Chairs Invite Conversation

FROM WHERE I SIT     CHAIRS INVITE CONVERSATION   JULY 7, 2014   P.D.SPILSETH

Chairs register with me.  My weekly column is titled “From Where I Sit”.  My first logo accompaning the column had a woman sitting in an Adirondack chair on the beach...that was supposed to be me, reading and writing.  Often I’ve written about the two comfy, red leather chairs sitting by our fireplace, where my family usually reads and talks together by the fire.  My writing friends have their own special chairs picked out to sit and discuss when we meet monthly.  

I expect soft comfort to encase my bottom when I sit in a chair.  And I need a back to rest against.  It’s an added bonus to have a footstool, a hassock, for my legs to be elevated.  Adirondack chairs fill my need for the perfect summer seating on the deck, around the firepit, on the lawn or down by the beach.  They’re perfect to sit and dream, talk with a friend, mediatate.  They help create a relaxing mood for folks and invite conversation.

Poet Laurete Billy Collins writes poetry about chairs.  Like me, he must have an affection for simple, comfortable chairs.  This week I’ve been reading Collins’ collection of contemporary poetry entitles AIMLESS LOVE.  In simple words and plain speech,  Collins leads readers from one line rolling into the next, giving his readers imaginative suprises and pleasure.   His poems are playful and delightful, sometimes serious.  He writes in free verse...there’s not a rhyming couplet in this collection of easy to read poetry.  His style reminds me of another poet laurete, Ted Kooser, from the Great Plains who writes poems about valentines, winter morning walks and life in rural and small town America.  His simple style using plain words is a delight to read. 

Collins poem of chairs sitting on a porch is a favorite of mine.  It reminds me of today’s lack of communication between people, used to texting in abbreviative phrases rather than conversing face to face.  The poem has me remembering the two white Adirondack chairs on our deck with a table between to hold coffee, books and treats.

“The Chairs That No One Sits In

You see them on porches and on lawns 

down by the lakeside,

usually arranged in pairs implying a couple.

who might sit there and look out

at the water or the big shade trees.

The trouble is you never see anyone

sitting in these forlorn chairs

though at one time it must have seemed 

a good place to stop and do nothing for a while.

Sometimes there is a litle table

between the chairs where no one

is resting a glass or placing a book facedown.

It may not be any of my business,

but let us suppose one day

that everyone who placed those vacant chairs

on a veranda or a dock sat down in them

if only for the sake of remembering

what it was they thought deserved

to be viewed from the two chairs,

side by side with a table in between.

The clouds are high and massive on that day.

The woman looks up from her book.

The man takes a sip of his drink.

Then there is only the sound of their looking.

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird

then another, cries of joy or warning--

it passes the time to wonder which.”

Adirondack chairs sit in pairs on our deck overlooking the lake.  Most evenings in the spring, summer, and fall I like to relax in these chairs and talk over the day with my husband or another friend.  Sometimes in the snowy winter, I leave these chairs on our screened porch so I can sit in them, bundled up in down coat and hat, with coffee and my journal.  I enjoy the falling snow, cross country skiers on the lake and the ever changing ice patterns frozen on the water.  

The chairs have a way about them: they seem to elicit conversation, shared secrets and dreams.  The chairs invite conversation.  They invite friends to communicate and enjoy life together.  687 words

Waterworld is a Beach Bummer!

FROM WHERE I SIT   Waterworld is a Beach Bummer  June 21, 2014    P.D. Spilseth

When you think of summer, you envision sunny skies, swimming and water skiing, backyard barbeques, parades and fireworks.  I’m still hoping, but June’s  consistently rainy days, lightening and thunder have brought a conundrum of spoiled beach days, soggy barbecues, cancelled golf and tennis dates, flooded basements and ruined crops.  Day after day, dark, threatening skies pour rain on our spoiled summer.  2014 has been a beach bummer that has rocked the boat for too many folks looking forward to relaxing in the sun by the water on their one annual vacation.  In MInnesota we count on those three months of summer sunshine!

The Summer Solistice arrived with sunny but wet conditions around the lakes of Minnesota.  July means that summer is half over!   Already celebrations on the water have had to be cancelled because of flooding conditions.  Taste of Minnesota has scrambled to find a new location, basements are flooded, and fewer boats are floating on Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes.  At my house, we have an extra lake on the lower lawn, no beach, and our docks are submerged in high water.  Everything is soaked!

Rain, rain, go away...come again another day.  We’ve had over eleven or twelve inches of rain in June.  The forecast is gloomy, depressing for farmers, resorters, golf courses, anyone living near water and those who planned a summer vacation on the water.  We can’t waterski, jet ski, even swim in some lakes.   The water table is at record highs.  Sewage has been pumped into several lakes to avoid flooding home basements of homes with sewage.  People I meet on my neighborhood walks with Buddy my Beagle are wearing frowns, lamenting the lack of summer, dreary dark rainy days and ruined gardens.  Summer swimsuits, rafts and camping gear are already at a 50% clearance sale.  School supplies are already in the stores!  

This is NOT the summer Minnesotans are entitled to have!  After our eternally long, freezing winter, we expected a glorious summer of sunshine and beach time.   The guys got our dock in early, the boats on lifts and covered, the screened porch and deck cleaned, lawn chairs out... we were ready to barbeque in May.  Then the rains came.   

I’ve seriously consided building an ark.    However, unlike Noah, I will NOT bring along 2 mosquitoes.  We already have too many biting critters on the standing water appearing on lawns and in new locations everywhere.  

However, I have to admit, today is a serene day on the dock.  The sun is out!  The sky is clear with fluffy clouds in the endless blue above me.  No rain is forecast, though the weekend will be brutal with heavy storms.  There’s a No Wake zone enforced on our lake so boats can only speed up to 5 mph.  Huge megacruisers drift along, crawling at speeds no faster than kayaks and canoes.  Sailboats are the fastest vehicle on the water today.  

Quiet and peaceful...  today feels perfectly serene as I relax with my coffee and newspaper on the deck early this morning.  As I read letters to the editor, several are recommending that June be a yearly NO WAKE zone holiday time every year.  The only noises in my neighborhood are barking dogs and construction workers building new homes nearby, their vehicles swamped in mud and puddles.

Golf courses have been forced to close in order that their greens will, hopefully, be preserved for sunnier days.  Resort owers and restaurants on the water must be hurt with loss of business this year.  Farmers are in dire straits.  Many can’t plant crops because the fields are drenched with rain: tractors would get stuck in the muddy furrows.  Prices will surely rise.  How are we supposed to eat healthy veggies and fruit if growers can’t produce crops?  

Walking the dog through the neighborhood, I see rolled up, stinky wet carpets waiting for the trash trucks to pick up and carry to some landfill.  In some instances, dry wall has been soaked and removed from basements.  Landscape companies are busier than ever.  Gardens and hanging baskets are soaked with rain.  No tomatoes will be growing in my neighborhood this summer unless they’re in individual pots sunning on a deck high above the lake.  Weeds are flowering wildly in my untended gardens, but I do see blooming yellow and orange lilies, white and yellow daisies, unidentified purple flowers and a takeover weed that looks just like white lace.  Even the weeds are blooming in purples, whites and yellow flowers with an invasive, trailing vine.

