You Can't Go Back Home . . .

Me! In the Jeep! By myself! Taking my own picture!
I am officially a loser!

There's an old saying, based not on the Bon Jovi song (which has been on a continuous loop in my head, since I started this entry, btw); rather, on some book way older that someone wrote some time ago (back in the 40's?), with the title, You Can't Go Home Again—and I don't remember who or what or when right now, and please don't ask me to look it up right now, 'cause this blog entry ain't gonna finish itself if I keep get sidetracked again, okay?! The super-simplified point of it is, you can't recreate your past. There's definitely some truth to that, but, it's not always a bad thing . . .

So, I went down to my hometown of Mt. Lake, in southern MN, on Monday and Tuesday for Pow Wow, the town's summer celebration (yeah, and don't even ask me why it's always held on Monday and Tuesday, when most people with real jobs have to work, or why it's called Pow Wow, when there isn't one freakin' mention of indigenous cultures at any point in the celebration. Because No. One. Living. On. Earth. Knows. Or. Ever. Knew. The. Answer. To Either. Question. Now, if I were mayor of Mt. Lake—which I'm not and never will be, so this is kind of a moot point, but this whole blog is kind of a moot point, so I'm just keeping with a theme here—you can bet Pow Wow wouldn't be on Monday and Tuesday, nor would it be called Pow Wow. ANYHOOOOODLES (honestly, can someone score me a month's worth of Ritalin, just to see if it'd help???), it's a long, complicated and super-boring story as to why I ended up in Mt. Lake this week, as it's been several years since I've been back, and I wasn't planning on going, and didn't even decide to go until the morning I took off, but let's just say this: I discovered that I can go back "home," even though home isn't much of what I remember, it felt for the first time in probably ever, at once deeply sad and immensely comforting. I went without any expectations, demands, or judgment—no other baggage except the eight pairs of shoes, three sundresses, four pairs of jeans, twelve pairs of underwear and sixteen shirts I packed for the two-day excursion . . . oh, and my dog. And still forgot my toothbrush.

Let's back up a bit . . . my sister, Jill, hadn't been back to PowWow in something like 14 years and suddenly, as though by a decree form God him/her/itself, decided she just had to take her kids to Pow Wow, just for the day, "for the experience," even though it's a two and a half hour drive to and two and a half hours from "the experience," even though she's teaching a summer class and is up to her armpits in work, even though I have taken Amelia at least once in her six years here on earth but she doesn't remember anything other than that Auntie Jenny had to stop every five steps to talk to someone which seriously cut into her merry-go-round ride time, even though Otto is still too young to give a rip about parades and merry-go-rounds and cotton candy, even though Amelia is involved in 18 summer activities back home, all of which started on Tuesday, at 8 a.m.—man, if I think I need Ritalin, my sister could use a constant IV drip . . . In spite of all that, Jill hounded me relentlessly, until I think I just had a lapse of sanity (okay, not true—my sanity has been lapsed for a good two years now. . .). I simply succumbed to her interminable prodding. Sometimes, with Jill, it's easier on everyone that way . . . that, and I hadn't seen Amelia and Otto for a good long while, and was a little bit desperate for kiddie face-time . . .

But, let's be real. I no longer have strong connections to Mt. Lake. I graduated over 25 years ago and high-tailed it outta town before the ink on my diploma was dry. All of my grandparents are gone. My dad is gone. My mom moved from the area over 25 years ago. I still have a few aunts and uncles and many cousins scattered throughout the area, but we have all grown older, have families and lives of our own and every time we see each other at a funeral or wedding, we say we have to get together more often, rather than just at funerals and weddings, but we never do . . . just life, happening . . .

My real interest in going back wasn't to attend the Pow Wow celebration, I must confess. I've been back a few times in the past decade to know that it isn't the Pow Wow of my childhood memories, and I get kind of sad when I see how things have changed. The midway seems smaller and grungier (my spell-check is telling me that grungier isn't a word and that I should substitute it for granger, which is even more mysterious a word than grungier, which just means "more grungy." Duh, spell-check.). The people are mostly unfamiliar. The big-kid rides that my nieces and nephews drag me on, that I, too couldn't get enough of as a kid, now make me feel like I could vomit my own heart out and my eyeballs might explode from my head. I have no true home to go back to—the house we grew up in is now abandoned, with boarded-up windows and overgrown lawn (not that it looked much better when we lived there—only thing missing are hay bales my dad so resourcefully stacked around the foundation). If I stay, I must make out-of-town arrangements for accommodations (which gets kind of complicated with a crazy mutt in tow, but thank God for my in-laws who take such good care of Rocco and me). Or, we simply go down for the day and drive back home, which makes for a very long day, and also heightens the wistfulness of the experience. I also dreaded that this time, going back would very likely be peppered with conversations of, "Where are you and what are you doing these days and where is your husband?" and I would have to answer, many times over, that my husband is dead. . .

The "mountain," from a distance, in a sea of green . . . 

Why would I purposely subject myself to such nostalgic torture? Why not let memories serve their purpose—to preserve a past life in soft focus? It's because of the name of my home town, and the story behind it that has haunted me since I was a young girl. Mountain Lake. I wrote a story about Mountain Lake for my travel writing class this summer, about how Mountain Lake got its name. Anyone even remotely familiar with southern Minnesota knows the landscape—calling anything within a 1000 mile radius of the area a mountain is a sign of serious delusion. And the lake that most are familiar with? It's a man-made body of water on the north edge of town, the deepest point being about six feet. Of all the things to call a town scratched into the soil of former tall grass prairies, why, o why Mountain Lake? For the answer, one needs to travel a few miles south of town, along a gravel road that carves its way through fields of green crops. There, you will find, rising above a patchwork of corn and soybean fields, a mound of earth rather startling in its prominence. The earth surrounding this mound is oddly more flat and level than most of the gently rolling farmland that continues beyond its parameters. What gives . . . ?

