Making Love with Mama Bear

Have you ever met a couple who just shouldn’t have married but did anyway? And the girl wasn’t even pregnant? If so, you’d understand that trying to grow up with parents like mine was a bigger challenge than convincing the pope that “be fruitful and multiply” does not apply anymore: nor do a lot of things in the Old Testament (which I’ve read at least four times, the New Testament, probably 50).

After my dad did the dirty deed and said, “I do,” and my mom did the dirtier deed and said, “I do,” they headed up to the cabin for their cheaper-than-going-out-to-a-nice-dinner honeymoon. Dad’s always been “poor,” and getting married provided no exception to prove his point.

I will admit, we had a really cool cabin in northern Wisconsin near Lone Stone Lake. Grandpa and Dad, both carpenters, built it of beautiful logs cut down from the land and treated to endure the weather—inside and out. They constructed built-in double bunk beds on either side of the large main room, so Mom could sleep on one side, Dad the other. Our cabin also had a wood-burning pot-belly stove, a large wood table in the room’s center under a light, and a pump to draw water into the sink. They later added an additional bedroom on the entrance side, close to the rarely traveled gravel road.

I loved the way our cabin smelled—like cedar. All of our bedding—flannel sheets, pillows, and wonderfully warm quilts—had the same smell that made me want to stay in bed all day. [You know? If I were married and had a cute guy… oh, that’s a different story.]

Did you notice I didn’t mention anything about indoor plumbing?

After we moved to Minnesota in ’65 when I was five, my parents assessed the pros and cons of keeping the cabin, now a seven-hour drive away. They did end up selling it about a year later, but not before we shared a near-death experience.

We invited our new next-door neighbors, Rudy, Alice, Mark, and Mary, to accompany us to northern Wisconsin. After the pain-in-the-prat drive, we unloaded the maroon Buick station wagon and began preparing for the following day’s fishing excursion.

The next morning, Dad, Mark, and I were in our rowboat casting lines, whooping and hollering when we’d land bite-size crappies, sunfish, and bluegills. Yep! We caught quite a string. Too small to eat, Dad decided to put them in back of the cabin next to the biffy (that’s Norwegian for Scheißenhaus) to bait raccoons for dinner.

Teasing.

During the day, Rudy kept busy being nervous: Alice made him that way. Mom and Alice fixed dinner, Mom putting just the right amount of arsenic in Dad’s portion, then setting it aside.

Nighttime finally fell. The parents played poker and talked strangely like Minnesotans do, while we kids did what kids without TV do: We used our brains. That made us tired, so we went to bed.

Occasionally, Dad would get up, dim the interior lights, and turn on the back spotlight to see if a coon had discovered our fish offering. At 10:30 Dad let out a yelp! We didn’t have a coon eating our bluegills, we had a big, mama bear, whose rear end faced us as she dined. “Quick, wake the kids!” he ordered, feeling steely from the arsenic.

Mary and I awakened fairly quickly and were peering excitedly out the back window, while Rudy, Alice, Mom, and Dad stirred, rattled, then jumped on Mark. You see, Mark was a teenager who could sleep through anything. F-i-n-a-l-l-y, Mark rose and joined us in the grand sighting.

But it wasn’t grand enough. Dad insisted that we bang on the window to try to get Mama Bear to face us. She waved her paw at him and told him to forget it. So he decided to go outside and convince her.

Wearing his thongs (they call them “flip-flops” now; thongs are worn elsewhere), he walked the length of our cabin to the only door and stepped into the black outside. Then he walked the entire length of our cabin toward the outhouse and the bear, apparently unfazed by my dad’s presence.

“Raar,” Dad exclaimed, trying to get the big fur ball’s attention. Nothing. “RAAR!” he said again with more passion. That one garnered a turn of the head. “RAAR-ER-RAAR-ER-RAAAR!” Dad growled.

That must have been a mating call or a declaration of war, because that big mama bear turned quickly, bared her teeth, and started loping toward Dad. Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop went his feet as he yelled, “Joooooooanie, open the door!”

I screamed and started bawling, because I just knew Mom would lock the door and say, “Fend for yourself, sucker!” To my utmost surprise and relief, she actually opened the door for him. He breathlessly fell into the safety of our cabin, wiped the sweat from his brow, and said, “Thanks for not locking the door.”

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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A Truck by Any Other Name

During the summers when I was 12 through 16 years old, I’d live with my aunt and her family “on the lake,” as they say in northern Wisconsin. It doesn’t mean you lived in a floating vessel atop Adam’s ale (water); it means “a lake lies beyond your front, or back, yard,” depending on where you situate your front door, which can be really confusing if you only use the side door as we did.

We’d ski almost every day, pulling the boat in to refuel occasionally and dashing in for peanut butter sandwiches when we got hungry. It was “fend for yourself” there. I was always hungry—and extremely thin.

