Tag Archives: Featured

Music, Stories

Artaria!

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Thursday evening we attended a (free!) concert of the Artaria String Quartet, a nationally acclaimed group that does teaching/coaching of adults and youth in addition to performing. As reported in the Winona Daily New:   “The quartet partnered with Strings in Motion, the Winona Public Schools’ orchestra booster club, to conduct sessions with the students in October, January and March.”

Our concert featured Winona High School students grouped in two string quartets and one Cello Choir. The latter half of the concert presented two movements of a Dvorak quartet played by WHS Faculty, and ended with the last two movements of that piece played by Artaria. We were spellbound by the end of the concert.

Artaria’s mission statement: “Artaria centers on string quartet performance and education. It is committed to presenting inspiring live performances, to mentoring string players of all ages, and to illuminating the world’s great repertoire of chamber music to a broad audience.” Also from Artaria’s website:  “The ASQ is one-third of the way through an “Arts Learning” grant sponsored by the Minnesota State Arts Board. Free public concerts and educational events are taking place in Winona, Caledonia, Rushford, and Lanesboro throughout the season.”

Artaria is based in St. Paul, and their 2016-17 Concert Series shows a lot of activity in the Twin Cities. We feel lucky to live in a state whose State Arts Board has made concerts like this possible.

When do you remember attending a FREE concert or other event?

History, Stories

Bryce’s Germs, No Returns

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Last week, one of my high school classmates died. Bryce was the second to die in as many weeks, quite a lot for a class of about 110 people. We are, after all, only in our late 50’s . Bryce died in a local nursing home. I have no idea of the cause of death, or the circumstances of his life since we graduated.

Bryce was a gentle, simple soul. He was categorized as “slow”. He wasn’t as slow as the children in the special education classes and he was in the regular classroom full time. I don’t think he could read, though, and academic work wasn’t easy for him.

Bryce was a farm boy who quite evidently got up early to do chores.  We knew this because he never changed clothes or boots before he got on the bus, and the manure still clung to his boots and the barnyard smell followed him all day.

Our elementary school was old, and there were very steep stairwells inside that led from the outside doors up to the second and third floors of the building. Every  time we were out of doors and had to go inside, we all had to line up on the steps. There was always a great amount of jostling, with people bumping into and brushing against each other. Woe betide those who had to stand next to Bryce or any of the other children considered unlovely or objectionable in some way and got touched by them. The only way we found to cope with it was to pass along the experience to the acceptable ones around us, wiping our hands on them and saying “______’s germs, no returns”. Those germs would be passed along until the poor person last in line would get stuck with them. You never wanted to get stuck with the germs.

I am sure that Bryce and the others knew that their germs were being passed along and that they were considered unacceptable by the rest of us. We didn’t exactly whisper. Despite this, I never once saw Bryce upset or retaliate. I never thought much about it until we were in junior high school. I don’t know what the occasion was, but for some reason I found myself in a conversation with Bryce and he thanked me for being so nice to him all the years we had been in school together. I was flabbergasted and deeply ashamed of myself, as I knew I hadn’t been kind to him at all. I was just less mean, I guess.

I thought of that conversation this week as I read his death notice.  I am still ashamed of myself. I hope he died easily and I am glad he is at rest. I wish I had been kinder.

How has kindness played out in your life?

Baboon Achievers, Fifty Words, Stories

If Only I Had the Time –

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Today’s fifty words come from our tim.

i love leo busgaglias mom who when asked about the fact that the year she got her college degree she would be 75

her response …

“i’m going to be 75 that year anyhow”

what items would you put on your list if you knew you had the time?

History, Music

Chuck Berry 1926 – 2017

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I didn’t realize until last week that Chuck Berry was from St. Louis, my home town. He grew up in what we would call “the city” and then moved to the burbs in the 60s.  This made me curious to find out who else was from what I usually refer to as “the armpit of the nation”. Here are just a few: Yogi Berra, Lou Brock, Vincent Price, Kevin Kline, Dick Gregory, Miles Davis, Harry Truman and Scott Joplin.  Some St. Louis folks also like to claim Maya Angelou, but she didn’t live in St. Louis all that long, so I’m not sure claiming her is playing fair.

I didn’t grow up in a musical family; while I knew who Chuck Berry was, I didn’t know very much about him or his musical history. I’ve honed my little bit of knowledge on Wikipedia and YouTube so now I wish I had paid more attention when he was alive.

 

What celebrity do you miss from your hometown?

 

Fifty Words, The Baboon Congress

It’s been mice talking to ya!

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Today’s Fifty Words come to us from tim.

my favorite joke is:

why do mice have such little balls?

beacuae not too many of them know how to dance.

whats yours?

Baboon Achievers, The Baboon Congress, Words

MORE Glossary

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It’s been almost two years, Babooners, since our last glossary update. Here are the new terms I’ve picked up in that interim, with some context added when known, in case you want to go to the archives to revisit the conversation.

Blucky – A weather term, a combination of blustery and icky. Ex: “At the moment, it’s just cold, wet and blucky out.”    xdfben says:    March 23, 2016 at 6:00 pm    

Cententious? –  billinmpls says:   [Unfortunately, baboons, I forgot to note the date of this one, and I have no idea what was being discussed. Any idea, Bill?

