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Monday
10 minutes writing about a "Kitchen Once
Known":
A small kitchen with
limited counter space in a house in the woods, next
to a river: outside, deer raccoon, possum and even
an occasional bear visit the yard.
Inside, the kitchen
is a gathering point for enjoyment, experimentation
and laughter. Suet is rendered and seed added to
feed the birds and other wildlife. Wine is made,
which upon occasion explodes and paints the ceiling
purple. Various cuisines are tried and mostly eaten.
Not a “Better Homes
and Garden” kitchen, rather a “working” kitchen –
or, perhaps, a “work in progress. A couple of
cabinets don’t have doors as they have been removed
and new ones are being built, slowly, but
eventually. Being retired means that nothing has to
be done on a schedule – things will get done
eventually.
We work together,
cooperatively, brushing by each other, an occasional
pat as we cook, follow recipes or improvise, mostly
improvise. We have built and are continuing to build
the kitchen.
In the yard we lose
four to six oaks per year to oak wilt. We cut the
dead trees down, with a chain saw, make rough sawn
lumber, age/dry it in the garage loft for a couple
of years and run it through the planer. The grain
ands smoothness of the wood is always a
beauty to behold as it appears. This is what the
floor of the kitchen; in fact the whole house
consists of, what cabinets are made of and what the
doors to the cabinets will (eventually) be made of.
But now it is spring
time, the sap is running and it is motorcycle
weather.
Monday Evening
Assignment .
The beach is gone –
submerged under five or six feet of frigid Lake
Superior water – but the memories remain.
Five decade old
memories of traveling northward from Louisville,
past the cornfields of Illinois, the pastures of
southern Wisconsin and into the Great North Woods of
Northern Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of
Michigan: traveling to the Porcupine Mountains
(Porkies) on the shores of Lake Superior.
Traveling under the
hot August sun, in a light blue Ford, a four door
company car, a basic vehicle, with no radio or other
accouterments. On top, a homemade carrier containing
a World War II, brown, canvas army surplus wall
tent, four cots, tent poles, a couple of food boxes
and a duffel bag or two. Inside, sleeping bags,
clothing and a Coleman camp stove and fuel, shoes,
boots, axe, saw and other stuff, and as friend Jerry
says, “Stuff is important; you can never have too
much stuff”.
This was in the days
before Yogi Bear or Flintstone Campgrounds, before
the need to reserve campsites, or sit sweltering, in
long lines of traffic, all vehicles containing
gawking tourists wanting to “get back to nature”.
Pit toilets, a pump for water, both as far away as
possible because of having chosen the most remote
campsite possible --- after all one simply does not
go camping to be on the main trail to the pump or
the biffy.
Ahh, yes the
floorless tent (all the better for the late night
critters to visit), with the leaky stitching and the
canvas that leaked whenever it was touched during a
rain --- No showers but all of Lake Superior as a
bath – plenty of cold water but a remarkable lack of
hot or even warm water.
Yet, despite the fact
that “The Lake” rarely gives up its dead and young
boys may, upon occasion, abhor bathing, two young
brothers would spend afternoons in the water,
lashing drift wood logs together to make their own
Kon Tiki. Eventually when the cold waters forced
them shivering from the lake there were always
agates to hunt, pretty rocks to collect and
decisions to make. That is, a line was drawn, as it
were, in the sand, “No we could not rent a dump
truck to bring all the pretties back to Louisville!”
Beach drift wood
fires supervising the sunset and with luck watching
the aura writhing over the lake, palely reflected in
the placid waters – perhaps a shooting star or two.
Other nights a trip
to the White Pine town dump was in order. White Pine
was a newly established “company town” for Copper
miners. Before the days of litigation caused by the
plague of attorneys, one could clamber over the mine
tailings, searching for, and occasionally finding a
piece or two of native copper, much as the Indians
of yore travelled to the Porkies for copper. At
night though the bears would come out, drawn to the
dump where, usually a half a dozen cars lined up in
the deepening twilight, while all, children and
childish adults alike awaited with baited breath,
the first movements in the forest. Momma bears,
poppa bears and even baby bears. The critters in
their cages would flick on their headlights or, if
lucky and in their own, not a company car, an
accessory spotlight. The movements of individual
bears would be followed; new ones welcomed and a
pair of cubs would be searched for in the tree top
where they sought refuge from the crowd below.
