FROM WHERE I SIT Church Suppers October 13, 2008
I like to read a variety of area newspapers which post notices for church suppers. Photos flash through my mind of mouth-watering suppers at hometown churches. The ads remind me of how much I enjoyed real mashed potatoes, golden yellow squash, creamy coleslaw, glazed carrots, homemade buns and pies with flaky crusts, sometimes even fruktsoppa (fruit soup) and Julekage (Christmas bread). That’s my kind of supper!
In the fall and into the holiday season, many churches host suppers, waffle breakfasts, chili feeds and noon dinners. Back in the fifties when my family attended these county-wide church suppers, the main course was usually chicken, but roast beef dinners, meat balls, and ham dinners were also available. If you were willing to drive, a luscious meal was available.
Gravy was on every menu. Sugary-laced Kool-aid for the kids and black coffee for the parents were mainstays. Tables covered with white church tablecloths were lined up in the church basements, filled with tiny plates of chocolate, marble, white and spice cake slices as well as wedges of pumpkin, cherry, lemon meringue, apple, pecan, and sour-crème raisin pies, often with a dollop of real whipped cream. Each church seemed to vie for top honors with their fine array of pies and pieces of cake for dessert.
Church dinners were prime campaign spots for county candidates for office. I bet these dinners still attract candidates who want to meet and greet possible voters. It’s a delightful time to gather with neighbors in support of a church, the Boy Scouts, a school or another organization that needs to raise funds to continue its good work.
When my dad was up for re-election at the Pope County sheriff’s office, our family would attend many church suppers throughout Pope County. As I remember, when we parked the car, I could smell the succulent flavors of the tasty meal cooking in the church basement. I always cleaned my plate. But Dad hated having to campaign for office at the church suppers. He enjoyed going out for supper with friends and visiting, but glad handing wasn’t Daddy’s long suit. Short and concise were Dad’s talks to the voters. He felt his record should stand for itself. Buttering up crowds or schmoozing with would-be voters wasn’t his cup of tea. He was a straight arrow kind of guy. He believed his action should speak louder than words, promises so many candidates were great at pontificating. Usually we’d eat, shake a few hands, then leave. I remember Dad referred to Hubert Humphrey as “blabbermouth.” He talked too much.
Notices for those sought-after lutefisk suppers are appearing on grocery store bulletin boards and posted in offices by members sponsoring the event. Annual lutefisk and meatball suppers usually begin in October. I know there is a crowd that anticipates these dinners. Those folks are on a special mailing list to receive annual notices of where the lutefisk will appear and mark those dates on their calendar. Unfortunately, I have a gagging reflex at the thought of lutefisk and butter sliding down my throat. I have the same reaction with oysters. I’ve never been any good at dealing with fishy smells, though I enjoy Friday night fish fries during Lent.
Currently, my favorite holiday smorgasbord is the annual St Lucia dinner, around December 12, sponsored at a community Lutheran church. Scandinavian musicians, dressed in costume, play the fiddle as we wait in long lines at the reception room, drinking punch and nibbling dainty cucumber sandwiches. Piano music accompanies dinner. The servers are dressed in Scandinavian costumes of embroidered caps, black skirts with aprons, red vests, white blouses and fancy Scandinavian pins of silver and gold. Little girls serving sweet Lucia buns in a basket trimmed with red ribbons are lovely in crisp white robes with red sashes and crowns of candles and evergreens. The candlelit tables are draped in white linen cloths, featuring dishes of creamed herring, lefse, lingonberries, fruit soup and cream soup, pickled pickles, rutabaga, Swedish meatballs, Julekage and gravy. They always have my favorite sweet treat table. It’s so hard to choose only one or two: kransekage, rosettes, spritz and sugar cookies, fattigmand, sandbakkels, krumkake, and tiny pastel mints. My plate overflows with sugary treats.
But those extra long church tables of pies are no longer waiting for me to choose my favorite, lemon meringue or pecan pie. When I was a kid, I’d find those tables at the Methodist church on the hill going up to the school. I miss those long tables of tasty treat choices
I haven’t found any fall fundraiser suppers that compare to my festive childhood memories. Maybe they don’t exist any more. Today’s palates are so finicky. My own daughter is a vegetarian! She misses out on succulent roast beef meals smothered with onions, fried chicken with all the fixins, and even the clove spiced ham. However, Kate does enjoy her sweets, especially chocolates. The rest of my family will eat and enjoy everything offered at these tasty dinners. I’m checking today’s paper to see if there’s a church supper in the area this weekend. Hope so. 863 words
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Best of Times
FROM WHERE I SIT The Best of Times! Oct. 14, 2011 pat spilseth
I can’t imagine a better time or place to grow up in than the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties in Glenwood, Minnesota. Reading Bill Bryson’s THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID, I find myself laughing out loud at his hilarious memoir of growing up in Des Moines, IA, at the same time as I did.
I know it was the Best of Times! The majority of American families had a mom and a dad. Divorce was a rarity. Our small houses had kids sharing bedrooms, one bathroom, and a big kitchen where everyone gathered for meals with a prayer of thanksgiving. Most of our families had a car, refrigerator and washing machine, a telephone, vacuum clearer, and a gas or electric stove.
Much of the rest of the world only fantasized about these modern appliances. Americans made almost all the cars sold in America. A few had bicycles made elsewhere like the fancy English bikes with several gears and skinny wheels. Many of us rode Schwinns with fat wheels and a bell on the handlebars. According to Bryson’s recall and research, LIFE magazine ran a photo in 1951 of an American family with a mom, dad and two kids surrounded by 2 ½ tons of food, which a typical blue-collar family ate in a year. Among the items were 450 pound of flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 565 pounds of butter, 31 chickens, 300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 ½ gallons of ice cream. All could be purchased on a budget of $25 a week.
The above registers with my “meat and potatoes” family. One difference is that my dad hunted and brought home a deer most years. Fresh venison made up most of our winter meals: we ate venison hamburgers, steaks, roasts and sausage. His deer kill was processed at the local butcher shop, wrapped in white packages with identifying labels to be stored in our deep freezer in the basement. That’s where Mom’s Maytag wringer-wash machine and the white rope clothes lines were strung across the ceiling. They held Dad’s work pants and coveralls during freezing winters when Mom couldn’t hang the clothes in the backyard on lines strung from our back door to the garage.
Mom thought Crisco shortening was best for making flakey pie crusts with fluted edges and rich, buttery cookies. Sometimes, when Land o’ Lakes butter with the Indian maiden on the boxed cover was too expensive, we bought oleo margarine at Bob’s or Harry’s
Grocery stores downtown. Resting the package on the kitchen radiator to warm up, I’d get to burst the red bubble on the plastic bag of white gook, then massage it until the white mixture turned yellow, like butter. We didn’t dare bring out the ole margarine when our relatives from the farm visited. That would have been inexcusable.
Naturally my family, like Bryson’s Iowa family, ate Wonder Bread in the red, blue and white polka-dot plastic packages. That white bread’s slogan was “the bread that builds strong bodies seven ways”. We figured it must be healthy. Those air-filled slices of white bread were a luxury. Normally, Mom baked several loaves of homemade white bread at least once a week. After all, she had to feed the jailed prisoners too. The yeasty, sticky dough rose, overflowing in their buttered metal and pyrex bread pans, as they grew overnight under dish towels.
We didn’t waste. Towels that covered the bread also wiped the dishes. They were made of empty, washed feed sacks, hemmed and embroidered with the days of the week and appropriate tasks. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, etc. Our weeks had designated duties to perform.
We put jigsaw puzzles together and played Whist, Rummy, and Solitaire card games and board games like Monopoly and Parchesi as well as checkers, but not chess…that was too sophisticated for most Midwestern kids. Few knew the game except for when it was shown in an old movie at the theatre downtown. Most of the time we played outdoors, from morning to supper time when the fire whistle blew, alerting kids to get home for supper.
Bryson lists words we used in the 50’s, but few know what they meant today: “mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store, rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik, canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy-o”. Some of us still remember...
Paperboys delivered the daily newspapers from the Cities. The morning as well as evening editions were available for many years. Of course, the Pope Country Tribune, then edited by Ed Barsness and later by Jim Kinney, was anticipated by everyone. When an Irishman by the name of Shannon came to town wearing a kilt, he created quite a fuss with the news he printed in his Green Sheet. Both papers came out weekly. News of the local communities was studied closely as well as the obituaries and who had won the Saturday night drawing downtown. The lucky winner might win a turkey or a ham, perhaps even a few bucks to spend at a local establishment.
We also read “The Readers’ Digest” and “Look” and ”Life” magazines. Teenage girls loved to buy “Seventeen” magazines, and guys often read “Mechanics Illustrated” and “Popular Science” at the library to figure out how to make a soapbox car or a fishing house.
A few lucky households had a black and white TV set, which was enjoyed by crowds of neighbors and friends. Mostly we viewed snowstorms on the screen and adjusted the reception with rabbit ears on top of the TV set.
America’s population in the Fabulous Fifties was half as much as today. There were no interstate highways and only a quarter as many cars. Men wore hats and ties. Teachers dressed formally at school: I remember history teacher Carlos Avery, math man Mr. McCarty, and English teacher Mr. Leaf in suits. Miss Olson wore suits with a sparkly broach pinned on the lapel.
Most wives stayed home and prepared the daily meals. Mom didn’t make “boxed” cake mixes: everything was made “from scratch” with butter, eggs and sugar. The milkman came to the back door delivering glass milk bottles. If you weren’t home, he’d leave the milk, butter and eggs in a metal box on the outside stoop. We looked forward to the mailman who delivered to our mailbox at the front door or into our hands as he knew everyone on his daily route. For many of us, those FABULOUS FIFTIES were the best of times! 1125 words
I can’t imagine a better time or place to grow up in than the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties in Glenwood, Minnesota. Reading Bill Bryson’s THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID, I find myself laughing out loud at his hilarious memoir of growing up in Des Moines, IA, at the same time as I did.
I know it was the Best of Times! The majority of American families had a mom and a dad. Divorce was a rarity. Our small houses had kids sharing bedrooms, one bathroom, and a big kitchen where everyone gathered for meals with a prayer of thanksgiving. Most of our families had a car, refrigerator and washing machine, a telephone, vacuum clearer, and a gas or electric stove.
