Trip Home

I went to Decorah this weekend to clear out some of the things that my siblings and I had divided up between each other. Part of this included clearing out boxes from my old bedroom that had been lingering since junior high and high school. Most of these should have been tossed a long time ago, but I'm glad that they were there for me to look through.

While I was going through these boxes of old notebooks and paper, I came across the little pencil sketch below of my mom's rocking chair that I did in an 8th grade art class. I teared up a little bit when I found it because the rocking chair was always my favorite piece of furniture in the house. It isn't an expensive piece of furniture or ornate in any way, but some of my earliest memories are about that chair. When I was little, I had recurring nightmares. I know I've described them to some of you before and my memory of them is still sharp today. Anyway, I would often wake up crying. My mom would come get me out of my bed and take me to the rocking chair until I was ready to go back to bed. Sometimes she would pour me a glass of milk and give me a cookie to help calm me down. These are very sweet memories for me.

I also remember once when I was about 4, I stayed up in bed drawing with a pencil and paper and stabbed myself in the leg with the pencil. I wasn't a quiet naughty boy and started crying. I remember being certain that my mom would be furious with me, but she came and got me from bed and rocked me in this chair until I stopped crying. She was a great mom and I miss her every day.

So, what happened to the old rocking chair? After my dad died this summer, my siblings and I started talking about things in the house that we wanted. I mentioned that I would like the rocking chair and told them some of my memories of the chair. Very kindly, they all agreed that I could have it.

So, here it is in its new home. I took off the old vinyl seat covering and replaced it with a pretty fabric. It has become a little retreat for me when I want to remember my folks, or need to just find a different mental place. It is a well loved chair and my hope one day is to pass it on to one of my nieces or nephews when I am gone to carry on the memory of my mom and dad.

Mom's Rocker

A Room With A View

This is the view from my hotel room this morning after the snow storm yesterday. The drift outside the window wasn't there yesterday morning and the parking lot was bare. Waaaaaaa!

Decompression... breathe, breathe, breathe

I've been decompressing all afternoon from another stressful trip to see my dad. He's 80, has had a stroke that slightly affected his mobility, is diabetic and doesn't pay attention to it, is a tightwad to the point that he makes bad choices for himself even though he has lots of money, is mostly deaf and would rather have us yell than wear his hearing aid, has a vocabulary that would embarrass a sailor, is convinced that he can drive even though he has no peripheral vision and has cataracts, and, to top it off, is unreasonable to the point that any idea other than his own is bad until he comes to the same conclusion 10 minutes later then announces his great new idea- formerly my own. It makes for stressful, unpleasant time spent with him. And still, I have affection for him, even though he and I have never had a lot to talk about. I gained a lot of respect for him while my mother was ill, and saw him suffer deeply after she died. So, it is hard, when he is being a shit- which is most of the time- to be patient and not want to throttle him. Even though we have it out about his health and choices, I try to leave on a positive note, but it is damn hard. *sigh*
For anyone who ever wants to experience the fun with me, here's an offer you can't refuse: if you ever want to hear the words Jesus Christ uttered frequently outside a church, come see my dad. Just about every other sentence starts with these words, and he's not saying a prayer, I assure you.

Little Queen on the Prairie: The Halloween Special

So, what have we here? The year is 1976, it is Halloween and we have a clown, a hobo, and, oh, gosh, what is that? That is a 10 year old tawdry little cross dresser perched daintily against the garage door. Would it be me? It sure would.
It took me 20+ years to find this picture funny. The only reason I'm in possession of it today is that I stole it from my mother's photo album in my twenties out of shame. Why? That particular Halloween was one of my first moments of awareness that I was different than other little boys and that different did not always go over well with one's parents and friends. I very clearly recall my mom encouraging me to be something else, my dad asking why the hell I wanted to go trick or treating as a woman and getting teased a bit by my friends. This photo was hard to look at for a long time. Now, I just feel sorry for the kid in that picture for not having someone around to give him a squeeze and let him know that he should hang in there for another 8 or 10 years at which time he can get the hell out of that little town and see there is a world full of people just like him.

