Northern Minnesota

Duluth Does the Day of the Dead

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All Souls Night 2015 007
At the risk of having you all think I’m extremely morbid, (since I just wrote about obituaries) I am going to write about All Souls Night in Duluth, also known as the Day of the Dead. It’s a community event that, although somber, is an expression of joy and remembrance for our ancestors.

I’ve wanted to attend All Souls Night for a year or two, but it never worked out until this week. Part of the event is held indoors and part outdoors on a chilly northern November evening. After applying colorful skull makeup at home, my friends and I arrived for the indoors part in time to hear a local singer and choir perform. Then there was a ceremony to honor the dead. Most touching was when audience members called out the names of the departed. Their offerings were recognized with the ring of a bell.

Tribal belly dancers came next, honoring the dead with their sinuous and graceful movements. Then it was time to head outdoors for the Funeral March for Bad Ideas. A jazz brass band led the hundred-plus people around the block along with stilt walkers, and several huge puppets that depicted death and rebirth: fish and moose skeletons combined with a monarch caterpillar and butterfly.

We gathered in a pavilion and held a ceremony to burn pieces of paper upon which the audience had written their bad ideas from the past year. Some were funny (like “Donald Trump”) and others were more personal. My friends and I were getting cold, so we left after the spiral dance, missing the music that continued indoors.

I was impressed by the range of ages of the crowd. There were more children than I was expecting for an event that deals with death. But I suppose it is good to have the next generation learn about honoring ancestors.

I was also surprised to learn this has been going on for eight years here. Candlelight and singing amid the clutter of our lives. . . .

The Purge (or When a Trip to the Dump can be Good for the Soul)

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Image courtesy of St. Louis County, Minn.

Image courtesy of St. Louis County, Minn.

Today I got rid of some dead weight and made a new friend along the way.

It was time for fall cleaning, if you will. I got rid of some household hazardous waste (fluorescent light tubes and used snow blower oil) and detritus accumulated over several years — both mine and my parents.

My family moved our aging parents twice in the past several years — from their home to an assisted living facility, and from there to another facility in a different town. I kept some of their things on the chance they might need them, but now that it’s been several years and they live out of town, I realized that ain’t gonna happen. So it was time for a purge.

How it works at our self-service dump is you tell the attendant what you’ve got in your (car, truck or trailer) load and they assess you a charge. Then you drive up a hill. Below the hill are large dumpsters either for metals, cardboard, wood, or miscellaneous waste. You park on the dumpster hill and then toss your junk down into the appropriate container. After that, you drive down the hill and loop back to the entrance to a shed where electronics are collected.

The last time I visited the local dump (now called the more politically correct “Materials Recovery Center”) was about a year after my divorce. I loaded all the junk my ex (who was sort of a hoarder) left into my then-boyfriend’s truck and we made a date of going to the dump. Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!

Let me tell you, throwing your stuff into the dumpster abyss is a rush. You’re flinging off your old world to make room for the new. It can get addicting. My boyfriend and I laughed as we did it — the feeling was so freeing. This time, I felt rather sad because some of my parents’ discarded items meant their lives would never be the same, but still it felt good to get the stuff cleaned out of my house and garage.

And I made a new friend in the form of the lady attendant who assessed my load. We happened to have the same type of vehicle, so while I was showing her the stuff in my trunk, we talked about the merits of our cars. I paid and when she came back to give me the receipt she asked more questions about my car.

I thought having a dump worker who wasn’t a stressed out robot was a nice change of pace. But the guy in the truck behind me did not. He yelled at the woman to hurry up. Ignoring him, she replied to me, “It’s my job.” (With the unspoken, “And I can do what I like to make it bearable.”) We exchanged a few more words and then I went on my merry way up dumpster hill.

After my cathartic dump (smile), I waved to her as I left.

So, that’s life in northern Minnesota. We make friends at the dump and get our kicks tossing stuff away. What can I say?

Try visiting your local dump someday. It could be good for your soul.

Bobcat Fog

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Fog

Buddy and I went for a walk along the lake in the fog this evening. I love fog. It’s so . . . atmospheric. Makes you feel enveloped, safe in a wall of mist, moving mysterious through the world. Of course, Lake Superior was gray, too – water and sky indistinguishable, quiet.

As a fog-lover, I live in the right place. The dynamics of the lake and the hillside in Duluth make for a larger than usual number of foggy days.