Returning to camp,
always alert for deer, more bear or other critters,
a pile of wooden tent stakes was stacked just
outside the tent flap. If as happened, upon occasion
a bear (real or imagined) visited during the early
morning hours, we would all pile out of the tent,
grab the stakes and begin flanging them at every
dark blob on the edge of vision – bush or bear it
made no difference – the times were exciting and
made for good stories when we returned to
“civilization”.
>>>>A complete aside.
A few years later in a canoe trip in the middle of
Canada, after having gotten lost (Reminder: Never
pack a cast iron fry pan in the duffel bag the
compass is to rest on.) we learned that a war had
been going on for a couple of weeks. But that, the
bee sting, trappers cabin and running a set of
rapids backwards are other stories. Besides, it
wasn’t really a “war”, it was only a “Police Action”
– there’s them darned lawyers and politicians again.
<Sad face>
Anyway back on track
and wondering if, as this is my first writing
assignment I should be describing the “pretty rocks”
as rounded by the constant ebb and flow of the
thrashing, bashing, crashing waves of the clear cold
waters of Lake Superior. The green specks of copper,
the red of the iron oxides, the various hues of the
granites, as they shimmer beneath the wavelets one
wades through, ankle deed along the shore. Or
perhaps, the tendrils of wood smoke that drift
slowly in sinuous curls over the lake with the
gentle evening off shore breeze.
DRAT!!! Off track
again! OK, let’s back up and take another running
start at this endeavor.
As you dear reader
may have gathered, we had a long family tradition of
vacationing northward, trying to keep one step ahead
of civilization and the Yogi Bear and Disneyland
aficionados.
The majestic white
pine of the northern forest, lacy slender, green
needled against the blue with shaft of golden yellow
sunlight falling in puddles on the dry brown pine
needles of the forest floor; the aroma of the pines,
the whisper of the breezes as the aspen leaves
flutter, first presenting their shiny side and then
their drab side to the winds
Perhaps a hike to the
Lake Of The Clouds Escarpment; a short 0.8 mile
trail from the end of the road, but quite steep. A
rough well worn path in the forest floor
interspersed with moss covered stones, exposed tree
roots, lichen bespeckled boulders and massive
deadfalls, slowly composing into the mulch of the
woodland floor.
Delicate ferns
weaving their tapestry of fronds as a stray breeze
wafts by, bringing the aroma of pine and loam to
awareness as it ruffles the hair and whispers in the
ear.
Ultimately to break
through the forest onto the red granite plate of the
escarpment; four billion year old rocks, warmed by
the sun of today to gaze at the lake several hundred
feet below. The valley in which it resides channels
the inland forest respiration resulting with clouds
streaming toward Lake Superior below ones feet.
Searching and occasionally being rewarded by finding
a bush of wild blueberries, so much smaller and so
much tastier than the tame sort; berries tucked away
and hiding beneath the shiny leaflets of the bush.
Many, many happy
memories, including one prompted by a squirrel, a
squirrel living several hundred miles to the south,
perhaps a very hungry squirrel.
Many years later Dad
died, unexpectedly, six months before he was to
retire and my parents were to begin a “second
honeymoon”. To make a long story short, Mom moved to
the same town in Wisconsin where I live (another
story tis here, ask me sometime around the campfire)
and I brought Dad along (He had been cremated.)
Thinking it would be best if Mom decided what to do
with Dad, I kept him around for awhile, but Mom
never wanted to talk about it.
After a year or two,
Dad still in his cardboard box, was moved from the
closet to the garage loft where the camping gear
(including the original WWII Army surplus tent) was
kept. The next spring in checking the camping gear I
discovered that a squirrel had gnawed a corner off
Dads box and he was leaking in the loft.
Decision time !!!!
Since Mom was not willing to make a decision about
what to do with Dad we decided to return him to a
place he enjoyed – the Porkies and Lake Superior.
That summer, we as a family returned top the
Porcupine Mountains, Mom came along, and without her
knowledge, so did Dad. She, of course was not
allowed to assist in the packing of the station
wagon.
We set up camp,
including the old tent, at a new site as the old one
had been claimed by the lake. That evening sitting
around the fire we
reminisced about the “Good Old
Days” and all that Dad had taught and introduced us
to. A little before bedtime my brother and I took a
walk to the Iron River bridge, a few hundred feet
from its mouth into Lake Superior and dumped Dad
into the river. We both shed a tear or two and also
giggled a bit as we agreed that Dad would have fully
approves of being tossed into the lake or river, as
the case may be.
