Driving around the lake yesterday I saw a few tree leaves with tinges of red. Is fall coming or are they distressed trees proclaiming their protests to this hot, humid weather?
Friends tell me, “I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving. I can’t wait for the snow to fly. At least I can put more clothes on.”
There is a limit to how much clothing one can shed. A neighbor, living behind stockade fences, gardens, and pine trees, enjoys watering her plants in her underwear. but how many of us have foliage to shelter our almost-naked bodies from unexpected visitors? Dave was out in the neighborhood campaigning for his political favorites when he entered the neighbor’s sanctuary. His eyes spotted a seemingly nude figure watering her plants: he did an about face and ran. That would have been an embarrassing encounter for both parties. I doubt he would have gained her political support.
Even my brain is sluggish along with my lethargic body. No matter how much ice water I consume, or how often I dive into the lake, I can’t get my groove back; I have no energy. The lake feels like bath water, but if I dunk my head under the water numerous times and remain in my wet swim suit, life feels better.
Dreaming, I’m planning my Thanksgiving table with a big, fat turkey and all the trimmings. I’ll serve Mom’s delectable cranberry cake with the butter-rum frosting oozing over each piece. The Thanksgiving platter, chips and all, will be placed in the center of the table which will be covered with the once-a-year cloth purchased in Provence, France. We’ll invite scads of guests to enjoy the feast and play games afterwards. Buddy will attempt to catch any tidbits falling from our plates. All will have stuffed tummies and enjoy a nap following the meal.
Sweaters and corduroys, wool skirts and thick socks, skates and cross-country skis fill my dreams. Cooling off improves my moods and my body feels better simply dreaming of cold nights and flannel PJ’s. Christmas music will flood the house and I’ll start planning my Christmas tree trimmings.
As the torrid sun beats through my windows, I can feel my body sweating. It’s back to reality. It’s 92 degrees outside. The lake is not filled with swimmers and boaters. It’s too hot and humid. When will summer come to an end and we can enjoy the coolness of fall breezes and wool clothing?
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Shades of Grey Sells!
Sex sells...isn’t that obvious from current Best Seller lists of books, videos and movies. Sex, speed, and thrillers tossed with a bit of lusty romance and deception Is really the fastest selling recipe for books, music, movies to the public
I was curious. Aren’t you? Best Seller lists are prominent on the internet as well as lots of magazines and newspapers. But the SAME book keeps making that list! Why? What’s the appeal? Is it a racy book? Sounds like it might be. And the scuttlebutt of comments from readers really had me intrigued, even titillated~ humm
50 Shades of Grey has my neighborhood book club appearing with flushed cheeks, heads downs, whispering certain pages to be sure to check out. Naturally, who wouldn’t be curious?
I bought the book, only the first book of the trilogy. I read it. I found out.
Nope, it didn’t make me rush to the store to purchase the next of the series. Even though a friend’s face lit up and her voice grew more agitated and louder, it still didn’t spark my race to the book shop. She was totally enticed by the action. The male character, though not a hero to me, was successful, handsome and charming. But he has a dark streak. I presume that dark side of his personality coined the title 50 SHADES OF GRAY.
When a friend was busy raising two children, often she felt shunned at neighborhood parties. When unknowns gathered and proceeded to asked her what she did for a living, she replied, “I’m busy at home raising two little children.” The inquirers would drift away, uninterested. She began to feel worthless, undervalued.
She needed to add some spice to her resume for the next neighborhood cocktail party.
My pal would bat her long lashes, strike a pose and answer, “I’m a domma matrix!” That got the interest of all in hearing distance. She decided to add a bit of zest, “I find leather, cufflinks and whips to be quite the lure for many who contact me.”
But, was her husband made aware of her new profession? I think not.
Of course, she was only teasing. She was no longer a boring matron playing only Chutes and Ladders with her kids. Neighbors now looked at her with new eyes.
Maybe that’s the basic lure of the SHADES OF GRAY books. They simply add some spice to a long marriage or a boring life.
I was curious. Aren’t you? Best Seller lists are prominent on the internet as well as lots of magazines and newspapers. But the SAME book keeps making that list! Why? What’s the appeal? Is it a racy book? Sounds like it might be. And the scuttlebutt of comments from readers really had me intrigued, even titillated~ humm
50 Shades of Grey has my neighborhood book club appearing with flushed cheeks, heads downs, whispering certain pages to be sure to check out. Naturally, who wouldn’t be curious?
I bought the book, only the first book of the trilogy. I read it. I found out.
Nope, it didn’t make me rush to the store to purchase the next of the series. Even though a friend’s face lit up and her voice grew more agitated and louder, it still didn’t spark my race to the book shop. She was totally enticed by the action. The male character, though not a hero to me, was successful, handsome and charming. But he has a dark streak. I presume that dark side of his personality coined the title 50 SHADES OF GRAY.
When a friend was busy raising two children, often she felt shunned at neighborhood parties. When unknowns gathered and proceeded to asked her what she did for a living, she replied, “I’m busy at home raising two little children.” The inquirers would drift away, uninterested. She began to feel worthless, undervalued.
She needed to add some spice to her resume for the next neighborhood cocktail party.
My pal would bat her long lashes, strike a pose and answer, “I’m a domma matrix!” That got the interest of all in hearing distance. She decided to add a bit of zest, “I find leather, cufflinks and whips to be quite the lure for many who contact me.”
But, was her husband made aware of her new profession? I think not.
Of course, she was only teasing. She was no longer a boring matron playing only Chutes and Ladders with her kids. Neighbors now looked at her with new eyes.
Maybe that’s the basic lure of the SHADES OF GRAY books. They simply add some spice to a long marriage or a boring life.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
MOZART INHOBOKEN
Pat Spilseth writerscircle@mchsi.com
MOZART IN HOBOKEN
What happened to sass and tumultuous tumbles
in and out of love
and adventurous forays with reptilian characters
that lent such disturbance to my existence?
The scrappy spark of my youthful face
has receded and fallen in abandonment of years.
A jowled neck burrows into sagging shoulders
hoisting boned cups to perky awareness.
No longer a girl in bloom
I’m paralyzed with self-doubt
making me prey to wannabe yogis and bona fide geniuses
who temper my depressions with wit and affectionate wisdom.
They’ve been here too
and moved on to another plane or drug-induced planet,
a flight of fancy to other worlds of inspired minds.
Let’s be candid… but, gentle with our candor.
What happened to the tempestuous adolescent
gasping with laughter
at each indiscretion?
Sometimes I soar close to smoky beginnings
where I face all manner of monsters
with composed ferocity and gritty eloquence.
Sober, I cajole myself,
partaking in a few pleasures.
All grown up, I’ve become Mozart in Hoboken.
In my nearsighted, squinty view
It doesn’t pay to see things too clearly.
It’s too bright.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Broken Twigs Emptiness
POEM: BRANCHES February, 2012 Pat Spilseth
Broken twigs twist in the wind,
free fall
as squirrels jump and soar into empty air.
Skeleton fingers
scratch the sky.
This is the winter
that never was
No skaters;
a lone skier glides past
random fishing shacks
on the frozen lake
Danger lurks beneath the ice.
Power ridges buckle,
heave ice floats into monster piles,
flowing water drowns interlopers.
Beware
winter’s ice is not safe.
But it draws me
into its emptiness
Broken twigs twist in the wind,
free fall
as squirrels jump and soar into empty air.
Skeleton fingers
scratch the sky.
