Yesterday Jacque got us to consider what we may have forgotten.
Now we’ll reclaim some of what was lost.
Today’s guest blog is by Barbara in Robbinsdale.

On MLK Day when Dale asked for our favorite “freedom” music, I dove back into the far reaches of my closet and found my beloved guitar songbooks, which gave me titles to the songs rattling around in my brain. It was like finding gold.

Not only were there songbooks, but there was My Guitar. Oh my! Hauled the case out, opened it to find only two strings missing. In my wisdom in some former life, I had bought a full set of strings, so for the next hour or so I tried to remember how to restring the thing. Did a messy job, but got it strung. I play by ear, so tuning is still, happily, not a problem. I was set to go.

Opened my homemade book to Hey Nellie Nellie – a Civil War song from a Judy Collins album – and tried out the C chord. Woops, that wasn’t a C chord. I’d forgotten how to play a C chord! You get the picture. It wasn’t pretty, and by the end of the next hour my fingertips were very sore (and the nails of my left hand clipped), but I could play, s-l-o-w-l-y, a C, G, D, F, A and A minor (Am), Em… I went to bed with aching hand, but determined heart.

Back in my twenties I learned from peers how to play by chording, hardly ever delving into anything complex. Guitars are like that – if you know six (6) basic chords, (especially if you can hear where they belong) and a couple of pick patterns, you can play 90% of the music you like. I got good enough to, say, lead small groups of singers (and primary school children are particularly forgiving). And I once got brave enough to sing a couple of songs with a friend at an Open Mike night at the Mirimar Beach Inn.

So this is a bit like riding a bike… it is coming back. In the couple of weeks that have passed, I’ve been trying to play a little every day. I bought a stand to hold my beautiful little Gibson when it’s not in its case, which means it’s visible and I remember to play. I have visions of learning lots of “new” songs I’ve absorbed over the years from The Morning and Dale Connelly Shows, teaching myself some new chords, maybe even taking lessons, which I’ve never done.

What kind of lessons (or classes) would you take if you had the all the time and resources needed?

I was going to offer some pithy insight as an introduction to this intriguing post, but it has totally slipped my mind.
Today’s guest blog is by Jacque.

I guess I’m getting old. I can’t remember anything dependably anymore. My excuse is that the last two and a half years have been really stressful. My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, that repository of forgetting all, in the fall of 2008. I had to clean out her house and assist the siblings with her future plans. That took 9 months. By the time that was over, my business changed with someone suddenly leaving and someone arriving to fill the void. That was stressful, too, as I tried to keep the business up and running. Then another person was on a maternity leave. Those transitions went on until 3 months ago. I’m still recovering. But it is like child birth, you forget the pain over time.

I call this “Effective Forgetting.” But I’ve forgotten both the pain and everything I should have remembered over that 2 ½ year period. Like where I put stuff that I want. Where did I put the charger to my cell phone’s little hands -free microphone? And what happened to my favorite black turtle neck, anyway?

This is disorienting to me. I have always have had a really good memory. I loved history of any kind and could reproduce those facts on a college essay test so accurately that I could be accused of cheating. I did not cheat. It was just interesting, so I remembered the facts. Like my father before me, I used to remember faces and names with such deadly accuracy that sometimes I pretended NOT to remember names or people. It is just too embarrassing to remember everyone. And not everyone wants to be remembered. Plus they often don’t remember me, which is even more embarrassing. Thankfully, age has removed some of that burden.

But lately my memory is inconsistent. I still know my high school friends’ birthdays and most of their childhood phone numbers:

Ruth: July 14.
Carol: April 13
Debbie: February 19
Mary Kay: October 22.

Since they were all born the same year I was born, I have conveniently and effectively forgotten the year we were all born. Thus I don’t have to really face the reason for my wandering memory – age.

So along comes the “blog ahead idea.” After BBC (Baboon Book Club—see link on upper right hand of this page. All are welcome!) on January 9 I was inspired by Anna’s idea about guest blogs. She writes blog entries ahead of the actual date needed in order to be prepared for the next request.

“What a good idea,” I thought. “I’m going to do that.”
“I have to write those down or I will forget. And when there is a request for guest blogs I can’t think of anything,“ I thought. This blog ahead idea really appealed to my inner Martha Stewart, that master of organizing and homemaking for money. Martha is on top of everything. And her assistant must have a great memory.

My husband, Lou who attended the BBC with me, and I were chatting about the meeting on the way home, so I forgot to write down the ideas. (His fault. He distracted me). And I forgot the ideas. Then I forgot I was even going to do some really clever blogs to have “in the bank.” So of course, within days of forgetting it all, Dale posts his next request for guest bloggers.

“Oh, yeah,” I thought. “I was going to write those, whatever they were. I forgot.”

I can remember those old birthdays, but I cannot remember those killer ideas that seemed so inspiring. So instead you get a blog entry about forgetting. I also never remember the calorie count of those cookies I should not have eaten or the pounds they put onto my hips. I’ll eat those same cookies again, given the opportunity. That is not Effective Forgetting because I have to turn around and take those calories away somehow.

What do you need to remember?

