Ok, now I am 60. Remember when I said I thought maybe I'd just "crystallize" at 60 and remain static, appearance wise? Well, I will be 61 in 11 days. Not sure I'm crystallized.
I tried the going gray thing. Seems its almost a fashionable trend now. Let the grays grow with abandon, embrace them! So feminist, so liberating! After loads of research, I decided the best way would be to color my hair lighter and lighter and then just blend in the gray until VOILA!, a silver mane! I tried it for six months, maybe longer, sure seemed longer. I felt deja vu, going to back to the years in adulthood (and there were many) when I colored my hair blonde in some form or another. My makeup never looked right. It seemed either massively dramatic or so pale as to make me look like a lab rat. My light skin coloring one would think perfect for blonde (and gray) hair. Not so. It made me look "old" not daring or liberated at all. Just old. I observed a friend going "natural". She looked much older. I gave up, went to Target and came holding cradling my box of "Medium Ash Brown". So I am at odds with myself. I want to embrace old age yet don't want to look old. I guess I could go to botox and dermal fillers, have liposuction, "cool sculpting", all those last chance measures we put ourselves through before admitting defeat. Time marches on. I don't enjoy the thought of needles in my face. I've seen too many Botched episodes where the plastic surgeons heatedly debate amongst themselves how to correct the horribly disfigured client who's previous cosmetic surgeries went terribly wrong. Nor do I want to be one of the senior citizens who's hair precedes her into the room by several minutes. A face full of wrinkles and stark black hair. The dazzling iridescent platinum blonde of the Lake Minnetonka matron desperately clinging to youth.
I like myself with dark hair. I think it highlights my light eyes and light complexion. My significant other likes it, too. I spend my time working more on my inner self and less on the outer the older I get. I doubt if anyone thinks my hair color is natural (and even less care) and I guess it shows that I'm not as confident and accepting as I ideally, would like to be. Things of real value aren't found in boxes at Target or even in the gym, flaunting a leotard covering scars and sagging flesh. They are only found inside one's heart. Work on the inner self as its the only thing of value. And if my hair is unnaturally brunette while sitting on my meditation mat, well, thats okay.
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Friday, March 3, 2017
IT IS WHAT IT IS
The old woman walks slowly up the cracking stairs of her apartment building. Its a frosty day in Minneapolis, she's not sure if it ever got to the 22 degrees predicted by the weather man. She reaches a finger up beneath the taped bridge of her glasses to wipe away a tear, lets out a sigh as she pulls the door open. She slowly climbs the twenty six stairs to her apartment, avoiding the crumpled Kit Kat wrapper in the hall. A steady thump, thump, thump of bass comes from the apartment next to hers. There are a couple of young people living there, they seem to keep odd hours and play the loud, thumping music late into the night and start it up every day around lunch time. Even when she takes her hearing aids out at night, sometimes its difficult for her to sleep with the music always pounding through the walls. Its as if her pillow conducts the sound and it invades her dreams.
This has not been a good day. The doctor at the clinic told her the cancer was back and this time, it has spread. He had a fancy word for it but she doesn't remember the term. She knew what he meant. Almost automatically, she walks to the refrigerator and takes out the half can of chicken noodle soup. She pours it into a pan on the little gas burner and dumps in a cup of water. As the soup begins to warm, she carefully opens a tin and removes the package of saltines she has closed with a plastic tie from the grocery store. Another tear comes as a wave of self pity washes through her. Can't even keep the crackers out, she thinks, damn mice will get to them.
The anemic daylight fades as she settles onto a chair and crushes the crackers into the soup. Another tear falls as she remembers tomorrow is her birthday. 86 years old. It will her last birthday. A sob catches in her throat. There will be no cake, no card in the mail that sings a gay little tune as you open it, no phone call to congratulate her. No one will even know, except herself. She stirs the soup in the bowl. Her dear little son, at least she will see him again. He died how many years ago? What is it? 54 years ago? He was only six years old when he died. What a sweet little fellow he was. Always playing jokes, how he loved to laugh! She will never forget his face, the chocolate brown eyes and thick lashes, how his hair had an unruly cowlick that was never tamed. Those cowboy boots he loved so much. Life seemed so good, so happy and then the car accident. It was no one's fault, just another icy Minnesota morning. Ice on the road.... Even though it years ago now, the pain feels like yesterday, but the boy, a misty memory.
Her daughter, where even was she? Was she even alive? She looks at the refrigerator where she sees a faded Christmas card. She had taken a marker and wrote "2004" on it, next to the glittered Santa Claus. It was the last card she'd gotten. She remembers her daughter had enclosed a twenty dollar bill and wrote "See you soon! Don't spend it all in one place!" But she didn't see her soon. She never saw her again. There'd been some phone calls, something about moving to San Francisco and how she'd be in touch once she was settled. But there had been no more phone calls. No more cards. A few years ago at the Senior Center, she'd asked a volunteer if she would try looking up the daughter online. Try San Francisco, she'd told her. But they'd not been able to find her. It is what it is, she thought and took a sip of the soup, now growing cold on the table, the crackers congealing into a gluey mass.
Outside, snowflakes were making their lazy way to ground. A bit of a draft came through the window along the cracked caulking and the woman moved away from the table to the living room and turned on her radio. She thought, as she always did, that it would be nice to be able to watch tv. She liked to see peoples' faces when they were talking. But there had been no way she could get a tv up the stairs into her apartment, let it alone get it set up. She didn't understand all the cable stuff she was always hearing about. She had been ashamed to leave almost all her belongings in her home when she'd moved. She had been unable to pay the taxes and upkeep on the old house, things were breaking down all around her, and she'd moved one day. Just packed up some photo albums, clothes, one box of dishes. That was all she could fit in the cab. The Somali driver had been kind enough to carry the boxes up the stairs to the apartment. She'd walked down to the Sears and had a bed ordered and delivered but there hadn't been enough in her savings to get a tv. She'd made do with the radio. It was alright, comforting. Sometimes she would remember when she was a girl, her parents sitting in their armchairs in the living room, listening to the radio. Sometimes it was music and talk shows, sometimes they'd listened for tornado alerts. WCCO, your "good neighbor to the North". Those were the days.
She put on her slippers and pulled the tattered old afghan around her shoulders. There was an advertisement on the radio about introductory deals at some chiropractic office. She wondered if a chiropractor could do anything for cancer. The doctor at the clinic had given her a sheaf of papers with upcoming appointments downtown at the hospital, outlined in yellow marker. Something about being there at 7 in the morning, some building somewhere in north Minneapolis on a street she'd heard of but never been on. She hadn't paid much attention. It was all useless. She didn't have the money to pay a cab to go back and forth. How many times would she have to go? The doctor had told her she'd be sick and need someone to drive her home and stay with her for awhile after the appointments. Who? There was no one to either drive nor stay with her. I suppose, she thought, I could go back to the Senior Center and see if I can get someone to drive me. But even if she could, she knew they didn't offer services such as having people stay with you for days on end. Outside in the hall, a woman spoke harshly to a child in a strange tongue, the child whimpered and she heard a door unlock and the sound of a dog barking.
