Lioness

A special person in my life had a birthday so I made her this lioness mosaic.  It's a lioness leaping from one rock to another over a gully.  I had a ton of fun making the mosaic and I think it turned out well, so well I almost kept it for myself.  Plus I got to use some of the blue glass I bought a couple months ago. This person has a theory that all people fall into one of three categories:  a lion, a golden retriever, or an otter.  A lion is a leader of others.  A golden retriever's main objective is to please others.  An otter is impulsive and in the moment; not one to plan ahead or be dependable.  She perceives herself to be a blend of lion and golden retriever and she is working on reducing the golden retriever tendencies.  So I made her this lion mosaic and if she likes it half as much as I enjoyed making and giving it to her, I have done well.

Happy Birthday

If my older sister had lived to be old enough to work, she would be 65 today and eligible to retire.  Here is our picture with our matching tennis shoes.  I miss her terribly and think of her all the time.  Even though she has been gone for nearly 60 years, her voice is still in my head. The sentences I imagine her saying to me are always kind and supportive and uplifting.  Her spirit has gotten me through some difficult times.  She died so young.  She was just a child actually.  And even though she died at the tender age of seven she remains one of the most influential people in my life.

I Made A Walrus

Today was a beautiful day outside.  The temperature went up to 60 degrees in February no less.  I saw people walking their dogs, biking, motorcycling, and pulling children in a wagon.  How did I enjoy my afternoon outside?  I set my yard on fire.  In the prairie area east of the house I set about 15 fires.  I did it safely.  I lit one at a time.  With the wet ground and the snow piles, I didn't think things would get out of hand.

Hopefully my big bluestem and Indian grass will grow better after the burn.  Plus I got to indulge the pyromaniac side of me. I could actually hear the snow sizzle on this fire.

When I light a circle of grass, I don't know which way the fire will grow.  In this case the fire formed a cursive capital F (for fire maybe) and a walrus.

Killed By A What?

Today I read an article in the Duluth News Tribune about an incident that happened in Spring Valley, Wisconsin last year on the 4th of July.  This is just such a strange story you know it's not fiction.  A local farmer hears noises at the neighboring farm.  She thinks she hears the sound of a cannon over and over again but she doesn't complain because she doesn't want to disrupt the party.  The next day she goes into her barn where she finds a hole in the roof of the barn and a bowling ball in hay of the horse stall.  She calls the police to complain.  Later she finds one of her horses dead in the pasture with a bump on it's head and a bowling pin nearby.  She finds bowling pins and bowling balls all over the pasture. Police investigate the matter.  The neighbor admits her brother was firing a cannon at her house at her 4th of July party.  She said he said it was safe.  She said he said all the bowling balls would land on her property and be buried deep into the soil.  Well, he was wrong.  He was so wrong he put a hole in the roof of a barn and killed a horse with a bowling pin.  He killed a horse by shooting a bowling pin out of a cannon.  Geez!  What are the chances?  And why can't I be invited to fun parties where cannons are fired?

Nurse Jackie

I like a story well told and the HBO series, "Nurse Jackie," is  a story well told.  I borrowed the series from my local library because I don't have cable television and last night I finished season 7; the final season.  I couldn't stop thinking about Jackie.  Jackie.  She is a sinner.  She is a saint.  Jackie is an addict.  And just when I think, "Oh, she wouldn't do that," Jackie does just that.  Jackie is fascinating but so is Zooey and Coop and Eddie and Nurse Akilitis and Thor and Jackie's two daughters.  "Nurse Jackie" is just a story but I'm going to miss these people and I'm going to miss All Saints Hospital in Manhattan.

Innocent Child

As I approached the building where I work this afternoon, I saw a parent and a child on the sidewalk nearing the first lane of traffic in the parking lot.  The parent was not holding the child's hand.  The child looked to be about three years old.  I heard the parent say, "What are you, stupid?  Don't you know enough to watch for cars in the parking lot?"  I've seen other examples of less than optimal parenting styles in the building but this one made my eyes well up.  I need to remember this interaction.  The next time I encounter someone who is rude or angry or who seems to have an overabundance of emotional baggage, I want to remember this child I saw today. I wish I could inoculate them with resilience.  I can't fix it.  I'm pretty sure this child will have issues as an adult. What I can do is try to refrain from judging people.  What I can do is try to make all my interactions with others a positive experience or at least a neutral experience.  I can try to avoid negative interactions with others.  It's the least I can do.  That poor kid today was just an innocent child.