Much of the rest of the world only fantasized about these modern appliances. Americans made almost all the cars sold in America. A few had bicycles made elsewhere like the fancy English bikes with several gears and skinny wheels. Many of us rode Schwinns with fat wheels and a bell on the handlebars. According to Bryson’s recall and research, LIFE magazine ran a photo in 1951 of an American family with a mom, dad and two kids surrounded by 2 ½ tons of food, which a typical blue-collar family ate in a year. Among the items were 450 pound of flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 565 pounds of butter, 31 chickens, 300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 ½ gallons of ice cream. All could be purchased on a budget of $25 a week.
The above registers with my “meat and potatoes” family. One difference is that my dad hunted and brought home a deer most years. Fresh venison made up most of our winter meals: we ate venison hamburgers, steaks, roasts and sausage. His deer kill was processed at the local butcher shop, wrapped in white packages with identifying labels to be stored in our deep freezer in the basement. That’s where Mom’s Maytag wringer-wash machine and the white rope clothes lines were strung across the ceiling. They held Dad’s work pants and coveralls during freezing winters when Mom couldn’t hang the clothes in the backyard on lines strung from our back door to the garage.
Mom thought Crisco shortening was best for making flakey pie crusts with fluted edges and rich, buttery cookies. Sometimes, when Land o’ Lakes butter with the Indian maiden on the boxed cover was too expensive, we bought oleo margarine at Bob’s or Harry’s
Grocery stores downtown. Resting the package on the kitchen radiator to warm up, I’d get to burst the red bubble on the plastic bag of white gook, then massage it until the white mixture turned yellow, like butter. We didn’t dare bring out the ole margarine when our relatives from the farm visited. That would have been inexcusable.
Naturally my family, like Bryson’s Iowa family, ate Wonder Bread in the red, blue and white polka-dot plastic packages. That white bread’s slogan was “the bread that builds strong bodies seven ways”. We figured it must be healthy. Those air-filled slices of white bread were a luxury. Normally, Mom baked several loaves of homemade white bread at least once a week. After all, she had to feed the jailed prisoners too. The yeasty, sticky dough rose, overflowing in their buttered metal and pyrex bread pans, as they grew overnight under dish towels.
We didn’t waste. Towels that covered the bread also wiped the dishes. They were made of empty, washed feed sacks, hemmed and embroidered with the days of the week and appropriate tasks. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, etc. Our weeks had designated duties to perform.
We put jigsaw puzzles together and played Whist, Rummy, and Solitaire card games and board games like Monopoly and Parchesi as well as checkers, but not chess…that was too sophisticated for most Midwestern kids. Few knew the game except for when it was shown in an old movie at the theatre downtown. Most of the time we played outdoors, from morning to supper time when the fire whistle blew, alerting kids to get home for supper.
Bryson lists words we used in the 50’s, but few know what they meant today: “mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store, rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik, canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy-o”. Some of us still remember...
Paperboys delivered the daily newspapers from the Cities. The morning as well as evening editions were available for many years. Of course, the Pope Country Tribune, then edited by Ed Barsness and later by Jim Kinney, was anticipated by everyone. When an Irishman by the name of Shannon came to town wearing a kilt, he created quite a fuss with the news he printed in his Green Sheet. Both papers came out weekly. News of the local communities was studied closely as well as the obituaries and who had won the Saturday night drawing downtown. The lucky winner might win a turkey or a ham, perhaps even a few bucks to spend at a local establishment.
We also read “The Readers’ Digest” and “Look” and ”Life” magazines. Teenage girls loved to buy “Seventeen” magazines, and guys often read “Mechanics Illustrated” and “Popular Science” at the library to figure out how to make a soapbox car or a fishing house.
A few lucky households had a black and white TV set, which was enjoyed by crowds of neighbors and friends. Mostly we viewed snowstorms on the screen and adjusted the reception with rabbit ears on top of the TV set.
America’s population in the Fabulous Fifties was half as much as today. There were no interstate highways and only a quarter as many cars. Men wore hats and ties. Teachers dressed formally at school: I remember history teacher Carlos Avery, math man Mr. McCarty, and English teacher Mr. Leaf in suits. Miss Olson wore suits with a sparkly broach pinned on the lapel.
Most wives stayed home and prepared the daily meals. Mom didn’t make “boxed” cake mixes: everything was made “from scratch” with butter, eggs and sugar. The milkman came to the back door delivering glass milk bottles. If you weren’t home, he’d leave the milk, butter and eggs in a metal box on the outside stoop. We looked forward to the mailman who delivered to our mailbox at the front door or into our hands as he knew everyone on his daily route. For many of us, those FABULOUS FIFTIES were the best of times! 1125 words
The Best of Times
FROM WHERE I SIT The Best of Times! Oct. 14, 2011 pat spilseth
I can’t imagine a better time or place to grow up in than the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties in Glenwood, Minnesota. Reading Bill Bryson’s THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID, I find myself laughing out loud at his hilarious memoir of growing up in Des Moines, IA, at the same time as I did.
I know it was the Best of Times! The majority of American families had a mom and a dad. Divorce was a rarity. Our small houses had kids sharing bedrooms, one bathroom, and a big kitchen where everyone gathered for meals with a prayer of thanksgiving. Most of our families had a car, refrigerator and washing machine, a telephone, vacuum clearer, and a gas or electric stove.
Much of the rest of the world only fantasized about these modern appliances. Americans made almost all the cars sold in America. A few had bicycles made elsewhere like the fancy English bikes with several gears and skinny wheels. Many of us rode Schwinns with fat wheels and a bell on the handlebars. According to Bryson’s recall and research, LIFE magazine ran a photo in 1951 of an American family with a mom, dad and two kids surrounded by 2 ½ tons of food, which a typical blue-collar family ate in a year. Among the items were 450 pound of flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 565 pounds of butter, 31 chickens, 300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 ½ gallons of ice cream. All could be purchased on a budget of $25 a week.
The above registers with my “meat and potatoes” family. One difference is that my dad hunted and brought home a deer most years. Fresh venison made up most of our winter meals: we ate venison hamburgers, steaks, roasts and sausage. His deer kill was processed at the local butcher shop, wrapped in white packages with identifying labels to be stored in our deep freezer in the basement. That’s where Mom’s Maytag wringer-wash machine and the white rope clothes lines were strung across the ceiling. They held Dad’s work pants and coveralls during freezing winters when Mom couldn’t hang the clothes in the backyard on lines strung from our back door to the garage.
Mom thought Crisco shortening was best for making flakey pie crusts with fluted edges and rich, buttery cookies. Sometimes, when Land o’ Lakes butter with the Indian maiden on the boxed cover was too expensive, we bought oleo margarine at Bob’s or Harry’s
Grocery stores downtown. Resting the package on the kitchen radiator to warm up, I’d get to burst the red bubble on the plastic bag of white gook, then massage it until the white mixture turned yellow, like butter. We didn’t dare bring out the ole margarine when our relatives from the farm visited. That would have been inexcusable.
Naturally my family, like Bryson’s Iowa family, ate Wonder Bread in the red, blue and white polka-dot plastic packages. That white bread’s slogan was “the bread that builds strong bodies seven ways”. We figured it must be healthy. Those air-filled slices of white bread were a luxury. Normally, Mom baked several loaves of homemade white bread at least once a week. After all, she had to feed the jailed prisoners too. The yeasty, sticky dough rose, overflowing in their buttered metal and pyrex bread pans, as they grew overnight under dish towels.
We didn’t waste. Towels that covered the bread also wiped the dishes. They were made of empty, washed feed sacks, hemmed and embroidered with the days of the week and appropriate tasks. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, etc. Our weeks had designated duties to perform.
We put jigsaw puzzles together and played Whist, Rummy, and Solitaire card games and board games like Monopoly and Parchesi as well as checkers, but not chess…that was too sophisticated for most Midwestern kids. Few knew the game except for when it was shown in an old movie at the theatre downtown. Most of the time we played outdoors, from morning to supper time when the fire whistle blew, alerting kids to get home for supper.
Bryson lists words we used in the 50’s, but few know what they meant today: “mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store, rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik, canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy-o”. Some of us still remember...
Paperboys delivered the daily newspapers from the Cities. The morning as well as evening editions were available for many years. Of course, the Pope Country Tribune, then edited by Ed Barsness and later by Jim Kinney, was anticipated by everyone. When an Irishman by the name of Shannon came to town wearing a kilt, he created quite a fuss with the news he printed in his Green Sheet. Both papers came out weekly. News of the local communities was studied closely as well as the obituaries and who had won the Saturday night drawing downtown. The lucky winner might win a turkey or a ham, perhaps even a few bucks to spend at a local establishment.
We also read “The Readers’ Digest” and “Look” and ”Life” magazines. Teenage girls loved to buy “Seventeen” magazines, and guys often read “Mechanics Illustrated” and “Popular Science” at the library to figure out how to make a soapbox car or a fishing house.
A few lucky households had a black and white TV set, which was enjoyed by crowds of neighbors and friends. Mostly we viewed snowstorms on the screen and adjusted the reception with rabbit ears on top of the TV set.
America’s population in the Fabulous Fifties was half as much as today. There were no interstate highways and only a quarter as many cars. Men wore hats and ties. Teachers dressed formally at school: I remember history teacher Carlos Avery, math man Mr. McCarty, and English teacher Mr. Leaf in suits. Miss Olson wore suits with a sparkly broach pinned on the lapel.
Most wives stayed home and prepared the daily meals. Mom didn’t make “boxed” cake mixes: everything was made “from scratch” with butter, eggs and sugar. The milkman came to the back door delivering glass milk bottles. If you weren’t home, he’d leave the milk, butter and eggs in a metal box on the outside stoop. We looked forward to the mailman who delivered to our mailbox at the front door or into our hands as he knew everyone on his daily route. For many of us, those FABULOUS FIFTIES were the best of times! 1125 words
I can’t imagine a better time or place to grow up in than the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties in Glenwood, Minnesota. Reading Bill Bryson’s THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID, I find myself laughing out loud at his hilarious memoir of growing up in Des Moines, IA, at the same time as I did.
