Ice Fishing Magic

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Ice Fishing Magic

FROM WHERE I SIT   Ice Fishing Magic    Dec. 25, 2013  Pat DeKok Spilseth

Ice houses are beginning to appear on the frozen lakes in Minnetonka.  Are ice-fishing men escaping Christmas noise and confusion at home?  Are gals hoping to avoid piles of discarded gift wrappings and dirty dishes?  On Carman’s Bay, kids are skating on shoveled rinks at a neighbor’s home; dogs are running, pulling hard on the cross country skier braving the frigid temperatures, and snowmobilers are flying across the lake in front of our house.  

Tracks are messing with the smooth blanket of fresh snow.  In our yard and down the sidewalk are hundreds of rabbit tracks.  Buddy, our aging Beagle, gets so excited to sniff their tracks, sure he can find the bunnies.  His attention is diverted when he sniffs the scent of racoons under the deck of our house or sees squirrels flying up the trees.  Hope is eternal for our precocious hound who spends his time eating, sleeping or chasing fresh scents in our electronically-fenced yard.  WIthout the electric fence around the property, who knows where Buddy would run to catch rabbits, dogs and cats in the neighborhood.  He’s a full-bloodied hound, determined to catch something, some time!

Buddy got a Christmas present from Charlotte, the new dog in our neighborhood.  She and her mom wrapped several tasty bones in cellaphane and left them in our mailbox.  Immediately, Buddy knew the treat was for him.  Christmas morning he ate three bones in a matter of minutes.  When I asked if he wanted to share the treats, I got an angry snarl...they’re MINE, implied Buddy very strongly. 

Though Carmen’s Bay is nothing like Crappie Town, USA, of Glenwood fame back in the 50’s, we usually have about a half dozen ice house of various colors and styles on the lake in front of our house.  When I was a kid, “Life Magazine” came to Glenwood to photograph the colorful lake village of ice houses with metal street signs, dogs, skating kids and fishermen, then printed a special edition of the favorite magazine.   Lake MInnewaska in Glenwood has always attracted people who like to fish and enjoy spending days and even nights on the frozen water in their cozy houses.  They cook coffee and eat snacks while checking their red and white bobbers for nibbling fish.  I’ve heard that some folks play cards and even do a bit of gambling.

No ice boats have flown across Carmen’s Bay so far this winter.  There’s only a smidgen of time when the ice is smooth, uncluttered by snow drifts and icy ridges, for the fast boats to sail across the ice.  Their helmeted, high-speed riders fear few dangers as they careen across the frozen water.  One of our neighbors grew up on the lake so he always carries ice picks to stick in the ice, hoping to pull himself out of the water if he would break through the ice.  When Dick careens across the mirror of ice, unhalted by pressure ridges or burps of ice chunks, I’m sure he feels that he’s a rider to the sky.

Fishermen and women have a look of contentment.  Bundled in wool or flannel shirts, insulated underwear, down coats, boots, hats and glovers, they know their days of quiet solitude will stretch on for at least one more month.  Sitting in dark sheds on the ice waiting for “Wally the Walleye” is a relaxing experience.  The experience is open only to those who brave the frigid weather for a few hours of solitude on the frozen lake.  

Televisions, IPhones and radios would spoil this aura of contentment.  There’s a haunting magic surrounding ice fishing.  In today’s busy world with its complicated problems of health care, raising kids, paying bills, and aging, a candle-lit ice house is the perfect solace many seek.  It’s grand to just do nothing, just sit and stare into the icy water hole.  Ice fishing is satisfying in its simplicity...as long as the propane stove keeps the coffee warm and pumps out heat to thaw freezing fingers and toes.  690 words

JOY TO THE WORLD!

FROM WHERE I SIT  JOY TO THE WORLD! 12/16/13 Pat DeKok Spilseth

When Christmas arrives and the radio is playing carols, many of us recall the words we memorized as little kids practicing for school and church programs.  Guests will be arriving at our house for the holidays, so I’m practicing the songs that Miss Rahn taught me to play many years ago.  We’ll eat too much, remember past holiday joys and sing carols around the piano.  However, now I sit on the piano missing sharps and flats of songs I used to play perfectly.  Though my playing technique has suffered, I remember most of the words to “Joy To the World, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, Angels from the Realms of Glory, and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”    

Inside the piano bench, I found little paper song books that Mom had saved years ago.  Familiar carols are printed in the songbook; some of the pamphlets have the Christmas story from Luke 2:1-20.  One booklet, a customer’s gift from the Pope County State Bank of Glenwood and Villard, has colorful Victorian illustrations of Charles Dickens’ tale, “A Christmas Carol”.   Scrooge has a sharply defined jaw with glaring eyes; Tiny Tim is perched on his father’s shoulders waving his crutch.  The booklet prints the tale of Marley’s Ghost, the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  

Brownie’s Service gave customers a booklet of Season’s Greetings with a cover picture of a choir of young boys with large bow ties on their red and white robes.  Printed inside are the words and music of favorite English songs like “Good King Wenceslas, The Wassail Song and God Rest You Merry Gentlemen.”

Forbord Oil Company gave a songbook of 17 carols.  Printed on the back cover is Luke’s Christmas story.   Esther, my Mom, also saved a pamphlet from the Bank of Willmar, which has the words to “Home Sweet Home” and its refrain ending with “There’s no place like home!”  Isn’t that phrase so true?   In this season of merriment, many return to homes they grew up in to be with loved ones.  For lucky folks, family is still living at the old home place.  On the back page are the music and words to “The Star-Spangled Banner”.   The figures and scenes, illustrated by Christopher Wray, have nativity scenes, candles lit on Christmas trees, fireplaces burning, and horses pulling sleighs filled with happy folks.  Good feelings come through the illustrations and messages, just like Norman Rockwell’s paintings and magazine covers.

In Glenwood, my home town, everybody knew everyone in the fifties and sixties.  It was a holiday tradition for businesses to reward their customers with a small gift of appreciation.  I remember that we received calendars, can openers, pencils, wooden rulers, paring knives and letter openers.  The name of the business was printed on the gift, a good advertising tool used by business owners to tell their customers they appreciated their business.  In a small town, it’s tough to own a business if townspeople drive to larger towns to buy from big box stores, where few clerks know the names of their customers or even care if we shop there.

In Glenwood, the clerks would call me Patty when I’d go into Harry’s & Myrtle’s Corner Grocery Store and tell them “Please put it on our charge”.  Marie knew me at Bob’s meat market and at Potters’ Dime Store Dolly, the energetic, smiley clerk, knew I favored the penny candy shelves and maple nut goodies.   At Wimpy’s, where Dad ate breakfast with the guys, Doris and Erv staffed the counter, and at Dick’s Recreation Hall, the guys playing pool in the back room knew my name.  After all, several had celebrated Christmas at the jail with my family around the Christmas tree.  

