1. Go to Lund's or Byerly's and buy yourself a bag of chocolate. You've already screwed yourself by paying too much. You're on your way! Eat the first ten pieces as fast as you can. Inhale, don't chew. Save the wrappers and fold them into pretty, shiny little shapes. Continue until there are three pieces left. Feel the dopamine rush through your system as you savor the last few pieces. Now, count the wrappers and multiply by serving size and calorie count. Added bonus: remember that your pants were too tight before you ate the chocolate.
2. Pick out a yearbook from your choice of high school years. Open to the page with your picture. Remember all the things you wanted to be when you grew up. Compare those things to what you are now. Added bonus: remember how fat you felt on picture day and compare that to your current size.
3. Call your mother.
4. Compare your number of facebook friends to your ex's. Added bonus: note how thin, young and happy he/she looks now.
5. Pick out the most random musical instrument you can find. Buy it (try to pay too much, if you can), and an instruction book. Refuse the sales clerk's help, making sure to tell him, "How hard could it be?" Go home and begin to play without reading the instruction book. Continue for at least two hours every night for one week. Read the instruction book cover to cover. Comprehension is not required. Pick up the instrument and again attempt to play it for two hours, or until you begin crying. Place the expensive and unused instrument in the most visible spot in your home to remind you of your failure.
6. Prepay for at least 12 sessions of an intermediate yoga class. Assume the beginners class is just "breathing." Before your first class, go out and buy a mat, blocks, straps, toe socks, grip gloves, towel, outfits, and color coordinating water bottle. On the first day of class, place yourself in the front row, right in front of the instructor. Added bonus: attempt all advanced poses.
7. Cut your own hair. Added bonus: do this while on your period.
8. Divide your hourly wage by 60 to determine how much money you make per minute. Added bonus: remember why you went to college.
9. Take a position in the service industry. If that is not humbling enough, add havoc by disconnecting part of the computer system just long enough to frustrate customers during the busiest time of day. When customers get snippy with you, disconnect your brain filter and make snide, off the cuff remarks under your breath until at least one customer catches you. Added bonus: do this within 10 feet of your boss.
10. Blog about your life.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Oh Sweet Spring, Is That Really You?
All winter long, I have been reading gardening books. I take them by the arm load from the library, often renewing them once or twice before returning them just to make sure I've gotten everything out of them that I possibly could. I've studied books on growing fruits and vegetables, how to build raised beds, what is compost and what I'm supposed to do with it, how to construct garden paths, and all kinds of books on plants for woodland gardens, flower boxes and arbors. My husband thinks I do this because I like to torture myself with the images of healthy, blooming plants in the midst of our many snow storms (record setting this year, even for Minnesota). But the truth is, gardening is my solace--and it's been a rough year.
My Grandpa passed away last spring, my business produced far less this past year than projected, I'm now working two jobs to make ends meet leaving little time for writing, my last baby is in school, my oldest baby is driving, my health has been ...eh, and more and more I find myself worrying about the world and what is to come. There is so much weighing on my mind, making my heart heavy, and I managed to find the one place where I can just be--the garden. Unfortunately, my garden is currently hiding under two feet of wet, heavy, dirty snow, so all I can do is get lost in the language and imagery of gardening books.
I read about dirt and compost and try to remember what it smells like in the spring after a rain storm when the perennials peek out from their hiding places and the annual seeds are safe to scatter. That fresh, earthy smell is hope, I'm certain of it. I search the pictures in books and remember the feeling of accomplishment fresh mulch can give, as the last step in planting something new. I baptize my new plants with that mulch and pray for each seedling to "be happy, grow big". I see close up pictures of buds that hold such promise and think that if I'm patient enough, I'll see that promise fulfilled in my yard, too. I smile a knowing smile at the sight of tender leaves--they are like small children, taking their first steps. When I hear the birds outside my window, I know that soon, very soon, spring will be back and will bring with it all those blessed things.
Spring is a time of promises kept. A time to melt cold hearts with the snow pack and let the warmth of renewal enter. After many months, I'm eager to put down my books and get my hands in the dirt. Oh, sweet spring, don't tease us. Come to stay.
My Grandpa passed away last spring, my business produced far less this past year than projected, I'm now working two jobs to make ends meet leaving little time for writing, my last baby is in school, my oldest baby is driving, my health has been ...eh, and more and more I find myself worrying about the world and what is to come. There is so much weighing on my mind, making my heart heavy, and I managed to find the one place where I can just be--the garden. Unfortunately, my garden is currently hiding under two feet of wet, heavy, dirty snow, so all I can do is get lost in the language and imagery of gardening books.
I read about dirt and compost and try to remember what it smells like in the spring after a rain storm when the perennials peek out from their hiding places and the annual seeds are safe to scatter. That fresh, earthy smell is hope, I'm certain of it. I search the pictures in books and remember the feeling of accomplishment fresh mulch can give, as the last step in planting something new. I baptize my new plants with that mulch and pray for each seedling to "be happy, grow big". I see close up pictures of buds that hold such promise and think that if I'm patient enough, I'll see that promise fulfilled in my yard, too. I smile a knowing smile at the sight of tender leaves--they are like small children, taking their first steps. When I hear the birds outside my window, I know that soon, very soon, spring will be back and will bring with it all those blessed things.
Spring is a time of promises kept. A time to melt cold hearts with the snow pack and let the warmth of renewal enter. After many months, I'm eager to put down my books and get my hands in the dirt. Oh, sweet spring, don't tease us. Come to stay.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Update on Life; Ya'll Still With Me?
