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. 

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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