Driving around the lake yesterday I saw a few tree leaves with tinges of red. Is fall coming or are they distressed trees proclaiming their protests to this hot, humid weather?
Friends tell me, “I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving. I can’t wait for the snow to fly. At least I can put more clothes on.”
There is a limit to how much clothing one can shed. A neighbor, living behind stockade fences, gardens, and pine trees, enjoys watering her plants in her underwear. but how many of us have foliage to shelter our almost-naked bodies from unexpected visitors? Dave was out in the neighborhood campaigning for his political favorites when he entered the neighbor’s sanctuary. His eyes spotted a seemingly nude figure watering her plants: he did an about face and ran. That would have been an embarrassing encounter for both parties. I doubt he would have gained her political support.
Even my brain is sluggish along with my lethargic body. No matter how much ice water I consume, or how often I dive into the lake, I can’t get my groove back; I have no energy. The lake feels like bath water, but if I dunk my head under the water numerous times and remain in my wet swim suit, life feels better.
Dreaming, I’m planning my Thanksgiving table with a big, fat turkey and all the trimmings. I’ll serve Mom’s delectable cranberry cake with the butter-rum frosting oozing over each piece. The Thanksgiving platter, chips and all, will be placed in the center of the table which will be covered with the once-a-year cloth purchased in Provence, France. We’ll invite scads of guests to enjoy the feast and play games afterwards. Buddy will attempt to catch any tidbits falling from our plates. All will have stuffed tummies and enjoy a nap following the meal.
Sweaters and corduroys, wool skirts and thick socks, skates and cross-country skis fill my dreams. Cooling off improves my moods and my body feels better simply dreaming of cold nights and flannel PJ’s. Christmas music will flood the house and I’ll start planning my Christmas tree trimmings.
As the torrid sun beats through my windows, I can feel my body sweating. It’s back to reality. It’s 92 degrees outside. The lake is not filled with swimmers and boaters. It’s too hot and humid. When will summer come to an end and we can enjoy the coolness of fall breezes and wool clothing?
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Shades of Grey Sells!
Sex sells...isn’t that obvious from current Best Seller lists of books, videos and movies. Sex, speed, and thrillers tossed with a bit of lusty romance and deception Is really the fastest selling recipe for books, music, movies to the public
I was curious. Aren’t you? Best Seller lists are prominent on the internet as well as lots of magazines and newspapers. But the SAME book keeps making that list! Why? What’s the appeal? Is it a racy book? Sounds like it might be. And the scuttlebutt of comments from readers really had me intrigued, even titillated~ humm
50 Shades of Grey has my neighborhood book club appearing with flushed cheeks, heads downs, whispering certain pages to be sure to check out. Naturally, who wouldn’t be curious?
I bought the book, only the first book of the trilogy. I read it. I found out.
Nope, it didn’t make me rush to the store to purchase the next of the series. Even though a friend’s face lit up and her voice grew more agitated and louder, it still didn’t spark my race to the book shop. She was totally enticed by the action. The male character, though not a hero to me, was successful, handsome and charming. But he has a dark streak. I presume that dark side of his personality coined the title 50 SHADES OF GRAY.
When a friend was busy raising two children, often she felt shunned at neighborhood parties. When unknowns gathered and proceeded to asked her what she did for a living, she replied, “I’m busy at home raising two little children.” The inquirers would drift away, uninterested. She began to feel worthless, undervalued.
She needed to add some spice to her resume for the next neighborhood cocktail party.
My pal would bat her long lashes, strike a pose and answer, “I’m a domma matrix!” That got the interest of all in hearing distance. She decided to add a bit of zest, “I find leather, cufflinks and whips to be quite the lure for many who contact me.”
But, was her husband made aware of her new profession? I think not.
Of course, she was only teasing. She was no longer a boring matron playing only Chutes and Ladders with her kids. Neighbors now looked at her with new eyes.
Maybe that’s the basic lure of the SHADES OF GRAY books. They simply add some spice to a long marriage or a boring life.
I was curious. Aren’t you? Best Seller lists are prominent on the internet as well as lots of magazines and newspapers. But the SAME book keeps making that list! Why? What’s the appeal? Is it a racy book? Sounds like it might be. And the scuttlebutt of comments from readers really had me intrigued, even titillated~ humm
50 Shades of Grey has my neighborhood book club appearing with flushed cheeks, heads downs, whispering certain pages to be sure to check out. Naturally, who wouldn’t be curious?
