Into the Arena: Arming our Children for Life

I opened my computer yesterday morning to check email and the Comcast headlines assaulted me.  Developing story.  Stabbing rampage at a high school.  I had two thoughts initially: 1) Oh no.  Here we go again.  2) Thank goodness it wasn’t a gun.

I should’ve prefaced this post with the caveat that I am not an expert on anything relevant.  I’m not a sociologist or a psychologist or a school guidance counselor or a police officer.  I am a human and a mother.  Hear me out if you will.

A couple days ago, Ace and I engaged in a lengthy discussion regarding cultural appropriation, precipitated by Robin Wood’s blog post.  A woodworker by trade, the author debates whether a craftsperson should make and sell art that originated within another cultural heritage.  Is it ethical for me to create and market Hindu Vajra for my own profit?  Is it appropriate for me to wear a sari?  How about a Plains Indian headdress?  Do the Cleveland Indians, Washington Redskins, and Atlanta Braves exploit or respect American Indian cultural traditions?

Ace argued that he and I lack a distinctive cultural heritage.  My ancestors came from all over Europe and parts of the UK.  His hail primarily from Great Britain.  So borscht, sheepherding, dreidels, escargot, Erzgebirge nutcrackers, kilts, samovars, and the Eiffel Tower are all fair game for us in terms of cultural appropriation.

What constitutes contemporary American culture?  My cynical self, the one who monitored the developing story, says that the US is defined by fast food, selfies, reality television, and violence.  Welcome to America, here’s your diabetes.  Be sure to purchase your assault weapon before the enactment of new gun control legislation.

According to Forbes, Divergent pulled in over $100 million in two weeks.  Catching Fire topped $160 million in its opening weekend.  Once you move past the initial euphoria (“Hey!  It’s a strong female protagonist!”), you settle down into the comfortable familiarity of yet another violent film targeted at children.  Gender equity means girls get to kill people, too.  Yippee.

One of my high school friends drove up from Chicago with her kids last weekend and we used it as an excuse to get the old gang back together.  The husbands dragged the passel of children to the park while the wives drank tea and discussed children’s and Young Adult literature.

I grow weary of violent books.  It took me several days to physically recover from reading the Divergent series.  The relentless killing (including an eleven-year-old boy shot at point-blank range) sucked the life force out of me, rendering me incapable of higher cognitive function.  I told my girlfriends, mostly for the sake of argument, that I want to write a book about a realistic, loving, sexual relationship between two well-adjusted teenagers.  Hm, they said.  Do you think there would be a market for that?  Nope.

I lull myself into a false silver lining; At least it wasn’t a gun.  The twenty-one people who were stabbed yesterday morning are all expected to live.  So that means a boy grabbed two knives, perhaps the longest ones he could find in his own kitchen, traveled to school, and then proceeded to repeatedly slash and stab his classmates, lifting the weapons and plunging them into abdomens and chests and faces.

Virtually the only study I recall from my Intro to Psychology textbook is Albert Bandura’s Bobo doll experiment.  Kids who watched an adult physically and verbally abuse the Bobo doll were more violent toward the doll in subsequent interaction than kids who did not witness violence.

I agree that kids should learn how to read, write coherent sentences, and solve math problems.  But how about modeling conflict resolution and healthy collegial relationships or teaching kids how to engage in difficult conversations?  You can’t graduate from high school unless you log 125 acts of kindness and 75 volunteer hours.  Every violent video game would be peppered with additional scenarios: rescuing dogs from burning buildings, emotion management exercises, and yanking toddlers from the path of oncoming cars.

We send our children into the arena every day.  How do we arm them?  With anger and poor impulse control and knives and inadequate medical care and homelessness and narcissism and guns?  Or with nutritious food, literacy, compassion, access to mental health services, love, interpersonal skills, adequate sleep, and empathy.

Let’s choose the path that allows our youth to create a contemporary American culture worth appropriating.

Musical Moment

 

 

Posted in Blog | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Memoir Monday: Prom in the Time of Shoulderpads

Prom 87 (6)

Boy-I-Barely-Knew, far right, wearing suit. Thanks, Sam Heughan for the use of your head.

