All posts by Anna

The Baboon Congress

You Gotta Try This

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Today’s guest post is by Anna.

I am unimpressed with this year’s so-called “winter.” It has been a disappointment. While I can appreciate that some folks like the nice snow-free sidewalks and warmer temperatures, I am a Minnesota kid, and I miss my snow and ice and cold. I tried to go out ice skating one afternoon and instead of the chsss chsss chsss of skate blades on the neighborhood rink I heard chuh chuh chuh as I tried to maneuver myself across the slushy mess. Sure it was sunny, but without any glide in my step, not even the warmth on my face or the extra vitamin D was working for me.

Still, there was one day when it was real winter. One day when it had just snowed enough to do something outdoors besides walk the dog. Daughter really wanted to go sledding. I was feeling more in a “stay inside by the fire” kind of mood, since we were in the “cold after the snow” part of the snow, but was willing to put on my snow pants to appease the seven-year-old and ensure that my Minnesota native cred was still good. So, find the boots that had not yet been needed (in the basement), pull the snow pants out from the closet (yikes, these got smaller in the last 12 months), hat (goofy looking), mittens (the warm ones), out we go to find the sleds. Crunch crunch through the quiet neighborhood – with the exception of a few folks out with their dogs, we are the only ones out. And yikes, that wind is biting; a fierce blast that I was not expecting, especially given the mild weather of the season thus far (should have added the scarf). A few blocks from home I hear myself whine like a three-year-old, “are you sure you want to do this? We could go home and have cocoa…” No. We are going. There is snow to be sledded on, this is not an opportunity to be missed.

Once at the hill, the seven-year-old races to the top with her sled in hand. I find a sunny spot to try to gather some warmth and watch. Ssssshhhhhoooo, down the hill she comes and then runs back up the hill. “You gotta try this. It’s so much fun!” I am not convinced, but trudge up with the other sled. Wedging the extra sled into a nearby stand of tall weeds so it won’t blow away, I plunk myself down into the purple plastic embrace of the sled with Daughter in front of me. Sssssshhhhhhooooo, down the hill we go together, across the path, almost to the creek. And it was fun. A few more times together, a few times each on our own sleds, timing our runs so we don’t mow down the walkers (and one biker) using the path at the bottom of the hill. Laughing as we fall over or spin backwards on our descent. Even with the exertion of going up and down the hill, eventually my face gets cold enough that I convince Daughter it’s time to go home. Bump bump bump the sleds follow us home to cocoa (and marshmallows and a fire). But I was glad I tried it, ssssssshhhhhhooooo, it was so much fun.

When have you been convinced to do something that was more fun than you expected?

The Baboon Congress

The Power of Waffles

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Today’s guest post is from Anna.

I believe in the power of waffles. Not the big, fluffy kind you get at a restaurant loaded with fruit and whipped cream and heaven knows what all. Real waffles – the kind with little tiny squares that make your butter clump and not spread smoothly. The kind of waffles your mom can make with ingredients she always seems to have on hand – flour and baking power and eggs, not a mix. Waffles made on an iron that likely dates to the Eisenhower administration. The best waffles do not cook evenly or have a uniform shape. They are crisp, brown, warm, melt in your mouth – and if you’re really lucky, like I am, your mom serves ‘em up with peanut butter.

The Vintage Griddle

I believe in the power of waffles because one less than fabulous, perhaps even horrid, day my mom saved the world with waffles. Daughter, then 2-years-old, had been very two that day, my husband was struggling with something in his grad school class, and I was just tired and crabby – something had to be done to turn this around. “Come on over,” Mom said when I called, “bring the little one and we’ll all have some dinner.” I arrived, Daughter in tow, relieved that someone else would entertain my toddler for awhile and I could just sit. Mom made waffles.

Unadorned Perfection

The waffles arrived at the table piping hot, bumpy on the edges, straight from the iron. Butter, maple syrup, lingonberry preserves – I topped waffles with each – but the best were the ones with melty, oozy peanut butter that dripped down my chin. My daughter was calmed and contentedly ate her waffles. I ate mine. All was right with my world again. Those waffles had delivered a mother’s embrace directly to my taste buds – the sort of reassurance generations of moms have cooked up in the kitchen for their children when they need it most. Plain ordinary waffles.

