The Bering Blog

Bidding You A Temporary Farewell

English can be such a dull language. It’s so practical in terms of pronunciation – mostly clean and repressed – and it often relies on phrases rather than one single word to communicate an idea or action. Not like German where you get to spit and gargle when you talk, and where several words are pasted together into one word to relay meaning.

Today, though, I’m meditating on one English word that is not only fun to say, but holds great meaning for what I’m about to do to ZenBagLady. The word “hiatus” is one of those English words that creates a stop in your jaw, makes you think for a split second about how it feels coming out. Hiatus. If you look at it long enough, it begins to look like a foreign word, from some Pacific island, meaning a flower, maybe. Or a bug.

But what it really means is to take a break. And that’s what I must do. I’ve committed to writing a book proposal and I’m afraid I’ve not given it the time and energy it needs to be the best book proposal I can write. As much as I hate to do it, ZenBagLady will go into hiatus, like a mediocre sitcom, beginning today. However, I reserve the right to publish a blog on occasion, so ZBL won’t be completely gone. It’s a break. An “interruption in space,” according the dictionary.

Thank you for reading the Lady. It’s been a lot of fun writing it these last two years. I’ll still be blogging once a week over on Refuse To Regain with my friend Barbara, and I promise to return ZBL after I get this proposal written.

‘Til next time….auf Wiedersehen, my friends.

Our Journey to Journey (and Heart and Cheap Trick)

Now this is friendship. Chris drove up to Clarion from Pittsburgh on Saturday morning to pick me up for the Journey, Heart and Cheap Trick concert in Scranton 3.5 hours east of Clarion. Halfway into our road trip, Chris said, “Can I ask you a question?” Our conversation had been rather serious and so I said, “Of course. You can ask me anything,” and I braced for a tough question.

“Who are we seeing tonight? I thought Heart was one of the bands, but I don’t remember who else.”

She had no idea where we were going, either. Chris figured I had directions and would tell her how to get there. When she got the email from Dana and me weeks ago asking her if she wanted to go to a concert, it didn’t matter to her who we saw or where. She just looked forward to a weekend with her friends.

And what a weekend it was. We pinky swore we’d not get in another car with an unlicensed taxi driver (see the blog "Riding In Cars With Strangers In Hershey" for details on our adventure at last year’s Nickelback concert), so Chris drove to the venue. You’d think they’d never had a concert at the Toyota Pavilion before. It took almost an hour to drive two miles, and the parking lot attendants had no idea what they were doing. Cars were parked in lovely mosaic designs, but it made for a nightmare getting out of the place five hours later.

Once we parked, we walked a half mile downhill to our seats. Knowing we’d have to walk a half mile uphill to get back to the car kept me from drinking more than one Molson, which most of it spilled under my seat halfway through Heart anyway, and at $8.75 a glass I wasn’t going to replace it.

Even thought the venue seemed really full, the two rows ahead of us were mostly empty. People ahead of us were standing, so in order to see, we had to stand, too. No problem, until a woman behind me pulled on my shirt and yelled, “Sit down!” She didn’t yell at Chris, who was on my left, or Dana and her sister Ann, who were on my right. Just me. (She’s inadvertently in the photo below of Chris and me before the concert. Looks like she’s ready to party, doesn’t she?)

I looked at her and yelled back, “Stand up!” for which I got the evil eye.

I turned around and started singing again, but I felt kind of bad, kind of obligated that since someone asked me to sit down that maybe I should sit down. And so I did. Chris asked me what I was doing and I told her what happened and she yelled (because the music was so loud, not because she was mad), “This is a fucking rock concert! You’re supposed to stand up!” So I stood up again. Everyone else was. At one point, Ann turned around and suggested to the woman and her friend that they move to the rows ahead of us. I thought this was excellent advice, but they merely stared at her like she had a third nostril. Oh well.

