The Return of the Flight Curse

Most flight issues I can forgive.

Blizzards? Fine.
A stray dog on the runway? Alright.
Too foggy to land? Understandable.
Earthquake? Valid.
Mechanical malfunction? Happens to everybody.
Snowpacolypse? No one could even walk in that snow on the east coast.

But boarding a plane at 5:45, then announcing - whoops! Our crew won't arrive until 8:00 pm! Everybody off! Is just plain stupid. Seriously? You're an idiot, airline, a complete moron for not putting two and two together.

I guess it's a curse for a reason. Now to entertain myself for the next two hours in O'Hare.

Now Entering Canada: Beware of Self

After the small milestone in my life of graduating from the George Washington University, I have officially began my post-grad adventures. The plan is such: a little town called Hastings, Ontario, then Minneapolis, then north country in Roseau, MN, back to my hometown of Duluth, MN, until I finally return to Minneapolis to fly (or drive) out to Augusta, Montana - where the real adventure begins.

But there are several days before that happens, and for now I am sitting on the porch in Hastings, ON, enjoying a lovely breeze as the sun peeps out of the clouds. This is my haven: with 63 acres of fields, filled with horses, hay, a barn and a house, life could hardly get better. I must also mention the people, who make this place come alive.

But here's the thing: In this haven, I have never managed to escape injury. To be fair, I'm on a farm and we're always working outside. Injury should be expected. But every time? It just seems like overkill. Or perhaps a curse. Sort of like my air travel curse, but that will come later.

I first came here in the summer of 2009, trailering my horse across the border, with 19 hours between here and home. While a delightful time, Elisa fell through a rotten floorboard and managed to catch herself with her arms - unfortunately blowing a blood vessel and tendon, leaving her arm fairly unusable. Shortly thereafter Jo took a fall and sprained her ankle. Two ace bandages down, only one to go.

I was alone. Jo and Elisa had left for the weekend, and here I was just caring for the horses and otherwise laying in the sun. It was the damn pony. Never trust the ponies. Actually she didn't do a thing, but as I crawled out of her stall, I managed to step in just the right hole that caused my foot to make a right angle with my leg. And not the natural right angle.

Needless to say I cursed myself silly and hobbled back to the house, where I wrapped myself up and waited for Jo and Elisa's return.

It was the beginning of a long road of injuries. In subsequent visits I have survived a hornet's sting (it did require bandaging, but otherwise minimal), a nasty fall off my horse directly on my back (when I run it still has a dull ache), and on my last visit it was washing dishes that did me in. While sticking my hand in a glass with a washcloth, I innocently rotated my hand, only to find a broken glass and lovely gash in the sink. I promptly turned around to Elisa to say; "I hurt it" before she ran off for bandages. Shortly thereafter my hand resembled a pink boxing glove that in reality could do nothing but hurt. I spent the rest of my time here working outside with my right hand in my pocket while my left picked stalls, collected broken glass, and burned vine in a barrel.

This brings us to now. Because it is a well known fact that I hurt myself while here, it has become more of a game to avoid it or at least hope it is minimal, or at the end of my trip. So here's what happened yesterday:

Elisa and I mounted up and rode our horses through new territory, where a neighbor had recently given us permission to use his property. With several new acres to explore, we went up ridges, through fields and across the creek before returning to our well tracked fields. When we got to the home stretch, Elisa began moving up the hill to my right, while I had gone straight. Realizing my mistake, I turned to see where she was going.

Now let me tell you about my horse, Vera. She's a lovely mare, the greatest teammate I've ever had and also one of my best friends. Let's be honest, she's forced to listen to me when my other friends can walk away. But one of the reasons we so like each other is because we both love to run. As fast as possible.

This was not lost on Vera when she noticed Elisa going up the hill. The exact hill that we so rarely do anything but gallop up. And that's exactly what Vera thought we should do.

When I turned to the right, Vera whipped herself around and bolted. And now we come to my injury. Are you ready? Take a deep breath.

I broke a nail.

In her haste, my hand jammed against my saddle and just about ripped my nail clean in half. I consider this a legitimate injury because there was bleeding. I am nursing it back to health with a bandaid.

OH THANK GOD IT WAS A NAIL. Now I only have to survive two more days here. But with my injury out of the way, I feel confident I can live without fear.

UPDATE: I survived. I'm on my way to the airport now. Next stop, Minnesota!

The Day I Felt Like Harry Potter, with the Wrong Last Name

In a small town, a last name can buy you good graces. It can get you invited to dinner, to community events, to meet the family, and maybe even grant you exclusive access to a secret family recipe. On the other hand, it can also bring shifty glances, cold shoulders, and guarded conversation.

There is only one place in the world where I resent my last name. It’s called Roseau, Minnesota, a town of 2,500 people and thirteen churches. It’s about twenty minutes from the Canadian border and contains several dear members of my family. It’s where my mother grew up and where I used to visit my grandparents annually for the Roseau County Fair. Oof-da Tacos! Drag Competitions! (where they load pack horses with lumber, not gay men with heels) Demolition Derby!

It was heaven.

It’s still a wonderful place. I love visiting my family up there, and I’m sure at least half of that comes from the look my grandma gives me when I visit her.

