Crappy weather and a lot of crap...

Another April snowstorm has buried us in our homes, so this Minnesotan is getting some things done.

It must be the thoughts that spring is supposed to be here, but I think it's in Midwesterners blood. At this point we want to get outside and feel the warmth of sunshine, hears the birdies tweeting and see green anything. But it also is the inevitable spring cleaning bug that hit me a couple of weeks ago - interrupted by a short wedding ceremony by my baby girl, 28 year-old Laura.

When a person decides to dig into the collections of the winter, they know it goes deeper than that. Way deeper. Like China-deep. The real cleansing, the mother of all dusting, delving into things lost to time. Once you do it, there is no way back.

Well, there is, but people have died before they have gone back. And no kid wants that stuff, much less a spouse. But that's some valuable stuff, why else would anyone keep that stuff for 50 years if it wasn't collectible?

I think when I hit 60 last summer, a new gear kicked in. Time to soul searching: go through that stuff and give it direction or it will end up at the landfill. Garbage men may not even want it...

So I have going through the magazines, newspapers, pictures, books, junior high girlfriend notes, that left arm cast from college basketball, secrets and value only for me. Looking through the hundreds and hundreds of things. What do you do to it? I kept it for memories mostly but now some of those Sports Illustrated, Sport, Sporting News, Playygirl, Newsweek, Time magazines might be worth something. Yes, there are a few Playgirls. 

Yes, I looked. Again. And don't tell my mom for goodness sakes!

Who wants those baseball cards? What would possess someone to add my George Brett and Reggie Jackson memorabilia to their "Garbaaj" (sounds like French). Maybe they could use a few Minnesota Twins yearbooks, World Series books/newspapers, scorecards? You can fit several O.J. Simpson, Tony Dorsett, Jim McMahon mags, can't you? Maybe an assortment of baseball, basketball, hockey year roundups?

My brothers don't want the sh--, er stuff. So the next route is - I have three son-in-laws. Surely a millenial will want to store some of the MOL's prized possessions for eternity? Maybe I can get away with giving early birthday, anniversary and Christmas gifts???

So there you have it. I have to find a place that will buy them, start my own antique store or have a great bonfire. I will keep you informed.

+++

On April 1, yes April Fool’s Day, Laura and her fiance, Nathan to married. It was the 10th anniversary of them meeting at Bemidji State University. It was a beautiful, delightful, simple wedding: with the family birch arbor highlighting the ceremony, made by my husband, Ron, for the first daughter’s wedding (Betty) and second daughter’s (Mary). I am told by the baby the arbor is staying in her backyard, right where it stands after the ceremony. The other two daughters and mom put their order in for similar arbors.

No, that is not open to orders or ideas...

A small, immediate family wedding in 43 degree weather (hey, there was no snow so we all were happy), with a fabulous dinner afterwards. We all were home by 9 p.m. after the 5 p.m. start.

After doing this three times, I think my favorite part of weddings has been the before part. Where everyone informally gathers to prep, dress, drink, primp, laugh, cry, hug. Now that we have it down to a science, we are all done!

There were Slinger/Ohm family firsts: Best Dog, Dog of Honor, photo bomb, a beer blessing between mom and bride, but in the end it was so much fun!

There are so many more beautiful times to be had. More pirate moments, more family trip moments, more cabin moments, more memories to have.

I definitely have been blessed!

So what, it's Minnesota

Gazing out many of my house's 228 windows today (OK I tend to exaggerate at times, but I do have a lot of windows), the winter wonderland we call Minnesota cannot be more beautiful but deadly as well. As the inches pile up, the winds increase to threatening windchill levels, our governor, a former teacher, has asked our legislature to allow schools not to have to make these snow days up in the summer - a state first. Personally, I am a believer in year-round school: work around the weather, you know, it's been pretty consistent we freeze our ass off December through February and fry our butts in July, so can't schedules be so aligned with that pattern? And why can't teachers and kids make those days up, isn't it 'school'?

A hundred years ago when I was a kid, WE LOVED the snow! Thank God we didn't have the inside entertainment of today and I wouldn't trade my childhood for the world. Snow fights, building snow forts, digging snow tunnels, sliding, skating... oh what fun! We went out bundled up and back in sweating, laughing, wet - and tired. Mom didn't have to tell us to go out, we wanted to brave the weather. Icy roads were new death-defying stunts to be performed; drifts and mile-high snow piles became mountains to trudge up and push people down for "King of the Hill", throwing snow balls meant nailing a brother or friend for free - or at least until an ice ball knocked you aside the head.

