it felt sacred and calming to sit in the presence of beulah jodrie. scary too, just a little. i respected her fiercely and wanted so badly for her to notice me, or more correctly my writing. when she received her phd in creative writing from brown university in 1978 she opted for no pomp and circumstance, but we in her 3:00 class decided to mark the occasion anyway, a single red rose from each of us, 7 in all. she was quiet and humbled and we didn't say anything more, we just moved on.
dr. jodrie was a small woman with a thick silver topknot and glasses that made her blue eyes look bigger than they were. easily in her 60's, she wore skirts with the waistband riding high on her belly, crisp white blouses, a brooch at her neck, and always a shawl. kneesocks or dark green tights and a faithful pair of wallabees completed her outfit . she spoke with a sway in her words as they all do in the white mountains of new hampshire.
one of her standing assignments for all aspiring writers was to keep a journal that she would read every so often, and return with red notes in the margins, in perfect script. for the first two semesters she struggled to teach me "STOP writing about YOU and about what you think! look around and write about what you SEE, and tell us what you think about that. not the other way around!"
two black men in black shirts stood waist high in the water of lake nokomis this afternoon. they smiled and beckoned to the people on shore - some of whom wore flowing white scarves. others held hands as they watched, or held each other, or babies and children, and they were all smiling. a few waded into the water with hands folded in prayer. "i baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. amen"
on the other end of the lake 4 blue school buses were parked on the street and half on the curb. tiny flags and balloons of all colors were jumping in the breeze, and children were everywhere. the most lovely thing of all, 6 little girls in burlap sacks, lined up in a tidy row, and when the guy in the white shirt say "GO!", they started hopping backwards towards the finish line. one tiny girl with a pink shirt hopped into first place. she had a thousand perfect black braids, each fastened with small white ribbons and as she hopped and hopped her hair flounced like a cheerleaders pom pom.
oh dr. jodrie, it has been more than 3o years. but when i write, i often think of you and of the last notes you left in my journal. you had tried for 2 years to get me to see things that were not about me, but about how life is,and about how life looks when you stop to notice it. you said
"bravo! you have finally got it!"
i feel your spirit still.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Why?
rosie is my neighbor and she is two. when you ask how old she is, her big brother fletcher chimes in to say "she is two. one year for each eye." she weighs 28 pounds and has big blue eyes and white blond hair. her favorite phrase is "i love you". and she has become my dear friend.
rosie and i spent last saturday together. there was a garage sale going on in her driveway and mine, but the best part of the day was talking to rosie. and better than best was what rosie taught me about life, conversation, and relationships.
tell rosie something and she usually responds with "why?" and then you offer more information and rosie says "why?" i understand this is a two year old thing.
but i got to thinking about it. what if we used that question more often, "why?". think of what we would learn when we gently force the issue of why someone is thinking the way that they are.
"how are you?" WHY? (are you making conversation or how much do you want to know?)
"what time will you be home?" WHY? are you planning a special surprise for me or do you need to throw the dancing girls out)
"i love you." WHY? ok now we are getting somewhere.
rosie and her family are moving soon, far away but not that far. i shall miss seeing her tiny feet grow into the next size of slippers, i'll miss her long lashes and how they brush her cheeks when she blinks them.
but you go on rosie, keep asking why. and next year when i see you again, i can't wait to hear what you've learned.
rosie and i spent last saturday together. there was a garage sale going on in her driveway and mine, but the best part of the day was talking to rosie. and better than best was what rosie taught me about life, conversation, and relationships.
tell rosie something and she usually responds with "why?" and then you offer more information and rosie says "why?" i understand this is a two year old thing.
but i got to thinking about it. what if we used that question more often, "why?". think of what we would learn when we gently force the issue of why someone is thinking the way that they are.
"how are you?" WHY? (are you making conversation or how much do you want to know?)
