Tis the Sneezing Season!

FROM WHERE I SIT  ‘TIS THE SNEEZING SEASON  10/10/13    Pat DeKok Spilseth

 It’s that time of year when major bugs abound, waiting to catch you unawares.  They strike when you’re undernourished, in crowds of contaminated folks and overtired.  Being around kids in a classroom is the worst place to catch the sick bugs.  Then you usually end up flat on your back in bed coughing, sneezing, nauseous, dizzy and totally miserable.   

 I decided to avert such dire consequences.  I got my flu shot in the arm this afternoon.  Some administrators can make the shot painless, but today, it hurt.  I tell myself, the pain is worth not getting the flu...hope, hope.  Get the shot before they run out of the vaccine.  With my maligned immune system, I make it a point to head to the lines at a neighborhood drug store where nurses wait to innoculate patients and fill out the necessary forms.  

It’s cold season too.  I remember Mom’s warnings about flu and cold bugs.  I keep a jar of that trusty green and blue bottle of VICKS petroleum jelly in my night stand.  I swear that it works wonders for sore throats.   Nightly, I take a tiny whiff of the medicinal smell.  NO, I do not swallow a glob of VICKS like Mom did...just a whiff will do.  But if I start sneezing, coughing and feeling run down, I grease my neck and under my nose to clear the sinuses and wrap a wool sock around my neck, fastening it with a safety pin.  I know I don’t look particularily appealing all greased up, but it’s worth it if the Vicks wards off the bugs.  This procedure seems to produce deep heat, warming not only my neck but my entire body with its strong, mentolated magic. Though it stings my eyes, and they begin to water, I know the Vicks is working its powers on my body.  I feel better inhaling the strikingly pungent odor from the tiny blue jar.   It worked for Mom and our family when I was growing up.  Why toss away a good thing?  

Cod liver oil was Mom’s other remedy to ward off colds.  Like clockwork, every morning before I left for school, she poured a teaspoon of that oily, icky medicine for me to swallow.  I had to wash it down with a tiny glass of orange juice.  Nobody I knew could stand the unadulterated taste of cold liver oil sliding down our throats.  Cod liver oil combated colds, but that oily taste couldn’t be stomached without something to camophlauge the fishy taste.

When fall or winter colds struck, Mom insisted I put on my flannel pajamas and rest in bed.  She’d cover me with her percale sheets with the crocheted edges that Grandma Elizabeth had made years ago.  Snugly, she’d tuck me into bed with Dad’s gray, wool, army blanket and one of her patchwork quilts, that the aunts had stitched the past winter.  Those quilts were made of stitched squares of worn Pendleton wool shirts, wool pants, Mom’s house dresses and Aunt Sadie’s wool plaid skirts.  It was cozy; I could feel the love.  

Then came her best prescription, the sugar medicine.  Esther would cut a plump, yellow lemon in half, squeeze and twist in over the protruding knob of the glass juice squeezer.  Pale, yellow, lemon juice would spurt from the thick rind’s innards along with many seeds that had to be strained from the juice.  If I drank the sour, lemon juice straight, without any additives, I’d twist up my face with its strong sour taste.  However, Mom knew that if she warmed heaping spoons of sugar stirred into the sour lemon juice, she could have me sipping the sweet lemonade.  As it swam down my aching throat, hot lemon juice was a sure cure for a sore throat.   Sugar does help the medicine go down.

From storage, I’m pulling out my wool sweaters and warm slacks, winter coats and jackets, scarves and hats and mittens.  I don’t want to be caught short of warm duds when the white flakes start flying.   Recently, Dakota was immobolized with over 40 inches of snow; roads were closed; powerlines pulled down.  Misery accosted the plains!  Get ready; cold weather, flu bugs and fever are coming east.  Prepare for the worst.  725 words  

HOT DISH EXTRAVAGANZA

FROM WHERE I SIT   Hot Dish Extravaganza     Sept. 4, 2013  Pat DeKok Spilseth

Cheese has always been a favorite delicacy of mine ever since growing up with Velveeta in the long golden box with red letters.  Mom made grilled cheese sandwiches with Velveeta’s golden slices on the electric stove, smothering Wonder bread whiteness with butter, frying and flipping the sandwiches in her heavy, black, cast iron frying pan.  Delicious!  Grilled cheese sandwiches were a favorite treat in our family, especially if Mom had just baked a loaf or two of her homemade bread and tucked in a few of her homemade bread and butter pickles or those chubby, pimply, dill pickles which she canned every September.  