This is the winter
that never was
No skaters;
a lone skier glides past
random fishing shacks
on the frozen lake
Danger lurks beneath the ice.
Power ridges buckle,
heave ice floats into monster piles,
flowing water drowns interlopers.
Beware
winter’s ice is not safe.
But it draws me
into its emptiness
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Prom Promises
FROM WHERE I SIT Prom Promises April 5, 2012 Pat Spilseth
It’s prom time. Can you still remember being sixteen or seventeen, getting ready for your magical evening at the prom? The annual high school prom is a rite of passage, one of those memorable rituals of American youth. Its anticipation is full of hopes and dreams few of us will ever forget, no matter if your prom date is Prince Charming or a dud.
I remember...
There I was, in my perfect hairdo, sprayed stiffly with Aqua Net, and a dab of Wind Song perfume purchased at the Corner Drug Store. My image in the full length mirror smiled back at me, dressed in a lovely, hand-me-down, white dress of tulle and satin. The garter belt holding up my tan nylons was scratchy, and the garters pinched, but I was determined to feel lovely. I slipped into my stiff, white 1” heeled slippers, making me just a tad taller that my anticipated date. I grimaced, but...oh, the pain was worth the breath-taking beauty I observed.
There was still time to practice in the mirror. Cocking my head slightly and trying to look dreamy, I put on various facial expressions: should I look demure, ecstatic, surprised, or engage in the latest look I’d read about in “Seventeen” magazine, my teenage Bible? I wasn’t quite comfortable with that flirty look, but “Seventeen” told me that it was the “look” a date was attracted to.
I’d read in the teenage glamour magazine that it was a good idea to practice smooching with a mirror, just in case my date tried to kiss me. One should be prepared. This would be my first kiss. I was a late bloomer. I’d dreamt about this earth-shaking event for months. I was a bit nervous. Just thinking about this monumental event made me blush! Pulling a tube of Pink Kisses lipstick from my white beaded, tiny clutch purse, I lathered color on my quivering lips. Licking my lips several times to make them glisten, as the magazine had told me to do, I hesitantly approached the mirror. Clutching the looking glass shakily with both hands, I pressed my fevered face to the cold mirror and pecked a kiss. That felt weird! I didn’t want to appear too “forward”...that could botch my reputation as a “nice” girl. I tried smacking the kiss with more force. But that sucking noise was a bit overpowering. The noise reminded me of embarrassing, offensive sounds I sure hoped wouldn’t happen to me on this magical evening.
I preferred thinking about the flowers he might bring. I loved daisies. Roses and carnations made me think of dead people. Would he choose a wrist corsage of inexpensive carnations or perhaps he’d bring a small bouquet of flowers from his mom’s garden. That would really be embarrassing! I hoped he wouldn’t pin the flowers on the bodice of my dress. Most high school boys I knew weren’t real smooth. I envisioned getting poked with the piercing pin and bleeding red blood on my white gown. I’d be utterly mortified!
Was that the doorbell? Maybe Mom will get it. Gee, I hope Dad is busy in his sheriff’s office, but what if Blackie and Verdi were sitting at the bars of their jail cell windows checking out my date? That would be totally mortifying! Johnny would have to go through the gauntlet of staring convicts behind bars leering at his suit, probably making snide comments, maybe whistling. Would he even come to the door to pick me up?
Clomping down the stairs from my upstairs bedroom to the kitchen door, I saw him. Gee Whiz...Johnny looked so handsome and grown up in his narrow black tie, starched white shirt and shiny black suit. WOW!
But wait! What’s that under his arms? Is he trying to be funny? Standing tall, dark, and handsome with a crooked smile on his face, my Johnny looked embarrassed. Hobbling on crutches, he knocked at the kitchen door. Stammering an apology for being late, he explained that he’d sprained his ankle at the baseball game after school. Shuttering, I knew, deep in my heart, that my prom evening was doomed.
But remember, there’s still hope for the kiss...
Pasting a smile on my disappointed face, we limped through the Grand March at the Lakeside Ballroom while parents snapped flashbulb photos of their dressed up kids with Brownie cameras. Johnny quickly grabbed a booth, asked for a bucket of ice, and we spent the night with his foot on ice to keep the swelling down. Looking back, I believe that the last place on earth Johnny wanted to be was at the high school prom at the Lakeside Ballroom. It wouldn’t have mattered if his date had been Sandra Dee or Farah Fawcett. Johnny groaned, grimacing in pain as he added freezing ice to the bucket.
Dream on, girls...Enjoy your night of glamour and romance. You’ll be gorgeous. Assuredly, his Mom has told him how to behave and practiced dancing with him. Pretend your date is Prince Charming, dancing with his beautiful princess. As “Seventeen” magazines advised me back in 1962, just put on a smile and have fun! 868
It’s prom time. Can you still remember being sixteen or seventeen, getting ready for your magical evening at the prom? The annual high school prom is a rite of passage, one of those memorable rituals of American youth. Its anticipation is full of hopes and dreams few of us will ever forget, no matter if your prom date is Prince Charming or a dud.
I remember...
There I was, in my perfect hairdo, sprayed stiffly with Aqua Net, and a dab of Wind Song perfume purchased at the Corner Drug Store. My image in the full length mirror smiled back at me, dressed in a lovely, hand-me-down, white dress of tulle and satin. The garter belt holding up my tan nylons was scratchy, and the garters pinched, but I was determined to feel lovely. I slipped into my stiff, white 1” heeled slippers, making me just a tad taller that my anticipated date. I grimaced, but...oh, the pain was worth the breath-taking beauty I observed.
There was still time to practice in the mirror. Cocking my head slightly and trying to look dreamy, I put on various facial expressions: should I look demure, ecstatic, surprised, or engage in the latest look I’d read about in “Seventeen” magazine, my teenage Bible? I wasn’t quite comfortable with that flirty look, but “Seventeen” told me that it was the “look” a date was attracted to.
I’d read in the teenage glamour magazine that it was a good idea to practice smooching with a mirror, just in case my date tried to kiss me. One should be prepared. This would be my first kiss. I was a late bloomer. I’d dreamt about this earth-shaking event for months. I was a bit nervous. Just thinking about this monumental event made me blush! Pulling a tube of Pink Kisses lipstick from my white beaded, tiny clutch purse, I lathered color on my quivering lips. Licking my lips several times to make them glisten, as the magazine had told me to do, I hesitantly approached the mirror. Clutching the looking glass shakily with both hands, I pressed my fevered face to the cold mirror and pecked a kiss. That felt weird! I didn’t want to appear too “forward”...that could botch my reputation as a “nice” girl. I tried smacking the kiss with more force. But that sucking noise was a bit overpowering. The noise reminded me of embarrassing, offensive sounds I sure hoped wouldn’t happen to me on this magical evening.
I preferred thinking about the flowers he might bring. I loved daisies. Roses and carnations made me think of dead people. Would he choose a wrist corsage of inexpensive carnations or perhaps he’d bring a small bouquet of flowers from his mom’s garden. That would really be embarrassing! I hoped he wouldn’t pin the flowers on the bodice of my dress. Most high school boys I knew weren’t real smooth. I envisioned getting poked with the piercing pin and bleeding red blood on my white gown. I’d be utterly mortified!
Was that the doorbell? Maybe Mom will get it. Gee, I hope Dad is busy in his sheriff’s office, but what if Blackie and Verdi were sitting at the bars of their jail cell windows checking out my date? That would be totally mortifying! Johnny would have to go through the gauntlet of staring convicts behind bars leering at his suit, probably making snide comments, maybe whistling. Would he even come to the door to pick me up?
