The table knife is papa,
tall and serrated for the dangerous
job of cutting.
Mama fork twirls
her shiny-tined skirt
in do-si-dos through
the mashed potatoes
on the girl's plate.
Salad fork daughter keeps an eye
on baby spoon, round in infancy.
Well, the woman says,
you certainly are a quiet one.
The man clears his throat
and drinks wine, deep red.
The girl rolls her silverware
inside a linen napkin,
stacked together;
fathermotherdaughterbaby.
The man and woman exchange
a glance, while the girl, seated
on a velvet cushioned chair, legs
dangling, spells out a word
under the table,
over and over
with her patent leathered foot:
FAMILYFAMILYFAMILY
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/15/2002
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
You, who touch the wounds we hide,
with healing hands
and try to guide
the sorrows of our souls and minds.
You, who look beneath the bright
and laughing of our lives,
you might
endeavor to untie the binds.
You, who work with gentle touch
of hand or spoken word,
are trusted much
to lead us through a path that winds
along some other road, less known.
To take us back into the light,
to make us whole, to find our own,
intact, to wellness of all kinds.
You, who see beyond the gaze,
the fragileness behind our ways,
are truly blessed.
There is no way we can repay
for all the lives you've touched.
And saved.
Mary Ellen Seidel
8/30/2001
with healing hands
and try to guide
the sorrows of our souls and minds.
You, who look beneath the bright
and laughing of our lives,
you might
endeavor to untie the binds.
You, who work with gentle touch
of hand or spoken word,
are trusted much
to lead us through a path that winds
along some other road, less known.
To take us back into the light,
to make us whole, to find our own,
intact, to wellness of all kinds.
You, who see beyond the gaze,
the fragileness behind our ways,
are truly blessed.
There is no way we can repay
for all the lives you've touched.
And saved.
Mary Ellen Seidel
8/30/2001
From Annie Proulx's book, Close Range, Wyoming Stories: A Lonely Coast:
"Josanna Skiles cooked at the Wig-Wag. She had two women friends, Palma Gratt and Ruth Wolf, both of them burning at a slower rate than Josanna, but in their own desperate ways also disintegrating into drifts of ash."
"They thought they were living then, drank, smoked, shouted to friends, and they didn't so much dance as straddle a man's thigh and lean in."
"There were times when I thought the Buckle was the best place in the world, but it could shift on you and then the whole dump seemed like a mess of twist-face losers, the women with eyebrows like crowbars, the men covered with bristly red hair, knuckles the size of new potatoes, showing the gene pool was small and the rivulets that once fed it had dried up. I think sometimes it hit Josanna that way too because one night she sat quiet and slumped at the bar watching the door, watching for Elk, and he didn't come in."
"This's a miserable place," she said. "My god it's miserable."
I've been immersed in Annie Proulx for a while. I'm staggered by her sharp writing. So much ragged raw life in so few pages. It's a tic on the depressing side for February reading in Minny, but it draws you in, deep.
I was the first, and perhaps only, one in our large Catholic family to get divorced. It was hard to break the news to my folks and family. Even harder, in many ways, to break it to my friends. Couples my soon-to-be-ex and I had known for so many years, and were close with, vacationed together, dinnered and drank, watched families grow, and parents pass; followed through life. I felt the stunned reactions like a wave of hard hurt. There is an anxiety before the telling, steeling yourself for the reaction, hoping you won't fall apart and dissolve into a heap of rumpled flesh, your bones all gone to mush from sadness, stress, and the panic that comes from starting down an unfamiliar dark road you never suspected you'd be on.
It took a lot out of me to tell my girl friends. Mostly I emailed. The letters I sent were brief, but heartfelt, and I needed the distance, couldn't trust my voice to carry me through on the phone. I cried, in private, when I read the responses.
Two of my closest girlfriends came and gathered me up, took me to dinner. It was a needed thing. We went to a Mexican place, back when the food was still good there. The topic hung in the air like a rotten corpse while we chatted about nothing. I braced for it, and when we'd cleared an obvious place in the conversation, like an empty stage for the story, I spoke, the briefest of conversations, the heaviest of words. It seems like I'm describing a death here, and it was. The passing of 25 years of a marriage and all the life and living that goes with it; done, dead, and buried six feet deep. With nothing to take it's place. With everything to take it's place.
My girlfriends had brought gifts: wine and bubble bath, essentials. One of them handed me a small bag in which something rattled. A knife, fork and spoon. From the Goodwill store. The dam burst; we laughed, about a lot of things. We cried. We talked a little trash.
I've done all right going down that new road. It's only dark at night, when it should be. It's familiar now, and comfortable. I kept the silverware. It reminds me of the many women in my life who have heart. And who know you will be okay after all, and know enough to say it with wine and bubble bath and a few pieces of old tableware, with no need for words.
"Josanna Skiles cooked at the Wig-Wag. She had two women friends, Palma Gratt and Ruth Wolf, both of them burning at a slower rate than Josanna, but in their own desperate ways also disintegrating into drifts of ash."
"They thought they were living then, drank, smoked, shouted to friends, and they didn't so much dance as straddle a man's thigh and lean in."
"There were times when I thought the Buckle was the best place in the world, but it could shift on you and then the whole dump seemed like a mess of twist-face losers, the women with eyebrows like crowbars, the men covered with bristly red hair, knuckles the size of new potatoes, showing the gene pool was small and the rivulets that once fed it had dried up. I think sometimes it hit Josanna that way too because one night she sat quiet and slumped at the bar watching the door, watching for Elk, and he didn't come in."
"This's a miserable place," she said. "My god it's miserable."
I've been immersed in Annie Proulx for a while. I'm staggered by her sharp writing. So much ragged raw life in so few pages. It's a tic on the depressing side for February reading in Minny, but it draws you in, deep.
I was the first, and perhaps only, one in our large Catholic family to get divorced. It was hard to break the news to my folks and family. Even harder, in many ways, to break it to my friends. Couples my soon-to-be-ex and I had known for so many years, and were close with, vacationed together, dinnered and drank, watched families grow, and parents pass; followed through life. I felt the stunned reactions like a wave of hard hurt. There is an anxiety before the telling, steeling yourself for the reaction, hoping you won't fall apart and dissolve into a heap of rumpled flesh, your bones all gone to mush from sadness, stress, and the panic that comes from starting down an unfamiliar dark road you never suspected you'd be on.
It took a lot out of me to tell my girl friends. Mostly I emailed. The letters I sent were brief, but heartfelt, and I needed the distance, couldn't trust my voice to carry me through on the phone. I cried, in private, when I read the responses.
Two of my closest girlfriends came and gathered me up, took me to dinner. It was a needed thing. We went to a Mexican place, back when the food was still good there. The topic hung in the air like a rotten corpse while we chatted about nothing. I braced for it, and when we'd cleared an obvious place in the conversation, like an empty stage for the story, I spoke, the briefest of conversations, the heaviest of words. It seems like I'm describing a death here, and it was. The passing of 25 years of a marriage and all the life and living that goes with it; done, dead, and buried six feet deep. With nothing to take it's place. With everything to take it's place.
My girlfriends had brought gifts: wine and bubble bath, essentials. One of them handed me a small bag in which something rattled. A knife, fork and spoon. From the Goodwill store. The dam burst; we laughed, about a lot of things. We cried. We talked a little trash.
I've done all right going down that new road. It's only dark at night, when it should be. It's familiar now, and comfortable. I kept the silverware. It reminds me of the many women in my life who have heart. And who know you will be okay after all, and know enough to say it with wine and bubble bath and a few pieces of old tableware, with no need for words.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Vornox
I'm not from here,
he tells the kids at his new school,
letting them think about it.
Nearly a year older,
he is the only boy there
who can leap over the sandbox
in a single bound.
Wins every race,
is bigger and stronger
than anyone else in
their small world.
He shows them odd-shaped stones
from his pocket, I get my powers from these.
Hands in his homework
written in strange squiggly symbols.
Reads his book report aloud
in a new language.
Miss Davis sighs,
Vernon, see me after school please.
He extends his arms upward in a V-shape.
My name is Vornox.
When school resumes in the fall
he is not there.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/15/2002
he tells the kids at his new school,
letting them think about it.
Nearly a year older,
he is the only boy there
who can leap over the sandbox
in a single bound.
Wins every race,
is bigger and stronger
than anyone else in
their small world.
He shows them odd-shaped stones
from his pocket, I get my powers from these.
Hands in his homework
written in strange squiggly symbols.
Reads his book report aloud
in a new language.
Miss Davis sighs,
Vernon, see me after school please.
He extends his arms upward in a V-shape.
My name is Vornox.
When school resumes in the fall
he is not there.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/15/2002
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Letter To My Friend
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, a saying attributed to Freud, my good friend tells me yesterday. Or he's not sure - it may have been Roy Rogers commenting about Freud.
I checked, just briefly, online. Consensus is no one seems to know, and I'll go with that. Why? Because it's just not all that important. (I'm not writing about plagiarism here, so don't take it that way.)
I'm going to talk about my people here, my bohemian family of creatives. We're all touchy. We react; sincerely, passionately, icy cold, burning hot. We don't hold the market on these feelings, but we all tend to lean this way. This is good for us in many ways; it breeds creativity. And it's bad for us in many ways; it harbors hurt, festers anger.
I don't fault anyone I know for passionate emotions. I myself wallow daily. In order to survive in the world though, I occasionally need to regulate, dial down a bit, step back.
Step back. And take a look at the big picture, my friend. My very dear friend; whom I hope does not unravel away a friendship we've had for years. Tightly knit and impervious, so far, to the emotional passions we both bring to it. I'm not dismissing what happened (or didn't happen) on the weekend. I am saying, I am asking, I am hoping you will look at the bigger picture.
Always loved you.
Always will.