Today, I get a really good laugh out of this picture. There are just so many things wrong here- the hair painted on my legs, my trailer trash makeup (which is the only makeup I could ever do- my upbringing I suppose), the fact that in a gay universe my exaggerated feminine pose would be just as it should be, but in Decorah? I was also a tall child. The other two in the picture are a few years older than me. I could have passed for a really trashy 15 year old. Had I had my wits about me back then, I might have wandered in to the Corner Bar and seen if the locals would have bought me a drink. Mmmmmm. Locals.

Last Weekend

The world might not think of Iowa when they think art and Iowans might not think Decorah when they think art, but they are sort of wrong about that. Last weekend, Curt and I and three friends ventured to Decorah for their annual artist's studio tour. We always stay in the Old Hospital Lodge in the tiny village of Highlandville about 15 miles north of Decorah. Highlandville, if you haven't been there, is a cute place, now most famous for it's trout stream and pastoral setting. The paved road literally ends across the bridge in downtown Highlandville. This place is a little remote and has only about 20 year round residents.
So what do you do in Decorah (other than Walmart, Mindy)? You eat copious amounts of Mabe's pizza, eat numerous Ronnie's rolls at Ruby's, which now serves rommegrot- I love it- have a decent meal out at La Rana, listen to a local klezmer sounding band called Maritza, and shop for art. And did we shop for art. As if every nook and cranny of our house isn't already filled with functional and art pottery, we ended up buying more from Elisabeth Maurland, Dean Schwartz, Doug Cole, Kelly Jean Ohl and Nate & Hallie Hite-Evans. I also picked up a photo book of Decorah- as if every corner of it isn't burned into my memory. We went a little crazy.
On Sunday, we went out to Green's Sugar Bush- no not a naked kitchen mishap, but a maple sugar farm- for the annual Saddle Club charity pancake breakfast. We LOVE this event. All you can eat HOT pancakes, sausages cooked over a campfire, real maple syrup- gallons of it if you want- and a great outdoor setting. Oh, and polite young people who come around with MORE pancakes and sausage. Sweet (deity of your choosing)! It was like a dream. Lots of tasty breakfast food and people to fill my plate without having to go to the kitchen. It gets no better than that!
Oh, and it was about 90 degrees all weekend which was freaky for October.

Yesterday's Day Trip

Yesterday was a long day of driving, visiting, then driving some more.
My two hospitalized friends are coming along nicely. My old high school pal may be going home on Tuesday after a 3 week stay. My neighbor, who had an aneurysm burst during surgery to correct 2 of her 5 aneurysms, is coming along really nicely considering the hell her brain has been through.
After the hospital, I drove through Mabel, MN to drop off some of my aunt's favorite hand soap (C.O. Bigelow's Lemon Hand Soap) and some old quilting magazines.
Then it was on to Decorah. My dad, who complains about never leaving the house but is out of the house far more than I ever get out, was, you guessed it, out on an errand with my brother. So, I ran down to see another dear old friend, who happens to be the sister of one of my blogging pals. We had coffee and visited for about an hour. As I was leaving, my friend is standing on her porch talking to me and starts letting rip some championship farts that actually echo off the house across the street. She was completely unphased, but I am still stunned by just the fact that we're comfortable enough with each other to do that. When did that happen? I guess when you know someone for for 37 years, its just a given. In my house, we have a farting double standard- when I toot, it is disgusting, when he toots, it is funny. *sigh*
So, anyway, I end up going out to my brother's to pick up up my dad, take him back home, visit for a while, clean some floors, visit some more and head out after a few hours. As I was getting ready to leave, my dad, who thinks I am dating said farting friend (I've never come out to him- very long story- but everyone else in the family knows), asks me if I am going to take my girlfriend out for dinner. I tell him again that she is just a friend and that it would be like dating my sister and she farts too much. He just sort of cocked his head at me, which was my sign to exit.