Month: March 2016

Crawling out From Under my Musical Rock

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A Band Called Truman. Photo by Tanja Heckert.

Is there something your community is known for that you aren’t tuned into? It could be a sports team, an industry (like craft breweries), or some other cultural/historical thing. For me, it’s the local music scene. And now I’m making up for lost time.

For years, I’ve been squished under the rock of my responsibilities so I haven’t been able to enjoy the local music scene. I also haven’t had friends or acquaintances who were into it, so I plodded along, deaf to all the musically talented people around me. And Duluth has a lot of them. Case in point: Gaelynn Lea, who just won National Public Radio’s Tiny Desk Concert Competition. Her unique style surpassed that of 6,000 other people and wowed the judges.

Sure, I knew about the symphony and high school bands – wider community kinds of music, but not so much individual local musicians. I realized I needed to rectify this. As a writer, I appreciate the creativity involved in songwriting and singing, and I feel it is my duty to become more familiar with the local music scene. Besides, I just like it!

I’ve had the good fortune to meet several local musicians/band members (including A Band Called Truman, Teague Alexy, Michael Monroe, Mary Bue, Georganne Hunter, and Jerree Small) and others I’ve managed to see play live or I’ve plucked them out of the “local music” CD section in the library. These include the Hobo Nephews of Uncle Frank, Cloud Cult, Low, Charlie Parr, Bill and Kate Isles, Ryan Lane, Rachael Kilgour, Sara Thomsen, Woodblind, and Jamie Kallestad.

I don’t know what I would do without the library’s help in catching up on twenty-something years of missed local music. Thank god for libraries! I know I’m missing many local musicians in this list, but I’m only halfway through the alphabet in the library section. 🙂

The thing is, I didn’t even know what I was missing until a series of chance encounters, life changes, and opportunities arose. It’s been a fun ‘research project,’ and the experiences will no doubt find their way into my fiction writing.

Is there something in your life that you don’t even know is missing? Something available in your community that’s being wasted on you? Here’s hoping someday you have the ability to take advantage of this food for the soul.

A Lake Superior Cruise

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I stopped freelance writing a few years ago, choosing instead to focus on writing fiction and poetry. (And this blog!) I was tired of hiring out my brain for somebody else’s use, since that’s what I do all day at work already. Thankfully, I also no longer had a financialLSMagazineMay16 need to freelance, so I made the conscious decision to stop.

That worked well until about a year ago, when I took a cruise on Lake Superior aboard the Wenonah, the ship that took me on my first trip across the lake.

The cruise dredged up old memories. I considered blogging about them, but once I started writing, I realized I had a story I could sell, dang it!

Alas, I succumbed to freelancing, but at least the story was one I truly wanted to write. I know, poor me. It’s a good problem to have.

My story was recently published in Lake Superior Magazine. It’s a superb magazine — pick up a copy and check it out! (Page 14.)

They also published a couple of my photos. But I have gobs of other photos I took that day, which I thought I would share with you. Please enjoy this virtual cruise along Lake Superior’s North Shore.

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The Wenonah at Silver Bay Marina.

 

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The tip of Gold Rock, site of a shipwreck in 1905 that claimed a life.

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That turquoise water looks like the Caribbean, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t jump in though. It’s a bit nippy.

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Coming around Split Rock Lighthouse. Not many people get to see the lighthouse from a mariner’s view.

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A more classic view of the lighthouse.

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People frolicing with gulls on an island off Silver Bay.

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Piles of taconite pellets waiting to be shipped south to be made into steel.

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The taconite plant in Silver Bay, although it looks more like a cloud factory. Perhaps it’s not beautiful, but it’s part of the cultural landscape of this area.

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The rugged coastline of Lake Superior’s North Shore.

 

 

 

Stalking the Wild Ceili

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Dancing

I had heard the myth of the ceili dance for years. At the contra and barn dances I’d gone to, the ceili was spoken of in hushed tones. Held locally only once a year on St. Patrick’s Day, ceilis were said to be wild and more vigorous – full of revelry, sweat and shouts. Although intrigued and a bit daunted, the timing had never been right for me to join a ceili . . . until this St. Patrick’s Day.

