Here's all the stuff I really want to do, as of this month of this year. Goodness knows it could change again any day. My blog seems the best place to store it, as a sheet of paper could be swallowed by the vortex of our house quite easily. =)
Work at the Renaissance Festival
-as a food vendor
-as a musical performer (penny whistle)
Camp and/or Hike
-in Duluth (again)
-Lake of the Woods
-all over Minnesota
-Yellowstone (again)
-Zion National Park, UT
-Grand Canyon
-Black Hills
-Grand Tetons
-Canada wild
Travel
-visit the British Isles
-visit France (St Michel, Bayeux Tapestry, wine in a little café, local eats, Normandy beaches, Provence, Aquitaine)
-Italy (pizza and wine on the Med, Venice)
-Greece (on the Med, Athens)
-Iceland
-Norway & Sweden
-Germany (Hofbrau Haus, racetracks, ...snowboarding?)
Write
-Sabel (a novel)
-Prairie Tales (short stories)
-In the Family (family history)
-Food: Simple (easy cooking & baking)
-In My Wildest Dreams (the stories within dreams & nightmares)
-The Menne Boys (small town fiction)
Friday, September 23, 2016
Episode 16: For Better or Worse
for a preface, see my work stories home page.
There was a resident once, let's call her Jewel. She lived in the memory care unit, where she was continually trying to escape. She'd wait at the door, tap on the glass, her coke bottle glasses magnifying her gray eyes under a cloud of curly gray hair.
Most of the time she babbled incoherently or said nothing at all, floating through the unit like a shadow or a ghost. Once in a while she would suddenly take shape, however, and when this happened, she was one spunky woman. She has been reported saying things like, "You take the damn pills, then."
Then there came a man to visit. She recognized him instantly and stopped wandering. She wrapped her arms around him and held him, forgetting about the open door behind him, not needing to escape anymore.
He told me their story. Jewel had been his neighbor, living up the gravel road from him. He was a farmer, which means manual laborer plus businessperson plus gambler. He needed help with the books, so he asked the lovely, spunky Jewel if she would mind helping him with them, and she agreed. The rest is history.
"She wasn't really all that good of an accountant," he confessed. The sweet shy smile that played on his face told volumes. I instantly imagined him a younger single man, eating alone at the kitchen table, saying no hullos or goodbyes as he goes out to the field. Then along comes Jewel, and he's no longer alone in his big, old farmhouse. Jewel sits across from him at supper. Jewel's laughter fills the empty, echoing space. Jewel stands beside him when the market looks grim and the bills are piling up.
Now its him who fills the echoing spaces, who squeezes her hand and studies her vacant expression with that sweet, shy smile of his. Now he sits next to her though there's not many words and not much laughter.
"For better or worse," says the age-old vow.
This farmer and this accountant,
husband and wife,
are still living that vow.
For better or for worse
shows its best
in the worst.
There was a resident once, let's call her Jewel. She lived in the memory care unit, where she was continually trying to escape. She'd wait at the door, tap on the glass, her coke bottle glasses magnifying her gray eyes under a cloud of curly gray hair.
Most of the time she babbled incoherently or said nothing at all, floating through the unit like a shadow or a ghost. Once in a while she would suddenly take shape, however, and when this happened, she was one spunky woman. She has been reported saying things like, "You take the damn pills, then."
Then there came a man to visit. She recognized him instantly and stopped wandering. She wrapped her arms around him and held him, forgetting about the open door behind him, not needing to escape anymore.
He told me their story. Jewel had been his neighbor, living up the gravel road from him. He was a farmer, which means manual laborer plus businessperson plus gambler. He needed help with the books, so he asked the lovely, spunky Jewel if she would mind helping him with them, and she agreed. The rest is history.
"She wasn't really all that good of an accountant," he confessed. The sweet shy smile that played on his face told volumes. I instantly imagined him a younger single man, eating alone at the kitchen table, saying no hullos or goodbyes as he goes out to the field. Then along comes Jewel, and he's no longer alone in his big, old farmhouse. Jewel sits across from him at supper. Jewel's laughter fills the empty, echoing space. Jewel stands beside him when the market looks grim and the bills are piling up.