Today, I cleaned out all of my annual flower planters. Come Friday, my garbage man is going to have a hernia and curse me under his breath. Ah, the traditions. It's officially the start of the end of the year. Halloween is over and I'm thinking ahead to winter projects. This winter, I plan on gearing up for next year's garden by studying vines to grow on my new arbor and how to plan and maintain fruit/vegetable gardens. The major fall project around my house included ripping up about 1/5 of our remaining sod to plan new gardens. I had to promise my husband that this would be the last time I ask him to rip up sod, but who am I kidding? We took out the grass for what will become known as the "big garden" as well as a really nice sized vegetable garden. I've never tried to grow food before so I'm a bit nervous. I know what I want to plant but I really don't know when they have to get planted. I don't know how much space they will take up, or if I even have good enough soil to grow food in. I'm flustered but determined, and counting on a long winter to figure out everything I need to hit the ground running next spring.
"To plant a seed and wait, is to believe."
In the meantime, I've got plenty of other things to keep me occupied. I started another part-time job about 6 weeks ago. The hours are perfect for the mom in me; 10 am - 2 pm Monday through Friday. It's a good job. Marketing. It's not brain surgery, but that's just what I was looking for. I've gotten to an age where I've realized that I don't want to save the world, I just want to figure out my place in it. My weekend gig is still going strong; bridal sales. The busy season is going to start soon and then I'll be working all the time. The only thing is, all this working keep me from writing. I haven't written in a long time and I'm starting to feel the emptiness that comes to me when I've neglected myself. If it goes on for too long, I tend to forget who I am all together. I'm trying like everything to make sure that doesn't happen, but I have to wonder how other people do this? How do others juggle life?
Maybe it's because I have far too many interests, but it seems to me there isn't enough time to do and learn the things that I want. I practice yoga and have become interested in the concept of life energy. That led me to read up on Chi and soon I will begin a T'ai Chi class so I can learn more about my own path. I wonder if this is something other people do? Explore new concepts and ideas to figure out who they really are? Or is it just me? Do other people know who they are already? And then I have to remind myself of what my yoga teacher tells us constantly -- to let go of the ego. To focus on what I can do today and not worry about what others can do. It's my daily struggle, but I'm trying.
In the mean time, I'm going to keep up with the routines of life (which feel like it sucks the life out of me), and explore every little interest that pops into my head along the way (to bring life back into me). I encourage you to do the same.
"To plant a seed and wait, is to believe."
In the meantime, I've got plenty of other things to keep me occupied. I started another part-time job about 6 weeks ago. The hours are perfect for the mom in me; 10 am - 2 pm Monday through Friday. It's a good job. Marketing. It's not brain surgery, but that's just what I was looking for. I've gotten to an age where I've realized that I don't want to save the world, I just want to figure out my place in it. My weekend gig is still going strong; bridal sales. The busy season is going to start soon and then I'll be working all the time. The only thing is, all this working keep me from writing. I haven't written in a long time and I'm starting to feel the emptiness that comes to me when I've neglected myself. If it goes on for too long, I tend to forget who I am all together. I'm trying like everything to make sure that doesn't happen, but I have to wonder how other people do this? How do others juggle life?
Maybe it's because I have far too many interests, but it seems to me there isn't enough time to do and learn the things that I want. I practice yoga and have become interested in the concept of life energy. That led me to read up on Chi and soon I will begin a T'ai Chi class so I can learn more about my own path. I wonder if this is something other people do? Explore new concepts and ideas to figure out who they really are? Or is it just me? Do other people know who they are already? And then I have to remind myself of what my yoga teacher tells us constantly -- to let go of the ego. To focus on what I can do today and not worry about what others can do. It's my daily struggle, but I'm trying.
In the mean time, I'm going to keep up with the routines of life (which feel like it sucks the life out of me), and explore every little interest that pops into my head along the way (to bring life back into me). I encourage you to do the same.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Things That Baffle Me
The number of things that I do not understand is mind numbing. It seems that the older I get, the more I don't know. Less than half of these are things that I actually want to know, so I guess that's some kind of progress. Time management, if nothing else.
For example: I don't understand football. I don't know what a "down" is, I have no comprehension of what a "tight end" does, and I don't get the scoring system. Seriously, why the hell isn't a touchdown just one frick'n point? I could even understand doing things the basketball way and making it two points, but beyond that I just don't get it. I have no idea what "first-and-ten" means, and I have serious questions about whether or not cheerleaders would be necessary for this sport if the stadiums would stop serving beer. I've gone to a few Vikings games and I have to say, Vikings fans are either the most relentlessly devoted people in the world or should be examined by the University of Minnesota's Psychology department. I mean, you fans know that they've NEVER won a Super Bowl, right? That fact hasn't eluded you, has it? It's not that I don't understand professional sports in general. Professional sports teams stimulate the economy and give residents an esprit de cor attitude. We all need heroes, and I think professional athletes fit the bill far better than politicians. Certainly far better than most celebrities. There is just something about the particular sport of football that puzzles me and it will continue to do so because, frankly, I just don't want to try to understand it.