Funny, we lived through all that.

Then came the snowmobiles my dad got, most likely for my five brothers than me. Undaunted, learning by watching the siblings shatter speed, launch and crash records, I figured out how to survive that yellow Ski-Doo. There was a couple on the farm, one so wore out the only way it would run was with the hood off. Many times we attempted death, including friends in on the ordeal of surviving a metal saucer pulled by a 25-foot rope. We didn't worry about dying, but looking back and remembering some of those treacherous quick spins and seemingly endless throws off that saucer, it is shocking no one ever got hurt. One time I challenged the width of two giant hay piles in a field a mile from home only to get stuck due to that brazen dare. Digging out of that took about an hour and went into the journals of 'stuff mom/dad don't need to know about.

Funny, we lived through all that.

Going to country school the first five years of my academic life was all I knew. Trudge a half mile to get there, race home the same length. Then as we were forced to go the 'city schools' it was racing to the bus, riding for 45 minutes before joining the throngs of kids in the classrooms. Having only five kids in my class and 24 in the school was a far way from 30 in each of my six classes and different teachers for each subject. Ahhh, being a 1960s kid was the best.

We had three 'recesses' at Fitch (country school): one in the morning before, lunch time and in the afternoon. Our imaginations run wild no matter the season, finding ways to play, argue, fight with each other. Mrs. Reiter took care of all us kids, teaching lessons, shushing us, reading to us, bringing us in with that school bell (ours was a new fangle alarm because some creep stole our actual bell from the tower). The winter brought all sorts of crack-the-whip - man we could really send that last kid flying! Duck, Duck, Grey Duck games had no equals as the anointed leader circled the playground readying us for the chase. And when we seemed to slow down with ideas, it probably was an appropriate time to nail a kid with a snowball to the forehead. We knew how to play! We knew out to get along! We respected our elders! We loved our school and most of the kids that went there.

Again, we lived through all that.

But the best part of winter in the big time for us farm kids was when school was called off for those whose roads weren't plowed by bus time. On our gravel road the side snow piles could get 12 feet high and drift in for a couple days. Yah, no school for us! We had to wait until the township plow dug us out, but never fear! My younger brother and I would taunt the bussed kids as they came home, by waving to them from our snowmobile as they passed in the afternoon going home. But because we didn't get any favor missing school as the teachers plugged away at lessons with no remorse in waiting for the farm kids to catch up. I swear it was June before some of those roadside mountains melted.

We were never bored at home and most of us loved school, that was escape from five brothers and getting to play with some girls for me. Everyone knew what kind of bread the other ate at their house by the plastic bags used to keep our feet drive in snow boots. There was no time to avoid a deep plunge into the white abyss or change socks when a boot got stuck. Your mittens got stolen lots of times and the chase was on as it was tossed around to the enemy or buried somewhere until spring. Then rush in as the bell beckoned us back to our desks, warmth and safety. Noses were blown incessantly as we quieted down to listen to today's reading.

No time to think or realize we had it all.

The Case of the Broken Teapot

Over the years it was easily established who the rule maker and enforcer is in our household. It's pretty clear that if a tough decision or punishment has to be dished out, it's 'mom the oppressor" or some clown walking down the street. That's because my husband, Ron, or Mr. Hee-Haw as I call him, would rather put off any decision until the children grew up and moved 1,500 miles away before he could announce sentencing.

In my life, my stature and a bluff nature has served me well. That and the fact I grew up with the notion children are not my friends, but tiny people who need rules and guidance. So, if I don't want chaos or a zoo within the constraints of my home, putting my foot down over the years would not have been misconstrued as a dance step.

You know. The bad guy. That's the person who has "that look" or reputation that proceeds them. Personally, my image has gotten a bad rap, but once a brute, always a brute...

It has come into play many times over the years, but none so obvious than when some item gets broken. It doesn't matter if one of the four other humans in our house (and now complicit son-in-laws and grandchildren can be included) might have pulverized an object, it now becomes a "Match Game" in figuring out such a whodunit. It could be a single person, but most likely it was a team effort, which in my daughters' defense, they did learn one thing in all the years of me coaching them.

This week the secret society (one of which definitely fits the description: exclusiveness and hosts special secrets amongst members) has again struck. I have yet to break this impenetrable pact in my family and obviously will never become a component. The rules of this special group are there are none: but certain traits are required, such as lying, dishonestly and downright covertness. FBI tactics, torture and bribes could break the wall, but go against my morals. OK, not the bribes, you caught me.

