FROM WHERE I SIT "KEEPERS"

FROM WHERE I SIT   KEEPERS AUG. 13, 2013  PAT SPILSETH


Today I received an email that is definitely at KEEPER.  In our toss-away society, it's a blessing to hear that there still remain KEEPERS , things and people worth saving.

REmember when we didn't toss something just  because it wasn't working correctly.  We fixed it.  We resoled shoes; we saved wrappings and ribbons from presents, ironed them so they were no longer creased and resifted with that same wrapping paper.  We didn't throw old clothes if a younger brother or sister could wear it when we outgrew the item.  Hand-me-downs from older kids were treasured by many kids.  Inez Husom gifted her wool skirts and sweaters to me when she either outgrew them or tired of them.  I felt so grown up when I got to wear her outfits.  We also borrowed clothes to make it seem like we had more outfits.  Sandy Fjoslien had a glamorous black and white outfit I borrowed once for a fancy dance.  It was so nice to have friends who wore the same size clothing as I did!

If the fabric of a shirt, dress, robe or coat was still good, without holes from so much wear, Mom would cut it up into small pieces and stitches circle pieces to be made into a doily or a quilt topping.  Sometimes she used various fabrics pieced together and sewed them together with a flannel backing and some old quilt inside to make a new quilt.  If the shirt or dress could be reused and made into something else, we carefully cut off the buttons to fill a button box or a button jar, usually a glass canning jar with a screw off lid.  Mom even saved the hooks and eyes from worn brasseries for future sewing projects.  Torn blue jeans weren't tossed, and we certainly didn't wear the jeans with holes or tears like folks do today.  We mended them with iron-on patches.  Though that patched area was a bit stiff for awhile, after numerous washings it softened and didn't rub on our knees.

Mom had a darning egg made out of smooth wood which she inserted into our socks that had holes.  She stretched the sock's hole around the egg and darned the hole with a needle and thread.  When our wool socks got holes, she used yarn to darn the holes and fatter needles.

I remember helping Mom rewind window shades that would snap, come loose and fall open to the floor.  The shades came in brown and white.  It was a matter of resetting that little metal part on the wooden roller and rewinding the shade, clamping it into the sockets and presto!  It worked once more.

We couldn't afford new screens, and they were important to keep out the flies and mosquitos.  Nobody had air conditioning so we opened all the windows to get a breeze and cool off in the summertimes.   Dad bought new screen at the hardware store and stapled the screen to the frame.  It worked the same with broken windows.  Glass was purchased and reset into the window frame.  Things were fixed at home most often.  Handy men were valued!

But in those days, I wanted just once or twice to be wasteful.  Why couldn't we throw things away when they didn't work any more or were worn out?  Waste meant that we could afford to buy new, not fix things over and over again.  Throwing things away meant I knew there'd always be more.

TO this day, I still wash out used plastic bags and dry them, ready to be used once more.  Why throw it when it still can be used?

Today, pennies are throw-aways.  They're basically worthless.  Why does the government keep printing more pennies?  They're an nuisance.  They're too heavy in my purse.  Who can find penny candy any more?  But I did love to survey the aisle of penny candy at Potters' Dime STore in downtown Glenwood on the corner.  My favorites were the coconut chews.  Layers of pink, white and brown sweetened, chewable coconut  were such a treat.  And the tootsie rolls were a penny; those tootsie pops were 2 cents.  Bubble gum could be chewed for only a penny.  Sometimes a collectible card was included in that flat square of gum.  Some wax bottles filled with sugar-juice were a penny, but the red wax lips and black wax mustache were a bit more.

If I didn't get to Potters Dime Store with my tiny leather coin purse of pennies, I'd plunk them into my green PIG ceramic piggy bank that an aunt had molded and fired in a kiln as a gift to me; sister Barbie got the red dressed pig with the black hat.  Once the pennies went through the wide slot in the pig's back, they were gone for good.  THere was no way to retrieve them.  It was a forced savings for a kid who spent most pennies on the sweet penny candy I loved so well.