During my walk, I was reminded of the Carl Sandburg poem about fog – how it comes in on little cat feet. He wrote that about Chicago – seeing fog in the harbor. But cat feet just don’t cut it for Duluth. Our far north fog is less domesticated, a bit more dangerous. If I were to write a haiku about fog in Duluth, I would describe the fog as coming in on bobcat feet.

Radio Interview About My Books

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Hello — Life has been sweeping over me like a tidal wave recently, but I was still able to make time for an interview about my novels on a community radio station. Follow this link to hear my interview yesterday on KUMD’s Minnesota Reads show (and discover why I’m nervous to have my parents read my books).

I was honored to be included in the show, which airs every Thursday morning at 8:15 a.m. Tune in!

Nantucket Sleigh Ride Via Loon

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Loons dancing in the morning mist on Tuscarora Lake in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. (Photo taken by me in the mid-1980s.)

Loons dancing in the morning mist on Tuscarora Lake in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. (Photo taken by me in the mid-1980s.)

Strange things happen sometimes in the Northwoods – this land where humans and animals live so near each other. When I was young (8? 9?) my family went fishing on a lake north of Duluth. While casting our lines, we noticed a loon swimming nearby, calling in an unusual manner. As outdoorsy types, we had heard many loons before, but this one sounded more plaintive than normal, like it was in distress.

The loon kept circling — swimming near us, which was also odd for this rather stand-offish species. My dad said something like, “I think that loon needs help,” so we canoed toward it. Soon we saw the problem. A homemade fishing pole crafted from a large branch trailed about fifteen feet behind the bird. My dad grabbed the pole, thinking he could just pull the loon toward us and find where the fishing hook was lodged in it.

Ha! He underestimated the power of the loon. Upon feeling the tug of the line, the loon took off and dove underwater. My dad kept his grip on the pole, and the loon proceeded to pull our canoe (and the three or four of us in it) through the water at a good clip.

Now, a Nantucket sleigh ride is what used to happen to whalers after they harpooned a whale. The whale would take off, towing the whaling boat and its occupants through the sea until the whale tired and surfaced. That’s what was happening to us, only our whale was a loon.

Soon the loon tired and my dad was able to pull it close enough to capture in his gloved hands. This in itself was a feat of daring. Adult loons are about the size of a goose, and their bills are long and sharp.

After my dad wrestled it onto his lap, we discovered the hook embedded in the bird’s neck. Imagine — all that force from our lake sleigh ride concentrated on such a fragile body part. But that hadn’t stopped the loon.

My brother handed my dad the pliers and he was able to remove the hook. We released the loon back into its watery home. As the loon departed, its call was different. Happier.

Was it saying thank you? I’d like to think so.

A Glimpse Into the Northern MN Inner Sanctum

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The "Pioneers."

The “Pioneers.”

I spoke with THE most delightful group of fifty elders yesterday about my books. They meet monthly along the shore of Lake Superior north of Duluth. For the sake of anonymity, I’ll call them the “Pioneers.” I spoke in a church basement after their business meeting but before lunch. The rituals and small-town nature of the event made me feel like I was in an episode of the Red Green Show or Northern Exposure, which are some of my favorite television shows, so this was a good thing.

The meeting began with the pledge of allegiance. O.M.G. I haven’t said the pledge since grade school. I was surprised I still remembered it. Then came opening jokes. Several were shared, including a priest/rabbi joke and an Ole and Lena joke (a Minnesota favorite). The latter dealt with Lena reading “one of dem romance novels,” and the former dealt with “the pleasures of the flesh” – all of which provided perfect unintended lead-ins to my presentation.

But it wasn’t time for that yet. After introducing visitors (which was only me — introduced as a writer of “one of dem romance novels”) the meeting moved onto birthday announcements (complete with song), anniversaries, minutes of the last meeting, a moment of silence for the deceased, a treasurer’s report, and committee reports. At this point we learned which of the Pioneers were absent due to recent heart attacks. Much discussion ensued about next month’s picnic meeting and how to procure and handle the industrial-sized cans of baked beans.

The formal part of the meeting ended with a prize drawing. I don’t recall what the prize was because I was getting ready to talk, which induced momentary panic and a memory lapse, but I’m sure the prize was fabulous.