When we felt “flush” with a bit of extra cash, Dad might purchase a bag of salty potato chips or his favorite shoestring potatoes.  The greasy, browned sandwiches would be topped off with my favorite, a tall bottle of Orange Crush pop.  Mom would add a few celery ribs and a scrubbed carrot to our plates: she had healthy instincts way back then.  When I was in grade school, those ingredients made up my favorite supper.  Naturally, when I became a teenager, Chef Boyardee pizza in the box became my new favorite.  

Fall meant church suppers with those long tables spread with various pie pieces on a plate. I got to choose only one.  What a dilemna: should I take the apple or the cherry, the lemon meriange or the pecan?  Maybe I’ll try the sour creme raisen, Mom’s favorite.  Most churches served either a chicken or roast beef dinner with mashed potatoes smothered in thick brown gravy.  A few spoonfuls of vegetables accompanied the main dish.  I preferred yellow corn nibblets rather than soggy peas or watery beans.  

Candidates for the November elections in Pope County often chose those suppers to campaign for office throughout the county.  Dad hated to campaign, but that seemed to be a necessary evil for any county office.  When he was the sheriff, he figured his record should stand for itself.  He hated catering to anybody, especially some gabby politician.  “All talk; no action” was Dad’s opinion of several guys on the county board.  He wasn’t good at glad-handing or smoothing over the rough spots of arguments.  Thank goodness he had Mom to smile and soothe some ruffled feathers.

Fall still brings out my need for warm meat and potato suppers, hot from the oven.  I loved the toasty-warm kitchen at the Pope County jail where Mom wore a bib apron as she cooked, fried and baked.  We’d sit around the gray Formica kitchen table with the stuffed gray vinyl chairs and talk about my day at school, piano lessons, the prisoners in our jail and if Mom won any pennies at her card club.  Mom enjoyed making comfort food like meat loaf stuffed with chopped white onions and dried bread cubes.  Sprinkles of dried sage gave the dish more flavor.  Another signature dish she often served was a tomato-noodle and hamburger hot dish with lots of chopped onions.  She’d add a can of Campbell’s Topmato soup and boiled elbow macaroni noodles.  My very best favorite meal was side pork.  From way upstairs in my bedroom where I’d was studying. I could smell the fat slices of pork sizzling in hot grease.  I couldn’t help myself: I had to get downstairs into the kitchen to help turn the side pork until it browned, the grease dried off, and the frying pan was ready to stir up the milk gravy.  Mmmmmm, I can still taste the crisp side pork and the chunks of white potatoes smothered in milk gravy.

MY very least favorite meal was Swiss Steak: tough chunks of meat bubbling in the cast iron skillet floated in juices of tomatoes, onions, green peppers and tomato juice.  Mom was a firm believer that meat had to be well cooked or we might get sick.  

Minnesota must be the Hot Dish capital of the world.  It’s the perfect meal to stretch the family budget.  Requiring only a little meat, hot dish recipes consisted of numerous garden vegetables, salt, pepper, a can of soup and plenty of various-shaped noodles.

Of course, wine was not used in my family.  That was reserved for communion at church and maybe a thimbleful of sweet red Mogan David wine at Christmas.  

Venison was the mainstay of our meals each winter.  Dad would go deer hunt with some buddies, have the meat cut and wrapped at the locker downtown, and the packages would be stacked in our freezer chest in the basement.  With enough garlic and onions the wild, gamey taste of venison was almost camouflaged.  The meat was always dry, well-down and very chewy.  Where I grew up, that’s the way meat was supposed to be in the Fifties and Sixties.

Sometimes Mom experiented and tried a fancy new dish like wild rice hot dish with sausage chunks.  As always, the sausage was venison, but the onions and garlic added plenty of flavor to the meal.  She might go extra wild and add soy sauce.  That seemed to add an “exotic, foreign” flavor: in my imagination I’d be transported to some exotic land where people with slanty eyes lived in bamboo houses...

Autumn’s cooler weather has invaded MInnesota.  It’s a grand time of the year to enjoy the red sumac and the burgundy and golden leaves of the maple trees.  School days have arrived along with cool days, wool blanket nights and flannel pajamas.  It’s time for cozy evenings by the fire and a comfort meal, a steaming hot dish reminding me of home. 947 words

LOVE WITHOUT STAYING POWER

FROM WHERE I SIT  Love Without Staying Power  August 3, 2013  Pat Spilseth

Women mourn; men replace.  Sure, it’s a generalization, but take a moment and count how many divorcees and widows do you know?  Lots, I’m assuming.  And how many single men are you acquainted with?  Not many...they’ve been casseroled out or set up with prospective dates the moment they became single.  Today, I’m on a bandwagon against temporary “relationships”.