SIlver dollars were keepers for Mom.  The silver dollars made special birthday presents to favorite folks, tucked into a birthday card along with a cotton hanky.  She saved those large silver coins in her bureau drawer next to her Lady Esther face cream, Camphor Ice and Cloverine Salve, known to cure more cuts and dry skin.  That same drawer held her collection of costume jewelry, much of it gifts from her brother Arthur, the jewelry salesman who traveled the state in his white linen suit during summers.  That jewelry is now in my dresser drawer.  Though I usually wear the same two pair of earrings and a bracelet, I can't part with the jewelry.  It has too many good memories

Marble agates and steelies were keepers.  Their pretty swirling colors and heavy steel roundness were pocketed in a string bag to be carried on our belts or in bicycle baskets to the playground where kids would lie on the asphalt grounds of Glenwood's Elementary school, draw a chalk circle and shoot marbles.  Kids would trade marbles or win them from each other in a game.  Martha Achter was especially good at marbles.

That same school on the hill has become a KEEPER too.  Today, the school has been converted into apartment living units, beauty and barber shops and a theatre for the community.  It's become a community gathering place, just like it was in past years when the entire town would attend band and choir concerts, school plays and basketball games.  The brick school on the hill carries many memories for anybody who attended school there.

Best friends and family are KEEPERS, whether they move away or remain close by.  Emails, cards, letters and phone calls keep us in touch as well as visits occasionally.  Some things make life important, like people we know who are special.

FROM WHERE I SIT THE CARNIES ARE COMING TO TOWN

FROM WHERE I SIT  The Carnies Are Coming to Town Aug. 9, 2013      Pat DeKok Spilseth

Fortune-telling gypsies and their crystal balls intrigued me every fall when the Pope County fair came to Glenwood.   Tattooed carnies with missing teeth and greasy hair manned the roller coaster and ferris wheel.   With deep grunts, burly hunks would grunt as they hoisted a sledgehammer and rang the bell.  Oh, my, they were so muscular and strong!  

Guys with clinging dates hurled balls at targets, hoping to win a giant panda bear or some kewpie doll for their sweetie.  One particular arcade lured me to its riches every year.  Glass boxes with a strange machine and scoop, coaxed me to fish out a sparkling diamond ring nestled among thousands of golden corn kernels.  It was a sure bet that I’d win the ring, if I put enough coins into the machine and maneuvered the scoop correctly.  High hopes dominated my life.  

At the fair, we locals felt the need to tease our conservative lives before the regularity of school days arrived after Labor Day.  Intrigued by the fair’s colorful characters and imagined adventures, we rode the thrilling ferris wheel that spun us into the air, the octopus and the tilt a whirl which tossed us around until we were dizzy and couldn’t stand.

4-Hers brought their produce and livestock to the fair hoping to win a blue ribbon.  I could smell my way to the livestock barns where snoozing cattle rested with their owners in cowboy hats, pearl-buttoned shirts, jeans and pointy-toed boots.  Audiences watched sheep being sheared as roosters crowed and horses impatiently stamped their prancing feet, ready to race around the grandstand track. 

Women brought Devils’ Food cakes, coffee cakes, mile-high angel food cakes and crusty breads to be judged in the Produce Building.  Preserves were lined up on shelves; intricately patterned quilts were hung on display, and bird houses, doll houses, machine-sewn clothing, hand knit sweaters and afghans showed off the area’s homemaking skills.

One memorable year, the carnival people gave a clock with a golden chariot and high-stepping horses to Dad when he was the Pope County sheriff.  They probably hoped that he’d overlook any infractions their carnival might incur.  Today, for the first time in many, many years, I looked closely and saw that the figures driving the chariot clock had wings.  And they were naked!   I doubt that Mom had ever looked closely at the clock.  She couldn’t have checked out those naked chariot drivers!  If she’d have known, surely she wouldn’t have placed the golden clock on top of our living room’s TV set for everyone to see and blush beet red.  After all, we were modest Scandinavians. 

Roadies at the fair probably knew that we locals would be enchanted with all their glitzy treasures, adventurous rides and swarthy characters.  Certainly the colorful gypsies and tattooed carnies with missing teeth and greasy hair added excitement and color to my girlhood.  I loved to go with Dad when he patrolled the arcades and walked past all the rides, the haunted house and the freak show.  He was my hero and my protection from those unknown, but terribly exciting people and adventures.  My imagination went into overdrive when I was around those characters so different from anyone I’d ever seen.

