Ma and Pa Meet (Twice)

A little known fact about Carl Jung is that he collected coincidences. He was working on an equation for the theory of relativity, so to speak--synchronicity. Well, I wonder what he'd have to say about my parents?

This is a photograph from the 75th anniversary parade of the town of Antigo, Wisconsin. This is my mom at about 4 years old, sitting in the buggy with her parents pushing her. They were sponsored by the Uptown Cafe, which was owned by Grappa’s sister, Vlasta.

I was 8 years old when Gramma Pickles pulled this photo out. When they showed it to me, I asked, “Where’s Dad?”--not being able to conceive of a time when my parents were not together. The maternal side of my family laughed at this question and replied, “They didn’t know each other then. Oh, how cute!” Then they told Dad that I wanted to know where he was in the picture. He smiled and started looking at the crowd at the top of the photo. And darn it all if he didn’t find himself there standing at the sidelines staring at his future bride. There he was just about in line with the photographer and my mom in the buggy. Dad and his brother Tom were there, along with a headless sister. They were tow-head blonds with crew cuts in those days. On the original photograph, they’re both wearing Indian Head nickel t-shirts, which he remembers quite clearly. [Click on the picture to see a larger version with Frank and Tom circled in the crowd of bystanders.]

Maybe that explains why my parents met and married after knowing each other only 2 months--and No, Ma was NOT pregnant.

Anyway, the next time they met was at the Dixie Diner (used to be the Uptown Cafe) about 14 years later. The same restaurant had changed hands. Ma was a waitress there and Dad came in often for coffee. The electrician Dad was working with at the time knew that Dad was thinking about moving to California, and he wanted to keep Dad around because he was a good little apprentice. So Tony Michelson pointed at Ma and said, “Hey Frank. Ya see that girl over there? She likes you.” That was in November. Ma was supposed to go to the Harvest Ball with a guy who later became a successful optometrist. At the time though, he was going to school in Eau Claire, about 3 hours away. So Dad and this guy sat in a booth at the Dixie during one of Ma’s shifts and discussed who should take her to the dance. Well, they decided Dad would be better because he lived there in town and we all know how hard long-distance relationships are to maintain ... Two months later they got married.

Another example of the strange connection my parents have was when we took a family trip to Norfolk, Virginia, to pick up my brother’s car. He didn’t want it anymore. On the way back, I was riding with Dad, and my sister was in the other car with Ma. We were going to meet at the hotel in Columbus, Ohio, that evening. Ma tends to drive with a lead foot, and Dad tends to go the speed limit. Needless to say, we lost ‘em.

When we got to Columbus, we couldn’t find the hotel, or Ma. Dad had drunk almost a case of Mountain Dew that day. He said it kept him “regular” on long trips. As far as I could tell, the caffeine only added to his agitation. A thunderstorm was coming; It was getting dark; We were low on gas; Ma had the money and credit cards; We were stressed out by the traffic on the Doughnut encircling the city. The atmosphere was anxious in that car.

Finally, we got off on a little country road through some farm fields and found a gas station and used up my $8 contribution on gas. Here we were feeling like we wouldn’t see Ma again until Milwaukee at Aunt Marge’s house.

By now, though the rain had stopped, and the sun was coming out again. So we headed back for Columbus determined to find our Comfort Inn. Well, an hour later, we stopped to see if we could call the hotel and get directions, or if Ma had found the place. Dad asked the counter clerk if his wife had checked in yet. The clerk of course asked him to spell it and as Dad did, the clerk said, ”Matucheski? One moment please.” And a second later, Ma got on the phone. She was at the check-in counter at the precise moment Dad had decided to call! Dad was mad and crabby, but still greatly relieved to hear Ma’s voice.

Coincidence? I think not! I think these two have some kind of psychic connection, or knew each other in lives past.

Nearly 39 years later, they’re still each other’s best friend and contentedly married. It’s a tough act to follow in this day and age. For a long time I didn’t know how I’d manage to meet anyone and know that they were the ONE I’d be with the rest of my life--and after only 2 months!

[This story was originally written for a Storytelling Class in 1997. It still holds up pretty well!]

A Good Cup of Tea at The Lemon Tree

I really started to enjoy tea on a trip to Scotland a few years ago. My friend Janna and I discovered a wonderful shop in Inverness called The Lemon Tree. It was run by a friendly and funny man named Duncan. I hope it's still there, because we want to make a return trip this fall.

One afternoon there, I had a wonderful gingerbread pudding with custard, fresh from the oven. It was still piping hot! I'm sorry I don't have a picture of it. You'll just have to use your imagination ... It was so good, I'm writing about it 4 years later!

So many people in Scotland were friendly and welcoming. It felt like "going home." And the landscape of the Highlands--It's one of my favorite places on this Earth!

If you are ever in Inverness, stop by the Lemon Tree for a Cuppa Tea. You won't regret it!

The Lemon Tree Coffee Shop
18 Inglis St.
Inverness-Shire IV1 1HN
Scotland

Life at Summit Ave. Co-op

People are always intrigued when I tell them I lived in a co-op for 8 years in Madison, WI.

"Is that like a kibbutz?" they ask.

I don't know enough about kibbutz life to answer that. But I can write about life at Summit. I know it sounds like a commune, but it wasn't all that flaky. We shared a living space, not wispy ideologies. We weren't even hippies ...

Summit Ave. Coop is an independent housing cooperative in Madison, WI. In the 1990s, we had room for 18 people : 3 double rooms and the rest were singles. Lots of common areas (sun room, tv room, living room, kitchen, dining rooms, bathrooms, yard).

