FROM WHERE I SIT The Best of Times! Oct. 14, 2011 pat spilseth
I can’t imagine a better time or place to grow up in than the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties in Glenwood, Minnesota. Reading Bill Bryson’s THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID, I find myself laughing out loud at his hilarious memoir of growing up in Des Moines, IA, at the same time as I did.
I know it was the Best of Times! The majority of American families had a mom and a dad. Divorce was a rarity. Our small houses had kids sharing bedrooms, one bathroom, and a big kitchen where everyone gathered for meals with a prayer of thanksgiving. Most of our families had a car, refrigerator and washing machine, a telephone, vacuum clearer, and a gas or electric stove.
Much of the rest of the world only fantasized about these modern appliances. Americans made almost all the cars sold in America. A few had bicycles made elsewhere like the fancy English bikes with several gears and skinny wheels. Many of us rode Schwinns with fat wheels and a bell on the handlebars. According to Bryson’s recall and research, LIFE magazine ran a photo in 1951 of an American family with a mom, dad and two kids surrounded by 2 ½ tons of food, which a typical blue-collar family ate in a year. Among the items were 450 pound of flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 565 pounds of butter, 31 chickens, 300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 ½ gallons of ice cream. All could be purchased on a budget of $25 a week.
The above registers with my “meat and potatoes” family. One difference is that my dad hunted and brought home a deer most years. Fresh venison made up most of our winter meals: we ate venison hamburgers, steaks, roasts and sausage. His deer kill was processed at the local butcher shop, wrapped in white packages with identifying labels to be stored in our deep freezer in the basement. That’s where Mom’s Maytag wringer-wash machine and the white rope clothes lines were strung across the ceiling. They held Dad’s work pants and coveralls during freezing winters when Mom couldn’t hang the clothes in the backyard on lines strung from our back door to the garage.
Mom thought Crisco shortening was best for making flakey pie crusts with fluted edges and rich, buttery cookies. Sometimes, when Land o’ Lakes butter with the Indian maiden on the boxed cover was too expensive, we bought oleo margarine at Bob’s or Harry’s
Grocery stores downtown. Resting the package on the kitchen radiator to warm up, I’d get to burst the red bubble on the plastic bag of white gook, then massage it until the white mixture turned yellow, like butter. We didn’t dare bring out the ole margarine when our relatives from the farm visited. That would have been inexcusable.
Naturally my family, like Bryson’s Iowa family, ate Wonder Bread in the red, blue and white polka-dot plastic packages. That white bread’s slogan was “the bread that builds strong bodies seven ways”. We figured it must be healthy. Those air-filled slices of white bread were a luxury. Normally, Mom baked several loaves of homemade white bread at least once a week. After all, she had to feed the jailed prisoners too. The yeasty, sticky dough rose, overflowing in their buttered metal and pyrex bread pans, as they grew overnight under dish towels.
We didn’t waste. Towels that covered the bread also wiped the dishes. They were made of empty, washed feed sacks, hemmed and embroidered with the days of the week and appropriate tasks. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, etc. Our weeks had designated duties to perform.
We put jigsaw puzzles together and played Whist, Rummy, and Solitaire card games and board games like Monopoly and Parchesi as well as checkers, but not chess…that was too sophisticated for most Midwestern kids. Few knew the game except for when it was shown in an old movie at the theatre downtown. Most of the time we played outdoors, from morning to supper time when the fire whistle blew, alerting kids to get home for supper.
Bryson lists words we used in the 50’s, but few know what they meant today: “mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store, rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik, canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy-o”. Some of us still remember...
Paperboys delivered the daily newspapers from the Cities. The morning as well as evening editions were available for many years. Of course, the Pope Country Tribune, then edited by Ed Barsness and later by Jim Kinney, was anticipated by everyone. When an Irishman by the name of Shannon came to town wearing a kilt, he created quite a fuss with the news he printed in his Green Sheet. Both papers came out weekly. News of the local communities was studied closely as well as the obituaries and who had won the Saturday night drawing downtown. The lucky winner might win a turkey or a ham, perhaps even a few bucks to spend at a local establishment.
We also read “The Readers’ Digest” and “Look” and ”Life” magazines. Teenage girls loved to buy “Seventeen” magazines, and guys often read “Mechanics Illustrated” and “Popular Science” at the library to figure out how to make a soapbox car or a fishing house.
A few lucky households had a black and white TV set, which was enjoyed by crowds of neighbors and friends. Mostly we viewed snowstorms on the screen and adjusted the reception with rabbit ears on top of the TV set.
America’s population in the Fabulous Fifties was half as much as today. There were no interstate highways and only a quarter as many cars. Men wore hats and ties. Teachers dressed formally at school: I remember history teacher Carlos Avery, math man Mr. McCarty, and English teacher Mr. Leaf in suits. Miss Olson wore suits with a sparkly broach pinned on the lapel.
Most wives stayed home and prepared the daily meals. Mom didn’t make “boxed” cake mixes: everything was made “from scratch” with butter, eggs and sugar. The milkman came to the back door delivering glass milk bottles. If you weren’t home, he’d leave the milk, butter and eggs in a metal box on the outside stoop. We looked forward to the mailman who delivered to our mailbox at the front door or into our hands as he knew everyone on his daily route. For many of us, those FABULOUS FIFTIES were the best of times! 1125 words
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Best of Times
FROM WHERE I SIT The Best of Times! Oct. 14, 2011 pat spilseth
I can’t imagine a better time or place to grow up in than the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties in Glenwood, Minnesota. Reading Bill Bryson’s THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID, I find myself laughing out loud at his hilarious memoir of growing up in Des Moines, IA, at the same time as I did.
I know it was the Best of Times! The majority of American families had a mom and a dad. Divorce was a rarity. Our small houses had kids sharing bedrooms, one bathroom, and a big kitchen where everyone gathered for meals with a prayer of thanksgiving. Most of our families had a car, refrigerator and washing machine, a telephone, vacuum clearer, and a gas or electric stove.
Much of the rest of the world only fantasized about these modern appliances. Americans made almost all the cars sold in America. A few had bicycles made elsewhere like the fancy English bikes with several gears and skinny wheels. Many of us rode Schwinns with fat wheels and a bell on the handlebars. According to Bryson’s recall and research, LIFE magazine ran a photo in 1951 of an American family with a mom, dad and two kids surrounded by 2 ½ tons of food, which a typical blue-collar family ate in a year. Among the items were 450 pound of flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 565 pounds of butter, 31 chickens, 300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 ½ gallons of ice cream. All could be purchased on a budget of $25 a week.
