Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Hey look!

21 moonflowers tonight.

Calling Georgia O'Keefe.

Another big batch tomorrow.

Come by for a little magic.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Page 13 from my Mom's address book (1966)


So much history on this one little page.

C. Edlund. Our neighbor, Chester Edlund. He was married to Esther Edlund, no kidding. Chester would go out drinking on Friday nights at the municipal bar (The Munie). When he came home, he'd sit in the car in the driveway and honk the horn until Esther opened the garage door.

Fantasia. The beauty shop where my mom got her hair (and her large wig) fixed by Betty Kelsey. My sister Lisa and I would go along with Mom (why??) and hang out at the salon while she got her shampoo/set. Fantasia eventually changed owners and became Abroe's House of Beauty, the site of several bad perms for me. Abroe's is also where my mom first got her hair frosted and began using a toning rinse called "White Minx," to get rid of the brassy color.

Fin Fare. Fast food, Minnesota style. They sold deep fried walleye fillets and the only cole slaw I've ever been able to eat. This was one busy place on Friday nights, conveniently located in the shadow of Sacred Heart Catholic Church.

The thing that really gets me about the address book is my mom's handwriting. It reminds me of all the notes to teachers: "Please excuse Molly's absence. She had a sore throat." And also the notes we'd take when we underage girls went on Mom''s errands to Quik 'n EZ Superette: "Two packs of Marlboros, please." My favorite Mom letters are those she wrote me in college, when her concern about my high-strung nature and my affinity for liberal arts came through loud and clear between the lines.

It's like time traveling reading the other phone numbers in the book: Chas. W. Sexton Company, where my Dad worked for 35 years. Both of my grandmas. Ruby Carlson, my strange piano teacher. Everyone in mom's bridge club. All the neighbors. Ann Springer, my bossy best friend from 1st grade. Dr, Johnson, our lousy dentist (hey, thanks for nothing).

Funny, I've never been much of a "numbers" person. But I still know so many of these by heart. 529-6664, 332-3501, 529-3006, 588-7415, 588-8990, 537-3631.

Hello? Everybody? I miss you like crazy.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

So I think I can dance.

Our friends Jeannie and Roy got married last night.

The two of them met when they were out dancing at Dick Clark's American Bandstand grill about 18 months ago. And they haven't stopped dancing since.

How Jeannie dances in dangerous heels at her age (which is also roughly my age) is beyond me. But there was something so contagious about the happy couple's dance floor moves... before we knew it, the rest of us at the reception were dancing dervishes. And may I add, "Thank God for ballet flats."

When my kids were little, at our PTA-sponsored roller skating parties, the last fifteen minutes were reserved for a mom-and-kids "sock hop." Actually it was a transparent ruse by the skating rink forcing the kids to turn in their skates before the place closed for the night, but we moms really loved it.

I've since read that women have a collective memory of celebratory, joyful, daily dancing, and that we modern party girls have a psychic longing for the release and community dancing provides. That explains why normally sedate co-workers were crowding the dance floor last night, not giving a damn about appearances or professional protocol.

Contrary to this post's headline, I am aware that I stink as a dancer, not quite as bad as Elaine Benes, but I have made my kids wince. And how many times can people try to teach me the Electric Slide??

The point is, we all need to let our hair down and dance more, to find the joy and let it out no matter how spazzy we think we look or how much Aleve we'll need in the aftermath.

Happy Life Together, Roy and Jeannie! Thanks for the dance lesson!