Today’s guest post comes from Barbara in Robbinsdale.
A few months ago we moved my mom from central Iowa to a lovely senior residence here in Robbinsdale. In mid-September past, this spunky little woman was uprooted from her home of 52 years. We knew that since her new apartment would be smaller than the old one, she would need to lighten up her belongings a bit, and bring just the things are most central to her life. The TV was left behind, but we brought the piano.
Hope (the fifth child in a family of seven kids) has loved music from day one. As a child she tinkered around like her mom did, by ear on their old upright piano that eventually became ours. She finally took piano and voice lessons in college when majoring in music.
I remember there always being a piano in our house – Grandma’s upright This is me in maybe 1951.
I had a great role model – Mom played a little pretty much every day – simple classical pieces, opera aria accompaniments, Broadway numbers, and (whenever she was teaching) music for the programs she would put on at school. I can remember falling asleep to strains of a Chopin Prelude, the haunting slow one (#20).
When we moved to Marshalltown in 1959, we lived for a year in an upstairs duplex. There was no way to get that big upright up the stairs, so they actually went into debt for a new piano. (This was very uncharacteristic for my father, who would, for instance, save up and pay for our next “new” car with cash.) I remember the day the delivery men huffed and puffed their way up those stairs with the Baldwin Acrosonic, a much smaller and prettier piano than the old upright — and it was NEW. It had such a beautiful tone, none of the keys stuck, and it had a light and easy touch.
Mom made sure my sister and I got piano lessons. Eventually, any combination of the three of us might sit down and play a duet from (something like) “59 Easy Piano Duets You Love to Play.”
She is still in love with that piano, which she plays often. At her new residence, it fits just fine on her living room wall, and she can practice to her heart’s content for accompanying the occasional sing-along there. It’s all possible because she still has her Baldwin Acrosonic.
What was the most memorable thing ever delivered to your home?
Today’s guest post comes from Jim in Clark’s Grove
Azerbaijan
I had the good luck to be selected three times to serve as an agricultural volunteer by ACDI/VOCA, a nonprofit organization. In an earlier guest blog I wrote about the volunteer work I did in Bolivia. I also worked in Bulgaria and Azerbaijan. On all of these assignments I had the opportunity learn about parts of the world that are very different from the United States. Of the three countries visited, I think that Azerbaijan differed the most from the USA. When you hear someone saying that a place is different they are usually mean it is a place they don’t like. Personally I enjoy exploring places that are different and found many things that I liked in Azerbaijan.
Hydar Aliev
Azerbaijan was formerly part of the Soviet Union and is now an independent country which had as its President a former high member of the ruling party of the Soviet Union, Hydar Aliyev. Hydar’s son is now the President of the country. Azerbaijan is set up as a Democracy. In fact, Hydar and his son have ruled Azerbaijan more or less as dictators because they rigged their elections. I was told by an Azeri, as a joke, that Hydar had visited President Bush and had told him how to rig his reelection. I was also told that Bush would be visiting Hydar because there is a lot of oil in Azerbaijan.
I was asked to help with issues related to vegetable seed production. A stop was made at a tomato processing plant where they were saving the seeds extracted when doing the processing and giving them back to the farmers for planting. I found that this procedure worked well. While at the tomato plant I heard another humorous comment about an American. A man who ran a fish processing company told us that he had been visited by an American who asked him about plant inspection procedures. The American told him how it was done in the USA and the Azeri man said it is the same with us. It isn’t the same because you need to bribe inspectors in Azerbaijan. After that we had a joke about how things are done in Azerbaijan that included the phrase, “same with us”.
A Rug I Bought in Azerbaijan
I was treated very well by everyone. One man told me that the Azeri people were extremely shocked and very sad about the events of 9/11. The food was very good, included delicious grilled sturgeon with pomegranate sauce. I visited an impressive very old walled section of Baku, the capital city, and strolled through an attractive city park at the edge of the Caspian Sea. There are some very poor people in the country, but there doesn’t seem to be much street crime. I felt safe at night walking alone in the central part of the capital. It is one of the most liberal Muslim countries with laws protecting the rights of women.
