At some previous point in time, two children were born to Hilda and Dulbert Cramp. The children were called Horrid and Special. Hilda was not particularly good at mothering. Dulbert was prone to excessive television watching, and didn't like children. But having known nothing different, Horrid and Special got by just fine, really, and although not what you would call precocious, or witty, or handsome children, were quite okay. (To be continued.)

Girly Brain is back

It's not as though I went away. I've been occupied with some other things. First off though, I am going to attempt posting this, to see if it still loads properly, given that the email address that it's connected to, no longer exists. Hang on, back in a few.

I Clean Gutters

I have cleaned the rain gutters. I feel good about it. A chore I have been putting off for two years, at least.

Last year for Christmas, my ex got me a 20' extension ladder. Yes, I liked it. It has been unused till now.
 
On Sunday, I got the ladder from the garage. It was more cumbersome, and heavier than I thought it might be. Laid it down on the lawn, to see how it works.
 
Eyeing up the wires that extend from some tall pole in the alley to where I need to place the ladder, and trusting that the wires are for telephone and cable, rather than electrical wires, I drag/carry the ladder to the first length of rain gutter. I have a thing about spiders and crawly critters, enough to power me off a high ladder if one should happen to skitter suddenly up my arm or whatever, so I am trying to be wary, and also nonchalant at the same time. If you show fear to a spider, it knows it has the upper hand. The ladder seems steady on it's corrugated feet, and the first gutter goes just fine.
 
There are also more rain gutters than I thought - I had not earlier noticed the ones under the shake-out, nor the extra ones on the front of the house, which intersect with the long ones. Hmmm.
 
And the ladder does not want to cooperate as well in the next spot. There is a good one inch gap under one of the ladder feet, and no way to position it to avoid this. It slides easily to one side of the gutter, and I picture myself falling from that height, ladder landing on me. What to do... I need a block of wood, I think, to shim up the gap. There is no magic piece of wood in the garage, to accomplish this, but I do have books sitting out there, (that remain unpacked since I moved in). A book would be the perfect size to wedge under the ladder. (I know, I know - but I have to work with what I have at hand...)
 
On the top stack of books: Steinbeck - The Winter of Our Discontent. I can't do it. I love Steinbeck. Next book: Steinbeck - The Grapes of Wrath. No can do. Then: Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and Jude the Obscure. Although those two are both paperbacks, I still cannot bring myself to use them in such a way. Below them, a book called Flaming Tree by Phyllis A Whitney. I will never read this again, if I ever did. Phyllis becomes my partner in the business of gutter cleaning. She looks like a nice woman, I think, as I set the leg of the ladder on her smiling face on the back dust jacket, and I really think she would be eager to help me. The book works like a charm.
 
The bugs and spiders are almost nonexistent, and all I have to do - since I have let the leaves and all sit in here composting for a couple years - is grab the weeds (yes, there are weeds growing in the gutters) and with the weeds comes this whole section of cake-like dirt/decaying vegetation/whatever, and then, the gutter is clean.
 
I did the back, and along the garage, and the front of the house. The ladder is now back in the garage, Phyllis is quietly awaiting next years cleaning, near the ladder. She is happily anticipating getting out again, I believe.
 

Dress A Girl Around The World

Ah, we step right into summer in Minny, with a hot, humid day reaching into a tornado warning evening. I do love a good storm. But no walk tonight, a little too green out for me. I turn up the tv so I can hear the weather, Hennepin County is under a tornado warning, and I would like to know if and when I actually do need to grab Kitty Vegas and head down to the basement.

In the meantime – a new volunteer sewing project. While the storm was brewing, I cut out and sewed together one of the dresses for the Dress A Girl Around The World project.

It’s a very simple premise: to ensure that every little girl in the world has at least one dress of her own. These dresses accompany missions groups to – everywhere. I’m including the website address here.

And it’s a very simple pattern called a pillow case dress. The idea being that you could up-cycle these dresses from a gently worn pillow case. However, cute fabric can be purchased very reasonably here, and I’m a textile lover anyway – I have a lot of fabric to use, and I’m happy to buy more as needed. I have nothing against up-cycling either, in fact, I appreciate when things are given a new life. Anyone who wants to is sure welcome to make their dresses from old pillow cases, I would just rather use new fabrics.

I also wondered about the simple pattern, and why both organizations that I planned to donate to (Dress A Girl Around The World and Little Dresses For Africa) ask for the pillow case style dress. However, the more I read about it, the more it made sense. Many of these dresses end up packed in a mission volunteer’s luggage, to be dispersed upon arriving at their destination. So they need to be lightweight, easy to pack and carry.

I hadn’t made one before, but the directions were very simple. If you don’t start with a pillow case, you basically make a simple tube dress (measurements and instructions are available from www.nancysnotions.com ;click on the link at the bottom of her website, called Creative Kindness). There are a number of different dress sizes you can make, from the same simple directions.

I made the version where you topstitch bias tape around the armholes, stitch a casing at the top front and back, and then thread either bias tape or ribbon through the casing. The ribbons tie into a bow at the shoulders, creating the top part of the armholes.

I will probably add a pocket or some other kind of trim to these dresses as I go, but for this first one, I mainly wanted to see just how to put it together.

Easy-peasy, very quick, and a lot of fun to make. These – along with my Spill Catcher project, will keep me busy for a while. Websites are below, if anyone wants to read more about these volunteer projects.

www.dressagirlaroundtheworld.com

www.littledressesforafrica.com

A Breakup, A Breakout, A Break-in

It’s been sort of a hard week.

1.) The breakup: pretty much the usual, but a breakup does take the wind out of one’s sails. Sigh. There is no point in spending lots of time dwelling on this one, but suffice to say, it’s not the best way to start out the week. Double sigh, double sad. Yes, we're still friends.

