Writing and Waiting

Posted on July 14, 2024 by youngv2015

Walking through Tom’s Logging Camp on Friday was a delightful diversion from waiting.

Children wait a lot. They wait for a parent to come home or to pick them up after a soccer practice or a dance class. They wait for a sermon to end or for Christmas morning to finally arrive. They wait for each birthday, and cherish the moment when they can add the half year to their age because their big day is that much closer. They wait for the bell to ring, dismissing fifth-hour study hall, so they can walk down the hall and hope that today when they encounter the seventh-grade classmate they are hopelessly in love with, their eyes will meet in a moment of magic. Learning to wait when one is a child is good preparation for having to wait as an adult. Because having to wait is not something a child can outgrow.

And writers wait. We wait for an idea to run with. We wait for the next time we can sit down to write. We wait for readers to give us feedback. We wait to hear from editors who will accept or decline our stories, essays, or poems. We wait to learn the results from writing contests. Once our work is accepted, we wait for our pieces to be published. We wait to see if we’ve been accepted for a writer’s residency. We wait for phone calls from our computer techs who tell us we can pick up our computers.

My parents taught me the art of waiting, which is probably how most of us learn to wait.

When I was a child, under the age of eleven, my father kept an airplane at the Hales Corner Airport, in Franklin, Wisconsin. My sisters (one thirteen months younger than me and the other four years younger) and I often went to the airport with my father. He would get the urge to work on his plane or hangout with other pilots, shooting the breeze about flying and planes — much like when I’m compelled to write or when I crave the company of other writers, so I can shoot the breeze about writing and books.

Unless my sisters and I were going on a flight with my father, we weren’t invited into the hangar. He would tell us to wait in the car, that he’d be back soon. It was never soon. He would crank down the windows, but heat stacked up in the car anyway, making us too warm. In addition to being bored beyond belief and hot, we became irritated. Our definition of soon was clearly at odds with his definition. We had a tipping point at which we risked his anger and got out of the car. But we never entered the hangar to ask him when we were going home. By a young age, we had learned this simply wasn’t to be done. This is partly why I can wait for months and months to hear from editors without contacting them, even when they’ve stated, “If you don’t hear from us after six months, please feel free to contact us.” I may never hear from them, and still they will most likely never hear from me. Those editors are in a hangar, and I’m not going in there.

At the airport my father always parked close to a tall metal pole topped with a bright orange windsock. The pole was surrounded by green grass, which was encircled by a ring of rocks, all the size of small dogs curled up for a nap. We would climb over the rocks and sit in the grass and watch the windsock as it shifted above us. The cooler air and freedom from the car helped, but our boredom and irritability soon returned. Eventually, our father would come out of the hangar. He might say a few terse words about us sitting around the pole instead of inside the car, or not. But either way we knew better than to ask him, “What took you so long?”

My ability to wait quietly doesn’t mean that waiting to hear about something I’ve submitted is easy. Far from it. I can pace with the best of the tigers. I perform menial tasks to pass time, but I end up feeling like I’m swimming in a pool filled with Salvador Dalí’s melting watches. As a projected date of a notification nears, I check my email incessantly. One moment, I convince myself that no one will ever be interested in publishing my work again. The next moment, I daydream that I’ve won a contest or that an editor has so loved my work, they gush about it, using bouquets of purple prose and ask, “Can you send us more?” (Yeah, Walter Mitty lives inside of me.)

When I first started submitting my work and received rejections, I was convinced I must be a lousy writer. I contemplated doing something easier — maybe washing windows on tall buildings, even though I’m terrified of heights. Then an editor sent me a rejection saying she had almost selected my flash fiction piece but had decided to hold off. She would keep it on the back burner but probably wouldn’t end up using it. It was an encouraging rejection, so I kept writing. A month later, she notified me that she had decided to print my story after all. Perhaps, I thought, I can write.

I keep submitting and mostly receive rejections. But I get just enough acceptances. So, like my old dog who hangs around the kitchen, hoping at any moment that she will get a treat, I keep checking my email, hoping at any moment I might receive an acceptance.