Since there is a No Wake zone in force, boaters are cruising our lake at 5 mph to avoid lakeshore erosion.  This year it will take hours to get anywhere, but slow cruises can be relaxing.  Maybe people will begin meditating on the water this summer rather than partying with loud, rollicking music blasting from giant speakers.  More and more fishermen are appearing in our Bay every day, hoping to catch the BIG ONE under our dock, which is filling up with lake weeds.  Finally fishermen don’t have to worry about getting their lines tangled with water skiiers or jet skis.  Recent news tell us that it may be late July or August before the lake is low enough to speed through the waves.  Until that time, Waterworld residents are enjoying peace and quiet.

Surely 2014 will be the summer we won’t forget.  May and June have had an overabundance of rain causing flooding, limiting summer celebrations.  I’m hoping July, August and September will bring Minnesotans the summer we’ve been dreaming about all winter long.   How will we entertain summer guests when they arrive expecting to have fun on the lake?  Come on, Mother Nature, get with the program!  We want; we need one of those fabulous Minnesota summers on the lake for at least a month!  981

Queens of Summer

FROM WHERE I SIT    “Queens of Summer”    July 21, 2006  pat spilseth

Tell me, girls, doesn’t every woman want to be a queen!  It’s part of a female’s natural psyche.  We want to be queen of something, somewhere, at some time in her life.  We covet those sparkly, though rather tacky, rhinestone tiaras!  All most of us need is one measly day of queenliness.  

I confess.  Yes, I wanted a tiara.   Along with dozens of others, I was one of the smiling queen candidates at my hometown’s water festival.  Waterama queen candidates were posed on hayrack floats decorated in blue crepe paper and shimmering silver flags, fluttering in the fashion of waves.   I remember that blistering July Sunday of forty-some years ago.  Steaming, hot sunshine beat down on the crepe paper float where I sat, red-faced and dripping.  I was embarrassed to be so exposed in that form-fitting swimsuit.  Of course, it was a modest, one piece; I didn’t have the guts to be a “hot number” who flaunted my emerging figure in a revealing two piece swimsuit.  

I settled for the more demure full suit; I knew no mortifying accidents of losing my top would occur when I dove off the tower, performing my favored swan dive.  I’d seen what happened to a pal in a two-piece when she dove off the high dive.  Not a pretty thought.

Friends still tease me today about the fuchsia, Rose Marie Reid, bathing suit that encased my sweaty body like a sausage.  Queen candidates, Linda, Diane and I, were posed on a hay wagon in swim attire and three inch, wobbly, white heel.  “Switch” was the cue to change waving hands, in the standard figure-eight wave pattern, and shift to the opposite hip, in unison.  Being band members, we were used to formation drills; we responded automatically.    

Seductively positioned, one knee up, the other leg resting flat on the hard float floor, I tried to look cool.  Thank goodness, a few of my friends were with me on that float, all with big bouffant hairdos of the day.  Aqua Net hairspray shellacked our curls in place that a tornado couldn’t budge.   “Kiss me Quick” red lipstick enlarged our lip-licking, moistened lips.  “Chantilly” perfume, “Wind Song” or “Opium” sprayed heavily on our sweaty bodies, camophlauged our girly glow of perspiration. Running through my head was Jerry Lee Lewis’ popular tune “Chantilly Lace and a Pretty Face.”  Don’t you fondly recall those raging teenage hormones that we didn’t know quite what to do with in the Sixties!

And do you remember the talent show?   Candidates had to perform some skill: twirling a flaming baton into the air, then miraculously catching it; singing some popular song or warble a classical operatic aria; tap dancing like Debbie Reynolds while flashing a wide grin; playing  an etude by Chopin or Debussy; or toe dancing in a tulle tutu with the ever-present tiara balanced on her twirling head.  As the years progress, my mind seems to embellish the details, but as I recall it was quite a show.

Next came the gangplank walk.   Worries ricocheted in my head as I worried about the platform walk all candidates had to make at the band shell stage.  Running through my head was the persistent question, “What if I trip?  I’d be mortified!”   I remember my staggered walk down the uneven aisle of loose boards to the judges, who stood at a microphone with hazardous, trailing wires, posing tripping problems for the queens.  

The end was near.  The BIG question was posed to each beauty: “If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?”

No contest!  The obvious answer was “WORLD PEACE!”  Most of us planned to be teachers, beauticians, social workers, wives and mothers.  Being women, we dreamed of jobs that served others before we became wives and mothers, serving our families.  We’d been programmed for duties that didn’t involve great cash rewards.    

No tripping, no fire from the flaming, twirling baton, no fainting marred my summer weekend.  The parade and coronation are over.  For most of us, ever-hopeful queen candidates, there was no queenly, rhinestone tiara and no world peace…but a girl needs to dream.      701 words

FROM WHERE I SIT  I Love a Parade! July 1, 2014 P.D. Spilseth

Grabbing lawn chairs, coffee cups and nibbles for the kids, every July Fourth we rush to our annual parade spot before ten in the morning.   Neighbors turn out annually with coffee and folding lawn chairs to meet at the prime parade spot on Casco Circle to watch our own Fourth of July kiddie parade.  

Dozens of kids, from parents carrying babies sporting flag t-shirts and red, white and blue bonnets, to kids who ride their bikes with the wheels strung with red, white, and blue crepe paper.  Handlebars have long, colorful streamers and flags waving in the breeze.  Little kids careen around the giant curve of Casco Circle on tricycles and others ride in little red wagons.  Some families ride on their lawn tractors.  A few years we’ve had a horse or two in the parade.

Patriotic music blares from big speakers set on a pickup’s flatbed.  Several moms make bars and cookies or rolls for the parade viewers.  We toss wrapped candy to the parade participants, who screech to a stop to collect the candy and check out treats on the card table.  They’re hungry; they’ve been riding almost a mile from the starting point of the parade; they need nourishment!  

Several moms wear red, blue and white T-shirts; dads have tall stovepipe hats like Uncle Sam or caps in appropriate Fourth of July colors. Everyone waves miniature flags, gifts of a local family selling real estate.  This annual parade is a Big Deal in my neighborhood.  Some folks return to their old neighborhood simply to see who’s in the parade and have a cup of coffee.

It’s tradition on the lake to see fireworks from several spots on our peninsula.  When darkness falls, neighbors with insect repellent walk down the hill to their docks either to launch boats to view fireworks on the Bay or to sit and watch from their docks.  Some submerge sweaty bodies in the lake, hoping to avoid the mosquitoes.  Everyone rushes outdoors to watch the colorful fireworks display exploding in the summertime sky from every direction.

Kids light sparklers to celebrate this Fourth of July holiday which honors the many freedoms we enjoy in this country.  Campfires are lit; we roast marshmallows and make s’mores with graham crackers, melting chocolate bars and gooey marshmallows.  I’m reminded of the campfires teenagers enjoyed on Halverson’s Point before houses were built there, eliminating our best summertime party spot.  

