Fine & Dandy Blog

Archives: Midwest Home & Garden Magazine

Dear Practically Strangers,

Man in a Bowler Hat, Rene Magritte 1964

Some of you out there, you might just be going about your life. And then someone like me, a writer, I hear you laugh, catch some mannerism and you stick. You standout for this reason or that something I can't quite pinpoint, something endearing or attractive (or repulsive because we need enemies, too.)

You get me dreaming up concoctions and scenarios, scenes and conversations. Conversations you’ll never have but in my writer’s made-up world, fiction in the bookstore maybe someday, baby.

I mold the real you, the one maybe I know just a little, or more, or not at all aside from pleasantries and greetings, observations here and there. I grasp at little things and twist and turn and pull them and then I spit out some clone of you which I need in written form, in this story. Some part of you will live forever in this other world. This resemblance of you, big or small, will remain locked amongst tens of thousands of my words, within hundreds of pages.

So, I’m sorry if it always seems like I’m watching you, trying to get eye contact or a few words. It’s not you, it’s the ghost of you I made up, and I sorta need a charge of you every now and then to remind me of so-in-so in the book.

Most people, they just give me a phrase here, a scene, a pet name. But you, you helped me create a whole pretend person.

Are you on to me, muses? I think if you figured it out, you might just blush, a shake of the head, rub of the chin. Well, okay then. A chuckle, head tilt, eyebrows raise. So, there’s that. I uh, huh, I don’t know.

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

So, if you ever get bored with your real life, let me know, and I can tell you about your pretend one. You sail, did you know that? You don't live here, you live in Chicago...and it goes on.

Mostly True.

I try to make the bed first thing in the morning.
The rest?
True dat.

Is Today Tomorrow?

The four year old got out of bed this morning, all warm and rosy cheeked, damp thumb and blanket still tucked close. "Mom, is today tomorrow?"

And then just now fourteen hours later, same little Miss, thrusts open her bedroom door in the darkness shy of midnight. I turn and she's running down the hall to me, sobbing, frantic and confused.

"I had a really bad dream," she's in my arms. "I went in a rocket ship but you were at the bottom and I was never going to see you again."

I'm here. I'm staying with you, my loves. Today, tomorrow,
forever and ever and ever.

Today is almost yesterday.

I'm a Sailor Seeking a Yacht to Race the Mack

I did this today. All in the name of research, kids. If this book truly has some chance at being a "really big thing" I better be sure I've got these sailing/race scenes tight.

My husband and mother promptly sent texts that they love me (with subtle reminders about the risks.)

I'm waiting for the phone to ring. Stay tuned.

(Learn more about the Race to Mackinac here. )

Time Management

We were eating dinner last night and Elizabeth looked up, a carrot in one hand.

"Mom?" She paused, took a bite. "Why don't princesses wave fast? Instead of slow?"

I stopped to take this in. I laughed, careful not to to make her feel bad about her question. But I pictured a fairy tale princess, a beauty queen, Will's wife Kate, waving really fast, like I would, if I were forced into a life of polite hand waving.

Hey, hey, hi! Gotta go, gotta run! Let's go, let's go, let's go! Kids, school, groceries, work, laundry, love, the book, life. Ta, ta!

You understand? Muah!

Image by Ben Van Hook found here

All Aboard

Dear Amtrak*,

I was 11 and it was June 1983 and our family had round trip tickets on Amtrak from Tomah, Wisconsin to Seattle, Washington.

The train boarded at dusk in front of the old Tomah depot. My younger sister and I were giddy with excitement, an adventure ahead of us, a train ride on the Empire Builder headed out west. Family and friends came to see us off, everyone caught up in the excitement of our journey by train.

My writer's mind can still picture the scenes that passed by, and the small towns, the wafts of summer evenings that drifted up into the cabin at every stop, pick-up trucks stopped at train gates, the train whistling hello, strangers lifting caps and waving up at us, lonely prairies, the simple thrill of walking to the dining car, the wilds of Montana and snow capped mountains, the mystery of these different worlds passing by under the comforting rhythmic hymn of the train tracks below.

It is thirty years later. I write. I suppose I fall under the classification, the generalization even of a struggling writer, of course I do. I struggle because I'm a mom of three, and I work full time and writing comes at the end of every day, at 9 pm, when children sleep and crumbs have been swept up and the house is quiet and the laundry and the dishwasher hum their end of day tunes. I write past eleven, past midnight, some nights closer to one, when I glance at my word count and 48, 097 seems like enough progress. We are getting there, me and this book, this story that won't stop.

That's my journey now. Another trip, alone, me and the laptop and the train, it would seem a luxury, words spinning by, adding up and up and up. I might just reach my destination. And then I'd have another story to tell.

*http://www.thewire.com/culture/2014/02/inside-amtraks-absolutely-awesome-plan-give-free-rides-writers/358332/

I need it to be Spring.

