Light in the Darkness

FROM WHERE I SIT    Light in the Darkness  Dec. 17, 2012    Pat Spilseth

’Tis the season of darkness.  Gray skies, often filled with snowy clouds, dominate December days.  Nights are long, cold, chilling the body and soul. 

Dark clouds haunt my mind.  The tragedy of school children and staff needlessly slaughtered in New Town, CN, dominate the news.  Murderous deaths in Cold Spring and Little Falls, MN, fill the newspapers.  Slick roads, car accidents, deaths, head colds, and the flu are prevalent.  Winter seems to be filled with chilling darkness.

It’s December...only a few days before Christmas.  Early morning silence greets me as I awaken too early today, at 4AM.  The winter sky is still dark with no stars shining or moon glow to light my way down the stairs.    Donning my warm bathrobe and furry slippers, I slip down the steps quietly to turn on the Christmas tree lights and open the curtains.  Across Carmen’s Bay, I see Christmas lights from a house whose inhabitants I do not know, but each winter morning I look out my windows to see their holiday lights.  They brighten my spirits.  As I make my first cup of strong coffee, I decide to take advantage of this quiet time to sit in my red leather chair, look out at the frozen lake, and meditate for a short while on my life’s blessings.

It’s too early for Buddy, my Beagle pal who sleeps later these days.  He’s almost nine; that’s about 63 in human years.  He likes to sleep until seven.  Dave rises a bit later.  I relish the silence of this early morning with only the tree lights shining in the darkness.

There’s something about light at Christmastime—strings of Christmas lights, firelight, candlelight, starlight.  I read that long ago in northern Europe, people burned Yule logs for warmth during this season of darkness.  Yuletide means “the turning of the sun”.  The Yule log was actually an entire tree, which, hopefully, would last the entire Yule season.  People would place one end of the tree in the fire to slowly burn, leaving the rest jutting into the room.  Just like the wood fires I enjoy burning in my fireplace, people of old enjoyed the light and warmth of burning their Yule log to lighten the dark season.

Candles are popular to light at Christmastime.  Scented or not, they engulf the room with wonderful smells and a gentle light.  Candles represent the star guiding the wise men to Bethlehem.  In Scandinavia and Germany, people set out candles on Christmas Eve to light the way for Kriskind, or Christ child.  In France, Belgium, and Holland, processions of children follow illuminated stars through the village streets.  Candles shining in the window welcome visitors to homes in Ireland on the holy night. 

Through the dark skies emerges a soft pink light...early morning dawn.  The five-pointed star atop my tree represents the Bible story where a star appeared over Bethlehem.  It served as a light to guide the wise men from the East to the Christ child, the bright morning star. 

A story from Germany tells us that the theologian Marin Luther cut and decorated the first Christmas tree for his children back in 1535.  Legend says that Luther was walking home through the woods one Christmas Eve under the bright starry sky, thinking about the wonder and beauty of the evening, wishing he could capture that moment to share with his children.  An image of a tall evergreen tree sparkling with candlelight came into his mind.  On his way home he found the perfect tree, cut it down, carried it home, and decorated it.  His children were thrilled. 

Evergreens are a yuletide symbol shared by many cultures.  Green branches represent the promises of spring and new life.  Candles or lights on the tree reflect the hope and peace of the season.  The Christmas tree is now a tradition that can brighten even the bleakest days of wintertime. 

Christmas is a season of giving.  The Victorian rule of thumb for filling a Christmas stocking was “something to eat, something to read, something to play with, and something they need”.  Do you remember years past when you or your children peeked into your stocking to find an orange, a book, maybe a ball, chalk, or set of jacks, and fresh underwear?

Christmas is not meant to be a season of stressful shopping, cleaning, and entertaining.  Christmas is a season of light meant for family gatherings and the Christ child.  As you light the Christmas tree this evening, think of each shining light on the tree as one of your many blessings.   ’Tis the season of light when one focuses on the true meaning of the Christmas season.  788 words

Christmas Family Gatherings

FROM WHERE I SIT       Christmas Family Gatherings  Dec. 10, 2012

Are you making family memories this special time of the year?  Truman Capote wrote my family’s favorite, A Christmas Memory, a story Dad reads to our family each year.  Kids remember if you hang their favorite ornaments, especially those they made in grade school on the tree.  Did you write and send Christmas cards?  Have you attended your church or school’s Christmas program or concert?  Are you playing Christmas music and watching the TV Christmas specials?  Have you made Christmas cookies or that tangy cranberry-orange relish that goes so well with your holiday Capon or turkey?  Those favorite traditions live on.  Kids DO remember! 

Remember children writing letters to Santa Claus and baking spritz and candy cane cookies?  Covered in flour and hands sticky with sugar and butter to grease the pans, the kitchen was filled with sweet smells of cookies baking in the oven.   Moms didn’t complain about the flour coating the kitchen floor and the sugary-doughy mess because this was Christmas family time, time to treasure. 

Cousins, aunts and uncles came to visit and taste the decorated cookies along with a warm roast supper of jello salad and white potatoes, a necessity on every Scandinavian’s dinner plate.  Dads would be outside chopping a live tree for the living room or at the tree lot to choose the perfect tree to fit in our home.  Mom would be hunting in the attic for the delicate glass ornaments, silver tinsel saved for years, and the music box church which played “Silent Night” with chimes. 