She looked the copy of People magazine on the floor. She had found it the other day at the bus stop. Brad Pitt smiled at her rakishly from the cover. She heaved herself out of the chair and went into her bedroom and picked up the Bible from its place on an overturned box next to the bed. She carried it back into the living and once again, settled into the chair. She wiped away another tear and opened the book. It is what is, she thought.
This has not been a good day. The doctor at the clinic told her the cancer was back and this time, it has spread. He had a fancy word for it but she doesn't remember the term. She knew what he meant. Almost automatically, she walks to the refrigerator and takes out the half can of chicken noodle soup. She pours it into a pan on the little gas burner and dumps in a cup of water. As the soup begins to warm, she carefully opens a tin and removes the package of saltines she has closed with a plastic tie from the grocery store. Another tear comes as a wave of self pity washes through her. Can't even keep the crackers out, she thinks, damn mice will get to them.
The anemic daylight fades as she settles onto a chair and crushes the crackers into the soup. Another tear falls as she remembers tomorrow is her birthday. 86 years old. It will her last birthday. A sob catches in her throat. There will be no cake, no card in the mail that sings a gay little tune as you open it, no phone call to congratulate her. No one will even know, except herself. She stirs the soup in the bowl. Her dear little son, at least she will see him again. He died how many years ago? What is it? 54 years ago? He was only six years old when he died. What a sweet little fellow he was. Always playing jokes, how he loved to laugh! She will never forget his face, the chocolate brown eyes and thick lashes, how his hair had an unruly cowlick that was never tamed. Those cowboy boots he loved so much. Life seemed so good, so happy and then the car accident. It was no one's fault, just another icy Minnesota morning. Ice on the road.... Even though it years ago now, the pain feels like yesterday, but the boy, a misty memory.
Her daughter, where even was she? Was she even alive? She looks at the refrigerator where she sees a faded Christmas card. She had taken a marker and wrote "2004" on it, next to the glittered Santa Claus. It was the last card she'd gotten. She remembers her daughter had enclosed a twenty dollar bill and wrote "See you soon! Don't spend it all in one place!" But she didn't see her soon. She never saw her again. There'd been some phone calls, something about moving to San Francisco and how she'd be in touch once she was settled. But there had been no more phone calls. No more cards. A few years ago at the Senior Center, she'd asked a volunteer if she would try looking up the daughter online. Try San Francisco, she'd told her. But they'd not been able to find her. It is what it is, she thought and took a sip of the soup, now growing cold on the table, the crackers congealing into a gluey mass.
Outside, snowflakes were making their lazy way to ground. A bit of a draft came through the window along the cracked caulking and the woman moved away from the table to the living room and turned on her radio. She thought, as she always did, that it would be nice to be able to watch tv. She liked to see peoples' faces when they were talking. But there had been no way she could get a tv up the stairs into her apartment, let it alone get it set up. She didn't understand all the cable stuff she was always hearing about. She had been ashamed to leave almost all her belongings in her home when she'd moved. She had been unable to pay the taxes and upkeep on the old house, things were breaking down all around her, and she'd moved one day. Just packed up some photo albums, clothes, one box of dishes. That was all she could fit in the cab. The Somali driver had been kind enough to carry the boxes up the stairs to the apartment. She'd walked down to the Sears and had a bed ordered and delivered but there hadn't been enough in her savings to get a tv. She'd made do with the radio. It was alright, comforting. Sometimes she would remember when she was a girl, her parents sitting in their armchairs in the living room, listening to the radio. Sometimes it was music and talk shows, sometimes they'd listened for tornado alerts. WCCO, your "good neighbor to the North". Those were the days.
She put on her slippers and pulled the tattered old afghan around her shoulders. There was an advertisement on the radio about introductory deals at some chiropractic office. She wondered if a chiropractor could do anything for cancer. The doctor at the clinic had given her a sheaf of papers with upcoming appointments downtown at the hospital, outlined in yellow marker. Something about being there at 7 in the morning, some building somewhere in north Minneapolis on a street she'd heard of but never been on. She hadn't paid much attention. It was all useless. She didn't have the money to pay a cab to go back and forth. How many times would she have to go? The doctor had told her she'd be sick and need someone to drive her home and stay with her for awhile after the appointments. Who? There was no one to either drive nor stay with her. I suppose, she thought, I could go back to the Senior Center and see if I can get someone to drive me. But even if she could, she knew they didn't offer services such as having people stay with you for days on end. Outside in the hall, a woman spoke harshly to a child in a strange tongue, the child whimpered and she heard a door unlock and the sound of a dog barking.
She looked the copy of People magazine on the floor. She had found it the other day at the bus stop. Brad Pitt smiled at her rakishly from the cover. She heaved herself out of the chair and went into her bedroom and picked up the Bible from its place on an overturned box next to the bed. She carried it back into the living and once again, settled into the chair. She wiped away another tear and opened the book. It is what is, she thought.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Dealing with the depressed and radical acceptance.
I worked in mental health for 12 years. Made the acquaintance of many people with depression and indeed, all types of mental disorders. Its cliche, but we all have some sort of mental disorder, I'm speaking of those with whom its an issue. Today we are going to talk about "helping" someone with situational depression. I'll try to keep this short. If you know someone with depression (and its going to happen to all of us, WE all will be depressed at some point), reach out and offer to listen or ask them if there is anything specific they would like us to do. Usually they will say no. Tell them the offer to listen always stands. The truth is the really horrible shit that happens, life threatening or fatal illness, loss of loved one or relationship, loss of a job, abilities..thats the stuff you have to walk through alone. No one can really help you in the way you want help because what you want is for a different, impossible scenario to occur (the loved one to come back to life, to be perfectly healthy without the diagnosed level 4 cancer, etc.) Really depressed people don't want to talk, they don't want to deal with anyone or anything. Your efforts to reach out will be rebuked. Depressed people no longer care. They don't give a shit about you, they are too stuck in their own shit. This dark night of the soul is when relationships of long standing are sometimes destroyed because the depressed person cannot be satisfied. Anything you may offer is not wanted. You will be accused of "not getting it", usually in a sarcastic, furious and frustrated manner. And you know? You DON'T get it. Unless you have been through exactly the same scenario as the depressed person, you have no idea what it feels like it. Scrutinizing honesty becomes all important to the depressed person and you will fall short, your words ring hollow at every turn. You may hear things regarding yourself you know are not true due to the depressed person no longer having any filters and seeing everything "through a glass, darkly". I have heard so many people cry and wring their hands because they "can't help" the depressed person. A depressed person is like a drug addict or alcoholic (almost all of whom are depressed, by the way). They don't want help. Or maybe they do, but refuse to believe its possible. Patience, patience, is what "counselors" advise those involved with the depressed person. But sooner than later, the patience turns into abusiveness by the depressed person, if they are, indeed, even having anything to do with you at this point. Continued offers of help will be met with "just fucking leave me alone". Its up to you at this point. I guess some of us are in positions to physically haul these depressed people off to mental hospitals (if you can even find one that has an open bed), but most of the time the best we can do is what they want. Just fucking leave them alone. We can never really know what someone else is going through, how bad things may have become for them. I radically believe we have no right to tell them to keep plugging along if they really are hopeless. Hospital stays, medication, are of little use to those who truly are hopeless. Most really depressed people have tried it all. Tincture of time, we tell them. Just hang on. This too, shall pass. But will it? Everyone's mental constitution is different. Some do not have the ability to suffer endlessly and should they be forced to? If someone has tried to seek help for their situational depression, or chosen not to, who are we to add to their misery by chirping platitudes at them? Maybe they've had enough and the Great Unknown is more alluring at this point to the daily misery they face each morning with sunrise. Its not up to us to play God. When your best efforts are met with refusal, silence or anger, do something radical. Leave them the fuck alone.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Too Much Stuff-or what you find out when you move
Moving...sheer hell. If you do it right, you will have a couple months to pack,so its not some overwhelming job where you have to be outta there by noon on Thursday. You will be able to afford to hire movers, and you will wish you were able to afford packers, also. You will throw out a ton of shit and donate to Goodwill many times before moving day. After moving, you start unpacking. This is where you start realizing what a total asshole you are. Ugly American! Let me give you a few examples of myself and see what you think...