We loved parades in Glenwood, my hometown.  The Fourth of July parade featured marching uniformed veterans, the ladies auxiliary, and the Glenwood High School band.  It was always dreadfully hot!  As the honor guard marchers aged, I could see that it was tougher and tougher to squeeze into those uniforms from the war year.  But I’ll never forget the jaunty, creased caps and the ominous rifles.  Everyone stood as the flags passed and put their right hand over their heart, remembering the sacrifices our veterans had made to keep freedom throughout our land.

I still remember sweating in those sticky, hot, wool band uniforms we wore in the 60‘s and that visor hat that kept dropping into my eyes so I couldn’t read the music notes attached to my clarinet.  But I did enjoy marching in the Waterama parade later in July when FINALLY the band boosters purchased white trousers and blue and white striped t-shirts for band members.  I think we might have had a colorful orange or red bandana too…didn’t we?  I know we wore white bucks like Pat Boone, the popular Christian crooner of that era.  He was popular in the sixties, but probably not as popular as Elvis with his oily ducktail and swiveling hip action.

We had three summer parades when I was a kid: Memorial Day where veterans carried flags and shot off a gun salute over Lake Minnewaska; the Fourth of July parade; and the annual Waterama parade at the end of July with lots of marching bands, queens in one-piece swimsuits and stiffly sprayed hairdos, jazzy, rhythmic drum and bugle corps which crowds loved to follow, and politicians shaking hands with potential voters.  It was a busy summer back then.  I still love a good, old fashioned parade! 717 words

FROM WHERE I SIT  Guilty of Prejudice ? JUNE 23, 2014  PAT SPILSETH

Sunni, Schite, or Kurd; Coptic Christian or Muslim, Roman Catholic or Lutheran, black or white, male or female, young or old?  The daily news is filled with angry differences between people, the fear, guilt and violence often occurring because of differences.   

Diversity is relatively new.  Sameness is comfortable.  Norwegians settled near other Scandinavians; Russians, Orientals and Africans found homes and friends in areas of cities with people who looked and spoke like them.   In this country’s early days we feared Indian uprisings so our government put the Indians on reservations, killing their nomadic way of life.  In business it was feared that women rising to power jobs would take away from their mothering and household duties.  Men would feel guilty to be at home and be judged effeminite if they became “house husbands”.  

Anger, fear, guilt and persecution have existed since the world was created.  By this twenty-first century, one would think we would have been been informed, educated and understanding of one another.  Why do some still feel the need to persecute, even kill each other?  Whether we kill with swords, bullets, words or drones, destruction is everywhere.

The Middle East has always been in constant turmoil.  From Sadat’s murder to Saddam’s downfall, Israel’s constant conflict with its neighbors, Syria’s dictator Assad gassing his own people and now another angry uprising in Egypt...when will it ever end?  Sunday night’s 60 MINUTES TV program had an interesting report on the Coptic Christians in Egypt whose churches are now being destroyed by radical Muslims.  Groups of people are being persecuted because they think differently than the ruling part.

When most of us were very young, we rarely noticed differences.  We just wanted to play, eat and sleep.  We were color blind, not conscious of social class, income levels, clothing designers or car models.  Our little world was only about us and our family.  But as kids grew and entered school, we started to notice differences: some kids were bigger, could run faster, had fancy clothes and a bike.   We felt the pain of indifference, unworthiness and inability when it came to choosing teams, friends or being chosen for a date.  Remember how devasting it was to be picked last?  A teacher’s red marks on that paper we’d worked so hard at were soul crushing.  

Growing up in small town Minnesota, our communities were homogeneous.  Race wasn’t an issue.  We knew people of different nations looked different; some thought different, but we rarely encountered those folks.  Almost everyone I knew was pasty white in the winter and burned red in the summer.  Moms worked at home; dads made the money.  In Glenwood had no blacks, Orientals, Mexicans, Russians, or Italians.  Indians and divorced people were rare.  When we disapproved of another’s opinions, it was easy to avoid or shun them.  We Protestants did not date Catholics and vice versa.   As we grew older, our parents, TV, newspapers and even movies pointed out differences that existed in our expanded world.  We learned who was an Indian, a Jew or a Mormon. 

We became aware of differences.  Some individuals tended to become judgmental: a red nose indicates he’s a drunk; he must be rich because he drives a Cadillac; those that get commodities at the welfare office must be poor or have too many kids.  Most of us were light skinned, blondes or brunnettes with a slight Northern European accent.  Uffdas and knee slapping laughs could be heard in every school, church, cafe and bar in town.  We ate meat and potatoes, mostly white food with plenty of sugar and butter.  

When we got to college, we were confronted with radical new ideas of 1960‘s desegregation in cities and schools.  On TV we saw race riots in LA and Milwaukee, but our black classmates from Chicago and the South became good friends.  

Cowboy movies showed us that the men in black hats were bad; the good guys were in white, like angels.  In the fifties, some folks built bomb shelters, and kids at school hid under their desks when we had drills.  Going to the movies we saw the news “shorts” of Nazi or Russian soldiers and feared the overwhelming power of their menacing black leather coats and boots. Our country entered Cold War diplomacy with the Soviet Union and an era of McCarthyism threated to destroy Hollywood, even our US congress.  Hilter’s Nazis threatened the world and scared us.  Finally we went to war to stop their pervading, destructive power from conquering the world.  Today we fear the spread of Islam radicals spreading their violence and uneducated ideas worldwide.  

Differences can be disturbing.  Life among similar people makes most folks comfortable.  Some people feel terrible guilt if they don’t eat fish on Friday or candy during Lent.  A few churches don’t allow their women to wear makeup.  Some churches meet on Saturday rather than Sunday.   Growing up, upon entering school or driving down to the Cities, we began to learn that people are different. Women used to be considered the weaker sex, but in many educated areas of today’s world, we hold jobs of power and achievement as well as being mothers at home.  Religious, uneducated zealots are trying to curb schooling for girls in some parts of our world, destroying any education or jobs for women.  Their women are to remain in the home providing children, food and care for the ruling menfolk.  

In most parts of the world today people are more educated.  We’re more aware of differences: age, race, sex and ideas are discussed.  Differences can be viewed as interesting: they can stretch our learning and expand our world.  Today’s world is a puzzling dilemna.  We have to decide what prejudices are uneducated and feared?   What ideas are destructive and should never be accepted?   Let’s hope we make good choices.

FWIS GOLDILOCK'S TRAVELING ADVENTURES

FWIS   Goldilocks’ Traveling Adventures  June12, 2014    Pat DeKok Spilseth

Tossing & turning in different beds every night while traveling is not my cup of tea.  My pillow may be too soft; the bed too hard; the sheets scratchy; not enough blankets to keep me warm.  Like Goldilocks, I ‘m fussy about my sleeping accommodations. 

