Plains Prose

If a poem is written and nobody reads it, does it make a sound?

2012-02-03T10:14:00.001-06:00

I made a goal for myself to write 30 poems in 30 days and so, I did it.

Some poems came quick with a flourish and some poems were slow and thoughtful. Some poems were written five minutes to midnight. And, yes, some poems didn’t emerge until the next day. But, they all appeared as they were intended. Each with their own beat and sound.

So, whether the poems are good or bad, whimsical or just plain confusing, I offer them to you…because what is writing if it is not read?

Direct link here 30 Sweet Poems in 30 Sweet Days or click the tab above.

lo brown

2011-12-29T10:09:00.000-06:00

I take no issue with this
the brown grass in December
the snow refusing to fall
hand me the calm before the storm
I’ll cherish this omen of stillness
and pull it to heart
lest it finds no one looking
and worsens the wrath to follow.

Where The Sidewalk Ends, Mr. Silverstein.

2011-12-15T14:44:00.002-06:00

I volunteered at my kids’ elementary school this past week. I like kids at the elementary school age. You can be silly with these kids and they’ll be nearly instantly silly right back at you. Even the shy ones usually come around. They’re in imagination mode all the time at that age. How fun.

But, then, somewhere rounds about middle school, reality sets in. What a downer. Then the kids become moody and depressed. I was moody and depressed and didn’t know what to do about it. Losing your imagination world takes a lot out of a person. Reality really sucks sometimes.

You grow up, mature and get over that. Somewhat. Some of us can’t get over the fact that we’re not kids anymore. Well, hey, just use your imagination. Stop being so uptight, i.e. real. Of course, without throwing away all the adult responsibility. It’s okay to visit the Land of Make-Believe from time to time; you just can’t stay there. Adults serve a different role in the world. It’s time to apply what that imagination established in us when we were kids.

That’s how we’ve gone on to be doctors and chefs and business managers. Yeah, we liked playing with the play cash register as a kid. We liked fixing up our pretend bruises on our stuffed animals. We couldn’t get enough of helping mom in the kitchen or playing waitress. We liked watching dad tinker with the car.

…

Wait, wait, wait… What am I talking about? Blah, blah, boring. Screw that. Man, I was going to delete that last paragraph or two but I think I’ll keep it in to remind myself how life gets rote.

Let’s stay Imaginative. At all times. Why do we need to be serious all the time? This world is serious enough for us; we need to balance that with a little creativity. And, I pray the teachers out there aren’t so serious with educating our kids. I’m not much on praying anymore. But, Jesus.

A desk job in a box with no view from a window? In a cookie cutter eight hour day? Very uptight. Let’s keep the people under control, must keep the order...say the lords in charge. For what? Money?

Yes, money is important, I get that. But we don’t need it in excess. You know what I’ve found that a lot of money makes? Assholes.

And, okay, so maybe you really enjoy your desk job. Computers and such, it’s a digital world. I just hope you love that desk job. Or, you know, at least like it enough to sleep with it. Because you take that shit home with you.

Just remember, money won’t bring you the kind of happiness a human being is entitled to. The happiness you should have. That you deserve.

Let’s listen with our hearts, our minds and our souls and connect ourselves to what’s really worth living for. Live a little. Live a lot. Life is too short and full of too many possibilities. It can be done.

Don’t ignore the grass just because there’s a sidewalk.

Clarity. The antonym of obscurity.

2011-11-20T17:08:00.001-06:00

I haven’t written lately. I haven’t felt like talking. But let’s give this a whirl; see where the fingers take us walking.

My life in a nutshell this past month has been the equivalent of…well, you know the nutshell game where the conman has three half shells and a ball is hidden underneath one of them? And he slides around and arranges and rearranges the shells across the top of a table. Pick which shell has the ball underneath. My life would be that game except with no shells. It’s a lone ball. Rolling in any direction with no sense of reason. Looking for the shell. But, then again, the trick is that there isn’t a hidden ball, right? So, seeing as there is no ball and there are no shells, my table is bare. Because there is no game.

I’m waiting. For the pieces of the game to appear on the table before me. I don’t know my next move.

(Doesn’t obscurity suck sometimes? Now maybe you understand.)

...just thinking out loud

2011-10-17T09:35:00.001-05:00

It is a crisp, breezy autumn morning. So minutely breezy the North Dakota weatherman doesn’t bother to mention the fact out loud.

I remember living in Minnesota. The meteorologists would predict the lightest winds down to the oddest ranges for the day…“a northerly wind measuring between 3-6 mph.” They were so serious about it. I shook my head and laughed every time. Maybe you have to be from NoDak to understand the absurdity of this.

The local environmental climate influences the person. The culture of a place makes the person. The people make the culture. The climate makes the culture? I say, true.

North Dakotans are hard-nosed people. To a fault at times. We can endure long winters and droughts. We can endure stifling situations in our personal lives. We don’t let a blizzard or a thunderstorm keep us from doing what needs to get done, like going to work, buying groceries, etc. We don’t let a little wrench thrown amongst our daily plans to keep us from completing our tasks. Why...perhaps we understand everything comes to a natural end? Every season comes to a close, the next one starts anew.

We live amid the weather. The weather lives in us.

If you are unable to allow the forces of nature into your heart and soul and allow its influence to affect you, North Dakota isn’t for you...because in this place, she will not let you ignore her.

Gooey Loveness

2011-09-29T09:46:00.000-05:00

I don’t know where this is going

and I don’t know where we will end

I only know I love you now

just like it’s always been.

I'm Over It

2011-09-15T15:46:00.003-05:00

I’m that girl on the couch
surrounded with a roomful of people
who slowly gets drunk by herself

because there’s never anyone
worth talking to and when her mouth opens
the words come out wrong

it’s best if she doesn’t say
anything and save the thoughts that swirl
endless inside for someone

who might come eventually,
and she’ll pour out her head without holding
the tongue that once held back her mind.

You like rummaging?

2011-09-06T17:42:00.000-05:00

A reprint from Friday, September 5, 2008:

Days are feeling like fall lately. Strange to be wearing long pants and socks. I can't get myself to wear anything but flip-flops, though. Rummage sales are in full glory in Bismarck during the Powwow. And sadly, it signifies the end of the summer rummage sale season.

Are you a die-hard rummager? Have you ever been nose to steel with a stranger's closed garage door at 7:45 a.m.? Asking why in the world they don't open the door, even though the ad stated no early sales? Hoping to edge out the old guy next to you wearing track shoes?

If the terms dud, loser sale and drive-by are in your Saturday-morning vocabulary, then you know Friday morning is becoming the new Saturday in rummaging.

Everything I learned about rummage sales I learned from my parents, such as, it is OK to bring a half-drunk coffee cup into the car, because there is just no time to fill the travel mug when there are deals to be had.

I grew up in rummage sale clothing, pre-stained, bell bottom pants. I had no idea where they were from, I just thought the mushroom patch my mom sewed on to cover the hole in the knee was so cool. At least I got sale clothes as my brother got hand-me-downs from me and my sister. He was pretty in pink.

Rummaging becomes a life all its own, and you get sucked into the addiction. A sense of rules and norms go out the window. Parking the wrong way on the side of the street is accepted. It's OK to slow your car down in front of a house and scout out the merchandise, creating a traffic jam behind you. Hey, they're probably looking, too.

Bargaining the price of a used piece of Tupperware down 25 cents evokes a sense of extreme accomplishment. I can really use a third Coleman stove! Or, as my dad likes to say, I might have a boat someday that fits this propeller. Do you know what a new prop costs these days?

I have snatched pheasant shot glasses out of an old woman's hands. In my defense, she was deciding a little too slowly, and I couldn't wait to give her the customary first dibs. The old lady was my mother, but still.

I'm the type of rummager who will usually pay the marked price. I'm just happy to follow one of the three R's - reduce, reuse and recycle. I am the reuser. Not so for most people.

Haggling is the whole point of rummaging for my parents. Maybe in the back of their minds they feel good about reusing, but I think it has more to do with the thrill of getting a good deal. Their ice-house and not-by-the-lake vacation home is decked out with precious second-hand treasures they've scrounged up.

Alas, the end of the season is nearing. We will need to find something to carry us through the void of winter. We might have to actually start shopping at stores and paying full price! That's crazy talk. But, until then, splash a little water on your face, grab your coffee cup and rummage to your heart's content.

http://bismarcktribune.com/news/opinion/article_24ea21e7-3733-5df9-aeb7-bbb6547b1e26.html

Good Bye, Summer. Nice Knowing You.

2011-08-20T15:51:00.003-05:00

I hate this time of year, when summer comes to an end.

I prefer it when the earth won’t cool off when I'm asleep and the morning is as damp and hot as the night before. I can step out on my deck and literally feel touched by the sun. On a whim, I can trounce to the beach and bask beneath the blue sky for as long or as little as I want.

But, the trees are yellowing. The nights are cooling down into the 40s. No more showering twice a day, once in the morning and again before bed to remove the dust and body salt. On the really hot days, I willingly let the sweat pour wet.

The grasshoppers and crickets have taken over the lawn. Their chirping is constant along with that of the frogs. Huge grasshoppers are eating on every leafy vegetable in the garden. If you shake the squash plant, you can watch them fly. The cabbage butterflies have reduced the kohlrabi’s leaves from protective umbrellas to spindly skeletons. If only they liked the tomato plants and peppers which don’t look like they’ll produce before first frost because of two hailstorms that came through. Tempests of tiny daggers falling from the sky. The threat of monstrous rolling thunderstorms is nearly gone now, too, and with it the anticipation it excites.