Recent TV and newspaper headlines about the married Mad Flasher and e-mail Lothario are certainly embarrassing and so tasteless.  Why does an intelligent, accomplished women remain with the miscreant?  Was she raised in Saudi  or is the lock due to having a young child?  There are some solid reasons to end a union.

Certainly, there are many fine men and women out there, but you have to admit, some deal with other people as interchangeable batteries.  When one  runs down, they go out and get another.   Are some partners just interchangeable need-fillers?  

When a woman is dumped or left by a man, many women go through staged withdrawals with all sorts of symptoms: grieving, sobbing, anger, and finally acceptance.  When a relationship ends, it’s basically a death for her.  Generally, women seem to have long resting periods before they feel ready to try again.  That’s not usually the case with men.

Do women wallow, and men act?  We gals tend to romanticize; we go into massive depressions when left; we lose 10 pounds or gain 20 stuffing ourselves with chocolate and other comfort foods.   Women believe in mourning/grieving as a way of paying respect to the feelings they had for the guy who left, the time and energy they put into the relationship.  Most women believe it takes time to heal.  Usually that involves talking with girlfriends who eventually give them the confidence to move on. 

I grew up on movies staring Grace Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Annette where the final scenes faded out with a man and a woman walking hand in hand into the sunset accompanied by lovely music.  So, it took me awhile to accept the current concept of relationships between men and women.  Now movies seem to end with an ending.  The love-mating-dismantling scenario where art imitates life on the big screen...there don’t seem to be many love stories any more about permanence.  Mostly they’re chick flicks, sugar-coated serials or violent, noisy shoot ‘em up adventures of stars unlike anyone I know has ever encountered.  Romance is weak, flabby with middle-aged “me” issues or mental health issues.

Remember when music swelled to the tune of “Love Will Keep Us Together” and you got a lump in your throat; perhaps you needed kleenex?  Well, they don’t play that song any more.  In those star-kissed movies of the fifties, you knew when Doris Day and Rock Hudson kissed, they would end up married.  For goodness sake, movie makers of that era never filmed stars in bed together.  And they didn’t film anybody French kissing. In contrast, today’s movies have stars jumping in and out of beds and swinging from partner to partner much too often.  Do I sound too conservative?  Well, perhaps, but I believe there has to be a limit to promiscuousness!

Romance, in which permanence is the ideal, has been replaced by romantic impermanence as reality. Too many disastrous matings make people want to throw in the towel with relationships, certainly marriage.  But these new “real” love stories actually portray the romantic spirit still alive in many of us, even as we deal with the reality of “irreconcilable differences.”  Hope in an everlasting love remains eternal.

Once upon a time, relationships blossomed into marriage and a family   Those were the old days when only Hollywood’s movie stars and New Yorkers had battered mates or got divorced.  Somewhere in the sixties, we got into “I’m OK; You’re OK” and all the interpersonal relationship jargon.  Relationships feasted on touchy, feeling dialogue, self-medicating drugs and counseling.  We were more into self-actualization rather than working at the relationship.  Divorce soared.  Don’t get me wrong, I do believe that sometimes divorce is the best option to a dissolving relationship that isn’t working.

Do you really believe that people “fall in love”?  Phooey, nobody “falls” in love.  Now, some enter a relationship as if it were a law firm.  Prenuptial legal agreements are abundant...just in case it doesn’t work for them.  Relationship isn’t a poetic word.  The term is too passionless.  You can’t send flowers to a relationship.  UP with love; DOWN with relationships.  Today our society takes cohabiting for granted.  Some think that living together before marriage is a chance for a couple to test if the relationship will work.  Sorry,  that just doesn’t jive with marriage and divorce statistics.  

A recent paper from the RAND Corporation confirms that men and women tend to have significantly different expectations of cohabitation.    On average, men are less committed.  52% of cohabiting young men between 18 & 26, are uncertain about whether their relationship will last.  Only 39% of cohabiting women that age agree.  More than four in 10 men say they are not completely committed to their partners compared to 26& of women.    Those are polled facts.  That’s a problem!