Mom’s Barsness relatives usually gathered together at Christmastime.  One holiday that stays in my memory was a Christmas party at Aunt Ruth’s house in Morris, MN.  Her tall husband Oscar, with his extra-thick, calloused, work hands, drove a sleigh, pulled by huge Percheron horses from the nearby “cow college” campus.  Percherons were thought to be in existence as long ago as the Ice Age.   All the cousins piled in, squeezing on top of each other, and we rode through the snow-filled streets of town, throwing snowballs, singing carols and screaming with glee.  This was a picture of total joy!  The cousins had a ball pushing the older cousins into snowdrifts.   Younger cousins couldn’t stop grinning.

After the sleigh ride, we’d shed our warm parkas, scarves, and mittens and tromp down the stairs to Aunt Ruth’s toasty basement.  Her lefse-baking, cast iron stove sat in the center of the room and against the wall stood an aged, oak, upright piano that we cousins would gather around to sing Christmas carols.  Cousin Muriel, looking glamorous in her dark red lipstick and black, curled hair, would harmonize with her sisters Dagny, Marlys and Orrine.  Cousins Anita and Wanda joined in, sounding just like the Lennon Sisters on the Lawrence Welk TV show.  Cousin Lois would pound those chipped ivories on the old piano.  Eventually, she’d rock out to her favorite tune, Frankie Lane’s  “Your Cheatin’ Heart Will Tell On You!”  After Lois’ gravel-voice solo, her sister Beverly would organize the girls into sopranos and altos to begin the Christmas songs we all knew from memory.  What a chorus of warbling harmony we were.  The younger cousins would try to harmonize, but mostly we listened in awe at our grown-up cousins, hoping to sound like them someday.

In the living and dining rooms upstairs, the aunts set up tables to play cards.  Surrounded by a blue haze of Lucky Strike smoke, the couples sat at crowded card tables playing Whist, where you bid high or low, and nibbled on nuts and mints.  No alcohol was provided on those afternoons in the Fabulous Fifties at our relatives’ homes.  Perhaps a hiball might be served later in the evening in the privacy of some homes.

Food, made by the aunts, was a major ingredient of these reunions.  Long wooden tables sagged with homemade offerings: hamburger and tomato casseroles, buttered lefse and dollar buns, scalloped potatoes, a large sliced ham with pineapple slices on top, jello mixed with fruit cocktail and whipped cream, pickles, pies, cakes, and bars.   Anything chocolate was devoured first. 

Some years, when my parents still lived, we’d pile into Dad’s Chevy, dressed up in funny clothes and go Julebakking—Christmas fooling.  What fun we had dropping in, unexpected, at some friend’s house in the country for coffee and treats.  Of course, if they weren’t home, some trick had to be played on them.  It was a Norwegian tradition Mom loved to celebrate.  We’d pile their doorway with sleds, shovels, and pitchforks or move the tractor onto the front stoop...anything to get their attention that someone had visited expecting to be treated to coffee and cookies if not supper.  Nobody called first; company just showed up and walked right into the warm cozy  kitchen of friends.

What treasured holiday memories I can share with you!  Snow is falling; the lake is almost frozen; the wreaths and garlands are hung; the cookies are baked; the tree is trimmed; Silent Night is playing on the radio while Buddy snoozes by the fire.  I’m relaxing, dreaming of a WHITE CHRISTMAS.  859 words

Holiday Jail Guests

FROM WHERE I SIT      Jail Guests at the Holidays  Pat Spilseth

As the first snowflakes float past my windows, I find myself thinking about the annual guests who turned up at the jail around the holidays.  I’m not talking family; I’m talking guys who bunked for three months at the jail, the large red brick building where my family lived when Dad was a sheriff during the Fifties.  With the snowflakes came our “regulars” appeared, Blackie and Pretty Boy. 

To two young girls, Pretty Boy Verdi and Blackie were interesting company.  They provided Mom and Dad with teachable lessons for their two impressionable daughters.  We heard the same message over and over, “Remember, you’re known by the company you keep.”  “Study, and don’t waste your education.  Make something of yourself.”   “Early to bed; early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”  I never understood that admonition about wealthy and wise because there was no hint of wealth for us living at the jail!

Dad and Mom recognized the value of a good education and expected us to attend college.  It wasn’t an option.  Often the folks would sadly relate that Blackie had a university education, but here he was in jail, not living in a nice house and having a good job.  I guess today we’d recognize the problem of alcoholism better than folks did years back.   Alcohol, probably even depression, had gotten the best of this smart man.  But he was always kind and interesting to Barbie and me.  We liked Blackie.  He was quite an athlete, a gifted acrobat.  He’d flop those jail mattresses on the metal floor of the jail walkway near the barred window and perform flips, head stands, all sorts of acrobatic tricks.  My friends and I would cheer him on as we enjoyed his performance outside those windows.

Pretty Boy’s time was consumed with combing his blonde curls and flirting with the girls who came to visit him at the jail windows.  There wasn’t much conversation, just flirty eyes and showing off his muscles.  I was pretty good at eavesdropping back in those days when I was a little kid in grade school with pig tails.  They knew I didn’t understand all they were talking about. 

Maybe our jail guests kept returning because they enjoyed sitting around our Christmas tree with our family.  Maybe they liked to hear Dad read the Christmas story from Luke in our cracked leather bible.  Or maybe they just liked to watch a bit of TV on our big console set in the living room after the Bible story.  After opening presents, we always watched Lawrence Welk with those harmonizing Lennon Singers and Myron Floren on the accordion.