Socks and long sleeved shirts have found their way into my laundry basket. Flip flops lay hapless in the hallway. Spiders are spinning webs. I discovered the cat faced spider responsible for weaving an elaborate housing complex in the corner of my deck. She was underneath the cushion of my wicker chair. She fell out when I flipped the cushion. Nasty thing. Get them now while they’re still small.

Geese flock behind my house in the already harvested wheat field as do their pursuant hunters. Morning gunshots muffle through my window. They’re gone by mid-morning leaving quiet afternoon.

The temperatures are comfortable now. I’ve found my favorite cozy sweatshirt. My jeans feel good on my shaved legs. The campfire brings necessary warmth. The shortened days make the kids go to sleep earlier. I can leave the windows open all day. The humidity has left. School starts. Change is upon us again.

But it’s not the change I dislike. It’s that I love the summer so much.

2011-08-14T11:32:00.003-05:00

T brought home a case of pounders. What are we—19? He reasoned it was only a dollar more for 16 oz cans than 12 oz. Now that makes sense to the thrifty thirty-sixer. We had plans to see a concert but the first beer tasted good so we started spinning Waylon 33s in the garage and just kept drinking instead. (Again. Should I be worried he knows every word to every Jennings song?)

That’s only mostly true, T rallied the troops and we made it to the outdoor gig. But the children were so naughty that before I had a chance to send them off into the cornfield, we made an early night and left.

The Moony Sun

2011-08-14T09:08:00.002-05:00

Late summer’s morning glory

is yet hot enough to burn
though the coolness in the wind
hints of chill that’s soon to come.

Coffee still warms

on a sun drenched deck
twisting damaged cells
the face crinkles natural.

Wish not for speed of time

to break this precious season
for autumn’s fleeting presence
signals winter’s deathly prison.

The succulent green leaves

turn to dry inedible shells
which fall amongst the brush,
rustling without inhabitants.

Too quiet even for the mouse

busy toiling with feather and blade
to sleep within the earth
until life comes back again.

All Apologies

2011-08-04T09:32:00.001-05:00

(I apologize for the following. I was having a moment…)

I’m a simple girl. Really.

I grew up on Mad Magazine, Archie Comics and my dad’s hidden stash of Playboys. I married someone who wasn’t like my father. I’ve decided my mother’s advice is more trouble than it’s worth. That secrets are lies and honesty is the best policy.

Alfred E. Neuman was mad and didn’t worry about it. But he was a god when it came to writing comic books. There were dirty jokes and cleavage on most every page and that was okay. Of course it was or there wouldn’t have been stacks of old issues in the family bookcase.

Archie was a loser. Reggie, a prick. Jughead, a useless stoner. Veronica and Betty were bitches and persisted in wasting their time fighting over Archie. He treated Betty like shit. Veronica treated them both like shit. Archie, in turn, treated Veronica like shit. And then it would all loop around again because they couldn't get enough of it. Dumb chicks. I had to stop reading.

So when I tell you you’re an asshole you have it on good authority. You’re that simple. Now, if you’ll excuse me, go fuck yourself.

2011-07-12T11:19:00.001-05:00

Basil

Huge hail/wind storm came through July 10 south of Bismarck. My garden is toast. Upon closer inspection, I'd be surprised if anything was able to regrow and produce before first frost.

There may be hope for the loose leaf lettuce which are stubs now since I had to remove all the leaves due to damage.

Some of the more pathetic photos...

Pepper

Squash

A Flood of Tomatoes

2011-06-18T12:30:00.003-05:00

I plant my seeds, nurture them and watch my garden grow.

I was hoeing my garden a few days ago and halfway through it I noticed the majority of weeds I was digging up were looking a lot like seedling tomato plants. Now, as you smart ones remember, I planted over 20 tomato plants in the garden last year. When fall came and harvest was done, in the garden plot, we burned the leftover roughage and tilled it all under.

So, smart one that I am, it came to me that the majority of what I was actually hoeing this day were renegade tomatoes that had started from the cutup innards of last year’s out casted fruit. Well, being the plant lover that I am, I saved a few. We’ll see what they grow to become. I wonder if they’ll even produce.

I had to water the garden this morning, too. A little guilt tinged about that. As I tell the girls when they play with the garden hose, “Not so much water! Don’t you know there’s a flood?”

My neighbors plant their sandbags, check for leaks and watch the river grow.

Flooding is the biggest issue going on in Bismarck/Mandan right now. Mo (the Missouri River) is at 18.7’ this morning. That puts us in the “moderate” flood stage. “Major” flood stage starts at 19’. We’ll be there within the next 24 hours. And hold at that position through August.

The kids’ school, Prairie Rose Elementary, was diked by the Corps and has had water lapping the edge since June 4. Unless conditions improve with the river this summer, the entire school will be displaced to Rita Murphy Elementary in the fall. It’s located within city limits and out of the flood plain. That will be rough for all involved.

The last two days of this past school year in May, the school staff and parental volunteers (which were few) boxed up the first floor classrooms and moved them to the second floor. No elevator. The library was packed up and sent to the district office. The lunchroom appliances were packed out by district, too.

My oldest child’s teacher said she usually prepares and sets out her start of school instruction materials for next year at the end of the previous school year. But this time, her entire classroom was haphazardly thrown into cardboard with her name written across it and shoved somewhere on second. The desks stayed put with various sacrificial furniture placed on top.

And somewhere amid the school boxes, my lost phone sits. That’s the only material thing I can say I will probably lose in this flood. Very insignificant. The teacher’s house sits behind the city levee. Her in-laws house has already been voluntarily evacuated and is inundated with water.

My parents’ house is protected by the levee, too. It’s a split level and sits higher than the neighbor’s houses. We helped clear the basement down to the washer and dryer, two garage sale cribs, and one desk that we couldn’t get through the small doorway of mom’s squirreled away office. Otherwise, it’s bare cement. Half of their things are stored at my place; the other half is in their garage and upper floor.

They chose not to sandbag the house. The groundwater is their biggest threat anyway. If the levee fails, they’ll save what they need to from the upstairs and walk away. Our house is their initial destination if it comes to evacuation.

Mom has said she’ll redo the basement, water damage or not. It’s needed it for a while. She, like many others, struggles with the forced emptying out of her house. A house cleaning of this magnitude is usually done on personal terms in due time. Her anxiety is high at times.

The entire town is anxious.

Ode to the Flood Fight

2011-05-29T09:42:00.002-05:00

I’m too tired to drink
too beat to cry
so I’ll stay where I sit
and watch life float on by.

The republicans blame the democrats.
The atheists call out the Christians.
How they find the time to point
when the bag still needs the finger.

It’s the rain of Mother Nature,

it’s the plain we’re on,
it’s the manmade dam
that isn’t holding up the plan.

We’re in a river city

where it’s bound to flood
and now we’re in deep, baby,
so glub, glub, glub.

I’ll perch atop my wall

let the wave of tongues subside
clear my mind but to my task
and wait for the water’s rise.

Rhubarb is a punk.

2011-05-23T12:06:00.001-05:00

I love rhubarb. It’s such a bitch of a plant. The first to reach maturity and she’s nourishing to boot. When the other twinkly blooming bushes are laying in wait for just the right temperature, the right wind speed, the right day/night ratio; rhubarb has already blasted herself out of the ground.

“Screw you guys, it’s spring, I‘m growing! What are you waiting for?”

She leaves the neighboring lilacs and the rest of the girls in the dust. She’s a rebel. A leader. She doesn’t care what the other girls think of her.

“I ain’t no popularity contest.” It’s what I imaging her saying. I talk to her, she talks back to me. We must always talk to our plants even if they don’t seem to like it. Because, deep down, they do.

Today, Miss Rhubarb was overgrown and due for a harvest so I called on her.

It takes a good amount of effort to snap rhubarb stalks out of the ground. Grab near the bottom, lest you break it halfway up. Tug generously. And then, even if you’re being careful, she’ll drop you on your ass. (It’s good to harvest when no neighbors are watching.)

I managed to get an abundance of stalks out of her. Some must have been six inches around. I grappled until just the Skinny Minnies were left. Save those for the next batch.

Then, the most fun part, clipping the elephant ear sized leaves from the top. Left them lying on the grass, bodiless. I hate to just toss out the ears, too, as they look like hours of whimsical fun.

Time for skinning, though. You need a fine, sharp blade for that. I sat for a good half hour on my front walk whittling away at the flesh. The big ones put up a fight. As soon as the knife hit the skin, they crackled and twisted in my hand. Lively little suckers. I triumphed in the end.

Although, it did take a task for me to rise out of my seated position. Achy lower back, trick knee. Thoughts of old age and arthritis entered my mind. I walked it off. I wasn’t going to let her beat me.

Next, I took my pile of wet fruit sticks inside for a quick rinsing. Little dicing. The lovely odor emanating from the rhubarb filled my nose with each slice. My fingertips were beginning to wrinkle from the juice.

I still haven’t figured out a good rhubarb recipe so I just keep it simple. I usually end up making a basic sugar syrup mixture and bubble the ‘barb on the stovetop. If I’m feeling housewifely, I’ll crisp or cobbler it in the oven. Dollop of whipped cream or melted vanilla ice cream to accompany—dreamy.

