The Bench

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A sailboat off Park Point Beach in Duluth, Minn.

A sailboat off Park Point Beach in Duluth, Minn.

I saw the bench in passing as I was hauling a box of my novels into a local community center where I was to take part in a local arts sale and book signing. My first thought was that the bench offered a nice place to sit if someone got tired on the walkway up to the center.

On my second trip, I noticed the red crabapples that had fallen onto the weathered wooden slats of the bench from the tree that sheltered it. On my third trip, I saw the small sliver plaque that had tarnished beyond readability and how the main metal support on the bottom of the seat was hanging askew. That bench had been there for a while, and no one was taking care of it.

On my fourth trip, I realized I was having all these reactions to the bench, and that I should pay attention. It’s funny and sad sometimes how intent we get on what we are doing (in this case, setting up my book table) that we miss creative fodder that’s right along the path.

Where will the path of life take you? To the beach!

Where will the path of life take you? To the beach!

After I was done hauling books and moving my car across the street to allow arts sale patrons the best parking spots, I took time to appreciate the bench. I unpocketed my camera and shot some photos of it and the surrounding beach. The bench photos don’t do it justice. I think my words describe it better, but I got some good beach shots.

I’ve been thinking a lot about mortality lately, what with “shallow graves” occupying my mind, and attending a visitation for a fallen media comrade. This bench spoke to me of a life remembered. It served as a token of respite and peace in a busy world, but a token now forgotten and in disrepair. How fragile human memory is! How fleeting! Yet the bench stands in testament that someone once cared.

Like any good, self-absorbed artist, I wondered if anyone would care enough about me to dedicate a bench in my name, and if they did, how long the intent would last to keep it in good repair. And in the big scheme of things, does it really matter? Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and all that.

I suppose a poem is in that bench somewhere. I wonder if I will have the opportunity to step off the path of my busy life and write it.

Okay, I changed my mind. Here's the bench.

Okay, I changed my mind. Here’s the bench.

A Review of “The Goldfinch”

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The Goldfinch“The Goldfinch” is an ambitious book, dealing with questions like: what is art? What is love? Is fate more due to relentless irony, divine providence, or a mix of the two? Just simple questions like that. (Smile.)

I found myself comparing this novel to “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close” because they both have boy narrators who lost a parent to terrorism. In the case of Extremely Loud, it’s the World Trade Center crashes. In this book, it’s the bombing of an art museum. I like “The Goldfinch” better because the narrator isn’t as unreasonably anxious. He’s anxious yes, but in a calmer, more reasoned way, if that’s possible. And the timeline is more straightforward, which makes it easier to follow.

The story follows the life of Theodore Decker from age thirteen until his late twenties, exploring his longing for his dead mother, his relationship with his dead-beat father, adjustments (or lack thereof) to his new living conditions, and his attachment to a famous painting.

I liked how the author shows feelings of emotional displacement through descriptions of the characters’ surroundings – furnishings, food – and not only through human interactions. She incorporates a huge amount of detail, which makes the story real. Unless one is a writer, it’s hard to appreciate how difficult this is to do well. I also enjoyed the author’s fresh metaphors. There’s a reason “The Goldfinch” won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction this year.

Toward the end, I started getting impatient with Theo’s inarticulateness and inability to function. And when he does function, it’s like he’s outside of himself. He’s so inactive, it’s like he’s the opposite of a protagonist. He just stands there saying, “Ummm… ahh…” and things happen to him.  Theo’s Russian friend Boris takes over as protagonist at this point, and I ended up with a fondness for him despite his bad influence on Theo. I learned more about drinking and drugs than I ever wanted to know. Also, the author has the Russian soul down.

Some readers complain that the ending paragraphs aren’t worth all the angst in the previous parts of the book, but I don’t agree. The ending starts several chapters before the last chapter. I was listening to it on CD, so I’m not entirely sure of the organization of the book, but to me, the summation starts with Theo’s “coming clean” discussion with his mentor Hobie (I love Hobie!) and continues through the remainder of the novel. I thought it was cohesive and worth the wait. In fact, it was so worth the wait that I incurred my first library fine in recent memory so that I could complete the story. So beware: “The Goldfinch” is a bad influence – it could encourage you to incur library fines without remorse for the rest of your days.

A Shallow Grave

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Does it bug anyone else when television news makes a big deal about the body of murder victim being found in a “shallow grave?” As if a deep grave would make any difference. Oh yes, so-and-so was killed, but at least they were buried in a deep grave, so everything’s cool. Gah!

How I got Jane Goodall to Stick her Head in a Potted Palm Tree

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Jane Goodall

My story from the Minnesota Daily, May 7, 1986, page 1.

A recent news story about chimpanzee researcher Jane Goodall reminded me why she’s one of my favorites of the scientific glitterati. Here’s a link to the Huffington Post video story. Basically, she’s saying that researchers need to have empathy with their subjects in order to conduct ethical and meaningful science. I agree!