The Book of Life

I read Upton Sinclair's The Book of Life: Volume 1, Mind and Body.  I thought it would be interesting to read something by Sinclair since he was a prize winning journalist and I already loved his book The Jungle.  The Jungle exposed the dark side of the meat packing industry and the Food and Drug Administration was started in part because of this novel.   I liked that story and that is why I chose this one which is full of advice from Upton to us.  After reading this book, if I had to picture Upton Sinclair he would look like Bernie Sanders.  Sinclair was a socialist.  He writes about the dangers of capitalism.  He was a free thinker.  I find it incredible that this book, written in 1921, nearly 100 years ago, talks about current events like diet and disease, vaccines, and the health benefits of nature.  One of the things he write very early in the book has stuck with me for weeks now.  He wrote that the pursuit of money is human cannibalism.  How could that be?  I work for money.  I pursue money by working 40 hours a week.  Am I a cannibal?  A cannibal eats the flesh of another animal of the same kind.  I don't do that!  But then I started thinking about people who pursue money more seriously than I do.  What about Martin Shkreli?  Is he a cannibal?  He changed the price of a pill that fights parasites from $13.50 to $750.  Why did he raise the price that much?  He says, and I quote, "If there was a company that was selling an Aston Martin at the price of a bicycle, and we buy that company and we ask to charge Toyota prices, I don’t think that that should be a crime".  I think Upton Sinclair is right.  The single-minded pursuit of money makes us cannibals.  Martin Shkreli is a cannibal and he's not the only one.  This book is old but still true.

Three Years Ago

Just three years ago I was in the land down under, eating Vegemite on my toast and driving on the other side of the road.  My trip to Australia was really fabulous and I wish I could do it again with my new hip and improved gait.  I doubt it would be nearly as grand as the first time though.  Australia has so many things to see.  I could spend weeks there and not even go to the same cities or roads.  It's the sixth largest country.  The nature there was fabulous but other countries have nature too and I might as well explore other parts of the world before returning to Australia.  Three years have gone by already.  Life goes fast sometimes.

The End

Yesterday I heard a story about a young woman who quit her job.  To mark the occasion she held a ceremonial burning of her uniform.  I saw pictures of the uniform burning.  Someone must have soaked it in a bit of fuel because that thing was burning 18 inches up into the air.  The pictures I saw on the phone were quite awesome.  The same day I hard about a football player ending his career with a picture of him riding off into the sunset. I like ceremonial endings like that.  I believe it is important to mark transitions with symbols and celebrations. Life is short.  Why not celebrate all that we can?

Sister Act

I went to the theater last night to see "Sister Act."  Dinner and a show is always nice in Chanhassen but lordy, Chanhassen is a long way away.  Like Cinderella I got home just before midnight. I could have used toothpicks to keep my eyes open today because I got 3 hours less sleep than I am accustomed to but it was worth it. I can sleep when I am dead. I was a little worried about going.  Sometimes I revert to a self-conscious eight year old shy girl when I see a nun in full habit.  In this show the nuns were not intimidating.  The nuns were marvelous.  The star who played Deloris was very talented.  Of course she wasn't a nun, she was a talented singer in a night club. Besides a good singing voice and a great ability to dance, I was impressed by the expressive way she moved her beautifully toned arms.  From the way she moved I would guess she has some anxiety issues because she wasn't still even when she was standing still.  All the nuns were great.  What intimidated me (and others) was Clarence.  Clarence is the reason Deloris has to go into hiding at the convent.  So we know that he is a dangerous fellow.  As I watched Clarence sing the song, "When I Find My Baby," I felt very intimidated. He came across as dangerous.  He so convincingly combined his feelings of lust and murder in this song that he had "Domestic Abuser" written all over him.  Three songs come after his solo and before the intermission but my feelings of fear and disgust hung with me.  I swear, if he walked up to my booth during the intermission I might have screamed.  I know it's a show and I normally don't feel this strongly at shows but Clarence really got to me.  We don't see much of Clarence again until the final scene and that was fine by me.  When the nuns band around Delores and kick the bully Clarence to the curb at the end of the show everybody in the theater clapped heartily.  Delores learns she doesn't need fox fur and glitter to be a star.  Her talent is evident no matter what she wears.  Sister Act was a great show and I was lucky to be invited.