Close-up of the "mountain . . . "

This mound of earth, draped in a heavy blanket of hardwoods, was once an island in the middle of a glacial remnant lake, which flared its waters out across 900 acres. Aerial views of the area still show the phantom boundaries of the lake, dotted with tree clusters that were islands rising from its waters. The island had been a summer stop for indigenous people for thousands of years, an archeological dig on the "mountain" back in the '70s unearthed shards of pottery, bone chips of bison, stone arrow tips and other tools; the scientists believed it was a bison processing location . . . The first white settler to the area, perhaps nostalgic for his home country of Russia, decided that this island and the lake reminded him of a place back home, a mountain rising from a lake . . . in 1905, the shallow lake was drained to create more farmland, and one can walk the dusty rows of corn and soybeans and still find flecks of iridescent shells imbedded in the fields, rocks with aquatic fossils pressed into their surfaces, ghostly proof of a former life . . .

It is this story that brought me back to Mt. Lake. I wanted more details to make my story more accurate—one can make an appointment with the MN Historical Society in St. Paul, and travel into the bowels of the museum to view shelves upon shelves of artifacts found at the dig site, which I did, many years ago—but I wanted "first-hand" information about my home land. On Tuesday, I visited the Cottonwood County Historical Society where Linda, the director, had pulled a whole file of newspaper articles, a book on Mt. Lake history that was compiled for the town's centennial celebration back in 1986 (the year I graduated) waiting for me. There is even a display of artifacts on loan from the History Center in St. Paul, of the 1976 archeological dig—pottery pieces, arrowheads . . . I ran into "Uncle Eddie," who lived across the street from us, who was with his nieces (and our old neighbors), Ronda and Kendra. Uncle Eddie said that even today, if it rains hard enough, the low-lying area surrounding the mountain can flood so bad that one needs a canoe to get out (the recent devastating rains of the Cannon Falls and Duluth areas might have produced such flooding). With this visit, I believe I was able to unearth enough information to finish my story, and then some . . .

And Pow Wow itself, in spite of its name, in spite of its place on the calendar, proved to be a satisfying, comforting event. I may no longe know as many people wandering throughout the park where the celebration is held, but those we did run into embraced us as warmly like we still belong. Because we do. For eighteen years, this was my home, and there still exist fossil imprints of that former life of mine, embedded in the landscape . . . I saw cousins who gave me big bear hugs and bough me a beer at the beer garden and invited me to a tattoo party . . . a friend from high school whose dad was the same age as mine, who told a story about my dad as a freshman in high school, pulling a switchblade on a group of upperclassmen who were about to haze him into the letterman's club (I am sooooo proud of that story, I can hardly stand it—just like a scene from The Outsiders . . .). . . I learned that Mountain Lake is now home to a small community of Jamaicans who were lured by another family member who no longer lives in Mt. Lake, but for some ungodly reason, the rest stayed on and have come to love the prairie town with harsh winters . . . I visited an art gallery at the Historical Society, where a friend's mother is the featured artist with a breathtaking display of oil pastels, watercolors and collages . . . I even had the honor to be a judge at the talent contest which was the closing event of the summer celebration, a regular ol' home-grown Paula Abdul, I was (and the talent was just that—pure talent emanating from the contestants, which made the judging incredibly difficult . . . )

This might not be the town of my childhood, of my out-of-focus memories, but going back without expectations, without preconceived notions, made it an experience rich in new stories and new memories impressed into my life's landscape. And I think another part of it is, feeling still so disconnected from a world I once knew, I continue to grasp for things familiar, comforting, anything that might anchor me to a world I no longer feel a part of. It's been kind of surprising, on this f'n journey, from where those anchors appear . . . and now, the gratuitous nod to Bon Jovi. Who says you can't go home . . .

Dresser is Done!

I am finally done refinishing the dresser, which has been lovingly dubbed, "Dewey's Drawers," (Rocco didn't get the joke, but I thought it was a riot). To be accurate, it was finished a few days ago, but I misplaced my last surviving pair of reading glasses (I buy them in bulk, and lose them in bulk), and couldn't write until today, when I finally found my glasses on a shelf in my closet. No, I don't do a lot of reading in the closet, don't know why they were in the closet, will never know why I find my glasses in such odd places—never by a book, or my  laptop, or anywhere that'd obvious to leave them . . . I finished it on what would have been my dad's (Dewey!) 70th birthday—June 15—without even trying! (I am so bad at dates; can hardly remember what day it is, much less if a significant event had occurred on the day). 

I know I showed the "before" pictures of Dad's Drawers in a previous blog, but I wanted to include them again, to show the mesmerizing (well, to me, anyhow) difference—after the dust cleared, the stain dried, the echo of curse words faded and the piece was back in my house, ready to be put to use. My current "unmentionables" drawer is overflowing and in dire need of new accommodations, other than my closet floor . . . 