2.) The breakout: on my face. Seriously. I’ve never been inclined to acne, but recently – wow. Apparently all the acne I never had in my life is starting now. Weirdness. I would bear no ill feelings toward it if it simply packed up and left today. I will say good-bye to it in a nice way, a lot like how the breakup went down.

3.) The break-in: So, Friday evening I arrived home from a long hard week at work, to find that my house had been broken into during the day, and burglarized. The back entry way door had been kicked in, and the house gone through, drawers open, cupboard doors open, stuff strewn around. Stuff taken. I can’t help but wonder what kind of a person can live with themself after stealing from people. I guess their conscience must be even smaller than their balls.

Among other things taken: my Mac Powerbook, which sits on a table on one side of my bed. (Not taken, a Dell laptop, sitting on the other side of the bed.) The lowlife took a very large jewelry box, which must have been quite cumbersome to carry, what with all the hinged doors and lid, and hanging necklaces, etc. The Dell PC would have been the better choice for the butthat to take, since I don’t have a lot of expensive jewelry. A giant box worth very little, and so awkward to carry. My iPod, which I’ll have to replace immediately because I use it while I walk the lake.

The worst for me, was the dark sinking realization that Miss Vegas Kitty was not in the house. I knew she must have escaped out the door somehow when the intruder came in or left. It gave me a terrible feeling of helplessness and doom. I was sure she was gone forever.

One of the officers who came over to check the house and write the report up, tried to reassure me by saying she might even be hiding somewhere in the house. But Kitty Vegas is far too socially inclined to hide from anyone. She would more likely be right there, following the thief around the house. Curious beyond curious.

After the officers left, I stood in the living room, feeling dazed and depressed, with the whole idea of Miss Vegas gone forever starting to sink in, and there was a knock at the door. One of the officers was standing there with her in his arms. He’d found her over near the neighbor’s house. It’s hard to express my relief and how happy I was to have her back, safe and sound.

(ps: my house is generally pretty dang clean, but I was planning to do laundry Friday night, so I had gathered it into a large heap and just left it on the floor in the middle of the hallway, which we all had to step over while walking through each room to list what had been taken. Nice. There was also the usual pile of bras and panties on my bedroom floor. In addition, since it was Friday, before I left work I had grabbed a couple bananas off my desk that I hadn’t eaten during the week. As I dropped them in my already full purse, I noticed they were just starting to turn rather brownish and spotty. And yes, there they were, in plain sight, two rotting bananas hanging out of my purse as I spoke in a dazed voice to the police. I can only assume and hope that they see much weirder stuff than that in other people’s homes.

I asked John to come over Friday night to see if he could fix the door at least temporarily so I could close and lock it, and stay in the house till it gets replaced. He was able to come over right away and do that. All my friends have been so supportive; I’ve been getting calls and texts and fb messages all weekend. I have the nicest friends and family. : )))))))))))) Thanks everyone. Greatly appreciated by yours truly.

My New Favorite Project

What better thing to do on a rainy spring weekend than a sewing project?

I had a couple different projects in mind; one was kid’s quilts, which I’ve made in the past. The quilts (and a small plush toy) end up with kids who need to be removed from a bad domestic situation, here in Minnesota.

Another project was making very simple girl’s dresses, which then get donated to an organization called Little Dresses for Africa. These dresses are taken along on missionary trips and are given to little girls there.

I had also recently seen some bibs for elderly patients online, and I really liked the idea of designing some that would look a little bit more like a blouse or shirt front and a little less like a bib. Maybe help an older person retain just a bit more dignity at a time in life when it’s sometimes hard to come by. Besides, I just love old people.

I emailed my friend, who works at a nursing home with elderly and Alzheimers patients, in the small town where I grew up, and she said they’d love to have some donated bibs.

I made a simple pattern; basically a rectangle shape big enough to cover a front body, with a Velcro back neck closure. I kept the lower corners square, instead of rounding them off, and added a little topstitched collar at the front neck, as well as a pocket, in keeping with the shirt look. No buttons, or ribbons, as these will need to be laundered a lot, and I didn’t want to add anything on that might come off in time.

I really only had fabric on hand for woman’s bibs, but I did pattern a pointed collar for the men’s version, and I’ll make some of those as soon as I get a chance to get out and pick up fabric that would be suitable for the men’s bibs. I will also make a smaller pocket on those, again more in keeping with the look of a shirt.

I got 11 of these done this weekend. They’re easy to put together, and take about 1 yard of fabric each. Hopefully I’ll have time to get a bunch more done before I go up north and drop off the first batch. Very fun project. (I'm not all excited about calling these things 'bibs', it seems kind of demeaning. I'll keep working on a better name...)

The origin of knitting goes way back. As you might imagine, knitting, in it's most basic form - is really just intertwined yarn or fiber, to create a piece of knitted fabric, formed to shape, by the stitch type and size, etc.

The oldest artifact with a knitted look is a type of sock, created in a process called Nalebinding, which seems to be a knit fabric made by combination of knitting and sewing. Looks dang hard, if you view the photo of the artifact.

So apparently, most histories of knitting place its origin somewhere in the Middle East, where it then spread to Europe by Mediterranean trade routes, and then to the Americas with the advent of European colonization.

The earliest known examples of knitting have been found in Egypt and cover a range of items, and include complex colorful wool fragments and indigo blue and white cotton stockings, which have been dated between the 11th and 14th centuries.

Much of this info is thanks to Wiki:
The earliest known knitted items in Europe were made by Muslim knitters employed by Spanish Christian royal families. Their high level of knitting skill can be seen in several items found in the tombs in the Abbey of Santa María la Real de Las Huelgas, a royal monastery, near Burgos, Spain. Among them are the knitted cushion covers and gloves found in the tomb of Prince Fernando de la Cerda, who died in 1275. The silk cushion cover was knit at approximately 20 stitches per inch. It included knit patterns reflecting the family armory, as well as the word baraka ("blessings") in Arabic in stylized Kufic script. Numerous other knit garments and accessories, also dating from the mid-13th century, have been found in cathedral treasuries in Spain.