Treasures like these little songbooks reflect a kinder, gentler time of life.  Life wasn’t so rushed and simple tokens of appreciation were valued.  Silent nights and the full moon over the frozen lake slow me down, letting me enjoy reading Christmas cards, the lights on the tree and anticipate my family coming home for the holidays.  

Merry Christmas to you and your families!  707 words

DO YOU HAVE THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT?

FROM WHERE I SIT   Do You Have the Christmas Spirit?  12/10/13  P.D. SPILSETH

I had been dreaming of a white Christmas.  No more!  Tossing and turning at night, trying to stay warm under umpteen down comforters, wool socks, and flannel pajamas, tonight I’m thinking about wearing a wool night cap, like the guy in “Twas the night before Christmas.”  I can’t get warm!  It’s snowed almost every day for a week.  When will the whiteness and frigid weather end?

Trudging through snowbanks to the mailbox for the morning paper, I look up into the early morning sky, and my grumpy mood recedes.  Stars are blazing in the clear, black sky.  I don’t know the names of all the constellations that are on display, but they’re up there performing their magic on my senses.  It is a beautiful sight.   By midmorning, when I look out at the sun brightening the snow blanketed lake with patterned gray shadows, the scene is a picture postcard.  

Though the sun eventually causes the thermometer to rise a teeny bit, whooshing winds blow blasts of stinging cold against the rattling windows of our house.  How lucky I am that I don’t have to shovel the walk or get into a cold car and drive to work.   I can sit inside writing a column or put together a jigsaw puzzle in front of the frosty windows.  It’s a candyland world outdoors.  Tall pines and black branches are frosted with white icing.  The branches remind me of chocolate candy sticks against today’s snowball sun.  

The furnace is overactive this morning.  It belches warmth, whistling heat through the registers.  Ours is a 1950s house with large windows overlooking the lake: my brain can’t help but compute astronomical heating bills.  Even though we’ve replaced windows and added insulation, it’s still cold.  We try to be environmentally conscious: every evening our house thermometer automatically lowers its reading to 55 degrees.  That’s perfect sleeping temperature for my body covered with down blankets and piled high with mountains of patchwork quits.  

Though I look forward to Christmas holiday mail and company, my festive spirits are dipping this year.  Christmas carols are playing on the radio, and my egg beaters are whirling.  The smells of cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg permeate the kitchen, but I’m dreading shopping for that overwhelming, Christmas shopping list.  I used to love the hustle and bustle of Christmas shoppers, but now I hate going to the stores to fight crowds, braving icy, snow-packed streets, and wearing heavy coats, boots and hats.  I’d prefer staying at home in a warm house.

Today’s Big Box stores feature common items that can be found in every store.  Often they’re priced to be a bargain because discount coupons litter each morning newspaper.  Shoppers are becoming so used to receiving coupons, why would anyone purchase something at full price?  

Growing up in Glenwood, shopping was easy.  Potters’ Dime store was my shopping haven.  I could buy a holiday box of Life Savers for my little sister Barbie, ribbon candy for Mom, and chocolates for Dad.  If I had saved enough allowance money, I could shop for a beautiful china figurine or a candy dish at Callaghans’ Hardware.   I could afford prices at these shops and still have money for a movie at the Glenwood Theatre, where Santa stopped in his sleigh to see the kids.  When Dad shopped for Mom, he’d go to Glenwear, the fancy shop of women’s clothing.   That’s where he found the red dress with a circle skirt and rhinestone buttons, Mom’s favorite  dress.  And at Irgens’ Men’s Store, we’d purchase a Pendleton wool plaid shirt for Dad and maybe a box of handkies.  Christmas shopping could be done in an hour or two.  Small town Mom & Pop stores were great!   Every clerk knew every shopper’s name, and it was easy to get into the Christmas spirit!   

In the Cities, many of us miss those individually owned stores that used to line the Nicollet Mall like Harolds, Peck and Peck, Napier, Schlamps, Young-Quinlin and Daytons’ classy department store.   Sure, prices were not discounted like today’s common selection, but each store had a uniqueness, an individuality.   Special items would tantalize our eyes and urge folks to open their wallets.  Most shoppers probably couldn’t afford to buy huge bundles of things, but what they got was special.  The unique selection of treasures was hard to resist.  There’s always been something exhilaritating and intoxicating about unique, just out-of-reach treasures one rarely finds.   

When I was a kid and December arrived, my folks would make our once a year trip to the Cities to see the Christmas windows on the Nicollet Mall.  I can still feel the magic in my tummy when I remember staring wide-eyed at Daytons’ window displays of glittering, sparkly items and moving figures.   Holiday windows had crowds glued to their windows, jostling for a better view.  It was a magical scene.  Everyone got into the holiday spirit: young, old, rich and poor.   Truth be told, I didn’t really expect to buy or receive any of these miracularous treasures under our tree at home.   We didn’t have much money, but we sure enjoyed looking at those decorated Christmas windows.  We dreamed about them for weeks. 879 words

I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

FROM WHERE I SIT DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS 11/24/13  P.D. SPILSETH

Welcome December!  The month of Christmas cheer is finally here with all the excitement of the holiday season.  Who can resist smiling when we see the splendid decorations, inspiring music, gaily wrapped gifts under the tree and family gatherings?  Meals will be extra special: at my house, tradition demands that we feast on lefse, turkey or meatballs, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberries and krensakke for dessert.  

A whiteout would be fabulous.  The full-blown Minnesota blizzards, like the ones we had in the Fifties, would be grand.  Winter snowstorms were the most fun when we didn’t have to drive cars over the icy roads, shovel driveways or find a way to get to work.  Kids had no worries, just fun playing in the powdery snow.  

  

For weeks, I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas.  It doesn’t feel like Christmas to me unless snowflakes are floating through the sky and white drifts make deeps snowbanks outside my windows.   In past years, we have enjoyed celebrating Thanksgiving in Mexico with turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberries at Sol’s alley kitchen in Puerta Vallarta, but it wasn’t quite like Thanksgiving is supposed to be.   The weather has to be cold and snowy.  I couldn’t imagine Christmas in any other climate but my own.  I’d enjoy a snowy day with a frozen lake of skaters and skiers, fire in the fireplace, a decorated pine tree and family.  

The Saturday Evening Post magazine printed an article this month on Christmas Trends.  Did you know that 400 million people celebrate Christmas around the world?  Santa’s been keeping track of the naughty and nice kids since the 1930’s.  In America we leave a plate of Christmas cookies and a glass of milk by the tree for the jolly guy, but in Norway and Sweden, Santa snacks on rice pudding.    Both North America and Scandinavia claim Santa as a permanent resident.  This fall Dave and I visited Santa Claus, Indiana, with its year-around decorated streets of Santas, Christmas trees and elves.  Though I enjoy a month or more of the holiday, I know it would get old if I saw Christmas decorations 365 days of the year.