Also, I don't understand how people get to be famous for things that require no talent. Paris Hilton: what has she done besides being born into a wealthy family? Not a damn thing. She can't act, she can't sing, and frankly even her fashion taste is questionable. Why do we care what she is doing? Kate Gosselin: she couldn't procreate without medical intervention. First of all, welcome to the group because neither could I, and secondly, who the hell cares? Not anyone I know. She's a cranky mother of eight. For this she got her own TV show? I'm a cranky mother of four; where's my contract? Skip it -- I don't want one. Don't even get me started on Snooky. Two words: Oompa Loompa. I don't understand why, as a society, we put the wrong people up on pedestals and have managed to convince ourselves that we are nothing if we aren't on those same pedestals being looked up to by the masses just for being who we are. This is giving our kids this ridiculous feeling of self righteousness that makes them think we should throw a party in their honor just for doing the stuff they are supposed to do, like showing up for school and cleaning their rooms. Let's think about this for a minute: who are all those people who are clambering after a chance to be on reality TV shows? Every day, ordinary folks who need attention and validation for existing, that's who. I don't understand how people chase after the spotlight when they have no talent to keep them there. So the world can see you're a phony and have nothing to offer? Paris, Kate, let's regroup.
I really don't understand how living in a free country gives people the right to push their beliefs on others with outrageous force that it makes the rest of the world stand up and take notice. Maybe I was just brought up in a mid-western passive aggressive household, but I don't understand how a pastor makes national news because he's going to burn another religion's books. More importantly, I don't understand how this person can honestly believe that he is doing the right thing. Is force ever the right way to get your point across? How outraged would he be if a religious leader in another part of the world makes national news because they are going to burn bibles? Didn't you read the last chapter in that book? It's all going to come to a head because of a holy war. Does he think he is part of the bigger plan? He's the one who is supposed to set the wheels in motion for all our countries to bomb the living hell out of each other so we can get this Armageddon thing underway already? How happy is his God going to be to see him knowing he started this? "Whoops, sorry dude, my bad." isn't going to cover it. Even worse, "I thought that's what you wanted me to do." I can picture God standing there shaking his head in a similar way I do when breaking up a fight between my kids when there is no clear winner or loser, just a whole lot of mess to clean up.
I really don't understand how people can get over things. Maybe that's because I can't seem to get over anything, but I really don't understand how people can let go of hurt and loss, and seem to do so easily. Are people part Weebles? They wobble, but they don't fall down? I fall down. A lot. I miss my childhood dog; he's been dead for 17 years. I am upset by losing my plastic Jiminy Cricket figurine from when I was 4 years old. It was pink plastic and was chewed on by the dog, but it was mine. I had nightmares about high school for seven years after graduation because I missed out on my senior year to go to college. I've searched the Internet for my best friend from the second grade because I was torn apart when she moved away. I still miss her. My third grade teacher died six years ago and I wished I could have told him how much of an impact he had on my life. There is a conversation with an old boyfriend's mother that I wished I never had. That was 14 years ago. I got fired from a company because I was trying to get pregnant and all those who tore me down to HR were nice to my face. That was over eight years ago. All my grandparents are gone; two never got to see my children and one didn't see me grow up. I didn't have a chance to tell him what a jackass he was for telling my mother she never should have had me. My brother's band dumped him for no good reason other than he didn't fit in with them anymore and this hurts me because I love him and because I thought those guys were my friends too and there is no closure. What it comes down to is this; I don't understand how people can face these everyday disappointments and set backs and seem to get up in the morning, look life in the face and say "Thank you, sir! May I have another?!"
But mostly, I don't understand football.
For example: I don't understand football. I don't know what a "down" is, I have no comprehension of what a "tight end" does, and I don't get the scoring system. Seriously, why the hell isn't a touchdown just one frick'n point? I could even understand doing things the basketball way and making it two points, but beyond that I just don't get it. I have no idea what "first-and-ten" means, and I have serious questions about whether or not cheerleaders would be necessary for this sport if the stadiums would stop serving beer. I've gone to a few Vikings games and I have to say, Vikings fans are either the most relentlessly devoted people in the world or should be examined by the University of Minnesota's Psychology department. I mean, you fans know that they've NEVER won a Super Bowl, right? That fact hasn't eluded you, has it? It's not that I don't understand professional sports in general. Professional sports teams stimulate the economy and give residents an esprit de cor attitude. We all need heroes, and I think professional athletes fit the bill far better than politicians. Certainly far better than most celebrities. There is just something about the particular sport of football that puzzles me and it will continue to do so because, frankly, I just don't want to try to understand it.
Also, I don't understand how people get to be famous for things that require no talent. Paris Hilton: what has she done besides being born into a wealthy family? Not a damn thing. She can't act, she can't sing, and frankly even her fashion taste is questionable. Why do we care what she is doing? Kate Gosselin: she couldn't procreate without medical intervention. First of all, welcome to the group because neither could I, and secondly, who the hell cares? Not anyone I know. She's a cranky mother of eight. For this she got her own TV show? I'm a cranky mother of four; where's my contract? Skip it -- I don't want one. Don't even get me started on Snooky. Two words: Oompa Loompa. I don't understand why, as a society, we put the wrong people up on pedestals and have managed to convince ourselves that we are nothing if we aren't on those same pedestals being looked up to by the masses just for being who we are. This is giving our kids this ridiculous feeling of self righteousness that makes them think we should throw a party in their honor just for doing the stuff they are supposed to do, like showing up for school and cleaning their rooms. Let's think about this for a minute: who are all those people who are clambering after a chance to be on reality TV shows? Every day, ordinary folks who need attention and validation for existing, that's who. I don't understand how people chase after the spotlight when they have no talent to keep them there. So the world can see you're a phony and have nothing to offer? Paris, Kate, let's regroup.