And my grandparents are where all the trouble comes from. Only in Roseau, MN would you yearn for the last name “Johnson.” Mundane. Ordinary. Common. But in a small town in northern Minnesota, it’s a ticket to the hearts of residents. On the other hand, introducing myself as “Ainsley Schoff” causes curt nods and clipped conversation, right up until my grandmother associates us.

After I’m introduced as my mother’s daughter, their eyes brighten up and they crack a grin, and proceed to ask me all about her. Sweet acceptance! It feels like an invitation to a warm fire when you’re sitting out in the cold (a surprisingly frequent condition in northern Minnesota).

Inevitably these people search my face and proceed to say, “You look just like your mother! Except for your eyes…”

I would smile and nod, and wait for the understanding that I must have my father’s eyes; why yes, that would explain it all.

But it doesn’t happen.

This continued to happen throughout my trip to Roseau. They would all relate me to my mother, then mention my eyes, and continue to squint befuddled at me, as if to say “Where in the world did those come from? So odd…”

This is when I realized that though I aspire to be him, my relation to Harry Potter had dwindled. While he was surrounded by people who knew his last name as if it were their own, and people would often comment, “You look just like your father, except for your eyes. You have Lily’s eyes,” I was in a land where nobody knew my name, and would barely associate with me until it was discovered whose daughter I was.

And those damn eyes. Where did they come from?

Small town America, you’re as dear to me as you are a foreign land.

The Key to a Comfortable Bus Ride

 Some may argue that the most exciting part of my recent trip to Ontario was climbing into a complete strangers car in downtown Toronto. I disagree. Rather, it was the perfected art of a comfortable 11.5 hour drive.

The number one goal of riding a bus is getting a seat to yourself. It's just you, two seats, and a glorious curled up position that will leave you aching. This is desirable given the alternative: you hunched over against the window (or worse, the aisle), afraid you're going to touch a stranger for hours on end. If the physical strain wasn't enough, the mental stress will kill you.

 To begin, you must arrive early. An hour to forty five minutes prior should do you fine. Second, you must find your desired place on the bus and immediately put your carry on in the seat next to you.

Now for the art. You must make it seem like a massive inconvenience for someone to sit next to you. Spread out. Be complicated. Take off your shoes, change your socks. Pull out your computer, plug in the cord across the two seats. Take out food, leave it half eaten on top of your open carry on with extra clothing on your lap. Think of the effort it would take you to clean up!

When a passenger walks by, they will be much more likely to politely ask, "Excuse me, is anybody sitting there?" if there is nothing but a closed backpack sitting on the seat beside you. On the other hand, if you have crumbs everywhere, one sock off and one sock on, and a laptop strung out, it is much more likely that you will be passed by for easier prey.

And then what, you ask? Take over the two seats, of course!

An important addition, however, is that at a stop over you must be taking up the two seats and act dead asleep. Otherwise your efforts will be wasted and with your guard lowered you will be taken advantage of readily. How embarrassing. I suggest bright colored earplugs. Not only do they cut the sound for better sleep, they also make it seem like you can’t hear a damn thing. Now they have to say “excuse me” and tap you. Way too much effort.

Let Us Begin

The month is unknown, and even the year is a little bit fuzzy, but in approximately 2006-2007, a process was put in motion. It was my junior year of high school. I was over at my friend’s house when the unthinkable happened; wait, no, let’s be honest – it occurred all of the time. I needed something to sleep in. So she rummaged through her drawers and she presented me with something I will never forget:

It was a pair of yellow shorts.

She ran track in high school, and these were the result. They were thin and felt soft in my fingers, came down about five inches above my knee, and were bright yellow with a black “M” on the left leg. The “M” stood for Marshall School, where we all went to high school (and middle school, but who’s counting?)

It was not unusual for us to lend clothes to each other in my circle of friends, and it was quite unusual if we ever returned them. So the yellow shorts remained in my possession.

And then they came with me. Everywhere.

I am originally from Duluth, Minnesota. My freshman year of college I moved to St. Paul, Minnesota. It didn’t last, and I made one of the best decisions of my life and transferred to the George Washington University in Washington, DC. During the summer between my transfer, I moved to Hastings, Ontario for an adventure in the quiet rolling hills of Canada’s farmland. The yellow shorts remained by my side.

During my junior year of college I decided I was going to study abroad. Of all places, I picked Ghana, West Africa. And so the yellow shorts picked it too. Once I returned, the yellow shorts and I traveled back through Minnesota, then settled in DC for a few weeks, then returned to Ontario. It was back to DC for my senior year of college.

In January of 2012 I returned from San Juan Comalapa, Guatemala, where I was volunteering at a non-profit called Long Way Home with nineteen other students. The yellow shorts worked just as hard as me, and surprisingly got clean after the adobe clay was smeared all over them.

Now the yellow shorts and I are back in DC, but not for long. Adventure calls, and thus the yellow shorts and I must answer. So here I will mark the tales of the yellow shorts. They have come so far, and they’ve never left my side. 

Here’s to that fateful day when they were lent to me and never returned. Neither the yellow shorts or I have ever been the same.