A few days ago, Gven Golly and I put some miles on her Honda named 'Olive' and got together with some important people in our lives, so our long weekend trip deserves to be chronicled.
At Charlie and Helen's
We got to the Cumberland Plateau and Fairfield Glade, where my parents live, in time for supper. While Mom cooked, Dad took Gven and me on a tour of their neighbors' home renovations, where he has scavenged a lot of lumber that otherwise would have gone to some landfill. Charlie is resourceful that way, and he is careful to check with the contractor first. If they're throwing stuff away, he saves them the trouble. Then he showed us the basement floor he has constructed entirely of 2x10s, 2x8s, 2x6s, and 2x4s left by the builders. It's quite a piece of work.
We enjoyed a nice dinner of pork, rice, and broccoli, went out for frozen custard dessert, and talked about this and that. Mom and Dad are going to Seattle in September for a reunion with Dad's sisters. We brought along a few of our family photos for Aunt Marilyn to include in the updated edition of the Golly family genealogy. Charlie's two brothers are both dead now, and his three sisters all live on the West Coast (Washington, Oregon, California).
We also talked about a piece of property in the northern Lower Peninsula, near the tip of the pinkie, that Mom and Dad have held onto for quite a few years without building on it. I'm planning to go up there soon to check it out and see what's what. So if you don't hear from me for awhile, it's because I headed up the country and pitched my tent at Lot 1000, Manistee Heights.
At the Oarhouse
It rained that night good and steady, but it was a pretty morning's drive across southeast Tennessee and north Georgia to Dahlonega and the picturesque site of the restaurant beside the river (Oostanaula?) where we held Gven's mother's 75th birthday party. It's called 'the Oarhouse' because its right on the river, not 'the Orehouse' because Dahlonega was the site of a gold rush in the 1820s, and not 'the Whorehouse' just because.
The whole gang was there: the three sisters and their husbands, three of the five grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, a grandson-in-law, a grandboyfriend-in-law, and even an ex-husband. Sharon had her video camera going almost continuously, and several other cameras were roaming the room recording the moment. One-year-old Chase was the star. Happy birthday, Nancy.
We feasted on another fabulous meal (I recommend the salmon) and a chocolate mousse cake made by the grandson-in-law chef from Macon, then regrouped at my sister-in-law's house outside Cumming. Some of us watched Warner-Robins, Georgia, defeat Lubbock, Texas, in the Little League World Series.
We checked on the progress of Nancy's newly constructed apartment on the ground floor of her youngest daughter's house, and it looks great. Then it rained pretty hard, which was welcome in that parched part of the country, and after a minor bit of miscommunication, Gven and I went on down Georgia 400 to my sister's new place in the city.
At Jo Jo's
I had never been to her condo around the corner from the Emory campus, but the neighborhood is familiar, and it seems like a good fit. Jo Jo and her husband Burt now live in separate houses, and it seems to be working out well. She made Gven and me comfortable in her spare bedroom and made blueberry pancakes in the morning. We talked about her job in the Ethnic Studies Program at Emory, my job at Publishing Conglomerate, and the politics of language, a subject we always seem to find our way back to.
Our Sunday itinerary took us over to the old house on Haygood Drive, where we picked up Burt, and into Decatur, where we visited Jessi's birthplace and Oakhurst Community Garden. Someone has put a lot of work into turning a vacant lot into a great big garden. We managed to kill an hour (or two?) cruising Candler Park and Little Five Points, finally stopping for lunch at Grandma Luke's on Euclid (the hummus is excellent) before finally making our way to the High Museum in Midtown.
As soon as we got there, it started raining buckets, so we got a little wet between the garage and the entrance. No matter. We had all the time we needed in the Annie Liebovitz portrait exhibit; the images of William Burroughs, Lance Armstrong, Johnny Cash and family, and Cindy Crawford were well worth it. That night we went to Top Spice, a Thai/Polynesian restaurant in Toco Hills, where the Tiger beer and Thai catfish are out of sight.
With very little pomp and ceremony, that was our celebration of Jo Jo's fifth time around the calendar of 12 lunar new years, the birthday where a mature person has experienced all the astrological animals in all five elements. Not that anyone we know is mythically inclined enough to dwell on the transformative power of living in a garden among giant trees, little potted plants, feeding the birds on the balcony, and nurturing the souls of visiting friends. Happy birthday, Jo Jo.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
There and back again
Remember the John Prine song "Illegal Smile"?
A bicycle! It was more like 5:00 p.m. and I wasn't getting anything done OR having fun, so I decided to try to salvage the day before it completely drained away. I had a video to return, and getting on the bike immediately felt like the right medicine for my condition, so I headed southwest in the bike lane for some Schrock Road therapy.
It takes about half an hour to get to the New New England Library; it didn't matter that it was closed on Sunday; I dropped the video in the slot, considered a longer ride, and pointed myself toward Tucker Drive. My friend/mentor Janet told me about this hidden gem of a street tucked away behind Thomas High School, a quiet half-mile of architectural good taste that leads directly to the Olentangy bike trail.
Where I turned south on a whim and went back in time. Rolling past Thomas down to Antrim Lake and beyond was revisiting my old stomping grounds. Where MacKenzie and I used to take a long run every Sunday. Where Jessi and I did our first runs together. Where he trained like a madman for three years of high school competition.
Crossing into Whetstone Park was revisiting the scene of almost daily running or cycling, many track and cross country meets, soccer practices, dog walking, taiji classes, almost an extension of the back yard up the street before it was bulldozed. But the park remains almost unchanged, thank goodness, except for an amazing wildflower prairie of tall black-eyed susans down by the river just above Northmoor.
Crossing Broadway into the other half of Clintonville, the landscape was almost as familiar, and I even recognized one of the walkers, a young mother who used to come to my class on and off a couple of years ago and is now walking her growing boy on the trail. Although I was an hour out, I couldn't stop. Crossing the bridge and passing the University wetland, I saw the sky darkening to the southwest and against all reason kept going into Tuttle Park, where there's a convenient loop to turn around.
An out-and-back is like that. According to MacKenzie's Laws, you have to gauge the time, the wind, and the distance ahead of time, and then take your chances. As luck would have it, the rain started just as I reached my turnaround, so I sought shelter under some trees beside the rec. center and waited.
Half and hour later, the rain was looking like a steady downpour, so I (reasonably) called Gven Golly on my cell. She was home, not terribly busy, and said she would be there shortly with the pickup truck. Five minutes later, as luck would have it, the rain stopped, so I called her again. She had only gotten a couple of blocks from home, so I said never mind, I'd rather ride home, but thanks anyway. To ask to be rescued and then not need it was less humiliating than actually being rescued.
The ride home was a breeze, except for the inevitable mud spattered on my butt by a wet rear wheel. There weren't as many people on the trail or in the park, and I couldn't take the corners as fast, but a few hardy souls were still out there, and I was glad to be one of them. Because I took it slow, I never hit the aerobic wall, even coming up the hill toward High Street on Wilson Bridge Road. I had just enough daylight and energy to cruise the last couple of miles on almost-deserted roads and roll into Methodistville in time for dinner.
So, what's this little allegory all about? Nothing very subtle. I'm very attached to my tenuous hold on the physical mobility I discovered at about age nine, and it's hard to let go of, given the probability of flat tires, sprained knees, and cardiovascular decline. In the meantime, it's fun to push the envelope just a little.
Woke up this morning, things were lookin' bad,
seemed like total silence was the only friend I had.
Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down and won,
and it was twelve o'clock before I realized I was havin' no fun.
Ah, but fortunately I had the key to escape reality.
A bicycle! It was more like 5:00 p.m. and I wasn't getting anything done OR having fun, so I decided to try to salvage the day before it completely drained away. I had a video to return, and getting on the bike immediately felt like the right medicine for my condition, so I headed southwest in the bike lane for some Schrock Road therapy.
It takes about half an hour to get to the New New England Library; it didn't matter that it was closed on Sunday; I dropped the video in the slot, considered a longer ride, and pointed myself toward Tucker Drive. My friend/mentor Janet told me about this hidden gem of a street tucked away behind Thomas High School, a quiet half-mile of architectural good taste that leads directly to the Olentangy bike trail.
Where I turned south on a whim and went back in time. Rolling past Thomas down to Antrim Lake and beyond was revisiting my old stomping grounds. Where MacKenzie and I used to take a long run every Sunday. Where Jessi and I did our first runs together. Where he trained like a madman for three years of high school competition.
Crossing into Whetstone Park was revisiting the scene of almost daily running or cycling, many track and cross country meets, soccer practices, dog walking, taiji classes, almost an extension of the back yard up the street before it was bulldozed. But the park remains almost unchanged, thank goodness, except for an amazing wildflower prairie of tall black-eyed susans down by the river just above Northmoor.
Crossing Broadway into the other half of Clintonville, the landscape was almost as familiar, and I even recognized one of the walkers, a young mother who used to come to my class on and off a couple of years ago and is now walking her growing boy on the trail. Although I was an hour out, I couldn't stop. Crossing the bridge and passing the University wetland, I saw the sky darkening to the southwest and against all reason kept going into Tuttle Park, where there's a convenient loop to turn around.
An out-and-back is like that. According to MacKenzie's Laws, you have to gauge the time, the wind, and the distance ahead of time, and then take your chances. As luck would have it, the rain started just as I reached my turnaround, so I sought shelter under some trees beside the rec. center and waited.
Half and hour later, the rain was looking like a steady downpour, so I (reasonably) called Gven Golly on my cell. She was home, not terribly busy, and said she would be there shortly with the pickup truck. Five minutes later, as luck would have it, the rain stopped, so I called her again. She had only gotten a couple of blocks from home, so I said never mind, I'd rather ride home, but thanks anyway. To ask to be rescued and then not need it was less humiliating than actually being rescued.