Or perhaps it was Mom’s holiday meal of Capon chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberries and lefse that drew them back to the jail.  In their cells the guys would eat holiday dinner on special dishes, black and white tin jail dishes, with Mom’s fancy paper holiday napkins on their trays.  The folks drew the line about eating with the prisoners.  Our family ate kind of fancy at holiday time.  Mom would set the dining table with her wedding gift hobnail glasses and Sunday china dishes.  She’d use her holiday tablecloth she’d made with her crafty friends, the decorated cloth with the sequined snowflakes.  Dad swore every year that he’d eaten sequins all year long.  But the biggest reason they couldn’t dine with us: Mom broke out a bottle of Mogan David wine once a year. That was unexpected as Mom was an adamant teetotaler...no alcohol for her!  Look at what alcohol did to these good men in jail, she’d say.  “They’re not bad men.  They only made bad choices.”  But the wine was our very special family treat: we’d “pretend” to enjoy sipping a thimble sized glass of theat sickeningly sweet beverage.  We felt like we were sophisticated grownups when we sipped the wine.

Then came Paul.  One year the snow brought an extra special guest to our jail.  Paul joined our motley crew in the jail’s bullpen for the holidays.  I remember Paul had had a poor history of bad checks and bouncing from wife to wife.  Ladies were always attracted to charming Paul.  He married several women at a time.  His smile captured hearts everywhere.  Even Dad like Paul, and he wasn’t easily fooled.

Paul offered to “redecorate” Mom’s kitchen during his winter jail visit.  He stenciled a border of pink flowers, green leaves and stems near the kitchen ceiling.  Mom enjoyed Paul humming tunes and working with her as she made meals for our family and the prisoners.  Paul continued even when the Courthouse gang appeared at the kitchen table for morning and afternoon coffee and cookies or cake.  We always had guests around the kitchen table.  Nobody could stay away from Mom’s famous devil’s food cake with rich chocolate frosting or her chocolate chips and date filled butter cookies. 

It’s that time of the year once again.  I wonder what happened to our “holiday regulars”.  Just like Mom and Dad, I’m quite certain Blackie, Pretty Boy and Paul have passed on.  The Pope County red-brick jail is no more.  Jail guests have changed; now prisoners are locked up in secure cells, not associating with the sheriff’s family.  Certainly there are few sheriffs running a jail like Dad did.  My family sure did enjoy our Mayberry or Lake Woebegone life at the jail in Glenwood, Minnesota, in the Fifties.     920 words

 

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Some Things Never Change

FROM WHERE I SIT   Some Things Never Change in this Unfamiliar World   NOV. 10, 2012I

America is anticipating Macys’ Thanksgiving Day Parade and stuffing ourselves with turkey.  Thanksgiving is a cherished tradition of gathering family and friends to remember our many blessings.  It all started with the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Indians gathering for a meal in 1621.   President Abe Lincoln decreed that Thanksgiving would fall on the last Thursday of November.  Later President Gerald R. Ford moved Thanksgiving to the fourth Thursday in November to create a longer Christmas shopping season. 

Some traditions never change.  Ninety percent of Americans choose a plumb, stuffed turkey for their Thanksgiving meal.  We watch Macy’s Thanksgiving parade in New York City on TV and younger folks watch the annual Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special. 

BUT, “The times are a changin...”  The day after America’s “close” November election, my emails were filled with comments about America’s changing world views.  Our entire world seems to be spinning faster, values and lifestyles changing, and technology is making changes in our traditional world that some find hard to adapt to.   Here are a few emails I received:

“I am trying to recover from the election last night.  We were taught to work hard, be honest and get that education so we can amount to something.  I think we are slipping into the gimmie mindset and that everyone should be equal.  Socialism is not in my genes.”

“I hardly recognize my America.  The chasm between the youth of today and me is so wide - all because of technology.  I know I cannot know their world and they cannot understand my prehistoric age without computers. We live worlds apart and I am the one who is scrambling to find friends with my same values and memories. 

“It's hard for me to see how this increasingly socialized society is better than the one we grew up with, where you worked and if you were successful, you would reap the benefits.  I like the philosophy of 'a rising tide lifts all boats' as opposed to the confiscatory policies that we will likely see in Obama's attempt to equalize outcome.  It's hard not to feel that we are doomed.”

The election of 2012 is over.  Our country’s views have changed, at least drifted from traditional republican and democrat ideas.  We’ve become more polarized.  No longer is “compromise” acceptable.  Today our nation is focused on immigration rights, who will pay the most taxes for they are sure to rise, and there’s a huge issue between big government versus individual choice. 

Fox news host Bill O’Reilly stated, “The white establishment is now the minority.  The demographics are changing.  It’s not a traditional America anymore.”

America has changed.  According to an editorial in a November Investor’s Business Daily, African-Americans made up a record 13% of the electorate in 2012.  Latinos make up 14% of Colorado voters; three-fourths of them supported the president.  Nationwide, roughly three of every 19 voters were minorities this election.  African-Americans chose Obama by 93%.  Latinos by 71% and Asian-Americans are Americans fastest-growing minority, by 73%. 

Have we reentered the protest era of the sixties?  Bob Dylan’s well-remembered lyrics to “The times, they are a changing” have resurfaced.  Change is afloat.  This election showed that we are a different nation.  We are a multihued, multicultural country demanding new policies on voter registration, immigration, religious tolerance, respect for civil unions, & legitimizing gay marriage. 