At this time, the purl stitch (the opposite action to the knit stitch) was unknown and purely stockinette fabric was produced by knitting in the round on multiple knitting needles. Sometimes the knitting was cut open, a process now known as steeking.

Several paintings from Europe portray the Virgin Mary knitting, and date from the 14th century, including Our Lady Knitting by Tommaso da Modena (circa 1325-1375) and Visit of the Angel, from the right wing of the Buxtehude Altar, 1400–10, by Master Bertram of Minden.

Knitting was such a vast occupation among those living on the Scottish Isles during the 17th and 18th centuries that whole families were involved in making sweaters, accessories, socks, stockings, etc. Fair Isle techniques were used to create elaborate colorful patterns. Sweaters were essential garments for the fishermen of these islands because the natural oils within the wool provided some element of protection against the harsh weather encountered while out fishing.

1939 to 1945: Knitting For Victory: Make do and mend was the title of a booklet produced by the British wartime government department, the Ministry of Information. Wool was in very short supply, and the booklet encouraged women to unpick old unwearable woollen items in order to re-use the wool.

Knitting patterns were issued so that people could make items for the Army and Navy to wear in winter, such as balaclavas and gloves. This not only produced the much-needed items, but also gave those on the "home front" a positive sense of contributing to the war effort.


I love the resurgence in interest of the craft of knitting. It really is a timeless art, one of many, that I hope will not be forgotten.

Madonna Knitting, by Bertram of Minden 1400-1410

1855 sketch of a shepherd knitting, while watching his flock.

A World War I poster encouraging people to knit socks for the troops.

Poemzebra

The cold hard noose of winter is loosening up. The vast piles of snow we have in the city are less ominous. Streets are melting clear. The sun is back and I don't care what you say - it feels like spring already. I saw brown dead grass along the freeway today on my way to work and it sent a thrill through me that only a Minnesotan can understand.

It was a good winter to practice bucking up. We hold fast, we persevere, here in Minny. We get through. I know, I know, it's not over yet. But I can clearly see spring at the end of the tunnel. And it looks good.

The year went by awfully fast. I just checked my posts from last year, and I was writing about a number of things, including my Dad, who was on the ill-ish side for a while. I have a whole post to write regarding when he collapsed at home and the subsequent miracles (of both the heavenly and medical variety), but that will wait till another day. I have to add here though - that since the November Miracle, both Mom and Dad have regressed in age about 20 years. Pretty cool.

We had an amazing Christmas on the Sechser side, with almost all of the family. I noticed when Mom added a comment to someone's facebook page, she wrote: "24 grandchildren, 9 kids and 9 spouses." Hmmmmmm. Well, I've been spouseless for three years, but I'll give her a break on that, she probably just forgot.

I have a brand new first grand-niece. Eric and Tasha's little girl, Madison. Wasn't it only yesterday that Eric was toddling around our house, posing, smiling good naturedly, while we made him wear a long hair lady's wig?

John finally got another dog. While my heart still hurts whenever I think of Alf, (another post, in my head, not yet written) Jake is a sweetie too. His family couldn't keep him after they had twin babies who needed medical care. He could not have been adopted into a better home, and I'm glad that John has him. Miss Vegas Kitty likes him too, although she doesn't like to admit it out loud.

So, I'm looking headlong into spring with the anticipation of all that it brings - need I say more?

All is well in my world. As usual.

In Which I Write About A Rhyming Poem of Garrison Keillor's

Garrison Keillor wrote this poem. And it's a rhyming poem no less, thereby reducing it, by default, to a lowish stature in the grand world of poetry. I like poetry, and good books, and I know that the poem is not particularly good writing, (although I think Keillor's books and other creative/entertainment talents are way beyond awesome).

But this poem, with all of it's wobbly weaknesses, speaks volumes; about life and dreams. Unfulfilled dreams. Living your life well, and happy and good, and not complaining that you had your heart set on something else. This is how we roll, here in the Midwest. This is our way.

It reminds me of the restlessness of my ex too, a man who pursued his ambitions and challenges every single day, driving up north every weekend to build hand scribed log cabins in his spare time, after working hard all week on a construction crew in the city. He was not searching for 'mountains by the ocean shore' but for something else, maybe something he didn't even know. I am more like the wife in the story, content to persevere wherever I find myself.

I cried the first time I read this poem, and every time since. It twists my heart. I have attached a copy of it, below.

A Letter From Copenhagen, Part 2

Our people aimed for Oregon
When they left Newburyport--
Great-grandma Ruth, her husband John,
But they pulled up in Wobegon,
Two thousand miles short.

It wasn't only the dangers ahead
That stopped the pioneer.
My great-grandmother simply said,
"It's been three weeks without a bed.
I'm tired. Let's stay here."

He put the horses out to graze
While she set up the tent,
and they sat down beside their blaze
And held each other's hand and gazed
Up at the firmament.

"John," she said, "what's on your mind
Besides your restlessness?
You know I'm not the traveling kind,
So tell me what you hope to find
Out there that's not like this?"

The fire leaped up bright and high,
The sparks as bright stars shone.
"Mountains," he said. "Another sky.
A Green new land where you and I
Can settle down to home.

"You are the dearest wife to me.
Though I'm restless, it is true,
And Oregon is where I'd be
And live in mountains by the sea,
But never without you."

They stayed a week to rest the team,
Were welcomed and befriended.
The land was good, the grass was green,
And slowly he gave up the dream,
And there the journey ended.

They bought a farm just north of town,
A pleasant piece of rolling ground,
A quarter-section, mostly cleared;
He built a house before the fall;
They lived there forty years in all,
And by God persevered.

And right up to his dying day
When he was laid to rest,
No one knew--he did not say--
His dream had never gone away,
He still looked to the west.