Men and women deserve better...we want; we deserve to love another and to be loved.  Marriage is not a simple matter; it’s hard work.  Partners have to work at the marriage to make the marriage successful, rather than only a short term relationship.  It’s too easy to end a relationship; it’s harder to dissolve a marriage of two committed individuals who value their bond and family.  935 words

FROM WHERE I SIT THE CARNIES ARE COMING TO TOWN

FROM WHERE I SIT  The Carnies Are Coming to Town Aug. 9, 2013      Pat DeKok Spilseth

Fortune-telling gypsies and their crystal balls intrigued me every fall when the Pope County fair came to Glenwood.   Tattooed carnies with missing teeth and greasy hair manned the roller coaster and ferris wheel.   With deep grunts, burly hunks would grunt as they hoisted a sledgehammer and rang the bell.  Oh, my, they were so muscular and strong!  

Guys with clinging dates hurled balls at targets, hoping to win a giant panda bear or some kewpie doll for their sweetie.  One particular arcade lured me to its riches every year.  Glass boxes with a strange machine and scoop, coaxed me to fish out a sparkling diamond ring nestled among thousands of golden corn kernels.  It was a sure bet that I’d win the ring, if I put enough coins into the machine and maneuvered the scoop correctly.  High hopes dominated my life.  

At the fair, we locals felt the need to tease our conservative lives before the regularity of school days arrived after Labor Day.  Intrigued by the fair’s colorful characters and imagined adventures, we rode the thrilling ferris wheel that spun us into the air, the octopus and the tilt a whirl which tossed us around until we were dizzy and couldn’t stand.

4-Hers brought their produce and livestock to the fair hoping to win a blue ribbon.  I could smell my way to the livestock barns where snoozing cattle rested with their owners in cowboy hats, pearl-buttoned shirts, jeans and pointy-toed boots.  Audiences watched sheep being sheared as roosters crowed and horses impatiently stamped their prancing feet, ready to race around the grandstand track. 

Women brought Devils’ Food cakes, coffee cakes, mile-high angel food cakes and crusty breads to be judged in the Produce Building.  Preserves were lined up on shelves; intricately patterned quilts were hung on display, and bird houses, doll houses, machine-sewn clothing, hand knit sweaters and afghans showed off the area’s homemaking skills.

One memorable year, the carnival people gave a clock with a golden chariot and high-stepping horses to Dad when he was the Pope County sheriff.  They probably hoped that he’d overlook any infractions their carnival might incur.  Today, for the first time in many, many years, I looked closely and saw that the figures driving the chariot clock had wings.  And they were naked!   I doubt that Mom had ever looked closely at the clock.  She couldn’t have checked out those naked chariot drivers!  If she’d have known, surely she wouldn’t have placed the golden clock on top of our living room’s TV set for everyone to see and blush beet red.  After all, we were modest Scandinavians. 

Roadies at the fair probably knew that we locals would be enchanted with all their glitzy treasures, adventurous rides and swarthy characters.  Certainly the colorful gypsies and tattooed carnies with missing teeth and greasy hair added excitement and color to my girlhood.  I loved to go with Dad when he patrolled the arcades and walked past all the rides, the haunted house and the freak show.  He was my hero and my protection from those unknown, but terribly exciting people and adventures.  My imagination went into overdrive when I was around those characters so different from anyone I’d ever seen.

Most likely some of those same roadies are still working the fair with their slicked-back ducktails, tight dirty jeans, and embarrassing-to-me tattoos.  Even today, I still love to ogle the colorful gypsy women with their dangling, clanging earrings, swishing skirts, and off the shoulder blouses.   They aren’t blonde or gray-headed; most, if any, don’t have blue eyes.  Certainly, they’re not Lutherans or political conservatives!   

Back in the fifties, carnival folks held a mystique for me.  They probably provide the same fascination to young people coming to the fair today.  I had dreams about the carnies, always with a slight touch of trepidation.  After all, I knew they were “outsiders”, certainly not folks I could trust.   In my mind, they were the  perfect picture of fascinating, questionable characters...different,  daring and exciting.  They didn’t have Scandinavian brogues, and they didn’t tell Ole and Lena jokes.  

Rumors were rampant around town when the carnies came to town.  People were told to lock their doors: gypsies, we believed, had “sticky fingers”. Women kept watch from their kitchen windows that clothing didn’t disappear from their clotheslines in the back yard.  Kids were warned to keep away from those alluring characters; don’t talk to them.  Talking would encourage carnival folks to feel welcome in our community.  After all, they were only here for the “show” every fall.  They weren’t staying.

