Midriff Muse

A week ago last Monday, I went in for my semi-annual, get – it – done – really – good – by – a - professional, hair coloring (I bet you thought I was going to say something like mammogram or colonoscopy didn’t you?) My stylist had a new assistant observing that day, a young woman, named Kaitlin. She was an eager conversant as we waited for my hair to process (a time when I usually zone out with a magazine) and Kaitlin threaded the dialog toward what kind of music I liked, to which my answer is typically coffee house type of music, intimate, personal and, of course, late 60’s, early 70’s rock. She confessed to being a fan also and that she was lately listening to the “Grassroots”, the very mention of which resulted in me starting to sing the chorus to their signature song: “Sha na na-na-na-na, Live for today…” Katilin joined right in, knowing the words and melody. Wow! - A really refreshing blast from the past – “Live for Today” being probably one of my top ten favorite songs from those years. I was impressed; I mean it certainly demonstrated to me that Kaitlin was in command of more than just a cursory familiarity with some classic rock. Her Dad, she explained (same age as me, turns out), taught her all about the music from that time and, looking at her, she could easily have been lifted right out of 1967 – a little snippet of a thing in a simple black smocked mini-dress, hair braided back with an elastic headband worn across her forehead. We traversed the conversational byways of books and movies, eventually arriving at politics, the recent election, the pride, excitement and hope we were each experiencing. She had voted in her first presidential election. I pointed to the Obama campaign buttons prominently displayed on my purse, one of which portrayed the heads of Obama and John F. Kennedy side by side with the slogan “and the torch is passed.” “Cool”, she said and that her father had talked to her about JFK a little bit and she had seen the Oliver Stone movie. I asked if she had ever seen “Thirteen Days”, about the Cuban Missile Crisis during the Kennedy presidency; she hadn’t; I encouraged her to do so and told her that I intended rent it myself and watch it again to mark the 45^th anniversary of the assassination on November 22^nd. By now my hair had finished processing and we had moved to the back of the salon and with my head tilted back in the rinsing bowl, I began to try to describe the mark of the wound for my generation left by the assassinations of JFK, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy all in a five year span and had to cover my face with my hands, embarrassed to be overcome by emotion and crying. “It was like ‘They’ wiped out all our hope,” I blubbered “We had nothing left.”

Reflecting on that whole scenario later in the day, I flashbacked about 8 or 9 nines years, once again during a time near the anniversary of JFK’s assassination when , I must have been saying some similar things and my boss at the time, who is nearly a decade younger than I exclaiming to me:

“What is it with people your age and the Kennedy’s? What about all the womanizing and cheating and stuff? Doesn’t that bother you?”

I tried to explain the profound sense of loss to my generation, and to give voice to exactly what it was that was lost to us. I tried to describe the inspiration and intelligence of his speeches. I told him how, even to this day, I cannot watch the footage of JFK’s inaugural address or that day in Dallas without crying. The other stuff wasn’t even on the horizon back then and learning about it all these years later is just a footnote. My boss just kind of shook his head, not really getting it. Recalling that exchange today, it occurs to me that those born at the tail end of the baby boom and everyone since then, have known only mediocre leadership at the highest levels, they’ve never experienced a true “call to action”, a brilliancy in oratory and vision. No wonder there is all this nostalgia about Ronald Reagan; no wonder the horrible ineptitude of George W. Bush can be experienced with a shrug.

I remembered when “Thirteen Days” was released in 2000, reading a review of it in which, at the end of it, the reviewer admonished the then president-elect George W. Bush to watch the movie and try to learn what it means to be truly presidential. Oh, would that he had.

Re-watching the movie last Saturday night, as planned, I was completely captivated. It is a stellar piece of work, an engaging, edge-of-the seat, quiet thriller. I was struck more than ever by the extreme youth of the two men at the eye of the storm: Bobby, just weeks shy of 37 and Jack only 45. I was struck also by some of the parallels between the days leading to the resolution of the missile crisis of 1962 and the days of strident march to the Iraq War in our recent history. One focused on aligning every possible scenario to avert a war, the other on every possible scenario to create one. One dedicated to finding the truth to support the withholding of action, the other dedicated to finding a sliver of truth to support a falsehood in order to justify taking action. The contrasting results with the same scenarios at play- the pressures for a military response, garnering the support of the international community, presentation of the intelligence, standing up or standing down, the question of what will be the perception of the United States if we were to invade and obliterate a small country, the impetus on the part of some to finish a job they perceived as having been previously left undone. And, in the case of the earlier crisis, in the midst of the impassioned debate, stand Jack and Bobby, statesmen extraordinaire, with absolute and implicit trust in each other’s intellect, motives and capabilities, with pensive eye toward the very future of humanity, carefully taking measured, determined steps toward the most humane possible outcome. It was a singular performance, both in the movie and in real life. I couldn’t help but wonder what if such careful response and execution had been in place seven years ago?

There are a couple of things I would like to say to wrap this up. My daughter, Katie’s honest critique of my writing is that I often switch moods and end abruptly. So this is my attempt to soften and ease with a less abrupt segue, to what were to be my original parting thoughts. The fact is that I watched the movie a second time before returning it and while I am overjoyed and relieved that we have finally (and still in my lifetime) elected a president who speaks to us as though we are capable of critical thinking and who clearly has the intellect and education to employ elite thought (and that is not the same as being an “elitist”), the contrast between what a leader of the free world will be called upon to do and the meager mentality of vice-presidential candidate, Sarah Palin, horrified me all over again. On some level, I was waiting for John McCain to say: “But seriously, folks…” I find myself thinking now, that much like the aforementioned movie reviewer suggested to George Dubya, that John McCain and Sarah Palin would do well to take the time to watch “Thirteen Days” and see if they might learn what it looks like to be presidential.

And lastly here, going back to my day at the salon, I would like everyone to know that before I departed, I bequeathed to Kaitlin, the little assistant who knew about the “Grassroots” and a seeming child of the new age, my Obama/Kennedy button and she appeared to be genuinely touched and grateful as she received it. And finally and lastly, I would like everyone to know that right after I finished the final draft of this piece except for this very sentence, I downloaded “Lets Live for Today” by The Grassroots from itunes and have it on my playlist.

How did I do, my dear daughter, Katie?

December 1st, 2008 | Tags: election 08, JFK Assassination, Midlife Musings, nostalgia, Obama, Politics, The Grassroots, the sixties | Category: Midlife Musings, Politics, Uncategorized | Comments (6)

As so often happens, the piece I set out to write that is clearly delineated in my mind, becomes delayed by procrastination, perfection, and the fear of the laboriousness of hammering at it until it is explicit in capturing the exact experience of my emotions and fear of the frustration that occurs because it always falls short in such exactitude. Said piece becomes an entirely different composition as each subsequent day’s thoughts and experiences layer upon the original inspiration. I have to decide if I like this or not; if, as a writer, I would be more satisfied were I to demand of myself the discipline to produce immediately that which takes shape in my mind or if my tendency to let the concept of singular writings languish in my brain to become part of a greater stew which finally meets paper due to an arbitrary deadline of becoming past relevancy if not soon committed to paper. Such decision is yet to be made; what follows below is the result of business as usual.