She found it in his cabinet drawer:
A box of pictures, every one
Of mountains by the ocean shore,
The mountains he had headed for
In the state of Oregon.

There beside them lay his will.
"I love you, Ruth," the will began,
And count myself a well-loved man.
Please send my ashes when I die
To Oregon, some high green hill,
And bury me and leave me lie
At peace beneath the mountain sky,
Off in that green and lovely land
We dreamed of, you and I."

At last she saw her husband clear
Who stayed and labored all those years,
His mountains all uncrossed.
Of dreams postponed and finally lost,
Which one of us can count the cost
And not be filled with tears?

And yet how bright the visions are
Of mountains that we sense afar,
The land we never see:
The golden west and golden gate
Are visions that illuminate
And give wings to the human heart
Wherever we may be.
That old man by dreams possessed,
By Oregon was truly blessed
Who saw it through the eye of faith,
The land of his sweet destiny:
In his eye, more than a state
And something like a star.

I wrote this poem in Oregon,
Wanting the leaden words to soar
In memory of my ancestor
And all who live along the way.
God rest their souls on a golden shore,
God bless us who struggle on:
We are the life that they longed for,
We bear their visions every day.

--Garrison Keillor

I Dig Minneapolis

Okay, shutty up. I know, yes, this is another post about snow. But think of it this way - you don't have to read another dating post. ;)

This is a pretty good pile of snow we received in the storm. 17" in Minneapolis, with plenty of blowing to create drifts. Back in the 1930's when the city laid out these blocks on paper, someone had the foresight to (or made the mistake to) give the west half of my block larger front and back yards, and the east half (my side) got what was left over. Thank God. I have enough mowing to do in the summer up at the lake, and I view my Lilliputian yard here as a wonderful thing. That sentiment doubles every time I need to go out and shovel my walks and driveway.

Actually I enjoy shoveling (and mowing). And yesterday evening, when the falling snow seemed to be in the winding down stages, I went outside to see what sort of dent I could start to make in it. I shoveled my way out the front door (I had already tried the back door and it was blocked closed by a good size snowdrift), down the front steps, and ever so slowly the very short front walkway. I got to the sidewalk, and was able to clear a path as wide as my shovel, down the middle. We're talking deep snow here. I went inside feeling fairly certain that I could shovel out the rest, and my little driveway, on Sunday.

Sunday: had a cup of coffee and then bundled up in fleece pants, jeans, 2 shirts, a hoodie, scarf, hat, warm coat, boots and mittens. Not exactly a fashion statement. Hah. As I take a last sip of coffee, I see someone snowblowing the rest of my front walk. I peek out to see this same guy snowblowing all the front sidewalks.

When I open the garage door from inside my house, I am looking at a cut out view of the snow on my driveway. 17" inches of solid snow to clear, plus the dreaded snowplow leftovers - those big snowcrete banks the plows block you in with as they go by. I will not look at, nor think about that snowcrete pile until I get there. As a matter of fact, the only way to tackle this is to divide this massive amount of snow into a imaginary grid. My job is to focus on removing enough snow for my car to get through to the alley. That is 5 shovels wide, by 4 shovels high, by I lost track of how many, rows long. A lot. I tried to be crabby, but seriously it is a GLORIOUS morning here. Blue sky and sunshine everywhere. And I really hate to say this - but this snow - it was the perfect type for shoveling! Not too heavy, not too light. Not loaded down with moisture, but just exactly the right amount so it formed a nice block of snow with every scoop. Very satisfying.

I am actually debating whether I will be able to remove all this snow, yes, there is that much. And my car is blocked in the garage until the snow is removed. I really like the idea of being able to do this on my own though, so I keep shoveling. I'm careful to try to lift correctly; my back is already starting to tighten up a little. 4 scoops down = one foot cleared. Move over, 4 scoops down = one foot cleared. Move over... I keep at it. When I see that I've cleaned off the first two feet of the driveway, I know I can do it myself. Shovelful by shovelful.

I have it about halfway cleaned off when a truck drives past me, down the alley. It's my neighbor, on the corner of the block. He's on the big yard side. There is a snowblower sitting on the open tail gate and the driver motions to me from inside the cab - "I'll come and do yours next".

What a nice offer! And I notice his coat is the same coat I saw on the mysterious snowblowing volunteer earlier, clearing every one's front walks. People are nice here. It is part of what makes Minnesota - Minnesota.

However, I'm on a mission now: a personal quest. I challenge myself, in the name of single women, in the name of hardy Minnesotans, hell - in the name of perseverance, and personal strength - YES I can shovel it with the best of 'em! I want to shovel myself out. Just to say I can, just to say I did it.

My corner neighbor returns with his snowblower, along with two other neighbors wielding snowshovels (but in good way), and all three offer to help me clear the rest of my driveway. I thank them, but send them on to the next neighbor. It feels good to toss that last shovelful, and head back into my house. Aching back and all.

Up next, a good movie and hot chocolate laced with ibuprofen.

One Shovelful At A Time, Sweet Jesus

My sidewalks and driveway are shoveled clear. Whew. It wasn't heavy snow, but it was deeper than I'd thought and I'm glad to finally be done with it. My shoveled areas here are a little on the sloppy side; the neighbor's walk was neat as a pin with it's broom swept trails, and as I cleared my driveway, I couldn't help but notice the drive directly across the alley from mine had apparently been licked clean, or vaporized with a blow torch.

House maintenance is sometimes a tough gig for a single female. My dad bought me a 'lady tool kit' earlier this year; a purple canvas tool bag, filled with a variety of hand tools with purple handles, which has come to my rescue several times already since I received it. Men's gadgets are cool, it's just that I never think to go and buy them.

I have plenty to do indoors today: cookie baking, gift wrapping, and writing out Christmas greeting cards, and also just generally relaxing. I had actually planned to go out shopping for the last few gifts I wanted to pick up, but so far the streets and alleys have not been plowed by my house, so Miss Vegas and I are cozy-ing in for the day.

