My friend from high school, Irene is a major proponent of memories, Irene was the most awesome girl I knew back then, she introduced me to LIFE.  She did things, knew people, and although she had her own problems, she continued to grow and live.  I missed Irene, and am so happy to have her back in my life through the medium of social networking. Reading her posts, looking at her pictures, I understand the full, active , and most important honored life she has lived.

I am part of a facebook page, postings of memories from people from my home town.  Reading them, I have an opportunity to remember my own past and in that way, reconnect with the little girl that left home in a head long rush towards freedom.  I love having the memories. Mine have not been so complete.  Memories can heal. After over four decades of forgetting, it is wonderful to begin to regain them.

Here are a few of my own;

The town square and stuffing myself on watermelon during watermelon days. and the best carnival a child ever did attend.

An easter egg hunt downtown, I won a silver dollar in a pink plastic box from Doctor Byram’s office.

My more than pitiable attempt at archery down by the old elementary, ( also remember a bad experiment with copper tone that day)

Comic books bought at the 5 and dime.

An equally pitiable attempt at golf in high school, I have never understood while we hit the balls toward the windows, did Ms Ahrens just know we would all miss?

Stumbling going up the steps during graduation and Bruce Robinson telling me I would be fine, (forever grateful for that  Bruce)

Walking miles on country roads

Canoeing at Hanon Lake.

Eating at the maid rite, french fries, cherry coke, and ketchup

My first pack of cigs at Old Style Tavern I was 12, they cost 20cents                         

Riding the square and honking horns

Just some memories….Love memories!


The world lost yet another talented spirit at the age of 27.  Amy Winehouse found dead in her apartment from unknown causes.  I will miss her amazing talent and mourn her loss!  Rest in the peace you deserve Amy!

Age is nothing but a number

A short video of a beautiful woman!  Ernestine Sheperd is wonderful, pay attention to her my friends, and you will remember that now is always the right time to begin!  71 years young!


To my Mother

I love you my Mother, the woman who bore me, the woman who endured so very much to raise me and all of  your children.  You have  never been  a victim of your life, you are a survivor.  You are the greatest freedom fighter, a woman who raised yourself  high, amidst a rather chaotic background, who made mistakes, and prospered, who did right things, and lived.  I salute you.

You are the woman, who, I realize are the core of me, the backbone that has moved me through my chaos, although until today I have never voiced this knowledge to you.  Our own relationship was somehow diminished early in my life, through no fault of yours, but rather through the sadness and anger  of external life.  Our distance became an unhappy habit.

I love your spirit Mom, your strength, your toughness, and your truth of life.  This is something you need to know this day.  You are a landmark in my life; the woman with the fierce history, the woman who walked through fire to protect her own, lived through pain, loved her babies with an intense heart.  You are the woman who touched a growing plant and made it blossom with beauty. 

You made it through not only one, but four husbands, now that is enough to make any woman give up.  Good grief!  Four men to raise!  And still you moved forward. You raised eight babies into I think pretty amazing people.  You had to, sadly, see one go, our Linda.  You lived through war, poverty, the harsh environment of that little farm in Iowa, cold winters, broken bones, back-breaking work, the strong rarity of a difficult every day existence.  Yet, you created beauty for us all and your self in the best way you could.  We always had flowers growing, and remember that wonderful peach tree you sheltered so faithfully out by the milk house door, the one that you nursed through many winters?   Mom, you are tenacious, stubborn and determined.  You are a scraper, a fighter, an artist, and a love;  all rolled into one.

I inherited my love of the sunshine from you, my love of the earth, my love of a good time, and perhaps my obstinate personality.  I inherited my red hair, my blue eyes, my nose, my hands, my sometimes faithful adherence to putting my foot forward every day… all from you.