I had the chance to meet Jane (I don’t think she’d mind if I call her by her first name – she’s that kind of a person) back in my glory days as the environmental reporter for my college newspaper, the venerable “Minnesota Daily” (best college newspaper in the country!) Jane came to town to give a talk on chimpanzee behavior and DNA, and how similar they are to our own.

She presented to a packed auditorium and afterwards, hosted a news conference. I sat in the front row along with a photographer for the paper. I don’t remember what questions I asked, but I do recall being impressed by Jane’s seeming kindness and approachability.

During the news conference, the photographer and I surreptitiously discussed good locations in the room to take her photo afterwards, both agreeing (with the logic of college students) that the potted palm next to her podium would be ideal. She did work in the “jungle,” after all! However, the thought of asking Jane Goodall to stick her head among palm fronds filled me with anxiety. Would she be insulted? Have us thrown out of the room? Turn around and walk off in a huff?

Once the news conference was over, no other reporters seemed to want to talk to Jane, so I approached – probably gushed about what a big fan I was – and put forth to her the photographer’s plight of getting her photo against an interesting background. I couldn’t believe our luck when she pointed to the palm and said, “Well, why not here?”

Amazed and relieved, I agreed. Unfortunately, the palm tree photo did not run with the story — the photo editors ran a boring head-shot instead. But I will always remember how gracious and accommodating Jane was, and how willing she was to stick her head in a potted palm for a college reporter.

On the Ice Bucket Challenge and Apologizing for Happiness

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Smileyes By Ramesh NG via Wikimedia Commons

Smileyes By Ramesh NG via Wikimedia Commons

My youngest son wanted me to video his friend dumping a bucket of cold water over his head, joining the masses participating in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. This was back a couple of weeks ago when it was all the rage. I agreed and probably laughed about it. My son then proceeded to make a snarky comment and went outside to join his friend who was waiting in our driveway with the bucket.

Stunned by my fifteen-year-old’s comment, I stood in the kitchen, at war over whether to call him out on it, but also feeling pressure to go outside and take the video. He doesn’t usually say such things, but the past few days, I’d noticed an edge to him that hadn’t been there before.

When he came on the porch looking for me, I motioned him into the house. I told him that if he wanted me to do something nice for him (take the video), he needed to be nicer to me and apologize for his comment (the words to which I can’t even recall any more).

He apologized and we had a rather heated discussion about what was wrong. It turns out, it’s all my fault. I was laughing too much. It annoyed him.

Now, even if I do say so myself, my laugh is not annoying. In fact, back when phone contact was the norm, my Allstate agent used to call me and crack jokes just to hear me laugh. He actually admitted this to me. My laugh is hearty, yes, but not unusually frequent. And I’m not one of those people who goes around smiling all the time. But, as you can probably tell from this blog, I do have an easy and strange sense of humor, and enjoy laughing when I have the chance.

Before I knew what was coming out of my mouth, I apologized to my son for being a happy person. In part, I did it to show him the absurdity of his complaint. I also did it because he had apologized to me and I was trying to move the discussion forward. Other parts of our conversation revolved around the need for him to find a way to deal with hearing his mother laugh. I have many things I could be sad about. I’m nowhere near as resilient as I used to be, but I’m not about to stop laughing any time soon. Afterwards, we went outside and commenced with the icewater dumping.

Last night, we had an airing out session about several things, and we talked more about the Terrible Awful Problem of having a happy mom. I told my son it’s rather normal for teenagers to get annoyed, especially when they are sleep-deprived. The day before the annoyance incident happened, he had his friend over for a “sleepover,” which usually involves almost anything but sleeping. We also talked about how annoyance over little things can be a waste of time and energy, and we both laughed about how silly it was to be annoyed by happiness. He assured me his annoyance wasn’t because he was unhappy, but because of hearing my laugh so often lately.

If having a happy mom is the worst issue for my son, I’d say we are doing all right.

“Zenith City” Offers a Broader Understanding of Duluth

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Zenith_City-210“Zenith City” is a collection of stories by former Duluthian Michael Fedo (cousin of former Duluth Mayor John Fedo). The memoir chronicles his time growing up in Duluth, Minn., in the 1950s and 60s.

I enjoyed reading the book. I recognized Fedo’s references to the city’s inferiority complex (which is turning around, now, thank you, with Duluth being named things like Best Outdoors City, etc.), and Fedo’s references to Duluthians’ relationship with their hills, KDAL Radio, dear old Denfeld High, the Flame Restaurant, and the Pickwick.

However, in many instances, Fedo writes about a Duluth with which I am unfamiliar — one where relatives live next door (my parents were the northernmost transplants of their central- and southern-Minnesota families), where the vices and haunts of downtown were nearby (I grew up in more distant Piedmont Heights), and where folk music was popular (I was born about 15 years too late for that).