This particular piece began on election night, as I watched the returns in the living room of my niece, Jackie, with my sister, Peggy, and her husband, John, and my twelve week old grandniece asleep on the sofa beside us, Jackie’s sister, Trina (another of my 8 nieces) on the phone with us as she headed to Grant Park in Chicago to be part of the moment. I had made the decision a few weeks earlier to spend Election night in Elkhorn with my sister Peggy, who has during this campaign been an active volunteer at her local Democratic headquarters, finding time in her busy life of working fulltime as a rural mail carrier whose day begins at 6am, a hands-on Grandma to Connor, Cailin, Makenna and recently, baby Lila, church choir member and a solid keeper-upper of her workouts. She has been on the phone tirelessly explaining Obama’s positions to the undecided, directing them to websites that refute some of the misinformation. The last couple of weeks before the election she actually canvassed door to door in a neighboring county. Sometimes in these situations responses can be less than kind and it takes courage to keep going at it. And Peggy kept going at it. I was so proud of her and humbled by her commitment and sacrifice. In early October, I stayed at Peggy’s house for a week’s extended visit (Yes, we only live 33 miles apart, it’s just something that I do – further explanation another time). The timing worked out so that we were able to watch both the vice-presidential debate and the second presidential “town hall” debate together and on into the night flipping channels to catch the responses and assessments from several perspectives. Throughout the weeks that followed we were on the phone nearly everyday, one talking down the other as necessary when it would seem that some of the worst perceptions of Obama were gaining ground or going unanswered, while at other times sharing victorious news, i.e. the McCain campaign’s decision to pull out of Wisconsin. I couldn’t imagine any other scenario than to be watching the election night returns with her.

On Election Day, after doing my own minute part going door to door for a few hours, I loaded a few things in the musemobile and took to the I-43 to join Peggy and John in their living room. After a time, Peggy and I departed for the Dem headquarters downtown, John opting for low-key, having to work the following morning. My sister had allowed herself a vacation day to recover from her labors of recent weeks and hopefully to savor victory. At the Dem Headquarters on Main Street in Smalltown, USA (actually Walworth Avenue in Elkhorn, Wisconsin) food platters and various libations were streaming in, an audience gathered in a viewing room. Jackie called on Peggy’s cell to tell us that MSNBC had called Ohio for Obama, so Peggy and I were already on board when the TV at the headquarters, tuned into a network channel, announced the same, but still, there is something about being in the room when the collective cheer goes up. At the same time, Peggy and I had gotten clear in our minds that we wanted to finish watching the returns for the rest of the evening with young mother, Jackie, home with her newborn; husband and three year old asleep upstairs.

As Peggy and I made our good-bye rounds of glad-handing, a cry of “No Shit!!!” emitted from a woman on the phone in the separated office. What – what? Another state? What? No, even better: Elkhorn – Elkhorn - Republican enclave, Elkhorn - had gone for Obama! This boded well!

Out into the night, Peggy and I board the musemobile and depart (I was the night’s Designated Driver). Pulling up to Jackie’s house with her proud Obama yard sign amid a sea of neighborhood McCain’s, we see that John has already arrived. Inside, we fall into semi-circle formation around the TV, lovely and lively baby Lila, a slumber for the time being (she still wakes for a feeding every three hours). We have text messages incoming from Trina, whose evening classes at Harrington School of Design have been cancelled and who is now making her way to Grant Park. Peggy commands the channel flipping (between MSNBC and CNN). We are gathered, breathless, anxious, hopeful, elated. Trina makes it to Grant Park; her text: “I feel so f-ing proud!” Our chests burst, our tears rain down as Keith Olbermann chokes back a sob announcing that MSNBC is calling the election for Obama – our little group of three generations in the moment. And by now I am texting my own family: “Get to a TV; you have to witness this!” Shannon answers back that she is already watching as she studies for a test. Katie calls wanting to know specific details. She and her roommates have inexplicably decided to go TV-less this year and their internet sucks – they are in the dark – what is happening? I am incredulous! “Get out in the streets, go to a gathering place – any place – a bar even – just get to a TV –people will be watching!” (She lives in Madison, Wisconsin for God’s sakes!) I’m not going to be on the phone, trying to give a blow by blow – I’ve got my own moment to be in here!

John’s sister, Jane, joins our party. We stay on through the concession speech by John McCain and then the momentous appearance in Grant Park by President-elect Obama and his family. Unabashed in our tears throughout another of Obama’s nuanced oratories, we lived the moment together, baby Lila wakening to have her say and make her demands. As we were leaving, Grandma Peggy left one of her campaign buttons for Makenna to wear to daycare the next day.

It has been three weeks since that election night. I still cry in the reliving and retelling of it. There is a connecting thread here to some experiences and emotions of the past week that I intended to be woven in at this point, as referenced in my opening paragraph and even though most of that writing is completed, I’ve decided to quiet the loom, so to speak and let this belated piece stand on its own.

( Peggy, Jackie and me myself and I,  taken the day after the election.)

November 25th, 2008 | Tags: election 08, election night, Obama election | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

With a nod to Keith Olbermann (The Nexus of Politics and Terror), I am going to publish another piece from my book here. I wrote it sometime after the 2004 presidential election, but well before the announcement of Barack Obama’s campaign for the presidency in 2008. The writing is primarily about facial hair growth, but as is often customary with my prose, it segues on a hairpin turn into an entirely different, but semi-related territory much like a third cousin twice removed.

And now without further adieu……

Exceeding Hairline

I need to remove my chin hairs today. “Time was”; I could take the tweezers and pluck a few strays and move on. Weeks would pass before I would see any of those critters again. In the decade of my forties, more and more “settlers” began to arrive. Like the coming of the “white man”; they never stopped. The little colony grew and grew. There is now a wide swatch of fur, when left unattended, and clearing the brush provides only a brief period of respite before the presence of stubble greets my grazing fingers. Once a harmless ditty in a children’s story; “Not by the hair of my chiny, chiny chin!” is a phrase that today makes me wince.

A brief history of my facial hair growth would tell you that I have a light mole on the right side of my chin and another above my lip. When I was in high school these “beauty marks” would occasionally sprout. A quick removal with the tweezers remedied the situation. I felt reasonably confident that these errant little growths went unnoticed by the general public. However, I do have in my possession a pencil drawing, a headshot rendering of me, produced by my younger sister, Kathleen, who was six years old at the time. The portrait has a little circle on the lower right cheek area with three prominent lines protruding from it. When I asked her about it, she explained “It’s that thing on your face with the hairs coming out of it.” Children have such a way with catching the minute details.

At any rate, the aforementioned was manageable until my late twenties and early thirties when more dark foliage appeared above my lip and below my chin. This may have coincided with my going off the pill. I’m not sure, but I certainly did not feel confident carrying off the “fu Manchu” look.

At this time in the early eighties, hair removal and eyebrow management was not the service industry that it is today. I was panicked by the fact that I had recently met a man whose presence made me go weak in the knees and whom I was reasonably sure was supposed to be the father of my children. I had this paranoid fear that he wouldn’t be able to get past the black hairs in order to find out how wonderful I was. We had a “friendship outing” in which we took his four-year-old son to the Walworth County Fair in my hometown of Elkhorn, Wisconsin. At the end of the day, while his Dad (the future father of my children) went to get the car, I knelt down to talk to the little guy (who is now my stepson, Brian), as he seemed somewhat distraught with his Dad out of sight. He looked at me thoughtfully for a few minutes and then asked “How come you have all those black hairs on your face?” It was clearly time for some serious action.

