May 5, 2024 Stroking my ego

I’m reading a very depressing book, “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri. This is pretty much the opposite of who I am because, if anything, I tend towards the overly optimistic. In addition, this book of short stories is mostly about Indians from Southeast Asia who are living in Great Britain or America. I have no reason to be drawn to them at all. Ms. Lahiri, however, won a Pulitzer for this book and she’s doing an excellent job of breaking my heart at the sorrows of people who are being let down or abused by their circumstances and life. Sigh.

When I’m not reading, which I really only do while I eat lunch, I’m getting ready to leave for the summer. This is an exercise I have done for many, many years, since at least 1997, so I’m pretty well practiced. Yet, I seem to enjoy making tweaks and additions to it every year.

This year appears to be the year of removing. I retired nine years ago and three years ago I began to seriously work on taking off excess weight, and this was before Ozempic – which I’d love to take, but that’s a different memoir altogether. Anyway, I had kept my entire professional wardrobe thinking I could take in the clothes that were getting too big. Or, based on prior weight-loss episodes, there was a better than 50/50 chance I’d gain all the weight back and then some. But when I sat down at the sewing machine one day with a blouse, I realized I couldn’t just put in some darts. There was so much excess fabric I’d need to take the entire blouse apart. I’m certainly not willing to do that.

So I started looking at the clothes in the closet with a much more critical eye. Just exactly when will I be needing executive style clothing again? I’d already taken in the waistband of some of the slacks, using them as gardening clothes. The oldest of the blouses were likewise in use as weeding and pruning ensembles. I don’t think the blazers and Ralph Lauren blouses have a role in my life anymore.

In the meantime, I discovered thrift store shopping. I’m a pretty frugal person to begin with and usually refuse to pay more than I think an item is worth. One day, simply by chance, I walked into a place called Orphans Rock in Mt. Dora, it’s associated with the First Baptist Church of Umatilla. The cashier was calling out, “We have so much inventory, that everything is half price”. Five pieces of clothing, a set of 4 drinking glasses and a little coffee carafe later I left, three dollars and fifty cents poorer. Ralph Lauren be damned! The clothes in the closet were folded up, bagged and taken to the thrift shop. So that’s that.

Back to lunch and depression. Now I’m cleaning in the dining room where yesterday I removed from a small chest I keep there, a thick three-ring binder once again from my previous career slash life. It had many, many clear plastic pockets that were filled with notes and cards. I knew I could use two of them to hold the Friends of the Library Scholarship Award certificates I’d printed. I was still suffering from the heartlessness in the book of Dev who had married Twinkle four months previously, but didn’t like the fact that she wanted to keep all the Christian things she kept finding in the house they’d just bought. I started removing from the clear plastic pockets all the notes from students, the required faculty photographs I had to have taken yearly, and the certificates, meaning to throw everything away.

Well, maybe not the award from the University of Miami for outstanding counseling. And here was the thank you note from Natalie, who was the reason I got that recognition. She was certainly a bright young woman, her mother was undocumented, father was who-knows-where, and her mother told her to never, never, never tell anyone that she had had tuberculosis. I’m only telling you. The University of Miami was the perfect school for her, the exception being she had absolutely no money to attend. 

What to do? The George Jenkins Scholarship, of course. George Jenkins? Name doesn’t ring a bell? You ever hear of Publix supermarkets? He’s the founder. And the scholarship his foundation awards is a full-ride including everything: tuition, fees, books, supplies, room and board and a stipend. I made sure that both Natalie and I knew every inch of that scholarship and everything written about it and previous winners. I wrote her letter of recommendation and edited and helped her polish her application until it was shiny and bright. And I made myself even more known to UM’s Admission’s and Financial Aid offices. My alma mater, after all. I knew she had a solid chance, but a chance isn’t a guarantee. So when I got the call from UM saying she had won, I cried, Natalie cried, even Wally, the Guidance Director cried. It was a good day. Can’t throw that away.

So I didn’t throw away the quite unflattering pictures of a much younger, much heavier me. And I kept all the cards and notes. Someday I’ll decide I no longer want or need this ego stroking, “What would we have done without you Ms. Roher”, “You worked harder than we did”, “You’re the best counselor I could ever imagine”. But this memoir will remain online on my blog and I’m going to include a piece one of the student’s wrote for English class, because it’s clever and funny and says a lot of truth about who I was and what I did. They must have been studying Chaucer and this is a parody.

