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.

That's what I thought...

Miss Domestic

Two and a half years after moving out of my house, after moving out of my life - guess what! It appears I've reached some kind of milestone. Hah! I bought some beautiful, chunky textured, chocolatey-colored dishes today, that caught my eye, and that I really love. Yep, plates, bowls, salad plates, cups; service for eight. Silly, yes, but who cares? It made me happy. For a couple of reasons. Let me backtrack here for a minute...

I think most people who've been divorced will know just what I'm talking about when I say one of the most depressing, energy-sucking, drudgeful tasks I encountered upon moving out of my home, was the first big trip to Target or Walmart for household necessities. And when I say necessities, I mean strictly the bare bones essentials to make one's house tick. Pots and pans, utensils, silverware, glasses, a dish drainer, laundry baskets. I clearly recall making those purchases; even though I was in a divorce-induced haze of horror at even having to do it.

When you have zero enthusiasm, you just walk the household aisles and load up your cart. You really don't give much of a damn what the drinking glasses look like, or what pattern the silverware is. This is survival shopping, baby. I know I was on auto-pilot filling that first cart. The newly divorced - you can spot us easily. We're the ones with the glazed look in our eyes, pale and hunched over, pushing the big cart slowly past the spatulas and corkscrews, in a sluggish state of bewilderment.

Shopping trips in general, for me, were pretty horrific. What was once kind of fun – my spouse and I picking out furniture, or a cool tv – turned into a dismal stomach-churning chore I didn’t want to do, once I was re-single.

Because I was drained, in a hundred ways, and tired in a hundred more, I also felt physically weak. I bought stuff that was light, and easy to carry. When you're single (as in, newly divorced after 25 years), you have to unload and carry all your stuff in yourself. Into a house where there's no one home but you. Then you unpack it, put it where it goes, deal with the cartons and wrappings and trash. Tiring, very tiring.

I bought the most light-weight dinner dishes I could find. Those Corelle ones; you know what I mean. You get the whole set for about $20. The ones you can't break, no matter what. In plain white, because looking at the patterned sets made me feel even more depressed and pathetic. I figured I would replace them with something nice, sometime when I was feeling better.

I just didn't know it would take this long.

This was also something that all the guys I dated during that time had in common. In each of their kitchens, inside the cabinets, was the obligatory set of cheap Corelle dishes. In white.

I've had a couple fun parties at my house in those two and a half years. And I've had some people over for dinner, but it always required huge amounts of focus and energy, or else it was just some thrown-together hodgepodge of weirdmeal. Once my sister came to spend the weekend with me and brought my nieces and their friend. After a long day of shopping, we found ourselves at home, with no energy left to go out to dinner. I got out some leftover pizza, chips and dip, cookies in a package, and a big bag of cheesecorn, without really considering I hadn’t covered the four food groups. Or even one of the four. The girls gathered around the table; they were little and really didn’t give a rip whether they were eating hot dogs or HoHo’s, so popcorn seemed normal dinner fare. My sister looked over the spread, held back some heavy duty giggling, and said... “I see you’ve outdone yourself, as usual.” Pretty much turned into a gigglefest after that.

So, today. Today is remarkable in that apparently some of my long-hibernating homemaking skills are reappearing. Remarkable in that I bought settings for eight. Hmm. I’m feeling the urge to rifle through a cookbook. I think I see a dinner party or two, on the horizon.

Baseball

Ah, the timeless sport of baseball. Eight kids at home all summer, we divided ourselves into groups; generally, but not always, age wise. The five on the top end tended to hang together, likewise the three younger ones formed a group of their own. Our cousins down the road did the same, and three of them were around our age. Plenty enough kids to play baseball all day long. My older siblings Pat and Mike, myself, two younger brothers Paul and Joe, cousins Mike, Bob and Jerilynn.

Baseball was a pretty big deal. We watched the Twins on TV on game nights, after racing home on our bikes from our own wins and losses. I had a hand-me-down glove, but my brothers' carefully hoarded money went toward purchasing baseballs, bats and gloves. We saved the baseball cards that came with the bubblegum we bought, and studied the stats on the backs, quizzed each other on them. Pat and Mike had it all down, and couldn't be stumped.

We started out playing at the Wilson town hall, which was a converted one room schoolhouse back in it's heyday, complete with still standing outhouse, out back. Home plate was the front entrance, and since the building sat at a diagonal on the lot, the shape was just naturally conducive to a baseball diamond. Second base being the corner where the north/south and east/west dirt roads crossed. The outfield was, well, anything past that. It was a good place to play, we thought.

One day someone cracked a pop-up foul, hard, up and arcing backwards just perfectly enough to smash through the transom window high above the door. Dang. When Dad got home from work, he said we'd have to call Curtis, who was on the town hall board (and by the way, was also the one who paid us for trapping gophers during the soft ground months), tell him we'd broken the window and would pay for the repair. We looked up his number in the phone book; there was some discussion over who would call, and some anxious conversation over how much it might cost to fix it. We hashed it over a bit - maybe $5? What if it's $20? We'd certainly all have to chip in, and gopher money only went so far. I've got to believe Curtis got a pretty good chuckle out of that phone call. My older brother Mike did the phoning duty, and then afterwards reported that Curtis didn't seem mad at all. In fact he said we wouldn't have to pay for it, and said he was glad we'd called and told him. Huh.

A couple years went by, and we graduated to a better ballpark. My brothers used our lawn mower to mow a ball field into the meadow across from our house. It was one of those things where if they'd asked Dad beforehand, he'd have said no, but since they went ahead and did it without asking, he got a chuckle out of it when he saw it, and it was fine after that. They made a darn fine backstop behind home plate, a fancy thing made of woven wire (readily available on a farm) and two by fours set upright into the ground, and they cut in all the base lines. It was a mighty nice play to play, almost professional like, with the real backstop and all. Wait - who is that stepping up to home plate? Is it...? Could it be...? Harmon Killebrew, just about to crack out another mile long home run? Nope, it's 11 year old Mary Ellen, leaning in to bang out a very bad, bobbling, bouncing double, and drive in a run. Yaaay!! The crowd roars...!

We played all summer, every summer, for a long time. I wonder when we played our last game, all those years ago. Whenever it was - I'm glad I didn't know it was our last.