In America 93% of people exchange gifts.  Diamond and jewelry sales top $6 million dollars.  It amazed me to read that parents spent an average of $271 per child in 2012.   And who doesn’t buy at least one or two poinsettias to add color to our homes?  There are at least 100 varieties of poinsettias now available at the florist, grocery and drug stores.  Here in the U.S. we produce enough candy canes to circle the equator 6.7 times...we are gluttons for sweet treats.

I’m looking forward to reading Christmas cards from friends.  Hopefully, they’ll include a  newsy letter telling about their families and photos of growing children and grandchildren.  My husband is busy creating his annual Christmas epistle.  I wonder...who will he be this year?  Will Dave be the Grinch spewing his political views, garnering the ire of some readers or the cheapskate who swears by the values of the Tightwad Gazette?   Hopefully, he’ll be jolly old Saint Nick, doing his annual, last minute Christmas Eve shopping for surprise presents.  I’ve told him, many times, no vacuum cleaners, hammers or candles for me this year...PLEASE~  568

THANKSGIVING REFLECTIONS

FROM WHERE I SIT   Thanksgiving Reflections   11/14/13 PAT DEKOK SPILSETH

Years ago, Russell Baker wrote a column for The New York Times asking, “Do you ever wish you had it to do over again?”  Baker wondered if folks missed porches and rocking chairs where people sat and reflected on life.  He doubted if many still have rocking chairs or porches, but he said, “Well, for all the things we’ve lost--sitting on the porch swing at sunset, smelling the honeysuckle--think of all the things we’ve gained.  

The trick is in holding on to a little of each.”  That’s what Thankgiving is all about.

Thanksgiving and other holidays are so enjoyable when celebrated with friends, family and lots of good food.  I love traditions.  I want to celebrate holidays like we did when I was a kid, with big family get-togethers.   However, today’s families are smaller, and sons and daughters, aunts, uncles and cousins rarely live in the same community.  Families don’t seem to be as connected to traditions anymore.  

When I was a little girl, my father’s DeKok relatives always gathered at Aunt Sadie and Grandma’s home in Brooten.   Most of his family, except us, lived in one community, Brooten.  Aunt Sadie, Brooten’s redheaded post mistress, was the DeKok family organizer; she sewed litle girls’ dresses, canned chickens, fruit and vegetables, quilted cozy blankets, baked Dutch treats, planned all the family doings and was a consummate garage sale shopper.  I thought Aunt Sadie could do anything!  

At holidays, Grandma and Sadie’s house smelled of chickens roasting in the oven.  She had the tall uncles sit in the overstuffed living room chairs where Tony, Hank, Gerben and Gerrit smoked cigarettes, and Uncle Dan puffed on his fragrant pipe.   The womenfolk sat around the oak dining table in hard, straight-backed chairs sewing, holding babies, sharing recipes, and sipping tea.  Mom, the lone Norwegian among the Dutch relatives, was the only coffee drinker.  Bepa as our Dutch relatives called Grandma DeKok, sat in a rocker dressed in black with her long gray hair twisted into a bun. Never did I hear her utter a word in English: she rarely spoke; she listened.  

In Sadie’s sunny kitchen, all my cousins would sit at the Formica kitchen table drinking orange or cherry Kool-Aid in plastic glasses, which Sadie probably purchased with fat green books of saved Gold Bond stamps.  In those days very few ladies baked treats made from packaged mixes.  We snacked on sugar cookies and rice crisy bars the aunts made from scratch.  After eating, we’d play on the enclosed front porch with many windows.   Aunt Sadie had toys for us: dolls, buggies, balls, trucks, Chinese checkers and Cootie games that she had found at garage sales.   All too soon it was time for my family to climb into our blue Hudson and drive home to Glenwood.   I really loved being with my cousins: I wished they could come home with me. 

Mom’s Barsness relatives lived near each other in Starbuck, Morris and Alexandria.  When our Norwegian relatives celebrated the holiday at my house in the jail, I loved to invite my cousins to play in the upstairs women’s cells.  We’d pretend we were eating prison fare, bread and water, on the black and white enamel dishes of the prisoners.   In Dad’s office we checked out the ferocious looking mug shots of convicts wanted by the FBI posted on a bulletin board.   What a thrill it was for the cousins when they had to use both hands to turn the huge iron key that opened the heavy jail door leading to the men’s cells.  Dad would gave them a little peek inside to see the bullpen.  That’s where the guys sat on the bunks in their cells to eat Mom’s meals. The guys didn’t really eat bread and water: they ate the same meals our family ate.  Life was pretty good in the jail: it was warm with plenty of home-cooked meals.  A few men spent the holidays, year after year, with us.

At Thanksgiving, I looked forward to big family gatherings.  Both Mom and Dad had six kids in their families.  It was always fun when the Scandinavian relatives sat joking around our dining room table.  Uncle Ervin was full of silly jokes, and Emery, Odin and Luverne loved to tease.  The aunts would serve mashed potatoes, roast beef or Capon chicken, lefse and Aunt Ruth and Mom’s favorite, herring.  For dessert, we had a big variety of Norwegian butter cookies and cake.  Our dining room was warmed by tall silver radiators belching hot air into the room.   To compensate for the dry air, Mom had coffee cans of water standing on top of the radiators.  They put moisture into the room so we didn’t get “stuffed up” and start coughing.  Her gloxinas bloomed pink, purple and white in pots sitting in deep sills of the tall windows.  

At Thanksgiving we think about our many blessings.  I’m so grateful to live safely with my family in America in a warm home with plenty of food.   And I feel blessed to have so many treasured memories of our family gatherings.  Jerry Herman wrote, “This is the land of milk and honey/This is the land of sun and song/This is a world of good and plenty/Humble and proud and young and strong.”  

Winter weather is blowing in.  It’s late November: morning frost coats the windows and cars. Trees are bare, lawns are browning, and ice is forming at the shoreline.   On the bleakest of days, some clever souls are able to imagine themselves on a white sandy beach, while sitting at home surrounded by roaring winds and snowdrifts.  Whether it’s warm or cold outside, life is good.  We have so much to be thankful for. 973 words

FROM WHERE I SIT FAMILIES GATHER FOR THANKSGIVING

FROM WHERE I SIT   Families Gather for Thanksgiving pat spilseth

Thanksgiving Day is a gentle reminder that we have much to be thankful for.  I’m blessed with good health, family, and friends plus a warm home, plenty of food, and the ever-changing lake which greets me every morning.  Of course, I’m also very grateful for Buddy, my loveable Beagle, who encourages me to get outside for a walk each day no matter what the weather.