The ride home was a breeze, except for the inevitable mud spattered on my butt by a wet rear wheel. There weren't as many people on the trail or in the park, and I couldn't take the corners as fast, but a few hardy souls were still out there, and I was glad to be one of them. Because I took it slow, I never hit the aerobic wall, even coming up the hill toward High Street on Wilson Bridge Road. I had just enough daylight and energy to cruise the last couple of miles on almost-deserted roads and roll into Methodistville in time for dinner.
So, what's this little allegory all about? Nothing very subtle. I'm very attached to my tenuous hold on the physical mobility I discovered at about age nine, and it's hard to let go of, given the probability of flat tires, sprained knees, and cardiovascular decline. In the meantime, it's fun to push the envelope just a little.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wicca-pedia
If you've ever heard Margot Adler on National Public Radio, you know she's a skilled radio news reporter. She also happens to be the granddaughter of the pioneering psychologist Alfred Adler, a less famous contemporary of Freud and Jung. I ran across her book Drawing Down the Moon (NY: Penguin, 1986/2006) because it was on a minister friend's recommended reading list. At first I was just curious, then astounded by her erudition, critical questioning, reasonableness, and fairness. If you have even the remotest interest in what is sometimes called "Earth-centered spirituality," this book has something for you. To wit:
I remember once at a yoga retreat in north Georgia, it was Sunday afternoon and everybody was feeling good, the event was winding down, and someone was playing a guitar and singing "We are one, we are one," and my friend Alex turned and quietly said, "No, we're not." There is a giant prejudice in Amerikan culture toward unification, standardization, and monoculture, with a concomitant fear of pluralism, differences, and multiple anything (species, languages, religions, sexual orientations, ethnicities, narratives, histories, deities). E Pluribus Unum maybe should be E Unibus Plurum.
Here's another excerpt that might (or might not) make sense in this context:
Maybe I'm just bored with the usual religious vocabulary, but I'm looking forward to learning more about this kind of thing. I'm sure there are plenty of unreliable sources, wacko practices, and people I don't want to associate with, but I have a feeling there might be some interesting folks out there on the fringes.
James Hillman’s essay “Psychology: Monotheistic or Polytheistic”....said that psychology had long been colored by a theology of monotheism, especially in its view that unity, integration, wholeness, is always the proper goal of psychological development and that fragmentation is always a sign of pathology....Carrying this idea to the extreme, Hillman suggested that the multitude of tongues in Babel, traditionally interpreted as a “decline,” could also be seen as a true picture of psychic reality. (p. 28)
I remember once at a yoga retreat in north Georgia, it was Sunday afternoon and everybody was feeling good, the event was winding down, and someone was playing a guitar and singing "We are one, we are one," and my friend Alex turned and quietly said, "No, we're not." There is a giant prejudice in Amerikan culture toward unification, standardization, and monoculture, with a concomitant fear of pluralism, differences, and multiple anything (species, languages, religions, sexual orientations, ethnicities, narratives, histories, deities). E Pluribus Unum maybe should be E Unibus Plurum.
Here's another excerpt that might (or might not) make sense in this context:
Often our conceptions of psychic reality and the magical techniques we might use are simply a function of the particular culture we live in. Robert Wilson humorously observes:
Modern psychology has rediscovered and empirically demonstrated the universal truth of the Buddhist axiom that phenomena adjust themselves to the perceiver....The fairy-folk are like that. They come on as Holy Virgins to the Catholics, dead relatives to the spiritualist, UFOs to the Sci-Fi fans, Men in Black to the paranoids, demons to the masochistic, divine lovers to the sensual, pure concepts to the logicians, clowns from the heavenly circus to the humorist, psychotic episodes to the psychiatrist, Higher Intelligences to the philosopher, number and paradox to the mathematician and epistemologist. (p. 161)
Maybe I'm just bored with the usual religious vocabulary, but I'm looking forward to learning more about this kind of thing. I'm sure there are plenty of unreliable sources, wacko practices, and people I don't want to associate with, but I have a feeling there might be some interesting folks out there on the fringes.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
No, thank YOU
It was the most ordinary of days. I was pulling weeds, mainly to have something green to put on top of the newspaper laid on top of the week's compost. Weeds, compost, newspaper...it's all about layering.
Zelda came out to ask me some questions about her car. Jiffi-Lube had changed the oil but not topped-off all the fluids, as she had expected, and told her she needed a new battery, but she was skeptical. We took a look, and her Focus clearly needed coolant and transmission fluid. We had just enough of the latter in the garage to fill it to the 'full' line. She looked up 'coolant' in the owner's manual and asked me to go to Advance Auto with her.
Are you kidding? Of course I'll go.
We hop in her car and drive the mile down State Street while she tells me about seeing a former co-worker in the art department at Publishing Conglomerate Inc., Paul, who was at her bookstore, Cheap Books, to sell some books and mentioned his brother, Joe, who coached soccer with me when we lived in Grandview and our kids were little. Well, Joe now works at another Cheap Books store near Grandview, where Zelda was helping do inventory for a couple of days last week, so she talked to Joe (who says hi) and learned that his son Cole, who was a good friend of Jessi's in second grade, is now going to school at CCAD.
All this in like two minutes.
The service guy at Advance Auto was very helpful. Zelda ask him about coolant, and we quickly figured out that we didn't need Polykryptonite Zirkon-encrusted Special Coolant, we needed regular coolant.
Then we looked at batteries and compared the Silver 3-year warranty $75.00 battery and the Blue 2-year warranty $59.95 battery, but the service guy offered to test her battery for free. "It will take two minutes." He wheeled the machine out to the parking lot, right next to where Smackie's Barbecue was feeding the throngs of people in black tee-shirts out to ogle the customized motorcycles and classic cars on an August afternoon in Methodistville.
Turns out her battery is fine, so for the cost of a gallon of antifreeze Zelda was good to go. However, I got in my Ranger and went directly back to Advance Auto to have my battery tested. (A little back-story: it's been running a little rough, and once last week refused to start while parked in front of Ron Order of the Arrow's house. Ron had jumper cables, and his neighbor gave us a jump, but that gave me a warning.) Service guy's machine told me my battery was "bad" and wasn't holding enough of a charge; there was corrosion on the terminals, and it was probably overworking the alternator. You can use the same machine to test an alternator, but only if you have a good battery, so first things first. I bought a new battery - the cheaper one - and service guy installed it on the spot.
Was it my imagination, or was the Ranger running a little smoother after starting right up?
Zelda was amused that her car checkup led to my getting a new battery. She was also immpressed with the service guy for answering her questions directly, for treating her as the customer, and for addressing the appropriate information to her, not her old man. I allowed as how he had also treated me with respect, too, instead of patronizing me as some mechanics would.
She went out the back gate to her evening activities and called back to me, "Thanks for helping me today, Dad." You're welcome. Then a hawk flew through a gap in the trees about ten feet above my head and across the back yard to a pine tree.
Zelda came out to ask me some questions about her car. Jiffi-Lube had changed the oil but not topped-off all the fluids, as she had expected, and told her she needed a new battery, but she was skeptical. We took a look, and her Focus clearly needed coolant and transmission fluid. We had just enough of the latter in the garage to fill it to the 'full' line. She looked up 'coolant' in the owner's manual and asked me to go to Advance Auto with her.
Are you kidding? Of course I'll go.
We hop in her car and drive the mile down State Street while she tells me about seeing a former co-worker in the art department at Publishing Conglomerate Inc., Paul, who was at her bookstore, Cheap Books, to sell some books and mentioned his brother, Joe, who coached soccer with me when we lived in Grandview and our kids were little. Well, Joe now works at another Cheap Books store near Grandview, where Zelda was helping do inventory for a couple of days last week, so she talked to Joe (who says hi) and learned that his son Cole, who was a good friend of Jessi's in second grade, is now going to school at CCAD.
All this in like two minutes.
The service guy at Advance Auto was very helpful. Zelda ask him about coolant, and we quickly figured out that we didn't need Polykryptonite Zirkon-encrusted Special Coolant, we needed regular coolant.
Then we looked at batteries and compared the Silver 3-year warranty $75.00 battery and the Blue 2-year warranty $59.95 battery, but the service guy offered to test her battery for free. "It will take two minutes." He wheeled the machine out to the parking lot, right next to where Smackie's Barbecue was feeding the throngs of people in black tee-shirts out to ogle the customized motorcycles and classic cars on an August afternoon in Methodistville.
Turns out her battery is fine, so for the cost of a gallon of antifreeze Zelda was good to go. However, I got in my Ranger and went directly back to Advance Auto to have my battery tested. (A little back-story: it's been running a little rough, and once last week refused to start while parked in front of Ron Order of the Arrow's house. Ron had jumper cables, and his neighbor gave us a jump, but that gave me a warning.) Service guy's machine told me my battery was "bad" and wasn't holding enough of a charge; there was corrosion on the terminals, and it was probably overworking the alternator. You can use the same machine to test an alternator, but only if you have a good battery, so first things first. I bought a new battery - the cheaper one - and service guy installed it on the spot.
Was it my imagination, or was the Ranger running a little smoother after starting right up?
Zelda was amused that her car checkup led to my getting a new battery. She was also immpressed with the service guy for answering her questions directly, for treating her as the customer, and for addressing the appropriate information to her, not her old man. I allowed as how he had also treated me with respect, too, instead of patronizing me as some mechanics would.
She went out the back gate to her evening activities and called back to me, "Thanks for helping me today, Dad." You're welcome. Then a hawk flew through a gap in the trees about ten feet above my head and across the back yard to a pine tree.
Monday, August 13, 2007
State Fair 101
Syllabus:
I. Do your chores first, dontchaknow.
A. Bake bread - yeasted and sourdough - oh ya.
B. Take out recycling, trash, compost.
C. Wash dishes, do a load of laundry, water plants.
D. Eat something (e.g., eggs, toast, rice, beans). Keep it simple.
II. Get going by mid-afternoon.
A. Bring water, money, hat, sunglasses.
B. Find free parking on Dora Lane (alley off 17th Ave. and 4th St.) in front of Xenos Christian Fellowship.
C. Find ATM in convenience store, get more money; experience small inner-city, multicultural, bilingual confrontation; awaken to the fact that all adventures involve things going other than as planned.