Clomping down the stairs from my upstairs bedroom to the kitchen door, I saw him. Gee Whiz...Johnny looked so handsome and grown up in his narrow black tie, starched white shirt and shiny black suit. WOW!
But wait! What’s that under his arms? Is he trying to be funny? Standing tall, dark, and handsome with a crooked smile on his face, my Johnny looked embarrassed. Hobbling on crutches, he knocked at the kitchen door. Stammering an apology for being late, he explained that he’d sprained his ankle at the baseball game after school. Shuttering, I knew, deep in my heart, that my prom evening was doomed.
But remember, there’s still hope for the kiss...
Pasting a smile on my disappointed face, we limped through the Grand March at the Lakeside Ballroom while parents snapped flashbulb photos of their dressed up kids with Brownie cameras. Johnny quickly grabbed a booth, asked for a bucket of ice, and we spent the night with his foot on ice to keep the swelling down. Looking back, I believe that the last place on earth Johnny wanted to be was at the high school prom at the Lakeside Ballroom. It wouldn’t have mattered if his date had been Sandra Dee or Farah Fawcett. Johnny groaned, grimacing in pain as he added freezing ice to the bucket.
Dream on, girls...Enjoy your night of glamour and romance. You’ll be gorgeous. Assuredly, his Mom has told him how to behave and practiced dancing with him. Pretend your date is Prince Charming, dancing with his beautiful princess. As “Seventeen” magazines advised me back in 1962, just put on a smile and have fun! 868
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Holiday Weekend in Mexico City
Holiday Weekend in Mexico City
National holiday weekends in Mexico City gather crowds of people to the city square where they’re an abundance of loud music, costumed dancers and street vendors hawking their wares. What a treat for pale Minnesotans to smell spicy foods cooking and sniff fresh flowers in the balmy March air. We were visiting our daughter and her husband this past holiday weekend. Congested lanes of cars, common to the city, are not allowed on the square. People gather to enjoy street performers, music, and food as they celebrate their Mexican independence.
The Zocolo, the city’s historic downtown square, is surrounded by an historic church, ancient museums, shopping stalls, and government buildings. Fresh flowers are sold on street corners and pungent herbs permeate the air as shamans swing smoldering balls of incense and brush herb bunches across bodies wanting to be cleansed of evil spirits. Costumed Aztec dancers dip and twirl to resounding drum beats, showing off muscular, bronzed torsos above their lion cloths of metallic fringe and shiny silver medallions. Colorful headdresses of multiple bird feathers at least 4’ high decorate their heads. Dancing feet have seed bells strapped on their ankles which jingle with the dancers’ stomps and whirls. Bodies circle and conjure good spirits to fill the square.
As we walk through the Zocolo teeming with people selling their wares, we spy a crowd clapping and cheering, circling a tag team of break dancers. They’re performing awe-inspiring feats to a steady beat of hip-hop music, spinning on their heads, flipping, and twisting their limber bodies into unimaginable gyrations to the delight of a fast growing crowd. One young man crossed his feet behind his head, flipped upside down and walked on his hands. It almost hurts to watch their contortions.
Music blares from pirated CD’s for sale, and vendors hawk wares spread on blankets on the sidewalk. Vendors hurriedly scoop up the blanket if the police appear. Next to knock-off Coach and Louis Vitton purses are batteries, nylon stockings, bath towels, Dora the Explorer backpacks, sequined headbands, even guitars and baby clothing for sale. Mexicans are very industrious, constantly finding imaginative ways to make money.
In a city museum just off the square we see calla lilies and revolutionary patriots with bullets in a leather strap across their bodies, favorite images on the many murals painted on museum walls. Works of favorite Mexican artists Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo, with her dark, distinctive unibrow, are featured everywhere.
Locals eat lunch around 2PM in the city, dinner about 8PM. Sunday, we were guests of our Mexican in-laws at a lovely restaurant in the jeweler section of the city. Oil paintings and stained glass windows lined the walls; a violinist and pianist entertained diners as black and white uniformed waiters served. Everyone seems to be smiling in this country of sunshine and flowers.
We visited a newly opened art museum donated by telecommunications mogul Carlos Slim. He is the world’s wealthiest man with a net worth of $53.5 billion. The seventy year old dynamo dedicated this $34 million Soumaya Art Museum in honor of his deceased wife. Admission to the six halls of art is free, a gift to the city. The building, designed by the donor’s son-in-law Fernando Romero, reminds me of Frank Gehry’s architecture in Minneapolis. This aluminum structure resembles the twisted silver corset of a woman. It’s definitely an eye popper.
The building is arranged with ascending galleries curling up to 5 halls of magnificent art displays, much like New York City’s MOMA Art Museum. We were able to view an entire gallery of Rodin’s sculptures: we saw “The Thinker” eye to eye. Salvador Dali’s sagging clocks were evident in many of Dali’s painting and sculptures, bizarre but so eye-catching. The curling mustachioed artist had a fine classical art education, which morphed into rather bizarre art, prompting much discussion. The museum’s massive art collection included paintings and sculptures by Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Matisse and Manet in addition to a multitude of Mexican artists’ works.
At Mexico City’s American School, our daughter Kate assigned a written art project for her first graders. They were to write about a favorite artist. Miguel chose the Mexican painter Segurro. Kate asked why he chose this artist. “Well, Miss Kate,” Miguel replied, “my family has a painting by Segurro on a wall at our home.” Pausing a bit, he went on to explain, “Actually, Miss Kate, we have 4 of his paintings, but my mother said to tell you we only have one. I’m not supposed to brag.” Kate has an unusual group of students. Several children have body guards, and one little boy arrives in a helicopter each morning. The school is surrounded by tall cement walls and armed guards. Kate’s teaching experience is much different than any I’ve had, but it sure is fun to hear about her students.
Mexico City is a city of 23 million people and honking cars on multi traffic lanes. It’s very noisy; I don’t hear birds and am constantly short of breath in this 7000’ elevation. But each visit I make here, the ever-blooming trees and flowers, castles, pink and turquoise adobe buildings, sculptures, parks, and fascinating history continue to charm me. Though my daughter Kate tells me she misses family and friends back in Minnesota, I know my blonde daughter continues to thrive in this exciting city of sunshine and smiling people.
National holiday weekends in Mexico City gather crowds of people to the city square where they’re an abundance of loud music, costumed dancers and street vendors hawking their wares. What a treat for pale Minnesotans to smell spicy foods cooking and sniff fresh flowers in the balmy March air. We were visiting our daughter and her husband this past holiday weekend. Congested lanes of cars, common to the city, are not allowed on the square. People gather to enjoy street performers, music, and food as they celebrate their Mexican independence.
The Zocolo, the city’s historic downtown square, is surrounded by an historic church, ancient museums, shopping stalls, and government buildings. Fresh flowers are sold on street corners and pungent herbs permeate the air as shamans swing smoldering balls of incense and brush herb bunches across bodies wanting to be cleansed of evil spirits. Costumed Aztec dancers dip and twirl to resounding drum beats, showing off muscular, bronzed torsos above their lion cloths of metallic fringe and shiny silver medallions. Colorful headdresses of multiple bird feathers at least 4’ high decorate their heads. Dancing feet have seed bells strapped on their ankles which jingle with the dancers’ stomps and whirls. Bodies circle and conjure good spirits to fill the square.