Perhaps some of you will recall the picture, which hung in many dining rooms, kitchens and churches, of an elderly man praying before his simple meal.  The photograph entitled “Grace” portrays an attitude of thankfulness.  Photographer Eric Enstrom said, “I wanted to take a picture that would show people that even though they had to do without so many things because of the war, they still had much to be thankful for.”  

This Thanksgiving my family is spending Thanksgiving in Mexico with our daughter Kate and son-in-law Bernardo.  Determined to keep traditions intact, we’re planning to eat turkey and the trimmings at Sol’s place, Cafe Bohemio in Puerto Vallarta.   Sol and his partner are NYC actors who have created a bustling patio cafe in Old Town where we’ll dine outdoors at a linen-covered table feasting on turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries and pumpkin pie.  

Thanksgiving week radio stations will play that memorable, age-old, Thanksgiving song, which has already begun to spin endlessly on my head’s turntable:

 “Over the river and through the wood,

To Grandfather’s house we go;

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,

Oh, how the wind does blow!

It stings the toes and bites the nose

As over the ground we go…”

Lydia Maria Child wrote this popular Thanksgiving song as a poem in 1844.  She wanted to celebrate childhood memories of visits to her Grandfather’s house.  Sometimes the song is alternated with lines about Christmas, rather than Thanksgiving.

The song makes me recall the holidays I loved so much as a kid.  When we went to Grandma DeKok’s house in Brooten, I’d get to see my Dad’s relatives and lots of cousins.  The gatherings were usually held at our Dutch Grandma’s home, which she shared with my Aunt Sadie, the red-headed post mistress in Brooten.  Sadie was a favorite aunt who sewed little girls’ dresses, canned chickens, fruit and vegetables, quilted cozy blankets, baked Dutch treats and was a consummate garage sale shopper.  It seemed to me that Aunt Sadie could do anything.  

Sadie and Grandma’s house smelled of chickens roasting in the kitchen.  In the living room, the uncles sat near the upright piano in overstuffed chairs and sofa smoking cigarettes though Uncle Dan was rarely without his fragrant pipe.  The aunts sat on hard, stiff-backed, wooden, dining room chairs after they’d busied themselves in the kitchen assembling the meal, fed the little ones, served coffee to the men, gathered their sewing, and finally sat for a few moments of rest and chatting.   Grandma was always dressed in dark colors, with her gray hair tucked into a bun.  Silently she’d rock back and forth in her wooden rocker near the window.  I never remember her saying anything.  

In the sunny kitchen, my cousins would sit around the gray Formica table in padded chairs, surrounded by smells of cooking chicken, potatoes and baking rolls.  Kool-aid was our treat along with rice crispy bars and sugar cookies, but only after we’d eaten a healthy meat and potatoes meal.  After eating, the kids would scoot to the many windowed front porch to play with the dolls, buggies, balls, trucks, Chinese checkers and Cootie games that Aunt Sadie had found at garage sales.  The afternoon passed too quickly: too soon we had to climb into our blue Hudson car and drive home.  At the close of the day, I longed to take my cousins home with me: I wanted brothers and more sisters to play with.  

Thanksgiving remains a favorite holiday for me, a time to gather family and friends together to remember our blessings.  689 words

Vicks Repercussions

FROM WHERE I SIT  VICKS REPERCUSSIONS  11/5/13 PAT DEKOK SPILSETH

The weather outside is frightful.  Though the calendar tells me it’s November, chocolate bars still fill bowls near the door where I greeted the visiting witches and goblins mumbling “Trick or Treat”.  I love seeing the little tykes coming to my door with their pumpkins and parents.  But I’m gracious to teenagers who can’t give up the ghost and still want to trick or treat.   After all, it still pains me to remember hearing the grumpy guy who told me “you’re too big!” when I rang his bell in my yearly witches’ costume. 

Snow is expected tonight as temperatures dip.  Docks and boat lifts still dot the lake, and fog coats the air so thickly that I can’t see across Carmen’s Bay.   I feel a cold coming on; aches and pains are creeping into my body, making me feel my advancing age.  Time to swallow the Ibuprofen tablets and apply Vicks under my nose.  I haven’t resorted to hanging a clove of garlic around my neck.  I still enjoy being with friends; I know they’d turn up their noses at the garlic, but my friends do use Vicks and like its odor.

A previous column about the medicinal  ingredients in Vick’s little blue and green bottle had emails flashing on my computer, phone calls and notes from folks.  Many other affectionadios of that little bottle share my affinity for the pungent medication that cures without a doctor visit and costly prescription.  But even Vicks has increased its price.  My movie star cousin Beverly noted that her tiny bottle of the salve cost over $7.00 at Walgreens.  Not only does she use the stinky salve for colds, but she greases her hands with it too.  So many soothing applications are possible.

Fargo reader Barb, who taught in Glenwood back in the late 50’s, has 3 bottles of the magical mix on hand.  Some who heard that my mom Esther actually swallowed a glob of the salve when she had a cold and sore throat exclaimed, “Did she REALLY DO THAT?  That’s disgusting!”  But it worked...

Others wanted to know where to buy a bottle of cod liver oil.  That fishy smelling liquor must be available at health food stores as well as some drug stores.  

Allergies are another menace this season.  Stuffed noses, throbbing sinus, fevers and chills demand a remedy.  Buddy, my Beagle sidekick, suffers from snuffles.  My vet told me to give him the little pink pill others use for allergies.  Covered with a dab of creamy butter on a muffin, he gobbles the muffin and pill in one gulp.  It’s been no trouble for Buddy to take his pill if I simply say the word TREAT.  In a flash Buddy is off to the laundry room, where treats are stored.  The pill hasn’t quieted his snores, but they’re sweet as he snuggles in Grandma’s rocker my office as I type my columns.  

Boxes of Kleenex appear in every room of my house.  Sneezes, coughs, watery eyes and nose blowing seem to pass from Dave to me to Buddy to guests.  The paper tissues are so convenient, but I do miss the soft cotton hankies Mom would wash, iron, and fold into four squares to tuck in my pockets.  They didn’t irritate my nose so I didn’t develop a huge, red nose.  

Handkerchiefs are kinder to a tender nose, ballooned and reddened with repeated blowing and sneezing.  My nose hurts when I reach for a paper tissue, but Mom’s dainty squarers of cotton hankies are perfect.  They’re stored next to my Vick’s bottle in the night stand next to my bed.

Remember when Moms used to tuck their hankies in their apron pockets or the sleeves and tops of their house dresses?  Often that enhanced their bosoms.  Today, the only time I see a lace or linen hanky is at a wedding, sometimes a funeral.  Hankies seem to be comfort signs to nervous brides and sad mourners.