What is the most different and interesting place you’ve visited?
There are an amazing number of performances of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” to be found on YouTube. Everyone from Alfalfa to Patti Page and from Kate Smith to the Mills Brothers join in on this schmaltziest of schmaltz. Beyond the chorus there are enough different verses for it to qualify as a folk song.
Now the folks at Minnesota Community Sings are asking us to add more versions. They are sponsoring a sing-along in collaboration with Dan Chouinard to benefit Minnesotans United for All Families The group is organizing a No vote on the Marriage Amendment to Minnesota’s constitution.
The lyric writing contest is described as follows:
You are invited to write your own lyrics to the chorus tune of “Let me call you sweetheart.” Make it funny or heartfelt – write words that can be sung at the state capitol or in the Pride parade – lay on the schmaltz or give us your most acerbic wit. Our judges will choose several finalists whose lyrics will be sung by everyone at the Feb. 18 event. Winners will receive the accolades of the crowd and the best lyrics will doubtless be used at rallies and gatherings forevermore.
When I saw the contest it seemed to be right up the baboon alley. I would like to challenge all devotees of schmaltz, acerbic wit, and rhyme here on the trail to write a rainbow version of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” from this template:
Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you
Let me hear you whisper that you love me too
Keep the lovelight glowing in your eyes so blue
Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you.
Come on baboons! The future of love songs is in your hands.
Well, ok, I lied. For the last five years I haven’t really been able to talk about much outside of the context of goats. I can listen, but my reply may be shaped around a goat experience I had or something I read or something I watched about goats. Frequent visitors to Trail Baboon know this very well already. But this was not always so.
About 12 years ago when my father-in-law died, my husband had to clear out the family home. On one of the last days all the sibs were inside taking things they wanted, but I stayed outside (being an in-law) waiting for Steve to emerge with something. He came out with some small memento and asked, “Don’t you think you’d like something??” I said no (not wanting to get in the way), but he persisted, and I finally said, “well, ok – I’ll take the Goat.”
The Goat was a down-sized, plaster of paris version of Picasso’s La Chevre (often called “Pregnant Goat”) that Steve’s Mom had given his Dad for some gift because she called him “the old goat.” (Remember when Dayton’s eighth floor had that section where you could buy copies of sculpture and art?)
I only wanted this piece because I liked the story behind it and I liked the looks of it. At that time there was no farm, no idea of animals of any kind in my mind. I was working full time and just looking at farms or acreage for fun, thinking my City-Boy, English Professor Husband would never agree to move anywhere further than 100 yards from a library.
Fast forward to 2002, October. Blah, blah, blah, I bought the farm. There were two outbuildings, empty and very clean. One stored about three cords of red oak fire wood. The other was completely empty. Many days I’d stand in the pole barn and wonder how I could put it to use. Then, in 2005 at the State Fair I was wondering through the goat barn, when it occurred to me that these animals were pretty cool. Like Tim’s daughter, I stayed most of that day in the barn talking with goat owners about housing, caring, cost, etc. Then at the 2006 Carlton County Fair, I met a woman who needed someone to care for her animals for five days that October. Great. I can help and in exchange learn about goats first hand. So, in October of 2006 I milked a doe for the first time. (I milked six goats twice a day for five days – at the end of that time I could not feel my hands ☺.) During those five days, I fell in love with Georgette, an Alpine doe who was calm and had a little hairy white “G” on her brown nose. Georgette let me lean my head on her belly while I milked her (forever, it took me, since I was a newbie!) and I decided dairy goats were for me – not just any old dairy goats, but the Alpine breed. And it occurred to me that Georgette looked a lot like La Chevre. In May of 2007 we moved to the farm and I bought two does (one being Dream) and in March 2008 Alba was born. Dreamy will be five years old soon, and looks more and more like that pregnant goat.
And this all started with a little sculpture that I took home, not knowing what was in store for us just seven years (and a lifetime) down the road. Spooky.
