About three or four months ago, I found Bridgette’s to do list on the sidewalk as I was walking home. It was raining. I have a policy of never returning trash to the sidewalk where I found it. So, I took it with me. As I walked, I read what she was planning to do: Yogify my life. Learn to Fight better (checked off). Move to a country you have never seen before (that one is in a different handwriting).

I called Autumn and said something to the effect of “I have found us a new friend.” I didn’t follow up on that. I never searched for Bridgettes on KU people search. I didn’t check Craig’s List lost items. I didn’t hang up posters around the neighborhood. I just squashed the list between paper towels under heavy books and waited for it to dry. Then I stuck it to my fridge under black, round magnets.

Bridgette’s list greeted me every time I walked into my apartment: Find a place to live (check). Learn to garden. Spend more time with nature. That list inspired more than a couple of moments of reflection. I asked myself frequently, “What Would Bridgette Do?”

Bridgette was a part of the move into Emily’s house. If she could move to a new home, so could I. Bridgette helped me to buy the bike, kiss the friend and dance at The Bottleneck (rum helped with that too). And, pathetic as it sounds, I kept plants alive (in part) because I worried that, someday, I’d get to tell Bridgette that I had learned to garden. I didn’t want to tell her I had killed my plants.

She became a part of my life — the same way I adopted the family in the photo I found in the Dumpster by my first apartment. She was a roommate I didn’t really have, but I knew so much about. Her list included things I had considered doing: Visit the Christopher Elbow factory in Kansas City. Make a trip to Washington (see the redwoods!). Go to First Fridays with Michael Bunn.

It was that item — one she says she still hasn’t completed — that allowed me to get in touch with Bridgette and led to coffee and an interview this evening; Michael had written his phone number on Bridgette’s list.

When I needed someone to profile for Max Utsler’s Multimedia Reporting class (ugh), I called Michael, told him I had something that Bridgette had lost and asked how to contact her. Four e-mails and 13 days later, Bridgette had agreed to meet with me at Java Break.

Here is some of what I found out:

Bridgette is 28, from New York (a suburb of New York City), she is five-two, skinny and has short dark hair. She’s working on her Master’s in English Lit. And she makes lists. It’s just something she does.

The list I found includes the things that help Bridgette to recharge. She said this list was a sort-of master list, which combined things from previous lists and focused on what was important. She said that she doesn’t think the type of list I’m used to — Buy groceries. Pay bills. Shower. — precludes the type of list she’s inclined to write. And, maybe more importantly, she explained her belief that putting a desire on paper or out into the world helps lead to its fulfillment.

My story about Bridgette earned an 88 percent. My teacher said the content was C work; the multimedia deserved an A+. I agree.

I didn’t give the story the attention, time and care it deserved — that Bridgette deserved.

But I have a pretty good excuse.

While I was working on the story, I got caught up in the things that should be on my own list. While I put off writing Bridgette’s story, I checked off three things:

Plant the front garden.

Spend more time with babies.

Get some use out of the Kitchenaid.

I’m out of town for the next 13 days and my roommates couldn’t care less about plants, so my garden might be dead when I get home; Isabella won’t remember that I massaged her teething gums and that we both laughed when she farted; and the cookie dough I mixed up never became cookies to send to Christopher like I planed, so I guess I didn’t really get anything done.

And maybe that’s the point. As a piece of wrinkled graph paper with scrawled reminders of Bridgette’s goals, the list encouraged me to try new things, to try Bridgette’s things. But Bridgette — this dreamer, writer, list-maker — has inspired me to figure out what’s important to me, to write it down and to get started. I hope Bridgette is right, that articulating my list will help make things happen. I’m ready.

I moved through the landscape quickly, focused.

Reach. Catch. Pull. Lift.

I switched to the left side.

Reach. Catch. Pull. Lift.

Switching back to the right side, I saw a family of four crash their canoes into the bank as they gamely attempted to navigate a narrow waterway.

Reach. Catch. Pull. Lift.

