Dinner With My Late Grandma

Some of my alone days during quarantine have been nearly perfect, as was yesterday. It began as I rolled out of bed and over to the local farmer's market for a socially distanced pick-up of pork sausage for an exquisite dinner I had planned for myself that evening. Afterward, virtual yoga with a vibrant new instructor. A tangy smoothie further soothed my post-yoga zen, with backyard blackcaps and extra peaches I froze from a recent flat, after I exhausted my creativity with canned and baked delights. Then, another masked pick-up of a summers-worth of bottles from the emerging American Wine Project winery, a company name I had mocked but then swooned over the labels and regional wine descriptions of. I'm a sucker for good art and prose. Next was a ritual trip to Governor Dodge State Park...in the middle of a heat advisory.

I've perfected the loading of my hand-me-down, inflatable Sea Eagle kayak to hold myself, sandals, a beach towel, life jacket and back-pack full of stuff. Today I added two fishing poles (one for live bait and one for my trusty rubber worm), tackle box, and small Land's End baby bottle bag-turned-live bait bag with a frozen ice pack. In it, I also stored an egg salad with dill relish on rosemary sourdough bread sandwich and some celery sticks, which I managed to avoid.

Cox Hollow Lake, another mockable name, has been an essential refuge for me during this weird time. After two years of letting the kayak sit in my closet without a pump [sidenote - I often get stalled with simple tasks. A foreign stock manager I dated years ago interpreted these moments as "you see a beeg mountain and deeganddeeganddeeganddeeg and there is only a LEETEL mouse"], I finally bought an electric one that plugs into my car outlet and have since been mourning the last two kayak-free years.

Cox Hollow Lake is U-shaped, with a boat landing on the upper-right corner of the U. Feeling slight germ panic in close proximity to others at the moment, I've discovered my preferred solitary routine. It begins with a swift journey to the upper left-hand corner of the U, a remote-feeling reedy, ducky area without roads or paths, that I can pretend is Livingston, Montana. Then, down along the left-hand side, under shady pines and the sandstone cliffs that are my favorite hiking destination, where looking down on the water makes it appear to be a blue/green glacial pool at certain times of the year. Then into a tiny calm green lagoon, a sort of blemish on the lower left-hand corner of the U, where Friday I spied a mama and baby deer sipping cool water and saw a little boy pull out a big fish with excited, surprised pride, to cheers of his parents in Italian.

Next, I prefer to cut back across to the top of the U-curve to avoid the dam and the overcrowded beach and listen to the teenagers across the water exclaim at each other in mock exasperation, which will someday turn to more subtle, confident flirtation and actual heartbreak. Finally, around the cool lake-edge boulders, which were my own teenage cross-lake swimming destination. I would ignore my mom's cries of "don't you dare go over there, it's time to go," from the beach after several 10 minute warnings. Friday night there were some teens gathered there and I got a contact high from the skunky, skanky, gallon of weed they had on fire.


Around the corner from the boulders is a secret rock I've found that makes a perfect inlet moor for my kayak, where there are also secret wild blueberries and a secret giant clam in the sand and where I can jump in and swim, float under the fragrant cottonwood, watch pretty songbirds I can't always identify, peer up into the steep pine needle-blanketed hills and listen to my heart beat under water. I also did this in the ocean when I lived in Santa Barbara and could hear dolphins call to one another. I love the surprise of the cold water when I straighten out my body and dip down, feeling like a beautiful mermaid, getting looks from flustered old fishermen and smiles from other mermaids on paddleboards and kayaks. Sometimes I then float over to a little birch or maple overhanging the water and dry off with a snack and book in the leaf cave. My favorite time to leave the lake is after dusk, when a little adrenaline kicks in about how I might get in trouble for being on it after sunset. I then secretly enter a competition with the dudes who remain on the water to be the second to last one out. Mermaids should get to stay in the water as long as they want.