The above registers with my “meat and potatoes” family. One difference is that my dad hunted and brought home a deer most years. Fresh venison made up most of our winter meals: we ate venison hamburgers, steaks, roasts and sausage. His deer kill was processed at the local butcher shop, wrapped in white packages with identifying labels to be stored in our deep freezer in the basement. That’s where Mom’s Maytag wringer-wash machine and the white rope clothes lines were strung across the ceiling. They held Dad’s work pants and coveralls during freezing winters when Mom couldn’t hang the clothes in the backyard on lines strung from our back door to the garage.
Mom thought Crisco shortening was best for making flakey pie crusts with fluted edges and rich, buttery cookies. Sometimes, when Land o’ Lakes butter with the Indian maiden on the boxed cover was too expensive, we bought oleo margarine at Bob’s or Harry’s
Grocery stores downtown. Resting the package on the kitchen radiator to warm up, I’d get to burst the red bubble on the plastic bag of white gook, then massage it until the white mixture turned yellow, like butter. We didn’t dare bring out the ole margarine when our relatives from the farm visited. That would have been inexcusable.
Naturally my family, like Bryson’s Iowa family, ate Wonder Bread in the red, blue and white polka-dot plastic packages. That white bread’s slogan was “the bread that builds strong bodies seven ways”. We figured it must be healthy. Those air-filled slices of white bread were a luxury. Normally, Mom baked several loaves of homemade white bread at least once a week. After all, she had to feed the jailed prisoners too. The yeasty, sticky dough rose, overflowing in their buttered metal and pyrex bread pans, as they grew overnight under dish towels.
We didn’t waste. Towels that covered the bread also wiped the dishes. They were made of empty, washed feed sacks, hemmed and embroidered with the days of the week and appropriate tasks. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, etc. Our weeks had designated duties to perform.
We put jigsaw puzzles together and played Whist, Rummy, and Solitaire card games and board games like Monopoly and Parchesi as well as checkers, but not chess…that was too sophisticated for most Midwestern kids. Few knew the game except for when it was shown in an old movie at the theatre downtown. Most of the time we played outdoors, from morning to supper time when the fire whistle blew, alerting kids to get home for supper.
Bryson lists words we used in the 50’s, but few know what they meant today: “mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store, rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik, canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy-o”. Some of us still remember...
Paperboys delivered the daily newspapers from the Cities. The morning as well as evening editions were available for many years. Of course, the Pope Country Tribune, then edited by Ed Barsness and later by Jim Kinney, was anticipated by everyone. When an Irishman by the name of Shannon came to town wearing a kilt, he created quite a fuss with the news he printed in his Green Sheet. Both papers came out weekly. News of the local communities was studied closely as well as the obituaries and who had won the Saturday night drawing downtown. The lucky winner might win a turkey or a ham, perhaps even a few bucks to spend at a local establishment.
We also read “The Readers’ Digest” and “Look” and ”Life” magazines. Teenage girls loved to buy “Seventeen” magazines, and guys often read “Mechanics Illustrated” and “Popular Science” at the library to figure out how to make a soapbox car or a fishing house.
A few lucky households had a black and white TV set, which was enjoyed by crowds of neighbors and friends. Mostly we viewed snowstorms on the screen and adjusted the reception with rabbit ears on top of the TV set.
America’s population in the Fabulous Fifties was half as much as today. There were no interstate highways and only a quarter as many cars. Men wore hats and ties. Teachers dressed formally at school: I remember history teacher Carlos Avery, math man Mr. McCarty, and English teacher Mr. Leaf in suits. Miss Olson wore suits with a sparkly broach pinned on the lapel.
Most wives stayed home and prepared the daily meals. Mom didn’t make “boxed” cake mixes: everything was made “from scratch” with butter, eggs and sugar. The milkman came to the back door delivering glass milk bottles. If you weren’t home, he’d leave the milk, butter and eggs in a metal box on the outside stoop. We looked forward to the mailman who delivered to our mailbox at the front door or into our hands as he knew everyone on his daily route. For many of us, those FABULOUS FIFTIES were the best of times! 1125 words
I can’t imagine a better time or place to grow up in than the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties in Glenwood, Minnesota. Reading Bill Bryson’s THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THE THUNDERBOLT KID, I find myself laughing out loud at his hilarious memoir of growing up in Des Moines, IA, at the same time as I did.
I know it was the Best of Times! The majority of American families had a mom and a dad. Divorce was a rarity. Our small houses had kids sharing bedrooms, one bathroom, and a big kitchen where everyone gathered for meals with a prayer of thanksgiving. Most of our families had a car, refrigerator and washing machine, a telephone, vacuum clearer, and a gas or electric stove.
Much of the rest of the world only fantasized about these modern appliances. Americans made almost all the cars sold in America. A few had bicycles made elsewhere like the fancy English bikes with several gears and skinny wheels. Many of us rode Schwinns with fat wheels and a bell on the handlebars. According to Bryson’s recall and research, LIFE magazine ran a photo in 1951 of an American family with a mom, dad and two kids surrounded by 2 ½ tons of food, which a typical blue-collar family ate in a year. Among the items were 450 pound of flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 565 pounds of butter, 31 chickens, 300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 ½ gallons of ice cream. All could be purchased on a budget of $25 a week.
The above registers with my “meat and potatoes” family. One difference is that my dad hunted and brought home a deer most years. Fresh venison made up most of our winter meals: we ate venison hamburgers, steaks, roasts and sausage. His deer kill was processed at the local butcher shop, wrapped in white packages with identifying labels to be stored in our deep freezer in the basement. That’s where Mom’s Maytag wringer-wash machine and the white rope clothes lines were strung across the ceiling. They held Dad’s work pants and coveralls during freezing winters when Mom couldn’t hang the clothes in the backyard on lines strung from our back door to the garage.
Mom thought Crisco shortening was best for making flakey pie crusts with fluted edges and rich, buttery cookies. Sometimes, when Land o’ Lakes butter with the Indian maiden on the boxed cover was too expensive, we bought oleo margarine at Bob’s or Harry’s
Grocery stores downtown. Resting the package on the kitchen radiator to warm up, I’d get to burst the red bubble on the plastic bag of white gook, then massage it until the white mixture turned yellow, like butter. We didn’t dare bring out the ole margarine when our relatives from the farm visited. That would have been inexcusable.