I bought the book, only the first book of the trilogy. I read it. I found out.
Nope, it didn’t make me rush to the store to purchase the next of the series. Even though a friend’s face lit up and her voice grew more agitated and louder, it still didn’t spark my race to the book shop. She was totally enticed by the action. The male character, though not a hero to me, was successful, handsome and charming. But he has a dark streak. I presume that dark side of his personality coined the title 50 SHADES OF GRAY.
When a friend was busy raising two children, often she felt shunned at neighborhood parties. When unknowns gathered and proceeded to asked her what she did for a living, she replied, “I’m busy at home raising two little children.” The inquirers would drift away, uninterested. She began to feel worthless, undervalued.
She needed to add some spice to her resume for the next neighborhood cocktail party.
My pal would bat her long lashes, strike a pose and answer, “I’m a domma matrix!” That got the interest of all in hearing distance. She decided to add a bit of zest, “I find leather, cufflinks and whips to be quite the lure for many who contact me.”
But, was her husband made aware of her new profession? I think not.
Of course, she was only teasing. She was no longer a boring matron playing only Chutes and Ladders with her kids. Neighbors now looked at her with new eyes.
Maybe that’s the basic lure of the SHADES OF GRAY books. They simply add some spice to a long marriage or a boring life.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
MOZART INHOBOKEN
Pat Spilseth writerscircle@mchsi.com
MOZART IN HOBOKEN
What happened to sass and tumultuous tumbles
in and out of love
and adventurous forays with reptilian characters
that lent such disturbance to my existence?
The scrappy spark of my youthful face
has receded and fallen in abandonment of years.
A jowled neck burrows into sagging shoulders
hoisting boned cups to perky awareness.
No longer a girl in bloom
I’m paralyzed with self-doubt
making me prey to wannabe yogis and bona fide geniuses
who temper my depressions with wit and affectionate wisdom.
They’ve been here too
and moved on to another plane or drug-induced planet,
a flight of fancy to other worlds of inspired minds.
Let’s be candid… but, gentle with our candor.
What happened to the tempestuous adolescent
gasping with laughter
at each indiscretion?
Sometimes I soar close to smoky beginnings
where I face all manner of monsters
with composed ferocity and gritty eloquence.
Sober, I cajole myself,
partaking in a few pleasures.
All grown up, I’ve become Mozart in Hoboken.
In my nearsighted, squinty view
It doesn’t pay to see things too clearly.
It’s too bright.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Broken Twigs Emptiness
POEM: BRANCHES February, 2012 Pat Spilseth
Broken twigs twist in the wind,
free fall
as squirrels jump and soar into empty air.
Skeleton fingers
scratch the sky.
This is the winter
that never was
No skaters;
a lone skier glides past
random fishing shacks
on the frozen lake
Danger lurks beneath the ice.
Power ridges buckle,
heave ice floats into monster piles,
flowing water drowns interlopers.
Beware
winter’s ice is not safe.
But it draws me
into its emptiness
Broken twigs twist in the wind,
free fall
as squirrels jump and soar into empty air.
Skeleton fingers
scratch the sky.
This is the winter
that never was
No skaters;
a lone skier glides past
random fishing shacks
on the frozen lake
Danger lurks beneath the ice.
Power ridges buckle,
heave ice floats into monster piles,
flowing water drowns interlopers.
Beware
winter’s ice is not safe.
But it draws me
into its emptiness
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Prom Promises
FROM WHERE I SIT Prom Promises April 5, 2012 Pat Spilseth
It’s prom time. Can you still remember being sixteen or seventeen, getting ready for your magical evening at the prom? The annual high school prom is a rite of passage, one of those memorable rituals of American youth. Its anticipation is full of hopes and dreams few of us will ever forget, no matter if your prom date is Prince Charming or a dud.
I remember...
There I was, in my perfect hairdo, sprayed stiffly with Aqua Net, and a dab of Wind Song perfume purchased at the Corner Drug Store. My image in the full length mirror smiled back at me, dressed in a lovely, hand-me-down, white dress of tulle and satin. The garter belt holding up my tan nylons was scratchy, and the garters pinched, but I was determined to feel lovely. I slipped into my stiff, white 1” heeled slippers, making me just a tad taller that my anticipated date. I grimaced, but...oh, the pain was worth the breath-taking beauty I observed.