Yesterday though, I caught a great big bass at the start of my journey around the U, a first-time adventurous conundrum. I somehow navigated the balancing act of twists and turns to get my tackle box tweezers to remove the hook, grab my metal fishing basket, get to the bottom of the backpack for some rope that I then had to cut, guide the big fish into the basket, tie it off, then navigate moving forward in a now lopsided inflatable vessel in a seaweed-y lake. Due to the heat and awkward navigation, I decided to stop at my rock and swim earlier than normal to cool off. The water has turned stinkier and weedier as summer has progressed. Yesterday's perfume was Eau d' Eggy Fishy Oil Funk. But the cold water far down refreshed me. After swimming, I saw my buddy Jim on his paddleboard with his sweet dog Casey. Jim and I had a pipe dream to start a band together, after one night years ago in my brother's wine bar he commandeered the musician's guitar at the end of the night and played while I sang Neil Young's "Old Man" with tipsy passion. We had lots of songs picked out, like Jack White's "Love Interruption." I was pleased to run into him on the lake since we can't b.s. in the local like in olden times.

After I conversed with a few strangers about my catch and the kayak (Sea Eagle should pay me for the number of inquiries I've answered about their product), I realized late afternoon was on the horizon and I needed to get my dinner in the oven at 5 p.m. to make it a civilizedly-timed meal. I had sent a last-second invite to an inner circle friend to share my exquisite dinner (after I realized I had possibly tortured them with descriptions of all the fixings), and their uncertain response gave me enough drive to try to remain on time. I packed up the car and drove home eating salty tortilla chips and listening to a country station with feeling, blinking as my dried out contact lenses struggled to adjust to the new light and unfamiliar body position.

My ex-husband bought me Mastering the Art of French Cooking, after we enjoyed Julie and Julia in 2009, a popular movie about a struggling young blogger around the time of 9/11, who decides to write about her experience cooking all the hundreds of recipes in Julia Child's book (with Child's heart-wrenching story woven throughout). My dream recipe inspired by this story is boeuf bourguignon, which I still have not achieved, but this week I was tempted by the local poultry farm's announcement that they would have fresh whole duck. I decided to treat myself and on Friday got a day-before butchered 5 lb duck delivered to my doorstep with my eggs. In the cookbook I found Caneton Rôti à l'Alsacienne (Roast Duck with Sausage and Apple Stuffing). I revel in the book's use of full fats, lack of careful temperature guidance and slightly vague measurements. My heart flutters with descriptions like "Apples and duck are a fine combination, and sausages make it an even better one. The platter may be garnished with more apples and sausages if you wish, braised onions, and sautéed potatoes or potato crêpes. A chilled Alsatian Traminer would go well with it, or a hard cider."

After a few readings of the recipe and the late hour ensuring my pal wasn't free after all, I felt comfy as I extra slow-cooked the meal in my own time. I substituted ingredients with what I had in my garden and pantry; walking onions for a small white onion, a sacrilegious concoction of red wine and homemade violet simple syrup instead of port, rye for cognac, toothpicks and aluminum foil for trussing twine. The duck went into the oven around 6:30 p.m. for it's initial browning. It was delightful to take time to wash all the dishes from the prep phase during the several hours of roasting. I decided to make a peach blueberry dessert cobbler out of more of the aforementioned peaches and held out on any wine in favor of not under-doing the duck out of lightweight hunger as I had done with a roast chicken earlier in the summer (but I took a little sip in honor of Julia's famous sampling).

I had time to go dig into one of the potato mounds in my quarantine garden (another blissful retreat) to see if there were enough baby spuds for duck fat-fried newbies or possible over-extension into the suggested potato crêpes (not yet). Instead, I gathered kale and colorful chard, all a good, fresh, fat-balancer. Golden cobbler bubbled delightfully on the stovetop around 9:30 p.m. and I removed the extra apple and sausage stuffing from the oven, to which I had added the chopped up sautéed liver and heart and nibbled on it at the counter-top as an appetizer. When I wandered upstairs I glanced out the window and saw the forgotten kayak, set out to dry in the yard and starting to dew up in the cooler evening air. I toweled it off and packed it in the trunk of the car, ready for the next adventure.

