Almost 200 years after it opened, the cemetery continues to serve customers. You too can be buried there.
I’ve been a babysitter for more than half my life. I grew up in Hartland, Michigan—a town of about 15,000 people between Detroit and Lansing—and my babysitting career began pretty typically for a suburban kid: I went from watching my younger brothers and cousins on occasion, to babysitting children in my subdivision, to babysitting all around my hometown after I got my driver’s license. I continued babysitting on and off for the next few years, but had stopped almost entirely by the time I graduated college.
Late last year, Facebook-for-runners was abuzz with the announcement that the San Diego-based Competitor Group will be putting on a Rock and Roll half marathon in Brooklyn in October.
I didn’t really understand the import of the food pantries and the free gift grab bags at the church, but I could sense the desperation of my mom’s situation.
Last Wednesday marked a very momentous occasion in our house: we had our annual volunteer shift for my CSA share. CSA being the very utopian and nice-in-theory thing where you pay money up front and get produce, eggs, flowers, sometimes meat and cheese, from local farms. And like all utopian enterprises, there’s an obligatory volunteer shift.
I ended up actually enjoying my shift last year, if for no other reason than it let me pretend for those few dozen trips carrying pallets of root vegetables that I was actually part of something, like I was some sort of adorably ineffective farmhand who kept her complaints to herself and smiled for the shareholders.
We’re doing fine. I keep meaning to write an update, but I never seem to have the time. Things have been pretty crazy and overwhelming and exhilarating and scary and fun.