When has a moment’s random choice later revealed itself as the first step on a good path?
Every New Years Day, which it is when I am writing this, I remember our first trip to Savannah.
A school district southwest of Savannah hired me to come do a workshop from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. with the faculty of an elementary school on the Friday after News Years Day. Now think about that. A Friday morning after New Year’s Day. I was suspicious, but the principal, a charming woman with one of those endearing Georgia accents told me it would be fine. (Does any state have a wider range of accents than Georgia?)
If I flew to Atlanta and came back on Monday, it was cheaper for two tickets than one alone coming back Saturday. The district agreed to pay the two tickets and two nights stay.
Savannah Home
My wife and I flew down on New Year’s Day, which wasn’t as hectic as I expected. It was a pleasant drive down from Atlanta. The next morning, I went looking for the school. It was difficult to find in those pre-Google days, when GPS was in its undependable infancy. I always allowed myself ample driving time on mornings like these, fortunately. I drove west on a state highway through Fort Stewart, which I had not noticed on the map. When I got to where, by the map, I planned to turn south, I was not allowed to do so because it would take me through military gates. It took awhile to find how to get around the fort proper. Then I asked for directions; no one could help me because no one who worked in gas stations or who came in as customers had lived there very long.
Now I was really suspicious. Why was a faculty coming in on this odd Friday where so many people lived temporarily? By stories told to me by former students, I expected most of the faculty were Army wives, who had been home for the holidays and now had to come back for this Friday instead of coming back on Sunday. I stumbled upon the school.
Downtown Savannah
The principal told me, yes, most of her faculty were Army wives. She also told me that the school board had been angry with the faculty when they wrote the calendar the previous spring, which is how this day came to be. All three elementary school faculties would be in the group. The secondary teachers had their own workshop. Wow! Was I going to have a fun morning or what! If I were in the faculty, I would be angry and not a willing participant.
The workshop was very participant-active; about 65% of the time they would work on tasks instead of listening to me, which would make the day terrible if they did not comply. I began with some fun loosing-up activities, to which they fortunately responded. At coffee break they told me their grievances, but that they had decided not to hold it against me.
Tybee Island
The five hours flew by. They laughed, did the work, posted their work on the walls, and gave me high reviews for the day, among the highest I ever received. Afterward the principal and teacher leaders took me out to lunch. The principal, with a bit less of that charming accent, told me she had lied on the phone, that she expected open rebellion. As one of the teacher leaders said “I guess we just turned the other cheek.”
That afternoon and for two days, my wife and I discovered Savannah. We walked the squares, rode the buses, toured old homes, strolled Tybee Island beaches, ate wonderful meals. We were blessed with two other trips to Savannah when the Savannah Schools hired me after hearing about that first day.
Ah, Savannah!
When have you seen someone turn the other cheek gracefully?
My father adored watermelons, both for how they tasted and because they represented a particularly happy period of his childhood. He would eat a watermelon slowly according to an oddly complicated plan. His approach to this task had all the formality and precision of the Japanese tea ceremony.
Dad would begin his attack on a slice of watermelon by excavating the red melon meat right along the rind, starting with the far end of the watermelon and working cautiously forward toward what had been the center of the melon. Digging carefully, tunneling in alternatively from the left and right sides, Dad would clean away all melon meat along the skin. Then he would begin digging away at the part of the melon with the seeds in it.
A Man, A Melon, A Method
That ultimately left the part of the watermelon that had once been the center, and that middle part would become increasingly isolated and unsteady. But Dad’s plan included leaving long strips that braced the center and kept it from collapsing. (These bracing strips resembled the “flying buttresses” of medieval architecture.)
At some point nothing would remain except the melon that had once been exactly in the center. Eating slowly, with reverence, Dad would finally consume the delicately flavored redness of the heart of the melon, savoring each bite.
Of course, all he was doing was “leaving the best part for last.” I just never saw anyone make such a ritual of doing that. And of course, as my father’s son, I’m the same. I always save the best for last.