Another thing mom and dad bought me when I moved into this house is a big counter-top mixer. That was three years ago, but I've been busy and didn't open the box until a few days ago. I'm looking forward to making some delicious treats with it. Mom, who is an excellent cook and baker, also recently gave me a rosette iron and a cookie press. So - I'll be venturing into baking territory this weekend.

The snow started to fall early yesterday and continued all day, and through the night.

When I went out this morning to shovel, everything outdoors was softened, covered with a thick blanket of snow. The cars parked on the street looked like puffy white cartoon-mobiles, the curb lines and sidewalks, even the streets - were softened, hidden beneath all the snow. My shovel scraped the sidewalk, guessing at where the edges were. Scoops of snow flung aside, revealing the steps up my front walk.

The snowstorm temporarily disengaged the physical boundaries of my neighborhood, a lot the way divorce dissipated the outlines of my life. I'm still discovering where they are. And it's been fun finding out.

Lucky Me

I don't remember the first Thanksgiving I spent as a single person. I know my friend Jobird H. invited me to Thanksgiving with his family, but I didn't go. I may have been wallowing in self-pity, not sure, but I'm guessing I spent it by myself, in my new home. It was probably all right. Maybe even enjoyable.

Thanksgiving number two, I drove to Fargo, to be with boyfriend number 1. He had the nicest family, they were all great. He was himself. We parted ways about a month later.

Thanksgiving number three: I was living at the Cowboy's house, and we worked our Thanksgiving dinner in around a couple of days when he returned from Texas. We went to Molly Cools for seafood on Wednesday night, and he left the next day. The weather was uncertain. Our future was uncertain. We parted ways shortly after that. I was back in my own house before Christmas.

Hey, I never said this would be as interesting as Elizabeth Taylor's memoirs. Just bear with me here.

Thanksgiving number four: I am about as happy as I have ever been in my life. Things are good, life is wonderful, and I have an awful lot to be thankful for.

I thank God when something good happens to me. I talk to God a lot. I really don't pray gracefully or in a very reverent sort of way. I pray fervently though, and candidly.

(I also pray fast, and can recite a rosary in record time. I'm not sayin' I'm proud of it, and it's not to achieve some kind of speed award, but just an adaptation to fit it into my busy life.) I often ask God for some help, or a push in the right direction. There are times too, when I've had to completely give up on trying to sort through a problem, and instead, just hand it off to God. This is something you learn as you to do as you get older and wiser. You have to be okay with bending your ego.

His answers have very simply fallen into place in my head. Solutions that I never would have thought of.

I've had a lot of good answers from God this year, gigantic stuff. Miraculous stuff.

Thank you Lord, for the big stuff. And the small stuff. And for family and friends. I've been blessed to be surrounded by people with huge, wonderful, caring hearts, who love me.

For this life I live, with all of you - I'm lucky, I'm grateful. I'm thankful.

Mealtime

Mom has always known her way around a kitchen, and that was a good thing, because Dad was kind of a picky eater. We ate home cooked, home canned, farm raised, garden gathered, food. Dad liked big meals with all the trimmings - meat, potatoes, vegetables, home baked bread, six kinds of pickles, and some sort of delicious dessert.

Unlike a lot of Minnesotans, we didn't have many hot-dishes, or things like sloppy joes, and we would have died-and gone-to-heaven to have pizza once in a while. (And that would have been the kind of pizza that came in a small box - where you mixed up the dough and added the tiny can of tomato paste - it would have been unheard of back then to buy a frozen pizza.)

Breakfast was a big meal at our house too. All of us kids knew how to fry eggs, and that was a standard. Mom would make hot cereals, cooked on the stove. (The kind where you add hot water to oatmeal in a little pouch had not been invented yet. Or more correctly, it actually had been - it simply came in a bigger box, and you had to measure it out into the pan...) She would make sausage and gravy, bacon and pancakes. Or a giant pot of homemade hot chocolate. We couldn't have coffee, but we could have hot chocolate.

On weekdays, Dad got up long before we kids, so he could drive to his job in Brainerd. But on weekends when we were all there for breakfast, Dad would always let us dip our peanut butter toast into his cup of coffee. He ate his toast the same way.

It has recently occurred to me that his coffee cup must have been half full of soggy toast crumbs, not to mention the germs from the hands of all us grubby little children. He never said anything about it - and this was a man whose dresser drawers were sorted and arranged into neat sections of socks, handkerchiefs, t-shirts, etc. We were just always welcome to dip right in to that cup of coffee.

Over the years, Dad and Mom have had to adjust their eating, as health dictated, and age and weight, and those big home cooked meals don't happen all that often anymore.

And Dad's been eating hospital food for the past couple days. I suppose it's not too good, but I haven't heard him complain.

This afternoon, he's not feeling all that great. One of his major meds had accidentally slipped off the list, and as a consequence he's been having facial spasms, extremely painful. Between that, and some different meds they gave him to relax and eliminate some of the face pain, he's been very groggy, and shaky.

They also wouldn't give him anything to eat until someone looked at the ultrasound he had earlier, so when he could finally have something, he asked for peanut butter toast and coffee. The styrofoam coffee cup was full and he has to eat while inclined, and with a perilously shaky grip on the cup. Pat mentioned getting a lid for the cup, so it wouldn't spill so easily, but he either didn't hear her or didn't want one, as he didn't really respond to the suggestion. She went out and down the hall to the break-room and got one, and was just reaching across the bed tray to put it on the cup, when she saw why he didn't want one. He broke his peanut butter toast in half, reached up to the cup on the tray, and dipped it way down in.

Old habits sometimes just don't need breaking.

Road Trip

My family ends up in hospital waiting rooms quite often, as Mom has been dealing with health issues for many years. Sort of feels like home after you've been here awhile. The St Cloud hospital is one of the most professional and courteous I have experienced.