There was still time to practice in the mirror. Cocking my head slightly and trying to look dreamy, I put on various facial expressions: should I look demure, ecstatic, surprised, or engage in the latest look I’d read about in “Seventeen” magazine, my teenage Bible? I wasn’t quite comfortable with that flirty look, but “Seventeen” told me that it was the “look” a date was attracted to.
I’d read in the teenage glamour magazine that it was a good idea to practice smooching with a mirror, just in case my date tried to kiss me. One should be prepared. This would be my first kiss. I was a late bloomer. I’d dreamt about this earth-shaking event for months. I was a bit nervous. Just thinking about this monumental event made me blush! Pulling a tube of Pink Kisses lipstick from my white beaded, tiny clutch purse, I lathered color on my quivering lips. Licking my lips several times to make them glisten, as the magazine had told me to do, I hesitantly approached the mirror. Clutching the looking glass shakily with both hands, I pressed my fevered face to the cold mirror and pecked a kiss. That felt weird! I didn’t want to appear too “forward”...that could botch my reputation as a “nice” girl. I tried smacking the kiss with more force. But that sucking noise was a bit overpowering. The noise reminded me of embarrassing, offensive sounds I sure hoped wouldn’t happen to me on this magical evening.
I preferred thinking about the flowers he might bring. I loved daisies. Roses and carnations made me think of dead people. Would he choose a wrist corsage of inexpensive carnations or perhaps he’d bring a small bouquet of flowers from his mom’s garden. That would really be embarrassing! I hoped he wouldn’t pin the flowers on the bodice of my dress. Most high school boys I knew weren’t real smooth. I envisioned getting poked with the piercing pin and bleeding red blood on my white gown. I’d be utterly mortified!
Was that the doorbell? Maybe Mom will get it. Gee, I hope Dad is busy in his sheriff’s office, but what if Blackie and Verdi were sitting at the bars of their jail cell windows checking out my date? That would be totally mortifying! Johnny would have to go through the gauntlet of staring convicts behind bars leering at his suit, probably making snide comments, maybe whistling. Would he even come to the door to pick me up?
Clomping down the stairs from my upstairs bedroom to the kitchen door, I saw him. Gee Whiz...Johnny looked so handsome and grown up in his narrow black tie, starched white shirt and shiny black suit. WOW!
But wait! What’s that under his arms? Is he trying to be funny? Standing tall, dark, and handsome with a crooked smile on his face, my Johnny looked embarrassed. Hobbling on crutches, he knocked at the kitchen door. Stammering an apology for being late, he explained that he’d sprained his ankle at the baseball game after school. Shuttering, I knew, deep in my heart, that my prom evening was doomed.
But remember, there’s still hope for the kiss...
Pasting a smile on my disappointed face, we limped through the Grand March at the Lakeside Ballroom while parents snapped flashbulb photos of their dressed up kids with Brownie cameras. Johnny quickly grabbed a booth, asked for a bucket of ice, and we spent the night with his foot on ice to keep the swelling down. Looking back, I believe that the last place on earth Johnny wanted to be was at the high school prom at the Lakeside Ballroom. It wouldn’t have mattered if his date had been Sandra Dee or Farah Fawcett. Johnny groaned, grimacing in pain as he added freezing ice to the bucket.
Dream on, girls...Enjoy your night of glamour and romance. You’ll be gorgeous. Assuredly, his Mom has told him how to behave and practiced dancing with him. Pretend your date is Prince Charming, dancing with his beautiful princess. As “Seventeen” magazines advised me back in 1962, just put on a smile and have fun! 868
It’s prom time. Can you still remember being sixteen or seventeen, getting ready for your magical evening at the prom? The annual high school prom is a rite of passage, one of those memorable rituals of American youth. Its anticipation is full of hopes and dreams few of us will ever forget, no matter if your prom date is Prince Charming or a dud.
I remember...