Paul Chestnut 

Professor Thompson 

ENL 2012

February 25, 2010

The Intruder to Chaucer’s Pilgrimage 

And on the pilgrimage there was a BRACE Advisor.

She knows what’s best because she is wiser.

“Good afternoon, I am Mrs. Roher,

Your email account will believe it’s in the First World War. 

My daily emails will make you insane,

Just remember they are for financial gain.”

She hides in a cubicle at her desk.

Her love of scholarships can be seen as grotesque. 

Every year she gives away millions of dollars,

Attempting to help a community of scholars.

Her office is adorned with cute, little knick-knacks,

Here she hides, sending silent internet attacks.

Hunting and Gathering

Hunting and Gathering

I have many memories and stories about my mother picking wild raspberries at the cabin in northern Minnesota. And I remember thinking it was ‘crazy’ that after she turned them into jam, she’d put all those jars in the trunk of whatever giant Buick they owned at the time, and drive it all back to Florida.

It didn’t take very long after they had passed away, the cabin was mine and I could be there by myself, before I too came under the spell of these tiny, red, fragrant, flavorful jewels. An odd thing I discovered, is that a berry patch that had been productive for years could suddenly disappear. Truly this just added to the mystique. And the fun. Because now I had to go searching – in the forest – for a new patch. I’ve always loved true stories about women who would have grand adventures by themselves: “Where the Pavement Ends” by Erika Warmbrunn who biked from Mongolia through China and Viet Nam, and Mary Kingsley, who in the 1890’s, traveled alone in West Africa collecting specimens and studying anthropology. Yes, I actually see my berry hunting slash picking in that same light. And in a self-diagnosed case of, “even crazier than my mother”, there was the year when I was still working, that I too made and canned the jam and spent at least fifty dollars on postage shipping it back. Even with my oh so careful packing several of the jars broke.

Sometimes I would take whatever car I kept there on these hunts, which would occasionally require turning a too large car around on a too small dirt track with a drop off into the unknown on one side and mud on the other. Sometimes I had access to Don’s four-wheeler, which was much easier to maneuver but wouldn’t take me as far as I’d like to go. Nonetheless, I have gone to the end of many of the local dirt roads. The most productive ones are those built by lumber companies. They aren’t maintained, so they can get pretty rough after many years, but wild raspberries really like to grow in the remains of fallen and rotting stumps. If this sounds like it could be dangerous, it really is, especially the older and less agile I become. It’s not great for the car either.

Last summer (2023) was particularly interesting because I was completely out of spots. Additionally, I had a new-to-me 2017 Honda Fit, which is small and pretty low to the ground. I kept my ears quite open for any hints of spots from friends and neighbors and there were a few. The old Brimson/Toimi rock pit, which had a picturesque creek running by it and some very large piles of rocks, but only enough berries to eat as I walked along. There were no large quantities of berries as it was too sunny, flat and dry. And I tried the Otto Harris Lakes Rd, even walking down the old track, now gated off, that I thought was the way to another rock pit my mother used to frequent. The abundant flies and mosquitos however, made me turn around before I got close. And there wasn’t a hint of the plant as I drove slowly next to the road’s edge. As I’ve been on this hunt for many years, I’ve become pretty adept at identifying a raspberry patch, even from a distance.

But then I decided to try a road I’d never gone down even though it’s closer than other spots that used to be productive. I think the stop sign at its entrance for cars coming down that way made me think this might lead to housing. Oh not at all! As a matter of fact within less than an eighth of a mile the road became a track with grasses in the middle that reached halfway up the car doors. I’ve learned that those grasses can hide some surprises for the underside of the car. Sure enough, at least one rock big enough to make a nasty scraping noise made me wince. Now the tree branches are right up against the windows so there’s no possible way to turn around and I’m climbing up a hill too. Just as I’m thinking this may have been a poor idea, the woods on the left side thin out and there’s a big level area with grasses so tall I can tell no one’s been here for quite some time. Could there be berries anywhere around? The only way to tell is to get out and search.

Yes, this certainly is an area that was logged and those spindly poplars have quite a few raspberry plants in front of them, but because they’re so exposed to the sun the quality of the berries is poor. But behind them and down an overgrown incline is just what I’d been hoping for, the raspberry mother load.