Sometime during the Journey portion of the concert, a very amorous couple took their seats next to Chris. They immediately offered us whiskey from a flask and invited Dana and Chris to smoke a joint with them later. They practically had sex during “Open Arms,” and they grabbed Chris and the three of them danced to “Only The Young.” Chris laughed and went with the flow, but neither she or Dana took them up on their drug offer. Or the whiskey, either, now that I think of it. Twenty five years ago we’d have been all over that. Now, in our late 30s and 40s, not so much. When did we grow up?

Despite the massive crowd of women in line for the bathroom, the wait time was fairly short. No dawdling. Girls were just dropping their pants, doing their business, and zipping up as the exited the stall. I like efficient women.

Cell phones were used en masse, including mine. I texted my daughter throughout the concert, giving her reviews of various songs and of the new Steve Perry, aka Arnel Pineda. That's not how I watched concerts back in the '70s, that's for sure.

While I loved Journey and Cheap Trick and thought they rocked well, my favorite band of the evening was Heart. Ann and Nancy…man, they’ve still got it. “Barracuda” was hot, and the song I liked best was “Love, Reign O’er Me,” a Who song. What an obscure little surprise.

The moon was full, the place was packed and a cool breeze kept us comfortable. Everyone except the ladies behind us seemed to be having a good time. Around 11, Journey came out for an encore and sang “Any Way You Want It,” then the lights came up, and several thousand people filed out what I think was the only exit. After walking up the hill and (surprisingly) finding Chris’s car, we started the hour-long two-mile journey back to our hotel. The crickets and beetles sang in the woods and the air smelled remarkably good considering all the carbon monoxide wafting above the parking lot and road.

We didn’t think to bring after-concert snacks or drinks with us since we were “only” a few miles from the hotel and we assumed the bar would be open until 2. How disappointed were we when we got back at the hotel around midnight and walked to the bar only to be greeted with a “closed” sign. Dammmit.

The girls weren’t in the mood for pizza delivery and the Waffle House just isn’t the same unless you’re inebriated, so we shuffled up to our room and Chris and I broke out the food we brought with us, namely hummus, whole grain crackers, sugar snap peas, cucumber salad, grapes, cantaloupe, a half bottle of chardonnay and what was left of her zinfandel. By 1:15, we were all asleep.

When we got up at 8, we drank some coffee, ate some more cucumber salad and found some oatmeal down in the lobby. We took a few photos, talked about life and solved some problems, then parted ways around 11. Our voices were no worse for wear, although I won’t be singing any arias for awhile. Like that matters. I sound MUCH better when I’m singing with 30,000 people. The palm of my hand at the base of my thumb was bruised and sore and I wondered how that happened and I surmised that I need to take lessons in clapping from Paula Abdul to avoid future injuries.

As Chris, Dana, Ann and I said goodbye, we promised to keep our eyes open for another concert, sometime around January. We agreed we needed something to look forward to after the holidays and when the harsh reality of winter sets in. We might just go hang out in Dana’s Jacuzzi and make blender drinks. That would work, too. After all, when you’re with good friends, it doesn’t matter what you do together. As long as it’s not in a car with a scary woman named Clara in Hershey.

 

Group hug!

Minnesota: It's Really Hard To Put Into Words

The Transportation Safety Authority apparently gets suspicious of luggage containing a hand weight, tennis ball and Trader Joe’s corn tortilla crackers. When I opened the bag I checked when I got home from Minnesota, there was a note inside that said, in essence, “X-ray showed you travel with some weird shit, lady, so we opened your bag and dug around. Sorry if we packed it back up wrong. XOXO, TSA.”

Hope they liked the pink lacy thong laying on top.

Minnesota was amazing – warm, sunny, humid. Just the way I remembered. Except for a few mosquito bites on my rear end (I swear I was clothed in public the entire time) and a few mysterious bruises, I suffered no injuries or traffic accidents, something I always worry about when I’m driving a rental car. I’m never sure if I really actually have that rental car coverage on my insurance policy, but I refuse to spend $30 a day for the rental car company’s insurance coverage. My bad, I know.

