Author: mariezhuikov

Regressing in Prescott

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Image courtesy of Deva.

When Russ and I travel, we usually do many “outward-looking” things like hiking, biking, seeing the sights, etc. For our recent trip to Arizona, we decided to go on a more inward adventure. We contacted a local psychic for past life regression sessions.

I’ve never shopped for a psychic before, but I figured the internet was a good start. A search of psychics in the Prescott area came up with three hits. The one that looked the most legit to me was “Psychic Readings by Deva.” Deva does readings by appointment only. She lives in a lovely home on the outskirts of Prescott.

We corresponded by email to set up the appointment. That went fine, except on my end. I was so distracted by dealing with the details of our impending trip that I sent Deva the incorrect dates of our visit. I thought I was setting our sessions up for the end of February and she thought they were going to be at the end of March!

When we showed up a month early, of course, she wasn’t home. Her husband was, though, and we were able to set up a session with Deva for the following day. Deva was very accommodating about this and I am forever grateful. I’m usually not such a scatterbrain. Was I unconsciously trying to sabotage the experience? Only Carl Jung can answer that!! (Get it? The famous Swiss psychoanalyst? Anyway…)

Besides past life regressions, Deva does tarot card readings, hypnosis, and energy work. She’s originally from Germany and has an accent that fits a session on a couch, which is where we laid during our separate hour-long regressions in her basement.

But first, while we were still sitting upright, Deva asked why we wanted the sessions. We basically just said we wanted a different vacation experience. Deva explained that in past lives, we could be different genders and races. There could be some violence involved since human history is so full of wars and conflict.

Russ went on the couch first while I waited upstairs, reading a book.

I was looking forward to the experience. I can’t say that I’m a true “believer” in past lives, but I am open and curious. I was bummed when I feared I had messed up our opportunity with the date snafu and was so glad that it worked out, after all.

A past-life regression is definitely not something I would have ever considered doing at home, where life is so busy. However, years ago, I bumped into a group past life session that was going on once down the hall from a meeting I had in the same building. A bunch of handouts entitled, “Tips for a Group-Guided Past Life Regression Experience” lay on a table, beckoning me. I picked one up.

One of the tips was to ignore your critical thinking so you can be fully present in the experience. This is very hard for me because I’m judgmental and critical by nature. Another was to trust that the information that drops into your mind during the regression is exactly what you’re supposed to see, even if it feels like you’re making it up.

When it was my turn, Deva spent about 20 minutes of the session on relaxation – taking me from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. Then came some imagery work that prepared me for exploring my past life/lives.

I ended up describing three lives. I really did feel like I was just making it all up, but thanks to that handy stolen tip sheet, I realized that was okay. I was male in two of the past lives, and female in one. One of the lives had a lot of violence and loss, but the other two were rather tame, except for a prairie fire and an absent husband.

In each life, I learned a lesson. None of the lessons were things that particularly resonated with me currently, and I didn’t really see anyone in my past lives that is in my current life. But I did end the session with a deep feeling of loss. Tears welled into my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. Deva found some tissues for me. 😊

I felt like I’d been through a ringer afterwards. It felt like one of those vacation experiences I often tend to get myself into — like a trail that’s way more difficult than the guidebook described.

On our way back to our hotel afterwards, Russ and I exchanged notes. He explored one life during his session. It seemed like it was in greater detail than my lives. But there were many similarities in it to the life of mine that had a lot of violence and loss. We were even the same ethnicity, although we were in different time periods. The lessons learned in these separate lives were eerily the same.

The session helped me understand some of my passions and dislikes and why I seem to have lost my green thumb.

In summary, Deva was great. The experience was unique, but if you do a past life regression, don’t expect a flippant jaunt down a flat trail, even if the guidebook classifies it as “easy.”

Chased by Snow in Arizona – Prescott

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Russ and I wanted to escape Minnesota’s snowy winter and cold. We also wanted to visit my son who’s in college in Tucson, so we hoofed it south a couple of weeks ago.