With Lingonberry and Peanut Butter

We spend a lot of time worrying about the big things in our lives: Who won the election? I’m over 40 and I haven’t yet saved the world and I don’t have a book deal – does that mean I’m a failure? Paper or Plastic? We lose sight in all of that of the little things, remarkable and not, that make up our daily lives. Even with the huge motivational-industrial complex out there churning out mugs, magnets, posters, and books chock full of pithy sayings to remind us, we still pay most attention to the big, whiz-bang things and pay little or no attention to the goodness of ordinary things – like waffles.

I believe in the goodness of ordinary things. I believe in the power of waffles.

What is your favorite comfort food?

The Baboon Congress

A Fondness for Fellows With Bellows

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Today’s guest post is by Anna.

I will come clean – I like accordion music. I am even, sort of, a groupie. For a handful of seasons, my best friend and I have bought orchestra tickets for a few concerts. An integral part of the evening out is the accordion player in the skyway by Orchestra Hall. He’s always there, upturned hat on top of his case, slightly unkempt hair wrestled back into a ponytail, a smile lighting up his face. Once I happened to find him across from the Ordway on an opera night – walked through Rice Park, out of my way, just so I could put a little cash in his hat (Accordion Groupie behavior, I realized).

The first time I heard the accordion guy, it was a lovely surprise to hear a bit of a musical prelude on the way in to the hall from the parking ramp. Fairly quickly it became part of the evening’s routine to ensure my friend and I had a few singles ready for the accordion player. When one of us is without singles, we divvy up what we have so that we can each put something in the hat. He plays everything from French café music to opera to folk tunes. I have threatened to waltz my pal across the skyway; I have danced a bit on my own. My mother upped the ante one evening when she and I went to the orchestra and she admitted, while I was digging for ones, to singing along with the accordion guy when she was out with friends. (“He was playing ‘Nidälven’, I had to sing along…” Can’t fault her logic, really.)

The skyway accordion guy is as much a part of the concert experience as seeing the orchestra itself – he is a standard character in my Orchestra Night script, and I cannot imagine a concert without him (though once he was only there after the show…he confessed, somewhat sheepishly, that he had been on a date). He is one of a cast of thousands in my daily world; more than a mere walk on role, and still less than a supporting character. There have been others like him – characters in my world that I do not know, or know well, but who enrich the tapestry of my days: Taylor the Worm Man who rode the #3 bus with his plastic bucket, fishing gear and philosophies, departing with a nod and a reminder of his memorable name; the woman who came into the restaurant where I worked one summer who always wore a big pin with a picture of Barbara Streisand, ordered food that had never been on the menu, and refused to be served by the waitress with the white streak in her hair; the older fellow who I often see out for an afternoon walk when I drive home from work, always chewing on an unlit, but well used, pipe. Without this changing cast of background characters, life would have less texture, less color, less life. And no accordion accompaniment.

Who are the walk-on and supporting characters in your world?

The Baboon Congress

A World Around the Corner

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Today’s guest blog is by Anna.

My house is around the corner from a library. The same library I went to when I was a kid; the library where I got my first library card. My first card was heavy, blue-grey paper and had the old “bars” logo for the Minneapolis Library on it. It also had my six-year-old handwriting on it spelling out my full name, hyphenated first name and all. I can remember bringing that precious piece of paper into the library where I would hand it and a stack of books to the librarian where she would press a button on a machine that, with a clunk and a buzz, took a picture of the book and my card, allowing me to take the books home. The red-headed librarian that was there when I was a kid still works there. The kids’ books are still to the left as you come in, and the “grown-up” books to the right. I sometimes wander into the stacks of children’s non-fiction and sniff the loamy aroma of dust-jacketed books and the air of my youth (don’t tell the red headed librarian, she might tell my mom).

I have loved books and reading as long as I can remember, and have no clear memories of not being able read. I remember my father reading chapter books to me at night and I remember reading Dr. Seuss to myself. I remember yelling downstairs when it was time for “lights out” that I was in the middle of a chapter and couldn’t I finish it, then getting five more minutes to read and reading fast enough to go into another chapter so I could repeat the process until my mother’s patience for the game wore out.