A November storm is approaching from the west.  The lawn furniture is stored; we’ve mulched some leaves and Thanksgiving pumpkins and Pilgrims decorate the house.  The fire in our fireplace is so inviting so I’ll relax in my red leather chair with Buddy and a good mystery.  Let it snow; let it snow; let it snow...  727

FROM WHERE I SIT  ‘TIS THE SNEEZING SEASON  10/10/13    Pat DeKok Spilseth

 It’s that time of year when major bugs abound, waiting to catch you unawares.  They strike when you’re undernourished, in crowds of contaminated folks and overtired.  Being around kids in a classroom is the worst place to catch the sick bugs.  Then you usually end up flat on your back in bed coughing, sneezing, nauseous, dizzy and totally miserable.   

 I decided to avert such dire consequences.  I got my flu shot in the arm this afternoon.  Some administrators can make the shot painless, but today, it hurt.  I tell myself, the pain is worth not getting the flu...hope, hope.  Get the shot before they run out of the vaccine.  With my maligned immune system, I make it a point to head to the lines at a neighborhood drug store where nurses wait to innoculate patients and fill out the necessary forms.  

It’s cold season too.  I remember Mom’s warnings about flu and cold bugs.  I keep a jar of that trusty green and blue bottle of VICKS petroleum jelly in my night stand.  I swear that it works wonders for sore throats.   Nightly, I take a tiny whiff of the medicinal smell.  NO, I do not swallow a glob of VICKS like Mom did...just a whiff will do.  But if I start sneezing, coughing and feeling run down, I grease my neck and under my nose to clear the sinuses and wrap a wool sock around my neck, fastening it with a safety pin.  I know I don’t look particularily appealing all greased up, but it’s worth it if the Vicks wards off the bugs.  This procedure seems to produce deep heat, warming not only my neck but my entire body with its strong, mentolated magic. Though it stings my eyes, and they begin to water, I know the Vicks is working its powers on my body.  I feel better inhaling the strikingly pungent odor from the tiny blue jar.   It worked for Mom and our family when I was growing up.  Why toss away a good thing?  

Cod liver oil was Mom’s other remedy to ward off colds.  Like clockwork, every morning before I left for school, she poured a teaspoon of that oily, icky medicine for me to swallow.  I had to wash it down with a tiny glass of orange juice.  Nobody I knew could stand the unadulterated taste of cold liver oil sliding down our throats.  Cod liver oil combated colds, but that oily taste couldn’t be stomached without something to camophlauge the fishy taste.

When fall or winter colds struck, Mom insisted I put on my flannel pajamas and rest in bed.  She’d cover me with her percale sheets with the crocheted edges that Grandma Elizabeth had made years ago.  Snugly, she’d tuck me into bed with Dad’s gray, wool, army blanket and one of her patchwork quilts, that the aunts had stitched the past winter.  Those quilts were made of stitched squares of worn Pendleton wool shirts, wool pants, Mom’s house dresses and Aunt Sadie’s wool plaid skirts.  It was cozy; I could feel the love.  

Then came her best prescription, the sugar medicine.  Esther would cut a plump, yellow lemon in half, squeeze and twist in over the protruding knob of the glass juice squeezer.  Pale, yellow, lemon juice would spurt from the thick rind’s innards along with many seeds that had to be strained from the juice.  If I drank the sour, lemon juice straight, without any additives, I’d twist up my face with its strong sour taste.  However, Mom knew that if she warmed heaping spoons of sugar stirred into the sour lemon juice, she could have me sipping the sweet lemonade.  As it swam down my aching throat, hot lemon juice was a sure cure for a sore throat.   Sugar does help the medicine go down.

From storage, I’m pulling out my wool sweaters and warm slacks, winter coats and jackets, scarves and hats and mittens.  I don’t want to be caught short of warm duds when the white flakes start flying.   Recently, Dakota was immobolized with over 40 inches of snow; roads were closed; powerlines pulled down.  Misery accosted the plains!  Get ready; cold weather, flu bugs and fever are coming east.  Prepare for the worst.  725 words  

Spooky Night

The weather outside is frightful...perfect Halloween night~  Fog coats the air so thickly that I can’t see across Carmen’s Bay.  Trees are dripping moisture creating ample gloom for this spooky evening of Halloween.  My neighborhood is filled with witches stirring cauldrons, ghosts haunting the bushes, and black cats screeching.  

Halloween treats of fruit candies, and chocolate bars are piled in bowls near the door where smiling witches will greet the visiting goblins who mumble “Trick or Treat” through their masks.  I love seeing the little tykes coming to my door with their pumpkins and parents.  But I’m gracious to the teenagers who can’t give up the ghost and still want to trick or treat on Halloween.  After all, it still pains me to remember hearing the grumpy guy who told me “you’re too big!” when I rang his bell in my yearly witches’ costume.  I love holidays.  Aren’t we supposed to get into these celebrations?

Glorious Grease

FROM WHERE I SIT Glorious Grease Oct. 3, 2013     Pat DeKok Spilseth

The government’s food pyramid forgot about flavor.  Everyone knows that grease adds flavor to a dish.  I understand the importance of fruits, vegetables, seed and grains, but what about tasty flavors?  Butter, oil, sour cream, and cheese are key ingredients that add flavor.

Grease was an important part of my family’s meals: it was the essential ingredient in our daily dinners and suppers and all the lunches we had in between.  My favorite meal was when Mom fried lean sidepork, salted it heavily, and fried it to a crispy crunch in hot, snapping grease.  Every mouth watered at the sound of sidepork sizzling in grease in Mom’s black cast iron frying pan.  Though grease left telltale blotches on her rickrack trimmed bib apron, and our kitchen floor got a bit sticky and slippery with the grease splatters, the mess was worth it.

Dinnertime was noisy.  We crunched and chewed crisp side pork, savoring every salty bite.  Sidepork was accompanied by chunky white Idaho boiled potatoes smothered with Mom’s homemade milk gravy and canned applesauce.  Yum...that meal tasted better than a $100 steak dinner!  I preferred a homemade meal of sidepork rather than fine dining at Andy’s Fireside Club in Alexandra, our once-a-year treat.

Mom insisted that we eat some vegetables.  Not many fresh fruits and veggies were available in rural Minnesota in the Fifties and Sixties.  We ate canned green beans in a casserole with mushroom soup, soggy green peas and corn nibblets canned by the Jolly Green Giant or Del Monte.  A good selection of canned veggies were available at Bob’s Meat Market or Harry’s Corner Grocery, just across the street from the jail and courthouse.  

Maybe veggies might have had more flavor if Mom hadn’t boiled them to a soggy mush.  She made sure everything was good fully because she was deathly afraid of food-borne sicknesses.  After all, she had to look out for the jail prisoners’ health as well as her family’s.   

Iceberg lettuce was the only lettuce available at the grocery stores.  We didn’t know about those exotic romaine or bib lettuces.  We didn’t have a vegetable garden at the jail.  My parents were too busy to plant and tend a garden in addition to supervising the sheriff’s office with its two-way radio, the phones, cleaning our large living quarters and cooking three meals a day for the prisoners.  