I know it was the Best of Times! The majority of American families had a mom and a dad. Divorce was a rarity. Our small houses had kids sharing bedrooms, one bathroom, and a big kitchen where everyone gathered for meals with a prayer of thanksgiving. Most of our families had a car, refrigerator and washing machine, a telephone, vacuum clearer, and a gas or electric stove.
Much of the rest of the world only fantasized about these modern appliances. Americans made almost all the cars sold in America. A few had bicycles made elsewhere like the fancy English bikes with several gears and skinny wheels. Many of us rode Schwinns with fat wheels and a bell on the handlebars. According to Bryson’s recall and research, LIFE magazine ran a photo in 1951 of an American family with a mom, dad and two kids surrounded by 2 ½ tons of food, which a typical blue-collar family ate in a year. Among the items were 450 pound of flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 565 pounds of butter, 31 chickens, 300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 ½ gallons of ice cream. All could be purchased on a budget of $25 a week.
The above registers with my “meat and potatoes” family. One difference is that my dad hunted and brought home a deer most years. Fresh venison made up most of our winter meals: we ate venison hamburgers, steaks, roasts and sausage. His deer kill was processed at the local butcher shop, wrapped in white packages with identifying labels to be stored in our deep freezer in the basement. That’s where Mom’s Maytag wringer-wash machine and the white rope clothes lines were strung across the ceiling. They held Dad’s work pants and coveralls during freezing winters when Mom couldn’t hang the clothes in the backyard on lines strung from our back door to the garage.
Mom thought Crisco shortening was best for making flakey pie crusts with fluted edges and rich, buttery cookies. Sometimes, when Land o’ Lakes butter with the Indian maiden on the boxed cover was too expensive, we bought oleo margarine at Bob’s or Harry’s
Grocery stores downtown. Resting the package on the kitchen radiator to warm up, I’d get to burst the red bubble on the plastic bag of white gook, then massage it until the white mixture turned yellow, like butter. We didn’t dare bring out the ole margarine when our relatives from the farm visited. That would have been inexcusable.
Naturally my family, like Bryson’s Iowa family, ate Wonder Bread in the red, blue and white polka-dot plastic packages. That white bread’s slogan was “the bread that builds strong bodies seven ways”. We figured it must be healthy. Those air-filled slices of white bread were a luxury. Normally, Mom baked several loaves of homemade white bread at least once a week. After all, she had to feed the jailed prisoners too. The yeasty, sticky dough rose, overflowing in their buttered metal and pyrex bread pans, as they grew overnight under dish towels.
We didn’t waste. Towels that covered the bread also wiped the dishes. They were made of empty, washed feed sacks, hemmed and embroidered with the days of the week and appropriate tasks. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, etc. Our weeks had designated duties to perform.
We put jigsaw puzzles together and played Whist, Rummy, and Solitaire card games and board games like Monopoly and Parchesi as well as checkers, but not chess…that was too sophisticated for most Midwestern kids. Few knew the game except for when it was shown in an old movie at the theatre downtown. Most of the time we played outdoors, from morning to supper time when the fire whistle blew, alerting kids to get home for supper.
Bryson lists words we used in the 50’s, but few know what they meant today: “mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store, rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik, canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy-o”. Some of us still remember...
Paperboys delivered the daily newspapers from the Cities. The morning as well as evening editions were available for many years. Of course, the Pope Country Tribune, then edited by Ed Barsness and later by Jim Kinney, was anticipated by everyone. When an Irishman by the name of Shannon came to town wearing a kilt, he created quite a fuss with the news he printed in his Green Sheet. Both papers came out weekly. News of the local communities was studied closely as well as the obituaries and who had won the Saturday night drawing downtown. The lucky winner might win a turkey or a ham, perhaps even a few bucks to spend at a local establishment.
We also read “The Readers’ Digest” and “Look” and ”Life” magazines. Teenage girls loved to buy “Seventeen” magazines, and guys often read “Mechanics Illustrated” and “Popular Science” at the library to figure out how to make a soapbox car or a fishing house.
A few lucky households had a black and white TV set, which was enjoyed by crowds of neighbors and friends. Mostly we viewed snowstorms on the screen and adjusted the reception with rabbit ears on top of the TV set.
America’s population in the Fabulous Fifties was half as much as today. There were no interstate highways and only a quarter as many cars. Men wore hats and ties. Teachers dressed formally at school: I remember history teacher Carlos Avery, math man Mr. McCarty, and English teacher Mr. Leaf in suits. Miss Olson wore suits with a sparkly broach pinned on the lapel.
Most wives stayed home and prepared the daily meals. Mom didn’t make “boxed” cake mixes: everything was made “from scratch” with butter, eggs and sugar. The milkman came to the back door delivering glass milk bottles. If you weren’t home, he’d leave the milk, butter and eggs in a metal box on the outside stoop. We looked forward to the mailman who delivered to our mailbox at the front door or into our hands as he knew everyone on his daily route. For many of us, those FABULOUS FIFTIES were the best of times! 1125 words
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Lakeside Memories
Lakeside Memories Sept. 16, 2011
Autumn has arrived in Minnesota. I’m happy and content with the quiet...this is where I belong. I hear only nature’s noises: cardinals and woodpeckers flying through the trees and bushy squirrels gathering nuts, the crunching pine needles and brush under my feet and rustling leaves somersaulting through the crisp air. Solitude is relaxing. Yet, my meanderings in the woods also inspire me with new ideas to write and read, to bake and paint.
Christmas ornaments, Santa figurines, and strings of lights have appeared at Home Depot and Costco. When the calendar flips to October, even Target and Macy’s will don their holiday trappings of red and green. We haven’t enjoyed the pumpkins and ghosts of Halloween yet, much less a Thanksgiving turkey! Because Nordstrom at the Mall of America keeps Santa under wraps until November 25, I’ve decided that’s where I’m going to take my shopping dollars.
Meanwhile, here on the lake Buddy, my Beagle pal, and I are enjoying the turning colors of the maples in our woods. Nestled deep in the wooded park are fading wild flowers scattered along our walking paths. I notice how dry our dirt path is, the fallen limbs, and shriveled weeds; Buddy pays attention only to the smells. He enjoys sniffing any greenery for doggie odors sprayed on the purple asters and goldenrod, which makes him sneeze. We spy white flowers resembling Queen Anne’s Lace and a few clumps of black eyed Susans. But the lady slippers and marsh marigolds have closed their leaves, shivering with dropping temperatures. Jack Frost has arrived and worked his magic.
The north woods wedding we attended last weekend combined a joyous celebration of marriage with friends along with the quiet peace of the woods. Only the loons sang their haunting song, and acorns bounced off the trees onto the forest floor. It sounded like the squirrel population had exploded. Neither cars nor boats roared on these back roads as we slept in the cozy cabin on Gull Lake. The cabin’s knotty pine walls reminded me of the basement recreation rooms of school friends where we danced at those memorable boy-girl parties. I relaxed, reading my favorite Nelson DeMille thriller in an Adirondack chair, mesmerized by the quiet of the peaceful lake.
The row of tiny lakeside cabins brought back the good ol’ days when Mom and Dad, Barbie and I piled in Dad’s sleek, blue Hudson to drive to the north shore for a few days of fishing and campfires. And yes, we also had nightly visitors...mice and the black droppings they inevitably left on the floor and in the cupboards. But none invaded my peace at Sandy Beach Resort, a family resort near Nisswa, where memories of a lifetime are made for vacationers lucky enough to find this gem. It was nothing like a Motel 6 or Red Roof Inn.
As Buddy and I meander through the trees, I wonder where the red fox is hiding and the family of little Bambis. Some mornings I find a young deer venturing out of our wooded park into my neighbor’s bushes to find more berries to munch on. This morning I discovered droppings from raccoons on my deck and a few mouse tidbits have appeared in the laundry room.. Cold weather always brings these critters inside for warmth. Even Buddy forgoes his all-day squirrel hunting trips in our yard when the weather is only 40 degrees. He prefers to curl up close to the fireplace nesting in his favorite blanket.
September and October always remind me of why I love living here in Minnesota’s changing seasons. Maple leaves form a crazy quilt on the lawn; we cruise the quiet lake, now deserted by most boaters; and I smell the curling smoke of campfires where folks are roasting marshmallows. Who can resist those heavenly smells of roasts and casseroles baking in the oven, warming the kitchen, and supper topped off with pumpkin pie or a big piece of spice cake smothered in cream cheese frosting? I’m excited about getting out my flannels and corduroys, sweaters and down comforters. It’s time to find a challenging jigsaw puzzle to spill out on the puzzle table, build a fire in the fireplace and pop popcorn. This is the season to savor every autumn day of Mother Nature’s fleeting splendors. 728 words
Autumn has arrived in Minnesota. I’m happy and content with the quiet...this is where I belong. I hear only nature’s noises: cardinals and woodpeckers flying through the trees and bushy squirrels gathering nuts, the crunching pine needles and brush under my feet and rustling leaves somersaulting through the crisp air. Solitude is relaxing. Yet, my meanderings in the woods also inspire me with new ideas to write and read, to bake and paint.
Christmas ornaments, Santa figurines, and strings of lights have appeared at Home Depot and Costco. When the calendar flips to October, even Target and Macy’s will don their holiday trappings of red and green. We haven’t enjoyed the pumpkins and ghosts of Halloween yet, much less a Thanksgiving turkey! Because Nordstrom at the Mall of America keeps Santa under wraps until November 25, I’ve decided that’s where I’m going to take my shopping dollars.
Meanwhile, here on the lake Buddy, my Beagle pal, and I are enjoying the turning colors of the maples in our woods. Nestled deep in the wooded park are fading wild flowers scattered along our walking paths. I notice how dry our dirt path is, the fallen limbs, and shriveled weeds; Buddy pays attention only to the smells. He enjoys sniffing any greenery for doggie odors sprayed on the purple asters and goldenrod, which makes him sneeze. We spy white flowers resembling Queen Anne’s Lace and a few clumps of black eyed Susans. But the lady slippers and marsh marigolds have closed their leaves, shivering with dropping temperatures. Jack Frost has arrived and worked his magic.