I passed those novices, darting by them as they tried to readjust their heading. I passed two canoing ladies who were towing a man who was the definition of contentment; sprawled across a tube, soaking up equal amounts of sun and stream, holding a can of Keystone Light. Now that is the High Life; I don’t care what the commercials say.

Reach. Catch. Pull. Lift.

I met a troupe of females from Traverse City. Their annual ritual of making Jell-o shots and floating the river brought eight of them together — three generations of women enjoying each other… and fermented beverages in an extremely viscous form.

Reach. Catch. Pull. Lift.

I passed my grandmother at the first landing. I waived. And buckled down to see how fast I could manage the next stretch of river.

On Sunday I raced my grandmother down the Platte River. I almost won. She was driving; I paddled my canoe.

The tennis ball was kindly placed on the wooden ledge next to the water fountain. It practically shouted out at everyone walking by, it’s bright yellow-green coloring at odds with the plant box behind it. Someone must have hit it over the fence in an over-exuberant tennis match and left if for dead; only to have it found by some stranger and returned.

I don’t think the owner is coming back for it, so I pick it up. It bounces solidly, not like those dead tennis balls that have spent days out of doors. Walking on to the basketball court, I glance at the sign with bold, imposing letters. “No Skating. No Biking. No Skateboards. Basketball ONLY.” Is basketball limited to that particular size ball? Or does the intent matter more than the equipment? Oh well. I am playing anyway.

I shot the tennis ball a few times, trying to get a handle on exactly how little it weighed; the handle I settled on was “Too little to shoot baskets with.” So, I picked up the ball, now rolling across the court, spun, drove, leaped and DUNKED. Landing with knees slightly bent, a growl starting deep in my chest (OK that didn’t happen), I turned to find the ball again. Here was my game. Standing dunks. One-step dunks. Running, pretend-I-am-on-a-full-court-breakaway dunks. Reverse dunks.

On Saturday some kid on the monkey bars wondered if he would ever be able to dunk (a tennis ball). Grow tall kid, grow tall.

The bike leaned against a wall full of rusted nails, cobwebs and leaves. The cross-bar barely came above my knees, but what the bike lacked in size it made up for with accessories. Yes, that is a combo compass-bell. Yes, that is a rear-view mirror. Yes, that is a basket on the front handle bars. Yes, that is a rack over the back tire. Yes, I am going to ride this bike.

Pulling the bike out of the garage and extending the seat to it’s maximum height has its desired affect. “You’re going to ride THAT?” squawks the neighbor lady. I throw my leg over the seat, push off and roll out of the driveway as an answer. Pedaling propels me onto MI-109. I summit dunes while in a standing position. I crouch for aerodynamic affect on the downhill, maximizing my descent velocity. I think I hit about 12 mph. My basket is still clanging away. At least I am not wearing a bike kit. That would just be too much.

On Friday I rode a 15-year-old-girl’s bike 15 miles. I pushed hard. Where is my yellow jersey?

Summer in Michigan takes many forms. Every day has its little adventures — its very own challenges and opportunities. I could have stayed inside reading or taken a nap when I saw that bike, when clouds threatened rain, when cold prompted a retreat to bed. I did none of those things. Instead, the summer day rewarded my activity, bursting forth a flavor like a fresh peach or cherry.

Every day I ate ice cream. Mint chocolate chip, vanilla, cherry. I pounded that stuff. I see “Professional Ice Cream Taster” in my future.

Every Thursday this summer, for three-and-a-half very long hours, I am served a hearty helping of humility. It is often quite uncomfortable, leaving me with the undeniable desire to hide in a corner, give up or scream. All this from a design class I couldn’t wait to take.

I had been wanting to take continuing education classes since I started my job in February 2007. I requested course catalogs from three schools, which I happily received and promptly read, flagging every course that interested me. Photography. Typography. Color Theory. Letterpress. My desire to go back to school was strong. But I held out until my one-year mark at work, when I became eligible for tuition reimbursement from my employer if I passed the class (an “if” that has already been in question because grades aren’t consistently recorded).

What attracted me to the typography class at a reputable school in NYC was the description, which said we’d be creating book jackets, CD covers and movie titles, among other things. A secret goal of mine has been to design the credits for a movie, so I thought this class would be a perfect match.