Though she wasn’t big on digging in the dirt, outside our kitchen door Mom did grow red Oriental poppies and pink, lavender and white sweet peas that crawled up the chicken wire fencing by our back door steps. 

Mom learned cooking when she was a farm kid with a widowed mother and five brothers outside Starbuck, MN.  She learned healthy meal planning when she attended high school at “Cow College” in Morris.  She worked as a helper to other farm families to earn money to live in the school’s dormitory at what is now the University of Minnesota, Morris campus.  She learned homemaking skills like cooking, healthy meal planning, sewing and baking.  In the Thirties, family meals were of utmost important as most girls became wives and mothers after graduation.   Mom learned to “dress” a salad: a green lettuce leaf was opened and filled with a pale pear from canned fruit jars.  The salad would be decorated with a dab of Miracle Whip mayonnaise, chopped walnuts and a red cherry on top.  Her salads looked like an ice cream cone with a fancy topping.  It filled the latest government food pyramid requirements of fruit and greens.  

Being raised on a farm, both Mom and Dad insisted that we use real butter.  No margarine for us, until the prices went sky-high.  Not able to afford the real stuff, we learned to massage the plastic margarine bag with our hands and burst the red bubble in the middle, making the white margarine turn yellow.  It almost looked like real butter.  Farmers wouldn’t permit margarine to be packaged yellow: that would make margarine look like real butter.  Farmers wanted to sell their product, not the imitation stuff.

Though Mom baked loaves of fluffy, homemade white bread every week, it was a treat when we got to buy Wonder Bread at the store.  Those happy-looking packages of red, blue and white polka dots promised to “made healthy bodies eight ways.”  I don’t think the company ever listed the ways, but we believed what the package said.  Store bought bread was a time-saver for Mom.  Weeky, she would stand at our Formica kitchen table to knead pasty, white dough and bake at least four pans of browned loaves with an extra coating of butter to make the crusts glossy.

My parents believed everything was better with lots of butter, especially pastries.  Mom was “dessert queen” at the jail, a title I’ve inherited in my neighborhood.  Like my mom Esther, I love to bake sweet treats, but I don’t have the amount of company she and Dad had at the jail.  She served coffee and pastries three times a day.  Often she’d remark, “I wish I had a nickel for every cup of coffee I’ve served.”   She loved serving coffee and cookies or cake to the County Courthouse workers many morning at 10AM and afternoon coffee and treats at 3PM.  Our kitchen table at the jail usually had at least five people licking Mom’s chocolate frosting from their fingers or munching carrot cookies with sweet, runny, orange icing.   At Christmas time she served homemade butterballs and sour cream cookies plus deep-fried glazed doughnuts.  Every recipe called for fresh farm butter, white sugar, white flour and eggs.  

We hale and hearty Scandinavians were raised on white food and grease.  To this day, we still want to taste the good flavors that only grease can add.  984 words

DIZZY HALLUCINATIONS

Other writers may have electrifying visions, often induced by drugs and alcohol, but chocolate cheesecake with red wine at my monthly book club can kick start my spinning head.  Rich delicacies tend to inflate my imagination as they upset my stomach.  Today, dizzy and nauseo  us, I’m lying in bed while images spin wildly through my mind.  Undulading waves of characters present themselves, formost is Nicotine Nettie.  

Even today, fifty years later, I still see her, shuffling along the sidewalks of downtown Glenwood.  Nicotine Nelly’s beady black eyes shift across the cracked sidewalk of Main Street searching for discarded cigarette butts.  Hoping to spy a discarded, partially smoked butt on the ground outside Dick’s Pool Hall, she bends over and picks up the smoldering stick of tobacco.  Anticipating a few satisfying puffs of nicotine, her sunken cheeks suck in the enticing smoke.

As a kid I couldn’t help but stare.  The wizened woman was such an anomaly.  In our small town of 2500 people, mostly Scandinavians and Germans, no other woman in the community wore her greasy, long, streaked gray hair in a tight braid down the back of her body.  No doubts about it, Nellie was different.  

Back in the late Fifties, in rural MInnesota, our resort area was made up of hardworking farmers, carpenters, shopkeepers, truckers, mechanics, resort owners, fishermen and hunters along with a few professional lawyers, teachers, ministers and doctors.  We had no blacks, no Orientals, and only a handful of Indians.  Certainly, we’d never heard of Muslims, Buddists, or Scientologists!  We only knew about Jews from the history books about the war.  We were Catholics and Lutherans: it wasn’t kosher to date or marry out of one’s own religion.  

Nellie was on her way to the jail in the middle of town.  Next to the museum-like Court house where all the county’s official business was done was the red brick jail.  We had three important, official looking buildings in Glenwood.  Along with several spired churches, there was one central block in town housing the stately, tan Courthouse, the jail with windows of iron bars, and the Carneige library across the street.  

I lived at the jail.  My Dad was Sheriff Henry DeKok.  In those days, the sheriff had large living quarters in the red brick building, which housed the men’s jail downstairs next to Dad’s office as well as the women’s jail upstairs.   Barbie, my little sister, was born Nov 5, an election date baby, a tomboy to make up for Dad’s lack of a son.  Her older sister, me, was a girl who usually had her head in a book or was playing with dolls.  Mom cooked all the meals for the prisoners and her family, at least 3 meals a day along with morning, afternoon and evening coffee and sweets.  She baked breads, hotdishes, cakes and cookies for us at the jail and served coffee parties to the Court House gang most forenoons and afternoons.

Back to Nellie.  Most days she walked to the jail to see her son Blackie, often incarcerated behind the yellowed bars of the jail with one or two others who had a drinking problem.  Dear Blackie, what a guy!  He had a university education, but liquor got its hold on him early on and spoiled his future.  

Outside the jail’s windows with steel bars, my pals and I stood watching Blackie, the entertainer of great athletic prowess.  We were fascinated to watch him do acrobatics on the blue and white striped ticking covering the jail’s mattresses.  Blackie could perform head stands, flips, backbends...he was a juggler with his body!  We oohed and aahed as he performed one trick after another.  He didn’t talk much.  I think his talking might have scared us: we were still little kids.  

Nellie didn’t talk much either.  I don’t remember her speaking, but she must have shared some things with her son.  There didn’t seem to be a father in the picture as he never appeared at the jail.  Blackie had no other visitors that I can recall.  I think he liked being with my family at the jail because he’d land in jail most Octobers to spend the holidays with us.  He’d get drunk and get a three month sentence to jail.  My folks invited him to share Christmas with us around our Christmas tree in the living room where Dad read the Christmas story from Luke, and we sat on the floor opening a few presents.  I wonder if Mom bought socks for Blackie...or maybe cigarettes.  She always said, “The guys in jail are not bad men; they just made bad choices.”