It can be a perverse pleasure to own a pretty thing, especially if that thing is highly coveted by others. But this story may be the ultimate.
Today’s guest blog is by Sherrilee.

Even I, who love winter more than anyone I know, can get a little tired of the season by February. The slippery streets, the slush in the shoes, the high mountains of snow at each side of the driveway that make pulling out onto my street a life-threatening event every day. I often feel like I might be the writer of the Diary of a Snow Shoveler, which has been around forever:

So I read with interest about a woman in Spain, Angeles Duran, who had registered herself as owner of the Sun. Apparently she did her homework, discovered that there is an international agreement that no country may claim ownership of a star or a planet, but that there is no stipulation that an individual cannot make such a claim.

The part of Spain that Angeles hails from is Galicia, which is thought of as the rainy region of the country, although this is certainly relative, since Galicia is in the south of Spain so probably doesn’t have anything close to a Minnesota winter. But apparently the weather is quite volatile there, so you can go many days without seeing the sun. I suppose that claiming the sun as your own might make the gray days a little easier to take. Kind of like taking a vacation to Florida in January or February makes the shoveling a little easier to take.

Of course, it didn’t take Angeles long to try to make some money off her new claim. She wants to make sun-usership a fee-based activity, with the proceeds going the Spanish government, the nation’s pension fund, research, world hunger and 10% left over for herself. Generous woman.

What planetary object would you like to claim?

Happy Super Bowl, I mean Big Game weekend. Today’s guest blog comes courtesy of the Goatstess with the Mostess, Barb In Blackhoof.

We sometimes watch TV (the few channels we can get without cable out here in the boondocks) – news, a few crime shows. Steve mutes the commercials, but I like to watch them and often giggle.

Love the mouse at the dinner table who –when the housewife says, “You really disgust me” – responds, “I understand what you’re saying – BUT I DON’T RESPECT IT.”

I like the cute baby giving investment advice.

And the Clydesdales are always great (“that referee is a jackass” “no, I believe he’s a zebra.”)

One of the most famous series of TV ads was for Utica Club Beer – running mostly on the East Coast from 1959 to 1964. I’ve read that they are the only commercials whose scheduled times could be found in TV Guide. If you want an example, here is Number 2. You’ll recognize the voice, I’m sure. I wonder if these cute ads sold much more beer.

This brings me to tomorrow and the Super Bowl. One reads about the cost of a 30 second ad during the game. This doesn’t even count the (probably) millions of dollars that went to some ad agency to develop the piece or the production cost.

I wonder – does the expense of a Super Bowl commercial justify the result?

If you ask me what or whom any commercial (even the ones I enjoy) was advertising, I can’t tell you. The mouse and the cute baby? – I have no idea what products their ads are pushing. When I do know the company (Clydesdales are Budweiser), my choices are not influenced – e.g. I’m not going to switch from Summit EPA (for which I’ve never seen an ad). I enjoy the commercial as entertainment but the message is lost on me.

Of course I realize that I am not the twenty-something target audience for most of those ads. But you – young, attractive, brand-conscious with cash to burn – changing your behavior must be the reason so much money is spent on these commercials.

Can you remember when a TV commercial that caused you to buy something?

Today’s guest blog comes to us from Jim in Clark’s Grove.

Remember when Donna wished all of us “a resilient New Year”? I’ve already started.

I have been reading The Resilient Gardener, a new book by Carol Deppe . One reviewer suggests that this book is worth reading even for people who are not much into gardening. I agree. She presents many ideas, tips, and techniques for developing a gardening style that can help us get through difficult times, incorporating ideas about health, diet, cooking, and physical fitness. She sees these topics as being an integral part of developing resiliency.

I think Deppe would look on Trail Baboon as an effort that can increase resiliency. She makes it clear that dealing with difficult times is not something one should do in isolation. She says you will not do a good job getting through hard times if you retreat back into your house like a hard core survivalist. In addition, she believes that we shouldn’t wait until hard times are here to enjoy each other’s company and help each other. I think Trail Baboon exemplifies the kind of good interaction between people that Deppe is encouraging.

Deppe believes we should think carefully about what we are doing and not always follow old adages such as “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

According to her you should use just one basket when gathering eggs so that your other hand is free to pick up eggs. If you spill the eggs, you can get more if you have your own flock and you will be less likely to spill the eggs if you have one hand free to support yourself.

Deppe provides her own personal list of things she believes she should do to be a mature person who can deal with difficult times, including:

• Be courteous.
• Do Basic Math.
• Take Care of Old and Ill People.
• Wash Your Hands.
• Be Both a Leader and a Follower.

What would you put on your own resiliency list?

People like to know how their regional traditions look to those who were raised in an entirely different environment. At least they want to know as long as the impression is positive. I’ll leave it to you to decide how well one of our unique northern rituals comes off in this guest blog by Beth-ann.