This was the first opportunity I’ve had to talk about both of my novels at the same time, so it was good practice. And I was surprised by how many Pioneers had heard about recent sightings of piping plovers on a local beach. (Plovers are the topic of my second novel.) The audience asked lots of questions. In the tradition of “Minnesota Nice,” we managed not to get into any fights over wolf management or the existence of climate change (other novel topics).

Afterwards, people were almost throwing their money at me to buy books – another good thing. We ate “a little lunch,” which consisted of finger foods like homemade pickled devil eggs, half sandwiches, and dessert bars. LOTS of bars.

The event was punctuated with much laughter and good humor. The structure reminded me of my family reunions, which are conducted every two years in central Minnesota. While we don’t have jokes or prizes or as much laughter, we do have ice cream, which makes up for a lot.

Although this glimpse of northern Minnesota social heaven was a privilege, I left the church feeling bittersweet. In our current era of online meetings and cyber conversations, I fear that social groups like the Pioneers are a dying tradition. Will the teenagers of today gather in church basements or town halls on a regular basis when they are senior citizens? Or will they invent some new form of support group? If they do, will it be as fun? More important, will they have bars?

Only time will tell.

Writing at Dream Speed

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The Northeastern Minnesota Book Awards ceremony was held a few days ago in Duluth. I attended in because my novel, Plover Landing, was nominated in the fiction category, and because it’s fun to hob nob with other writers. Although any hope of an award was futile (sniff, small sob), the event always has inspiring speakers (see last year’s blog story), and poet Barton Sutter provides entertaining emceeing.Layout 1

This year’s speaker was Duluth Poet Laureate Jim Johnson, who offered a tongue-in-cheek look at the writing process. Regarding the importance of writing rituals: “The muse can only find you at the same place and same time every day. The first step in writing is to be there . . . . While you are waiting for the muse to appear, you might as well write.”

Is the writing process about hard work or inspiration? “Yes,” is Johnson’s answer. “You can’t write if your ritual doesn’t work right. Don’t skip over the details!” Then he went into a long explanation of the importance of exact paper and pen placement on the desk, having all your pencils sharpened, your computer programs updated, etc.

Is all this preparation and procrastination worth it? “Trust me,” Johnson said. “Something will happen. When it does, it’s magical. The words will come out at dream speed . . . . This is its own reward. Writing isn’t about money, awards, or publication. Sometimes we’re rewarded, sometimes not. The odds are not good.”

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The crowd gathers for the Northeastern Minnesota Book Awards presentation.

Basically, he was saying that writers need to trust in whatever process they’ve developed, and that the key is to persevere despite rejections from publishers or awards judges. There’s nothing better than when the words seem to come of their own accord and you get into that “flow.”

Keep flowing, my friends. Keep writing at dream speed.

North Shore Spring

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A frozen/melting waterfall in Gooseberry Falls State Park.

           A melting frozen waterfall in Gooseberry Falls State Park.

I meandered up the North Shore of Lake Superior last weekend, looking for signs of spring. Although no tree buds are out, the snow is all but gone (except in the shade) and the ice is melting on the rivers. I hope you enjoy these photos from the trip. Click on a photo below to see a larger image.

Fun With Words

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“Anger Tower” in Duluth, Minn. Photo by Sak Photography.

I bought my teenaged son a piece of furniture this weekend, and realized to my horror, that I had been mispronouncing the name of it in my head forever. I bought him a chest of drawers, which I had been thinking of as “chester drawers” since I was young. The salesman tactfully corrected my pronunciation.

Chester drawers — that’s what we called it in my house. I can blame my parents, I guess. Somehow, I’d made it into adulthood without ever needing to buy this particular piece of furniture because there were always plenty of chester drawer hand-me-downs from relatives.

This incident reminded me of two other tricky words. When I was in elementary school, I used to call the library a “liberry,” until some neighbor kid corrected me. Although I went to the liberry a lot, apparently it wasn’t often enough to learn its true name.

Then there’s the iconic local landmark of “Anger Tower.” The foreboding dark stone tower was built atop one of Duluth’s tallest hills. We could see it from my neighborhood before the trees grew and blocked the view. Because it seemed the kind of place where a person would be locked up if they got others angry, it made total sense in my child’s mind to call it Anger Tower. Or maybe it was where angry people lived. But I learned later in junior high school that its real name was Enger Tower after a local business man.

I don’t know. Enger Tower just doesn’t have the same ring. Sometimes real names aren’t as good as the made-up ones. Are there any word pronunciations that surprised you as you grew older?