I wish I knew more of the history of this dresser. I love knowing at least a little bit about a piece I have, if at all possible. Makes me feel closer to the one(s) who owned it, loved it, had it as part of their life on earth. I have an antique china hutch with the gorgeous curved bubbled glass panes; it belonged to my maternal grandparents, who got it from my grandfather's parents, along with other "heirloom" pieces (my grandma never did like it, my mom tells me—she said it was all just "old stuff"). I've had it in my possession since I was in college, and I can honestly say it has moved at the very least 14 times (and each time, my mom dies a little inside, afraid that each move is going to be curtains for the fragile piece). I also had a bedroom set that belonged to them, as well, a wedding gift from my grandmother's parents. Her father died just a few days before the wedding, so all the wedding preparations—food, etc. were used for a funeral instead of a wedding. I had the set for years, then gave it back to my mom, after I got married. I never got around to finishing the head and footboards for some reason now lost on me, so guess what my next refinishing project will be . . .

Anyhow, back to my "new" dresser." My dad got it after my grandma died, and then my brother, Kurt, ended up with it and his daughter used it until recently, but that's all I know about it. I don't know how old it is, what kind of wood it's made of, who made it (I can see markings along the edges of the mirror that appear to be from a carpenter's tool—I'd bet all I have that it's hand-made). Maybe one of my aunts will come forward with a little more info on it . . .  Anyhoo, it's getting late, my eyes are closing on me, my fingers are lead, and I just wanted to share these pics quickly, before heading to bed. I think it turned out pretty dang good, if I do say so myself . . . and I think my grandparents and my dad would be proud. . .

The dresser, with mirror detached . . .

Serious wear 'n' tear evident on the dresser top . . .

Front of the dresser . . .

At this point, I've had it—my fingers are cramping, my nails are getting all ragged and torn, my back aches from stooping over and am ready to take a can of kerosene and torch the whole damn thing . . .

Just kidding . . .

The mirror, sanded and ready for staining. . .

Finally, back in the house, ready to be functional again! I am so happy with the results! I debated keeping the old hardware or not. It's not real brass, is kind of dented and scratched, but the patina-ed, weathered old pulls are charming, in rustic way, and makes me think of all the hands that have grasped them . . . 

Detail of top edge of mirror—I'm guessing grooves across wood are from carpenter's tool . . .

Frog in a Blender!

My sweet neighbor to the south, Betty, brought over a bagful of lovely summer greens the other day, from the Hmong family who farms a plot of land at the north end of our road. Beautiful red lettuce, pretty frilly leaf lettuce and a glorious bunch of spinach—suddenly, for the first time in far too long, I had a serious hankerin' for a green smoothie, aka the infamous Frog in a Blender. There are infinite variations to this nutrition-packed treat (yes, I mean treat—and I can hear your eyeballs rolling in your head, by the way . . .). Frozen fruit makes the smoothie the consistency of a milk shake; omit the yogurt, if you're vegan/lactose intolerant/whatever. Today, I used a mix of greens, 2 frozen bananas, a couple handfuls of fresh blueberries and strawberries, a splash of juice and maybe a 1/4 cup of vanilla Greek yogurt, threw it all in the blender, and whirred away! I can literally feel the goodness coursing through my body, as I eat . . . the following recipe ekes out roughly 2-3 servings (1 1/2 c. each).

Start with 2-3 cups of gorgeous greens (lettuce and spinach are most mild in taste)

2 frozen bananas, couple handfuls of fresh fruit, splash of juice, glob of yogurt . . .

Oh my God! You put a frog in the blender!!!

Who knew frogs could be so tasty?!

Strip club . . .

Alright, alright . . . so I totally deceived y'all with that title. Last time I was in a strip club was prolly back in 2005-ish. With Bob, and a few other friends (though thinking back to that night, maybe friends should be in quotations . . .'nuther story for 'nuther time—when you're old enough to handle the truth. . .) See, that's called "marketing," kids . . .

Anyhoosies, I have a whole house-worth of furniture and stuff sitting just taking up space my garage (where a motorcycle should be), one piece being a beautiful old dresser and mirror that belonged to my paternal grandparents. My dad inherited it when my grandma died, when he died, my brother inherited it. . . fast-forward five years . . .

 . . . when I moved into the rathole historic old house in St. Paul, I was in desperate need for additional storage options. (Back in 1858, when people only owned one of anything—if they owned anything at all—closets the size of saltine boxes totally made sense . . . or not . . .) My brother, Kurt, father of three and co-owner of a houseful of more than enough shit to equip a small third world country with basic needs, had the aforementioned dresser and was all too willing to give it up to me. Being that it was an integral part of our family history, I jumped at the offer.

It served its purpose in the old house in St. Paul, storing tampons, tp, flat irons—y'know, the essentials of life—but back at Wrenwood, I have more than enough closet space to stuff all that and a few dead bodies to boot, so the dresser has sat patiently, in my garage, for several months . . . it's a simple, beautiful piece, in need of a little TLC to breathe some new life into it; I'm still not quite sure what I'm going to do with it—depends on how it turns out. . .  and, just for the recored, I haven't refinished a piece of  furniture in nearly two decades—because of that, this family heirloom could easily end up as kindling . . .

I will exercise extreme restraint and keep this post short, till the end result is in (you have no idea how difficult this is for me—I am sitting on my hands while typing, if that gives you any indication . . .) In the meantime, here are the before pics:

Dresser with mirror (which will be attached, at some point. . .)

Some might call this "shabby chic . . ."

Detail on brass pulls . . .

Detail of wood carvings on mirror . . . 

Filed Under: "Holy Sh*t, Batman!"