I attended prom my junior and senior years.  Junior year, I accidentally picked up a date at a speech tournament.  Was it speech or debate?  Regardless, my head started spinning in a swirl of OMD tunes and I found myself planning to attend my rite of passage with a boy I barely knew.  He showed up in a suit and I cringe now, recalling my embarrassment.    Why did it matter?  I guess stupid things matter when identity and self-esteem have the consistency of Play-doh.

 

 

Prom 87 (10)

Me and my gardenia. Jamie Fraser standing in for Boy-I-Barely-Knew.

My mom made my dress, a kind of flapper situation with big honkin shoulder pads.  We used slippery black satin and heavy lace for the tulipy reverse pleats.  I ordered a gardenia for my hair, not wanting to pierce the dress with a hat pin and not trusting Boy-I-Barely-Knew to choose anything besides a carnation.

We were so very wholesome.  Eight of us gathered at Molly’s house for dinner before prom.  Her mom, a culinary goddess, concocted a fantastic meal.  I have no idea what we ate.  My dad took a large pile of pictures using actual film.  The group shots feature at least one set of closed or wayward eyes.  We must’ve driven two cars into downtown Minneapolis.  I lack distinctive memories of the dance itself.  Everything is grayscale, flat.

Prom 87 (3)

The Boys. First Kiss David, sitting left. Malleable Martin, standing right. The other two were interlopers – not part of the gang.

Prom 87 (4)

The Girls. Hello 80s. Molly and I back row. Incognito-In-Pink and Gen front row. This is the ONLY documented record of Incognito wearing baby pink. Ever.

My date and I didn’t kiss.  Or drink.  Or smoke anything.  I’m dead certain that I showed up at home before my curfew.  I probably slept fine and got right back to business as usual.

 

 

 

 

 

Senior year I wound up with a boyfriend.  I don’t exactly recall how.  He planned to wear a kilt to prom, which may have contributed to the demise of our relationship.  In retrospect, I think a kilt is an AWESOME idea and I should’ve worn the Lipnicki tartan (from the highlands of Kiev).

The girls of our high school gang utilized a profit sharing model where males were concerned.  We loved our affiliated boys and distributed them to the areas of greatest need.  Martin escorted Gen junior year and then kindly stepped in for my senior prom.  He went on to date Molly’s younger sister as well as Laura, another member of our HS group.

Prom 87 (7)

Me-n-Martin.

Prom 87 (1)

I heart 80s hair. I emailed this pic to Martin’s wife (whom I adore).

I paid $30 for my vintage dress at Elsie’s Closet on Nicollet Avenue.  Six hours of babysitting.  I still have the dress.  Elsie died in February at the age of 92.  RIP Elsie – I miss your shop.

 

 

 

Prom 87 (8)

That hoya plant in the background looks like part of my hair…

Prom 87 (2)

Martin channeling Tom Cruise. Note that I am already seatbelted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We ate dinner at my house – me, Martin, Molly, and X.  Yes, I remember X’s name.  He was a sweet boy but, as he came from outside the gang, no one knows his current whereabouts.  The four of us took Martin’s parents’ boat of an American sedan, again to downtown Minneapolis, again to a grayscale, flat, dark event.

Prom 87 (5)

Martin, X with Sam’s head, Molly, and I.

I spent the night at Molly’s.  Our respective boys stayed until around three am.  I’m guessing they were supposed to leave earlier.  We spent some quality time on the multi-primary-colored seventies carpet, Martin and I chastely smooching on one side of the basement, Molly and X on the other side, under her mother’s sewing machine, practicing their zig-zag stitching.  Or something.

The next morning we all went to the Lake Harriet Rose Gardens (ironically, the site of my First Kiss with a different boy from the gang) and lay on a blanket under the crabapple blossoms, sleep deprivation curling through us like a devious serpent.  Ah, youth.

These dear friends, I hold them close to my heart.  Through college and medical school and law school and depression and addiction and marriage and divorce and birth and the tragic death of one of our own.  We still stand together.

But we did stop sharing our men.

Musical Moment ’86

Musical Moment ’87

 

 

Posted in Blog | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Prompt Writing: “Cuban Donkey Guy”

The three of us sit at writing group, tossing out ideas to use as writing prompts.  Linda: Finding your voice; Current feelings; Using geography as an excuse; I don’t go there anymore.  Anne: The incidental orphan; Rising above; At the bedside; The stigmata of mental illness.  Katie: The knock on the door; He’s winning this fight; Dreams of flying; Cuban donkey guy.  Linda sets the timer for seven minutes.  And we’re off!