Children, as we all know, want to eat their cookies before choking down their vegetables. One reason I eat my veggies first is that I’m proving to myself that I’m no longer a child, lacking restraint and discipline. (But does it say anything about my character that I take credit for consuming my meals like an adult? Am I that desperate to find something to feel proud about?)
I’ve been amused to see how thoroughly this principle of saving the best for last has permeated all aspects of my life.
For example, it dictates the order in which I read e-mails. If my “In-Box” contains several new messages, I do quick calculations, scrolling up and down. I will first delete the spam. Appeals for money for good causes get quickly examined and zapped. Then perhaps I’ll deal with the “hilarious” forward from that silly woman who thinks I enjoy emails featuring cats with speech defects. I will next take time to read messages from groups I care about. Pretty soon the only messages left unopened will be notes from friends who wrote directly to me. Even when I am reading notes from friends, I prioritize, reading letters from some friends first and saving the most special ones for the very last.
Each morning I fire up my computer and work my way through a series of web sites. This is not “surfing.” I’m not free-lancing but moving steadily through sites that are part of my morning ritual, especially news sites. I enjoy all these sites, or I wouldn’t read them every morning. But some are less fun than others, and those are the first I read. Finally there comes that delicious moment when I cannot postpone it any longer: I click on “Trail Baboon!” It is always dead last among the sites I routinely visit.
Shall we eat a can of fruit salad? All that pineapple and pear stuff dominates these salads, and that is just fine. I eat it first, trying to avoid the grapes. Then I’ll eat more of the light stuff, including those tasty grapes. Toward the bottom of the salad I have to be careful, because that’s where they brilliant red Maraschino cherries lie. Aha! There they are! If I’ve been cautious, my last two bites will be pure red!
Ah, look: Here is the morning newspaper! But before reading, I must reassemble it. I chuck out the advertising inserts. Then I arrange the remaining paper, putting the A section on top. The A section is a stone drag bore because it only has stories I already heard about on public radio or the internet. After the A section, which I burn through quickly, I’ll read the local news section next, for it might have news that is actual news to me. Next I turn to Sports . . . but here things get complicated. I generally like this section, for it has a lot of fresh content. But my local teams have been playing so badly that reading about them is a form of abuse. After one of my teams has another miserable game I will put the Sports section on top of the stack to be read first, and yet I am such a sappy optimist I often read the Sports last or next-to-last. At the bottom of my reassembled daily newspaper I’ll put the Entertainment section, saving the best for last, for I enjoy the movie and book reviews, and my paper has a good high-tech product reviewer whose work appears here.
It would feel queer to read the paper in any other order. Once in a while somebody who doesn’t know me will screw up my program by asking to borrow the Sports or Entertainment section when I am systematically working my way through the sections in order. I disguise my outrage because most folks wouldn’t guess how important it is to read the newspaper in proper sequence. And to tell the truth, I’m embarrassed by how rigid I have become about this. If somebody forces me to violate the proper order of reading the paper, my nose might be out of joint hours later.
I am not a narrow-minded person. I can enjoy all kinds of people. If you tell me you dive right into the best part of something, saving the worst for last, I wouldn’t automatically have a low opinion of you. But, golly gee, that’s just so WRONG! Could anyone who saves the worst for last be trustworthy? I’m not sure!
Do you save the best for last? How does that affect your life?
When my son was in kindergarten he insisted that we needed a lighted lawn decoration for Christmas. He lobbied incessantly and eventually overcame my aesthetic, traditional, and practical objections to planting lighted extruded plastic in front of our house to mark the nativity of the Lord.
On Thanksgiving weekend with coupon in hand we headed off to the late, great Frank’s Nursery and Crafts. The purchase required a lot of negotiation. My son’s vision was much gaudier and even at half price more expensive than mine. Finally we agreed that a hard-bodied light up Santa with a sack would join our family. We took him home, put him on the front steps of our townhouse, and at dusk ran his cord inside and turned him on. Clearly we were the spirit of commercial Christmas incarnate.