There I was, in my perfect hairdo, sprayed stiffly with Aqua Net, and a dab of Wind Song perfume purchased at the Corner Drug Store. My image in the full length mirror smiled back at me, dressed in a lovely, hand-me-down, white dress of tulle and satin. The garter belt holding up my tan nylons was scratchy, and the garters pinched, but I was determined to feel lovely. I slipped into my stiff, white 1” heeled slippers, making me just a tad taller that my anticipated date. I grimaced, but...oh, the pain was worth the breath-taking beauty I observed.
There was still time to practice in the mirror. Cocking my head slightly and trying to look dreamy, I put on various facial expressions: should I look demure, ecstatic, surprised, or engage in the latest look I’d read about in “Seventeen” magazine, my teenage Bible? I wasn’t quite comfortable with that flirty look, but “Seventeen” told me that it was the “look” a date was attracted to.
I’d read in the teenage glamour magazine that it was a good idea to practice smooching with a mirror, just in case my date tried to kiss me. One should be prepared. This would be my first kiss. I was a late bloomer. I’d dreamt about this earth-shaking event for months. I was a bit nervous. Just thinking about this monumental event made me blush! Pulling a tube of Pink Kisses lipstick from my white beaded, tiny clutch purse, I lathered color on my quivering lips. Licking my lips several times to make them glisten, as the magazine had told me to do, I hesitantly approached the mirror. Clutching the looking glass shakily with both hands, I pressed my fevered face to the cold mirror and pecked a kiss. That felt weird! I didn’t want to appear too “forward”...that could botch my reputation as a “nice” girl. I tried smacking the kiss with more force. But that sucking noise was a bit overpowering. The noise reminded me of embarrassing, offensive sounds I sure hoped wouldn’t happen to me on this magical evening.
I preferred thinking about the flowers he might bring. I loved daisies. Roses and carnations made me think of dead people. Would he choose a wrist corsage of inexpensive carnations or perhaps he’d bring a small bouquet of flowers from his mom’s garden. That would really be embarrassing! I hoped he wouldn’t pin the flowers on the bodice of my dress. Most high school boys I knew weren’t real smooth. I envisioned getting poked with the piercing pin and bleeding red blood on my white gown. I’d be utterly mortified!
Was that the doorbell? Maybe Mom will get it. Gee, I hope Dad is busy in his sheriff’s office, but what if Blackie and Verdi were sitting at the bars of their jail cell windows checking out my date? That would be totally mortifying! Johnny would have to go through the gauntlet of staring convicts behind bars leering at his suit, probably making snide comments, maybe whistling. Would he even come to the door to pick me up?
Clomping down the stairs from my upstairs bedroom to the kitchen door, I saw him. Gee Whiz...Johnny looked so handsome and grown up in his narrow black tie, starched white shirt and shiny black suit. WOW!
But wait! What’s that under his arms? Is he trying to be funny? Standing tall, dark, and handsome with a crooked smile on his face, my Johnny looked embarrassed. Hobbling on crutches, he knocked at the kitchen door. Stammering an apology for being late, he explained that he’d sprained his ankle at the baseball game after school. Shuttering, I knew, deep in my heart, that my prom evening was doomed.
But remember, there’s still hope for the kiss...
Pasting a smile on my disappointed face, we limped through the Grand March at the Lakeside Ballroom while parents snapped flashbulb photos of their dressed up kids with Brownie cameras. Johnny quickly grabbed a booth, asked for a bucket of ice, and we spent the night with his foot on ice to keep the swelling down. Looking back, I believe that the last place on earth Johnny wanted to be was at the high school prom at the Lakeside Ballroom. It wouldn’t have mattered if his date had been Sandra Dee or Farah Fawcett. Johnny groaned, grimacing in pain as he added freezing ice to the bucket.
Dream on, girls...Enjoy your night of glamour and romance. You’ll be gorgeous. Assuredly, his Mom has told him how to behave and practiced dancing with him. Pretend your date is Prince Charming, dancing with his beautiful princess. As “Seventeen” magazines advised me back in 1962, just put on a smile and have fun! 868
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Holiday Weekend in Mexico City
Holiday Weekend in Mexico City
National holiday weekends in Mexico City gather crowds of people to the city square where they’re an abundance of loud music, costumed dancers and street vendors hawking their wares. What a treat for pale Minnesotans to smell spicy foods cooking and sniff fresh flowers in the balmy March air. We were visiting our daughter and her husband this past holiday weekend. Congested lanes of cars, common to the city, are not allowed on the square. People gather to enjoy street performers, music, and food as they celebrate their Mexican independence.
