After the festivities of the holiday weekend it was time to get some things done around the cabin. My husband was clearing some dead trees on our lot while I was to pull weeds from the rock garden. The day before we had a fly hatching. Some of you may be familiar with the black fly of Northern Minnesota; this is no ordinary house fly, they have knife-like mandibles that slash your skin and then suck up the blood. And, of course, its only the females that possess this gift.

To prepare for this delightful chore I put on a pair of worn blue jeans with a long sleeve denim shirt, a cap that my dog had chewed, and two pair of socks; an ensemble sure to repel all living creatures. In the garage I searched through our arsenal of bug repellant and chose OFF, dousing myself thoroughly. Pulling on my gloves I noticed a hole in the middle finger; since I didn’t have another pair I sprayed OFF on my gloves. Armed with knee pads and garden tools I set out for the backyard.

Within minutes of digging up weeds, the flies descended slashing and sucking as if I was hamburger– right through my clothes. Bitches! I went back to the garage foraging for something deadly. On the top shelf, my hand wrapped around a large black can of Raid. With a quick shake of the can I began to spray and was soon in a fog of pesticide; eyes watering, tongue tingling. I turned the can around and through blurry eyes read the precautions: Not intended for personal use. Outdoor use only. Keep away from eyes and mouth. If ingested seek medical attention. I figured I had 24 hours to live.

Back in the garden the flies buzzed around me sizing up the new barricade; antennae twitching, slashers ready. I had a 10 minute reprieve before they were once again, swarming my arms, legs, neck, and ankles. The pesticide might kill me by sunset but these bitches will live on.

I went back to the garage. Now it was war. With my sight compromised, I stumbled over a gas can, whacked my foot on a cooler, and knocked over a row of empty propane containers. I ricocheted sideways, landing face down with my swollen tongue savoring the concrete floor; notes of grease with a hint of gasoline. When I collected myself and my bleary eyes adjusted to the low light, the first thing that I focused on was the blow torch sitting on the shelf. Yes, I thought, I had my weapon.

Outside, marching to the garden with blow torch in hand, I hadn’t noticed my husband walking toward me.

“Hey, what are you doing with the blow torch?”

I meant to say, “Slashers,” but with my swollen tongue it sounded more like, “smashers.”

“You’re smashed?” he said. “I’m out here busting my ass and you’re drinking?”

I shook my head, pointing to the hole in my glove where a fly was preparing to strike my middle finger. I held up my finger so he could see it better and said, “Fuck.” I couldn’t seem to pronounce suck.

“Be that way,” he said, “and fuck you too.”

 

 

Yesterday I drove up north to our cabin on the North Shore. My husband was to meet me there later in the day. I packed my little Prius with all our gear including Ole, our 90 lb. Golden Retriever. My other dog Lucy, is a Yorkie who has free reign of the car while Ole is relegated to the cargo hold. I shoved the cooler in next to Ole which kept him sniffing with interest. The lid of the cooler has a broken latch so I put my laptop on the lid to hold it down. The laptop is an older model and has the weight of an anchor; this was necessary given the slobbery dog.

The day was beautiful (by Minnesota standards) the traffic heavy but manageable. Along the way I stopped at Tobies in Hinckley to buy a dozen caramel rolls; nonfat, of course! The only place to set the box of rolls was my lap since Lucy would otherwise snuff them out. It didn’t take long before the smell of caramel rolls filled the car, I couldn’t resist the sweet, yeasty aroma. I lifted a gooey roll out of the box and began munching. Nothing better than a homemade sticky caramel roll, my fingers were a mess and so was the steering wheel. Caught up in my gluttonous stupor, I failed to notice red flashing lights in my rear view mirror. The wailing siren got my attention and I quickly pulled over to the side of the road, cargo shifting in the car while I chewed, swallowing as fast as I could. Rolling down the window, I met the officer with the roll still guiltily in my mouth. I handed him my license, sticky with caramel. He looked at me shaking his head. I then held up the box on my lap and offered him a roll.

“No thanks, ma’am, I’m on duty.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s not a bribe,” I said through the doughy goo. “But it is why I was speeding. Please help yourself.”

“It’s against the law to eat and drive,’ he said.

“The roll would be delicious with your coffee,” I said, holding the box up to his nose.

He glanced furtively down the highway, and said, “Okay, just one, thanks.” He plucked a roll from the box and took a big bite. He mumbled through a mouthful of dough, “Drive careful,” and returned to his patrol car.