I really don't understand how living in a free country gives people the right to push their beliefs on others with outrageous force that it makes the rest of the world stand up and take notice. Maybe I was just brought up in a mid-western passive aggressive household, but I don't understand how a pastor makes national news because he's going to burn another religion's books. More importantly, I don't understand how this person can honestly believe that he is doing the right thing. Is force ever the right way to get your point across? How outraged would he be if a religious leader in another part of the world makes national news because they are going to burn bibles? Didn't you read the last chapter in that book? It's all going to come to a head because of a holy war. Does he think he is part of the bigger plan? He's the one who is supposed to set the wheels in motion for all our countries to bomb the living hell out of each other so we can get this Armageddon thing underway already? How happy is his God going to be to see him knowing he started this? "Whoops, sorry dude, my bad." isn't going to cover it. Even worse, "I thought that's what you wanted me to do." I can picture God standing there shaking his head in a similar way I do when breaking up a fight between my kids when there is no clear winner or loser, just a whole lot of mess to clean up.
I really don't understand how people can get over things. Maybe that's because I can't seem to get over anything, but I really don't understand how people can let go of hurt and loss, and seem to do so easily. Are people part Weebles? They wobble, but they don't fall down? I fall down. A lot. I miss my childhood dog; he's been dead for 17 years. I am upset by losing my plastic Jiminy Cricket figurine from when I was 4 years old. It was pink plastic and was chewed on by the dog, but it was mine. I had nightmares about high school for seven years after graduation because I missed out on my senior year to go to college. I've searched the Internet for my best friend from the second grade because I was torn apart when she moved away. I still miss her. My third grade teacher died six years ago and I wished I could have told him how much of an impact he had on my life. There is a conversation with an old boyfriend's mother that I wished I never had. That was 14 years ago. I got fired from a company because I was trying to get pregnant and all those who tore me down to HR were nice to my face. That was over eight years ago. All my grandparents are gone; two never got to see my children and one didn't see me grow up. I didn't have a chance to tell him what a jackass he was for telling my mother she never should have had me. My brother's band dumped him for no good reason other than he didn't fit in with them anymore and this hurts me because I love him and because I thought those guys were my friends too and there is no closure. What it comes down to is this; I don't understand how people can face these everyday disappointments and set backs and seem to get up in the morning, look life in the face and say "Thank you, sir! May I have another?!"
But mostly, I don't understand football.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
My Home Town
Today I drove through Anoka for the millionth time. Main Street really needs resurfacing, and what is it with all these antique shops? And when did "antique" become a verb? There were a ton of wealthy looking ladies who were strolling Main Street holding shopping bags. I have a hard time believing they were Anokans. Most residents are hard-working thrifty folks who spend the day working, not shopping for things you can find at any one of the weekly garage sales.
My very first memory of this town was of a store off 1st Avenue North, right by the Rum River. I was probably about three years old and had accompanied my grandparents into town. It was a two level store; the basement housed a strategically placed beauty parlor that serviced mostly elderly ladies, the smell of which permeated the entire building with the essence of fresh perms and moth balls; enough to sting your eyes. There was a hardware and sporting goods store on the main level that sold all the essentials for Minnesota living; bait, lures, rods & reels, shotguns, ammunition, camouflage wear and blaze orange hunting attire. They had all bases covered. The owners gave out dum-dum suckers to cute little girls who didn't run a muck in the store while their grandpa was shopping, and next to the register were those orange spongy circus peanut candies for sale. Those often made it in the bag with a new lure or bobber with a wink from Grandpa. Sometime over the course of the years, most likely when I wasn't paying attention, the store was torn down. For years, I wondered if the entire place had been concocted from my imagination; and now with my grandparents gone, I can never really be sure.
Many times, I remember snap shots of strolling through town. Grandma and I visited the library off 3rd Avenue once or twice. Grandpa had driven us to town but wanted to walk around while we strolled through the rows of books. After I became bored with the books and card catalog (which wasn't long since I couldn't yet read), we went searching downtown for Grandpa. Grandma looked for him and called out, "Fred!?" and I distinctly remember this was the first time I ever heard her call him by a name other than Grandpa or Dad, for the sake of us kids. But before any of us existed, I guessed he was Fred to her.
We'd often frequent the Snyder Drug store right off Main Street. The store had been there for so long that the floor boards beneath the dingy carpet creaked when you stepped on them. The rows of candy were in the front, followed by birthday and get well cards, then stationary and various medical needs too complicated for me to yet understand. The back of the store was where the tall white pharmacists' counter stood. I was always curious why the pharmacy was two feet higher than the rest of the store. So the tall balding pharmacist could look down at us? So he could see all through the store to make sure no one was stealing anything? What could he do about it if someone had, from all the way in the back? So many questions. We visited this particular store one evening after dinner when I was small. The five of us; my parents, brother, sister and I; had just eaten at Dell's Pizza off of 1st Avenue right across from the police station. It was a dark little bar and pizzeria that housed a main level cafe setting and a basement family bar setting, complete with juke box and arcade games. We played 25 cent games of Space Invaders and Pac Man and split a large thin crust pepperoni pizza, cut into tiny squares. There was a pitcher of pop for us kids and a beer for Dad. After this particular meal, we headed over to Snyder's to pick up Mylanta for Dad. One of those grown up things I had yet to understand.