Who the hell do I think I am? I have 8 espresso cups. Eight fucking espresso cups, including two peppermint candy cane striped ones I thought too cute to pass up. Two from an ex boyfriend who turned out to be a miserable piece of shit, yet I keep them out of nostalgia. My partner and I drink espresso shots from time to time, but 8 fucking espresso cups? I mean really...not one god damn time have we had an espresso drinking party at our house, not once.
Barware, jesus, you'd think we were alcoholics too lazy to do dishes! 3 dozen wine glasses, maybe more, I got tired of unpacking them and sorting them. And those Riedel glasses, what pieces of worthless shit! Talk about bad feng shui! I have never once held a Riedel glass with anything but dread, fearing the delicate wafer thin glass would break in my fingers. We have a ton of 'em, and rarely use them. Bill once heard they were top notch, the "in" kind of glass for connoisseurs. He bought it, along with tons of the glasses. Pinot Noir glasses, what ostentatious shit! The very fucking notion that you should drink different wines out of anything other than a paper cup is pretentious, but these big honking stupid looking Pinot Noir glasses take the cake. Someone somewhere, whoever invented them, is laughing their asses off that some dumb sucker dropped a mint on those "specially designed" glasses! I don't even like Pinot Noir.
Moving on the actual booze in our house, I find it charmingly absurd that Bill loves Bushmill Whiskey so much he packed a bottle containing a single shot left it.
I guess its not so charming I actually packed two dozen leather belts. I haven't worn a belt in years and at my age and lifestyle, not a single one of them would make it halfway. What the hell am I thinking? I am going to lose 40 lbs. and be able to enjoy the skinny leather whips that went out of style in the 70s? I tell myself it was an accident, I really wanted the hanger I looped them on.
I go back to the kitchen to unpack the 20th box marked "Kitchen" and find metal bowls I haven't used in 10 years. Quite an assortment of sizes, the littlest one I have no idea what it was used for , or could be used for...was it ever used? To whip up some cocktail sauce maybe? It might fit a squeeze of ketchup and a spoon of horseradish. Did I buy the set because of it?, because I took a fancy to the tiny metal bowl? I guess if I ever get a hamster, I could use it as a watering dish.
Stocking the pantry, I find a plethora of instant sauce mixes, hollandaise, bordelaise , I don't even know what some of this shit is...it all expired before my daughter graduated high school, but I guess I figure if its hermetically sealed in a little pouch it will last til the return of Christ, and He may want eggs benedict, I won't let Him down.
I am deeply ashamed of the stuff I've accumulated. At my age, the ultimate freedom would be to have a cozy little cottage, to live free of possessions, with 2 coffee cups (maybe 3 in case we break one), just enough food that we could eat in a week, and just enough clothes to fill one closet. Instead, I find myself perversely moving into a bigger house with more room to store my shit, most of which I won't ever use or probably even look it, may even forget I have. I am vowing now to pack a full bag of crap once a week and throw it out. The 4 compartment plastic dish I picked up 20 years ago and used once or twice. The 12 pack of disposable aluminum trays I bought thinking I would send leftovers home in. Leftovers for who? I have people over probably half a dozen times a year and usually blow so much money cooking for them that I'll be damned if I let any leftovers leave the house. Maybe I will end up with a big ol' house with nothing in it. Just a little ol' man and woman with 2 plates, 2 forks, 2 spoons, 4 towels and washcloths, half a dozen seasonal outfits. And 8 espresso cups.
Who the hell do I think I am? I have 8 espresso cups. Eight fucking espresso cups, including two peppermint candy cane striped ones I thought too cute to pass up. Two from an ex boyfriend who turned out to be a miserable piece of shit, yet I keep them out of nostalgia. My partner and I drink espresso shots from time to time, but 8 fucking espresso cups? I mean really...not one god damn time have we had an espresso drinking party at our house, not once.
Barware, jesus, you'd think we were alcoholics too lazy to do dishes! 3 dozen wine glasses, maybe more, I got tired of unpacking them and sorting them. And those Riedel glasses, what pieces of worthless shit! Talk about bad feng shui! I have never once held a Riedel glass with anything but dread, fearing the delicate wafer thin glass would break in my fingers. We have a ton of 'em, and rarely use them. Bill once heard they were top notch, the "in" kind of glass for connoisseurs. He bought it, along with tons of the glasses. Pinot Noir glasses, what ostentatious shit! The very fucking notion that you should drink different wines out of anything other than a paper cup is pretentious, but these big honking stupid looking Pinot Noir glasses take the cake. Someone somewhere, whoever invented them, is laughing their asses off that some dumb sucker dropped a mint on those "specially designed" glasses! I don't even like Pinot Noir.
Moving on the actual booze in our house, I find it charmingly absurd that Bill loves Bushmill Whiskey so much he packed a bottle containing a single shot left it.
I guess its not so charming I actually packed two dozen leather belts. I haven't worn a belt in years and at my age and lifestyle, not a single one of them would make it halfway. What the hell am I thinking? I am going to lose 40 lbs. and be able to enjoy the skinny leather whips that went out of style in the 70s? I tell myself it was an accident, I really wanted the hanger I looped them on.
I go back to the kitchen to unpack the 20th box marked "Kitchen" and find metal bowls I haven't used in 10 years. Quite an assortment of sizes, the littlest one I have no idea what it was used for , or could be used for...was it ever used? To whip up some cocktail sauce maybe? It might fit a squeeze of ketchup and a spoon of horseradish. Did I buy the set because of it?, because I took a fancy to the tiny metal bowl? I guess if I ever get a hamster, I could use it as a watering dish.