The Zocolo, the city’s historic downtown square, is surrounded by an historic church, ancient museums, shopping stalls, and government buildings. Fresh flowers are sold on street corners and pungent herbs permeate the air as shamans swing smoldering balls of incense and brush herb bunches across bodies wanting to be cleansed of evil spirits. Costumed Aztec dancers dip and twirl to resounding drum beats, showing off muscular, bronzed torsos above their lion cloths of metallic fringe and shiny silver medallions. Colorful headdresses of multiple bird feathers at least 4’ high decorate their heads. Dancing feet have seed bells strapped on their ankles which jingle with the dancers’ stomps and whirls. Bodies circle and conjure good spirits to fill the square.
As we walk through the Zocolo teeming with people selling their wares, we spy a crowd clapping and cheering, circling a tag team of break dancers. They’re performing awe-inspiring feats to a steady beat of hip-hop music, spinning on their heads, flipping, and twisting their limber bodies into unimaginable gyrations to the delight of a fast growing crowd. One young man crossed his feet behind his head, flipped upside down and walked on his hands. It almost hurts to watch their contortions.
Music blares from pirated CD’s for sale, and vendors hawk wares spread on blankets on the sidewalk. Vendors hurriedly scoop up the blanket if the police appear. Next to knock-off Coach and Louis Vitton purses are batteries, nylon stockings, bath towels, Dora the Explorer backpacks, sequined headbands, even guitars and baby clothing for sale. Mexicans are very industrious, constantly finding imaginative ways to make money.
In a city museum just off the square we see calla lilies and revolutionary patriots with bullets in a leather strap across their bodies, favorite images on the many murals painted on museum walls. Works of favorite Mexican artists Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo, with her dark, distinctive unibrow, are featured everywhere.
Locals eat lunch around 2PM in the city, dinner about 8PM. Sunday, we were guests of our Mexican in-laws at a lovely restaurant in the jeweler section of the city. Oil paintings and stained glass windows lined the walls; a violinist and pianist entertained diners as black and white uniformed waiters served. Everyone seems to be smiling in this country of sunshine and flowers.
We visited a newly opened art museum donated by telecommunications mogul Carlos Slim. He is the world’s wealthiest man with a net worth of $53.5 billion. The seventy year old dynamo dedicated this $34 million Soumaya Art Museum in honor of his deceased wife. Admission to the six halls of art is free, a gift to the city. The building, designed by the donor’s son-in-law Fernando Romero, reminds me of Frank Gehry’s architecture in Minneapolis. This aluminum structure resembles the twisted silver corset of a woman. It’s definitely an eye popper.
The building is arranged with ascending galleries curling up to 5 halls of magnificent art displays, much like New York City’s MOMA Art Museum. We were able to view an entire gallery of Rodin’s sculptures: we saw “The Thinker” eye to eye. Salvador Dali’s sagging clocks were evident in many of Dali’s painting and sculptures, bizarre but so eye-catching. The curling mustachioed artist had a fine classical art education, which morphed into rather bizarre art, prompting much discussion. The museum’s massive art collection included paintings and sculptures by Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Matisse and Manet in addition to a multitude of Mexican artists’ works.
At Mexico City’s American School, our daughter Kate assigned a written art project for her first graders. They were to write about a favorite artist. Miguel chose the Mexican painter Segurro. Kate asked why he chose this artist. “Well, Miss Kate,” Miguel replied, “my family has a painting by Segurro on a wall at our home.” Pausing a bit, he went on to explain, “Actually, Miss Kate, we have 4 of his paintings, but my mother said to tell you we only have one. I’m not supposed to brag.” Kate has an unusual group of students. Several children have body guards, and one little boy arrives in a helicopter each morning. The school is surrounded by tall cement walls and armed guards. Kate’s teaching experience is much different than any I’ve had, but it sure is fun to hear about her students.
Mexico City is a city of 23 million people and honking cars on multi traffic lanes. It’s very noisy; I don’t hear birds and am constantly short of breath in this 7000’ elevation. But each visit I make here, the ever-blooming trees and flowers, castles, pink and turquoise adobe buildings, sculptures, parks, and fascinating history continue to charm me. Though my daughter Kate tells me she misses family and friends back in Minnesota, I know my blonde daughter continues to thrive in this exciting city of sunshine and smiling people.
