May Secret Life of Objects: Jesus Statue

There’s something I haven’t thought about in a long time, 40 years ago I graduated from the eighth grade. There weren’t any caps or gowns, just us girls in dresses and the boys in suits. We wore long ribbons with our school and class year, pinned with special lapel pins. After a church ceremony where we received our little diplomas, there was a luncheon at the steak house and every graduate received this statuette. 

I didn’t like the priest that gave this gift to me, and with good cause; he is one of the many priests who were tried and convicted of sexual abuse of young men and boys. As one of the readers in his church, I endured his verbal abuse and blatant sexism as well.

And yet I’ve kept this statue at my bedside all these years. Maybe I still believe in spite of the horrid giver. Now I’m rethinking this as a daily reminder; does it give me comfort and joy or is it toxic and a burden? 

It’s a heavy load to contemplate over a tiny statue. I think I would miss it. 

Why Art Matters: Little Foodie Across the Prairie

I combined an invitation to judge a test session in North Dakota with what I consider the trip of a lifetime, visiting two Little House sites in Minnesota and South Dakota. These sites were the settings for books 4-9 in the Little House series and the exit point for the On the Way Home diary.

So how could I make a personal connection on this trip? The answer was to eat or drink something described in the books. If I could do it on-site, all the better.

On the Banks of Plum Creek: Country girl party of one at the very spot where the original dugout home and footbridge were. There were no vanity cakes to be had, so donut holes from Hy-Vee were a suitable replacement.

 

Fresh milk pint courtesy of Holiday Inn, Brookings. Cheers, Laura!

By the Shores of Silver Lake: Laura experiences one of her first modern conveniences, a water cooler that served water from a spigot. Ma treated the girls to a box of candy they split to celebrate their first trip on a train to Tracy. I treated myself to a SmartWater and a roll of sour grape hard candy.

The Long Winter: The Ingalls survived on Ma’s baking powder biscuits until the flour ran out. After that, they survived on brown bread made by grinding wheat in a coffee mill and baked potatoes. Around Christmas, Pa bought a 2 lb. sack of tea that lasted the family until the trains came... in May. I had tea and a biscuit with butter and honey at the hotel near the train tracks. 

Ever glared at inanimate objects for offending you? I have. These are the train tracks from Tracy to Brookings to De Smet. Why on earth didn't someone have the wherewithal to drive a team, or a series of teams, with supplies out to De Smet? And the book exaggerates: Brookings is maybe 40 miles away, not 100.

Little Town on the Prairie: Pa digs a well, and I was there at the actual, original well on the Ingalls homestead. Suddenly, so thirsty…

Citrus was a rare fruit for pioneers on the plains back then; Carrie and Laura were treated to lemonade at the Independence Day celebration in town by a local politician. I was able to get water from the homestead by filling my "jug" at the gift shop water faucet and adding a generous squeeze of lemon juice, I drank under the cottonwood trees that Pa planted 142 years ago.

These Happy Golden Years: I enjoyed a chef salad at the former Tinkham Furniture Store, across the street from the location of Pa's store building in town.  The salad was chosen because it included many of the vegetables Ma grew in her garden and served for a healthy midday meal - lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and carrots. She always had hard-boiled eggs from her chickens to serve too. My only regret was not having her vinaigrette as a salad dressing.

First Four Years: After the hail storm destroyed their wheat crop, Laura and Almanzo gathered the ice to make ice cream. The neighbors thought they were crazy. I think they were stunned and this was an attempt to make the best out of a bad situation. The ice cream I had was from South Dakota State University's Creamery, their signature Hobo flavor. 

Hang the SD Road Commission for tearing up SD-25 so I missed the chance to be on-site at the Wilder honeymoon homestead and tree claim north of town. I must have driven past it several times as I looked for it, but the sign was gone and the road was torn-up blacktop. For my FFY experience, I was caught up in a rainstorm that turned to hail on my way back up to Bismarck. It was terrifying.

On the Way Home: It is noted in writings after the Little House series that the Wilders were not the teetotalers Ma and Pa were; Laura thought drunks were funny and Almanzo enjoyed a beer from time to time. On the Way Home was the 1894 diary Laura kept about the journey from South Dakota to Missouri, where they found Rocky Ridge Farm; I drank this sour kettle at the conclusion of my slog across the prairie and packed my bags to return home. 

One More RBR

I couldn’t resist giving it another try, so I signed up for the 46th River Bank Run. From chiro to family practitioner to health coach to physical therapist, I heard “The walk, right?”

Sigh… yes.

Bib and hooray for beer. 

Cheered on by Olympic medalist Brian Diemer. I reluctantly admitted to the walk and not the run. He wouldn't let me dismiss myself, saying “You’re out there, that makes you one of us!”

Signage - now I know the effort it takes to get these hung and agreed upon by the city. 

About to start. I made a donation at the last minute at the expo and ended up representing a charity partner who gave me a t-shirt to run in, Family Futures. It was a nice tech shirt and our friends the Holmes interned there. Nice connection! 