Stocking the pantry, I find a plethora of instant sauce mixes, hollandaise, bordelaise , I don't even know what some of this shit is...it all expired before my daughter graduated high school, but I guess I figure if its hermetically sealed in a little pouch it will last til the return of Christ, and He may want eggs benedict, I won't let Him down.
I am deeply ashamed of the stuff I've accumulated. At my age, the ultimate freedom would be to have a cozy little cottage, to live free of possessions, with 2 coffee cups (maybe 3 in case we break one), just enough food that we could eat in a week, and just enough clothes to fill one closet. Instead, I find myself perversely moving into a bigger house with more room to store my shit, most of which I won't ever use or probably even look it, may even forget I have. I am vowing now to pack a full bag of crap once a week and throw it out. The 4 compartment plastic dish I picked up 20 years ago and used once or twice. The 12 pack of disposable aluminum trays I bought thinking I would send leftovers home in. Leftovers for who? I have people over probably half a dozen times a year and usually blow so much money cooking for them that I'll be damned if I let any leftovers leave the house. Maybe I will end up with a big ol' house with nothing in it. Just a little ol' man and woman with 2 plates, 2 forks, 2 spoons, 4 towels and washcloths, half a dozen seasonal outfits. And 8 espresso cups.
Monday, October 12, 2015
A first timer's thoughts on Europe
The context is that I went to Europe on a guided tour, "European Highlights". The itinerary was a rigorous 4 countries in 8 days. We landed in London, stayed just one night, got there late enough in the evening for no time but a walk out to the street to find some Indian food and smoke sheesha. Smoking sheesha is a popular pastime in the MidEastern neighborhood we found ourselves in. We hadn't set out to smoke hookahs, but they seemed very popular and in order to enjoy the day and sit outside while dining, smoking sheesha was a requirement. The waitress suggested we try the melon and watermelon flavors ("best for beginners"). There is no euphoria related to inhaling the pleasant vapors, doesn't seem to cause coughing or lung irritation and all in all is just a mild, social enjoyment. I guess since India was under Britain's rule so long, it is no big surprise London has such a thriving Indian population. The little bit of London we discovered was like any big American city, maybe a bit worn out looking, industrial in our area, nothing too different. Sort of like Boston
The next morning we were off to Paris. The driving in Paris is terrifying. The drivers are aggressive and seem absolutely fearless. We were warned constantly by our tour guide to stay out of the roundabouts unless we wanted to die and to cross busy roads with locals, preferably elderly locals who presumably have learned to navigate safely. The view from the Eiffel Tower shows a vast, gigantic city, spread out in all directions. When the Tower is lit at night, its spectacularly beautiful. We chose to walk back down the steps of the Tower rather than take the elevator. Big mistake. My legs felt like jelly by the time I reached the bottom, I read somewhere on the internet thats it is 674 steps, about 500 more than I should have done. This unfortunate choice crippled me for the next three days, making stairs painful, awkward. I was upset to discover on the same day, we were due to tour the Louvre, of course the first thing I see upon entering the Louvre are stairs, lots of them. Only the very elderly or disabled take the elevators and there is a very long waiting line for them. On the day we went, a Sunday in October, it was packed. Paris is, of course, probably the number one tourist destination in the world and there were crowds, blocks long lines at every attraction. One of the benefits of going with a group is that our tickets for the Tower, the Louvre, etc. were prepaid, bought months in advance and we were able to access everything pretty much right away.
Paris in my opinion is overrated. It has many beautiful tree lined streets, with lovely old architecture similar to wealthy areas in Washington D.C. Other than that and its enormous troves of art, there was nothing of great note. Every place has its history and monuments and if you are a buff of such things, this is a wonderful place.
I was disappointed to find out french croissants are not as good as the ones available in Minnesota. Ours are flakier, a bit crispier. Their macarons are luscious, the same as ours here. Because I was on a tour, we were "treated" to a "authentic French meal" with some meat with sauce, french bread (also the same as you can get almost anywhere in the States), all in all a very mediocre meal.
The French shower, at least in my hotel, was a thing of fearsome awe. The sides were about 30 inches tall and it had but a half pane of glass, leading to very careful maneuvering or you quickly have water all over the floor. The toilets of Europe are much deeper than the standard bowls of the States, yawning maws with which a simple push of a hand, churn out huge gurgling amounts of water which do a better job of tidying up the toilet than the American jobs do.
Lucerne was lovely, so clean one could have a picnic literally on the streets. The architecture lovely, so old and beautiful, it was what I had imagined in my head Europe would look like. The people are orderly, there are not the crowds there (except for the Japanese and Chinese tourists, who swarm all over Europe spending huge quantities of money) due to the expense of Switzerland and it was safe. We wandered around on darkened streets later in the evening and I've never felt safer. The Swiss and French countryside are lush and green, much of it looks like Wisconsin. I've lived around mountains before so perhaps it wasn't quite as awe inspiring to me as it would be for some from the flatlands.
Italy a wonderful place, beautiful in the old world way I had yearned for. Once again, we were treated to an authentic Italian meal which was bread (actually good bread), lasagna, mushroom risotto, salad (all of Europe uses mix it yourself oil and vinegar with salt and pepper for dressing) and some sort of lemon whipped cream and dry cake type dessert. Venice was one of my favorite spots. I enjoyed the water taxis, opted out of the gondola ride, enjoyed looking at the world class blown glass and the sculptures. Once again, of great interest to art lovers and historians. The shopping is excellent although expensive. Venice is alive with spirits in the same way Santa Fe is. I would have liked to have spent a night being able to roam St. Mark's square after dark....
Now what people do not tell you- 4 star hotels in Europe are anywhere from okay to crap. The last one we stayed in, in Rome, had peeling wallpaper and mold in the bathroom. A very spotted carpet. People in hotels generally do not have queen sized beds as we do here. The beds are singles, sometimes pushed together. In some countries, the lighting in the hotel rooms is only activated by placing your room card in a slot on the wall. In Lucerne, they were on timers, fortunately reactivated by motion. Europe is very green in the sense its rare to find plastic glasses in bathrooms, they are almost all glass, which strikes me as more sanitary, but also more dangerous for the groggy tourist fumbling around in the dark trying to find the damn toilet. I had read in a travel book to bring a supply of cheap disposable wash cloths, which I did. Excellent idea as few of the hotels had them and the ones that did had clothes the texture of cardboard. There is no hair conditioner to be had. While all hotels supply a shower gel and shampoo, conditioner is conspicuously absent, perhaps the Europeans do not use it. Every hotel we were in had a mini bar in the room with various booze, soft drinks and snacks. Pringles are extremely popular in Europe. Europeans do not drink much pop, a can of Coke or Coke Zero (or even, charmingly "Coke Light") will cost $5.50 or $3.00 in a grocery store. Europeans like their food heavily salted and are extraordinarily fond of cheese. Cheese is served at every meal, in some form, even breakfast. Bread at hotels, even restaurants is often stale.Why are French women so slim? and the men too? Easy. They walk everywhere, most don't own cars. The Europeans in general are slim, a healthy sort of slim, not the anorexia we are accustomed to seeing in the States. To see an obese person is rare in any of the cities I visited. The obese people I saw were obviously tourists. We in the U.S. are truly a fat nation. Europeans eat lots of fat free "french bread". They eat croissants on a daily basis (not all, of course, but many). Oddly enough, butter is only used on croissants and breakfast breads, when bread is eaten at other times of the day, its without anything on it, used only to mop up sauces. I didn't see people walking around drinking pop or even water. They sit down for most meals, coffee is drank daily, probably many cups of espresso which is smooth and delicious, not at all like the acrid Starbucks sort of stuff that a generation has grown up on here. The big, flavored lattes are not drank in Europe unless you go to one of the shops that offers a few versions of mocha latte or the occasional Starbucks which must have its own cult following in Europe. They laugh at those who foolishly order a cappuccino and are expecting some 16 oz cup of flavored hot milk.