D. Enter at 17th Ave. gate.
III. Go directly to the sheep barn.
A. Take time to observe things you don't have on your agenda.
1. Sheep: their appearance, habits, character.
2. Sheep owners, handlers, families, judges: their appearance, habits, character.
3. Other fairgoers: their appearance, habits, character.
4. Consider a career as a shepherd.
B. Peruse the raw wool and wool products on display in a side area of the sheep barn.
1. Suggest to spouse that a couple of wool-bearing animals might make a good sideline if/when we move out of town.
2. Receive skeptical response.
IV. Go to the dairy barn.
A. Watch the Jerseys, Guernseys, and Brown Swiss.
1. Remember Ms. Red, our cow at Strawberry Mountain Farm in Walker County, Georgia, whom we milked every morning and evening for about two years, whose milk we made into yogurt, skimming the abundant cream, which we drank in our coffee and ate with our oatmeal.
2. Notice similar traits between breeds, ask a dairy farmer, who patiently explains a few simple things for the city folks.
B. Get a chocolate shake.
1. Use a spoon; it's way too thick for a straw.
2. A large shake will last the rest of the afternoon if you work it right, perfect on a hot August afternoon.
V. Go to the beef cattle barn.
A. It's a completely different crowd/subculture.
B. Think NASCAR.
VI. Go to the amphitheater.
A. Oh, well, there are no performances this afternoon, so we missed all the cool horseshowmanship.
B. There is, however, a single horse trotting round and round the arena with a teenage rider who takes obvious pleasure in the rhythmic movement of the big animal.
1. Note the somatic (physical, psychic, emotional, etc.) connection between the horse and the rider, how they respond to each other instantaneously.
2. No wonder the ancients were fascinated with centaurs.
VII. Go look at chickens and rabbits.
A. These are probably the prettiest hens in the whole state, otherwise they wouldn't be living the high life at the state fair, right? But they are quite beautiful.
B. The roosters are much smaller, but they make up for it in magnificent crowing.
VIII. Go to the fine arts building.
A. Finish your ice cream first, because you can't take a lidless container inside and spill your chocolate shake all over the objets d'art.
B. As in any gallery or museum, take your time. Walk around, don't stop at every piece, but let something grab you by the throat to take a closer look.
1. This show was carefully hung by someone who knows what they're doing, and there were three well-selected paintings hung together just inside the entrance: same size (large) but very different styles in similar palette of reds and oranges. I bounced from one to the others and back, finally transfixed by the one called "Sun Salutation," which had a lot of energy.
2. Only a few other pieces really made me want to keep looking - a pair of prints playing off Japanese printmaking and calligraphy, especially - but I like the way they include a huge variety of media and subjects. It's the state fair, after all.
IX. Winding down, check out the cool Andean music coming from a band at a little tent on the edge of the midway!
X. Quilts and other crafts are in a building on the north side of 17th Ave.
A. Gven Golly's Aunt Irene has a few exquisite traditional quilts in the show, as usual, and they are fine work indeed.
B. Gven's friend Kate has a whole bunch of small quilts on display that her students made with a cow theme: Andy Warhol-style, each kid in her class in Sandusky made an original color combination from a common shape (head of cow), and the assemblage of cows is dazzling.
XI. Epilog: Rumba Cafe on Summit St. is a perfect respite.
A. We were ready to call it a day but not ready to go home; Gven Golly suggested a beer; I suggested a place where my drum teacher plays sometimes.
1. Now for something completely different: polished wood, quiet for an early Saturday evening, the Browns exhibition game on the tube, and a decent selection of beers.
2. As the band set up inside, we found a table out on the patio. As our neurons processed a day of high stimulation and rich midwestern (agri)cultural ethnography, we relaxed into wide-ranging conversation.
B. We had a lot to talk about.
I. Do your chores first, dontchaknow.
A. Bake bread - yeasted and sourdough - oh ya.
B. Take out recycling, trash, compost.
C. Wash dishes, do a load of laundry, water plants.
D. Eat something (e.g., eggs, toast, rice, beans). Keep it simple.
II. Get going by mid-afternoon.
A. Bring water, money, hat, sunglasses.
B. Find free parking on Dora Lane (alley off 17th Ave. and 4th St.) in front of Xenos Christian Fellowship.
C. Find ATM in convenience store, get more money; experience small inner-city, multicultural, bilingual confrontation; awaken to the fact that all adventures involve things going other than as planned.
D. Enter at 17th Ave. gate.
III. Go directly to the sheep barn.
A. Take time to observe things you don't have on your agenda.
1. Sheep: their appearance, habits, character.
2. Sheep owners, handlers, families, judges: their appearance, habits, character.
3. Other fairgoers: their appearance, habits, character.
4. Consider a career as a shepherd.
B. Peruse the raw wool and wool products on display in a side area of the sheep barn.
1. Suggest to spouse that a couple of wool-bearing animals might make a good sideline if/when we move out of town.
2. Receive skeptical response.
IV. Go to the dairy barn.
A. Watch the Jerseys, Guernseys, and Brown Swiss.
1. Remember Ms. Red, our cow at Strawberry Mountain Farm in Walker County, Georgia, whom we milked every morning and evening for about two years, whose milk we made into yogurt, skimming the abundant cream, which we drank in our coffee and ate with our oatmeal.
2. Notice similar traits between breeds, ask a dairy farmer, who patiently explains a few simple things for the city folks.
B. Get a chocolate shake.
1. Use a spoon; it's way too thick for a straw.
2. A large shake will last the rest of the afternoon if you work it right, perfect on a hot August afternoon.
V. Go to the beef cattle barn.
A. It's a completely different crowd/subculture.
B. Think NASCAR.
VI. Go to the amphitheater.
A. Oh, well, there are no performances this afternoon, so we missed all the cool horseshowmanship.
B. There is, however, a single horse trotting round and round the arena with a teenage rider who takes obvious pleasure in the rhythmic movement of the big animal.
1. Note the somatic (physical, psychic, emotional, etc.) connection between the horse and the rider, how they respond to each other instantaneously.
2. No wonder the ancients were fascinated with centaurs.
VII. Go look at chickens and rabbits.
A. These are probably the prettiest hens in the whole state, otherwise they wouldn't be living the high life at the state fair, right? But they are quite beautiful.
B. The roosters are much smaller, but they make up for it in magnificent crowing.
VIII. Go to the fine arts building.
A. Finish your ice cream first, because you can't take a lidless container inside and spill your chocolate shake all over the objets d'art.
B. As in any gallery or museum, take your time. Walk around, don't stop at every piece, but let something grab you by the throat to take a closer look.
1. This show was carefully hung by someone who knows what they're doing, and there were three well-selected paintings hung together just inside the entrance: same size (large) but very different styles in similar palette of reds and oranges. I bounced from one to the others and back, finally transfixed by the one called "Sun Salutation," which had a lot of energy.
2. Only a few other pieces really made me want to keep looking - a pair of prints playing off Japanese printmaking and calligraphy, especially - but I like the way they include a huge variety of media and subjects. It's the state fair, after all.
IX. Winding down, check out the cool Andean music coming from a band at a little tent on the edge of the midway!
X. Quilts and other crafts are in a building on the north side of 17th Ave.
A. Gven Golly's Aunt Irene has a few exquisite traditional quilts in the show, as usual, and they are fine work indeed.
B. Gven's friend Kate has a whole bunch of small quilts on display that her students made with a cow theme: Andy Warhol-style, each kid in her class in Sandusky made an original color combination from a common shape (head of cow), and the assemblage of cows is dazzling.
XI. Epilog: Rumba Cafe on Summit St. is a perfect respite.
A. We were ready to call it a day but not ready to go home; Gven Golly suggested a beer; I suggested a place where my drum teacher plays sometimes.
1. Now for something completely different: polished wood, quiet for an early Saturday evening, the Browns exhibition game on the tube, and a decent selection of beers.
2. As the band set up inside, we found a table out on the patio. As our neurons processed a day of high stimulation and rich midwestern (agri)cultural ethnography, we relaxed into wide-ranging conversation.
B. We had a lot to talk about.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Prodigal son of a prodigal son of a prodigal son
Surreal Monday morning bus station Ohio, waiting for arrival of son and friend. It could be any bus station in any city: chairs, bags, ticket desk, TV, snack bar, all kinds of people. This ain't no party, this ain't no country club, yet there are certain rules of decorum, and bus station people seem to know how to act in a bus station.
The bus from Philly to Pittsburgh to Columbus is running an hour late, so I have some time to contemplate the son and his girlfriend, their arrival and reception in our humble home, their first impressions, their second impressions, their levels of comfort and discomfort, their adaptability in a midwestern middle-class alternative funky works-in-progress cultural milieu. I watch a little quality daytime TV, something about vampires, check my messages, make some notes, try to be patient.
There they are, both tall and angular and slightly rough around the edges, a little tired after an all-night bus trip. Jessi's hair is longer than last I saw it, and Alex has a new lip ring. I hug them both at once, and we walk out to the car, drive north from downtown to our little suburb. We talk about Alex's dream and a Neal Stephenson novel Jessi is reading, the way a fictional dystopia can be part of the problem instead of part of the solution, and for a minute it's like old times, talking about books with the kid who remembers long chains of detailed narrative while I chime in with analytical observations, but now his critical analysis goes way beyond mine, and it's fun to vainly try to keep up.
It's only a little bit shocking to see them, somewhat changed since their last visit last year from a very different subculture in a very different city, but then so am I. It will take a day or so to settle in, relax into a comfort zone, and enjoy a few days together. We are already finding ways to accept and overcome these surface clashes and really see and get to know each other. Kafka meets the cyberpunks.