Just had to post a quick (ha!) entry, I am so blown away by this recent discovery . . . okay, y'all know I'm not a gardener, nor do I play on on TV, but recently, because of the fabulous weather we've had for something like eight months now, I've been kind of motivated to spruce the joint up a bit, make it look a little less like a crazy widow lives here and more like a real, "normal," inhabited dwelling. Amazing, how simply mowing the lawn improves that image. . .

Anyhoodles, I discovered a month or so ago that a mutiny occurred in my yard while I had my back turned, and it's been taken over by pirate weeds (mostly dandelions). At last count, weeds outnumber blades of grass 1,000,000,000,000 to one. In other words, there are about three actual blades of grass left in my yard. There is no way in this lifetime that I'd ever be able to even the score with my li'l Weed Hound—it would run, whimpering, back to the factory, with its tail between its legs. I'm not a big fan of chemicals on my yard because of dogs frolicking, this thing called the environment and other stuff (like my ability to breathe), but let's face it: it's a damn mess. I may look into a local "natural" lawn care service that I've seen a few neighbors down the road use—people with dogs—to help me beat back the pirates and reclaim the lawn. But until then, the beauty of a lawnmower is that you can shear the suckers down, and if you stand back and cross your eyes (covering one with an eye patch also helps), the lawn looks a little more like a lawn and less like a weed patch! I am totally okay with optical illusions.

Fairy Tree . . .

But, I believe I've mentioned before that a big chunk of my front yard is a godforsaken wasteland of a rock pile. Excuse me, a "rock garden." First of all, who the hell grows rocks, can anyone tell me that?! Let's give you a visual: my front yard is a slope slathered in river rock, punctuated by a massive boulder every now and then, with a few plants in between, as "the garden." And lemme just say this: Rocks + garden = worst idea in the history of gardens. I loathe this thing. It is a debris magnet, first and foremost—leaves, pine needles, pine cones, sticks—all kinds of random unidentifiable parts clog the river rocks, which makes it look like crap in every season except winter (when it's covered in three feet of snow, and actually looks kind of pretty).

The river rocks never stay put, thanks to the slope + gravity + Rocco tearing through it, in hot pursuit of chippies, which exposes the ugly layer of black plastic beneath, which does nothing to prevent the weeds that it was intended to prevent, I might add. And many of the rocks end up mysteriously migrating not just to the bottom edge of "the garden," but all over the yard—I can't tell you how many times I've unwittingly run over a random rock with the lawnmower, and suddenly my lawnmower morphs into a weapon of mass destruction, gunning projectile rocks at the speed of light toward unsuspecting targets. I'm surprised I still have in-tact windows in the house—soon, I may be wearing an eye patch, not for fun or fashion, but to cover the one taken out by a ballistic rock-missile. But, kids love this rock pile (my niece, Amelia, loves to sit on a small boulder under the tree that she calls the "fairy tree," which I like way better than "weeping dwarf crab-apple," with long, drape-y branches, perfect for hiding), and Rocco can tire himself out by tearing around this "natural" obstacle course, after chippies (an aside: I have noticed an increase in ferocity, in his chippie-pursuits, since the murder of Chippie, earlier this week . . . the taste of blood . . .yikes. Next on his bucket list might be big game: wild turkey. Or a deer  . . . ), and it would cost a small fortune to remove it, and I can think of a million other things I'd rather spend that money on (more therapy, for one), so it will stay. And with more therapy, I will come to embrace it.

So, somewhere on the wonderful world of the web, very recently, I read about using vinegar to kill weeds (I am 99.999% certain the tip was posted by my fbook friend, Kathy M, but that .0001% has me worried that I'm not "citing" correctly. Please forgive me if I'm wrong . . .). Vinegar?! I thought? The same benign stuff I use to make a tasty vinaigrette for my salads, and clean my windows and mirrors? What the hell—I have a gallon jug o' the stuff under my kitchen sink—let's give it a try, was my next thought. Less than hour later, after dousing the weeds in my "rock garden" (and likely a few "real" plants, in the process), this is what I found. Which caused me to exclaim, "Holy shit, Batman!" I was shocked! That'll make me think twice, next time I dig into a big bowl of spring greens, knowing the dressing I use might be the natural equivalent to RoundUp . . . I did a little research and discovered that it's the acetic acid in vinegar, coupled with the heat of a nice hot summer afternoon, that kills the weeds (and because it's diluted in a salad dressing, won't destroy the greens in my salad), but it's also non-selective, meaning, if you spray your whole yard, it'll kill your whole yard, not just the weeds (which, in my opinion, isn't a bad idea). Fill a spray bottle with straight up vinegar and use it to zap those annoying random "volunteers" that pop up through cracks in the sidewalk, along flower bed borders, edges of the house . . . now, if only I could find an effective natural killer for the hornet's wasp that was built under the handle of my trash can . . . I'll keep you posted.

Weeds, dressed in a light viniagrette . . .

Weeds, just minding their own biz . . .

MN + Wineries don't usually = great wine, but . . .

So, after recovering from the traumatic Chippy Mauling and following it with a proper Chippie burial (proper burial = scoop up remains with pooper scooper + say a little prayer for chipmunk soul + deposit in trash can), I am finally back to our regularly scheduled blog entry. . .