As a matter of fact, it was in that very Snyder's parking lot that my grandparents used to park to sit and watch the annual Anoka Halloween Parade. That was back when folks still had a sensible mind about whether or not to come out to the parade when it was 30 degrees outside. Many used to stay home and skip the festivities when it was that cold, giving my grandparents a chance to see while keeping warm in their car, but not now. Now we all bundle up and shiver as we wave to the princesses and listen to the driving beat of the marching bands in cadence as they cross the Rum River Bridge and head into town. Although I was in more parades than I can count and attended more parades than I want to count, I still attend the Halloween Parade every year. It's the pinnacle of autumn for me.
That Snyder's shut down when I was a teenager and that was the first time I remember feeling nostalgic about my home town. How dare they change?! It became an Amish furniture store, that quickly failed, and now that building is a massage studio. I have yet to go in to see if they still have creaky floorboards, but I'm guessing those Amish folks fixed it up. When I was a teenager, a coffee shop opened up on 1st and Main; Cafe A`mi. That was Anoka's first taste of the grunge scene and lots of Anoka teens seemed to have found a home. We'd sit on the couch (who thought of putting a couch in a cafe?!) and order overpriced Italian sodas or Snapple's. We'd wax philosophical and were thrilled when we could spend four hours in a place and not get shooed out. There used to be a Mexican restaurant downstairs from it where my best friends from high school used to work. I attended a horribly drunken Christmas party with them there one year during college and vaguely remember my incredibly tall and overly thin friend in a sumo wrestling suit taking down his boss. The restaurant changed hands many years ago and finally shut down. I don't know what's in that building now, but every time I pass it, I chuckle.
Serum's off of Jackson Street (a block off Main) holds more recent fond memories. The first time I went upstairs at Serum's was to see my brother play in a Kiss tribute band about five years ago. I sat in front of the speakers (the only spot left!) and my ears were buzzing well into the next day, but I had never been so proud of him. He managed to put himself out there and show what he could do; something I couldn't have done. A few years later, I went to see him there again, this time with a cover band playing more mainstream music. I beamed with pride when he introduced me to the band members during a break, and over the course of the next few years, I found myself there many times watching them play. About six months ago, I was brought up on Serum's stage to sing with them - something I never imagined I could do - and it was awesome. But even Serum's hadn't always been Serum's. When I was a kid, it was a pizza place that was decorated with huge antique bicycles. We ate there once or twice.
The little flower shop off of Main Street has been one of the only places I know of that hasn't changed. So much so that it has become an Anoka institution. Prom corsages were ordered there. Wedding flowers. The day after my Grandpa passed away this spring, I walked into Anoka Floral to arrange for flowers to be sent to the funeral home. There was something comforting about going in there. They already knew who he was and where the services were being held and when. Others had already come in to order arrangements. It hadn't occurred to any of us to go anywhere else. This is our home.
Something like 90% of the world's population lives within 50 miles of the place they were born, and I swore I would be of the other 10%. But I grew up 10 miles from downtown Anoka. I went to school there, I made friends there, and I made memories there. Now I live five miles from town and all these years later, it's still home. The only one I've ever known.
My very first memory of this town was of a store off 1st Avenue North, right by the Rum River. I was probably about three years old and had accompanied my grandparents into town. It was a two level store; the basement housed a strategically placed beauty parlor that serviced mostly elderly ladies, the smell of which permeated the entire building with the essence of fresh perms and moth balls; enough to sting your eyes. There was a hardware and sporting goods store on the main level that sold all the essentials for Minnesota living; bait, lures, rods & reels, shotguns, ammunition, camouflage wear and blaze orange hunting attire. They had all bases covered. The owners gave out dum-dum suckers to cute little girls who didn't run a muck in the store while their grandpa was shopping, and next to the register were those orange spongy circus peanut candies for sale. Those often made it in the bag with a new lure or bobber with a wink from Grandpa. Sometime over the course of the years, most likely when I wasn't paying attention, the store was torn down. For years, I wondered if the entire place had been concocted from my imagination; and now with my grandparents gone, I can never really be sure.
Many times, I remember snap shots of strolling through town. Grandma and I visited the library off 3rd Avenue once or twice. Grandpa had driven us to town but wanted to walk around while we strolled through the rows of books. After I became bored with the books and card catalog (which wasn't long since I couldn't yet read), we went searching downtown for Grandpa. Grandma looked for him and called out, "Fred!?" and I distinctly remember this was the first time I ever heard her call him by a name other than Grandpa or Dad, for the sake of us kids. But before any of us existed, I guessed he was Fred to her.
We'd often frequent the Snyder Drug store right off Main Street. The store had been there for so long that the floor boards beneath the dingy carpet creaked when you stepped on them. The rows of candy were in the front, followed by birthday and get well cards, then stationary and various medical needs too complicated for me to yet understand. The back of the store was where the tall white pharmacists' counter stood. I was always curious why the pharmacy was two feet higher than the rest of the store. So the tall balding pharmacist could look down at us? So he could see all through the store to make sure no one was stealing anything? What could he do about it if someone had, from all the way in the back? So many questions. We visited this particular store one evening after dinner when I was small. The five of us; my parents, brother, sister and I; had just eaten at Dell's Pizza off of 1st Avenue right across from the police station. It was a dark little bar and pizzeria that housed a main level cafe setting and a basement family bar setting, complete with juke box and arcade games. We played 25 cent games of Space Invaders and Pac Man and split a large thin crust pepperoni pizza, cut into tiny squares. There was a pitcher of pop for us kids and a beer for Dad. After this particular meal, we headed over to Snyder's to pick up Mylanta for Dad. One of those grown up things I had yet to understand.