“Come senators, congressmen

Please heed the call

Don’t stand in the doorway

Don’t block up the hall

For he that gets hurt

Will be he who has stalled

There’s a battle outside

And it is ragin’

It’ll soon shake our windows

And rattle our walls

For the times they are a-changin’.

“Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin'
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'.

Change frightens, but change also invigorates.   Technology has shifted some values in America that many find difficult to accept.  Some days life feels like I’m in a foreign country where no one but me speaks English and pays cash.  Most in my world text; many do not speak to each other eye to eye or write in sentences.  They interact with machines more than have relationships with other people.

BUT, I’m still a traditionalist.  Some things will NOT change in my life.  I’m determined to speak in sentences and have face to face interactions with other people.  Though I use Bill Pay on my computer and Skype to talk with my daughter in Mexico City, I will once more watch Macys’ Thanksgiving parade on the TV and a bit of the Charlie Brown special.  I’ll serve a big turkey on my expanded Thanksgiving table surrounded by family and friends.  We’ll have stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry relish, green-bean casserole and pumpkin pie.  But I cut off the tradition of Mom’s thimble glass of sweet Mogan David wine.  892 words

Sunday, Loneliest Day of the Week

Too many bored people, listless, waiting to die.  One HAS to have a passion to go on living.  There's no doubt about it: one needs to create a curiousity about life's possibilities to want to go on living.  There are too many folks simply sitting, staring, with empty minds.  Or people tend to dwell on past memories. 

We have to listen, smell, taste, feel and hear life's endless opportunities.  It's necessary to create a pleasant environment to dwell in, then we can meditate  peacefully, absorbing and enjoying nature with contentment. 

Socialization is important.  Other people may annoy, bore or excite us, but others can create alive feelings within in.  We don't stew in our own loneliness, especially on Sundays, the "family" day of the week made for relaxing, not work.  I see this factor most important at senior citizen living places.  There are too many folks idle, bored...some only waiting to die.  Lively chatter, music, socialization can restore one's connections to living.  How important it is to be recognized and addressed by others.  We're no longer invisible when womeone addresses us with a smile.

Ponytails and Wrinkles

FROM WHERE I SIT             Ponytails & Wrinkles  Sept. 9, 2012   Pat Spilseth

Who are they?  I don’t recognize those faces though supposedly they’re my classmates.  Fifty years...some changes have occurred. 

She’s as cute as ever.  How does she maintain that body?  Liposuction?  And she’s Miss Organization, as always.  Who’s playing Santa with a pony tail?  Where are our Best Mixers? What happened to those social butterflies?  Wow! He’s really beefed up with that new “surfer” body.  California has added glamour and a tan to his Minnesota ufdas.  Now he reminds me of Beach Boys music and Lakeside dances.  And guess who made a grand entrance with his private plane?  I hear that my prom date of yesteryear missed the party.   

No longer is there talk of cruising Main Street checking out the chicks and studs.  I’m sure there was some talk of sleepless nights, replacement of body parts, and constipation woes.  And is Jimmy, the red-headed dentist, baking pies?  Who’d have thought the big game hunter would be in the kitchen rolling out pie crust instead of stuffing pheasants?

From CIA classmates interpreting Russian code to farmers coping with grain prices, business executives checking profits, ministers and teachers working with a new morality, and housewives and moms still promoting the values we grew up with, I know that my classmates’ lives have been filled with adventure as well as contentment.  We left high school at the beginning of the women’s movement and peace protests: now women are prominent in fields of medicine, business, and computers formerly open only by men.  We’ve moved on to other wars. 

Paging through the reunion book filled with photos brought to mind younger versions of myself and friends.  I couldn’t help but notice creases in foreheads, extra flesh on necks, triple chins, and the added pounds we try to hide.  OK, that’s only natural for most of us.  It’s been 50 years since those rock n’ roll high school years filled with pony tails and crew cuts, poodle skirts, and football jerseys. 

We’ve entered a new stage of life, woman-pause and man-pause.  That’s the in-between time of life with overheated motors without hormones.  Just how long are these hot flashes supposed to go on?   Most of us haven’t reached the point of moving into a retirement community, but monthly bills have some of us contemplating that next move into smaller quarters in a warmer climate.  I can’t picture myself in polyester pull-on pants and big T-shirts, not even in a uniform of slimming black, hoping to cover my expanded waistline.

Not me, I aim to stay in Minnesota with its four seasons of changing leaves and snow, the lakes and dear friends.  I’ll continue to wear wild outfits of color with no waists, long gypsy earrings, and strappy sandals...That’s ME.

Getting older hits me when I board the bus to a Twins game downtown or to the State Fair.  If someone gets up and offers me a seat, then I really know I’m old.  Or when I go to yoga at a senior residence and a stranger asks me, “Are you new here?”  I’ll just smile and say, “Nope, I haven’t hit seventy yet...a few more years to go before I move in...”

Perhaps it has been going on for a few years: the breakdown of movable parts.  When I study my face in the mirror I see crinkles above my lips and radiating pleats near my eyes.  Some friends and I will allow ourselves be old women with road-map faces and gray hair.  People will read our faces and know, they too will be going there.