I get so bad about checking my email that I don’t open it if I’m working at my computer, I leave my phone in another room, and I make deals with myself. If I write for thirty minutes, I can check my email. After I walk the dog, I can check my email. After I finish all the dishes, I can check my email. After I’m done having coffee with a friend, I can check my email. If I go an hour without checking, I pat myself on the back, then hurry to check my email. The only reason I will confess this is because I’ve read essays written by other writers who admit they repeatedly check their email, especially when they know the date of an editor’s announcement is imminent. And if a writer submits enough pieces, there is always an announcement coming soon.

I often think of my mother when I’m waiting for an email from an editor. Before I learned to drive, I relied on my parents to drop me off and pick me up from school events, a job that fell mostly to my mother, who was always late. And there were no cell phones. To ease my worry while I waited, I played little games: If I counted to sixty, then she would come, then maybe one hundred, then perhaps fifty. I alternated that game with a counting-the-cars game: the tenth car on the road would be hers, then maybe the sixth car, then perhaps the eighth car.

For me, to write is to submit, and to submit is to wait. I find the more I submit, the easier waiting becomes because without waiting too long, I can look forward to (or be disappointed by) an email from an editor. But I check my email even more — a random reinforcement schedule is an effective motivator. If I have only a few submissions on the loose, it’s easier to ignore my email — at least until a notification date approaches.

I’m currently a finalist in a writing contest and waiting to hear if I’ve won anything. I have a short story set in 1860 entered in a historical fiction contest. My short story collection, which I entered in a contest, is hopefully being read and passed along to the next round. I’m waiting for an anthology of essays to be published because I have an essay in it. I have a short story under consideration for a British journal, and an essay under consideration for yet another British journal. I have a flash fiction piece entered in a regional contest. I’m hoping to hear about two articles I pitched to a local publication.

And so, I wait. I don’t sit next to a windsock. I don’t count seconds in my head or cars on the road. Instead, I push myself to keep writing. To get out into the world. To read a good book. To hear an author speak. To have coffee with friends. To go to lunch with my husband. To take my grandkids to Tom’s Logging Camp where we can look at old logging tools, feed ravenous trout and goats, and be ignored by an uppity llama who isn’t hungry.

And I silently thank my parents for making me wait around when I was a child.

Today after I post this blog, I’ll check my email. Then after I clean the bathroom, I’ll check my email. I have guests coming for dinner, and after they leave, I’ll check my email. (Perhaps, my parents didn’t make me wait long enough before exiting the hangar or picking me up from school.)

Playing Chess with My Grandson

Posted on June 16, 2024 by youngv2015

I taught my ten-year-old grandson Michael to play chess about six months ago. We sat at my kitchen table and played lots of games. I won them all. It never crossed my mind to let him win. I enjoyed feeling like a Grandmaster chess player, even if I was beating a ten-year-old child who’d never played before. Chess is a tough game. If he was going to learn to play, he needed to pay attention to the whole board and think beyond his current move, something I knew he would eventually do better than I ever could.

But a Grandmaster I’m not. I liked chess as a child, but I stopped playing when I was about thirteen. I was no good at the game because I could never think beyond a couple of moves. I never learned the higher-level strategies. I never thought or talked about the board in terms of numbers and letters. When I played against my sister or neighborhood friends, I won occasionally, but as I got older, my game didn’t mature, and I lost a lot of games. For me chess was no longer fun. I hung up my pieces and moved on.

So, when I sat at the kitchen table six months ago, beating my grandson in game after game, I enjoyed it because I knew it wouldn’t last. He is good at puzzles and games. He can read diagrams and build three-dimensional objects from many types of building sets. He can skip the directions and design his own creations. He watches YouTube videos to learn how to do things.

My grandson is eleven now. He has been playing chess with friends and watching friends play chess. He has learned some strategies. He thinks about his moves before he makes them. He thinks two or three moves ahead. I’ve started playing chess with him again.

We play in the front living room. He sets the chess board up on the coffee table and pulls up the ottoman. I sit opposite him on the couch.