As I was going to write about, before the Great Chippie Mauling, I went to southern MN last weekend, as I do maybe once a month or so. This time, the main reason for the trip was to attend a high school graduation celebration for the youngest daughter of one of Bob's oldest and dearest friends, Wally. I just have to give a shout out to him before I talk about the Great MN Wine Experience: Wally and Bob's friendship history goes way back to their grade school years, both were in each other's weddings, I'm pretty sure Bob was a godparent to one of Wally's kids, Wally was with Bob when we met at the Hickory Inn nearly 20 years ago. When Bob got sick, Wally made the two and a half hour drive from St. James to the cities to visit Bob whenever his schedule allowed, which ended up being countless times, and did so throughout Bob's ordeal. No matter what—shitty weather (which was pretty much the entire 2009/2010 and 2010/2011 winter seasons), when things were very, very bad bad for Bob (heart attacks, ICU stints, hospice), even at the end, when I told him, "Wally, it might be very difficult for you to see him like this, he likely won't even know you are here . . . " Wally still came, just to be at his friend's side. I know it meant the world to Bob, to see Wally, and I will be forever grateful for his loyal friendship to Bob. Long and short of it, Wally is the living, breathing personification of friend, the kind of friend from which we could all learn a few things . . . So, when he and his wife, Shari, invited me to their daughter's party, I was going to be there.

This is a Chinese Crested??!!

Okay, this is a Chinese Crested . . .

It was a lovely day for a graduation party, and a lovely graduation party, as well—mostly sunny skies and perfectly warm. Penny and Jim were also invited, so we went together (driving the whole five blocks to get there, because that's what you do in a small town, right—drive everywhere? We did the same thing in Mt. Lake . . .). I was blessed to see a few familiar St. James faces, and to get to hold the cutest little puppy, a Chinese Crested Puffball—no wait, maybe it was a Powder Puff? Cotton Ball? Golly, I don't remember now, but I do remember she was the cutest little thing ever, in the history of ever, and looked nothing like the homely parents from which she was born (dog pics courtesy of the world wide web, not the actual dog I met, nor of her one of her parents). I learned from Sheri, that the Chinese Crested can actually carry a gene for a furry version of themselves, but both parents have to be carriers, for the puffball edition to appear. Or something like that. Hope I'm not screwing up the story. . . I suppose I could Google that, but I'm kinda tired right now . . .

Being at the graduation brought back memories of my own high school graduation (can't believe it's been ten years already . . .), with the card tables showcasing poster board displays of their daughter through the years, all her many awards and letters earned for sports and other activities, and memorabilia. And of course great graduation grub, along with cake and punch—can't have a proper graduation celebration without 'em. I also got to see Wally's "man cave," where he hung the Jim Brandenberg "Brother Wolf" photograph of Bob's that I had given him after Bob died. It looked perfectly at home on deep red walls of Wally's hideout, and went so well with the nature theme that he has going—his mother-in-law had also made a gorgeous quilt with wolves as the main theme . . .

****

So, I had learned of a new winery in the St. Peter/Mankato area that just opened this spring, and last weekend was to be the perfect time to check it out—great temps, sunny skies. I have to admit outright, I am not a big fan of MN wines—years of living with a wine expert has done that to me. I also must admit, I am truly am not a wine snob, but when one starts mixing raspberries and blueberries in wine, it is no longer wine, it's pancake syrup (and this is not just a MN winery phenomenon—I've experienced it in Illinois, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts—areas where, for various reasons, it's just too difficult to grow many varieties of wine grapes. In fact, the Alexis Bailey Vineyard near Hastings has as its motto, "Where the grapes can suffer," because that's basically what grapes do in Minnesota—suffer, tremendously). But, I also have serious admiration and respect for anyone who attempts the endeavor, because in MN, wine making is truly a labor of intense creativity, love and passion . . . .

MN wineries are usually located on beautiful expanses of rolling hillsides, and often look similar to a picturesque Sonoma county setting, but because of the difficult climate, local wines often fortified with other fruit juices, resulting in an overly-sweet wine not so typical of a California winery. But, we were looking for something different to do, and it wasn't too far from my mom's home, so we invited Jim and Penny to join us for a jaunt to Chankaska Winery, in Kasota, after the graduation celebration, and I was absolutely blown away by the wines offered. If you live in the area and haven't yet visited, do so. Now. And if you don't live in the area, but find yourself in the area sometime this summer, carve out time in your schedule and take a side trip, and at the very least, do the tasting—seven bucks allows you to try five different wines made on site. Absolutely worth the time, as the setting is breathtaking, surrounded by rolling hills laced with rows of grape vines, a river rolls and frolics down through the hills and alongside the tasting room—heck, even their logo is cool (the ringed stain imprint of a wine glass base). The facility in which the wines are made and tasted is stunning, as well, with ample seating inside as well as on the spacious multi-level patio outside. There is a small selection of food—antipasto and several choices of woodfired pizzas (can't comment on those, as the place was insanely busy when we arrived, and by the time we figured out how everything worked, we were told it was at least an hour and a half wait for grub . . . next tie, for sure).

My recommendation is this: when you get to the winery, put your order in for a pizza right away, if you want to eat even before you start the tasting (especially if it's a busy weekend evening); they'll give you a little buzzer-thingy that lets you know when your pizza is ready. Then head to the tasting room and start tasting. You can do the tasting at your own pace, so if the 'za is ready before you've gotten through the five wine samples, grab a bottle of wine (or order a glass from the bar), head out to the patio, and enjoy every element of the winery—fabulous wine, food, scenery, people watching . . .

Most of the wines at Chankaska are a blend of MN grapes and grapes imported from the west coast, which, in my own li'l mind, is "kind of" cheating; still, it's clear the wine makers know what they're doing (and do it very well), and the big local name behind the winery itself (Schwickert construction family, of Mankato) has spared no expense in creating a stunning atmosphere in which to enjoy a hand-crafted pizza and locally crafted wine.