Inside, I’m still thirty.  I see no Botox, face lifts, or black holes ahead, only sunshine and fluffy clouds.  In my dreams I’m still a young woman full of ideas, not discouraged or tired, anxious for the next adventure.  I’m simply in a stage of transition.  651 words

Take a Fall Road Trip

FROM WHERE I SIT      Take a Fall Road Trip    Sept. 24, 2012       Pat Spilseth

A road trip affords a traveler numerous views and experiences not available from an airplane.  Riding in my little Mazda Miata, Dave and I encountered pounding hail, drenching rain, warm sunshine, and tree leaves turning yellow and orange with brilliant splashes of red sumac.  I didn’t have to take off my shoes and jacket, remove the computer from my luggage, and have my body scanned either by some uniformed guard or that tube machine.  What freedom a road trip grants its riders!

This past week we decided to celebrate our anniversary with a road trip.  We ventured into Wisconsin with its stands of stately pine and birch trees along the interstate and drove through rolling farm fields where the corn and beans looked good.  Traveling the back roads, we rode through little towns, each with its own beer joints where folks gather daily for a glass of foam and ale plus the requisite Friday night fish fry.  It had been years since I’d had tasty, deep fried perch and fries with cole slaw and a pickle.  My cholesterol meter went into overdrive!  The neighborhood taverns reminded me of the TV program “Cheers” where Clint and Norm had their reserved bar stools to chat with Coach and Sam, the baseball hero, with Diane slinging one-liners and her coy smile.  We were the “outsiders”.  Other patrons rolled dice and knew each other’s names.

Peninsula Players was featuring the play “Lombardi” at their playhouse.  This Big Voiced, strong personality strut and stormed his mighty way through his players, wife, and any journalist brave enough to confront the famed coach.  We sat next to true Packer fans in their green and gold jackets and caps, bundled in a hand-knit, red, white and blue afghan keeping their knees toasty warm.  The play is coming to Mpls. later this fall. 

Door County is filled with gift shops, restaurants, B& B’s, and numerous galleries.  We met several artists I’d known years ago on the art circuit who had sold their wares in my shops called “next?”  As we viewed pottery, glassware, wood, leather work, and paintings, it was fun to encounter artists I’d known years ago and see their current work.  It’s not an easy way to make a living as an artist, hauling displays and art work around the country to sell, but it’s a rewarding life for many.

We traveled down Hwy 42 through Door County into Green Bay, Manitowoc, and Sheboygan, where I had lived for several years.  Downtown, the 1873 Victorian building, which my business partner and I had purchased in the ‘70’s, has been completely restored by its new owners, a bank.  The cream brick, three-story building had new windows and a beautiful fresh tri-color paint job.  My business partner and I had restored the first floor and had the brick building tuck-pointed, but installing an elevator and completing the top two floors was too expensive.  However, our restoration earned an honored plaque from the National Historic Registry in Washington, DC.  Current staff offered to take us through the building and gave us copies of the building’s history since the 1800’s.  Our grand tour felt like I was meeting a grown-up child.

Our friend Auds in Sheboygan took us to Bookworm Gardens, an amazing outdoor display of favorite children’s books.   Bookworm Gardens has been created solely through large and small donations.  One admirer said, “Bookworm Gardens is exactly what’s right with the world.  It’s peaceful, whimsical, educational, imaginative, thoughtful and so perfect for families to spend a few hours exploring, reading, and bonding.”  We saw Peter Rabbit’s garden and the construction of The Secret Garden, Mama, Papa and Baby Bears’ chairs, the Three Little Pigs’ straw, wood, and brick houses,  the barn of Charlotte’s Web, the Magic School Bus with its fairy flying wings, kids giving Harry the Dirty Dog a bath, and a humongous tin pipe snake with knobs and buttons crawling down a tree.

The Kohler Company gifted the John Michael Kohler Arts Center to the local community.  In addition to many gallery displays, the lovely historic home has amazing bathrooms that I’ve never seen in any other facility.  The Women’s Room features over 2000 carved, cast relief, and hand-painted tiles depicting playful interpretations of women’s roles alongside colorful women’s undergarments, hats, shoes, handbags, shoes from the past 150 years.  The Women’s Room is just one of six artist-made washrooms at the Arts Center.

In Madison, we visited the gift shop which our friend Leslie manages at the Museum of Contemporary Arts.  Students, parents, tourists, and business folk are frequent customers of the well-chosen displays of handmade pottery, jewelry, gloves, purses, menorahs, paper products, and glassware, including several pieces by world-renown glass artist Dale Chihuly.   

Driving into the countryside we arrived in Briggsville where Leslie and Bill have their own pottery studio and home in the woods by a creek.  Amidst dogs, six cats (who can open doors), and frogs, is a cozy kitchen where we ate and chatted near a potter’s wheel and kiln, drying pots, slips and glazes, a quilting table, sewing machine, drafting table, and orchids.  Life at their country home is a constant menagerie of people, animals, interesting objects, and activities.  It’s a vastly different life than our life on a Minnesota lake in Suberbia.  What a fabulous trip!  899 words

Everything's Falling Apart!

