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Growing up my neighborhood on Old Sturbridge Road in Corcoran, MN was filled with well-intentioned men of the upper middle class variety. Now a bygone phenomenon, these men with their carefully groomed mustaches and monogrammed briefcases were known unashamedly as weekend fathers. During the week these men toiled over complicated briefs in big city offices or flying over the friendly skies, often arriving home in the stillness of the suburban night to find Jell-O congealing in the fridge and the wife and kids in bed. The weekends were when they made their presence known. Percolating Folgers would fuse with burnt wheat toast and the smell would rouse even the most reluctant sleepyheads out of bed.

The Sturbridge wives and mothers as I remember them made Kool-Aid, burned ticks off of white knee socks and went to craft fairs. By all accounts it was a fairly idyllic childhood, sans the divorce of my parents (3.25 years in the bloody making) and my unremarkable stint on the high school stage as “Rose? in God’s Favorite (possibly playwright Neil Simon’s one and only unknown production).

Yet even amongst the soothing backdrop of unfinished basements and grainy glasses of Tang I yearned for something more, which led me to eventually (a), start college and then stop; work a series of jobs with varying degrees of enthusiasm and then start college up again, (b), find myself working for the University and liking it and (c), begin contemplating the possibility of graduate school to pursue an MFA in creative writing after I’m awarded my BA in the spring. So now any past ambivalence towards my future has been replaced by a resolution to act and to realize my goals in what can only be described as a blissfully sleep-deprived stupor. Ah, hope. Coffee. Cigarettes.