Construction Playground

A glimpse at the backyard, minus garage, pre-concrete pour...

There are big burly men in our backyard yelling at each other.

“Up one,” shouts the first.

“What?” in response.

“Up one!” in a much louder voice.

This exchange has something to do with aligning the frame before the concrete guys show up to pour later this morning.

And it’s 7 a.m. on a beautiful fall morning, which means the sounds carry swiftly through the crisp air.

This neighborhood that is our home has developed some immunity to morning noises as it lies in a flight path for the busy MSP airport. But I wonder whether this assault on morning grogginess might just put my neighbors over the top.

When we arrived home this spring, we saw our 111-year-old house with newly critical eyes for some of its needed updates.  The mid-century siding – yes, actual tin siding – was definitely due for an update.

Then there was the upstairs bathroom that suffered the comparison with some of the wonderful showers we had experienced in California. So that was on the project list.

And finally, our neighbor with the charming cottages was seeking off-street parking for his bride-to-be, and negotiated a perpetual easement onto our property in exchange for building us a new garage, with a stall for his car.

We really worked to have all of these bids and contracts sequenced one after the other in a well-planned order.

Best laid plans and all – all three projects are taking place within the same block of time. So the siding guys, the garage guys, and the bathroom guys are competing for space in the dumpster and on the decibel scale.

We take some small comfort in knowing that this too shall pass and by November, it will be quiet and tidy on Sheridan Avenue – in time for a lovely blanket of snow.

And for the neighbors, I should schedule a soup party open house to offer some pay back for their rude awakenings this month.  Hope they forgive us.

Outrage Fatigue

Image borrowed from a typewriter blog - really!

It’s been a summer of outrageous events in the world and, frankly, I’m tired of it all.

From the South Carolina church murders to the slaughter of Cecil the Lion and now yesterday’s social media massacre – these are gut-wrenching actions. Then there is the ongoing migration of thousands of families running from home to seek peace elsewhere in the world, the full-fledged evil of ISIS’ destructive intent, and the sideshow circus of early political rambles in this country.

It all deserves careful dialogue, discourse, and thoughtful problem solving. But mostly this summer, these events are leading to reactive outrage. It’s exhausting.

One can only hold onto outrage for so long before it causes a collapse in one’s view of the world. 

A bit of background here – I tend towards optimism. Some have accused me of being irrationally positive in the face of facts that should lead to cynical skepticism of the intent of others.  But I reject that criticism. 

Despite headlines that would suggest otherwise, my personal experience with humans of all kinds has caused me to believe that most people are basically good. And that this country of my birth is founded on values and principles I treasure.

But it’s been tough to hold on this summer. Voices from media of all kinds have been screaming for my attention to issues great and small. It has been hard to decide where to protest first – a dentist’s office in Bloomington, MN, the #BlackLivesMatter marches connected to a number of summer festivals, or last weekend’s topless gathering for women’s equality.

When I was a child, moments of outrage in our home came with the clack of a typewriter. Mom would scroll in her carbon-sandwiched onionskin typing paper, clack the arm over the carriage, and settle in to write a solid screed to the hometown newspaper.

“This has to stop!” began many a letter to the editor. Whether an increase in property taxes, attacks on the music program in the schools, or bad behavior by teens, mom would dive into her personal perspective on what was wrong with the world.

Typing on a manual typewriter, particularly those from the 1930s, requires finger strength. My piano-playing/teaching mother had very strong fingers so that typewriter clicked and clacked, ignoring the occasional missed letter as the words and outrage flowed onto the page.

When she was done, she felt better. She had articulated the frustration and anger as best she could and now all she needed was a stamp. It probably wasn’t an accident that my father offered to mail those letters for her. Looking back, I’m pretty sure some of those letters were never mailed at all. Mom always wondered why few of her letters were ever published, and now I’m guessing my father had a hand in that.

Sometimes outrage merely needs an outlet on the page, never to be published.

Personally? I’m going to the Minnesota State Fair today. Nothing restores my optimistic view of life more than a day at the Fair, Minnesota’s Great Get Together. Friends and neighbors submit their best baking, art and crafts hoping for a ribbon for the effort. New vendors and foods on a stick make an appearance. And there’s a smile on most of the faces one greets.