As we walk through the Zocolo teeming with people selling their wares, we spy a crowd clapping and cheering, circling a tag team of break dancers. They’re performing awe-inspiring feats to a steady beat of hip-hop music, spinning on their heads, flipping, and twisting their limber bodies into unimaginable gyrations to the delight of a fast growing crowd. One young man crossed his feet behind his head, flipped upside down and walked on his hands. It almost hurts to watch their contortions.
Music blares from pirated CD’s for sale, and vendors hawk wares spread on blankets on the sidewalk. Vendors hurriedly scoop up the blanket if the police appear. Next to knock-off Coach and Louis Vitton purses are batteries, nylon stockings, bath towels, Dora the Explorer backpacks, sequined headbands, even guitars and baby clothing for sale. Mexicans are very industrious, constantly finding imaginative ways to make money.
In a city museum just off the square we see calla lilies and revolutionary patriots with bullets in a leather strap across their bodies, favorite images on the many murals painted on museum walls. Works of favorite Mexican artists Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo, with her dark, distinctive unibrow, are featured everywhere.
Locals eat lunch around 2PM in the city, dinner about 8PM. Sunday, we were guests of our Mexican in-laws at a lovely restaurant in the jeweler section of the city. Oil paintings and stained glass windows lined the walls; a violinist and pianist entertained diners as black and white uniformed waiters served. Everyone seems to be smiling in this country of sunshine and flowers.
We visited a newly opened art museum donated by telecommunications mogul Carlos Slim. He is the world’s wealthiest man with a net worth of $53.5 billion. The seventy year old dynamo dedicated this $34 million Soumaya Art Museum in honor of his deceased wife. Admission to the six halls of art is free, a gift to the city. The building, designed by the donor’s son-in-law Fernando Romero, reminds me of Frank Gehry’s architecture in Minneapolis. This aluminum structure resembles the twisted silver corset of a woman. It’s definitely an eye popper.
The building is arranged with ascending galleries curling up to 5 halls of magnificent art displays, much like New York City’s MOMA Art Museum. We were able to view an entire gallery of Rodin’s sculptures: we saw “The Thinker” eye to eye. Salvador Dali’s sagging clocks were evident in many of Dali’s painting and sculptures, bizarre but so eye-catching. The curling mustachioed artist had a fine classical art education, which morphed into rather bizarre art, prompting much discussion. The museum’s massive art collection included paintings and sculptures by Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Matisse and Manet in addition to a multitude of Mexican artists’ works.
At Mexico City’s American School, our daughter Kate assigned a written art project for her first graders. They were to write about a favorite artist. Miguel chose the Mexican painter Segurro. Kate asked why he chose this artist. “Well, Miss Kate,” Miguel replied, “my family has a painting by Segurro on a wall at our home.” Pausing a bit, he went on to explain, “Actually, Miss Kate, we have 4 of his paintings, but my mother said to tell you we only have one. I’m not supposed to brag.” Kate has an unusual group of students. Several children have body guards, and one little boy arrives in a helicopter each morning. The school is surrounded by tall cement walls and armed guards. Kate’s teaching experience is much different than any I’ve had, but it sure is fun to hear about her students.
Mexico City is a city of 23 million people and honking cars on multi traffic lanes. It’s very noisy; I don’t hear birds and am constantly short of breath in this 7000’ elevation. But each visit I make here, the ever-blooming trees and flowers, castles, pink and turquoise adobe buildings, sculptures, parks, and fascinating history continue to charm me. Though my daughter Kate tells me she misses family and friends back in Minnesota, I know my blonde daughter continues to thrive in this exciting city of sunshine and smiling people.
Easter Bonnets
Easter Bonnets March 4, 2008
When I was a little girl, I was so excited about Easter dresses and bonnets shown in store windows and newspaper ads. Other little girls wore frilly, brand-new party dresses in pink, yellow and blue to Easter church services every year. Though they usually shivered in their lacey white socks and spring flower dresses, I couldn’t help but admire their patent leather Mary Jane shoes and Easter bonnets with flowers and ribbons. Though I was warm in my old winter jacket, wool pleated skirt and white blouse, truth be told, I wished I could be them. I was jealous!
Easter dresses were my yearly dream, but there wasn’t any extra money for frivolities at my house. Mom did spend a few pennies at the dime store downtown on yellow, chenille baby chicks to decorate our Easter dining table along with the dyed Easter eggs.
I remember one year Aunt Sadie sewed dresses for my baby sister Barbie and me on her treadle Singer sewing machine. My Easter dress was an ice blue, puckered, nylon fabric with puffy short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar, with a big bow tied in back. Proudly I wore a rhinestone locket with my sapphire birthstone, a gift from Elmer, my favorite prisoner at the jail.
Posing Barbie and me on the front step of our house, Mom took several photos of us with her Brownie camera. I had a fresh haircut and Barbie’s straight hair was curled for the holiday guests my parents had invited for ham dinner and scalloped potatoes after Easter church services.
Years later, things were different. I’ll never forget shopping with Mom for a “marked down” dress hanging forlornly on the rack at the back of a local department store. By this time I was in junior high, waiting for my body to develop like the other girls I’d peek at in gym showers. Why was I one of the last to develop, to get a garter belt, to be chosen on a softball team, to have a boy look at me? That mauve dress with stitched down pleats on the bodice and a navy polka dot bow at the peter pan collar was my Easter dress. No stiff, starched crinolines were required. It was too big for me. Back then, parents thought kids could “grow into those clothes” and save a few dollars.
One item my parents didn’t skimp on with money was good shoes. We had to have Buster Brown shoes so our arches would have support, and our feet wouldn’t develop corns or hammer toes. We went to Iverson’s Shoe Store in Alexandria where a cardboard, stand-up Buster Brown and his dog looked down at me with their big brown eyes.
Today I wonder who would come up with such an ugly dress for a self-conscious, budding teenager? It wasn’t pretty in pastels with lace or ribbons; it was bland. But it was somewhat new. The discount rack hadn’t frayed the polka dot bow or faded the dress. No one trying on the dress had torn the hem or dirtied the neckline. For some reason, that not quite-right dress remains registered in my mind.. Maybe what remains is the uncomfortable feeling I had when I wore that dress. That year I also wore my first pair of silky nylons with seams running crookedly up the back of my leg with stiff ballet flats.
Bunnies are building nests for their babies-to-be as they hop their way to our house through crunchy snow. Colorfully dyed eggs have to be hidden for the annual Easter egg hunt. a tradition at our house, from the time our kids were little people, when I dressed Andy in short pants with a matching jacket, shirt and knee socks. Kate wore an Easter dress with bunnies eating carrots appliquéd on her white collar. A straw hat with ribbons tied around her chubby chin kept flipping off her head as she ran.
I'll never forget Dave filming the kids and their cousins running around our yard looking for hidden eggs to drop into their straw baskets. Kate and Andy spied the same blue egg, hidden under a tree covered in leaves. Rushing to grab it first, they collided! Noticing that Andy had a few more yellow and green eggs than she, Kate dove for the blue egg, getting grass stains on her new dress. Her hat fell off, crushed under Andy’s kicking foot. He wasn’t about to let big sister grab that egg without a tussle! Andy wrestled the egg from big sister’s scratching fingernails, only to have Kate smash his blonde head with her straw basket!
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Dave kept filming the riotous fray; I ran to break up the fighting twosome as the relatives laughed uproariously! It was an Easter to remember for years. We play the same video each holiday. Some things don’t change.
