One Minnesota Crone

Still Summer

Waning pansies don’t like the heat. *Photo by kcmickelson.*

As I type this, I’m sitting at the table on the deck in back of our house. My phone says it’s 88 degrees, 67% humidity – what local weather forecasters call swampy. In the thick air, cicadas buzz over and over, a small plane circles over the fairgrounds a mile and a half away, and vehicle traffic on Snelling Avenue hums. The sky has been dark all day, but without rain.

Usually, the appearance of September 1 on the calendar puts me into an autumn mood. Not this year. This summer has been swift in its journey, so hopeful in mood over the past several weeks that I don’t want it to be over just yet. Even with school beginning here in a couple of days, it doesn’t feel like the end of summer. The fall equinox is still a few weeks away, so I feel justified in declaring that summer isn’t done yet.

The fullness of life here in the later days of summer is something I want to embrace with both arms.

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Mick and I spent as much time as we could watching the Democratic National Convention together. We felt the electricity generated by the excited crowds and fired-up speakers, felt the certainty that we have a shot at making our country better than it’s been since 2016. It was just in July that I felt like these were the last days for the U.S., as we slid towards an impossible choice for the U.S. presidential election in November. Then Kamala Harris replaced Joe Biden. Tim Walz as running mate gave us all a dad/coach pep talk. The momentum of a joyous burst of possibility happened.

It was as if the sun broke through what had been a long line of storms.

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Here in Minnesota, the last days of summer always mean the Minnesota State Fair is in session. Twelve days of thousands of people streaming into the fairgrounds – people who wait in line for beer, fries, ice cream, deep-fried cheese curds, pronto pups, and mini-donuts regardless of their political affiliation, religion, gender identity, race, or other group-specific connections. There is unity in securing fair food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner while strolling around the Midway or through the animal barns or standing in front of one of the free music stages. Our state fair is the largest in the country for average daily attendance, and I almost never miss it. This year, people are out full-force, having a great time in spite of long, long lines and the divisive politics just beyond the fairground gates. Even the political booths inside the fairgrounds show the impact of recent shifts in the country’s mood. And, anyway, who can stay angry or spiteful with a mouthful of deep-fried food they just bit off a stick?

The fair’s opening day was the same day Kamala Harris gave her acceptance speech at the DNC. The euphoric mood of the week spilled over everywhere.

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The day after I linger in swampy air on the deck, storm clouds gather. By 7 p.m., the sky is darker than it should be. Mick and I sit down to eat a salad of greens, shredded carrots, sliced cucumbers, hard boiled eggs, and grated Parmesan, dressed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Neither of us can tolerate heavy food on these sauna-like days. It’s more humid than yesterday, the temperature higher, and an unsettled feeling builds. As it gets darker outside, I can’t resist jumping up to go out on the front step and look at the sky. Clouds swirl and scuttle overhead, while lightning flickers nonstop. I go back inside, sweat beginning to form along my hairline.

I’ve been sweating all day. It was moving day for our neighbors across the street. A “Two Men and a Truck” moving truck pulled into their driveway around 8 a.m. That they were moving on one of the hottest days of the summer was unfortunate, but the movers had the household loaded up before noon. Two other neighbors and I went over with our vacuum cleaners when the movers finished, did a last clean-up for our neighbors so they could leave a pristine home for the next family. All of us sweat like crazy. Beads of sweat formed within minutes on our necks and foreheads, our upper lips and in the smalls of our backs. Now, as we all await rain, I am grateful for air conditioning. My little visit to the front step reminded me that 90+ degrees with high humidity makes it a little harder to breathe.

The rain, when it comes, is a deluge. I think of the people at the fair, know from experience that it’s hard to find a place indoors where there aren’t already hundreds of others taking shelter. I look outside our living room window at the way the backyard birch trees bend in the wind gusts, how the tall Joe Pye weed bows to the storm.

It storms for the better part of an hour. We are lucky to find all our trees still standing when the storm subsides, lucky to still have power at our house. All over the metro, people can no longer turn on their lights or their air conditioners or electric fans. A sweltering evening is not a time to have the power fail. But in a display of unexpected beauty, the funky orange clouds show a rainbow at the same moment a lightning bolt zaps the sky in two. Those who manage to capture the image post it all over social media in a shared sense of awe.

A second severe storm rolls through while we sleep. The power for all the houses across the street from us goes out and stays out. I get a message from my friend down the street soon after I’m awake asking if she can dry her hair at our house if her power isn’t on by early afternoon.

Our rain gauge shows 2.5 inches of water for the past 24 hours. Everything in the garden bows down now. But despite the torrential rains, lightning, straight-line winds, and power outages, the morning opens up with birdsong. With cooler air. With light.

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Mick and I meander around the state fair two days after the storms. The weather is perfect, a few clouds, no rain, less humid. Power is still out in some areas, but the fair is lit up, rides going, music playing all around. We stop at the Ball Park Cafe, where our friend Mark works during the fair, buy beer and say hello. We run into friends from Mick’s softball team, raise our beer glasses to each other, then go our separate ways. We listen to The Jorgensens, the band Mick’s saxophone teacher plays for at the Schells Stage. That’s only a prelude. We have plans to see Marky Ramone and his band play Ramones songs later in the evening at the Leinie Lodge Bandshell.

After sampling soba noodles and veggies, Greek feta cheese balls, and deep-fried cheese curds, we settle into some seats for Marky Ramone. It’s dusk now, a great time for some old-school punk rock. When the band comes on stage, everyone stands up and stays on their feet for the entire hour-and-fifteen-minute set. They play everything rapid fire, no talking between songs, just go-go-go. The audience knows these songs, sings I wanna be sedated and I don’t want to be buried in the pet sematary and more at the top of their lungs. When the band takes a short break at the one-hour mark, the whole audience yells hey ho, let’s go! until the band reappears. Mick and I have a blast. We stick around afterwards to see the fireworks following the grandstand show, which was some country act that we don’t listen to. Lots of people stop in the streets to look up, watch the flowering lights in the sky.

As we leave the fairgrounds a little before 10:30 p.m., we are greeted with a couple of guys drumming on upside-down five-gallon buckets just outside the gate. There are drummers there every year. I love the sound they make as we cross the street with a whole swarm of people to get to our bus to go home.