Throughout the evening I thought of my pal, who is worried for their grandma's health. When I met her, I noticed an eye twinkle and quick wit and longed to have my own late paternal grandma Jean still able to walk into my house for a spontaneous dinner. My kitchen and dining room are filled with reminders of Jean. She died while I lived in London in 2000 or 2001. I was utterly devastated at her loss, partially because I was young and hadn't yet gone through the process of losing a close family member or acknowledging mortality in general, but also because I considered her one of my best friends.

As I've grown older, I've been even more in wonder of her story. She was born in 1912 in Winnipeg, raised in a wealthy household in Racine, the daughter of an executive with J.I. Case & Co. Her childhood pictures are identical to my own daughter Lilly and her college portraits are those of an untouchable glam girl. She studied landscape architecture at UW-Madison in the early 1930's (had classes with Frank Lloyd Wright at Taliesin) and lived in Barnard Hall, a women's dormitory where I also lived in 1996-97. I was desperate to somehow become her contemporary during that time, as I knew I belonged to an earlier age. I often escaped down to the musty, key-access reading room with the grand piano and floor-to-ceiling windows to search through the old yearbooks in order to find her and her mysterious sister Gwen, who was her best friend and died under mysterious circumstances shortly after their double wedding.

My grandma was dazzled by my eternally charming, intelligent (but sometimes controlling and grumpy) grandpa Parmley who was also a UW student. I think there was a story about how he climbed up the ivied wall to her window with a rose. I like to think of them as 1930's hipsters, who opted to escape the urban environment to take over the family farm, immersing themselves in small town culture and friendships with local underdogs. Photographs show them in floppy hats with now-revered local artists having a gas, or hooking each other with farm tools in floppy overalls. It all feels much like myself in this time of life, just up the road from their farm where my brother and sister-in-law now reside with their two little ones.

At 10:15 p.m., I turned up the heat on the duck after I salted it per the recipe, for the dangerous last minutes of browning but not burning. I talked to my soul sister Leslie with my phone on my shoulder after I sent her a picture of my bass (I usually feel immediately guilty about killing fish and solemnly bury the post-filet remains in favorite places in my yard. Leslie loves pesang isda and last time I had a big catch I  had just finished burying the heads when she requested them, so this time I knew to keep it for her). The only "platter" I could find that was mechanically suitable for a roast duck was a tin boiler pan and it wouldn't do for my fancy dinner for myself. Then I spied a beautiful, ornately hand-painted plate of my grandma Jean's on a high shelf. It's the kind with a simple artist's mark on the back and I've never used it.

After I caught up with Leslie I felt full of love and anticipation for life's excitements. I carefully un-trussed the duck, scooped out the stuffing, sauteed the greens, uncorked the peachy, dry, chilled white wine, prepared a little cheese plate and au jus and set out my glorious meal in the formal dining room. The dining room is in the basement level of my 1840's cottage and houses a crumbly old butcher block, early 20th century theater seats from the local opera house and an unfinished art project. Behind me, the art project was my grandparents' old metal kitchen prep side-tabletop, on which I'm hand-drawing an abstract interpretation of my favorite photograph of them on Two Sisters Lake in Northern Wisconsin. Across from me was a wax rubbing artwork I had done from my grandma's wooden breadboard and wrought-iron trivets. As I thought of her and listened to early 1930's jazz, amidst all these kitchen and dining room reminders, I felt her presence at the dinner table with me, not as she left this world, post-stroke and atrophied with the crumbling effects of inactivity and old age, but as that untouchable, sprightly glam girl.

My daughter Viola recently blew her own little mind when she remarked to me how crazy it was to think about what she would sound like as an adult. I told her that I had realized as an adult how much I sound like my mom and that maybe she would sound like me. Now I wondered in reverse if I sound like my young grandma. I wondered if she had giggled with an impish grin and flit her eyes to the wall when nervous like me, whether the tone of her young voice was low like mine, whether she had the same curves and occasional self-consciousness. I could feel her across from me in my heart, and at the end of the feast, I danced in the kitchen with her to a Dixieland jazz song in the hot summer July night, as fireflies flicked on and off outside the window and cicadas hummed along.