The north woods wedding we attended last weekend combined a joyous celebration of marriage with friends along with the quiet peace of the woods. Only the loons sang their haunting song, and acorns bounced off the trees onto the forest floor. It sounded like the squirrel population had exploded. Neither cars nor boats roared on these back roads as we slept in the cozy cabin on Gull Lake. The cabin’s knotty pine walls reminded me of the basement recreation rooms of school friends where we danced at those memorable boy-girl parties. I relaxed, reading my favorite Nelson DeMille thriller in an Adirondack chair, mesmerized by the quiet of the peaceful lake.
The row of tiny lakeside cabins brought back the good ol’ days when Mom and Dad, Barbie and I piled in Dad’s sleek, blue Hudson to drive to the north shore for a few days of fishing and campfires. And yes, we also had nightly visitors...mice and the black droppings they inevitably left on the floor and in the cupboards. But none invaded my peace at Sandy Beach Resort, a family resort near Nisswa, where memories of a lifetime are made for vacationers lucky enough to find this gem. It was nothing like a Motel 6 or Red Roof Inn.
As Buddy and I meander through the trees, I wonder where the red fox is hiding and the family of little Bambis. Some mornings I find a young deer venturing out of our wooded park into my neighbor’s bushes to find more berries to munch on. This morning I discovered droppings from raccoons on my deck and a few mouse tidbits have appeared in the laundry room.. Cold weather always brings these critters inside for warmth. Even Buddy forgoes his all-day squirrel hunting trips in our yard when the weather is only 40 degrees. He prefers to curl up close to the fireplace nesting in his favorite blanket.
September and October always remind me of why I love living here in Minnesota’s changing seasons. Maple leaves form a crazy quilt on the lawn; we cruise the quiet lake, now deserted by most boaters; and I smell the curling smoke of campfires where folks are roasting marshmallows. Who can resist those heavenly smells of roasts and casseroles baking in the oven, warming the kitchen, and supper topped off with pumpkin pie or a big piece of spice cake smothered in cream cheese frosting? I’m excited about getting out my flannels and corduroys, sweaters and down comforters. It’s time to find a challenging jigsaw puzzle to spill out on the puzzle table, build a fire in the fireplace and pop popcorn. This is the season to savor every autumn day of Mother Nature’s fleeting splendors. 728 words
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Matchmaker...make me a match
From Where I Sit Matchmaker, Make Me a Match Sept 13, 2011
Dating is a numbers game, but ohhhhhhh, such a tiring, exasperating ordeal to find someone you enjoy spending time with! Friends of mine have checked out various matchmaking sites, but only a few have actually found a few good dates. Others found that their so-called “exclusive” partner was still checking out other dating sites for more “possibilities”. Their “exclusive” match was unaware of these shenanigans.
One very determined friend had a long term email and phone relationship with a “harmonious” man who lived overseas. He portrayed himself to be a veterinarian. Everything seemed fabulous: he was very interested in her visiting him UNTIL she had a plane ticket to ride over the ocean to actually see this romantic gentleman. Then he asked her to postpone her trip because he had to “fly to Africa to save some animals.”
That did it! Kaput went that relationship! She had him checked out by overseas cousins who found that the man, who claimed to be a vet, never existed. He had posed to be somebody he wasn’t.
But who hasn’t wanted to be somebody else at some point in life? It’s not nice to toy with somebody else’s emotions! She could have put a hex on the imposter; I’d have understood.
Dating is difficult. Sure, today the internet world offers dating sites to help you determine which services will best suit your lifestyle. Users can discover possible matches from the 5 Best Dating Sites of 2011 listed on any internet search:
match.com, chemistry.com, perfect match.com, eHarmony.com, and spark.com.
Some guarantee that you’ll meet someone special in 6 months; some sites base their matches on personality and interpersonal chemistry. Some offer the latest matching technology of personality assessments; some are designated to create long-lasting relationships, and others provide members with comprehensive personality assessments.
However, few match-making sites can replace the excitement of a flirty smile or wink from someone across the room. But nothing can compete with a friend’s introduction to the “perfect mate for you”. My husband Dave and I are the results of a nudge from Maureen Fjoslien, a dear friend of both our mothers, who suggested that he and I meet. Thirty-two years later, we’re still together.
Of course, one has to have confidence that the recommending friend has good taste and knows what you want. Many arranged marriages have proved to be ageless...they seem to work. Most parents, those who know and understand their child, would choose a mate for her or him hoping that person would be an everlasting mate with a stable personality, be honorable, have a good sense of humor, and have a decent job.
Dave and I are now known as official matchmakers. Last weekend we attended the wedding of Katie and Karl, the successful result of our matchmaking skills.
Naturally, it all began at another wedding. We were seated at the wedding table of
friends whose daughter had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend.
Well, Dave and I had a nephew we adore who had also recently become a very eligible single young man. Here we were at a beautiful wedding: one is bound to think of possible matchmaking. It was my natural inclination to suggest that our handsome nephew call this blonde cutie for a date. We knew they’d laugh together and have a great time. Dave called Karl, mentioning “Give her a call; she won’t be on the market for long!”
When the party ended, as they drove home, my friend told her husband about our matchmaking. Doug responded, “You gave out our daughter’s private phone number! What were you thinking? Katie might not like this.” Sarah replied, “Settle down, after all, he’s a Spilseth and an eagle scout!” What could go wrong with this match?
This weekend, three years later, Katie and Karl wed. Friends gathered for a lake ceremony while violins played and the Irish Blessing was sung: “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields”...a happy ending from friends finding that perfect match. 699 words
Dating is a numbers game, but ohhhhhhh, such a tiring, exasperating ordeal to find someone you enjoy spending time with! Friends of mine have checked out various matchmaking sites, but only a few have actually found a few good dates. Others found that their so-called “exclusive” partner was still checking out other dating sites for more “possibilities”. Their “exclusive” match was unaware of these shenanigans.
One very determined friend had a long term email and phone relationship with a “harmonious” man who lived overseas. He portrayed himself to be a veterinarian. Everything seemed fabulous: he was very interested in her visiting him UNTIL she had a plane ticket to ride over the ocean to actually see this romantic gentleman. Then he asked her to postpone her trip because he had to “fly to Africa to save some animals.”
That did it! Kaput went that relationship! She had him checked out by overseas cousins who found that the man, who claimed to be a vet, never existed. He had posed to be somebody he wasn’t.
But who hasn’t wanted to be somebody else at some point in life? It’s not nice to toy with somebody else’s emotions! She could have put a hex on the imposter; I’d have understood.
Dating is difficult. Sure, today the internet world offers dating sites to help you determine which services will best suit your lifestyle. Users can discover possible matches from the 5 Best Dating Sites of 2011 listed on any internet search:
match.com, chemistry.com, perfect match.com, eHarmony.com, and spark.com.
Some guarantee that you’ll meet someone special in 6 months; some sites base their matches on personality and interpersonal chemistry. Some offer the latest matching technology of personality assessments; some are designated to create long-lasting relationships, and others provide members with comprehensive personality assessments.
However, few match-making sites can replace the excitement of a flirty smile or wink from someone across the room. But nothing can compete with a friend’s introduction to the “perfect mate for you”. My husband Dave and I are the results of a nudge from Maureen Fjoslien, a dear friend of both our mothers, who suggested that he and I meet. Thirty-two years later, we’re still together.
Of course, one has to have confidence that the recommending friend has good taste and knows what you want. Many arranged marriages have proved to be ageless...they seem to work. Most parents, those who know and understand their child, would choose a mate for her or him hoping that person would be an everlasting mate with a stable personality, be honorable, have a good sense of humor, and have a decent job.
Dave and I are now known as official matchmakers. Last weekend we attended the wedding of Katie and Karl, the successful result of our matchmaking skills.
Naturally, it all began at another wedding. We were seated at the wedding table of
friends whose daughter had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend.
Well, Dave and I had a nephew we adore who had also recently become a very eligible single young man. Here we were at a beautiful wedding: one is bound to think of possible matchmaking. It was my natural inclination to suggest that our handsome nephew call this blonde cutie for a date. We knew they’d laugh together and have a great time. Dave called Karl, mentioning “Give her a call; she won’t be on the market for long!”
When the party ended, as they drove home, my friend told her husband about our matchmaking. Doug responded, “You gave out our daughter’s private phone number! What were you thinking? Katie might not like this.” Sarah replied, “Settle down, after all, he’s a Spilseth and an eagle scout!” What could go wrong with this match?
This weekend, three years later, Katie and Karl wed. Friends gathered for a lake ceremony while violins played and the Irish Blessing was sung: “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields”...a happy ending from friends finding that perfect match. 699 words
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Jack Frost Has Arrived!
From Where I Sit "Signs of September " pat spilseth
School buses are rolling down the road, checking where they have to stop to pick up and drop off kids next week. Bees are buzzing in the garden, sucking all the sweetness available in the flowers still remaining. Lovely orange and black patterned Monarch butterflies float through the woods and gardens. Squirrels are gathering nuts; weeds are visible near the surface of the lake. Hot summer sunshine has shrunk inches from lake depths. Sumac is turning red, and fireflies are dancing in the dark evenings. Fairgoers flock to the Minnesota State Fair for an annual dose of food on a stick. Fall has arrived.
Kids are a trifle bored. No longer busy with their tree houses and bike riding around the neighborhood or swimming, they seek me out as I walk Buddy around the neighborhood. Chatty little boys tell me they’ll be in second and fourth grade this year and can they pet Buddy and where am I going and am I still baking cookies? Could they have some chocolate chips to eat in their tree house? Chattiness won’t last long...I know; I have a son who has patience for about 3 questions; that’s it.
Teacher friends are clipping pictures and making colorful letters for bulletin board displays. Lesson plans are coming together and outfits for that important first day are chosen. Impressions are made right away about what kids think of their teachers. My brother-in-law, Denny, taught math to junior high kids. He and I shared somersaulting stomachs just thinking about going back to work. That uncomfortable feeling persistently nagged at my nerves until school began. Labor Day was my last day of semi-relaxation. Then it was back to reading and writing, preparing lesson plans, correcting papers, carting homework after school to my kitchen table, and reading student essays.