Words between us are few. Chess is a quiet game. We watch each other contemplate moves. We think about our next moves. We work on seeing the whole board. There is no room for small talk. Sometimes one of my younger grandsons will come up to us and start talking. I put my hand up and say, “Michael and I are playing chess, and it takes all of our concentration. We can’t talk and think about the game at the same time.” They stop mid-sentence and back away, but in five minutes or less, one of them will forget and try to talk to us again.

My chess-playing grandson and I are evenly matched, for now. Our games last around twenty minutes. It’s a coin toss as to who will win. I give the game my all, but I don’t care if I win or lose because the victories are never lopsided. But I suspect in another year or two, my grandson will have upped his game again. My only strategy against him might be that I have no strategy, thereby creating chaos on the board.

My favorite part of playing chess with my grandson is the quiet camaraderie we share as we stare at the pieces and the board, each of us trying our best to win. And with four grandkids in the house, it gives me the perfect excuse to be left in peace and quiet for twenty minutes in the afternoon. I tell the other grandkids that barring an emergency, I’m not to be disturbed. And if they try, I hold up my hand and repeat, “Michael and I are playing chess.”

Memories don’t always have to be filled with words.

Photograph as a Collection of Stories

Posted on May 4, 2024 by youngv2015

**Photo: Max Youngquist, 2024**
**Instagram** **@maxyoungquist**

My nephew took this picture. He said that at first he wasn’t very impressed with the photo, but after looking at it for a while, he started to think it wasn’t bad.

I fell in love with his photo from the moment I saw it. “This photo,” I told him, “is full of stories.”

Some photos capture the beauty of a bird on the wing, or a sunset over an ocean, or a flower in the breeze, or a Japanese tea set at rest on an oak table. Those photos can be works of art, and we love them for their composition, study of light, and subject matter, but they are not a story in themselves, though they may evoke one.

My nephew’s photo is a story — even more than that — it’s a collection of stories. “This” I said, “is the kind of a picture a photojournalist takes because he or she is telling a story about a place or event or people.” Then I told him about all the stories I saw in the photo.

My nephew is a wonderful photographer. I love his work. I love to listen to him talk about his digital and film cameras. He develops both black-and-white and color film. He speaks of camera settings, film speeds, and film brands. Focus, depth of field, and lighting. And I understand enough of it because I took art photography and photojournalism classes in college, enough of them to minor in photography, if I’d only been willing to take an art history class. I loved photography, but not enough to make it a passion or career. Today my camera phone is all I need. But my nephew’s eyes are lens, always framing a shot. He has developing fluid coursing through his veins. And like a true artist, he experiments.

And with this photo, he has inspired me. I’m composing a story set inside of this moment he captured.

Photograph as a collection of stories.
Tales about inside and outside, darkness and light, illumination and shadow. Stories of three cars pointed toward different journeys, a bus releasing and corralling commuters. Glassed reflections recounting illusions, faded signs whispering of past triumphs and failures.
***Photo by Max Youngquist***

[Max asked me to write a blurb about his photo to post on Instagram. What I wrote is in the photo’s caption. You can see Max’s work on Instagram @maxyoungquist]

A Morning at Sax-Zim Bog in with the Grandkids

Posted on March 19, 2024 by youngv2015

The John C. Gale Boardwalk, part of the Taiga Boardwalk built in autumn 2023

Last week I took my four grandkids to the Sax-Zim Bog in Toivola, Minnesota, appropriately located on Owl Avenue. (It’s a good place to see northern owls.) The drive from my house was one hour and four minutes. (Thank you, GPS.) The grandkids brought library books and their adventure bags, which are filled with postcards, maps, compasses, binoculars, auto bingo, bird books, and other adventuresome stuff. We weren’t one minute from my house when the three youngest grandkids took up an intense game of auto bingo, searching for cows, horses, ambulances, no parking signs, and billboards. However, by the time we were far enough out of the city to see cows and horses, the bingo game had blown over.