Our first stop was Prescott, a small historic town in north western Arizona roughly between Phoenix and Flagstaff. I’d visited the town as a child. The tall pines and bright sun (due to the 5,000-foot elevation) had piqued my interest.

I must convey the correct pronunciation for Prescott. The locals say “Preskitt.” If you call it Press-Scott, they might shoot you with their open carry pistols.

We drove up the mountains from Phoenix at night, missing views of the saguaro cacti that stand as sentinels on the landscape. As we neared Prescott, a light rain began to fall. We checked into the Hassayampa Inn, which is on the National Register of Historic Places. We chose it for this reason and because it’s within easy walking distance of the town’s many attractions. Also, it has a coffee shop, bar, and art deco restaurant (the Peacock Room).

The inn’s name is derived from Apache and is named for a nearby river. Hassayampa means “the river that loses itself”— fitting for a mysterious stream that often disappears beneath the earth and reappears elsewhere. The inn’s promotional language says that the inn has the same effect on its guests, “who often come for a chance to lose the tensions of hectic urban life and emerge restored.”

Our plane got delayed, so we didn’t arrive at the Hassayampa until near midnight. A cheery fire in the lobby welcomed us and did the night clerk, who gave us (and our luggage) a ride in an old-fashioned cage elevator up to our floor.

When we awoke in the morning, the rain had turned cold. The view out our window included about four inches of snow covering the land. So much for our grand plan to escape the white stuff!

After breakfast in the Peacock Room (excellent, plus friendly staff), we walked around town picking up supplies. The historic district was only a couple of blocks away. Alas, the museums (the Sharlot Museum was one) we had hoped to visit were all closed due to snow, but many stores were open as were the saloons and restaurants on Whiskey Row. This historic district developed after a fire in 1900. When rebuilt, the area featured an “inordinate” number of bars (40), built to quench the thirst of gold miners and settlers drawn to the town.

For supper that first day, we ate at one of the original saloons: The Palace. In addition to imbibing scotch whisky (how could we visit Whiskey Row without it?), I had a scrumptious burger called “the beast,” which is made from a mix of meats including boar and elk. I heartily recommend it!

The Hassayampa Inn lobby fireplace
The Hassayampa Inn lobby
The Beast Burger, Palace Saloon

Unlike in our hometown of Duluth, MN, the snow in Prescott melted fast. Most of the streets were clear by the afternoon.

We spent our second day hiking around Watson Lake and visiting the Heritage Park Zoo, which is in the same vicinity. Watson Lake was especially dramatic, with rocky dells rising straight out of the water. We saw lots of Canada Geese and other waterfowl there.

While on our hike, we also saw an interesting warning sign. It alerted us to the presence of flying discs, since the lake has its own disc golf course. That’s not a sign we see every day!

We had intended to stay in Preskitt for another day, but an impending snowstorm, which was supposed to drop a foot of the vile white stuff on the town, chased us out early. The hotel manager was supremely understanding and promised to refund our aborted night’s stay. So, the next day we headed out of the mountains for the historic mining town of Jerome, and then Phoenix.

But before we left Prescott, we had one more adventure planned: past life regression sessions with a local psychic. More about that in my next post!

My Aligners are off!!

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A pile of my Invisaligns.

It took longer than the 16 months predicted to get my Invisaligns off (see My Mouth is Full of Plastic), but I am happy to say they’re gone now. That only took 23 months of my life.

If you have a superb memory, you may recall that I found in my late 50s I was having a hard time chewing food with my back teeth. My front teeth were doing more work than they were supposed to, which led to chipping and general stress on them.

After a rocky start, I was fitted with plastic aligners. I was so relieved not to have to wear metal braces. I dutifully followed all the instructions and kept my orthodontist appointments. I saw improvement right away. However, gradually, I noticed I couldn’t bite off things like noodles and pizza crusts with my front teeth.

By the end of the two years, my problem had reversed itself. Instead of not being able to chew with my back teeth, that’s all I could chew with now. My front teeth weren’t working properly.