I see large beauty in small items;  this I learned from you, the woman who could take cockle burrs to turn into works of art, the woman who taught me how to iron leaves between sheets of waxed paper to frame on the wall, to bake a roast beef, fry a chicken, tried to teach me how to sew, but rightfully gave up on that one.

You taught me how to bowl, to tie my shoes, clean a house, read a book.  I inherited a quest for knowledge from you, the want to understand what is happening around me.

You are a human goddess, full of the vagaries of both divine and human spirit.

You, our Mother,  have made a full and intense life, you have sung beautiful songs, raised recalcitrant children, birthed cows, planted fields, created beauty.  You are the woman of the moment, woman of the world

Bless you Mother with love.

talking about hands!

The study of our hands is a long time art, developed nearly 3 centuries ago.  Think about your hand, and the many uses of your hand.  You touch, and respond to tactile sensations.  You manipulate tools, hold another’s hand, touch, and respond to tactile sensations.

Every hand is shaped differently, unique to our own selves.

Some are large, shaped squarely, with short, strong fingers. These are the hands of doers, builders, people who have most success creating, gardening, and building.  Other hands are long, tapered, soft, perhaps the hands of an artist, someone sensitive to the needs and emotions of others.  Some hands are strong, hard, with an embracing grip, others…weak and ineffectual.

Look at your own hands if you will.  Are your fingers straight or curved, what about the condition of your nails, the shape of your nails.
And look at your palms.  Every palm has a myriad of lines; some short and scattered, others connected to each other.  Most every hand has four major lines; Head, Destiny, Heart, and Life. And many more minor lines, along with crosses, squares and circles.

Your hands tell a story, they are an individual blueprint, your personality, health, emotions, even strength of commitment are outlined for you to see.

In the weeks to come, I will present to you information about hand analysis and palm reading, so that you can have a tool to understand the amazing beauty that is you!

Next week, the study of the shape of our hands…

Do we touch life?

How often have I lain in bed of a morning, hand dangled over the edge, creating the coming day in dreams?

Mara the Magical Gypsy

Once upon a time in a small Hamlet, there came to live a magical gypsy woman, my friend Mara.  She brought light and joy and adventure into my life.

I met Mara when she moved into the same small town I used to live in.  Actually she, with her partner, Rob purchased the old harness shop building that contained my upstairs apartment.  She evicted me…nicely. Well, if I were continuing this as a fable, I would say she freed me from my tower.   And we have been friends ever since.

She has many talents.  She writes, produces events, creates web sites, journals for herself and others, and is the mosaic mistress, the guru of gluing, the creator of craft, the original and only true tile gypsy.  Her work is truly art, so much so that she was asked to create a how -to book of mosaics.  Which she did wonderfully.  Making Mosaics with Found Objects

Mara makes magic, she picks up a small bit of china and in that bit sees an entire work of art.  While I was still living near her, she enticed me to go out in the evening streets of our small town, and fill in the cracks.  We filled cracks, corners, and walls, sidewalks with delightful whimsy of china bits, and pieces, little knick- knacks, pennies, anything that caught our magpie eyes; treasures brightening the town, and healing some old pains.  We have been told, by some, that if their spot did not have a Mara mosaic they felt left out.

I think Mara arrives at her small hamlet to heal some parts of it.  This town has a long history of pain, hushed secrets, all hidden in those cracks and crevices, and down the skinny, sometimes clutter filled alleys between the buildings.  Mara shines light where she goes, and opens eyes,  allows thoughts expressed.  Her conversations start others conversing, thinking.  She positively shakes up the status quo.   Her laugh and love embraces the town.

I love to visit Mara’s building.  225 Water Street.  I have watched it change from a rather sad, rickety building haunted by old standards and old hurt, to a lovely warm environment.

Mara gardens; she has created a wonderful land of flowers and growth in her own alley, full of laughter, bees, and happiness.  She has healed her alley.

Her small hamlet will never be the same, and that is perfect.