When I was a little girl, I was so excited about Easter dresses and bonnets shown in store windows and newspaper ads. Other little girls wore frilly, brand-new party dresses in pink, yellow and blue to Easter church services every year. Though they usually shivered in their lacey white socks and spring flower dresses, I couldn’t help but admire their patent leather Mary Jane shoes and Easter bonnets with flowers and ribbons. Though I was warm in my old winter jacket, wool pleated skirt and white blouse, truth be told, I wished I could be them. I was jealous!
Easter dresses were my yearly dream, but there wasn’t any extra money for frivolities at my house. Mom did spend a few pennies at the dime store downtown on yellow, chenille baby chicks to decorate our Easter dining table along with the dyed Easter eggs.
I remember one year Aunt Sadie sewed dresses for my baby sister Barbie and me on her treadle Singer sewing machine. My Easter dress was an ice blue, puckered, nylon fabric with puffy short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar, with a big bow tied in back. Proudly I wore a rhinestone locket with my sapphire birthstone, a gift from Elmer, my favorite prisoner at the jail.
Posing Barbie and me on the front step of our house, Mom took several photos of us with her Brownie camera. I had a fresh haircut and Barbie’s straight hair was curled for the holiday guests my parents had invited for ham dinner and scalloped potatoes after Easter church services.
Years later, things were different. I’ll never forget shopping with Mom for a “marked down” dress hanging forlornly on the rack at the back of a local department store. By this time I was in junior high, waiting for my body to develop like the other girls I’d peek at in gym showers. Why was I one of the last to develop, to get a garter belt, to be chosen on a softball team, to have a boy look at me? That mauve dress with stitched down pleats on the bodice and a navy polka dot bow at the peter pan collar was my Easter dress. No stiff, starched crinolines were required. It was too big for me. Back then, parents thought kids could “grow into those clothes” and save a few dollars.
One item my parents didn’t skimp on with money was good shoes. We had to have Buster Brown shoes so our arches would have support, and our feet wouldn’t develop corns or hammer toes. We went to Iverson’s Shoe Store in Alexandria where a cardboard, stand-up Buster Brown and his dog looked down at me with their big brown eyes.
Today I wonder who would come up with such an ugly dress for a self-conscious, budding teenager? It wasn’t pretty in pastels with lace or ribbons; it was bland. But it was somewhat new. The discount rack hadn’t frayed the polka dot bow or faded the dress. No one trying on the dress had torn the hem or dirtied the neckline. For some reason, that not quite-right dress remains registered in my mind.. Maybe what remains is the uncomfortable feeling I had when I wore that dress. That year I also wore my first pair of silky nylons with seams running crookedly up the back of my leg with stiff ballet flats.
Bunnies are building nests for their babies-to-be as they hop their way to our house through crunchy snow. Colorfully dyed eggs have to be hidden for the annual Easter egg hunt. a tradition at our house, from the time our kids were little people, when I dressed Andy in short pants with a matching jacket, shirt and knee socks. Kate wore an Easter dress with bunnies eating carrots appliquéd on her white collar. A straw hat with ribbons tied around her chubby chin kept flipping off her head as she ran.
I'll never forget Dave filming the kids and their cousins running around our yard looking for hidden eggs to drop into their straw baskets. Kate and Andy spied the same blue egg, hidden under a tree covered in leaves. Rushing to grab it first, they collided! Noticing that Andy had a few more yellow and green eggs than she, Kate dove for the blue egg, getting grass stains on her new dress. Her hat fell off, crushed under Andy’s kicking foot. He wasn’t about to let big sister grab that egg without a tussle! Andy wrestled the egg from big sister’s scratching fingernails, only to have Kate smash his blonde head with her straw basket!
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Dave kept filming the riotous fray; I ran to break up the fighting twosome as the relatives laughed uproariously! It was an Easter to remember for years. We play the same video each holiday. Some things don’t change.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Buff Your Brain
Buff Your Brain FEB. 22, 2012 Pat Spilseth
I’m hooked. The iPad has become my latest playmate. Hours of thinking up words, hopefully larger than four or five letters, have become my daily challenge. It’s a newer version of Scrabble. It teases my brain to find words which will fit onto the screen’s grid. The iPad will instantly tell me if I’m fudging, trying to get a pass on a made-up word. Sometimes I’m pleasantly surprised when that weird spelling is an actual word!
What alleviates my Scandinavian guilt about this time-consuming pleasure, when I know I should be working at something more productive, is an article I recently read in a January “Newsweek”. “Buff Your Brain” tells me that if I want to be smarter in work, love, and life, scientific advances offer proven ways to enhance my gray matter. The article suggests 31 Ways to Get Smarter in 2012. Playing word games was listed as #1.
My favorite listed activity is to eat dark chocolate, which has memory-improving flavonoids. The article suggests pairing the chocolate with a glass of red wine, another great source of flavonoid. Author Sharon Begley suggests that women drink four cups of coffee a day to bolster short-term memory and to lessen chances of depression. One cup doesn’t do the trick. I love these suggestions.
Begley tells me to write by hand. My long-shelved journal and pen came out right after reading that brain scans reveal that handwriting engages more sections of the brain than typing. I resolve to write my thoughts with pen and paper each evening before sleep. It’s easier to remember something once you’ve written it down on paper.
I felt terrific when I read that sleep is helpful...lots of sleep. Begley suggests taking a nap and getting to bed early. Harvard research shows that the brain continues to process memories even after you’ve gone to sleep so you can recall them better at a later time. Mom always advocated “early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” No guilt for me on that one. I love to crawl into bed with a good book by 9PM, 10 at the latest.
My husband is trying to learn Spanish. Our daughter Kate and husband Bernardo from Mexico City are fluent in English as well as Spanish. Neither my husband nor I speak Spanish, but we’d like to converse with our in-laws, who don’t speak much English. We thought we’d learn to speak Spanish so we purchased Rosetta Stone, a computer language learning program. But you have to practice, regularly. The “Newsweek” article says mastering a second language is a workout for the prefrontal cortex, which affects decision making and emotions. In high school I learned a bit about Latin from Mr. Rambeck, and I minored in French at college, but I’ve lost most of what I learned. If you don’t use it, you lose it. Where am I going to speak Latin? However, I’m able to figure out how to spell and the meaning of some words because many have Latin roots. I really botch the French accent and have embarrassed myself by mixing up the meanings of some French words. In reality, I’m not going to master a second language at this stage of life. It’s a lot of work.
Other ideas to improve the IQ: drink water, which helps with the brain’s planning ability; eat yogurt, and play an instrument. Studies on mice show that yogurt’s probiotics are good for the stomach and brain. Mice that ate yogurt handled anxiety better and showed increased activity in emotions and memory. I’ll eat more raspberry yogurt with cereal in the morning. Perhaps I’ll even get back to practicing scales on the piano, which Miss Rahn taught at piano lessons.
Visiting museums was advocated so I visited the Walker and the Minnesota Institute of Art. The Walker seemed cold, sterile, and the art was unappealing. I didn’t stay very long, but the Institute was filled with interesting art displays of color and such beauty I felt uplifted.
Harvard psychology professor Steven Pinker says to read a lot if you want to buff your brain. Another suggestion is to “zone out”. Let your mind wander. Studies suggest that zoning out allows the brain to work on important “big picture” thinking. Maybe I’ll come up with one of those stupendous ideas that generate a new fad and make lots of money, like the pet rock idea.