But, today, it’s all going freezer side. It’s my preference just for the fact that rhubarb gets soft when frozen. So, when you remove and thaw for cooking, it’s already tender and makes for quick preparation. Nobody likes crunchy rhubarb pie. That’s some awful business.

So, with a total of about 20 generous cups worth of sliced rhubarb, she is nearly finally subdued within plastic freezer bags and banished to the garage deep-freeze. Victory is mine!

Or so I think.

Rhubarb always gets the last word, doesn’t she? When your mouth is full of eating the crisp, the cobbler, the ice cream topping, the pie, the cake, she’s still whispering and if you pay attention and listen close you can hear her softly say, “Eat me.”

Don’t mind if I do.

Quick Update

2011-05-08T13:18:00.000-05:00

Well, April was a bust. Took forever. Ended with a blizzard. You heard that right, kids.

At one point, I was one morning away from taking a pregnancy test. Yipes! And, whew, the negative relief.

Veteran moms, you know. When you’re to the point of thinking, how am I going to break the news to my husband? Because you’ve both decided on not having any more kids. The two you’ve got are old enough to poo and tie their shoes all by their little selves. They’ve both been sent off to school during the days and you’ve just begun to taste your sweet, elusive, personal freedom once again.

Girls, you know. You start thinking that a baby doesn’t sound all that bad. I would have to find a crib. Buy super cute baby clothes. Toys. Diapers. How hard can it be? I can do this. You get to the point of near acceptance.

So, then, you see the empty space where the second +/- sign should be and you’re a little let down. For me, being a mom and all that comes with it, the feeling of “missed again” is bumper to bumper with realistic relief.

And, boys, you know, it was really a relief.

Spring is sprung(ing) eternal right now as we speak. Temps in the 70s. All the plants that didn’t die over winter are pushing green through their own crusty layered pre-winter armor.

I’ve seeds started in the basement. They’ve germinated nicely. My year-old seeds have come up again, I didn’t know if they’d still be fertile or not. Such nice little surprises they’re producing.

Farmers are digging up their fields all around us. I’m waiting to see what our neighboring field will be planted with this summer. We’ve seen beans, corn and flax so far. Rain is due up for this coming week, so it’s going to get wet.

May showers bring June flowers. That’s more like it. We don’t usually get a rainy month in April, our calendar sets it to May. And, then, we still have to hope for no snow in May. And, June.

We had a very much drawn-out winter this season. According to KFYR-TV:

SNOWFALL TOTALS:
Updated May 2, 2011
Bismarck:

2010-11 Season: 85.4"

#5 All-time snowiest

Record is 101.6" 1996-97

Bismarck had its 5th snowiest April on record at 13.4". This ties April 1924 with 13.4" as well. Snowiest April on record was 1984 with 18.7".

The end.

Windful Thoughts

2011-03-14T14:38:00.003-05:00

The wind woke me up early one morning a few weeks ago. The sound of the wind and early wakefulness gets you thinking all sorts of things. Like, for instance, who builds a bedroom on the north side of the second floor of a house in North Dakota? Then, other random thoughts start popping up and before you know it, you realize how old you’ve become.

I’ll be thirty-something-ish-and-then-some on my next birthday. Just a young pup, some say. Yeah, well, my youth is in the past. The wrinkles are here and they’re not going away. Little crows feet around the eyes. The laugh lines on my face are just sort of set in permanence. I’ll just keep laughing, maybe nobody will notice.

Having kids will age you quicker than most things. I’ve got two, ages seven and five. It feels like time doubled for me in those years. Like dog years, but for parents. My jaw line is looking reminiscent of grandma’s jowls. The old family jowl line—ugh.

I remember the first time emerging from the back side of the harried business of child rearing when I actually took a look at myself in the mirror and noticed physical changes. The last time I really looked I was just 29 and childless. Where’d my life go? What just happened? Who’s that in the mirror?

But, kids do more than age you. Having a moment of reflection that breezy morning, I realized my kids are very much an enhancement to my life. They are a compliment to me in only good ways. They are little people now with their own little minds, not just the helpless creatures they were when they started out. They are becoming more self-sufficient by the day.

I can clearly see they like their newfound independence. I like it, too, as it allows me to have a little of my own personal freedom back. I can’t wait to see what it’s like five years from now.

All those years of child-rearing 24/7 have finally paid off. I’ve got great kids who, for the most part, are very well behaved. They have opinions and can make their own decisions and they mostly decide that they want to be around me.

I’ll admit that gets a little smothering. It seems everybody still wants to snuggle with the mommy. If it’s not the husband, it’s the kids. If it’s not the kids, it’s the cats. If it’s not the cats, I’m probably in the bathroom with the door locked. And, then, the cats are pawing and meowing to get in. The children have suddenly thought the greatest thought ever and I hear, “Mom, I need to tell you something right now!” This is usually where my husband swoops in and clears the hallway of riffraff.

A moment of peace.

Quiet time—I haven’t totally gotten that back, yet. That’s why the early mornings when the entire household is still sleeping are magical.

Too bad I’m not a morning person.

Oh, Those Crazy Winters

2011-02-21T08:11:00.001-06:00

I think part of what makes North Dakotans who they are is the crazy winters.

I describe us as hearty, earthy, no-nonsense, practical people. Most of us, aptly adaptable. This has been yet another tough winter to get through while keeping our sanity in check. Nature sent us forth into partial hibernation in, oh, rounds about December with nary a melt in sight.

We fly by the seat of our pants for most of the wintertime. Scheduled mid-winter trips to meet family for a get-together are hit and miss. Well laid plans are quickly laid to rest by a sneaky blizzard predicted one day ahead of go-time.

How do you decide winter travel plans? Are you the kind to heed the weatherman’s warning days in advance or are you the type to wake up the morning of and see how the weather is before deciding to cancel last minute? Perhaps you throw caution to the north wind that’s tousling your car as you travel well below speed limit on a down to one-lane interstate—ever in denial of the blizzard on your back.

We are tested in the winter. We knowingly test ourselves in the winter. Heroic stories are created. Men are separated from the boys. Stupid decisions are made. With all the advanced weather warning systems in place, we still insist on perpetuating the classic, “stuck in a blizzard in the middle of North Dakota” story that has been going on since before the beginning of statehood. The weather is just flat out unpredictable sometimes.

The end of December ushered in a snowstorm and frigid temps. January teased us with a few days of warmth. It got frigid again. Then, the February warm-up happened. I for one was absolutely giddy with excitement when the golden-brown, withered lawn of last fall finally made an appearance. Flattened from the weight of the snow banks, it brought thoughts of spring to the mind’s surface. I was brainstorming what to plant in my garden this spring.

The neighborhood came alive for a few days. We saw the people who lived next door. The children rode their bikes. They dug channels in the gravel driveway with plastic shovels and made rivers out of the melting snow.

Coats were optional. Noon hour walks were happening. My cat sniffed out her first shrew of the year. It was something to make you change your daily lifestyle. It lasted nearly a week. One long blissful week.

Then, you know, the kibosh was implemented again. Tough times. Stymied inside the house again with single digit temps outside. Children pitting fights against each other over who gets the Little Pets elephant. I looked at it first so it’s mine; no I looked at it first. Timeouts for the kids and timeouts for the adults.

We all knew winter wasn’t over. We’re not fools. We lived it up. We took what she dished out, the happy little moment of reprieve, and ran with it.

But, I think we can all feel it, she’s losing her strength. The scale of seasons is shifting in spring’s favor. Here’s to the last of the winter blues.

A January Letter

2011-01-27T10:22:00.000-06:00

End of January.

We are nearly over the longest and worst stretch of any a winter season, December and January. Soon to be in the even longest and worst stretch of any a winter season, February and March. Well, the snow is usually all melted by March with only the occasional setback from a slushy snowstorm but really, who’s counting. Me, that’s who counting, there’s only 52 days left until spring equinox.

Yesterday, temps were in the high 30s as they will be today and part of the day tomorrow, too. That’s unusual. But, tomorrow, this reprieve will end. Another Alberta Clipper will send in a subzero temperature dropping storm with sustained wind speeds in the 25-35 mph range with gusts predicted up to 40-50 mph.

That doesn’t even seem like a sane, logical weather prediction just now. A learned meteorologist came up with this nonsense? Just when we start feeling spoiled, she chisels us back into acute winter woe. Thanks, North Dakota, I see you’re still with us.

Fargo, one of a handful, is already in the planning stages of combating another predicted spring flood disaster. As I see it, flooding is going to happen in these flood plains when there’s an overabundance of snow. Not just once every hundred years, it’s going to be every year there is above average and probably even just average snowfall. Right, we all get that?

The area even has a geographical term: Flood Plain. Akin to other put-together geography words like “Fault Line” and “Tornado Alley” and “Avalanche Zone.” Ignore it all you want, that area got its name for a reason. Sorry to be snippy. While I can empathize with your plight, I may not feel too sorry anymore.

But, then again, it is the lively Earth we were thrust upon and people need to live somewhere.

Here in Bismarck, we are progressing nicely alongside winter. It’s a kind of symbiotic relationship. I’m not quite sure what the benefit for us is, though. Wait, that's right, I remember and I’ve said it before. The harsh winters are needed in order for us to honestly appreciate the minutia that is a northern plains summer.