This Is The Story Of A Happy Marriage

As part of my Ann Patchett obsession lately, I also read This Is The Story Of A Happy Marriage by guess who?  Ann Patchett. This is more of a collection of essays, articles and one speech than a novel.  After reading this collection I am more in love with the author than before.  Her writing is spare.  Every word is necessary.  She works hard at being an author.  One essay is on how to write. Practice, she says, practice writing two hours a day.  Practice sitting at a desk with your writing tools and even if you don't write, sit there for two hours daily and eventually the writing will come.  She writes about relationships and she doesn't pretend to be better at it than others.  I really enjoyed her speech to a college writing class.  The speech was about censorship and prior to giving the speech some influential people wanted her banned from the campus because of a novel she wrote about her friendship with another woman entitled Truth and Beauty.  Now I want to read Truth and Beauty.  What does it say about me than I am drawn to read books that other people want banned?  I guess I have a defiant streak.  Sounds funny to think of reading a book as being defiant.  Other people march in the streets or break laws. Whereas I'm so bada$$ I'll go the library and read a book!  Take That!

What's In Your Back Seat?

I'm not sure why but one of my coworkers has decided it is time I started dating again.  She's after me to get on it.  She herself has paid for a year of match.com and is now a member of plentyoffish.  "Have you signed up yet?" she'll ask with a smile.  I tell her no and she gives me a five minute speech on why I should.  I thank her for her interest and acknowledge she is challenging me and she goes away happy.  She cracks me up.  She sometimes doesn't even know when she is funny.  Take this recent example:  "You'll know when they want to stay over," she tells me because she knows I haven't dated since the 1970's, "You'll see his CPAP machine in the back seat."  She means well but she's not very convincing.

Tumbling

I got what I wanted for Christmas this year.  I got a rock tumbling kit.  (If you keep an Amazon wish list updated you just might get what you want).  When I was a child my neighbor tumbled rocks.  I was a bit afraid of the man but I did admire his shiny rocks.  I've been tumbling rocks for a month now in my lower level.  I set the tumbler in an area as far away from my bedroom as physically possible while still being warm.  In summer I can tumble rocks in the garage but not in the winter because I'm afraid the water in the tumbler would freeze solid.  I put the tumbler in a cardboard box and covered it with a chair and a heavy quilt to muffle the sound.  With the tumbler came a supply of rocks. As you can see in my picture some were clear, some white, a couple purple ones, and a couple granite rocks.  The center blue/gray rock was from my own yard.  In December I mistook it for a blue potato so I decided to polish it up.  Wow, the rocks in my yard must be softer than the others because this rock lost at least half of it's volume.  Loosing 30% of volume is typical when a rock gets tumbled.  I had a little trouble with my tumbling.  The first cycle with the coarsest grit went fine.  The second cycle was troubling.  I wasn't careful enough to make a good seal with vegetable oil.  Water leaked from the tumbler.  The grit got into the lid and turned into cement.  I cemented the lid of my tumbler on tight.  There was no budging it.  So I soaked the tumbler in water for 5 days.  I have to be really careful not to get this grit into my sink because it will cement the pipes shut. Every day I would try to open the tumbler without luck.  I would dig a little bit of grit out of the lid at a time.  One the fifth day I finally got it open again. Now I know. Carefully apply fresh oil to the lid before tumbling. Best way to learn a lesson is the hard way.  My rock tumbler came with some jewelry clasps for key chains and "one size fits all" rings.  I really don't know what I am going to do with all these polished rocks.  I'd like to start a collection of Saint Cloud granite and Lake Superior granite polished rocks.  I'll think of something to do with them, right?

Gravitational Waves Made Me Do It

In science news today we learn that gravitational waves, predicted by Albert Einstein a long time ago, are real.  The waves are hard to detect but are real.  This explains so much for me personally and from today forward will be my excuse for a lot of things.  This morning, for example, at 6 o'clock, the gravity was extra strong because I had to exert all my will to rise out of my warm, soft bed.  Six o'clock on a Saturday morning in May when the warblers are migrating is different.  Then the gravity is light and I practically float out of bed.  So don't blame me for not wanting to get out of bed on a cold, dark winter morning. Blame gravitational waves.