Luck was on my side! But just as I had pulled out onto the highway with the patrol following close behind, I heard Ole in the back munching on what sounded like plastic. In the rear view mirror I noticed my laptop had slid off the lid of the cooler and Ole had his head inside it. He came up with a package of sausages in his mouth gobbling them up as fast as he could. I couldn’t do anything but holler at him with the patrolman following me. The louder I hollered at the dog the faster he ate the package. “Drop it Ole! Now! I said drop it! Damn dog!” The car veered off to the side of the road, I over corrected the steering wheel sending the car dangerously close to the dividing line. “You shit, drop the sausages!” Within minutes, Ole was vomiting. Retching and coughing up great piles of liquid. The stench prompted Lucy to jump in the back with Ole. “No Lucy, get back here.” My rear view mirror was a flash of red lights. As I pulled over to the side of the road, I could hear Lucy and Ole snacking on a vomit pie.

I hope the weekend improves, if not I’m blaming Tobies….

Last weekend I attended my high school reunion. I grew up in a small town in northern Minnesota. The advantage of a small town is that most of the people at the reunion I’ve known my entire life. The evening was filled with nostalgia; reconnecting with old friends while re-hashing the past. Toward the end of the festivities my feet were killing me, (never wear heels to a reunion, I don’t care how how tall and slim they make you feel, you’re still short and fat.) On top of that I was extremely tired. At about this time, a classmate approached me, wrapping his arms around me and remarking he was happy to see me. After freeing myself from his grasp and his over-powering stench of cologne, I realized I had no idea who he was. A quick glance at his name-tag offered no help. But the fatigue of reunion babble was getting to me so I played along.

The conversation went something like this:

“So Nancy, any kids?”

“Six,” I said, then added, “Wait,uh, four.”

“Which is it then, six or four?”

I laughed at my faux pas. “Four, the other two don’t count.”

He flinched, dropping his jaw, not a wink of humor. I’m not sure if it was fatigue or my aching feet, but his reaction was too good to pass up. I felt tiny horns begin to grow from the top of my head.

“So I hear you’re a writer. Where can I find your books?”

“Amazon.” The horns now inching up from my scalp. “I write under a pseudonym, James Joyce.”

“Really? A guy’s name huh? That’s weird.”

Okay now he was asking for it. No recognition of James Joyce was akin to blasphemy. “I felt it was necessary since my novel Ulysses was banned in the U.S.”

“Wow! What’s it about?”

“It’s about a young man’s walk-about in his hometown, sort of a parody of Homer’s Odyssey.”

“Yeah, I get it. Like walking around Brainerd. That’s cool. What else have you written?”

The horns were now visible and beginning to curl. “Finnegan’s Wake. It’s written in a style I perfected, stream of consciousness. That bitch, Virginia Woolf gets all the credit for it, but I took it to a whole new level.”

“Virginia Woolf? Did she graduate with us?”

Who says reunions aren’t any fun?

 

The focus of my writing has always been; what’s under the rock. I have uncovered treasure under the rock, sometimes it is ugly, obscene, and shameful. Sometimes it has beauty and humor.  I am drawn to the dark and creepy places, maybe its the humor I find there. To bring these things to the light requires a little magic. Magic in the form of touching the unknown and the unknowable. But it is accessible to us all for that magic resides in our collective human experience. For instance, in writing about a character who is suffering from psychosis, she might touch her unknowable through hallucinations. Some of you have met her, Karin Olina in Magel’s Daughter, my first book.

Her mother Magel, is the matriarch of psychosis, thus giving rise to her daughter’s lunacy. Story telling in magical realism has its challenges and rewards. I recently saw the film August in Osage County. That story is realism–raw and dark. My story is all of that yet brings in a touch of magic; these women come from a long line of witches–Norwegian witches. Yes, they exist. Magel differs from the Meryl Streep character in that her dysfunction is hilarious–if not a bit crazy. Haunted by her mother and her dead grandmothers, the preceding matriarchs, Karin walks down a dark path, gathering tools for survival. Her specialty tool being the spell of sex.

Aren’t we all haunted by the comments and actions launched by family members alive or dead? And along the way of life, haven’t we gathered our own special tools to survive? I think so, and wouldn’t it feel good to dig it out from under the rock and have a good laugh?

Welcome to my blog–LOL