Tommy Don’t Lick that Pipe – a song by John McCutcheon

Winter is a-coming
And the weather’s getting cold
I have to watch my brother Tom
He’s eight years old
I never have to worry
That he’ll slip on ice and fall
In fact there’s only just one thing
That worries me at all

Tommy, don’t lick that pipe
Your tongue will stick like glue
I’ve warned you twice
And I wish you’d mind
Don’t you remember
What happened last time
You can do about anything else that you like
But Tommy, don’t lick that pipe

Do you still remember Uncle Albert
Such scientific curiosity
He stuck his tongue out on the old pump handle
It took us two whole days to get him free

Do you still remember Grandma Dawson
She touched her tongue on to a waterspout
She said she thought that it was made of plastic
It took us until May to thaw her out

Do you still remember our dog Fluffy
He went outside to do his doggy thing
We found him frozen solid to a hydrant
We couldn’t break him loose until the spring

I grew up where it was warmer and thought admonitions not to “lick the pump handle” were the equivalent of “Don’t eat the yellow snow” or were the stuff of Little House on the Prairie and Caddie Woodlawn. That was until they called from preschool to say that my son had licked the stair railing and stuck to it.

Luckily Scott attended a fine Minnesota preschool with teachers specially trained in tongue defrosting and removal. They detached him without trouble.

I turned to my coworkers with the story expecting them to agree that my kid was a goofball. Instead the universal response was, “Didn’t you tell him not to lick the pipe?”

Both on that day and ever since the Minnesotan inevitably continues on with a reminiscence of a personal licking and sticking experience. No matter how many decades have passed the storyteller has crystal clear memories of the sparkling icicle, glistening jungle gym, or icy cold hammer. Amazingly enough the pain and embarrassment of the adhesion and the removal pale next to the telling of how cool it was to lick those icy sparkles.

I have come to the conclusion that this licking and sticking is the quintessential Minnesota experience. It is what separates tourists from the true denizens of the frozen tundra. Tommy and Scotty were warned not to lick, but they slurped their way into Minnesota and stuck to it.

What did you do BECAUSE you were told NOT to do it?

Happy Groundhog Day!

Somehow it seemed appropriate that a wild animal should make an appearance in the blog today, and I’m happy to say that one was provided by our wilderness loving friend from St. Paul.

Today’s guest blog is by Steve Grooms

In early June of 1967, I took a Boundary Waters canoe trip with my roommate, Bill, and his California friend, Jerry Voorhees. Bill was a tall, arrogant fellow who enjoyed barking out commands to Jerry and me. Although I was twenty-five at the time, Bill called me “Steevie,” because he knew it annoyed me. It amused Bill to order Jerry and me about like the drill sergeants he’d suffered under in Army Basic Training.

Jerry is harder to sketch. A plump fellow with thick glasses, Jerry was no athlete and less of an outdoorsman. He was on the canoe trip because Bill ordered him to be. Jerry was a sweet, accommodating soul who lacked self-esteem. Bill didn’t help Jerry’s composure with all the abuse he heaped on Jerry, calling him “fat” a dozen times an hour and mocking Jerry’s stammer. Jerry’s father had been a liberal New Deal congressman in California who became famous because he was the first politician to have his career trashed by mudslinging lies from young Richard Nixon.

The trip was more fun than it might have been. I caught a trophy northern pike whose memory still thrills me. We were out in the bush for six days. When we got back to Grand Marais, we were stunned to read that the Israelis and Arabs had conducted a whole war in our absence, the “Six Days War.”

Other than that, the most memorable moment was provided by the bear.

We slept three across in our little tent. Jerry, as the omega trip member, was stuck between Bill and me. Our heads were at the back of the tent, our feet by the door. It was rather tight in there.

We had gone to bed one night after dinner. It was fairly late, late enough that the loons had finally gone silent. Spring peepers trilled from every puddle in the woods. Jerry snored softly. Bill tossed in his sleeping bag.

I had almost fallen asleep when I heard the bear. Something was shuffling around our campsite, something with heavy feet. We had not been careful enough to run our food packs up into the trees, which should have concerned me. Stupidly, I wasn’t afraid.

Instead of being scared, I was enjoying the moment because I knew Bill heard the bear. Bill’s breathing changed, becoming fast and ragged. I had been with Bill in a violent storm once, and I knew how terrified he could be when he felt himself threatened. I grinned into my pillow, picturing Bill on the far side of the tent, his face a mask of terror. Jerry snored on.

“Jerry! There’s a bear!” hissed Bill.

“Snaaaaark,” said Jerry.

“Jerry, dammit! There’s a BEAR!”

“Snoooooooooooop!” said Jerry.

I pressed my fist into my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

That’s when Bill snapped. In total panic, he grabbed Jerry with his left hand, clamping down on Jerry’s right thigh like the Jaws of Death.

Jerry, dammit, THERE’S A BEAR!”

“I KNOW! I KNOW!” screamed Jerry, now very awake. “And he’s GOT ME BY THE LEG!”

That’s when we broke into laughter. The three of us hooted and whooped until our pillows were soggy with tears and our tummies ached. Whatever the creature in our camp had been, it obviously fled in panic when we began roaring with laughter.

Jerry later explained that he was awakened by the vice-like grip of Bill’s hand on his leg. “I thought he was going to eat me right up,” said Jerry, “starting with the sweetest meat.”

Have you ever had a frightening animal encounter?