicious meal of teriyaki kabobs, jalapeno poppers, and soft baked potatoes slathered in cheese, butter, Top the Tater, and a healthy dose of salt and pepper.

Afterwards, the husband went to bed while both kids hung out with me in the kitchen as I washed dishes. We joked around and talked about, well, pretty much nothing.

But all that nothing meant the entire world to me.

Some memories pop up when you least expect them.

Looking out our kitchen window the other day I saw a red ball in our backyard pond (ok, storm water drainage pool) and wondered where it came from. It got to me thinking about a certain other ball from my youth.

My brother’s Big New Orange Ball.

With his blonde bowl cut, my brother would stand with his arm around his prized possession at the door of our childhood home’s living room and ask me if I wanted to play with his Big New Orange Ball. That’s what the toy would always be referred to as, despite after a while the ball being neither new nor exactly orange (more the color of a pumpkin picked four weeks prior). Nor, thinking about it, was it always big. At one point I believe it popped and our dad had to put a screw in it after filling it with air.

Buy a replacement ball??

Never. Because the game we played with it just wouldn’t be the same.

We called the game Bop. The rules (rule, rather) was simple. We hit – bopped – the ball to each other, counting along the way, trying not to let the ball hit the ground.

One time we got to some magic number (was it 80? I don’t recall) and it was our highest ever. We ran around and around the room in celebration.

Come to think of it, it’s surprising that our mom let us bat around a ball in the house. Some friends’ living rooms were off-limits to children. But ours was open for anything. With its thick yellow “drapes” (never referred to as curtains) and Oscar the Grouch-colored green carpet, nothing must have been too breakable for my mom to worry about us destroying. Either that or she was just happy us kids were occupied, which left her to do her own thing.

Sure Bop was fun, but the best part was hanging out with my brother.

Two years younger than me, we were each other’s playmates a good portion of the day. Oftentimes we dragged out every piece of his massive Star Wars collection of figurines and spaceships or his orange (there’s that color again!) Hot Wheels tracks and spent hours completely engaged.

He and I have grown up of course and remain close. But sometimes he’ll still be the kid standing in front of me asking me to play with his Big New Orange Ball.

The best advice to someone building a new house in the Midwest?

Spend the money and get the whole entire house finished – basement and all – right away.

Build the deck and patio, and outfit both with the comfy furniture you want. Finish the basement – complete with a bar and huge TV and extra bedroom for guests.

Have your kitchen and closets immediately organized with shelving. Put in a workbench in the garage (even if neither of you are handy – trust me on this). Build a shed in your backyard to house your snow blower, mower, and garden tools.

Whatever. Just get your house completely livable from the get-go.

Don’t even try to say you’ll eventually get around to it. If it’s because of cost, 95% of the time you’ll be wrong. Add it to your mortgage. Put it on credit. But for all that is holy, build your house so you and your family can start living in it – entirely and comfortably – right as you step foot over the threshold for the first time.