Electrolysis? One of my roommates was spending her time and money doing exactly that to have the hair removed from her bikini line. I never would have thought of that in a million years, but if she was doing that for body hair that was much less obvious than mine, perhaps I should check it out. So for the next however many months, I went on a weekly basis to have the offending hairs individually and painfully removed and it was quite successful. Needless to say, I married the above-mentioned fellow, my stepson has never mentioned the hairs again, we had three more children and all the other highs and lows included in the marriage package. The permanently removed hairs stayed permanently removed and never thought about, that is until, the decade of my forties.

I have always maintained that my forties was not a kind decade. There are numerous reasons for such a statement, however for the purposes of this writing; I will focus only on the hairline stuff. It seems that all the hair that I once shaved from my legs now grows on my face. Much like a bacterium becomes resistant to an antibiotic, the permanently removed hairs found new pathways to erupt on my face. They are quicker and smarter and they appear at a point in my life when time and money for a weekly electrolysis visit are simply not in my playbook. After much admonishment from my teenage daughters, I spent the 25 bucks for an “all natural,” do-it-yourself, at home remedy. It consists of a jar of green goo, made from honey and other like substances, and also includes four strips of white cotton cloth. The idea is that you slather this goo on your skin in the places where the hair is offensive to the sensibilities of others; then slap the white cloth up against it, and after a few seconds you rrrrrrrrrip the cloth away, pulling in the opposite direction that the hair grows. Have you ever tried to figure out which direction the hair grows on your chin? It seems that the wind blows many ways when it comes to chin hair. The first few times I used the product; I managed to loosen a follicle or two. After many trial runs, which resulted in shamefully having to ask my husband or daughter to pluck my hairs for me; I eventually reached the point of expertise to be able to remove about one third of the patch with one swipe, and then no matter how many times I reapply and swipe again, no other hairs will pull out. I am forced to settle for the fact that the rest of growth is loosened enough to be ripe for plucking. This will do for now. I don’t have the same level of self-consciousness about my imperfections that I once possessed. Even when my son lays his head in my lap, looks up under my chin, and says “Whoa, Mom! You need to do something about that hair”; I am immune to the pressure. It gets taken care of on my own terms. I have decided, however, that if I make any profit from this writing; I will treat myself to a laser job.

My kids have taught me that there is a whole new mindset out there regarding body hair. I mean everybody is removing everything. I always liked my men with a good crop of chest hair and preferably some thickness on the arms and legs too, but I guess that’s considered gross these days – guys get it waxed. The kids and I were watching the movie “Mean Girls” together. There is a scene where the four “means girls” are doing a song and dance number for the high school Christmas pageant, dressed in skimpy little Santa dresses. At one point they raised their arms up over their heads and I found myself involuntarily yelling out “How the hell do they get their armpits so milky white?” These days, even freshly shaven, my armpits have an immediate five o’clock shadow; and after one day’s growth, my kids are telling me I have a “Black Forest”.

Lastly, let me just say one more thing about hair growth and politics. During the 2004 presidential campaign, when my husband first saw Teresa Heinz Kerry on the television, he said “somebody needs to tell her to get her hair styled!” I said, “No! I love it that her hair is wild and thick and full and falling in her face– leave it alone – it’s good that way!” One of the saddest things about the results of the 2004 presidential election, for me, was the fact that we would not get to have Teresa Heinz Kerry and Elizabeth Edwards as the country’s leading ladies. The possibility of having brilliant, articulate, outspoken, independent, unapologetic, activist first ladies, who could contribute in a meaningful way, seemed so much fun. I mourn the loss of that dream.

Postscript 11/17/08: It would seem that dreams really do come true.

November 17th, 2008 | Tags: Facial Hair, Keith Olbermann, Midlife Musings, Politics | Category: Midlife Musings, Politics | Comments (1)

Some years back, a different element entwined itself into our Trick or Treat offerings. I was moved to add rows of luminarias around the yard and along the brick ledge on the front of our house – not the metal or ceramic luminarias you can buy – but the “made from scratch” kind, using brown paper lunch sacks folded over an inch at the top to make a stiff rim to hold the bag open and ¾ to an inch of sand ( I now substitute kitty litter for the sand, as the sand wicks moisture from the dew and the bag rips) in the bottom to seat the votive candle. I place them on the grass along the path of our sidewalks and flower gardens and on the brick ledge I like to put little pumpkins in between each lantern. When they are all lit, a quiet sanctuary is formed. As the night darkens, the bags take on a harvest orange hue. I keep the porch and house lights out so that the glow stays soft.

As I was formulating this writing in my mind, I was trying to recall the source of inspiration for such an undertaking. As usual, it seems there was a confluence of ideas and experiences at work; among them: missing my Dad particularly that year, having lived years earlier in New Mexico where on Christmas Eve all of the homes and businesses are lit with rows and rows of these hand-made luminarias that harkens back to a Spanish tradition of lighting the way for the Christ child, the notion of the ancient Celtic observance that holds this one night to be the single time of the year when the veil between the living and departed is thinned so that one may visit between the two, a Loreena McKennitt song about “All Soul’s Night”, my Catholic upbringing that set aside an “All Soul’s Day”, my distaste for the commercial garishness incorporated into Halloween while at the same time still treasuring the childhood magic of being transformed into another creature for one night and having a universal permission to greedily gather forbidden fruits for a few hours.

Thus a convergence one season had me buying inexpensive boxes of votive candles and packages of paper lunch sacks, and bags of sand along with the customary assortment of candies. And once all were assembled and lit and distributed around the yard, my own trick or treaters dispersed to their various places of reverie, I sat for a moment in the little pause before the descending of the celebrants and drank in the effect of my self-made chapel, and I felt something eminently right and beautiful and holy come over me. And on this night and year after year ever since, I am captivated by the spell of the cacophonous groups of voices echoing in the night air: “Don’t get too far ahead! Hold your little sister’s hand! Be sure to say Thank You. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home here. Let’s go to this house!” that seem to collectively soften and hush upon reaching the edge of our yard and the chorus reverts to: “Oh look how pretty.”, “How nice of you to do this, Thank You!” And invariably there are some warnings: “Careful of the candle. Hot. Hot!” to the little toddler size person who simply must walk up to the bag and peer inside to see what is making the light, soft face transfixed in the glow, as though an olden grandmother or grandfather spirit has called their name and whispered something in a language understood only between the two of them. “Okay now, let’s keep going!” holding out a hand “Your candles are lovely, thank you!” In between the visits, I sit in this church like atmosphere, often sipping my own cup of warm liquid, pretending that my Dad is sitting there with me and we are talking as we would be conversing if he were here today, making observations about each of the grandchildren and who they remind us of and especially about my own kids, my fears and hopes for them. We smile and laugh and reminisce.

My husband partners with me in this ritual, adding his own practical energy and strength. That first year on the following morning, he gathered from the yard as many of the luminarias as were still intact. He rolled the bags with the sand still in the bottom and packed them in boxes, and carted them to the attic reasoning they could be used again another year. And so it is that as each October draws to an end, he retrieves the boxes from the attic, so I can begin unfurling the bags to add new votives. Most years, I make additional new ones to increase the number and replace the ones too far gone. On All Hallow’s Eve, it is my husband, being the one more aligned with the element of fire, who lights all the luminarias, once they have been assembled and placed. Some years when it has been especially chilly, we have kept a big pot of apple cider mulled with cinnamon sticks on the stove to fill a carafe in order to proffer a hot drink to the adult chaperones, the recipients always very grateful. Although there have been some years when as many as 150 luminarias have graced the evening, these last few there have been just enough to line the walk to the house and the brick ledge. Still, it provides a sacred quiet in a swirl of excitement.