Over the past couple of years I have been watching through different eyes the process that leads to independent reading. It is a profound thing to watch, especially when you have forgotten how it was that you learned. First there is learning letter shapes and sounds and putting those together so you recognize the sound for each shape. Next comes putting those shapes and sounds in combinations that make new sounds. Eventually you get to sentences and books. It is amazing all the abstract things we learn that all come together to allow us to recognize a bunch of straight and curvy lines as words we understand.

Earlier this spring Daughter got her own library card, with her own full name spelled out in six-year-old handwriting. She was thrilled. It has its own purple card case and she loves that she can scan it under the bar code reader, scan her books, and tap the screen to get her receipt on her own (technology has advanced a bit since I got my first card). Because we are just around the corner there is a weekly request, easily fulfilled, to go and read at the library. I think Daughter loves the smell of all the books, and the thrill of understanding them, as much as I do. And what better motivation to keep reading than your own shiny library card and the ability to use it to discover new worlds?

What were your favorite books when you were a kid?

The Baboon Congress

Leonard … It’s Over! – Steve

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Today’s guest blog is by Anna.

Seeing this message written in the snow, carefully laid out by someone adept enough to leap to the right spot to start the next letter, you can tell this is a message sent with care. A message with a story; a story one might find an obvious start to, given that this missive is directly below the heart-shaped “M+S.” But that seems too trite. Frankly, I think the “M+S” is there as a clever bit of misdirection. Here is what I think led up to the note in the snow:

Tomorrow is the last one, better do it right. One final job for Leo, then I’m on to the next adventure. Small thing, should be an easy acquisition. Not my favorite, but the price is right and a body does have bills to pay. It is amazing what people are willing to shell out to have me do the dirty work of getting something; high pay for challenging procurements. I am just a well-paid expeditor and shipper, a liberator of information and doodads.

And monkeys. Why did this last one have to be a monkey? Monkeys are noisy, foul and they steal my fruit. Last time I had a gig with a monkey he sat on my fedora, left scat on the top of the piano and tried to have his way with my Chewbacca doll. I wish I weren’t so good with monkeys. Small monkey, Leo said, a marmoset. A marmoset with a penchant for ping pong, killer skills mixing a dry martini, and other “unnamed” abilities the client wants. Stick him in your pocket and you’re good to go, Leo says. With something that tiny and my big duster coat to hide it, it should be an easy move from the lab to the meet up. Good thing I’m not a gin drinker or it might be tempting to keep this one around, just for kicks.

Dad said I should have become a dentist. Mom was hoping for an MBA. Four years of cultural anthropology and another two at chef’s school and I’m stuck ferrying bar tending monkeys for cash.

Focus. Get the goods, write a note in the melting snow, and get the final payment. Leave Leo to the foul play without me from now on. This is the last time, Mom, I promise. Your little Stevie starts grad school Monday.

Ever send a coded message?

The Baboon Congress

Tut Tut

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Welcome to the month of February!

I know many people actually enjoy winter, but to me, January seems endless. I am happy to have crossed the line into another month, and now we are that much closer to June.

Today we begin another wonderful collection of guest blogs submitted by Trail Baboon readers. Many, many thanks to all who stepped forward to write a post so I can take a step back and enjoy reading.

With a major winter storm bearing down on Chicago today, it seems right to go back to a warmer and more mysterious time.

Today’s guest blog is by Anna.

Summer 1977. A family trip to visit friends in Chicago. One memorable part of the trip: a two-hour wait during the hottest week of the summer outside of the movie theater so we could see “Star Wars” when it was first released. Totally awesome in all senses of the word, totally worth the two-hour wait. But the really big deal, the super cool thing, and the reason for the trip, was to see the King Tut exhibit at the Field Museum.

You remember King Tut – that guy that Steve Martin sings about (…born in Arizona, moved to Babylonia…has a condo made of stone-a…).

He also had some fabulous stuff buried with him when he died, just in case he needed several servants, some animals, and his organs in a jar in the after-life. A bunch of King Tut’s treasure made its way across the country (creating Tut Mania nationwide), and I got to see it – during the hottest week of the summer in Chicago (90+ degrees in the shade). I’m not harping on this because I remember the heat (though it was memorably hot), it’s because of how it affected my trip to see King Tut’s treasure.