Coleslawicide – a term coined by our Alpha Baboon, Dale Connelly, in this parody of Ogden Nash poetry in a post titled, “Why I don’t Eat the Coleslaw”:

 Did Ogden Nash know?

Did Ogden Nash, with his last breath,

decide to die a funny death?

His final meal – some stringy gabbage

hid the reaper ‘mongst the cabbage.

Did fate, ironic, choose to slay him

with this side of gastro-mayhem?

Or did Nash select this gaffe

to seal his doom with one last laugh?

One last punchline – Woe betide

all those who chews coleslawicide.

BiR, if you’re on the trail today, “coleslawicide” has GOT to go in our glossary.   verily sherrilee says: August 31, 2015 at 7:40 am

Corridordial – see Hallway friendships:        billinmpls says: January 27, 2016 at 11:19 am 

Degusting – a variation on disgusting, as in the following:    Wessew – “If prepared right”. I’m on to the games you culinary con artists love to play; trying to disguise the degusting. Next you’ll be saying lutefisk and liver are luscious… “if prepared right.” On with the food fight!      NOVMBER 6, 2015, 8:06 A.M.       PlainJane – I thing “degusting” deserves a place in our glossary. Sort of takes the wind out of culinary excesses. NOVEMBER 6, 2015, 8:55 A.M.

Espo-used – An alternate pronunciation for “espoused”.       Ex:  “As a 6th grader, back in the days when you could actually acknowledge Christmas in school, I was the narrator and got to read the Christmas story. Nearly got tripped up by the word espoused.”  K-two  DECEMBER 25, 2015, 9:20 A.M..

Hallway friendship – An apartment living phenomenon, as in:  “in our building those of us who have lived here a few years have a hallway friendship, hallway only. Clyde of Mankato  JANUARY 27, 2016, 10:29 A.M.

Outhousing – To be in the habit of using an outhouse, as in: “’modern’ shower facilities were separate and there were outhouses for, well, outhousing”… from Anna’s post called File For T Under Treasure.  AUGUST 15, 2015

Psychiatrically disabled – A person who is somewhat off-center.  Ex:  “As I recall, she was married to this guy who was somewhat psychiatrically disabled, and who walked up and down mainstreet in a big cowboy hat.    reneeinnd says: October 12, 2015 at 11:17 am

Teflon desk – the state in which everything that lands on your desk slides off onto someone else’s.   Comment to Wessew – “I think you’ve got this down!”     verily sherrilee says: August 22, 2015 at 10:40 am

and:

_____________________   [creative opportunity here, baboons]

 verily sherrilee says: January 26, 2016 at 3:47 pm   Didn’t we have a word for a day when we went over 100 comments? I just checked glossary and didn’t see anything. Who has the best memory around here?

Acronyms:

ABD   The appearance of an icon (gravatar) that looks like a blue doily beside your comment, and renders your comment as an Anonymous, rather than inserting your chosen icon. WordPress has done this to virtually everyone on the Trail at some time or another… it’s now considered an initiation exercise.

What’s your favorite dictionary or reference book?

Stories, Weather

Mud Season

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Everybody I know seems happy that we’ve had a mild winter and that we appear to be having an early thaw. Not me.  I am not happy.  No snow and warming temperatures at this time of year mean just one thing; muddy paws.  It will be at least a month before grass will grow in my backyard — four weeks of mud, muddy paw prints, muddy paw prints all over the floor, muddy paw prints on my bedspread, even muddy paw prints on my shoes if I don’t get out of the way fast enough.  Aarrggghhhh!

What does an early thaw mean to you?

Family, Stories

Let’s Pretend

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A couple of years I bought I bought a new, three-story doll house for my play therapy room. My old one was posh and well-appointed, but it had no stairs that led from one floor to the next. This was a real problem for many of the children I see in therapy, as they couldn’t figure out how to get the dolls from one floor to the next, and it got in the way of their play. They couldn’t suspend reality and pretend that there were stairs, or just have the dolls jump up and down. I notice that children who pretend do much better in life and in play therapy than those who can’t or who have limited pretend skills.

The new doll house has two sets of stairs, and the dolls can run up and down at will, and so do, and therapeutic play can go on impeded.  I haven’t read any recent research about the capacity of modern children to pretend in their play. I hope my clients represent a special group not representative of our children as a group.

My nine month old kitten has better pretend skills than may of my young clients. I know Luna doesn’t pretend using words. I suppose she pretends in images or actions, but I know she pretends. She hides from, and then pounces on, unsuspecting foil balls. She knows that the balls only move if she bats them or she carries them to us to throw. She walks away from them when she is finished playing, and doesn’t act as though they will move if she turns her back. It is as if she assigns some temporary identity to them when she hides and pounces, and then thinks about them differently when she walks away and goes on to new activities.  You can see her on top of a cabinet in our living room. She loves to jump up there and pounce on the Tomten figures and attack the Finnish straw goats. They are all in a closet now until she slows down and loses interest in them. I wish I knew what she was thinking about them.