Coffee, chocolate, wine and lots of sleep...aren’t these fabulous suggestions to improve your IQ and get through wintertime? Gaze out the window to the endless white outdoors and slip into a dream world. Mindlessness is the brain’s path to happiness. No need to feel guilty about day dreaming. I feel better already. 804 words
I’m hooked. The iPad has become my latest playmate. Hours of thinking up words, hopefully larger than four or five letters, have become my daily challenge. It’s a newer version of Scrabble. It teases my brain to find words which will fit onto the screen’s grid. The iPad will instantly tell me if I’m fudging, trying to get a pass on a made-up word. Sometimes I’m pleasantly surprised when that weird spelling is an actual word!
What alleviates my Scandinavian guilt about this time-consuming pleasure, when I know I should be working at something more productive, is an article I recently read in a January “Newsweek”. “Buff Your Brain” tells me that if I want to be smarter in work, love, and life, scientific advances offer proven ways to enhance my gray matter. The article suggests 31 Ways to Get Smarter in 2012. Playing word games was listed as #1.
My favorite listed activity is to eat dark chocolate, which has memory-improving flavonoids. The article suggests pairing the chocolate with a glass of red wine, another great source of flavonoid. Author Sharon Begley suggests that women drink four cups of coffee a day to bolster short-term memory and to lessen chances of depression. One cup doesn’t do the trick. I love these suggestions.
Begley tells me to write by hand. My long-shelved journal and pen came out right after reading that brain scans reveal that handwriting engages more sections of the brain than typing. I resolve to write my thoughts with pen and paper each evening before sleep. It’s easier to remember something once you’ve written it down on paper.
I felt terrific when I read that sleep is helpful...lots of sleep. Begley suggests taking a nap and getting to bed early. Harvard research shows that the brain continues to process memories even after you’ve gone to sleep so you can recall them better at a later time. Mom always advocated “early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” No guilt for me on that one. I love to crawl into bed with a good book by 9PM, 10 at the latest.
My husband is trying to learn Spanish. Our daughter Kate and husband Bernardo from Mexico City are fluent in English as well as Spanish. Neither my husband nor I speak Spanish, but we’d like to converse with our in-laws, who don’t speak much English. We thought we’d learn to speak Spanish so we purchased Rosetta Stone, a computer language learning program. But you have to practice, regularly. The “Newsweek” article says mastering a second language is a workout for the prefrontal cortex, which affects decision making and emotions. In high school I learned a bit about Latin from Mr. Rambeck, and I minored in French at college, but I’ve lost most of what I learned. If you don’t use it, you lose it. Where am I going to speak Latin? However, I’m able to figure out how to spell and the meaning of some words because many have Latin roots. I really botch the French accent and have embarrassed myself by mixing up the meanings of some French words. In reality, I’m not going to master a second language at this stage of life. It’s a lot of work.
Other ideas to improve the IQ: drink water, which helps with the brain’s planning ability; eat yogurt, and play an instrument. Studies on mice show that yogurt’s probiotics are good for the stomach and brain. Mice that ate yogurt handled anxiety better and showed increased activity in emotions and memory. I’ll eat more raspberry yogurt with cereal in the morning. Perhaps I’ll even get back to practicing scales on the piano, which Miss Rahn taught at piano lessons.
Visiting museums was advocated so I visited the Walker and the Minnesota Institute of Art. The Walker seemed cold, sterile, and the art was unappealing. I didn’t stay very long, but the Institute was filled with interesting art displays of color and such beauty I felt uplifted.
Harvard psychology professor Steven Pinker says to read a lot if you want to buff your brain. Another suggestion is to “zone out”. Let your mind wander. Studies suggest that zoning out allows the brain to work on important “big picture” thinking. Maybe I’ll come up with one of those stupendous ideas that generate a new fad and make lots of money, like the pet rock idea.
Coffee, chocolate, wine and lots of sleep...aren’t these fabulous suggestions to improve your IQ and get through wintertime? Gaze out the window to the endless white outdoors and slip into a dream world. Mindlessness is the brain’s path to happiness. No need to feel guilty about day dreaming. I feel better already. 804 words
Monday, February 27, 2012
GHOST SHADOWS
Feb. 2012 Pat Spilseth
Ghost shadows of white
drift through pine, elm and maples
as the snow storm continues
its path through the silvered winter woods.
The icy perfume of pine
sifts through green feathered branches
and scatters lacy flakes like raindrops
Dreams of spring buds and sweet rain die
as the icy north wind
blows its fury cross my path.
Impeded by walls of snow
I trudge through meringue snowdrifts
towards home.
I know these woods
Cross-country skiers and deer
race through maples and pine..
Raccoons and coyotes
build nests in the tall maples.
Kids know these woods
They build forts and hunt for treasure
String rope to slide through the trees
snowboard, ski and play ball.
I watch them.
I smile, remembering…
I know these trees
their nude limbs stretch, almost reaching the stars.
Pine tree ballerinas in dark green gowns
dance every spring and winter
to blowing winds
orchestrating their way east
to solo in my land of woods and lake.
Feb. 2012 Pat Spilseth
Ghost shadows of white
drift through pine, elm and maples
as the snow storm continues
its path through the silvered winter woods.
The icy perfume of pine
sifts through green feathered branches
and scatters lacy flakes like raindrops
Dreams of spring buds and sweet rain die
as the icy north wind
blows its fury cross my path.
Impeded by walls of snow
I trudge through meringue snowdrifts
towards home.
I know these woods
Cross-country skiers and deer
race through maples and pine..
Raccoons and coyotes
build nests in the tall maples.
Kids know these woods
They build forts and hunt for treasure
String rope to slide through the trees
snowboard, ski and play ball.
I watch them.
I smile, remembering…
I know these trees
their nude limbs stretch, almost reaching the stars.
Pine tree ballerinas in dark green gowns
dance every spring and winter
to blowing winds
orchestrating their way east
to solo in my land of woods and lake.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
FROM WHERE I SIT Kid Memories of Outdoor Fun Jan. 18, 2012 pat spilseth
Today’s frigid weather is nothing like it was back in 1962 when the stiff winds, blowing snow, and sustained sub-zero temperatures crippled my hometown of Glenwood, MN, for three days. I hoped that school would be cancelled, but nope, not my school.
That winter a photographer from LIFE magazine arrived in town to spend nine days taking pictures of Crappietown, our village of ice houses clustered on Lake Minnewaska. There were so many houses that fishermen put out metal street signs to find friends fishing on the lake. That’s where my mom Esther drank coffee with her buddy Evelyn Husom in a tiny shack their men had built. Mom caught the biggest fish in the lake that season. Since Dad didn’t care for fish, and Mom hated that fishy smell in the house, they donated the fish to the hospital.
I remember at least one winter when the drifts were so immense, kids sledding up on the NP hill got caught in an avalanche. The fire department was called to rescue those kids.
No matter how low the thermometers dove, kids gathered at the skating rink to skate figure eights, the grapevine, and line up to play Crack the Whip. When our cheeks froze to white, we’d go inside to huddle by the warm stove belching out heat in the warming house. A friend would ‘pull’ our skates to alleviate the pressure of our crowded, frozen toes. Our soggy mittens, covered with icy dingleberries (frozen ice pebbles), and our sweaty stocking caps were hung to dry near the stove. Since we wore wool sweaters and padded snow pants, we stayed plenty warm. We only left the skating rink when the six o’clock whistle went off at the fire station. When the whistle blew, we’d be sitting at the kitchen table murmuring “Come Lord Jesus” grace, and Mom would announce, “Here’s people who eat on time!” We were home at noon for dinner, 6 for supper, and 10, when it was time to go to bed. Lunch meant cookies or cake with milk or coffee, which Mom’s kitchen served to many of the Courthouse Gang and the jail guests at 10AM, 3PM, and 8PM. Guys in Dad’s jail had a pretty good life.