This is exactly how late summer should feel: joyous, noisy, fun. An invitation to dive in, make the most of everything before dropping into bed, fully exhausted, sated, and happy.

This is the feeling I’ll hang onto a little longer, the one I hope carries us right through the election in November.

Marky Ramone and his band at the Minnesota State Fair 2024. *Photo by kcmickelson.*

MID-AUGUST, SHIFTING LIGHT

I notice the light is shifting to the left as I look out our front door on these August mornings, see how the line of shade from our house expands over the garden just beyond our front steps. I rearrange the container gardens that grace those steps so the variegated Boston fern can get the few hours of sunlight it needs to keep multiple hues of green in its leaves. The hard little crabapple nubs are just beginning to turn into juicy treats that robins and cedar waxwings will gorge themselves on in another month. Hints of autumnal chill hover in the early morning air.

crabapples just starting to change color

We’ve come to that poignant part of summer once again, the part where our full gardens spill into the driveway and street and sidewalk, back-to-school supplies crowd Target’s aisles, school-age kids think about who will be in their classes in September, and grandparents like me offer childcare for the upcoming school year. Granddaughter Maeve will return for regular days with my partner Mick and me next Monday. We will go through the toys and books we have for her before she returns, cull out what she’s outgrown now that she’s almost three. Our older granddaughter Camille may hang out with us a few times before she returns to school, although at 13, she might prefer spending her days somewhere else. And that’s okay. She is growing up, her own light shifting just like the light outside.

As I write this, I’m sitting on the chair on our front steps, waiting for the arrival of Maeve, Camille, and their parents, who are both teachers, as they swing by to drop off their dog so they can take a much-needed mini-vacation for my daughter-in-law’s birthday. Martin, a rescue lab mix, is somewhere around eight years old and I love how doofy he is. We haven’t had a dog of our own for almost three years now, and I miss having one much of the time. I don’t miss having to arrange for dog care when we travel, though, and that’s the one thing that keeps us from getting another dog. Martin will be a nice guest to have for a few days, just enough of a dog fix to tide me over a little longer. Just enough companionship to make these days feel a little more joyful.

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Martin and I walk through our neighborhood midmorning the day after he comes to stay with us. It’s a quiet morning. Mick is off playing softball, so it’s just Martin and me. Martin is a pretty big dog, solid and calm. Mostly. He doesn’t like other dogs, so barks and pulls when one comes near. It takes all my strength to keep him from lunging. Once the dog is past, we are fine. And he’s good with people, except for the man who comes up behind me. Martin turns around and issues a low protective growl. The man says good morning. Martin and I both relax.

As Martin and I stroll along, I think about how dogs make us get outside and move around, one of their gifts to us. As Martin pauses to sniff here and there, he reminds me that slowing down to notice things is part of a good walk. We don’t have to pass everything by in the name of getting our steps in. We can – and should – see what’s there, notice who passed this way before us, who planted flowers that call to the bees, who spilled their ice cream in the driveway, and who left a water bowl out for passing canines to lap from. When I walk the neighborhood with my granddaughter Maeve, I feel that same sense of slowing down to take notice. Maeve isn’t much taller than Martin.

Maybe I should add more things to our own garden for dogs and kids to enjoy. That would be an easy shift to make. It might bring someone else joy.

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In a few days, I’ll turn 65. This particular birthday once seemed a lifetime away, along with its Medicare card and senior discounts and this light-gray hair that I’m growing out. In fact, my hair is nearly white. Earlier this year, I decided I missed having long hair and started the painful process of growing it out from a very short textured cut. It’s finally past the truly awkward stage, but still too short to pull into a ponytail when I’m gardening or painting. I’m glad for baseball caps.

I’m very clear that I’m not dying my hair to make myself look younger. This gray-white hair catches the light differently, looks platinum in a black-and-white photograph, has its own kind of glory. This is what 65 looks like. I’m comfortable with that, happy to still be on this earth.

I don’t wonder how close I am to the end. Who has time for that? There’s too much that’s wonderful in the now.

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One thing I do wonder about on nearly a daily basis is what kind of impact I’m leaving behind. How much good am I doing? How much damage? These thoughts are most often in reference to my own adult kids, with my ever-expanding understanding that this world is not at all the same one I grew up in. There’s a lot of meanness out in the open, a lot of cavalier ideas that we can all do whatever we want and everyone around us can just suck it up.

I do not want to contribute further damage to a warming world that oppresses anyone who isn’t in power at the moment. I don’t want to add to the climate change that will kill all kinds of plants, animals, and people by being careless, thoughtless, selfish. By thinking accumulated money is the only accurate measure of a life or a business. By thinking there is only one legitimate religion. By discounting anyone different from myself.

This life has so many options. There are so many opportunities to create a community, listen to someone whose experience is different from our own, learn that every path has its perks. The fear of any change that is often expressed around election time – We’re losing our country! This is going to cost us too much! No more immigrants! That idea will never work! Our birthrate is dropping and it’s all the fault of women who don’t want kids! – is such a hinderance to peace and progress. Fear shatters compassion, encloses us in a dark, dark room with no windows.

Getting older offers clarity about what really matters. After living through life’s assorted ups and downs – money and no money, college interrupted and restarted, housing with cockroaches and faulty plumbing followed by a well-maintained house that I co-own, working in jobs where men were sexist and then where they weren’t, learning first-hand how single mothers are treated after my first marriage went up in flames then being treated so differently after Mick’s and my daughter was born a year and a half into our marriage, leaving the Catholic Church, learning about Zen Buddhism and other religious views – how I see the world has been shaped and reshaped and reshaped again. Throw in some world travel, seeing firsthand how people outside the US actually live, and there came another shift.

There are a lot of answers to be had out there in the world. No one has them all.

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On Martin’s last day with us, the sky clouds over after a gorgeous morning of sun and light breezes. All morning long, my friend Luann and I share time together, sip coffee, buy baby gifts for the family next door who welcomed their daughter two weeks ago. We talk about how it feels to have a new baby, miss sleep, alternate between exhilaration and exhaustion, figure out a new way to be in the world. We decide to include coffee, tea, and chocolate in the gift bag.