I checked, just briefly, online. Consensus is no one seems to know, and I'll go with that. Why? Because it's just not all that important. (I'm not writing about plagiarism here, so don't take it that way.)
I'm going to talk about my people here, my bohemian family of creatives. We're all touchy. We react; sincerely, passionately, icy cold, burning hot. We don't hold the market on these feelings, but we all tend to lean this way. This is good for us in many ways; it breeds creativity. And it's bad for us in many ways; it harbors hurt, festers anger.
I don't fault anyone I know for passionate emotions. I myself wallow daily. In order to survive in the world though, I occasionally need to regulate, dial down a bit, step back.
Step back. And take a look at the big picture, my friend. My very dear friend; whom I hope does not unravel away a friendship we've had for years. Tightly knit and impervious, so far, to the emotional passions we both bring to it. I'm not dismissing what happened (or didn't happen) on the weekend. I am saying, I am asking, I am hoping you will look at the bigger picture.
Always loved you.
Always will.
Bicycle Man
The bicycle man
rides slowly by.
Painted frame
of his chariot,
lime green today,
carries his slightness
and all the weight
of his unconvention.
Pedals and pulleys and
gravity and gears
work the rise and fall
of the wings,
one on each side,
fashioned of wire frame
and feathers.
Trumpeting Victrola rides
royally on the back;
pumping feet provide
the revolutions needed
to release the melody.
Handlebar horns
and bells, all kinds,
honk and ring
in a symphony
of clownsong.
While we watch
from behind
our draperied window,
he stands,
one leg on the seat,
the other
extended out behind him
in a bicycle ballet.
My mother says he's crazy.
But I have seen his smile
and I don't think so.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/2/2002
rides slowly by.
Painted frame
of his chariot,
lime green today,
carries his slightness
and all the weight
of his unconvention.
Pedals and pulleys and
gravity and gears
work the rise and fall
of the wings,
one on each side,
fashioned of wire frame
and feathers.
Trumpeting Victrola rides
royally on the back;
pumping feet provide
the revolutions needed
to release the melody.
Handlebar horns
and bells, all kinds,
honk and ring
in a symphony
of clownsong.
While we watch
from behind
our draperied window,
he stands,
one leg on the seat,
the other
extended out behind him
in a bicycle ballet.
My mother says he's crazy.
But I have seen his smile
and I don't think so.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/2/2002
Monday, February 22, 2010
I like me some Villanelle once in a while. Maybe more than once in a while. I have written a few of my own, but the one shown below was written by Dylan Thomas, and is a widely used example of the Villanelle form.
* In case you always wanted to know:
A villanelle has 19 lines, consisting of five tercets and a concluding quatrain.
The rhyme scheme is aba, with the same end-rhyme for every first and last line of each tercet and the final two lines of the quatrain.
Two of the lines are repeated:
The first line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the second and the fourth stanzas, and as the second-to-last line in the concluding quatrain.
The third line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third and the fifth stanzas, and as the last line in the concluding quatrain.
I have always loved this by Dylan Thomas:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There will eventually come a point in all of our lives when we're unable to do some of the things we were perfectly capable of in the past. I myself would like to skip that part of life and just keel over when I'm 99, healthy as a horse. But we don't get to make that choice.
Dad developed a condition called Trigeminal Neuralgia a couple years ago. It's a strange condition, that in his case, results in severe shock-type pains in his face. Because of this, he takes a great deal of medication. He's always been in relatively good health, so it's very hard to see him struggling with the effects of the meds; the main one being constant drowsiness, maybe lethargy. Beyond the actual drug effects I think he's simply depressed about it all, besides. He seems to have given up on life in a lot of ways. That is a very hard thing to watch your parent go through.
He used to go for walks, putter around with lawn and driveway chores on his lawn tractor, maintain his bird feeders, go fishing, read books... and every day, I mean EVERY day he would do the crossword from the paper.
He has given up most everything I listed above, now, except he does still get out to fill the bird feeders.
His driving skills are not what they used to be. He gets confused about meds, can't always remember if he's taken them or not. He's tired a lot, very tired, and sleeps much of the day sometimes. He told me last weekend he's given up the daily crossword puzzle. Of all these things, that struck me like a dagger to the heart. Because he sleeps all day, he often stays awake well into the night. He recently purchased something he saw on an info-mercial, late at night, with his credit card, and was taken advantage of by the sleazy-slick salesperson on the other end of the phone line, to the tune of a lot of money. He has never previously in his life made a credit card purchase from a tv info-mercial.
So, you're saying, it's a simple solution: he should not be driving, he should not have a credit card, blah blah.
I will disagree. There is a thing called dignity. Who would think there is a time in one's life when someone else can take that from you? My friend at work says when he's at the end of his life, he's going to sail off, far away, over the ocean and into a sea storm and let nature take it's course.
I would not like to mess with anyone's dignity. What I hope can happen is something more like this:
* We as a family should come up a plan to give my parents some help with the day to day stuff they might want a hand with; driving longer distances, yard chores, house chores. This could be as simple as each of us offering to help out, more than now and then - more like a scheduled volunteer time slot.
* I would hope that Dad, on his own, would conclude that while he can probably still drive to grocery/gas store near their house, maybe he should not be driving to Brainerd.
* I would also hope that he carefully considers whether or not he should be doing certain heavier yard chores and things like that, and ask for help if he needs it.
* I would hope that the family becomes more diligent about visiting mom and dad (and this includes me). They love company, they love to see the grandkids, there's no better time like the present. There's no better present than your time.
I love my Dad.
I do not want him to go gentle into that good night.
I will do everything I can to help him rage, rage against the dying of the light.
* In case you always wanted to know:
A villanelle has 19 lines, consisting of five tercets and a concluding quatrain.
The rhyme scheme is aba, with the same end-rhyme for every first and last line of each tercet and the final two lines of the quatrain.
Two of the lines are repeated:
The first line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the second and the fourth stanzas, and as the second-to-last line in the concluding quatrain.
The third line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third and the fifth stanzas, and as the last line in the concluding quatrain.
I have always loved this by Dylan Thomas:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There will eventually come a point in all of our lives when we're unable to do some of the things we were perfectly capable of in the past. I myself would like to skip that part of life and just keel over when I'm 99, healthy as a horse. But we don't get to make that choice.
Dad developed a condition called Trigeminal Neuralgia a couple years ago. It's a strange condition, that in his case, results in severe shock-type pains in his face. Because of this, he takes a great deal of medication. He's always been in relatively good health, so it's very hard to see him struggling with the effects of the meds; the main one being constant drowsiness, maybe lethargy. Beyond the actual drug effects I think he's simply depressed about it all, besides. He seems to have given up on life in a lot of ways. That is a very hard thing to watch your parent go through.
He used to go for walks, putter around with lawn and driveway chores on his lawn tractor, maintain his bird feeders, go fishing, read books... and every day, I mean EVERY day he would do the crossword from the paper.
He has given up most everything I listed above, now, except he does still get out to fill the bird feeders.
His driving skills are not what they used to be. He gets confused about meds, can't always remember if he's taken them or not. He's tired a lot, very tired, and sleeps much of the day sometimes. He told me last weekend he's given up the daily crossword puzzle. Of all these things, that struck me like a dagger to the heart. Because he sleeps all day, he often stays awake well into the night. He recently purchased something he saw on an info-mercial, late at night, with his credit card, and was taken advantage of by the sleazy-slick salesperson on the other end of the phone line, to the tune of a lot of money. He has never previously in his life made a credit card purchase from a tv info-mercial.
So, you're saying, it's a simple solution: he should not be driving, he should not have a credit card, blah blah.
I will disagree. There is a thing called dignity. Who would think there is a time in one's life when someone else can take that from you? My friend at work says when he's at the end of his life, he's going to sail off, far away, over the ocean and into a sea storm and let nature take it's course.
I would not like to mess with anyone's dignity. What I hope can happen is something more like this:
* We as a family should come up a plan to give my parents some help with the day to day stuff they might want a hand with; driving longer distances, yard chores, house chores. This could be as simple as each of us offering to help out, more than now and then - more like a scheduled volunteer time slot.
* I would hope that Dad, on his own, would conclude that while he can probably still drive to grocery/gas store near their house, maybe he should not be driving to Brainerd.
* I would also hope that he carefully considers whether or not he should be doing certain heavier yard chores and things like that, and ask for help if he needs it.
* I would hope that the family becomes more diligent about visiting mom and dad (and this includes me). They love company, they love to see the grandkids, there's no better time like the present. There's no better present than your time.
I love my Dad.
I do not want him to go gentle into that good night.
I will do everything I can to help him rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I spent part of my day wandering the Galleria, a favorite place of mine. I had to go look for a reference toy at an upscale toy shop there. The girl behind the counter said she'd never heard of a hobby horse, when I inquired whether they carried any, and looked at me as if I were a hundred. Impertinent snippit. I wanted to poke my cane into an already teetering display of electronic whoopee cushions (which makes me wonder - why mess with a good toy? let's leave well enough alone...) just so she would have something to do later. Instead I wandered around, and came across a rack of marbles. How cool is that? Another timeless toy.
Anyway, I had some time to kill, and wandered back to Barnes & Noble to do some browsing there. I can spend a lot of time in a book store. My niece Meghan called me while I was there so I asked her if she wanted me to pick up something for her and her sister. She said yes, she wanted a mystery, maybe with a murder in it, or something. Or, she asked, can you get me 'Dear John' and tells me who wrote it. She's only 12, but she reads a lot, and is JUST at the point of starting to read adult books, maybe. I tried hard to find some books I thought she'd like in the kids/teen section, but every time I read the story synopsis to her, she seemed not especially excited. I kept looking.
In the meanwhile, I heard someone in the phone background: my sister wants me to look for newest Dan Brown novel, but she wants the paperback. I make a mental note.