——————–

Cuban Donkey Guy – by Anne

My cuban donkey guy came to me on the seventh day of the seventh month in 1987, a graduation present perhaps.  He brays outside my bedroom window – Ee aw!  Ee aw!  Ee aw!  I peek around the curtains.  He looks so dapper in his bowtie and cutaway coat.

“Come to me, my virgin bride!  Leap from the window and fly!”  He raises his hooves.  “Leap, my love!”  His hooves are beautifully manicured, filed to precise arcs.  I’ll surely be impaled.

I squeeze my eyes tight shut and jump.  On a gust of wind I rise, nightgown billowing around my waist.  My Cuban donkey guy stretches his legs, higher and higher, till he glides beneath me.  I settle astride his back and we take to the sky.

Ee aw!  Ee aw!  Ee aw!

——————–

Cuban Donkey Guy – by my writing partner, Katie

I love Sunday mornings, the promise of a leisurely day tipped off with the ultimate trinity: sweetened coffee, Star Tribune, and “Acoustic Sunrise”.

One recent blissful morning, I open the Travel section and am struck by something familiar.  The image is clear in my mind: my husband in his wannabe guayabera and a straw hat he borrowed for the photo op, fat cigar between his fingers, gazing out toward the horizon that isn’t captured, mocking himself.

“Babe, the Cuban donkey guy is in the paper!”

I show my sons and explain that we’ve actually met that guy!  That somewhere we have a photo of their dad sitting on that same mangy donkey, with the same gritty old man holding the animal in check with an unconvincing rope.  (Okay, I can’t be sure that the donkey is the same, but the old man is absolutely the real deal.)  I recall a hand-painted sign hanging around the donkey’s neck advertising the available services: “Foto – un dolar”, though this photo shows the sign resting over the weary beast’s forehead, in what I assume is an attempt to provide a bit of protection against the unforgiving Cuban sol.

My kids don’t believe me.

I start digging through our box of old photos, the box that no longer fills because our photos now live in a digital dreamland and the opening of which always evokes profound nostalgia:  Mojitos, salsa dancing to live music in the streets of Trinidad, the thrill of succeeding in visiting the forbidden land that is Cuba.

I can’t find it.

My husband comes to evaluate.  He chuckles, surely recalling that moment and the freedom that feels so fleeting now.  He confirms for the kids that yes, in fact, he did sit on that same animal over ten years ago, and that somehow the donkey guy hasn’t aged at all.

——————–

Musical Moment

Thanks to Katie for letting me post her piece!

The image for this post is Marc Chagall’s “Woman With Green Donkey”.  I do not own this lovely work of art and I posted its likeness without permission.  Sorry about that.

Posted in Blog | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

“Conscious Uncoupling”? Good Luck With That.

News of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin’s impending “conscious uncoupling” hit the internet this week.  I thought I’d toss my opinion into the mix, ‘cause it’s super fun to comment on other people’s failing marriages, particularly when one lacks all the salient facts.  My basic translation of the situation is: “We’re getting divorced, but we’ll try not to be jerks about it,” a goal easier to accomplish when each partner is equally financially independent to the tune of 140 million apiece.

Paltrow and Martin refer to (without crediting) the work of LA author and therapist Katherine Woodward Thomas.  Thomas talks about human longevity, how in the past people weren’t stuck together for seven decades.  Yeah, they died off in childbirth and war and from vaccine-preventable disease and poor water quality.  So really we can blame advances in public health for the birth and subsequent demise of the long-term marriage.

Of course, I’m speaking of marriage in the United States, where the legal recognition of a union is generally not considered a property transaction.  It’s easier to remain married indefinitely when your marriage was arranged and you have little formal education, no political power, no independent means of financial support, and no cultural acceptance of divorced women.  Oh so much easier.  (If you’re not catching the sarcasm, rest assured it’s there.)

Well, I have news for Paltrow and Martin.  It’s unlikely to be easier with someone else.

Almost fifteen years ago, Ace and I went on our first date.  A mutual friend set us up after some prodding on my part.  (She was afraid I might hurt him.)  Ace reluctantly agreed to the meeting, figuring he needed a “practice girlfriend” after the implosion of his first marriage.