As a matter of fact, it was in that very Snyder's parking lot that my grandparents used to park to sit and watch the annual Anoka Halloween Parade. That was back when folks still had a sensible mind about whether or not to come out to the parade when it was 30 degrees outside. Many used to stay home and skip the festivities when it was that cold, giving my grandparents a chance to see while keeping warm in their car, but not now. Now we all bundle up and shiver as we wave to the princesses and listen to the driving beat of the marching bands in cadence as they cross the Rum River Bridge and head into town. Although I was in more parades than I can count and attended more parades than I want to count, I still attend the Halloween Parade every year. It's the pinnacle of autumn for me.
That Snyder's shut down when I was a teenager and that was the first time I remember feeling nostalgic about my home town. How dare they change?! It became an Amish furniture store, that quickly failed, and now that building is a massage studio. I have yet to go in to see if they still have creaky floorboards, but I'm guessing those Amish folks fixed it up. When I was a teenager, a coffee shop opened up on 1st and Main; Cafe A`mi. That was Anoka's first taste of the grunge scene and lots of Anoka teens seemed to have found a home. We'd sit on the couch (who thought of putting a couch in a cafe?!) and order overpriced Italian sodas or Snapple's. We'd wax philosophical and were thrilled when we could spend four hours in a place and not get shooed out. There used to be a Mexican restaurant downstairs from it where my best friends from high school used to work. I attended a horribly drunken Christmas party with them there one year during college and vaguely remember my incredibly tall and overly thin friend in a sumo wrestling suit taking down his boss. The restaurant changed hands many years ago and finally shut down. I don't know what's in that building now, but every time I pass it, I chuckle.
Serum's off of Jackson Street (a block off Main) holds more recent fond memories. The first time I went upstairs at Serum's was to see my brother play in a Kiss tribute band about five years ago. I sat in front of the speakers (the only spot left!) and my ears were buzzing well into the next day, but I had never been so proud of him. He managed to put himself out there and show what he could do; something I couldn't have done. A few years later, I went to see him there again, this time with a cover band playing more mainstream music. I beamed with pride when he introduced me to the band members during a break, and over the course of the next few years, I found myself there many times watching them play. About six months ago, I was brought up on Serum's stage to sing with them - something I never imagined I could do - and it was awesome. But even Serum's hadn't always been Serum's. When I was a kid, it was a pizza place that was decorated with huge antique bicycles. We ate there once or twice.
The little flower shop off of Main Street has been one of the only places I know of that hasn't changed. So much so that it has become an Anoka institution. Prom corsages were ordered there. Wedding flowers. The day after my Grandpa passed away this spring, I walked into Anoka Floral to arrange for flowers to be sent to the funeral home. There was something comforting about going in there. They already knew who he was and where the services were being held and when. Others had already come in to order arrangements. It hadn't occurred to any of us to go anywhere else. This is our home.
Something like 90% of the world's population lives within 50 miles of the place they were born, and I swore I would be of the other 10%. But I grew up 10 miles from downtown Anoka. I went to school there, I made friends there, and I made memories there. Now I live five miles from town and all these years later, it's still home. The only one I've ever known.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
School Daze
Summer has sprinted past us and it's autumn once again. Funny, now that I think of it. I grew up using the word "fall" to define this time of year and now I am purposely correcting myself to call it "autumn". I think that's because I don't like to connotation of the word "fall". To trip. To stumble over. To fall is not something you want, anticipate, or look forward to. In my mind, that is not the proper term for this time of year; a time of year that I do want, anticipate, and look forward to. The brisk air is something I embrace. I love sweater weather. I love that it's chilly in the morning and warm in the afternoon. It makes us appreciate the warmth even more, knowing that soon enough, the warmth will end. But there is more to this time of year; it's the start of school.
I jokingly call the first day of school "Zero Body Count Day". By that, I mean that I've managed to survive another summer with four children without killing anyone. All of their different activities, interests, and friends, and the directions I have to drive them in; all of their fights over who said what to whom, "he won't give that back", and "so-and-so won't get out of my room" madness; all of their groaning over doing chores (once per week!) and getting out of bed at a reasonable hour (before 10 am). It was survived with little tears and no bloodshed. That equals success in my book. Of course, there is the bittersweet that goes hand-in-hand with the triumph. What happened to these past few months? Wasn't I going to have the kids help me plant a new garden? We didn't even pick up a shovel! Weren't we planning on doing one big activity per week, such as going to the museum, beach, or camping? We didn't take the tent out! How did the wind shift so quickly and why wasn't I ready? I was school shopping at the last possible moment! Even though I look forward to it, autumn always takes me by surprise. But the biggest change for this autumn, I felt I was actually ready for. My last baby went to kindergarten.
I had already been though the first day of kindergarten with both my step-kids. I took pictures of them in their new school clothes holding their new backpacks filled with all the school supplies I picked out and wrote their names on, so when my son's turn came, I thought I'd take it in stride. But the day my son stepped on the bus to go to kindergarten, I cried uncontrollably. I was a mess. My baby! My little man! He was too small, too trusting to be without me! He needed his mommy! He needed me to protect him! Except, he really didn't. He is a smart kid and he knew what he was supposed to do. The hardest part of it for me was thinking that I had had all this time, all these five years with him, to do all the things on the list, to take him everywhere, to really enjoy him and hold him and spoil him and make sure he knew I loved him, and when he stepped on that bus for the first time, I felt like I hadn't done enough for him and I hadn't spent enough time with him (although I had him in a daycare for less than a year of his life). It was like I was sending him off to war. It was this huge milestone that I simply wasn't ready for.