On our road trip out west to Montana, Dakota, Wyoming, New Mexico and Mexico this month, I missed my daily routine.  My stomach wanted coffee, juice and cereal, muffins or an egg for breakfast before 8AM, a light lunch at noon and a hot meal around 6PM.  I’m used to regularity.  I prefer a scheduled life, humdrum though it may appear. 

No longer am I the adventurer who, on the spur of the moment, hit the open road looking for adventure.  I was part of that wacky twosome, Thelma & Louise, during college years in the 60‘s and into my thirties.   Now I’m a senior citizen.  I’ve traded traveling adventures for remaining at home with my books, music and family.  I’m content sitting on the deck overlooking the lake with Buddy, my friendly Beagle, in my lap.   I get my thrills reading the daily newspaper or a good mystery.

For me, traveling is hard work.  I hate early morning alarms rushing me to get on a 6AM flight, cramped airplane seats, no food on flights and no leg room.  Though I enjoy Dave’s traveling privileges flying, being on standby is no longer fun.  We used to plan our destination, but it was OK if we landed in a different place.  Didn’t matter: Disneyland or Philadelphia, Oslo or Amsterdam, Florida beaches or NYC, Paris or Milano...life was full of unexpected adventures.  I could handle that in my 20‘s, 30‘s and 40‘s.  

No longer. I don’t want to end up in Florida with bulky sweaters and boots or in San Francisco with only swimsuits and shorts.  I prefer some routine: a slightly modified schedule is OK, but not a total change of plans.  Last week we rose at 3AM to fly on a 6AM international flight from Mexico City to Dallas, got through customs, but got “bumped” three times trying to fly from Dallas to Mpls.   Flights were full!  Finally we arrived home in Mpls at 10PM.  That trip was too long and stressful.  I’m still tired.

Driving through our vast country, from MN to Dakota to Montana took us through lush lands of newly planted green crops, endless blue skies with puffy clouds, past bobbing oil rigs, towering silos, grazing cows and bison.  We drove Grandma Agnes’ Olds packed with suitcases and boxes toward towering mountains with wildflowers gracing the land.  Driving from Minnesota to Montana is a long haul, through Dakota’s Black Hills to Wyoming into Colorado and finally New Mexico.

Though I don’t remember being there, photos tell me that my folks took me to Mount Rushmore when I was a little girl.  Seeing the stoney faces of Washington Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln carved on the mountain filled Dave & me with patriotism, pride in my country.  

In Montana we stopped at the Little Big Horn National Park where General George Armstrong Custer’s Company met an overwhelming force of Lakota and Chayene.  Mesmirized with a park ranger’s 40 minute talk, we learned about the Battle of Little Bighorn and Sitting Bull, who lived in present day South Dakota.  An accomplished hunter and warrior, Sitting Bull was a political and spiritual leader of traditional Lakota culture.  He resisted the encroaching westward expansion as he tried to preserve their traditional way of life as nomadic buffalo hunters.  

President Grant’s administration had instructed 25 year old General Custer, who had military success in the Civil War, to remove the Lakota Sioux and Cheyenne to the Sioux Reservation in Dakota Territory.  In 1876 war broke out between Federal military forces and combined Lakota and Cheyenne tribes.  Riding white horses and wearing wool uniforms in the 92 degree heat, Custer and his 7th Cavalry of 262 men lacked water and were vastly outnumbered.  They met total defeat at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, June 25, 1876.  Although they won the battle, the Indians lost the war against military efforts to end their independent nomadic way of life.

Red granite markers identify fallen Indian warriors at the battle.  In contrast, 265 white marble miliary headstones identify Custer and his men’s graves.  Monuments to both the cavalery and the Indians have been erected on the grounds. The words of Black Elk  “Know the power that is peace” echo at this disquieting scene for those who pause to consider our government’s treatment of native people.

In 1868 the US government believed it “cheaper to feed than to fight the Indians.” Government representatives signed a treaty at Fort Laramie, Wyoming, with the Lakota, Cheyenne and other tribes of the Great Plains making a large area in eastern Wyoming into a permanent Indian reservation.  A promise was made to “protect the Indians against all depredations by people of the United States.”

Peace did not last.  In 1874 gold was discovered in the Black Hills, the heart of the new Indian reservation.  News spread quickly.  Gold seekers swarmed into the region in violation of the treaty.  Though the army tried to keep the gold seekers out, they kept coming. The Indians left the reservation and resumed raids on settlements and travelers.  

Coming home is the best part of a trip for me. Traveling is always an adventure, providing new knowledge of history and interesting people to meet.  But like Goldilocks, I’ve found that my big bed at home, sleeping next to Dave & Buddy our Beagle, is just right.  Nothing beats home sweet home.  951

   

SUMMERTIME, and the Livin' is Easy

From Where I Sit    Summertime, and the Livin’ is Easy    May 24, 2014  P.D. Spilseth

Summertime, with the double mm’s, makes me feel happy.   Sunny days bring smiles to everyone’s faces.   With today’s weather in the 80‘s:, everybody seems to be out on the lake.  

Folks in kayaks and canoes troll the shore, idyllical and peaceful.  Speedboats are pulling water skiiers; pontoons are cruising with folks barbequing and sipping drinks; kids on jet skis are pounding through the waves; fishermen are trying to find a quiet spot where the fish are biting, and the grandkids next door are jumping off the dock.  With moms nearby, babies in waterwings will soon be floating on the lake at the shoreline.  This weekend is the summertime we’ve been dreaming of all winter.

Delicious summertime...time to open the windows, slather on sunscreen, get into the garden and slap those pesky mosquitoes.  TIme for iced tea, watermelon, burgers, beer and brats, cole slaw and salads.   I’m ready for a sun-soaked summer.

Memorial Day is early this year, but the weather is perfect.   We’re enjoying the first sunny weekend of the summer.  Time to visit the graves of loved ones and honor our veterans who have sacrificed for the freedoms we in America enjoy.  Parades with marching bands and veterans hoisting flags and guns pass through towns going to cemeteries and village gathering places for speeches and gun salutes.  Neighbors are firing up their grills to cook brats and burgers for family get togethers. It’s time to enjoy this much longed-for weekend of bliss.  Time to relax on the lake in the sunshine.  

This promises to be the BEST SUMMER EVER!  Here in Minnesota, we need assurance that weathering our eternal winters will bring a summertime reward.  Not everyone is tough enough to handle our Minnesota weather extremes.  Some more delicate folks are snowbirds, moving for several months to Arizonia, California and Florida.  Summertime sunshine provides jewels in our crowns for living in MInnesota~

Time for ice cream, corn on the cob, farmers’ markets, flip flops and floats.  Winter’s snowy, freezing weather had us devouring carbs and sweets,  but by May we’re ready to wiggle into swim suits and shorts, sundresses and sun visors.  We may be a bit chunky, but we’re not vain.  Though we clothe ourselves in parkas, wool scarves and Uggs all winter, we’re ready for summer swimsuits and flipflops.  We Scandinavians draw the line at Speedos, however...  We are prideful.

