Kiss Me, I'm Irish

I'm not saying I'm into geneology or anything, but where my ancestors came from has always been fairly important to me.

My dad's father was Swedish -- straight up -- from an immigrant father and first-generation Swedish-American mother. Grandpa spoke Swedish until grade school. Even though he grew up to marry a Norwegian-American, my grandmother, our family holidays were a swirl of Dala Horses, fruit soup and Swedish smorgasbords. I like to refer to my brother and myself as Vikings and look forward to seeing "the home country" for myself someday.

Just as sure as I have been about my Scandinavian side, I always believed my mother's side of the family to be Scottish. I was a little less fervent about it, but when I visited Aberdeen the summer after my senior year of college, I made sure to chat up the Scots we met in pubs with the fact that my ancestors were MacCleods from the Isle of Skye. Skye had been "settled" (more like invaded) by Vikings centuries ago, which I assume is what makes my brother and me look like we wandered off a ski slope in search of a sauna.

I've also always had this little thing about the Irish. Specifically, Irish-American culture and its overbearing insistence on boisterous St. Patrick's Day celebrations and ear-splitting live Irish music that pops up out of nowhere on what was supposed to be a quiet night out with friends.

"You don't get a whole month!" I insisted to my (half Irish) friend J as we sat in a neighborhood pub underneath a promotional poster laying out the events for the "Month of St. Patrick." I also dragged her up to Andersonville the first chance I got for some Swedish pancakes and a little spin around Swedetown. When March 17th rolls around each year and people ask me why I'm not wearing green, I cooly respond "I'm not Irish."

Except, it turns out that I am.

Camping Alone

Last night, I read this during the open mic at Story Club Chicago. It was the very first time I've ever done a live performance of something I wrote that wasn't part of a class.  It went really well and I'm excited to make my billed-reader debut at Story Lab at Black Rock Pub on January 19th.

“Looks like its going pretty good now.  I was worried for a minute there.”

Northerly Island - Urban Prairie Paradise

My friend works on Capitol Hill as a spokesperson for a member of the Illinois delegation. One morning he was woken up at 5 am by call from a Chicago reporter wondering if his boss “would have any comment regarding Mayor Daley’s orders to bulldoze giant Xs into the runway at Meigs Field earlier this morning?”

“Fuck you,” said my friend, and hung up the phone. It was almost April Fool’s Day.

It was no joke.

Roughly six years later, I made my first visit to Northerly Island (technically a peninsula, but, whatever), the park that replaced the airfield in the wake of that dictatorial-yet-badass 2 am Mayor-sanctioned vandalism.

I headed out on my bike this August afternoon because I’m the kind of person who both wants to live in a major city and spend hours at a time not having to look at, hear, be around, or speak to other people. Blame it on a combo of growing up in a town where, like Cheers, everybody knows your name and doing a lot of camping as a child. I need my space. And then I need to be able to pick up Thai food, work in a coffee shop and all kinds of activities not possible if one lives out in the middle of nowhere.

So, Northerly Island.

As soon as I cleared the concert pavilion with its icky backstage-at-the-carnival vibe, I was smacked across the face with so much quiet natural beauty, I couldn't believe I was still in the City.

Is this a field of wildflowers taller than my head? Why yes, yes it is.



I am in love with these sculptures

This installation is called The Daphne Garden and the artist is Dessa Kirk. Just gorgeous. I'm a sucker for Greek mythology, too.

On the eastern shore, there is a rocky beach perfect for meditating and watching the sailboats go by.

A glacier made it.



Skull!! OK, not really.

Northerly Island is home to native flowers, plants and birds. And a couple of blissed-out hours there were the perfect remedy for my City-jangled nerves.


And viewed from this short distance away, I could remember all of the things I love about living here.

The best part? Aside from a few birdwatching ladies and some bicyclists, (well, and a Segway tour, but they cleared out pretty quickly) I hardly saw anyone else the whole time I was here.

I highly recommend Northerly Island for a quick little nature fix. Sure, you can still hear the cars on Lakeshore Drive, but pretty soon you're just focusing on the birds and the breeze.

And if you see me there, just...you know...leave me alone, OK?