FROM WHERE I SIT  COKE TIME  April 19, 2013  Pat DeKok Spilseth

An image of teens swiveling on padded stools at the counter at Setter’ Drug Store flashed into my mind this week.   I got a phone call from Diane Femrite Peterson, my classmate at Glenwood High School.  She worked behind the soda fountain counter filling orders for cherry coke and lemon-limes in short glasses with straws.  Other friends, Janet Holtberg and Bonnie Faulkner, also worked at the drug store.  I worked across the street at the Corner Drug Store with Julian Mortensbak, Marv Dyerstad and young pharmacist Larry Torguerson.   What a crew we were back in 1962!

High schooler kids were lucky to get after school and weekend jobs at stores in downtown Glenwood.  We had a ball working, but we also p earned spending money for those cherry cokes and perhaps a new outfit at Glenwear or going movie tickets at the Glenwood Theatre on weekends.  It sure was nice to meet our friends at the A&W on the hill and buy some fries and a frosted root beer or a curly top cone at the Dairy Queen down by the lake.

After work on summer weekends, we’d grab out swimsuits and head for the beach.  It was always our goal to swim out to the farthest diving tower and meet on the top platform.  Oh, the mystery and tantalizing draw of a dark night, a full moon, and skinny dip swimming with our pals at the beach.  Naturally, it tempting to shed out suits and giggle about skinny dipping in the dark.  We were naive teenager, most of us were shy about our bodies so the darkness helped our inhibitions.  We’d tie our one-piece suits to the swim tower so they wouldn’t float away, rush to climb the cold metal stairs and emerge in all our glory by the light of the full moon.  As quickly as possibly, we’d dive in the water, only to repeat the same procedure again an again.  What a thrill!  Remember, this was 1962.  Our thrills were rather simple in those days.  

Other balmy evenings we’d take Dad’s car out to Halvorson’s Point and have a bonfire on the beach.  Someone might have a guitar; someone might bring a keg of beer to share, and we’d sing and talk into the wee hours.  Most of us had to be home by midnight, even earlier because in those days we had curfews imposed by our parents. Most of us obeyed the rules.  If we didn’t, we paid in one way or another.  I’d get the cold shoulder treatment, get sent to my room to “think” about my indiscretion and ruminate until I’d end up feeling so bad.  Then Dad would knock on my door, come in, and proceed to lament about how bad he felt that I wasn’t respecting his and Mom’s rules.  After all, the rules were for my betterment.  Of course, I bought the story and vowed never to disobey again.  That lasted at least a week until one of my buddies would lure me to another adventure.

We all wore thick, white bobby socks almost reaching our knees in those days.  Rarely did we cuff them; wearing them rolled up all the way was an “in” factor of the day.  Some kids wore black and white saddle shoes...WHY were they called saddle shoes?  They looked noting like a horse saddle.  Many wore white tennis shoes; the “in” crow wore penny loafers.  We bought “dickies” to go around our neck and fastened the collar with a little metal hook & eye or a snap.  Usually the dickie was a white fabric resembling the popular Peter Pan collars of a blouse.  It went with our short sleeved wool sweaters and wool pleated Pendleton skirts or circle skirts with plenty of stiff crinolines underneath to make the skirt stick out fully.  

Girls had to enroll in home economics classes where Mrs. Le Masters taught us how to cook, sew, and walk with good posture.  We copied recipes on file cars and filed them alphabetically in little metal recipe boxes with flip top lids.  The boys had shop classes where they learned how to change oil in cars, made book cases, magazine racks and metal shop where they made oil cans.   That’s what prisoners did at the Stillwater Penitentury.   Elmer, the prisoner paroled to Dad, came with a family picnic table he’d made in prison out of yellow and red metal plus the same little table for my sister Barbie and me.  He also had a leather tooling class in the pen where he made a belt for Dad and a tooled purse for Mom.  Elmer took me to the movie shows when I was a little girl, but when he returned to his home and old friends in Nebraska he got back into trouble.  He died in a high speed chase after a robbery.  Those incidents always led Mom to teach the lesson that “you’re known by the company you keep.”  Also, Dad and Mom believed the guys in jail weren’t bad men; they just made some bad choices.  The jail offered so many lessons for Barbie and me.  A favorite was the to not waste your education.  Our jail friend Blackie had a university degree, but liquor became his choice in life, another bad decision, which Mom repeated often.