The Actual Cakes

Appreciation

Today at work we had a potluck appreciation lunch for our custodian, K.  K is awesome.  He is helpful and creative and cheerful and sincere and interesting and he gets things done.  We ask him to do something and he smiles and says okay and he gets it done.  Extraordinary!  He goes out of his way to help us out.  He is very unlike all previous custodians.  He even made me a steel plate to put under my kickstand which helps me and also prevents holes being punched into the asphalt parking lot.  An appreciation potluck was a great idea.  People made posters for him and he loved it.  One of the people I work with is married to a woman who took classes on baking cakes.  She's good at making cakes and he must be good at asking her to make cakes.  For K's potluck appreciation lunch she made two cakes.  One was a dome shaped pinkish brown  cake with a wooden dowel in the middle.  The other cake was also round but white with fondant that came in layers.  Yes, that is right, she made a plunger cake and a roll of toilet paper cake.  Quite often we ask K to help us out with a plunger. She didn't use that nasty fondant you buy off the shelf that tastes terrible.  She made her own fondant out of marshmallow and powdered sugar.  The cakes were awesome.  Awesome in appearance but not popular to eat.  The dowel was removed out of the plunger cake and once slice was taken out in order to get people started on eating it. K ate that piece.  Good old K.  What a man.  No one else ate plunger cake.  Was it the color of the frosting?  Was it the shape of such an important and functional tool that turned people off?  Are all my coworkers suddenly concerned about carbs?  No, it wasn't about the carbs.  I'm pretty sure it was the shape.  What is used to clear clogged pipes can not be easily passed over the lips.  They ate the roll of toilet paper cake though.  Best cake and worst cake together on the same table.  The important thing is K appreciated the gesture and got the message that we appreciate him.

What Alice Forgot

My book club read What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarity.  Last year we read Still Alice which was another novel written about a woman named Alice who lost her memory.  What are the chances?  This Alice had a concussion and lost all memory of the past ten years including the births of her three children.  Can you imagine something like that happening?  You wake up from hitting your head at the gym and wake up, not pregnant anymore, but the mother of three children?  The book is set in a suburb of Sydney but it took me a long time to figure that out.  With the kindergarten room mothers and the lines at school to pick up the kids it seemed Moriarty was writing about life in these United States.  Helicoptering parents are universal I guess.  The moral of the story is to pay close attention to what really  matters.  Don't get swept up by the business of parenthood and the competition with other parents.  Stay true to yourself and your beliefs.  Do it now.  Don't wait to get knocked on the head to make it happen.  We had a great discussion in my book club about this book.  Moriarity is a big writer in Australia and one of the only writers ever to have three best sellers on the New York Times best seller list.

Appreciating Good Directions

I appreciate a good set of directions.  Back in the years before children but after college graduation I took a technical writing class at the University of Minnesota.  I toyed with the idea of becoming a technical writer for a time.  "Use the active voice," said the instructor. I struggled with using the active voice that until I realized he meant to write the directions to sound like a recipe.  Recipes I can write.  This weekend I got a good set of directions with my platform bed and it was a breeze, no, more than a breeze, it was a Zen experience to put the bed together.  Carrying all the wood upstairs wasn't a load of fun but putting it together was because the instructions were well written.  Using a screw driver, an Allen wrench and keeping my magnifying glasses on my head, I was calm and relaxed and happy while I worked.  No doubt the writer of these instructions actually had the experience of  putting this bed together.  The mattress feeds much more comfortable than my old mattress.  My back was unusually sore on Monday though but I hope that was from all the carrying, bending and stooping I did while following the directions and not from the new mattress.  Now, when I sleep, it's quiet.  I can turn over without listening to my old brass bed frame creak and squeak in complaint. 

One Day

Dexter and Emma.  Emma and Dexter.  These are the two characters in One Day by David Nicholls.  I chose this book because I had just finished another book by him (Us) that I liked better than this one.  Dexter is not a likable character.  He drinks too much.  He is lazy and impulsive and hedonistic; not to mention selfish.   Maybe he has ADHD.  Sometimes the worst characters make for good stories.  The book took hours and hours to read and 95% of the time I did not like Dexter.  Much of the time I didn't like Emma either because she liked Dexter.  Their relationship is outlines over 20 years and is updated on Saint Swithin's Day (July 15) from 1988 to 2008.  Their relationship is on and off mostly because Dexter is such a stupid jerk.  I never thought it would happen but in the last few pages, I came to like Dexter.  Good story to be able to change my mind like that.