The hot, choking heat of a northern plains summer. The dry, cricket chirping warmth of a northern plains summer. The vapid, searing stillness of a northern… You get the idea.

The city plows have been doing a bang-up job with snow removal this year. I live out of town a bit, I can’t complain even when our county plow is delayed a few days. It’s expected. Plus, we have an awesome neighbor with a plow on the front of his pickup that has saved us all more than once. If not for him, we would have to rethink our personal snow removal plan.

I’m still working part-time with the retail younglings, two to three half days a week. North side of town, what I like to call Progressive Bismarck. We’re unhurried and laid back on the south side. Established and grounded. Well, that’s how my family is, shouldn’t really say it’s the same for everybody down here.

Old neighborhood. Old school. Old business. Old church. Just attracts a certain type of people. We’re appreciatively slow.

I’ll leave it at that.

2011-01-23T11:27:00.002-06:00

Writing, at times, is the only way I can hear myself talk.

Retired Folk

2010-12-26T10:35:00.001-06:00

My parents went to Vegas for Christmas this year. All I got to do was shovel their driveway.

They’re both well into the comforts of retirement and free to do anything with their time. They leave for days and weeks at a time, going to adventurous places. They romp about the country in their car, their RV or an airplane. The necessary gear for any of their trips is but three simple items: a GPS, a laptop and a coffee pot.

I think they’ve gone to places without me knowing, too. Who do they think they are? They are my parents; don’t they know I’m responsible for them? I need to know where they’re going, when they leave, who they’re with and what time they’ll be home. And, if they’re going to be late, they need to call!

What if the airplane stalls on the runway in Boston? Is one of their new friends, i.e. random California taxi driver, going to take them directly to their hotel? Will they behave themselves in public?

Their retirement has been a bit of an adjustment for me, too. Who’s thinking of the children? Not my parents.

Aside from transcontinental travel, they seem to be doing other odd things in their retirement. Take for instance, their deck. In the wintertime, they remove a slat in the railing for snow removal. Who does that? Well, my parents do, and it’s genius! I could push the snow straight off the edge of the deck. No breaking my back to lift a shovel full of snow up and over the railing.

The accumulated snow was mounded up on the ground pretty good, too. After I finished shoveling, I jumped into the snow pile from up above. I went in clear up to my waist. It was awesome, snow down my boots and up my back. But, really, I think the sheer genius of their little innovation is that they’re not the ones using it. No, sir, that responsibility falls onto my shoulders or should I say from my shoulders.

I do get the honor of mowing their lawn in the summertime, too, when they are off to some faraway land. I’m not sure which one I quite enjoy more, cutting grass or shoveling snow. Both take me back to my childhood memory of chores. I don’t remember much of the snow, though, my brother must have been in charge of that one or maybe I’ve just blocked it from memory.

This time around, though, compensation for my chores is a bit more substantial. No sneaking one pop from the garage fridge. I take the whole case! They won’t be back for days; my money is on them not remembering they bought it in the first place.

But, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves. I love that they’re finding something to do with their freedom. I know it’s their time to reap the benefits of their lives’ hard work. Raising three well-adjusted, brilliant, remarkable children, one of whom takes care of their house when they’re gone with nary a complaint, to name a few.

Oh, one more thing. Mom and dad, the next time you’re alone in Vegas with that nice, young man who asked if he could get on the elevator with you because everybody thinks he’s Justin Timberlake--enjoy the ride because he is Justin Timberlake!

[This was printed in the Bismarck Tribune on Christmas Day. I am unable to find a link to the essay, though.]

2010-12-19T11:42:00.001-06:00

I
I had a dream last night. Wish I could tell you about it, but it’s Rated R.
It’s been swirling through my head all day, put me on a cloud.
It woke me up when it was done, I didn’t want to leave the bed.

I kept thinking maybe you were dreaming the same dream I was dreaming.

In my mind I have it written, a flurried little tale, straightforward and basic
detailed down to the last lurid, gritty hair. In Perpetua font, pica. (like a whisper)
Too bad you don’t get to hear about it; the brightness, the visceral reactions.

It felt so real, like the stars had realigned and this is what we had back then.

II
I spent the day in a nauseous fog,
waiting for the wrong word
from the wrong person
that would set me to throw up.

What you said rang loud in my ears,
“I want to, very soon.”
If only you didn’t get up and walk out.
But that was perfect, too.

Shifting the social conscience

2010-12-02T13:56:00.006-06:00

I recently returned to the working world after committing myself to stay-at-home motherhood for the past four plus years. Please, hold your applause. It’s part-time clothing retail.

Being a self-proclaimed conscientious shopper, I find it fascinating the amount of clothing that comes into the store each week and then how much goes out of the store each week. I can’t even begin to imagine how much product switches hands on a weekly basis in the entire world. It’s mind boggling.

I’m pro-reduce, reuse, recycle, and refuse. This includes clothing, some of my favorite items were bought at rummage sales. But, I do admit to having partaken in the purchase of new clothing items. I have, as stated earlier, been roughing it at home and really have had no need for a multitude of garments until now. Plus, the extra money I’m earning allows for a bit of excess.

Leggings are back in style, including something called “skinny jeans” that fit like leggings. I tried on a pair of these tight, stretchy denim pants just to see what all the fuss was about. I did thusly put them on and promptly doth remove them. Kids these days…

On to the subject of Black Friday. Or, civilized rioting, as I like to call it. We’ve all seen the clips of people literally stampeding over each other for deals. Why? What causes such craziness?

I hoped these shoppers were buying only what they needed, but I’m not sure they were. Did each person who bought the enormous flat-screen need it? Did they outrun somebody who could have really used it?

Some people chose to shop excessively for themselves. Others stayed home, content with what they already had. Some purchased Christmas presents and were thrifty with their spending. I was working retail that day. Who did the right thing?

I think the news reports of that Friday are a direct examination of human nature. With all that is going on in the world, how can we buy excessively and disregard our fellow man? Are Americans aware of today’s world events—the recession and its reported end, the conflict in North Korea, national upheaval in places like Haiti, the continuing American trifle called a “war” in Afghanistan?

How do we put all of the above into perspective with our personal lives? Are we Americans still a socially aware people? I think yes, but some more than others. We need to remember that people have different levels of coping skills on all fronts, including with the barrage of information coming at us at all times.

As a whole, though, I also think we need to become a more outwardly attentive society. We must put our personal lives and the world we live in into perspective. We need to start being more responsible with our own lives and the lives of others; and, we need to stop the overindulgence.

I hope this Christmas, we start to cut back on wanting things and focus on real needs. Maybe this year, instead of buying that fourth or fifth toy for your child, you allow your child to buy or donate a toy (even better—a book) for another child who needs it more. It’s a great lesson in social awareness.

Go through your house and donate some unused items to a local thrift store. Donate to the food shelf. Now is an excellent time to start. I imagine those in need have a tougher time of it around the holidays. Why not we, who can afford it, help out a little more right now.

Remember in your daily goings-on that there is a big world out there. You are a small quotient of that. Every mindful thought and action you have and do, no matter how insignificant it seems to you, does serve a larger purpose.

Your small contribution makes the greater social conscience shift.

ND Winter Bragging Rights

2010-10-27T09:33:00.001-05:00

There’s nothing like a good storm on the horizon to get every red-blooded North Dakotan’s tongue wagging.

Today’s blizzard was no exception. We had good warning, too. The local weathermen were forecasting for days prior to this one. It was going to be a doozy. The wind was predicted to be outrageous.

Because the storm actually hit so late in the evening yesterday, we got one full day chock full of windy and long-winded anticipation. Heightened senses! Barely containable suspense! Power outages!

Did you get to be the first to break the storm warning to friends and co-workers? Was your mother dead set on declaring throughout the day, “Bah! There won’t be a storm, my knees aren’t aching!” at each 50+ mile per hour gust of wind? Winter coat! I can’t find my winter coat!

The weather gods, i.e. meteorologists, clocked a wind gust of 61 m.p.h. They noted that the day’s atmospheric pressure was one of the lowest on record for ND and likened this storm to that of a state-wide blizzard that occurred back in 1920. That storm was one of the worst on record. The wind and snow--record breaking! There was a multitude of livestock and people that perished throughout the state.

Then. Wait for it... They compared the strength of this storm in the Great Lakes area second only to that of the storm that sank the SS Edmund Fitzgerald in November 1975.

Well, that was weather bragging gold right there, folks.

Not only for us in ND, but on a national scale. This bragging right crossed over to all states involved in the storm system from North Dakota to Ohio and everywhere in between. If this storm were a YouTube clip, this is where we would say it “went viral.”

It became fodder for the masses. A life all its own. It made national televised news!

I can hear it now… Remember the winter of 2010-2011? It snowed on September 17th. In October, we had one of the strongest blizzards in recorded history. The same kind of storm that wrecked the Edmund Fitzgerald. It was so windy; they had a Flying Children Watch in effect when school let out.

Nay, I embellish. Isn’t that how bragging works?

Forget thinking solely about snow totals at this point. North Dakotans, we are well on our way to having one of the most brag worthy winter seasons on record!

I’ll bet money that the locally uprooted snowbirds in Arizona were one fixated bunch minding the weather channel in the shuffleboard corridor yesterday. Yet, still half-drunk and happy as clams to be in the south. A little bit happier this year, I’d say. Horrible northern blizzards, I imagine, are what really give snowbirds piece of mind as they sip their gin and tonics in the dry heat of a southern winter.