Now its him who fills the echoing spaces, who squeezes her hand and studies her vacant expression with that sweet, shy smile of his. Now he sits next to her though there's not many words and not much laughter.
"For better or worse," says the age-old vow.
This farmer and this accountant,
husband and wife,
are still living that vow.
For better or for worse
shows its best
in the worst.
Episode 15: The Last Text
for a preface, see my work stories home page.
I have only one protected message on my phone.
Dated November 30, 2015, 7:59 pm:
We work it out :-)
A former coworker (let's call her Sunny) and I were working on swapping shifts over the holidays, and that was her last message to me.
Rewind about four months from that message to when I was new at my current job, and you'd see that Sunny was driving me crazy. Sometimes she would instruct me on how to do an elementary task. Sometimes she would display complete disorganization, leaving everything until the last minute when it would magically come together. She'd be standing there, flushed and chipper. I'd be around the corner with all my hair torn out. I couldn't decide which I preferred - the laid back chaos of working with Sunny, or the tense machinery of working with Manager.
She started to grow on me, nonetheless (as did Manager). For one, Sunny had joined our work team a month before I did, and both of us had the common experience of being "hazed" by the fiery rage of our coworker Dragon Lady, who marks her territory on each new employee the way any animal does.
Then Sunny's teenage daughter Tuneful joined the team, and she was like a mini photocopy of her mom. Both were flustered and haphazard in their work-style but also full of ideas, random knowledge, mirth, and music. It was touching to see and hear how Sunny blissfully lavished love on her kids. Once, she came to drop off Tuneful for her shift, and before leaving she pulled her close so they were hugging cheek-to-cheek. "Love you," she smiled, speaking with intense purpose as if it were the last time. I think of that often now that she's gone.
Sunny loved her kids, but talk was her passion. She would talk about her estranged husband, talk about her boyfriend, talk about motor racing, talk about cooking, talk about her summer home in a trailer in the woods. She loved talk. She was an artist, and talk was her medium.
Sunny passed away sometime during the night after she sent me her cheerful text, November 31, 2015. Almost a year ago now. Turns out she had been spending the night in her truck (not at home, because she couldn't stand her husband). Tuneful found her the next day. She had died of a massive heart attack and no one had been there to witness it or call for help.
Her three kids are growing up without her. I can't imagine. Every time I clear the messages from my phone, Sunny's remains. I see her last text and remember her life, her spunk, her easy-going manner, and the way she loved her kids. It's a final message, and I'm still trying to understand why it had to be final.
"We work it out," she wrote to me, followed by a cheesy smiley face, so true to her sunny character.
And we're still here, still trying to work it out.
I have only one protected message on my phone.
Dated November 30, 2015, 7:59 pm:
We work it out :-)
A former coworker (let's call her Sunny) and I were working on swapping shifts over the holidays, and that was her last message to me.
Rewind about four months from that message to when I was new at my current job, and you'd see that Sunny was driving me crazy. Sometimes she would instruct me on how to do an elementary task. Sometimes she would display complete disorganization, leaving everything until the last minute when it would magically come together. She'd be standing there, flushed and chipper. I'd be around the corner with all my hair torn out. I couldn't decide which I preferred - the laid back chaos of working with Sunny, or the tense machinery of working with Manager.
She started to grow on me, nonetheless (as did Manager). For one, Sunny had joined our work team a month before I did, and both of us had the common experience of being "hazed" by the fiery rage of our coworker Dragon Lady, who marks her territory on each new employee the way any animal does.
Then Sunny's teenage daughter Tuneful joined the team, and she was like a mini photocopy of her mom. Both were flustered and haphazard in their work-style but also full of ideas, random knowledge, mirth, and music. It was touching to see and hear how Sunny blissfully lavished love on her kids. Once, she came to drop off Tuneful for her shift, and before leaving she pulled her close so they were hugging cheek-to-cheek. "Love you," she smiled, speaking with intense purpose as if it were the last time. I think of that often now that she's gone.