Isn’t it interesting what memories are triggered by a phone call from a lost-lost friend?  We reminisced about classmates, our escapades, and our current families.  I did forgot to ask her more about the Bum’s Hideout in the woods above her family home near the tracks.  We found some burnt out cans of beans in a campfire one day when we dared to venture into those woods.  That reminds me of the abandoned rail cars up on the hill where Punky used to race through in his Dad’s collector car, a Model A or Model T.  With a car full of girls, Puny would step on the gas and yell, “OK, you bums, rush us~”  How exilerating those times were!

SPRINGTIME RITUALS

Springtime Rituals           March 13, 2007      Pat /DeKok Spilseth


You can hear it everywhere, the sound of trickling water. Spring is washing away winter’s landscape of gray skies and white, frozen lakes. Like broken eggshells, ice chunks, pushed up and over each another onto the shore, slowly crack and settle among dirty deposits of stringy sod, random stones, woven grass clippings, tree branches, dead bugs and frozen rodent carcasses. Frozen shorelines disintegrate, break off in chunks, and spill into the lake, taking a few inches of shore away from my property each spring.

Sidewalk puddles destroy my shoes as I walk Buddy, my Beagle, on his daily constitutional. Pot holes dug by thundering snowplows and construction trucks have plowed dirty banks and smashed ice chunks, destroying the fragile pavement of our roads around the lake.

My progress is impeded by patches of ice and sink holes big enough for Buddy to disappear into.  He’s oblivious. Buddy doesn’t mind the slick ice or swarming mud. The water puddles clean his paws, lightening his load. Obstacles are a challenge to the mutt. He’s invigorated. He mounts the biggest, dirtiest, plowed chunks on the roadside to see what’s on the other side. It must be like climbing a mountain…because it’s there, the mountain has to be climbed. Buddy plows through, knowing I’ll wipe off his little paws before he enters the house, hoping to avoid muddied paw prints on my hardwood floors and his signature prints on our glass door and windows.

He’s a sniffer and a looker! Spring means smells, intoxicating to my dog. Buddy is literally drunk on smells of the season!

Springtime has me slipping back to earlier days at First Creek and the cold, swift-running, bubbling water among the aged trees of the ski hills. It was a spring ritual to check the frigid temperatures at the creek by putting a toe in the icy stream, then search the woods for fuzzy pussy willows. Martha , my neighborhood buddy from first grade, was the best seeker of the furry gems. We’d bring a jackknife on our adventure to cut the pussy willows, put them in a glass Mason jar for our moms and admire our treasures as they stood in the tall windows of the jailhouse kitchen.

I can feel it in my fingers itching to dig in the garden and smell the green buds sprouting from the trees. I itch to be outdoors. Where did I put my gardening gloves and the plant food? Oh, here they are, stuffed behind my bike with the flat tires.

Elusive Springtime

FROM WHERE I SIT Elusive Springtime MARCH 16, 2013 Pat Spilseth




I smell the fresh scent of SPRING in the air. I’m imagining juicy green grass, newly sprouting, on my lawn, blue waves pounding the shoreline, and robins and bluebirds returning from sunny southern climes.



After all, isn’t the spring equinox March 20? There are two equinoxes every year – in March and September – when the sun shines directly on the equator and the length of day and night is nearly equal. Newspapers are calling reader to guess the date of our annual ICE OUT! Usually, there’s a prize to the best guesser.

Yes, it’s official; spring will definitely happen, eventually. Who hasn’t had enough of freezing sleet, snow banks, and endless flakes falling? I’m tired of looking outside my windows to dirty 12” snow banks, slippery sidewalks of ice, and speedy drivers crashing into each other. Then the sirens begin to wail, ambulances arrive, and stretchers appear, lawyers are called and law suits filed. Some people will do anything to make a buck!