"what time will you be home?" WHY? are you planning a special surprise for me or do you need to throw the dancing girls out)
"i love you." WHY? ok now we are getting somewhere.
rosie and her family are moving soon, far away but not that far. i shall miss seeing her tiny feet grow into the next size of slippers, i'll miss her long lashes and how they brush her cheeks when she blinks them.
but you go on rosie, keep asking why. and next year when i see you again, i can't wait to hear what you've learned.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
bus fare
i was talking with terri today about debit cards. about how it took so long for she and i to get used to using them. neither one of us trusted them at first; we preferred writing checks. but then terri observed that "kids today," (she has two millenials), 'that's all they use. they don't know "cash".'
debit cards are much different than our old-fashioned cash cards. those shiny plastic cards don't know if you have cash and frankly, they don't care. if you are who you say you are once you swipe your card, it's all yours. paper or plastic, would you like some help out with that? have a nice day. if it turns out there is no money to back up this purchase, you'll find out later lady. heh heh heh.
remember when we knew cash? real cash - as in green and wrinkled, or inky and crisp? mmmm...real cash made of government manufactured paper. cash. we knew it by name and number, arrival and departure dates. we fanned it and felt it and folded and smelt it. cash. a roomate that came and went in a way we could never count on. the expression "living from paycheck to paycheck" does not describe the fear and frustration of "living by scraping and searching". we needed milk or tampons or both...so in the heat-included basement apartment with the gold shag rugs we scoured and crawled. check all jacket pockets, check the junk drawer. check the laundry room - maybe someone dropped a quarter somewhere.
at 4:45 on a frigid january evening when i was barely 23, i buttoned up my $24 dollar down coat, pulled on my leg warmers, and boots. yanked my fake wool hat over my ears and headed for the cash machine in coffman union on the east bank campus of the university of minnesota. i needed to withdraw $5.00 at my friendly ATM, and exhange if for quarters in order obtain 75 cents for the bus ride home. insert card, boop boop boop...
INSUFFICENT FUNDS
black fireworks swirling around my sweating head. weak knees wrapped in wet polyster knit in the cavern of an 80 degree lounge of young rich upstarts. i am fainting and dying and they are enjoying french fries on mismatched divans. and there i am, me, with barely a cent and no way home.
i found a dime, and called john, who was working the nightshift at a cable tv station in fridley. "wait right there" he said " i made a deposit yesterday and i'll call you right back -- what's the phone number of the pay phone you are on?"
20 minutes later after a clunky, wet and desperate run across the washington avenue bridge and the east bank campus, i stumbled into a recently closed branch office of tcf in dinkytown. most of the lights were turned off and all the staff had gone home. all, but for a nice young woman named trish (my age at the time but much farther ahead in the world than i at 23) was waiting for me. her head was pressed up against the steamy glass door, wating for me. a nine inch ring of keys at the ready to let me in. she gave me $5 worth of quarters and said "you guys still have $37.00 in your account. have a good night."
i made it home on the #5 that night, after transferring from the #4. unwrapped my wrappings in blessed relief and the rest is a blur.
gives paper or plastic a whole new meaning, doesn't it.
debit cards are much different than our old-fashioned cash cards. those shiny plastic cards don't know if you have cash and frankly, they don't care. if you are who you say you are once you swipe your card, it's all yours. paper or plastic, would you like some help out with that? have a nice day. if it turns out there is no money to back up this purchase, you'll find out later lady. heh heh heh.
remember when we knew cash? real cash - as in green and wrinkled, or inky and crisp? mmmm...real cash made of government manufactured paper. cash. we knew it by name and number, arrival and departure dates. we fanned it and felt it and folded and smelt it. cash. a roomate that came and went in a way we could never count on. the expression "living from paycheck to paycheck" does not describe the fear and frustration of "living by scraping and searching". we needed milk or tampons or both...so in the heat-included basement apartment with the gold shag rugs we scoured and crawled. check all jacket pockets, check the junk drawer. check the laundry room - maybe someone dropped a quarter somewhere.
at 4:45 on a frigid january evening when i was barely 23, i buttoned up my $24 dollar down coat, pulled on my leg warmers, and boots. yanked my fake wool hat over my ears and headed for the cash machine in coffman union on the east bank campus of the university of minnesota. i needed to withdraw $5.00 at my friendly ATM, and exhange if for quarters in order obtain 75 cents for the bus ride home. insert card, boop boop boop...