Before my first day of school, I was incredibly nervous. I had picked out my outfit the night before (I know, I know. What am I? 12?) and wondered what my classmates would be like. I thought they’d all be artsy, and I wanted to fill the part too.

The class, as well as the teacher and my experience, has not turned out to be anything like I expected. My teacher is a legend in the field of typography and has been teaching since the Vietnam War. This means he’s very old and lacks tact, especially when critiquing our assignments.The focus is not on designing these projects (which is what I expected and wanted), but the letters themselves, how they look and how they’re spaced. We’re even taking fonts and changing them on the computer, making them thinner or straighter or rounder, something that is extremely challenging for me because I’m a novice in Illustrator, the program we use. I started a countdown to the end after my first class. (There are three weeks left, not counting tonight.)

I always think I take thorough notes in class, but when it comes time to do my assignments, I’m utterly confused. Is this supposed to be all caps? Am I supposed to just pick how much space to leave between letters or did he specify? Can I use color or does it have to be black? We don’t have a syllabus or textbook - just our memory and notes. And while I thought both of mine were quite adequate, they’re repeatedly failing me. One assignment on creating shadows left me so perplexed that I asked four coworkers for help. All have much more experience and computer knowledge than me and were equally at a loss for how to complete the assignment according to his instructions.

We can spend nearly two hours of each Thursday going over the assignments as a class, which was mortifying in the beginning. Everyone would be able to hear how I did. Upon receiving one person’s paper, our teacher immediately threw it in the air and exclaimed that if the student had been working for the teacher’s agency, he would’ve been fired.

No matter how hard I stall, I’m usually the first one at his desk, where he’ll greedily grab my assignment. As he rips it apart (verbally, though I wouldn’t physically put it past him), I try not to let my pride get ripped to shreds as well. Oftentimes I can figure out what I’ve done wrong, but I just can’t accurately do it in Illustrator. I have been so frustrated that I’ve contemplated dropping the class — even though I’d be out $500.

Last week, we had to take a font without feet (sans serif) and add feet from another font (serif) to it. I didn’t figure out a short cut until the day it was due - and my execution was still a little rough. When I showed it to my teacher, he didn’t think I even used the correct serif font.

“What font is this?”
“Baskerville,” I told him.
“Your head is in Baskerville!” he exclaimed.

Then he launched into a story about how a guillotine works, which reminded him of when he used to accompany his grandma to the butcher to pick out a chicken. Once she’d squeezed them and found the right one, the butcher would chop off its head and the chicken would run around. He told us that sometimes this happened to people after the guillotine had its way with them. I was able to piece together how he related the guillotine and the butcher, but I’m still clueless as to how my assignment prompted that story. Maybe he could sense that this class makes me feel out of my mind.

But last week, after I got my head out of Baskerville, I had a revelation in class. Our instructor spent the end of the period handwriting our next assignment with a paintbrush and ink. “Don’t think computer type,” he said. “You are it.” So he devoted a single page to each letter of the word “magical,” writing it over and over. Once each letter had been written, he went back and picked the best, which he assembled into one perfect word.

As I watched, amazed at how beautiful these letters were turning out, he told us “Don’t be afraid. Let your brains out. Have fun.” And I finally realized that at last I had an assignment that I was truly interested in and excited to do. Many of the blogs I regularly read relate to handmade arts. As much as I’ve been inspired by all them, and saved every link to every cool project I want to make myself, I have never actually bought the supplies or made anything. Now my class was giving me a reason to buy a brush and ink and let it out.

I’m not sure how my assignment will turn out; I haven’t held a paintbrush in my hands since elementary school (except one summer in college when I had the urge to watercolor, which I attribute to spending my time with little ones at summer camp). I very well could screw this one up too. But I’m not giving up. As much as I want to quit, and as hard as I fight myself to do homework and hate not being right when we review assignments in front of the whole class, I need some practice in being confused and imperfect and out of my comfort zone. Even if it means sacrificing my pride.