I was prepared. I have a hat with a mosquito net, a little blue pail and a gallon sized plastic bag. So, gingerly, I move towards unknown footing. As I keep a hand on the poplar tree trunk, which my fist can almost encircle, I smile as I can see a small twinkle of red. Raspberries are good at keeping themselves shaded under their own leaves, and I’ve also learned that after I’ve picked through a spot, if I turn around I might find many more berries I couldn’t see from my original angle.

As is often the case with a great spot, this one came with obvious dangers. I can’t see what’s beneath my feet because of the tall grasses and whatever's down there will give way as it’s a collection of fallen branches, large and medium-size rocks, and old, rotting stumps. Perfect nutrition for the plants and a great way to wind up with a broken ankle in an area with limited, at best, cell phone coverage. But the berries over there, just out of arms reach are the most enticing, naturally. Eventually, I’m at the bottom of this depression, sitting crookedly on a jutting boulder with my feet straddling a dead tree limb that obviously won’t hold my weight.

I see I’ve forgotten to mention that wild raspberry plants have thorns. Just one more reason to be careful. If you pull up gently on a raspberry leaf you can often see where the berries are and can then pick them from below and thus keep away from the prickers.

So I’ve picked about three fourths of a gallon and it’s really time to go. But getting up, with one bad knee, the other in the ‘not great’ category and the footing being non- existent, means spending a few minutes surveying my options and repositioning myself on the rock before I can eventually creep towards a possibly more stable area. At last I stretch up and grab a flimsy poplar limb that, nevertheless, holds my full weight as I use my arms to lift myself to standing and then that limb becomes the rope I use to get back up to flat ground. Phew!

Now with berries intact – there have been times, pre-baggie, when I’d stumble and drop half the contents of the pail – I triumphantly get back in the car, turn it on, crank up the air conditioning because this is August, and feel I’d won. What satisfaction. Backing the car up, however, there is an odd sound. Is that something? Well never mind. Turns out I’m only a mile from the stop sign, which is only 5 miles from the cabin. Back on pavement there really is a loud dragging noise coming from under the car. I pull over thinking there must be a branch dragging, but I don’t see anything sticking out so I drive home and turn my attention to the berries, figuring I’ll handle whatever that noise is later.

Later is the next day when I’m planning on driving the forty-five miles to Virginia, Mn for groceries. The berries I don’t plan on eating fresh are in the freezer. I’d forgotten all about the noise, but it only took a couple feet before the dragging sound began. Rats! I’m dressed for town but now I have to get down on the ground to remove whatever branch is surely lodged under there. Luckily, I keep an old sheet in the back so my clothes stay clean but what I see gives me major anxiety. There’s no branch under there. A part of the car under the engine is hanging down touching the ground. No, I can’t call triple A from the middle of a national forest. My only option is to drive to Virginia with the noise becoming more threatening the faster I go. What to do? Go more slowly and maybe get stuck or the car starts on fire from the friction, or go faster and pray? I do a bit of both.

Well, I made it and pulled into the Valvoline oil change place that I’d been to before and was the nearest car place. The person who waves you to the correct bay waves me to the left to wait behind the car there when he notices something, puts up his hand for stop and then waves me over to an empty bay on the right. I pull in and stop and he comes over and says, “Well, what’s going on here”. “So I was out picking raspberries in the forest” ... He starts laughing and calls to the young man who’s down in the pit. “Whaddya see?” I didn’t hear the response but evidently there’s a plate under the car that protects some part of the engine, that had been held on with an expandable plastic anchor. Felt like it was my lucky day when they had something that would work. In less than 10 minutes he’s waving me out. “How much?” “No charge.” “No, that’s not right. Your time is valuable. Is $20 okay?”

So that’s my 2023 berry picking adventure. To me it’s just as satisfying as biking through China or trudging through the jungles of the Congo. Plus, I have every intention of returning this summer, especially now that I know to be very careful and aware of where I drive and where I park.

And those berries?
Here they are ready for the freezer.

And here’s the wild raspberry compote over a flan with a vanilla wafer crust.

Now, don’t tell anybody about my spot. It’s a secret!

 

 

For memoir group on March 11, 2024 

My Birthday

My birthday is in mid-July. Before I was school age, this was fine, and my mother noted that it never rained on my birthday so the celebrations were outside in the backyard. The cake always had a doll in the middle and the cake was her skirt and bodice. I thought they were so pretty and was quite proud of them.

Along with the cake, she gave the other children a gift. The gift came from a warehouse out in West Duluth that I surely visited once because the image of a dark, cavernous place with a wooden floor and wooden bins is in my memory. I think I must have been too little to be able to see over the side of the bins because I have no memory of the toys at all.