FROM WHERE I SIT             Falling Apart!               August 1, 2012 pat  spilseth

Everything around me is falling apart!  Seems it all comes at once.  My dear little Buddy, our loveable family Beagle, has had his third cortisone shot and is on two pain pills, but he continues to hunch his back and cry with pain.  If Dave or I could sit all day giving Buddy back rubs, crooning pet phrases of comfort, Buddy might find solace.  We thank all of you who have responded to my columns with sympathetic notes and hopes for Buddy’s recovery. However, not only Buddy is breaking down.  This weekend my oven of 15 years stopped heating, and my cheesecake fell.  I was expecting company for dinner.  When Dave suggested baking the cake on the grill outside, the pan slid forward and the cheesecake fell apart, coating the grill’s burners with sugar, eggs and cream cheese.  We soaked the grill with buckets of water; eventually  we were able to grill yummy, marinated chicken.  We had an ice cream dessert Then my dryer went on the fritz!  The pilot light continued to burn, but the machine wouldn't tumble, tossing and drying the hundreds of towels I wash and dry weekly.  I’m washerwoman for our son Andy's Tidyboat business.  Business is booming this hot, humid summer: everyone wants a clean boat to cool off in on weekends at the lake.  Meanwhile, my laundry room is filled with wet, sopping towels. We own a handsome white Audi, our newest car (of 1999 vintage) which “Fast Eddie”, our NY brother-in-law sold to us.  Lately, its lights are flashing red on the dashboard and there’s a chugging sound in the rear.  Something or maybe MANY THINGS are falling apart.  We limped the car to our favorite mechanic Mr. Love, where it is still waiting for a "used" part.   Buy American!  These foreign car parts are expensive!  We thought we had learned our lesson when Eddie sold us a Saab, which a deer crashed into.  When we brought it in for repairs to the Saab dealer, the mechanics came out to give a diagnosis in white coats.  We thought they might be doctors.  Nope, but they doctored our Saab at unaffordable prices.   Since the weather is so hot and our sprinkler system irrigates the fast-griwubg lawn, Dave has to mow more often.  When he tried to pull the cord on our "used" mower (which we purchased on Craigslist at a very good price), it wouldn't start.  It didn't matter how often he pulled or how long he waited between pulls, it wouldn't start.  Presently, he's surfing Craigslist on the internet, for a new mower.  We’re rapidly going through cash this month.  Now the sprinkler system’s timer just busted!  Uffda!  Rain, please start watering our lawn and fill up the lake! We own a rental house near the university where Andy went to school.  He was a terrific house father to his buddies, but we’ve had fewer calls from irate neighbors and police reports since we've been renting to girls.  With the females present, we no longer have to replace busted doors, windows, and holes in the walls, but after three years of girls, the dishwasher decided to quit.   Dave is on Craigslist almost daily.  We checked out three models, finally finding a good-looking "used" stainless steel, quiet machine for a good price.  Actually, it looked so good we decided to "gift" our household dishwasher to the rental house and install the good-looking machine in our kitchen, where it's presently working just fine…and it's quite quiet. Could most of these breakdowns be occurring because we buy "USED" merchandise at good prices?  Personally, I love my Assistance League Thrift Shop sweats, T-shirts and jeans, which are not stiff; they’re broken in comfortably by its first owner.  But we'll think a lot longer before buying another foreign car, even if its mileage is said to be under 100,000 miles.  I don’t think owners can turn back those miles any more, can they?  As of today, we own 4 cars with a total of 537,985 miles on them.  I’m hopeful my sporty convertible, a silver Miata with a red racing stripe, will still be running when it hits 200,000 miles. At this point, many of you readers have probably come to the conclusion that my husband does not believe in buying new.  I haven’t had a new car since I was single over 30 years ago!   My hubby depicts himself as a conservative, in politics as well as his spending habits.  Some might say he’s frugal, perhaps even cheap at times.  A subscriber to The Tightwad Gazette, Dave’s a pro at buying “used” things cheap.  Neighbors, PLEASE, when he appears at your garage sales, send him home! Fast Eddie will continue to be our personal car salesman with the best "used" car deals. Though Craigslist may offer the best buys for lawn mowers, dishwashers, dryers and washers, I must say, when it comes to Buddy, the Beagle we love so totally, we’ll always take Dr. Roshar’s advice for meds and treatment.  When Dave had back pain, we learned that pinched nerves and bulging discs don't repair themselves quickly.  Meanwhile, we'll sit and talk to Buddy, petting him and giving him meds and back rubs.  879 words

NEW writing class "Tell Me A Story" in Wayzata

WRITERS’ CIRCLE “TELL ME A STORY”

“Once Upon A Time...  Stories help us understand problems, empathize with others and develop strategies for tackling life.  Stories are where the troubles of human existence get worked out. Stories communicate social values that the community lives by. 

Our memories become a cumulative story:  Storytelling minds are factories churning out true stories when possible, manufacturing embellished truths when it can’t.  Stories make us human.

Join my fun, four week writing class, “TELL ME A STORY”.  This class will push you out of mud holes you get stuck in, and you’ll be joined by amiable writing companions.  Let me provide weekly prompts, motivating you to write short stories which can be compiled into a memoir or chapbook.  The class will offer optional assignments, deadlines, and critiques promoting polished drafts ready for publication. Publication opportunities will be provided. 

This class is a workshop for writers who want to “move on” with their writing.  Don’t be “stuck” any more!   Get rid of flat, dull characters, listless plots, and easy to anticipate outcomes.  Dump melodramatic, unrealistic actions and scenes.  Turn on to dialogue that “nails” the character.  Word choice and sentence construction will be emphasized.  In a playful, risk-free way, we’ll be using objects, music, memories, art, nature, and food to expand our senses

Pat Spilseth, weekly columnist & published writer, offers a new writing class:

“TELL ME A STORY” is open to those who wish to tell their stories

Class meets September 5, 12, 19, & Oct.3

Class will meet at 3233 Casco Circle, Wayzata, 6-9PM

We’ll share a light, potluck meal, ideas & writing in Pat’s home.