Nellie and Blackie seemed to fade from my view as I grew into a teenager.  Now I wonder whatever happenned to these folks who lived somewhere in Glenwood, so different from the rest of us Scandinavians and Germans.  Did they go to church?  That was almost a requirement for folks who lived in my little town in the Fifties and Sixties.  Sunday church was our primary social outlet, besides the Lakeside Ballroom where grown ups kicked up their heels and let off steam.  Oh, how this dizzy spell bring back characters from my childhood!  868

Another Birthday Looms

FROM WHERE IS SIT  ANOTHER BIRTHDAY LOOMS  AUG 5, 2013  PAT SPILSETH

Another birthday looms on my calendar.  Who thinks that birthdays are meant to be celebrated once one passes 40, even 40?  Of course, another birthday is better than that bitter alternative...oblivion!

One more year and several weeks before my next BIG birthday arrives.  That gives me a year of grace.  I can count my blessings.  There’s still time for me to do what my body can attempt to do.  Forget water skiing, paddle boarding, biking around the lake or canoeing across Minnewaska.  Nope, those escapades are in the past.  Now I simply look forward to dinner out at a special dining spot, a few bobbles and bubbles to lift my spirits, maybe a best seller to curl up with on the deck and friends to discuss the world’s problems.  

My birthday usually arrives on or near the first day of school each September.  That day used to mean a new beginning, a fresh start.  This year, nope.  What happened to my exotic dreams of taking a trip on the Orient Express, having my fabulous fortune read, and dining on silk pillows in some ornate palace in the Far East?  Every day I wake, still looking for some new passion to add zest to my life.  I only see me, in a comfy sweatsuit, reading in my red leather chair, looking out at the falling leaves and cooling temperatures.   

As Andy Rooney remarked when someone said “I see you celebrated your birthday yesterday.”  Rooney replied, “NO, I HAD A BIRTHDAY YESTERDAY.  THERE WAS NOTHING CELEBRATORY ABOUT IT.”

It’s hard to say at what age a person reaches the top of the hill and starts down the back side.  Physically, it might have been when I opted for a left knee replacement and the arduous physical therapy.  Today, I can still ride a bike and walk the dog, but I no longer kneel on that knee, run or do jumping jacks...that hurts.  Thank goodness for ALEVE.  I could be their company spokeswoman selling that healing power.  I’m sleeping more; enjoying a good night’s sleep less.

When others chat with me, nobody has mentioned noticing any mental decline in my thinking or speaking.  But I do notice a few bits and pieces of memory loss.  I make a few editing errors in my columns.  I take pride in my friends calling me “Dessert Queen”, but sometimes I miss an ingredient or two in a recipe.  My tortes and cookies might not be as buttery or sweet as they used to be.  I might forget to add an egg or was it baking soda or powder I was supposed to add?  Priding myself on my “multi-tasking”, as we women are prone to do, no longer am I as efficient as in former days.  Amazingly, I missed the exit on my way home recently!  Day dreaming again?  Oh, well, I found a new way home.  Change is good, someone once said.  

Forget about learning a new language.   I’m simply not interested.  And traveling is such a pain today with skimpier seats on airplanes, no free food to munch on, and most airlines charge extra to check a bag.  And I don’t want to pay through the nose to vacation in countries where intolerant, grumpy immigration agents look at me suspiciously in their gray, depressing, unwelcoming airports in Russia or Venezuela.   I can’t imagine enjoying an overseas trip if I have to fly in some midget airplane seat.  First class might be another story, but I don’t have the extra cash. 

What’s happened to that adventuresome wanderlust I used to enjoy?  I had a good time taking unexpected trips to unknown destinations, meeting interesting folks and tasting spicy dishes.  I only carried a tiny carry-on tote with a change of underwear, a few lotions and a swim suit.  It was fun figuring out another country’s complicated money system, tasting new food flavors, and ending up at some unexpected destination on their tube’s itinerary.  Life was an adventure for me to enjoy!

And what adventures they were.  When in France, I tried to speak their language, but  eye brows shot up and disapproving chins down when I mispronounced their fancy words.  My Midwest Scandinavian accent didn’t work well with their French.  Hey, I  was trying  to speak their language!  In Italy, no matter what country a girl came from, we enjoyed those attentive Italians who shouted “Bella, Bella” as they tried to pinch our bottoms.   And I’ll never forget throwing coins into the Fountain of Trevi in Rome and making wishes.  Some actually came true.  That was an exciting time of life!  However, when I travel now and need a bathroom, I don’t want to take the time to find the correct word in my travel dictionary of another language.  Just get me to the proper room!  FAST!

Who was the wise guy who said “wisdom comes with age”?  Nobody under 30!  As I’ve aged, I think I’ve become more mellow and a bit more conservative.  I have my principles, but I’m quite tolerant of other ideas.  I’ll respectfully listen to the opinions of others, but I will reserve the right to disagree, sometimes strongly.  Usually, I will be Minnesota NICE.

Edna St. Vincent MIllay wrote, “I only know that summer sang in me/A little while, that in me sings no more.”

Well, summer, winter, spring and fall still sing within me.  I’ll continue to sing Happy Birthday to myself and friends, but, truth be known, I’d rather be 33 all over again. 

934 words

FROM WHERE I SIT Hot Dish Extravaganza

FROM WHERE I SIT   Hot Dish Extravaganza     Sept. 4, 2013  Pat DeKok Spilseth

Cheese has always been a favorite delicacy of mine ever since growing up with Velveeta in the long golden box with red letters.  Mom made grilled cheese sandwiches with Velveeta’s golden slices on the electric stove, smothering Wonder bread whiteness with butter, frying and flipping the sandwiches in her heavy, black, cast iron frying pan.  Delicious!  Grilled cheese sandwiches were a favorite treat in our family, especially if Mom had just baked a loaf or two of her homemade bread and tucked in a few of her homemade bread and butter pickles or those chubby, pimply, dill pickles which she canned every September.  

When we felt “flush” with a bit of extra cash, Dad might purchase a bag of salty potato chips or his favorite shoestring potatoes.  The greasy, browned sandwiches would be topped off with my favorite, a tall bottle of Orange Crush pop.  Mom would add a few celery ribs and a scrubbed carrot to our plates: she had healthy instincts way back then.  When I was in grade school, those ingredients made up my favorite supper.  Naturally, when I became a teenager, Chef Boyardee pizza in the box became my new favorite.  

Fall meant church suppers with those long tables spread with various pie pieces on a plate. I got to choose only one.  What a dilemna: should I take the apple or the cherry, the lemon meriange or the pecan?  Maybe I’ll try the sour creme raisen, Mom’s favorite.  Most churches served either a chicken or roast beef dinner with mashed potatoes smothered in thick brown gravy.  A few spoonfuls of vegetables accompanied the main dish.  I preferred yellow corn nibblets rather than soggy peas or watery beans.  