Des is desirable

We have a marvelous friend, Des. (Some of you call her Peachy) Des is a dastardly pirate, Des is a rooten-tooten cowgirl, Des is a gentle spirit, and Des is a strong, strong woman.

Des lives in Oklahoma, in a comfortable home filled with old west memorabilia, piratey plunder,  pictures of her many friends, mementos of her incredible adventures and a lot of pink stuff.  She cracks me up with her multitude of personalities and interests.  The thing is, she does all of her interests fully, nothing partial for her.

Last year Des acquired a small pull behind camper, that she has named her pink armadillo.  At this writing she has spent the winter rebuilding the inside, complete with pink walls, a hand pump for water, screen doors, pretty curtains, and in general a lot of froo fra.  It fits her, and it is magnificent.  In the summer she will begin the outside, and personally I think we her friends must start a pink armadillo fund, so that she has all of the where with all to complete this amazing monstrosity!  Every highway needs a giant pink armadillo roaming its lines!

Des loves with all of her heart, and she is so easy to love in return.  She shines love from her eyes.  Des walks into a room of strangers, and leaves that room with life long friends!  My admiration for this talent of hers is unceasing.

We here in the snow packed plains of Minnesota miss her, and have not nearly the amount of time spent with her that we need for our own spirits growth.  Des brightens our lives and is an important person to have here on earth. Her desire to live life fully inspires us to fully live.

Zau has Zest!

My friend Zau is from Angola, born there during a war-torn period.  My understanding is that he grew up in a pretty normal environment, had a loving father and mother, siblings, cousins; a complete life.  His normalcy changed at the age of 12.  At that age he was removed from his home and impressed into the Angolan Army.

His normal existence was still that, normal I mean, a new normal.   Brutal relationships replaced loving ones, his companions were still similar in some ways, and childhood friends grew with him into strong soldiers.  Normal became a tough, unyielding, day by day process of staying alive, staying healthy, living under a shadow of fear.

Zau’s spirit stayed strong through this all, continued to grow, perhaps overwhelmed by the meagreness of his existence over the years, but his spirit prospered.  He continued to love and honor relationships…

When Zau turned 18 his closest companion was killed during combat.  Now understand that the normal procedure for fallen comrades was to bury them at the site.  Zau did not want that for his friend, and did not want the family of his friend to always wonder what had happened to their cherished son.

So, picking up his friend, he left the battle field, making an irrevocable choice to truly believe in compassion and freedom.  He carried his friend home, and left him in the village of his heart and life.

With that choice he also made the choice to leave the war, and the control and sadness that he had lived under, unwillingly for his past years.  He left the county of Angola, and traveled, eventually ending in Rio de Janeiro, where he earned a living creating wonderful jewelry and leather work, and fathering the child of his heart, Zinga.

It came to pass that while he was selling his art in a city bazaar in Rio, he met the woman of his heart, my friend Karen Sorbo.  They recognized the correctness of their love and he eventually left Rio to come to live in Minnesota with Karen.  I had the honor of performing their wedding ceremony a few years ago, and it was right.

Every departure has some grief, and Zau was not able to bring his daughter home to Minnesota, she to this day remains in Rio with her mother.  They live in a destitute area of the city, filled with gang fighting and drugs.  He is unable to convince her mother to move.

At this time Zau visits her as often as he can, supports her and her mother.  He wants to bring her home with him, but is not allowed by our governments to do so; he has no real rights as her father.

If any story I write has a goal, the goal of this story is to send out waves of love to Zau and  Zinga,  to send out waves of hope, and compassion and awareness.  It is my goal to help Zau bring his daughter home with my words, and hopefully with the spirit and heart of you who are reading this.

Summer dreaming

Dreaming of summer, and always…change in the air!!!

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Coming to Dassel

learning about Dassel and it's glorious history

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Some coffee, a keyboard and my soul! My first true friends!

Tilly Evan Jones

“I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.” ~Mary Oliver

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