Naturally my family, like Bryson’s Iowa family, ate Wonder Bread in the red, blue and white polka-dot plastic packages. That white bread’s slogan was “the bread that builds strong bodies seven ways”. We figured it must be healthy. Those air-filled slices of white bread were a luxury. Normally, Mom baked several loaves of homemade white bread at least once a week. After all, she had to feed the jailed prisoners too. The yeasty, sticky dough rose, overflowing in their buttered metal and pyrex bread pans, as they grew overnight under dish towels.
We didn’t waste. Towels that covered the bread also wiped the dishes. They were made of empty, washed feed sacks, hemmed and embroidered with the days of the week and appropriate tasks. Monday was wash day, Tuesday was ironing, etc. Our weeks had designated duties to perform.
We put jigsaw puzzles together and played Whist, Rummy, and Solitaire card games and board games like Monopoly and Parchesi as well as checkers, but not chess…that was too sophisticated for most Midwestern kids. Few knew the game except for when it was shown in an old movie at the theatre downtown. Most of the time we played outdoors, from morning to supper time when the fire whistle blew, alerting kids to get home for supper.
Bryson lists words we used in the 50’s, but few know what they meant today: “mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store, rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik, canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy-o”. Some of us still remember...
Paperboys delivered the daily newspapers from the Cities. The morning as well as evening editions were available for many years. Of course, the Pope Country Tribune, then edited by Ed Barsness and later by Jim Kinney, was anticipated by everyone. When an Irishman by the name of Shannon came to town wearing a kilt, he created quite a fuss with the news he printed in his Green Sheet. Both papers came out weekly. News of the local communities was studied closely as well as the obituaries and who had won the Saturday night drawing downtown. The lucky winner might win a turkey or a ham, perhaps even a few bucks to spend at a local establishment.
We also read “The Readers’ Digest” and “Look” and ”Life” magazines. Teenage girls loved to buy “Seventeen” magazines, and guys often read “Mechanics Illustrated” and “Popular Science” at the library to figure out how to make a soapbox car or a fishing house.
A few lucky households had a black and white TV set, which was enjoyed by crowds of neighbors and friends. Mostly we viewed snowstorms on the screen and adjusted the reception with rabbit ears on top of the TV set.
America’s population in the Fabulous Fifties was half as much as today. There were no interstate highways and only a quarter as many cars. Men wore hats and ties. Teachers dressed formally at school: I remember history teacher Carlos Avery, math man Mr. McCarty, and English teacher Mr. Leaf in suits. Miss Olson wore suits with a sparkly broach pinned on the lapel.
Most wives stayed home and prepared the daily meals. Mom didn’t make “boxed” cake mixes: everything was made “from scratch” with butter, eggs and sugar. The milkman came to the back door delivering glass milk bottles. If you weren’t home, he’d leave the milk, butter and eggs in a metal box on the outside stoop. We looked forward to the mailman who delivered to our mailbox at the front door or into our hands as he knew everyone on his daily route. For many of us, those FABULOUS FIFTIES were the best of times! 1125 words
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Lakeside Memories
Lakeside Memories Sept. 16, 2011
Autumn has arrived in Minnesota. I’m happy and content with the quiet...this is where I belong. I hear only nature’s noises: cardinals and woodpeckers flying through the trees and bushy squirrels gathering nuts, the crunching pine needles and brush under my feet and rustling leaves somersaulting through the crisp air. Solitude is relaxing. Yet, my meanderings in the woods also inspire me with new ideas to write and read, to bake and paint.
Christmas ornaments, Santa figurines, and strings of lights have appeared at Home Depot and Costco. When the calendar flips to October, even Target and Macy’s will don their holiday trappings of red and green. We haven’t enjoyed the pumpkins and ghosts of Halloween yet, much less a Thanksgiving turkey! Because Nordstrom at the Mall of America keeps Santa under wraps until November 25, I’ve decided that’s where I’m going to take my shopping dollars.
Meanwhile, here on the lake Buddy, my Beagle pal, and I are enjoying the turning colors of the maples in our woods. Nestled deep in the wooded park are fading wild flowers scattered along our walking paths. I notice how dry our dirt path is, the fallen limbs, and shriveled weeds; Buddy pays attention only to the smells. He enjoys sniffing any greenery for doggie odors sprayed on the purple asters and goldenrod, which makes him sneeze. We spy white flowers resembling Queen Anne’s Lace and a few clumps of black eyed Susans. But the lady slippers and marsh marigolds have closed their leaves, shivering with dropping temperatures. Jack Frost has arrived and worked his magic.
The north woods wedding we attended last weekend combined a joyous celebration of marriage with friends along with the quiet peace of the woods. Only the loons sang their haunting song, and acorns bounced off the trees onto the forest floor. It sounded like the squirrel population had exploded. Neither cars nor boats roared on these back roads as we slept in the cozy cabin on Gull Lake. The cabin’s knotty pine walls reminded me of the basement recreation rooms of school friends where we danced at those memorable boy-girl parties. I relaxed, reading my favorite Nelson DeMille thriller in an Adirondack chair, mesmerized by the quiet of the peaceful lake.
The row of tiny lakeside cabins brought back the good ol’ days when Mom and Dad, Barbie and I piled in Dad’s sleek, blue Hudson to drive to the north shore for a few days of fishing and campfires. And yes, we also had nightly visitors...mice and the black droppings they inevitably left on the floor and in the cupboards. But none invaded my peace at Sandy Beach Resort, a family resort near Nisswa, where memories of a lifetime are made for vacationers lucky enough to find this gem. It was nothing like a Motel 6 or Red Roof Inn.
As Buddy and I meander through the trees, I wonder where the red fox is hiding and the family of little Bambis. Some mornings I find a young deer venturing out of our wooded park into my neighbor’s bushes to find more berries to munch on. This morning I discovered droppings from raccoons on my deck and a few mouse tidbits have appeared in the laundry room.. Cold weather always brings these critters inside for warmth. Even Buddy forgoes his all-day squirrel hunting trips in our yard when the weather is only 40 degrees. He prefers to curl up close to the fireplace nesting in his favorite blanket.