My neighbor still recounts with horror that she heard a noise that night and saw Santa rolling around our driveway. It had not occurred to me that all those other light-up Santas, Frostys, and Holy Families with and without animals had been anchored down.
Picture Him In Bungee Bondage
After some research I put together some bungee cords and attached Santa to the porch railing. My son was concerned that little children would be worried that Santa wouldn’t come to visit them since he was tied to our porch.
The oft told tale of my pre-school aged brother referring to St Nicholas’ helper as The Ho-Ho man led us to eventually refer to our light up figure as The Ho as in “Did you remember to plug in the Ho?” During junior high when snarkiness reigned we began to refer to him as Santa in bondage. For a while he had a penguin companion, but The Guin proved not to be as bright as The Ho and was forced into retirement when his light bulb no longer lit.
It won’t surprise you that since my son has left home and The Ho is in my sole custody I am devoted to him. He is tied up every December 1st and I make sure the Ho is aglow most evenings. He is terribly unfashionable and approaching retro at this point and I have to admit we have indeed bonded.
What holiday tradition were you initially reluctant to accept, yet now embrace?
Today’s guest post comes from Jim in Clark’s Grove.
I admire Scott and Helen Nearing, who wrote about their self-reliant life style in a book called “Living the Good Life”. They built their own house and raised most of their own food. Like them, I raise some of my food, but unlike the Nearings, I didn’t build my home. And although I try to do most my own repairs, most of these projects do not go smoothly.
A recent effort at taking care of a broken light fixture is a good example of what can happen. One of the three fluorescent bulbs in a light fixture would not stay on. I tried to solve this problem by replacing the flickering bulb, and the new bulb stayed lit for a while and then the problem returned – an indication that the fault was in the fixture itself. The next step was to turn the light off and look for loose wires. I knew some of the wires might be loose because I am the person who installed this light in the first place. But after a long struggle, the bulb still would not stay on. I thought I might be dealing with a faulty ballast so I returned to the store where I bought the light to get a replacement. The clerk said he was sure that he was selling me the right part.
The Fixture
Taking the fixture apart the second time became more complicated because now none of bulbs would light up and I couldn’t tell if the switch was in the off or on position. I ended up making many trips to the basement to find the correct circuit breaker, and after finally re-taking thing apart I discovered that the replacement ballast did not look at all like the one in the original light. In short, it looked like I would need to cut a very large number of wires and might have a lot of trouble getting them properly reconnected.
I decided right then that I am much better at installing new things than I am at repairing old ones.
The new light looks great, and I’m feeling surprisingly self-reliant, though not in the sense the Nearings intended. I relied on myself to declare defeat when the repair job became too complicated, and I relied on myself to decide to go out and get a new fixture.
Many of my other attempts at doing my own repairs have resembled this less than smooth effort. I suspect the Nearings would not have been so quick to buy a new product to fix an old problem. They were intent on insulating their lives from the culture of consumption, and I was intent on not spending the rest of my life struggling with this one stubborn device.
Light is returning, even tho’ this is the darkest hour
No one can hold back the dawn.
Let’s keep it burning, let’s keep the light of hope alive
Make safe our journey through the storm.
One planet is turning, circle on her path around the sun
Earth Mother is calling her children home.
I sang this song over the weekend because it was the 3rd Saturday of the month, which means there’s Song Circle. This month it fell right before the Winter Solstice.
Song Circle is a group of aging hippies (and some younger, regular people) who meet monthly at various homes to sing together, led by a couple of folks with acoustic guitars and the occasional concertina, tambourine, or drum. The only requirements are a voice you’re willing to use, and showing up. There are other attractions as well – there is a plentiful supply of snacks, and in June and December there is a not-to-be-missed potluck. Once we’ve settled into the comfiest chairs we can find, we go around the circle as we take turns choosing the next song.