That doesn’t solve the impact of the outrageous events of this summer. It’s merely a balm for the tired soul. 

Bonus Time

One of Mom's favorite photos taken by my Dad for her music teaching publicity - I love the 1960s hairdo.

My mother died when she was the age I am now. It’s a somewhat startling realization that what had seemed like a ripe old age is actually not.

When Mom died, I was 22. It was unexpected and quite dramatic much as she lived her life. One minute she was packing her suitcases for a planned trip to Mexico with my father and the next…well, it turned out the tingling in her arms was indeed the sign of a heart attack waiting to happen.

My mother was three months shy of her 60th birthday when she died. Everyone said she was too young to go. That was the one consistent thing we heard at the memorial service in our hometown.

“Your mother was so vibrantly alive,” said one family friend. “It’s just such a shock. She was too young to die.” 

Aren’t we all, really?

I’ve encountered a few peaceful souls who after nine, even ten, decades of life look forward to what’s next. They have seemed almost eager to experience the implied opportunity to meet up with parents and friends who preceded them in the journey to next. I hope that’s true.

Right now, however, I’m not one of those and I’ve realized in a very personal way how much more my mother had hoped to see in her life. 

She never knew her son or daughters-in-law. She never met her grandchildren. She never experienced family holidays with the progeny of her own children gathered around the table. She loved the concept of those types of gatherings despite the reality of the angst those preparations caused for her perfectionist self. 

There is no genetic reason to think that my lifespan would equal hers. My brother and I were adopted into our family, leaving our genetic background somewhat of a blank slate for our lifestyle choices and behaviors to fill in. 

I’ve recognized that in a few months I will have exceeded her time with us. And that has me looking at the years to come as bonus time.  A time to be relished, enjoyed as special, spent meaningfully with those I love, and most of all, for gratitude that time exists.

Summer Seductions

Lake Harriet Bandshell on a quiet summer afternoon.

We’re in the midst of one of the most glorious summers imaginable.

A side note here: Most Minnesotans would never write the sentence above because we’re superstitious about our weather. Saying the weather is glorious could jinx the whole thing. The weather might hear, you know, and then it can all change in a snap.

This summer, however, deserves a shout out.

So far – and we have passed the halfway mark of the three month season – we’ve experienced the ideal mix of sun, heat, and rain to produce bumper crops of tomatoes in the back yard and farmer’s markets abundant with stunning greens. We’ve experienced the warm humid embrace of afternoons demanding time with a book on the porch where the ceiling fan creates the idea of a breeze. And we’ve experienced the roll of booming thunder from driving storms that wash away the humidity and leave clear blue mornings.

This perfect sequence of sun, heat, humidity, then storms has minimized any need to drag out the hose for watering duties this year. It makes one grateful for the mother of nature and those higher, greater powers watching out for this planet.

When the humidity, sun, and heat are just right, cities on the North Coast empty out as anyone with a cabin or friends Up North head to the lakes to admire the buoyancy and sweet cooling impact of an inner tube on water. And that leaves the cities to us.

We live between two of the loveliest lakes in Minneapolis – Calhoun is two blocks north with its volleyball nets and dueling beaches at each end. It’s the younger, hipper of the lakes. It’s where the motorcyclists like to show off their rides in a long line of bikes parked side by side to emphasize the differences of their lines. The elegant Somalis in ankle-length sarongs stroll around the lake next to teens in bikinis and older men carrying fishing poles to the docks, hoping the big fish that lounge in the depths come up for just one bite.

To the east is Lake Harriett featuring a band shell angled just so that the music wafts to our porch for evening concerts that are usually pleasing from here. When the music is exceptional, we find ourselves drawn to join the crowd at the lake where we enjoy the shared camaraderie that performers can create in an appreciative audience. And every now and then – twice so far this year – the smell of food from the adjacent grill draw us over for a scoop of ice cream.

I know this season will pass into the next and become a mere memory so we’ll continue to relish the seductive pleasures of this summer on the North Coast and appreciate the warmth while it’s here.

Trendy in Silver

It happened just the other day at dinner. A friend, looking at her phone as happens all too often, made one of those spontaneous sounds.