As I sit in a chair waiting for Shawn, Beka, Camille, and Maeve to come collect Martin, I keep going over this essay, wrestling with what I want to say here in mid-August in my last days of being 64. When I look up from my laptop, I see the very first yellowed leaf on our backyard birch, a surprise. It feels too early. But change starts with one little thing, doesn’t it? Just one small yellow light in a dark green canopy.

Light is everything on these waning summer days.

Conversation with a Poet: Wilda Morris

*Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick* by Wilda Morris (Kelsay Books, 2019). Paperback, 123 pages. $17.00

Today, poet Wilda Morris will share her ideas about poetry and the poet’s place in the world as she discusses her work and her pre-pandemic book, Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick. Wilda is based in Illinois, former president of both Poets & Patrons of Chicago and the Illinois State Poetry Society. She is widely published and leads workshops for both children and adults.

When Wilda first contacted me about having a conversation that included Pequod Poems, I’ll admit I was hesitant. Pequod Poems is based on Moby-Dick by Herman Melville, a mid-nineteenth-century novel that I have never read. Poems in the first part of the book are each from the point of view of a character in the novel, and I soon found that I needed to have at least a passing acquaintance with Melville’s story to engage with Wilda’s poems. Hello, Cliff Notes, which gave me just enough about the overall themes, story arc, and characters to appreciate the effort Wilda put into this collection. The later poems in the book connect Melville’s themes to present day events.

Herman Melville was born on August 1, 1819, in New York City. Wilda told me she would love our conversation to appear on Melville’s birthday, so here it is. Whether you’ve read Melville or not, you just might find something here that grabs you. I’ve included links at the end if you wish to get your own copy of Pequod Poems or one of Wilda’s other poetry books – which are not based on Moby-Dick.

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OMC: Hello, Wilda, and thank you for reaching out to discuss your work. I understand that you came to poetry late in life, after the death of your first grandchild. Can you please talk a little about that turn, how you chose poetry as your creative outlet, and what poetry has done to make your life better?

WM: I always loved poetry and wrote some when I was younger. I published a few poems as a young adult, but after my husband and I adopted five children, I did not find much time to write. During the same period of my life when my granddaughter Florrie was dying, I was spending half of each summer at the Green Lake Conference Center in Wisconsin as a curriculum counselor. I was able to attend their annual writer’s conference (which, unfortunately, is no longer held). I didn’t have enough confidence in my poetry to attend the poetry workshop the first year, but I met with the poetry leader at the end of the week, and she encouraged me to sign up for poetry the next year. I did, and I was hooked. I found writing about Florrie to be healing. She has been gone three decades, but still pops up in my poems now and then.

I find that involvement in poetry means involvement in communities. The Illinois State Poetry Society, Poets and Patrons of Chicago, the San Miguel Poetry Week, the poets who attended workshops at the Green Lake Conference Center, poets who submitted to the monthly contests on my blog, the poets who return year after year to The Clearing in Wisconsin, poets who attend conferences of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and the participants in the on-going haiku classes which I’ve been attending have all become communities. We have learned to care for each other. That kind of community-building makes for a better world.

OMC: I love the idea of all these collections of people who come together for poetry becoming small communities. I’ve seen how the poetry community as a whole is full of generous people who help each other out, and this nicely illustrates how community-building is an important reason to seek out poetry groups and conferences.

Pequod Poems came out just before the pandemic shut everything down. One of the things you told me earlier was that the pandemic prevented you from doing the in-person readings that would have been natural when your book was just published. So, let’s dive right into talking about the book.

As I read through it, I kept thinking about how an obsessive desire for revenge, even when it’s to the detriment of everyone involved, is certainly illustrated here and can be seen in what’s happening in this very divided world around us. I also appreciated mentions of the near-destruction of entire species due to human greed. My favorite part of the book came later, for example with the poem, Father Mapple’s Message for the 21st Century. And in your poem, Lamenting Fate, you wrote about assigning Moby-Dick to college students: “It’s a / must-read for anyone who wants to understand the / play between free will and fate.” What themes examined in Pequod Poems as well as in Moby-Dick do you believe are most important right now and why?

Wilda Morris (photo provided)

WM: Melville was writing as the U.S. was moving headlong toward civil war. Our country is probably more divided now than any time since that era. Ahab tacks a gold coin called a doubloon up on the mast and offers it as a reward to whoever first spots the white whale, In Chapter 99, several characters pass by the doubloon and comment on the various aspects of its design—each one seeing something entirely different. Melville is indicating that we each see what we want to see and interpret situations in ways that please us. We can see this, too, in the various ways the white whale is still interpreted: some see him representing God; others see him as representative of the devil. I think we can see how that is happening in this country today.

A related theme—centered in the personality of Ahab—is the importance of responsible leadership. Ahab is a demagogue. He’s narcissistic, sociopathic, monomaniacal, and vengeful. To get vengeance against the white whale for biting off his leg, he is willing to sacrifice everything and everyone else. He brings down the ship and whole crew (except for Ishmael who escapes to tell the tale). I believe the Pequod represents the “ship of state.” There were 30 states in the US when Moby-Dick was written—and 30 crew members on the Pequod. Surely that is not a coincidence! Starbuck, the first mate, knows where things are headed, but he does not have the courage to confront Ahab in any serious way. He knows Ahab has used his charisma to persuade the crew to buy into his vengeful goal. Starbuck fears he might lose his position (or worse) if he leads a rebellion against Ahab.

Another major theme which is still important is racial diversity, inequality and related issues. The crew is diverse, but the captain and three mates are all white. The black cook and Pip, the black cabin boy, are treated shamefully. Initially Ishmael is afraid of Queequeg, but as he gets to know this dark-skinned foreigner, he learns that Queequeg is friendly, loyal, and capable. He concludes that it’s better to share space with a “sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.” How many people are willing to get to know people of other ethnic and religious backgrounds unless circumstances force them to do so? How often are white males willing to share power with people of color? While pushing the reader to think of these things, Melville also highlights how interdependent we all are.

OMC: You’ve done a nice job of showing how a nineteenth-century story is very much relevant in today’s society. Those who are in power don’t want to share it, and that has been the case throughout history.

Do you have some favorite poems from Pequod Poems? And may I share them below?