September and October always remind me of why I love living here in Minnesota’s changing seasons. Maple leaves form a crazy quilt on the lawn; we cruise the quiet lake, now deserted by most boaters; and I smell the curling smoke of campfires where folks are roasting marshmallows. Who can resist those heavenly smells of roasts and casseroles baking in the oven, warming the kitchen, and supper topped off with pumpkin pie or a big piece of spice cake smothered in cream cheese frosting? I’m excited about getting out my flannels and corduroys, sweaters and down comforters. It’s time to find a challenging jigsaw puzzle to spill out on the puzzle table, build a fire in the fireplace and pop popcorn. This is the season to savor every autumn day of Mother Nature’s fleeting splendors. 728 words
Autumn has arrived in Minnesota. I’m happy and content with the quiet...this is where I belong. I hear only nature’s noises: cardinals and woodpeckers flying through the trees and bushy squirrels gathering nuts, the crunching pine needles and brush under my feet and rustling leaves somersaulting through the crisp air. Solitude is relaxing. Yet, my meanderings in the woods also inspire me with new ideas to write and read, to bake and paint.
Christmas ornaments, Santa figurines, and strings of lights have appeared at Home Depot and Costco. When the calendar flips to October, even Target and Macy’s will don their holiday trappings of red and green. We haven’t enjoyed the pumpkins and ghosts of Halloween yet, much less a Thanksgiving turkey! Because Nordstrom at the Mall of America keeps Santa under wraps until November 25, I’ve decided that’s where I’m going to take my shopping dollars.
Meanwhile, here on the lake Buddy, my Beagle pal, and I are enjoying the turning colors of the maples in our woods. Nestled deep in the wooded park are fading wild flowers scattered along our walking paths. I notice how dry our dirt path is, the fallen limbs, and shriveled weeds; Buddy pays attention only to the smells. He enjoys sniffing any greenery for doggie odors sprayed on the purple asters and goldenrod, which makes him sneeze. We spy white flowers resembling Queen Anne’s Lace and a few clumps of black eyed Susans. But the lady slippers and marsh marigolds have closed their leaves, shivering with dropping temperatures. Jack Frost has arrived and worked his magic.
The north woods wedding we attended last weekend combined a joyous celebration of marriage with friends along with the quiet peace of the woods. Only the loons sang their haunting song, and acorns bounced off the trees onto the forest floor. It sounded like the squirrel population had exploded. Neither cars nor boats roared on these back roads as we slept in the cozy cabin on Gull Lake. The cabin’s knotty pine walls reminded me of the basement recreation rooms of school friends where we danced at those memorable boy-girl parties. I relaxed, reading my favorite Nelson DeMille thriller in an Adirondack chair, mesmerized by the quiet of the peaceful lake.
The row of tiny lakeside cabins brought back the good ol’ days when Mom and Dad, Barbie and I piled in Dad’s sleek, blue Hudson to drive to the north shore for a few days of fishing and campfires. And yes, we also had nightly visitors...mice and the black droppings they inevitably left on the floor and in the cupboards. But none invaded my peace at Sandy Beach Resort, a family resort near Nisswa, where memories of a lifetime are made for vacationers lucky enough to find this gem. It was nothing like a Motel 6 or Red Roof Inn.
As Buddy and I meander through the trees, I wonder where the red fox is hiding and the family of little Bambis. Some mornings I find a young deer venturing out of our wooded park into my neighbor’s bushes to find more berries to munch on. This morning I discovered droppings from raccoons on my deck and a few mouse tidbits have appeared in the laundry room.. Cold weather always brings these critters inside for warmth. Even Buddy forgoes his all-day squirrel hunting trips in our yard when the weather is only 40 degrees. He prefers to curl up close to the fireplace nesting in his favorite blanket.
September and October always remind me of why I love living here in Minnesota’s changing seasons. Maple leaves form a crazy quilt on the lawn; we cruise the quiet lake, now deserted by most boaters; and I smell the curling smoke of campfires where folks are roasting marshmallows. Who can resist those heavenly smells of roasts and casseroles baking in the oven, warming the kitchen, and supper topped off with pumpkin pie or a big piece of spice cake smothered in cream cheese frosting? I’m excited about getting out my flannels and corduroys, sweaters and down comforters. It’s time to find a challenging jigsaw puzzle to spill out on the puzzle table, build a fire in the fireplace and pop popcorn. This is the season to savor every autumn day of Mother Nature’s fleeting splendors. 728 words
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Matchmaker...make me a match
From Where I Sit Matchmaker, Make Me a Match Sept 13, 2011
Dating is a numbers game, but ohhhhhhh, such a tiring, exasperating ordeal to find someone you enjoy spending time with! Friends of mine have checked out various matchmaking sites, but only a few have actually found a few good dates. Others found that their so-called “exclusive” partner was still checking out other dating sites for more “possibilities”. Their “exclusive” match was unaware of these shenanigans.
One very determined friend had a long term email and phone relationship with a “harmonious” man who lived overseas. He portrayed himself to be a veterinarian. Everything seemed fabulous: he was very interested in her visiting him UNTIL she had a plane ticket to ride over the ocean to actually see this romantic gentleman. Then he asked her to postpone her trip because he had to “fly to Africa to save some animals.”
That did it! Kaput went that relationship! She had him checked out by overseas cousins who found that the man, who claimed to be a vet, never existed. He had posed to be somebody he wasn’t.
But who hasn’t wanted to be somebody else at some point in life? It’s not nice to toy with somebody else’s emotions! She could have put a hex on the imposter; I’d have understood.
Dating is difficult. Sure, today the internet world offers dating sites to help you determine which services will best suit your lifestyle. Users can discover possible matches from the 5 Best Dating Sites of 2011 listed on any internet search:
match.com, chemistry.com, perfect match.com, eHarmony.com, and spark.com.
Some guarantee that you’ll meet someone special in 6 months; some sites base their matches on personality and interpersonal chemistry. Some offer the latest matching technology of personality assessments; some are designated to create long-lasting relationships, and others provide members with comprehensive personality assessments.
However, few match-making sites can replace the excitement of a flirty smile or wink from someone across the room. But nothing can compete with a friend’s introduction to the “perfect mate for you”. My husband Dave and I are the results of a nudge from Maureen Fjoslien, a dear friend of both our mothers, who suggested that he and I meet. Thirty-two years later, we’re still together.
Of course, one has to have confidence that the recommending friend has good taste and knows what you want. Many arranged marriages have proved to be ageless...they seem to work. Most parents, those who know and understand their child, would choose a mate for her or him hoping that person would be an everlasting mate with a stable personality, be honorable, have a good sense of humor, and have a decent job.
Dave and I are now known as official matchmakers. Last weekend we attended the wedding of Katie and Karl, the successful result of our matchmaking skills.
Naturally, it all began at another wedding. We were seated at the wedding table of
friends whose daughter had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend.