Of course, there is always one grandkid who wants to know: How far? How many more miles? Are we halfway there yet? Have you ever been here before?

We arrived at the bog’s parking lot about eleven o’clock. It was 52 degrees and sunny, with a slight breeze — perfect weather for walking through an old bog. But we were glad we’d worn sweatshirts over our T-shirts.

The Sax-Zim Welcome Center was closed, but we met a volunteer coming out of the building who looked like part of an illustration from a Jan Brett book. He kindly answered my questions about the trails because we wanted to walk on the new Taiga Boardwalk built last autumn.

Shortly after we started down the trail, a loud clattering commenced. I wondered, “What kind of bird is that?” Then I discovered two chattering squirrels chasing each other up and down tree trunks and across fallen logs at breakneck speeds like a pair of NASCAR racers. “Those are fox squirrels,” Michael, 10, said. “My grandma has them at her house.” His other grandparents live in rural central Minnesota. But, according to a post on the Friends of Sax-Zim Bog Facebook page, we most likely saw Red Squirrels. They are highly territorial, and one of them probably invaded the other’s space, which would explain their loud scolding sounds and serious chasing behavior. Whether fox squirrels or red squirrels, they were fun to watch.

As we walked through the bog’s forest, I thought about The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, a book I recently finished reading. I learned a lot about trees and forests. True forests are diverse and interconnected in an amazing cycle of life and death, filled with competitiveness and cooperation, and home to a large variety of insects, animals, and other plants. Forests grown for harvesting are nothing of the sort.

A tree near the end of its standing life

Walking along the trails of the bog, we saw different species of trees. New trees, only inches tall, grew under the branches of old trees. Unless the old tree dies, most, or perhaps all, of the baby trees we saw won’t make it to adulthood. Some standing trees looked nearly dead, waiting for their turn to fall to the forest floor. Tree trunks that had already fallen lay on the ground in different stages of decay, providing habitat for other creatures.

Steeped in tranquility, the breathless silence of the bog held no traffic or city noise. No planes droned overhead. Occasionally, the peaceful quiet was accompanied by the chirps and calls of birds and squirrels, which like the silence, belonged to the forest.

The Taiga Boardwalk loop is short, but it’s not meant for serious hiking. It’s a trail where visitors take their time, stopping to look for birds and animals who are masters at blending into the forest. When we finished the Taiga trail, we weren’t ready to leave the bog, so we walked a different, smaller loop. We still didn’t wanted to leave, so we walked the Taiga again.

On our second trip around the Taiga trail, Evan, 7, got down on his hands and knees, peered through the slats on the boardwalk, and said, “I see why they built this. There is water down there.” I’d told them the boardwalk was built to help keep people’s feet dry.

Charlie points at the common redpoll on the cover of his trail map. He said he just saw one, and he might have. Before we left the bog, another volunteer told us a redpoll had been spotted that morning.

We didn’t see any owls, but in addition to the red (or fox) squirrels, we saw chickadees, and Clara,12, spotted a black-back woodpecker.

After we finished walking the trails, my youngest grandson Charlie, 5, gave me a hug. “Do you know why I gave you a hug?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I gave you a hug because you brought me to this bog.” I think Charlie felt what I felt: a pervasive peacefulness. As I walked through the bog, I felt a sense of increasing serenity. In The Hidden Life of Trees, the author mentions studies that show people have reduced stress levels after walking through old-growth forests. I have no data to prove that is what happened to me, but I certainly felt calmer than when I’d arrived.

Holding our trail maps, Sax-Zim Bog calendars, and warm memories, we got in the van and buckled up. I was about to start the engine when Clara pointed out her window and said, “There’s a butterfly in the parking lot.”

The butterfly, a Compton Tortoiseshell, sunning itself before the pickup entered the lot.

Having recently finished reading Bicycling with Butterflies by Sara Dykman, I had to get out of the van and have a look. As I was snapping pictures of the butterfly, which wasn’t moving much, a red pickup truck pulled into the lot. The only open space for the truck to park happened to be where the butterfly was resting, and the driver wouldn’t have been able to see it. Squashed butterfly, I thought. I walked toward it, and it fluttered a few feet, but in the wrong direction. Coming from another angle, I walked toward it again, and it flew another few feet, but this time it landed out of harm’s way.