I actually miss my school connection with kids. The first year of teaching I taught junior high English just outside of Chicago. In my first classroom, I had Johnny, a handsome karate expert, and grinning Brucie, an Italian kid with slicked-back ducktail and mischievous eyes. He danced his way into the classroom and down the hall with his energetic “twist”. Johnny was a charmer and leader of the class, but he was eighteen and couldn’t read. We formed a mutual admiration society: I helped him learn to read; he controlled the classroom troublemakers. He made more money with his band, which played the local hot spots, than I did teaching.
It was a time when desegregation was just getting started; some African-American kids were moved out of their neighborhood schools into the predominately white suburban schools where I taught. Busing was supposed to improve their achievements in the classroom. I wonder if it did anything but make kids uncomfortable. The bussed students never became part of the cliques, which had been formed back in grade school.
Fall marks many changes. Sumac growing along the highway around the lake is turning red, orange and yellow. Bikers are riding the bike trails around the lake, and boaters are pulling skiers, some in wet suits. Families are scheduling last minute camping trips up north, picnics in the park, and end of summer beach excursions. It’s summer’s “last hurrah” before Labor Day arrives. The Minnesota State Fair is at the fairgrounds: time to enjoy filling up with greasy goodies to eat on a stick.
Petunias are drooping on my deck. Geraniums and black eyed Susans are the only flowers still looking good in the garden. Yellow, bronze and reddish mums are on display at groceries and flower shops. It’s time to get out the down quilts for chilly, fall nights, great for sleeping and sweatshirts for brisk, early morning walks. The seasons are changing; temperatures falling, and foliage fading. Darkness descends shortly after suppertime; I sleep later each morning. .
September is casserole time: a hamburger-mushroom soup casserole for supper topped off with a dessert of apple crisp or a peach cobbler now that those luscious Colorado peaches have arrived. It’s time to can pickles and make jelly. Storm windows can wait a bit...but I’d better get the furnace checked. It could be a frigid, cold winter. All the signs are here: fall has arrived. 712 words
School buses are rolling down the road, checking where they have to stop to pick up and drop off kids next week. Bees are buzzing in the garden, sucking all the sweetness available in the flowers still remaining. Lovely orange and black patterned Monarch butterflies float through the woods and gardens. Squirrels are gathering nuts; weeds are visible near the surface of the lake. Hot summer sunshine has shrunk inches from lake depths. Sumac is turning red, and fireflies are dancing in the dark evenings. Fairgoers flock to the Minnesota State Fair for an annual dose of food on a stick. Fall has arrived.
Kids are a trifle bored. No longer busy with their tree houses and bike riding around the neighborhood or swimming, they seek me out as I walk Buddy around the neighborhood. Chatty little boys tell me they’ll be in second and fourth grade this year and can they pet Buddy and where am I going and am I still baking cookies? Could they have some chocolate chips to eat in their tree house? Chattiness won’t last long...I know; I have a son who has patience for about 3 questions; that’s it.
Teacher friends are clipping pictures and making colorful letters for bulletin board displays. Lesson plans are coming together and outfits for that important first day are chosen. Impressions are made right away about what kids think of their teachers. My brother-in-law, Denny, taught math to junior high kids. He and I shared somersaulting stomachs just thinking about going back to work. That uncomfortable feeling persistently nagged at my nerves until school began. Labor Day was my last day of semi-relaxation. Then it was back to reading and writing, preparing lesson plans, correcting papers, carting homework after school to my kitchen table, and reading student essays.
I actually miss my school connection with kids. The first year of teaching I taught junior high English just outside of Chicago. In my first classroom, I had Johnny, a handsome karate expert, and grinning Brucie, an Italian kid with slicked-back ducktail and mischievous eyes. He danced his way into the classroom and down the hall with his energetic “twist”. Johnny was a charmer and leader of the class, but he was eighteen and couldn’t read. We formed a mutual admiration society: I helped him learn to read; he controlled the classroom troublemakers. He made more money with his band, which played the local hot spots, than I did teaching.
It was a time when desegregation was just getting started; some African-American kids were moved out of their neighborhood schools into the predominately white suburban schools where I taught. Busing was supposed to improve their achievements in the classroom. I wonder if it did anything but make kids uncomfortable. The bussed students never became part of the cliques, which had been formed back in grade school.
Fall marks many changes. Sumac growing along the highway around the lake is turning red, orange and yellow. Bikers are riding the bike trails around the lake, and boaters are pulling skiers, some in wet suits. Families are scheduling last minute camping trips up north, picnics in the park, and end of summer beach excursions. It’s summer’s “last hurrah” before Labor Day arrives. The Minnesota State Fair is at the fairgrounds: time to enjoy filling up with greasy goodies to eat on a stick.
Petunias are drooping on my deck. Geraniums and black eyed Susans are the only flowers still looking good in the garden. Yellow, bronze and reddish mums are on display at groceries and flower shops. It’s time to get out the down quilts for chilly, fall nights, great for sleeping and sweatshirts for brisk, early morning walks. The seasons are changing; temperatures falling, and foliage fading. Darkness descends shortly after suppertime; I sleep later each morning. .
September is casserole time: a hamburger-mushroom soup casserole for supper topped off with a dessert of apple crisp or a peach cobbler now that those luscious Colorado peaches have arrived. It’s time to can pickles and make jelly. Storm windows can wait a bit...but I’d better get the furnace checked. It could be a frigid, cold winter. All the signs are here: fall has arrived. 712 words
Friday, September 16, 2011
What a character!
Frow Where I Sit "Putty in Her Hands"
Not many women I know harbor fantasies about embalming bodies or creating new faces shot out by a gang shooting. But when Monte attended a “botched” funeral, where the deceased’s face looked gray and plastic and the flowers were arranged so haphazardly, she made her decision. “I could do better than that!” She went back to school and changed careers from a typical woman’s role to her more interesting profession as a mortician.
Finding a job in the industry proved to be difficult. She took a position with a funeral home just opening its doors, catering to the services of anyone who could pay for their professional attention. Minorities were their dominant clients. Though Monte’s introduction to the profession sounds a bit dicey, she’s became an empathetic counselor to bereaved contacts telling them to “Let it go” and “Don’t harbor guilt”. She’s also became exceptionally adept with makeup: her artistry made easier with clients lying down, never fidgeting.
On call one weekend, the telephone rang in the middle of the night at her home. “Come get this body!” The call came from a “questionable” part of town just outside Chicago. She woke her husband, “Butch, you’ve got to come with me! I’m not going into that gang area alone at night!”
The Scandinavian from small town Minnesota and his blonde German wife proceeded to a darker part of town, where most street lights had been shot out, never to be replaced. Pulling up to a darkened apartment building, they spotted one unit ablaze with lights. While Butch remained outside, nervously guarding his van on the dark, littered street, Monte punched the third floor elevator button in the teeny-tiny, creaky elevator. Down a dark, narrow hall, she found a door open, her entrance expected. She hefted and strapped the body to a pallet, hoisted it upright and into the narrow hall, which could barely accommodate the wide, stretched-out body. Juggling her delivery to the elevator, she stuffed herself and the body into the tiny cage, descending to street level where Butch was surrounded by street people talking excitedly with their hands and loud voices.
“Hey, Mista C, wat YOU doin in these parts?”
“Jesse, is that you? Why are you here?”
Dis is my territory. I’m your man...I make sure your van is safe. Donja’ worry! Jesse’s in control.”
It’s all about connections in these parts of the city. Thank goodness, Jesse went to school where Butch was a well-liked administrator.
My mortician friend tells me, “This profession is run by men, but so many of the details need a woman’s touch. I work with the bodies, rearrange the plants and flower bouquets at most of the services and counsel the bereaved survivors. But I think it’s time for me to retire. Bodies are getting to be more than I can handle: they’re too big for me.”
A sense of humor has to be part of the job. Bodies became “putty in her hands”. She’s an artist, sculpting the blown-out faces into facsimiles of their photographs. Monte works hard to make faces and bodies presentable for those requiring open-casket services. She’s become quite proficient at mixing skin tones of brown and black as well as pink and beige.
Some people need to see the deceased in an open casket to have closure. A few folks need to be assured that the deceased is truly dead. Facing the lifeless body in a casket makes them feel safe. At one of her services, an emotionally-distraught woman couldn’t bear her loss; she crawled into the casket to be near her man.
At one of her first jobs, those attending the funeral were a well-dressed group: they wore hats, gloves and dressed in white garments according to the traditions of their culture. The music was loud, filled with rhythm and harmony. Monte cautioned me, “Never stand behind any large ladies. Someone’s likely to faint and fall on you!” Fainting is a common occurrence: a nurse or two are always in attendance at the funeral.
Police photographers often attend or wait outside to capture shots of mourners filing out of the service. Possibilities are huge that a notorious criminal might appear in the crowd. Photos are matched to “Wanted” posters on the walls at the sheriff’s office. Many mourners wear hats, perfect to shadow faces: hats prevent cops from getting a closer look at gang members attending the send-off of their leader.
What an interesting job my new friend chose. She had my undivided attention: her riveting tales reminded me of my early days at the Pope County jail where Daddy was the sheriff. Often I would scan the black and white WANTED posters on his bulletin board and enjoy the juicy stories of our jail guests.
Not many women I know harbor fantasies about embalming bodies or creating new faces shot out by a gang shooting. But when Monte attended a “botched” funeral, where the deceased’s face looked gray and plastic and the flowers were arranged so haphazardly, she made her decision. “I could do better than that!” She went back to school and changed careers from a typical woman’s role to her more interesting profession as a mortician.
Finding a job in the industry proved to be difficult. She took a position with a funeral home just opening its doors, catering to the services of anyone who could pay for their professional attention. Minorities were their dominant clients. Though Monte’s introduction to the profession sounds a bit dicey, she’s became an empathetic counselor to bereaved contacts telling them to “Let it go” and “Don’t harbor guilt”. She’s also became exceptionally adept with makeup: her artistry made easier with clients lying down, never fidgeting.
On call one weekend, the telephone rang in the middle of the night at her home. “Come get this body!” The call came from a “questionable” part of town just outside Chicago. She woke her husband, “Butch, you’ve got to come with me! I’m not going into that gang area alone at night!”