In the other meanwhile, Kaitlyn, who's 14, says she would like The Guinness Book of World Records 2010. lol... Okay! Now I have a list! hahah... (And I remember poring over the Guinness Book of Records when we were growing up - so I totally get it! Just like Whoopee cushions and marbles, some things never change.)
More searching leads me to decide to get the following for Meghan:
* The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart
My niece has never heard of this book, but it looks intriguing, and it's a thick book that I think she'll like. And it was in the kids/teen section (yay!) which made me feel much better buying the other two for her from the regular adult section:
* Dear John by Nicholas Sparks
* The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
I was excited to think of the Lovely Bones because it's well written, a good story, with a murder, yes, and the sort of book that makes a great read for teens to adults.
I had to disappoint Julie, because Dan Brown's newest is not out in paperback yet.
And Kaitlyn wil have to wait till I find the new Guinness Book.
But all in all, a fun day at the bookstore. When is it not? :) The kids novels are usually only $6 to $8, and they can pass them on to their friends or cousins when they're finished reading. $24 I spent on my niece today encourages a continued lifetime of reading and learning. Need I say - priceless?
Anyway, I had some time to kill, and wandered back to Barnes & Noble to do some browsing there. I can spend a lot of time in a book store. My niece Meghan called me while I was there so I asked her if she wanted me to pick up something for her and her sister. She said yes, she wanted a mystery, maybe with a murder in it, or something. Or, she asked, can you get me 'Dear John' and tells me who wrote it. She's only 12, but she reads a lot, and is JUST at the point of starting to read adult books, maybe. I tried hard to find some books I thought she'd like in the kids/teen section, but every time I read the story synopsis to her, she seemed not especially excited. I kept looking.
In the meanwhile, I heard someone in the phone background: my sister wants me to look for newest Dan Brown novel, but she wants the paperback. I make a mental note.
In the other meanwhile, Kaitlyn, who's 14, says she would like The Guinness Book of World Records 2010. lol... Okay! Now I have a list! hahah... (And I remember poring over the Guinness Book of Records when we were growing up - so I totally get it! Just like Whoopee cushions and marbles, some things never change.)
More searching leads me to decide to get the following for Meghan:
* The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart
My niece has never heard of this book, but it looks intriguing, and it's a thick book that I think she'll like. And it was in the kids/teen section (yay!) which made me feel much better buying the other two for her from the regular adult section:
* Dear John by Nicholas Sparks
* The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
I was excited to think of the Lovely Bones because it's well written, a good story, with a murder, yes, and the sort of book that makes a great read for teens to adults.
I had to disappoint Julie, because Dan Brown's newest is not out in paperback yet.
And Kaitlyn wil have to wait till I find the new Guinness Book.
But all in all, a fun day at the bookstore. When is it not? :) The kids novels are usually only $6 to $8, and they can pass them on to their friends or cousins when they're finished reading. $24 I spent on my niece today encourages a continued lifetime of reading and learning. Need I say - priceless?
I've had a lot of action in my bedroom for the past few nights. Not the kind you were just thinking of.
While John is skiiing up on the Gunflint, I have Alf over here, as well as Miss Vegas Kitty. They both like to sleep in here with me, and although I don't let Alf up on the bed, Miss Vegas certainly has no qualms about sleeping where ever she damn well pleases, including sometimes on my head, where she's either pushed off gently or batted off not gently, depending on what phase of sleep/exasperation I'm in. Alf is allowed on most of the beds, among the households of my ex, me, and the cabin, but here he seems content enough to just lay on the floor beside the bed, on the rug.
My ex and I always had a dog. On one of our fist dates, John took me out to show me the log cabin he was building, and he spread out a blanket on the ground where we were going to sit and have some wine, and look at the gorgeous fall scenery. Tara, his new golden retriever puppy, promptly stepped up and peed all over the blanket, thus ruining the magic of the moment. Tara was a sweetheart, with a kind, gentle temperament. As she aged, she became grey around the eyes, and appeared to be wearing glasses, so we nicknamed her The Grandmother.
Our next dog was Cecil. She was brought to us very early one Saturday morning in the arms of a guy John worked with. He'd brought the puppy home, and his wife said either he or the puppy was not going to be residing there, his choice. Cecil was about the size and shape of a loaf of bread, waddling around, sniffing the corners of our kitchen. How do you say no to that? We had Cecil a long time, she was our baby, spoiled, fat and sassy, really sassy. She had a cat-like personality, rather disdainful toward others, but sweet and loving to John and me. We loved her dearly, as we had loved Tara. Cecil died unexpectedly and tragically, and while I don't want to write about it, suffice to say - when we were able to pull ourselves together enough to walk out of the Blue Cross Animal Hospital's surgical area - rumpled, in sorrow and in shock, every pet-loving face in the waiting room registered deep sympathy, empathy and understanding. Pet lovers know.
Then came Alf. We found him and adopted him from the AHS. He was brought to them by someone who discovered him, lost and injured. He had a mangled front leg and other injuries, and would have normally been put to sleep. However, they had a new doctor on duty that night, and she decided to amputate the bad leg. Then they kept him for about three months while he healed. He is Something. He's the kind of dog you meet and just want to take him home with you. If you've met him, you know what I'm saying. You know what a charmer he is.
The joy our pets have brought into our households is immeasurable. My ex and I share Alf; and Miss Vegas Kitty (aka social butterfly, the princess of snuggling) is welcomed at his house too, anytime. They both love to go to the lake of course. Did I just describe a three-ring circus? Maybe, but always - always, so worth it.
Our pets are pretty notoriously spoiled, but there is no way we can ever give them in return, all they give to us.
While John is skiiing up on the Gunflint, I have Alf over here, as well as Miss Vegas Kitty. They both like to sleep in here with me, and although I don't let Alf up on the bed, Miss Vegas certainly has no qualms about sleeping where ever she damn well pleases, including sometimes on my head, where she's either pushed off gently or batted off not gently, depending on what phase of sleep/exasperation I'm in. Alf is allowed on most of the beds, among the households of my ex, me, and the cabin, but here he seems content enough to just lay on the floor beside the bed, on the rug.
My ex and I always had a dog. On one of our fist dates, John took me out to show me the log cabin he was building, and he spread out a blanket on the ground where we were going to sit and have some wine, and look at the gorgeous fall scenery. Tara, his new golden retriever puppy, promptly stepped up and peed all over the blanket, thus ruining the magic of the moment. Tara was a sweetheart, with a kind, gentle temperament. As she aged, she became grey around the eyes, and appeared to be wearing glasses, so we nicknamed her The Grandmother.
Our next dog was Cecil. She was brought to us very early one Saturday morning in the arms of a guy John worked with. He'd brought the puppy home, and his wife said either he or the puppy was not going to be residing there, his choice. Cecil was about the size and shape of a loaf of bread, waddling around, sniffing the corners of our kitchen. How do you say no to that? We had Cecil a long time, she was our baby, spoiled, fat and sassy, really sassy. She had a cat-like personality, rather disdainful toward others, but sweet and loving to John and me. We loved her dearly, as we had loved Tara. Cecil died unexpectedly and tragically, and while I don't want to write about it, suffice to say - when we were able to pull ourselves together enough to walk out of the Blue Cross Animal Hospital's surgical area - rumpled, in sorrow and in shock, every pet-loving face in the waiting room registered deep sympathy, empathy and understanding. Pet lovers know.
Then came Alf. We found him and adopted him from the AHS. He was brought to them by someone who discovered him, lost and injured. He had a mangled front leg and other injuries, and would have normally been put to sleep. However, they had a new doctor on duty that night, and she decided to amputate the bad leg. Then they kept him for about three months while he healed. He is Something. He's the kind of dog you meet and just want to take him home with you. If you've met him, you know what I'm saying. You know what a charmer he is.
The joy our pets have brought into our households is immeasurable. My ex and I share Alf; and Miss Vegas Kitty (aka social butterfly, the princess of snuggling) is welcomed at his house too, anytime. They both love to go to the lake of course. Did I just describe a three-ring circus? Maybe, but always - always, so worth it.
Our pets are pretty notoriously spoiled, but there is no way we can ever give them in return, all they give to us.
The Vow
In pastel cocoons of tulle
and lace we huddle
in the closet of my
mother's sister while
the ladies sip cocktails
by the pool. Our tiny room
is filled with elegant gowns.
My aunt has worn each,
once, as a bridesmaid.
Deenie, peering from her
cage of lavender lace,
is pale purple in the soft
arc of her flashlight. We
nibble on mints and drink
air champagne from
dance slippers.
I place aqua heels,
that match the frock
I'm crouching under,
onto my hands,
and tap tap out from under
the hem in pigeon-toed steps.
The dresses are faintly scented
from perfume, cigarette smoke,
excitement of parties
long ago.
My mother's white
bridal dress, packed in a
special carton from the
cleaners and smelling of
mothballs, does not seem
related to these costumes at all.
Mother is cold and
untouchable, while
Aunt Belle is all hugs
and laughter. We know
it is the dresses
that have made them this way,
and before we leave our lovely
ruffled abodes,
we cross arms, clasp hands,
and make a pact:
Never, never, never.
The gowns hang,
frivolous and free,
bright beckoning balloons,
as we close the closet door.
Mary Ellen Seidel
6/22/2002
In pastel cocoons of tulle
and lace we huddle
in the closet of my
mother's sister while
the ladies sip cocktails
by the pool. Our tiny room
is filled with elegant gowns.
My aunt has worn each,
once, as a bridesmaid.
Deenie, peering from her
cage of lavender lace,
is pale purple in the soft
arc of her flashlight. We
nibble on mints and drink
air champagne from
dance slippers.
I place aqua heels,
that match the frock
I'm crouching under,
onto my hands,
and tap tap out from under
the hem in pigeon-toed steps.
The dresses are faintly scented
from perfume, cigarette smoke,
excitement of parties
long ago.