Do not try (unless you are on a tour of course) to go to a restaurant before 8 pm, they do not want to see you except between 8 and 10 p.m. There are cafes and bistros open during the day but most evenings, the real restaurants don't even open til 7 and I think thats mostly for show as some were listed in tour guides as being open then but were still dark and shuttered when we walked past. We made the mistake of wandering down to our hotel's bar area around 5 one afternoon in Rome to be told brusquely by the surly bar manager that "in Italy we eat between 12 and 2:30 and 7 and 10:30!" We apologized profusely and he softened up a bit, perhaps he'd forgotten the hotel offered an all day room service menu. I think he was most offended at having to give us silverware, a basket of packaged mayonnaise and ketchups and put the sandwiches down in front of us. He was the only one in the bar and not in the mood to play waiter. Had there not been all day room service, I could have easily accepted his terms, but the bar was empty, the kitchen was open.....It probably helped we also ordered a $28 dollar of champagne to go along with our meal. In my extremely limited experience, the Romans were the least hospitable and gracious. I could not help but think of my brother, a successful hotel manager who's motto was the "customer is King".
The guided tour did indeed get us to all the European highlights as promised. We had no hassles making reservations, buying tickets, driving. The downside, we spent hours on the bus, more hours traveling the countries than actually visiting the attractions. Upside, I saw more of the European countryside than many ever will. Enough to know that northern Italy is ugly, looks like South Dakota, some parts of Switzerland truly do recall scenes in the movie "Heidi", though I saw no goats. French countryside is green, even in mid October and fertile looking. The lakes in Switzerland are deep and vast, reminding me of Crater Lake in Oregon. In fact, much of the mountainous Europe countryside is reminiscent of the mountains in Oregon, though mostly at lower elevation. Rome is built in a vast and thick forest. What do those do who vacation frequently in Europe? I have tried to get some information out of them and I interpret their vague answers as mostly camping in a different country. They get a room somewhere, sometimes a whole house through Airbnb or some such, and then mostly just hang out in it, sometimes wandering into town for a little shopping or a meal. I saw nothing so different in the places I was in that that sort of "relaxing vacation' would tempt me. We have too much like it here in the states. To be immersed in the culture, such as spending two weeks in the heart of Paris, with close contact with the natives might be interesting, but people are people. Perspectives are always curious to me and I think I would enjoy getting the feel of the population. My least favorite areas on my brief journey - Paris and London, too much like the U.S. Lucerne is just so clean and old world charming that it would be a place I might consider returning to. Venice with its canals and ancient buildings, its aura of mystery, is a certain lure. Rome with its sad, savage yet proud history and handsome people is a land not easily forgotten. There are tourists all over Europe and must be one of it's main sources of income. When you go anywhere in Europe, expect swarming hordes of them,primarily Asian.The Japanese and Chinese tourists are impeccably dressed in haute couture and seem to have an endless supply of wealth. At one border stop, a tourist bus behind us full of Japanese people stopped, only to disgorge dozens of tourists in Armani suits dutifully carrying armfuls of Prada bags into the station to be documented and given tax forms. I bought hardly anything in Europe. We have become so global I saw nothing I cannot buy online or that is already not available in the U.S.
I am grateful I got to see the historic and artistic highlights of Europe.I saw more European countryside than many tourists who simply fly into their destinations ever will. It was an exhausting although rewarding venture. Will I hurry back? I doubt it. The U.S. has a broad variety of climates and scenery. We have it all in one country. Ocean shores, mountains, swamps, deserts and farmland. We have more of everything, more space, more convenience. More hot water. Things are cheaper. There's nothing wrong with admitting it and preferring it, who wouldn't? Why do you think we have an immigration problem? Maybe the most important thing for the American traveler is to see how really good we have it right here at home. Its true, there's no place like home.
The next morning we were off to Paris. The driving in Paris is terrifying. The drivers are aggressive and seem absolutely fearless. We were warned constantly by our tour guide to stay out of the roundabouts unless we wanted to die and to cross busy roads with locals, preferably elderly locals who presumably have learned to navigate safely. The view from the Eiffel Tower shows a vast, gigantic city, spread out in all directions. When the Tower is lit at night, its spectacularly beautiful. We chose to walk back down the steps of the Tower rather than take the elevator. Big mistake. My legs felt like jelly by the time I reached the bottom, I read somewhere on the internet thats it is 674 steps, about 500 more than I should have done. This unfortunate choice crippled me for the next three days, making stairs painful, awkward. I was upset to discover on the same day, we were due to tour the Louvre, of course the first thing I see upon entering the Louvre are stairs, lots of them. Only the very elderly or disabled take the elevators and there is a very long waiting line for them. On the day we went, a Sunday in October, it was packed. Paris is, of course, probably the number one tourist destination in the world and there were crowds, blocks long lines at every attraction. One of the benefits of going with a group is that our tickets for the Tower, the Louvre, etc. were prepaid, bought months in advance and we were able to access everything pretty much right away.
Paris in my opinion is overrated. It has many beautiful tree lined streets, with lovely old architecture similar to wealthy areas in Washington D.C. Other than that and its enormous troves of art, there was nothing of great note. Every place has its history and monuments and if you are a buff of such things, this is a wonderful place.
I was disappointed to find out french croissants are not as good as the ones available in Minnesota. Ours are flakier, a bit crispier. Their macarons are luscious, the same as ours here. Because I was on a tour, we were "treated" to a "authentic French meal" with some meat with sauce, french bread (also the same as you can get almost anywhere in the States), all in all a very mediocre meal.
The French shower, at least in my hotel, was a thing of fearsome awe. The sides were about 30 inches tall and it had but a half pane of glass, leading to very careful maneuvering or you quickly have water all over the floor. The toilets of Europe are much deeper than the standard bowls of the States, yawning maws with which a simple push of a hand, churn out huge gurgling amounts of water which do a better job of tidying up the toilet than the American jobs do.