Most likely some of those same roadies are still working the fair with their slicked-back ducktails, tight dirty jeans, and embarrassing-to-me tattoos.  Even today, I still love to ogle the colorful gypsy women with their dangling, clanging earrings, swishing skirts, and off the shoulder blouses.   They aren’t blonde or gray-headed; most, if any, don’t have blue eyes.  Certainly, they’re not Lutherans or political conservatives!   

Back in the fifties, carnival folks held a mystique for me.  They probably provide the same fascination to young people coming to the fair today.  I had dreams about the carnies, always with a slight touch of trepidation.  After all, I knew they were “outsiders”, certainly not folks I could trust.   In my mind, they were the  perfect picture of fascinating, questionable characters...different,  daring and exciting.  They didn’t have Scandinavian brogues, and they didn’t tell Ole and Lena jokes.  

Rumors were rampant around town when the carnies came to town.  People were told to lock their doors: gypsies, we believed, had “sticky fingers”. Women kept watch from their kitchen windows that clothing didn’t disappear from their clotheslines in the back yard.  Kids were warned to keep away from those alluring characters; don’t talk to them.  Talking would encourage carnival folks to feel welcome in our community.  After all, they were only here for the “show” every fall.  They weren’t staying.

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FROM WHERE I SIT  Nostalgia...The Cherry On Top  JULY 14, 2013  Pat Spilseth

Oh, what a morning!  This is the idyllic summer I dream about when I’m freezing in January: the lake is calm; the breeze is balmy and our resident loon is floating in the Bay.  There’s no noisy boat traffic churning the water or racing wave runners.  Only the gentle lapping of waves and birds singing breaks the silence of early morning.  It’s pure joy to be alive.

It’s terrific to have my family together again here on the lake this July.  Kate has vacation from teaching in Mexico City, and we love to float on the lake in Andy’s boat, the Roamer.  Kate’s friends, visiting from Mexico, China and Baltimore can’t get enough of the lake, and I know they also enjoy our ample supply of big, blonde Scandinavian men!  Visiting friends from Italy add spice to our evening with talk of Italy and the delicious dishes they share.  Summer breezes cool us as the sunset spreads lovely colors in the sky while we float on the lake.

For me, summer is the best season on the lake. When our grown kids return home, I can’t help but recall those good times in the summer when they were small.  We’d spend lazy, sultry days sitting on the dock.  I’d stuff their chubby arms into plastic, blow-up water wings, and they’d run and jump into the lake and into my arms from the dock.  From the start, they were water babies.

Good times we experience often brings on bouts of nostalgia.  Smells, scenes, songs, even photos touch each of us.  

Though fall is usually the time of year when people tend to feel nostalgic, I’m nostalgic today, enjoying this summer with returning kids and friends.  Nostalgia can be even stronger in the fall when brown and orange leaves fall through the air; the weather is crisp; the school year is about to begin all over again; and I start remembering my school days and people from the past.  It’s a melancholic time of year, cozy and comforting when I light a fire in the fireplace, curl up in an afghan with a good book and read.   It brings back memories of people no longer young, except in my mind.  There they remain, the same age as when I spent time with them in earlier years.

Naturally, gathering friends brings to mind times when we were younger and carefree.  Nostalgia enters our minds.  Did you know there are clubs, websites and publications dedicated to nostalgia and collectibles?  In a recent New York Times article, “What Is Nostalgia Good For?” author John Tierney wrote, “Nostalgia has been shown to counteract loneliness, boredom and anxiety.  It makes people more generous to strangers and more tolerant of outsiders.  Couples feel closer and look happier when they’re sharing nostalgic memories.  On cold days, or in cold rooms, people use nostalgia to literally feel warmer.”