That evening, more than fifty of us gathered in a large church basement on the hillside of the city. The event was a fundraiser for Loaves and Fishes, an organization that helps homeless people. I arrived early enough to hear instruction by the dance caller on the specialized (yet easy) dance steps, some of which are done in groups of sevens or threes. The first dance was a round dance (done in a large circle), the next was a long line dance.

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This chap won my unofficial vote for best ceili clothing.

Then things started blurring together, but I recall one dance that involved couples dipping up and under each other in waves. Yes, the dances had faster steps and more vigorous movements than the other dances I’d been to, but any reasonably coordinated person could handle them – no need to fear!

I lasted about an hour-and-a-half until my little toes started to scream with blisters. I left before any shouting started, but I can attest that some clapping was involved.

If you ever go to a ceili, don’t dress too heavily, because you will sweat. For women, I recommend a skirt because they are easier to move in and cooler than jeans/pants. Bring a water bottle. Wear comfortable shoes. Most important, bring your smile. You will want it handy for frequent use. 🙂

At a big social dance like this, no partner is necessary. Either someone will invite you to dance or you’ll get a partner accidentally through the formations of the lines or circles. It’s also common for women to dance with women and men with men. No big gender deal. All you need to want to do is dance.

If you’ve never gone to one, I recommend stalking a wild ceili near you.

That Time I got Mistaken for a Homeless Person in Grand Central Station

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New York City’s Grand Central Station.

A friend of mine was talking about Grand Central Station in New York City the other day and it reminded me of an experience I had there thirty years ago. I had just arrived in the city (for the second time in my life) and I was waiting in the station for several hours to catch a train to join the other members of my outdoors expedition. (If curious, please click on the link for an explanation.)

I sat on one of the hard wooden benches in the waiting area, surrounded by my gear: a large duffle bag, a daypack, and an internal frame backpack that had a pair of Sorrel boots tied to the back along with a sleeping bag and sleeping pad.

A man with a kind smile walked among the benches, handing sandwiches to the people who were sitting or lying down and who didn’t look like commuters. When he came to me, he offered me a sandwich. I sputtered a “No thank you, I just ate a muffin,” and he moved on.

I was surprised and a little offended that he mistook me for a homeless person. After all, I was clean and well fed. Couldn’t he tell I was going camping in the wilderness, not camping in a city park? Apparently not. I probably did look like a runaway waif, lugging all my worldly possessions with me.

Over the years I’ve enjoyed relating how I was mistaken for a homeless person in Grand Central Station. But you know what? The sandwich man’s observation wasn’t far off.

About halfway through the nine-month expedition, a certain feeling started. Our yellow school bus would drive through towns in the evening and I’d look out at the homes with lights in their windows. Families would be gathering at the table for supper or watching television together in their living rooms. I envied the comfort, safety and security those people seemed to have. They didn’t have to cook on camp stoves, put their tent up in the dark or move on the next day.

Although the experience was a great adventure, I was starting to feel rootless. And although the expedition gave me the outdoors of America, Canada, and Newfoundland as my home, I was beginning to miss a home of my own – not so much my parents’ home back in Minnesota, but a place of my own.

I suspect that feeling was one reason why I didn’t continue for the second scheduled year on the expedition. I’d had my fill of traveling, and was ready for some roots. So after our bus broke down out West, I headed back to Minnesota and I’ve been here ever since. I’ve been lucky enough to have opportunities to travel and explore my own back yard over the years, and was always happy to come home. I’ve been in my current house now for sixteen years.

But dare I say it, as things have changed and my boys have become more independent, a certain meandering wanderlust is beginning to whisper in my ear. It’s saying, the world is waiting . . . . It’s dangerous when that happens. I know from the past that things tend to change when the restlessness begins. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Don’t be surprised in a few years if you see a young-for-her-years gray-haired lady sitting on a bench in a train station, surrounded by bags, or sailing away with all her possessions in a boat. It just might be me.

The ‘Castle’ has Fallen, Spring Must be Coming

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The Lake Superior Ice Project formation collapsed near my workplace this week, and that means spring can’t be far behind. The photo above is from a week ago when the right part of it collapsed, and now the whole thing is a pile of ice rubble.