The aged geraniums I’ve had inside all winter are adjusting to their newly potted lives outdoors on the deck.  Though their leggy leaves and red and pink blooms are drooping slightly, in another week or two they’ll be back to their perky selves.  Daily, I see the hosta growing several inches, and our tall maples provide cooling shade with their leafy canopies spreading over the entire yard and down to the lake.  Violets are blooming around the foot of the maples, and Andy’s restored Chris Craft Roamer and his Tidyboats pontoon are parked at the dock.  Unfortunately, we put in the dock too early this year.  Because we’ve had too many rains of 3” and more, now water is splashing over the slippery dock.  My wooden bench and swimmers’ ladder are ready for me to relax after a swim.  It’s only the end of May so the lake is still icy cold, but by mid June, it’ll be refreshing for a swim.

A water skier is riding the waves across Carmen’s Bay.  As I relax with my coffee and newspaper on the deck in the early morning silence, I can hear the drone of a fishing boat motor on the lake   Whether I rise at 5 or 6 AM, I never seem to beat a fisherman or two floating in their boat on our Bay.  Cardinals and nuthatches flit around the birdfeeder, and bunnies are hiding under our deck and in the woods.  A fat raccoon is nesting in one of our maple trees.   Between frequent naps on the deck, Buddy occasionally jumps up to chase the bunnies and squirrels hiding in the pines and flying through the maples.  Our Beagle had high hopes...he truly believes he could climb the trees.  One of these days, Buddy may catch a squirrel or a bunny, but I have serious doubts about that.  

Summer, unfortunately, brings bugs.  Scratching and itching, I hope no ticks are feasting on my skin or Buddy’s.  This year, ticks are supposed to be more numerous than ever.  They’re hardy, having survived our winter that seemed to be everlasting.  

Grandkids have arrived for the weekend at our neighbors’ homes.  Action Jackson will be over for cookies shortly so I’d better start baking his favorite, my chocolate chips.  Jackson, Cooper, Allie, Ethan and Avery will sit with me and Buddy on the deck recounting their latest escapades at school and their ball team scores.  It’s gonna be a lazy, hazy perfect summertime on the lake once again...  833 words

FROM WHERE I SIT WHERE DID THAT COME FROM

It’s uncanny, but guess what?   Some of my eccentricities and habits have been acquired from my Mom.  Like Esther, I tap my foot when I’m impatient and rub my first and third finger together.  I also save clippings from magazines and newspapers on our refrigerator.  Mom would affix favorite quotes, poetry and jokes with tiny magnetic fruits to our white frig at the jail.   I now find myself taping cards from friends, artwork, jokes and invitations to the front of our frig just like Mom.  She had a magnetic frig; I don’t, so I use tape.

It’s unsettling how many of our parents’ habits might have annoyed us as kids, but today we have those habits.  Who can control the “Ufda’s” and “Ya’s” that slip off our tongues?  Who hasn’t shaken an angry, pointed finger and said, “I told you not to do that”?   How many of you iron like Mom?  Remember collections popular in Mom’s day?  Evelyn Husom had a large salt and pepper collection displayed on her kitchen wall.  Mom collected china cups and saucers; now they’re gathering dust in my cupboard.  Others collected plates commerating a church anniversary or silver spoons, some with the name of a place they had visited or a gift from being a bridesmaid.  Candlesticks, china and glass figurines, teapots, and tiny vases were also collected.  Did you save Mom’s favorite, food-splattered recipes for “comfort” foods from the fifties?  Vegetable soup is simmering on my stove today, but unlike Mom’s recipe, I don’t add rutabagas.  

Mom must have had a dozen aprons.  The bib aprons protected her dress from grease splatters when she fried side pork and even acted as a hotpad to take things from a hot oven.  When girls waited tables at showers and weddings, we usually were given a fancy apron made of netting and ribbons...pretty fancy, but not very practical.  

Like many moms did when we were growing up, my neighbors Jan, Suzy and I hang laundered sheets on a clothesline outdoors to dry.  As they flap in the breeze, sheets absorb that fresh, outdoor aroma.  Climbing into a bed of those fresh smelling sheets is sure to guarantee a good night’s sleep.  We three gals are the neighborhood dinosaurs: we string the clothesline in the backyard or on the deck and hang sheets.  Perhaps several of you still have embroidered dish towels, a gift from your wedding shower, that tell us specific duties for each day of the week. Monday is wash day; Tuesday is ironing day; Wednesday is sewing day; Thursday is market day; Friday is cleaning day; Saturday is baking day and Sunday is a day of rest.  Where can we get those towels today?  Does anyone use them to dry dishes?

Esther planned her week with specific chores for each day.   Monday is Manic Monday for me: I combine the duties of several days into one so I can have several days free of duties.  I wash, dry and put away several loads of laundry, scour the bathrooms and kitchen, dust mop the wood floors, and try to get my husband to push the vacuum up and down the stairs and vacuum the rugs.  Once the house smells good and clean, on Tuesdays I can bake chocolate chip cookies, poppyseed bread and maybe a rhubarb pie or fruit tart so I’ll have something on hand to serve unexpected guests.   Mom’s baked goods would go fast: she had coffee parties most days at 10AM and 3PM for the courthouse gang.   Every other week her card club would meet.  They used to call themselves a sewing group, but as time went on, they played more cards than they sewed or knit.  Florence Vegoe had them try various crafts, but that wasn’t always successful (that project of strange bowls of sugared fruit sat on Mom’s dining table for years).

Gathering friends for coffee and cookies was Mom’s speciality.   I enjoy playing bridge and having dessert with friends every other week.  We always have one or two players who say, “No dessert for me; I’m watching my weight.”  Those thin gals usually nibble at the nuts and candy placed on the bridge table and end up eating a few bites of dessert.   After all, the desserts are irresistible!  

Mom and Gladys Charbonneau used to call each other every day to check in.  As they aged, they felt it necessary to check on their friends to know if they were feeling OK.   Calling and emailing my sister Barb and friends has become more habitual for me.  Just like Mom, weather is a prime topic as we commisserate about the frigid days, our aches and allergies, but we also like to hear what each other is reading.   Most of my pals are avid book readers.  We still read a daily newspaper, but like our kids, some are reading the news on their smartphones, IPads or computers.  A few friends have cancelled the daily newspaper and don’t watch the news on TV; they say that listening or reading the daily news boosts their blood pressure.  

Remember your Mom knitting afghans, glueing pinecones to make a wooden wreath, sewing sequins on net tablecloths and making fake fruit bowls with that sugared look?   I don’t have those artistic habits, but I do try watercolors and acrylic painting.    I used to keep a journal, like Mom did when Dad was a sheriff and we lived at the jail.  Buddy, my Beagle pal, and I’ve picked up her daily habit of taking a daily walk around the block, down to the lake or downtown to grocery shop.   

Polka music by Whoopie John was Mom’s favorite music to listen to on our Philco floor model radio.  When she was cooking supper, she’d take a break and try to get Dad to polka around the dining room table.   He’d protest, saying he had two left feet.   No polkas for me, but when I’m cleaning, nothing beats 1960’s music by the Beatles or the Kingston Trio.  