National holiday weekends in Mexico City gather crowds of people to the city square where they’re an abundance of loud music, costumed dancers and street vendors hawking their wares. What a treat for pale Minnesotans to smell spicy foods cooking and sniff fresh flowers in the balmy March air. We were visiting our daughter and her husband this past holiday weekend. Congested lanes of cars, common to the city, are not allowed on the square. People gather to enjoy street performers, music, and food as they celebrate their Mexican independence.
The Zocolo, the city’s historic downtown square, is surrounded by an historic church, ancient museums, shopping stalls, and government buildings. Fresh flowers are sold on street corners and pungent herbs permeate the air as shamans swing smoldering balls of incense and brush herb bunches across bodies wanting to be cleansed of evil spirits. Costumed Aztec dancers dip and twirl to resounding drum beats, showing off muscular, bronzed torsos above their lion cloths of metallic fringe and shiny silver medallions. Colorful headdresses of multiple bird feathers at least 4’ high decorate their heads. Dancing feet have seed bells strapped on their ankles which jingle with the dancers’ stomps and whirls. Bodies circle and conjure good spirits to fill the square.
As we walk through the Zocolo teeming with people selling their wares, we spy a crowd clapping and cheering, circling a tag team of break dancers. They’re performing awe-inspiring feats to a steady beat of hip-hop music, spinning on their heads, flipping, and twisting their limber bodies into unimaginable gyrations to the delight of a fast growing crowd. One young man crossed his feet behind his head, flipped upside down and walked on his hands. It almost hurts to watch their contortions.
Music blares from pirated CD’s for sale, and vendors hawk wares spread on blankets on the sidewalk. Vendors hurriedly scoop up the blanket if the police appear. Next to knock-off Coach and Louis Vitton purses are batteries, nylon stockings, bath towels, Dora the Explorer backpacks, sequined headbands, even guitars and baby clothing for sale. Mexicans are very industrious, constantly finding imaginative ways to make money.
In a city museum just off the square we see calla lilies and revolutionary patriots with bullets in a leather strap across their bodies, favorite images on the many murals painted on museum walls. Works of favorite Mexican artists Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo, with her dark, distinctive unibrow, are featured everywhere.
Locals eat lunch around 2PM in the city, dinner about 8PM. Sunday, we were guests of our Mexican in-laws at a lovely restaurant in the jeweler section of the city. Oil paintings and stained glass windows lined the walls; a violinist and pianist entertained diners as black and white uniformed waiters served. Everyone seems to be smiling in this country of sunshine and flowers.
We visited a newly opened art museum donated by telecommunications mogul Carlos Slim. He is the world’s wealthiest man with a net worth of $53.5 billion. The seventy year old dynamo dedicated this $34 million Soumaya Art Museum in honor of his deceased wife. Admission to the six halls of art is free, a gift to the city. The building, designed by the donor’s son-in-law Fernando Romero, reminds me of Frank Gehry’s architecture in Minneapolis. This aluminum structure resembles the twisted silver corset of a woman. It’s definitely an eye popper.
The building is arranged with ascending galleries curling up to 5 halls of magnificent art displays, much like New York City’s MOMA Art Museum. We were able to view an entire gallery of Rodin’s sculptures: we saw “The Thinker” eye to eye. Salvador Dali’s sagging clocks were evident in many of Dali’s painting and sculptures, bizarre but so eye-catching. The curling mustachioed artist had a fine classical art education, which morphed into rather bizarre art, prompting much discussion. The museum’s massive art collection included paintings and sculptures by Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, Matisse and Manet in addition to a multitude of Mexican artists’ works.
At Mexico City’s American School, our daughter Kate assigned a written art project for her first graders. They were to write about a favorite artist. Miguel chose the Mexican painter Segurro. Kate asked why he chose this artist. “Well, Miss Kate,” Miguel replied, “my family has a painting by Segurro on a wall at our home.” Pausing a bit, he went on to explain, “Actually, Miss Kate, we have 4 of his paintings, but my mother said to tell you we only have one. I’m not supposed to brag.” Kate has an unusual group of students. Several children have body guards, and one little boy arrives in a helicopter each morning. The school is surrounded by tall cement walls and armed guards. Kate’s teaching experience is much different than any I’ve had, but it sure is fun to hear about her students.