“Ughch!” came blurting out. “Why would they do that?”

“Why what?” I asked.

“These young girls – they’re dying their hair white. Why would they try to make themselves look old?”

And that’s when she looked up and remembered that she was talking to me – the woman sporting a mop of white hair. I am that one friend of hers who simply got bored with my hair guy and decided to give my natural white a go.

It seemed the only good option was to laugh at the look on her face.

“Well, it appears I’ve become trendy after all, if this is what the young girls are doing.”

Of course, it has taken years for white hair to become trendy.

My hair started its shift sometime in my 30s. It’s easy to blame the arrival of the kids – hormones, stress, sleepless nights, all that. But it’s probably more of a genetic thing. People who can trace their heritage to the northern parts of Europe just go white earlier than others.

I didn’t notice at first. I was paying to have my hair highlighted every other month, and just thought the hairdresser was doing a better and better job with the highlights. That was, until he mentioned it might be time to add other shades to my excessively highlighted head.

I was mortified. White hair? I was only 35. How could this be?

So we doubled down and coloring became part of my annual budget. It started with an appointment every six weeks, then every four. When I started noticing The Grey Gap after three weeks, I knew I was in trouble. Actually, it was when my administrative manager told me she wouldn’t cancel my hair appointment so that I could attend an important meeting because “the white in your hair is out of control.”

That’s when I realized something needed to change. Fifteen years ago that was a radical position. Most of the women I knew were not going to “look old” by letting their hair go “natural” which meant a color anywhere from steel grey to pure snow white.

Risking scorn, I started with my hair guy.

 “I’m going to stop coloring my hair,” I announced and watched as his face moved from disbelief to near shock.

“What do you mean you’re going to stop coloring your hair?  Don’t you want to look young? You mean you’re going to stop coming in?”

I realized what I was telling him was going to be a significant financial blow to his business since I had been a good and loyal and highly regular customer for years.

“Well, I think I’m going to need your help to transition through what was to what will be, so I’ll see you several more times until I get there…,” I trailed off.

His look of shock was causing me to rethink my new-look resolve. Was I doing the right thing? Would I regret the change, and would I then be able to change it all back again without too much damage to my image?

That’s when I just went to my Zen place, calmed down, and realized I was ready for the change. I calmly explained that I was going down this path and that I really wanted him to help me make the change. His look of shock shifted to one of acceptance or resignation and we got to work.

It turns out that shifting from full color to no color takes work and is not a seamless process. There is literally a seam running along your hairline no matter how talented the colorist until finally, finally your natural hair color has grown long enough to hack off the remnants of the faded colored bits.

I did experience an awkwardly mortifying moment with a group of colleagues when one stopped mid-sentence, stared at my head, and said, “What exactly is going on with your hair, Mary?” as she waved her hands in a circular motion pointing at my head.

With audible gasps and startled eyes pointing at me, I found enough oxygen to smile and say, “Transitions aren’t easy, are they?”

And now, here we are. Gray is trendy. White is a statement. And I’m right at the forefront of the look – love it when things finally come around.

Wish I'd Known...

C.difficile colonies - something you don't want too much of in your gut. Thanks to Wikipedia.

I love science. I really do. I love the pursuit of new knowledge, the asking of the questions, and the deep curiosity at the base of it all.

What if?

I wonder why?

How does this work?

And I truly am grateful to have lived long enough to now know what I wish I’d known before. I mean who knew that those wonderfully cleansing antibiotic soaps would one day be seen as contributing to antibiotic resistance? Or that the amazing productivity and yields coming from today’s American agriculture due to new chemicals and seed strains may be coming at the expense of human health and vitality?

Our mothers believed the advertising – that smoking was good for you, so how were they supposed to know that smoking and drinking during pregnancy was a two person pursuit that was particularly bad for the one growing inside?

There’s the conundrum. We know what we know based on the current knowledge available to us. And I’m convinced that science is pursued with the best of intents – but rarely with a complete understanding of the unintended consequences resulting from those intents.

The intent was cleanliness and sanitary surfaces with antibiotic soaps. Who could have predicted that too clean could be a problem – that we needed some of those bacteria in our lives? And, ok, I’m not going to presume that tobacco had any intent other than increased sales, but I do believe early on even the companies had no idea how addictive and deadly their product proved to be.