“Hi, this is Ringo… and you’re listening to The Beatles Channel.” How does he always show up at the start or finish line? 

Ready to go. 

Finish! I waved my bib number at the announcer to get my shout-out. The finish line song was George singing For You Blue, the mix was Sorry About the Shirts! Beatles people know. Also, my time was under an hour, which was unexpected, never mind the time listed in the photo - that was for the 10K people. 

Canned margarita earned. I won’t be drinking that again.

I’ve done marathons (ok, on a bike), half marathons, and more, all the way down to this 5k walk - this is the event I get a bloody sock on?! The culprit was a sharp middle toenail that gouged my second toe and then broke. Do I get street cred for this? 

By doing the walk and COVID virtual races, I’ve participated in every race I’m eligible to do, completing 12 total. I’m still proud of that second place in my age group. The 50th-anniversary run is on the horizon, I want to keep going. 

Typing Out Loud: Trying to Remember Bill

Whatever happened to...? 

Out of nowhere this week, I wondered what happened to Bill, the dishwasher I worked with at Walgreens back in the 80s. He was tall and broad, quiet, walked like a duck, and was always sweaty, which could have been attributed to his field of work. 

Dark-haired but not handsome. 

My teenage brain places his age anywhere from his mid-20s to his early 30s. 

He didn't smile much, but at the same time, he was never unkind. 

As far as I knew, he had no vices, never taking a smoke break or going out to drink with the other dishwashers and cooks. This also paints him as being unsociable. 

I think he was a neighbor of Rose, the head cashier on the drugstore side. I recall him living at home caring for an invalid parent, but I'm not sure about that. (Edited to add Rose was his aunt.) 

I only ever saw him lose his temper once, as teenage boys are lazy and apt to quit their minimum-wage jobs once it interfered with their summer plans. This often meant he was the sole dishwasher in a busy restaurant where dinner specials were available for $3 a plate, salad and dinner roll included. I remember the dishes piling up and no one willing to run the line. He was called in, slamming tray after tray into the dishwasher, getting angrier and angrier as we waitresses attempted to help by bussing tables, and bringing him one bin after another of dirty dishes. 

I'm not trying to be unkind, he was who he was. 

After Walgreens shut down restaurant operations at the end of 1987, all the employees scattered, with the exception of the few of us who were hired on the drugstore side. 

It would be easy to paint him as a sad figure, looking in from the outside at the teenage crew, but it is apparent I was the unkind one, so busy trying to navigate my nonsense that I neglected to befriend my coworker and learn more about him; my memory has as many holes as an old washrag nearly 40 years later. I don't even know who I could ask about him outside of Kevin, and our relationship has been reduced to exchanging birthday greetings on social media once a year. 

I feel like I'm approaching this similar to the short story Betty, by Margaret Atwood. The narrator, as an adult, is attempting to remember details about her next-door neighbor at the summer cottage when she was a kid. Betty was the one who doled out love to her and her sister, sharing newspaper comics and cookies; yet the girls were in love with her sullen husband, who teased the girls and made rude comments to make them laugh. Betty later came back into the family's life years later when the husband left her for another woman. The narrator, engrossed in her own personal life, had little time for Betty until she died. 

So I wonder now, 36 years later, what came of Bill, and like Betty’s narrator, try to imagine a satisfactory continuation of his story, success on his terms: 

Innovator: maybe he developed biodegradable single-use picnicware so he never has to wash dishes again. 

Entrepreneur: having worked in food service, maybe he now owns a line of food trucks where the food is the dish - ice cream cones, sundae waffle bowls, hot dogs, and pita wraps. 

Social life: he was quiet, but I don't know if it was because he was shy or because we were a bunch of immature teenagers and he was clearly above the shenanigans. I recall him sitting in booths reading books. Maybe he found his people in book clubs and became an author of fantasy series novels. 

Academic: maybe he found the time to go back to school. Again with the novels, majoring in writing or English, he found a passion in the written word and became a lion of a professor, a boisterous eccentric at a small, liberal arts college. He composes award-winning one-act plays about silly waitresses and brash young men smoking cigarettes behind a restaurant dreaming about something more. 

Love life: you need to find your person, and I think for someone like him, he didn't need someone with a spark but with a glow. I see someone with chocolate brown eyes and dark hair, wearing red caftans, inviting him to share in a pot of tea. She doesn't expect him to dress up for dates, but he still shows up at her door in a button-down shirt and pressed pants. He's holding a bouquet of fragrant flowers because he's old-fashioned and he likes the delight on her face at this gift and her ritual of saying "Let's put these in some fresh water," pulling an antique pitcher out of her cabinet. Until one day he shows up without flowers and he still sees delight on her face.

Editing to add: I talked to Kevin, and got a last name. A simple search, I also found his obituary. Sigh. I like my ending better. Wait - a special friend?! I wish you love and peace Mary Jane, I bet you glowed. 