INSUFFICENT FUNDS
black fireworks swirling around my sweating head. weak knees wrapped in wet polyster knit in the cavern of an 80 degree lounge of young rich upstarts. i am fainting and dying and they are enjoying french fries on mismatched divans. and there i am, me, with barely a cent and no way home.
i found a dime, and called john, who was working the nightshift at a cable tv station in fridley. "wait right there" he said " i made a deposit yesterday and i'll call you right back -- what's the phone number of the pay phone you are on?"
20 minutes later after a clunky, wet and desperate run across the washington avenue bridge and the east bank campus, i stumbled into a recently closed branch office of tcf in dinkytown. most of the lights were turned off and all the staff had gone home. all, but for a nice young woman named trish (my age at the time but much farther ahead in the world than i at 23) was waiting for me. her head was pressed up against the steamy glass door, wating for me. a nine inch ring of keys at the ready to let me in. she gave me $5 worth of quarters and said "you guys still have $37.00 in your account. have a good night."
i made it home on the #5 that night, after transferring from the #4. unwrapped my wrappings in blessed relief and the rest is a blur.
gives paper or plastic a whole new meaning, doesn't it.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
prickly
sometimes i think i am part cactus. or porcupine. except porcupines seem to find affection, don't they? otherwise how could there be other porcupines?
but a cactus, now there is something that feels like me today. prickly. sharp. unloveable and untouchable. i had several questions i needed answers to this afternoon and even the internet could not help me. perhaps i was looking in the wrong places (probably) but why i can't just tell it what i want to know and it should be intelligent enough to flip up a site with answers. that is how we have been trained these days, and when it doesn't work it's annoying.
how do i move things around on that new blog? your answer is stupid, and that button that says "help" does not understand my question. and what is the name of that little bird that has been visiting me, hopping around my feet and winking at me? ok ok her name is puff, as i have determined but is she a wren or a finch or a sparrow or what? she is one of a kind and she likes to hop hop hop when i'm sitting by the fountain. she cocks her head and comes very close and peeps at me. i have never seen any bird like her and i want to know what she is.
she's a bird. she's a little cute fuzzball who seems to be lost, but she does like it here so perhaps she will stay. why can't i be happy with that answer?
maybe it's the warmth of this july afternoon, maybe i am just tired. maybe i am missing something or feeling like i should be farther ahead in all things life-wise.
i suppose prickly is ok. just the same, i would suggest that you keep your distance.
till tomorrow.
but a cactus, now there is something that feels like me today. prickly. sharp. unloveable and untouchable. i had several questions i needed answers to this afternoon and even the internet could not help me. perhaps i was looking in the wrong places (probably) but why i can't just tell it what i want to know and it should be intelligent enough to flip up a site with answers. that is how we have been trained these days, and when it doesn't work it's annoying.
how do i move things around on that new blog? your answer is stupid, and that button that says "help" does not understand my question. and what is the name of that little bird that has been visiting me, hopping around my feet and winking at me? ok ok her name is puff, as i have determined but is she a wren or a finch or a sparrow or what? she is one of a kind and she likes to hop hop hop when i'm sitting by the fountain. she cocks her head and comes very close and peeps at me. i have never seen any bird like her and i want to know what she is.
she's a bird. she's a little cute fuzzball who seems to be lost, but she does like it here so perhaps she will stay. why can't i be happy with that answer?
maybe it's the warmth of this july afternoon, maybe i am just tired. maybe i am missing something or feeling like i should be farther ahead in all things life-wise.
i suppose prickly is ok. just the same, i would suggest that you keep your distance.
till tomorrow.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
everett's
everett's market is on 38th street in south minneapolis and i had driven by there 1000 times before last spring. i only stopped in after kevin served a perfect lamb roast on easter sunday and where did you get that roast, darling?
