Audrey in the 'Hood

To begin, I have to give credit to my wife for coming up with the name for our little blog. Big Love, Little Peanut: Living with Audrey Grace. Simple. Heartfelt. And a constant reminder that this blog is about Audrey, not her dad‘s incoherent musings. And it far outshines any of the suggestions I contributed. I’m just not very adept at naming. I suggested The Baby Ledger. Boring. Baby Blog? Bland. I thought that The Poo Diaries was clever. Hey, did I not just say that I’m not very good at this? So kudos to Janell.

I must say that prior to Audrey’s arrival I gave zero consideration when overhearing friends and colleagues talk about their children’s schools. Now I think about Audrey’s potential schools daily. It’s no wonder that listing for homes always give school information. Well, we happen to live three blocks from Lake Harriet school, which from what I gather is one of the best in the state. I spent some time inside the school a couple of years ago when I took an adult education Spanish class. My favorite part about the class was the that I could walk to it. I imagine Audrey making that same walk someday. Apparently, she’ll be fortunate to be able to attend. A friend of mine told me that kids can only attend the school if they are enrolled in kindergarten - families can't "move in" or transfer when their kids are older. Now that I write that, it seems dubious. I'll have to look it up. Regardless, I never planned it, but we may have stumbled onto the perfect place for Audrey to go to school.

Another reason I like our neighborhood is the kids. These days you read about parents scheduling every minute of their kids’ day with organized activities, so it’s comforting to see the small clusters of kids riding their bikes and scooters up and down the street after school and on the weekend, happily making their way to Pershing Park just down the street. They remind me of being young and spending countless summer hours exploring every nook and cranny of my tiny hometown of Rose Creek. Some day I want Audrey to be one of those kids. Seeing them gallivanting up and down the block reassures me that kids still know how to play. I’ve yet to see a bunch of them organize a pick-up baseball game, something we did every day all summer long, but I guess I can live with that for now.

Remarkably, it appears that by settling in this cozy corner of Minnesota’s largest city, I discovered a neighborhood reminiscent of my hometown. We have old homes, colorful characters, alleys for visiting with neighbors, unsupervised kids, a locally owned hardware store, and huge sleepy trees. And one more thing - we have virtually no crime.

“No crime?! But you live in Minneapolis!” you say. But think of the city as dozens, perhaps even a hundred individual neighborhoods, each with it’s own distinct history and character. Ok, no community is 100% crime free, but when I moved in, one of my new neighbors, a retired Minneapolis cop named Bob, told me that there hasn’t been a major crime on our street since 1973. I guess he would know. He also “patrols” our alley daily, strolling up and down, carefully keeping mental tabs on the comings and goings of cars, both strange and familiar. Some might find this grating or invasive, but I see it as somewhat enduring.

We have had some excitement, however. Two summers ago before I was married and while I was still rooming with my brother, the Minneapolis SWAT team swarmed our block. Apparently Dale, the large, ever flannel-shirted, ZZ Top-bearded guy down the street kicked his wife and kids out of the house and held himself hostage with a gun for several hours. I arrived home from work to find my alley blocked off with police tape. My brother told me that he witnessed the SWAT team guys cutting through our yard establishing a perimeter with a black cable. The standoff eventually ended quietly and was probably much ado about nothing. Maybe he forgot to take his meds or something. One week later there he was at our neighborhood block party and all was OK. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never has a real conversations with him. I guess I don’t know quite what to say. There’s my goal for the summer - I need to chat up Dale. This is a guy I need to know. Another note about Dale - his was the only house on the street to display a “Bush/Chaney” sign four years ago. And by “sign“ I mean four-by-six foot billboard. You could see it from 6 blocks away. I think he’s wound a little tight. Don’t get me wrong. As far as neighbors I’ve never spoken to go, I love Dale. I see his kids playing up and down the street every day in the summer. They seem nice, if not slightly mischievous. I’d like Audrey to meet him someday, assuming I ever talk to him.

Sadly, crime has even reached our household. One chilly night this past January, we absent-mindedly left our garage door open overnight. When I awoke the next morning, I immediately remembered, and an ominous feeling gripped me. Sure enough, we had been vandalized. Debris littered the floor of the garage and interiors of our cars. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that the contents of our glove compartments had been strewn about as if someone was frantically looking for something. Money? Drugs? Tic Tacs? But we both had money in our car that was left untouched. And my wife’s crystal meth was stashed securely in the nursery. What, if anything, were they looking for? I took a quick inventory - nothing seemed to be gone or out of place except the few receipts, insurance information, flashlight, calculator and sunglasses scattered about my front seat.

I was bewildered. Was there a message here? Was I missing something? I repeatedly combed through the now-collected contents trying to fathom some devious intent, but it just wasn’t there. Then I saw it. Near the rear of the garage lay an oddly lumped cloth, as if covering something. I hadn’t noticed it before. With some apprehension I slowly approached it, noticing when I leaned closer that it was actually the non-stick mat that my wife uses to keep her “emergency” crate from sliding around in the back of her Jeep (she tends to drive like Tony Stewart on an IV drip of Red Bull). Baffled, I picked it up and discovered. . . a big pile of frozen poo. Yes, someone and dropped his pants and in the frigid January air, placed a poo in our garage. He no-doubt was sending us a message: “Don’t leave your garage door open all night, Stupid, or I will poop near your snow blower.” Part of me hopes it was Dale. How's that for an icebreaker?

Maybe “Poo Diaries” would have worked after all.