WM: From what I have read, it appears that Melville’s mother, like Ishmael’s, was stern and judgmental. My mother (an American Baptist) was invited by a Catholic nun to work with her in jail ministry. During her 30 years working at the Johnson County (IA) jail, Mother never asked inmates what crimes they committed—she just loved them and showed them grace. Maybe that’s why I’m fond of this Shakespearean sonnet.

Ishmael Reflects on the Try-Works Fire
	Beginning with a line from Chapter 96

Look not too long in the face of the fire—
those forking flames are a devilish sight.
The blaze hypnotizes as it grows higher;
it blinds your eyes to the sun’s true light.

I’ll never believe what I’ve been taught
by my frowning mother, that all men fell
and my soul is damned—in the flames I’m caught.
She said, Go to church, or you’ll go to hell.

Instead of the fire with guilt and dread,
turn to the wisdom of Solomon’s book
or the Man of Sorrows, the life he led—
he spread compassion with his gentle look.

How different would be my mother’s face
if her theology reflected grace.

I like “Reminder” because of its relevance to this era:

Reminder
If your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die. ~Ishmael (Moby-Dick, Chapter 72) Ending with a line from Chapter 13

Even here in the U.S., where Whitman, 
Emerson and Thoreau wrote of individuality 
and we are told to pull ourselves up 
by our bootstraps, it is true:
if the housing bubble bursts, your home
is worth less than your twenty-year mortgage.
If the stock market declines, your retirement fund bleeds.

You may be the safest driver in the state,
but if the teen in the Toyota texts or drinks
and drives, you end up under carved stone.
The drive-by shooter with bad aim may miss
the Gangster Disciple and hit your daughter instead.

If your young son runs to the park 
with friends, plays with the gun
Uncle Joe bought him from the Walmart toy department, 
and, even if it doesn’t look real, someone 
in a blue uniform assumes it’s loaded with lead 
you have to pick a casket and plan a funeral.

Someone assassinates an archduke in Austria,
Japan bombs a U.S. naval base,
North Korea sends troops across the 38th parallel,
Iraq invades Kuwait, planes flatten the World Trade Center—
if you pause and think it through, you know Queequeg was right, 
It’s a mutual, joint-stock world, in all meridians.

Of the poems related specifically to characters from Moby-Dick, I think “The Lament of Starbuck’s Son” is my favorite because it reflects how any child might feel after losing a parent:

The Lament of Starbuck’s Son 

Mother says my father
was a brave man,
a hero of the whale fishery,
but to me he is absence,
emptiness.

Mother says my father
was kind,
a tender, loving man,
but to me he is heartbreak,
Mother’s tears, her loneliness.

Mother says my father
was pious,
a faithful, believing man
but to me, he is a question—
why a loving God lets a father drown.

Mother says my father
was handsome, wind-tanned,
a well-remembered man
but to me he is a fading memory
and ongoing silence.

OMC: Thank you for sharing those.

You used many, many different poetic forms in Pequod Poems. The notes at the end of the book that talk about the different forms was quite helpful; there were forms I’d never heard of in this collection. It feels like you had a lot of fun playing around with these various forms to see how they could enhance what you wanted to say. Can you talk a bit about what led you to build the poetry collection in this way? Were there any poetic forms that you’ve decided you’ll never work in again?

WM: In writing Moby-Dick, Melville used a variety of forms, including prose narrative, song, drama, soliloquy, encyclopedia entry, etc., so it seemed appropriate for me to use a variety of forms in responding to the book. I do love to try out new forms. One advantage of writing formal poems part of the time is that the form may push you to write something you would not have thought of. If the form requires a rhyme or lines with a set meter, it may direct you. You can end up with an insight you might not have had. I had a writing residency on Martha’s Vineyard, which gave me time to experiment with forms. The most challenging was the name lipogram—I could only use letters that occur in Herman Melville’s name. Since he had no middle name, I was limited to six consonants and three vowels. There is no form in the book I wouldn’t use again, though I don’t plan to write very many sestinas.

OMC: Are there other classic novels upon which you can see yourself basing another poetry collection? Or are you more interested in building future collections around some other idea?

WM: I have thought about the possibility of writing a book of poems responding to Don Quixote, but unless I’m still alive and writing when I’m 110, I’m not likely to get around to it.

OMC: Do you have any new projects in the works?

WM: I’m finishing up a chapbook which will probably be titled The Bee Museum. Some of the poems in that collection were originally in a project I’m calling Not Science 101. Robin Chapman, one of my poet mentors, said I had almost enough bee poems for a chapbook and suggested I take them from the draft of the large manuscript. I followed her advice. When I finish with The Bee Museum, I’ll go back to the broader collection. Most of the poems in Not Science 101 have epigraphs from books or articles on scientific subjects. Sometimes I respond seriously, sometimes with humor.

I recently printed out all the poems I have on my computer. If I could find the time, I could put together a book or two of nature poems, a volume on love, another on faith, a book of humorous poems, and an autobiography in verse. Time will tell what gets published. Life is not always predictable.

OMC: I can’t wait to see The Bee Museum. I love poetry based on science.

This has all been very interesting and certainly encourages readers to rethink the relevance of Moby-Dick to today as well as investigating the pleasure of playing with different poetic forms. Thank you for sharing your background and motivations for your work. I appreciate your insights and the opportunity to learn a thing or two.

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If you’re interested in obtaining a copy of Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick, click HERE.

Wilda Morris’s most recent book, At Goat Hollow and Other Poems, may be found HERE.

Visit Wilda Morris’s Blogger site, which ran Wilda Morris’s Poetry Challenge until 2023, HERE. Wilda is thankful for everyone who participated in the poetry challenge during its 15-year run.

On Vacation in My Own City

One of the reasons I love to have friends and family visit from out of town and stay at our house is that I get to be an explorer at home, re-examining what the Twin Cities has to offer. I love to share the places I go to often and find out what has changed in the neighborhoods I don’t get to much. It’s also fun to do something simply because someone else thought it was a good idea.

When my old grad school friend Alice and her partner Mark drove up from Wichita one recent weekend, I got to be that explorer. First up was going to the St. Paul Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning. I love the Farmer’s Market and, since we cook a lot even when we have guests, wanted to give Alice and Mark the chance to pick out things they liked for dinner. We came home with a lot of veggies, but we also had a great time just experiencing the beauty of a market that was full of freshly-harvested foods and flowers, happy people, and fresh air.