The Scandinavian from small town Minnesota and his blonde German wife proceeded to a darker part of town, where most street lights had been shot out, never to be replaced. Pulling up to a darkened apartment building, they spotted one unit ablaze with lights. While Butch remained outside, nervously guarding his van on the dark, littered street, Monte punched the third floor elevator button in the teeny-tiny, creaky elevator. Down a dark, narrow hall, she found a door open, her entrance expected. She hefted and strapped the body to a pallet, hoisted it upright and into the narrow hall, which could barely accommodate the wide, stretched-out body. Juggling her delivery to the elevator, she stuffed herself and the body into the tiny cage, descending to street level where Butch was surrounded by street people talking excitedly with their hands and loud voices.
“Hey, Mista C, wat YOU doin in these parts?”
“Jesse, is that you? Why are you here?”
Dis is my territory. I’m your man...I make sure your van is safe. Donja’ worry! Jesse’s in control.”
It’s all about connections in these parts of the city. Thank goodness, Jesse went to school where Butch was a well-liked administrator.
My mortician friend tells me, “This profession is run by men, but so many of the details need a woman’s touch. I work with the bodies, rearrange the plants and flower bouquets at most of the services and counsel the bereaved survivors. But I think it’s time for me to retire. Bodies are getting to be more than I can handle: they’re too big for me.”
A sense of humor has to be part of the job. Bodies became “putty in her hands”. She’s an artist, sculpting the blown-out faces into facsimiles of their photographs. Monte works hard to make faces and bodies presentable for those requiring open-casket services. She’s become quite proficient at mixing skin tones of brown and black as well as pink and beige.
Some people need to see the deceased in an open casket to have closure. A few folks need to be assured that the deceased is truly dead. Facing the lifeless body in a casket makes them feel safe. At one of her services, an emotionally-distraught woman couldn’t bear her loss; she crawled into the casket to be near her man.
At one of her first jobs, those attending the funeral were a well-dressed group: they wore hats, gloves and dressed in white garments according to the traditions of their culture. The music was loud, filled with rhythm and harmony. Monte cautioned me, “Never stand behind any large ladies. Someone’s likely to faint and fall on you!” Fainting is a common occurrence: a nurse or two are always in attendance at the funeral.
Police photographers often attend or wait outside to capture shots of mourners filing out of the service. Possibilities are huge that a notorious criminal might appear in the crowd. Photos are matched to “Wanted” posters on the walls at the sheriff’s office. Many mourners wear hats, perfect to shadow faces: hats prevent cops from getting a closer look at gang members attending the send-off of their leader.
What an interesting job my new friend chose. She had my undivided attention: her riveting tales reminded me of my early days at the Pope County jail where Daddy was the sheriff. Often I would scan the black and white WANTED posters on his bulletin board and enjoy the juicy stories of our jail guests.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Endless Summer
ENDLESS SUMMER August 1, 2011 pat spilseth
Summer seems endless. It’s too hot to do much but stretch out sunning on the dock, read, dream, and watch speed boats and jet skis bounce over the waves and sailboats float across the Bay. Periodically I dive into the lapping waves gently and swim a few laps, trying to avoid the rising weeds and fish nipping at my bottom.
I remember being a teenager back in the sixties: endless days of biking to the beach, playing tennis, talking with friends on the stone wall at Mount Lookout, waterskiing. Summer days in the sun seemed to stretch on and on...
Summertime takes me back to the sixties. My son’s boat, “The Roamer”, is a 1962 vintage Chris-Craft. Advertised on the internet for almost nothing, Andy and his friend T. Cody figured they’d buy the boat and spend their weekends restoring the neglected 36’ boat. It became a three year restoration project. Franco, their Italian mechanic sidekick, has parents who arrived this summer from their home in southern Italy. They wanted to cook an authentic Italian meal for all of us. On the boat, we feasted on Emily’s luscious lasagna, a delicate roulade of chicken and beef, pork tenderloin, and a fresh salad of tomatoes and mozzarella dressed in vinaigrette...amazing food cooked by an Italian mama!
Another summer delight occurred at Mystic Lake’s outdoor concert stage. My husband got tickets for the BEACH BOYS’ sold-out concert. Playing their unforgettable music to a sing-along crowd, the 60’s heart throbs still retain that intangible harmony made only by these ageless surfers. In attendance were plenty of other sixties’ grey heads as well as twenty and thirty year olds singing along to songs harkening back to those more innocent times of our youth. Who can forget those endless summers we remember from the fabulous sixties, seventies and eighties?
I’m stunned to realize that those tanned Californians have been around for 50 years, but even with grey hair and bigger stomachs, the Beach Boys proved that summer with them is still everlasting. Many of us still recall the words to their iconic songs: “California Dreamin”, “Wouldn’t it be Nice”, “Good Vibrations”, and “Be True to Your School”. What a thrilling feeling to sing along, joining Mike Love and his surfin’ pals in “Good Vibrations” and “I Get Around”!
Today’s sunshine still casts a bright beam on my summer days of sunnin’, stretched out on the sand at the public beach and canoeing across Lake Minnewaska to check out the cute lifeguards at the Starbuck beach. And I’ll never forget the icy thrill in my stomach when I swam, racing to the farthest diving tower to swim with friends in the moonlight.
The Beach Boys have been touring every summer since 1962. The feelings their music evoke are as sparkly as sunshine refracting diamonds on the ocean. As beach balls were batted and bounced through the adoring crowd, Mike Love led songs about cars in “Little Deuce Coupe” and “409”, school and hanging out with “I Get Around” and “Be True To Your School”. They sang about the innocence of youth in “When I Grow up To Be a Man,” and “In My Room” and even psychedelic spirituality “Good Vibrations”.
The Beach Boys’ sounds of summer were unique. Fans in Hawaiian leis and Jimmy Buffet shirts, sandals and Bermuda shorts hummed along to their unforgettable harmony. Some gals twisted up their hair into ponytails or donned hats to dance in the aisles, even twisting with the band on stage.
Realizing that this band of once shaggy-haired, golden-tanned boys is 50 years old, I could see that Mike Love is into his 70’s. Hairlines and birthday cakes may tell one story, but the Beach Boy music tells another. It tells the same remarkable tale it did the day they created a tune in a garage and brought it to a studio.
Then I remembered; I too have aged. But at the concert, I was once again a carefree teenybopper dancing to Beach Boy songs of that endless summer of 1966.
Sometimes, summer magic only takes a few minutes. But if you’re lucky, it can last for decades. 700 words
Summer seems endless. It’s too hot to do much but stretch out sunning on the dock, read, dream, and watch speed boats and jet skis bounce over the waves and sailboats float across the Bay. Periodically I dive into the lapping waves gently and swim a few laps, trying to avoid the rising weeds and fish nipping at my bottom.
I remember being a teenager back in the sixties: endless days of biking to the beach, playing tennis, talking with friends on the stone wall at Mount Lookout, waterskiing. Summer days in the sun seemed to stretch on and on...
Summertime takes me back to the sixties. My son’s boat, “The Roamer”, is a 1962 vintage Chris-Craft. Advertised on the internet for almost nothing, Andy and his friend T. Cody figured they’d buy the boat and spend their weekends restoring the neglected 36’ boat. It became a three year restoration project. Franco, their Italian mechanic sidekick, has parents who arrived this summer from their home in southern Italy. They wanted to cook an authentic Italian meal for all of us. On the boat, we feasted on Emily’s luscious lasagna, a delicate roulade of chicken and beef, pork tenderloin, and a fresh salad of tomatoes and mozzarella dressed in vinaigrette...amazing food cooked by an Italian mama!
Another summer delight occurred at Mystic Lake’s outdoor concert stage. My husband got tickets for the BEACH BOYS’ sold-out concert. Playing their unforgettable music to a sing-along crowd, the 60’s heart throbs still retain that intangible harmony made only by these ageless surfers. In attendance were plenty of other sixties’ grey heads as well as twenty and thirty year olds singing along to songs harkening back to those more innocent times of our youth. Who can forget those endless summers we remember from the fabulous sixties, seventies and eighties?
I’m stunned to realize that those tanned Californians have been around for 50 years, but even with grey hair and bigger stomachs, the Beach Boys proved that summer with them is still everlasting. Many of us still recall the words to their iconic songs: “California Dreamin”, “Wouldn’t it be Nice”, “Good Vibrations”, and “Be True to Your School”. What a thrilling feeling to sing along, joining Mike Love and his surfin’ pals in “Good Vibrations” and “I Get Around”!
Today’s sunshine still casts a bright beam on my summer days of sunnin’, stretched out on the sand at the public beach and canoeing across Lake Minnewaska to check out the cute lifeguards at the Starbuck beach. And I’ll never forget the icy thrill in my stomach when I swam, racing to the farthest diving tower to swim with friends in the moonlight.
The Beach Boys have been touring every summer since 1962. The feelings their music evoke are as sparkly as sunshine refracting diamonds on the ocean. As beach balls were batted and bounced through the adoring crowd, Mike Love led songs about cars in “Little Deuce Coupe” and “409”, school and hanging out with “I Get Around” and “Be True To Your School”. They sang about the innocence of youth in “When I Grow up To Be a Man,” and “In My Room” and even psychedelic spirituality “Good Vibrations”.
The Beach Boys’ sounds of summer were unique. Fans in Hawaiian leis and Jimmy Buffet shirts, sandals and Bermuda shorts hummed along to their unforgettable harmony. Some gals twisted up their hair into ponytails or donned hats to dance in the aisles, even twisting with the band on stage.
Realizing that this band of once shaggy-haired, golden-tanned boys is 50 years old, I could see that Mike Love is into his 70’s. Hairlines and birthday cakes may tell one story, but the Beach Boy music tells another. It tells the same remarkable tale it did the day they created a tune in a garage and brought it to a studio.
Then I remembered; I too have aged. But at the concert, I was once again a carefree teenybopper dancing to Beach Boy songs of that endless summer of 1966.