Over the years, the
beach of childhood has changed/disappeared. There is
no longer camping between the road and lake, the
road has had to be rebuilt in places and erosion
continues.
BUT THE MEMORIES
REMAIN!!!!
As a favorite author
once writ:
“Poot Tweet, and so
it goes.”
Tuesday
10 minutes
writing about a favorite room in a childhood house
The Basement
In retrospect
the basement of 411 Wendover, St Matthews , a suburb
of Louisville, Kentucky was a magical place.
Oh it was a typical basement of a red brick home
built in the late 1930's. Cement walls and floor, a
sump pump in one corner, nearby laundry tubs and a
wringer washer. A door and short stairway up to the
outside, and kinda dividing the basement a stairway
down from the upstairs hall.
Initially there
was a coal bin and coal furnace to be fed and
emptied, but this was later changes to natural gas -
freeing up the coal bin space.
Along one wall
was a workbench, work area to which, when the gas
furnace was added, a separate gas line ran. This fed
a Bunsen burner which was an ongoing fixture in a
"basement lab" which evolved over the years of
childhood. Mixing chemicals in a crucible and
heating them to see what would happen was fun.
Dad being a
chemical engineer, kept lots of chemicals around,
chemicals which could be used to make "concoctions"
-- and -- "concoctions" can be very important to
nine or ten year old. Iodine, for example in its
pure form is a silvery crystalline solid that
--- (Time ran out)
Tuesdays
alternative, overnight assignment:
I chose the alternate path because,
unlike friend Jerry, I had never written as an
"object" before and was, after all, there to learn.
Not All The Kings Horses or All The
Kings Men
I am obsolete, dust
covered, with crazed varnish, crazed from the dry heat of
attic storage, and peeling veneer from the humidity,
when relegated to the basement. With age and disuse
my capacitors have weakened, my lights dim and my
workings sluggish.
But once, ONCE!!! I was the
center of attention!!! Shiny, bright eyed and
bushy tailed!!!
I occupied a prominent position
in the family, my back against a long wall
while in front I overlooked a red living room. An
upright piano was next to me, directly across from a
red brick hearth. The walls were not any common
ordinary old red – but a Circus Red, bright and
bold, under a brilliant white ceiling with equally
bright fluted columns, topped by a mantle,
surrounded the fireplace. On the mantle sat the
family “nickel clock”. So named because it had been
bought for a nickel in 1862, transported at times by
ox cart across Wisconsin and Minnesota, to Iowa and
back to Wisconsin. Now it sat across the room from
me in Kentucky.
A burnished brass floor lamp
with a comfortable patina, next to an easy chair
with a matching ottoman, a sofa, or as some may call
it, a “couch” and an old wooden spindle backed
rocker. At my age and after years of disuse, my
memory of some things tis not as sharp as it once
was. I disremember the colors and patterns, if any
of the slipcovers which masked the furniture. Red
corduroy comes to mind, but, then so does large
swirling patterns of floral colors.
On cold winter evenings as the
wind mumbled about the eves, the family would gather
in front of me, a mother, a father and two young
brothers, one six years younger than the other. The
adults seated or curled up on the couch, at times a
turkey red knitted afghan for comfort while the boys
sprawled on the floor. Perhaps a crackling fire
would be set, the clock on the mantle consulted and
I would be brought to life.
Electricity would course through
my veins, I would experience the warm glow of
“life”, my ears would stretch to collect the tenuous
sounds off the ether and I would present them to the
family.
Sounds of music, talk, laughter.
Sounds with names such as “The FBI In Peace and War,
The Lone Ranger, Gang Busters, perhaps The Shadow”
--- who knew!!!
The voices of Fibber McGee and
Molly, with the inevitable chaos of his collapsing
closet, Burns and Allen, Amos and Andy and more.
Opera? Music? Was it the Firestone Symphonic Hour?
Some programs remembered, some not. Memory fails me
here too at times.
There might be popcorn to pop, apples
to peel, toy cars to push in the duplication of the
adventures of The Green Hornet. There were Tinker
Toy edifices to build, Lincoln Log cabins and forts
constructed, and, a bit later erector sets to erect.
The “old folk”, in their mid
30’s, at least, might sit and read, knit or
otherwise occupy themselves with a quiet and
pleasant evening; occasionally the fragrances of
pipe tobacco drifted across the room, to and up the
chimney.
Gradually with the change of
seasons, the lengthening of the days and warmer
weather, our “get togethers” would lessen. After all
there were lightening bugs to chase, hide and seek
and croquet to play, forts to dig, kites to fly and
more.