My little man started second grade yesterday. Time keeps speeding up. I won't say it gets easier to let go, but I will say that I've started to get used to it. Every autumn, I feel a little melancholy about not doing enough with the kids, not spending enough time with them, not doing enough fun things with them. Realistically, that's bull. I'm home with the kids all the time and we did lots of fun things this summer. We didn't rush and we didn't plan too much. We played. We rode bikes. We went on picnics.
My last baby started kindergarten yesterday. My last little one. My baby girl. She started the day with a huge smile on her face and jumped into the new school clothes we had picked out together. She hoisted her backpack, filled with the school supplies I bought and labeled, upon her shoulder and she was out the door. And yes, a teared up a little bit when she climbed aboard the bus. Another milestone reached. But I smiled with pride and love when my son and daughter waved at me as the bus drove away, sitting in the front seat together.
It's autumn. Time to start anew.
I jokingly call the first day of school "Zero Body Count Day". By that, I mean that I've managed to survive another summer with four children without killing anyone. All of their different activities, interests, and friends, and the directions I have to drive them in; all of their fights over who said what to whom, "he won't give that back", and "so-and-so won't get out of my room" madness; all of their groaning over doing chores (once per week!) and getting out of bed at a reasonable hour (before 10 am). It was survived with little tears and no bloodshed. That equals success in my book. Of course, there is the bittersweet that goes hand-in-hand with the triumph. What happened to these past few months? Wasn't I going to have the kids help me plant a new garden? We didn't even pick up a shovel! Weren't we planning on doing one big activity per week, such as going to the museum, beach, or camping? We didn't take the tent out! How did the wind shift so quickly and why wasn't I ready? I was school shopping at the last possible moment! Even though I look forward to it, autumn always takes me by surprise. But the biggest change for this autumn, I felt I was actually ready for. My last baby went to kindergarten.
I had already been though the first day of kindergarten with both my step-kids. I took pictures of them in their new school clothes holding their new backpacks filled with all the school supplies I picked out and wrote their names on, so when my son's turn came, I thought I'd take it in stride. But the day my son stepped on the bus to go to kindergarten, I cried uncontrollably. I was a mess. My baby! My little man! He was too small, too trusting to be without me! He needed his mommy! He needed me to protect him! Except, he really didn't. He is a smart kid and he knew what he was supposed to do. The hardest part of it for me was thinking that I had had all this time, all these five years with him, to do all the things on the list, to take him everywhere, to really enjoy him and hold him and spoil him and make sure he knew I loved him, and when he stepped on that bus for the first time, I felt like I hadn't done enough for him and I hadn't spent enough time with him (although I had him in a daycare for less than a year of his life). It was like I was sending him off to war. It was this huge milestone that I simply wasn't ready for.
My little man started second grade yesterday. Time keeps speeding up. I won't say it gets easier to let go, but I will say that I've started to get used to it. Every autumn, I feel a little melancholy about not doing enough with the kids, not spending enough time with them, not doing enough fun things with them. Realistically, that's bull. I'm home with the kids all the time and we did lots of fun things this summer. We didn't rush and we didn't plan too much. We played. We rode bikes. We went on picnics.
My last baby started kindergarten yesterday. My last little one. My baby girl. She started the day with a huge smile on her face and jumped into the new school clothes we had picked out together. She hoisted her backpack, filled with the school supplies I bought and labeled, upon her shoulder and she was out the door. And yes, a teared up a little bit when she climbed aboard the bus. Another milestone reached. But I smiled with pride and love when my son and daughter waved at me as the bus drove away, sitting in the front seat together.
It's autumn. Time to start anew.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Flip Side
Things in which I find joy:
The sound of my daughter's singing.
It's off-key (like my grandma's used to be) and often singing completely made up songs (like I used to do), but her little voice warms my heart when I hear her singing when she thinks I'm not listening. I'll sit in my bedroom listening to her sing in her bedroom. She's caught me a few times as I sit there quietly and gotten shy, only to start up again when she thinks I'm busy. Her voice is the sound of innocence at play.
The sight of my son playing quietly with his legos.
He will scatter his legos in front of him and carefully select certain ones to create new trucks, tailors, or boats. His back will be to me as he plays in front of the end table that he's turned into a make-shift garage and I watch his ease with being himself - the way he can think and create and be content with nothing else than what is in front of him. His peace is my peace.
The sound of wind chimes blowing in the breeze.
Sometime in the middle of the season, we begin to take the warm days for granted. Every day is close to the same. Sun shining, gentle breeze, and we begin to think that every day will be this way, this warm, this easy. The wind chimes break up the monotony of the day and reminds me that summer is a passing wish in Minnesota and before we know it, autumn's breeze will blow through, and soon we'll be covered in snow. Wind chimes are the sighing breath of summer.
The smell of dark buttered toast.
When I was a child, my grandparents provided daycare for me while my mother went back to work. Every morning, I would arrive at their house, still a little sleepy-eyed, and would immediately walk through the front room to the kitchen where a breakfast of Wheaties with sugar and dark buttered toast were waiting for me. It was the smell of love and anticipation of my arrival. I often think that when I die, the smell of dark buttered toast will usher me home.