But that’s all right. The descriptions gave me a better understanding of the place where I live. I especially enjoyed his reminiscences about Don LaFontaine, the famous movie trailer voiceover actor (think, “In a world where….”), his encounter with Louis Armstrong, and with Bob Dylan’s mother. And because of my exposure to this book, I now intend to read “Babbitt” by Sinclair Lewis, who lived in Duluth for a time. (Also because my home economics-major mother once made and served him dinner when she was working in college for a family who entertained him.)

I noticed two punctuation errors: one where closing quotation marks are missing, another where a sentence ends with both a period and a comma. This surprised me since I’ve come to expect better from the University of Minnesota Press. I don’t know if it’s a sign of their quality slipping or of my editorial eye getting sharper with experience.

The only other thing that gave me pause was the repetition among the stories. For instance, we hear that Fedo worked at the local college radio station at least four times throughout, but I suppose this is an artifact of the book being a compilation of stories that were written for other publications. Just be aware it’s not a seamless memoir written in a singular effort.

Earlier this year, I went to an event by Fedo at Duluth Public Library. He read from many of the stories, and afterwards, he and his wife were generous with their time for a discussion with me, a newbie novelist. They were a class act. I highly recommend this book, even to non-Duluthians.

Chinese Scooter Instructions — A “Found” Poem

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The moon as seen from my writing studio this past June. (The Strawberry Moon.)

The moon as seen from my writing studio this past June. (The Strawberry Moon.)

We bought a scooter from China a few years back. These are the actual words that were in the instructions (so they are not mine), but the formatting is mine. The recent Harvest Moon reminded me of it.

Chinese Scooter Instructions

When driving
please you keep the relaxing moon
and wear comfortable clothes,
obey the traffic rule
and prohibit
making the moon
impatient.

Someone Shat Upon My Fantasy Room

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The culprit.

The culprit.

 

Inquiring minds have been asking how my new exercise room is going. I am happy to report that I’ve actually used it for its intended purpose, but not without a challenge. As with many of my fantasies, somebody shat upon it first. That somebody was my dog, Buddy, who was having a bout of gastric distress. It’s the only time he’s ever done something like that in the house, and of course, he chose the exercise room.

Although it’s not decorated yet, after a thorough cleaning, a few days, and several shots of Febreze, the smell dissipated and the room was ready to roll. Now the trick will be to keep my exercise rolling. Buddy even “exercised” with me. I had to install a sleeping pad that I use for camping so that he could have his own yoga mat in the room. Otherwise, he was going to take over mine!

Hope you are all having a great Labor Day Weekend, and that you are not laboring too hard.

A Photo From This Morning

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My garden statue has been reading for a long time!

My garden statue has been reading for a long time!

This sight greeted me this morning on the way to the mailbox. The only camera I had on hand to capture it is my crappy old Sony DSC-S500 Cyber Shot. I was glad it was able to show the detail of the spider web. Please have a wonderful day, even if it’s rainy!

The Fantasy Suite (er . . . Room)

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Hmmmm. What to do with an empty room?

Hmmmm. What to do with an empty room?

Have you ever had an empty room in your house? I do, and it’s wonderful! Remember my temporary roommate? Although she moved out over seven months ago, I am still housing her furniture in my spare bedroom. She wasn’t making any concrete progress to find her own apartment (she’s still living with someone else who doesn’t have room for her furniture), so I decided to move her stuff to my garage. [Thank you friend who helped me move it!]

And now I have this echo-y empty room. What to do, what to do? . . . The possibilities are limitless. I don’t need to make it into a bedroom at this point, so I’ve decided to make it into an exercise and yoga room. Why? Because these lyrics of Paul Simon’s song, “You Can Call Me Al” resonate a bit too much with me: “Why am I so soft in the middle / The rest of my life is so hard.”

I’ve already got my yoga mat, hand weights, and stepping stair in there. Now I just need to drag the elliptical strider up from the basement. I figure there’s a greater chance I’ll actually use it if I see it every day. Sure, I could join a fitness center, but as a single mom with aging parents and a needy dog, the demands on my time are varied and great. My fantasy is that now, I’ll be able to just pop into my exercise room instead of making a big production of things by driving somewhere else.

It’s not like I need to lose weight (although dropping ten pounds would not be bad), I just need to get fit again. I sit almost all day at a desk job, which is the hardest thing a person can do to their body. And in the evenings, I often sit some more blogging and writing novels. Unless a person has some form of exercise, the sitting will catch up to them. I have already learned this the hard way in the past, and I’d rather not have those back problems back, thank you.

Maybe I can wire the room with a sound system for exercise-inducing rhythms or New Age yoga music. Add some mood lighting. Put some art on the wall. Here we go. Wish me motivation!