Alice and Mark and some really gorgeous flowers

We later strolled down St. Paul’s Grand Avenue, where there are a multitude of restaurants and coffee shops and my favorite, Penzeys, where I buy a lot of my spices. Then we were off to the Target store near my house in Roseville, which was the very first one in the country, opening in 1962. (File that away for your next Trivia night.) We actually did need a few things, but I felt kind of weird standing in the parking lot while Alice took a photo for another friend who loves Target.

Anyway…..our Saturday night fun was thanks to my friends, who are very interested in theater and bought tickets for us to go to the History Theater in downtown St. Paul, We saw Glensheen, a play about Marjorie Caldwell and the Glensheen murders that happened in Duluth in the 1970s. For those of you not from here, Glensheen was a mansion owned by 83-year-old Elisabeth Congdon, one of Minnesota’s richest people at the time, and she was murdered along with her nurse, Velma Pietila. Marjorie Caldwell was Congdon’s adopted daughter, a sociopath with a long, troubled history. The play is based on the book by Jeffrey Hatcher. By the way, it’s a musical comedy with music and lyrics by Chan Poling (you may know of him as a founding member of the Minneapolis band The Suburbs), and it’s a hoot. It would not have occurred to me to go see a musical comedy about a real-life murder, but I’m glad I did.

And the Saints beat the Gwinnett Stripers 4-3!

Sunday found us at CHS Field to watch the St. Paul Saints play baseball. Mick and I love the Saints, so were delighted that Mark is a big baseball fan who wanted to see them play. The game we attended against the Gwinnett Stripers included naming the ball pig for the second half of the season. The ball pig is a real piglet that gets trotted out between innings and there’s always a naming contest for each new pig. This particular “Catcher in the Sty” was christened Joe Sower H.O.G. 24. If you’re in the area and want to watch baseball, there are always the Twins, but the Saints are a whole other experience. Go if you can.

Ah, summer. My houseguests have moved on, but I’m going to keep this vacation state of mind. I’m having too much fun to let it go. If you want to see where else I end up over the summer, come find me on Instagram @kcmickelson.

THE THICK OF SUMMER

One of the greatest things about being an older adult is the time to settle into whatever season it is, which is extra lovely in the summer. As I write this, I am in a chair outside my front door, gardens bursting with blooms in front of me, a little humidity in the air, birds singing and singing and singing. There is nowhere else I have to be in this moment, no child demanding attention, no boss pushing a deadline, no Zoom call forcing me to choose whether to be on camera or not. My partner is off playing softball and I have time to myself.

And so I am here with a mug of ginger tea and a laptop that allows me to write anywhere. I keep pausing while I write so I can look up at the sky where clouds are gathering in advance of tomorrow’s predicted rain, or at the crabapple where fruit is just beginning to form hard green orbs. I can wave to my neighbor across the street as she goes off for her daily walk. I can watch bumblebees explore the coreopsis, yarrow, lavender, and Indian physics all brushing their blooms against each other alongside our driveway. I can admire the intense red astilbe that have erupted just in time for the fourth of July.

The view from my front step, a perfect place to write on a summer morning.

This past week, Mick and I went to Age-Friendly University Day at the University of Minnesota, an annal event for mature alums to explore all the things our later years can be: healthy, active, productive, and agism-busting. One of the sessions we attended discussed how healing it is to be outside, how good for our health it is to sit with the natural world on a regular basis. Mick and I were pleased that this is something we already do and have been doing for a long time. The way I feel today after spending the morning in my own garden is proof: I am deeply happy to be here, content and unrushed, my attention not shattered into a million shards. I am a terrible multi-tasker, something I’ve come to understand much better in the last few years. But I’m really good at sitting outside, listening.

This makes me think I had it right when I was a kid, wiling away afternoons with a book I loved while laying around in our yard. Kids naturally know when to stop, be still, and regroup if they are left alone long enough to find that out for themselves. I had parents who did not schedule things for me in the summer. They assumed I would find plenty to do on my own. The only thing they planned in the summer months was a block of time to take our annual road trip, which was itself barely planned: get in the car with our suitcases and head out for two or three weeks. We knew where we were going when we got there. There were plenty of stops along the way to check out something that we stumbled on, usually a natural attraction: a park, hiking trail, mountain, dirt road in the middle of nowhere. My father always brought binoculars along, put them into use so he could scan the countryside at each stop. We got lost all the time, found our way somewhere that offered a motel room for the night. That kind of childhood primed me well for this latter part of life when activity levels are different, when we can choose how busy to be or not to be, and when we can let ourselves find little bits of awe along the way.

July is a great time to find some awe in Minnesota. Warm enough to get outside unencumbered or stargaze in the middle of the night. Light enough late enough to take long walks after dinner. Sultry enough to feel your body slow down, pause for a moment.

Don’t wait to pause for that awe. Summer is now. We are in the thick of it.

all photos by kcmickelson 2024

JUNE AFTERNOONS AND SUMMER HIKING TRAILS

Remember when you were a kid on summer vacation and warm afternoons felt endless?

I’ve rediscovered that feeling these last few weeks. As I write these words, I am sitting on our backyard deck. A robin sings somewhere nearby. No, I’m wrong; upon listening more closely, it’s a cardinal singing, whistling, chirping. Sunlight comes through the birch leaves on limbs leaning over the deck, dappling on the deck planks. A small gray spider skitters along the bottom of the sliding door on the back of the house while a helicopter chk-chk-chks overhead. A motorcycle buzzes down what I’m guessing is Snelling Avenue by the direction of the sound.

The garden has burst open with its usual June abundance. My partner Mick created packed-full deck containers of pansies in yellow and purple. Catmint waves in the breeze behind the garage, its stalks full of bumblebees. My favorite deep-toned wind chimes sing in that same garden, while our resident wren sits on top of them to sing his own tune. He’s been singing and singing for weeks, making me worry that he hasn’t found a mate. In other years, the arrival of wren babies by this time would have caused the wren to be quiet and watchful.