Celebrities don’t do much for me. I rarely get star-struck anymore.

This sounds pretty pretentious, and I don’t mean it to. But after covering Major League baseball for a summer and covering a World Series, the novelty of seeing a celebrity or a famous ballplayer starts to wear off. I’ll be out in public and see a famous athlete stroll by, and I’ll tap a friend and say, hey, that’s so and so, and then go back to the conversation I was having while my friend’s jaw drops and he kind of gets that star-glazed look in his eye.

I wouldn’t mind having a conversation or a drink with some of these famous people, but I rarely feel the urge. They don’t want to be bothered. They want to enjoy their night out just like I do. They deserve some privacy, and sometimes a famous athlete can avoid being noticed.*

*They can’t fool me though. I always spot them. It’s not that I have a stardar. It’s just that I’ve watched waaaay too many games in my life, and it is kind of my job to know who these people are.

Last October, on the night the Rockies won to go to the World Series, I became a star-struck kid again. The Rockies were celebrating on the field. Players, players’ families, photographers, writers and front office people were scattered around a stage on the infield that had been set up to present the National League Champions trophy. It was an exciting moment. I was on the field and I was thinking about how I was going to get to cover a World Series. Everyone was so happy and hugging and crying. Cool moment. A goosebumps sort of moment that reminded me that I am a sports writer so I can document these historic moments in people’s lives with my stories.

As I was wandering around taking it all in after I had interviewed several players and done my journalistic duty, I spotted George Brett alone at the top of the steps of the Rockies’ dugout.

Brett is one of the greatest baseball players of all time. Some might call me a homer for saying that, but he’s at least the greatest Kansas City Royal of all time. He’s a legend in KC. The guy won a World Series with the Royals. Yeah, once upon a time the Royals won a World Series, and it had a lot to do with this guy. He’s in the Hall of Fame. He’s a big deal.

I remember going to Kauffman Stadium as a kid and hearing the roar when Brett would come to the plate. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a consistent roar like that for any player approaching the plate since. And I’ve been to a lot of baseball games.

So I see Brett alone, and I start to kind of sweat and I’m nervous and my jaw is dropped and I must say hello. It will make this the culmination to a perfect night. I have to shake this man’s hand. I’m from KC. He’ll understand.

I approach Brett, stick out my hand and introduce myself. I tell him I’m from Kansas City and I am a big fan. As I’m nervously babbling I realize he is annoyed by my approach. I expected a smile and a short, friendly conversation. But he’s just annoyed. This made me more nervous. So to give him more of a connection between him and me besides me being from KC and he being the most amazing baseball player who ever played in KC: Brett had been in my uncle’s Boy Scout troop.

“Skip Quimby. You remember Skip?”

Brett looked confused and didn’t make eye contact, a signal that he just wanted me to go away. So I did. I walked away head down and hurt.

Later that night as I was in bed rehashing the evening, I started to think about my awkward conversation with Brett and it hit me. Brett wasn’t the one in my uncle’s Boy Scout troop. It was Tom Watson, a KC native and one of the greatest golfers ever. It was the other KC legend. Brett is from California. He probably was never even in the Boy Scouts. IDIOT!

I felt embarrassed and crappy and wanted a redo. I’ve never even told anyone that story.

I think my uncle Skip was on the same softball team as Brett at some point. But if I would have brought up that correct connection instead, he probably still would have been annoyed. He probably still would have looked confused even if he did remember. He wouldn’t have cared.

When people are asked if they could hang out with anyone for a day, most would say some famous person.* When I was a kid, I probably would have said former Kansas basketball coach Roy Williams or Michael Jordan or maybe even George Brett.

*I would probably answer someone I love now. A best friend or maybe my mom. Maybe I would want to meet a favorite writer, but that writer might be a jerk, and I would probably just regret the meeting, because the perfect image I had would be ruined.

But once you’re around famous people,* you realize they are not that much different from us normal folk. Some famous people are jerks. Some are really friendly. Some would rather be left alone. Some are smart and engaging. Some are dumb and dull. You know people like this; they just aren’t famous. Just because you can hit a baseball 500 feet or throw a ball 100 mph doesn’t mean you’re a really interesting dude, and it doesn’t mean you’re not.