Cost $95.00 payable to Pat Spilseth, 3233 Casco Circle, Wayzata, MN 55391

RSVP to participate in class by Sept. 1, 2012.

**Warm up with a walk in the woods, watch the lake from a dock or the clouds from your lawn chair.  Play with images.  Look for objects in the woods or in the house that attract you.  Enjoy writing your observations for five minutes.. 

Dreaming of COOLNESS

Driving around the lake yesterday I saw a few tree leaves with tinges of red.  Is fall coming or are they distressed trees proclaiming their protests to this hot, humid weather? 

Friends tell me, “I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving.  I can’t wait for the snow to fly.  At least I can put more clothes on.” 

There is a limit to how much clothing one can shed.  A neighbor, living behind stockade fences, gardens, and pine trees, enjoys watering her plants in her underwear.  but how many of us have foliage to shelter our almost-naked bodies from unexpected visitors?  Dave was out in the neighborhood campaigning for his political favorites when he entered the neighbor’s sanctuary.  His eyes spotted a seemingly nude figure watering her plants: he did an about face and ran.  That would have been an embarrassing encounter for both parties.  I doubt he would have gained her political support.

Even my brain is sluggish along with my lethargic body.  No matter how much ice water I consume, or how often I dive into the lake, I can’t get my groove back; I have no energy.  The lake feels like bath water, but if I dunk my head under the water numerous times and remain in my wet swim suit, life feels better.

Dreaming, I’m planning my Thanksgiving table with a big, fat turkey and all the trimmings.  I’ll serve Mom’s delectable cranberry cake with the butter-rum frosting oozing over each piece.  The Thanksgiving platter, chips and all, will be placed in the center of the table which will be covered with the once-a-year cloth purchased in Provence, France.  We’ll invite scads of guests to enjoy the feast and play games afterwards.  Buddy will attempt to catch any tidbits falling from our plates.  All will have stuffed tummies and enjoy a nap following the meal.

Sweaters and corduroys, wool skirts and thick socks, skates and cross-country skis fill my dreams.   Cooling off improves my moods and my body feels better simply dreaming of cold nights and flannel PJ’s.  Christmas music will flood the house and I’ll start planning my Christmas tree trimmings.

As the torrid sun beats through my windows, I can feel my body sweating.  It’s back to reality.  It’s 92 degrees outside.  The lake is not filled with swimmers and boaters.  It’s too hot and humid.  When will summer come to an end and we can enjoy the coolness of fall breezes and wool clothing?

When To Say Goodbye?

Beloved pets are not humans.  I realize that.  But humans and dogs, cats, and other pets hurt and suffer with pain like humans.  We don’t have living wills for pets, but caring pet owners face difficult decisions when told the pet needs an operation.  And the operation may not be successful; there are no guarantees the pet will recover and health will return.    

How long should a pet owner let the beloved pet endure pain?  Each of us hopes that in time they will get well.  How old does a pet have to be before the operation seems too difficult when the pet has to be put under anesthesia?  What chances are there for the pet’s recovery?  What expense is too much?  Every decision seems to have a question mark attached. 

When is it time to say good bye to our beloved animals? 

My family faces these questions today.  Buddy, our frisky Beagle, our good friend, is in pain.  Usually, he’s such a happy, energetic, loving dog.  Buddy loves to chase squirrels, butterflies, birds, even chipmunks...they tease him, then begins the chase where they easily get away from Buddy.  The chase is a delight, and the possibility of catching the teaser totally tantalizes our Beagle.  And he never gives up!  Quitting is not in Buddy’s vocabulary. 

Buddy is a determined, action dog, ready to move at the slightest noise.  His Beagle howl is well known throughout our neighborhood, though as he’s aged, he doesn’t vocalize as much.  At eight years old, our small dog Buddy is now in middle-age, approximately 54 human years.  He’s much more demure; he’s content to quietly keep guard over the lawn from his perch on a stuffed lawn chair on the deck.

Buddy is not a watch dog.  If someone or something invades his personal territory, he’s quick to acknowledge another’s presence with a little woof; that’s it.  If the invader is bearing any morsel of food, his tag begins wagging exuberantly; he jumps off his perch and rushes to greet the invader.  He’s a marshmallow dog when it comes to protection.  Treats, lunch, and dinner are some of his favorite vocabulary words.

But his reckless energy got the better of Buddy last week   Tiny chippies were hiding in the hosta plants bordering our deck.  Scurrying in and out through the thick green leaves, the noisy chippies were enjoying their play time.  They teased Beagle, begging him to begin the chase.  Buddy rose to his full stature, stood on all fours, howled his signature Beagle howl and dashed for the hosta-hiding chippies.  Leaping and soaring 3 foot over the thick, green plants, he landed on the lawn inclining to the lake.  Checking both ways, he inspected the territory and began the hunt with noisy sniffs for the scent in the lawn.  Buddy on a mission to hunt the invading varmints.