I Don't Want To Go To Heaven If I Can't Get In

As I choose a locker at the gym tonight I smile at a lady who is also choosing a locker.  I think I've seen her before but I'm not sure.  Music plays over the loud speaker.  A voice sings: I don't want to go to heaven if I can't get in.  "What the hell does that mean?" she asks me.   I tell her I like songs more for their peppiness and their music and how they make me feel; not so much about the words.  I told her that when my offspring was younger I was really concerned about the lyrics of Marilyn Manson.  I lost sleep over Marilyn Manson and his crazy lyrics.  Eventually I came to see him as a huckster.  Nastiness was his schtick. Manson was pretending to be awful so he could have more money in his pocket; not because he actually believed the lyrics he was singing.  In private life he probably drinks whole milk and eats only organic carrots.  But it wasn't until I reread the lyrics of my own favorite songs when I was a teenager that I quit worrying about silly Marilyn Manson.  Music doesn't touch my soul because of the words that are sung and the poetry of the lyrics.  Music is more primal than words.  She told me that when she was in high school her boyfriend said he could imagine his Grandmother singing, "One Toke Over The Line."  She told him no, that song was about marijuana.  We laugh and exchange looks while not really looking at each in that health club locker room sort of way.  We don't want to see each other in our underwear so eyes above the neck at all costs!  I tell her I was a huge Rod Stewart fan. Huge fan.  But his lyrics are horribly misogynistic and sexist and totes terrible.  What ever!  His music moved me.  I liked him.  Rod was my man!  That raspy voice. Those tight pants.  That swinging the microphone stand around.  The mandolin!  When he sings, "Woooo!"  My heart goes pitter pat.

Thinking Ahead To Spring

I'm trying to look past the blowing snow toward spring.  The time has come for me to think about new chickens.  With only one survivor (now named Chickenson Crusoe) I will order some new egg laying chicks.  Girls only!  I'm not interested in roosters because they are loud and unproductive.  There are so many varieties to choose from.  I think once I retire I will travel more so this might be the last bunch of chickens I will call my own. I would like cold hardy chickens and that means chickens with small combs.  I liked the Buff Orpingtons but found them impossible to tell one apart from the other.  It was impossible to name them until only one was left.  So no more Buff Orpingtons.  I liked the Americaunas I had before.  They had green eggs which were cool and they had very pleasant personalities.  They would jump up on my lap or shoulder and make me feel like a pirate.  They were easier to corral than the Buff Orpingtons.  But I would like to try a new kind too.  So I'm thinking I'll get a mix of Americaunas and Polish.  Why Polish?  Because with their mop of head feathers they look extraordinary and because I am also part Polish.  My third reason is that with feathers blocking their view they should be easier for me to catch and put back in their pen.  My neighbor had a Polish that I chicken sat for many times.  I liked that Polish neighbor and enjoyed caring for her.  Polish and Americaunas are  the plan right now anyway.

Not Me, No Thanks

One of my siblings is doing a polar plunge to raise funds for Special Olympics.  Special O has a fairly good rating for charities but I am not doing a polar plunge; no way, no how.  If I had to picture what hell would be like, it would involve jumping into ice cold water and jumping out of airplanes with a parachute.  I know my sibling will be fine. I know this because she's done it before.  I remember when she was about four years old and I was 12 or 13. We were standing on a dock on Block Lake.  My father and four sisters were standing with out backs to the shore looking out at the lake.  We had long pants and coats on but there was no ice on the lake.  My cousin came running up behind us full speed and pushed her off the dock.  Into the water she went.  She didn't know how to swim.  As I stood there in shock and awe, I could see her blonde curls about 12 inches below the level of the lake.  She turned to the right, walked underwater to the edge of the dock, took another right and walked to shore sputtering. I'll never forget the sight of it.  Once I could see she was safe I started to react by crying.  Some big sister I was!  Frozen in fear I was about as useful as a statue.  My cousin didn't mean any harm.  We didn't hold it against him.  He definitely would have been eligible for Special Olympics if it had been available back then.  We forgave him immediately of course. We were more careful standing on a dock if we knew he was around.  If as a child she could handle that moment with as much poise; she can certainly handle a polar plunge.  

Bel Canto

I'm on an Ann Patchett kick these days to I picked up Bel Canto and read it like I would eat cheese cake.  I parceled it out carefully and enjoyed every single bite.  Bel Canto, translated into English, is beautiful singing.  The story is about an opera singer who is taken hostage with 200 others by South American terrorists.  Most of the others are released after 24 hours but the opera singer and 50 men remain hostage for months.  During those months both the hostages and the hostage takers change.  Their lives and values come into sharper focus because they know they may not survive this situation.  Hidden talents emerge and relationships are formed.  The story is taken from a real life hostage situation that occurred at the Japanese Embassy in Peru.  I think it's odd to read an entire book that pretty much stays within the confines of a single house but that is what happened.  I have a picture of that house in my mind.  I can see the piano, the walled garden, the bedrooms, and the kitchen.  When a book transports me to a place like that, I know I've read a good book.