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?

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."

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.

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.

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.

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. :)