And once the last voice has dimly echoed, we elect to let the lanterns keep burning into the night until they extinguish themselves, sometimes sitting with them awhile in the stillness. Long after we have all gone to bed, the sanctuary keeps its vigil. I find myself, throughout the night, getting up to gaze out the window at its holiness.

And there is something holy about all the little shape-shifters parading this nights as ballerinas and pirates, China dolls and football players, cell phones and garbage cans, well executed ideas and cleverness gone astray, handmade costumes and store bought ones, traversing the walkways of the neighborhoods, and the older ones too, knowing full well that the Santa Claus and Easter Bunny of their former understanding is really Mom and Dad, still participating and playing in this one last permissible childishness, one by one arriving to each door, holding open their satchels to receive this singular night’s unconditional abundance. And I can be reconciled with the twist of the traditions, letting my lanterns be the bridge between the ancient and the now, the trick or treaters not knowing why the magic feels sacred for a moment, as, I, with wooden bowl on my hip and my Dad at my shoulder, drop faery dusted candy into their bags.

A final parting story here: There was one year, after the quiet had descended and we were about to retire, I looked out into the yard and on one of the lanterns, the bag, very wrinkled, recycled several years now, - there appeared a face - an ancient Nordic warrior, helmeted, with chiseled features and a beard. He was very solemn. He and I gazed at each other through my kitchen window for some duration. He didn’t have too much to say except that:

Life is old

And life is new.

Some people die for good reasons and

Some people die for terrible reasons.

All souls live forever.

I listened for a long time. As he began to fade in the late hour, I finally said:

Thank you Sir

For lingering with me this while

Goodbye and Godspeed.

November 2nd, 2008 | Tags: Add new tag, All Hallow's Eve, All Soul's Night, Halloween, Halloween Tradition | Category: Spiritual | Comments (5)

This is the second of what was supposed to be a two part piece about my experience as a first time participant in the festival detailed below, but due to the richness of the experience and my own wordiness, it will in fact be the second of a three part piece, the last piece being the one that will actually focus on my day hosting my book table at the Book Fair portion of the festival.

Opening Reception 10-03-08

Well, I was granted a table at the Edgerton Sterling North Book and Film Festival. Included with my notice was an invitation to an opening reception the Friday evening before at The Edgerton Depot (pictured left). Arriving nearly an hour after the start of the festivities (a whole other story not pertinent to what I want to relate here), I expected to quietly slip in, fill a plate with hors de oeuvres and mingle unobtrusively with a few other participants, however my hosts were on task. I was spotted slithering in (at least as close as one can get to slithering encased in a chubby middle age body), greeted, given a name tag, asked if I were one of the authors, given a second nametag indicating the affirmative to said question and escorted to the main room where the reception was being held and handed to Diane Everson, interim chairman of the festival, who then interrupted the speaker that I might introduce myself and my book.

I will admit right here that I am glad I didn’t know ahead of time that I might be asked to speak about my book. The whole promotion/marketing of one’s work is an aspect of putting oneself “out there” as a writer that I was not prepared to delve into. I thought finishing the book and getting it printed was all it took. I have been taking in as much information as I can about the “20 second pitch”, honing down to the “keywords”, networking with writer’s groups and taking advantage of workshops etc. for over a year now. As a result of this I was able to pull out some descriptive but succinct phrases that seemed to get the job done. I probably might have over thought it if I’d tried to prepare in advance. It was a good experience to add to my learning curve, so that right there was worth the price of admission. Then the floor was returned to the gentleman who had been speaking (whom I later learned was Mark Scarborough, more on him later.) Following that was an introduction of the chef who created the evening’s array of finger food. He spoke a few minutes about his career and venues in the area. Unfortunately, I was present as a participant, not a reporter, so I am embarrassed to say that his name and exact places of businesses (and I do believe that more than one was named) escape me, but I think that I can say with relative confidence that one of them was “The Speakeasy” in Janesville, WI.

All that being concluded, we were encouraged to load up plates and mingle. I found myself moving through that part of The Edgerton Depot that houses the local museum mentioned in a prior post, now turned into a reception hall, elegant with candlelight and decorations that included a couple of volumes of someone’s treasured collection of O. Henry’s works on each table – lovely setting. I enjoyed conversations with several of the volunteers involved in the effort. As the evening wound up and cleanup was taking place, I was asked to join a party that were going to be adjourning to a restaurant across the street, owned by one of the volunteers herself.

So in the downtown Friday night lights of Edgerton, we “human caravanned” across the street to the corner of Main and Fulton to The Fox Point. Walking in the door, the owner was already there, pulling tables together to accommodate our party. (And here again, I wish I could state her name: pretty, slender, blonde woman, very attentive to our service, will have to suffice because of the whole being a participant, not reporter thing.) And here I find myself for the second time in as many weeks, sampling the dining fare of Edgerton. Whereas Ray’s Family Restaurant is terrific for simple home-cookin’ and casualness; The Fox Point has the atmosphere and menu for a more “special” evening of fine dining and music. (I feel that I should file a disclaimer here stating that no one in any way connected to Edgerton or either of these two establishments put me up to this – it is just all part of the color of my experience and I don’t know how to convey it any other way but to try and accurately describe it.)

I really did not think that I was hungry enough to order a full dinner, as the hors de oeuvres I had already enjoyed were of such richness and variety that I felt that I had already consumed a full meal and certainly several of the appetizers offered on the menu at the Fox Point would have been nearly another meal. Still, my eyes took in the entrees (for future reference, of course) and were immediately drawn to the filet with a bleu cheese and roasted garlic sauce with garlic mashed potatoes on the side. Having seen a mound of the garlic mashed potatoes pass by on another plate and being a “true believer” when it comes to mashed potatoes, as well as, a bleu cheese sauce lover and in the mood for a medium-rare filet, along with the fact that the filet could be ordered in a dainty 4 oz. size and all at such a terribly reasonable price, my choice was clear. Besides, I reasoned, I would eat only half and take the rest home. Well, I think that we all know how that story ends!

Our group’s tables strung together ran nearly the length of the dining room and more lively and varied conversation ran the length of the evening. I guess after so many years of my social life revolving around being a spectator parent at my children’s activities, I felt very enlivened to be participating in something that resulted solely from my own personal creative endeavors and to be in the company of other writers and people engrossed in all of the various aspects of writing, publishing and filmmaking and to be part of an event celebrating, promoting and supporting such undertakings. I felt exalted and feted and literary – I was on a cloud! The immediate circle of fellow diners at my end of the table included Edgerton’s new grade school principal whose name unfortunately I did not retain, Cathe, one of the gracious volunteers whose last name I dropped and some others whose names I did retain with a little help from the Festival’s publication: Karen Hartman, of Native American and Chinese descent who founded her own publishing company to produce her vibrantly illustrated children’s stories, Jeff Hagen, the author of “Hiawatha Passing” an award winning children’s classic about the famous high-speed train of the 1940’s and more recently “Brewed Awakenings, a travelogue of Wisconsin’s coffee shops, Mark Scarborough, Wisconsin poet, author, reporter and educator, and William Brennan, author of “Death in a Prairie Home: Frank Lloyd Wright and the Taliesin Murders” and one of the event’s speakers. Our conversations ran the gamut from the teaching profession to vintage coffee pots, with stops along the way about family remodeling projects, career changes in midlife, how mindlessly good the food tasted, relocating back to a place of one’s roots, and at what point to let go of a vision so that one can see something beyond. The fact is that I can’t tell here if I am successfully conveying the flavor of the evening’s prelude to the actual Book Fair or if I just sound a lot like someone who really, really hasn’t gotten out in a while. I guess that the point is that I absolutely, thoroughly enjoyed myself and the evening’s companions and being a part of the Edgerton Sterling North Book and Film Festival made it all possible. And I do plan a return trip to The Fox Point in order to have the dessert I had to pass up on this particular night!