"YOU ROCK/Don't Stop Believing  =)

As always, such events are still entwined with bittersweet emotions that continually washed over me, both at the graduation and at the winery . . . the reason I even know what little I do know about wine is because of a most handsome man who no longer physically walks the earth with me. I wanted more than anything, to be able to turn to him, ask him more stories about his and Wally's younger days, or what he thought of the wines . . . but on a walk with Rocco one of the morning after the wine tasting, I was in St. Peter, I came across this message scrawled in chalk across a side street: "YOU ROCK/Don't Stop Believing =)" And I thought that was pretty cool . . . take what you can get, I guess. . .

Tragic ending to a beautiful weekend (hope you're not eating . . .)

I returned to Wrenwood last evening, from a beautiful weekend in southern MN and was so excited to share with ya'll, all the lovely encounters, when I was suddenly, completely, unexpectedly, thrust into a grotesque, traumatic event that will likely be burned into my memory till the end of time . . . and so of course, I just had to share that with y'all, instead. Hope you've already had breakfast . . . we'll return to our regularly scheduled blog in just a few moments. . .

Chipmunk in dog bowl on camping trip up north, photo by Bob

So, upon our arrival home late yesterday afternoon, I let Rocco out of the back of the Jeep (no puke this time! However, he did puke on the way down to St. Peter—we're still have some work to do, with trying to cure him of his car-phobia . .), and immediately, he tore off into the front yard—as he always does—in search of his arch nemesis: the cute li'l chipmunk that hangs out in the yard and has been tormenting Rocco for months. It's a funny li'l love-hate relationship—Chippie, as he is known by us (I know, super-original, right?) sits outside the patio door, taunting and teasing Rocco as he snacks on suet crumbs, while Rocco goes ballistic on the other side of the patio door, pawing and growling and whining, "Lemme at him, lemme at hiiiiiiim!" Chippie knows he is safe as long as the patio door is closed, and continues to chide Rocco until I open the door. Then, Rocco bolts out, chippie disappears into a hole in the deck or up the oak tree, and cute little angry chipmunk expletives follow, as though chewing Rocco's ass (or mine, perhaps) for disturbing him. Chippie eventually sprints across the deck to the rock garden in front of the house as Rocco follows in hot pursuit, darting over boulders, diving into shrubbery, frantically poking and prodding at the rocks and foliage, not realizing the chipster had bolted across the yard and disappeaered under the front steps ten minutes prior. Rocco eventually figures this out, runs over to the front steps and pounces from side to side, pawing and yelping at Chippie to get his weenie ass out from under the steps and fight like a man, stopping every now and then to cocks his head to one side, as though listening for signs that Chippie is still under the steps . . . around and around they go, and if I didn't know any better, I would have thought it was a little game between the two. Until tonight.

Rocco, aka Chippie Killer, in his Rush t-shirt from Auntie Gretchy

So, I was unloading the Jeep when I realized I hadn't heard the jingle of Rocco's collar in some time. Fearing he had trotted off to the neighbor's, I walked around  to the front of the house, calling his name, and nearly stumbled upon him as he stood in the front yard, front paws firmly planted on something beneath him as he gnawed away at whatever that something was. At first, I thought it was a piece of wood, and started to turn around, but you know that split-second lag time, where you think you see something, but then suddenly, in your mind, you really see what that something is, and it ain't what you first thought? Well, that's what happened here—suddenly, with horrifying clarity, I realized that what Rocco had pinned beneath his paws was not a piece of wood—it was his beloved tormentor, Chippie! Rocco had Chippie in a death grip, pinned to the ground, his chipmunk fur so soaked with dog saliva that I could barely see the stripes on his back, but it was Chippie, make no mistake. . .

Rocco quickly backed off as soon as I screamed, but immediately, I realized that was the wrong thing to do because then I saw poor little Chippie move—he was still alive, barely. ohgodohgodohgodohgod, I started babbling, now what?! Do I go get a shovel and put the the poor li'l critter out of his misery with a good whack? I honestly don't think I could do that, even though it probably would have been the most humane . . . Do I snatch him up, away from Rocco and try to nurse him back to health? Gather him up in a shoebox and bring him to the U of M Vet School for repairs? ohgodohgodohgodohgod . . . I had to turn away from the gruesome crime scene, to gather my senses and try to figure out what to do, and it was then that Rocco answered my question for me, by going in for the kill. One more quick clamp of jaws, a quick shake of head and Chippie was gone . . . I was and still am, so horrified by the implications of my dog's actions: all this time, that was no game. My sweet li'l mutt is a cold blooded killer . . .

I have fed chipmunks from my very own hand—the first camping trip Bob and I ever took, was a beautiful week on the north shore; somewhere in this house is a picture that Bob took of me, with a chipmunk on my shoulder, feeding it bits of graham cracker . . . Gaia and Liddy, as skillful predators as they were, never killed a cute little chippy. They always went after larger, uglier game—big ol' raccoons, opossums, snakes. I just don't know what to make of this, this killing of Disney characters that Rocco has developed . . .

This morning, while having a cup of tea at the counter, Rocco pounced against the patio door. I turned quickly, to see another chipmunk dart under the grill . . .

Kettlebells, War Machines and Reinventing . . .

Once again, I was going to write about something entirely different than what I am about to write about, but since I don't yet have pictures to accompany what I was going to write about, but I do have pictures about what I am about to write about, I decided to write about that, instead. Just another day inside an unmedicated ADD brain, peeps! A taste of what Bob had to deal with for nearly 20 years . . .