*I’ve really only been around famous athletes and broadcasters, but I’m guessing famous ballplayers aren’t that much different from actors and musicians. Some were blessed with amazing talent that took them to the top of their game or the top of the charts. Some were somewhat blessed, but they were also hard workers and that’s how they got to where they are. Some accountants are blessed with amazing math skills and don’t have to work that hard to be successful. Some accountants are blessed with OK math skills, but they’re extremely hard workers. We just don’t have accountant’s cards with their stats on the back, and you’re accountant is probably not going to be featured in US Weekly anytime soon.

I start to think about all this when I’m thinking about my career. I was lucky enough to cover Major League baseball and a World Series right after I graduated thanks to an amazing internship, but it’s going to be awhile before I’m covering famous professional athletes again. I’m 23, and I have to pay my dues. I just accepted a sports editor job in Emporia, Kan. where I’ll be covering a Division II college, and I’m pumped.

I don’t care that I’m no longer covering professional athletes. In fact, I think it’ll be a nice change. I’m still going to cover a few jerks. Still going to cover some guys who are really friendly. It’s always going to be like that. But the jerks are probably fewer and farther between in Division II sports. And there’s something genuine about sports at a small college. They’re not playing for the fame or the crowds or the money or the girls (well, some are probably still playing for the girls), but they’re playing because that’s what they love to do and they just can’t give it up.*

*That’s not to say big leaguers no longer play for the love of the game. There are some big leaguers who absolutely love baseball. That’s all they can talk about. They are big nerds when it comes to their sport. They’re not much different from me. They watch as much as they can. They read, think, dream about their sport constantly.

In Emporia, I’m sure I’ll rarely run across celebrities. The players I cover will never grace the cover of a magazine and probably never make it on SportsCenter. But I don’t care. I’ll still be going to games for a living. I’m still going to see games that I’m never going to forget. I’ll just no longer get the “what’s (insert your favorite famous ballplayer) like?” And I couldn’t care less.

It’s hard for other homes to fill the shoes of an original that had eight (nine, when Grandma was there) smart, funny people intensely interested in each other’s lives, six of them siblings. My childhood home was warm, loud, enthusiastic and followed the rhythms that go along with school involvement, devout Catholicism and being accustomed to sharing. In contrast: Dorm life was certainly enthusiastic, but the manic pursuit of newfound freedom lends neither warmth nor rhythm. I’ve had apartments and townhomes with friends whose lives I was intensely interested in (and vice versa) — but those groups were small, three at most, and frequently included Will Somebody Else Take out the Effing Garbage resentment. I lived for two years in a house with four funny, smart, frequently loud girls. But five girls each having her own milk in the fridge inevitably gives an air of separation. Half-gallon Skim would squash Organic 2 Percent, and Gallon 1 Percent On Sale might go bad there in the back, plus all those tall jugs up top obscured the light.

I have been mostly happy since I left home about six years ago, but never could I honestly compare my roommates to my family. I don’t suppose anyone could. My situation now is certainly terrific — I live in a clean, sunny, spacious three-bedroom townhome a mile and a half from the beach with a fun couple and pleasant single girl. But there’s no Dad answering the phone in horrible Spanish to be funny (we just use our cell phones out here), or the guarantee that someone will be around to tell you whether your skirt looks goofy (they’re often asleep or gone when I leave out here) or the joy of walking into an animated dissection of Mom’s policy regarding Spending the Night at Friends’ Houses, complete with impersonations. Out here, nobody cares where you stay the night.

There is one thing, though, that I recently began to appreciate as a sweet ritual that evokes home, and that’s the mindful but instinctive way my roommate Ashley and I do coffee: The first person up makes enough for both.

It seems more common sense, or at best eco-friendly, than sweet. But I relish (as any addict would) the comforting sight of a half-pot waiting for me when I enter the kitchen in the morning. Or, when I’m up first, the insightful comfort of taking care of somebody else. Our little system has evolved, too. I used to, if I were up first, knock on her door and ask, “Want some coffee?” Now, I just know. Each of still double-checks — “Is the rest for me?” — but I expect in time that will cease too.