October 26th, 2008 | Tags: Book Fair, Edgerton Depot, Edgerton Sterling North Book and Film Festival, Edgerton Wisconsin, Midlife Author, Ray's Family Restaurant, The Fox Point | Category: Travel Wisconsin | Comments (2)

Where it all Begins

In June of 2003, I wrote a piece explaining why I was going to title a book: Musings from the Midriff at Midlife, which became the first piece in the book. (A brief aside here: I used the underline method to signify my book title, but I wonder if that is correct form these days. I was taught that the grammatically proper form for a book title was to underline or type it in all caps, but now that the underline is used to signify a web link or URL, I wonder if it is a dated format. I don’t particularly like using the “all caps” alternative because of that whole perceived shouting thing. One of these days I’ll google it, I guess.) Although there are a few paragraphs that could use some updating some five years hence, it really encapsulates a lot of what I am about and the places from which I write, so I thought I should get it in my blog archive as a means of introducing my self properly.

Here it is:

Why the Title?

Well first of all, I like alliteration. It is a literary tool that is easily accessible to even the most novice of writers. There is something warm and friendly about an alliterative phrase. It rolls nicely. It doesn’t feel stuffy or inaccessible. It’s easy company. It often presents itself without one really trying for it, as the title of this book presented itself to me. It rolled in one day while I was mentally composing an essay on the state of my waistline.

So let me begin by speaking to the subject of that waistline. I am occupying a body these last ten years that is very different from the body that I occupied most of my middle thirty years. The body that I occupied for the first thirteen years of my life was always changing, so I was used to that then. However the body of my middle thirty years, with the exception of my three full term pregnancies, was mostly the same one over the span of those three decades. It was a body that I was largely (no pun unintended) happy with and a body that, judging by the consistent reactions in various settings from age fourteen to forty, was more than moderately attractive from the outside view. So other than the normal amount of the 1960’s thru1990’s American Woman’s distress about the size of thighs (or sighs about my thighs) being too big, I lived for the better part of three decades with the notion that a part of the person who was me, had a more than moderately attractive body. This fact or, “notion” as it were, was a static fixture in my existence in the way that one’s nose, ears, eye color, hair type, brain etc. are static fixtures in one’s existence. A person takes for granted the fact they have these things without thinking too much about the fact that they have them.

As to what exactly was the nature of the body that I inhabited for the better part of thirty years, well, some might say that it’s most notable feature was an ample bust line – a nice well matched pair of 36C’s. I also liked the fact that the hips were on the narrow side. The buttocks were a little flat by today’s “booty” standard, but there was somehow enough material present to create a sense of an attractive curve. But the real physical asset that I smugly enjoyed were the notable indentations at the waist with the flat stomach just below. We are talking 27-28 inches here. We are talking wearing size 5-7 skirts. With a hip measurement of approximately 36”, we are talking a very respectable waistline. Over the three decades that I occupied this particular body, when other women commented about my waistline, phrases like “such a teeny waist” and “hourglass figure” were used. I could put my hands around my waist with my thumbs at the back and my fingers at the front and then by exerting a little pressure I could make my thumbs touch at the back and my middle fingers touch in front. It was sort of a status check on the equipment that I did from time to time. To complete the package, I was blessed with a reasonably pretty face and reasonably shapely legs.

I did not have to put a lot of effort into maintaining my figure. It pretty much held its shape on its own like a really good quality fabric. There were a few years where I actually jogged regularly. There was one year that I took a dance aerobics class. And there were some periods where I did some walking on a regular basis. These periods of exercise, however, totaled less than five years. If you put a total of less than five years over thirty, it is a small fraction of the whole. And whenever things started to get a little out of hand by 5 to 10 lbs, minimal effort snapped that waistline right back into place.

Oftentimes, significant changes occur in very small increments daily, until one day, we have the conscious realization that a major metamorphosis has taken place. I remember clearly the exact moment that it dawned on me, that I no longer had an indented waistline.

In my mid-forties after two failed attempts at self employment that I had hoped would provide income to my household while at the same time allowing me to remain present and available to my children, I re-entered the work world in the profession I had been employed in during my BC years (Before Children years). As I hit this point in my life, I had already been gaining a steady five pounds a year. What was once the largest skirt I owned (a size 9, softly gathered blue jean skirt, that I had purchased shortly after the birth of my second daughter – a skirt which fit at the time of purchase but within a few weeks became too large, which I then altered by cinching the belt tighter at the waistband to create a few more flattering gathers and the skirt became one of my wardrobe staples), - that skirt, had long since met the back of my closet because I could no longer button it. The articles of clothing that I managed to assemble for my return to work were equipped with elastic waistbands and mid thigh length tops that covered what I had not yet allowed myself to perceive. I remained blissful in the belief that the few extra pounds I was carrying would easily disappear with a little regular exercise; time and energy permitting. There were, however, little things, that began to break through my haze of denial. For instance: when I went to purchase a new pair of jeans for “dress down Fridays”, I could barely fit into a Misses-Size 16 and in a few short months those jeans became uncomfortably snug. Driving home from work, I would feel these rolls of flesh popping out under my bra and others layering over my waistbands. I said “rolls” – plural.

My drive to and from work lasted about 35 to 40 minutes in light traffic. These commutes became a time when I had the radio tuned into an oldies station and cranked! I danced behind my steering wheel to the classic rock of the 60’s and 70’s. It was during one of these dance fevers that a realization penetrated my haze (et purple, Jimmie?); that the geometry from the bottom of my bra strap to the flesh covering my hipbone formed a straight line, - that my overall shape, from my shoulders to the ground, was the shape of a large rectangle (not even a Grecian urn, let alone an hourglass)! I had been gyrating to “Pretty Woman” in full faith that I was ensconced in an hourglass. This was the moment that I spoke of earlier – the moment of clarity about the fact that my waistline no longer indented – the moment that the rectangle invaded my faith/hourglass space.

My drives to and from work, (especially the “from” drive because then my work day was over and my brain/time was my own), became sessions of musings: musings on the passing of my life. I found myself crying one day as I drove past a flower that had been at the peak of its bloom the day before. It was still pretty but it was beginning to droop and to have a little brown around the edges. I knew that no amount of care could restore it to its peak bloom – it would have to continue to die. Death before rebirth, no matter how promising the rebirth, is still going to be final. Even if by dieting and exercising, I could return my figure to its former proportions, it would never be the same figure. There are now droopings and wrinkles and non-youthful skin tone that will never be completely restored/returned. I would never, ever again, be an attractive thirty something dancing to “Pretty Woman”. I knew that the sexuality dancing inside the rectangle still existed, but I couldn’t imagine how it appeared from the outside, looking in. I was, in that musing, deeply pained by the reality of my finite physical self. But it was not just a superficial pain over the loss of physical youth and attractiveness. As I listened to the “Youngbloods” singing “Come on people now, smile on your brother – everybody get together – got to love one another right now” in that same musing… it was the loss of the notion that had existed in my final teenage and early adult years, that we could, we would, find an alternative to war, that our generation’s awareness of the fragility and wondrous gifts of the environment would spawn a change of pace, a redefinition of progress, that our compassion and commitment could even produce a balanced social change. As I drove that day among the shiny giant SUV’s, the sprawling gentrification of last year’s prairies and cornfields, and with the drooping bloom of my face, I sobbed with the realization that we didn’t do all that we thought we could do, all that we thought we surely would do.