The red truck parked without crushing the butterfly. Perhaps it wouldn’t have needed me to save it. Maybe it wouldn’t have been run over, and it would have flown away from the truck instead of into it. But I’m glad I didn’t leave the butterfly’s destiny to fate.

The grandkids and I left the bog and headed back to the city. As I drove down the county roads, they flipped through their calendars, enjoying pictures of the beautiful wildlife who make their homes, for at least part of the year, at the Sax-Zim Bog.

Drury Lane Books, Grand Marais, Minnesota

Posted on February 11, 2024 by youngv2015

The entrance to Drury Lane: to the left is Lake Superior, to the right is a donut shop

On the shore of Lake Superior, there is a small independent bookstore in Grand Marais, Minnesota, called Drury Lane Books. It’s my happy place. When I feel tired, sad, angry, or bored, I conjure up an image of the charming store, then I walk inside and sit in the window seat lined with a bright-blue cushion. In my hands I hold the perfect book, pulled from a glossy-white shelf. And I fall hopelessly in love with the characters and their stories. It’s Zen.

Last October my sister and I actually visited Drury Lane three times in one weekend. (I bought a collection of short stories and two novels.) During our first visit, the churning waves on Lake Superior roared so loudly that conversation outside the bookstore was difficult, unless we wanted to shout. And while we could have sat in the wooden chairs on the beach and read our new books, the cold, strong-fisted winds would have ripped pages from our hands. The next day the winds abated, but it was still chilly. So, we read our books in a local coffeehouse while sipping hot mugs of tea and coffee.

Drury Lane dreaming puts a smile on my face.

A great place to read a book, as long as Lake Superior is behaving

When the Busy Day Is Done

Posted on February 5, 2024 by youngv2015

Miss Nellie, almost ten months old. [Forgive my poor attempt at poetry, but Nellie inspires me to try.]

When the busy day is done, all the walks and treats and belly rubs, find your furry buddy and close your eyes. And dream your doggie dreams.

Dreams of fast runs, forest paths, green fields, chattering squirrels, hopping rabbits, and chittering birds.

Today is Ziva’s 13th Birthday

Posted on January 23, 2024 by youngv2015

Ziva and her birthday present, big enough for her and a small pony, January 2024

Ziva was born in Barrett, Minnesota, on a rolling farm, but has lived her life in Wisconsin at the tip of Lake Superior. Her father’s name was Rufus and her mother’s name was Ziva. So, yes, Ziva is named after her mother, but she is also named after Ziva David from the TV show NCIS. I think the Ziva David character is very kick-ass with a great sense of humor. Our Ziva, however, is a forty-six-pound baby, who has more in common with the Cowardly Lion. But our Ziva does make us laugh. Her full name is Ziva Baby, and it suits her

If I show you a picture of Ziva, you will probably think she is a black poodle. But, we’re not so sure. When Ziva was three-and-a-half months old, two different poodle breeders told me she was actually a blue poodle. “What’s that?” people sometimes ask. In Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck describes his blue standard poodle, Charley, by saying that he looks like a dirty black poodle who needs a bath.

When she was three months old, I enrolled Ziva in a puppy socialization class. She had mixed feelings about the course. She was okay with the part where she got to sit on my lap while the dog trainer answered questions. And she didn’t mind being passed around from human to human. But when it was time to mingle with the other puppies, she crawled under the bench and hid behind my legs. Finally, the dog trainer placed us with a group of designer micro dogs, figuring the teeny-tiny pups wouldn’t be as scary. Ziva still crawled behind my legs. When she finished puppy socialization class, she was given a certificate of completion. Purely a feel-good thing because she was too shy to socialize with the other puppies.

