July 15th, 2008 by Jennine

I’m 37 years old and yet to be trusted with the names of lakes where the men in my family catch fish. I come from a long line of Lake Liars.

Back when my Grandma and Grandpa used to take us grand kids with them on vacation to the north shore of Minnesota, we’d often go fishing on remote lakes near the BWCA. Being an inquisitive youth, I’d always ask “Which lake are we going to fish on, Grandpa?” His reply was always the same.

“White Pine”

Since Grandpas don’t lie, I never questioned his answer until I was in my early teens. Even then, I was reluctant to verbalize my skepticism out of respect.

And fear.

But the older I became, the more I paid attention to which direction we were headed and which road we were traveling on.

As I began to put together the pieces of the Lake Liar puzzle, I was insulted with the discovery that I was deemed untrustworthy with Lake information.

Did Grandpa think I was going to go into town and announce to all his fishing competition that Grandpa caught his record walleye on 48° 5′ 6″ N Latitude, 90° 44′ 59″ W Longitude in the shallows of Lake Donttellasoul? Was he worried that I’d be kidnapped and forced to spill the secrets of his angling by way of tickle torture?

The icing on the Lake Liar cake happened when I went to the same vacation spot with my parents just last year. Darren had the kids at home which afforded me the opportunity to be on the lake in my parents boat rather than on the shoreline with seven active children.

As we were packing up to head out to fish, I asked the question.

“Hey Dad, which lake are we going to?”

He. Actually. Hesitated. Before answering as if to weigh the risk of sharing Lake Knowledge with someone who has never taken the blood oath of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”.  I guess he was contemplating the scenario of having his own daughter break the golden silence while in line at the Trading Post.

Tourist to me: “Hey, are you from around here? I’m trying to find a place to set my line and you look like someone who easily spills the beans.”

Me to tourist: “Why yes, I was just fishing with my father and grandfather and we hit the jackpot on Lake Donttellasoul. Would you like me to guide you to the spot because I’m the great-great-great-great grand daughter of Sacagawea and great-grand daughter of Deep Throat. Not only can I tell you my secrets but I can SHOW YOU!”

Yesterday Kevin came home from mom and dad’s house where they spent the day putting a hitch on our minivan and building a rack to attach to the hitch so that we have more room to bring necessities. Kevin was all excited.

“Mom! I’m buying a Trout Stamp. When we get up north, we’re going to pick up Great Grandpa and bring him fishing at…”

Kevin stopped midway through his sentence.

MY OWN SON HESITATED TO TELL ME WHICH LAKE!

“BRING HIM FISHING WHERE, KEVIN!” I demanded.

“Um… you know…that lake with the dock and all the huge trout.”

“If you say ‘White Pine’ you are grounded for LIFE.”

“Fine. I won’t say it.”

ARRRRGH!

For the record, when we return from our little camping trip, I’m going to post, for the world to see, the exact name of the lake with the great big monster walleye and the record-breaking trout.

That’s my way of luring you back.

July 14th, 2008 by Jennine

Okay. I’m just going to say it.

We forgot one of our kids at the county fair.

But it was only for twenty minutes and we found him paging through a little New Testament Bible that he got from the Gideon stand in one of the buildings so clearly God was watching out for him despite our brain fart.

You see, Isaiah had just won first place in the Tractor Pedal Pull

and we were all celebrating his victory and the fact that he now gets to go to the state competition in September. We hopped in the van to go grab a burger before the parade started and it wasn’t until we were waiting for our food that we realized we were one fry short of a Happy Meal.

First time in twenty years of parenting that we didn’t do a head count in the van and wouldn’t you know!

So now if you see a family of nine walking down the street with harnesses attached to each other in one big line, doing a role call every ten minutes, you’ll know it’s us.

And Nathanael? Don’t ever scare Momma like that again.

July 10th, 2008 by Jennine

I won’t lie. For a second I thought Jesus was coming back and my first thought was “I hope He likes Folgers.”

July 10th, 2008 by Jennine

The phrase “eat like a bird” is defined as “eat very little”. It is often used when speaking about someone who needs very little food to get by, often used when criticizing someone for not eating enough. Having fed birds, I can unequivocally say that this is a complete misnomer.

Birds are pigs.

We have two bird feeders which are constantly needed to be filled due to the large volume our little bird population consumes. But they don’t even eat all the food we offer in our feeders. They take as much pleasure from eating as they do spilling the seeds which means I spend time pulling weeds from the base of the feeder as the castoffs sprout in the ground.

I read that birds typically eat ten times their weight in food every day and yet I’ve only seen the occasional obese robin.

I am convinced that this “bird flu” we all hear about is actually bird bulimia. The birds eat so much that they force themselves to vomit in effort to avoid outgrowing their nests and being ostracized by bird society. It’s not virus, but vanity, that takes these birds’ lives and yet we contribute to the problem by enabling the cycle with our all-you-can-eat bird buffets.

I also blame the media for printing books like “A Field Guide to the Birds of Eastern and Central North America” which sets an unrealistic ideal of what birds should look like by printing photos of anorexic, teenage birds.

Next time I see a fat bird I’m going to whistle at it like a New York City construction worker.