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

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