The feel of brisk autumn air.
Every year, I look forward to autumn. Feeling that chilled breeze blow through my hair reminds me of tucking summer away for another year and pulling out sweaters, reuniting with school friends I'd forgotten about, of attending high school football games and listening to the marching bands, the feel of freshly sharpened pencils, and the taste of tart Harrolson apples. It may be backward thinking, but to me autumn has always felt like a beginning instead of an ending.
The sound of Chopin.
I first found a love of Chopin when I was in college, some 15 years ago. I think what sparked it was reading the short story Chopin in Winter. It is a beautifully written sad story that caused me to seek out the music of Chopin to fully understand the story. His work is slow, heartfelt, methodical, and strangely soothing. The "Raindrop" prelude spoke directly to my heart and I found it to be the perfect compliment to a long hot bath in a safe white space to ease the bitterness of winters that I used to dread.
The energy of practicing yoga.
This is something that I have been dabbling with for the past few years. When I first started yoga, I was looking for inner peace. I found that seeking inner peace is a journey, not a destination. The physical exertion of the practice is energizing. Using nothing but yourself, you twist, turn, and wind yourself up, while constantly remembering to breathe. The focus this takes is astonishing and when I am finished, I feel energized and proud of my body's accomplishments. My mind is still because it has been forced to focus on being in the moment. I am clear and sound and alive.
The cool summer dew replenishing the earth at night.
When I was a teenager, I would go driving with my friend Michelle. Often, we'd head over to Perkins and order coffee (for me), hot tea (for her), and we'd share a desert. We thought we were so grown up. On our way home on those late summer nights, we'd cruise down Highway 10 with our windows open, radio turned on loud, singing along. It was usually so late that the dew was starting to settle on the fields and the fresh air that it produced would rush through the car. It was the feeling of being young and alive; of carefree nights with the world ahead of us.
What's even better, this is only a partial list.
The sound of my daughter's singing.
It's off-key (like my grandma's used to be) and often singing completely made up songs (like I used to do), but her little voice warms my heart when I hear her singing when she thinks I'm not listening. I'll sit in my bedroom listening to her sing in her bedroom. She's caught me a few times as I sit there quietly and gotten shy, only to start up again when she thinks I'm busy. Her voice is the sound of innocence at play.
The sight of my son playing quietly with his legos.
He will scatter his legos in front of him and carefully select certain ones to create new trucks, tailors, or boats. His back will be to me as he plays in front of the end table that he's turned into a make-shift garage and I watch his ease with being himself - the way he can think and create and be content with nothing else than what is in front of him. His peace is my peace.
The sound of wind chimes blowing in the breeze.
Sometime in the middle of the season, we begin to take the warm days for granted. Every day is close to the same. Sun shining, gentle breeze, and we begin to think that every day will be this way, this warm, this easy. The wind chimes break up the monotony of the day and reminds me that summer is a passing wish in Minnesota and before we know it, autumn's breeze will blow through, and soon we'll be covered in snow. Wind chimes are the sighing breath of summer.
The smell of dark buttered toast.
When I was a child, my grandparents provided daycare for me while my mother went back to work. Every morning, I would arrive at their house, still a little sleepy-eyed, and would immediately walk through the front room to the kitchen where a breakfast of Wheaties with sugar and dark buttered toast were waiting for me. It was the smell of love and anticipation of my arrival. I often think that when I die, the smell of dark buttered toast will usher me home.
The feel of brisk autumn air.
Every year, I look forward to autumn. Feeling that chilled breeze blow through my hair reminds me of tucking summer away for another year and pulling out sweaters, reuniting with school friends I'd forgotten about, of attending high school football games and listening to the marching bands, the feel of freshly sharpened pencils, and the taste of tart Harrolson apples. It may be backward thinking, but to me autumn has always felt like a beginning instead of an ending.
The sound of Chopin.
I first found a love of Chopin when I was in college, some 15 years ago. I think what sparked it was reading the short story Chopin in Winter. It is a beautifully written sad story that caused me to seek out the music of Chopin to fully understand the story. His work is slow, heartfelt, methodical, and strangely soothing. The "Raindrop" prelude spoke directly to my heart and I found it to be the perfect compliment to a long hot bath in a safe white space to ease the bitterness of winters that I used to dread.
The energy of practicing yoga.
This is something that I have been dabbling with for the past few years. When I first started yoga, I was looking for inner peace. I found that seeking inner peace is a journey, not a destination. The physical exertion of the practice is energizing. Using nothing but yourself, you twist, turn, and wind yourself up, while constantly remembering to breathe. The focus this takes is astonishing and when I am finished, I feel energized and proud of my body's accomplishments. My mind is still because it has been forced to focus on being in the moment. I am clear and sound and alive.
The cool summer dew replenishing the earth at night.
When I was a teenager, I would go driving with my friend Michelle. Often, we'd head over to Perkins and order coffee (for me), hot tea (for her), and we'd share a desert. We thought we were so grown up. On our way home on those late summer nights, we'd cruise down Highway 10 with our windows open, radio turned on loud, singing along. It was usually so late that the dew was starting to settle on the fields and the fresh air that it produced would rush through the car. It was the feeling of being young and alive; of carefree nights with the world ahead of us.
What's even better, this is only a partial list.
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