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The View From
Mrs. Sundberg's Window
December 15, 2003
Listened to the show on Saturday and it was not bad. There really was everything but the kitchen sink in those two hours. I got to laughing right away when "Silent Night" was played with a pneumatic drill. It makes sense to me. I often hear "The Hallelujah Chorus" in the windshield wipers' wiping and "Hail To The Chief" when the washing machine is running. I just don't talk about it. People might think I’m a bit off and I don't need that. What I did need was my dad's recipe for New York Style Cheesecake, which I'd misplaced and had hoped to make over the holidays. I've been to New York only twice -- once alone and once with Mr. Sundberg on one of his motivational speaking engagements. The time I went alone -- the first time -- I told Mr. Sundberg I needed some time away and just bought a ticket to New York one November afternoon. He said, "Fine with me," and looked troubled so I explained I was tired, and not bored, but in need of an experience. So I flew out on a December evening and didn't expect at all the rush of feeling when the plane descended and I saw all those lights. It was like a treasure chest flung open at the bottom of a dark sea, and jewels were everywhere. I pressed my forehead to the window and tears filled my eyes. The woman next to me offered me a Kleenex and asked me if I've taken Jesus as my personal Savior, but I ignored her and just looked down at the lights of New York City. I used the credit card, and spent two nights at the Mark Hotel. The bedspreads were a brown velvet and there were tiny bottles of white wine in the cupboard next to the window. I spent those few days in the city walking and visiting museums, and I ate some amazing pancakes at a little place called "18th and 8th," and some entirely wonderful risotto at Chez Michellet on Bedford Street. At night I opened the window wide and sat looking out at the city until I couldn't keep my eyes open. I never did eat cheesecake in New York, and I'm not sure what makes "New York" cheesecake different from other cheesecake, but it doesn't matter. I had just found the recipe when Nikolai Lugansky began to play Rachmaninoff and it felt to me the same way it felt when that plane lifted up out of New York City and headed for the Midwest where Mr. Sundberg and the kids and the laundry were waiting with the porch light on. This year we'll be having New York Style
Cheesecake for dessert on Christmas Eve after a church service where
we'll sing along with "Silent Night" played on a pipe organ. The
pastor will preach his sermon about Jesus being born in Bethlehem
during which -- I must confess -- my thoughts will drift. Sometimes
just knowing a place is out there is enough.
December 8, 2003
Listened to the show on Saturday and it was not bad. I'll confess I was a bit
worried about whether there would even be a show. There were weather
reports on TV when I took an occasional break to check on the meatballs
or try just one more sample of the butter toffee cooling on the
counter. There was snow everywhere out east, and I thought, now
how are they going to pull this off? But sure enough, right at 5:00
PM our time, there was Mr. Keillor humming along with the piano.
I'll tell you, I was so relieved. I had spent the entire day cleaning.
I washed all the windows with Windex and swept the basement floor.
I cleaned all three bathrooms, dusted everything in the house, and
vacuumed up cookie crumbs and glitter and a ladybug here and there.
Last of all, I got down on my hands and knees and washed the kitchen
floor. I'm convinced that one's house is a blueprint of one's mind.
Sometimes when Mr. Sundberg introduces me to someone he met at one
of his motivational speaking events, I think to myself, I'll bet
this person has a herd of dust bunnies under her bed, and I'm guessing
it's been months since she shook out her rugs.
December 1, 2003
Listened to
the show on Saturday and it was not bad. I was really quite taken
with Inga Swearingen's name alone, and kept saying it to myself
as I listened from the green armchair in the living room. The kids
were playing outside and I had nearly forgotten about them when
they came stomping in all covered with snow, peeled off their snowsuits
and threw them on the kitchen floor, and ran upstairs to read ghost
stories to each other in the big corner bedroom with the door that
opens onto a balcony. I've told them that balcony is off limits.
They may fall through, or at least weaken the ceiling of the sun
room below. They're in a ghost story phase which gives them another
excuse to scream.
