I bought the current issue of The Atlantic to read on the plane during my emigration to Minnesota and passed the time in flight reading an article by Anne Applebaum about a volunteer brigade from Belarus that’s training to fight in Ukraine.
How lovely to read of your move in your always beautiful, always reflective writing, Susie. I also enjoy reading the responses to you from your on-line community. We moved too, recently, as you know, and it is a big thing in my psyche, this change of abode. Like you, I am noticing how nature shows herself differently here than in our house, only 10 minutes drive away. More beautifully it seems. But this may be a reflection of my heart. And Canadians are pretty well always polite, if on the reserved side.
It must be the Scandinavian lineage, although this wouldn't apply to you my dear. My biggest question seems to be figuring out how much I'm "supposed" to do. I seem to be content to do very little, then feel that I "should" be out and about more.
I've visited Minnesota and have family in a tiny, rural town in Wisconsin so I'm familiar with the fabled niceness of which you speak. Having lived in NY most of my life I, too, have felt the urge to smirk in the face of such unflinching neighborliness and quickly learned it was genuine. I can't afford to be a snowbird; if it weren't for the winters I'd consider a midwestern life, too.
Sounds lovely there. Lucky to be close to family. We’re visiting our daughter and 10 mo old grandson, Young Hal, in Vancouver, BC. A long way from our home in Oswego. I say I’m staying put on the East coast, but who knows what the future brings?
I’m also reading War and Peace with 3 friends. We took a break for the summer, decided it’s a cold weather read.
Love the Young Hal thing. Interesting that you think War and Peace is best read in the winter. I once read the Alexandria Quartet over a Berkshire winter for the express purpose of being in Egypt.
Welcome to Minnesota, trees, ice, metropolis and the not-too-far I suspect St. Croix River where I went to camp when I was 8 years old.
My stepdad was playing baseball for the triple-A team St. Paul Saints so my mom, wary of leaving him by himself for an entire summer, handsome Greek god that he was and known to have a wandering eye as we used to say in our old politeness before internet and political trolling became a thing, packed our house up in Long Beach, CA and moved us to a nice home that is or was (1953) I bet not far from you, on the west side of St. Paul. It was a nice midwestern two story house, an oddity to us dwellers in the midst of a 10,000 tract-home development, and the single-story, no basement, nonsense stick house that I grew up in.
At Camp St. Croix, in the woods atop a sheer high bluff on the eastern side of the river, we hooped and howled and wore Indian (Native American) headress and loin cloths. Ran all over the place yelling, made bead belts, sat by the fire and heard stories and sang beneath the tall trees. It was pure heaven.
One windy afternoon one of the boys shouted, "The whitecaps are there, the whitecaps are there!" He pointed in the direction of the river.
As boys do, when one starts running in high excitation, everybody follows. l joined the pack racing for the edge of the bluff, breathless to catch a glimpse of the white fish my camp mate was so worked up about.
We flooded into a space between the tall trees near the cliff, put our hands to our foreheads to shield the sun from our eyes the way we'd seen tv indians scout the horizon for the long knives, gazed with hearts pounding, breath coming in happy gasps, out over the river to see...waves. Windborn waves. No fish in sight.
"Where are the whitecaps?" I asked.
"There, stupid," one of them said, pointing at the...whitecaps.
Whitecaps. Just...waves.
I was depressed for the rest of the night. My imagination had promised me something wonderful, alien. It was then I began to question everything about what I'd been taught, told, scolded about in my family. The beginning of a path away from most everything they stood for, a world of blame, punishment, ridicule, bracketed by manic fun times and crazy impulsive behaviors that only made it harder to understand them. Or feel my place among them.
I've visited Stillwater, MN on the St. Croix river. Charming town. Also think I've been to a Saints game at some point. No basement is a hoot in tornado country. I imagine whitecaps were very exciting inland. Great hearing from you.
I can certainly relate to this one having recently moved from Jerusalem to Montreal. People smile so much at me on the street I thought I had spinach in my teeth. Or maybe it was just because I was a seventysomething woman walking my very aging dog. (Sadly, she has just passed, but this is another topic entirely)
Blessings, peace, and fulfilment on your new place of being, Susie. I am just getting back into giving more time to your words here, and in Twilight Time, a most inspiring read. Thanks for being you!
I so look forward to these Wednesday mornings when I see your latest gift to us readers, they fill my soul with a myriad of feelings. I feel and hear you, and I see you! Just a little closer to me.
( west!)
Not knowing where exactly you are but learning to simply “be” where ever that is, is a skill and a gift.
I have been anticipating your story from your new home. True to form you are a woman who finds the beauty wherever she is. I hope the winter is easy(wishes the woman from Montreal ).
I'm pleased to say that we will be living in two places near our two sons.....Memorial Day to Thanksgiving in Minnesota....winter and spring in northern California. It will be what it will be.
How lovely to read of your move in your always beautiful, always reflective writing, Susie. I also enjoy reading the responses to you from your on-line community. We moved too, recently, as you know, and it is a big thing in my psyche, this change of abode. Like you, I am noticing how nature shows herself differently here than in our house, only 10 minutes drive away. More beautifully it seems. But this may be a reflection of my heart. And Canadians are pretty well always polite, if on the reserved side.