Well, Dave and I had a nephew we adore who had also recently become a very eligible single young man. Here we were at a beautiful wedding: one is bound to think of possible matchmaking. It was my natural inclination to suggest that our handsome nephew call this blonde cutie for a date. We knew they’d laugh together and have a great time. Dave called Karl, mentioning “Give her a call; she won’t be on the market for long!”
When the party ended, as they drove home, my friend told her husband about our matchmaking. Doug responded, “You gave out our daughter’s private phone number! What were you thinking? Katie might not like this.” Sarah replied, “Settle down, after all, he’s a Spilseth and an eagle scout!” What could go wrong with this match?
This weekend, three years later, Katie and Karl wed. Friends gathered for a lake ceremony while violins played and the Irish Blessing was sung: “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields”...a happy ending from friends finding that perfect match. 699 words
Dating is a numbers game, but ohhhhhhh, such a tiring, exasperating ordeal to find someone you enjoy spending time with! Friends of mine have checked out various matchmaking sites, but only a few have actually found a few good dates. Others found that their so-called “exclusive” partner was still checking out other dating sites for more “possibilities”. Their “exclusive” match was unaware of these shenanigans.
One very determined friend had a long term email and phone relationship with a “harmonious” man who lived overseas. He portrayed himself to be a veterinarian. Everything seemed fabulous: he was very interested in her visiting him UNTIL she had a plane ticket to ride over the ocean to actually see this romantic gentleman. Then he asked her to postpone her trip because he had to “fly to Africa to save some animals.”
That did it! Kaput went that relationship! She had him checked out by overseas cousins who found that the man, who claimed to be a vet, never existed. He had posed to be somebody he wasn’t.
But who hasn’t wanted to be somebody else at some point in life? It’s not nice to toy with somebody else’s emotions! She could have put a hex on the imposter; I’d have understood.
Dating is difficult. Sure, today the internet world offers dating sites to help you determine which services will best suit your lifestyle. Users can discover possible matches from the 5 Best Dating Sites of 2011 listed on any internet search:
match.com, chemistry.com, perfect match.com, eHarmony.com, and spark.com.
Some guarantee that you’ll meet someone special in 6 months; some sites base their matches on personality and interpersonal chemistry. Some offer the latest matching technology of personality assessments; some are designated to create long-lasting relationships, and others provide members with comprehensive personality assessments.
However, few match-making sites can replace the excitement of a flirty smile or wink from someone across the room. But nothing can compete with a friend’s introduction to the “perfect mate for you”. My husband Dave and I are the results of a nudge from Maureen Fjoslien, a dear friend of both our mothers, who suggested that he and I meet. Thirty-two years later, we’re still together.
Of course, one has to have confidence that the recommending friend has good taste and knows what you want. Many arranged marriages have proved to be ageless...they seem to work. Most parents, those who know and understand their child, would choose a mate for her or him hoping that person would be an everlasting mate with a stable personality, be honorable, have a good sense of humor, and have a decent job.
Dave and I are now known as official matchmakers. Last weekend we attended the wedding of Katie and Karl, the successful result of our matchmaking skills.
Naturally, it all began at another wedding. We were seated at the wedding table of
friends whose daughter had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend.
Well, Dave and I had a nephew we adore who had also recently become a very eligible single young man. Here we were at a beautiful wedding: one is bound to think of possible matchmaking. It was my natural inclination to suggest that our handsome nephew call this blonde cutie for a date. We knew they’d laugh together and have a great time. Dave called Karl, mentioning “Give her a call; she won’t be on the market for long!”
When the party ended, as they drove home, my friend told her husband about our matchmaking. Doug responded, “You gave out our daughter’s private phone number! What were you thinking? Katie might not like this.” Sarah replied, “Settle down, after all, he’s a Spilseth and an eagle scout!” What could go wrong with this match?
This weekend, three years later, Katie and Karl wed. Friends gathered for a lake ceremony while violins played and the Irish Blessing was sung: “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields”...a happy ending from friends finding that perfect match. 699 words
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Jack Frost Has Arrived!
From Where I Sit "Signs of September " pat spilseth
School buses are rolling down the road, checking where they have to stop to pick up and drop off kids next week. Bees are buzzing in the garden, sucking all the sweetness available in the flowers still remaining. Lovely orange and black patterned Monarch butterflies float through the woods and gardens. Squirrels are gathering nuts; weeds are visible near the surface of the lake. Hot summer sunshine has shrunk inches from lake depths. Sumac is turning red, and fireflies are dancing in the dark evenings. Fairgoers flock to the Minnesota State Fair for an annual dose of food on a stick. Fall has arrived.
Kids are a trifle bored. No longer busy with their tree houses and bike riding around the neighborhood or swimming, they seek me out as I walk Buddy around the neighborhood. Chatty little boys tell me they’ll be in second and fourth grade this year and can they pet Buddy and where am I going and am I still baking cookies? Could they have some chocolate chips to eat in their tree house? Chattiness won’t last long...I know; I have a son who has patience for about 3 questions; that’s it.
Teacher friends are clipping pictures and making colorful letters for bulletin board displays. Lesson plans are coming together and outfits for that important first day are chosen. Impressions are made right away about what kids think of their teachers. My brother-in-law, Denny, taught math to junior high kids. He and I shared somersaulting stomachs just thinking about going back to work. That uncomfortable feeling persistently nagged at my nerves until school began. Labor Day was my last day of semi-relaxation. Then it was back to reading and writing, preparing lesson plans, correcting papers, carting homework after school to my kitchen table, and reading student essays.
I actually miss my school connection with kids. The first year of teaching I taught junior high English just outside of Chicago. In my first classroom, I had Johnny, a handsome karate expert, and grinning Brucie, an Italian kid with slicked-back ducktail and mischievous eyes. He danced his way into the classroom and down the hall with his energetic “twist”. Johnny was a charmer and leader of the class, but he was eighteen and couldn’t read. We formed a mutual admiration society: I helped him learn to read; he controlled the classroom troublemakers. He made more money with his band, which played the local hot spots, than I did teaching.
It was a time when desegregation was just getting started; some African-American kids were moved out of their neighborhood schools into the predominately white suburban schools where I taught. Busing was supposed to improve their achievements in the classroom. I wonder if it did anything but make kids uncomfortable. The bussed students never became part of the cliques, which had been formed back in grade school.