When I see my Kate and Andy, now grown-up, leading interesting, happy lives, I can’t help but smile.  It feels so good to see them together, with our family, and remember all the adventures we’ve shared through the many years.  That’s nostalgia...the good part.  I remember our family riding camels in Egypt when Kate turned 13, and she got the crazy idea to dye her hair red for Christmas.  She didn’t realize she’d used permanent hair color!   And nine year old Andy chose to ride a horse instead of the tall, spitting camel, out to the pyramids.  His was a run-away horse which took off into the desert with Andy holding on for dear life.  Passing us in the Arabian dessert were horsemen with flowing robes on galloping steeds heading out to colorful Ramadan tents erected in the vast desert.  

Since Dave was an airline pilot, we were able to fly to whatever destinationsTWA or American Airlines flew.   In Belgium, they loved the Brussels bird market, and Andy was fascinated by the statue of the little boy, “the Pisser”.  Kate devoured Brussels’  favorite waffle fries dripping with mayonnaise.  

Nostalgia comes from the Greek nostos meaning homecoming and aigo meaning ache or pain.  Current researchers studying nostalgia have discovered that it’s a global experience which can be used to enrich the present.   Topics are reminiscences about friends and family members, holidays, weddings, songs, sunsets, lakes.  There’s a Twitter chat every Sunday night at 10EST called #nostalgiachat, which talks about summer camp to favorite toys to old tech. Nostalgia is the mental equivalent of comfort food, soothing in times of stress, usually making us feel better.

It’s not just reliving the past, but thinking about how those events affect us today.  Music may bring on nostalgia, the scent of a certain perfume or the smell of chocolate chip cookies just like Mom baked.  You may recall romantic hayrides or sitting around a campfire.  Certain places may have you reeling in memories of good times.  Strolls down the memory lane of your mind may not always be entirely pleasant, but overall the benefits outweigh the negatives. 851 words

NEW WRITERS' CIRCLE FALL CLASS: "A CREATIVE WRITING THINK TANK"

• NEW WRITERS’ CIRCLE  FALL CLASS       
   “A CREATIVE WRITING THINK TANK“
  
  
  “You can’t know where this writing will go.  All you can do is follow this strange impetus to see the world from your character’s eyes...”Tine L. Lee
  
  
  Through exercises, readings and discussion, this class will teach you practical tools and techniques to get what you know and what you want to say into a story, essay or memoir that you can feel good about.  We’ll SPARK ideas, PUNCH & POLISH your imagination and PREPARE your work for publication.  Future classes will expand this knowledge.
  
  
  You’ll create characters and scenes so real, you’ll be compelled to write so readers can’t wait to turn the page to see what happens next.  EMBELLISHMENT can add spice to your words.
  Zoe Whitten, writer of dark and weird fiction: “Creative writing excels in relieving stress.  After all...you can kill everyone who has ever p***ed you off, and you’ll feel zero guilt...”
  
  
  This THINK TANK class will also help you know WHEN TO QUIT REVISING, a major dilemma for many of us writers.
  “You can revise the life out of something so much that the spark of your original inspiration disappears.”  Esther Porter
  
  
  PAT SPILSETH will host a 4 week “THINK TANK” class 
  *Wednesdays, Sept. 18, 25, Oct.2 & 9
  *2 hour classes with discussion, 1-3PM Wednesdays
  • location: 3233 Casco Circle, Wayzata, MN 55391
  • fee: $95 to Pat Spilseth at above address
  • RSVP by Sept. 7 PLEASE

Grown-up kids on the lake in July

Brazen Broads of the Sixties

FROM WHERE I SIT   Brazen Broads of the Sixties   JULY 3, 2013

PAT DEKOK SPILSETH

Fireflies light up the night around our screened porch where I sit relaxing, enjoying the calm waters on the lake.  You can’t beat lake living, especially in the summertime!  Tonight, I can see the constellations Orion and two Dippers, and hear a pair of loons crying their haunting calls as sailboats drift lazily past my dock.  Finally, summertime has arrived and the livin’ is easy.

Balmy evening breezes have my thoughts drifting back to school days in Glenwood.   I remember the stone wall at Mount Lookout overlooking Glenwood.  Fireflies lit up the dark skies as friends about to graduate sat reminiscing about our school days, sharing dreams of what we were going to be when we grew up.  Back then, we still believed those tales of Princess Minnewaska, who, supposedly, was buried at Mount Lookout.  We believed that treasured, though painful, ritual for brides to collect a stone to wear in our wedding slippers when we marched down the church aisle.  It was supposed to bring good luck to brides.  Sometimes the stone worked... 

