Well, hello there!

Plenty of news in the intervening days. We’re all coming off a lovely Fourth of July holiday, and while the Fourth is not a particularly popular holiday among Mennonites, our conversations seem to indicate that all of us took full advantage of the long weekend. Annie and Andrew’s camping trip had its setbacks (sunburn and saddle sores) and its perks (handful upon handful of fresh, wild black raspberries at their campsite). Ben’s sister visited, along with her fiancé, and together they visited the farmers’ market and Woodman’s in the same weekend. I took public transit all the way to Madison from my Indianapolis home (a first for me; I’d be willing to bet I’ve taken the bus more this year than in all the previous years of my life combined.) I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting someone I’d known in high school but hadn’t seen since 2005 and talking with him all the way to Chicago. You just don’t get that kind of interaction in a car.

Tonight the house went out for dinner. Andrew’s parents funded the supper outing as a thank-you for our hosting them back in June. Annie tasked us all with making a list of five restaurants we’d like to try. Ben’s consisted entirely of “Pollo Inka.” After discussing it civilly, two places had been mentioned by four of the five of us: the Old Fashioned and Brocach. I guess we’re partial to restaurants downtown on the square. Brocach was the choice, and boy am I glad we went. It was like a mini trip to Ireland. Shepherd’s pie, corned beef, fish and chips, and bangers and mash were the chosen fare. Hearty food and hearty conversation.

On a personal note, I’m happy to report that my bike ride to the Brocach was successful, and that’s saying something. First of all, I have a broken foot (a healing broken foot, but a broken foot nonetheless), and second, I had a bike accident two weeks ago, and this was my first time back on my bike since then.

I have to hand it to my housemates, friends, and neighbors. Two weeks’ perspective on the accident still leaves me in awe. They picked me up and put me back together after I ran my bike into a car mirror. It was searing confusion in a headlong spray of shattering glass. But it was also everyday grace, with all the attendant stinging peroxide and calm-under-pressure medical advice. The couple across the street jumped off their porch and helped me onto their stairs. She made sure I was coherent and brought washcloths for my cuts and scrapes. He offered me a beer (which I refused), water (which I accepted) and his kind sympathy (which I was in no position to turn down). A man passing by on the sidewalk brought a tool out of his back pocket, straightened my handlebars, and walked off without saying a word. The car owner refused to let me pay for the damage. I caught my breath and called my support network, and help came: first Sarah, who went and got a car to drive me to urgent care, and then Annie and Andrew, who arrived soon after. All three of them sat in the waiting room for hours. Annie helped me fill out paperwork and then held my hand while a doctor pulled glass out of my finger. Andrew and Sarah sat, stalwart amid the celeb magazines, and waited for news. I would have been lost without them.