Talk about variety! We sing mostly from a spiral-bound book called Rise Up Singing, edited by Peter Blood et al, and with a forward by Pete Seeger (and there is a whole stack of the books available if you don’t own one), that provides the song lyrics, source, and chord progressions for the guitar-literate. There are hundreds of song lyrics, neatly organized both by title (if you’re lucky enough to know it) and topic. (A lot of the ones we sing were played on The Late Great Morning Show.) Of course, someone will always pop in with new song sheets that stretch our abilities and the skill of the guitarists. Depending on how many people show up on any given evening, we will get around the circle for two or three requests apiece.
December is particularly rich, with so many holiday songs to choose from, and there are extra booklets of Christmas songs, from the ridiculous to the sublime. This time I picked the above Light is Returning (lyrics by Charlie Murphy, tune: “original”). The words by themselves seem to indicate a quiet ballad, but no, it has a rollicking, boppy beat to it and sounds best sung with a throaty gusto. I also requested In the Bleak Mid-winter (but not too slow, please), and Bob Franke’s Thanksgiving Day as we were heading out. There was no need to stick with December – someone also chose an old Stan Rogers that I’d never sung.
I’m happy that we sing to celebrate Christmas and Hannukah, and especially glad to give a nod to the Winter Solstice. I am relieved that we’re almost there, and that even though the coldest days are still to come, the pendulum is about to start back in the other direction. Soon enough there will be more light, rather than less.
Share your favorite Winter Solstice songs, stories, poems, and customs.
If you don’t have any, you can create your own! Start here with an idea and give others the chance to help you develop it.
Like peanut butter and jelly, cookies and milk, beer and peanuts – football and holidays seem to go together. And sometimes, it’s a good thing.
I grew up in Green Bay, WI during the Lombardi era of football. Bart Starr, Ray Nitzchke and Paul Hornung were my heroes and the Packers ruled the field with a passing and running game that few teams could equal at that time. With little else to do in Green Bay (besides drink beer), the Packers gave the town a common pride and heritage. They also gave a good reason to be with family or a way to start conversation.
Packer Fans, But Not Joanne's Family
Being terribly shy and awkward in high school, I figured if I was good in sports and could talk intelligently about football, that boys might pay attention to me. While that may not have panned out; at least I had fun, enjoyed being in sports and was a fairly good athlete.
Now sports are a starting point for conversation and feeling together. My oldest son may not share the details of his life with me, but we cheer on the Packers together, I learn about his Fantasy Football team, trash talk the lame Vikings and exchange opinions of other teams. My two younger boys are in karate with me; so we share our love of martial arts weapons, how to improve our katas/forms and practice sparring with each other During karate tournaments we watch, analyze and pick apart competitors; marvel at the top performers’ skill and are bedazzled by fancy weapons for sale.
At family gatherings for the holidays, there’s usually a TV on with a game playing.
Understand, I love my family dearly, but I don’t see them that often. After exchanging the latest news of jobs, kids, injuries, illnesses and household projects – there’s not much else to talk about sometimes. But sporting events provide a special bonding experience that helps lay the groundwork for more meaningful conversation. Booze helps, too. My siblings aren’t alcoholics by any means, but they do enjoy wine, beer and other spirits – far more than I do.
Don’t get me wrong – I am not enamored of sports, the overpaid athletes or the overriding need to win. There’s far too much emphasis on sports in schools and playgrounds. I don’t read the sports pages or keep up with any team – well, maybe the Packers since they’ve got a great season so far. But the special bonding of rooting for the home team, cheering a great play, booing a bad call or admiring the athletic feats of strength and skill make holiday gatherings more fun. Maybe not every time or with every family, but it certainly works a lot of the time.
Sports on TV smooth over childhood sibling rivalries, the favored child stories, who tattled on whom, “I couldn’t believe you dated him” and other mild dysfunctions of growing up in a typical, loving family. I realize this group of baboons is not highly interested in sports – but you probably have to deal with friends or relatives – and perhaps feign interest in sports with those who are caught up in that web of competition and outrageous media coverage.
Has a sports event help you connect with others? What other things belong together?
Trail Baboon 