Lucerne was lovely, so clean one could have a picnic literally on the streets. The architecture lovely, so old and beautiful, it was what I had imagined in my head Europe would look like. The people are orderly, there are not the crowds there (except for the Japanese and Chinese tourists, who swarm all over Europe spending huge quantities of money) due to the expense of Switzerland and it was safe. We wandered around on darkened streets later in the evening and I've never felt safer. The Swiss and French countryside are lush and green, much of it looks like Wisconsin. I've lived around mountains before so perhaps it wasn't quite as awe inspiring to me as it would be for some from the flatlands.
Italy a wonderful place, beautiful in the old world way I had yearned for. Once again, we were treated to an authentic Italian meal which was bread (actually good bread), lasagna, mushroom risotto, salad (all of Europe uses mix it yourself oil and vinegar with salt and pepper for dressing) and some sort of lemon whipped cream and dry cake type dessert. Venice was one of my favorite spots. I enjoyed the water taxis, opted out of the gondola ride, enjoyed looking at the world class blown glass and the sculptures. Once again, of great interest to art lovers and historians. The shopping is excellent although expensive. Venice is alive with spirits in the same way Santa Fe is. I would have liked to have spent a night being able to roam St. Mark's square after dark....
Now what people do not tell you- 4 star hotels in Europe are anywhere from okay to crap. The last one we stayed in, in Rome, had peeling wallpaper and mold in the bathroom. A very spotted carpet. People in hotels generally do not have queen sized beds as we do here. The beds are singles, sometimes pushed together. In some countries, the lighting in the hotel rooms is only activated by placing your room card in a slot on the wall. In Lucerne, they were on timers, fortunately reactivated by motion. Europe is very green in the sense its rare to find plastic glasses in bathrooms, they are almost all glass, which strikes me as more sanitary, but also more dangerous for the groggy tourist fumbling around in the dark trying to find the damn toilet. I had read in a travel book to bring a supply of cheap disposable wash cloths, which I did. Excellent idea as few of the hotels had them and the ones that did had clothes the texture of cardboard. There is no hair conditioner to be had. While all hotels supply a shower gel and shampoo, conditioner is conspicuously absent, perhaps the Europeans do not use it. Every hotel we were in had a mini bar in the room with various booze, soft drinks and snacks. Pringles are extremely popular in Europe. Europeans do not drink much pop, a can of Coke or Coke Zero (or even, charmingly "Coke Light") will cost $5.50 or $3.00 in a grocery store. Europeans like their food heavily salted and are extraordinarily fond of cheese. Cheese is served at every meal, in some form, even breakfast. Bread at hotels, even restaurants is often stale.Why are French women so slim? and the men too? Easy. They walk everywhere, most don't own cars. The Europeans in general are slim, a healthy sort of slim, not the anorexia we are accustomed to seeing in the States. To see an obese person is rare in any of the cities I visited. The obese people I saw were obviously tourists. We in the U.S. are truly a fat nation. Europeans eat lots of fat free "french bread". They eat croissants on a daily basis (not all, of course, but many). Oddly enough, butter is only used on croissants and breakfast breads, when bread is eaten at other times of the day, its without anything on it, used only to mop up sauces. I didn't see people walking around drinking pop or even water. They sit down for most meals, coffee is drank daily, probably many cups of espresso which is smooth and delicious, not at all like the acrid Starbucks sort of stuff that a generation has grown up on here. The big, flavored lattes are not drank in Europe unless you go to one of the shops that offers a few versions of mocha latte or the occasional Starbucks which must have its own cult following in Europe. They laugh at those who foolishly order a cappuccino and are expecting some 16 oz cup of flavored hot milk.
Do not try (unless you are on a tour of course) to go to a restaurant before 8 pm, they do not want to see you except between 8 and 10 p.m. There are cafes and bistros open during the day but most evenings, the real restaurants don't even open til 7 and I think thats mostly for show as some were listed in tour guides as being open then but were still dark and shuttered when we walked past. We made the mistake of wandering down to our hotel's bar area around 5 one afternoon in Rome to be told brusquely by the surly bar manager that "in Italy we eat between 12 and 2:30 and 7 and 10:30!" We apologized profusely and he softened up a bit, perhaps he'd forgotten the hotel offered an all day room service menu. I think he was most offended at having to give us silverware, a basket of packaged mayonnaise and ketchups and put the sandwiches down in front of us. He was the only one in the bar and not in the mood to play waiter. Had there not been all day room service, I could have easily accepted his terms, but the bar was empty, the kitchen was open.....It probably helped we also ordered a $28 dollar of champagne to go along with our meal. In my extremely limited experience, the Romans were the least hospitable and gracious. I could not help but think of my brother, a successful hotel manager who's motto was the "customer is King".
The guided tour did indeed get us to all the European highlights as promised. We had no hassles making reservations, buying tickets, driving. The downside, we spent hours on the bus, more hours traveling the countries than actually visiting the attractions. Upside, I saw more of the European countryside than many ever will. Enough to know that northern Italy is ugly, looks like South Dakota, some parts of Switzerland truly do recall scenes in the movie "Heidi", though I saw no goats. French countryside is green, even in mid October and fertile looking. The lakes in Switzerland are deep and vast, reminding me of Crater Lake in Oregon. In fact, much of the mountainous Europe countryside is reminiscent of the mountains in Oregon, though mostly at lower elevation. Rome is built in a vast and thick forest. What do those do who vacation frequently in Europe? I have tried to get some information out of them and I interpret their vague answers as mostly camping in a different country. They get a room somewhere, sometimes a whole house through Airbnb or some such, and then mostly just hang out in it, sometimes wandering into town for a little shopping or a meal. I saw nothing so different in the places I was in that that sort of "relaxing vacation' would tempt me. We have too much like it here in the states. To be immersed in the culture, such as spending two weeks in the heart of Paris, with close contact with the natives might be interesting, but people are people. Perspectives are always curious to me and I think I would enjoy getting the feel of the population. My least favorite areas on my brief journey - Paris and London, too much like the U.S. Lucerne is just so clean and old world charming that it would be a place I might consider returning to. Venice with its canals and ancient buildings, its aura of mystery, is a certain lure. Rome with its sad, savage yet proud history and handsome people is a land not easily forgotten. There are tourists all over Europe and must be one of it's main sources of income. When you go anywhere in Europe, expect swarming hordes of them,primarily Asian.The Japanese and Chinese tourists are impeccably dressed in haute couture and seem to have an endless supply of wealth. At one border stop, a tourist bus behind us full of Japanese people stopped, only to disgorge dozens of tourists in Armani suits dutifully carrying armfuls of Prada bags into the station to be documented and given tax forms. I bought hardly anything in Europe. We have become so global I saw nothing I cannot buy online or that is already not available in the U.S.