November 25, 2003
Listened to the show on Saturday and it was not bad. I was about a mile from home when the show began, and I sat in the pickup down in the garage until Mr. Keillor started singing his train song. That's when I grabbed two bags of groceries and ran up the basement steps to the kitchen. The house was strangely quiet and I remembered Mr. Sundberg had planned on taking the kids over to the lutefisk dinner at the church down the street so I turned the radio up loud. Rosie Flores, bless her heart, sang such a lovely song called "Single Rose" while I put away groceries in the pantry. I used to have a system for putting away groceries, but that all went to pot once the kids learned to walk. Now I make sure the cans are all on one shelf, and the Oreos and PopTarts are up high. Mr. Sundberg gave me a rose once. It was yellow, and he gave it to me on the very same day I first made my Great Aunt Wanda's Cream Corn Casserole. Now some might argue it should be called Cream Corn Hotdish (it's baked in a casserole) but Cream Corn Casserole kind of rolls on off the tongue and I like it better. Anyway, I made it for a church potluck the first autumn Mr. Sundberg and I were married. Words can't describe the look on his face when he put a spoonful of that cream corn in his mouth. He lit up like a firefly on a hot summer night; he must have had three or four helpings. That night, he came home from night class and stood in the doorway in his red flannel shirt and Levi's with a bottle of wine in one hand and one yellow rose in the other. I went a little crazy Saturday in the vegetable aisle. Corn was on sale—five cans for two dollars. So I bought ten cans (which will make five cream corn casseroles) and put them all in one bag, which is what I dropped on my right foot as Jim talked about going on a marriage encounter weekend while Barb painted the kitchen yellow. Seems marriage encounter weekends are a bit silly. They could be avoided. Seems if Jim had picked up a paintbrush and helped Barb paint the kitchen, they'd have their own little marriage encounter right there. I plan on having one this week. We're going to my in-laws' for Thanksgiving dinner, and my husband will be making the Cream Corn Casserole. I've re-copied the recipe for him, and it should be no trouble at all: Cream Corn CasseroleI saved that rose for a while. I sprayed it with Hair Net hair spray and hung it upside down in the pantry to dry out. For years it sat on a shelf in the buffet next to the silver olive plate from Mr. Sundberg's grandmother. After a while it just fell apart and I threw it away during a spring cleaning. Some things just don't keep.
November 17, 2003
Listened to the show on Saturday and it was not bad. Listened to the show on Saturday and it was not bad. Mr. Sundberg and I were on our way home from a "Romance Day" in Duluth and the sky was growing dark as I futzed with the controls on the radio. When the kids were babies, we scheduled Romance Days now and then. Otherwise we'd never see each other because he was always in school and I worked evenings as a waitress at the Dew Drop Inn. So we'd pick a day and leave the kids with his parents in Minneapolis, and go out for pizza at Perry's or lemon chicken at the Tender Noodle. We held hands and talked about things like what did we need more—a couch or a dining room table, and where we would go on vacation if we won the lottery, and what we hoped our lives would be like in twenty years. Sometimes we'd end up at a movie, and sometimes we just walked until we hit the Mississippi or couldn't walk anymore. It had been awhile since our last Romance Day. We got to Duluth about noon; it was drizzling and foggy and rather chilly. I didn't bring a warm enough coat and Mr. Sundberg forgot his gloves. We walked on the boardwalk for a while and ate lunch at a Mexican place. It was pleasant enough, but my toes were numb and the fajitas were a bit too spicy. To make a long story short, we got to talking about where we might go for vacation next summer and couldn't agree and I made a comment about renting a Winnebago and heading to Canada by myself and Mr. Sundberg didn't take to that at all and said he'd like to head home soon. So we listened to the show in silence while he drove. He laughed at the story of Bob the Artist whose time had finally come and I thought about how my time hasn't come and I haven't peaked yet but I certainly plan on it. I hummed along with the Powdermilk Biscuit song and was wondering how a Norwegian bachelor farmer would spend a Romance Day when Mr. Sundberg finally spoke. "You know, the best part about this whole show is that Guy Noir." I said I thought he might think so. It felt like an apology, that he said something, and the sky grew darker but there were no stars to watch so I stared into the red tail lights of the SUV ahead of us while Mr. Keillor told the story