That I have time to notice all these things while sitting still is a gift. There has been much busy-ness over the past six months, flitting here and there like the birds I’m listening to. There has been travel – packed bags, crowded airports, taxis on unfamiliar roads, beds not my own, food sampled for the first time. There has been childcare – days spent with my toddler granddaughter Maeve who is the very definition of “terrible twos” while being infinitely lovable. There have been poems to read and edit, blog posts to write, fellow creative crones to cheer on.

And now it is summer. Maeve’s parents are on summer break from their teaching jobs, so Mondays and Tuesdays are my own again. Mick and I have no further big trips planned, opting for journeys closer to home. I’ve only got one poet conversation for One Minnesota Crone scheduled for the next few months (August 1 – Wilda Morris) and I’m not taking on any more than that.

It’s time to relax. And hike.

We’ve already done three nice hikes at nearby park reserves: Murphy-Hanrehan Park Reserve near Savage, Minnesota; Lake Rebecca Park Reserve near Rockford, Minnesota; and Spring Lake Park Reserve near Hastings, Minnesota. If you don’t live near the Twin Cities, you may not realize that hiking trails are everywhere around here. On days when we don’t have time to go very far, we often take a walk at Vadnais-Snail Lake Regional Park in Shoreview, Minnesota – just up the road from us. In fact, that’s where we went last Friday after realizing we had a few other things we needed to pay attention to. We were rewarded with this:

Pileated woodpecker babies look around for their next meal while the parent sits on a stump nearby at Snail Lake Regional Park, Shoreview, Minnesota.

Here are some snippets from the other trails:

Murphy-Hanrehan Park Reserve offered a lot of birdsong and a lot of wind! We were here on a warm spring day before the trees were fully leafed out.

Lake Rebecca Park Reserve smelled wonderful with wild plum trees (I think) in bloom. Not all of the trail was accessible; trail management includes a one-way trail that is designed to reduce erosion and closes when there has been a lot of rain. We’ve had a very rainy spring.

Spring Lake Park Reserve is one of our favorite places, offering lots of wildflowers, river views, and bison – but only when the bison feel like being seen. They did not want to be seen when we were there a couple of weeks ago.

Part of what makes these summer days now upon us feel endless is time spent outside, without attention to what the clock says. Whether it’s time spent on my own deck in my own yard or time spent on a trail somewhere, I feel a luxurious slow-down, as if the only thing important in this moment is to observe and absorb the beauty I don’t see when I’m busy. That beauty is there with me or without me; it doesn’t care what else I have to do. It’s on me to slow down, be still, notice.

all photos by kcmickelson 2024

Among Warriors and Birds

written on the day of the JDRF One Walk in Minnesota – May 18, 2024

Five thousand people gather in the Minnesota Vikings football training grounds, upbeat music blaring from speakers on either side of an outdoor stage. Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) volunteers offer water, wristbands, assistance to the families who include someone with type 1 diabetes (T1D), like our daughter Abby. Diagnosed at the age of five, she will turn 30 this year. I can’t believe it.

We’ve done the JDRF One Walk to raise money for diabetes research almost every year since she was seven. The only walks we missed were when she was in high school and her fencing team’s state tournament fell on the same weekend two years in a row. In the early years after Abby’s diagnosis, I felt like a zombie, never sleeping through the night for fear I would miss a low blood sugar. Abby had a way of whimpering in her sleep when she didn’t feel right, so I learned to sleep lightly, waking at the slightest sound of her voice. Her father or I went on every school field trip until she was in sixth grade, always willing to make sure she could do whatever anyone else was doing because we would be there in an emergency. Her insulin pump, acquired when she was 10, made her far more self-sufficient than daily insulin shots taken on a rigid schedule, but we had to talk the school nurse into trusting that she knew how to use it. When she went to college, I still woke in the night, wondering if she was all right, if she was safe, if she was happy.

Today, at the 2024 JDRF One Walk, I can’t help but be proud of this warrior daughter who is smart about managing her body, does what she wants in spite of occasional blood sugar drops or spikes, and isn’t letting a chronic condition stop her from pursuing a second bachelor’s degree or applying for promotions at Target where she works in human resources. Seeing her don a blue cape for the “T1D Warriors” who have dealt with type 1 diabetes for more than 20 years puts a lump in my throat.

The walk begins. Drum corps line the sides of the arch under which we pass to start out. Their beat makes us bop as we move along, following the path all the way around the training grounds, through a marshy area with frogs and birds all making noise on this May morning. Little kids stop to reach their hands into the water, sad when the frogs slip away. Lilacs bloom along part of the route, their scent heady. Some people take a shortcut to accommodate elders or little ones in their group. We walk the full 2.3 miles: Abby, myself, my husband, Abby’s partner Jo. When we arrive back at the start line, we are in time to hear the total raised here in Minnesota for diabetes research: nearly a million dollars.

As we walk back to our car, I walk behind Abby and Jo, notice the way they look at each other. We helped Jo understand how to help if Abby had a blood sugar emergency and they’ve risen to the occasion as needed. Jo has been with us since Abby and they were both in high school. It makes my heart happy to know she’s not alone.

As we near our parked car, a red-winged blackbird lights on a pole along the driveway. His brilliant red patch glows in the sun, as if to remind us that bright spots are everywhere, if we just remember to look.

And I do.

Know a family struggling with type 1 diabetes? Maybe you, yourself, are struggling? Here are some resources you may find helpful: https://www.jdrf.org/t1d-resources/

UPDATE: JDRF has changed their name as of June 4, 2024. They are now known as Breakthrough T1D. Here is the new link for the updated website: https://www.breakthrought1d.org/

Unpacked – For Now

I’ve been enjoying a season of travel these past few months.

Earlier this spring, my partner Mick, our friends Mark and Mary, and I spent 12 days traveling around Italy. We’ve traveled with Mark and Mary before, renting a car in Dublin and driving into Northern Ireland, then back south to Connemara National Park, Galway, the Cliffs of Moher, and back to Dublin. It all worked out so well, we decided we could do other trips together and still remain friends. Last week, I took a girls’ trip to Asheville, North Carolina, for a few days with my good friend Luann, whom I’ve known for more than 20 years. We, too, have traveled together before, most memorably to New York City where Luann tromped all over Manhattan with me in spite of a torn meniscus in her knee.