With each drive, some of my day-to-day musings were as grief stricken as the one above, some were lighter and made me chuckle at my delightful wit, and some were components of each. As with all aspiring writers, I thought that some of my musing were profound; I thought that some were funny or at least mildly amusing; and I thought that my musings were worthy of being recorded. I thought that since these musings somehow emerged from the fact that I was in my midlife, and that, in my midlife, my midriff had altered, and that, a woman’s midriff is home to her uterus, her gut instincts, her intuition, her most life giving, sustaining and deepest wisdom; that the appropriate title for my book would be Musings from the Midriff at Midlife and the fact that the title turned out to be an alliterative phrase was just another bonus.

October 22nd, 2008 | Tags: aging, middle age midriff, midlife body image, Midlife Musings, the sixties | Category: Midlife Musings | Leave a comment

This is the first of two separate posts detailing my experience as a first time participant in the Edgerton Sterling North Book and Film Festival. The reader will note that the writing is nearly one month old and the reasons for it not having been posted earlier are a story that I doubt would ever have any useful telling, but the story that I do relate here is an integral part of my whole experience in this event and speaks well (I think) of the town of Edgerton, Wisconsin. So without further ado…..

9-18-08

The midriff muse meandered in her 96 Dodge Caravan today. The destination was Edgerton, Wisconsin and the purpose was to submit her book for consideration to be given a table at the Edgerton Book and Film Festival to be held October 4^th. The deadline for submission was September 1^st and we are already at a disadvantage (we think) by virtue of the fact that we are self-published. So we will await the outcome with bated breath.

As a conveyance, the 96 Dodge Caravan leaves some things to be desired. The air conditioning does not function and temperatures in these parts remain such that an occasional blast would be welcome, as well as, providing the ability to have the windows closed while keeping cool. This breezy and sunlit day, only a few days removed from the fall equinox also carries certain allergens that make travel with the windows open risky and the sound of the adjoining traffic is seldom complimentary. The AM/FM radio and sound system work fine, but the cassette player does not and for certain members of the family this is extremely vexing as a cassette/CD adapter device, in lieu of an actual CD player, is preferred over the radio for the more discerning ears and refined selection. Sometimes musical accompaniment is pleasant; sometimes, unnecessary. Today, the scenery was more than music enough for me. The fields of soybean crops are particularly resplendent this time of year as they complete the season in a becoming dress of a very golden, golden, yellow edged with a red brown finish.

While I could devote paragraphs to enumerating the deficiencies of the 96 Dodge Caravan, or, conversely, the ecstasies of a fine fall day in southeastern Wisconsin, I am going to confine myself to one of Edgerton’s culinary delights.

Edgerton is a small town of about 5000 according to the population sign, a little more than an hour’s drive from where I live. It took several traverses up and down a few blocks of main street to locate the Chamber of Commerce Office where I was to drop off my book, it being located in the refurbished train depot with little detectable signage (at least to the eyes of this foreigner) and the actual entry being located on the street running perpendicular to Main Street. While waiting for Kathy Citta, the busy woman co-coordinating events through the Chamber of Commerce and personing the office from 10a.m. until 2p.m. daily, I had the opportunity to peruse the charming, preserved structure which also houses the local historical museum. In doing so, I learned for the first time that Wisconsin produces tobacco crops and that Edgerton’s early commerce and existence centered on such. (A side note here: I am so very grateful to the people who devote hours of their lives to collecting and cataloguing the artifacts and stories of our collective communities’ past. It is good that the threads are woven and the stories are told.) After delivering my parcel and hopes to Kathy, I asked her if there were any good places to eat in town. She said “that depends on what kind of food you’re looking for.” I told her that I was looking for a sort of “Ma and Pop” place with homemade food. She was happy to tell me that they have just such a place and directed me to “Ray’s Family Restaurant” on the highway going out of town, which I had noted coming in to town. She assured me that their food was very good and that they made everything right there.

The parking lot of “Ray’s Family Restaurant” had looked very busy when I first drove by. The exterior was fairly nondescript and it has been my experience that in such places the food can also be nondescript or it can be very, very good. I am happy to report that in this case, the latter applied.

The menu offered many considerations which I had narrowed to deciding between biscuits and gravy or the olive burger. Learning from the waitress that breakfast items were served at all hours of operation tipped the scales in the favor of biscuits and gravy. I am a big fan of baking powder biscuits made from scratch. The dining room was dominated by senior clientele this early Thursday afternoon. My meal arrived quickly and went down the same way. The biscuits were thick and moist and there was plenty of gravy. Good coffee accompanied and was refilled regularly.

Although fully sated, my sweet tooth never passes up consideration of a dessert case. I had eyed some good looking tortes as I entered, so when the waitress returned with my check, I inquired about their being created in house. She explained to me that while all the pies were made fresh from scratch every day in the restaurant, the tortes came from a bakery in Chicago. A piece of fresh cherry pie was hard to pass up, but something about a lemon coconut torte claimed my heart, so I took a section home with me to enjoy later.

I left Ray’s with every intention of returning for a piece of cherry pie someday. I took the meander roads back to I 94 and it was an excellent day for that.

Back at home later that evening, I brewed a special pot of coffee to have with my selection. Anyone who has ever dined with me through the dessert course will tell you that I am strangely ritualistic about having a sip or two of hot coffee between each bite of dessert– to such a degree that either I or a member of my party will make a point to request the server to be careful that my cup is refilled with frequency so that my consumption will not be interrupted for lack of coffee. Here in my own domicile, I used my favorite little vintage coffee pot, which is a gleaming, round, chromium Manning Bowman percolator, with a bubble glass globe and a wooden handle, manufactured in 1948. It makes about 3 full size mugs or 5 to 6 china cups of coffee and the grand and charming thing about it is that its circuitry is from an era when the technology was such that there is no automatic shut off. The doneness of the coffee is determined by the maker, watching the color of the coffee darken in the globe, the amount and frequency of the steam coming out of the vents in the lid and listening to the timing in between perks. This can produce some very, very fine coffee.

As the accompanying picture at the top of the article shows, I savored my lemon coconut torte using a fine china dessert set which my daughter Shannon brought home to me from her high school trip to Germany. And of course, the coffee pot sat only a hand’s length away so that I was never without a refill. My day’s excursion ended on a grand note, indeed.

October 14th, 2008 | Tags: Book Fair, Edgerton Sterling North Book and Film Festival, Edgerton Wisconsin, Ray's Family Restaurant, Sterling North | Category: Travel Wisconsin | Comments (1)

My grand niece, Makenna Ranson, is her own “special effects” department; she is capable of producing in her observers innumerable shades of warmth, nostalgia, protectiveness, spellbound observation, affection, good humor, and all other manner of things when her aura fills a room. This writing is about one of her singular effects on me. I don’t think there is an adequate word to convey it; my hope is to somewhat describe it.