Summer meant grabbing one of Mom’s old bath towels, a swimsuit and riding my 3-speed Schwin bicycle to the beach to meet my pals.  Swabbing my body with baby oil to tan, I’d get a great burn.  The lifeguards used a real tanning cream like Coppertone and swabbed a white paste of zinc oxide on their noses to keep from burning.  At that time kids knew that we needed to first get a good burn in order to get a deep tan.   We didn’t know about skin cancer in those days, and we looked soooo good with a tan as we danced at Lakeside’s Teen Hops.  At the Ballroom, popular bands played the twist and the stroll on romantic, moonlit evenings.  How exciting to be dancing with our latest “crush”. 

Remember those musty, moldy smells of wet concrete floors and sticky, damp swimming suits in the changing room at Glenwood’s beach?  Around the corner, the snack bar always drew me and a crowd of candy lovers to the melting chocolate Snicker and Milky Way bars.   A flash from the past jolted me as I recalled the panicky feelings in my tummy when it was my turn to dive off the high dive.  I remembered diving in, doing a magnificent belly flop.  Ouch!  Part of my bathing suit was missing!   What a miserable embarrassment for a teenager.   Drowning seemed like it would be a lesser evil. 

After working one Friday evening at Setters and Stradtman’s Corner drug stores downtown, Diane, Jan and I met friends at the beach to cool off by swimming out to the farthest tower at the beach.   Giggling, we’d dare each other to skinny dip.   Ohhhh...  We shed our modest one piece suits and dove in with the spotlight shining directly on us.  Our shrieking squeals must have been heard for miles.  What brazen broads we were back then in the sixties!

The Danter twins, Dean and Dale, created a place they called Rockin’ Tree Canyon, where they’d escape to adventures the rest of us wanted so badly to share, but hadn’t the courage to enter the dark woods near the golf course road.  But I loved swinging on those scraggly Tarzan vines at Monkey Vine Palace where I became a swingin’ Jane of the Wild Jungle.  That was my favorite getaway until some bigger kids discovered it, and their weight pulled down the vines.  Why couldn’t they have stayed picnicking at the Giant Chair and Table up the hill?

Canoeing out to Priests’ Point in Jimmy Gilman’s canoes was another summer treat.  We’d paddle out to the Point and shiver with thrilling chills recalling the stories we’d heard about the priest who had lived there with his housekeeper.  We earnestly believed tales of the lonely housekeeper, who hung herself in the rafters of the attic when her love was not returned by the priest.  I wonder how many of those tales were true.

Gas was so cheap in those days.  I could get around Lake Minnewaska from Glenwood to Starbuck in Dad’s little, white, Ford Falcon on 25 cents of gas.  What a deal!  My friend Lu and I would check in on Dad’s two-way radio to hear any police calls coming in.  After all, we didn’t want to be caught by the cops at the party on Halvorson’s Point, where our friends were waiting for us around a bonfire, playing guitars and probably drinking a bit of beer.   Lu and I were on our way when we heard Dad’s voice on the radio calling the highway patrol cars to meet him and raid the party at Halvorson’s Point.  Someone had snitched or been broken by parents to fess up about our party.  

We HAD to warn our friends.  Pressing the foot petal to the metal, we flew that car out to the party on the lake!  Julian, my cohort at the drug store, grabbed the keg and ran into the woods; his sidekick Marv nervously tried to start his boat, but it flooded and stalled.  They were sitting ducks for the cop cars speeding onto the Point.  Our little Falcon passed the raiding cars as we sped down the dirt road, away from the party.  Dad didn’t even notice us in his Honda car.  Later, Dad laughed when he heard about our escapade.  

What a great world we grew up in during the fifties and sixties.  We swam in Lake Minnewaska, swung on Tarzan vines at Monkey Vine Palace, skated figure eights at the football field’s ice rink, and met pals at the Carnegie Library where Mrs. Serrin shushed talking kids and told me certain books were off limits until I was older.  We were so lucky to have two parents and neighbors who cared that each and every kid was safe and grew up with good values and a good work ethic.  LIfe was good. 