I’ve had it with bulky, black, down overcoats, adding pounds to my body, stretchy wool hats, mittens, and rubber goulashes! Messy snow boots, crusty with sand and snow, litter the foyer of my house; coats, caps and scarves drape the bentwood hat rack standing in the hallway. The basket of furry slippers is next to the door, greeting guests as they arrive with wet boots.



I’m tired of hot soups, grilled cheese sandwiches, and tuna casseroles. I’ve eaten enough beef, pork, and turkey roasts to line my stomach for years. Cold winter weather brings on cravings for cookies, especially if the icy forces Buddy and me to stay inside. To combat the grayness of winter doldrums and isolation, I get out the butter, eggs, sugar and flour. I bake. I eat. I add unnecessary pounds to my aging body. But my spirits soar with a sugar high as smells from the oven waft into the rest of the house, drawing me into the kitchen for another cookie or two or three. Nothing can beat a gooey chocolate chip on gray days.



Most cross-country skiers, kids skating with their dogs, and fishermen in their cramped ice houses have left the lake empty of color and activity. But in a few short weeks, boats will roar through the lake channels and water skiers in wet suits will appear on the Bay. Para sailors will float in the skies with their colorful sails. As soon as the temperatures rise about 50 degrees, neighbors in canoes and kayaks will paddle past me as I sit on my deck reading. Everyone has been waiting for a eternity for springtime weather!



Grandkids will appear in my neighbor’s yard next door. Soon they’ll run to my house, looking for Buddy, my friendly Beagle and they’ll inquire what kind of cookies have I baked today. Then I’ll hear about Cooper’s new soccer and base ball teams, his batting average, and the cutie’s endless stream of girlfriends. After all, he is so handsome. Feminine Ellie will demonstrate her dance routine and kick a soccer ball to Ethan and Jackson who would rather play baseball and hope that Buddywill fetch their run-away balls.



Bikes will circle Casco Point as Dads bring out weathered docks to stretch out on the lake as soon as the ice clears. Pounding will commence: new roofs, decks, and new home construction has already begun. Spring cleaners will begin toting excess stuff to be stored in over-stuffed garages. Lawn furniture’s winter dirt and dust have to be sprayed with the garden hose; gardens must be tilled and seeds planted; lawns need fertilizer and an extra dose of moisture. Window washers will tote water buckets, rags, and spray cleaners to polish the glass and clean off spider webs left over from last fall. Homeowners will check on which chairs and boards needs a fresh coat of paint. Storm window will be removed and screens cleaned. Hanging baskets of flowers will appear on decks, and window boxes filled with geraniums and petunias will add a well-needed dose of vibrant color to life on the lake.



Spring clean up routine makes the season a busy time of year. But there’s a new sight and sound: along with the cardinals and nuthatches at my bird feeder outside the kitchen window, I hear a persistent loud woodpecker knocking at the redwood siding on our house. Those persistent ants are back! YUCK! Time to get out the ant poison, but careful, Buddy may think the poison is food, his endless obsession. At night I can hear the cries of raccoon babies prowling the trees in my yard looking for a hole to sleep; mice and moles will appear, and bunnies are hopping from shrubs to gardens in the neighborhood. Those elusive deer and coyotes that lurked in the park and marsh in my neighborhood will have added foliage to hide in as leaves appear on the maples, oaks and elms. It’s exciting to see deer run through our yards and dive into the lake to swim across the Bay to a more wooded area. They’re so fast and so beautiful.



Spring is almost here. Though I haven’t put away winter coats, sweaters and cords, I long for lighter clothing, bright colors, and getting the Adirondack chairs out onto the deck. Maybe I’ll pump up the bike’s tires, just in case the weekend’s promised warmth will allow a few spins around the neighborhood. 914

Ancient Mayan Ruins

FROM WHERE I SIT Ancient Mayan ruins in Mexico Feb. 15, 2013




Last week we flew to sunny Playa del Carmen, Mexico, and visited the ancient Mayan ruins at Tulum. Each time we take a trip outside the USA, I’m reminded of how young my country is in relation to other countries around the world. When we visit our daughter in Mexico City, we’ve enjoyed the ancient canals of Xochimilco, a UNESCO World Heritage Site in the far south of Mexico City. These canals were built in pre-Hispanic times by the Aztecs who created floating flower and vegetable gardens. Tourists buy flowers, fruit, Corona Mexican beer, and tacos from boats floating on the canals and enjoy the music of mariachi bands floating on another boat. Many canals were part of Mexico City until the Spanish came with their horses and filled in this mode of transportation.



