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

Backyard Enchantment

FROM WHERE I SIT Backyard Enchantment Pat DeKok Spilseth




When summer arrives in full bloom, there’s a special kind of enchantment. Summer breezes smell extra fine. Grass feels softer. Waves gently lick the shore. Hammocks swing slowly between backyard trees, and we fall into a deep sleep.



Remember when your mom told you to go out and play? You did. Kids got up a backyard ball game and played ante ante over the shed storing rakes and mowers, winter skis, skates and toboggans. Little tykes blew bubbles through the wire wand of the bubble bottle, chasing them in until they burst far up in the clouds. Some created plays on backyard stages. You stayed outside all day long until the supper whistle blew, then raced home to eat with the family at the kitchen table.



Do people still take time to enjoy relaxing in their backyards? I hope so, but with both Mom and Dad working; the kids in day care or school, and grandparents living many miles away...who uses their backyards anymore? Kids’ schedules are crammed with supervised lessons in every sport, music and language. Do children today have free time to play? Is the backyard another sign of oblivion like the front porch?



When I was a kid, we used to play dress up with neighbors’ cast off hats, trailing bridal veils, and bridesmaids’ bouffant, pastel dresses. We paraded with measured steps, pretending to be part of a wedding party. Some backyards had a swing set and a slide. Jeanie Zimma’s grandparents had a play house in their yard for us to have tea parties and play with our dolls. My backyard had a sweeping, weeping willow tree where I would sit with my pals on a high branch, lean back against another branch, and swap tales. No parent or neighbor could see up through the leafy tendrils hanging to the ground. How cool the shade felt on hot summer days sitting in the tree sharing our dreams.



When Dad was sheriff, my backyard at our jail home was across the street from the red brick Lutheran church. Kids would gather before choir practice and confirmation classes to roll down our huge, grassy hill, squealing with delight. We’d pick dandelions and braid the yellow weeds into crowns. Lazy summer afternoons we’d stretch out on the sweet smelling grass and search for four leaf clovers to bring good luck. If we were lucky, we’d find one or two, press them into the thick Webster Dictionary, and save them in a special box. On the cement sidewalk, we’d draw hopscotch squares with chalk and jump from one block to the other, scattering those nasty, sandy ant hills with our white tennis shoes.



Mom’s laundry was hung on our backyard clothes lines on Monday, her designated wash day. Her clothes pin bucket was a tiny dress whose skirt held the wooden clothespins anchoring clothing to the lines strung between metal posts. White bed sheets flapped on the two outside lines; panties, slips and bras, BVD underwear, night gowns, and pajamas were hung on the inside line. No one was supposed to see these “unmentionables”.



We created a camp out tent by pinning Dad’s gray, wool, army blankets to the clothesline. Though we wanted to spend the night outdoors, often we got too scared or rambunctious in the tent telling ghost stories. The pins holding the tent would pop, and the blankets collapse on giggling girls underneath. When we remembered that the jail prisoners were only a few feet from our tent, it spooked us. Our imaginations, the starry black night, and those unidentifiable monster sounds frightened us so thoroughly by midnight that we’d abandon our tent and run to the safety of the back door.



Mom and her friends enjoyed coffee and cookies while they visited in the backyard’s metal lawn chairs, which could get blistering hot. The soft grass cooled our feet, especially after the Courthouse caretaker Herman Quist mowed the lawn, making the air sweetly scented with newly mown grass. His helper, friendly Lee Sorset, would often stop to visit with us until Herman appeared; then Lee tried to look busy once more.



Dad liked to relax with a cigarette in the evening. He sat in a lawn chair in the backyard watching the traffic on Minnewaska Avenue. He could see who was walking down the sidewalks towards downtown, veterans going in for a drink at the Legion Hall, someone being booked at the police station, and ambulances bringing bodies to Hoplin’s Funeral Home. We had quite the view!



Sitting in the backyard on Sunday mornings, we could see who was coming to church services at Glenwood Lutheran Church. Of course, we also noted who wasn’t coming to church. It was a thrill to watch brides in their veils and long white gowns, bridesmaids with their big skirts and bouquets, and the groomsmen in their black tuxedoes. Photographer Vernon Hegg would shoot pictures of the guests throwing rice at the bridal couple. I loved hearing the couple’s car with tin cans and noisemakers attached making a huge racket as they drove away for their honeymoon.



As a kid, possibilities seemed endless when it came to wasting away a summer day. Finding a soft patch of grass under a tree to lie on my back, I’d gaze dreamily into the floating clouds in the sky. English politician John Lubbock wrote, “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”



I love perfect summer days in my backyard, hearing neighbor’s grandkids laughing as they jump off the dock into the lake. Summer doesn’t last forever... Take time to dial back to those empty days of a simpler time. Give yourself the luxury of enjoying summer in your backyard. 991

the Marlboro Man

FROM WHERE I SIT The Marlboro Man of Pope County May, 2013 Pat Spilseth




Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.



Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.



Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.



At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.



Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.



Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.



Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.



On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.



Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?



Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.



Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.



I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words

The Marlboro Man of Pope County

FROM WHERE I SIT The Marlboro Man of Pope County May, 2013 Pat Spilseth


Many girls grow up idolizing their dads. I did. Dad was my hero. I hoped I’d marry a man just like my Dad, strong and supportive of his family.

Dad looked like the tall, dark and handsome Marlboro Man of those 1950’s magazine ads. Hank DeKok was sheriff of Pope County when I was growing up in Glenwood, MN. Even though he was Dutch, the local Norwegians and Bohemians elected him to serve their community for twenty years. Serious, with a steely stare, Sheriff DeKok had a “don’t mess with me” attitude. People didn’t fool with him. When the man spoke in his firm, no-nonsense tone, everyone knew this sheriff meant business. People listened.

Dad was perfect in his role. His presence, in the regulation tan and brown uniform, carried firm assurance and confidence that he would keep the community safe. A man of few words, Hank’s hazel eyes spoke volumes. Idle chatter wasn’t his thing; it annoyed him.

At election time, every four years, Sheriff DeKok disliked the glad-handing ways of idle talk and false smiles necessary to win elections. He believed his job record should speak for itself. His deputy, with the catchy name of Lynn Krook, was the only deputy at the sheriff’s office. Lynn was a guy who enjoyed joking with the public. He also liked to read the stacks of Zane Grey paperbacks in the prisoner’s cells and scheme with them about panning for gold in the Wild West. Lynn loved adventure.

Together, Hank and Lynn were a good team who maintained a peaceful county, even in the Wild West days of power line controversy and National Farm Organization protests. The lawmen stood alone, against a raging crowd of pitchfork-wielding, shotguns-toting protestors who tried to keep the railroad trains from traveling to markets. And they made sure that those trains went through. The sheriff’s team shot out the car tires of fleeing bank robbers with their loot, confronted abusive spouses and tried to present reasonable solutions to suicidal prisoners. Usually it worked.



Several depressed prisoners attempted suicide by hanging themselves with a sheet from the steel bars. One deranged man made a successful attempt. Suicide affected our entire household at the jail. The constant turmoil of years in the sheriff office affected my dad. He wasn’t a relaxed person, and his nerves got the best of him. When baited, Dad’s temper “flew off the handle.” His fists might follow. They did when the meddling Irish newspaper man, who published “The Green Sheet” paper, interfered in Dad’s investigations. City officials suspended the sheriff for a few days as a result of that incident. But townspeople collected money to reimburse the sheriff’s salary lost during his days off. Folks had had enough of the Irishman’s busybody ways. The newsman known for his jaunty tam and kilt was run out of town.

Dad bought a farm. He needed a get-away place to relax plowing endless rows of soybeans. That fit his idea of privacy and quiet; he needed isolation from groups of people and dissention. But Hank did enjoy morning coffee downtown, when he joked and told stories with the guys over breakfast at Wimpy’s Café. Though some people found him stand-offish, too tough-minded, during his years in the sheriff’s office, his wife, Esther, often smoothed over Dad’s brusqueness. She was the people-pleaser of their union.

On duty 24/7, Dad’s office was located next to the family living quarters in the red brick jail. The old jail and living quarters were torn down when the steel bars, steel floors, thin cots and a 3’ steel walkway for exercise no longer met the new safety standards for a jail that could safely confine prisoners. Frivolous jail amenities like TV and radios were expected by more liberal thinking citizens. That wasn’t Dad’s idea. “That’s a resort, not a jail!” Coddling wasn’t in Dad’s blood. He thought that gold-mining adventure paperbacks, chatting with other prisoners about women and steak dinners, plus walking around the cellblock were enough entertainment for the guys.

Mom, the unpaid, jail matron, loved her job manning the two-way radio at the sheriff’s office. She and Dad believed that most of the men in jail were basically good men. However, as mom said, “They made some bad decisions.” At Dad’s jail, prisoners were treated like guests: Esther served weak Scandinavian coffee and home-baked cookies three times a day, morning, noon and night. On Christmas Eve, our regulars sat with our family in the living room around the Christmas tree where Dad read the Bible story of Christ’s birth and we exchanged presents. Treating the men right was important to the folks. How else would they learn how to behave?

Our way of life at the jail became passé in the early Sixties. The obsolete jail was bulldozed. The sheriff’s office was moved into the County Courthouse with other local government offices. Two tiny cells at the police station temporarily housed prisoners before being transferred to a bigger, more modern jail in a larger city.

Dad never did learn how to relax. He didn’t pick his battles; everything at the office became a battle. Life’s stresses gave him stomach ulcers. Before he reached retirement rest and enjoyment, cancer destroyed his body at sixty-one. He never knew the joys of retiring to a peaceful life with his family; he never knew grandchildren. Death claimed the life of my Dad much too early.

I hope your father was a hero to you, like my Dad. This Fathers’ Day, June 16, take time to remember and treasure those days you were able to spend with your Dad. Days of family togetherness end much too soon. 957 words

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