This year’s trips have offered what the best travel always does: a shift in my own perspective and some renewed excitement for creative work.

For me, travel isn’t about packing in monuments and museums and other tourist sites on a tight schedule that has me sleeping in a different place every night. Nor is it about doing nothing by a pool, although there have been times when I could see the value in that. I’m somewhere in the middle of those two extremes, with a tilt, at times, toward slow travel. My preferred style is to stay in one or two places for several days and explore on foot. Mick, Mark, Mary, and I chose a few things in Italy that required reservations made before we left the U.S.: a walking tour in Milan that ended with a viewing of The Last Supper, a Tuscan cooking class where we made pizza and gelato, a visit to the Ufizzi Galleries, and a walking tour of Vatican City that included the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica. We knew we wanted to hike in Cinque Terre, but we figured out where to buy passes for the trail when we got there. The trail was harder than we expected, but we went anyway and enjoyed stunning views of the sea and mountains, hillside vineyards, lemon trees, and narrow cobblestoned streets in the towns on both ends of our hike. We knew we wanted to go to restaurants that were away from all the monuments in Rome, so we asked the hotel staff where they went and had some of the best food of our lives (cacio e pepe in my case). We stumbled into an open air market in the middle of Florence and bought gorgeous leather wallets for our family members. Also in Florence, we meandered into an Irish pub and were amused to learn that the owners were two young guys from Florence who spent all of two days in Dublin before they opened their pub; they didn’t go anywhere else in Ireland. We compared that with the Irish pub we went to in Rome which had Irish owners working behind the bar. (And, yes, I’m inclined to visit Irish pubs wherever I find them.) We wandered into an artichoke festival in a small town outside of Rome for our very last day in Italy after deciding we’d had enough of crowds around ancient sites; one of our hotel staff lived in that town and told us we could sit by the sea there. And we did sit by the sea, but discovered there were places there that did not want us in their bars (no English, no tables in two places with plenty of tables available). We did not argue; we moved on.

I went to Italy knowing very little Italian, grateful and amazed at the number of people with whom I could communicate anyway. Menus usually offered items in English alongside Italian. Hotel and museum staff all spoke English; we found walking tours in English. And I made an effort, learning Italian words for please, thank you, and some foods. I was reminded over and over how many people in other countries easily flip between their native tongue and someone else’s. That makes me want to be better about knowing at least a scrap of the native language when I travel to another country. And it reminds me just how hard it must be for people coming here with very little English in their command.

Travel to Asheville was so easy after being in Italy – only two hours on a plane instead of more than eight, and signs we could read without a translation app. Luann and I stayed at the Aloft Hotel downtown (I highly recommend it), walked everywhere. Walking everywhere while traveling in European cities is usually easy, but that isn’t always the case for U.S. cities; I live in a notoriously unwalkable area with mediocre public transportation. Asheville was a nice contrast. And, after being overwhelmed in Italy by the magnificent art produced by long-dead artists, I was delighted to visit artists working in their studios in warehouses along the river in Asheville. Chatting with artists always makes me think about expanding what I do – writing, painting, photography or a mish-mash of all three. Asheville also has a fantastic selection of tap rooms, only three of which we managed to go to. And one of my favorite things of all was stumbling upon the Asheville Drum Circle in Pritchard Park when we were on our way to dinner at Tupelo Honey on our last night in Asheville. It wasn’t until I looked it up later that I learned this drum circle has been drumming on Friday nights since 2001 and everyone is welcome. The sound was mesmerizing and primal, and I absolutely loved it.

Now I’m back home daydreaming about future travel and art projects. I’m taking stock of the art materials already in my house, just waiting for me to do something with them. And I’m thinking about how important it is to get out of my own backyard, talk to someone I’ve not met before, say yes to eating something I can’t identify, and walk down streets without knowing what’s on the other end.

There’s comfort in familiarity, but there are sparks of delight waiting around unfamiliar corners. If it turns a little awkward (no English, no tables), just go in a different direction.

All photos by kcmickelson 2024 except “getting on the plane in Rome”, which is courtesy of Mary Rutherford.

CONVERSATION WITH A POET: LUANNE CASTLE

Today, I have the privilege of sharing a conversation with poet Luanne Castle, in which we discuss poetry, creative process, and her second chapbook Our Wolves (Alien Buddha, 2023).

OMC: Hello, Luanne, and thank you for sharing a copy of Our Wolves with me, as well as having this conversation about your work. The variations on the story of Red Riding Hood made for interesting reading and sent me researching the oldest versions of that story (Little Red Riding Hood by Charles Perrault, 1697; Little Red Cap by the Brothers Grimm, 1812). This chapbook feels like it came out at just the right time for women who are disappointed that we’re still fighting the same old sexism in 2024. It’s loaded with malleable metaphors that suit this time quite well.

Your Sonnet 

People always tell me don’t talk to strangers
as if I am my big red mistake. Remember how I 
made caramel brownies and helped eat them 
when the jerk dumped you? And, you, I rode
the bronco when you wanted the mild mare 
although in truth I was more scared than you. 
All of you, am I the only one who felt pity
for a wolf on crutches in the middle of nowhere? 
My mother taught me to be kind, to be helpful, 
not to ignore the slow or less than able, the ones 
who are different, the needy, so I asked what
he needed from me and he misunderstood.
My story is not so very different from yours
and yours and yours and yours and yours. 

(p. 31, Our Wolves)

I know from listening to one of your interviews – I think it was on Tea, Toast, & Trivia – that Our Wolves began with some poems that didn’t make it into your 2022 book, Rooted and Winged. What was it about the Red Riding Hood tale that really hooked you, the piece that you eventually wanted to turn over and over in this chapbook?

LC: When I was very young, my mother bought me a Golden Book version of Red Riding Hood. This now vintage version is available for $150 online, but in those days, a Little Golden Book cost twenty-nine cents at the grocery store. I used to beg my mother to buy me one when we were shopping. Every night I asked to be read the story. The illustrations of an old-fashioned peasant girl charmed me, and the story of a little girl being given independence and responsibility in a dangerous world fascinated me. Even Red’s basket containing goodies fed my imagination. I used to have a recurrent dream based upon that basket. Also, the darker aspects of the story reminded me of the dangers even in my own home where I was frequently afraid of my father who had anger issues.