Things of great import to
discover about the world outside.
However, I always knew that when the
fall came, shoes had to be donned and school
supplies laid in, that the togetherness of the
evenings would return. That once again all would
gather about me for the music and laughter – and –
as the boys grew older for the quiet reading times
to my soft music.
AHHHH, the music, language,
stories and readings that I so lovingly provided –
the underpinnings of imagination, the nurturance of
self sufficient/creative minds.
Delightful times, wonderful
times, never to end times. I
- I -- I -----------------------------------------------Crackle,
spark, pop, splurch, static, hissssssssssssssssssss
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SILENCE followed by a loud
voice:
TVs on sale: 50% off!!!!!
This weekend only at your
friendly Humpty Dumpty
Store
Wednesday
Overnight writing about:
Thursday
Brief
Exercise: Given a word list of the following,
take seven or eight minutes and use all in an
opening to a written piece. As an aside it may be
helpful to know that the group had, immediately
preceding the assignment been discussing openings
with which to "hook the reader" Good examples were
presented as well as those of the the
Bulwer-Lytton variety.
http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/
.
"I simply could not resist the
temptation", he said with a weak grin.
The
Words:
couple; building; grass; hit; tiny; realized; mail;
walked; watched and; silvery.
The Story:
The writer
watched the blue ink of the silvery ball point pen
as it walked across the earwax yellow tablet and
realized that he was on the way to building a first
sentence, which when folded a couple of times,
placed into a tiny envelope which was then deposited
in the corner mail box,
would make an undoubted hit with any recipient
editor as long as said editor was smoking grass.
I could mutter, "Sorry
'bout that." -- but it would be a lie. ;-)
Thursday’s
Alternative Overnight Assignment
Yesterday I tried something different, here at my
first Elderhostel experience and first
writing class in 48 years. At the morning, small
group writing activity, our mentor, asked us, going
round robin, to complete a sentence by choosing an
ending: The initial word being “I” and the choices
listed were 1) am a writer; 2) want to be a writer;
3) should be a writer; 4) will be a writer.
Since, this total experience is one of personal
exploration I choose my own ending, saying, “I
may be a writer”. After all, being a total
greenhorn to the writing game, I have no idea of the
requisite talents, if I possess the necessary
attributes, or if I will find writing fun. Being
retired a certain “fun or personal satisfaction
element” is a luxury that underlies all of my
activities.
Yesterday I wrote a story in the first person,
present tense, something that is NEVER done in the
research journals of academia or the formal written
reports of psychologists, of which I am a tribe
member. The story was, however, based upon past
experiences, as had all of my Elderhostel writings
thus far. Thus there had been time for memories to
“settle in”, to achieve a rounded stability upon
which to base the current, tentative writing
attempts.
In the continuing pursuit of learning, today I chose
not to rely upon settled memories, but rather
to: “ --- take a walk here at Green Lake and tell
about it.” To base today’s writings on present,
yet to be fully formed or internalized memories.
Never having attempted such “off the cuff” type of
writing it seemed an interesting challenge --- and I
was here to learn. Admittedly, I was a bit
apprehensive as such writing would not reflect more
exciting or interesting travels of the past, just a
simple walk around the Green Lake Conference Center
campus in the early, yet leafless, Wisconsin spring.
To be honest, sitting at one corner of the rectangle
formed by two adjacent tables, placed in room
center, I doubted I would find much to write about.
On previous, simple rambling walks, with no purpose,
there was not much of interest. Lottsa leafless
trees, fallen leaves, water, rocks and buildings,
scattered about here and there. A large round patch
of last years flattened leaves, missed during the
fall raking, appeared as still depressed from the
Wisconsin winter. Oh there was a solitary lamp post
at the tip of a point jutting into the lake,
sentinel like, marking harbor entrance, the ghostly
birch on the inaccessible island a stones throw
across the inlet – you know stuff like that, waves
lapping, loons looning and what not. Besides the
gray cement bench at the base of the lamp pole was
covered with gull guano (gull poop as Wisconsites
call it) and bunches of small quite dead and fraying
pan fish rising and falling with the waves lapping
the shore. Not much in the way of grandeur.