May Playlist: May, 1990

The gang, probably winter 1990, given the sweaters. Happy birthday, Amy in the blue; I am in her armpit. Matthes has his mouth open, at right.

What can I tell you about May 1990? I was wrapping up my first year away from home, finding my people in VizComm at Ferris and at the station, WRKX. Too much partying, not enough sleep. Too many boys but no serious commitment, this was pre-Dave. Some details are hazy but I recall Jeff with the drug problem, the guy from Turkey that declared us engaged after one too many pitchers of green motorcycles at the Alibi on St. Patrick's Day, Marc with a C who looked like a young Joe Piscipo, unfun Fred who took me mudding and didn't make a move on me all night, and Greg from the radio station who took me to Ponderosa before 4 because we were charged lunch prices. I can’t believe I dated him for two stretches of time that year. 

This was pre-grunge too, so we were still listening to hair bands, classic rock, and dance music. I remember hanging at Dave Matthes’ house listening to one album after another, not ready to see the school year-end. Same at my apartment, the girls and I stringing together a playlist while packing up to move out. Still bitter we lost the $10 deposit on the fire extinguisher because a couch caught on fire in the parking lot outside of our apartment… like we had anything to do with it. 

Feeling That Way/Anytime, Journey - I had a copy of the album Infinity that I got at a library sale for a quarter that was only a little warped. Dina and I would belt this at the top of our lungs.

U Can’t Touch This, MC Hammer - this song was everywhere for a long time in 1990, with lyrics easy enough to shout: makes me say, oh my Lord! 

Heartbreaker/Living Loving Maid, Led Zeppelin - roommate Sue developed a thing for Led Zeppelin that spring, which was a relief from all the New Kids on the Block. 

Love Song, Tesla - back to roommate Dina, this song was on heavy rotation at 2 a.m. when we needed a singalong to clear our heads and wake up in the middle of writing papers due at 9 a.m.

Without You, Motley Crüe - an homage to roommate Cindy, the Crüe was her band. Is it a better ballad than Home Sweet Home? Time and AOR stations would disagree. 

Coming of Age, Damn Yankees - middle America, rural college, wearing plaid before Seattle made it a thing. Why? Because we were cold. 

The Joker, Steve Miller Band - another classic rock staple that was always on our playlist. We are going to try to see him on tour this year before he calls it quits. It was an old song in 1990, and it's 2023 - that's... wow. 

Nothing Compares 2 U, Sinead O’Connor - Amy (above), this was her breakup song. We heard it about three days in a row. Then she got better. 

Vogue, Madonna - we all danced to it.

Poison, Bel Biv DeVoe - we all danced to it.

The Power, Snap! - we all danced to it.

Rub You the Right Way, Johnny Gill - my dad sat next to him on a plane once.

Enjoy the Silence, Depeche Mode - college radio station, of course, we played it.

Crown of Thorns. Mother Love Bone - early grunge, I played it. 

Big Dumb Sex, Soundgarden - another early clue to the new direction.

Cuts You Up, Peter Murphy - thus concluding our college indie portion of the program.

May's Song: Victory

Goal: write a song a month, with the resolve to not self-edit or worry if it’s crap. I'm feeling old-school spoken word country and western. I wrote a song called Victory when I was eight years old but the lyrics are long gone, the orange spiral-bound notebook tossed one day when my dad was hauling trash to the dump. I still regret that.  

What do you consider brave,

When you're only eight?

What demons are you taking down,

When you dare to be great?

Now I wrote this song, partially, when I was eight years old. Here's the strange thing you learn about fear at that age...

I was a wall climber, 

With scratches on my knees. 

Daring the boys to play games, 

and swinging out of trees. 

One of my teachers saw me squinting, 

and thought maybe I couldn't see. 

I got my first pair of glasses. 

And then I saw the grass, 

all the way below me. 

I got scared. 

And that grounded me. 

Believe it or not, I was shy. Speaking in class, in front of an audience. So what did that nun running my school make me do?

Here’s the Good Book,

Follow the priest's cue.

You will do today’s reading - one... or maybe two. 

So for years at the church, I was a reader, working on my speaking voice, the syllables sliding smoothly into a microphone while my knees quivered.

Now in any schoolyard, you have your bullies. Some use their fist, and others use your mind. Angela did both. She liked to gang up on one girl, one at a time. We all had our turn. This one time, it was because this girl got the best grade on a test.  I just… I told her no.

So it was my turn. And I stood up for myself, all by myself. So it was time for another method.

The challenge was thrown,

A fight, she snarked.

Meet me at three,

The corner, by the park.

I remember the fear, the dread, and my blue wool socks that I kept having to pull up. I wasn’t a fighter and yet, I showed up.

She didn't. 

Said her mom made her do the dishes. Or she forgot. 

These are the little victories, when you are small.

Those moments in life you need to grow tall. 

Do they need to be bold? No, not at all.

The time you’re scared and your back’s against the wall.

In the face of fear, here is your fate,

It’s your chance to be you, your time to be great.