I grew up hearing that old phrase, “Early to bed/ Early to rise/ Makes a man/ healthy, wealthy and wise.” In bed by 10, up by 6 or 7. I still operate on those hours. I’m not Mrs. Excitement! As far as wealthy, we thought a few families were rich because they drove new cars, lived in a new house, had a boat on the lake, and went on vacations grander than driving up to Duluth for a weekend. Few families had lots of money, but we did live the good life. Every kid I knew had a mom and dad, plenty of food on the table, and a warm bed to sleep in. Most of us had a dog or cat, a brother or sister, and attended school and church.
Kids growing up in the 50’s and 60’s in small town America played all day outdoors. Some might think we were deprived without all the technology and electronic gadgets we have today. But we were happy; our friends lived down the street, only a bike ride or quick walk away. Most of us had radios and record players. We had a big Philco radio in the dining room which tweaked my imagination when I listened to “Amos ‘n’ Andy, Abbott & Costello, Fibber McGee & Molly, Minnie Pearl, or Dragnet.” Some fearless kids listened to “Inner Sanctum Mysteries”. Not me; I was too scared of the boogey man, bats, and ghosts. We played Monopoly and Scrabble, card games and outdoor pick up games. We’d meet at the library, where we drove Mrs. Serrin, the librarian, crazy with our whispers as we flirted and attempted to check out books from those forbidden sections of age-appropriate books.
Though we had a few kids with some extra pounds, nobody was obese. Kids were too busy. We loved to dance at the weekend teen hops at the Lakeside Pavilion as well as school dances in the small gym after football and basketball games, which everybody in town attended. If a kid didn’t have farm chores to do, many had part time jobs in town. We worked after school and weekends at the two drug stores, Bob’s Foods, Gambles or Penny’s, the theatre, and other small businesses.
As soon as the weather warmed in the spring, it was a race to see who’d be the first to dip their toes wading in First Creek. When school was out, we’d ride our bikes to the beach, where Gail Setter was the life-long lifeguard. Stretching out on the hot sand next to our pals on old bath towels, we’d slather our bodies with baby oil or Coppertone and work on getting a good burn. Of course, that was before we knew about the sun’s cancer risks. But those tans really looked good.
Kids would race each other to the three diving towers, finally to the farthest diving tower way, way out in the deep water. Scampering up those metal rails, we’d take turns showing off our dives. Many turned into belly flops. When a body dove off the diving board and slapped the water with such force, it really hur. Some days we’d borrow Jimmy Gilman’s canoes and paddle across the lake to Starbuck to check out the lifeguards and the bathing beauties over there.
Nothing beats the outdoors for kids having fun. Rarely did we sit watching TV; we read and played indoor games when the weather was too bad to be outdoors. We were busy kids. We were skinny. Back then we didn’t worry about calories and gaining weight. We just wanted to have fun. 985 words
Today’s frigid weather is nothing like it was back in 1962 when the stiff winds, blowing snow, and sustained sub-zero temperatures crippled my hometown of Glenwood, MN, for three days. I hoped that school would be cancelled, but nope, not my school.
That winter a photographer from LIFE magazine arrived in town to spend nine days taking pictures of Crappietown, our village of ice houses clustered on Lake Minnewaska. There were so many houses that fishermen put out metal street signs to find friends fishing on the lake. That’s where my mom Esther drank coffee with her buddy Evelyn Husom in a tiny shack their men had built. Mom caught the biggest fish in the lake that season. Since Dad didn’t care for fish, and Mom hated that fishy smell in the house, they donated the fish to the hospital.
I remember at least one winter when the drifts were so immense, kids sledding up on the NP hill got caught in an avalanche. The fire department was called to rescue those kids.
No matter how low the thermometers dove, kids gathered at the skating rink to skate figure eights, the grapevine, and line up to play Crack the Whip. When our cheeks froze to white, we’d go inside to huddle by the warm stove belching out heat in the warming house. A friend would ‘pull’ our skates to alleviate the pressure of our crowded, frozen toes. Our soggy mittens, covered with icy dingleberries (frozen ice pebbles), and our sweaty stocking caps were hung to dry near the stove. Since we wore wool sweaters and padded snow pants, we stayed plenty warm. We only left the skating rink when the six o’clock whistle went off at the fire station. When the whistle blew, we’d be sitting at the kitchen table murmuring “Come Lord Jesus” grace, and Mom would announce, “Here’s people who eat on time!” We were home at noon for dinner, 6 for supper, and 10, when it was time to go to bed. Lunch meant cookies or cake with milk or coffee, which Mom’s kitchen served to many of the Courthouse Gang and the jail guests at 10AM, 3PM, and 8PM. Guys in Dad’s jail had a pretty good life.
I grew up hearing that old phrase, “Early to bed/ Early to rise/ Makes a man/ healthy, wealthy and wise.” In bed by 10, up by 6 or 7. I still operate on those hours. I’m not Mrs. Excitement! As far as wealthy, we thought a few families were rich because they drove new cars, lived in a new house, had a boat on the lake, and went on vacations grander than driving up to Duluth for a weekend. Few families had lots of money, but we did live the good life. Every kid I knew had a mom and dad, plenty of food on the table, and a warm bed to sleep in. Most of us had a dog or cat, a brother or sister, and attended school and church.
Kids growing up in the 50’s and 60’s in small town America played all day outdoors. Some might think we were deprived without all the technology and electronic gadgets we have today. But we were happy; our friends lived down the street, only a bike ride or quick walk away. Most of us had radios and record players. We had a big Philco radio in the dining room which tweaked my imagination when I listened to “Amos ‘n’ Andy, Abbott & Costello, Fibber McGee & Molly, Minnie Pearl, or Dragnet.” Some fearless kids listened to “Inner Sanctum Mysteries”. Not me; I was too scared of the boogey man, bats, and ghosts. We played Monopoly and Scrabble, card games and outdoor pick up games. We’d meet at the library, where we drove Mrs. Serrin, the librarian, crazy with our whispers as we flirted and attempted to check out books from those forbidden sections of age-appropriate books.
Though we had a few kids with some extra pounds, nobody was obese. Kids were too busy. We loved to dance at the weekend teen hops at the Lakeside Pavilion as well as school dances in the small gym after football and basketball games, which everybody in town attended. If a kid didn’t have farm chores to do, many had part time jobs in town. We worked after school and weekends at the two drug stores, Bob’s Foods, Gambles or Penny’s, the theatre, and other small businesses.
As soon as the weather warmed in the spring, it was a race to see who’d be the first to dip their toes wading in First Creek. When school was out, we’d ride our bikes to the beach, where Gail Setter was the life-long lifeguard. Stretching out on the hot sand next to our pals on old bath towels, we’d slather our bodies with baby oil or Coppertone and work on getting a good burn. Of course, that was before we knew about the sun’s cancer risks. But those tans really looked good.
Kids would race each other to the three diving towers, finally to the farthest diving tower way, way out in the deep water. Scampering up those metal rails, we’d take turns showing off our dives. Many turned into belly flops. When a body dove off the diving board and slapped the water with such force, it really hur. Some days we’d borrow Jimmy Gilman’s canoes and paddle across the lake to Starbuck to check out the lifeguards and the bathing beauties over there.