Returning to the classroom, from my musings of the
assignment, I listened to the closing remarks of our
mentor. The room was large, the fire marshal permits
75 people to occupy it at any one time. A typical
meeting room, light colored walls, interrupted by
the mellowness of oak wood trim, doors and window
frames. The usual “institutional” carpet, background
of dark maroon (all the better to hide the stains of
spilled coffee), with platter sized floral
concoctions of green, crimson, cream and purple.
Eight others surrounded the tabular rectangle, the
tables themselves covered with pool table green
cloths. Cloths now littered with scraps of paper,
writings, notebooks, pens, half filled glassed of
water and drained coffee cups. --- So far none of
this group of nine people had tested the hiding
power of the carpet be spilling their coffee.
Blue was the predominant shirt, blouse, sweater
color today with four of the ladies wearing various
shades/patterns of blue. Red was next followed by
grays or whites. Seven ladies, two gentlemen- eight
class members received the assignment from the
instructress and class was dismissed.
Climbing the stairs to my third floor room I
seriously wondered if it might not be better to dig
out something from past travel experiences and
memories. The cream colored, wide staircase with
diamond anti slip treads, briefly caught my
attention as it had just been washed, was glistening
and decorated with yellow, red and black caution
cones, writing in three languages and a silhouette
of a stick figure slipping and falling. For the
moment I forgot my worries, but upon reaching the
third floor and turning left the concerns returned
as I approached my room.
Dumping class materials on the spare bed I retreated
from pen, paper and assignment sheet. Back down the
stairs across the lobby, out the double glass doors,
into the growing, chilly, breezy overcast day with
rain threatening.
Across Pillsbury circle to the dining hall where I
had the good fortune to meet some of the colorful
members of the just dismissed class: a very
enjoyable lunch with delightful conversation,
accompanied by some chuckles over fights with the
stringy, melted, mozzarella which topped the French
Onion soup. I, for the moment, forgot my concern
about not being able to note enough “spur-of-the
moment” detail so as to be able to write something
worthwhile.
However, lunch was too soon over and I ”girded my
loins”, so to speak ready to begin my “observing
walk” around the grounds, continuing to hope I could
gather enough information to write something about.
Excusing myself from the table I passed the desert
bar – something typically avoided. However, now,
perhaps as a psychological manipulation to delay the
inevitable walking and writing, I paused – stopped
to examine what I had been missing.
At each end of a stainless steel serving table was a
cavity which contained four large canisters of ice
cream. On the left we had the colors of orange,
white, pinkish white with red specks and chocolate.
At the further end was displayed more vanilla, white
with dark specks (chocolate chip?) and some other
color which I disremember, probably a pastel of some
sort. On the table, between the two troves of cold
treasures were rows of tan brittle, waffle checked
cones and scoops with which to fill the cones. Also
small sundae cups, ice cream spoons and bowls of
chopped nuts, small glistening sugar sparklies, all
the colors of the rainbow, what looked like
chocolate crumbles and a bowl of broken M&Ms. And
the squeeze bottles AHHHHH the squeeze bottles,
chocolate syrup, caramel, butter scotch and more!
I stood silently, head bowed reverently, imagining
the concoctions I could build. But, I turned away
fully committed to completing my walk and hopefully
my assignment.
Out into the lobby, past the large central planter,
containing a pool, and a fountain, continually
expressing a domed sheet which returned with a
delicate splash to the pond’s surface. A gaggle of
five tall cacti, some lacy maiden hair ferns, a
patch of spider plants with intertwining
philodendron, the shiny dark green and red veined
leave of rubber plants, several massive elephant
ears and pots of red and yellow tulips in two
opposing corners.
Well to make an already too long story short, I went
for my walk and saw stuff.
If I don’t turn in an assignment tomorrow, do you
think the teacher will believe “The dog ate my
paper?”
Friday:
10 Minute writing
A place to go -
I don't know where - a place mandates a destination-a
place - but I don't know where I am going!
I think of Lao
Tzu (570-490 BC) who wrote, " A good traveler has no
fixed plans and is not intent on arriving." - or as
is oft said by my motorcycle brethren - "It is the
journey. not the destination."
I'm going
upward and outward, perhaps an out of body
experience - speeding out into the dark void where
the stars, galaxies and universes are born. The
music of the spheres - not a music for the ears, but
the crackling, hissing, popping of static, radio
emissions from the nursery of creation.
Hanging alone,
far from solidity, observing -- observing the
distant clouds of thrashing, clashing colors as the
aurora of star formation - and - death continue the
eternal cycle.
A feeling of
awe, reverence and wonder and yet peace and
contentment to know that I AM.
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