These birthday parties must have gone on into elementary school as well because there are some pictures that include not only my cousins and the neighborhood children, but classmates who didn’t live close by. The most “important” guest in retrospect, was Bobby Zimmerman. Why was Bob Dylan at my birthday party when I was about 4 years old? I thought that he might be a relative, but I can’t find any last name from his family that matches any from mine. Most likely his mother or father are related to a relative or friend of my family and perhaps they were in town (we lived in Duluth, the Zimmermans lived about an hour away in Hibbing). Bob would have been 11 or 12 so I’m sure he would not have been interested in 4 year old’s, but cake and ice cream are always welcome treats. This is as close as I come to stardom.

The later school-years meant that I wasn’t one of those lucky kids who got to have a birthday party in class. And after age 12, when my parents bought the cabin, I was alone with one or both of them at the lake. I have no memory of any celebration, but as I am the only child and I was quite loved and my mother loved to make cakes, I’m guessing they must have celebrated it. As far as gifts go, nothing that rises to that level of special has made it into long-term memory.

Through my teens and all the way to my 50’s, I have no idea what I did for my birthdays. I know what I didn’t do. I didn’t ask anyone to do anything special for me. I was often annoyed when my cousin would set up a party for her birthday at a restaurant and those of us who were invited were expected to pay for her meal along with giving her a gift. While I found that rather rude, it’s exactly the same thing my sister-in-law did. Seems I’m the only one who thinks this isn’t the nicest way to treat your friends.

After1995 I’ve spent every summer at the cabin on Cadotte Lake in the Superior National Forest in Northern Minnesota, about two hours south of Canada. It became mine a few years earlier when my parents felt they could no longer spend the summer there. Anyway, starting in 2013, I decided that for my birthday, I’d do something I might have thought of, but never did. I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to drive to Beaver Bay, on the shores of Lake Superior, about 35 miles away, and stop at every creek on the way, take a photo of the identifying sign and check out the creek for future picnic possibilities. I’m wild about picnics. So starting with Apple Creek, there was: Toimi Creek, Petrell Creek, Nelson Creek, Store Creek, Breda Creek, Maki Creek, Murphy Creek, Sullivan Creek, the Cloquet River, W. Branch of the Beaver River, Big Thirty-Nine Creek, Little Thirty-Nine Creek, E. Branch of the Beaver River and finally, Lake Superior.  Minnesota, the Land of 10,000 Lakes has probably four times that many creeks. This trip didn’t have the most auspicious start because shortly after I pulled to the side of the road by Apple Creek, a State Trooper pulled up, got out of his car and asked if I was okay. “Yes, it’s my birthday and I’m stopping at every creek between here and Lake Superior”. The look on his face was, “Okay lady, you’re obviously crazy, but you do you”. When I got to Beaver Bay, I went to the ice cream shop and treated myself to two scoops of black licorice ice cream. Yummy!

Every year since, I’ve done something on this order. I’ve gone to the farmer’s market in Finland, Minnesota, to Palisade Head on the North Shore of Lake Superior, which is 1,1 billion year old and 335 feet above the lake (what a gorgeous view), to a Finnish pioneer homestead quite close by that’s been well preserved from about the 1850’s, to Black Beach, which is really black because the sand is made from the tailings of taconite that are mined pretty close to me. Taconite is a low grade of iron ore and all that remains in those mines now that the rich ore has been removed and turned into steel. Sugar Loaf cove that was used as a holding area for cut trees before they were loaded on boats and taken to saw mills. 

Northern Minnesota has been famous for natural resources since its discovery and even today that’s true. The latest find is helium which has been found about 40 miles north and west of me. Happily for me who doesn’t want to live there full time and isn’t looking for a mining job, the current Federal administration has been able to stop the plans for copper mining. There has never been a copper mine that hasn’t leaked arsenic into the surrounding watershed. The dilemma is that these are very good paying jobs and the area has very little else available. 

This past summer I went to the Sax-Zim Bog, a preserve that is most famous for the owls people frequently photograph in the winter.

And this coming summer – 2024? So far I don’t know. Sometimes I use Google maps to view the area and see if anything interesting pops up. That’s how I found the bog. 

I think there are two important things about this exercise: first I honor myself, which I think is important, and second I learn more about the area, it’s history and it’s beauty.