Fall marks many changes. Sumac growing along the highway around the lake is turning red, orange and yellow. Bikers are riding the bike trails around the lake, and boaters are pulling skiers, some in wet suits. Families are scheduling last minute camping trips up north, picnics in the park, and end of summer beach excursions. It’s summer’s “last hurrah” before Labor Day arrives. The Minnesota State Fair is at the fairgrounds: time to enjoy filling up with greasy goodies to eat on a stick.
Petunias are drooping on my deck. Geraniums and black eyed Susans are the only flowers still looking good in the garden. Yellow, bronze and reddish mums are on display at groceries and flower shops. It’s time to get out the down quilts for chilly, fall nights, great for sleeping and sweatshirts for brisk, early morning walks. The seasons are changing; temperatures falling, and foliage fading. Darkness descends shortly after suppertime; I sleep later each morning. .
September is casserole time: a hamburger-mushroom soup casserole for supper topped off with a dessert of apple crisp or a peach cobbler now that those luscious Colorado peaches have arrived. It’s time to can pickles and make jelly. Storm windows can wait a bit...but I’d better get the furnace checked. It could be a frigid, cold winter. All the signs are here: fall has arrived. 712 words
School buses are rolling down the road, checking where they have to stop to pick up and drop off kids next week. Bees are buzzing in the garden, sucking all the sweetness available in the flowers still remaining. Lovely orange and black patterned Monarch butterflies float through the woods and gardens. Squirrels are gathering nuts; weeds are visible near the surface of the lake. Hot summer sunshine has shrunk inches from lake depths. Sumac is turning red, and fireflies are dancing in the dark evenings. Fairgoers flock to the Minnesota State Fair for an annual dose of food on a stick. Fall has arrived.
Kids are a trifle bored. No longer busy with their tree houses and bike riding around the neighborhood or swimming, they seek me out as I walk Buddy around the neighborhood. Chatty little boys tell me they’ll be in second and fourth grade this year and can they pet Buddy and where am I going and am I still baking cookies? Could they have some chocolate chips to eat in their tree house? Chattiness won’t last long...I know; I have a son who has patience for about 3 questions; that’s it.
Teacher friends are clipping pictures and making colorful letters for bulletin board displays. Lesson plans are coming together and outfits for that important first day are chosen. Impressions are made right away about what kids think of their teachers. My brother-in-law, Denny, taught math to junior high kids. He and I shared somersaulting stomachs just thinking about going back to work. That uncomfortable feeling persistently nagged at my nerves until school began. Labor Day was my last day of semi-relaxation. Then it was back to reading and writing, preparing lesson plans, correcting papers, carting homework after school to my kitchen table, and reading student essays.
I actually miss my school connection with kids. The first year of teaching I taught junior high English just outside of Chicago. In my first classroom, I had Johnny, a handsome karate expert, and grinning Brucie, an Italian kid with slicked-back ducktail and mischievous eyes. He danced his way into the classroom and down the hall with his energetic “twist”. Johnny was a charmer and leader of the class, but he was eighteen and couldn’t read. We formed a mutual admiration society: I helped him learn to read; he controlled the classroom troublemakers. He made more money with his band, which played the local hot spots, than I did teaching.
It was a time when desegregation was just getting started; some African-American kids were moved out of their neighborhood schools into the predominately white suburban schools where I taught. Busing was supposed to improve their achievements in the classroom. I wonder if it did anything but make kids uncomfortable. The bussed students never became part of the cliques, which had been formed back in grade school.
Fall marks many changes. Sumac growing along the highway around the lake is turning red, orange and yellow. Bikers are riding the bike trails around the lake, and boaters are pulling skiers, some in wet suits. Families are scheduling last minute camping trips up north, picnics in the park, and end of summer beach excursions. It’s summer’s “last hurrah” before Labor Day arrives. The Minnesota State Fair is at the fairgrounds: time to enjoy filling up with greasy goodies to eat on a stick.
Petunias are drooping on my deck. Geraniums and black eyed Susans are the only flowers still looking good in the garden. Yellow, bronze and reddish mums are on display at groceries and flower shops. It’s time to get out the down quilts for chilly, fall nights, great for sleeping and sweatshirts for brisk, early morning walks. The seasons are changing; temperatures falling, and foliage fading. Darkness descends shortly after suppertime; I sleep later each morning. .
September is casserole time: a hamburger-mushroom soup casserole for supper topped off with a dessert of apple crisp or a peach cobbler now that those luscious Colorado peaches have arrived. It’s time to can pickles and make jelly. Storm windows can wait a bit...but I’d better get the furnace checked. It could be a frigid, cold winter. All the signs are here: fall has arrived. 712 words
Friday, September 16, 2011
What a character!
Frow Where I Sit "Putty in Her Hands"
Not many women I know harbor fantasies about embalming bodies or creating new faces shot out by a gang shooting. But when Monte attended a “botched” funeral, where the deceased’s face looked gray and plastic and the flowers were arranged so haphazardly, she made her decision. “I could do better than that!” She went back to school and changed careers from a typical woman’s role to her more interesting profession as a mortician.
Finding a job in the industry proved to be difficult. She took a position with a funeral home just opening its doors, catering to the services of anyone who could pay for their professional attention. Minorities were their dominant clients. Though Monte’s introduction to the profession sounds a bit dicey, she’s became an empathetic counselor to bereaved contacts telling them to “Let it go” and “Don’t harbor guilt”. She’s also became exceptionally adept with makeup: her artistry made easier with clients lying down, never fidgeting.
On call one weekend, the telephone rang in the middle of the night at her home. “Come get this body!” The call came from a “questionable” part of town just outside Chicago. She woke her husband, “Butch, you’ve got to come with me! I’m not going into that gang area alone at night!”
The Scandinavian from small town Minnesota and his blonde German wife proceeded to a darker part of town, where most street lights had been shot out, never to be replaced. Pulling up to a darkened apartment building, they spotted one unit ablaze with lights. While Butch remained outside, nervously guarding his van on the dark, littered street, Monte punched the third floor elevator button in the teeny-tiny, creaky elevator. Down a dark, narrow hall, she found a door open, her entrance expected. She hefted and strapped the body to a pallet, hoisted it upright and into the narrow hall, which could barely accommodate the wide, stretched-out body. Juggling her delivery to the elevator, she stuffed herself and the body into the tiny cage, descending to street level where Butch was surrounded by street people talking excitedly with their hands and loud voices.
“Hey, Mista C, wat YOU doin in these parts?”
“Jesse, is that you? Why are you here?”
Dis is my territory. I’m your man...I make sure your van is safe. Donja’ worry! Jesse’s in control.”