Riding high on Ziva’s lack of success in the puppy class, I enrolled her in an obedience class. She loved it. No one expected her to play with the other dogs. She excelled, and after two sessions, she was clearly the teacher’s pet. Me, not so much. Turns out it was not your traditional sit-stay-come-heel class. I had unknowingly enrolled Ziva in a class that was for people who wanted to compete in dog shows or obedience trials with their canines. Ziva learned so quickly that the dog trainers used her to demonstrate different walking moves and turns. The problem? When I had to perform with Ziva, I was all left feet, with no sense of rhythm. Ziva got praise, I got scolded. We only went back to the class a third time because I had to return a collar I had borrowed. After we dropped off the collar, I told the instructor I had to take Ziva out to go potty. But we got back in the car, and feeling like that adolescent girl who couldn’t make the pom squad, I cried. Ziva licked my chin, and crawled onto my lap. We became dog school dropouts.

For years Ziva was a reader — books, magazines, and newspapers. She loved to chew on the written word. I still have the copy of All Quiet on the Western Front that we both savored, except I wasn’t the one who left teeth marks on it. I learned to walk around the house and make sure every book and magazine was put where she couldn’t reach it. But her desire to read triumphed, and she became resourceful. She put her paws on tables and scooped up books. She threaded her face between two couches set at a right angle and slipped my quilting magazines off the bottom shelf of the end table. She poked her snout between the chairs at my desk (placed to keep her out) and selected books off the ledge under the desk. When I successfully blocked these accesses to my books and magazines, she started reading boxes of tissues. So, I left old newspapers on the coffee table in case she wanted to read. About once or twice a month, I’d return home to find shredded newsprint all over the floor. These days she seems to be over her urge to “read.” Perhaps she has become farsighted.

If her sister, Cabela, had a toy she wanted, Ziva would run to the back door and pretend she wanted to go outside. Cabela loved to play outside, so she would drop her toy and run to the door too. My husband or I would open the door. But as soon as Cabela was outside, Ziva turned around and grabbed the toy Cabela had dropped. Cabela is gone now, but Ziva uses this technique on my husband and me. She stands by the back door and pretends she wants to go outside, when we open the door, she does a half turn and stands in front of the microwave, looking up at her bowl of treats. We laugh at her and turn away. But she will do it again and again because she occasionally gets the treat.

Ziva loves to go for rides. She knows when it’s Sunday morning because that is grocery shopping day. She loves to hear “Want to go to the bank?” because she can withdraw treats. When we get the suitcases out, she knows we are going to Michigan. Sometimes Ziva gets carsick, so we keep old towels and blankets on the van floor, and on long trips we give her Dramamine. She is a true road warrior.

And a kind, loving dog.

Ziva Is Ready for Buffalo Bills vs Kansas City Chiefs

Posted on January 21, 2024 by youngv2015

Ziva is ready for the big game between the Buffalo Bills and the Kansas City Chiefs. She believes she has the best seat in the house. It’s a bed sized for an Irish Wolfhound or a Great Dane. She has room for a companion on this bed, but she would object to another dog sharing it. However, she would share her oversized cushion with my seven-year-old grandson, who snuggles with her on the couch. He has already tried out the bed and declared it “very cozy!”

but I’m pulling for the Bills, who have never won a Super Bowl.

And no, Ziva doesn’t think it’s necessary to watch the action. She will just listen to Tony Romo and Jim Nantz call the game. She doesn’t care about the temperature and wind conditions on the field. She doesn’t care who wins. But she likes that Taylor Swift is there cheering on her beau. And by the way, so does my eighty-three-year-old mother, who went to see Swift’s Eras Tour in the theater and loved it. After all, “Girls just wanna have fun, that’s all they really want.”

And a cushion fit for a pop star.

A Conversation between Two Old Dogs

Posted on January 1, 2024 by youngv2015

Bogey is the tall, fluffy poodle. Ziva, my poodle, stands in front of him.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Ziva says. She is smaller than Bogey, four years older than Bogey, and a guest in his house. And he could easily knock her to the floor. But none of that stops her from putting her four paws down when he tries to play with a toy at night.