Of course, I relayed these concerns along the way to my orthodontic technician, who assured me that the fine-tuning by the last batch of aligners would take care of it. They didn’t.

You’d think, with all the computer-assisted measuring they do of your teeth during the process of fitting aligners, that things like this wouldn’t happen. I asked my orthodontist why, and he said something about jawbone structure and this and that.

To help my front teeth meet like they’re supposed to, he would need to shave off thin bits from my back teeth. I was not too thrilled about this, but he assured me the shavings were only the thickness of a fingernail and that it wouldn’t impact any of the fillings I have back there. If he didn’t do this, I would need to wear yet more aligners for more months.

At this point, I was willing to do just about anything to get my teeth free from all this plastic. I knew I’d have to wear a retainer afterward, but assumed that would only be at night, similar to my sons’ experiences with braces.

So, after much grinding and then additional grinding to take the aligner anchors off the rest of my mouth, my teeth are now free!!! They felt great and I could bite stuff with my front teeth!

I had a few minutes to rejoice before the hammer dropped.

The technician informed me I was going to be fitted for a plastic retainer (which looks much like a set of Invisaligns). This, I expected. What I didn’t expect was that I was going to have to wear it DAY and night for three months.

Alas, my mouth remains full of plastic. I gained freedom, but not all that much.

Happy Burbotine’s Day!

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A giant burbot replica found in the lobby of Duluth’s Great Lakes Aquarium.

My recent post about a trip to a local fish market in Cornucopia, Wisconsin, to buy some burbot piqued readers’ curiosities about its taste and my experience eating this ugly looking fish for the first time. I’m here to say that I survived and that I’m no longer a Burbot Virgin!

The experience is memorialized in “The Fish Dish,” a podcast I co-host for work. We chose a Valentine’s Day theme for the show because Feburary is an important time in the burbot’s life cycle: a time for LOVE.

See photos and hear all about it at this Fish Dish link. And while you’re at it, get your sweetie a card with a big burbot on the front for that special day. Such smooth moves might not work on everyone, but you just never know . . . .

A New Year and a New Book

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A tree reading a book. Image by Angela Waye. This is what I envision on the cover of my upcoming book.

I’ve mentioned a few times in passing here that I’ve been working on a collection of short stories. I tried for about a half year to find an agent for them, to no avail. So, I switched to contacting publishers directly.

I am happy to announce my collection will be published by Cornerstone Press, the publishing arm of the University of Wisconsin-Steven’s Point. They were actually the first publisher I tried!

I learned about them when I went to a conference by the Wisconsin Writers Association and happened to sit by someone who had a short story collection published by them. I checked out her book. It was good quality, so then I researched Cornerstone Press, and they looked good, too.

I had time between holidays in December to finalize my book proposal. The stories are of a magical realism bent, similar to my novels. They deal with the power of appearances to captivate and deceive. Plenty of nature is included, along with a monster, trees that can communicate, and a hot botanist.

It’s tentatively titled, “Don’t Judge a Book.” But we’ll see if that name sticks. I expect the book to be available in spring of 2024.

I submitted the proposal for my recent blog-memoir, “Meander North” a year ago between December holidays, too, when it got picked up. That seems to be a good time for me. Maybe I’ll make that a standing tradition!

So, I’m doing a little happy dance in Marie Land. Join in the dance with me . . . .

An Unexpected Wander of Cornucopia Harbor

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A coworker and I meandered over to Cornucopia, Wisconsin the other day. This is a small town (more officially known as a census-designated place) on the South Shore of Lake Superior, population 98.

Our goal was to speak with some of the good folks with Halvorson Fisheries for our “Fish Dish” podcast. Our next episode is about burbot – a slimy bottom-feeder of a fish that tastes great and is under-appreciated. Halvorson’s is a fifth- or sixth-generation commercial fishery in Cornucopia and they know their burbot and other, more typical Lake Superior fish like lake trout and whitefish.

We arrived at their business on the harbor, but nobody was around. While my coworker made some calls and wrote texts, I had a chance to wander and take photos of the icy harbor and boats. These are the results. I felt like it was time well-spent!