Near midnight, as I cleared away the dishes, I felt unbridled joy from the day. I knew that quarantine despair could be right around the corner again, but reminded myself that this joy was real, and eternally available. I turned off the lights and said "thank you" to the room, the night, the lake, abundance, the heavens and my grandma. They all whispered back "sweet dreams," and reminded me that I had plenty of time to share it all with everyone else, tomorrow.

Something you said stuck a sliver in my mind

"resignation to the desolate white"

right?

I walked down the farm road

and the memory stung

as I looked in a puddle reflecting infinity

and the old cottonwood

tumbled up with bony, blindly searching tendrils

and wet fog dove into dry skin

and rubbed out the treeline like a charcoal drawing.

Then later, it appeared in the frame of a teary eye,

hung in the last laugh of midnight,

draped over my cold sleeping back.

I know there is more.

My Little Vilas Crisis

When I received an invitation to the PBS Fall Programming Preview, I enthusiastically rsvp'd yes, because well,  I'm kind of a PBS geek. Fifteen minutes seemed like ample time to head from work down to campus to my old UW Theatre (yes, with an "re") & Drama home, Vilas Hall, to the WPT studios. The legend when I was in school was that Vilas had been one of the 60's structures built to throw-off rioters back when my dad was a student. This means that entrances aren't always obvious and the buildings include many maze-like corridors and terraces, befitting a fortress or prison. Inside are low ceilings, high-gloss tile floors and the type of recycled air that makes one feel one actually may be re-breathing one's breath from days gone by.

Traffic was diverted for dorm move-in days, so I made it by the skin of my teeth, after navigating foot-traffic around the Lake Street ramp and University Avenue. As I walked, throngs of incoming freshmen covered the sidewalks and malls, all achingly green and wide-eyed.  I saw extroverted loudmouths freak out over cute puppies and watched a sexy nerdy upperclassmen look up hopefully as he biked past a sexy nerdy young lady standing at the crosswalk trying to appear unconcerned. There were lots of fleeting glances from one group to the next as all these quickly beating hearts burst with the energy of newly unleashed adult freedom. Some things never change.

 But they appeared to be such babies to me. When I was moving into the dorms, my friends and I were so much older...weren't we?

What's more, I felt suddenly like the cool, unbothered career woman, walking confidently to a VIP event, the kind of woman I might have watched intimidatedly and judgementally from the little outdoor cement terrace, in between acting classes in the basement of this same hall 23 years ago, wondering what her life must be like and projecting my own possible future.

Wait...23 years ago? How the hell did that happen?  

When I arrived at the event, I quickly realized that my short journey from the street to the studio had suddenly transformed me into the youngest person in the room by about 30-40 years, save for a few entry-level employees manning the check-in table. Throughout the presentation, I listened to these glorious supporters' enthusiastic responses as upcoming series were revealed and became teary-eyed as they asked things like "What ever happened to Hercule Poirot?" I even ended up befriending a gentleman who needed help getting good seats to an upcoming Simon & Garfunkel tribute at Overture. 

Then it hit me, maybe one of these ladies or gents was one of the well put-together career people walking swiftly to a VIP event when I was 18, darting my eyes around the concrete jungle on move-in weekend in 1995. Maybe I'll be asking "whatever happened to Aidan Turner," with a wrinkled voice, at a similar event in another 23 years, bringing one of the kids I just passed on University Avenue to tears after her full day of navigating single mom kid dental appoinment fanagling, a long commute, a few hundred emails and one too many meetings.

As I left the event and walked back to my car, I passed a man around my age walking his freshman son to get a bite to eat after their day of moving into the dorm. I could see his son's face reflected in his...his own a little rougher and wider. Driving out of the area, I passed several groups of the event attendees, slowly making their way back to their own cars, laughing and enjoying comparing notes on the evening. I imagined their quickly beating hearts bursting with their own joy, theirs perhaps less daunted than the throngs and less worried than my own. I suppose I have a lot to look forward to.

Counting My Blessings

When the flight attendant announced our need to make an emergency landing, just 20 minutes after takeoff from La Guardia last night, I felt a sort of tranquility that comes with utter denial in the face of terror. A fire alarm emitted a sustained piercing high note and the plane floated with eerie calm, low above a green and marshy landscape just outside the city. I repeated a mantra to God of "please let us land safely" and scanned the rivers and roads, hoping one of them would work as a landing strip if necessary (everything ended up ok).