Also at this point, I should remind you, we all need to have our winter survival kits and scrapers in our vehicles. Did you find your scraper? Were you driving a car with a view outside your windshield the size of a peephole this morning? Don’t worry, it happens to the best of us.

So, what have we learned today, people? Blizzard—good. Snowbirds—love them. ND winter bragging rights—spilling out of our bag of tricks. Summertime’s winter amnesia—fading fast!

I could totally kick your ass

2010-09-28T20:52:00.006-05:00

The city cousins and the farm cousins. This was the separating factor at all our family reunions. How the kids were split into play groups. It just kind of happened naturally.

Except, of course, for my brother, J-, and cousin, H-. They were the two boys lagging too far behind in age with the boys in either group. They were paired due to age. One farm, one city. They meshed.

My mother was farm side and with enough of it that it passed partially in essence to us kids. We were city but we were not to think any less of the farm. So, we didn’t. We learned we weren’t better than anyone else.

I’m one generation from the farm. This makes me one step as close as, I think, most people who live in North Dakota. I just may be closer to the farm than you. There are kids in my generation who are still on the farm, growing more kids for the farm.

So, what does all this mean?

Well, if they’re closer to the farm than you, they’ll whoop your ass in a fight any day, any time.

Oh, and farm people probably think they’re better than you. (And, they would be right.)

A Life in Transition

2010-09-02T11:46:00.004-05:00

The seasons are in transition. Summer is turning to fall right before us here in North Dakota. Change of season—one big reason people choose to live here.

A stretch of dry days a few weeks ago helped to turn the cottonwood leaves yellow. It seemed to happen overnight. The willows, the aspen and other leafy-tree cousins are slowly blinking to a winter sleep like a child overdue for bed. The pines are losing softness in turn to be prickly; and therefore, protected in dormancy.

Late August rain storms came and so the grasses remain green. It's been green all summer. A rarity for us on the central plains.

They say the ground is too wet for full-time harvesting. But, oats have been rolled and tied nearby. The flax has been sprayed to stop its growth and be readied for cutting. Alfalfa keeps falling to the bundle.

The corn fields are becoming edged in their own dried stalks. Wheat is further ripening. Mature sunflower heads bow heavily to the earth under the pull of their own weight. They are stiffening with each passing day and will remain in this death pose until the farmer comes reaping.

These late summer scenes are all a daily reminder to me of my uncle struggling in the end stages of cancer. It's been about a year since the episode that led towards his diagnosis. Brain cancer, lung cancer, kidney cancer. It is sure to be his last summer, his last autumn. It has been a good one for him.

Everything dies in due time. I have resolved to not shed tears over the myriad of family member funerals to come. It's a sad lot. Life goes on and life renews. I look ahead to the renewal and try not to dwell in the funk.

It's a young September, yet. The sun disappears in the evening around nine. Used to be ten. The dark end to an old summer day brings out the still lively mosquitoes, now in desperation for their last bites. The new batches of crickets encroach nearer to the house. The cat brings in the nesting mice, almost daily now. They sense change, too, in their primitiveness.

The pissants were swarming a few days ago. That's what grandma called them anyway. I had never seen a swarm of pissants before. Well, not in the entomology sense. Grandpa said the seagulls love them. No sooner than naught, a flock of gulls were spotted circling above. Teeming, they came after the winged ants high up in the sky. Grandpa's comment was proven true right before our eyes.

Truthfully, I am looking forward to cooler days ahead. To the earthy changes in store. Full of melancholy, not mournfulness, this loss of summer conjures. I'm swimming in it. Not welcoming the drawn out months of cold winter in wait. Stretches of sunless days to muddle through. Unfriendly lines of gray skies from dawn to dusk. Howling winds of seemingly endless blizzards.

Whether we are aware of it or not, it is with purpose. Plains people are forced to notice the extremes in order to see the subtle nuances. To make us cherish our prairie summer even more.

Life advances unwarily, regardless of our wishes. A spinning carousel of time with riders dizzy from the speed, staring blankly outward, longing for pause. There is no pause in this life unrelenting.

Lo! It has begun a chilly rain.

Addendum: RIP Adrian Luptak November 1, 1940, to March 13, 2011.

Can We Talk Gardens?

2010-07-23T13:52:00.004-05:00

http://www.bismarcktribune.com/news/columnists/article_1879b45c-9d25-11df-9df3-001cc4c002e0.html

(The version below is the director's cut...)

This is my fourth summer back in North Dakota and the first year I've had a garden. Let me tell you, I am having the most wonderful experience with it.

My husband and I designated a generous plot, brought in some black dirt, borrowed a kind neighbor and his tractor, rigged green wire fencing and rope around the whole thing and called it a garden. The fencing and rope system we copied from another neighbor has managed to keep out all unwanted critters from the luscious fruits of my labor. It deters deer, rabbits, cats, dogs, kids and even husbands. He has yet to pull a weed.

That's not quite true. My husband has used the tiller once in my garden. But, I wouldn't so much call what he did weeding as I would call it starting up a random gas-powered piece of machinery too heavy and cumbersome for most females and playing in the dirt with it and therefore deemed manly.

After seeing me struggle with a weed the size of a basketball one day, he asked, "Should I get my tiller I haven't used in four years?" And, I swear, in the time it took me to turn my head upwards in thought and down with the answer of yes, he had already gone around the house, across the yard, into the shop, retrieved the tiller (gassed, prepped and ready) and brought it back. He was standing as eager as a puppy, poised with his finger on the trigger awaiting my signal. Looking back, I think his inquiry ended with more of an exclamation point than a question mark.

Now, he can have it. I don't want to learn how to use that smelly gas eating thing. I was one nail biting, worried mama when he got near my bunching onions. I'll continue to bind the door of the fence closed behind me and do my weeding with my own two hands in peaceful, quiet meditation.

This summer I've found I'm more a hands in the dirt kind of girl. My potted flowers and shrubs have become afterthoughts. Weeding and doting on my garden plants is just perfect for my busy hands.

I planted all my veggies from seeds bought from the Landreths' Seed Company catalog. Most are heirloom and I picked only those that produce the food we already consume on a weekly basis. Some seeds went right into the ground, some were planted indoors. I have photos of my sprouted tomato plants looking longingly out the window at our May 7^th snowfall.

We are already enjoying the kohlrabi, leafy romaine lettuce and sugar snap peas, which can be eaten whole. Two of my pea plants have somehow been cross-pollinated as they are producing a variety that needs shelling. Wonders!

I have 25 cherry and roma sized tomato plants that have green nuggets of goodness hanging. And, to answer your question, I'm going to eat them, that's what I'm going to do with all those tomatoes. My carrots are nowhere near mature, but that's okay because the cucumbers are mere days from being picked.

The burpless cukes appear to be doubling in size every other day. It's going to be an onslaught. I at least had the sense to plant them in the roomy back corner of my garden but even with all my trellising they are still growing through the fence and are halfway to my neighbor's house. That's okay, any varmint capable of breaking through the hair-thin thorns on the stems and leaves are welcome to the renegades. Your tummy can thank me later.

So, if any of you out there happen to find a haphazard bag of veggies on your doorstep, it's just a little love from me to you. And don't worry, I didn't plant zucchini.

2010-07-21T20:04:00.005-05:00

He went to work that day and never came out alive.
Barely past forty, his center point was weak.
He wasn't feeling good.

His wife would take him to the hospital.
She worked alongside him at the office.
They were in the lobby.

Now was his time.
His heart split apart.
He died instantly.

Didn't even make it out the door.
Resuscitation by co-workers was useless.
He was buried in his company polo.

I can't remember his name.
I can't remember his name.

Dear, it was a rough day at the office.

Mitch.
There. I remember you.

2010-07-21T18:35:00.003-05:00

I'm German Russian therefore I'm cynically depressed.

Cornflower

2010-07-14T12:54:00.023-05:00

Cornflower blue, I haven't seen you in a while.
You were always my favorite in the crayon box.

What shall I use to color the flax the farmer has planted afield?

I'll wait and color the green that shows after the flowers close at noon.

And what of Grover, the Muppet? I always filled him with your shade.

Were Jim Henson still alive, I'd ask him, had he your azure in mind?

Perhaps Grover was meant to be maize. But where has my maize got to?

I guess I'll just use yellow.

Friday, July 10, 2009 Revisited

2010-07-07T18:27:00.014-05:00

A Date (After Ten Years of Marriage): A Synopsis of Events
So, in the beginning (of my date...)

Travis walks into the bathroom and here we are, staring into the mirror, both wearing dark gray shirts with horizontal white stripes. After our initial groans and me realizing Travis isn't going to give up his shirt, I say, "I can change my shirt, unless you'd rather change." He sheepishly tells me he likes his shirt.

After the sixth shirt I try on, I think why I was dumb enough to even open my mouth. I then realize I'd be doing a disservice to myself in taking back my offer to change. I resist the temptation of diving into my laundry to get out the black tee I wore two days ago. I also resist the temptation of wearing my "I'm not with stupid anymore" tee. I settle for a non-matchy, but good fitting shirt. I'm the last one out of the house, after initially being the first one ready.

Drop off kids at in-laws. "No, you're right, I cannot believe I was not aware that the doctor who delivered Travis just died," I say to his mother. Regardless, good catch, Dr. Montz.

