Life in the Cheese Drawer

I bought applesauce the other day, which must have prompted my subconscious to dream about the apple trees in the backyard of the house I grew up in. to which I woke up and thought, oh my, we DID have apple trees. A lot of them. We had two baking apple trees, maybe five soft, eating apple trees, and a huuuuge crabapple tree right outside the kitchen window that was good for climbing and from which my sibs and I cut slips of apple blossoms to take to school with a wet Kleenex and baggie wrapped around the cut ends. I baked my first apple pie with apples from those trees, and ate the tiny crabapples that were sour and quick eating.
Which made me think, what else has slipped from my memory of the Austin red house? I don’t want to lose the first 14 years of my life, but suddenly I will remember something, after it has been dislodged from my “forgotten” files by a similar experience in the now. Mostly little things, like the apple trees.
There was also the layout of the house, and for some reason I had forgotten the shoe closet and foyer, how you walked in the front door with its windowed top half and sculpted frame and bottom, and flung your shoes directly into the shoe closet straight ahead of you. There were actually two closets on top of it as well, filled with my mom’s stuff.
The bar over the kitchen entrance where my mom hung clothes on hangers while she folded clothes, and where all my siblings and I hung from and swung.
The bathroom light bulb, bare in the small room with the string to pull. No switches. There was also no shower, just a bath, and an odd (well, odd to me now) vanity/linen closet thing in the small room. And the yellow and black tiles around the bathtub.
The kitchen floor, which was beat up, worn out, and tearing up from years and years of use. I think half the tile on the floor needed replacing; you could see the floorboards.
The back room and back back room. The back room housed the washer/dryer, winter coats, and a very large poster of Bogie and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca with the policeman on the airstrip. The back back room was nothing but junk; a place where things went to die. When we moved, I think a lot of the stuff in this room went into the trash. The back back room also was where the entrance to the cellar was. It was a large door you hauled up and you walked down a flight of cement stairs into a dank, dark, lightless room of stone. We went there only during tornadoes. But, there was a door to the outside in the back back room, which proved useful more than once during hide and seek or tag.
The corkboard in the living room; now why would anyone put a piece of corkboard above their couch in the living room? We never pinned things on it. It was just there, a piece of cork living in the living room. The built-in entertainment center (or so it seemed) was opposite the cork, and it had a place for the TV, VCR, turntable, movies and books, as well a sliding door that was a gateway to my father’s many LPs. the encyclopedias also lived on the bookshelf that lined about a 2-foot wide space up to the ceiling to the left of the “entertainment” center. And the carpet was atrocious, a hideous, flat, poop-colored brown that was never really professionally installed and so had ragged edges.
The closet upstairs that was deep and held many treasures, as well as clothes. The stairway banister at the top of the stairs with its up-down ladder-like bars – and those stairs – the metal edged stairs that everyone fell down at one point and still remain alive and well today.
The pump house, a small white outlying building that was built over the well and contained the pump, and behind which we took our wet garbage to compost and our dry garbage to burn.
The raspberry patch amidst the small trees to the north of the house. A few years there were strawberries there as well. Sometimes next to the white garage, wild blackberries or blueberries grew, and when they did we would pick them.
On the backside of the garage was the firepit and the small fortress of bricks that my dad had attained somewhere. Whenever we had a bonfire, out came the old seats from a van my dad used to own, and we would sit in the seats and watch the fire burn to embers.
It’s striking, really, remembering something you had forgotten long ago, put in the “unimportant” part of your brain. But really, how unimportant is it? My past isn’t unimportant, and as each year creeps by, I slowly forget more and more about the first years of my life that were mainstays at the time. Sure, vivid memories remain of big events from my youth: vacations, birthdays, almost catching Santa Claus. But what is slowly fading are the everyday events that should stay with me. Like the apple trees. When I woke up from that dream, I couldn’t believe that they had been filed in my brain as unimportant. How unimportant is having your own apple orchard (basically) growing up? That’s a big deal, and something that I would kill for when looking to buy a house now. I just hope that as I get older, triggers can jolt something in my brain that will have me remember something trivial in the past but huge now. Now I understand the importance of writing down or dictating what you remember of your youth – bringing importance to the unimportant.

Some people are very particular about where they do their business. I know people who wouldn’t do dodo in a portapotty to save their life. But when it comes down to it, poo is poo, and the end result is always the same: a pile of crap you gotta put somewhere.