“Don’t touch that ball. Definitely, don’t squeak that ball,” Ziva says. “I tell you this every time I come to visit.” And she does. For the last eight years or so, Ziva has accompanied my husband and me to Petoskey, Michigan, whenever we visit my mother.

A moment before this photo was snapped, Bogey asked my mother to open the closet door. (If you look to the right in the photo, you can see his box of toys in the closet.) His yellow duck rested on the top, but Bogey selected the white ball because it has a delicious squeak, and because my mother will toss it in the living room for him. This is his nightly routine when we aren’t visiting Mom, and he sees no reason to give it up just because there’s company.

This bothers Ziva. And it bothers me too. Everyone has settled in on a couch or a chair. The humans are talking and watching TV. It’s hard to hear anything over the noise of Bogey’s squealing ball and stomping feet.

Tonight, Ziva rebukes Bogey as soon as she hears the first shriek from the ball. She springs from the couch where a second ago she seemed to be in a deep sleep and barks as she approaches him. Bogey drops the ball before she reaches him.

“Go ahead. I double dare you!” Ziva says, watching Bogey while she looks askance at the ball. They stand close together, frozen, for at least a minute. She doesn’t make a move for the ball because she doesn’t want it. She never wants his toys. At eight o’clock at night, she wants peace and quiet. Bogey has turned his head away, and refuses to make eye contact. He waits for her to go away, but she doesn’t. Not another word passes between them. Like a pair of disgruntled lovers, they’ve had this conversation so many times over the years that it has now become a wordless exchange, each side knowing what the other side would say if they did speak.

Ziva refuses to retreat. Finally, Bogey gives up and leaves the ball. He crawls under the long skinny table behind his favorite couch and sulks and waits. Ziva returns to her favorite couch.

Ten minutes later Bogey emerges from under the table and silently shuffles to the closet. He roots through his box of toys and pulls out a multi-colored stuffed caterpillar. He slinks into the den with his toy. He knows if he enters the living room with it, he won’t be allowed to have it. The ball Bogey had wanted to play with still lays on the living room floor. If Ziva heard him, she ignored him, allowing him a small victory.

Even tucked out of sight in the den, Bogey knows not to make the caterpillar squeal. He’s a very smart dog, and he has never won this argument.

Christmases at the Old Farmhouse

Posted on December 30, 2023 by youngv2015

One of mom’s trees before she started putting them in front of the mirrored wall in the living room. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of the later Christmas trees.

At Christmas time when I was a child, my mother transformed our old farmhouse into a magical place. Fresh boughs of evergreen, sprayed with canned snow and trimmed with white twinkle lights, nestled on the mid-shelf of the corner hutch in the dining room. The soft glow of pastel-colored icicle lights outlined the large picture window in the living room. A tall, portly Christmas tree festooned with old fashioned ornaments and C7 lights stood in front of a mirrored wall, which made it appear as if we had two trees. Mom always bought a real tree. She would ask the attendant to hold tree after tree, while she walked around each one. The tree had to look good from all sides, and the trunk had to be straight. Once she sent my father to pick out the tree, but only once. Father’s tree spurred a loud conversation and a few tears.

Mom baked loads of homemade cookies, filling round tins with Mexican wedding cakes, sugar cookies, peppermint meringues, gingerbread men, and spritz cookies. In the days before Christmas, I skimmed cookies, sneaking one now and then from a tin then rearranging the remaining ones to fill the empty space.

The weekend before Christmas Mom took us to the American Soda Water Company, a place filled with bottles of the tastiest soda in so many delicious flavors, such as grapefruit, grape, strawberry, cherry, orange, root beer, cream, lime, cherry cola, black cherry, and more. She pushed the cart in which she had placed a wooden case that held twenty-four bottles. My siblings and I buzzed around the aisles plucking our favorite flavors and some of our father’s favorites. After we filled the case, mother placed another empty case on top of the full one. We would leave the store with four cases of soda, enough to see us well into the New Year because we weren’t allowed more than two or three a week. But we pilfered the occasional bottle of soda. Eventually, only empty bottles remained in the wooden cases, and Mom returned them to the soda company and collected her deposit, a nickel a bottle.