of Cindy's vague dissatisfaction and the dilemma of where to buy a car—the Lutheran dealership or the Catholic dealership. Being a Lutheran, I'd lean toward the Ford. Being a woman, I thought, Go, Cindy. You go and get yourself that red car. And then there came that question of why we go to movies. Mr. Keillor said some people go to laugh, or to be scared. And some go to cry. It doesn't matter much which. It seems I go to feel. Sometimes I forget how much I can feel, and then something provokes me, and I am amazed. This came to me in the passenger seat and I looked over at Mr. Sundberg. He squints when he drives, and his hair is graying along the sides. I have a lot of favorite movies. When I was a girl, my favorite was Romeo and Juliet—the Franco Zeffirelli version my freshman English teacher gave me after I was caught skipping math to watch the movie in her room. Now it's A Muppet Christmas Carol. I told Mr. Sundberg I'd like to go with him sometime on one of his motivational speaking trips, and that we could think of it as a Romance Weekend. He smiled and said, "Well, now, there's a thought." And I put my hand on his hand and let it rest there while Leo Kottke played his guitar and from there on home I counted five whitetail deer carcasses and seven times I squeezed my husband's hand and he squeezed back. November 10, 2003 "I'm in the closet. Chicken and dumplings are in the oven." Listened to the show on Saturday and it was not bad. The plan was for Mr. Sundberg to take the kids to their violin lessons and out for ice cream which would give me a solid two hours of quiet. I was good and comfortable on the couch, belly-laughing, even, at the thought of Earl's Academy of Accents. I didn't think I had an accent until I went to New York with my husband. He was giving motivational speeches while I wandered around taking pictures and window-shopping. In Central Park, I met a corporate secretary named Wendy who works in Manhattan. We talked for a while and I was telling her the differences between lake fishing and river fishing when she laughed and said, "Say 'boat' again." I said, "Boat." And she said she knew I was from Minnesota from my accent and I thought, Oh, for God's sake. Anyway, I was all relaxed on the couch feeling a bit sad while Robin and Linda Williams sang their "October Light" song. Mr. Keillor asked if it was a song about getting old and they didn't say for sure, but I know it was. Mainly because it got me thinking about how when I was a kid all I wanted to be was grown up, but then it seems all of a sudden I was grown up and wanting to be young again. It's kind of sad how we're never completely happy where we are. I try to be, you know. The kids are healthy and don't scream in church anymore, and my husband often says, "Now this is what I had in mind." Sometimes, though, I just really want to be alone for a while. Which is how I was feeling Saturday, and when the phone rang and my husband told me the violin teacher was sick and they'd be home in ten minutes. When the station wagon rolled into the garage, I was in the kitchen closet with the door pulled shut, sitting on the Coleman cooler next to the purple boom box I gave the kids last Christmas. With the headphones on, I could hear the show just fine. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the wall. The kids came up the basement steps and went straight to the living room to watch TV. I heard my husband pause at the top of the steps where I'd taped a note for him written on yellow paper: "Shh: I'm in the closet. Chicken and dumplings are in the oven. I'll be out when the show's over." I listened in peace to the the story about the deer hunter who brought his own sheets and a bayberry candle and just wanted to be alone. Bayberry candles are my favorite, and I was smiling and nearly forgot where I was until the bluegrass music started up and so did my foot tapping and before I knew it I knocked over the baseball bats and the ironing board. The kids must have heard because the door opened and they were all right there looking at me as if I'd lost both my marbles and the bag they came in. Closets are a good thing when you need a little space, and even better if you need a good cry. My husband says when we build our dream house we can have a stereo system wired into every room and the best oven money can buy. As long as there are closets, and a river nearby, that's all fine by me. November 1, 2003 "Maybe It Was the Barometric Pressure" Listened to the show Saturday night, and it was not bad. Guess I was in the mood or maybe it was the barometric pressure but the music was quite enjoyable this time around. Halfway through the show, I sent the kids outside because they were screaming. They said it was too cold out but they changed their tune once I handed them a rake and told them to go earn their allowance. So I had the kitchen to myself