So the point of all of this is to say, “Sorry, kids.” 

Recent studies and articles now show that antibiotic use in very young children can transform the good bacteria living in the gut, leading to struggles with obesity, and metabolism – or energy/fatigue. And these are long-term impacts.

Long after the ear infections and sore throats are gone, the gut flora and fauna are altered without announcing the change in any perceptible way other than a tendency to put on weight easily.

My children were young in the late 1980s, before the words “epigenetics” or “gut genome” were thrown around in conversation. When my kids got sick, we went to the doctor, where we commonly heard, “Well, I’ll give you this antibiotic which may not help, but it certainly won’t hurt.”

It was a comforting idea that, as parents, we were doing something for our feverish, sick kids. And it was wrong.

I don’t blame the pediatricians and family practice docs for not being microbial scientists. They, too, were doing what they thought best.

What I’ve learned is that all science, all new knowledge needs to be recognized for what it is. It’s the latest, the most recent best knowledge. It’s part of the progression of unraveling this marvelous experience of life on this planet. But it’s not final. It will never be final.

So I propose that all science – all new knowledge – come with a warning label that says, “Don’t blame your parents. They didn’t know better because we just learned this ourselves.”

Unpacking With Care

Writing retreat in the woods of Wade's cabin estate. Photo courtesy of Gary Edwards.

We just arrived home after a seven-day driving trip around the upper Midwest that was filled with so many meaningful moments it is going to require some very careful unpacking.

This type of unpacking has nothing to do with the clothes in my suitcase.  I have developed a habit in the past decade of completing that chore the minute I arrive home. Suitcase emptied and returned to the closet, laundry begun, toiletries back where they belong before I finally sit down to check the pile of accumulated mail.

I’ve learned that if I don’t power through the unpacking it can languish for days as an unfinished annoyance at the back of my mind. At this stage of life, I don’t have enough room in my mind for unfinished annoyances any more.

This other type of non-suitcase unpacking is something I started doing after I turned fifty more than just a few years ago. It was at that point in my one-way journey through life that I realized I was so breathlessly jumping from trips to events to dinner parties and on to the next that I was missing the richness of the details of it all.

Jacques would say, “Do you remember that wonderful evening in New York when we….?”

And I’d have to pause and sort through overstuffed mental file cabinets while seeking additional clues.

“Was it the trip in July or the trip in October?”

“Did we have dinner with Julie or were we alone?”

“Was it cold or rainy that night?”

And responses to each of those prompts would help me narrow down the memory to the one he wanted to share until finally, I could say, “Yes! I actually do remember that evening.”

Then and only then could we talk about the shared memory of a long walk with surprise discoveries that were topped off by an outstanding and unplanned meal.

The whole exercise of sorting through the clutter of full rich memories shoved with little thought into the virtual storage cabinet of life experience needed an overhaul. I needed some sort of feng shui, zen practice to create order out of my lovely mass of experiential recollections. I realized there was little I could do about the mess of the deep past, but I could begin a new practice moving forward to help with the recall tasks of the future.

And that’s how it began – the mental unpacking practice I now find so wonderful. It is somewhat like organizing a scrapbook of photos and knickknacks to physically document highlights of the passage of time. Only this organizing, or careful unpacking, all takes place in my mind.

I’ll show you what I mean.

On this past trip, I attended my second annual writer’s retreat at the cabin estate of author Wade Rouse. I unpack the experience by remembering how wet it was when Jacques dropped me at the door, the dampness of the woods dripping from the trees and lush flowers. But oh, the smell of warm welcome that was on the inside. Gary Edwards, Wade’s domestically talented partner had anticipated our every desire for nurture. Coffee and tea were ready, along with labeled containers for various forms of cream.

The smells from the kitchen came from gorgeous egg bakes and beautiful coffee cakes. Although we were a challenging bunch this year requiring dairy and gluten-free options, Gary’s response showed his creativity and flare. And – oh my – the nurturing details of the cabin estate in the woods – scented candles punctuating the smell of fresh flowers in vases on all surfaces, napkins wherever food was present, and tissues waiting for a tear.  