It’s all about connections in these parts of the city. Thank goodness, Jesse went to school where Butch was a well-liked administrator.
My mortician friend tells me, “This profession is run by men, but so many of the details need a woman’s touch. I work with the bodies, rearrange the plants and flower bouquets at most of the services and counsel the bereaved survivors. But I think it’s time for me to retire. Bodies are getting to be more than I can handle: they’re too big for me.”
A sense of humor has to be part of the job. Bodies became “putty in her hands”. She’s an artist, sculpting the blown-out faces into facsimiles of their photographs. Monte works hard to make faces and bodies presentable for those requiring open-casket services. She’s become quite proficient at mixing skin tones of brown and black as well as pink and beige.
Some people need to see the deceased in an open casket to have closure. A few folks need to be assured that the deceased is truly dead. Facing the lifeless body in a casket makes them feel safe. At one of her services, an emotionally-distraught woman couldn’t bear her loss; she crawled into the casket to be near her man.
At one of her first jobs, those attending the funeral were a well-dressed group: they wore hats, gloves and dressed in white garments according to the traditions of their culture. The music was loud, filled with rhythm and harmony. Monte cautioned me, “Never stand behind any large ladies. Someone’s likely to faint and fall on you!” Fainting is a common occurrence: a nurse or two are always in attendance at the funeral.
Police photographers often attend or wait outside to capture shots of mourners filing out of the service. Possibilities are huge that a notorious criminal might appear in the crowd. Photos are matched to “Wanted” posters on the walls at the sheriff’s office. Many mourners wear hats, perfect to shadow faces: hats prevent cops from getting a closer look at gang members attending the send-off of their leader.
What an interesting job my new friend chose. She had my undivided attention: her riveting tales reminded me of my early days at the Pope County jail where Daddy was the sheriff. Often I would scan the black and white WANTED posters on his bulletin board and enjoy the juicy stories of our jail guests.
Not many women I know harbor fantasies about embalming bodies or creating new faces shot out by a gang shooting. But when Monte attended a “botched” funeral, where the deceased’s face looked gray and plastic and the flowers were arranged so haphazardly, she made her decision. “I could do better than that!” She went back to school and changed careers from a typical woman’s role to her more interesting profession as a mortician.
Finding a job in the industry proved to be difficult. She took a position with a funeral home just opening its doors, catering to the services of anyone who could pay for their professional attention. Minorities were their dominant clients. Though Monte’s introduction to the profession sounds a bit dicey, she’s became an empathetic counselor to bereaved contacts telling them to “Let it go” and “Don’t harbor guilt”. She’s also became exceptionally adept with makeup: her artistry made easier with clients lying down, never fidgeting.
On call one weekend, the telephone rang in the middle of the night at her home. “Come get this body!” The call came from a “questionable” part of town just outside Chicago. She woke her husband, “Butch, you’ve got to come with me! I’m not going into that gang area alone at night!”
The Scandinavian from small town Minnesota and his blonde German wife proceeded to a darker part of town, where most street lights had been shot out, never to be replaced. Pulling up to a darkened apartment building, they spotted one unit ablaze with lights. While Butch remained outside, nervously guarding his van on the dark, littered street, Monte punched the third floor elevator button in the teeny-tiny, creaky elevator. Down a dark, narrow hall, she found a door open, her entrance expected. She hefted and strapped the body to a pallet, hoisted it upright and into the narrow hall, which could barely accommodate the wide, stretched-out body. Juggling her delivery to the elevator, she stuffed herself and the body into the tiny cage, descending to street level where Butch was surrounded by street people talking excitedly with their hands and loud voices.
“Hey, Mista C, wat YOU doin in these parts?”
“Jesse, is that you? Why are you here?”
Dis is my territory. I’m your man...I make sure your van is safe. Donja’ worry! Jesse’s in control.”
It’s all about connections in these parts of the city. Thank goodness, Jesse went to school where Butch was a well-liked administrator.
My mortician friend tells me, “This profession is run by men, but so many of the details need a woman’s touch. I work with the bodies, rearrange the plants and flower bouquets at most of the services and counsel the bereaved survivors. But I think it’s time for me to retire. Bodies are getting to be more than I can handle: they’re too big for me.”
A sense of humor has to be part of the job. Bodies became “putty in her hands”. She’s an artist, sculpting the blown-out faces into facsimiles of their photographs. Monte works hard to make faces and bodies presentable for those requiring open-casket services. She’s become quite proficient at mixing skin tones of brown and black as well as pink and beige.
Some people need to see the deceased in an open casket to have closure. A few folks need to be assured that the deceased is truly dead. Facing the lifeless body in a casket makes them feel safe. At one of her services, an emotionally-distraught woman couldn’t bear her loss; she crawled into the casket to be near her man.
At one of her first jobs, those attending the funeral were a well-dressed group: they wore hats, gloves and dressed in white garments according to the traditions of their culture. The music was loud, filled with rhythm and harmony. Monte cautioned me, “Never stand behind any large ladies. Someone’s likely to faint and fall on you!” Fainting is a common occurrence: a nurse or two are always in attendance at the funeral.
Police photographers often attend or wait outside to capture shots of mourners filing out of the service. Possibilities are huge that a notorious criminal might appear in the crowd. Photos are matched to “Wanted” posters on the walls at the sheriff’s office. Many mourners wear hats, perfect to shadow faces: hats prevent cops from getting a closer look at gang members attending the send-off of their leader.
What an interesting job my new friend chose. She had my undivided attention: her riveting tales reminded me of my early days at the Pope County jail where Daddy was the sheriff. Often I would scan the black and white WANTED posters on his bulletin board and enjoy the juicy stories of our jail guests.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Endless Summer
ENDLESS SUMMER August 1, 2011 pat spilseth
Summer seems endless. It’s too hot to do much but stretch out sunning on the dock, read, dream, and watch speed boats and jet skis bounce over the waves and sailboats float across the Bay. Periodically I dive into the lapping waves gently and swim a few laps, trying to avoid the rising weeds and fish nipping at my bottom.
I remember being a teenager back in the sixties: endless days of biking to the beach, playing tennis, talking with friends on the stone wall at Mount Lookout, waterskiing. Summer days in the sun seemed to stretch on and on...