J and A spent the day settling into the upstairs room that Zelda kindly gave up so that they could be comfortable. I had a longish, nerve-jangling day at the office and came home haggard to a scene that immediately lifted my spirits. The two of them enjoying the backyard that is my labor of love. Jessi was walking around the vegetable beds checking out the volunteer squash (or melon?) vines, tomatoes, pappers, and the compost setup. Alex was moving from room to room within the yard with her large-format camera, framing and shooting various angles and elements of the space. I think they have accomplished re-entry on Planet Methodistville.
Jessi and I had a few minutes to sit and talk in the den that looks out on the backyard. He told me about the chicken they have at their house in Brooklyn and about some issues with the neighbors, the landlady, the housemates, and the chicken. Zelda and Gven came home, and we decided on a place to go for dinner. The margaritas at El Vaquero were sweet, salty, and delicious; the food was predictable and tasty. I don't remember what we talked about, but it felt good to sit in a booth, kill the fatted burrito, and have a meal together.
Tuesday was another longish workday, and "the kids," as Gven is now calling them, spent the evening at Jessi's friend Andy's place. This could have been my opportunity to get some work done on a manuscript that's sitting on my desk, but no. I chose to watch Part 3 of the Ingmar Bergman Film Festival that is currently taking place in our living room. Bergman died last week, and I missed the first two or three waves of his popularity in the second half of the last century. I'm only now beginning to appreciate his work. By the library reserve lottery, I checked out 'Scenes From a Marriage', 'Saraband', 'Autumn Sonata', and 'The Magician' and watched the first three. Besides being visually amazing - large parts I would gladly watch again without any sound, they are shot so beautifully - the writing comes across well, even in subtitles, and the musicaly soundtrack seems to play a major role. And who wouldn't want to look at Liv Ullman for two hours?
Wednesday was busier yet, but I had the advantage of a taiji class before coming home to Zelda, Jessi, and Alex sitting peacefully on the patio on probably the hottest day of the year. After a brief negotiation, we ordered pizza and opened a large bottle of chilled white wine. The spider lilies that Grandpa Golly gave us a couple of years ago chose this week to bloom - long, thin, white petals with bright orange-tipped stamens - five of them in big pots on the patio. By the time the table was set, the pizza was delivered, and our friends the Gormans arrived with ice cream, it was cooling off on the patio. By dessert I was the most contented man in the universe. Good food, a tiny bit too much wine, people I care about, and conversation to die for, no amount of pre-planning could have made it more right.
We had to get up early Thursday morning to make it to the bus station on time, but we did, and saying good-bye so soon was bittersweet. I will review this time in my head for the next few days: wishing I had said things I forgot to say, wishing I hadn't run my mouth so much, wishing we'd had time to go to the state fair, wishing we'd had a chance to go for a bike ride, hoping there will be many more opportunities, but mainly grateful for the time toegether.
The bus from Philly to Pittsburgh to Columbus is running an hour late, so I have some time to contemplate the son and his girlfriend, their arrival and reception in our humble home, their first impressions, their second impressions, their levels of comfort and discomfort, their adaptability in a midwestern middle-class alternative funky works-in-progress cultural milieu. I watch a little quality daytime TV, something about vampires, check my messages, make some notes, try to be patient.
There they are, both tall and angular and slightly rough around the edges, a little tired after an all-night bus trip. Jessi's hair is longer than last I saw it, and Alex has a new lip ring. I hug them both at once, and we walk out to the car, drive north from downtown to our little suburb. We talk about Alex's dream and a Neal Stephenson novel Jessi is reading, the way a fictional dystopia can be part of the problem instead of part of the solution, and for a minute it's like old times, talking about books with the kid who remembers long chains of detailed narrative while I chime in with analytical observations, but now his critical analysis goes way beyond mine, and it's fun to vainly try to keep up.
It's only a little bit shocking to see them, somewhat changed since their last visit last year from a very different subculture in a very different city, but then so am I. It will take a day or so to settle in, relax into a comfort zone, and enjoy a few days together. We are already finding ways to accept and overcome these surface clashes and really see and get to know each other. Kafka meets the cyberpunks.
J and A spent the day settling into the upstairs room that Zelda kindly gave up so that they could be comfortable. I had a longish, nerve-jangling day at the office and came home haggard to a scene that immediately lifted my spirits. The two of them enjoying the backyard that is my labor of love. Jessi was walking around the vegetable beds checking out the volunteer squash (or melon?) vines, tomatoes, pappers, and the compost setup. Alex was moving from room to room within the yard with her large-format camera, framing and shooting various angles and elements of the space. I think they have accomplished re-entry on Planet Methodistville.
Jessi and I had a few minutes to sit and talk in the den that looks out on the backyard. He told me about the chicken they have at their house in Brooklyn and about some issues with the neighbors, the landlady, the housemates, and the chicken. Zelda and Gven came home, and we decided on a place to go for dinner. The margaritas at El Vaquero were sweet, salty, and delicious; the food was predictable and tasty. I don't remember what we talked about, but it felt good to sit in a booth, kill the fatted burrito, and have a meal together.
Tuesday was another longish workday, and "the kids," as Gven is now calling them, spent the evening at Jessi's friend Andy's place. This could have been my opportunity to get some work done on a manuscript that's sitting on my desk, but no. I chose to watch Part 3 of the Ingmar Bergman Film Festival that is currently taking place in our living room. Bergman died last week, and I missed the first two or three waves of his popularity in the second half of the last century. I'm only now beginning to appreciate his work. By the library reserve lottery, I checked out 'Scenes From a Marriage', 'Saraband', 'Autumn Sonata', and 'The Magician' and watched the first three. Besides being visually amazing - large parts I would gladly watch again without any sound, they are shot so beautifully - the writing comes across well, even in subtitles, and the musicaly soundtrack seems to play a major role. And who wouldn't want to look at Liv Ullman for two hours?
Wednesday was busier yet, but I had the advantage of a taiji class before coming home to Zelda, Jessi, and Alex sitting peacefully on the patio on probably the hottest day of the year. After a brief negotiation, we ordered pizza and opened a large bottle of chilled white wine. The spider lilies that Grandpa Golly gave us a couple of years ago chose this week to bloom - long, thin, white petals with bright orange-tipped stamens - five of them in big pots on the patio. By the time the table was set, the pizza was delivered, and our friends the Gormans arrived with ice cream, it was cooling off on the patio. By dessert I was the most contented man in the universe. Good food, a tiny bit too much wine, people I care about, and conversation to die for, no amount of pre-planning could have made it more right.
We had to get up early Thursday morning to make it to the bus station on time, but we did, and saying good-bye so soon was bittersweet. I will review this time in my head for the next few days: wishing I had said things I forgot to say, wishing I hadn't run my mouth so much, wishing we'd had time to go to the state fair, wishing we'd had a chance to go for a bike ride, hoping there will be many more opportunities, but mainly grateful for the time toegether.
Friday, July 27, 2007
32/4
Thirty-two fourths. A top-heavy fraction? Equals 8? Or a way to say that Gven and I have endured many Independence Days since we met on the bicentennial of the founding of the imperial amerikan nation-state, and did so again. Cue the rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air, our flag is still there.
This time we had people over for a change. We tried to make the house presentable, though rumor has it you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Yet everyone came, they seemed to have a good time, I guess, and a backyard cookout at the Golly household probably reflected our best and our worst.
Gven said the yard looked good, but to my eye it was a mixed bag of dry flowerbeds, developmentally delayed vegetables, and trees that need some serious trimming. The patio itself, scene of the soire, is 12 rows short of a complete reconstruction, so about 80 percent of the brick pavers look nice and uniform, if not quite flat, and the unfinished 20 percent provides a revealing before-and-after contrast. I think the slight undulations add character, don't you?
Our "eclectic" collection of mismatched outdoor furniture was adequate; everyone had a place to sit and eat, drink, talk: one real (circa Clintonville) Adirondack chair, 2 plastic faux (circa Westerville) Adirondack chairs, two old fashioned sleel springback chairs (circa Atlanta), three molded plastic stacking chairs (circa Grandview), and two folding canvas deck chairs fresh from Schiller Park theater duty.
The new ceramic tile and steel table held brots and burger from the old Weber grill (circa Grandview) and wine; beer is in the fridge. In the kitchen you'll find Julie's fruit salad, Linda's broccoli salad, Sue's pasta salad, and of course Kate's cake. I'm forgetting someone's contribution because I'm a poor and forgetful host.
Jim asked about the garden, of course, so we walked back to the southeast corner to check out the volunteer pumpkin (or squash?) vines, the retarded tomatoes and peppers, the finger-sized eggplants, the tall onions going to seed. He reported on the state of his raspberry bushes with typical New England reserve and admired my compost frame.
Michio also admired the compost set-up and, modest to a fault, lamented that he hasn't organized his kitchen around separating compost from trash, paper, metal, plasticm, and glass. I had a book I wanted him to see, a 1935 edition of Wahr's Japanese Dictionary of Physics and Chemistry (really) found at a yard sale some time in the 1970s and still taking up space on a shelf in our workshop. Since Michio is both Japanese and a chemist, I thought I'd finally found somebody to take this monstrous tome off my hands, but he wouldn't take it; he said I should see what I can get for it on eBay.
Gwen personal trainer Sue showed up; Zelda's friend Stephanie was there; Jim and Kate's kids Emma and Tedy came, and so did Linda's son Jason. We talked about some of the little dramas in our lives: what our kids are up to, movies we've seen, what our kids are up to, books we've read, what our kids are up to. Jason had some harrowing adventures at Bonaroo; Tedy is preparing to make the trek to the College of Santa Fe in the fall; Zelda runs into both of Julie's sons at her favorite north campus haunts. "La Vie en Rose" is very good, so I should see it while it's still at the Drexel.
And then there were fireworks, of course, because this is Amerika, and it wouldn't be our nazional independence day without the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, etc. Someone said they don't like the pre-Fourth "Red White and Boom" extravaganza downtown because of all the white trash who go. Then why are you here? I wondered, but not outloud. The young went to Whetstone, the old went to Methodistville, and the holdouts stayed put on our bourgeois countercultural terra cotta patio to watch fireworks through the pine trees.