Geraniums were Mom’s favorite outdoor flowers, which she would save during the winter and let them bloom red and pink inside on wide windowsills at the jailhouse.  In her dining room windows she grew purple and magenta gloxinas.  Like Mom, I take my summer geraniums inside for the winter, and their blooms add cheer to long winter days.  

Often we don’t realize why we act the way we do.   Where did our habits come from?  As we look back on our growing up years, we’ll acknowledge we’ve inherited many of our parents’ habits.  Mom and Dad had a greater influence on us than we might think.  1108 words

From Where I Sit Nosy or Friendly Neighborhoods?

FROM WHERE I SIT     Nosy or Friendly Neighbors?   May 12, 2014

Pat DeKok Spilseth

Walking through my neighborhood, I see that Joan and Barb have been in their gardens, and Gayle has hung a spring wreath on her front door.  I hear noisy construction trucks roaring down the street with lumber for three new houses; the school bus is picking up kids for school; Kay and Dave are out walking and a few hoping to lose weight are running hoping to lose weight.  I know almost everyone in my neighborhood.  Buddy, my Beagle, is a magnet for me to meet new neighbors.  

In the small towns my husband and I grew up in, everybody knew everyone in town.  Sometimes, they knew too much.  Some folks would have preferred their business to remain private.  Neighbors were our friends: together we celebrated baptisms and confirmations with the expected treat, an “open Bible cake”.  At weddings, aunts or neighbor ladies poured coffee from the church’s elegant silver coffeepot and served plates of sandwiches of “dollar buns” with a slice of ham, pickles, assorted cake slices and mixed nuts and butter mints in pink, yellow and white.  

Our local weekly newspaper had a society columnist who called townspeople for social news.  She’d print the names of guests visiting local people in the Social column of the weekly paper, which everyone in town avidly read.  We read that paper front to back. What better way to keep up with who won the weekly raffle and meat giveaway, who got married, who died and what names were printed for city and county misdemeanors.  That’s the spot nobody wanted to see their name!  When Dave’s dad Maynard was cited for fishing without a license, he took a trip to Mpls to see his married daughter the day the paper came out.  He didn’t want to face the teasing of his pals.

Sometimes the newspaper editor got “heat” from upset readers.  When Shannon, an Irishman who came to town dressed in a kilt, published “The Green Sheet”, he reported tiffs going on in the city.  He wasn’t afraid of printing all the juicy gossip, no matter if someone important was involved.  He feuded with the editor of the local paper, which had been in existance for many years.  When that established editor/publisher was Ed Barsness, “The Green Sheet” labelled him BarnsMess.  How insulting!  Shannon didn’t garner friends, but he did report the news, at least what he considered news the public should hear.  The public was tantalized, waiting impatiently to read the latest scandal. Shannon didn’t last long in our small town, but while he was local, he caused quite a stir.

When a member of the community passed away, neighbors brought in tuna and hamburger casseroles, jello salads, chocolate, marble or spice cakes, bars and cookies.  Eveyone was a baker who used real butter, sugar and white flour.  Family and friends gathered on these occasions for comfort and support of their loved ones.  Tasty, homemade food was meant to be a comfort for those who had lost a family member or friend.  

When a barn or home burned, a child drowned or was hurt in a car accident, a family member was deathly ill or a spouse died, friends, with accompaning food, gathered to help.  No one in need was left to fend for themselves.  Neighbors gave neighbors rides to the doctor, picked up groceries, cleaned houses, and cared for the children of the afflicted.

Growing up on a farm, Dave’s dad would take the family on a Sunday drive to check out neighbors’ fields.  Who had already been planting or harvesting?  Who had new farm equipment?  Who had a brand new car?  Tongues really wagged if they’d bought a Cadillac!  My folks took a Sunday family drive to visit relatives and friends who lived in Starbuck or Brooten or out in the country near Glenwood.  Serving lunch to visiters was always expected.  We ate sandwiches with pickles; kids drank Kool-Aid, and parents drank coffee with Norwegians, tea among the Dutch relatives.  Pastries had been baked, not bought at the store.  Moms were stay-at-home moms who cooked meat and potato dinners, baked cakes and cookies, sewed our skirts and aprons, washed, ironed and cleaned the house. 

A few busybodies knew everything about their neighbors.  Country folks had certain “rings” for their phone calls.  Some “rubberneckers” listened in on other’s phone calls when they heard a certain ring, not their own.  Soon everyone knew who was dating the neighbor girl or boy, if some kid got in trouble at school or with the law, and if someone was drinking too much.   I wonder if at the fast-growing Friendship Villages in Florida neighbors are as informed as we were in small towns and the country?  

Today I live in a metropolitan city where life is different from life in the small towns where we grew up.  We don’t know everyone; many work quite a distance away from the neighborhood and are rarely home.  We found a home on a lake with friendly neighbors who worship with us at a small church closeby and shop at the local grocery, hardware and drug stores.  The public library, restaurants and banks are five minutes away.  All our needs are supplied nearby.  Like many neighborhoods, mine has a few odd ducks and some people who don’t speak to anyone; they’re very private, rather unfriendly.  In a way, that’s fortunate for those living next door.  There are no obligations.   Some neighbors are only summer residents, using their lake house as a getaway from the city’s heat.  We like living in this neighborhood near friends we enjoy and whose support we can count on, but we still have privacy.  962 words

FROM MY WINDOW Main Street Stories

In the small town where I grew up, Main Street offered all the shops one needed in the small town where I grew up. That was the place where everybody congregated on Saturday night.  There was the kids’ favorite, Potters Dime Store; mothers’ grocery shopping was done at Bob’s or Harry’s, and drug needs were filled at Setters or the Corner Drug just off Main Street.  After working in the fields all week, farmers either sat in their cars or on car fenders, smoking and visiting with other men.  Men were waiting for the “little woman” to complete her grocery shopping for the week,  and he might have an “itch” for a bit of recreation.  He could order a beer and shoot a game of pool in the low lit back room at Dick’s Recreation.   

A kids’ allowance and babysitting money was usually enough for a ticket to the movies at the Glenwood Theatre.  Usually there was a kid-friendly Saturday western starring John Wayne, Alan Ladd or Roy Rogers.  Maybe there’d be enough change to buy a box of popcorn and some Mild Duds.  A kid would sit in the balcony of the theatre and watch teenagers making out or view the thriller with a pal downstairs enjoying a double wide aisle seat.  

With a wide smile, Lee Sorset would be standing on the street corner outside Potters.  He knew everyone in town and wanted to hear their latest news.  Sometimes, on the corner of the Minton Hotel several enthusiastic purveyors of the gospel, with Bible in hand, would stop passersby to inquire, “Are You Saved?”  They were a curiousity for me as a kid, but rather frightening.  Was I saved; it was a deep thought for a kid?  Though I attended Sunday School and confirmation classes regularly, I had a few doubts...