Winter at the farmhouse. The only animals we ever owned were dogs and cats. But it had been a working farm at one time. The buildings in the background belonged to neighbors.

On Christmas eve, my siblings and I nestled under our covers and tried to sleep. And when I couldn’t, I peered out the small window at the side of my bed and searched the starry sky, hoping to spot Rudolph’s red nose. However, by the time I was six, thanks to a know-it-all neighbor boy who was three years older than me, I knew there was no Santa Claus. Still, wanting to believe, I looked for Santa’s sleigh in the sky, and when I spotted red lights on a commercial jet heading to Billy Mitchell Airport, I would pretend it was Jolly Old St. Nick with Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid, and Donner and Blitzen, all led by Rudolph and his shiny nose.

Eventually all was quiet in the house, my siblings and I softly snoring and dreaming of Christmas morning. At this time, my mother’s shift as Santa’s elf would begin. It took her hours to wrap presents for her four children. She couldn’t do this ahead of time because she needed her Christmas bonus from Marc’s Big Boy where she worked as a waitress, which she received just a few days before Christmas. Bonus money in hand, she drove to the store and paid off the layaway balance on our gifts, which she hid in the trunk of her car until Christmas Eve when her children were all fast asleep. Each package she wrapped with bright cheerful paper and tied up with ribbons or decorated with bows. She artfully arranged them under the tree as if she were staging a scene for the Gimbels storefront window in downtown Milwaukee. Then in the wee hours before dawn she slipped into bed for a few hours’ sleep.

We had strict orders not to wake my parents too early. This meant we weren’t to get out of bed until about eight o’clock. But sometimes before dawn, we might tiptoe down the stairs and into the living room to see the presents under the tree. We kept our distance, not wanting to break the mystical spell of the Christmas tree tending to our gifts tucked under its boughs. And we didn’t want to get into trouble with our parents. We tiptoed back up the stairs and climbed back into our beds. Waiting.

Christmas morning never disappointed. We opened our presents one at a time because my parents wanted to see us enjoy each of our gifts. Mom was a wonderful Santa. There were always some toys from our lists, but each year she surprised us with wonderful presents we hadn’t even known we would want. Puzzles, games, art supplies, books, pajamas, and clothes spread across the floor as we unwrapped our gifts.

Once the wrapping paper was cleaned up and breakfast had been eaten, our job was to stay out of the kitchen and out of Mom’s way as she began to cook Christmas dinner, a feast of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green bean casserole, all cooked to perfection. Later we would be asked to set the dining room table, and after dinner we helped wash and dry the dishes. But Christmas morning and afternoon belonged to us, a time to play with our new toys and games.

In mid-afternoon Uncle Freddy and Auntie Pat arrived with our three cousins (Brian, Dee Dee, and Lisa) and Nana Kitty. We ate at an elegant, second-hand burl wood dining table covered with a crocheted cloth my mother bought at an antique store. Before we filled our plates, someone said grace, giving thanks for our feast. Then began the passing of the dishes and the filling of the plates. With twelve people seated around the table, this took some time. It was fair game to interrupt any conversation with “Could you please pass me the . . . ?”

Christmas dinner. From the left and clockwise: Auntie Pat, me, Steve, Nana, Mom, Uncle Fred, Kimberly, Dee Dee, Suzanne, Grandpa Howard (who had recently married Nana) Brian, and Lisa. My father took the photo, circa 1972.

At the end of the day, when the dishes were done, when the company was gone, except for Nana who stayed to babysit us, my parents would meet up with friends at a local theater to see a movie. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. My siblings and I would fold up the crocheted tablecloth, exposing the thick pad that protected the dining table, and set up our new art supplies. We painted or sketched or wove hot pads while Nana visited with us. We snacked on cookies and soda. At bedtime we put on our new Christmas jammies. As we drifted off to sleep, we knew before we could do it all again, we had to wait 365 days. A lifetime to a child. A snap of the fingers to an adult.

Writing Near the Lake

Tag Archives: Family