My mother's white
bridal dress, packed in a
special carton from the
cleaners and smelling of
mothballs, does not seem
related to these costumes at all.
Mother is cold and
untouchable, while
Aunt Belle is all hugs
and laughter. We know
it is the dresses
that have made them this way,
and before we leave our lovely
ruffled abodes,
we cross arms, clasp hands,
and make a pact:
Never, never, never.
The gowns hang,
frivolous and free,
bright beckoning balloons,
as we close the closet door.
Mary Ellen Seidel
6/22/2002
Jesterton Parade
The mayor
of the town
is leading the big parade
on horseback.
It is a slow parade as he
has chosen to ride
his horse
backwards,
his mount stepping
forward
ass first.
Onlookers wave flags and
cheer loudly, in appreciation
of the lovely rounded
equine derriere.
Jesterton is the only
place on earth, where,
when you are called a horse's ass,
you have just been
paid a giant compliment.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/20/2002
The mayor
of the town
is leading the big parade
on horseback.
It is a slow parade as he
has chosen to ride
his horse
backwards,
his mount stepping
forward
ass first.
Onlookers wave flags and
cheer loudly, in appreciation
of the lovely rounded
equine derriere.
Jesterton is the only
place on earth, where,
when you are called a horse's ass,
you have just been
paid a giant compliment.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/20/2002
Saturday, February 20, 2010
This from TICK TALK TANTALIZERS
by Martin Tickman "Gossipmonger of the Twin Cities"
Annie Nonnamus is a good friend of mine and lives here in Minneapolis. She's two or three years divorced, and dating. I wanted to write about some of her dating experiences in my blog, so we got together for lunch at the Five-Ten Club last week, where I asked her some questions.
Me: Hi Annie. Gosh, it smells like something in here, I can't quite figure it out...
Annie: Old-man-armpit. That's what everyone says. It's from 75 years of grease particles from countless meals, suspended in the air and on walls. But they do have great Juicy Lucys. And this place has been here forever, it used to be a speak-easy back in the day.
Me: You seem to know a lot about it.
Annie: You can read all that off the back of the menu, but I like to toss it out at people sometimes, makes me sound like I know my local history.
Me: Well. Good to know. So let's talk about you for a bit. You seem like a pretty good catch for someone, would you agree?
Annie: [blushing] Well, it's hard to talk about myself in that way. If pressed, I guess I would say... I mean... I'm a real nice person. I'm kind. I help the less fortunate, I'm tidy, I keep a clean house, I'm financially stable, am able to work at a job I love and that pays the bills and...
Me: Sorry to interrupt - let's talk about your job for just a moment. It's kind of a cool career, adding to your special coolability, isn't it? I know you don't talk about it much.
Annie: I do tend to be fairly private, yeah. But yes, my nieces and nephews think I have a pretty awesome job. It's a lot of fun being a toy designer. I've been doing it for a long ti-
Me: WOW, that is SO cool. What an interesting job!
Annie: [demurely] Yes... yes, it's a lot of fun.
Me: And you're financially stable, got your ducks in a row, do you? And I KNOW, because I've been a guest there, that you have a LOVELY log lake home that you refer to as a 'cabin'.
Annie: Well yes, I do co-own that, as well as some other property, with my ex.
Me: WHAT?? You're a property owner?? And surely you don't own a home here in Minneapolis as well, do you? Maybe in the highly desirable Nokomis area??
Annie: Uh, no, much of my house is still owned by the bank, I'm still paying for it. However, it is charming, yes, it is in the highly desirable Nokomis area. It's got skeleton keys and fabulous glass door knobs -
Me: Yeah yeah. Enough about that. So, your potential as a 'long term relationship' date seems really quite amazing. I mean, I would totally snap you up right now if I wasn't already engaged... [clearing throat, low muttering]... monkey's uncle. Anywhoooo.... let's see - d'you have anything bad in the financial closet? Credit card debt? Gambling addiction?
Annie: Nope. None.
Me: You have any bad habits?
Annie: I brush my teeth a lot.
Me: Whatever. Now I recall you told your previous boyfriend that you would be there to support him and his kids, even to the point of helping put them through college. Then... let me check my notes here.. Oh, here we are - he broke up with you right after Christmas two years ago. Basically just dumped you like a pile of trash, is that correct? Like a load of dirty laundry. Did he give a reason?
Annie: Yes, he called me on the phone and said he just couldn't be with anyone. Actually I've pretty well gotten over that, maybe we could just move on here...
Me: I call the shots here missy. Anywho, what kind of stupid-ass reason is that? Sheesh, can you say LOSER?? Okay, let me go through this checklist: You have no kids, but you do love kids, correct? Seems like a win/win sitchy-ashun to me. You gonna eat those fries?
Annie: Help yourself. Yes, I have lots of nieces and nephews that I adore, and they mainly think I'm pretty cool too.
Me: Pet lover?
Annie: Yes. I have a three-legged dog named Mr Alfonso Blackwell: Alf for short, and a darling cat - Miss Vegas Kitty.
Me: Are you a good cook?
Annie: No. Looking at a recipe makes my brain zip off in all kinds of directions. I have to gather it all up, soothe it, tell it, "don't be afraid, just get a little closer, does it say a teaspoon? do we have one of those? what's that about, down there, where there's something about stirring and folding... I don't like it either but we need to do this together."
Me: Yeah yeah, pretty story. Oh well, so you're not all glam in the kitchen, big deal. That's what restaurants are for, right?
Annie: [sighing] Yes. [brightening] Oh, I do make killer chili! It's all made with stuff from cans, which aren't as scary.
Me: Well hey, there's something. And I personally know, because I've known you for many many years, that you're bright, warm, funny, loving, generous to a fault, decently well-read, madly creative, a problem solver, volunteer, love the outdoors, indoors, sunshine, rain, you're cute as heck, not too tall, blah blah blah. I see from my notes that you were just recently dumped by a cowboy? Like a wheelbarrow full of horse turds? A shovel ful of cow spit. Cast off like the busted spur on a boot.
Annie: [wiping away tears, or eyes watering from onion on burger] Pretty much, I guess. But I'm over that now and I really just want to focus on moving forward with my life.
Me: I recall that you moved out of your comfortable home, and into his, at his request. I also recall you were willing to put your house on the market and share all your assets with him.
Annie: Yes I did. Yes I was.
Me: Well, his loss. His immense loss. May he suffer from bunions and boils. You know - I think the fry cook is staring at you, although it's hard to tell which one is the working eye... would you like me to get his number for you?
by Martin Tickman "Gossipmonger of the Twin Cities"
Annie Nonnamus is a good friend of mine and lives here in Minneapolis. She's two or three years divorced, and dating. I wanted to write about some of her dating experiences in my blog, so we got together for lunch at the Five-Ten Club last week, where I asked her some questions.
Me: Hi Annie. Gosh, it smells like something in here, I can't quite figure it out...
Annie: Old-man-armpit. That's what everyone says. It's from 75 years of grease particles from countless meals, suspended in the air and on walls. But they do have great Juicy Lucys. And this place has been here forever, it used to be a speak-easy back in the day.
Me: You seem to know a lot about it.
Annie: You can read all that off the back of the menu, but I like to toss it out at people sometimes, makes me sound like I know my local history.
Me: Well. Good to know. So let's talk about you for a bit. You seem like a pretty good catch for someone, would you agree?
Annie: [blushing] Well, it's hard to talk about myself in that way. If pressed, I guess I would say... I mean... I'm a real nice person. I'm kind. I help the less fortunate, I'm tidy, I keep a clean house, I'm financially stable, am able to work at a job I love and that pays the bills and...
Me: Sorry to interrupt - let's talk about your job for just a moment. It's kind of a cool career, adding to your special coolability, isn't it? I know you don't talk about it much.
Annie: I do tend to be fairly private, yeah. But yes, my nieces and nephews think I have a pretty awesome job. It's a lot of fun being a toy designer. I've been doing it for a long ti-
Me: WOW, that is SO cool. What an interesting job!
Annie: [demurely] Yes... yes, it's a lot of fun.
Me: And you're financially stable, got your ducks in a row, do you? And I KNOW, because I've been a guest there, that you have a LOVELY log lake home that you refer to as a 'cabin'.
Annie: Well yes, I do co-own that, as well as some other property, with my ex.
Me: WHAT?? You're a property owner?? And surely you don't own a home here in Minneapolis as well, do you? Maybe in the highly desirable Nokomis area??
Annie: Uh, no, much of my house is still owned by the bank, I'm still paying for it. However, it is charming, yes, it is in the highly desirable Nokomis area. It's got skeleton keys and fabulous glass door knobs -
Me: Yeah yeah. Enough about that. So, your potential as a 'long term relationship' date seems really quite amazing. I mean, I would totally snap you up right now if I wasn't already engaged... [clearing throat, low muttering]... monkey's uncle. Anywhoooo.... let's see - d'you have anything bad in the financial closet? Credit card debt? Gambling addiction?
Annie: Nope. None.
Me: You have any bad habits?
Annie: I brush my teeth a lot.
Me: Whatever. Now I recall you told your previous boyfriend that you would be there to support him and his kids, even to the point of helping put them through college. Then... let me check my notes here.. Oh, here we are - he broke up with you right after Christmas two years ago. Basically just dumped you like a pile of trash, is that correct? Like a load of dirty laundry. Did he give a reason?
Annie: Yes, he called me on the phone and said he just couldn't be with anyone. Actually I've pretty well gotten over that, maybe we could just move on here...
Me: I call the shots here missy. Anywho, what kind of stupid-ass reason is that? Sheesh, can you say LOSER?? Okay, let me go through this checklist: You have no kids, but you do love kids, correct? Seems like a win/win sitchy-ashun to me. You gonna eat those fries?