for a good half hour while I cut up apples for two pies. I used Cortlands—second only to Wealthys for perfect pie apples, in my opinion—and I confess I've given up on the red apple peeler gizmo I got for my birthday last year. You know, the kind where you impale the apple on one end and turn the crank on the other, and the skin is shaved away in one long red ribbon while your apple is cored and sliced. Well, it never has gone that way for me. The apples split and fall off halfway through, and it seems much more efficient to peel and pare them with one of the small lifetime warranty knives my husband sold when we were first married. The handles are made from the same material as bowling balls. Anyway, that Jeff Lang with his guitar music got me moving around. I thought it was sweet how he missed his wife and I wondered whether Mr. Sundberg has a picture of me in his wallet. He was on a plane at the time, coming home from a motivational speakers' convention in New Orleans. He goes to two or three a year in order to "recharge" himself, as he says. I guess two days with a roomful of motivational speakers would be a real charge. I nearly tipped when Butch Thompson began playing that clarinet. It's not really dancing music, but I sure tried. That's when the kids came in and asked if I was having a stroke. I told them if they stayed outside twenty minutes more they could each have some candy. I got the big bowl down from the top shelf of the pantry and they each grabbed a handful on their way out. Dutch apple pie is easier than crust-topped pie, but I make it mainly because it tastes better. I'm not Dutch, I don't think, but I sure enjoy anything with a crumb topping. I slid both pies into the oven and set the timer for one hour just as the Johnny Cash song played. Now you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I have a real soft spot for Johnny Cash. When I was a kid, I'd spend evenings sitting on a stool in the basement watching my dad tie jigs with hair from the tails of whitetail deer. He played Johnny Cash and knew all the words and sang along, loud. After I learned the words, I sang along with him and my favorite was "Ring of Fire." I can see him now, hunched over his can of Miller Lite, concentrating real hard on the bright pink jigs lined up on a string over his work table, singing "I fell into a burning ring of fire." My husband doesn't sing. He doesn't dance, either. Last time we danced together was our wedding night, in the basement of a Polish dance hall in North Minneapolis. I wish he liked to dance. I would love to go out dancing one of these nights. I'd consider missing the show for a night of dancing. If you're dead, you're dead, I tell him. If you're not, get up and dance. But he does like apple pie. October 28, 2003 "I felt that nyckelharpa in my fillings" Listened to the show on Saturday and it was not bad. I had the kitchen to myself and was mixing a double batch of sugar cookies for the kids to take to school—the kind of cookies I'll frost with a pale orange frosting and decorate with candy corn some night this week. There was some fiddle music early on by a group of Swedish musicians, a song called "Lost in the Beet Fields" and I swear I felt that nyckelharpa in my fillings. It was a beautiful song and I called the kids in from the video of "Hansel and Gretel" I rented to keep them occupied and said "Now this is the kind of thing you can do with your life if you practice your violin and don't give up." There was a collective sigh, and they stared at me for a moment and asked for a bite of cookie dough, which I gave them, and they left to go watch their movie. I never did work in beet fields, though I have put in a few hours working in cornfields back in my youth, and it isnt anything I'd want to go back to anytime soon. I still get a rash on the back of my hands when I'm around corn tassels. I put the cookie dough in a Tupperware container to chill for a while and turned out the kitchen light and sat up on the counter by the sink, which I never do when Mr. Sundberg is home because he thinks it's not grown-up. Through the window I watched the oak branches bending in the window, how the leaves held on, how the leaves resembled human hands. I imagined a man putting his hands on a woman's hips and smelling her hair and I thought it'd be neat if Mr. Sundberg did that sometime without me asking him to. He is away on a trip to Colorado and Nebraska, giving motivational talks, and today he called and said he missed us all. I certainly hope he means it. A few flakes of snow fell this morning, down through those oak tree branches. The wind is still blowing, and I need to close the storm windows as soon as I wash them. Think I'll frost those cookies tonight and get the kids to play for me something on their violins. More to come... | | | |
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