Mexico City is a city of 23 million people and honking cars on multi traffic lanes. It’s very noisy; I don’t hear birds and am constantly short of breath in this 7000’ elevation. But each visit I make here, the ever-blooming trees and flowers, castles, pink and turquoise adobe buildings, sculptures, parks, and fascinating history continue to charm me. Though my daughter Kate tells me she misses family and friends back in Minnesota, I know my blonde daughter continues to thrive in this exciting city of sunshine and smiling people.
Easter Bonnets
Easter Bonnets March 4, 2008
When I was a little girl, I was so excited about Easter dresses and bonnets shown in store windows and newspaper ads. Other little girls wore frilly, brand-new party dresses in pink, yellow and blue to Easter church services every year. Though they usually shivered in their lacey white socks and spring flower dresses, I couldn’t help but admire their patent leather Mary Jane shoes and Easter bonnets with flowers and ribbons. Though I was warm in my old winter jacket, wool pleated skirt and white blouse, truth be told, I wished I could be them. I was jealous!
Easter dresses were my yearly dream, but there wasn’t any extra money for frivolities at my house. Mom did spend a few pennies at the dime store downtown on yellow, chenille baby chicks to decorate our Easter dining table along with the dyed Easter eggs.
I remember one year Aunt Sadie sewed dresses for my baby sister Barbie and me on her treadle Singer sewing machine. My Easter dress was an ice blue, puckered, nylon fabric with puffy short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar, with a big bow tied in back. Proudly I wore a rhinestone locket with my sapphire birthstone, a gift from Elmer, my favorite prisoner at the jail.
Posing Barbie and me on the front step of our house, Mom took several photos of us with her Brownie camera. I had a fresh haircut and Barbie’s straight hair was curled for the holiday guests my parents had invited for ham dinner and scalloped potatoes after Easter church services.
Years later, things were different. I’ll never forget shopping with Mom for a “marked down” dress hanging forlornly on the rack at the back of a local department store. By this time I was in junior high, waiting for my body to develop like the other girls I’d peek at in gym showers. Why was I one of the last to develop, to get a garter belt, to be chosen on a softball team, to have a boy look at me? That mauve dress with stitched down pleats on the bodice and a navy polka dot bow at the peter pan collar was my Easter dress. No stiff, starched crinolines were required. It was too big for me. Back then, parents thought kids could “grow into those clothes” and save a few dollars.
One item my parents didn’t skimp on with money was good shoes. We had to have Buster Brown shoes so our arches would have support, and our feet wouldn’t develop corns or hammer toes. We went to Iverson’s Shoe Store in Alexandria where a cardboard, stand-up Buster Brown and his dog looked down at me with their big brown eyes.
Today I wonder who would come up with such an ugly dress for a self-conscious, budding teenager? It wasn’t pretty in pastels with lace or ribbons; it was bland. But it was somewhat new. The discount rack hadn’t frayed the polka dot bow or faded the dress. No one trying on the dress had torn the hem or dirtied the neckline. For some reason, that not quite-right dress remains registered in my mind.. Maybe what remains is the uncomfortable feeling I had when I wore that dress. That year I also wore my first pair of silky nylons with seams running crookedly up the back of my leg with stiff ballet flats.
Bunnies are building nests for their babies-to-be as they hop their way to our house through crunchy snow. Colorfully dyed eggs have to be hidden for the annual Easter egg hunt. a tradition at our house, from the time our kids were little people, when I dressed Andy in short pants with a matching jacket, shirt and knee socks. Kate wore an Easter dress with bunnies eating carrots appliquéd on her white collar. A straw hat with ribbons tied around her chubby chin kept flipping off her head as she ran.
I'll never forget Dave filming the kids and their cousins running around our yard looking for hidden eggs to drop into their straw baskets. Kate and Andy spied the same blue egg, hidden under a tree covered in leaves. Rushing to grab it first, they collided! Noticing that Andy had a few more yellow and green eggs than she, Kate dove for the blue egg, getting grass stains on her new dress. Her hat fell off, crushed under Andy’s kicking foot. He wasn’t about to let big sister grab that egg without a tussle! Andy wrestled the egg from big sister’s scratching fingernails, only to have Kate smash his blonde head with her straw basket!