My occasions of interaction with Makenna are most often holidays or family gatherings, so it must have been some time in summer or early fall of 2006 when I found myself watching her in the first stages of upright walking and became transported to my own years of relative young age. With Makenna in our immediate purview, I turned to my mother and said: “That’s me and Mary, right there!” It was not due to a wistful longing or an egotistical need to insert myself into her perfection, rather it was more of a “beam me up, Scottie” kind of moment that set me in the midst of the world inhabited by my sister and me as we lived our first years in this life together.

My sister Mary and I are what are commonly referred to as “Irish twins”. We are little more than 20 months apart in age and occupy the top two positions of an 11 person line-up, myself being the eldest (and yes I do reference the fact that we are two of eleven siblings). The unique bond of being an actual twin is documented such that it need not take up space here. The experience of being an “Irish twin” of the same sex is what I can speak to. Sharing the same bedroom space with the arrival of the youngest, being in diapers and much of babyhood together, experiencing nearly everything, new and old through the eyes of relatively the same world view, able to jumpstart each other into giggles with a single expression or sound, or to burst into tears over the other’s hurts and boo-boos because of one’s emotional proximity, sharing a dialect known only to the two of you, sleeping in unison, waking in unison, all these things form a bedrock that only the two of you can tap into.

Makenna is the product of DNA twice removed from my own, as well as her Grandpa Rader’s side of the family borne by her mother and everything that her own dad brings to the mix, so most people see influences that bear little resemblance to me, and yet when I looked at her that day and many other times since, I feel like I am looking at my toddler sister Mary or even myself in a time gone by. And I say “feel” because it is like I am reliving the feeling of it, the emotion, the thoughts, even the “little body” experience of that time. And so despite most opinions to the contrary, I say she looks just like Mary and me because, in the soft roundness of her face, the shape of her eyebrows and her easy being in this world, I have this visceral experience of another dimension in my life.

This experience has given me a blessing because, for Mary and me, after we moved past our early childhood years, certain aspects of our lives caused us to move away from our bond; to separate from it, to bury it, to work against each other rather than for each other.

We completely lost the ability to retrieve that unconditional love and appreciation we each had for the other and in large part, things remained that way. Watching my own “Irish twins”, my daughters Katie and Shannon who are now 22 and 21, throughout their lives, I witnessed them inhabiting such a space, the one long abandoned by Mary and me. My daughters are very unalike in terms of temperament, approach to life, decisions that they make for themselves, what works for them and what doesn’t and all other manner of things, but they are sisters to the end. Their “Irish twin” bond remains a space that they can re-inhabit and draw on in an instant. They can dissolve each other into giggles with a single look or phrase of instant comprehension still. I have witnessed them rely on their differences as a source of strength and a way to be there for each other rather than a source of separation and detachment.

I have always been happy for them that this has been, and continues to be, a constant in their lives. I was glad for them in the way that a parent is glad for their children to have a better life. Its existence in mine was so far removed that I never for a moment conceived that it could exist again. And while for the reader, the remedy may seem possible, it was nowhere near on my radar. The gift of Makenna’s appearance these recent years is that I was able to feel it again. And feeling it cut right to the chase; no therapy, no analyzing, no words, no thought. It was a faint signal at first, but it kept getting reinforced every time I was in Makenna’s company. Mary and I began to transmit little things to each other. Last summer, I went to visit her in her home and we had a complete healing. My “Irish twin” and I are dear in each other’s lives again. We may go weeks without talking, but it is immediate when we call on it.

Makenna and I have had some quality time in recent days as I am staying at my sister Peggy’s (her Grandma) house for a visit. Today, Makenna was jumping on the bed that I have been sleeping in. She was jumping with all abandon, as a three year old can do, when she got too near the edge and fell. I was the one nearby to pick her up and comfort her. I cautioned her to stay near the center of the bed when jumping, telling her of the time when I was her age and jumping on my Mom’s bed with her Great Aunt Mary and fell against the headboard and cut my head open just above my eye. My eyelid still bears the scar. Makenna had more cartoons to watch, so enough of all that, Aunt Terry. She paused just long enough to let me take the picture at the top of this story.

I took her picture because I wanted to have a picture to accompany the story that I already knew that I was going to write about Makenna and her jumping on the bed. What I didn’t know was that the story would also be an October Valentine from Tay-Tay to May-May.

I love you, May, and I’m glad you’re in my life.

.

October 9th, 2008 | Tags: deja vu, family, forgiveness, healing, Irish twin, sisters | Category: Family | Comments (4)

The Midriff Muse traveled in her musemobile (96 Dodge Caravan) to Wausau, Wisconsin this past Saturday to attend the Wisconsin Regional Writers Association Fall Conference. Having become a member of the organization and attended the Spring Conference this past May, we were looking forward to a renewal of the fellowship and inspiration we had experienced previously. The fall conference boasted another stellar line-up of speakers and discussions as well as, the celebration of W.R.W.A.’s sixtieth anniversary of existence. Although activities were scheduled from Friday evening through Sunday early afternoon, we had opted, for reasons of economy, to sign up for the Saturday schedule only. We reasoned that if we got on the road by 5 a.m., we should easily arrive within the 8-9 am registration hour, with time to socialize.

On Friday evening, having taken in the presidential debates, we readied our clothing selection and satchel for the next day, and preemptively downed some Vitamin C and some “Airborne”, as a cold virus had invaded our household earlier in the week and we were hoping to outsmart the telltale scratchy throat and sneezes that were prickling at our sense of well being. As an added precaution, we laid in a supply of Dayquil and Kleenex for the journey. We set our alarm for a ridiculous hour and tried to sleep.

Around 4:20 am, at the continued insistence of our alarm, we rallied, readied ourselves, packed the car with satchel, water bottle, purse and Kleenex box, and being unable to deny that the cold virus was gaining ground, swallowed a dose of Dayquil. All that being accomplished, the Midriff Muse and I left the driveway.

Right off the bat, the trip had an auspicious beginning. I had to stop at a BP to fill up the tank and went inside to get a cup of hot coffee, since I had foregone percolating some in my own kitchen for time’s sake. It still being the wee hours and the place just opening for business, I looked forward to a stout brew from the first pot of the day. I was a little dismayed as I pushed the lever of the samovar, and saw the liquid dispensing into my Styrofoam cup.

“Something’s not right with your coffee”, I said to the clerk, motioning her over so she could see for herself.

“Oh that’s just the way it is” she said.

Pointing to the liquid in the cup, I said: “Look! You can see all the way through to the bottom of the cup!”

We Wisconsinites like such a quality in our lake water, but not our coffee.

Peering into the cup, the clerk just shrugged.

“That’s just not right!” I persisted.

Showing no inclination toward concern or remedy, she said: “I just come in and press the buttons and that’s the way it turns out.”

Anxious to get on the road, I chose complaisance over battle and followed my usual procedure when anticipating less than a satisfactory brew of coffee: adding two mini containers of half and half and a boat load of sugar. It wasn’t long down the road before I was chiding myself for such optimistic reasonableness as I sipped a cup of mere hot water with cream and sugar. Before long, I was castigating myself for not having pulled the basket out of the machine and proving to myself and to the clerk that there was no actual coffee in there. At least I would have had the satisfaction of being right! I kept drinking the hot liquid against my better judgment just because it was hot liquid. And then some rumblings began in my tummy, serious rumblings. And they persisted. As I had tried to tell the clerk, something was not right, in fact, something was very, very wrong.