Our first fourth together was the bicentennial in Atlanta. I was visiting my sister Jo Jo, helping her move to a house closer to my brother-in-law's psychology practice around the corneer from Emory. Gven was living in midtown, teaching yoga, and working at the office. We had a group-date to the Varsity, an Atlanta fast-food institution near Georgia Tech and downtown. I think we had ice cream and champagne. The next night we had a double-date with some other people and saw a very bad movie. The next night we made a pizza with sliced tomatoes.
Do the math. If 1976 was our first, then 2007 was our thirty-second - if you count 1980, when I was in Adel, Iowa, working at Camp Sunnyside, and she was in Atlanta training with the Light of Yoga Society. There was one in Chicago, one in Oberlin, one in Ithaca-Cortland, several more in Atlanta, including one Peachtree Road Race fiasco, and several in central Swingstate: there have been Doo-Dah Parades in the Short North, the Park of Roses, patriotic Methodistville Rotary Club parades, and even a gray pickup truck disguised as a Yoga Factory "float" idling up State Street.
Happy anniversary.
This time we had people over for a change. We tried to make the house presentable, though rumor has it you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Yet everyone came, they seemed to have a good time, I guess, and a backyard cookout at the Golly household probably reflected our best and our worst.
Gven said the yard looked good, but to my eye it was a mixed bag of dry flowerbeds, developmentally delayed vegetables, and trees that need some serious trimming. The patio itself, scene of the soire, is 12 rows short of a complete reconstruction, so about 80 percent of the brick pavers look nice and uniform, if not quite flat, and the unfinished 20 percent provides a revealing before-and-after contrast. I think the slight undulations add character, don't you?
Our "eclectic" collection of mismatched outdoor furniture was adequate; everyone had a place to sit and eat, drink, talk: one real (circa Clintonville) Adirondack chair, 2 plastic faux (circa Westerville) Adirondack chairs, two old fashioned sleel springback chairs (circa Atlanta), three molded plastic stacking chairs (circa Grandview), and two folding canvas deck chairs fresh from Schiller Park theater duty.
The new ceramic tile and steel table held brots and burger from the old Weber grill (circa Grandview) and wine; beer is in the fridge. In the kitchen you'll find Julie's fruit salad, Linda's broccoli salad, Sue's pasta salad, and of course Kate's cake. I'm forgetting someone's contribution because I'm a poor and forgetful host.
Jim asked about the garden, of course, so we walked back to the southeast corner to check out the volunteer pumpkin (or squash?) vines, the retarded tomatoes and peppers, the finger-sized eggplants, the tall onions going to seed. He reported on the state of his raspberry bushes with typical New England reserve and admired my compost frame.
Michio also admired the compost set-up and, modest to a fault, lamented that he hasn't organized his kitchen around separating compost from trash, paper, metal, plasticm, and glass. I had a book I wanted him to see, a 1935 edition of Wahr's Japanese Dictionary of Physics and Chemistry (really) found at a yard sale some time in the 1970s and still taking up space on a shelf in our workshop. Since Michio is both Japanese and a chemist, I thought I'd finally found somebody to take this monstrous tome off my hands, but he wouldn't take it; he said I should see what I can get for it on eBay.
Gwen personal trainer Sue showed up; Zelda's friend Stephanie was there; Jim and Kate's kids Emma and Tedy came, and so did Linda's son Jason. We talked about some of the little dramas in our lives: what our kids are up to, movies we've seen, what our kids are up to, books we've read, what our kids are up to. Jason had some harrowing adventures at Bonaroo; Tedy is preparing to make the trek to the College of Santa Fe in the fall; Zelda runs into both of Julie's sons at her favorite north campus haunts. "La Vie en Rose" is very good, so I should see it while it's still at the Drexel.
And then there were fireworks, of course, because this is Amerika, and it wouldn't be our nazional independence day without the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, etc. Someone said they don't like the pre-Fourth "Red White and Boom" extravaganza downtown because of all the white trash who go. Then why are you here? I wondered, but not outloud. The young went to Whetstone, the old went to Methodistville, and the holdouts stayed put on our bourgeois countercultural terra cotta patio to watch fireworks through the pine trees.
Our first fourth together was the bicentennial in Atlanta. I was visiting my sister Jo Jo, helping her move to a house closer to my brother-in-law's psychology practice around the corneer from Emory. Gven was living in midtown, teaching yoga, and working at the office. We had a group-date to the Varsity, an Atlanta fast-food institution near Georgia Tech and downtown. I think we had ice cream and champagne. The next night we had a double-date with some other people and saw a very bad movie. The next night we made a pizza with sliced tomatoes.
Do the math. If 1976 was our first, then 2007 was our thirty-second - if you count 1980, when I was in Adel, Iowa, working at Camp Sunnyside, and she was in Atlanta training with the Light of Yoga Society. There was one in Chicago, one in Oberlin, one in Ithaca-Cortland, several more in Atlanta, including one Peachtree Road Race fiasco, and several in central Swingstate: there have been Doo-Dah Parades in the Short North, the Park of Roses, patriotic Methodistville Rotary Club parades, and even a gray pickup truck disguised as a Yoga Factory "float" idling up State Street.
Happy anniversary.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Granddad's Bluff
In many ways, it was the high point of the whole trip to revisit my roots in Minnesota and Wisconsin. After Uncle Chuck's funeral, after a tour of Spring Grove, after dinner with the Anderson cousins, after brunch at Fazey's in the heart of downtown, our family group of 10 piled into two cars for a leisurely drive around La Crosse. The rain had come and gone, and it was a good day to see the old neighborhood in the town I almost grew up in.
It's a straight shot out Market Street from the Mississippi River to the bluffs that rim the town on the east. The tallest one, Granddad's Bluff, is accessible by car and has a park on top, so it was our destination. We pass St. Francis Hospital, which has gotten much bigger over the years, and Hogan School, which has gotten smaller since I was nine, and stop at 2018 Market St., our house in the late 1950s. Funny how everything has shrunk - the house, the yard, the two-block distance to school. Some icons are unchanged - the same ancient green drinking fountain on the corner by the school ballfield.
Everything has been spruced up, but I recognized historically important things, like the front step I launched from when learning to ride a bike. Being there sparked lots of memories and talk: Max Schwertfigger, the nice old man who lived nextdoor on one side, and the Bothes, the mean old couple who lived nextdoor on the other side; the mulberry tree that used to be in the front yard, the back step I bounced a ball against in imaginary baseball games where I played 18 positions (plus announcer): "The windup and the pitch from Spahn, it's a long fly ball deep to rightfield, Aaron goes back, he's at the warning track, he leaps, he makes the catch to end the inning."
If you go a few blocks farther out Market Street, take a left, then take a right and cross the railroad tracks, you're heading up the bluff on a winding wooded two-lane road. Halfway up we pass the little tavern where Great Uncle Rudolph (Grandpa Anderson's younger brother) used to hike for a beer before continuing his stroll up the bluff. I remember Rudolph as a long, lean, tanned old guy swimming regularly at the beach across the river. He lived downtown, played the violin, gave music lessons, and painted. My brother Rocky is driving our parents and me in his rented Taurus, talking business on his phone as we climb the mountain; there's an overseas steelmill deal that won't go down until all the eyes are dotted and all the tees are crossed, so it's not a done deal yet.
We reach the parking lot, picnic area, and scenic overlook at the top of the bluff, and it's even cooler than I remember it. My nephew Greg says, "Thanks for showing us your bluff, Granddad!" You can see the whole town from up here, across to La Crescent, Minnesota, and for miles up and down the river. You can see the bridge, the downtown streets where we were a few minutes ago, and the old G. Heileman brewery - makers of Old Style lager - near the bridge. You can see the UW La Crosse campus in the foreground to the right, and beyond it the North Side, the airport, and French Island, where the Black River joins the Mississippi. In the other direction, you can see Lutheran Hospital (just past St. Francis, the Catholic Hospital), the Gunderson Clinic, and some of the coulees, like hollers that extend back between the bluffs.
Memories come flooding back for everyone. Dad starts telling stories about the insurance business. My sisters remember kids they knew at Campus School, where they went to junior high. We decide to drive down past the university and find it. Someone's long-dormant street sense leads us to the right intersections, and we drive by the campus, right to the old brick school. My sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo locate the Frank Lloyd Wright house where their friends the Dahls lived. Mr. Dahl ran the local Ford dealership, and his sons were my sisters' ages. Dad launches into a tale about selling old man Dahl some insurance. Quite the wheeler dealer.
Eventually we end up at Asbury Methodist Church, and it looks about the same, but the doors are closed, so we can't go inside. Too bad. This was like home away from home for Mom, a mainstay of the choir, and Dad, Sunday School Superintendent on alternating years. Talk of church friends leads us to Rudy's A&W rootbeer stand, which still has curb service with those little trays that hook on the car window, but instead we troop inside to their biggest booth: Mom and Dad, sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo, Anna's husband Fred, their son Greg and his wife Christine, brother Rocky, Zelda, and me.
The Rudys were members of our church, and lo and behold, today is the Rudy patriarch's birthday, so there's a party going on. The old folks talk about their retirement, their golf game, their kids and grandkids, and their mutual friends from church; the rest of us "kids" eat our chili dogs, fries, root beer floats, hot fudge sundaes, and other healthy snacks. The juke box plays hits from the 1960s, and for a fleeting minute, we knew both the words and the tune (but not the artist): "Bus stop, bus go, she stays, love grows under my umbrella...Every morning I would see her waiting at the stop, sometimes we'd shop and she would tell me what she'd want. All the people stared as if we were both quite insane, someday my name and hers are going to be the same."
We haven't run out of landmarks, but it's getting to be a long day, and it's drizzling on and off. We drive by the public library, and the bike racks are still there, right where we left them. This was probably Jo Jo's house of worship. We head back downtown, and a visit to La Crosse isn't complete without stopping at the brewery for a look at the World's Largest Six-Pack - two rows of three water tanks about 50 feet tall painted with the labels of La Crosse Beer.