Date starts, we're at Scheels. Listen to story about a dead dog, etc, you know, the usual. Ditch Travis in the archery department. Actually, I think he ditched me first by walking into this department, but I'm not pointing fingers.

Try on clothes at Aeropostle. Wonder why music is so loud, but liking the song and hoping it isn't the Jonas Brothers. Nothing fits, and just why are ass-crack jeans still in style? Remembered why I decided never to set foot in that store...again.

On to dinner on patio at Famous Dave's. Apparently, we like staying within the perimeter of Scheels. Police sirens, fire engine, one of Travis' bowling associates, two beers and a shared entree later, back to Scheels for pick up of tuned up hunting bow.

Watch Travis practice shooting his bow. Ho-hum. Realize, while smelling like a brewery, there is no apostrophe in Scheels. Observe the six foot tree stand ladder and think it would be more travel friendly if it hinged in the middle.

Cue Nikita by Elton John over the speakers. Really? Yes. And it was at this point I was wishing I had someone else to share my misery with or some way to generally let everyone know, your night ain't as bad as mine.

Ditch Travis, again, and walk away towards women's clothing section. Yes, there's a women's clothing section at Scheels. Hot guy walks past. Wait, was he checking me out? No, not likely, just the beer talking.

Try on jeans much too small for me while thinking the music sure is loud here. Hope pregnant lady employee doesn't notice the beer smell. Settle on cute pair of cotton capri pants because, really, at this point of the night I just want to be comfortable. (They also have this huge waistband that sucks in the problem stomach area--awesome. Not that I know about that sort of thing.)

Finally, find our way out of this date trap and on to, none other than, the grocery store. Bing! cherries, $1.99 a pound. Travis' favorite. Cripes. At least we didn't end up at Menard's; or is it, Menards.

Sweet peas in the morning!

2010-07-07T14:14:00.013-05:00

Back from vacation: Day Whatever

I just enjoy being totally disconnected from life. I was in the lake country of southern Minnesota for the past two weeks. Quality family time was spent.

A few miles up the road the town of Glenwood, MN, where my Grandfather Lindquist lived in his youth.

No newspaper, television, computer, nor phone call to break my grip of lost reality. Tunes consisted mostly of cassettes, a dubbed Beatles tape from dad and Dwight Yoakam from brother; oldies on the radio.

I returned from my summer vacation with an awesome tan and knee high weeds in my garden. Knee high by the Fourth of July—works for corn and weeds.

I now know why my grandmother stooped when she stood.

Took me about eight hours to clean out the weeds and it's not complete. But mostly. It'll stay just so.

Everything in the garden came up in the two weeks I was gone. The romaine was spotty, but will be plenty. My tomatoes are producing. Sweet peas are podding, etc… It's a garden, things grow.

Shrubs have flourished. Temps are above 50 during the night, 70-80s in the day. It finally looks and feels like summer in North Dakota.

Garden Entry

2010-06-15T14:16:00.004-05:00

Purple bunching onions are up, finally. Carrots came up a few days ago. Kohlrabi has been up for about a week and a half. Dill from two year old seeds from my mother's garden doesn't look to be lively. Cilantro is slowly but surely growing, planted those as sprouts. The romaine lettuce is showing no signs. Tomatoes are all doing great, didn't lose a one. No blossoms. Thinned the kohlrabi. Weeded a little in between all the rows. Cucumbers look a little peaked. Sweet peas are winding to their supports. Both were planted as sprouts.

Plan: Will buy Carrington, ND, grown tomatoes sparingly in the meantime. Build possible asparagus box separate from the garden for next year. Need to buy a big sun bonnet for weeding as the little bastards are beginning to want to grow like gangbusters. It's getting warm, lots of sun. Oh, and figure out how to use a hoe and other weed popping tools. Continue to water every morning and twice on Sunday.

Lastly, harvested about fifteen cups worth of peeled and chopped rhubarb. In freezer.

2010-06-01T15:58:00.006-05:00

Every morning I walk out to my garden, forever thirsty at sunrise.

I'm raising polite veggies, too. Mama don't raise no fools.

They stand at attention when I come to see them.

"Who wants water today?" I ask lovingly but loud enough for the ones in the back to hear.

And they sit looking up at me, so quiet they are.

Then, seems all at once, they raise their leafy green hands high up to the sky.

I water at will until it seems they're quenched.

Whosits and whatnots

2010-05-29T10:38:00.006-05:00

You know it's time to shave your legs when your husband who is sitting beside you on the front porch bench in 90 degree heat says, "No wonder you're hot you have fur on your legs!"

Okay, so I've been slacking lately on the Me department. I've had a cold all week. This following both girls having the same virus for the two weeks prior. School was at its close. Last night I did the old sleep with a cough drop on my tongue all night. Woke up with the feeling of needing to barf. I haven't slept well for days. I still and will remain in viral denial and pray that the pain in my ear isn't otitis media.

Shaved my legs in the shower this morning. Ever get hair on your legs so long that you have to use a scissors on it first before the actual shaving part? Me neither. I think I may have conditioned my hair twice amid all the shaving. Hard to recall. Until I have my hair, shave, soap summer shower routine down, there's going to be a little inefficiency.

At least there wasn't a mosquito in the bathroom this morning. That's always fun. Paranoia over a bite from a whosit on your back while bathing. Always looking over your shoulder while rinsing. One eye on the bug at all times. The ceiling fan is trying to suck it up but that little snippet is hanging tight double so. He keeps adjusting his stance. I keep adjusting mine. Toweling off while still keeping tabs. Creating a circle dance keeping the hair from dripping on the floor. Finally, his doomed movement to above the toilet. Grab a Kleenex and strike. We're at peace.

I've been planting my garden the past few days, too. The tomatoes have been in for about a week now. Most managed to survive one round of thunderstorms and a god awful stretch of wind that went on for days. I think maybe one or two of my 25 didn't make it. We'll see. I also seeded two days ago. Lettuce, kohlrabi, carrots, onions, a scattering of dill. I have seedlings of sweet peas, cucumbers and cilantro that will go in after this predicted round of Memorial Day weekend storms.

I bought shrubs to plant around the house. I always manage to buy one too many than will fit. T voices reason and points out maturity growth size at the store but I wave my hand and load up the shrubbery. He humors me ever knowing of the outcome. This time was no different. So, I'll have a third rebel bush plunked down in some whatnot place in my yard. And, right again that husband of mine is.

It's interesting, once I started planting I really couldn't stop. I have the urge to plant, trim and water at all times lately. Virus be damned. Give me some dark dirt in need of a flourish. Dirt cramming underneath my fingernails. Wiping my forehead and pushing my hair back all the while leaving dark trails on my face of where my fingers have been. And then comes the watering, some for the plant and a mist for me. It's hot standing in 90 degrees. Sun kissed bliss.

Who's disturbed me or her

2010-05-29T08:04:00.008-05:00

Maybe it was the full moon that caused her to do it. Maybe it was the years of repressed childhood vendettas festering deep in the closed box she kept at her breast. Whatever spurred her on that blustery day in May to suck up tree cotton nonchalantly with the shop vac in her front yard was definitely triggered by something deeply disturbing in her mind. I've a feeling with this one and there's nothing I can do.

Car Wash

2010-05-19T10:49:00.009-05:00

Today, I am thirty-four years and three hundred sixty-five days old.

Treated myself this a.m. I used my rain check car wash at the, um, car wash. This girlie needs to drive in style today. Okay, well, it's that reason and, you know, to watch the working boys.

Those boys are such eager workers. And, in the morning? Forget it. Little go getters in their standard blue Race Day uniforms. All toned from their brushing and scrubbing for days on end. Full of energy, working off their hangovers from whatever night of debauchery that took place.

And, was my car dirty! Caked clay-dirt from bottom to top. I handed my ticket to the pre-wash guy. I dorkishly said, "It's a rain check." He handed me a red terry cloth. He didn't even look at the ticket, he couldn't be bothered. His target was my car.

I busied myself with wiping the inside of my car. I couldn't just outright stare at the guy dipping his brush, hosing and spritzing. Okay, just a little.

I thought the pre-wash guy was nice but, whoa, the drying guy was even better. Buffing down the hood, wiping my door frames while catching a glimpse of my matching kiddie seats in the back. Doh!

I'm in front desperately seeking a cool song on the radio. I settle on Blondie. One way, or another, I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha… I turn up the bass on my factory speakers. (I need new speakers.)

But, I'm no fool. Any song coming from this lady and her Camry is ancient to this boy. A recalled Toyota? No, no. Not to worry, my car wasn't in the recall. Too old school. Matches me perfectly. Any acceleration issues are coming from my own foot.

And, then, boy-man reached inside for my red terry cloth, I about drooled at his blue eyes. At least, I think they were blue; I was too busy staring at his jaw line. ...let me tell you ladies, it's all about the finish. He asked if I wanted air freshener. I said, "No."

Those two boys worked their back ends off. Took what? A good fifteen minutes. Can't argue with that.

I think you mean wonderland!

2010-05-07T09:10:00.033-05:00

"Wasteland? I think you mean wonderland! ...Sno-cone?" -Monsters Inc.

...and we have snow on the ground today. Weather service states seven miles north of Bismarck received three inches of snow. Five inches near Mandan. Bowman at eight inches for the win. Where is Bowman? Southwest corner of the state. It's still lightly snowing now, flurry-ish, but seems to be melting as it hits the ground. I don't think anybody is really surprised--it's May, snow in June would turn more heads.