We met for a dogwalk.  I learned years later that Ace had walked his labrador retriever, Iris, for at least an hour prior to the date to ensure that she had completely evacuated her rectum.  Right in front of my house, Iris squatted for a poop and wound up with a stringy grass glob hanging out her anus for which she required assistance.  I thought it was hilarious.  Ace, who falls off the introverted end of the I/E bell curve, was silently mortified.

A block away, in front of a brick fourplex, a random woman emerged from her apartment to warn us about a burglar in the neighborhood.  She said the burglar was about five foot eight, blond, and – she stopped and pointed at Ace.  “He kind of looks like you!”

Naturally, I took this as a good omen.  After a couple months (Ace claims fourteen), when he realized I might stick around longer than a “practice girlfriend”, Ace insisted that we go to a couples counselor to “run the relationship by a professional”.  Unconscious uncoupling makes a person skittish like that.  I fired our first therapist – too new-agey.  We found Paul, and delved into what would become our recurrent themes (“She’s too outspoken!”  “He never emotes externally!”  “Why does she need reassurance?”  “Why won’t he kiss me in public?”).

At one point, Paul said: Look, you guys are fine.  You’re good people, you love each other, you share the same values.  Yes, these themes will wax and wane over the course of your relationship and you’ll get better at handling them, at building bridges.  And by the way, it wouldn’t be any easier with someone else.

Ace and I stared at him.  Seriously?  Epiphany!  I’m delighted to report that we are still (happily!) working on our themes.

Consciously coupling.

According to undoubtedly reliable internet sources, Martin and Paltrow remain “best friends”, firmly committed to co-parenting.  Call me crazy, but that sounds like part of the foundation for a great marriage.  So what’s the trouble?  I can think of three situations in which it might truly be easier with someone else.

1)    Partner refuses to work on the relationship.  At all.

2)    Partner is abusive.

3)    Partner has medical issues (emotional, physical, whatever) for which s/he is not willing to seek help.

So who knows what’s going on with Paltrow and Martin.  Appropriately, they are asking for privacy as they “consciously uncouple”.  And let me just state for the record that Eleuthera is a lovely setting for most activities besides Nordic skiing, so a Pal/Mar “family vacation” at a luxurious rental house should soften the uncoupling blow at least somewhat.

Assuming that my above three situations do not apply, we are left to ponder:  Are they bored?  Has the novelty worn off?  Are they tired of their partner making out with other people as part of their job?  Do they lack the creative energy to work together on something they supposedly believe in?  Is the blush off the proverbial rose?

Dry the damn rose petals and make some potpourri.  It’s not gonna be easier with someone else.

Musical Moment

Posted in Blog | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Prompt Writing: A Line From Margaret Atwood

One of my writing partners suggested using the first line of Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace as a writing prompt.  Talk about pressure.  The sentence in quotes belongs entirely to Atwood.  The rest is mine.

————————-

“Out of the gravel there are peonies growing.”                                                                       Red,                                                                                                                               Deoxygenated blood red.                                                                                                              She can almost feel the petals between her fingers.

A distant memory.                                                                                                            Sensations from a past life.                                                                                                          The scent, not unpleasant,                                                                                                         Rolls around her brain like a drunken marble.

Buds, tightly wound,                                                                                                                     Ripe with potential.                                                                                                          Sequential unfurling.

And the ants,                                                                                                                          Weaving a serpiginous line over the path.                                                                                  Up each stem,                                                                                                                            Drawn to the center.

If her leg was a green stem,                                                                                                      Blood coursing along the phloem and xylem,                                                                          Tiny ant appendages would whisper their passage.                                                                  Up and up.

What do they seek?

Where is her center now?

Musical Moment

Posted in Blog | Tagged , | Leave a comment

During Our Lives

I considered several topics for today’s post:

1)    The glorification of violence in Young Adult books.  (overdone)

2)    The effect of the weather on my ability to think creatively.  (again?)

3)    A dystopian YA short story entitled “Detergent”.  (oy)

4)    The absolute cuteness of puppy Chester’s belly button.  (seriously?)

5)    The virgin/whore dichotomy and its impact on YA literature.  (thank you, Oberlin)

Turns out I’m in the mood for a good list.  And you have to help me make it.  I’m stunned by the dramatic world shifts that occurred during my grandma’s lifetime.  She learned to drive on a Model T.  Her husband fought in World War I.  Grandma lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War.  Antibiotics and flight became commercially available.  She died in 1989, during the computer explosion.