I was a mere pup of 10 at the time, so I really don’t remember much of what I saw in the exhibit. I remember being stunned by the brilliant colors, trying to puzzle out how a wood or gold statue of something could come back to life in the great hereafter, and being fascinated by the hieroglyphs and style of the artifacts. I have vague memory of seeing part of the sarcophagus and the iconic gold mask. And being disappointed that I didn’t get to see the mummy.

Also: the power went out when we were about half way through the exhibit.

Remember the heat? That meant that all of Chicago was running their air conditioners pretty much non-stop. What happens when everyone demands a lot of power all at once? A blackout. Lucky for me, there was some emergency lighting, just enough to keep the place a little spooky and somewhat tomb-like.

Did I mention the big gold cobra? There was a big gold cobra.

In the case right across from where I was sitting while we waited to find out if the lights would come back on.

A big gold cobra with sinister eyes.

Staring.

Right.

At.

Me.

If Howard Carter (the Brit credited with discovering King Tut’s tomb) had been more like me, he would not have gotten past that cobra – he would have skedaddled out of the tomb and left everything in it. And perhaps been in need of fresh shorts.

That cobra was creepy; I was sure that it was the embodiment of the curse of King Tut’s tomb. And it just kept staring. Just about the time I was really getting wigged by a 3000-year-old statue, it was our turn to be led out of the exhibit by the security guards. No time to dilly-dally and look at the other stuff – and, unfortunately, no opportunity to go back through the exhibit later (though I will get a second chance at some of the treasure while it is here at the Science Museum). I did, however, get out and away from that cobra. Bye-bye snake – see ya in the afterlife!

What is the most memorable thing you have ever seen or experienced at a museum?

The Baboon Congress

Second Hand Rose

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A Guest Blog by Anna

Halloween in Minnesota is a dicey affair costume-wise. As a kid you need to be sure
that whatever you decide to wear will be recognizable either under a parka or over a snowsuit. It should also be something that will work on the odd Indian Summer evening in the 60s. As a result, there are a lot of ghosts and witches as the size and voluminous qualities of either costume lend themselves well to layering.

I think it was an act of desperation bred in part by lack of time on my mother’s part, but one year I went as “Second Hand Rose.” Sewing something for me was not an option, nor was Mom a fan of cheap store-bought costumes (the masks were horrid), and we certainly didn’t have a lot of money to throw at the problem. So Mom whipped open the closets and decided that one of her large, colorful dresses lent itself nicely to “Second Hand Rose” as a concept piece (and would fit neatly over a parka if need be). Two things that she had not thought of: the average kid growing up in the 70s doesn’t know “Second Hand Rose” from Attila the Hun. Also, explaining a costume at every trick-or-treat door gets old (apparently a lot of adults in the 70s didn’t know “Second Hand Rose” either, so it was good I had been schooled in the singing of my theme song).

Shortly after that adventure I quit trick or treating, at least until college. I went out sophomore year with some pals. We set the whole thing up with a short skit involving a safari and searching for the elusive Suburbanis Shopperus (“take pictures, these are rare”). Once again, having to explain at every door what we were up to got old (but it still got us candy, a few photo ops, and one offer of beer).

As an adult, Halloween parties were hosted by theater and Renaissance Festival friends. Not the sort of affairs where you can dress as a pirate or a gypsy. At these events I was variously: Elvis (with a friend as Priscilla), an Lutheran Church Basement Lady in search of a hot dish, and a pregnant alien carrying James T. Kirk’s love child. One year I “took myself to prom” in a fabulous pink tulle dress, teased and bee hived my hair to a fare-the-well to match the dress, and perched a bird on top of the whole works (friends who had arrived as a haz-mat team were kind enough to drape me in caution tape). With each of these I found if you have to explain it, it should be short and sweet, but best to have something that explains itself (see above: lessons learned as “Second Hand Rose”).

Now at Halloween I’m on the other side of the door, handing out candy to the neighbor kids. Daughter usually goes out with Daddy (in an easily recognizable costume). Barney the Basset Hound hopes that it isn’t a year he is required to wear fairy wings. And we all hope for warm evenings with nary a chance of frost.

What is your most memorable Halloween costume?