It must be the Scandinavian lineage, although this wouldn't apply to you my dear. My biggest question seems to be figuring out how much I'm "supposed" to do. I seem to be content to do very little, then feel that I "should" be out and about more.
Some books—or reading projects are best undertaken by the fireplace with snow piling up outside. I read all 4 Ferrante books in the winter, too.
Italy is a good place to be in all seasons.
I've visited Minnesota and have family in a tiny, rural town in Wisconsin so I'm familiar with the fabled niceness of which you speak. Having lived in NY most of my life I, too, have felt the urge to smirk in the face of such unflinching neighborliness and quickly learned it was genuine. I can't afford to be a snowbird; if it weren't for the winters I'd consider a midwestern life, too.
I've been thinking a lot about the smirk we grew up with.
Sounds lovely there. Lucky to be close to family. We’re visiting our daughter and 10 mo old grandson, Young Hal, in Vancouver, BC. A long way from our home in Oswego. I say I’m staying put on the East coast, but who knows what the future brings?
I’m also reading War and Peace with 3 friends. We took a break for the summer, decided it’s a cold weather read.
Love the Young Hal thing. Interesting that you think War and Peace is best read in the winter. I once read the Alexandria Quartet over a Berkshire winter for the express purpose of being in Egypt.
Welcome to Minnesota, trees, ice, metropolis and the not-too-far I suspect St. Croix River where I went to camp when I was 8 years old.
My stepdad was playing baseball for the triple-A team St. Paul Saints so my mom, wary of leaving him by himself for an entire summer, handsome Greek god that he was and known to have a wandering eye as we used to say in our old politeness before internet and political trolling became a thing, packed our house up in Long Beach, CA and moved us to a nice home that is or was (1953) I bet not far from you, on the west side of St. Paul. It was a nice midwestern two story house, an oddity to us dwellers in the midst of a 10,000 tract-home development, and the single-story, no basement, nonsense stick house that I grew up in.
At Camp St. Croix, in the woods atop a sheer high bluff on the eastern side of the river, we hooped and howled and wore Indian (Native American) headress and loin cloths. Ran all over the place yelling, made bead belts, sat by the fire and heard stories and sang beneath the tall trees. It was pure heaven.
One windy afternoon one of the boys shouted, "The whitecaps are there, the whitecaps are there!" He pointed in the direction of the river.
As boys do, when one starts running in high excitation, everybody follows. l joined the pack racing for the edge of the bluff, breathless to catch a glimpse of the white fish my camp mate was so worked up about.
We flooded into a space between the tall trees near the cliff, put our hands to our foreheads to shield the sun from our eyes the way we'd seen tv indians scout the horizon for the long knives, gazed with hearts pounding, breath coming in happy gasps, out over the river to see...waves. Windborn waves. No fish in sight.
"Where are the whitecaps?" I asked.
"There, stupid," one of them said, pointing at the...whitecaps.
Whitecaps. Just...waves.
I was depressed for the rest of the night. My imagination had promised me something wonderful, alien. It was then I began to question everything about what I'd been taught, told, scolded about in my family. The beginning of a path away from most everything they stood for, a world of blame, punishment, ridicule, bracketed by manic fun times and crazy impulsive behaviors that only made it harder to understand them. Or feel my place among them.
Miss you both! Welcome to your new life!
I've visited Stillwater, MN on the St. Croix river. Charming town. Also think I've been to a Saints game at some point. No basement is a hoot in tornado country. I imagine whitecaps were very exciting inland. Great hearing from you.
I can certainly relate to this one having recently moved from Jerusalem to Montreal. People smile so much at me on the street I thought I had spinach in my teeth. Or maybe it was just because I was a seventysomething woman walking my very aging dog. (Sadly, she has just passed, but this is another topic entirely)
Smiling back at you and the memory of your dog.
thanks Susie. Sounds like u will be very happy there. Slowing down can be sumptuous.
Good to see you didn't leave your keen perceptions and insights back East. Nicely rendered.
Fortunately, they are portable.
Blessings, peace, and fulfilment on your new place of being, Susie. I am just getting back into giving more time to your words here, and in Twilight Time, a most inspiring read. Thanks for being you!
Rachel
So glad to hear from you again, Rachel.
I so look forward to these Wednesday mornings when I see your latest gift to us readers, they fill my soul with a myriad of feelings. I feel and hear you, and I see you! Just a little closer to me.
( west!)
Not knowing where exactly you are but learning to simply “be” where ever that is, is a skill and a gift.
Thank you for sharing♥️
Wednesdays with Susie. Glad you enjoy.
I have been anticipating your story from your new home. True to form you are a woman who finds the beauty wherever she is. I hope the winter is easy(wishes the woman from Montreal ).
I'm pleased to say that we will be living in two places near our two sons.....Memorial Day to Thanksgiving in Minnesota....winter and spring in northern California. It will be what it will be.