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Men Are From Mars

FROM WHERE I SIT   Men Are From Mars   June 2, 2013 Pat DeKok Spilseth

Let’s face it.  I don’t mean to be sexist or politically incorrect, but men and women are wired differently.  Remember John Gray’s book MEN ARE FROM MARS. WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS?   From cave man days, men were taught to provide and protect.  Women nurtured their children and were in charge of the home.  Today, those images are somewhat passe.   In my experience, dads are problem solvers.  Moms are the ones we talk to about feelings.  

  

“It doesn’t matter who my father was,” Anne Sexton wrote, “It matters who I remember he was.”  It’s interesting how each kid in the family remembers Dad for different reasons.   Often the older kids in the family didn’t get as much time with Dad: he was working long hours, building a career, wanting to provide for his family.    By the time younger kids came along, usually Dad had more time to spend with them.  

No matter if we grew up in the 30’s, 50’s, 80’s, or recently, Dads make a huge impressions on their kids.  Many girls want to marry a man just like dear old Dad.  Boys want to be Mr. Fix Anything, an athletic Superman or a brain whiz like their father.  

Many men enjoy building, fixing things and mowing their lawn so it’s the best looking lawn in the neighborhood.  They like to shoot baskets, throw the football, play tennis or tinker with cars.  Guys seem to be more interested in action activities; they’re uncomfortable talking about feelings.  

Girls want to talk.  We are so different than guys.  We want to talk about school, books we’re reading, friends, places to travel, our dream guy and what we want to be when we grow up.  Guys want to fix things, find solutions to a problem; they don’t want to discuss feelings.  Girls do.  We want to dream and analyze everything.  

Maybe my desire to know more about life and why I felt the way I did were some of the reasons that Dad and I had very few conversations.  I could have talked with Dad most any day in his office, which was next to our family’s kitchen at the jail.  But I remember very few talks.  I do remember four conversations that made an indelible impression.

1. When I got upset about something my band director said, Dad stood up for me, called the instructor, and my problem with that person was solved.  

2.  When I misbehaved, he’d send me to my room to “think about what I’d done.”   After he’d given me time to cry and feel totally terrible, he came upstairs to tell me how badly I’d disappointed Mom and Dad.  He wasn’t a cuddlier nor did he talk about love.  That was supposed to be understood.  Love wasn’t verbalized.

3. When he dropped me off at Luther College, my first time away from home for any length of time, he told me “to remember who I was” and to “stand up for what I believed.”  He was a very principled man.  He expected others to be that same sort of stand-up, ethical person.  

4.  When he was ill with cancer, dying at the Veterans’ Hospital in St. Paul, I’d sit with him in companionable silence.  But he did rally strength to forcefully tell me to “Get out there and do all those things you want to do before it’s too late.”  Dad had things he wanted to do, but his job took his time, energy and health.  At 61 he died, unable to enjoy retirement, travel, and never knew his grandchildren.  

Dad’s life was mostly work, either at the sheriff’s office, plowing fields on his farm, or driving trucks carrying cattle or feed to market.  My Dad was quiet, but I remember that most men weren’t big communicators in the fifties and sixties.   Today’s dads seem more open, spend more time with family.  Many women have returned to the work force so dads are expected to help out more with family and household duties.  Life is no longer just about work; today, relationships seem to be a higher priority in our lives.

My children’s dad has been a wonderful companion and cheerleader to his children.  Dave enjoys water skiing, tennis, boating, and going to the movies or sports events with his kids; he could spend hours shooting hoops with Andy and biking with Kate.   He attended all their sports games and music concerts if he wasn’t at his job flying airplanes.  When he was home, Dave became the referee, settling arguments and solving problems.  But when it came to talking about their troubles and hurt feelings, it was Mom’s turn.  

Girls and guys are wired differently.  Dads and Moms have different strengths and weaknesses, but as mates, we try to fill in each other’s empty spaces and be good influences for our children.   June 16th is Fathers’ Day.   Tell your Dad how important he is in your life.  839 words