This was an unwelcome continuation of scary flying experiences- the flight to NYC a week prior had been serene until we began to descend and hit unforeseen extreme turbulence in the midst of a pretty patch of cumulous clouds. At that time, most of the passengers screamed while the plane shifted violently around like an Atari joystick and we all held each other close with sweaty hands. Afterwards, the flight crew admitted they had not experienced anything quite like it, and I began to think of alternative methods to return home.

NYC always shakes me up all by itself, without such added physical and mental joggles. Ever since my first visit, I continue to get creatively invigorated by interactions with people who are living my childhood dream of being a famous actress/writer/singer/musician/playwright/artist, even if my dreams have changed a little over time. The grittiness of the city and beauty of the full spectrum of culture and experiences up for grabs there also makes it a wonderland for my inner kid- at least for a spell (before someone plows their car into a crowd on the opposite side of Times Square from me for example, which also happened on this trip, but that's another story).

In any case, over the years I've felt incredibly fortunate to travel to NYC for work to see Broadway shows and participate in creative panels and hobnobbing with casts, crews, producers and creative teams. I've felt overcome with gratitude and awe (and maybe a little awkwardness, jealousy and longing) at seeing some of my artistic crushes in person, starting with the inimitable Bill Murray.

This time around, the celebs included the likes of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Chris Cooper, Laurie Metcalf, Chazz Palminteri, Alan Menken, Jack O'Brien, Tina Fey, Cynthia Nixon, Laura Linney, Russell Simmons, Paula Vogel, Patti Lupone, Danny Rubin, Terrence McNally, Tim Minchin and John Guare.

Growing up in a rural community, I suppose I was particularly susceptible to star-strickenness. I often had a feeling I didn't belong and harbored a Belle-like yearning for adventure in the great wide somewhere. My intro to famous people in all their apparent glitz and glamour occurred on various screens, and I became convinced they had it better than I did, and also that they were supernatural somehow. After living in and near major urban centers in my 20's, I became slightly more accustomed to seeing these creatures in their natural habitats, and a bit of empathy creeped in.

Many of them I learned, were actually from small towns like me, and simply worked very hard, met the right person or had some crazy stroke of luck, which led them into the limelight (sometimes only for a moment). But they were quite human, and most likely a bit discombobulated and longing for anonymity in the countryside, which was my everyday experience.

On perhaps my favorite evening this week, we got an invitation to attend an industry-only midnight performance of A Doll's House Part 2. Camera crews waited outside to get glimpses of famous actors, many who normally don't get to attend shows due to their own performance schedules. My romantic teenage self surfaced as I noticed not one, but two Dead Poets Society stars, Josh Charles (3 rows back) and Ethan Hawke (10 seats over). For a moment I sat there thinking "why am I here?"

But later in the week as Joe Jackson strolled into the diner where I was having breakfast, and then again when my sister and I sat down next to Holly Hunter at a theater and I watched her oddly curled up on the seat like a little kid with a ponytail and tapping toes while her husband patted her knee, I remembered- we're all human beings sharing the same weird ride and the same destiny. Every one of us has similar routines and rituals (we all have to eat), similar worries and joys (we all like to be entertained) and similar individuality and potential creativity. So maybe being a famous so-and-so isn't all it's cracked up to be.

What's more, earlier on in the Holly Hunter day, my sister and her boyfriend and I wandered Greenwich Village which is one of my favorite neighborhoods. I found myself describing what my dream NYC life would be- having a little place on a wooded lane in this sort of hood, but having access to all the theater etc. in the city. I realized that I was describing something that sounded quite like the life I already have!

After our emergency landing, we were immediately loaded onto another plane. It took every ounce of bravery and faith I could muster to get on it (and my boss saying "let's go"). Luckily, the flight was smooth as we drifted at my favorite flying time over dusk-painted clouds to Wisconsin, where as soon as possible I hugged and kissed the greatest artworks of my life, my two little girls, who provide me with all the adventure and inspiration I could ever desire. We are all safely home together, and for that I will grant eternal Oscar/Tony/Grammy/Pulitzers to the Heavens.