I remember searching the faces for the dear familiar smiles and take time to think about the sparkle of eyes, the curve of cheeks, and the words spoken in greeting. And I think through first impressions of those I met for the first time. There were only eleven of us, so it doesn’t take long to work through the newly dear faces and to add them to the now familiar family of the Society of Wade’s Writers.

There is the look of contained fear in the eyes of the new attendees as they realize they actually will be expected to read their own work out loud in front of us at some point over the weekend. Horrors! And that is matched by the look of eager anticipation of those who have experienced the sacred safety of this group who want the gentle helpful feedback from fellow writers.

The writing itself is the power memory. Stories that tell of failed parenting mix with those of beloved, almost supernatural animal partners. Chevys at levees with good old boys drinking whiskey and rye are blended with the shock and horror of lower Manhattan on September 12, 2001. Fiction that draws on life experiences with love and rejection, remarkable dialogue that sparkles with authenticity, and the heart filled description of the power of a first kiss. And the raw voices of relationship pain punctuated with well-placed “fucks” demonstrate the power of that noun/verb/adjective/exclamation.

Memory secure, I can move to unpacking the last 48 hours of driving that included a quick visit to the old hometown. The magnetic draw was one of the most perfect babies ever – my great nephew Nash Alleshouse – with his shock of black spikey hair and cherubic cheeks. His parents are appropriately in love with their firstborn and there are doting grandparents and relatives surrounding them to provide the all-important support during that first year without an instruction manual.

After an all-too-quick visit with dear lifelong friends – and a great Reuben sandwich – we were back on the road through rainstorms that…

Well, never mind. That is the beauty of the unpacking exercise.  I don’t have to unpack memories I don’t need to remember. Why clutter the future with any recollection of barely visible highways behind huge trucks spewing spray? 

Planting a Tree

Our newest tree, a Northern catalpa on the corner of W. 40th and Sheridan Ave. S. in Minneapolis.

We planted a tree yesterday. Of course, when I say “we” I mean the guys at the tree service came to plant our tree for us. Trees are simply too important to leave to the amateur skills of homeowners like us.

It’s a Northern Catalpa, a hardy sort for a climate like Minnesota’s, yet also a pretty tree with elephant ear-like leaves that wave peacefully in the breeze.   When it grows beyond its stick-ly present, it will sprout big showy white flowers and produce dangling seedpods – the fun kind that make great rattling sounds when dried.

Trees are a big deal in Minnesota, so much so that the city of Minneapolis offers up trees to homeowners each spring for a nominal fee, as long as we pick them up and cart them home. It makes for a weekend spectacle of cars and vans sprouting stems and leaves driving away from the tree lot. But Minnesota’s Tree Trust achieves its goal of maintaining the urban tree canopy by sending out saplings into the community.

We planted our new tree near the empty space where a big old maple used to stand. When the kids were little, that maple and its pair, the remaining oak tree, were the perfect distance for tying up a badminton net for games in the front yard. 

We weren’t living here when the maple came down. It had finally succumbed to a very windy thunderstorm and dropped another large branch of its awning onto the sidewalk. The tree guys let us know it wasn’t strong enough to withstand another big storm and was at risk of breaking nearly in half, so we thought it wise to protect passersby by saying goodbye to the tree.

Frankly, I’m glad we weren’t here when it came down. Trees are so miraculous in all they provide and that tree had memories associated with it. Its shade cooled the front yard from the heat and humidity of summer. It was a hiding place when the kids were little and the “go seek” part didn’t require serious hiding. And its role in lawn games was important, providing an imaginary line for soccer balls and goals with the oak.

When we came home this spring, it was odd to see that open space on the lawn where the maple had once stood. There was a yawning space of sunshine where shade once reined.

So it’s not a surprise that we planted the catalpa near the site of the former maple. We want to ensure future generations have the option to tie up a net or plot a goal line in the front yard. And there’s something wonderful about charting time through the growth of a tree.

We’ll remember we planted it in the spring of 2015, and as it grows and matures we’ll recall this summer of transition and homecoming. In a few years, we’ll laugh about the Charlie Brown tree we planted and marvel at its growth. And when we finally downsize to a place by the river, we’ll drive by the old neighborhood to check up on our towering catalpa on the corner.