After cooling our heels in the only open restaurant in town (along with about 40 snowmobilers), we were able to meet with the Halvorsons, do our interview, and get burbot. The problem was they had decided to stop fishing for the season but hadn’t anticipated that when my coworker made arrangements to speak with them a few days previously. But that’s life on the lake. You gotta go with the flow.

We haven’t cooked the burbot yet. That comes this week. I’ve never eaten burbot before, so am looking forward to the experience. I’ll include a link to our podcast in this post once it’s available.

In the meantime, please enjoy the scenery.

Update: You can hear all about my burbot-eating experience on “The Fish Dish” podcast. The eating part comes at about 18:18. It was great! Today I’m going to make burbot chowder – substituting burbot for steelhead in my chowder recipe you can find here.

Stabbing the Haggis in Duluth

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The stabbing of the Haggis.

Long-time readers of my blog may recall that I identify with my Scottish heritage. I had a chance to celebrate that recently by attending Robert Burns Night, which was organized by the Duluth Scottish Heritage Association (DSHA).

Robert Burns is a well-know historic Scottish poet. If you’ve ever sung Auld Lang Syne on New Year’s Eve, you have him to thank. His birthday is recognized on January 25 by Scots, rather in the tradition of Christ’s birth on December 25 by parts of the world, if you’ll permit me a bit of sacrilege.

Scottish dancing lassies doing the sword dance.

The celebration was held at a historic club downtown. This was not my first Robert Burns Night. My mother took me to one held at the university many years ago. Then last year, Russ and I ordered a takeout Robert Burns dinner from the club since there was no gathering due to the pandemic. That “dinner” fed us for four days! It featured neeps and tatties (turnips and potatoes), haggis (more about that later), black pudding (blood sausage), Scotch eggs (hard-boiled eggs wrapped in sausage meat, breaded and fried), and trifle for dessert (a decadent concoction of cake cubes layered between berries, pears, and vanilla pudding mixed with whipped cream).

Attendance was larger than usual for Burns Night this year because it was the first time in three years it had been held in person. One-hundred-and-sixty of us gathered in kilts and clan scarves to listen to bagpipes and watch Scottish dancers.

After that came the formal part of the program, which included 4 toasts of scotch: One to “the immortal memory of Robert Burns,” one to the president, one to the king, and one in Gaelic.

Then came the star of the show, the Haggis. This traditional dish takes minced sheep heart, liver, and lungs, and mixes it with oatmeal, suet and spices like nutmeg, cinnamon and coriander, plus salt, pepper and stock. The mixture is boiled in a bag, usually made from a sheep’s stomach.  We love it. I’d say it tastes like a chunky beef barley stew.

The Haggis is paraded into the hall by the chef and a whisky bearer, led by a piper in formality that would border on the absurd if it weren’t Robert Burns Night. Once the Haggis was settled up front, one of the DSHA members recited Burns’s “Address to the Haggis,” which involved stabbing it with a large knife and inhaling its pungent vapors.

Make way for the Haggis!

After that, a local reverend offered grace and a piper in the rafters played “Amazing Grace.” Then we dispersed to seven clan rooms. Each featured different foods to sample and memorabilia specific to each clan. One room featured scotch. I was disappointed at the lack of trifle this year, but our enterprising friends found dessert bars on a different floor.

After much eating and conversation, a ceilidh dance was held in a large lounge room. Even though I’ve been to a ceilidh before, it wasn’t until that night that I learned (from overhearing a conversation) that ceilidh means “party” or “social visit.” We danced and listened to Scottish music performed by a live band.

We were sated and pleasantly tired from dancing once the evening ended. We felt like we’d been on a trip to Scotland without leaving the comfort of our own city. If you ever have the chance to attend Robert Burns Night, I’d encourage you to do so. It’s a spectacle, indeed.