Because I was the oldest kid—my four cousins were younger than I by two years (Scott), three (Hope), 10 (Kent), and 13 (Alison)—I sometimes had to care for the youngest. An adorable child with black hair due to Native American heritage, a cute little nose, and a sweet, angelic voice, Alison could also be a pain. I have four memorable experiences with that girl, two of which I’ll share.

When I was 15, Hope and I decided to take a walk on the lake road (we actually walk on the road). Out of obligation, we had to take Alison too—just what teenagers want to do. Ali wore only a top and a diaper. After all, she was 18 months old and it was warm, humid summertime. I carried Alison on my shoulders, so Hope and I could walk faster.

About five minutes into our trek, I smelled something putrid very close to my nose and immediately felt that I would vomit. I carefully lifted my cute, little cousin from my shoulders and found that she had filled her diaper. My neck was brown and lumpy.

Another story was Alison’s Lessons in Learning to Talk. My aunt was driving with some of us kids into town one day. Wabeno, Wisconsin: one grocery store, one post office, two gas stations, five saloons. Heading toward us was a big semi rolling through this itty-bitty burg.

In her sweet, angelic voice, empty-boweled Alison squealed, “Look, Mommy, a fruck!”

(Puzzle piece number 31 of 38.)

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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I’m Not Moving

Sitting with a friend in my living room one day, I said, “When my daughter graduates and goes to college, I’m going to sell this place, buy a boat, and sail away.”

“I’m not moving out till I’m 40,” came a quick reply from the otherwise-occupied young lady across the room. “They’re all out to get me out there,” she went on. “Plus I’ve got it pretty good here.”

Stunned, I said to my friend, “When my daughter graduates, I’ll be moving out and going back to college.”

(Puzzle piece number 30 of 38.)

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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To Larisa

Is it fair that a victim is the one who pays the most and loses the greatest in the court system?
Is it fair, when you choose not to lie with the “boss,” he decides to terminate you?
Is it fair, when you’re courageous enough to stand up for what is morally wrong, you are the one who is punished?
Is it fair, when you’ve been accused of the very thing someone else is guilty of, you lose your license, your good name, your confidence?

I’ve learned that others can be greedy, to the extent that they want your peace, your brightness, your lifeblood. They will make up any story to gain that which does not come from the spirit within, and then try to win with your cards. But someone will see through this person, and that someone will know you too, and that someone will reveal the truth. And soon, the malicious, greedy person will shrivel up into dust and blow away.
And when the dust is blowing in the wind toward you, it will fear you and veer toward the water, and become mud.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Feeding Frenzy

Weekday mornings there’s a feeding frenzy in our kitchen accompanied by all the masticating sounds.

At 6:00 a.m. I grudgingly peel myself away from my bed, pull on whatever clothes are by my bedside, then go and rattle my teenager with a faux-cheerful “rise ’n’ shine.” After my happy, little tune, I stumble to the bathroom and rinse my mush, still at half snore, hoping I don’t drown in the sink.

As I try to remember what she said she wanted for breakfast, I ask my daughter a couple more times if she’s up, to which she always answers yes, even though she’s still dreaming. I flip on KRCC to listen to NPR’s Morning Edition, knowing this will draw her tired little demeanor out of bed.

In the kitchen, there is no routine, which makes morning more confusing. I generally start at night, putting a placemat and napkin (only cloth; I haven’t purchased paper napkins since who knows when) on our floating island. Sometimes I even set out the toaster, silverware, pan, and cover on the way to my nightly read.

Shiloh goes outside and does what dogs do, while Eli the Maine coon and Dusty the gray short-hair circle me like sharks, tails flicking in the air. [Kittens initially were called Piercing and Tattoo: see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/12/tattoo-and-piercing.html.]

Within seconds, momentum sets in.

I open the refrigerator door and remove half its contents. Bread slides into the toaster for my daughter’s PBJ-sandwich lunch, latte heats in the microwave, butter melts in the pan, and water runs through the coffeemaker to heat the animals’ food.

Shiloh comes back in with a man’s hunger and twice as many feet, the two cats I don’t need start sounding like a creaking door and a questioning baby, and the microwave’s high-pitched squeal alerts me to my awaiting warm latte (yippee).

Eggs, milk, and cheeses in the pan, peanut butter and jelly spread, and English muffins now in the toaster, I put vitamins C and E, fish oil, raw meat or chicken soup with some crunchy dry food in Shiloh’s dish. I scoop something dead onto the kitties’ plate and pour hot water from the coffeemaker onto their food, stirring Shiloh’s to distribute the heat, adding cool water if it’s too hot.

Hands washed for the fifth time, muffins buttered, omelette cooked, my daughter saunters into the kitchen with her empty mug longing for hot cocoa.