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BECOMING THEM

FROM WHERE I SIT     BECOMING THEM     Feb. 24, 2013     Pat Spilseth

Sunday morning meant church when I was a kid.  My family would attend services and stay to visit as long as Dad could stand the small talk, then walk home to eat Sunday dinner.  If we were lucky, Dad would drive our blue Hudson to the Dahl Cafe in Lowry for a special dinner.

Saturday night was bath night.  Mom would wrap my curly brown hair with twisted white rags into long pipe curls that I tried to sleep on overnight so I would be presentable Sunday morning.   Sunday meant dressing in Sunday clothes: my shiny Mary Jane patten leather shoes, lacy anklets or white tights, and my Sunday dress, not my weekly play clothes or work clothes.  The folks had to show up at the red brick, Lutheran church with me in tow, hoping desperately that I would behave and not cause a ruckus, which embarrassed them terribly and made Daddy angry.  

I was an only child at that point, Princess Patty.  Lots was expected of me, and I’ll admit it, I was a bit spoiled.  Dad was gone most of the week hauling cattle in his long trucks to far-away destinations like St. Paul and Philadelphia so Mom was alone with only me for company too much of the time.  Eventually, she took in “roomers” Ruth Jesness and Lorraine Beacher to keep her company.  I think the loneliness was stifling her happy spirits.

After a quick breakfast of cereal, juice laced with the abominable taste of greasy Cod Liver Oil , which was deemed to prevent colds, I raced to the only bathroom for a last minute potty break.  Then we were out the back door, which was never locked, walking down the cracked cement sidewalk to church a few blocks away. 

Church meant quiet time, with adults dressed in suits and heels, few accompanied by children.  It was a boring morning for a kid.  Some of the Dads fell asleep during the sermon, the only time we didn’t have to stand and pray.  The hymn sing didn’t allow sleep as the choirs sang loudly with spirit-filled fervor.  Trying to stay quiet and attentive during the service, most kids were bored with the sermon, its big words and strange stories.  Kids got fidgety; we wanted better stories with more action.  After all, we’d just slept eight hours.  What else could anyone expect?

Sunday was a Day of Rest, but not for Mom, who would sometimes skip church to peel and boil potatoes and carrots while a roast with lots of onions cooked in her GE oven.  If Dad had a good work week and happened to feel “flush”,  we would drive several miles west on Hwy 55 to Lowry.   All of us enjoyed Sunday dinner cooked by the couple who owned the Dahl Cafe.  Either a beef or pork roast or chicken fried in oil and batter heavily salted was a lip smacker.  There’d be  a selection of vegetables, overly boiled, like mushy carrots, peas or beans.  I loved those yellow corn kernels but hoped to avoid the peas; they made my stomach churn.  

After lunch, we’d return home where I’d check out Dick Tracy and LIttle Orphan Annie in the funnies; the folks read the Sunday newspaper and relaxed in their Mr. and Mrs. LazyBoy chairs in our little-used living room.  I’d play with my dolls, but soon I’d get bored and start pestering my folks. That might motivate them to take a Sunday drive out into the country to the home of friends, the Amundsons, Pladsons, Faulkners or Tehaars, where there were kids to play with.   

Other Sundays we’d visit Mom’s Norwegian relatives in Starbuck or Dad’s Dutch relatives in Brooten.  However, when we drove to Brooten, we had to time our visit to catch Grandma and Aunt Sadie at home between the required services at the Christian Reformed Church.  Dad figured if the church goers would listen to a sermon the first time, why would they have to return for a second and third service?  Not big on church and rules, Dad converted to Mom’s religion and became a Lutheran.  The Lutherans were OK with movies and dancing; they weren’t quite as strict as the Reformed Church.  Though he didn’t have much rhythm, according to Mom, he did enjoy dancing at the Lakeside Ballroom

All the shops downtown were closed on Sundays in the Fifties.  Not even a grocery store was open for those who forgot to buy milk or bread on Saturday.  Sunday was a day of rest, but kids thought it was a boring, endless day.   Our only salvation was if parents would visit at a house that had kids to play with.   At the Husoms, I’d inspect Evelyn’s salt and pepper collection and check out Inez’s clothes closet.  I was lucky to get some of her hand-me-downs as she was a few years older than me.  Alvin had a bow and arrow and would demonstrate how to shoot the arrows at a target.  At the Amundsons, I could play with their son Richard, and the Faulkners had Bonnie, Buster, and horses.   