For the sake of delicacy, I am going to be brief here. I had to (as in: was required to) make an unscheduled stop. Whatever was in my tummy; wanted out, immediately. And that is all I am going to say about that. I can only hold the caramel-colored water, sold to me as coffee, to blame.

I arrived at the conference shortly after nine, completed a hasty registration and tried to sneak my way around the back of the room to an empty seat which was, of course, on the far side of the room and up towards the middle, so I would have to wiggle and bump my way through the already seated attendees with my big satchel and my incoming, cold virus, head already feeling swollen to the size of a pumpkin. Polite smiles all around, nobody stared at the size of my noggin, but I felt sure that it was obvious. I tried to discreetly situate myself by pouring a glass of ice water somewhat less than noiselessly as all the ice cubes fell to the top of and over the pitcher spout. More polite smiles. Feeling my eyes begin to water and my nose becoming runny, I seek to extract the Kleenexes from my satchel just in time to catch some sneezes. More polite smiles.

From this point forward, my day becomes consumed with trying to be an attentive listener and glean all the information I can from our speakers, with fishing for more Kleenexes to catch my sneezes, secreting away used Kleenexes or holding onto ones with enough “clear” space left on them to catch another sneeze without appearing too germy, trying to reason how soon I can take another dose of Dayquil, trying to ward off the sleepiness the Dayquil causes even though it is not supposed to, increasingly having to breath through my mouth and sound like Darth Vader, and throughout, trying to maintain some sense of dignity and sociability.

Now, without trying to give an accounting of Saturday’s events and presentations, which is not the purpose of this writing, let me just say that, in spite of my fog, I was able to take in a great deal of helpful information about acquiring a website, marketing my own writing, the in and outs of acquiring an agent and the current state of the publishing market thanks to excellent presentations by Ralph Sharp, Nancy Christie, Joanna MacKenzie. In addition, I thoroughly enjoyed listening to Maryo Ewell (daughter of Robert Gard) describe her father’s faith in the abundance of stories Wisconsin has to relate and his dedication to that purpose by founding the Wisconsin Regional Writers Association, as well as, her childhood experiences growing up in the midst of that mindset. I was also able to renew acquaintances from the Spring Conference and to acquire some new ones. The day was well worth my efforts to stick it out.

However, as the evening meal approached, I was trying to determine how much longer I could hold out. I had signed up for the “open mic” session after dinner. I had participated in the same at the spring conference and basked in the glow afterward of receiving compliments on both my writing and my rendering of it. I was hoping for a repeat experience. Then again, the specter of a three hour drive before I could even hope to surrender myself to my own bed, the fact that my face was now red and raw from the repeated brushes with un-lotioned Kleenex, the dinner being tasteless and my head now feeling swollen to the size of a hay bale (I swear I could actually feel it wacking other heads whenever I turned mine), my last dose of Dayquil wearing off, and the refuse from my nose now being a nonstop drip, I had to wave the white flag. I said hasty good-byes and made a beeline (as least as much as my condition would allow) to the parking lot.

Across the street was a “Trig’s” Pharmacy, to which I headed. Worried about my ability to stay awake for the drive, I opted to forego any medications purchases and opted instead to nurse myself home with Vick’s Vapor rub, Vaseline and boxes of Puff’s with lotion. Back in the musemobile with my supplies, I slathered Vaseline all over the reddened area, dabbed the Vicks under and around my nostrils, on my neck and chest, opened up the first box of Puff’s and situated it prominently. And for one last drastic measure, I applied generous amounts of Vick’s to my insteps. I recalled a conversation where a person described clearing up a long lingering sinus infection by following a recommendation to coat the bottoms of the feet with Vick’s and wear cotton socks over the them – something about the bottom of the feet being an acupuncture pressure point for the sinuses. I figured that since I was foregoing medications, I would take any other measures which might help. So even though I didn’t have a pair of socks and I was wearing flip-flops, (Yes, Stacey and Clinton, of “TLC’s What Not to Wear”, I know that flip-flops are never, never acceptable footwear and worst yet in September, but they were the closest thing to dressier brown shoes that I own, to wear with my brown dress and they do have sparkles and dangley things on them, so in this case, I had to rely on them to “play in Wausau, Wisconsin” and besides, that was really the least of my worries at this time.), a solid dab of Vick’s went on the soles of my feet. Before long, I was pointing south on highway 51, making my way, filling up tissues with issues, reapplying the Vaseline and Vick’s as needed, trying to drink water judiciously to counter the extreme dryness as a result of having to breath through my mouth only.

Unfortunately, judiciously or not, the effects of water-drinking began to make demands that exceeded my will to drive straight through. I watched the exits for the optimal situation. The first one appeared at a town called Hancock. These small town exits advertising a gas station can sometimes be risky in that it may actually reside more than a few miles from the exit itself. I took solace in the fact that the lit up CITGO sign was protruding into the sky right next to the exit instead of somewhere off on the horizon and sure enough, it was only a quick turn to the left, over the overpass and down the hill at what appeared to be the outskirts of the hamlet of Hancock. There was a fair amount of commerce present on this Saturday evening, with two cars at the pump and another two in parking spaces. I was anxious to get in, do my business, secure a cup of coffee to help stay awake and get out of there with as little notice as possible. To my dismay, there was only a single restroom inside the store area, which I duly occupied and locked the door, and during my occupancy another patron tried the door and not believing it to be actually locked, jiggled it twice more until I yelled out the ubiquitous “Somebody’s in here!” Once I emerged to the next would-be occupant, I stepped immediately to the coffee pot containing a promising colored brew, filled a cup, added half and half and sugar as a precautionary measure. As I turned to the cashier counter, there was a line already six people deep! Crap! I walked over and stood perpendicular to the line, thinking I would stand and wait for the line to catch up to me. I don’t know why I was thinking this; let’s remember that my head was in a fair amount of fog. Everyone there appeared to be acquainted with each other except for me. Everyone seemed to have some idea of everyone else’s business there except for me. A variety of things were being purchased besides gasoline: lottery tickets, beer, snacks, car parts. As the line moved up, a kind gentleman took pity on me and motioned me to skip in line ahead of him. I thanked him profusely and meant it from the bottom of my heart. I needed to pay and get out of there! When I stepped outside, a local police squad car had pulled up and joined the camaraderie. I got into the musemobile and took my leave of the local Saturday night small town scenery, noting an abandoned car in a dark lot to my left, a darkened ranch home beyond that and an abandoned trailer nearer to the road.

As I resumed my drive, I was musing as I tend to do, about the local vignette I had just exited, and it occurred to me: I must have been some sight to the populace in the CITGO station, with my heavy breathing through the mouth, face greasy, shiny, with Vaseline and Vicks, brown flip flops oozing vapors. I’m sure that after I walked out they all gathered in a circle and said “What was that?” And the nice man who let me in line said, “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s just a woman coming down with a very bad cold and is trying to get home as quickly as possible. She has no idea how crazed and goofy she looked.”

Stay tuned, as Midriff Muse will travel to Edgerton, Wisconsin on Saturday October 4^th for the Edgerton Sterling North Book and Film Festival where she will have a table at the Book Fair located in the Edgerton High School Gym.

September 30th, 2008 | Tags: Bad Coffee, Edgerton Sterling North Book and Film Festival, Hancock, Hancock Wisconsin, Midriff Muse, Wausau, WI, Wisconsin, Wisconsin Regional Writers Association | Category: Travel Wisconsin, Uncategorized | Comments (3)