Sometimes, summer magic only takes a few minutes. But if you’re lucky, it can last for decades. 700 words
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Grave Visits; sweet memories, Memorial Day
Once again the calendar tells me it’s time. It’s May: time to make my annual pilgrimage to the cemetery where my parents are buried. This year, once again, I’ll visit the cemetery by myself, alone. Mother has been gone for almost seven years; Dad, much longer. As I wander the rows of the cemetery where they’re buried, I walk among perfectly aligned white grave markers sunk into the hallowed ground. Grecian urns rise over most graves, planted with waving flags and red geraniums. The flowers are planted by florists honoring the wishes of distant relatives. I know where to find my parents’ graves: side by side they rest near the middle of the vast cemetery. I scan the names of others, recalling long-remembered faces of names engraved on the stones. On a prior visit, I saw a pink paten leather child’s purse placed on a tiny grave. Some personalities live on.
I treasure this time to remember. The air is sweet, flavored by the fragrance of flowers and memories.
I treasure this time to remember. The air is sweet, flavored by the fragrance of flowers and memories.
Assistance to kids in the community
I'm so proud to be a member of Assistance League of Mpls/St Paul, a "hands-on" helping organization in our city! We've recently voted to provide aid to children at the schools ALMSP sponsors in North Mpls. This week's toronado has destroyed so many homes in that area of the city, which already struggles with daily life. Each year ALMSP provides school uniforms, winter jackets and boots to kids attending several schools there as well as tutoring and reading to children on a weekly basis. Now we'll add snacks for the children. Teachers and bus drivers tell us that kids come to school asking for food. Some are not getting regular meals nor attention to school work. Emergency needs can be attended to through Assistance League in many helpful ways.
Friday, May 13, 2011
chocolate addiction; diet; crummy rainy day
Oh, I'm so disgusted with myself! I had vowed last week with a pal to lose some poundage, brought on by this crummy rainy weather! Well, I've failed miserably!!!! YUCK! I'm sure it's due to my desperate addicition to chocolate bars with almonds purchased at Aldi's Market! They are sooooooooo delicious, melt in my mouth and satisfy my cravings totally.
Meanwhile, my body is expanding and I'm dismayed at the results. No interest in exercise; I'm bored with CURVES though I still enjoy walking Buddy my frisky Beagle through the wooded park to check the newest wildflowers. Several times a week we walk the road of Casco Point, about a mile and a half for a good jaunt and see the neighbors and greet our dog pals. But it's not enough.
Then the 70% humidity descended after the rain with tornado warnings, keeping me inside the house. My hands and feet ballooned....who feels like exercising then? But eating comes naturally. Maybe next week I'll be more disciplined. If the weather clears and feels crisp, I'll get energized and feel like a brish walk. I'll try to drink gallons of water to curb my hunger pangs. Perhaps I'll need to TOTALLY eliminate chocolate. If it's not in the house, I won't have any sweet tasty yummies to nibble on. I'll try that...next week.
Meanwhile, my body is expanding and I'm dismayed at the results. No interest in exercise; I'm bored with CURVES though I still enjoy walking Buddy my frisky Beagle through the wooded park to check the newest wildflowers. Several times a week we walk the road of Casco Point, about a mile and a half for a good jaunt and see the neighbors and greet our dog pals. But it's not enough.
Then the 70% humidity descended after the rain with tornado warnings, keeping me inside the house. My hands and feet ballooned....who feels like exercising then? But eating comes naturally. Maybe next week I'll be more disciplined. If the weather clears and feels crisp, I'll get energized and feel like a brish walk. I'll try to drink gallons of water to curb my hunger pangs. Perhaps I'll need to TOTALLY eliminate chocolate. If it's not in the house, I won't have any sweet tasty yummies to nibble on. I'll try that...next week.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Mom
Happy Mom's Day weeken! Glorious weather today and tomorrow is expected...and we certainly deserve glaring sunshine and warm temps. Boats are appearing on the lake; the docks await spectators who enjoy relaxing on the water; gardeners are digging, at least raking the leaves off the soil in preparation for planting.
Is it too soon for buying flower baskets to hang on the deck? Geraniums will do fine, but petunias are a bit more delicate. Can't wait to see colorful baskets of flowers appearing on neighbors decks and at their front doors. Floating petunia blossoms mixed with pansy faces and verbena, asparagus ferns and those tiny blue/purple flowers. They make me feel happy and energized.
It's time to get out the lawn chairs and my watercolors. The woods are filled with wildflowers popping up wherever sunshine can reach them. Nothing creates a finer composition than nature in the woods. Delicate blossoms sprout of hepatica, trillium, May flowers,spring beauties, and Dutchman's Breeches. Jack in the Pulpits will be appearing shortly, but so will the ticks which tramatize me and Buddy. The papers today warn of lyme's disease so difficult to treat and to get rid of. Guess I'll forego our treks into the woods to survey new plants...looking on from afar is just fine.
Time to get outside to rake leaves and pick up sticks in the yard in preparation for mowing and planting. Got to stake some tall leaves already tipping over and place the bird bath. Sunscreen and a hat to ward against skin cancer are important for me to remember as well as a filled water dish for Buddy. Can't wait for my bench to be installed on the dock so I can read out there on the water and survey Carmen's Bay and its goings-on!
Is it too soon for buying flower baskets to hang on the deck? Geraniums will do fine, but petunias are a bit more delicate. Can't wait to see colorful baskets of flowers appearing on neighbors decks and at their front doors. Floating petunia blossoms mixed with pansy faces and verbena, asparagus ferns and those tiny blue/purple flowers. They make me feel happy and energized.
It's time to get out the lawn chairs and my watercolors. The woods are filled with wildflowers popping up wherever sunshine can reach them. Nothing creates a finer composition than nature in the woods. Delicate blossoms sprout of hepatica, trillium, May flowers,spring beauties, and Dutchman's Breeches. Jack in the Pulpits will be appearing shortly, but so will the ticks which tramatize me and Buddy. The papers today warn of lyme's disease so difficult to treat and to get rid of. Guess I'll forego our treks into the woods to survey new plants...looking on from afar is just fine.
Time to get outside to rake leaves and pick up sticks in the yard in preparation for mowing and planting. Got to stake some tall leaves already tipping over and place the bird bath. Sunscreen and a hat to ward against skin cancer are important for me to remember as well as a filled water dish for Buddy. Can't wait for my bench to be installed on the dock so I can read out there on the water and survey Carmen's Bay and its goings-on!
Monday, May 2, 2011
authors, writers, cookbooks
Hard to believe that a woman wrote a book, however simple and short, in less than 2 hours. She added ghat it was published as is, the first draft, with only 2 added punctuation mark changes and interted a short paragraph. WHAT AM I DOING WRONG! I can't seem to finish this book about a kid playing in the jail, enjoying the prisoners her dad had incarcerated, and her mom, who cooked 3 meals a day for the family and prisoners. Her food kept the jailed guys returning every fall for a stay through the holidays. Three months in jail seemed to be the standard sentence for "drunk and disorderly" charges. I'm in the process of adding an insert of Mom's recipes of comfort food filled with butter, fat and Cream of Mushroom soup. Naturally, jello was the standard salad or a wedge of iceberg lettuce with a 1/2 peach topped with a dab of Miracle Whip and a cherry. Colorful, it truly was...and sooooooo yummy!
So how did this woman get her tiny book published? Guess I need to do some soul-searching and get back to work on this story of my growing up behind bars!
So how did this woman get her tiny book published? Guess I need to do some soul-searching and get back to work on this story of my growing up behind bars!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
girlfriends get-away
Off to a girlfriends' rendezvous! WOW! It's been ages since we've "vented" our frustrations, hopes, and goals for our futures. Nothing is better than friends with history, who understand each other's mood swings, dilemnas and dreams, even when those dreams bring such disappointment.
And what better place to meet during this unseasonally bitter weather when we'd had hopes for a sunny, blooming spring than our college town? Talking into the wee hours with plenty of wine and nibbles will satisfy me for months of girl talk! How lucky I am to have pals like Ginger and Ruth!
And what better place to meet during this unseasonally bitter weather when we'd had hopes for a sunny, blooming spring than our college town? Talking into the wee hours with plenty of wine and nibbles will satisfy me for months of girl talk! How lucky I am to have pals like Ginger and Ruth!
Friday, April 22, 2011
gray Good Friday
Gray and gloomy...it's Good Friday today. Though the daffodils and crocus are blooming, a damp rain is falling and the sky is gloomy gray. Flashing thru my mind are memories of those 3 PM Good Friday church services with a crucifix above the altar covered with a black cloth. For some reason I see the image of a dark curtain torn as the cresendo of the pipe organ announced Christ's death on the cross.
At Glenwood Lutheran three choirs performed a French Easter cantata with dual grad pianos all at the front of the church. It was magnificent! I remember feeling so inspired as my fingers struck the chords and the choirs responded in song. Carol Hustad, the other pianist, and I were piano students of Miss Rahn, whose teaching talents were held in high esteem in our community.
The idea remains in my mind that Good Friday is supposed to be a dark and gray day; rain is expected. But the darkness is gone as sunshine comes out on Easter Sunday! Every church will have their altars blooming with blue hydrangas, pink and red tulips, hot pink azalas, and fragrant white Easte lilies. It's glorious! LIttle girls have new frilly dresses and paten leather shoes with lacy anklets, tiny white gloves and Easter bonnets. Little boys are dressed in starched shirts with bow ties, long trousers and shined shoes. Some women still dress up and don Easter hats with flowers. They have Easter hunts in their back yards for the children to discover chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and colored Easter eggs. Families gather for ham dinner with sweet potatoes and salad topped off with a bunny cake or a fancy coconut cake or decorated cupcakes.
I love holidays! Best of all, this year we're guests, and I get to make the desserts! I'm making Sarah's smooth, rich coconut almond supcakes with bird nests of jelly beans on top....YUM The Dessert Queen wishes all a joyful Easter filled with sunshine!
At Glenwood Lutheran three choirs performed a French Easter cantata with dual grad pianos all at the front of the church. It was magnificent! I remember feeling so inspired as my fingers struck the chords and the choirs responded in song. Carol Hustad, the other pianist, and I were piano students of Miss Rahn, whose teaching talents were held in high esteem in our community.