What are the game-changers that you identify from your lifetime?  Nothing overtly personal (birth, death of your cat, bird pooping on your face during commencement).

Here’s my list, with a five-minute time limit:

*  End of the Vietnam War.  The Cold War.  The Gulf War.  War in Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran.

*  Deaths of John Lennon, Ella Fitzgerald, Michael Jackson, Sarah Vaughan, Elvis Presley, Nelson Mandela, Pete Seeger, Mother Teresa.

*  In-vitro fertilization.  AIDS.  Outbreaks of vaccine-preventable disease in the US.  Obesity epidemic.  Global warming.  Roe v. Wade.

*  Computers.  Internet.  Wi-fi.  Cell phones.

*  Gay marriage.

Ack!  That’s it for my five minutes.  Clearly, I need help.  There are two rules:  1) Five minutes ONLY!  2) No internet consultation.  I want what your brain can produce.  I’ll add to this post as comments come in below and on Facebook.

 

Musical Moment

not-exactly-Musical Moment

—————

Updates:

From Julie in Minneapolis:  “The ability to answer children’s questions with YouTube videos, the ability to use the phone to find answers at any time, ordering things online, birth control, women in the workplace”

From Michelle in Excelsior:  “You missed phones in most rooms & cordless phones before cell phones. Cable tv, then streaming tv to anywhere. Portable music on a Walkman, then iPod, now pandora & streaming music to places all over your house! Up to date at work. Social media. Evites… Texting!!”

From Angie in Mpls:  “End of the Cold War and Berlin Wall.  9/11.  Election of Obama, a black president.”

From Susan in St. Paul: “Vietnam War. Civil rights movement. Women’s movement. Environmental Movement. Nixon’s impeachment. Hippies. Rock festivals and concerts. End of Vietnam War. Beginning of Saturday Night Live. Beginning of actually funny, relevant comedy, beach culture, women in sports. Punk. Youth protests and movements. Peaceful protests. Huge strides in racial and cultural integration. Election, twice, of an awesome African American president. Berlin Wall comes down. End of Soviet Union. Detante. End of fear of nuclear war…most days. Stoopid terrorism and stoopid American responses to it!!! Plight of disease, starvation and human rights abuses continuing among huge swaths of the world despite some of us being able to live well. The persistence of ignorant and harmful beliefs despite evidence to the contrary. The formation and continuation of the religious right and prejudice. Extension of life expectancy by decades. So many diseasetreatment  breakthroughs.”

Posted in Blog | Tagged , | 9 Comments

The Six Stages of Minnesota Winter

IMG_6211

The backyard on 3/20/2014.

I vowed to avoid writing yet another post about the weather.  My resolve dissolved when confronted with more SNOW on this the “first day of Spring”.

Using Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ model for the stages of grief, I will outline typical behavior associated with each Stage of Minnesota Winter.

1)    Denial:  An individual in the Denial Stage of Winter continues to wear flip flops.  She presents frequently in the emergency room with complaints of inexplicable extremity numbness.  She refuses to shovel, chop ice, or lay down grit, making her sidewalks treacherous at best.  The person in the Denial Stage continues to schedule weekend getaways to Bemidji, Hibbing, and International Falls.  She routinely arrives late to work and pops outside during lunch wearing only a t-shirt and jeans to “catch a breath of fresh air”.  The Denial Stage generally doesn’t last long, with frostbite being the major motivator to move on.

2)    Anger:  A man in the Anger Stage of Winter is best avoided.  He builds large bonfires with his long undies, SmartWool socks, and polar fleece neck gators.  His Facebook friends receive snarky messages, often in the dead of night.  He tells the neighborhood Girl Scouts exactly what they can do with their cookies.  Snowmen on his block turn up decapitated and eviscerated, with link sausage and red Kool-Aid pouring from their gaping midsections.  In extreme cases, the Angry man might send booby-trapped boxes of antifreeze and roadsalt to relatives in Hawaii or Florida.