Dragon Door Kettlebells . . .

So, a few weeks ago—I think I briefly mentioned this in a previous post—I went through a certification course to teach kettlebells, and I am now a bona fide kettlebell instructor. God help us all . . . here is a brief "history" of kettlebells, thanks to an article I quickly plucked off the internet, by Mike Bromley (Dear Baby Jesus, please let this be proper referencing for an internet article, so the internet police doesn't break down my door and haul me to jail for stealing . . . amen)

What is a Kettlebell?

A kettlebell is a Russian type of hand weight that is shaped like a big cannonball with a handle. Often made out of pure cast iron, they are available in a wide range of weights and sizes. The lightest one weighs in at less than 10 pounds, and they can increase in weight all the way up to 100 pound weights. These unique tools are used in a wide range of strength training exercises, to increase muscle and build endurance. 

The History

Kettlebells originated in Russia, and the first recorded mention of them was in 1704 within a Russian dictionary. The Russian word for Kettlebells is "girya," and the men who lifted these weights were called "gireviks." Kettlebells gained recognition as a superb weight loss tool when they were featured in the fitness magazine Hercules in 1913. In the recent history of the Kettlebell, they have become increasingly popular within the United States thanks to a man named Pavel Tsatsouline. Tsatsouline is a fitness author who used to be a trainer for not only the United States armed forces but the Soviet Union forces as well. Once the United States noticed that they could not endure as long as their Russian counterparts within competitions, they began incorporating the kettlebell into their training routines. In 1985 a committee for the sport of Kettlebell lifting was created, and the first National Championship for Kettlebells was help in Russia in 1985 with its own set of rules and standards. Today, the Kettlebell is being introduced into the fitness routines of the everyday man, as their benefits have proven them to be one of the most useful tools for building strength.

The Benefits

As the long history of the Kettlebell proves, it has many benefits to offer those who use it on a regular basis. These benefits include:

• The building of endurance.
• Toning and Strengthening of almost every muscle of the body.
• Allows you to take harder hits.
• Increases flexibility.
• Helps you to shed fat.
• Gives you the freedom to get an intensive workout from home.

The history of the Kettlebell is a long and proven record of its effectiveness. These unique exercise tools have been used by individuals around the world for hundreds of years to build muscle, lose fat, and strengthen their endurance

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/1850860


So, why ketttlebells, of all the possible useful skills one could possibly learn, Jen? Why not knitting, or hey—something really beneficial, like changing the oil in your own car?! you may or may not be asking. Funny you should ask. Or not. I'll tell you anyway. A few years before Bob and I moved out to the boonies, while we were still in Roseville (maybe 8 or so years ago), I was just getting into my "health and wellness" lifestyle. And by "just getting into," I mean I was still sneaking a cigarette every now and then when I went out for drinks with girlfriends (I used to joke that I only smoked when I drank, so I was drinking all the time . . .), I was obsessed with low-fat—you name it—yogurt, sour cream, microwave popcorn, ice cream, cookies, Tostitos (makes my stomach churn, just typing those words. . . more on that big ugly erroneous error later. Maybe.), chugging diet Coke like it was going out of style (whatever the hell that means, because if something is going out of style, why would one want to do more of it?!) but I was also starting to explore and experiment in the realm of fitness—walking the dogs every day, joined Lifetime Fitness and heading to step aerobics a few times a week, hiking, camping and kayaking with Bob and friends whenever we could. When we moved out to Wrenwood in 2005, I joined a local gym in Stillwater, a cute little place where the average age of participants was about 75, which, by sheer association, made me look and feel like an elite athlete. No offense to the elderly, but seriously . . . I didn't have a real point to my workouts at that time other than to become more active, but I was consistent, and in the process, was learning and growing, nonetheless.

Around that time, I saw an article about a local woman named Marty Larson, who was teaching this crazy-assed workout called kettlebells in the St. Croix Valley area. She was a kettlebell "pioneer" in the Twin Cities, being one of the first in the area to be a certified instructor. As she hadn't yet opened her cutting edge wellness studio in Stillwater, Uncommon Age, she was teaching classes wherever she could find space—in church basements, school gyms, outside in parks, even. I remember reading this article, thinking how freakin' KOOL, with a Kaptial K! kettlebells looked, and even went so far as picking up the phone to call and sign up for a class, but chickened out at the last minute and hung up on her answering machine. Still in the early stages of my health and wellness path, I was intimidated as hell by the sheer athleticism kettlebells seemed to require. Though my last name is Hildebrandt, which, in southern Minnesota, is synonymous with uber athlete, I did not inherit that gene (though I have to brag a minute—for a short while, I did hold the Mt. Lake Elementary Presidential Fitness record for the hanging chin-up—girlie version—oh, back in 1975 or so. Wonder if my name is still up on the grade school gym wall . . . ). I ended up with the geek gene, which isn't very useful when a vollyball comes flying at one's head and one has no idea what to do except squeeze one's eyes closed tight and flail one's arms wildly, hoping it'll fly away on its own. I'm here to tell you: it will not. But the geek gene is also not a bad thing—in fact, is far better insurance in finding gainful employment as an adult, because, let's face it, not everyone can be a Tiger Woods or a, a, a, errrr . . . ummmm . . . sorry, professional athletes' names don't easily fall off my tongue . . .