So here I am, with Pat, Barb, Julie and Mom, in one of the waiting areas in the hospital, doing some writing while Dad takes a nap. He just got a bath, clean bedding and a back rub from the nurses, so I'm thinking he'll be sleepin' like a baby for a while. He has a low grade fever today and will likely get a pacemaker implant tomorrow, provided the fever dissipates.

Usually Dad is on the waiting room end of these hospital visits, and I was remembering the time when Mom became extremely ill while they were on vacation a few summers ago. They'd gone to a family reunion in Sioux Falls, and Mom was in such bad shape that Dad called us to come down there. So 'the girls' (Pat, me, Barb and Julie) all crammed into Julie's little car, and headed out into the night. It seems that even if you have time to pack a bag, there are always a few things you forgot to bring, or ran out of while you're away. This is why a lot of our pajamas are from Walmart.

Anyway, because Dad packs for vacation like most men, with just the most minimal amount of clothes, by the time we got to the hospital in Sioux Falls, and it became obvious that Mom would be there for a while - he needed to get out to make some extra clothing purchases.

A small warning bell dinged off somewhere in the back of my brain, but I ignored it. Which is probably why - when we reached the mall, Barb and Julie made a hasty beeline off to the other end of the mall, (to look at shoes, naturally) leaving me to help Dad find the stuff he needed. Dad's not a big shopper, I guess Mom probably buys most of his clothes, and a feeling of dread and slight panic swept over me when Dad said, "Well, I guess I need some shirts. I like those T-shirt shirts, you know, with a pocket on the front. And stripes, this way." While motioning his arms to indicate horizontal stripes.

Wonder of wonders - and thank you Jesus - there happened to be a big table of such shirts at Kohl's. We picked out a few and Dad tried one on. In the store. Right next to the table. Then posed, pooching out his belly, and asked, "Does this look too small for me?" We had more stuff to get and needed to get back to the hospital in due time. I said they looked great.

Onward to socks. You'd think this would be an easy one, but he had a particular kind in mind, and more complexly - a certain calf height. Not too high and not too low. Those seem to have too tight elastic. Those have a grey toe and heel. Etcetera. Finally found some that fit the bill.

I was hoping he had brought enough underwear, because I really just didn't want to go there. Alas, to the underwear aisles we trod. This was the worst, because while I don't mind a quick grab and buy, I did not want to browse the men's undie aisle. With my dad. We looked at a lot of different styles, and although he seemed sure of what exact type he wanted (and I really had no inclination to learn what type of unterwasche he wore) we couldn't find the right ones. He finally found a package of underwear that *seemed* close to the right kind, judging from the photo on the front. But he was hesitant to choose them because they were labeled 'fitted knit boxers' and he knew his were called 'boxer-briefs.'

Our shopping was finally completed. It has always stuck in my mind though - how we were able to find all those items exactly like he what wanted. Maybe guardian angels cover more ground than we think. ;)

Just Another Date In Paradise

Yet another first date. I'd been emailing quite a lot and talking on the phone with this guy, and he seemed normal and kind of fun. There was something about him that was off-putting also, but I could never really put my finger on it - so I chalked it up to my imagination and just dismissed it. He really wanted to meet, and I ended up staying in the city for the weekend at the last minute, so although I knew he had a fairly full weekend, I said if he could roust up a couple spare hours we could have coffee or a cocktail and chat for a bit in person. He said he could after 830pm on Saturday.

I wore a summer dress and shiny wedge sandals, make-up, perfume and I did my hair in a fun curly style - I thought we might go out for the coffee, but he came to the door with a nice bottle of wine. He was wearing a real weird tank top (what guy wears a tank top on a date??) and some unflattering denim shorts that I've never seen the likes of before. Not in the past couple decades anyway. He sort of wanted me to open the wine, but since he'd just come from a neighborhood party where he'd had mixed citrus drinks, I asked if he would like something more along those lines and I poured him a lemon drop.

We chatted in the living room for a while, and were actually having a really good time. I knew from talking on the phone, that he isn't the world's greatest conversationalist, so I kept the conversation flowing and upbeat, asking him funny questions, and inquiring about his hobbies, interests, and family, etc. One question I asked was: What is the stupidest thing you've ever done? He replied, "In high school shop class I removed the guard on the table saw, and cut off two of my fingers." I thought he was kidding till he waved his finger-chopped hand at me. The pointer finger was completely gone and the "finger" finger was far too short to ever give the finger.

Well, you know me, I recover quickly from shock, and who am I to be all hoity-toity about a couple of missing digits? We keep talking. I was having fun, and he was too. He said he didn't really like his drink, so we went to the kitchen and opened the wine. I don't drink wine much at all, and red wine never, as the tannins give me a headache. But he had a couple glasses and the conversation was still going.

I don't get all lovey-dovey on a first date; I like to get to know the person first, but we decided to watch a concert on dvd, and as I was retrieving a disc from a basket on the floor right beside him - I was enjoying his company so much that I leaned in to give him a little kiss. Besides I like to kiss and I was wondering if he was much of a kisser. He looked at me in surprise and I said "I was just going to give you a kiss." He smiled, leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth about 2 inches, as if he was going to yawn. I kid you not. I didn't have time to register shock, as I was already on the down-swoop, so I elected to kiss just his top lip, not knowing how else to handle it. Fortunately, his jaw swung back upwards to an actual kiss position, so I could just give him a little peck, and back off. Wow. Awkward. I am seriously still wondering - is that actually the way he kisses? I surely want no part of it. Who doesn't know how to kiss? Isn't it an automatic thing?? A natural response??

Miss Vegas Kitty came in to say hello, and he pushed her away, telling me he really loves cats. He mentioned that he thinks his ex is probably a lesbian.
(I'm doubtful, because every guy I've dated has claimed their ex was either psychotic or a lesbian...) But if she was - I'm starting to see why she might have been driven to that side.