Connecting Through Writing

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I once planted poems throughout my town (Duluth, MN) when I contributed to a Local Free Poetry project. Our poet laureate at the time scattered hard copies of poems by local poets in area businesses. I submitted four poems. One of them was entitled, “Perfunctory Kisses.” The short (8-line) poem detailed how I dislike kisses that don’t mean anything. I might want to publish it somewhere in the future, so I won’t share the whole thing here, but just let me say that the first line is: Perfunctory kisses suck.

I know, not exactly subtle, but I like my poetry to be accessible. 😊

Last summer, I received an email through my author website from a woman who lives in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. She said my poem captivated her when she found it. She used it as a reading at her recent wedding – her groom read it to her before they exchanged vows.

“Your short poem offered a sharp and punchy contrast to some of the more traditional readings of the ceremony,” she said. “We heard gasps of delight as the first line was read aloud. Let’s say, it was well received, as we knew it would be.” She ended with, “Thanks for your contribution to making our ceremony unique and memorable.”

Receiving her note made my day, my year! I’m tickled and honored that my poem landed on fertile ground and was used in such a personal way.

After my book launch this winter for “Meander North,” I heard from our friend, Sailor Dave, who connected with one of the stories I read about bunnies. Unlike with my poem, you can read this one because the book is made up from posts from this blog. (Seeing Rabbits) It explores the thought that rabbits might be guardians of our sleep.

Dave lives in a tiny house at a local marina. He said, “I wanted to tell you that I had a “pandemic bunny” living under my house last winter, too. When listening to Marie read the story, I was anticipating a dark turn, with Russ finding a great “New York Times” rabbit stew recipe that he was dying to try. Of course, it took a more spiritual turn and I found myself wondering if my rabbit would return. I did leave veggies out now and then. And there were baby bunnies in the spring. After our last snow, I spotted fresh bunny tracks around the house. My guardian bunny has returned! Probably under the house right now, waiting for me to go to sleep.”

Then there was a note I received through my website right after Christmas. A reader from Marshall, Minnesota, thanked me for writing my first novel, “Eye of the Wolf,” which deals with the wolves on Isle Royale National Park. He said it was, “An enjoyable foray into their lives and possibilities.”

Since my novel is rather old now (12 years), I asked him where he found it and he said it was in the library there. I let him know that there’s a sequel (“Plover Landing”), which he also ended up reading, and appreciated. I planted those copies in the town when I participated in a local arts board event years ago. So nice to learn they also found fertile ground!

I love these connections and I love it when readers take the time to send me their comments.

Russ and I were just listening to the latest episode of NPR’s “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me” show. Author George Saunders (“Lincoln in the Bardo”) was on it. During his interview he offered this thought on how to define a literary work: “Anything that connects people in a way that’s deeper than the usual way – habitual way we connect. That can be seen as literature.”

I’d also posit that literature connects through space and time. The good books will resonate into the future and across geography. I’m not really saying that my writing is great literature, but I’m always trying and am heartened by these little successes.

Morning Fog

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A morning fog descended upon our cabin deep in the north woods, outlining the barren trees with frost. The birds stilled. The sun pushed through, a white disc more like the moon. I walked the wide road, a witness.

Ringing in the New Year in an Historic Inn

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The Rittenhouse Inn, Bayfield, Wisconsin.

For the end of 2022, Russ and I meandered over to Bayfield, Wisconsin, to stay at the Rittenhouse Inn. If you’ve ever been to Bayfield, you’ve seen the place: a huge maroon-red mansion on the left side of the main street as you head toward Lake Superior in this northern town.

This was Russ’s first stay at the inn and my fourth, but it had been years since I’d been there. For my birthday last spring, Russ gave me the choice of two local trips, and this was the one I chose. So, we combined two occasions into one: my birthday and New Year’s Eve.

Built in 1890, the Rittenhouse is a Queen Anne Victorian home. It’s one of three properties in Bayfield owned by Mary and Jerry Phillips. But it was the first one they purchased, back in 1973. Check out their website (link in the first sentence of this post) to learn more.

The Christmas tree at the Rittenhouse Inn.