Our pilgrimage at an end, we go back to the motel to rest before the cocktail hour and a casual supper at Aunt Marion's apartment complex party room with our cousins on the Anderson side of the family. There will be much food and moderate drink, photographs of days gone by, and several tables with lively card games going. There is an international garden in Riverside Park, right down the hill from the deck, where La Crosse's three sister cities have contributed Chinese, Japanese, and Russian elements to a single formal garden; a bunch of us walk down there to get a closer look, and it's quite beautiful.
Everyone has to travel back to somewhere the next day, so we make it an early evening. There are many good-byes, abundant thank-yous, and several pledges to keep in touch. We make our logistical arrangements so that everyone catches their flight or hits the road at the appointed time to the correct destination. Except for leaving the motel without the suit I didn't wear to the funeral, our departure went without a hitch, and we were back in Ohio by nine that night.
It's a straight shot out Market Street from the Mississippi River to the bluffs that rim the town on the east. The tallest one, Granddad's Bluff, is accessible by car and has a park on top, so it was our destination. We pass St. Francis Hospital, which has gotten much bigger over the years, and Hogan School, which has gotten smaller since I was nine, and stop at 2018 Market St., our house in the late 1950s. Funny how everything has shrunk - the house, the yard, the two-block distance to school. Some icons are unchanged - the same ancient green drinking fountain on the corner by the school ballfield.
Everything has been spruced up, but I recognized historically important things, like the front step I launched from when learning to ride a bike. Being there sparked lots of memories and talk: Max Schwertfigger, the nice old man who lived nextdoor on one side, and the Bothes, the mean old couple who lived nextdoor on the other side; the mulberry tree that used to be in the front yard, the back step I bounced a ball against in imaginary baseball games where I played 18 positions (plus announcer): "The windup and the pitch from Spahn, it's a long fly ball deep to rightfield, Aaron goes back, he's at the warning track, he leaps, he makes the catch to end the inning."
If you go a few blocks farther out Market Street, take a left, then take a right and cross the railroad tracks, you're heading up the bluff on a winding wooded two-lane road. Halfway up we pass the little tavern where Great Uncle Rudolph (Grandpa Anderson's younger brother) used to hike for a beer before continuing his stroll up the bluff. I remember Rudolph as a long, lean, tanned old guy swimming regularly at the beach across the river. He lived downtown, played the violin, gave music lessons, and painted. My brother Rocky is driving our parents and me in his rented Taurus, talking business on his phone as we climb the mountain; there's an overseas steelmill deal that won't go down until all the eyes are dotted and all the tees are crossed, so it's not a done deal yet.
We reach the parking lot, picnic area, and scenic overlook at the top of the bluff, and it's even cooler than I remember it. My nephew Greg says, "Thanks for showing us your bluff, Granddad!" You can see the whole town from up here, across to La Crescent, Minnesota, and for miles up and down the river. You can see the bridge, the downtown streets where we were a few minutes ago, and the old G. Heileman brewery - makers of Old Style lager - near the bridge. You can see the UW La Crosse campus in the foreground to the right, and beyond it the North Side, the airport, and French Island, where the Black River joins the Mississippi. In the other direction, you can see Lutheran Hospital (just past St. Francis, the Catholic Hospital), the Gunderson Clinic, and some of the coulees, like hollers that extend back between the bluffs.
Memories come flooding back for everyone. Dad starts telling stories about the insurance business. My sisters remember kids they knew at Campus School, where they went to junior high. We decide to drive down past the university and find it. Someone's long-dormant street sense leads us to the right intersections, and we drive by the campus, right to the old brick school. My sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo locate the Frank Lloyd Wright house where their friends the Dahls lived. Mr. Dahl ran the local Ford dealership, and his sons were my sisters' ages. Dad launches into a tale about selling old man Dahl some insurance. Quite the wheeler dealer.
Eventually we end up at Asbury Methodist Church, and it looks about the same, but the doors are closed, so we can't go inside. Too bad. This was like home away from home for Mom, a mainstay of the choir, and Dad, Sunday School Superintendent on alternating years. Talk of church friends leads us to Rudy's A&W rootbeer stand, which still has curb service with those little trays that hook on the car window, but instead we troop inside to their biggest booth: Mom and Dad, sisters Anna Banana and Jo Jo, Anna's husband Fred, their son Greg and his wife Christine, brother Rocky, Zelda, and me.
The Rudys were members of our church, and lo and behold, today is the Rudy patriarch's birthday, so there's a party going on. The old folks talk about their retirement, their golf game, their kids and grandkids, and their mutual friends from church; the rest of us "kids" eat our chili dogs, fries, root beer floats, hot fudge sundaes, and other healthy snacks. The juke box plays hits from the 1960s, and for a fleeting minute, we knew both the words and the tune (but not the artist): "Bus stop, bus go, she stays, love grows under my umbrella...Every morning I would see her waiting at the stop, sometimes we'd shop and she would tell me what she'd want. All the people stared as if we were both quite insane, someday my name and hers are going to be the same."
We haven't run out of landmarks, but it's getting to be a long day, and it's drizzling on and off. We drive by the public library, and the bike racks are still there, right where we left them. This was probably Jo Jo's house of worship. We head back downtown, and a visit to La Crosse isn't complete without stopping at the brewery for a look at the World's Largest Six-Pack - two rows of three water tanks about 50 feet tall painted with the labels of La Crosse Beer.
Our pilgrimage at an end, we go back to the motel to rest before the cocktail hour and a casual supper at Aunt Marion's apartment complex party room with our cousins on the Anderson side of the family. There will be much food and moderate drink, photographs of days gone by, and several tables with lively card games going. There is an international garden in Riverside Park, right down the hill from the deck, where La Crosse's three sister cities have contributed Chinese, Japanese, and Russian elements to a single formal garden; a bunch of us walk down there to get a closer look, and it's quite beautiful.
Everyone has to travel back to somewhere the next day, so we make it an early evening. There are many good-byes, abundant thank-yous, and several pledges to keep in touch. We make our logistical arrangements so that everyone catches their flight or hits the road at the appointed time to the correct destination. Except for leaving the motel without the suit I didn't wear to the funeral, our departure went without a hitch, and we were back in Ohio by nine that night.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
My kind of town
Chicago is.
Zelda and I cruised into the Windy City in the golden Sunday afternoon, gliding up Lake Shore Drive (the highway signs say 'LSD') past the Field Museum and Shedd Aquarium to Grant Park and the Loop. We hung a left on Columbus, another left on Wabash, going south under the El tracks, straight to the Hostel International on East Congress. Lickity split, almost like we knew what we were doing.
We checked into our clean, quiet dorm rooms, called our friends, and went for a walk to get into the spirit of the place. Up Michigan Avenue in all its shiny, cosmopolitan glory, a few blocks west, and then south again, making a loop through the Loop. By this time, Zelda has the layout down cold and she's telling me where to find things.
Turns out my taiji brother Donald was starting his summer work project supervising teacher interns on Monday morning, so we arranged to meet Monday evening. Zelda's high school pal David was free, however, and he invited us out to a bar in his neighborhood, so we got a quick bite to eat and boarded the Blue Line north to Logan Park.
David and his roommate Kevin met us at the station, and we walked a few blocks to the Map Room, a nice little neighborhood bar with full-color physical maps on all the walls and the largest beer selection I've ever seen - four pages, three columns, single-spaced in 8-point type - I would have died of thirst before I got through the list. Luckily we had guidance, and David ordered a round of something Belgian, very smooth and sweet. It was delicious. An oatmeal stout followed, something completely different, to go with the ongoing banter of David and Kevin, and the whole evening was a pleasant introduction to Chicago culture as seen by a couple of guys from Ohio.
We got up the next morning, enjoyed the free breakfast in the hostel, which really is international, bought two-day transit passes, and solved a small parking problem before heading north toward the Loyola campus. Luckily we found a free, shaded, on-street parking place right next to Donald's building. It was like that - unpredictably up and down - all day, as we negotiated our way through the city, and we adjusted as needed.
Z and I rode the Red Line south and walked a few blocks east to the Field Museum, pausing for a few minutes to repair my broken sandal on the way. We initially intended to go to the aquarium but reconsidered when we saw the mile-long line. There was no line at the Field, and admission was free on Monday to boot, so we spent the whole afternoon roaming through plant and animal bio-geography (or was it geo-biology?), ancient Egypt, and planetary evolution, with time out for lunch on the south steps. Do you realize how much 'natural history' includes? The vast collection is mind-boggling in its scope and somewhat traditional in its approach, but a real treasure and worth every minute.
We were tired coming back north on the Red Line and got coffee at a little place by the Granville station, then went to meet Donald. It had been a long time (1980?) and I guess we've both been through a few things. When I first knew him, Donald (or DJ, as everyone called him) was married, had two little kids, taught middle school math, and had a house in Evanston. Now he is divorced, retired, a grandfather, and lives by himself in a condo overlooking Lake Michigan.
DJ was an influential figure at a formative time in my life. He was Huo Chi-kuang's senior student at the Chinese Cultural Academy in Evanston and introduced me to the practice of t'ai chi ch'uan. Needless to say, I took to it like a duck to water, and DJ's personal friendship only made my study more rewarding. Looking back now, I think I took his big-brotherly mentoring and mythologized a combination of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Charles Mingus, and Othello.
We spent the whole evening talking, mainly catching up on what has gone down in the last 30 years, and that's a lot of catching up. Donald knew a good Ethiopian restaurant a few blocks away, so we walked there and had a fabulous vegetarian meal and a good red wine. That helped free up the flow of conversation. He explained his breakup with Paula, and it became clear how difficult that ordeal was. Paula still lives in their house in Evanston.
Donald also had a falling-out with Prof. Huo and left the academy to study with another teacher, Joe Morris, on the South Side. The practice there involves more meditation, qigong, and martial applications than Huo had shared and led to a Taoist initiation with Joe's teacher, Wang Yen-nien. We later talked about A Course in Miracles, which DJ has been doing through a group in Evanston.