Soon she’s sitting, mmm’ing, pleased with the flavor (thank goodness). I open the dishwasher, place Shiloh’s warm meal on the lowered door and the cats’ plate below, enabling them safety from a wandering canine tongue. Aside from Morning Edition, all I can hear are mmm’s, lapping, slurps, and crunching.
At last, I reach for my long-awaited mug of—groan—cold latte.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Road Kill

A group meets in our home sporadically to discuss life’s issues. After centering, we go around the circle and take turns sharing one current thought or situation each. When everyone has had the opportunity to contribute, our leader guides us into what she believes would be a good starting topic and we open the floor to discussion. I suspect it’s like AA without coffee and cigarettes.

I love it. So many perspectives, each allowed to openly state their ideas while others listen. No interruptions jar the spirit, and all is received with complete objectivity and possibility, which isn’t to say we completely agree. We come from different walks of life, religions, states, and party affiliations, yet we receive others’ input respectfully.

Our group is an offshoot of the Institute of Noetic Sciences [noetic.org], whose mission is “advancing the science of consciousness and human experience to serve individual and collective transformation.” Or as I put it, “We work to positively change things from a globally conscious perspective.”

We don’t always talk about deep, growth-oriented issues, though. Our fearless leader, as I call her, had just returned from a jaunt to Mississippi to meet her soon-to-be husband’s family. He was also at the meeting on this particular eve, so when his betrothed started telling a story about one of their experiences with his redneck, hillbilly family, he was right there to pile more details onto a crazy heap of a tale.

He added to her beginning, “Well, my brother and my cousin [which I presume was the same person] were driving back from town with some odds and ends my mom needed for supper [they don’t say dinner in the South]. As they rounded a curve, they hit a deer.

“Well, the deer was killed right away, so they sped back to the farm and got one of the trucks. Then we went back and loaded the deer into the truck. And that’s what we had for supper,” he concluded.

“You ate road kill?” I blurted.

Laughing right along with the rest of the group, our fearless leader nodded her head and said, “I’m not sure I’d had venison before, but it was pretty good.”

I suppose…if it’s fresh.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Inauguration Day

What a glorious day for the United States of America!

We the people in our republic, democratically elected a gentleman of African American, English, and Irish descent. Many of my friends must feel profound joy in helping bring Barack Obama to his position of Commander in Chief, particularly my black friends, who may not have imagined this success possible.

My sister, whom I met October 6, 1986, isn’t much older than I. She remembers having to nurture her thirst from a drinking fountain for blacks only. It’s hard to imagine a world like that, yet prejudice exists. I know.

And though the reflections in Ecclesiastes 3 say…

“There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.” [NIV]

…my prayer is that the world will see America’s vision to work hard and in peace toward a loving, sustainable home planet, and we will all work together to plant, to build, to dance, to embrace, to be silent, to love in peace [using more contraception], and in a sense, to be born again.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Conservation

I am extremely tight…
and very selective about what enters my personal space.

I like warmth with a soft breeze, simplicity and a life of ease. I prefer quietude with splashes of exuberance, a neutral tone accented by color and plant life.
Predictability helps to structure my life. Friends call at special times each year, or on a particular day and time, and some come over on a certain day of the week. My daughter usually begins and ends school at the same time, and she stays at her father’s two days a week, though she vacillates on which days.

Like a menstrual cycle, lovely bills come due on their reliable, selfish, monthly schedules, and every week my generous friend shares her garbage service with me. (Together, four of us fill one small can weekly. We are avid recyclers from the Midwest. I was conserving things in Minnesota at age seven, which my parents couldn’t comprehend. My environmental efforts irritated them. Dad was poor, but not that poor, he probably thought. Mom, on the other hand, was raised with money and permitted pieces of my precocity.)

When winter comes in Colorado, which doesn’t match the snow levels nor frequent blizzards of Minnesota or Wisconsin in July, I survey my home prior to cold’s unwelcome and much-too-long visit looking for ways to keep the warmth in, the chill out.

First I assess my home’s primary occupant. I wear more clothes, layering them, so I can peel as I thaw. Being a household naturist, wearing clothing is against my religion, but I refuse to turn the heat up past 66 during the day, except Fridays when I punch it up to 72 and chip the ice clinging to my windows with a corkscrew.

Some of my ideas may seem crazy, but I’m eccentric and the characteristic will not, by choice, change. Here are three thoughts.

I slide the range hood fan screen out, toss it in the dishwasher, and cover the fan hole with cardboard, which I secure with masking tape. Only once each year do I forget and turn on the fan for a sec, gasping. For freshening, circulating, and removing particulates from the air, I use Clarity, my Honeywell Enviracaire air purifier, and mist with peppermint water (see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/11/sniff-sniff.html).

Cracks and holes are discreetly plugged with old clothes or remnants if caulking doesn’t apply, so the ol’ ranch wears a tighter sweater. Guys like that. And though I’m a friendly person who welcomes a smiling face and lots of light, I keep my drapes drawn and blinds blocking the drafts drifting through my windy windows.

There may not be any more ways I can reduce expenses, as I did when I decided to work part time and be a full-time den mother in 1996, but I can be tight by conserving.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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