On the northeast corner of Main Street Harry’s grocery had the best selection of candy cigarettes, big red waxed lips, tootsie rolls and coconut Neapolitan candies…even better than Potter’s Dime Story at the other end of the city block.  The candies were in cardboard candy boxes from Henry’s Candy Company and stacked just behind Harry’s checkout counter.  I loved the 3 for a nickel deals on Tootsie Roll Pops, especially the grape, orange and cherry flavors.  Sweet tarts, dots of pink, yellow and green on the long white waxed strip of paper, lasted for minutes on my tongue.  Black licorice pipes were fun to smoke, but the big red waxed lips lent a bit of glamour to my life.  Bit of Honey, wrapped in the red and yellow paper, was chewy; the pink, white and chocolate coconut squares tasted so sweet, they sometimes made my teeth ache.  I wasn’t big on visits to the dentist.  Buzzing drills hurt my ears as well as my mouth when they drilled holes in my cavities for those ugly silver fillings that Doc Gilman was big on.

Most of us will remember buying white tennies for gym class and fabric for a sewing project in home economics at Potters’ Dime Store. Wimpy’s cafe was next to the barber shop; across the street were the sweet rolls featured at the Chimes Cafe and the darkened atmosphers at Rodgers Cafe .  There was a grocery store on the southwest corner where Mrs. Sandeen clerked.  Was that grocery store the Red Owl?  Next door to that grocery was a small beer joint where little kids sat on the curb outside waiting for their parents at the bar.  So many stories, but I don’t know if Mrs. Avery, the social columnist ofThe Pope County Tribune back in the fifties and sixties, would have published several of my Main Street memories.  Dona Longaker wrote that my columns remind her of Mrs. Avery’s “Local Briefs”.

Carol Dick told us that when she was a seventh grader, her father bought a business downtown, a beer parlor with swivling stools plus the back room pool hall.  Being a teenager, she remembered how embarassing it was for her that Dad owned Dick’s Recreation.  Dona Longaker’s remembered that her dad often walked from the movie theater, which he owned, up the alley to the back door of the pool hall to play pool and smoke his Old Gold or Chesterfields cigarettes.  Hioajjjvio.l/ng no sons, he asked Dona if she wanted to come with him to the pool/ .lohoall and he would teach her to play pool.  But Dona knew that some of helr classmates might be there, maybe Ray Handorff, Dick Ziminske and others.   She felt she might embarrass herself by ripping the green felt cloth of the pool table with the pool cue.  She turned him down.

Wendy Schaub and I were too young to feel embarassed about riding our bikes in the back alley to the pool hall and going in the back door of the darkened pool hall to say hi to the guys I knew from their days at the jail.  Patiently, they taught  two  pigtailed girls to play a game of pool.  

Everyone was drawn to Main Street on Saturday night!  It was the “Happenning Place” in town.  From the cash drawing to the turkey giveaway at holidays, no one wanted to miss the week’s excitement of a Saturday night in small town America.

from where i sit A Toast To Mothers

Mother's Day has become to moms what Christmas is to kids.   As much as dads and kids look forward to mom’s holiday, they also fear Mom’s expectations.   Mother’s Day has developed into a commercialized holiday overwrought with expectations.  

I wouldn’t give up this special holiday for anything.  Best of all are the photos and cards that my little kids made in school for Mother’s Day.  Their handmade cards on colored paper pasted with sticky flower petals and a love message written with dirty hands clutching assorted crayon colors are proof that they really love me!!!  Their cards are priceless.

Hallmark makes a bundle...around 162 million greeting cards are sent, making Mother’s Day the third largest card-sending holiday in the world.  Kids and dads honor mom by treating her in various ways.  Some children may be inspired to serve breakfast in bed to mom.  As they serve microwave pancakes, burnt toast and juice, crumbs are sprinkled on the sheets and drops of spilled coffee stain her pillows.  Can you imagine what a mess the kitchen will be?  Dad may decide to treat mom to a fancy brunch, but on the holiday, restaurants are crowded with crying babies and runaway toddlers picking through the food, sampling a bite of this and a fistfull of that.  It’s usually a chaotic holiday at any restaurant.  Most women don't want brunch with a crowd of strangers.   Trust me, they want their work as a mother, their joy as a mother, their pain as a mother, to be recognized, acknowledged and honored in a genuine and consistent way. 

Few holidays succeed in disappointing mothers and striking terror into the hearts of fathers on an annual basis more than Mother's Day.  The holiday—which once served as a simple way to honor mothers—now conjures up images of disaster topped with an extra large, Hallmark card, covered with hearts, kisses and flowers, to demonstrate how much Mom is loved.  

It wasn't always this way.  Anna Jarvis spearheaded the first Mother's Day events in 1908 to honor her own mother, a Sunday School teacher and caregiver for wounded soldiers during the Civil War.  Anna campaigned zealously for the holiday to become official, and in 1914, Congress recognized it as a national holiday. Quickly the floral and greeting-card industries discovered the commercial possibilities of the holiday.  By 1920, disgusted by the prevalence of pricy cards and boxes of candy, Jarvis began urging people to stop buying flowers and cards for their mothers.  In a press release, she wrote that florists and greeting card manufacturers were "charlatans, bandits, pirates, racketeers, kidnappers and termites that would undermine with their greed one of the finest, noblest and truest movements and celebrations."   Going door-to-door, she  collected petitions to rescind Mother's Day and spent the rest of her life trying to abolish the holiday she founded.

According to Esquire's 50 Best Gifts To Buy for Mother's Day,  folks are spending around $150 per mother on anything from cards, a meal at a restaurant and flowers to extremes like an $180 Donna Karan robe or a pricey $289 designer purse

According to Salary.com, the average stay at home mom works 94 hours a week.  Mom’s daily jobs include laundry, food shopping, cooking, cleaning, making sure homework is done, driving kids to classes and getting them on the bus.  Considering all her duties, she would earn around $113,568 per year.  In addition to their daily job at home, many moms today work a 40 plus hour a week job outside the home.  A mother’s work is never done.

What about all those valuable lessons Mother teaches kids?Things My Mother Taught Me (from Splitcoaststampers)

My Mother taught me LOGIC..."If you fall off that swing and break your neck, you can't go to the store with me."

My Mother taught me MEDICINE..."If you don't stop crossing your eyes, they're going to freeze that way."

My Mother taught me ESP..."Put your sweater on; don't you think that I know when you're cold?"

My Mother taught me HUMOR..."When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don't come running to me."

My Mother taught me how to BECOME AN ADULT..."If you don't eat your vegetables, you'll never grow up.

My mother taught me about GENETICS..."You are just like your father!"

My mother taught me about my ROOTS..."Do you think you were born in a barn?"

My mother taught me about the WISDOM of AGE..."When you get to be my age, you will understand."

My mother taught me about ANTICIPATION..."Just wait until your father gets home."

And, an all-time favorite - JUSTICE..."One day you'll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like YOU -- then you'll see what it's like."63

God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers.

What Will Tomorrow's Weather Bring?

April showers bring May flowers, but will this daily rainfall ever stop?   Joints are aching, and all I want to do is snuggle under the down comforter in my warm bed.  I had to pull out my corduorys and wool sweaters, wool socks and rubberized shoes to go grocery shopping for the week.  The heat is back on; forget tanning weather.  We’re back to late winter snowfalls and driving sleet and icy rain.