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Dave kept filming the riotous fray; I ran to break up the fighting twosome as the relatives laughed uproariously! It was an Easter to remember for years. We play the same video each holiday. Some things don’t change.
When I was a little girl, I was so excited about Easter dresses and bonnets shown in store windows and newspaper ads. Other little girls wore frilly, brand-new party dresses in pink, yellow and blue to Easter church services every year. Though they usually shivered in their lacey white socks and spring flower dresses, I couldn’t help but admire their patent leather Mary Jane shoes and Easter bonnets with flowers and ribbons. Though I was warm in my old winter jacket, wool pleated skirt and white blouse, truth be told, I wished I could be them. I was jealous!
Easter dresses were my yearly dream, but there wasn’t any extra money for frivolities at my house. Mom did spend a few pennies at the dime store downtown on yellow, chenille baby chicks to decorate our Easter dining table along with the dyed Easter eggs.
I remember one year Aunt Sadie sewed dresses for my baby sister Barbie and me on her treadle Singer sewing machine. My Easter dress was an ice blue, puckered, nylon fabric with puffy short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar, with a big bow tied in back. Proudly I wore a rhinestone locket with my sapphire birthstone, a gift from Elmer, my favorite prisoner at the jail.
Posing Barbie and me on the front step of our house, Mom took several photos of us with her Brownie camera. I had a fresh haircut and Barbie’s straight hair was curled for the holiday guests my parents had invited for ham dinner and scalloped potatoes after Easter church services.
Years later, things were different. I’ll never forget shopping with Mom for a “marked down” dress hanging forlornly on the rack at the back of a local department store. By this time I was in junior high, waiting for my body to develop like the other girls I’d peek at in gym showers. Why was I one of the last to develop, to get a garter belt, to be chosen on a softball team, to have a boy look at me? That mauve dress with stitched down pleats on the bodice and a navy polka dot bow at the peter pan collar was my Easter dress. No stiff, starched crinolines were required. It was too big for me. Back then, parents thought kids could “grow into those clothes” and save a few dollars.
One item my parents didn’t skimp on with money was good shoes. We had to have Buster Brown shoes so our arches would have support, and our feet wouldn’t develop corns or hammer toes. We went to Iverson’s Shoe Store in Alexandria where a cardboard, stand-up Buster Brown and his dog looked down at me with their big brown eyes.
Today I wonder who would come up with such an ugly dress for a self-conscious, budding teenager? It wasn’t pretty in pastels with lace or ribbons; it was bland. But it was somewhat new. The discount rack hadn’t frayed the polka dot bow or faded the dress. No one trying on the dress had torn the hem or dirtied the neckline. For some reason, that not quite-right dress remains registered in my mind.. Maybe what remains is the uncomfortable feeling I had when I wore that dress. That year I also wore my first pair of silky nylons with seams running crookedly up the back of my leg with stiff ballet flats.
Bunnies are building nests for their babies-to-be as they hop their way to our house through crunchy snow. Colorfully dyed eggs have to be hidden for the annual Easter egg hunt. a tradition at our house, from the time our kids were little people, when I dressed Andy in short pants with a matching jacket, shirt and knee socks. Kate wore an Easter dress with bunnies eating carrots appliquéd on her white collar. A straw hat with ribbons tied around her chubby chin kept flipping off her head as she ran.
I'll never forget Dave filming the kids and their cousins running around our yard looking for hidden eggs to drop into their straw baskets. Kate and Andy spied the same blue egg, hidden under a tree covered in leaves. Rushing to grab it first, they collided! Noticing that Andy had a few more yellow and green eggs than she, Kate dove for the blue egg, getting grass stains on her new dress. Her hat fell off, crushed under Andy’s kicking foot. He wasn’t about to let big sister grab that egg without a tussle! Andy wrestled the egg from big sister’s scratching fingernails, only to have Kate smash his blonde head with her straw basket!
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Dave kept filming the riotous fray; I ran to break up the fighting twosome as the relatives laughed uproariously! It was an Easter to remember for years. We play the same video each holiday. Some things don’t change.
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