Like you need it to be 5 o'clock

or Friday

a mess to be cleaned up

the laundry put away

more money in the bank

more time more time more time.

I need it to be Spring.

I need to smell the earth at work

feel the tickle of a breeze

see some change, like green of leaves.

So let's hurry it up, I'm ready to start over

let's skim past 10 degrees, more snow

Been there, done that

moving on and now...

23 days the calendar right here says so.

Spring you hear that?

Come on, let's go.

Original painting by Kristina Wentzell available to purchase on Etsy here.

Monkey Bread

I showed Vivie the moon tonight as we headed into her room, into the rocking chair I've been ending my daughter's days in for the last seven years.

"Moon on, Mom! Tiny bit, moon." She paused.

And then again, in a whisper. "Moon on."

Yes, I nodded. "Pretty, isn't it?"

Yes, she nodded.

She asked me to sing Jingle Bells. I sang the chorus.

"Bed," she said. My first child didn't sleep through the night until she was eighteen months old, thirty-six hours after we'd plunked down $500 at the sleep clinic. The second child, fifteen months. My third one tells me to put her to bed.

I tucked in her tightly, that room is so drafty.

We exchange love yous,
sweet dreams,
God bless.

Door shut behind me, I padded down the stairs, into the kitchen, where I microwaved a stick of cold butter from the fridge.

A loaf of frozen dough, unthawed, just starting to rise.
A bowl of brown sugar.
A bowl of cinnamon sugar.
A dash of vanilla to the warm, soupy butter.

And then I broke apart the sticky, puffy dough, deflating it a bit. Gumballs of dough, dunked in butter, then brown sugar, a coating of cinnamon sugar.

It's good, this.

I looked out the kitchen window into the darkness on the other side, white snow glowing.

The quiet house.
This winding down.

Dough.
Dunk.
Gooey.
Roll.

I arranged the little chunks in a circle in the bundt pan, twice. A little itch on my cheek, and I nudged it with buttery fingers to stop.

I should be rubbing butter all over my face, maybe I wouldn't look so haggard...

This concoction will be good in the morning, waiting for us, a little present to start the day. The house will smell cozy. My daughters will taste the love. They will remember it when they're in college and eating cereal for most meals. When they're thirtysomething and have little ones of their own. They'll be able to make it without calling me. I think she just...

I hope.

Vivie is singing in her crib. The dough is rising again, up through the sugar and butter.

Moon on.

(hey, hey...)

A Saturday in Our November

The rain was more a mist. The day was grey.

The trees bare now, upside down broomsticks sweeping the dusty sky. The dog didn't want to get wet.

There was roast chicken in the oven and the house smelled of butter and thyme. The trimmed brussels sprouts, so green, reminded of another season, gone. The firewood was ready, old newspapers rolled, companions.

The kids were restless, not enough energy burned today. Oh boy.

The dough for dinner rolls had risen too much and we laughed
These will be some big buns!

And then,
There goes that cuckoo clock again,
Twelve chirps at 6.
Always the 6 o'clock hour, never earlier, never later.

We should really get that fixed.

Last Dance (make it last)

November 13^th sunny and clear autumn blue sky and the Oak leaves were falling so slow, thoughtfully as if not to disturb. Shhhh, I don’t wanna make a big deal, let me just go.

(He just raked you know?)

Three times throughout the day, it caught my eye, I turned expecting to see someone walking to me, waving Hey! but no.

Oh my goodness. A. Leaf.

Flitter.

Maybe like this,

(testing) see and like….that…weeeeeeeee

a giggle Awwww I don't want it to end

Enjoying its last dance.

I saw each of those three waving, slow dancing, silly leaves through to the finish. To the earth.

Goodbye.

Bye!

We have to rake again on Saturday.

French Watercolor painting via Etsy

The Summer of Three Turning Four

Maren’s peep toe pumps are done. But I can’t bear to part with them. I wish I could paint a picture of them, to me they are worthy of an oil painting that I would hang over the mantel. We went in May to get summer sandals. Her sisters chose sandals. Sandals they could go hiking in or wear to the beach. Maren didn’t want sandals. These were $28 and had a ½” heel and I tried to talk her out of them, they just weren't practical, I tried to sell her on another idea, but she wouldn’t have it, she had tears, she had an idea, these could be like sandals. The store clerk cut off the tags and she wore them out the door. Maren wore these almost every single day all summer and into fall. To school with socks, to the store, on long hikes over rocks and roots, to the beach, fireworks and parades, in the water, through mud puddles, for dancing and running and canoeing. These peep toe pumps ARE the summer of three turning four. They are my Maren. The $40 Keen sandals her sisters agreed to will be passed down, will be worn by someone else next year. But they don't send me spiraling down through our summer memories. They don't make me cry.