For summer 2003, my dad planned a canoe trip to commemorate the bicentennial of Lewis and Clark floating up the Missouri river and back down the Missouri river. He commissioned my uncles Jon and Greg, cousin Karl, and my brother to go with him. After much advice from me about packing (I had, at the point, been on one canoe trip in my life, which was one more than he), he gave in and let me come too.
Looking back, it wasn’t a bad trip, but it wasn’t the greatest. There was a profound lack of estrogen in the company, my bro was a whiny little bugger, and the whole thing kind of seemed haphazardly thrown together (my dad didn’t pack any bowls…. or spoons…and the menu for night two was stew). What was most inconvenient for me, however, was the lack of bathroom facilities. Guys have it easy most of the time. Girls do not.
Now, I’d been on trips where the plumbing hasn’t been the greatest. Numerous times I’ve been in campgrounds where there is a portapotty type wooden building with a deep hole and a place to plant your butt to do your business. I’ve been out in the boundary waters where the facilities are much more open – no building whatsoever around the deep hole in the ground, but there was a place to sit. At the times of these trips, they didn’t seem like the best facilities in which to do a necessary deed.
But this canoe trip was entirely different. For starters, we didn’t stop at pre-assigned stops where there might be a building with a hole and a place to sit and all that jazz. We decided to stop at random spots. For the most part, I held it as best I could. But inevitably, ya gotta pee.
First, let me tell you about a latrine. It is literally a hole in the ground that you dig with your collapsible shovel. You choose a spot that is far enough away and shielded so that people don’t have to listen to you or watch you, but close enough so that it is easy to get to. You dig maybe a foot and a half down, and a foot diameter hole. The ousted dirt goes right next to the hole and the shovel stuck in the pile of dirt so that once you’re finished doing your thing you can cover it up with dirt so the next person doesn’t have to look at it or smell it. Of course, this isn’t the easiest thing to do because you’d have to dump a lot of dirt in to cover it up, so it’s not to uncommon to smell or see past duties/doodies when your turn finally comes around. Also at the latrine site is a very large bottle of Purell. Once you’re done with your camping site, you shovel the rest of the dirt in the hole and pack it all down.
The first night was on an island with waist-high yellow mustard weeds all over that we had to stomp down to set up camp. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining, so this was easily done. That night, my cousin Karl was in charge of latrine duty.
It was quaint, and good for the first night. Karl found a low-lying branch that was perfect for sitting on during your time in the latrine, and there was even a handy little jutted out branch that the TP roll fit perfectly. That night was a learning experience as I sat on a bumply branchy woody piece of log to do my business. Not the most pleasant experience, but the better of the two nights we camped on the river.
The next night was also an island night. After a windy day of canoeing into the wind, a sudden storm popped up and we had to find a place to camp – fast. A little island with no trees was the choice. We camped on the lower part of the island, and the latrine for that night was on the upper part of the island, behind the biggest bush (well, the only bush). Charlie was on duty that night, and he was very proud of the fact that he found the bush.
Except…. this was literally only a hole in the ground with no convenience of braches. Everyone peed before the rain hit that late afternoon, but the next morning the latrine was a soggy, muddy mess. And I almost fell in.
There I was, in the best position I found for latrine business: one leg out of pants, squatting as best as possible, legs as far from the edges of the latrine as possible. In the mud, it was even worse. I had to keep my pants out of the mud and keep me out of the mud. As I finished my business, I suddenly lost balance. I could see my possibilities flash before my eyes. On the one hand, I could fall into muddy, poopy, icky latrine, or throw myself the opposite way onto my pants and into the large prickly bush covering me from peering eyes. So little time, such a harrowing decision. I chose the bush. My pants were all wet, and I lost my shoe for a moment, but I was unpoop-scathed.
That day as we floated down the final leg of our journey, we stopped for lunch at a designated rest stop on the river. And I have NEVER EVER been so thrilled to see a hole in the ground poop-station. There were walls. There was a door. There was…. an elevated place to sit. There was even a roll of toilet paper on a holder. For that moment in time, I think I reached nirvana. Sure, it was stinky. Sure, it was probably dirty as all get out. But it was bliss.
That night we reached the end of our river journey with flush toilets and a comfortable place to sleep, not to mention other people and a place of commerce to buy junk food. The next night I spend a half hour in the shower at my aunt and uncle’s house washing away the five days of grime that had built up on my skin. Besides a horrendous sunburn on my chin and thighs, I came away relatively happy that I went on the trip and with a greater understanding of the uses of sunblock.
Despite the scenes I witnessed, despite the ongoing bets of when my brother would give up and start crying and throw himself into the river, and despite my awesome blistering chin, when people asked me about the trip, the one story I inevitably told was how I averted the disaster of falling in the latrine. Then I explained that I will never, ever fear a portapotty.