I wonder if it's okay to wear snow boots in May? What does Oprah say? Can I get somebody to check that for me? I remember years ago her saying it's not okay to wear white after Labor Day, which was no big secret when she said it but I think it's set in stone now. So, back to the boots? Yes, no, what if they're white?

Look, my tomato plants are nice and snug inside and growing like weeds. Screw you, snow!

It's Not Polite to Stare

2010-05-03T16:12:00.003-05:00

(I realized as I got to the end of this that it is more for me than you so if you so happen to want to read on—kudos.)

Did I tell you about the time I crashed and burned with a motorcycle? Literally. First came the crash and then, the burn.

I'm one of the reasons your mother tells you, "It's not polite to stare." It's not polite to stare. It's not polite to stare. Yeah, and if you get caught in that stare, you better have the balls to come up with something quick, such as, "How did that happen?"

Your stare drums up all sorts of memories for the one carrying the scar. So, best not stare lest ye want to induce unhappiness upon the person being stared at. I'm trying to imagine an instance when a scar is a good thing—a tattoo? I suppose a person with a tattoo wants to be stared at… Regardless, it's selfish, staring is a selfish act.

It took many years before I could really think about the accident and not get upset. I think every child in a hospital healing physically from a trauma should have mandatory counseling from a licensed psych doc, whether or not her head looks to need it. It took several months to get the sights and sounds of the crash out of my head. A body makes odd sounds when air is forcefully expelled out of it upon an impact. Singeing flesh on a hot exhaust pipe. My cousin picking the bike up off of me. Me struggling to get out from under. When it was all said and done, I noticed that the weather was lovely.

My leg was so badly burned behind the knee that my leg held itself at a ninety degree angle. About thirty percent of the skin on my leg was a large white callus—classic third degree burn. It didn't hurt, the nerves were toast. I couldn't resist touching the callus lightly with my finger and so I did; it was hard. The callus acts as a temporary band-aid for the tissue underneath, but then after a day or so, um…the body starts the healing process.

I wouldn't look at that part of my leg again until months later after the skin grafting was completed and only because I forced myself to. In the shower by myself with my mother standing on the bath mat, close enough to know I looked and why I started crying. I think she said matter-of-factly something to the effect of it not being that bad. There's really nothing to be said at a moment like that.

I don't think I ever really felt too sorry for myself. One time, as I watched my brother and sister playing in the backyard from a chair with my leg propped up, I do remember making a comment to my mother like, "I wish I could run and play on the grass." She pretty much told me to hush up.

A nice man with a full-sized pickup stopped to help. I sat on his tailgate while my cousin on the second motorcycle that we had been following drove back into town for help. No cell phones back then. It was Mother's Day, 1987. The nice man with the pickup walked with a limp, told us due to his own motorcycle accident. Must have been hard for him to see us standing beside the gravel road with the bike in the ditch. My aunt sent him a huge bouquet of flowers for stopping to help.

Next, the sight of my aunt's car flying over the hills out on that gravel road near the middle of nowhere to get to us. Entering the Dickinson ER. My cousin was flipping out on the gurney next to me, the curtain pulled shut. He was bleeding from gashes in his arm and leg. He was driving, me hanging on behind. Driving too fast on that gravel road around the curve. Both with shorts on but helmets secured. Seems to me accidents happen when cousins get together.

The pain meds shot into my butt every morning were close to useless for my whirlpool treatments. Me, mechanically lowered into a stainless steel tub-sized whirlpool on a steel chair to start the daily cleansing of the wound with a washcloth. The meds made me hot and nauseous. Those therapists didn't get paid enough.

Three surgeries just for irrigation and debridement of the wound with, I'm sure, a more effective sloughing technique using what I can only imagine to be steel wool and brush. At some point I was told my aunt scraped my skin off the motorcycle tail pipe and muffler. "Oh, the muffler, too," we all said while nodding. Like, of course, now it all makes perfect sense.

Then, there's the actual skin grafting part. Makes you feel a little like Frankenstein's monster. Doctors stretching skin here with balloons implanted under your skin. Prepping skin there with more debridement. Trimming a little skin from here and sewing it onto there. Scar here, scar there. No infections. Success!

I did have all the Catholics in the family praying for me. Old nuns and priests—the Catholics with clout. I like to think they had something to do with the ease of the modus operandi. Perhaps it was all the doctor's doing.

Dr. Gruver. I got to know him well. He had oodles of adopted children and a mean mess of an office. He took photos of my wounds throughout the treatment process in order to lecture about it afterwards. Mine was a larger than usual area that he was performing a full-thickness skin graft on; and, he and others thought the ordeal needed to be documented, shared and taught from, I guess. My parents signed releases. He switched to straight cosmetic plastic surgery doctoring after a few years. Can't blame him.

It took about ten years for me to stop thinking about the accident and its aftermath every single day. Twenty years to look at the scar without it being a reminder. And, you know, what I've told you ain't even the half of it. I'm lucky, though; my scars are easily covered by a pair of jeans.

I remember leaving the ER for the drive to the Bismarck hospital and over my shoulder saying, "Thank you," to my cousin. I meant it to mean thanks for pulling me out from under the bike, but I don't know if he took it that way. We've never really talked to each other about any of it since. Which is weird, that's weird, right? I don't personally fault him for the accident, no hard feelings whatsoever. I truly believe my ordeal was meant to happen.

He still drives a motorcycle, though. Me—never, not interested, uh-uh, crazy talk…

Last night after I finished writing this, my kid asked, "What's that on your knee?" The non-burned plain road rash area. So, that led to looking behind my knee and then a full-on explanation in 1^st grader terms as to the cause, treatment and end result of a burn. She wanted to know all the details. I haven't had to explain this out loud to another person in years (it was still, surprisingly, a little nerve-racking.) I forgot how honest, innocent and willing kids are to know things and how they aren't afraid to ask questions.

Now. Quit staring at me. Didn't your mother ever tell you, "It's not polite to stare?"

2010-04-28T10:49:00.009-05:00

Cotton Candy anyone?

I kissed the boys back in days of innocence
pale green as spring's first leaves.
Late through the night 'til the come up sun
I'd toy with the boys chewing bubble gum.
They took what I gave never mind what they missed
they knew more than me their deserves.
But once in a while, one special guy would arrive,
he'd take the lead and I'd come alive.
Eyes opened wider; embraced with new delights
to take back to the boys of my cotton candy nights.

My Food Plan

2010-04-17T17:00:00.009-05:00

My husband and I have decided to start eating healthier. The winter holidays have passed, a couple birthday party dinners and then, Easter. That last one, with a plentitude of food stuffs, was the last defining moment to our excessive eating and a wake-up call to us both.

Emerging from our pseudo winter hibernation and with spring's arrival, we decided it was a great starting point towards healthier eating. Neither of us have a weight problem per se nor do we eat a lot of processed snack food, but the way in which we had begun to treat food seemed to be the beginning of what could potentially lead to unhealthy problems. Winters seem to be a time of extra eating anyway and we indulged ourselves in the past snowy months. We wanted to be proactive about our eating habits and decided a change was in order.

Also, I have a minor stomach issue, acid reflux, so overeating and spicy type foods usually give me pause anyway. A few months ago, we had dinner at the home of friends who happen to be vegetarians. We had a meal of veggies, rice and beans with a little salsa and cheese. My usual after dinner stomach upset was absent yet, I was still satiated.

Why was that? I thought. Maybe a lack of fatty and rich meat? So, I started a little experiment on myself and reduced the amount of meat product I ate in a day. That little change seemed to abate the after meal tummy problems I had, especially after the evening meal.

Now, I'm pretty sure I'm not living in an ideal environment to go complete vegetarian-for-healthy-eating. My husband is pure North Dakota hunter, fisherman, and general outdoorsman. Our freezer is stocked year round with venison, duck, pheasant, grouse, turkey, and fish with an oddity such as bear meat thrown in from time to time.

We also share the meat from a steer (I believe it's a steer) each year with relatives for our beef products. The steer is raised locally on acres upon acres of grazing land but still obtains its required vaccines and any other mystery injections because after all, in the end, our lone cattle and his pals were destined to end up at public auction. But, at least I know my ground hamburger and cuts of beef are from the one steer chosen by the one farmer just for me. It's a start.

I'm all into organic and naturally raised food products lately, too. My husband's hunting skills help us to fall effortlessly into the category of eating naturally raised foods. How much more natural can you get with a meat product than a completely wild animal living in nature's intended environment? I just have to start reducing the amount of meat consumed per sitting because well, protein shouldn't be the biggest portion of a meal.

The USDA Recommended Daily Allowance is 2 to 3 servings of protein per day with one serving equaling 2 to 3 ounces of cooked lean meat, poultry or fish or 1½ cup cooked dry beans. Eggs and nuts also fall into the protein category among a few other items. So, I have decided to decrease the size of my family's main meat dish and add a second vegetable or fruit along with wheat bread. And, once my garden starts growing, our veggies will be completely homegrown.

This will be my first summer planting a garden after having moved back to Bismarck, North Dakota, about three years ago. I really truly think people have forgotten what a good vegetable tastes like. You really do not need a pile of a processed sour cream dip to dunk your carrot sticks in. A tomato shouldn't have a layer of wax on the outside that cannot be removed upon the recommended water rinse. And, apples shouldn't taste bland. I've changed from buying the cheapest vegetable or fruit in the grocery store to consciously buying the most organically grown item instead or if there is no best choice, not buying it at all.