When Buddy landed, he must have jarred his body.  His neck became painfully stiff; it hurt to raise his head.  Dr. Roshar, our neighborhood veterinarian, tells us Buddy’s neck and back are similar to human’s troublesome backs.  Sometimes the discs in our back are crushed and the pain becomes unbearable.  Buddy couldn’t lift his head; he began having trouble walking up and down stairs.  He wasn’t interested in eating, not even treats when I hand fed him.  His right front paw drooped, and his front leg became lame. He cried when I picked him up to go to the vet.  Nerve pain radiated from his neck into his front leg.  He had trouble lying down to rest.  He began to favor his left side to lie on.  Buddy was miserable.  So were Mom and Dad!

And Buddy started to cry.  Remember how agonizing it was to hear your baby cry?  Well, Buddy’s cries have my husband and me running to him, gently massaging his neck and back, offering water and treats,  murmuring comforting words. 

We just returned from our second visit to the vet in a week.  Dr Roshar cautioned us that perhaps the cortisone shots and prednisone pills would not be effective.  Further options are an animal chiropractor or back surgery.  There are no guarantees that Buddy will return to his former frisky loving personality.  He’s aging... 

Neighbors, distant friends, and family call and email inquiring how Buddy is feeling.  He’s loved by so many people and his dog friends Sailor, Sunny, Dallas, Fletcher, Luna and Yankee.   The questions remain: do we let our dog friend be put under for an operation?  Will this latest shot help?  What if the shots and meds don’t work?  Should we risk an operation?  Is it time to say goodbye to our much loved Buddy?  

FROM WHERE I SIT   Neighborhood Fourth of July July 4, 2012       pat spilseth

This is the place to be on the Fourth of July.  Much like many small towns in Minnesota, my neighborhood has established a great tradition.  Kids, grandkids, aunts, uncles, and grandparents come from far and close by to be here on the Fourth.  Flags fly from every mailbox in our neighborhood; loud patriotic music is piped from speakers encouraging biker riders to round Casco Point at breakneck speeds; people dress in patriotic colors , and  kids race to the candy site...it’s another annual Fourth of July celebration on Casco Point.

Several neighbors are decked out as Uncle Sam, colorful residents appear with tall top hats and flag sun glasses. Gals dress themselves in flag shirts and sparkling T-shirts with patriotic necklaces in glittering stars.  Kids are the big attraction: this is THEIR event of the year!  Every kid from teeny babies in strollers to little ones with training wheels and the almost-teens, decorate their bicycles and wagons with flags, hats, sunglasses and patriotic shirts and shorts.

We know how to celebrate in this neighborhood!  This year a wailing fire truck was filled with kids, sweating adults waving fans, and resident dogs.  Several smiling junior Miss Casco Pointers rode in a convertible with mom and nana.  We were among the many appreciative neighbors who arrived early to set up lawn chairs for perfect parade viewing.  The neighborhood’s presence is counted on by all the parade participants.  We clap and yell, flinging candy at the participants and offer rolls and cooling fans to beat the heat and humidity.

This was the hottest, most humid Fourth of July in memory...and we’ve been celebrating JULY FOURTH in this manner for over thirty years.  The party planning began with long-time residents whose grandparents lived on the Point.  Today, it’s been passed on to younger moms as our kids grew out of the bicycling and candy fighting stage of life.  Moms still push babies in strollers with flags fluttering.  Kids still decorate their bicycle wheels with red, white and blue crepe paper strung between the spokes of the wheels; golf carts and convertibles continue to feature pretty girls, hovering parents and doting grandparents.  Even a horse marched in the parade a few years back.

Lawn chairs are set up early on

Casco Circle

for neighbors to view the parade, drink coffee and eat rolls.  Neighbors here enjoy getting together.  It’s a perfect time to meet new neighbors as well as reacquaint with grownup neighbor kids.  We toss appreciated candy at the parade participants who pedal around the Circle numerous times to collect more candy into their bulging pockets and mouths.

The parade is an annual event all of us look forward to.  It’s a valued Casco Point tradition.  Several neighborhood kids who have grown up on Casco Point now have children of their own who participate.  We love to see the resemblance of neighbors’ faces in their grandchildren.  This is Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon country “where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.”

So many kids and relatives returned this year for the parade, swimming and fireworks, including our daughter Kate and our Mexican son-in-law Bernardo.  He turned out in an Uncle Sam top hat, red, white and blue sunglasses, flags and fan.  Kate, as always, loves to celebrate and arrived in a red, white and blue outfit.  Son Andy remembered his bicycling days on the Point and chuckled at the exuberance of neighbor’s grandkids.

This is a generous neighborhood that enjoys getting together.  Neighbors host an annual party of brats and hotdogs, potluck goodies and revelers who appear yearly to celebrate.  Lawn golf, volleyball, an open pool and some cooling lake breezes are always available.  Sparklers and fireworks are saved for the evening.  Cascading stars and exploding colors can be seen from at least four locations at our screened porch and dock.  Hundreds of boats, kayaks, water skiers, and floats make their way out to Big Island for parties while other revelers find spots on the various bays of the lake to view the exploding show once darkness falls.  We sit on the deck surveying the parade of boats jockeying for a position as they stream through the Narrows passage from the Upper Lake to the Lower Lake.  It’s a mish-mash of boats, their operators hoping to avoid a collision and arrest.  That would put a damper on the celebration.

July is the perfect time to celebrate the freedoms we enjoy here in the United States of America.  Independence Day, our nation’s birthday is important to remember.  I hope our children will always learn that our ancestors paid a price, often with their lives, for the freedoms we enjoy.  Freedom and independence aren’t gifts for people everywhere.  806