Summertime takes me back to the sixties. My son’s boat, “The Roamer”, is a 1962 vintage Chris-Craft. Advertised on the internet for almost nothing, Andy and his friend T. Cody figured they’d buy the boat and spend their weekends restoring the neglected 36’ boat. It became a three year restoration project. Franco, their Italian mechanic sidekick, has parents who arrived this summer from their home in southern Italy. They wanted to cook an authentic Italian meal for all of us. On the boat, we feasted on Emily’s luscious lasagna, a delicate roulade of chicken and beef, pork tenderloin, and a fresh salad of tomatoes and mozzarella dressed in vinaigrette...amazing food cooked by an Italian mama!
Another summer delight occurred at Mystic Lake’s outdoor concert stage. My husband got tickets for the BEACH BOYS’ sold-out concert. Playing their unforgettable music to a sing-along crowd, the 60’s heart throbs still retain that intangible harmony made only by these ageless surfers. In attendance were plenty of other sixties’ grey heads as well as twenty and thirty year olds singing along to songs harkening back to those more innocent times of our youth. Who can forget those endless summers we remember from the fabulous sixties, seventies and eighties?
I’m stunned to realize that those tanned Californians have been around for 50 years, but even with grey hair and bigger stomachs, the Beach Boys proved that summer with them is still everlasting. Many of us still recall the words to their iconic songs: “California Dreamin”, “Wouldn’t it be Nice”, “Good Vibrations”, and “Be True to Your School”. What a thrilling feeling to sing along, joining Mike Love and his surfin’ pals in “Good Vibrations” and “I Get Around”!
Today’s sunshine still casts a bright beam on my summer days of sunnin’, stretched out on the sand at the public beach and canoeing across Lake Minnewaska to check out the cute lifeguards at the Starbuck beach. And I’ll never forget the icy thrill in my stomach when I swam, racing to the farthest diving tower to swim with friends in the moonlight.
The Beach Boys have been touring every summer since 1962. The feelings their music evoke are as sparkly as sunshine refracting diamonds on the ocean. As beach balls were batted and bounced through the adoring crowd, Mike Love led songs about cars in “Little Deuce Coupe” and “409”, school and hanging out with “I Get Around” and “Be True To Your School”. They sang about the innocence of youth in “When I Grow up To Be a Man,” and “In My Room” and even psychedelic spirituality “Good Vibrations”.
The Beach Boys’ sounds of summer were unique. Fans in Hawaiian leis and Jimmy Buffet shirts, sandals and Bermuda shorts hummed along to their unforgettable harmony. Some gals twisted up their hair into ponytails or donned hats to dance in the aisles, even twisting with the band on stage.
Realizing that this band of once shaggy-haired, golden-tanned boys is 50 years old, I could see that Mike Love is into his 70’s. Hairlines and birthday cakes may tell one story, but the Beach Boy music tells another. It tells the same remarkable tale it did the day they created a tune in a garage and brought it to a studio.
Then I remembered; I too have aged. But at the concert, I was once again a carefree teenybopper dancing to Beach Boy songs of that endless summer of 1966.
Sometimes, summer magic only takes a few minutes. But if you’re lucky, it can last for decades. 700 words
Summer seems endless. It’s too hot to do much but stretch out sunning on the dock, read, dream, and watch speed boats and jet skis bounce over the waves and sailboats float across the Bay. Periodically I dive into the lapping waves gently and swim a few laps, trying to avoid the rising weeds and fish nipping at my bottom.
I remember being a teenager back in the sixties: endless days of biking to the beach, playing tennis, talking with friends on the stone wall at Mount Lookout, waterskiing. Summer days in the sun seemed to stretch on and on...
Summertime takes me back to the sixties. My son’s boat, “The Roamer”, is a 1962 vintage Chris-Craft. Advertised on the internet for almost nothing, Andy and his friend T. Cody figured they’d buy the boat and spend their weekends restoring the neglected 36’ boat. It became a three year restoration project. Franco, their Italian mechanic sidekick, has parents who arrived this summer from their home in southern Italy. They wanted to cook an authentic Italian meal for all of us. On the boat, we feasted on Emily’s luscious lasagna, a delicate roulade of chicken and beef, pork tenderloin, and a fresh salad of tomatoes and mozzarella dressed in vinaigrette...amazing food cooked by an Italian mama!
Another summer delight occurred at Mystic Lake’s outdoor concert stage. My husband got tickets for the BEACH BOYS’ sold-out concert. Playing their unforgettable music to a sing-along crowd, the 60’s heart throbs still retain that intangible harmony made only by these ageless surfers. In attendance were plenty of other sixties’ grey heads as well as twenty and thirty year olds singing along to songs harkening back to those more innocent times of our youth. Who can forget those endless summers we remember from the fabulous sixties, seventies and eighties?
I’m stunned to realize that those tanned Californians have been around for 50 years, but even with grey hair and bigger stomachs, the Beach Boys proved that summer with them is still everlasting. Many of us still recall the words to their iconic songs: “California Dreamin”, “Wouldn’t it be Nice”, “Good Vibrations”, and “Be True to Your School”. What a thrilling feeling to sing along, joining Mike Love and his surfin’ pals in “Good Vibrations” and “I Get Around”!
Today’s sunshine still casts a bright beam on my summer days of sunnin’, stretched out on the sand at the public beach and canoeing across Lake Minnewaska to check out the cute lifeguards at the Starbuck beach. And I’ll never forget the icy thrill in my stomach when I swam, racing to the farthest diving tower to swim with friends in the moonlight.
The Beach Boys have been touring every summer since 1962. The feelings their music evoke are as sparkly as sunshine refracting diamonds on the ocean. As beach balls were batted and bounced through the adoring crowd, Mike Love led songs about cars in “Little Deuce Coupe” and “409”, school and hanging out with “I Get Around” and “Be True To Your School”. They sang about the innocence of youth in “When I Grow up To Be a Man,” and “In My Room” and even psychedelic spirituality “Good Vibrations”.
The Beach Boys’ sounds of summer were unique. Fans in Hawaiian leis and Jimmy Buffet shirts, sandals and Bermuda shorts hummed along to their unforgettable harmony. Some gals twisted up their hair into ponytails or donned hats to dance in the aisles, even twisting with the band on stage.
Realizing that this band of once shaggy-haired, golden-tanned boys is 50 years old, I could see that Mike Love is into his 70’s. Hairlines and birthday cakes may tell one story, but the Beach Boy music tells another. It tells the same remarkable tale it did the day they created a tune in a garage and brought it to a studio.
Then I remembered; I too have aged. But at the concert, I was once again a carefree teenybopper dancing to Beach Boy songs of that endless summer of 1966.
Sometimes, summer magic only takes a few minutes. But if you’re lucky, it can last for decades. 700 words
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