"everett's. they are the best. haven't you ever been there?"
mr. everett grew up a block away from this shiney piece of heaven, and he never imagined that after 49 years there he would be creating an iconic legacy in the same hood wear he played stickball and snuck smokes behind his dad's garage. the same block that waited for him to come home from the war and raise a family and open a market.
the best thing about everett's beside the green and white linolem floor is the meat counter. usually there are 12 hansome butchers of all ages in white paper hats and string tied aprons and they can't do enough to tell you how glad they are to see you, and if you don't see what you want let them know and they'll fix you right up. they stand at the ready and seem like royalty to me.
the meat case is a mile long, squeaky clean and sparkling. at the west end there are luscious mounds of everything sausage: polish, italian, bratworst, coarse and fine wieners, spicy, sweet and smoked...links and links of perfect piles of all things plump, fresh and pink. the cold cuts are next -- olive loaf - the kind mom used to serve at picnics and open houses. salami, bologna, turkey, roast beef, sliced fresh ham (three kinds). cheese cheese and cheese comes next, and then containers full of fresh potato salad, ham spread, and baked beans. moving east are the roasts and ribs and chops and chickens. a continuem of hearty goodness from end to end, no preservatives, carved, chopped, sliced and wrapped with love. in white paper with masking tape of course.
aside from the meat counter all necessities are on hand. fresh produce, soy milk, sweet martha's cookies, frozen white fish, pet supplies, even wasabi sauce, capers and olives. everything you need, really, all under one small roof called everett's.
it's the kind of place that makes you feel good just being there. a little family dream that came true and is solid, strong, and sincere. two weeks ago i got chatting at the checkout about the terrible loss of tim russert, and said "what will i do on sunday mornings from now on?"
one of the hansome butchers who had come out to help bag looked at me with deep brown eyes and answered simply "go to church".
recently mr. everett and his little market were featured in two twin cities magazines and if you ask him about that he smiles from ear to ear.
"only took 49 years for this place to be discovered", he says with his hands on his hips.
that's a matter of opinion, sir.
by the way, we're having ribs for supper tonight. st. louis style. and homemade baked beans.
"everett's. they are the best. haven't you ever been there?"
mr. everett grew up a block away from this shiney piece of heaven, and he never imagined that after 49 years there he would be creating an iconic legacy in the same hood wear he played stickball and snuck smokes behind his dad's garage. the same block that waited for him to come home from the war and raise a family and open a market.
the best thing about everett's beside the green and white linolem floor is the meat counter. usually there are 12 hansome butchers of all ages in white paper hats and string tied aprons and they can't do enough to tell you how glad they are to see you, and if you don't see what you want let them know and they'll fix you right up. they stand at the ready and seem like royalty to me.
the meat case is a mile long, squeaky clean and sparkling. at the west end there are luscious mounds of everything sausage: polish, italian, bratworst, coarse and fine wieners, spicy, sweet and smoked...links and links of perfect piles of all things plump, fresh and pink. the cold cuts are next -- olive loaf - the kind mom used to serve at picnics and open houses. salami, bologna, turkey, roast beef, sliced fresh ham (three kinds). cheese cheese and cheese comes next, and then containers full of fresh potato salad, ham spread, and baked beans. moving east are the roasts and ribs and chops and chickens. a continuem of hearty goodness from end to end, no preservatives, carved, chopped, sliced and wrapped with love. in white paper with masking tape of course.
aside from the meat counter all necessities are on hand. fresh produce, soy milk, sweet martha's cookies, frozen white fish, pet supplies, even wasabi sauce, capers and olives. everything you need, really, all under one small roof called everett's.
it's the kind of place that makes you feel good just being there. a little family dream that came true and is solid, strong, and sincere. two weeks ago i got chatting at the checkout about the terrible loss of tim russert, and said "what will i do on sunday mornings from now on?"
one of the hansome butchers who had come out to help bag looked at me with deep brown eyes and answered simply "go to church".
recently mr. everett and his little market were featured in two twin cities magazines and if you ask him about that he smiles from ear to ear.
"only took 49 years for this place to be discovered", he says with his hands on his hips.
that's a matter of opinion, sir.
by the way, we're having ribs for supper tonight. st. louis style. and homemade baked beans.
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