OMC: Growing up with a father who has anger issues shows in the poems you’ve created. I’m thinking of your poem, “How to Digest the Wolf”, where you have a line about taking the belt without crying. Also, the poem, “From the kitchen, you enter,” which has a line about how fast a father’s joy dissolves into anger and what happens next. These poems, in particular, speak to anyone who has had a parent with anger issues. What do you hope readers take away from Our Wolves? And have you heard any reactions that surprised you?

LC: I would love for readers to find or renew a love for folk and fairy tales because they are the building blocks of stories and stories are the way humans make sense of the world around them. I hope that the poems show a variety of ways of looking at one well-known story so that readers see how rich any one story can be. In fact, I could keep writing Red stories and poems. One surprising, but humorous, reaction from readers was a complaint that the book was too short. Our Wolves is a chapbook, not a full-length collection, and that decision was purposeful. I decided on a chapbook not because I couldn’t write more on the topic, but because I didn’t want to overwhelm the reader with Red poems. Rather, I’d like to leave them craving more.

OMC: I agree with not overwhelming readers. Your chapbook covers a lot of emotional ground. Do you have a favorite piece from Our Wolves? And why that particular poem? Or, maybe, another question would be whether you have a favorite point of view that popped up in Our Wolves?

LC: I had so much fun writing these poems and inhabiting different POVs that it’s hard to choose. I love to read “You All Been Waiting for a Wolf Confession” aloud because the wolf is such a character. I love writing “voices.” “How to Digest the Wolf” is a very serious memoir poem. “How to Make a Hand Shadow Wolf” is the last poem in the collection because it allows Red and readers to become wolves. By becoming wolves, we no longer have to fear “our wolves.”

How to Make a Hand Shadow Wolf

Start in your own room. Shut the door.
If you can, lock it or else barricade
with the hope chest and all your dolls.
Prop a flashlight on the bedding,
pointed at the gray fan-pattern plaster,
and make a light-circle on the wall.
Find your shadow. Try to keep track.
Close four fingers with the thumb up.
Curl in your index finger. There,
your own shadow is a basic wolf.
Add a thumb and wiggle the ears.
Watch now. Your pinky finger
is the mouth, open and close it.
See, no teeth. Can you make an open
eye by tweaking that one finger?
Close it now. You’re in charge.
Tip your hand, open the mouth,
and howl at the moon, all aquiver.

(p. 36, Our Wolves)

OMC: I understand that fairy tales and Little Golden Books were an important part of your childhood reading experience. Do you still maintain a collection of childhood books to serve as references when you’re working on poetry that harkens back to those tales? And which are your favorites?

LC: Funny you should ask that question. I used to teach college-level children’s literature to education students. During that time, I added to my collection of books from my own childhood, which included books that belonged to my great-grandfather, grandmother, and mother, with many books, particularly Caldecott and Newbery winners and honor books. I have been keeping my collection, waiting for grandchildren. My first grandchild was just born in January, and I can’t wait to share the books with him.

OMC: Which poets do you love to read right now? Who resonates with you?

LC: Ugh, I have so many poets whose work I love. Diane Seuss is the queen. I’m reading her new book Modern Poetry right now. Joy Harjo. Victoria Chang. Carmen Giménez Smith. I could go on and on. And I have to mention that I still reread Sylvia Plath and Audre Lorde as they are two of my long-time favorites.

OMC: You also write flash fiction. There are similarities in flash pieces and poetry as far as word choice and rhythm. For you, what determines whether an idea moves into the flash fiction or poetic form?

LC: For me, a sense of story is important to flash, whereas a poem does not need story to support itself. But truly, it’s more what mood I am in. Do I feel like writing a poem or a flash story today?

OMC: What subject would you like to see poets take on more often?

LC: Menstruation. I recently published a period flash in a local zine and a few years ago published a period short story, “The Secret Kotex Club,” in Longridge Review which was nominated for a Pushcart. Note that these are both stories, not poems. I realize there are probably some beautiful menstruation poems out there, but I read a lot of poetry collections and poems in journals and don’t see many period poems. Another subject I’d like to read is this grandma business—about taking care of a grandchild on a regular basis.

OMC: Those are excellent choices for poetic subjects! Yes! There is a lot of power both in menstrual cycles and menopause – as in grandmothers. I take care of my youngest granddaughter a couple of days a week, and my own poems that come from that are usually focused on trying to look at things through a child’s eyes again rather than thinking about the grandmother wisdom I might contain. Do you have a new project in the works? Can you talk a little about what’s next?

LC: I haven’t begun to pull anything together, although I have published probably a dozen flash stories based on the paintings of Remedios Varo. Whether I end up trying to pull them into a collection or move in another direction, I don’t yet know!

OMC: I look forward to learning more about that in the future. And, I suspect, you’ll be writing your own grandmother poems and stories.

Thank you so much for taking the time to discuss your work with me. Do you have any parting shout-outs you’d like to share?

LC: The online poetry community has been such a blessing to me. There are so many wonderful poets writing today and unlike when I started out so much of it is available online without a library or paywall. When I was working on my MFA, I couldn’t afford to purchase literary journals and had to go to the library in person to read them. Many couldn’t even be checked out. I am so grateful to my readers who have stuck with me through all my books. They are in my heart.

OMC: This was a pleasure.

Below are links to more information about Luanne Castle and her work.

AUTHOR WEBSITE: https://www.luannecastle.com

WHERE TO BUY A COPY OF OUR WOLVES: https://www.amazon.com/Our-Wolves-LUanne-Castle/dp/B0BTKNP31D

cover image of girl and wolf courtesy of Brandon Serna Correa on Pixabay.

Travel is Good For You

I’ve been traveling in Italy with my partner Mick and friends Mary and Mark since April 3. We started in Milan, then went on to Monterosso, Florence, Rome. We hiked, did walking tours, tried new foods and wines, took a cooking class, went to an artichoke festival, rode trains, took a ferry. It’s been a whirlwind.

I’ll write more later, but here’s a taste.

I have many many photos on my Nikon to upload, so stay tuned.

And I can confirm: travel is good for you.

Ciao!