We checked in on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve and had just enough time to change into clothing befitting a six-course dinner at the Inn’s Landmark Restaurant, which is on the first floor of the inn. Our room was on the third floor in Suite #10. This was originally the home’s ballroom. I got a glimpse of it during a tour on one of my first stays at the inn and was impressed by its spaciousness, double-sided fireplace, and view of the lake. I vowed to stay there one day.

Descending the floors on the stunning cherry staircase in my emerald-green velvet dress, I felt like I belonged to the place. Russ looked dapper in his khakis and pressed blue and white shirt. We were seated by the hostess in one of three rooms used for dining. There’s a green room, a red room, and a blue. We were shown to the red room, which features ornate wallpaper, lavish holiday decorations, and a fireplace. Actually, all the dining rooms feature that, just in different colors!

The special New Year’s dinner featured an appetizer (I had mussels in cream sauce), soup (I had oyster soup – sense a theme here?), salad (kale and pomegranate in the shape of a wreath), a palate cleanser of cranberry sorbet, main course (champagne chicken), and dessert (crème brulee with whipped cream and blueberries). It also included a champagne cocktail with a sugar cube in the bottom of the glass and an orange peel curlicue.

The meal was exquisite. Although the portions were reasonable, I’m not used to that much food anymore and have since sworn off all multi-course dinners! But it made for a memorable and tasty evening.

Afterward, we retired to our room and played a rousing game of Mexican Train Dominoes (I won, as usual). We brought our own bottle of champagne and Chombard liqueur (raspberry). We mixed them together and rang in the New Year.

Some things have changed about the inn since my last stay. For instance, they no longer use real wood in their fireplaces. Instead, they offer those fake logs you can buy at the grocery store, which are easy to light. This was disappointing – I wanted the crackle of a real fire – but it was better than an electric fireplace.

The fireplace in our suite.

They also no longer recite the menu orally. This was a thing on my first visit in the 1990s. The waiters, who all seemed trained in voice or drama, would recite the menu options from memory, adding luscious words and embellishments – so many that it felt like you had eaten a meal by the time they completed voicing the options. That left a lasting impression on me and I discovered the instigator of that past practice was still working at the inn. We met him the next morning at breakfast (which is included in the cost of your room). His name is Lance and he’s worked at the inn since 1974, just a year after it opened.

When I bemoaned the lack of an oral menu, he admitted that the recitation was one of his schemes. I didn’t get to ask him what stopped the practice, but I suppose it was hard to keep up over time, especially if new hires didn’t have talents in those areas.

Not much was stirring in Bayfield on New Year’s Day. Russ and I walked down the main street (Rittenhouse Ave.) and only found one store open, besides the grocery store and coffee shop. But that one store was enough, because I found a birthday present for a friend of mine who was born on January 2. What an awful time to have a birthday! Everyone is “presented” out by then from Christmas. But this year, I revived my present-finding skills quickly, and acquired something I think my friend would like.

The inn’s restaurant was not going to be serving dinner that evening, and we were staying another night, so we asked around and found out which other places in town would be open. We had two options to choose from: a bar and a bistro. We chose the bistro.

But before dinner, we exercised off some of our six-course dinner and scrumptious breakfast calories by cross-country skiing at Mt. Ashawabay Ski Area just outside of town. Besides downhill runs, the ski area offers 40K of ski trails. Because I’m recovering from a broken ankle, we stuck to the easy trails. They were perfect, although the tracks were a bit icy and I could have used a warmer (sticker) wax. But we made of the best of it for 1-1/2 hrs, and I did not reinjure my ankle.

We skipped lunch, so were hungry once we returned to Bayfield. We ate at the bistro and spent our evening curled up by the (fake log) fireplace, reading. Heavenly! The next morning, we had another lovely Rittenhouse Inn breakfast and then headed home to Duluth.

I felt fortunate to have finally stayed in Suite #10 and to spend such a peaceful New Year’s in elegant surroundings. The Rittenhouse or one of its other properties are definitely the pinnacle of places to stay in Bayfield, should you ever have the chance.

The Bayfield waterfront, decorated for the season.