Nothing beats the outdoors for kids having fun. Rarely did we sit watching TV; we read and played indoor games when the weather was too bad to be outdoors. We were busy kids. We were skinny. Back then we didn’t worry about calories and gaining weight. We just wanted to have fun. 985 words
Friday, January 27, 2012
FROM WHERE I SIT The Art of Conversation Jan. 18, 2012 pat spilseth
Seventeenth and Eighteenth century intellectuals hosted salons, gatherings where individuals enjoyed witty conversations debating issues of the day. Gertrude Stein hosted soirees in her Paris home where Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Picasso discussed art, politics, and new ideas. Today friends have dinner parties where conversations tend to center around current events and other people. Rarely at parties do friends engage in conversations, which could turn into debates, about politics, religion, or economics. It’s not considered socially or politically correct to bare your soul about issues which are, at times, so volatile they could injure friendships.
This weekend I’ve been invited to two dinner parties to discuss, even debate, various ideas. Everything imaginable is “on the table”. It’ll be a no holds barred evening of riveting talk about politics, education, religion, marriage, and issues “proper” people are not supposed to discuss at a party.
The evening will be a free-for-all, but respect is to be our guide. No shouting matches about “right to life versus choice” or gay marriage where the loudest orator wins the argument. That means, cool your jets when the topics come up of Haley Barbour’s pardons of 200 criminals, abortions, the erosion of marriage, and if gay people choose their sexual orientation or not. We are to listen to each speaker with respectful regard, digest their point of view, and present our informed, personal thoughts.
Surely there will be divergent opinions. In attendance will be Lutherans and Roman Catholics, an atheist, perhaps a Mormon or two. The party will be spiced with a feisty Italian guy from New Jersey. The Scandinavian and German Midwest is represented and the East Coast, but I think we’re missing West Coast liberals, though a few of us have liberal viewpoints. It’s going to be an evening of stimulating, thought-provoking conversations. Perhaps our talk will rattle the staunch ideas some of us thought were so embedded in our minds.
We’ve been warned: arm yourself with facts from reading various columnists, newspapers, books, and listening to debates. We’ll arrive, poised for battle. But we WILL have open minds. I want to listen well and then, perhaps, I may form a new opinion about various, sticky issues.
Several years ago I was invited to a “Dining Diva Evening”. Ten women assembled monthly to discuss pertinent issues of the day. I read various newspapers, books, and listened to commentators on TV and Public Radio about Pro-Life versus Choice and the gay issue. I wanted to sound informed. The evening was enjoyable because no one had opinions they tried to overwhelm others with. We gathered for an evening of learning from others.
Book club conversations can enlighten members, especially if the group is open to the possibility that opinions may change. Forget evenings dominated by politics...my club has nixed that topic. It’s too volatile. We have a definite division between Republicans, Democrats, and Independents.
Conversations at bridge groups can provide an exchange of useful information. My bridge buddies have been together for thirty years. We play cards and discuss how to deal with what our kids, husbands, or friends are thinking and doing. These afternoons of bridge have often enlightened us with news of what we hadn’t been privy to. I loved getting the scoop on my kids. For a few years, when our kids were engaging in typical high school rebellions, the kids thought their moms had eyes in the back of our heads.
Coffee klatch conversations are prevalent throughout the country, especially at small town cafes for morning coffee conversations. The conversations at The Gingerbread House in Glenwood or Joan’s Log Cabin in Spring Park, the Chatterbox Cafe, or The Sidetrack Tap in Lake Wobegon are no different than at a Florida or Arizona McDonalds where retired folks meet for coffee. Men roll the dice to decide who pays; women split the check. Hot topics tend to be the plight of Social Security, eroding marriage numbers, gay marriage, health care, and excess government spending.
Conversations keep our minds alert, in touch with new ideas. Curious people never grow old. Interaction between people with various viewpoints keeps us in touch with today’s world; we’re more “with it” when we are knowledgeable about current ideas. At dinner parties this weekend, ideas will be flying around the room, tweaking my mind, unsettling my sleep. It’ll feel great. 734 words
Seventeenth and Eighteenth century intellectuals hosted salons, gatherings where individuals enjoyed witty conversations debating issues of the day. Gertrude Stein hosted soirees in her Paris home where Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Picasso discussed art, politics, and new ideas. Today friends have dinner parties where conversations tend to center around current events and other people. Rarely at parties do friends engage in conversations, which could turn into debates, about politics, religion, or economics. It’s not considered socially or politically correct to bare your soul about issues which are, at times, so volatile they could injure friendships.
This weekend I’ve been invited to two dinner parties to discuss, even debate, various ideas. Everything imaginable is “on the table”. It’ll be a no holds barred evening of riveting talk about politics, education, religion, marriage, and issues “proper” people are not supposed to discuss at a party.
The evening will be a free-for-all, but respect is to be our guide. No shouting matches about “right to life versus choice” or gay marriage where the loudest orator wins the argument. That means, cool your jets when the topics come up of Haley Barbour’s pardons of 200 criminals, abortions, the erosion of marriage, and if gay people choose their sexual orientation or not. We are to listen to each speaker with respectful regard, digest their point of view, and present our informed, personal thoughts.
Surely there will be divergent opinions. In attendance will be Lutherans and Roman Catholics, an atheist, perhaps a Mormon or two. The party will be spiced with a feisty Italian guy from New Jersey. The Scandinavian and German Midwest is represented and the East Coast, but I think we’re missing West Coast liberals, though a few of us have liberal viewpoints. It’s going to be an evening of stimulating, thought-provoking conversations. Perhaps our talk will rattle the staunch ideas some of us thought were so embedded in our minds.
We’ve been warned: arm yourself with facts from reading various columnists, newspapers, books, and listening to debates. We’ll arrive, poised for battle. But we WILL have open minds. I want to listen well and then, perhaps, I may form a new opinion about various, sticky issues.
Several years ago I was invited to a “Dining Diva Evening”. Ten women assembled monthly to discuss pertinent issues of the day. I read various newspapers, books, and listened to commentators on TV and Public Radio about Pro-Life versus Choice and the gay issue. I wanted to sound informed. The evening was enjoyable because no one had opinions they tried to overwhelm others with. We gathered for an evening of learning from others.
Book club conversations can enlighten members, especially if the group is open to the possibility that opinions may change. Forget evenings dominated by politics...my club has nixed that topic. It’s too volatile. We have a definite division between Republicans, Democrats, and Independents.
Conversations at bridge groups can provide an exchange of useful information. My bridge buddies have been together for thirty years. We play cards and discuss how to deal with what our kids, husbands, or friends are thinking and doing. These afternoons of bridge have often enlightened us with news of what we hadn’t been privy to. I loved getting the scoop on my kids. For a few years, when our kids were engaging in typical high school rebellions, the kids thought their moms had eyes in the back of our heads.
Coffee klatch conversations are prevalent throughout the country, especially at small town cafes for morning coffee conversations. The conversations at The Gingerbread House in Glenwood or Joan’s Log Cabin in Spring Park, the Chatterbox Cafe, or The Sidetrack Tap in Lake Wobegon are no different than at a Florida or Arizona McDonalds where retired folks meet for coffee. Men roll the dice to decide who pays; women split the check. Hot topics tend to be the plight of Social Security, eroding marriage numbers, gay marriage, health care, and excess government spending.
Conversations keep our minds alert, in touch with new ideas. Curious people never grow old. Interaction between people with various viewpoints keeps us in touch with today’s world; we’re more “with it” when we are knowledgeable about current ideas. At dinner parties this weekend, ideas will be flying around the room, tweaking my mind, unsettling my sleep. It’ll feel great. 734 words
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