The Benton county fair just wrapped up here in St. Cloud (St.  Cloud is distributed over 3 counties – Benton county gets the fair). I tried, to no avail, to get Nate to go so I could at least get some mini donuts. Mmm, hot, sugary, greasy mini donuts.
Going to the mower county fair every year growing up was something I looked forward to every summer. Sure, it meant that august had arrived and dreaded school would be starting again, but the anticipation of the fair overcame my fear of starting school.
We would go on Saturday, and the anticipation of that day was almost more than I could stand. Tuesday…Wednesday…. Thursday…Friday………..then finally, Saturday!
My family would leave around suppertime, drive to the opposite side of town, and park on the street or in the large parking lot to the side of the fair.
The mower county fairgrounds are large (or they were until the age of 13. I haven’t been there since then, so I’m not sure how much they’ve shrunk). There is a huge grandstand, tons of barns, many buildings that stayed up year round. A 12-foot-high white fence enclosed all this. So as I walked toward the fair, I could hear the sounds of the rides, the carnies yelling for players, I could smell the frying grease and sugar, and worst of all, I could just see the top of the ferris wheel. That fence kept the anticipation mounting.
Finally, we reached the gates to the fair and finally our eyes could feast upon the fair goodness. There was a long aisle of nothing but color, sparkles, and lights. The first stop was always the DNR building where we looked at the animals and fish, while my dad chatted to the caretaker. Of course we were very antsy to get moving by this time, but he still talked and talked.
The next stop was the KofC building where we ate supper: greasy burgers and fries. To get there, we had to sadly walk past all the tempting carnies selling their wares: batons that had glitter water in them, or large colorful hats. No, we would have none of that, said our mother. We also had to walk past the entrance to the midway, where the rides would call to us, the tempting music of the rides. But we knew as soon as we ate supper, we could run to that entrance and finally fulfill what we’d been waiting for the whole summer.
One of the only perks of living in southern Minnesota during fair time is that the sun goes down quite a bit sooner than expected. It was normal that by the time we were finished in the DNR hut and with supper, the sun would be close to setting, which made the midway even more spectacular with its colorful lights lighting up the night sky. My siblings and I would practically hop with anticipation as my parents found a ticket booth. Once purchased, the tickets were divided, and the first ride was always the merry-go-round. No matter how old you were, no matter what, we rode the merry-go-round first.
Then it was a whirlwind of a night, as we went on the ferris wheel, walked down the aisle of carnies wanting us to spend a dollar to pop a balloon or pick a duck. We picked our way through people to enter the fun house or ride on the zipper.
Finally, after begging our parents for more money to buy more tickets to go on more rides, and them adamantly refusing, it was time to go.
It was always a long walk back to the gates, past the glitter batons and turquoise necklaces and big hats that I couldn’t have. But, there was always one last stop before we left the grounds.
Mini-donuts.
My mom loooooves mini-donuts. And we would always stop there before leaving the fair behind for one more year. We watched as the mini-donut turner flipped the little pastries along their journey through grease, as the man scooped them up, piping hot, into the white bag, drizzle sugar and cinnamon into the bag and shake it. Then we would each get our own bag of donuts. Under the bug-infested blinking yellow lights of the mini-donut cart, we bit into our donuts, and they melted in our mouths, a wonderful mix of hot sugar and grease.
We savored them as we walked back to the car and on the drive home, sated and sad at the same time. Once in a while, someone would have some left for the next day, trying to extend the fair one more day, but they were never quite as good as that first bite at the fair. Mmmm mini-donuts.
 

i have noticed that i do a lot of remniscing about my father, so here’s one about my mom.
when i was young, oh i’d say, between the ages of 6 and 9, my mom had the job of taking me and my age-appropriate sibling(s) to the fireworks every fourth of july. there was a ritual to, most definitely.
we would first pop popcorn and dump it in a brown grocery bag, salt and butter it up nice and good. then roll up the top so it stayed fresh on the way into town. after the popcorn, we would grab some bottles of pepsi out of the fridge (yes, bottles). my mom and liz and i would get into the car, which was equipped with a blanket, and drive to austin’s kmart parking lot, where everyone watched the fireworks.
after spreading the blanket on the hood of the car, my mom would take the bottles and open them by hitting them on the hubcaps. then we’d grab our pop, hop on the car, and dig our hands into the greasy popcorn, waiting for the first firework to boom up in the air.
after the first boom, liz held her hands over her ears, and even though i wanted to, i didn’t, to show i wasn’t a weenie. we watched in awe of the fireworks, staying until the very end.
then we would pack up our bottles, as they would be returned to the grocery store, our greasy bag of leftover popcorn, and swipe the blanket off the hood, satisfied until the next year, when maybe liz wouldn’t hold her hands over her ears.