Annie: Help yourself. Yes, I have lots of nieces and nephews that I adore, and they mainly think I'm pretty cool too.
Me: Pet lover?
Annie: Yes. I have a three-legged dog named Mr Alfonso Blackwell: Alf for short, and a darling cat - Miss Vegas Kitty.
Me: Are you a good cook?
Annie: No. Looking at a recipe makes my brain zip off in all kinds of directions. I have to gather it all up, soothe it, tell it, "don't be afraid, just get a little closer, does it say a teaspoon? do we have one of those? what's that about, down there, where there's something about stirring and folding... I don't like it either but we need to do this together."
Me: Yeah yeah, pretty story. Oh well, so you're not all glam in the kitchen, big deal. That's what restaurants are for, right?
Annie: [sighing] Yes. [brightening] Oh, I do make killer chili! It's all made with stuff from cans, which aren't as scary.
Me: Well hey, there's something. And I personally know, because I've known you for many many years, that you're bright, warm, funny, loving, generous to a fault, decently well-read, madly creative, a problem solver, volunteer, love the outdoors, indoors, sunshine, rain, you're cute as heck, not too tall, blah blah blah. I see from my notes that you were just recently dumped by a cowboy? Like a wheelbarrow full of horse turds? A shovel ful of cow spit. Cast off like the busted spur on a boot.
Annie: [wiping away tears, or eyes watering from onion on burger] Pretty much, I guess. But I'm over that now and I really just want to focus on moving forward with my life.
Me: I recall that you moved out of your comfortable home, and into his, at his request. I also recall you were willing to put your house on the market and share all your assets with him.
Annie: Yes I did. Yes I was.
Me: Well, his loss. His immense loss. May he suffer from bunions and boils. You know - I think the fry cook is staring at you, although it's hard to tell which one is the working eye... would you like me to get his number for you?
Monday, February 15, 2010
So Valentine's weekend has slipped by and I hardly noticed, a lot like when I was married. It was a good choice, coming northward.
I'm still at Mom and Dad's place. I can hear chickadees calling outside; Dad always keeps the birds fed, and a mental tally of what kind have been here. The chickadees, of course, are here no matter what season. I love their little song, it's peaceful somehow, and cheery. It's a confident two-note tone, that leaves me with the feeling chickadees are optimistically resigned to being happy. Hahah. Okay, it's a girly brain thing. Never mind.
I miss Grandma a lot this time of year. Actually all times of year, but especially now.
Sometimes when I drive north on 371 past Pine River, I get an overwhelming ache to stop and see her. She'd been there in town, for so many years, it was hard for me to ever get a sense she wasn't there any more. My brain knew it, but my heart didn't.
Gram was always there when you needed her. And she was always there when you didn't know you needed her.
It was the biggest treat ever to go and stay with her when we were little. That was back in the days when they lived over the store. Her home seemed all sunshiny, and full of everything I was interested in. Grandma did some pretty fancy crocheting. It's a talent I fiercely admire now, and wish I were better at. She generally had some kind of creative project going on at all given times, and that probably planted the creative seed in me.
I remember one afternoon when Aunt Betts was old enough to drive and was visiting at our house. I was dying to go stay with her and Grandma, and was pretty sure I was going to get the magical invitation. Just before she wrapped up her visit ( I was on pins and needles with excitement by this time, because this was the up-north way - a nonchalant mention at the end of a visit, "Do you want to come back and stay over at Grandma's?"), she said to Dad, "Can Patty come and stay over night?"
Oof, the disapointment I felt can't be described here. I tried not to care, she wasn't trying to exclude me, she and Pat were just a little closer in age, and she sort of forgot about me. Let's see, I was hurt and sad, but I didn't dare say anything because then Dad would immediately say neither of us could go. He carried some suspicions that townie living was bad for us somehow, and he couldn't always be counted on to give permission to stay at Gram's as it was. Mom, who was much more likely to say we could go, was working her nursing shift at the hospital.
The rotten cherry on the sundae was that after my sister left, all merrily and smiles, I had to do the dinner dishes by myself, a chore we ALWAYS shared. Dang it. As I started washing the plates and glasses, and pitying my poor abondoned self, tears trickled from my eyes. I tried not to let anyone see, but Dad did, right away. He asked me what was wrong. I could hear in his voice, that he was already beginning to wonder if it was about what he thought it was... so I cut him off at the pass. "I don't feel good," I said, and I didn't have to conjure up a sad face, as I already felt miserable.
He told me to go rest on the couch for a while, and he would finish washing up. This was really rare event in our house; Dad attended to the outdoor chores and Dad-type things, and he never did the dishes.
I felt guilty, but if I told the truth, he would surely put the kabosh on future sleep-overs at Grams.
Snuggled under my pillow and blanket on the couch, I heard a knock at the back door, the driveway side of the house. I heard my Dad go answer it. I heard Aunt Betts say, "We were thinking Mary might like to stay over too, so we came back to get her."
I heard my Dad say, "Oh, she can't. She's sick."
I'm still at Mom and Dad's place. I can hear chickadees calling outside; Dad always keeps the birds fed, and a mental tally of what kind have been here. The chickadees, of course, are here no matter what season. I love their little song, it's peaceful somehow, and cheery. It's a confident two-note tone, that leaves me with the feeling chickadees are optimistically resigned to being happy. Hahah. Okay, it's a girly brain thing. Never mind.
I miss Grandma a lot this time of year. Actually all times of year, but especially now.
Sometimes when I drive north on 371 past Pine River, I get an overwhelming ache to stop and see her. She'd been there in town, for so many years, it was hard for me to ever get a sense she wasn't there any more. My brain knew it, but my heart didn't.
Gram was always there when you needed her. And she was always there when you didn't know you needed her.
It was the biggest treat ever to go and stay with her when we were little. That was back in the days when they lived over the store. Her home seemed all sunshiny, and full of everything I was interested in. Grandma did some pretty fancy crocheting. It's a talent I fiercely admire now, and wish I were better at. She generally had some kind of creative project going on at all given times, and that probably planted the creative seed in me.
I remember one afternoon when Aunt Betts was old enough to drive and was visiting at our house. I was dying to go stay with her and Grandma, and was pretty sure I was going to get the magical invitation. Just before she wrapped up her visit ( I was on pins and needles with excitement by this time, because this was the up-north way - a nonchalant mention at the end of a visit, "Do you want to come back and stay over at Grandma's?"), she said to Dad, "Can Patty come and stay over night?"
Oof, the disapointment I felt can't be described here. I tried not to care, she wasn't trying to exclude me, she and Pat were just a little closer in age, and she sort of forgot about me. Let's see, I was hurt and sad, but I didn't dare say anything because then Dad would immediately say neither of us could go. He carried some suspicions that townie living was bad for us somehow, and he couldn't always be counted on to give permission to stay at Gram's as it was. Mom, who was much more likely to say we could go, was working her nursing shift at the hospital.
The rotten cherry on the sundae was that after my sister left, all merrily and smiles, I had to do the dinner dishes by myself, a chore we ALWAYS shared. Dang it. As I started washing the plates and glasses, and pitying my poor abondoned self, tears trickled from my eyes. I tried not to let anyone see, but Dad did, right away. He asked me what was wrong. I could hear in his voice, that he was already beginning to wonder if it was about what he thought it was... so I cut him off at the pass. "I don't feel good," I said, and I didn't have to conjure up a sad face, as I already felt miserable.
He told me to go rest on the couch for a while, and he would finish washing up. This was really rare event in our house; Dad attended to the outdoor chores and Dad-type things, and he never did the dishes.
I felt guilty, but if I told the truth, he would surely put the kabosh on future sleep-overs at Grams.
Snuggled under my pillow and blanket on the couch, I heard a knock at the back door, the driveway side of the house. I heard my Dad go answer it. I heard Aunt Betts say, "We were thinking Mary might like to stay over too, so we came back to get her."
I heard my Dad say, "Oh, she can't. She's sick."
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Day 2 up north: I woke up this morning with a very small headache, and being a migrainee from way back, immediately felt dismay, then went on auto-pilot to get rid of it. This means moving slow, as if I were underwater, and basically just resting. So Dad went off to mass, and I went to take a small nap.
There has lately been some talk of who should/shouldn't still be driving in my family. This discussion revolves around two of my favorite parents, who shall be nameless here. I generally agree with the concensus that nameless peep's driving skills are becoming, um, not what they used to be, not so good, even perhaps, scary. The female nameless has certainly taken out a mailbox or two in her time, as well as slid a van load of church ladies into a snowy ditch (why she was the chosen driver among five women is a fact that later stundified some of us), and put more than a few dents and dings in family vehicles. Most recent biggie: through some means involving (or not) the following details:
an unfooted shoe wedged somewhere around the brake pedal/someone fumbling around trying to put a disc of bluegrass music into the CD player/much medication (when I say 'much' I suggest - enough to topple a moose, but standard daily fare for nameless female whom, it seems, has built up some sort of supernatural tolerance over the many years of taking said meds). Whatever the facts, the accident put male nameless into the hospital, where he was mightily unhappy. This reference point comes up fairly often, as in, "Remember when she tried to kill me in the car??"
However, recently, male nameless has started to catch up on dings and dents, and there's been a surprising amount of 'who forgot who caused this scratch and who done that dent.' Several of the family (also remaining nameless) witnessed some auto transgressions, such as driver backing directly into a tree, pulling out into oncoming traffic, and the like. We tend to keep nameless male's incidents on the QT from nameles female, and vice versa. It's very hard to take a side.
It's very hard to realize you may be at the point of trying to keep someone from driving; a liberating entity in one's life since the teen years. It's a sad and difficult thing to contemplate, regarding one's favorite parents.
So there I was, sleeping restfully, when I felt a tap. It was Dad. "I need you to help me for a few minutes. I drove the car in the ditch."