I asked him if he'd like some coffee, even though he's not finished with his second glass of wine. He said yes. I brought him a cup of hazelnut flavor decaf.

He's sitting on one end of the sofa and I'm sitting on the adjacent love seat, the corner nearest him. We're leaning toward each other, within touching distance, about a foot apart, so we can look at each other while we chat. He asked me why I'm not sitting on the couch next to him, cuddling, and I explain that I don't usually get all cuddly on the first date, and that it's also a little odd to talk while we're both looking directly ahead. He asks again, as if he hasn't heard me, and I politely say I like to get to know my dates first, before getting close physically. He asks again. I repeat, still nicely.

He asks again, and again, and again. He says I'm extremely controlling. In a five minute lecture. I say, "I think our date needs to be over." In my head I say, "How's that for controlling, you creepy toad." He contemplates about leaving while sipping his coffee. I get up and start bringing the glasses to the kitchen. He gets the message. When I turn around he is standing at the door, looking kind of defeated, one arm up and braced against the wall. I am momentarily distracted by the hairy rodent clinging to his armpit, but I recover quickly, recognizing it as just some out of control pit hair. He still wants a hug. I give him a brief hug, no kiss (no way) and I say, "I'm sorry our date was bad, but we're just not compatible. Good night." In my head I add, "Good riddance."

So far, internet dating has not resulted in my meeting anyone I would prefer to be with - more than I would prefer to be alone. Which is where I started, and where I still am. And I think that's just fine.

Ah... July

It's Sunday. Early. This is one of those perfect summer weekends where no one wants to let the day go, and we all stay up late into the night. This morning it's very quiet, even the birds are sleeping in. I can see from my bed, the sun rising over the lake, the mist is disappearing. Back in the day - John and I would be out in the boat now, listening to the loons, fishing for bass. In my case - northerns.

I woke up on Saturday at 4am in the city, packed the car and was heading up north at 430am. Got here about 730, and took a short nap. I went over to Mom and Dad's around noon. Dad was doing a whole lot better, and tinkered around with the little radio I bought him. He had shaved his head and Mom told him he looked like George Clooney. I think he looked better than George Clooney. He was listening to Click and Clack when I got there, and told me the previous caller was from Minnesota; a woman who said her husband checks the air pressure in the tires every time they go to Duluth and wants her to get out of the car when he does, and was it really necessary to. (They said not unless she weighs as much as the car.)

I mowed their lawn, and went back inside. Dad and I ate some lunch while Mom had a nap on the couch. The lunch was from canned cupboard food - chicken sandwiches, baked beans and chips, with root beer Mr Freezes for dessert. (By the way - as bad as canned chicken may sound - it was DELish compared to that actual farm-canned chicken in ball-jars that mom canned years ago and BROUGHT IT AS FOOD ON A VACATION WE TOOK WHEN WE WERE KIDS! On-vacation-food is fast food, restaurant food, and fun treats. It is not - and never will be - home-canned-soft-suspended there-basking in it's own juices-freaking-jar-canned-chicken. I can only remember one thing worse and that was a very large batch of home-made ketchup, which only tasted like ketchup in the slightest - oh wait- NOT AT ALL sense. It just made a hamburger feel sad...) Anyway, Dad hasn't eaten much for a week or so, and I was hungry from lawn mowing so it was more like a gourmet meal in our minds. I did up the few dishes and drove back to the cabin.

Suffice to say the weather was lovely, the kind of summer day you remember, you remember, in the bleak December. Ah... sighs and bliss and all that...

I am not a big Casino-r, but Mom was really wanting to get out, so after she got back from Mass (which is at 4pm in Hack, if anyone wants to fulfill their obligation before they get drunk on Saturday night, or whatever) she called me and asked if I wanted to go. She was going alone if I didn't want to - and the sad vision of that was about all the arm-twisting I needed. Showered, and ironed an outfit, and headed back out. The neighbors watched as they relaxed on their porch, they must wonder...

(Interruption in story - as I'm typing, I can hear some animal sound outside like a baby goat. I think it's unlikely there's a goat around, I'll have to check it out when I get up. Hmm...)

I went back over to Mom and Dad's and had dinner. Mom had made sloppy-joe's from Grandma's old recipe. They don't taste all that good, but the fun is in saying "This is Grandma's old sloppy-joe recipe from the root beer stand!" I also just like the name sloppy-joe. I wonder who came up with it? We could have just as easily been eating dribbly-bob's or messy-kens. Maybe I'll invent a recipe for the dribbly-bob. I'm kind of digging that name too.

Dad wasn't really up to going anywhere, so Mom and I drove off to the casino. Mom did the machine choosing, and I did the winning. Hah. It was fun. There was a powwow going on that I would have liked to check out more, but we didn't get a chance, what with meandering from one slot machine to another with a glazed look of temporary euphoria in our eyes.

We had fun. Everyone had fun. It was THAT kind of summer day.

Mary Ellen and the Horrible, Terrible, Very Bad Kidney Stone

I've felt like a bit of a walking wreck for a good part of this spring. I've had a few slammer headaches, a bombastic migraine, a horrid cold, and one of those seven week hack-up-a-lung coughs, which has finally turned into an annoying off and on wheeze-hack that busts loose generally when I'm in the middle of stating something very wise, or loving, or serious, effectively rendering my intended speech weakly pitiful and ridiculous sounding. So, you'd think, according to the rules of life, where things sort of even themselves out - I'd be in excellent health for the next couple of years. Right? Nope.

A few weeks ago I was quietly going about my usual work at the office, minding my own bizzness, designing plush bears or giraffes, or something along those lines, when I suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of nausea roll in, a big nasty wave. Took me by surprise. I wasn't feeling ill in any way, so I ignored it. About two minutes later it returned, not to be denied. Two words flashed by on the big-screen in my brain, as I hastily fled from my desk, through the warehouse, and out the back door, where I really, really needed to let some vomit fly. Kidney! Stone!