3)    Bargaining:  In the Bargaining Stage of Winter, a person tries to negotiate herself out of Minnesota.  She begs for vacation days, offering to deep clean the office, handle all photocopier issues for five years, and evacuate the anal glands of the boss’s Bull Mastiff.  If her efforts fail, she takes matters to a higher power, promising to quit eating deep-fried food-on-a-stick in exchange for a few degrees of heat.  She forswears the use of “hotdish”, “pop”, and “you betcha” if only her Norwegian Lutheran male God would forgo the snow.

IMG_6214

Rafa in the Depression Stage of Winter. Note his frown.

4)    Depression:  The man immersed in the Depression Stage of Winter disappears from work obligations for weeks at a time.  If spotted in his natural habitat (a recliner chair at home) he will likely be wearing Zubaz and a 1986 Metallica “Damage Inc.” tour t-shirt.  Nutrition is not a major concern and the floor surrounding his habitat is often littered with pizza boxes and Grain Belt bottles.  Social activities during the Depression Stage are limited to texting during Friends re-runs.

5)    Acceptance:  In the Acceptance Stage, people replace their anklets with thigh high merino wool.  They purchase Subarus.  Fashion flies out the window in favor of bulky layers of cotton, wool, and down, generally in somber hues of brown or black.  The locavore in the Acceptance Stage is at particular risk of malnourishment, being reduced to winter squash and any fruits she was able to “put up” after last summer’s three week growing season.  She might be tempted by Mexican clementines and Chilean avocados, but will generally persevere, comforted by her green bean “dilly” pickles.

IMG_6217

My raspberry bushes.

6)    Cocky:  The Cocky Stage of Winter is characterized by gaudy fluorescent North Face parkas and moderately irrational decision-making.  Men over forty engage in questionably safe physical activities such as ice hockey and snowboarding.  Teenagers brag about windchills on Twitter.  Cocky meteorologists confirm that Minnesota is indeed in the midst of the worst winter ever in recorded history.  A woman in the Cocky Stage might trade in her sensible gray Outback for a sporty orange Crosstrek.  Elderly grandmothers don their Yaktrax and shake their hiking poles at the sky.         “Is that all you got, you whippersnapper?  BRING IT ON!!!!!”

Musical Moment #1

Musical Moment #2

 

 

Posted in Blog | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Meet the Wildlife

From my inbox this morning:

“Anne – I need the contact info for your taxidermist.  I have a FB friend who needs a stuffed chicken repaired.  Really.                                                                                      Christine”

Some gals have interior designers.  Others have aestheticians.  I have a taxidermist.  Really.

Ace came with a dowry of dead animals.  Here’s Frank.  IMG_6188Frank is a male pheasant who met his demise along the cornfields of South Dakota in the early 70s.  (Phoebe photobombed this pic – we’ll get to her in a minute.)  As you can see, the taxidermist did a lovely job with this mount.  Frank retains his iridescent luster and perky tail feathers some forty years into his stuffed life.

I won’t include a picture of the two ducks.  If you ogle Andrew Wyeth’s “Canvasbacks” you’ll get a good idea of what you’re missing.  Creepy.

A couple years into our relationship, Ace casually mentioned that it would be fun to acquire an albino squirrel.  Your wish is my command, Baby.

Early one Sunday, I headed north on Lexington Parkway.  Imagine my surprise and delight when I spotted such a squirrel, freshly killed and not too mushed.  (I should clarify, I never delight in the premature death of animals at the hands or wheels of humans.)  I pulled over, snagged a plastic bag from the trunk, and scooped up my treasure.  Look what I brought home for you, Ace!  Roadkill!

IMG_6191

This is Virgil.  Working with roadkill presents an interesting set of challenges.  Unfortunately for Virgil, this particular taxidermist executed a sub-optimal performance.  Note the eye placement and the artificial whitening around the mouth.

IMG_6193

Thank goodness I found Royce of Willow Taxidermy.  After the Virgil experience, I was clearly in the market for a new taxidermist.  I stopped in at Royce’s shop on the way to Wisconsin.  The man is an artist.  I fell in love with Phoebe immediately.  IMG_6192Royce told me Phoebe’s story, how he’d found her dead by the side of the road just north of Hinckley.

I bartered for Phoebe.  I assisted my friend with a major landscaping project and she procured the dead fox.  Awesome!

 

 

 

Matilda the baby raccoon joined the growing menagerie a couple years back, another Lexington Parkway casualty.  IMG_6189How can you not brake for a baby coon?  Especially one this adorable.  I consulted with Royce.  He felt she was in reasonable condition for permanent canonization.