I sat up half asleep, envisioning something very bad, and glad that he was obviously safe. The highway leading off 371 to their place is a winding, narrow, no shoulders, icy, curvy one, with lakes immediately on both sides. He said it wasn't far; I bundled up in some sweatshirts, and he tossed a big rusty chain into the back of the old truck and we drove off.
It was far less critical than what I was thinking. Just down the dirt road, (not on the highway, thank God), he'd sort of slid too far to the right, and gotten the car hung up in a high crusty snowbank. It looked to be pushable, and I'm surprisigly strong for a smallish twerp, but no, Dad wanted to pull it out with the truck. My job was to drive his car, in reverse, while he pulled it with the truck. After some minor fits and starts, it came loose from it's bank-wedge. Looked okay, except I noticed some damage on the right front fender. I thought it may have been an old car scar, but I mentioned it anyway, in case he needed an alibi for it.
It was still a fresh day, and I think the air helped my headache. We were having coffee at the kitchen table after, and Dad said, "If Mama asks about that damage on the car, is it okay if I tell her you did it?" He's mainly joking, but I nod. Small price to pay, today. We kids will have to figure something out, sooner rather than later. It's not something I'm looking forward to.
There has lately been some talk of who should/shouldn't still be driving in my family. This discussion revolves around two of my favorite parents, who shall be nameless here. I generally agree with the concensus that nameless peep's driving skills are becoming, um, not what they used to be, not so good, even perhaps, scary. The female nameless has certainly taken out a mailbox or two in her time, as well as slid a van load of church ladies into a snowy ditch (why she was the chosen driver among five women is a fact that later stundified some of us), and put more than a few dents and dings in family vehicles. Most recent biggie: through some means involving (or not) the following details:
an unfooted shoe wedged somewhere around the brake pedal/someone fumbling around trying to put a disc of bluegrass music into the CD player/much medication (when I say 'much' I suggest - enough to topple a moose, but standard daily fare for nameless female whom, it seems, has built up some sort of supernatural tolerance over the many years of taking said meds). Whatever the facts, the accident put male nameless into the hospital, where he was mightily unhappy. This reference point comes up fairly often, as in, "Remember when she tried to kill me in the car??"
However, recently, male nameless has started to catch up on dings and dents, and there's been a surprising amount of 'who forgot who caused this scratch and who done that dent.' Several of the family (also remaining nameless) witnessed some auto transgressions, such as driver backing directly into a tree, pulling out into oncoming traffic, and the like. We tend to keep nameless male's incidents on the QT from nameles female, and vice versa. It's very hard to take a side.
It's very hard to realize you may be at the point of trying to keep someone from driving; a liberating entity in one's life since the teen years. It's a sad and difficult thing to contemplate, regarding one's favorite parents.
So there I was, sleeping restfully, when I felt a tap. It was Dad. "I need you to help me for a few minutes. I drove the car in the ditch."
I sat up half asleep, envisioning something very bad, and glad that he was obviously safe. The highway leading off 371 to their place is a winding, narrow, no shoulders, icy, curvy one, with lakes immediately on both sides. He said it wasn't far; I bundled up in some sweatshirts, and he tossed a big rusty chain into the back of the old truck and we drove off.
It was far less critical than what I was thinking. Just down the dirt road, (not on the highway, thank God), he'd sort of slid too far to the right, and gotten the car hung up in a high crusty snowbank. It looked to be pushable, and I'm surprisigly strong for a smallish twerp, but no, Dad wanted to pull it out with the truck. My job was to drive his car, in reverse, while he pulled it with the truck. After some minor fits and starts, it came loose from it's bank-wedge. Looked okay, except I noticed some damage on the right front fender. I thought it may have been an old car scar, but I mentioned it anyway, in case he needed an alibi for it.
It was still a fresh day, and I think the air helped my headache. We were having coffee at the kitchen table after, and Dad said, "If Mama asks about that damage on the car, is it okay if I tell her you did it?" He's mainly joking, but I nod. Small price to pay, today. We kids will have to figure something out, sooner rather than later. It's not something I'm looking forward to.
I'm spending the weekend with Dad. I didn't want to stay alone at the cabin, so I'm staying here too. There's a futon-y thing in the den, that pretty much unfolds as it should, and although it was, apparently, never designed to lay flat, it does the trick, and feels comfortable enough, especially maybe to a homeless person or whatever, and especially if you lay right in the center crack, (which is a slightly lower elevation than the rest of the bed), unmoving during the night. There is also a loud ticking clock in the den, which I'd thought my brother Paul dispensed with the last time he stayed here, but I guess had not.
My parents like to keep the house warm, so it's 200 degrees in the living room where the wood stove is, but stone cold back here in the den. Not complaining, just stating.
We had a nice day yesterday. Dad and I went over to check on the cabin, which seemed just fine. While I was in looking things over, Dad thought about shoveling some of the snow off the deck and down the walk. But then decided against. Fine with me, it was a glorious day for a drive. A perfect Minnesota winter day.
For much of the morning part of my drive up to Mom and Dad's place, the trees and all else, were breathtakingly frost laden. Then, around Little Falls it all changed to sunshine and blue skies. Stayed that way all day. THIS is what winter is all about here.
After looking in on the lake place and unburdening the mailbox, we drove to my brother's house and spent a few hours with six of my nieces and nephews. I haven't been up here for a while, and brought their Christmas gifts with me. Cassie and Victoria were gone for the day, but the little ones seemed to like their gifts and Cecilia Rose extracted a promise from my sister Barb and I to help her with the princess scrapbooking gift I'd brought her. (I really wanted to, but when I looked at the mess of papers and ribbons and stickers, etc., it went all swirly in my head, the way it does when I look at a recipe, and I realized I don't have the scrapbooking gene either. Luckily, Barb was there to help her out.)
It was fun, their household is probably a lot like ours was when we were growing up. 8 kids, 9 kids, piles of mittens and hats, boots and scarves. You just dug around and found yours or some that seemed to fit closely enough, and out the door you went. As I remember, this basic rule applied to mittens, hats, scarves, sleds, skiis, and whatever, and even boots and coats (but to a lesser degree).
I brought Josh and Luke sleds, the saucer kind, and they asked if I would go out sledding. Heck yeah! They put on a little show, in which they deemed me the judge of "Who did the best fake crash?" After loud applause and some quick deliberating, I determined it to be an equal tie.
I grabbed a sled, Anna and Gianna piled on top of me and off we went. I snagged Josiah in with us on the way down the brief hill and he slid off at the bottom with a big grin.
It was cold. It was snowy. Hey, it's winter! It was fun.
My parents like to keep the house warm, so it's 200 degrees in the living room where the wood stove is, but stone cold back here in the den. Not complaining, just stating.
We had a nice day yesterday. Dad and I went over to check on the cabin, which seemed just fine. While I was in looking things over, Dad thought about shoveling some of the snow off the deck and down the walk. But then decided against. Fine with me, it was a glorious day for a drive. A perfect Minnesota winter day.
For much of the morning part of my drive up to Mom and Dad's place, the trees and all else, were breathtakingly frost laden. Then, around Little Falls it all changed to sunshine and blue skies. Stayed that way all day. THIS is what winter is all about here.
After looking in on the lake place and unburdening the mailbox, we drove to my brother's house and spent a few hours with six of my nieces and nephews. I haven't been up here for a while, and brought their Christmas gifts with me. Cassie and Victoria were gone for the day, but the little ones seemed to like their gifts and Cecilia Rose extracted a promise from my sister Barb and I to help her with the princess scrapbooking gift I'd brought her. (I really wanted to, but when I looked at the mess of papers and ribbons and stickers, etc., it went all swirly in my head, the way it does when I look at a recipe, and I realized I don't have the scrapbooking gene either. Luckily, Barb was there to help her out.)
It was fun, their household is probably a lot like ours was when we were growing up. 8 kids, 9 kids, piles of mittens and hats, boots and scarves. You just dug around and found yours or some that seemed to fit closely enough, and out the door you went. As I remember, this basic rule applied to mittens, hats, scarves, sleds, skiis, and whatever, and even boots and coats (but to a lesser degree).
I brought Josh and Luke sleds, the saucer kind, and they asked if I would go out sledding. Heck yeah! They put on a little show, in which they deemed me the judge of "Who did the best fake crash?" After loud applause and some quick deliberating, I determined it to be an equal tie.
I grabbed a sled, Anna and Gianna piled on top of me and off we went. I snagged Josiah in with us on the way down the brief hill and he slid off at the bottom with a big grin.
It was cold. It was snowy. Hey, it's winter! It was fun.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Kitchigami Library
The shape, the heft and weight, a small rectangle pulsing with secrets and stories, different places, other worlds; a book.
Open the front cover and you’re there: camping near a stream with Nick Adams. In a rabbit warren planning strategic military maneuvers - bunny style. Running through battle scarred woods trying to avoid the red badge of courage. Living in a dugout house by the banks of Plum Creek.
And there is something about the scent of books; new books have a distinct smell of clean page, fresh ink. Old books, faintly musty, warm smelling. I wonder whose hands have turned the pages. I wonder if they liked the story. I wonder if it changed them.
When I was a child our books were borrowed from the Kitchigami Regional Library in the small town near where we lived. On Saturday mornings the books borrowed the previous week were gathered into a cardboard carton and returned to the library while my mother went grocery shopping. We were then allowed to meander through the library aisles and choose a whole new bouquet of books for the upcoming week. It was heaven. I hardly knew where to begin.
When I first learned to read, I carried the Beatrix Potter stories to the smallest library tables and pored over them reverently. The Kitchigami had three child sized tables with tiny matching chairs, all positioned near the front windows where the sun streamed in. Those stories were, as they are still, truly wonderful to a young child; miniature, green covered books with delightful pictures and enchanting stories, and I read every word aloud. Quietly, of course. Beatrix Potter worked her spell of magic on me, hooked and reeled me into reading and books, for life.