Sunny loved her kids, but talk was her passion. She would talk about her estranged husband, talk about her boyfriend, talk about motor racing, talk about cooking, talk about her summer home in a trailer in the woods. She loved talk. She was an artist, and talk was her medium.
Sunny passed away sometime during the night after she sent me her cheerful text, November 31, 2015. Almost a year ago now. Turns out she had been spending the night in her truck (not at home, because she couldn't stand her husband). Tuneful found her the next day. She had died of a massive heart attack and no one had been there to witness it or call for help.
Her three kids are growing up without her. I can't imagine. Every time I clear the messages from my phone, Sunny's remains. I see her last text and remember her life, her spunk, her easy-going manner, and the way she loved her kids. It's a final message, and I'm still trying to understand why it had to be final.
"We work it out," she wrote to me, followed by a cheesy smiley face, so true to her sunny character.
And we're still here, still trying to work it out.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Episode 14: The Numbers
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
How do we measure a day?
Here's how I measured a 13+ hour day this week:
8 quarts liquid egg
56 sausage patties
36 pounds of roasted chicken, half white, half dark
2 gallon tub of mashed potatoes
1 gallon gravy
12 pounds steamed vegetables
68 servings mixed fruit
80 pieces white frosted cake
1.5 gallons cinnamon ice cream
60 beef sandwiches
(3 with no cheese, 6 with ground meat, 1 with ground meat AND no cheese)
5 pounds of lettuce
2 quarts of diced tomato
2 bags of green beans for everyone that can't chew lettuce
70 slices of raspberry gelatin dream cake
68 residents eating breakfast, lunch, snack, and supper
2 tired legs
1 woman, grateful to be done for the day.
How do we measure a day?
Here's how I measured a 13+ hour day this week:
8 quarts liquid egg
56 sausage patties
36 pounds of roasted chicken, half white, half dark
2 gallon tub of mashed potatoes
1 gallon gravy
12 pounds steamed vegetables
68 servings mixed fruit
80 pieces white frosted cake
1.5 gallons cinnamon ice cream
60 beef sandwiches
(3 with no cheese, 6 with ground meat, 1 with ground meat AND no cheese)
5 pounds of lettuce
2 quarts of diced tomato
2 bags of green beans for everyone that can't chew lettuce
70 slices of raspberry gelatin dream cake
68 residents eating breakfast, lunch, snack, and supper
2 tired legs
1 woman, grateful to be done for the day.
Episode 13: Musical Themes
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Picture the scene: an entryway flanked by tall white pillars, double doors opening to a wide ballistraded staircase, comfortable couches pulled up near a gleaming grand piano. The mysterious, mellow sounds of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata are floating through the air as a volunteer pianist gives it her best amateur tinkling of the keys. Someone yawns theatrically. Perhaps that's to be expected of elderly people in the boondocks of Minnesota trying to digest classical music. Then in the midst of a melody that calls up images of mist over a full moon, someone makes an announcement to her neighbor, and loudly. "I didn't come here for this kind of music."
Um, you're welcome?
Some people are always ungrateful. It's a lifestyle, nearly.
Picture the scene: an entryway flanked by tall white pillars, double doors opening to a wide ballistraded staircase, comfortable couches pulled up near a gleaming grand piano. The mysterious, mellow sounds of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata are floating through the air as a volunteer pianist gives it her best amateur tinkling of the keys. Someone yawns theatrically. Perhaps that's to be expected of elderly people in the boondocks of Minnesota trying to digest classical music. Then in the midst of a melody that calls up images of mist over a full moon, someone makes an announcement to her neighbor, and loudly. "I didn't come here for this kind of music."
Um, you're welcome?
Some people are always ungrateful. It's a lifestyle, nearly.
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