Weather is a contest beween man and Mother Nature, who’s proving to be rather fickle for us MInnesotans this past year.  I figure I should be getting Noah’s plans for building an ark!   Andy and his crew put in the dock on Saturday, but we may have to raise it as already we’ve had over 4” of rain in 2 days.  Our bricked sidewalk is flooded so my soaking wet husband Dave, buffeted, pelted and drenched by the rain, has put old dock sections on top of the sidewalk so people don’t have to wade in pools of water to get to our house.  

Inside, I have seven buckets set up to catch dripping water.  This east wind pounds our windows, especially the sliding glass door to the deck, habitually a drippy area of the house.  Today the drips are compounded by raging winds that have the tall maples and pines swinging and swaying.  All I need is a toronado pulling up trees, crashing into my house.

According to WCCO weatherman Paul Douglas, driving rain, raging winds and dark, ominous clouds dominate the next week in Minnesota.  Weather can mean life or death for folks, especially those in the toronado belt and the Gulf Coast, sometimes swept by damaging hurricanes.  So far, no toronados have been sighted in Minnesota, though a few have raced through Iowa and caused havoc in nearby states of Iowa, Missouri and Nebraska. 

 It appears that weather has become an indispensable part of our lives .  Americans are preoccupied with the weather.  Of course farmers, sailors, and fishermen have always been weather geeks.  Benjamin Franklin was the first to observe that storms can move in an opposite direction from the wind.  He accurately theorized about the existence of high and low pressure.  Franklin uncovered the secrets of the Gulf Stream.  Everyone is aware of his experiments with lightning.  Thjomas Jefferson and George Washington both kept methodical meteorologial diaries, recording weather data daily over their lifetimes.  

The National Weather Service was established in 1870 to deliver weather data and forecasts from across the nation to newspapers and radio stations.  By late 1930’s, local radio news programs included regular weather forecasts.  The “weatherman” came into being.  By 1940, experimental television stations began broadcasting weather reports. 

Technology has brought the weather into our living rooms.  We can comfortably watch high-definition TV in our home to see what the weather is today and the forthcoming week.  

Hopefully, sunshine will re-enter my world later this week.

Sensing Changes

FROM WHERE I SIT    SENSING CHANGES APRIL18, 2014    Pat DeKok Spilseth

April showers bring May flowers and glorious sunshine, breaking up ice, opening the lake for boats to speed across the water.  Neighbors are putting docks into the lake.  Yesterday, shirtless guys in yellow, red, and green kayaks paddled across our shoreline dodging ducks in their path.  

Rhubarb tips and tulips are peeking through the dusty grass and dried leaves.  Creeping Charlie has begun its yearly takeover in the lawn and gardens.  Time to get out the rakes, fertilizer and week killer.  

My most treasured reminders of spring are the blue wild hyacinth and sprouting spring beauties in the wooded park across from our house, the mottled leaves of trout lilies and dutchman’s breeches as well as the teensy purple, white and pink violets.  

The maples in our yard are budding and the willow’s branches are sprouting yellow tendrils, which will soon be waving in the breeze.  Fat raccoons are prowling the woods: a few are probably sleeping in holes in our aged maple trees and under the deck.  Buddy is in a barking frenzy with spring’s eruption of hopping bunnies and teasing squirrels.  He’d love a playmate to chase around the yard, but the bunnies and squirrels are not interested.  The ticks are out, and soon pesky mosquitoes will buzz and strike at our white winter skin.  

Our wooden Adirondack chairs are scaling, drastically in need of sanding and repainting.  The wood deck and house need a power wash and oiling.  Weekend rains cleaned our folding lawn chairs so we could sit outside on the deck at Easter, enjoying the company of relatives and friends.  Soon the loons will join the ducks and geese on the lake, and we will, once again, hear their haunting cries.  

Spring brings so many changes.  Soon I’ll not have the time to enjoy reading books as often as I had this winter.  Our long MInnesota winter days let me enjoy entering other worlds in books, which I love to explore.  “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested,” wrote Francis Bacon.  That’s exactly how I felt last week as I read and thought about many ideas in Julian Barnes’ THE SENSE OF AN ENDING. a page-turning meditation on aging, memory and regret.  I was enraptured with Barnes’ insights about youthful insecurities, aged regrets and false recollections.  “In the case of good books, the point is not to see how many of them you can get through, but rather how many can get through to you,” wrote M.J. Adler.   I identified with Barnes’ teenage characters suffering the insecurities of dating, body changes, and shifting friendships as well as his aging character stewing about a boring past and humdrum present life.   As I read, I agreed with John Kieran’s words, “I am a part of all I have read.” 

Sometimes I wonder about the authenticity of my memories.  Barnes wrote, “History is that certainity produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”    As we age, there are fewer people to document the certainity of our memories.  Perhaps things were not as good nor as bad as we remember.  Was my life at the jail with Blackie, Verdie and Paul, the Dancing Decorator, as terrific as I remember?  Maybe it’s all about how we interpret those events, which may change as we age.  

As we change, easing into middle age, Barnes wrote that “Middle aged man contends with a past he never thought much about.”  Mindlessly, most of us plod through our daily lives not identifying causes and effects.   Barnes writes “Every day is Sunday”.   Boredom goes on from generation to generation.  We tend to live years of stagnancy, waiting for our lives to begin.  How many of us are still waiting for moments of inspiration, hoping to find a new passion, wanting more excitement in our lives?  

More changes come as we enter dreaded old age.  Our fears compound.  We might not be as independent; we may need the services provided by a nursing home.  We don’t like being old where there is often too much overfamiliarity.  We still want to be viewed as a dignified person, a person of value...who wants to be invisible?

When we’re young we invent different futures for ourselves; but when we’re old, we invent different pasts.   As a teen, many feel we can be anyone we want to be.  We might have dreamed of being a movie star, some wildly successful, important person.  But life became real: job hunting, marriage, kids and paying bills became our day to day existence.  Maybe that’s the time when the worlds in books entered our lives, giving us a means of escaping from our “Sunday” lives to a life filled with excitement.  

Barnes has me thinking: time first grounds us, then confounds us.   Am I being realistic to settle for safety, avoiding change, not facing certain things I want to avoid?

Most of us are average.  We have to reconcile that life may not be all it’s cracked up to be.  Our youthful idealism, those pie-in-the-sky dreams of who we could be, are rarely achieved.   We may never be the person we wished to be, but we’re always changing, and the way we live does affect others.  We make impressions on those around us.  If not now, when will you and I begin to fully live?

Springtime brings changes: new life in nature; renewed energy and ideas in us.   Like Minnesota’s changing seasons, books bring interesting people, other worlds, new ideas, wonder and joy into my life.  “Just the knowledge that a good book is awaiting one at the end of a long day makes that day happier.”  Kathleen Norris

“A HOUSE WITHOUT BOOKS IS A ROOM WITHOUT A SOUL.”  MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO”   981 words