Royce is currently working on my chipmunk.  Yes, I found a relatively intact roadkill chipmunk!  What are the odds?!  I’m taking suggestions for names.

And if you need any garden design work done, do let me know.  I work for roadkill.

IMG_6187

Here’s the whole gang resting peacefully on Sergei’s back.

 

Musical Moment.

Posted in Blog | Tagged , | 4 Comments

Miss Edna’s Feast

Every six months, my mother and I make a pilgrimage to Costco in the northeastern suburbs of Saint Paul.  For my family of three, Costco seems a crazy enterprise.  We simply do not need a gallon of pickles.  Target and I maintain a longstanding intimate relationship with conjugal visits at least weekly.  The credit card hacking fiasco put a damper on our intimacy for about as long as it took Capital One to issue me a new account number.  Why do I cheat on Target with an entity as vast and impersonal as Costco?

I certainly enjoy the mother/daughter shopping experience.  We see many multi-generational combinations on our forays.  And I’m sure that I, the granddaughter of a divorced single mother born during the Great Depression, am comforted on an inexplicable cellular level by the sheer excess of Costco.  The bottom line, though, as anyone with kids can attest, is you can never have too many moist flushable wipes.  It’s a hand towel!  It’s a Kleenex!  It’s a dustcloth!

After loading my eighteen-wheeler shopping cart with wipes, Mom and I make our way to the produce section.  I park her outside the frigid-as-a-morgue veggie cooler and ask what she wants.  (You can take the girl out of Fresno but you can’t make her thermoregulate.)  Asparagus.  I zip up my down-comforter-with-sleeves, yank my hat over my forehead, and plunge into the cooler.  My own asparagus patch has yet to yield an edible crop.  I pick up a bag from Baja Sun to assess the product.  Gorgeous, straight stems of serene green.  Tips with lovely symmetry and not even a hint of bolting.  Thank you Mexico.  To heck with the locavore movement!  Woman cannot live on fermented kale alone!

I once had a patient, or should I say she once had me.*  I probably inherited Miss Edna Lemke from a recently retired colleague.  Miss Edna is, of course, not her real name.  I enjoy having a medical license unbesmirched by HIPAA violations.  She was a perfect patient; she scheduled appointments when I requested, engaged in frank pragmatic discussion about her health issues, and exuded an unflappable grace.  I always admired Miss Edna’s hair, which rose in a well-ordered bouffant from the soft skin of her forehead.  Her heart was not well-ordered, existing in a perpetual state of atrial fibrillation.  She took warfarin, a blood thinner, to prevent her occasionally stagnant blood from clotting and causing a stroke.

On a lovely spring day, Miss Edna saw me for a routine visit.  We checked her INR to make sure her blood was appropriately thin.  Too thin, and her risk of pesky things like cerebral hemorrhage would rise.  Miss Edna’s INR registered in the normal range, as in drug-free human-taking-no-warfarin range.

Imagine our surprise.  Miss Edna was probably one of a handful of patients who took their medications exactly as prescribed.  I explored possible explanations through careful conversation.  Have you missed any doses?  Did your prescription expire?  What color are the pills?  How about any recent changes in your eating habits?

Asparagus.  Miss Edna told me with a slightly embarrassed smile that Cub Foods had a sale on asparagus and she had positively gorged on the delightful spring vegetable, as in five pounds of the stuff.  Asparagus contains high levels of vitamin K, a natural antidote to warfarin.  We shared a hearty laugh, secure in the knowledge that she hadn’t suffered a stroke, and adjusted her medication accordingly.  Miss Edna vowed to warn me about future asparagus binges.

When I left that clinic, I continued to correspond with several of my favorite patients.  Now you know a dirty little doctor secret: We do have favorites.  I sent holiday cards to Miss Edna, often with tales of my growing son.  I don’t remember the exact year, but I had the card in hand, ready to write, when I sensed a change.

I call my old clinic, talk to my friend Deb in the front office.  I’m getting ready to send a card to Edna Lemke and thought I should check in.  Deb hesitates, shocked, and tells me Miss Edna passed away the day before.  Is Pippy taken care of, I ask.  Yes, Pippy (the ill-tempered yet adored geriatric cat who bit Miss Edna regularly) will go to a loving home.