Things over the years have permanently disappeared; pieces of a ceramic favorite have gone missing but reappearing in the bottom of a garbage bag; flown down garden hills; and probably been buried somewhere on the six acres, but it is necessary to the culprit so enough time can pass until mom finds out, or dies - whatever comes first. My background as a journalist only makes the task even more exasperating. There must be a 'king of the year' award awaiting the person in the secret society. Their bond is stronger than Superglue.

Once a year, or whenever I have nothing better to do, it's time to dust, clean and redecorate the coffee cups, cookie jars, kitchen ware, vases, and whatever else fits in the excess shelf space in our family room and kitchen. Some of the things I decided to keep so someday when death becomes me, I can sit up in heaven and laugh at my daughters going through that 'junk'. It's a certain fact in my mind that family heirlooms will become new lawn game fodder with large trash receptacles for those left behind. Their fate has been accepted by the owner.

This past week was that once a year. The dishwasher and sink go overtime and the area water levels plummet as the pieces are washed according to their labels. As the stickers wear off, so does the manual hand washing. In all the years during this ritual none have been broke.

Until now - but not by me.

Now the whodunit begins. It does no good because the suspects have their doctorates in going underground, and unless two or more share the dastardly secret, it could be months before the crime is solved.  Pretty good chance the three cats and dog didn't do it, because the shelf is 7 feet above the floor. But they probably got a treat for their silence. The tornadic activity last September in our area did not affect anything inside the house and my 60th birthday Pirate Party was elsewhere, so it has to be the Thanksgiving or Christmas get together. And whoever did it was a sneaky customer, getting lucky that three large pieces broke off and Mr. Gorilla glue was easily noticeable in one of the junk drawers. The dry glue also is glaring as the perpetrator sloshed on too much. No, it isn't worth a whole lot of money, but that's the query. Admit it was an accident!

The suspect also did a sloppy job,returning it to mint condition was not the goal. Just gather the broken pieces, glue it together and replace it without any witness - that was the utmost priorities. Even the height of shelf played into their dastardly deed. It could be that Perry Mason couldn't solve this one.


My husband was questioned later that day and claimed no knowledge, which is what was expected. He likely is head practitioner for the secret society, the grand poobah of the Slingerilluminati. Guilty consciences in this group appear as honorary badges somewhere in their closets in their homes. Who knows how many each has?

Fancy this, though. It never has mattered if you broke something, admit it and we move on. The secrecy about the salacious event must be the revenge they get to inflict on their only mother (or wife) until all time - unless I solve it and give up. It has to be in society chapter rules: "Never admit failure, timidity or weakness, especially to bad guys."


It's a waiting game now. Until then, the teapot goes behind a closed door for protection. The open kitchen shelf now displays shatterproof pieces while other breakable memorabilia have been placed among protected quarters.

This badge remains hidden. For now.

The rustling of the low lying prairie grasses (and weeds), the climbing of the rolling pastured hills (scattered with cowpies) and soft, farm breezes (with unfiltered aromas of cattle) still resonate in my mind, back when a young farm girl wrestled with five her brothers either in sporting attempts, skirmishes or snarky arguments. The wanderings of a young teenager searching for answers in the family 80-acre pasture, may seem kooky, or downright weird, but served a purpose. Still today, those things I hold dear and try to experience whenever the landscape beckons, maybe passing a long-ago working barn or a pulling in a refreshing breeze passes by. The answers are out there, find a way to capture them - whatever it takes.

For over 47 years writing has allowed me to savor, keep secret and work out whatever wonders, problems or questions that arose. Kept secret, it allowed me fantasize on how life would be if I ran the world. Back in reality, my ideals and perceptions took shape, decisions had to be made, life that needed direction. Philosophical? Maybe, but definitely not boring, nor typical. Even today, I search for stories/lives to find the answers, taking roads people don't often know about (or care about).

But this life has been one with no regrets. Sticking my nose where it didn't belong, lending a hand to an unappreciative source and forcing hands of impossible people, wondering why more women aren't this way.

This blog is WAY overdue. My life is no less exciting or painful thank yours. Mine just has included writing as a way to express and find me.

From today on, to those who read what I write: it promises to be honest, funny, sad, irritating, full of emotion. Why would anyone not be that way? It takes less effort to be truthful, loving and kind. By the way, those attributes have and still come with many sized chisels, to chip off the undercurrents of pain, sadness and negativity life constantly tosses our way. Keeps us busy, keeps us shaping a life that should be well lived.

After today, these entries hope to tickle a funny bone, cause you to think about your own life and enjoy what God has given you.

Thanks for reading!