I am grateful I got to see the historic and artistic highlights of Europe.I saw more European countryside than many tourists who simply fly into their destinations ever will. It was an exhausting although rewarding venture. Will I hurry back? I doubt it. The U.S. has a broad variety of climates and scenery. We have it all in one country. Ocean shores, mountains, swamps, deserts and farmland. We have more of everything, more space, more convenience. More hot water. Things are cheaper. There's nothing wrong with admitting it and preferring it, who wouldn't? Why do you think we have an immigration problem? Maybe the most important thing for the American traveler is to see how really good we have it right here at home. Its true, there's no place like home.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
The Downward Spiral
This getting old stuff sucks. I made it to 53 looking pretty damn good and wrinkle free. For some reason, 53 seemed the magical number that turned it all to hell. I would like to say I have learned to be okay with aging, but I am not. I am still stuck in the "shock and awe" whenever I look in the mirror. Where the fuck are my eyebrows? I look at my Facebook profile photo from 5 years ago and I see dark, full eyebrows. I look in the mirror today and I see scraggly light brown lines, shot through with the occasional dark hair. So pale I now pencil them in. I used to laugh at women who did that. Karma is a bitch.
When doing my eye make up, it never really looks right anymore. What has changed? Well, for starters, my eyelashes. They are now so light colored, they've all but disappeared. This poses a major problem, what shade of eyeshadow goes with silver eyelashes? When you figure it out, send me an email. Also, when you find a mascara that doesn't flake or smudge, give me a jingle. Now my choices are, a) invisible eyelashes or b) flakes of black looking like dirt on my cheeks by mid afternoon. You pick. I constantly find myself wiping the corners of my eyes thinking my makeup has smudged only to find out my eyes have shadows. Shadows that don't come from Maybelline. I have come to the conclusion that its the eyes that really age a woman.
Old eyes. You know what I mean, at least you do if you are over 55. Your eyes themselves just look tired. Where's the sparkle? Doesn't help that the thin skin surrounding them now has "laugh lines", no one is fucking smiling when they discover that, believe me. Retinol might slow the march of time, but nothing short of a big needle full of botox will make them straighten up. Speaking of that, I was watching a tv show the other night and found myself paying more attention to the forehead of the actress rather than the words she was speaking. Her forehead never moved, no up, no down, no wrinkles. Just this expanse of immoveable skin. In fact nothing on her face moved from her nose up. Robotic, too weird. Once you start noticing shit like this,all media involving women over 50 is ruined for you. All you notice is who's had what done, does it look believable or was it an incredibly bad job?
Looking up, where's my hair? I've always had fine hair, but I've always had hair. I've never given up on having thick hair and the shit I'm shellacking and puttying my hair with is seeming to take about half of it with it down the drain when I shampoo. Now I have a choice to make, crummy, thin hair or bald spots?
Looking down, the girls have gone south. Never thought it would happen to me. As recently as last spring, the mammogram technician congratulated me on my still perky breasts. However when I look in the mirror, they seem sadly at half mast, they're still there, just lower. I guess this isn't something to be complained about. My bustier friends admit when on their backs, their boobs are usually in their armpits.
My hands, my beautiful hands. Now they are these weird, spidery wrinkled things. Buttery lotion just turns them into slippery, weird, spidery wrinkled things.
From the waist down, its just sad. I guess I could give up all the things I like to eat, devote myself to the anorexic diets and manic exercise of some of the crazy old ladies I know, but I know in my heart, its not for me. Give me liberty and put some onion rings on the side!
I guess I'm in the transition phase. Maybe I will crystallize at the age of 60 and just stay static. At that point will come acceptance. I know I won't become one of those injected, filled, nipped and tucked bionic women who simply look like weird old women who wanted desperately to stay youthful. Who knows? Maybe I will even quit coloring my hair. Who knows what color it is now? I haven't known since I was 16. I'm pretty sure it will be some shade of gray.Who knows? Maybe I will make a spectacular "gray-hair". I don't want to find out just yet.
When doing my eye make up, it never really looks right anymore. What has changed? Well, for starters, my eyelashes. They are now so light colored, they've all but disappeared. This poses a major problem, what shade of eyeshadow goes with silver eyelashes? When you figure it out, send me an email. Also, when you find a mascara that doesn't flake or smudge, give me a jingle. Now my choices are, a) invisible eyelashes or b) flakes of black looking like dirt on my cheeks by mid afternoon. You pick. I constantly find myself wiping the corners of my eyes thinking my makeup has smudged only to find out my eyes have shadows. Shadows that don't come from Maybelline. I have come to the conclusion that its the eyes that really age a woman.
Old eyes. You know what I mean, at least you do if you are over 55. Your eyes themselves just look tired. Where's the sparkle? Doesn't help that the thin skin surrounding them now has "laugh lines", no one is fucking smiling when they discover that, believe me. Retinol might slow the march of time, but nothing short of a big needle full of botox will make them straighten up. Speaking of that, I was watching a tv show the other night and found myself paying more attention to the forehead of the actress rather than the words she was speaking. Her forehead never moved, no up, no down, no wrinkles. Just this expanse of immoveable skin. In fact nothing on her face moved from her nose up. Robotic, too weird. Once you start noticing shit like this,all media involving women over 50 is ruined for you. All you notice is who's had what done, does it look believable or was it an incredibly bad job?
Looking up, where's my hair? I've always had fine hair, but I've always had hair. I've never given up on having thick hair and the shit I'm shellacking and puttying my hair with is seeming to take about half of it with it down the drain when I shampoo. Now I have a choice to make, crummy, thin hair or bald spots?
Looking down, the girls have gone south. Never thought it would happen to me. As recently as last spring, the mammogram technician congratulated me on my still perky breasts. However when I look in the mirror, they seem sadly at half mast, they're still there, just lower. I guess this isn't something to be complained about. My bustier friends admit when on their backs, their boobs are usually in their armpits.
My hands, my beautiful hands. Now they are these weird, spidery wrinkled things. Buttery lotion just turns them into slippery, weird, spidery wrinkled things.
From the waist down, its just sad. I guess I could give up all the things I like to eat, devote myself to the anorexic diets and manic exercise of some of the crazy old ladies I know, but I know in my heart, its not for me. Give me liberty and put some onion rings on the side!
I guess I'm in the transition phase. Maybe I will crystallize at the age of 60 and just stay static. At that point will come acceptance. I know I won't become one of those injected, filled, nipped and tucked bionic women who simply look like weird old women who wanted desperately to stay youthful. Who knows? Maybe I will even quit coloring my hair. Who knows what color it is now? I haven't known since I was 16. I'm pretty sure it will be some shade of gray.Who knows? Maybe I will make a spectacular "gray-hair". I don't want to find out just yet.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Minnesota Crisp
October, the month all Minnesotans long for, dream of. The sweltering humidity of the summer is gone, along with the mosquitoes. The sky is that clear blue that termed the phrase. The golds and yellows of dying prairie grasses, the oranges and reds on the sumac and trees all contrasting in royal beauty. Ducks and geese gather on the ponds, resting during migration. Everyone values fall for its rarity, its brevity. Those who profess to love the verdant and lush greens of spring and summer all lust for fall in their hearts. In a climate known for its extremes, the frigid biting cold of winter and the torrid, dripping sweat of summer, the time frame between final harvest and Yule is short indeed. A time where woodsmoke sends its tendrils to hearts and souls, and the leaves fall like butterflies on migration. This is the month Minnesotans flock to the parks and trails like geese on the wing. Autumn is my favorite season. The season of fulfillment, completion, heading to rest. Relax. Let go and hunker down. The work is done. My soul sighs.
