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.

In Which I Become a Reluctant Heir Apparent

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Unbeknownst to me, I have been inducted into a hereditary monarchy committee.

What land do we rule? A local high school boys’ soccer team.

Why do we rule? Because our kids are the new team captains — so it’s more of a backwards hereditary monarchy. Instead of the crown being passed from parent to child, the parents are crowned because their children are good soccer team leaders.

We soccer monarchs had our first meeting last night and learned all the responsibilities our rule entails. This includes organizing a soccer team captains’ meeting, handling bank accounts and budgets, collecting soccer fees, cooking a pre-season BBQ, holding five team spaghetti dinners and a team social potluck, ordering clothing, signing up volunteer helpers, finding kids to catch stray balls at games, coordinating fundraising events, organizing an overnight team-building activity at a hotel during away games, arranging for a traditional Mongolian dinner during an away game, ordering team photos, producing a team memory book and a slide show to be given at the end-of-the-season banquet, hosting said banquet, ordering a special gift for the team seniors, and oh, if we have time, doing a charity project.

The length of our reign? About six months. The number of rulers? Five-and-a half (I say this because one person is out of town a lot.)

I know I should be honored to rule, but I didn’t ask for it. As a single mom with a full-time job, a second career as a teller of tales, active on the board of a writing group, handling affairs for my aging parents, and entertaining my dog, I already have a full plate.

However, it seems, other than disowning my son, I have no choice. If I would have known the consequences, I would have encouraged my son to be more of an average soccer player.

Just kidding. I’m proud my son is a team captain and I shall accept and support the result. However, the amount of activities does seem excessive. Since I’ve been elected without a vote, I’ve decided my platform will be to insert reason into the process and try not to get overwhelmed.

Already there’s been talk on the committee about things being done due to “tradition.” Part of me wonders if they are traditions from when there were more stay-at-home parents on the committee who had time on their hands. I mean, do we really need five spaghetti dinners? I don’t think so.

Hopefully, this approach will not induce a revolt or anarchy. Even if it does, it’s not like they can kick me off the committee. After all, I’m a soccer monarch by divine genetic right.

My Recent Embarrassment with White Culture

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Nothing says Native American better than a white girl in a headdress.

Native Americans are the largest non-white population in my northern Minnesota county, coming in at just over two percent. Even though they are the largest “minority” population, in my experience, the “majority” community still struggles to remember to represent Native Americans on decision-making and natural resource committees. But I recently participated in two events where natives were remembered and asked to take part. However, the events reflected poorly on us white folks.

The first event was a journalism panel for a project (One River, Many Stories) that’s trying to bring journalists together to write about a major river that flows through our community. The river, which has been a dumping ground, is being cleaned up and is the focus of major restoration and community planning efforts.

The three journalists on the panel were speaking about collaboration for this project. One was Native American and the others were white. Granted, getting media types — who have been trained to compete with each other — to cooperate is a tall order to begin with, but as the discussion and Q&A session progressed, I felt increasingly chagrined. The native journalist was giving the audience tips on how to find story sources through old records and by talking to people. The white journalists were spouting the corporate line and jumping on chances for exclusive stories. Hello. The whole point of the discussion was collaboration, which the white journalists just didn’t seem to grasp.

Even the audience (mostly white from what I could tell) ended up grand-standing and sniping about which media outlet was the better storyteller. I left the event embarrassed by the blatant blindness to the benefits of collaboration by the white folks.

The second instance was an open mic poetry/prose reading last night at a local coffee house. Although anyone is welcome to read at these sessions, each features an established writer who is given extra time to showcase their work. The featured reader last night was a Native American. His reading concluded with a song he sung in Ojibway. Once done, he invited a lady on stage to read, who also looked native.

Their poems were moving and heartfelt, raw and sentimental. They worked for me. What didn’t work was the lady who read last. She was a blonde older woman who ended her set with a song from a play she wrote. She said she decided to sing in appreciation of the featured reader. But as she belted out several times that she was a “full-blooded Indian” and had endured repression as a native, I began to squirm.

Now, I know that Native Americans come in all colors, but this lady was definitely not native. And I understand that she was trying to honor the culture in an artistic fasion. But I don’t think she realized how farcical it is for a native to see a white person trying to “be” native. It made about as much sense as a Nigerian singing onstage about being Swedish, even if that Nigerian really digs and honors Swedish culture.

I’m sensitized to this issue from recently reading Alexie Sherman’s “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian,” but also because over the years I’ve spent time on reservations around the country, in kiva ceremonies and at pow wows, and with Native American medicine men. Besides, don’t forget that I am a whopping 0.4 percent Native American myself (smirk).

I realize I’ve opened a can of worms with this post. I guess what I am trying to say with it is, please, please, please white people – there are better ways to honor Native American culture than by trying to pass yourself off as something you are not. And please learn how to collaborate, a trait that seems to come so much easier to native peoples. I worry about white culture’s ability to survive on several levels unless we do so.

A good blog post about Native American cultural appropriation can be found here.

As I left the coffee house last night, the two native poets happened to walk out behind me. I casually held the door open for them. It was the least I could do.

Dude Wipes

Dude Wipes

I was just in the grocery store, which seems to be my main form of socializing lately. I saw a display in the Kleenex aisle that caused a double take. “Dude Wipes.” Not baby wipes, or feminine hygiene wipes. Dude Wipes: flushable wipes guaranteed to combat stank and put you back on your game wherever and whenever nature calls.

With Vitamin E and soothing aloe, this product will give the user magical cool dude powers. And better yet, ten percent of the proceeds are donated to The Colon Club Charity.

O.M.G.