The Room on Emmet Street

This morning I did a scary thing and followed my heart back home to Mineral Point.

I took this picture of the crystal bedroom doorknob with the red painted plate before I closed it for the last time and concluded a half-time, 14-month-long stay on Madison's East Side.

When the slog is particularly taffy-like during the week, I'll still spend a night or two in this house, in another, smaller room.

But, pennies were flying and the pull of the home I share with my children in Mineral Point became great, as did the feeling that I have been scrambling too hard to find things that seem missing, instead of living with intention and focusing on things that aren't-- those old and new people and things that make me feel all I want to feel in life- loved, abundant, happy, alive and brave. By embracing them, I have a new feeling of hope and openness for all that is yet to come.

Even so, I hadn't felt the feeling of packing up a place and moving out of it for many years!

It made me feel bitter-sweetly excited but unsettled, hoping I'm doing the right thing-- and reminded me suddenly of all the other rooms I've lived in and left.

Before departing, I sat silent in the room, thanking the heavens for the gift of its shelter, for the learning moments with lovers and friends, for the pillows to bury my face in or simply snuggle with, for the proximity to a new neighborhood and its adventures, even for the feelings of fear and loneliness that helped me grow.

As I left, I wondered whether the energy of all that I felt in that room (and all the rooms), still stick there, like an extra layer of paint on the walls.

What stories were painted before me there? Did I hear echoes of them in my dreams? Will they miss me now that I'm gone?

First Snow

There is redemption in the first heavy snowfall of winter.

All troubles seem blanketed away, 

so that innocent joy

can romp on the surface

amidst the white fluff,

 like a child in the eye of a pillow fight.

 There is still water in the air.

The wilted leaves and dirty streets

 erase

with a crystalline powder cleanse,

 like the shake of an etch-a-sketch.

There is wonder and hope in this natural magic,

this forced contemplation,

this cessation of noise.

What shall we do with this precious moment?

The Great Outdoors

My great-aunt Gwen and my grandma Jean up North at the family cabin.

 

 

When the frenzy of the planned part of Christmas has subsided and quiet sets in, one of my favorite things to do is look through old family albums and letters and knit together stories of old times.

 

This Christmas I was most thrilled to find a bunch of outdoorsy photos from throughout my grandmother's childhood. My heart is bursting to share the lot, but I've managed to select a few representative shots to evoke the spirit of the rest for now.

 

 

My grandma around 3 and 18 years old.

 

 

Growing up, I loved listening to my grandmother (b. 1912) recall tales from her childhood. She told stories as if she were reliving them, with color and laughter that transported me to the scene. The 20's and 30's were already a fascinating time to me, when the characters of the world seemed particularly full of, well, character. There is a brightness to the faces in these photographs that makes me yearn to time travel and experience one of their rambunctious gatherings- the energy is tactile (and the clothing alone makes me giddy).

 

My grandma's immediate family migrated everywhere from Winnipeg to Des Moines to Spokane to Racine, so adventures were captured in all those places. Think of how much time it might have taken to gather a crew from Canada to meet in Spokane, without the benefit of Priceline and Gmail. Hehe:

"Our gang picnicking at Shore Acres" (Lake Michigan methinks. Grandma is up front on the left).

 

"Sit still and we'll push" (Mr. & Mrs. Ellis, great-great-grandma Bears, great-great aunt Mona standing- the moxie!!!, great-aunt Gwen, grandma Jean and great-great grandma Witmer at the cabin up North).

 

 

"neath the old pine" at the cabin. What a great shot!

 

"One of our picnics." (Location uncertain)

Washington? My great-great grandfather Witmer always had a pipe!

 

 

 "Up at the top of Mt. Spokane- tired but happy."

 

"The Winnipeg bunch at a picnic." Look at those shades!

Life moves so quickly and so much is easily forgotten. But in these pictures, it seems all are enjoying the moment in a way I shall eternally strive for and the lessons they send me from afar of relishing human connection and the great outdoors are lovely reminders indeed. :)