I send a sympathy card to Miss Edna’s niece, a nurse I work with at the hospital.  Your aunt was a lovely woman.  I think of her every time I see asparagus.  I tell the story.

I tell my mother the same story as I hand her the bag.

Costco.  Where asparagus is always in season.  And the green stems of memory lurk in the fertile soil of my brain.

 

Musical Moment

—————————————-

* Too similar to not attribute to Lennon and McCartney’s “Norwegian Wood”.

 

 

Posted in Blog | Tagged , | Leave a comment

The Joy of Text: How Diana Gabaldon Changed My Life

I’m not a bookworm.  I did not spend childhood with my nose buried in the pages of Harry Potter or the Magic Treehouse series or Wimpy Kid.  Sure, plenty of great books existed in the dark ages of my youth.  I retain nostalgic attachment to Lloyd Alexander’s assistant pig-keeper, Taran, and I adored Andrew Henry’s Meadow.

In high school, I read the required Invisible Man, David Copperfield, and Pride and Prejudice.  I’m sure I’ll alienate half of you by admitting that I really couldn’t stand Jane Austen.  Mr. Darcy’s approach to romance left me colder than January in Minnesota and without the occasional blinding sun.  The dude surely meets DSM criteria for Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  (I’m just not buying that he only appears that way because he was written from Miss Bennet’s perspective.)

Honestly, I can’t recall reading anything outside of school all through my teen years.  At least not books.  I read plenty of music.  Schumann and Rachmaninoff and Dello Joio and Mozart and Debussy and Mussorgsky and Bach and Brahms.  If practicing the piano is reading, I read a lot.

Oberlin brought an endless syllabus of reading.  I consumed all of it, every last paragraph, diligently outlining my notes for later reference.  I earned the worst grade of my college career in the intro English course entitled Reading Fiction.  Italo Calvino very nearly killed me.  Why would I spend any free moment inside someone else’s imagination when I could go dancing, see a movie, or yak with my roommate?

In June of 1991, just after I graduated, Diana Gabaldon published her “practice novel”, Outlander.  My friend Jess suggested that I might like it.  I did.  Over the next fifteen years, the Outlander series wove through my life: pre-med classes, medical school, residency, the beginnings of my practice as a family physician, marriage, and the birth of my son.

Back when our love was fresh, when we were consolidating our holdings, Ace innocently asked if we could get rid of my pile of “romance novels”.  I pitched a gigantic fit.  You don’t understand, I said.  These books, these physical tattered pages, reminded me how to read for pleasure alone.  As a compromise, we tucked the massive, mostly hardcover tomes (Gabaldon appears incapable of writing a short book) behind the first row on the bookcase.  “Because, really.  Are you going to be reading them over and over?” Ace asked.

Why yes, in fact.  I first started the series when I was in my twenties, just contemplating a medical career, much like protagonist Claire, a combat nurse.  A couple books down the road and Claire attends medical school.  Further still, and she writes from the perspective of a forty-year-old mother of an only child.  Gabaldon offers something for everyone at any stage of life beyond childhood.

I took a brief break from the series shortly after The Big E’s birth, tripped up by the unwaveringly realistic violence of A Breath of Snow and Ashes.  I (stupidly) wrote to the author, affirmed my never-ending adulation, and requested a PG-13 version of events.  She (unbelievably) wrote back, thanked me for my patronage, and (basically) said, “Life in the 1700s was tough.  Suck it up.”

Numerous directors have attempted to turn Outlander into a movie.  Gabaldon played her cards properly in creating books that $ would $ be $ optioned $ repeatedly and finally turned into a television series, unconstrained by the limitations of the film ratings system.  In anticipation of summer 2014 on Starz (and me without cable), I’m hip-deep in the series yet again.

When the vampires burn to a crisp in the raging sun of popular opinion.                        After steam-punk is punked for the very last time.                                                              When a perfectly balanced phrase finally throws off the shackles of poorly-worded Wonder Bread erotica.

Claire Randall Fraser will still be standing, in all her wild-haired post-feminist glory, her unreasonably sexy, kilt-clad, warrior husband at her side.  And I’ll be right there with her.  Over and over and over.

Thank you, Diana Gabaldon, for teaching me to read.  Again.

Musical Moment

IMG_6144

Posted in Blog | Tagged , , , | 49 Comments