Many years down the road, after college, marriage and children, Sunday morning, once again, became time for church.  Though stores are open today and every day, I usually avoid stores on Sunday to stay at home or visit with friends.  Just like the Fifties, we dress up a bit for services.  We take daily showers, maybe a bath on Saturday.  We attend church services at our neighborhood church a few minutes from home and love to stay for coffee time with doughnuts. The service, which has some riveting sermons with good music and stories, brings relevance of religious teachings to our daily lives.  We drive home for Sunday sandwiches or Dave’s puff pancakes, or we drive twenty minutes to D’Amico’s Italian cafe in Wayzata. 

Isn’t this the same routine my folks followed when I was a kid?  All in all, I guess Princess Patty and her family are now much like my parents were in the fifties on a Sunday morning.   I’ve just grown older...I’ve become THEM. 

Prescription for Daily Life

FROM WHERE I SIT   Prescription for Daily Life    March 5, 2013 Pat DeKok Spilseth

Has your life improved with the internet, facebook, Ipads and Iphones?  Is life less complicated today with all these time-saving, efficient devices?  Or was life simpler when men and women had distinct roles and daily duties?   In the fifties most women stayed home to take care of the kids, cook, wash, and clean.  Men had jobs like lawn care, repairs, and punishment for kids as well as bringing home a paycheck from their full-time job. 

Many folks today would be aghast, insulted if their lives reverted in a time machine to a past era.  Back then, choices weren’t as available.  Choices can confuse people.  The formula for women in the fifties was specific: it was embroidered on dishtowels and printed in church cookbooks.  Women knew exactly what they should be doing each day of the week:  Monday was wash day; Tuesday was ironing; Wednesday was sewing, and Thursday was market day.  Friday was cleaning, and Saturday was baking.  Sunday was a Day of Rest. 

Life in 2013 is so different than our lives were in 1955.  It’s rare, but some days I actually long for that almost-forgotten formula.  Though I love the advantages of today’s women having good educations and careers, at times I wonder if some of us don’t miss those programmed “duties”.  Today, how many kids learn to sew or balance a checkbook?  How many can cook and bake healthier foods rather than purchasing pricey, sugar & salt-laden, processed foods?  Lives are so busy with long hours at a job that many rarely have time to relax, enjoy cooking a meal for their family, spending time reading to their kids, and putting them to bed.

Though I no longer sew, I do believe it’s important to know how to hem and mend clothing.  I know it’s essential to create and balance a budget and make a tasty, nutritious meal.  I must admit that I didn’t do so well in my eighth grade sewing or cooking classes with Mrs. LaMasters. The threads that gathered my skirt’s waistband always broke, and I blew up the gas stove when the teacher lit the stove I’d turned to ON. Those ovens didn’t work like Mom’s electric oven. 

Looking back at the Fifties formula for women, my favorite day would be Saturday, the baking day.  I love to bake and smell those delicious aromas of sweet cinnamon rolls and mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies coming from the oven.  And I like to iron so Tuesday’s ironing duty is just fine with me.  I enjoy freshly ironed shirts and pillowcases; however, I draw the line at ironing sheets.  My Aunt Jean used a mangle machine to make her bed linens crisp and smooth; they must have felt great when it was time for bed. 

I miss Sundays when that was a Day of Rest.  Those ancient Blue Laws enforced rest for folks wanting to drive to the liquor store on Sundays.  That meant no drinking on Sunday unless you thought ahead.  Grocery stores and all the retail shops were closed on Sundays so people who worked all week could take a day off to go to the lake, hunt, fish, relax, and play with their kids.  But first came Sunday morning church services.  Of course, one of the drawbacks back then had to be that everyone noticed if a certain someone wasn’t in attendance at Sunday services. 

As a kid, I was bored on Sundays.  We couldn’t play cards, go to the movies or have Mom sew a hem on my skirt.  I remember lots of  NO’s on Sunday.  But I’d love it when we piled into Dad’s blue Hudson or his Chevy with the metal trimmed fins of turquoise and white with the big fenders and drove off to visit with friends.  One of my favorite houses to visit was Aunt Sadie and Grandma DeKok’s house in Brooten.  All the cousins were there Sunday afternoon after they’d attended church.  We’d sing at the upright piano in the living room with Cousin Doris playing and play dolls on the porch.  The boys had plenty of trucks to play with that Aunt Sadie had purchased for pennies at garage sale. 