DJ has always been serious about music, and recently has taken up playing the viola da gamba and electric bass. DJ turned me onto Renaissance and Baroque music back in the day, but I never knew he was into jazz, so when I mentioned my love for Brubeck, he brought out his favorites: Coltrane, Miles, and yes, Mingus. We later watched a DVD about the classical guitarist Julian Bream that included some fine performances.
Zelda got the futon and I got the air mattress. DJ made his favorite breakfast: fresh mangoes, boiled eggs, toast, cheese, and jasmine tea. Before catching the El downtown, Z and I made a beeline to the Heartland Cafe, where Gven Golly worked in the seventies, for our much-needed coffee. A trip to Chicago wouldn't be complete without at least one trip to the Heartland, and we both felt right at home. We sat at a screened-in outside table, talked, and soaked in the vibe of that special place.
With emotions running down my face, we rode the El south to the Museum of Contemporary Art on Michigan Ave. near Water Tower Place, a very different part of town from the funky charm of Rogers Park and the Heartland, but free on Tuesdays! It was different and just a little jarring: one level under construction and noisy; another level with a small but fascinating collection of Sol LeWitt works; Raphael Terrer's Paddle and Kayak were also pretty cool; another level housing "Exposed: Defining Moments in Photography, 1967-2007"; and people setting up for an evening jazz event outside on the terrace. Bernd Becher and Hilla Becher's Cooling Towers was riveting in juxtaposing the materials and design of grain silos, industrial towers, and nuclear power plants in several sites in Europe.
We walked across the street and sat on a park bench for a while in the sublime June weather, and Zelda caught the El to meet David at the Fullerton station. She would hang out with him for the evening, and I would pick her up in time to head for Wisconsin the next day. I watched the upscale urbanites and had a bite to eat, then went back in the MoCA and wandered out to listen to the band and enjoy that distinctive cross-section of humanity. In my excitement I called Gven at home and gushed (to her voice mail) about how much she would like there and how we should visit (or move!) there some time soon. Rather than ordering food and a drink like the beautiful people on the terrace, I sat down by myself at a Reserved table and explained to three different waitpersons that no, I didn't need anything right now, and yes, I understand that the table will be needed, and yes, isn't it a lovely evening, and they were fine with that. It's funny how people treat you with respect sometimes.
When I was ready to go, there was a young guy busking on the platform at Chicago Ave. and doing a very good rendition of Steve Goodman's classic "City of New Orleans," made famous by Arlo Guthrie. Steve's been dead for some time now, but as far as I know Arlo is hanging in there. But it is a sad, sweet post-industrial song.
Zelda and I cruised into the Windy City in the golden Sunday afternoon, gliding up Lake Shore Drive (the highway signs say 'LSD') past the Field Museum and Shedd Aquarium to Grant Park and the Loop. We hung a left on Columbus, another left on Wabash, going south under the El tracks, straight to the Hostel International on East Congress. Lickity split, almost like we knew what we were doing.
We checked into our clean, quiet dorm rooms, called our friends, and went for a walk to get into the spirit of the place. Up Michigan Avenue in all its shiny, cosmopolitan glory, a few blocks west, and then south again, making a loop through the Loop. By this time, Zelda has the layout down cold and she's telling me where to find things.
Turns out my taiji brother Donald was starting his summer work project supervising teacher interns on Monday morning, so we arranged to meet Monday evening. Zelda's high school pal David was free, however, and he invited us out to a bar in his neighborhood, so we got a quick bite to eat and boarded the Blue Line north to Logan Park.
David and his roommate Kevin met us at the station, and we walked a few blocks to the Map Room, a nice little neighborhood bar with full-color physical maps on all the walls and the largest beer selection I've ever seen - four pages, three columns, single-spaced in 8-point type - I would have died of thirst before I got through the list. Luckily we had guidance, and David ordered a round of something Belgian, very smooth and sweet. It was delicious. An oatmeal stout followed, something completely different, to go with the ongoing banter of David and Kevin, and the whole evening was a pleasant introduction to Chicago culture as seen by a couple of guys from Ohio.
We got up the next morning, enjoyed the free breakfast in the hostel, which really is international, bought two-day transit passes, and solved a small parking problem before heading north toward the Loyola campus. Luckily we found a free, shaded, on-street parking place right next to Donald's building. It was like that - unpredictably up and down - all day, as we negotiated our way through the city, and we adjusted as needed.
Z and I rode the Red Line south and walked a few blocks east to the Field Museum, pausing for a few minutes to repair my broken sandal on the way. We initially intended to go to the aquarium but reconsidered when we saw the mile-long line. There was no line at the Field, and admission was free on Monday to boot, so we spent the whole afternoon roaming through plant and animal bio-geography (or was it geo-biology?), ancient Egypt, and planetary evolution, with time out for lunch on the south steps. Do you realize how much 'natural history' includes? The vast collection is mind-boggling in its scope and somewhat traditional in its approach, but a real treasure and worth every minute.
We were tired coming back north on the Red Line and got coffee at a little place by the Granville station, then went to meet Donald. It had been a long time (1980?) and I guess we've both been through a few things. When I first knew him, Donald (or DJ, as everyone called him) was married, had two little kids, taught middle school math, and had a house in Evanston. Now he is divorced, retired, a grandfather, and lives by himself in a condo overlooking Lake Michigan.
DJ was an influential figure at a formative time in my life. He was Huo Chi-kuang's senior student at the Chinese Cultural Academy in Evanston and introduced me to the practice of t'ai chi ch'uan. Needless to say, I took to it like a duck to water, and DJ's personal friendship only made my study more rewarding. Looking back now, I think I took his big-brotherly mentoring and mythologized a combination of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Charles Mingus, and Othello.
We spent the whole evening talking, mainly catching up on what has gone down in the last 30 years, and that's a lot of catching up. Donald knew a good Ethiopian restaurant a few blocks away, so we walked there and had a fabulous vegetarian meal and a good red wine. That helped free up the flow of conversation. He explained his breakup with Paula, and it became clear how difficult that ordeal was. Paula still lives in their house in Evanston.
Donald also had a falling-out with Prof. Huo and left the academy to study with another teacher, Joe Morris, on the South Side. The practice there involves more meditation, qigong, and martial applications than Huo had shared and led to a Taoist initiation with Joe's teacher, Wang Yen-nien. We later talked about A Course in Miracles, which DJ has been doing through a group in Evanston.
DJ has always been serious about music, and recently has taken up playing the viola da gamba and electric bass. DJ turned me onto Renaissance and Baroque music back in the day, but I never knew he was into jazz, so when I mentioned my love for Brubeck, he brought out his favorites: Coltrane, Miles, and yes, Mingus. We later watched a DVD about the classical guitarist Julian Bream that included some fine performances.
Zelda got the futon and I got the air mattress. DJ made his favorite breakfast: fresh mangoes, boiled eggs, toast, cheese, and jasmine tea. Before catching the El downtown, Z and I made a beeline to the Heartland Cafe, where Gven Golly worked in the seventies, for our much-needed coffee. A trip to Chicago wouldn't be complete without at least one trip to the Heartland, and we both felt right at home. We sat at a screened-in outside table, talked, and soaked in the vibe of that special place.
With emotions running down my face, we rode the El south to the Museum of Contemporary Art on Michigan Ave. near Water Tower Place, a very different part of town from the funky charm of Rogers Park and the Heartland, but free on Tuesdays! It was different and just a little jarring: one level under construction and noisy; another level with a small but fascinating collection of Sol LeWitt works; Raphael Terrer's Paddle and Kayak were also pretty cool; another level housing "Exposed: Defining Moments in Photography, 1967-2007"; and people setting up for an evening jazz event outside on the terrace. Bernd Becher and Hilla Becher's Cooling Towers was riveting in juxtaposing the materials and design of grain silos, industrial towers, and nuclear power plants in several sites in Europe.
We walked across the street and sat on a park bench for a while in the sublime June weather, and Zelda caught the El to meet David at the Fullerton station. She would hang out with him for the evening, and I would pick her up in time to head for Wisconsin the next day. I watched the upscale urbanites and had a bite to eat, then went back in the MoCA and wandered out to listen to the band and enjoy that distinctive cross-section of humanity. In my excitement I called Gven at home and gushed (to her voice mail) about how much she would like there and how we should visit (or move!) there some time soon. Rather than ordering food and a drink like the beautiful people on the terrace, I sat down by myself at a Reserved table and explained to three different waitpersons that no, I didn't need anything right now, and yes, I understand that the table will be needed, and yes, isn't it a lovely evening, and they were fine with that. It's funny how people treat you with respect sometimes.
When I was ready to go, there was a young guy busking on the platform at Chicago Ave. and doing a very good rendition of Steve Goodman's classic "City of New Orleans," made famous by Arlo Guthrie. Steve's been dead for some time now, but as far as I know Arlo is hanging in there. But it is a sad, sweet post-industrial song.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Blood, water, and all that jazz
A week of travel in which nothing is certain ahead of time, so the traveler is never sure what to expect, makes for some surprises. Zelda and I drove through several waves of rainy weather Saturday on our way across southern Wisconsin, northern Illinois and Indiana, and western Ohio. There were brief showers on Friday in La Crosse, but not enough to prevent us from seeing what we wanted to see on a day-long walk down memory lane in my childhood hometown.
The big storm was Thursday, while my brother Rock and I drove back to La Crosse from Spring Grove, heading down Norwegian Ridge on route 44 toward Hokah, Minnesota. It was a gulley-washer, almost no visibility, then just as quickly it stopped before we crossed the river into Wisconsin. We had some time before meeting the sisters for dinner, so I went outside for a workout and did a taiji form under a big tree by the river. About the time my form was finished, here comes the storm again, and the big tree wasn't much shelter, so I got a nice soaking before dinner.