This ritual may resonate so strongly because I come from a coffee culture. My mother shuffles, squinting, toward the coffee maker at 5 or 5:30 a.m. That pot is enough for the first two or three people up, but the entire breakfast period is a two- or three-pot affair. When my sister Alex cleans out her car, she sometimes carries in 10 mugs, their dregs having turned to various stages of mold. If you afford Dad the pleasure of company while he fuels up his car, he will return from paying inside with a steaming plastic foam cup for you — and he knows just how much cream to put in, too. As for me, I could count on one hand the number of days in the last year I made it till noon without coffee.

The double-dosage tradition may not mean as much if coffee weren’t such a critical component of my family’s life. Nor if my transition from my Kansas life weren’t (without regret) so complete. But as it stands, I am very far away from home. I built many aspects of my happy life from scratch out here, but know that my relationships are best made using the recipe I learned at home. I consider the ways of my original home to be absolutely good. So, out here, any way I can model them is absolutely good, too.

The caffeine coursing through my veins is enough of a joy. But just as, say, a handwritten note from my mom takes on more value than the cash tucked inside, so the family-like care of that coffee ritual brings precious meaning to a basic need. And that’s how I know I’m home.

It’s not on a calendar or anything, and it’s nowhere near official. I’m pretty sure nobody but me celebrates Cereal Day (or even knows it exists). Even I don’t know when it’s going to show up. One day I just go to the row of cereal boxes on top of my refrigerator and realize the supply is low.

Yes!

This is reason for celebration for a couple of reasons. First, I enjoy the grocery store on its own merit, even when it’s not Cereal Day. There’s something relaxing about strolling the chilly aisles with a four-wheeled basket in which to store the things I need (want). Where else can you satisfy your earthly desires while also people-watching the best that your town has to offer?

If you said a mall, you get half credit. But the grocery store doesn’t hit you up with those annoying belt buckle and remote control helicopter salesmen. Still, it’s close.

But the main reason I like (love) Cereal Day is that I passionately love cereal.

Always have.

Always will.

Breakfast was mandatory in my house growing up. But it wasn’t treated like a punishment, it was just one of those things you take for granted and don’t realize it’s maybe a little extreme until you get to college and realize half the people you live with don’t bother with the day’s first meal.

In fact, college opened up a vast array of breakfast knowledge to me. The “cereal bar” in my dorm cafeteria offered something like 15 feet of cereal dispensers, from whole grains to fruity nuggets to marshmallows and popply purple pellets. It was a thing of beauty, and I made good use of it.

Don’t get me wrong: my parents weren’t prudes, cerealistically speaking. Basically, if we at the store and saw a cereal we wanted, would could get it….IF we had finished the last box we’d picked out. That translated into many mornings of gulping down the powdery nothingness at the end of a box of Cocoa Puffs and the stale letdown of old Lucky Charms. But when you drained that final mouthful of colorful milk, you knew you’d earned the glory that would come upon the next trip to the grocery store.

So I suppose you could say it’s been engrained in me, if that’s not too much of a lame pun. It’s the way I’ve always looked at cereal. It’s how, when I moved out on my own and had the entire cereal aisle and an income at my fingertips, I came up with the celebration that is Cereal Day.

I’ve left college now, and those days of 15-foot cereal bars are long gone. My tastes have matured a little (virtually not at all). I still love a good bowl of Pops now and again, and Cocoa Pebbles are always at the top of my list. But today I live by a simple rule. On Cereal Day, I’m allowed to select two cereals: one “healthy” and one “fun”. Right now it’s Special K and Cap’n Crunch (with Crunchberries!).

I suppose I consider it a simple (delicious) pleasure. At some point I’m going to have to tell my kids they can’t get the Buzz Lightyear cereal, or whatever the hell they have then, until they finish the Frosted Flakes at home. What sort of example does it set if, while they’re gazing at the sugary variety, I’ve already put my Peanut Butter Crunch in the cart?