When the collapse in the picture happened, we weren’t sure if it was planned or not. It caused a bit of a stir in the office – especially since last year the structure had a rather spectacular and unintended collapse right in front of a New York Times reporter. But we later heard that the formation’s creator, Roger Hanson, had been working for the past few days on dismantling his ice castle.

It would have been nice if he had alerted the public that he was dismantling the structure. The woman in my photo complained that she would have come to see it earlier had she known. And it could have avoided some surprise and speculation.

I have “castle” in quotes in this posting’s title because the ice never ended up looking like the European-style castle with four towers that Mr. Hanson described in media stories. It looked more like a birthday cake with a door in it to me. I suspect our warm El Nino winter had something to do with that.

The structure also didn’t break any world height records as hoped, but it did serve as a focal point for a community Ice Festival, complete with fireworks.

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Ice orbs during the freezing process.

A related icy project (that I actually helped with instead of snarking about) involved bringing community groups together to create ice orbs in the shape of Lake Superior. The City of Superior’s Environmental Services Division organized this collaborative art project to highlight the importance of fresh water to the community. Different groups pledged to create a certain number of ice orbs so that 365 of them (Get it? One for each day of the year) could be installed near the ice castle for the festival.

The project was called Orb365 and, along with instructions on how to make the orbs, the project included educational messages about how water reacts to freezing and ways water is important.

I pledged 10 orbs, which I created by filling water balloons and sticking them outside in hopes that they would freeze. I started the freezing process four days before the orbs were needed, certain that would be plenty of time, especially in February in northern Wisconsin. However, the weather was so warm, the orbs didn’t completely freeze until the very last night, eliciting some anxiety on my part.

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Lake Superior shaped in ice orbs.

Triumphant, I was able to deliver the orbs the following day to the “orb construction site” where a city worker artistically arranged them into the shape of the lake, and festooned them with lights. She positioned larger orbs to represent major cities around the lake.

Alas, now the orbs are melted along with the castle. The snow is almost gone, and the meatloaf-brown grass of spring is upon us. Although this winter was warmer than usual, I’m not going to complain about it. I’m sure the northern weather gods will make us pay for it next winter.

A Mind of One’s Own

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Credit: National Institutes of Health.

I’ve written about my father a few times in this blog. It’s time to give my mother some attention.

My mom is 91, and she and my dad are still together, living in a memory care facility in the Twin Cities area. When my brothers and I moved our parents from my city to their current home last fall, I inherited a hope chest, of sorts, in which my mother stored blankets.

Once I got home and was cleaning it out, I discovered the chest was where she also stored some of her journals. I never knew she kept journals. And to think, all those times I was writing journals and squirreling them away at home, she was doing the same thing!

To ease some of my parental separation pangs, I read her journals, which spanned a period of over thirty years. Recently, I went back into one to look up a piece of information. I found the info, but also got caught by a short comment, where my mother mentioned that an acquaintance of hers complained that my mother was “willful.”

This is true. My mother is the sort who puts her foot down on a decision, and that is that. The problem is, she’s not good at explaining why she made the decision. She makes up her mind, and that is how it is going to be, gall dang it all to heck.

However, instead of her acquaintance’s comment eliciting self-reflection, my mother went on the offensive in her journal. (A good offense is the best defense, right?) But she didn’t go on the offense against the acquaintance who made the comment. Instead, her next entry was a complaint about how I had a mind of my own.

Now, I take that as a compliment. Why would I want anyone else’s mind, anyway? (Smirk.) I suspect my mom wanted my mind to be the same as hers.

Anyone who’s been reading this blog for a while could tell you that I think a bit differently from most. The world needs different viewpoints, and as long as I’m not getting into huge conflicts and arguments over it, I think that’s okay.

The problem is, my mom’s style generates conflict, and she is too stubborn to change her mind once she makes it up.

This all reminds me of something I read recently, which described how people who don’t fit into groups shouldn’t necessarily feel bad. It might mean that they are leaders rather than followers. That gave me some comfort. There have been instances where I’ve felt on the fringes of groups, and maybe that’s why. (Besides the fact that I’m 60% introverted. Grin.) I have also successfully led groups, but it takes a bit of prodding to convince me to do so.

In any event, I love my mother, even if she is willful. And as for myself, I wouldn’t have it any other way than to have a mind of my own.