No big deal. I changed clothes, and we met the rest of the group at Schmidty's on the South Side. The House Fish was excellent with a local brew. Afterward, we all gathered at Jeanie Beanie's hotel downtown to play Catch Phrase - you know, that game where two teams match wits with verbal cues and try to beat the timer. It was fun for young and old. Thus ended a long, eventful day that began with Uncle Chuck's memorial service in the form of a jazz concert in a Presbyterian church.
An open, airy structure of wood, stone, and glass with lots of flowers and an eight-piece band. Second son Russ Anderson greeted us and said "This is going to be a celebration," which it was. Chuck's band opened with several old favorites, including St. James Infirmary, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Battle Hymn of the Republic, Amazing Grace, and The Old Rugged Cross, all played New Orleans-style with a somber kind of joy.
The minister talked briefly, and a bandmate spoke about their shared musical history, playing with Bob Hirsch, Milt Hinton. Les Brown, Jay McShan, among others. The minister told some stories, like when Chuck and my dad took over my grandpa's restaurant and changed the name from Al's Lunch to the C&D Cafe, advertising "Chuck your troubles and Dunc a donut at the C&D."
The band closed with Wonderful World, and everybody gathered nextdoor for lunch in the church dining room, where a CD of more tunes accompanied slides of Chuck's life. Baby pictures with his little sister Helen, high school photos, in the Army during the war, a group shot of the 1947 Spring Grove Homecoming beard contest in the C&D, with Marion and their babies, grandchildren, and of course playing bass with the band. I spotted Terry Grosskopf, the current bass player, and told him I enjoyed his rock-solid solo on Amazing Grace; he told me Chuck had lured him from a teaching job in Chicago and recruited him into the band. And the beat goes on.
After lunch we got in cars and drove the half-hour over the bridge to Spring Grove, where just sighting the water tower and the church steeple brought back memories. There was a big group gathered at the cemetary and lots of casual conversation before the urn of ashes were lowered into the ground. Words were said, taps was played, and a flag was presented to Marion by a unit from the American Legion. Some of the oldtimers are still around, and I met a guy named Carty Onstad who played basketball with my dad back in the day. It was a sunny summer solstice afternoon in southern Minnesota.
After a little while all the Andersons and Duncansons regrouped in the park to take group photos. You know the drill: those in the picture hand their camera to someone else, say 'cheese', and then the next group poses. There's more shade in the park than at the cemetary, so it was a nice place to chill. Someone got the bright idea to go get ice cream at a the Blue Moose, which was recently opened by a guy about my age who grew up in Spring Grove when the C&D was still open and yearned for that kind of hangout. The place was hopping, and the chocolate shakes were excellent.
While enjoying her ice cream on the back deck of the Blue Moose, Helen decided to take a walking tour of the town, egged on a bit by her kids. Jo Jo, Rock, Anna Banana, Zelda, and I went along, followed by an entourage numbering around twenty and ranging in age from 4 to 86. We walked down Division Street to the house she and Chuck grew up in, then to the big brick house their two families shared, with commentary on when her dad built the smaller house out in back, the spirea bushes that used to grow in the front yard, and lots of other memories (which I can't remember a week later).
The big storm was Thursday, while my brother Rock and I drove back to La Crosse from Spring Grove, heading down Norwegian Ridge on route 44 toward Hokah, Minnesota. It was a gulley-washer, almost no visibility, then just as quickly it stopped before we crossed the river into Wisconsin. We had some time before meeting the sisters for dinner, so I went outside for a workout and did a taiji form under a big tree by the river. About the time my form was finished, here comes the storm again, and the big tree wasn't much shelter, so I got a nice soaking before dinner.
No big deal. I changed clothes, and we met the rest of the group at Schmidty's on the South Side. The House Fish was excellent with a local brew. Afterward, we all gathered at Jeanie Beanie's hotel downtown to play Catch Phrase - you know, that game where two teams match wits with verbal cues and try to beat the timer. It was fun for young and old. Thus ended a long, eventful day that began with Uncle Chuck's memorial service in the form of a jazz concert in a Presbyterian church.
An open, airy structure of wood, stone, and glass with lots of flowers and an eight-piece band. Second son Russ Anderson greeted us and said "This is going to be a celebration," which it was. Chuck's band opened with several old favorites, including St. James Infirmary, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Battle Hymn of the Republic, Amazing Grace, and The Old Rugged Cross, all played New Orleans-style with a somber kind of joy.
The minister talked briefly, and a bandmate spoke about their shared musical history, playing with Bob Hirsch, Milt Hinton. Les Brown, Jay McShan, among others. The minister told some stories, like when Chuck and my dad took over my grandpa's restaurant and changed the name from Al's Lunch to the C&D Cafe, advertising "Chuck your troubles and Dunc a donut at the C&D."
The band closed with Wonderful World, and everybody gathered nextdoor for lunch in the church dining room, where a CD of more tunes accompanied slides of Chuck's life. Baby pictures with his little sister Helen, high school photos, in the Army during the war, a group shot of the 1947 Spring Grove Homecoming beard contest in the C&D, with Marion and their babies, grandchildren, and of course playing bass with the band. I spotted Terry Grosskopf, the current bass player, and told him I enjoyed his rock-solid solo on Amazing Grace; he told me Chuck had lured him from a teaching job in Chicago and recruited him into the band. And the beat goes on.
After lunch we got in cars and drove the half-hour over the bridge to Spring Grove, where just sighting the water tower and the church steeple brought back memories. There was a big group gathered at the cemetary and lots of casual conversation before the urn of ashes were lowered into the ground. Words were said, taps was played, and a flag was presented to Marion by a unit from the American Legion. Some of the oldtimers are still around, and I met a guy named Carty Onstad who played basketball with my dad back in the day. It was a sunny summer solstice afternoon in southern Minnesota.
After a little while all the Andersons and Duncansons regrouped in the park to take group photos. You know the drill: those in the picture hand their camera to someone else, say 'cheese', and then the next group poses. There's more shade in the park than at the cemetary, so it was a nice place to chill. Someone got the bright idea to go get ice cream at a the Blue Moose, which was recently opened by a guy about my age who grew up in Spring Grove when the C&D was still open and yearned for that kind of hangout. The place was hopping, and the chocolate shakes were excellent.
While enjoying her ice cream on the back deck of the Blue Moose, Helen decided to take a walking tour of the town, egged on a bit by her kids. Jo Jo, Rock, Anna Banana, Zelda, and I went along, followed by an entourage numbering around twenty and ranging in age from 4 to 86. We walked down Division Street to the house she and Chuck grew up in, then to the big brick house their two families shared, with commentary on when her dad built the smaller house out in back, the spirea bushes that used to grow in the front yard, and lots of other memories (which I can't remember a week later).
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Summer is
strawberries
sunshine
swings
stakes (for tomatoes)
Sauvignon
salvia/sage
spider lilies
spirea
softball
screendoor slam
skin
shades
sunscreen
swimming
cycling
seashore
sand
sandals
swimsuit
songbirds
singing
suntan
snakes
sunburn
salads
snapdragons
shedding
shorts
seashells
shovels
shears
solstice
. . .
sunshine
swings
stakes (for tomatoes)
Sauvignon
salvia/sage
spider lilies
spirea
softball
screendoor slam
skin
shades
sunscreen
swimming
cycling
seashore
sand
sandals
swimsuit
songbirds
singing
suntan
snakes
sunburn
salads
snapdragons
shedding
shorts
seashells
shovels
shears
solstice
. . .
Monday, June 04, 2007
A toast composed two hours after the reception
Barry and I first met in a book. I was interested in progressive education and China, so my philosophy professor (thank you, Dick Garner!) thrust a book at me about John Dewey's experimental schools in China between the wars. What I found in the pages of that book was a kind of conversation between Dewey and some other social revolutionaries, mediated by Barry Keenan, in the presence of Marx, Wang Yang-ming, and Confucius.
A few years and a couple of teaching jobs later, I found myself joining this church and taking an adult religious education class called Building Your Own Theology (BYOT). What a great course title, and who should I meet the first night of the class but Barry Keenan. I quickly learned that he wasn't just a theorist, but he was working hard to walk the walk. We both ended up joining the same men's group, and we've been meeting every week ever since.
Other serendipitous things happened. One Thursday night in my taiji class at the rec. center, I was using a phrase from Confucius, "root and branch," to describe a turn that starts in the legs and works its way up the spine to the arms, the idea being that if you pay attention to the root of the action, the outward details, the branches, will turn out fine. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than in the door slides Barry, who happened to be across the hall with the folk dancers, to say hello.
This story has a beginning and a middle but no end. Connections are made, like an electrical circuit or a synapse between neurons, and the conversation continues. This past week, our men's group got together for sushi, sake, and song (no strippers, sorry) and shared some poems in honor of this marriage. So I offer 24 syllables, and the spirits of John Dewey, Mao Zedung, Li Bo, and Confucius may or may not be present in this room.
After five seasons
Watching twelve animals circle the sun
New growth for a firmly rooted tree
Here's to Karen and Barry!
A few years and a couple of teaching jobs later, I found myself joining this church and taking an adult religious education class called Building Your Own Theology (BYOT). What a great course title, and who should I meet the first night of the class but Barry Keenan. I quickly learned that he wasn't just a theorist, but he was working hard to walk the walk. We both ended up joining the same men's group, and we've been meeting every week ever since.
Other serendipitous things happened. One Thursday night in my taiji class at the rec. center, I was using a phrase from Confucius, "root and branch," to describe a turn that starts in the legs and works its way up the spine to the arms, the idea being that if you pay attention to the root of the action, the outward details, the branches, will turn out fine. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than in the door slides Barry, who happened to be across the hall with the folk dancers, to say hello.
This story has a beginning and a middle but no end. Connections are made, like an electrical circuit or a synapse between neurons, and the conversation continues. This past week, our men's group got together for sushi, sake, and song (no strippers, sorry) and shared some poems in honor of this marriage. So I offer 24 syllables, and the spirits of John Dewey, Mao Zedung, Li Bo, and Confucius may or may not be present in this room.
After five seasons
Watching twelve animals circle the sun
New growth for a firmly rooted tree
Here's to Karen and Barry!
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