When Mom finished her shopping she gathered us up, books and all, and we drove back home. Later in the day, when either she or Dad had a few minutes to spare, we kids gathered round in the living room where one of them would sit with a child or two on their lap, or hanging over the arms of the chair, maybe sprawled on the floor, and we would listen as they began to narrate their way through the seemingly endless stack of books. We hung on every word, and as soon as one story was finished we begged to hear another one, just as my nieces and nephews do now. Never have I heard any oration, to this day, that can match those calm, warm voices of my Mother and Dad reading aloud.
I felt very grown-up penciling my name on the sign-out cards at the Kitchigami. I left my mark on a great many of those books.
And a great many of those books left their mark on me.
The shape, the heft and weight, a small rectangle pulsing with secrets and stories, different places, other worlds; a book.
Open the front cover and you’re there: camping near a stream with Nick Adams. In a rabbit warren planning strategic military maneuvers - bunny style. Running through battle scarred woods trying to avoid the red badge of courage. Living in a dugout house by the banks of Plum Creek.
And there is something about the scent of books; new books have a distinct smell of clean page, fresh ink. Old books, faintly musty, warm smelling. I wonder whose hands have turned the pages. I wonder if they liked the story. I wonder if it changed them.
When I was a child our books were borrowed from the Kitchigami Regional Library in the small town near where we lived. On Saturday mornings the books borrowed the previous week were gathered into a cardboard carton and returned to the library while my mother went grocery shopping. We were then allowed to meander through the library aisles and choose a whole new bouquet of books for the upcoming week. It was heaven. I hardly knew where to begin.
When I first learned to read, I carried the Beatrix Potter stories to the smallest library tables and pored over them reverently. The Kitchigami had three child sized tables with tiny matching chairs, all positioned near the front windows where the sun streamed in. Those stories were, as they are still, truly wonderful to a young child; miniature, green covered books with delightful pictures and enchanting stories, and I read every word aloud. Quietly, of course. Beatrix Potter worked her spell of magic on me, hooked and reeled me into reading and books, for life.
When Mom finished her shopping she gathered us up, books and all, and we drove back home. Later in the day, when either she or Dad had a few minutes to spare, we kids gathered round in the living room where one of them would sit with a child or two on their lap, or hanging over the arms of the chair, maybe sprawled on the floor, and we would listen as they began to narrate their way through the seemingly endless stack of books. We hung on every word, and as soon as one story was finished we begged to hear another one, just as my nieces and nephews do now. Never have I heard any oration, to this day, that can match those calm, warm voices of my Mother and Dad reading aloud.
I felt very grown-up penciling my name on the sign-out cards at the Kitchigami. I left my mark on a great many of those books.
And a great many of those books left their mark on me.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I've been designing toys for many years. Have designed for most of the toy companies around the area, either as an on-board employee or in a freelance capacity: Animal Fair, Carousel, Princess, Manhattan Toy, Animal Adventure. Also west coast: SnS International, and Canada: Blankets & Beyond out of Montreal.
There's no reason to dress up the phrase: it's a fun job. Pretty much what you might imagine. I design, and then using some combination of drawing (pencil/marker)/computer graphics/photos, end up with a final color version of a plush toy. Specs to the factory produce samples. We critique the samples (or the customer does), and redesign if needed, etc.
I currently work for a man who has three kids. When each of his kids was in kindergarten, we did a toy design demonstration for their class. Peter (the company owner, and my boss) and I put on a little dog and pony show to give them a basic feel for what we do all day in the wonderful world of toy.
Yesterday was his youngest son's kindergarten class toy demonstration.
At 8:45 AM, twenty kids burst into the office. They were obviously on good behavior, but there was a buzz, a hum in the air, more than just the normal sound of twenty small kids chattering, and rustling coats and hats, small tromping snowboots. It was a buzz of energy; they were happy, enthused, excited.
They looked like they'd been on a few field trips before, they knew the ropes. They filed in to the showroom, gravitated to the open space on the floor (made by me, the previous afternoon at the office, by moving our conference table to the corner of the room), took off their coats, and sat down cross-legged on them, somehow ending up in a kid-grid of maybe four rows. They were delightful. They were well behaved. They were amusing and fun. It's hard not to enjoy being around kids.
My job was fairly simple: I had spent most of the previous day pulling together some props for the meeting, and a list of what we might show them. I had written a story called 'Peter's Frog', in a coloring book format, which tells how a toy begins as idea in someone's head, and evolves through the process of imagination/design. I had printed off a bunch of copies of this 7 page story with cartoon illustrations of Peter, and stapled and stacked them on the conference table, along with the other props: fabric books and ribbon books, Pantone color swatch books, a bear turned inside out to show the seams, a big map of China, and a map of the US and the waterways, showing where the ships carrying containers of toys come from, and where they end up here, at our US port.
I basically read the story aloud to the kids. They like it. They giggle where they're suppose to. At the end of the last page they were silent until I added on the words "the end", and then they chuckled. In appreciation, I like to think. ;)
Peter is a natural teacher, and does the explaining about the production/importing process, and also points out on the maps the locations of the ports in China, and in Seattle. He answers most of the questions the kids have. Which are sometimes less questions, and more unexpected statements, such as: [*hand raised*] Yes, Ashley?" "Um... um... I have a bear at home and the eye fell out."
Their basic understanding is that we produce 'animals to give to the Ronald McDonald House'. This is because we give each child, upon leaving the demonstration, a bear to donate to the RMH. They're unaware we actually make money by selling toys. I guess they don't really need to know that at this juncture of their lives.
I talk a little more about what a bear looks like before it's turned and finished, and how the sew'r closes up the stuffing hole, so it can't be seen. The kids look at the fabric swatches, and mill around the design room looking at toys.
Then, they all put on their coats, hats, mittens, form a fluttery, moving line, and gather by the door. When their school bus pulls up, they recite in unison "THANK YOU!!" and file out the door.
All in all, it was delightful. I went back to my desk. Happy, enthused, excited. The usual.
The wonderful world of toy is a good world.
* Photos courtesy of Kathryn Swanson, thank you Dixxie. :)
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
It's getting a little harder to greet winter with a cheery smile.
Earlier in the season, I would shovel my driveway out, then a nice path through the gate to the back door, clean all the snow from the back steps, continue shoveling a path around the back and south side of the house, make another little path across to the neighbor's sidewalk so the mailman didn't have to walk that extra few feet back down to the front.
Then I'd shovel clear my front steps, sidewalk and the walkway to the street. It didn't take long, and it felt good to be out in the fresh air, so I'd shovel my neighbor's walk too, whistling all the while. Resisting a temptation to swing around the streetlight a couple times, Fred Astaire style.
But it's mid February now, the luster of winter is starting to wear thin, and I find my shoveling techniques have gotten a smidge sloppy.
After a dismal drive home from a long day at the office, trying to avoid various spinning, sliding vehicles driven by other storm-glazed people, I arrive at the alley entrance, give my car just the right amount of extra gas and a special twist of the wheel to perfectly hurl it around a tight corner and over ruts so cavernous you could sink wheel-deep in them. Then, using the momentum to slide down the alley while pressing the garage door opener, I careen the car from the narrow rutted track, at a sharp 90 degree turn, into my very small driveway.
After kicking ineffectively for a while at the car turds solidly frozen behind each wheel, I wearily grab a shovel from the garage and trudge out front.
The snow on the sides of the steps is piled higher than the top step this time of year, and as I heap it further upwards, it trickles back down onto them. I find that I don't really mind it all that much.
The front walk is kind of the same, the snowpiles on either side of my walk are fairly mountainous, and I no longer feel like whistling while I work. My back hurts.
I notice my front sidewalk has become about a foot narrower than both of my neighbor's front walks, but to hell with them. They're both old and retired and have all day to shovel. They should shovel me out once in a while.
I chip out a very narrow path out to the street. Someone could probably access it to get from the street to the sidewalk if they really need too. They will have to duck-walk sideways, but I figure if they don't like it they can shovel out their own damn path.
A few snowfalls ago I stopped clearing the trail from the back gate, around the side and up to the front of the house. Who'll be needing that anyway? And the mailman? Fat chance I'm spending any time grooming that shortcut. He gets paid to walk, doesn't he? No one pulls me around my office in a special wagon.
My driveway is now about as narrow as it can possibly get, and still accommodate my car. The snow is higher than the backyard fence making it difficult to fling the stuff anywhere. I'm blindly whaling shovelfuls as high as I can, on either side of the drive; the snow sliding off the arcing shovel in great feathery plumes. It's a mess, and I don't care.
I put the shovel back in the garage, close the door, hope for spring.
Earlier in the season, I would shovel my driveway out, then a nice path through the gate to the back door, clean all the snow from the back steps, continue shoveling a path around the back and south side of the house, make another little path across to the neighbor's sidewalk so the mailman didn't have to walk that extra few feet back down to the front.
Then I'd shovel clear my front steps, sidewalk and the walkway to the street. It didn't take long, and it felt good to be out in the fresh air, so I'd shovel my neighbor's walk too, whistling all the while. Resisting a temptation to swing around the streetlight a couple times, Fred Astaire style.
But it's mid February now, the luster of winter is starting to wear thin, and I find my shoveling techniques have gotten a smidge sloppy.
After a dismal drive home from a long day at the office, trying to avoid various spinning, sliding vehicles driven by other storm-glazed people, I arrive at the alley entrance, give my car just the right amount of extra gas and a special twist of the wheel to perfectly hurl it around a tight corner and over ruts so cavernous you could sink wheel-deep in them. Then, using the momentum to slide down the alley while pressing the garage door opener, I careen the car from the narrow rutted track, at a sharp 90 degree turn, into my very small driveway.