If Dad drove to Starbuck, I could play with cousin Emery who lived on a farm with rolling hills. One winter, Emery Jr. built a speedy snow sled with old skis that didn’t sink into the big drifts of fluffy snow; they glided smoothly over the snow and streaked down the hill with us riding on top.  Our hand knit stocking hats and scarves, made of scrap wool, would fly behind us as our voices laughed and screamed up and down the hills.

Sundays always meant dress up for early church, then a big Sunday dinner served on the good china in the rarely used dining room.  Some Sundays when Dad felt a bit flush with extra cash, he would drive our family to Lowry’s Dahl Café, which featured crispy fried chicken dinners with mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy that swam over the entire plate.  Sitting in the booth, I’d slide my green peas surreptitiously onto the floor.   I hated peas and rice back in those days, but I ate the entire portion of yellow corn kernels.  Cafes back then featured an assortment of homemade baked goodies for dessert in a revolving glass case.  Picking dessert was my favorite part of the dinner.

Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise...that’s the mantra I grew up with back in the fifties and sixties.  We went to bed early, at least by ten, because we had to get up early for work or school, at least by six or seven.  We had daily chores to accomplish.  Today, I find that a daily schedule makes life better for me.  I seem to get more accomplished if I make a list of things to do.  When I can cross items off my list, I feel a sense of accomplishment.  Yes, some days a daily pattern to life seems simpler.  I still like to rise early, eat a noon meal and have supper between 5:30 and 7PM; then its bed and the news around 10PM.  Mrs. Excitement, I’m not, but life is pretty good for me with a simple schedule to my days.

Walk in a Snowy Woods

FROM WHERE I SIT   Walk in a Snowy Woods    February 2, 2013        Pat Spilseth

“Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow…

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep.

And miles to go before I sleep…”   Frost’s “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening.”

The woods I walk in each day are filled with deep, dark stands of pine and hardwoods.  Icy, snow drifts lie in crunching chunks, melting and refrozen, marked with footsteps of other walkers in the woods.  Tracks of dogs, deer, and furry squirrels, mice and a red fox, cross-country skiers and snowmobiles cast shadowy images into the woods.  Others must be seeking pathways to quietness on these powdery, winter days of grayness. 

A canopy of bare branches stretches toward the heavens.  From a tangled maze of dead trees, I emerge onto paths winding through tree silhouettes and fallen tree houses of childhood, climbing days of yesterday.  Open clearings of undisturbed snow welcome me to rest a bit.  Though I love to watch the snowflakes float and settle in marshmallow drifts, I uncover unexplored tracks that tease me once again into the silent woods. Tall, stalwart tree trunks lend solid balance and support on my path, often treacherous, as I climb crusted trails left behind by other walkers in the woods. 

My boots make tracks in the virgin snow, leading up and down the rolling hills that used to be cross-country trails for my family.  Winter afternoons we’d set out on long, waxed skis, hoping to tire our children, enticing them to take naps so mom and dad could have a few minutes of rest, of quiet togetherness.

Peace reigns in the snowy woods, a peaceful quiet not found elsewhere. “The woods were made for the hunters of dreams/The brooks for the fisher of song.”  Sam Walter Foss  

Whenever I wander into the woods, Buddy, my brown, black and white Beagle companion with the soft, floppy ears, is by my side.  Intended to be my son’s Christmas present, Buddy was to be a pet friend of allegiance and comfort.  However, Andy’s college life and jobs have made the little Beagle become my Buddy, my tag-along companion from early coffee and newspaper mornings to afternoon walks in our woods.  We meet and greet each neighborhood dog pal: Sunny, Sailor, Goldie, and Doodle.  Later, in the long, dark, evenings of winter, Buddy and I share Mom’s wool afghans as we snooze on the family room couch.   Buddy’s four feet rest in the air as he snores, just like his alter-ego, Snoopy.

Back inside the house, the telephone rings, others bustle in and out, awakening me with clunking footsteps and news alerts.  Appliances swish, churn and gurgle; phone calls, letters, and e-mails need to be answered; dirty dishes call to me from the kitchen.   Time demands and promises I’ve made to myself and others break the quiet peace I find each day with Buddy in the silent woods where we walk and dream.   523 words