In the 1990’s Dave was flying American Airline flights to Cairo, Egypt, and took his family along to a different world. We rode camels to the pyramids and colorful Ramadan tents erected in the desert. We visited bustling, ancient markets from before Christ’s time and entered the City of the Dead where people live in tombs of wealthy, deceased residents where electricity was piped in for TV reception. People living there still cook on open fires on dirt floors.



Sometime I’d like to visit England’s Stonehenge where historians are still studying the monumental rock formations created thousands of years ago. I loved friendly Italy where I visited Rome’s Coliseum to see where gladiators had fought lions and Cameo Joe sold ivory cameos to fascinated tourists. As I walked through the underground tombs, where bones slept and ancient Christians worshipped, history’s timeline cast an eerie spell over me.



Most of us are fascinated by Europe’s towering cathedrals, castles, and royalty. Tourists can observe that life was so different in those years filled with opulent splendors for the ruling classes, but Charles Dickens wrote of the underclass’ dire poverty, their daily struggle to raise families with little food and shelter.



We read that Mexico’s Tulum ruins are the third most visited archaeological site in Mexico just outside of Playa del Carmen on the Riviera Maya south of Cancun . On a cliff overlooking the Caribbean, Tulum represents an advanced civilization that flourished from around 1200 AD until the arrival of the Spanish. It was one of the last cities built and inhabited by the Mayans. Tulum was inhabited by 1000 to 1600 people who lived in platform dwellings along a street and supervised the trade traffic. Most inhabitants lived outside the walled city, leaving the interior for residences of the governors and priests and ceremonial structures. At its height, between the 13th and 15th centuries, it managed to survive about 70 years after the Spanish began occupying Mexico and brought Old World diseases causing the city’s demise.



Tulum means “enclosure”. It was protected from invasions by a 16 ft thick wall on three sides, interrupted by five gates. The original name is believed to have been Zama or Dawn, reflecting the west-east alignment of its buildings facing the sunrise. Tulum had access to both land and sea trade routes, making it an important trade hub, especially for obsidian, a dark stone highly valued.



Tulum appears to have been an important site for the worship of the Diving or Descending god, the main god honored at Tulum depicted on several buildings as an upside-down figure above doorways. Castillo, or the castle, is Tulum’s largest and most prominent building. It served as a landmark for sailors. Directly opposite the castle is a cove and landing beach at a break in the sea cliffs, perfect for trading canoes to come in.



The Temple of the Frescoes in front of the castle was used as an observatory for tracking movements of the sun. 13th century frescoes are contained inside, but visitors are no longer permitted to go inside. The Mayan frescoes represent the rain god Chaac and Ixchel, goddess of weaving, women, the moon, and medicine. Supernatural serpents are a common motif. On the cornice of the temple is a relief of the head of the rain god.. From a distance visitors can make out his eyes, nose, mouth and chin.



Coastal and land routes converged at Tulum, apparent by the number of artifacts found in or near the site. Contacts with areas all over Central Mexico and Central America are apparent by copper artifacts from the Mexican highlands plus flint artifacts, ceramics, incense burners, and gold objects from all over the Yucatan. Salt and textiles were some of the goods brought to Tulum by sea. Typical exported goods included feathers and copper objects coming form inland sources. They could be transported by sea to rivers and taken inland by seafaring canoes with access to the highlands and lowlands.



Today, we continue to wonder at the knowledge of the Egyptians, Aztecs, and Mayans, who understood when to plant, when to harvest, and how to build pyramids. The knowledge of the moon, sun, and tides these ancient civilizations had is totally amazing to anyone visiting these sites today. 859 words

Coolness!

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?

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.

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.