Candidates for the November elections in Pope County often chose those suppers to campaign for office throughout the county.  Dad hated to campaign, but that seemed to be a necessary evil for any county office.  When he was the sheriff, he figured his record should stand for itself.  He hated catering to anybody, especially some gabby politician.  “All talk; no action” was Dad’s opinion of several guys on the county board.  He wasn’t good at glad-handing or smoothing over the rough spots of arguments.  Thank goodness he had Mom to smile and soothe some ruffled feathers.

Fall still brings out my need for warm meat and potato suppers, hot from the oven.  I loved the toasty-warm kitchen at the Pope County jail where Mom wore a bib apron as she cooked, fried and baked.  We’d sit around the gray Formica kitchen table with the stuffed gray vinyl chairs and talk about my day at school, piano lessons, the prisoners in our jail and if Mom won any pennies at her card club.  Mom enjoyed making comfort food like meat loaf stuffed with chopped white onions and dried bread cubes.  Sprinkles of dried sage gave the dish more flavor.  Another signature dish she often served was a tomato-noodle and hamburger hot dish with lots of chopped onions.  She’d add a can of Campbell’s Topmato soup and boiled elbow macaroni noodles.  My very best favorite meal was side pork.  From way upstairs in my bedroom where I’d was studying. I could smell the fat slices of pork sizzling in hot grease.  I couldn’t help myself: I had to get downstairs into the kitchen to help turn the side pork until it browned, the grease dried off, and the frying pan was ready to stir up the milk gravy.  Mmmmmm, I can still taste the crisp side pork and the chunks of white potatoes smothered in milk gravy.

MY very least favorite meal was Swiss Steak: tough chunks of meat bubbling in the cast iron skillet floated in juices of tomatoes, onions, green peppers and tomato juice.  Mom was a firm believer that meat had to be well cooked or we might get sick.  

Minnesota must be the Hot Dish capital of the world.  It’s the perfect meal to stretch the family budget.  Requiring only a little meat, hot dish recipes consisted of numerous garden vegetables, salt, pepper, a can of soup and plenty of various-shaped noodles.

Of course, wine was not used in my family.  That was reserved for communion at church and maybe a thimbleful of sweet red Mogan David wine at Christmas.  

Venison was the mainstay of our meals each winter.  Dad would go deer hunt with some buddies, have the meat cut and wrapped at the locker downtown, and the packages would be stacked in our freezer chest in the basement.  With enough garlic and onions the wild, gamey taste of venison was almost camouflaged.  The meat was always dry, well-down and very chewy.  Where I grew up, that’s the way meat was supposed to be in the Fifties and Sixties.

Sometimes Mom experiented and tried a fancy new dish like wild rice hot dish with sausage chunks.  As always, the sausage was venison, but the onions and garlic added plenty of flavor to the meal.  She might go extra wild and add soy sauce.  That seemed to add an “exotic, foreign” flavor: in my imagination I’d be transported to some exotic land where people with slanty eyes lived in bamboo houses...

Autumn’s cooler weather has invaded MInnesota.  It’s a grand time of the year to enjoy the red sumac and the burgundy and golden leaves of the maple trees.  School days have arrived along with cool days, wool blanket nights and flannel pajamas.  It’s time for cozy evenings by the fire and a comfort meal, a steaming hot dish reminding me of home. 947 words

READIN' & WRITIN" & 'RITHMETIC

Pat Spilseth

Is your mind spinning with that old song about school days?  It’s that time of year again; Labor Day means the end of summer.  It brings back those dreaded thoughts of hot days and sweating palms.

“School days, school days

 Dear old golden rule days

 Readin’ and ritin’ and ‘rithmetic

Taught to the tune of the hickory stick

You were my queen in calico

I was your bashful barefoot beau

And you wrote on my slate

“I love you, so”

When we were a couple of kids...”

A reality check: at that time of your life, who knew anything about a hickory stick?  That was before we were school age kids, wasn’t it?  And how about those slates?  That sounds like something out of Charles Dickens’ novels.

But the tune keeps playin’...

So many School Days songs have been created through the years.  I’m particularly partial to those surfin’ Beach Boys’ tunes.  Sure, today they’re all in their sixties and seventies, but they were so cool in my school days.   And when they sang “Graduation Day”, who could help but shed a few tears for memories long gone?

And when Jeannie C. Riley came out with “Harper Valley PTA”, we grabbed a partner and ran out onto the dance floor.  Best of all, I did love slow dancing to the Four Lads when they sang “Moments to Remember”.  

Throw in Doris Day’s “Teacher’s Pet” and the Jackson 5’s “ABC”.  Nobody can sit still.  We have to be dancin’!

It’s about that time again.  Labor Day means school starts the next day, which many times happened to be my birthday.  The State Fair is over; reunions are done, and moms have started to can those juicy Colorado peaches.  No more swimming at the beach; no more picnics; no more sunning with Coppertone.  

It’s time for new jeans, tennies, cords and new wool sweaters.  Sure, you’re bound to sweat profusely that first day of school, when the temperature in the hot classrooms hits 90.  But you’ll look so good!  

I sure hope your school will be air conditioned.  Who can manage to sit still and learn multiplication tables, historic dates or all the “be” verbs when the dew point is over 65 in the classroom?  Why is school starting before the weather cools down in MInnesota?

It’s a nerve-wracking time of year for kids.  Identities and reputations are made those first days of school.  Self-esteem can be so easily shattered if a guy doesn’t make the football team or a girl the cheerleading squad or get that drama role she had her heart set on. If you’re a teenager, you worry about dating.  School days can be ego-crushing days.  Then what does a parent do to fill the social void of their kid?  And there are other dilemmas.  Why can’t I have a car?  How do I cover my pimples? I’m 13; why won’t you let me date?  I’m a teenager now, almost grown up!

When that big yellow school bus comes roaring around the corner, kindergarteners may have those tummy-tumbling pangs as strong as their older siblings.  Not having moms and dads nearby can be traumatic; doubts creep into their minds.  Tears may surface.  I was a basket case my first day of first grade in Miss Gwen Turnquist’s classroom until I spied my neighborhood pal in another wooden desk with a flip-top.  Then Mom could leave.  Martha saved the day.  

Then comes high school and trying to remember where the next classroom is and what my locker combination is and did I remember the right book for class...teen life is such turmoil.  But college is the true independence test:  no parents, no bedroom of my own, and will I have any friends?  When I left for college, Lynn Krook, Dad’s deputy sheriff at the jail, gave me a “crying towel” to soothe my tears so far from home.  Years later that towel is still in use, but not by me.  Son Andy uses it to clean boats at his Tidyboat business on the lake.  We are a recycling family.

That’s all in the past now.  Thankfully, it was way back, when we were a couple of kids.  719