How do you pretend? How do you think your animals pretend?

 

 

 

Family, Stories, The Future, Travel

Michigan or Bust!

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Today’s post comes to us from Steve.

I have always had a strong sense of place. Born in Iowa, I grew up regarding Minnesota as my natural home. I left Iowa in 1960, and for 54 years I was proud to call myself a Minnesotan. Then in 2014 I sold my pink bungalow and moved to Portland, Oregon, driving 1,745 miles in two ferocious days. The main reason for changing my life so dramatically was a desire to be closer to my daughter and grandson. On Trail Baboon “Saint Paul Steve” became “Happy Valley Steve.” I settled into an apartment near the top of a small mountain. In view of my age, I was sure I’d never set foot outside of Oregon. Indeed, because of my physical limitations, I have not often set foot outside my apartment in three years.

Guess what? In June I will travel 2,400 miles to set up a new home in Michigan. “Happy Valley Steve” will become “Port Huron Steve,” or something like that. I’ll get a Michigan driving license and slap Michigan plates on my old Subaru.

Why make such a dramatic move when I only got to Oregon three summers ago? My son-in-law has accepted a job in Port Huron, the town he grew up in and where his mother and brother still reside. He, my daughter and my grandson returned to his childhood home for Christmas a few weeks ago. That home, built in the 19th century, is parked right on the edge of the Saint Clair River. The photos with this article were taken of that on their visit. My son-in-law came back to Portland convinced he really belonged in the Midwest, and that he should do something to make a return to Port Huron possible.

And me? How is it that I’m moving back to the Midwest? I’m like a gimpy old dog that my family rescued from a canine shelter. Having adopted me, they cannot abandon me now. I should start rooting for Michigan athletic teams, for they routinely kick the butts of Minnesota teams. In any fight between a gopher and a wolverine, my money is on the wolverine! But my heart still hopes the gopher will prevail. Hey, you Gophers, Ski-U-Mah! Whatever the hell that means.

I hope the upcoming move will be less wrenching than the one I’ve done. It would be even nicer if I feel more at home in Port Huron than I have in Portland. Oregon is astonishingly beautiful, at least in places, and Portland is a fascinating city. It is only slightly less quirky than “Portlandia” suggests. I expected to feel at home with Portland’s progressive politics, but each day I spend here offers fresh proof that I am a Minnesotan and always will be. I have found Portland to be like a gorgeous girlfriend who chain smokes and makes a toxic mess of her personal finances. She’s irresistible, yet it is hard to believe things will end well for her. And whenever I drive through Portland a little voice whispers, “This isn’t home, is it? We don’t belong here.”

My daughter knew it would not be easy to tell my grandson, Liam, about the move. Ever since he was a toddler, Liam (now seven) has struggled with “transitions.” Now he faces losing all his friends and leaving his wonderful Montessori school to start up life again in a strange land where nobody knows him. Liam raised some concerns, which his mother attempted to address. Then Liam said, “But Grampy, Mom . . . what about him? I can’t leave Grampy behind!” My daughter said, “Oh, no Liam! We’d never leave Grampy. When we move, he comes with us.” Liam reflected and finally smiled. “Well, then I guess we’re good. We can do this.”

When have you taken a leap of faith and moved?

Family, History, Stories

Grandpa’s Wallet

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Today’s post comes to us from Jacque.

Recently I have felt a rush of appreciation from family and a newly found old friend.   The most recent appreciation episode is from someone long ago, my Grandpa who died in 1964.  As I have mentioned, I have been sorting through family pictures and papers, slowly making tedious progress.  Last week I took apart my old picture albums, and threw away duplicates (did I really need four copies of the many pictures taken at my first wedding, the ensuing marriage which ended in divorce?  I think not.)  This reduced the picture collection by 75%, to a mere 5 picture boxes to organize and cull more.  I will set this aside for a while.

Now I am starting to pick through the three overflowing plastic bins of papers, letters, deeds, cattle pedigrees and, yes, more pictures that are not mine, but my parents’, grandparents’, and great grandparents’ memorabilia. There in one bin I found Grandpa Stratton’s wallet, which my mother must have kept after he no longer lived with us in 1963.   His wallet contained a 1960 paper driver’s license, hand-typed and signed with no identifying picture, his fishing license much the same as the driver’s license, and my kindergarten picture with a four leaf clover pressed into it.  He and I spent a lot of time seeking four leaf clovers.

Looking at this gives me a poignant moment, remembering a loving Grandpa. My kindergarten forehead is stained with the patina created by a copper snap in the wallet, which ate through the picture sleeve.  The four-leaf clover is flat and fragile and dear.  It brings tears to my eyes.  I cannot throw away the old wallet because of the picture and the shamrock.  It now lies in my desk drawer where I can sneak a peak at it on a bad day(s) in which nobody else loves me enough.

My wallet is remarkably utilitarian compared to Grandpa’s wallet. I carry all my pictures of the Grandchildren on my phone, leaving the wallet to house plastic cards, coins, receipts,  and disorganized bills of various denominations.  No sentiment there at all.

What is in your wallet?