The cool outside air hit my clammy skin just enough to briefly calm the impending puke. And that was a good thing, because right where I was intending to spew, was, just my luck, some old dude trying to (illegally) dump his trunk load of trash into the dumpster. He was probably as dismayed to see me as I was to see him.

I caught my breath and tried to relax while I moseyed as casually as possible over to the other side of the building where my car was parked. I tried every way I could to reason with myself: you can’t be sick, you were feeling just fine a half hour ago! Calm down, you’re not going to throw up. Are you?

I opened my car door and crawled into the back seat. There’s no good way to describe the all-over pain a kidney stone comes with, but basically my whole BEING just felt wrong. But laying face down in the backseat was not helping, at any rate, so I heaved myself back into a sitting position and got back out. Very slowly.

A decision has been reached in my brain. Even though I have only been at work for an hour, I absolutely must get home as soon as possible. This is to avoid a potentially painful and embarrassing situation in which I am overcome with the highest level of kidney stone pain; an off the charts screamin’ meemie kind of pain, where one finds the only pain-enduring position that can be had in an office is on the floor on one’s knees, draped over the seat of one’s chair, unable to speak, or move otherwise, except in a whispered garble to one’s ex, on one’s tightly gripped cell phone, to PLEASE come and get me, which one’s ex does, to his great credit. If you think that sounds like I was just describing a memory, I was. The memory of kidney stone #2.

Yes folks, I said #2. Step right up, step right up, to see the lady who can pound out kidney stones one after another, every couple years, like clockwork.

I walk deliberately back to my desk, breathing shallowly, trying not to disturb the stone, at least till I get home. I must email some files to hit a deadline, which involves translating them into a low res format and cc’ing oh, about 8 people, cause that’s how we do where I work. This normally only takes a couple minutes but I could barely get through it, and when I clicked send on the last file, I grabbed a couple plastic bags, and left.

The ride home, usually about a half hour, was the longest trip home I've ever taken. Every crack in the street, every tiny bump - excruciating. The pain causes constant nausea, which I fought off as long as I could, until it was either cough it up while driving, which, because I puke long, loud and hard, was impossible, or pull over immediately. With a yank on the steering wheel I swerved over onto the nearest side street, a very private and lovely cul de sac in Edina, where I sort of rolled out of the car into a bent position, leaned against the car door, and heaved into a bag. Across from me, a nice gentleman was puttering about in his yard. I was careful not to make eye contact, hoping he would not come over to see if I needed any help, as I wasn't in a conversing frame of mind. He didn't. (His lovely home wasn't all that far from some dubious looking apartments on 66th Street, so maybe he just assumed I was a crack-mess or something.) Coffee-puke. Smelled vomit-ty bad, and I had all I could do to regain control of my stomach and get back into the car, bag knotted at the top, and set carefully on the floor.

I had to stop one more time to vomit before I made to my house. Finally. First thing you do is remove much of your clothing. It hurts to have anything touching your skin. I put on a soft, loose nightgown. This being my third kidney stone, I knew the ropes. When my body said the position of least pain was on my hands and knees on the floor, I did it. Fast forward through extreme pain, really unbelievable. In short, it's kind of like a constant mule kick in the kidney, which is also killer back pain. My kidney stone was on the move, so I also had horrible low abdomen pain at the same time. I fell asleep at some point, in a very strange position. Or perhaps I passed out from the pain, I don't really know. I felt a lot better when I woke up. I stayed in bed the remainder of the day, and was just fine from then on. I had no more pain, even when I finally passed it, about a week and a half later. (For those that are unsure - the stone comes out when you pee.)

It's a harrowing experience, no question. Miss Anti-drug (that's me) would gladly have taken pretty much any type of painkiller I could get. On the other hand, I got through it all right without any. Maybe I'll buy myself three big silver belt buckles, to commemorate, like bull riders get. My sisters had a couple of nice suggestions. One said maybe send out birth announcements for the little guy. One said I should have all three stones set into a ring. Yeah, yeah, eeeeveryone's a comedian.

Living Like Lucinda

Lately, lines of poetry had begun to cross her mind. A trail of typed, black letters on white banners, appearing here and there on illogical occasions. While she was trudging upstairs with a basketful of clean laundry to put away. She'd gone to the dances at Chandlerville and played snap-out at Winchester. Poetry she'd read many years ago, and embraced, was coming back to comfort her, like an arm around her shoulder. She made no acknowledgement or wonder of it.

Serving customers at the bar, late at night, her feet hurting. The last-to-leave patrons had nothing to go home to, cigarette breath whistling heavy past the scent of booze in their glasses, grinning yellowed teeth wheezing over the same old bad jokes. A spidery pile of pull-tabs, offering nothing, next to the half empty drinks. She had no reason to feel superior, and didn't. The poem waved, smiling. One time we changed partners, driving home in the moonlight of middle June, and then I found Davis.

A pervasive sadness enveloped her during the day, of a kind that she couldn't shake off. She did not allow her thoughts to stray to Avery. And because of this, when the workday duties became mind-numbingly rote, her mind filled with a headachy emptiness instead.

She fell exhausted into bed at night, curled into the warmth of the poem, living like Lucinda; enjoying, working, raising a family, keeping house, tending the garden, through the dark night. She awoke to the long fingers of the sun on the bedclothes, somehow sated and rested.

The words returned to her, fleeting, but strong, and she remembered walks over the fields and through woods, birdsong, and gathering shells by the river, picking flowers and weeds to arrange in a vase on the table. She recalled what it was like to live loud, shouting and singing, and knew she had not lived enough yet.

Mary Ellen Seidel


Lucinda Matlock
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the midnight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you--
It takes life to love Life.

Edgar Lee Masters; Spoon River Anthology

The striking painting shown above is by Edward Hopper, one of my favorite artists.