After kicking ineffectively for a while at the car turds solidly frozen behind each wheel, I wearily grab a shovel from the garage and trudge out front.
The snow on the sides of the steps is piled higher than the top step this time of year, and as I heap it further upwards, it trickles back down onto them. I find that I don't really mind it all that much.
The front walk is kind of the same, the snowpiles on either side of my walk are fairly mountainous, and I no longer feel like whistling while I work. My back hurts.
I notice my front sidewalk has become about a foot narrower than both of my neighbor's front walks, but to hell with them. They're both old and retired and have all day to shovel. They should shovel me out once in a while.
I chip out a very narrow path out to the street. Someone could probably access it to get from the street to the sidewalk if they really need too. They will have to duck-walk sideways, but I figure if they don't like it they can shovel out their own damn path.
A few snowfalls ago I stopped clearing the trail from the back gate, around the side and up to the front of the house. Who'll be needing that anyway? And the mailman? Fat chance I'm spending any time grooming that shortcut. He gets paid to walk, doesn't he? No one pulls me around my office in a special wagon.
My driveway is now about as narrow as it can possibly get, and still accommodate my car. The snow is higher than the backyard fence making it difficult to fling the stuff anywhere. I'm blindly whaling shovelfuls as high as I can, on either side of the drive; the snow sliding off the arcing shovel in great feathery plumes. It's a mess, and I don't care.
I put the shovel back in the garage, close the door, hope for spring.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
During the course of my newish single life, (thus far - two years and four months) I've had a number of suggested 'dating-possibles' from people who know me. People who know me really well.
And while I greatly appreciate the thought behind it, there are some dating scenarios that just don't work for me. Tops on that list are the following:
* Ex-family dating:
I will never, ever, be dating anyone from my ex's family, no matter if they're the last date on earth. That's not to say that my ex family is not perfectly nice. In fact, they're wonderful people. But once married, always family, as I see it. That's far too creepy of a road to peer down, no matter how lovely the sunset at the end. So, please - no one who has the same last name as mine.
* The He-Does-Have-A-Lot-Of-Issues-But-He's-A-Really-Nice guy:
HellooOoo. Issues = Uh uh. So, no thank you. I'm dating, not desperate.
* The I'm-Not-Sure-Why-He's-Been-Single-All-These-Years guy:
There is a reason.
* The I-Know-Him-From-The-Bar guy:
Unless it's the bar association, no. (And maybe not even then.)
* The Completely-Nothing-In-Common date suggestion:
Look, I love when people care enough to think about whether they know someone I might be interested in. But the key phrase there is 'interested in.' Just last week one of my very close friends (who knows me well) said, "What about Dale?" (Names have been changed to protect the innocent...)
I said I don't know any Dale.
Thence ensues a back and forth conversation:
"Yes you do. You know, Dale, Dirty Dale."
"No I don't."
"Yes you do. Remember when we saw him at Bogarts?"
"Ohhhh, THAT Dale..." Some split second reactions took place in my head: disappointment/annoyance/sadness. Was my good friend really thinking I'd be interested in Dale? We had not a zippin' thing in common, perhaps not the least of all was that Dale has the cranium power of a pair of socks. Or maybe one sock. I'm not trying to be mean here, just telling the truth. I was sad that my good friend apparently knew me so much less than I'd thought.
* The ex boyfriend's good friend:
No. And please stop calling me.
And while I greatly appreciate the thought behind it, there are some dating scenarios that just don't work for me. Tops on that list are the following:
* Ex-family dating:
I will never, ever, be dating anyone from my ex's family, no matter if they're the last date on earth. That's not to say that my ex family is not perfectly nice. In fact, they're wonderful people. But once married, always family, as I see it. That's far too creepy of a road to peer down, no matter how lovely the sunset at the end. So, please - no one who has the same last name as mine.
* The He-Does-Have-A-Lot-Of-Issues-But-He's-A-Really-Nice guy:
HellooOoo. Issues = Uh uh. So, no thank you. I'm dating, not desperate.
* The I'm-Not-Sure-Why-He's-Been-Single-All-These-Years guy:
There is a reason.
* The I-Know-Him-From-The-Bar guy:
Unless it's the bar association, no. (And maybe not even then.)
* The Completely-Nothing-In-Common date suggestion:
Look, I love when people care enough to think about whether they know someone I might be interested in. But the key phrase there is 'interested in.' Just last week one of my very close friends (who knows me well) said, "What about Dale?" (Names have been changed to protect the innocent...)
I said I don't know any Dale.
Thence ensues a back and forth conversation:
"Yes you do. You know, Dale, Dirty Dale."
"No I don't."
"Yes you do. Remember when we saw him at Bogarts?"
"Ohhhh, THAT Dale..." Some split second reactions took place in my head: disappointment/annoyance/sadness. Was my good friend really thinking I'd be interested in Dale? We had not a zippin' thing in common, perhaps not the least of all was that Dale has the cranium power of a pair of socks. Or maybe one sock. I'm not trying to be mean here, just telling the truth. I was sad that my good friend apparently knew me so much less than I'd thought.
* The ex boyfriend's good friend:
No. And please stop calling me.
Early February. This year the snowy season has been very bearable for me. I'd go so far as to say it's been nice. It's the kind of winter I remember from childhood; a crisp and cold-fresh, warm mittens and hot chocolate, icicles, sparkly snow sort of winter. The kind of winter Minnesotans embrace, making other people wonder about us.
And just around the corner - seed catalog time! I don't have the spot for a garden (and I'm using the word garden in the most reverent sense - the 'working garden,' all rowed up with edible, preservable foods), nor the time to care for and harvest one, although I sure wish I did. I have to suffice with planting a lot of flowers everywhere, instead.
Mom and Dad always had huge gardens full of potatoes, corn, peas, carrots, tomatoes: red and yellow, leaf lettuce, beans: green and purple, beets, squash: many kinds, rhubarb, strawberries, sunflowers, cucumbers, dill, all indescribably delicious, coming straight from the earth to our mouths, as they did.
We had two big gardens; I remember being excited to help with the planting. Each row was critically spaced, measured the length of a metal post apart. A length of twine pulled taut across the vast width of the garden was the guide for each hoe'd row. Then, pull up the fence posts, move another row-length down, stretch the twine across and hoe another. Dad did the hoeing; we kids dropped in the seeds, covered the rows with the dark soil, and set the seeds but walking once, across the top of each row, with bare feet. When one finished walking over the row, it looked very much (we thought) like tractor tire marks.
There were flowers too, poppies one year; nodding red and pink along the north side. Dad planted gourds and pumpkins for us too, hugely fun for later in the fall.
There was also weeding, (which I only remember with fondness, truly) and of course the picking, shelling, husking, snapping, and various states of harvesting. Storing, freezing and canning. And all the while, eating. Meals in late summer went right from garden to table. Someone was always husking ears of corn on the back deck before dinner.
It never seemed like work, at least as I recall. Although Mom and Dad certainly did the majority of the 'big work' and we had a whole passel of kids in our family to share the weeding and picking duties.
What it did seem was sunshine and summer rain. Warm endless days, blue skies.
It was good growing weather.
And just around the corner - seed catalog time! I don't have the spot for a garden (and I'm using the word garden in the most reverent sense - the 'working garden,' all rowed up with edible, preservable foods), nor the time to care for and harvest one, although I sure wish I did. I have to suffice with planting a lot of flowers everywhere, instead.
Mom and Dad always had huge gardens full of potatoes, corn, peas, carrots, tomatoes: red and yellow, leaf lettuce, beans: green and purple, beets, squash: many kinds, rhubarb, strawberries, sunflowers, cucumbers, dill, all indescribably delicious, coming straight from the earth to our mouths, as they did.
We had two big gardens; I remember being excited to help with the planting. Each row was critically spaced, measured the length of a metal post apart. A length of twine pulled taut across the vast width of the garden was the guide for each hoe'd row. Then, pull up the fence posts, move another row-length down, stretch the twine across and hoe another. Dad did the hoeing; we kids dropped in the seeds, covered the rows with the dark soil, and set the seeds but walking once, across the top of each row, with bare feet. When one finished walking over the row, it looked very much (we thought) like tractor tire marks.
There were flowers too, poppies one year; nodding red and pink along the north side. Dad planted gourds and pumpkins for us too, hugely fun for later in the fall.
There was also weeding, (which I only remember with fondness, truly) and of course the picking, shelling, husking, snapping, and various states of harvesting. Storing, freezing and canning. And all the while, eating. Meals in late summer went right from garden to table. Someone was always husking ears of corn on the back deck before dinner.
It never seemed like work, at least as I recall. Although Mom and Dad certainly did the majority of the 'big work' and we had a whole passel of kids in our family to share the weeding and picking duties.
What it did seem was sunshine and summer rain. Warm endless days, blue skies.
It was good growing weather.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Who can tell,
the children with their
bikes and balls
and laughter there,
I thought were mine.
Journeys never taken,
books, maybe,
to write,
and sights
unseen.
People yet to meet
and some I wish
unmet.
Who can say,
whether I have gone
the way
I should, no question
left unchecked.
Am I whole,
or at my dying
will I wonder why
I went this way,
not the other.
Who could know.
It wouldn’t
happen any
other way -
my days
have blossomed
as they must,
left up to trust,
without regret,
from birth
to dust.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/26/2002
the children with their
bikes and balls
and laughter there,
I thought were mine.
Journeys never taken,
books, maybe,
to write,
and sights
unseen.
People yet to meet
and some I wish
unmet.
Who can say,
whether I have gone
the way
I should, no question
left unchecked.
Am I whole,
or at my dying
will I wonder why
I went this way,
not the other.
Who could know.
It wouldn’t
happen any
other way -
my days
have blossomed
as they must,
left up to trust,
without regret,
from birth
to dust.
Mary Ellen Seidel
5/26/2002
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