When I was growing up and in grade school, my mom and dad both worked. My mom had the more “regular” job, while my dad was a weatherizer for a non-profit and kind of set his own work hours.
In addition to my sibs and me seeing my dad more often, he was also more often the one to take the place of “mom” on various occasions. My mom’s workplace was 2 hours away and often spent a couple days a week at a friend’s so as not to spend 4 hours a day commuting. I don’t hold this against my mom at all – she had to do what she had to do and she was around a lot when I was older. Plus, it meant I got to see a lot of my dad.
So dad did the cooking and a lot of the cleaning and many household chores (and my sibs and I did chores too, but 4 kids under 11, the youngest 3, don’t get much done).
As is always inevitable during grade school, there were many field trips to be made and adventures to be had. My family wasn’t the most prosperous on the block at the time, but we did have enough cash to send me on classroom diversions. And when those times came up, there was the obvious “whose mom is going to help chaperone” question the teachers would pose.
I always volunteered my dad. And he went! Because he was able to set his own hours, he was able to take time off and go on class trips with me. So there was almost always Nicki’s mom (Maureen, who is cool) and once in a while Beth’s mom, or Ellie’s mom, or Bryan C.’s mom, Jeni’s mom, or maybe that time it was Bryan H.’s mom…. and my dad.
One such occasion I remember was the trip to Fort Snelling. I think it was fifth grade, and my dad was, of course, riding on the yellow school bus with us, perhaps finishing the crossword or talking to Maureen about her husband’s photography business. I never sat with my dad, I think because I thought I was too cool? Looking back, I’m not quite sure.
The bus driver got lost. In the cities. He was driving around and there was a whispered rumor that he didn’t know where he was going or that he had missed an exit. Well, rumor was truth in this case; the driver was lost and this put a pallor over the busload. Were we ever going to get to Fort Snelling?
Then….
My dad stood up. I was sitting kitty corner from him in a seat with jenny. Had he caught wind of the lost rumor, or was my dad so well versed in directional aptitude that he automatically knew the driver was lost the second he missed the exit? My guess is B.
He yelled at the driver to get his attention and a hush went over the busload of 10- and 11-year-olds. Everyone was staring at him, and I felt my cheeks turn red at the attention directed toward my father.
Well, needless to say, daddio yelled directions, rather forcefully, at the driver. I think he was rather annoyed by the fact that this yahoo had driven a bus full of kids into the cities without knowing how to get to his destination. All was said and done directions-wise, dad sat back in his seat and continued his crossword or conversation with Maureen, and kids’ whispers crescendoed into regular noisemaking of 10- and 11-year-olds.
My cheeks returned to their normal color and jenny looked at me wide-eyed, obviously impressed. Rumors once again circulated the bus, this time with the news that my dad was pretty cool after all.
Who knows, if my dad hadn’t been along chaperoning on that field trip, we might STILL be driving around the cities.  😉

today for lunch i went home and made a fried egg sandwich with mayo and mustard on it. i haven’t had one in years, and it was mmm so nummy.
when i was in first grade, i was at an appointment in the early morn, then joined class festivities at 9-10 or so (hey, don’t expect accuracy, this was 20 years ago). as i was emerging from my mom’s car, i realized that i forgot my lunch! at this point in my life, my mom was actually making a good amount of money and therefore a) was paying tuition for my parochial schooling and b) didn’t get any hot school lunches subsidized. therefore, to save money, i took a lunch to school every morning in my blue snorks lunchbox.
well, lunchtime approached and i was getting antsy because i didn’t have a lunch yet. michael steihm, the brat who sat next to me, was getting on my nerves more than usual. finally, my name was announced over the PA system to come to the office. a hop skip and jump down the hallway and there was my dad standing with my lunchbox. yay i had lunch, made by dad. but that wasn’t the best part.
10 minutes later, after trekking to the basement cafeteria, being picked on one shoulder by nicole bibus and trying to ignore the insults whipsered in a nasally voice by michael steihm, i paid the 25¢ for my 8 ounces of milk and sat down with my lunchbox. i opened it, took out the sandwich, prepared myself for my meal, and lo and behold, it was an egg sandwich.
and it was still warm.
mmmmmmm