The idea remains in my mind that Good Friday is supposed to be a dark and gray day; rain is expected. But the darkness is gone as sunshine comes out on Easter Sunday! Every church will have their altars blooming with blue hydrangas, pink and red tulips, hot pink azalas, and fragrant white Easte lilies. It's glorious! LIttle girls have new frilly dresses and paten leather shoes with lacy anklets, tiny white gloves and Easter bonnets. Little boys are dressed in starched shirts with bow ties, long trousers and shined shoes. Some women still dress up and don Easter hats with flowers. They have Easter hunts in their back yards for the children to discover chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and colored Easter eggs. Families gather for ham dinner with sweet potatoes and salad topped off with a bunny cake or a fancy coconut cake or decorated cupcakes.
I love holidays! Best of all, this year we're guests, and I get to make the desserts! I'm making Sarah's smooth, rich coconut almond supcakes with bird nests of jelly beans on top....YUM The Dessert Queen wishes all a joyful Easter filled with sunshine!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Easter baskets, dresses, burrrrrrrrr
Those shivering little girls in their sleeveless Easter dresses and bonnets are going to be so disappointed. Surely the snow will melt and the temps warm up before the Big Weekend holiday! What's the point of an Easter egg hunt in the snow? Uncovering Easter treats under wet snow piled up on the lawn would be miserable. And the poor moms thinking, "How am I going to get that dress clean after all the muddy stains...and those tiny white gloves!" UFDA! But, in truth, do little girls still don lovely dresses, wear ribbons in their curled hair, pull on lacy gloves, turned over anklets and paten leather shoes in honor of the day? I wonder...I see so many kids in sweats and torn jeans at Sunday morning church services. Parents wear the same informal clothing. I miss seeing church goers attending Sunday services dress up in their "Sunday best". However, I am aware that at least some people are still bringing their children to church and sunday school. I did like the idea that Sunday was not just another day of the week; it was special, family time, a day of rest.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Camus quote; front porches; neighbors
"In the midst of winter, I discovered within me an invincible summer"...that's French author Camus' thougths. It has to be mine this season too! Snow is forcast once more for tonight and tomorrow. But the tulip leaves are tall; the spring beauties, trout lily and violets have sprouted in the woods and we Minnesotans NEED SPRING!
Guess it'll have to be fresh ideas, not spring warmth, that will capture my fancy this week. Amidst my de-cluttering of papers and books, old clothes and dishes, I'm coming up with ideas about the comfort of a front porch where neighbors used to sit, rocking, calling to passers-by to come sit and chat. I miss that feeling. Life has become so much more formal. One doesn't "drop in" on friends; one calls first. I never even see some of my "neighbors"...have never met them! Some people own houses on Casco Point which they only visit a few days in the summer! AMAZING! It's a great spot with lots of interesting people!
For all the new homes being built, even in this recession, I haven't seen any with a front porch. The house we bought across from St Thomas College for our college son to live in and rent to others DOES have a front porch. There's even a fan and roll down wicker shades to block the sun and give privacy. Otherwise, open the windows reveal strolling neighbors with their dogs and children strolling through the neighborhood for an evening walk or going to school. It's a wonderful scene. I can sit on the porch swing, with the fan cooling me on hot summer days and read a good book.
We need more neighbor contact....who knows when we might need to borrow a cup of sugar of a flashlight?
Guess it'll have to be fresh ideas, not spring warmth, that will capture my fancy this week. Amidst my de-cluttering of papers and books, old clothes and dishes, I'm coming up with ideas about the comfort of a front porch where neighbors used to sit, rocking, calling to passers-by to come sit and chat. I miss that feeling. Life has become so much more formal. One doesn't "drop in" on friends; one calls first. I never even see some of my "neighbors"...have never met them! Some people own houses on Casco Point which they only visit a few days in the summer! AMAZING! It's a great spot with lots of interesting people!
For all the new homes being built, even in this recession, I haven't seen any with a front porch. The house we bought across from St Thomas College for our college son to live in and rent to others DOES have a front porch. There's even a fan and roll down wicker shades to block the sun and give privacy. Otherwise, open the windows reveal strolling neighbors with their dogs and children strolling through the neighborhood for an evening walk or going to school. It's a wonderful scene. I can sit on the porch swing, with the fan cooling me on hot summer days and read a good book.
We need more neighbor contact....who knows when we might need to borrow a cup of sugar of a flashlight?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
pansy faces appear
Purple and yellow pansy faces peek from clay pots lined up at John's Variety Store this morning. The sun is shining and the ice is inching away from the shoreline of Lake Minnetonka. Ice should be out in another week. Then canoes, sailboats, cruisers and speedboats will appear floating and roaring across Carmen's Bay as I'll sit, musing about my column writing, on the dock with Buddy, my ravenous Beagle who just ate a whole loaf of bread off the kitchen counter!
Death has invaded my life in voluminous numbers this past month. We'll attend two more funerals this weekend. I can feel my body weaken, tired with emotions difficult to deal with. I remember Donne's "Death Be Not Proud" poem "though some have called you mighty and dreadful/thou art not so...? and e.e. cummings's "Buffalo Bill's Defunct" with a mighty and dreadful Mr. Death, but his power can't erase the memories we hold close of that person. Memories live on.
Spring is a renewal of life. Perhaps I'll feel recharged as the sun warms; the ice melts, and my tulips and crocus will burst into bloom. I look forward to new life in nature and within me.
Death has invaded my life in voluminous numbers this past month. We'll attend two more funerals this weekend. I can feel my body weaken, tired with emotions difficult to deal with. I remember Donne's "Death Be Not Proud" poem "though some have called you mighty and dreadful/thou art not so...? and e.e. cummings's "Buffalo Bill's Defunct" with a mighty and dreadful Mr. Death, but his power can't erase the memories we hold close of that person. Memories live on.
Spring is a renewal of life. Perhaps I'll feel recharged as the sun warms; the ice melts, and my tulips and crocus will burst into bloom. I look forward to new life in nature and within me.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Spring is blooming in my soul
Snow walls are fading as sunshine beams its energy through the clouds to me...finally! Feel like spring...almost. The cardinals and nuthatches are at the bird feeder outside my kitchen window; the stars in the early morning sky are finally visible through the past week's clouds of gray, and puddles are forming on my sidewalk. We need to construct a moat to enter the house as the puddles keep enlarging; the accesible path to the front door keep shrinking.
Pussywillows must be budding in the woods. Sprouts of vague greeness appear in the gardens where the snow has receeded. Seed catalogue will be appearing in my mailbox. My geraniums in the garden window are blooming profusely with red and fuchia blossoms and the begonia plant is outperforming her yearly solo of cascading blooms in the east windows receiving full-blasts of sunshine!
Happy times are back! Spring is blooming in my soul!
Pussywillows must be budding in the woods. Sprouts of vague greeness appear in the gardens where the snow has receeded. Seed catalogue will be appearing in my mailbox. My geraniums in the garden window are blooming profusely with red and fuchia blossoms and the begonia plant is outperforming her yearly solo of cascading blooms in the east windows receiving full-blasts of sunshine!
Happy times are back! Spring is blooming in my soul!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
appreciation, "used", take advantage
This morning I'm upset about feeling taken advantage of ....not acknowledged. It takes so little to show appreciation for one's efforts, to celebrate the success of another, and to make another feel good. Why do few people tells others how important they are in other's lives? Why not share the success of someone's work?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Egypt, land of Arabian knights
Today's Egypt, which news people write about and what we see on TV, is vastly differely from the Cairo, Egypt, I experienced. When my husband Dave was flying the NYC to Cairo route for TWA in the 90's , we brought the family along on one of his trips to Egypt. We saw a land of pyramids, traffic jams, statues of ancient gods, little kids weaving silk rugs, spitting camels and Arabian horsemen in flowing robes dashing through the desert. It was a land of romance and smiling people who couldn't do enough for us!
Mohammed was our tour guide. He'd been befriended by airline crews and enjoyed showing off his city's sites. After taking us to a bazaar which had existed from times before Christ, to papyrus factories, rug weaving shops, The City of the Dead where squatters had claimed tombs of the rich as their homes, we rode camels past the pyramids and a flooka sailboat ride on the Nile, he invited us to his home for dinner. Thank goodness we knew NOT to use our LEFT hand when we ate. The left hand is dirty, used for wiping only...hummmm Though we never knew what we were eating, it was tasty and we never felt ill.
Egypt remains a delightful memory of an exotic desert land filled with pyramids, spitting camels, colorful tents of Ramadan, and smiling, helpful people. I hope their new government will be peaceful, successful, prosperous and a friend to the United States of America.
Mohammed was our tour guide. He'd been befriended by airline crews and enjoyed showing off his city's sites. After taking us to a bazaar which had existed from times before Christ, to papyrus factories, rug weaving shops, The City of the Dead where squatters had claimed tombs of the rich as their homes, we rode camels past the pyramids and a flooka sailboat ride on the Nile, he invited us to his home for dinner. Thank goodness we knew NOT to use our LEFT hand when we ate. The left hand is dirty, used for wiping only...hummmm Though we never knew what we were eating, it was tasty and we never felt ill.
Egypt remains a delightful memory of an exotic desert land filled with pyramids, spitting camels, colorful tents of Ramadan, and smiling, helpful people. I hope their new government will be peaceful, successful, prosperous and a friend to the United States of America.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Let the sun shine in!
Shrinking walls of snow re-energize me, especially when the sun shines on the frozen lake so brilliantly! It's been a lethargic period of time for me; no energy. Then I feel guilty that I'm not accomplishing anything. Why is it that a first born kid never gets rid of the guilt of not achieving? I could have been a catholic for all the guilt I harbor. I've been spending days doing a jigsaw puzzle and reading...remembering Dad telling me to "get your face out of that book and go outside!" Well, reading is another world for me...what a great escape when I'm discontent with the present. Grayness darkens my mood...let the sun shine in!
Monday, January 17, 2011
Snowy days to write short stories
This is January, a month of ENDLESS SNOW! I'm aching from shoveling the driveway daily with my new scoop shovel...it's faster and easier, but..........it's LOTS of WORK! Give me time to think about constructing a short story with a new character...I'm tired of my old characters. I want fresh blood in my shorts! New class starts Wednesday on "Crafting the short story" which I'm quite excited about. We'll be studying short stories by several authors, then trying to employ their techniques in crafting characters and settings. It's going to be motivation and FUN! Writers will gather in my family room around the cozy blue Austrian stove, write, discuss and indulge in coffee and sweet treats.
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