Fall reminds me of the high desert. The muted browns and grays. The quieting landscape. The sense of solitude, wind down. Life is there, but one must look for it amongst the death and decay and evolution to winter. A few flowers still have the courage to bloom, providing spots of color amidst the fallow fields.Winter is on the wind and the time to be at one with nature is now. I seized the moment and headed for the Carver Park Reserve to try to squeeze out the last days before the sun dips too low in the sky and gloom pervades the land.
Stream of consciousness- I am sitting at a picnic table, relishing the quiet of the park. I have selected this spot as it seems so peaceful, distanced from the bicyclists and horseback riders. My solitude is interrupted by a dozen small boys running towards me with bows and arrows. No, this is not some intruding past life memory, but some children out for an afternoon of archery! Of course, the spot I've selected is next to the archery range! At first I am annoyed but then decide the entertainment value might make it worth staying. The boys are from about 8 to 10 years old. They seem under the charge of a fellow who looks about 16. But wait, here comes a guy in his fifties, classic all American 40 pounds overweight, huffing and puffing in a tshirt and old jeans. Uncle Marty?, shouts a lad. Yo!, bellows Uncle Marty. Should I use a green one? Uncle Marty agrees and commences to giving tips on which are the correct "good " arrows to use. Only the green ones and yellows one, they're okay, try to avoid the blue ones, not so good. The kids grab more arrows and all run for a cement slab to stand on to take aim at the targets of various animals pinned to hay bales. Two of the boys hesitate as they realize their spots are right next to where I'm sitting. The desire to shoot arrows take precedence and they commence to stations. The dark haired boy shoots confidently, placing his arrow with a foot of the target. The tow headed boy, himself a picture, with his yellow platinum hair against the sky, looks at me unsurely, awkwardly and then turns to place his arrow. He cannot quite line it up to draw his bow. The dark haired boy says its ok, I was like that too, its probably your first time shooting a bow. My heart warms at his tender words, a tiny flame flickers as I think maybe there IS hope for the future. Kindness and compassion are still alive in the world. I tell the blonde boy, I'm only going to watch you shoot one, then I will leave and not make you nervous. I smile at him and he returns the smile shyly. He shoots. The arrow hits the target, somewhat to my surprise, and his. See? I say. You're a natural, good job! I nod my head. He grins and turns to try again.
I hike on, the trees either stark and majestic against the sky or still tossing their russet and yellow leaves as if demanding of me, see? aren't I beautiful? there are beautiful trees in Minnesota!
Later, I am driving home when movement catches my eye alongside the highway. In a field, a small child of about six is doing that prancing, excited dance of the very young. She is holding a pumpkin about the size of her head, running with her prize, her denim jacket flapping in the wind. Several other kids are rummaging the patch near her. Brothers, sisters? I remember that exciting event, pumpkin picking. A savored treat, being able to select one's own jack-o-lantern. Pick the size you want, the shape. I always was a traditionalist and went for the most round specimen I could find.
The rest of the seasons in Minnesota are superfluous. Only the die hard martyrs have convinced themselves they love winter here. Spring is usually disappointing, a couple weeks of chill rain usually preluding the plunge into towering dew points, where the only comfort at night is searching for that one cool spot on your sheets.
Autumn in Minnesota is a reward. An endurance reward.
Fall reminds me of the high desert. The muted browns and grays. The quieting landscape. The sense of solitude, wind down. Life is there, but one must look for it amongst the death and decay and evolution to winter. A few flowers still have the courage to bloom, providing spots of color amidst the fallow fields.Winter is on the wind and the time to be at one with nature is now. I seized the moment and headed for the Carver Park Reserve to try to squeeze out the last days before the sun dips too low in the sky and gloom pervades the land.
Stream of consciousness- I am sitting at a picnic table, relishing the quiet of the park. I have selected this spot as it seems so peaceful, distanced from the bicyclists and horseback riders. My solitude is interrupted by a dozen small boys running towards me with bows and arrows. No, this is not some intruding past life memory, but some children out for an afternoon of archery! Of course, the spot I've selected is next to the archery range! At first I am annoyed but then decide the entertainment value might make it worth staying. The boys are from about 8 to 10 years old. They seem under the charge of a fellow who looks about 16. But wait, here comes a guy in his fifties, classic all American 40 pounds overweight, huffing and puffing in a tshirt and old jeans. Uncle Marty?, shouts a lad. Yo!, bellows Uncle Marty. Should I use a green one? Uncle Marty agrees and commences to giving tips on which are the correct "good " arrows to use. Only the green ones and yellows one, they're okay, try to avoid the blue ones, not so good. The kids grab more arrows and all run for a cement slab to stand on to take aim at the targets of various animals pinned to hay bales. Two of the boys hesitate as they realize their spots are right next to where I'm sitting. The desire to shoot arrows take precedence and they commence to stations. The dark haired boy shoots confidently, placing his arrow with a foot of the target. The tow headed boy, himself a picture, with his yellow platinum hair against the sky, looks at me unsurely, awkwardly and then turns to place his arrow. He cannot quite line it up to draw his bow. The dark haired boy says its ok, I was like that too, its probably your first time shooting a bow. My heart warms at his tender words, a tiny flame flickers as I think maybe there IS hope for the future. Kindness and compassion are still alive in the world. I tell the blonde boy, I'm only going to watch you shoot one, then I will leave and not make you nervous. I smile at him and he returns the smile shyly. He shoots. The arrow hits the target, somewhat to my surprise, and his. See? I say. You're a natural, good job! I nod my head. He grins and turns to try again.
I hike on, the trees either stark and majestic against the sky or still tossing their russet and yellow leaves as if demanding of me, see? aren't I beautiful? there are beautiful trees in Minnesota!
Later, I am driving home when movement catches my eye alongside the highway. In a field, a small child of about six is doing that prancing, excited dance of the very young. She is holding a pumpkin about the size of her head, running with her prize, her denim jacket flapping in the wind. Several other kids are rummaging the patch near her. Brothers, sisters? I remember that exciting event, pumpkin picking. A savored treat, being able to select one's own jack-o-lantern. Pick the size you want, the shape. I always was a traditionalist and went for the most round specimen I could find.
The rest of the seasons in Minnesota are superfluous. Only the die hard martyrs have convinced themselves they love winter here. Spring is usually disappointing, a couple weeks of chill rain usually preluding the plunge into towering dew points, where the only comfort at night is searching for that one cool spot on your sheets.
Autumn in Minnesota is a reward. An endurance reward.
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