Another Winter, Another Ice Sculpture

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The ice formation, viewed from behind. Above it is one of the four towers that sprays water to create the structure.

A European-style castle is being built a few steps away from my office. The building materials? The reddish brown water from the Duluth-Superior Harbor.

From the four blog posts I wrote last winter, you may recall “Ice Man” Roger Hanson’s adventures trying to build a world-record ice sculpture on Barker’s Island in Superior, Wis. (To read the posts, type “Roger Hanson” into the search box on my blog.)

Let’s just say he learned a lot from that experience, and is at it again. Roger has a contract with the City of Superior to provide ice sculptures as a tourism attraction for three winters, and this is his second.

Last year, Roger was going for height, but a February thaw and shifting ground toppled his world-record attempt. This year, he’s going for width and mass. Plus he has a heckofa large supporting ice base on his formation that looks like it might not melt until July.

Roger builds his creations with the help of towers that periodically spray water he pumps from the harbor. He controls the actions of the towers through a computer set-up he has in the trailer he lives in near the sculpture.

He plans to spray a ninety-foot-wide, seventy-foot tall, eight million-pound structure, complete with castle turrets and a doorway in the middle.

He had one small set-back a few days ago when high winds blew apart part of the formation. Roger has since recovered, and the structure is now sturdy and thick enough that winds should not be an issue. But it’s an El Nino winter, which typically means warmer temperatures for this area. The weather has been cold enough lately for ice formation. Who knows what the rest of the winter may hold?

 

The Most Convincing Numerical Reason to buy a Powerball Ticket (In Addition to the Amount of the Jackpot)

 

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With the most recent Powerball $1.6 billion jackpot, all sorts of numbers have been thrown around in news reports. The newscasters say you have the same percentage chance of winning the lottery as you do becoming president of the U.S., getting hit by lightning, and attacked by a shark, combined. The odds are one in 292 million.

I have always scoffed at entering the lottery in the belief that such activities are for the mathematically illiterate. But it got me this time. The jackpot was too large to ignore.

I bought two tickets’ worth of numbers for last week’s drawing, and one ticket for this week’s based on the most compelling percentage of all: You have a 100 percent chance of NOT winning the lottery if you don’t enter.

Sigh. I didn’t win, though.

Marie’s Meanderings in Review – 2015

Just some introductory notes to the annual report about my blog stats. I am tickled that the most popular image on my blog continues to be the “don’t put toilet paper down the toilet” image (featuring a frowning toilet). I posted this image in 2013 when my temporary roommate clogged my plumbing. I am happy to continue to provide this image as a service to the world, particularly to developing countries with poor plumbing.

My other most popular image was from my “Rockin’ the First Day of Kingergarten” post. Either there are a lot of pedophiles in the world, or people were just curious to see what I looked like when I was 6. (Ha!)

My most popular post was “The Rachel Files: The Final Entry,” where I talked about the fate of my temporary roommate (who had moved out by that time). Oh the drama!

Another popular posting was “Good Enough for Jazz,” in which I give counsel on how to overcome perfectionism – in writing and other areas of life. This is a service I am even more proud to provide than protecting a nation’s plumbing.

Four thousand of you from 79 countries have viewed my blog this year, and for that I am eternally grateful. Here’s to continued meanderings with you in 2016!

Here’s a link to the report: https://mariezhuikov.wordpress.com/2015/annual-report/. It also contains links to the popular posts mentioned above.

Black Friday Gift Quest – Revealed!

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In case any of you, dear readers, were waiting with bated breath to hear what kind of gift lured my son and I to the Mall of America during our Black Friday quest, here’s the answer: An Ugly Sweater! I certainly think that’s worth risking life and limb, isn’t it? (Smirk.)

20151127_094630The gift was received by my son’s girlfriend with the proper appreciation for what we went through to purchase it.

In other news, we are digging out from a heavy snow fall. I wouldn’t call it a storm, but it gave us a respectable amount of snow (5-6 inches). I have been sick, but felt well enough this morning to run the snowblower and clear the driveway. For that, I am thankful.

A Random Act of Decorating Kindness

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Buddy and I came across this tree on our forest hike yesterday. I didn’t have my camera then to capture this random act of decorating kindness, but today I was ready. A couple of inches of snow fell though, and the tree looks wilted compared to yesterday, but it doesn’t obscure the magic. A deer ornament graces the top of the tree.

Merry Ho Ho! (As my oldest son used to say.)

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Attack of the abominable snow dog!

 

A Buddy Kind of Christmas

20151218_204557Marie is too busy preparing for the holidays, so I, Buddy the Wonderdog, am writing her blog this week.

I’ve helped with Christmas in other ways, too. I laid right down in front of the tree while Marie and my boy decorated it. I’m sure they appreciated the extra exercise they got stepping over me every time they put an ornament on the tree. It burned off all that eggnog they’ve been drinking.

Another way I’ve helped is by not tearing up tissue paper and gift wrap. That was hard because I love ripping it to shreds any chance I get. I also took Marie out of the house and into the woods yesterday on our favorite trail. The snow was pretty, and when we turned around to go home, the sunlight filtering through the ice-laden branches made her stop and stare. All that sparkling made my breath come out in little puffs.

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EmmaLee – one of my girlfriends.

I had a good year. Nice people moved in next door, and they have DOGS. First they just had EmmaLee, a black retriever, but now they have Jillian, too. She’s a golden retriever. They’re my friends and I love playing with them. They even took me to their cabin once.

Plus this year I took my first ferry ride. After it, I walked around Madeline Island and swam in Lake Superior.

I hope all you humans stay warm this winter, and I wish you the best for whatever holidays you celebrate.

Buddy and Emily