An organic label has always been confusing to me. A paragraph in the book, Food Inc., clarified for me what organic really means. To summarize their description of organic labeling: 1) "100% Organic" label on a product means it is food produced organically at every level. 2) "Organic" means at least 95% of the ingredients are organic and the other percentage falls under a strict USDA guide list. 3) "Made with Organic" means that at least 70% of the product is organic.

So, I figure even with the lowest level of organic labeling on a product it is still better than a product with no organic labeling at all. Buying more organic foods is one step in my quest to better feed me and my family. Another step I'm trying to take is to buy more food items from local sources.

I now buy my milk and yogurt from Bessy's Best, a company that states on its product label "Milked & bottled fresh at Bessy's family farm in Sterling, N.D." It's a Pride of Dakota product. They only bottle whole milk, but I figure the extra fat is okay considering it takes my entire family of four up until the expiration date to finish off a half-gallon and therefore, we're not overdoing it on the milk fat intake. They also make a few different types of cheeses.

Now, onto the tough part, to convince the kids that lunch trips to McDonalds is completely unnecessary and a huge waste of money, not to mention the excess of food packaging materials. McDonald's Happy Meal toys are my arch nemesis. If McDonald's really wants to seriously create a change in their customer's eating habits, ditch the Happy Meal altogether and quash the toys. Any kid friendly product needs to go bye-bye. Ronald McDonald and his friends need to become long-lost relatives.

(I apologize to all the Chinese laborers who desperately need to make my American product in order to save their own livelihoods. What you may not know is that the cheap toy product you just worked on all day is now in my trash bin. These toys are a marketing ploy of genius.)

I personally classify all burger joints and other classic fast food restaurants as glorified junk food in my head. Two McDonald's Cheeseburger Happy Meals in my town costs $7.04. If you buy that kind of food, don't complain to me about how much more expensive organic products are in the grocery store. Instead of wasting my money at these glutinous fast food restaurants and their one-shot meals, I choose to buy good quality nutritious food ingredients from the grocery store that can be served in my homemade meals for a week.

I understand the busy mother who absentmindedly zips through the drive-through to provide for her family, I've been there. We moms get exhausted sometimes. But, are we really saving time and effort in the end? Don't we complain that we don't sit down at the dinner table for quality time with our children?

Why not create a social family event of meals with children becoming more involved with preparation. Studies have shown that kids are more apt to eat something they have a hand in preparing and at any step in the process of the food from dirt to table. Couldn't we be spending time with our kids and eating more nutritiously all in one hour-long event? Children scarfing down value meals in the back seat of a vehicle does not quality time make.

What example am I setting for my children? Food should be good, nutritious and meals should have significance. My next step in my new eating plan, in addition to changing up food portions and quality, is to start canning and freezing my fresh veggies from the garden along with seasonal fruit that is locally grown and purchased. I have five apple trees that have yet to produce, too--here's crossing my fingers we see some action from them this year.

I'm taking this in baby steps because I really do want to change my eating habits permanently for the betterment of my life and family. Enough subtle differences added here and there will add up to a big change in the end. Hopefully, others begin sensing a need for change in their own eating habits. With enough people wanting change, I think the future is wide open for how our society produces and consumes food.

I'm starting in my own home. Will you?

Silly Pinball Girl

2010-04-08T10:23:00.010-05:00

Thrown into the hold, the plunger strikes.
Receptive, she is pushed through the entry ramp to life.
Looking up, she sees her world in the looking-glass ceilinged machine.

To drift down to the lone bottom, she refuses.
She is joyful to be bumped and shot upward by their ideas.
At time violent, sometimes a tap, now and then she's purposely held back.

She is beautiful, too, shiny and polished.
Bright; she is ever sentient of her surroundings.
A perfect, reflective sphere, she knows she must have a piece of them on her.

Some kick her towards the backglass and she willingly consents.
Some expel her near to doom; she retightens her coils, takes aim at her next target.
Always, she keeps her movement within the playfield. (Who is using whom?)

She fears to leave their influence.
Secure in the lights and noise.
Her own thoughts, unreliable.
Their thoughts are her truth.

To tilt would be devastation.
No one to send her spinning.
She's water in her mind.
Here, she's solid earth.

She feels worthless by herself.
Always needing to please.
She lets them choose her path.
Kick her and she'll roll.

I heard how she acted.
I caught a glance of her demeanor.
I saw through her.
She was wary when we met.
She knew who I was.
Silly pinball girl.

April Storm

2010-04-03T12:45:00.018-05:00

Snowstorm/ice storm yesterday. It was the type of snow that would have snapped our jack pines in half at our house in the woods of northern MN. (One of my favorite noises.)

We got about five inches of snow; rain turned to icy snow and sleet, and as the temps rose, everything became wet and slushy. But, the snow kept falling all day. And, windy! Gusts from 30-45 mph. It finished with big tongue catching snowflakes. Water equivalent of 1.5 to 2 inches. The sun was shining at sunset.

The ice portion of the storm did its damage in just an hour or two. Our power went out at around 10 a.m. and according to the flashing clocks, came back on around 7 p.m. Many power lines and trees and/or branches down in and around Bismarck and surrounding counties. Poles that were newly replaced from a January ice storm throughout ND fell again.

We're lucky being so close to town. Some households will be without power for days, maybe weeks. They are estimating around 7000 households lost power in central ND. Not as bad as the January storm. But for some farmers now, they'll be dealing with calving in this mess. Temps are expected to return to 40s and 50s from today on out, though.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. We left for my parents house with the kids around 5 p.m. and stayed overnight. I haven't stayed the night at my parents house in years. Kind of trippy. Me and my sister's old bedrooms are both storage/guest rooms now. They both need to be updated.

I'm not too sentimental about my old room, or the house for that matter. Got along with the folks. Cleaned mom's kitchen. Had a nice talk that evening along with a few drinks, too. Left before lunchtime today. And, sometime in the past 24 hours, a few of my tomato plants sprouted. Joy!

Springtime in NoDak

2010-03-29T13:21:00.004-05:00

I walked outside with bare feet for the first time today this year.

Nearly April. Nearly Easter. One thing about Easter in North Dakota is that you are never promised perfect weather. We usually have rain or snow, or both. The earlier the Easter, the better the odds for cold holiday memories involving in-house egg hunts.

Easter falls on April 4 this year. Cute little girl dresses, white gloves, and spring hats amass the stores here, but I never fall victim to buying them for my girls. More than likely the expensive dresses are covered with this year's worn and tattered winter coat along with mismatched gloves and cap. Don't waste your money on buckled sandals, snow boots will work better. I'm a practical mom. (My poor kids.)

North Dakota has April blizzards. Sometimes snow falls in May, and/or June, which makes today's bare foot trip all the better. The ground is warm. My toes, pale. Our snow is almost entirely melted except the areas where the drifts rose to around five feet. Our snow fall is above normal this year alone. Our winter is not officially over for us, but our seasonal snow total is likely to be high, also.

New kitty, aka Charlie, aka Charlie Boy, aka Snuggly Boy, was finally able to prowl about on the grass yesterday as it was around 60 degrees. Not yet a year old, his fur is thin and he still prefers sunny carpet spots and laying beside the registers that expel warm air for naps inside. Our big, treeless yard makes him mindful of his freedom. Timid kitty, add that to his list of names.

Weatherman prediction for today: 70 degrees. The end of the week, wintery mix of precip. I think North Dakotans in general are obsessed about weather. Ask anybody at anytime around here, they all know the forecast. Weather is a moot point and really doesn't need to be talked about, unless you're bragging, of course. We are proud of our weather. We all have a story about any given weather event at any time. Ever.

The grass is crusty brown and fire bans are already in effect. My lilacs have tiny buds. Yes, they do! Look real close. Rhubarb is questionable, I'd say no on the new growth. No to all my shade plants. Somebody mentioned her strawberries were already coming up. I seeded my cherry, roma, and yellow tomato plants yesterday, too. Must take note of that and see how they do this year. My first year of indoor seeding for a garden--I'm expecting failure, but hoping for picture perfect.

2010-03-26T11:53:00.004-05:00

Who am I to think I'm all that? I feel the parental thumb pushing down atop my head. "You stay put," she says. With that simple act, I submit.

Blogs aren't stupid.

2010-03-26T10:30:00.001-05:00

Hi. Blogs aren't stupid. This is something I've had to tell myself in order to get started on my own blog. I used to think blogs were only for mouthy dudes with unresolved personal issues. But then, I came upon nice blogs from people I know. These writers, er, bloggers speak with inspirational poems and essays. There--that's what I want to do! Blogs don't necessarily have to come across as elitist and loud and full of empty nothings. My blog will be what I make it, so let's see how we form, shall we? I chose to start a blog in order to have a safe place to go to voice my creative ideas. Somewhere without confinements. Where I can be open. I've had citizen "life" columns published in the Bismarck Tribune, but those are kept to 500 words a pop. I want a place to write without being limited to letter counts (facebook) or words (newspaper.) Or, self-censorship. I may drop a swear word from time to time. I may covertly hash out a personal issue. I won't be perfect all the time. I'll try not to be boring. I also find that if I have an audience (you, the reader) it works better for me. Just the thought of you will work, too.

Finally, in the words of Paul McCartney, "I don't take me seriously. If we get some giggles, I don't mind."