To become a member, I had to go through the "member-shipping" process where I attended 3 evening meals, meet as many members as possible. I think I also had to write an essay for those members who missed me at dinner. At some point, the members voted on me--whether or not they thought I'd fit in and be a good, productive member of the House, or not.

Everyone had chores (we called them "workjobs") to keep the house clean and running well. Some of the workjobs were :

Cook
Clean
Garbage
Compost
Supplies
Phone Bill (before the proliferation of cell phones)
Maintenance
Rags & Rugs
Granola
Yard Work / Shovel Snow
Mail Forwarding
Bills
Bookkeeping
Recycling

(How do I remember all these? I was Workjob Chair for a few years. That means I was in charge of making sure everyone else did their workjobs, that the house stayed clean and continued to run well. That was my first experience with supervising people.)

Everyone had to do Floors or Dishes (cleaning up after the 5 evening meals each week) once every 2-1/2 weeks, or so.

Rent was incredibly reasonable. It was the only way I would ever have been able to live in that beautiful neighborhood, in a big 1920s mansion at the top of the hill (It was called Summit for a reason!) only 3 blocks from the University campus.

Part of our monthly rent paid for a food share. For a very reasonable fee, everyone got to eat 5 community meals a week, plus access to a variety of dry goods (rice, pasta, flour, beans, spices, etc.) the rest of the week. Everyone also had a bin and 1/2 a fridge-shelf for their own stock of dry goods and cold items.

If you couldn't be there for the 6pm dinner, you could request a "Saved Meal." The person on Floors that night would save you a plate-full of food to be eaten later.

There was (and is still) a long RED table in the dining room (with sturdy library chairs) where we would eat together. I hope they hang onto that table! It's a part of the myth and lore of the house! Dinners could be pretty lively affairs. This photo is from the reunion in 2006 :


Looking back, this was a GREAT situation for someone like me (and quite a few other coop dwellers, I reckon) who tended to hibernate at home. I didn't have to go out to find social interaction. There was plenty going on right there in the House. I made some great friends there over the years. I even met my husband there. ;-)

Here's a picture from our wedding. One year after leaving the Coop, we still had plenty of ties to Summit Ave. Coop (Yes, even the dog lived there for 4 years, but that's another story ...) :


The mix of the house members was about 50:50 men to women and 50:50 students to working people. Foreign students were welcome to membership. This mix of members seemed unusual to Summit. Many of the other coops in town seemed to be mostly transitory students, dirty, and poorly run. That's why I never bothered to apply at any of the other coops I had seen. Summit had several long-time members (1 recently celebrated 30 years there!) and I am certain that that continuity has contributed to Summit's longevity and success.

Here's another photo from the Reunion in 2006. Many of the members from 10 years ago now have kids :

Long Live Summit Ave. Coop!

Crystal Snowflakes : Making Memories

One of the Cricket magazines CL brought home the other night had an article about making crystal snowflakes with the following :

* Borax (in the laundry aisle at the grocery store)
* hot water
* pipe cleaners
* string

Instructions for growing a Borax Crystal Snowflake.

We got the above dramatic results! It's remarkably easy and cheap entertainment.

When I was a kid, I remember having Magic Rocks. I gave Oliver Magic Rocks for Christmas last month. But the solution must have been old, or something. It just didn't work very well ... That's why we were looking for another crystal-growing project.

I also made this fabric postcard with Angelina fibers :

The Angelina Fibers really sparkle, but are notorious for not photographing well. The technique was reverse applique.

The Uncommon Joys of a Letter in the Mail (Old Style)

I received a letter from an old friend recently.

In today's electronic world, such a hand-written missive is unusual. One of her letters is a treasure to me :

* To see her handwritten script
* The texture and feel of the envelope
* It's probably handmade paper (I can see fibers and petals)
* It has a luxurious, soft and comforting feel that I want to brush against my cheek.
* The feel of it took me by surprise. Even I'm too used to email and voice-mail--not this slow communication.

We don't write as often as we used to ...

In the old days, I would always be writing a letter to her. When it got to be 7-8-9-10 pages, I would pop it in the mail to her and start a new one (usually the same day).

We knew what was going on with the other--maybe not instantly, but we kept in touch. I still have a large box full of our correspondence from those years. I'm keeping them--someday, such letters will be unusual and valuable and interesting in a way "post-modern" people won't be able to understand. And someday, our letters may be in a museum or srchive somewhere... everything is INSTANT with email and telephones. With the letters, we can keep up with each other. It's a different scale of time, not instant, but deep. Therefore, an written letter is special.

Would you be more likely to go back through a pile of old email on a rainy nostalgic day? Probably not--the font, plain paper (if it was printed at all) just doesn't have the appeal. Email is convenient and it has its place, but I'm not sure it will ever have such a feel for nostalgia. Email is too temporary, too throw-away. A written letter is all about a certain point in time, but the physical medium, the feel of good stationary makes it more about history. Something to KEEP.

For most of our lives, my friend and I have lived apart. Even in junior high and high school, we wrote notes to each other. Neither of us was fond of or comfortable with telephones, so we wrote and made plans to get together.

Even now, when we do get together, it doesn't take long to catch up. And there, too, it is a comfort to be with someone who knows me so well, and for so long ...

Is it the handwriting that makes a real letter so personal?

I still have the postcards and letters from my dear friend, Sandy. She died shortly before my son was born ... Since she's gone, those cards and letters mean a lot to me. I'm glad she sent them. It's what I have left of her. We would email on occasion, too. I still have her in my address book and send her messages sometimes. I know they don't get to her that way anymore, but I can't delete her from my address book, either.