My dad died in January of 2007, Bob suffered his first heart attack three months later (the foreshadowing to our nineteen months in hell, two years later), which really kicked us into high-gear, health-wise. Smoking was no longer the cute little "part-time" habit for me, and I quit for good. Bob joined the cute li'l gym with me but eventually, due to time constraints, we segued to a home-gym set-up, with a treadmill, weights and pull-up bar, to complement our already active, nature-lovin' lifestyle and daily dog walks. The more I learned and growed, the more I realized that "fresh and natural" were the way to go. Easy peasy. "Low-fat" and "no fat" became synonymous with "The Devil" in my mind, when I started researching nutrition like a banshee (you may be unaware of how much banshees know about nutrition) and learned how toxic the chemicals that make up most foods "low-fat" are. Processed foods suddenly became almost non-existent in our house, though, thankfully, I am not a zealot about anything—the underachiever in me, likely. As much as I incorporated fresh, organic produce, lean meats and grains into our diet, I also shrugged an "oh, well," when Bob brought home the occasional bag of jalapeno-cheddar Cheetos and washed it down with a Dr Pepper. He was 99% on board with our lifestyle changes, but he had also been through enough, already and life is too short to not indulge in a treat now and then—besides, if I had ixnayed the Cheetos, then there too, went my DQ Heath Blizzard with a side of salty fries for dippin' . . .

Along with this new and improved lifestyle, came thoughts of career changes for me. I had been a hairdresser for over fifteen years and was at a crossroads: it was simply no any fun any more. That's a bad sign when you're a hairdresser, and trust me, you do not want to be on the receiving end of those sheers when that day come. Your whining about a "bad hair day" might be met with a sharp, "Yeah, well shut your piehole! It's hair, for the love of god and small kids, not cancer. Get over it!" Followed by a resounding whack! and suddenly, unwittingly, you're donating a foot of hair to Locks of Love . . .

I dreamt about going back to school for my MFA in writing, but also felt a strong pull to do something—at least part time—in the health and wellness field, which was was the shorter, less expensive path of the two. I had just begun studying to become a personal trainer when Bob got sick in October of 2009. That plan went to the far back burner and quite frankly, was pretty much forgotten, other than the maniacal cooking I did for Bob, during his illness—desperate attempts to do anything to counter/control the horrific effects of the disease and treatments . . .

Fast forward six years. Bob died on May 3, 2011, I was (and in many ways still am) a mess. But, y'all know that because I've dumped the whole damn story on you for the past two and a half years, no need to rehash. After Bob's death, my dear friend, Lisa (whom I had "met" on an online women's fitness website a few years prior, incidentally), who had unexpectedly lost her beloved son, Sam only six weeks prior to Bob dying, talked me into going to a kettlebells class in Woodbury with her. She, also in the depths of immense grief, told me, "Jen, for one hour, all you have to do is think about not dropping a 25 lb. cannonball on your head. It'll be good for you . . ." I wasn't even sure I was capable of doing that much, but I agreed to go and was hooked from my first kettlebell swing. For a year, it was the only thing I was consciously doing to take care of myself. I wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping, still surprised I didn't start smoking again . . .

I was at the Woodbury studio for only a week when the instructor moved out of state and a new one took her place, which sent the group into a little tizzy and felt too boot-camp-ish for my fragile state. Hooked as I was, after a mere week or so, I searched for a kettlebell instructor near Stillwater, and was directed to a unique little studio on the north edge of town. It was Marty Larson's studio, Uncommon Age. What goes around, comes around . . . I absolutely adore her studio, her "whole-istic" approach to health and wellness. In a few words: she rocks. And, once again, I am a "whipper snapper" in the group, on the younger end of the spectrum, as I'd guess the average age of clients at the studio is 50+. But instead of strolling on a treadmill, chit-chattin' while barely breaking a sweat, these 40, 50, and 60-somethings are sweating, muscling and haulin' ass with kettlebells. Strong, healthy, flexible, mobile . . .

KBI crew at Uncommon Age . . .

After less than a year with her studio (and a six month hiatus from kettlebells during my self-imposed exile into St. Paul), Marty sensed my restrained enthusiasm and talked me into going through the instructor's certification—an intense, weekend-long combination of lecture and intense workouts with kettlebells . . . I completed the course (followed by a bout of whooping cough), and have been working with her and other instructors, assisting at classes as much as I can, till I feel comfortable to take over some classes on my own. My hope is to also add private sessions, as I get more experience . . .

Next up on the docket in July—training to be an instructor on an awesomely bizarre S&M dungeon contraption called the CrossCore (aka, War Machine, to all you hard-core athletes . . .). On a seemingly unrelated note, there's a phenomenon called, "widow brain," that many I've met on this f'n journey talk about, and I'm thinking this qualifies as a great example of "what the EFF was I thinking???" in regard to the CrossCore  But then again, it's about as close to my dream of being in the circus as I'll ever get . . .


On the way home from obtaining my certification, I thought of the things that I've done since Bob died—kettle bell cert, Hamline University classes, motorcycle license, the endless love and support of friends and family, meeting new friends along the way, reconnecting with old . . . I started crying so hard, I could barely see the road, and almost pulled over . . . The bizarre conundrum of grief: feeling at once, so proud, yet suddenly, so unexpectedly, almost engulfed with a tsunami of sadness, knowing the only reason I'm doing any of this is because Bob died. . . there are so many times I still find myself crying, "fuck all this reinventing . . . I would give it all back, infinite-fold, to have my old life back . . ." but that ain't gonna happen, and my other choice is to remain in a tight bud, so instead, I keep on reinventing . . . xxoo