Minnesota is a complicated place for me because I spent the most formative of years there and I have a really good memory. I remember who did what to me and others when and where, and in vivid detail. It’s a gift and a curse. I can recount details most people forget, like what I was wearing the first time a boy French kissed me (jeans and a purple hand-me-down short-sleeved empress cotton shirt, boys basketball sneakers and a navy blue windbreaker). I was in 7th grade, his name was Ricky, and when I saw him again last weekend at our school reunion, he actually remembered our failed attempt at lust. Too funny.

There were other people I saw, visits I’ve tried to put into words since I’ve been home, but I’m afraid I can’t do it. For instance, I can’t adequately discuss my visit with my friend David, who was my former pastor, because there are really are no words to describe our four-hour visit that involved completing the circle of him and me and my late husband Bruce. We are so intricately connected that it’s almost too precious and private to write about or even breathe the words in a conversation.

The same holds true for Pam D and Pam F; Todd and Wendell and James and Lisa; Dean, Rhonda, Robin, Jeanine, Scott, Jim, Mavis, Mavis, Norma and Bob. Because of violent vomiting, I didn’t get to see my friend Val (a major bug went through her household of several children and adults) and that made me very sad. But otherwise, the vacation was spot on. I slept in 8 beds in 9 nights and I’m still trying to catch up on sleep three days home.

Today is my birthday and I can’t think of a better gift than the gift of visiting my Minnesota friends and family. Oh wait, I’m also going to the Journey, Heart and Cheap Trick concert this weekend in beautiful Scranton, Pennsylvania. Another b-day gift to myself.

Do you do this, too? Get so involved in a visit home or with a friend that you can’t digest it all? I’ve had several emails from folks saying they want details about the trip, but this is all I can give. It’s all I’ve got. The rest is in my head. And in the photos. Here are a few more from the trip. Thanks for understanding about the words part.

Me and BFF Pam D. Her 5-year-old son Jack gave up his bed for me, but Pam was the one who paid the ultimate price since Jack and his fourteen legs and arms slept with her that night. Thanks for taking a few bruises for the team, Pam.

The house I used to live in. My bedroom I snuck out of on occasion was on the top right. Thank god I never broke a limb. Although if my parents found out, they might done the honors. Just kidding Mom and Dad! Confession is good for the soul, right?

This is my friend Scott and his wife Marian. I've known Scott since I was in 5th grade. Initially he was my older sister's friend, but he quickly became part of our family. When my husband died, he never left me. He came over every morning and night to do chores, and when I moved back to Minneapolis, he always checked up on me to make sure I was OK. Scott is the poster child for friendship.

This is Carlene with my daughter Carlene. She is who Carlene is named after. Bruce (my late husband and Carlene's father) and Carlene were good friends. When we talked about what we'd name our baby if it was a girl, Bruce wanted Carlene and I wanted Miranda. After 13 hours of labor and delivering our ginormous baby girl, I was a little tired. Bruce said, "So what do you think, honey? Is she a Carlene?" I was in no position to argue, especially with a doctor between my legs administering 35 stitches to make me whole again. But in hindsight, Carlene is a Carlene. I'm really glad she got to meet her namesake last weekend.

This isn't the best photo in the world and I apologize, but it is a photo of the best choir director ever. Bob Jones taught both Bruce and me, and he became our friend after high school. Watching him direct the all-school choir on Sunday made me so happy I cried. Bob can coax music out of anyone, even me. He recognized Bruce's god-given talent - he had a silky smooth tenor voice that made girls weak in the knees - and spurred him on to win national awards and to travel abroad with a national chorus. I cried when I heard the choir because I know how much Bruce would have loved to be a part of the group. Watching Bob direct again was a poignant and unique reminder of my past. I'm very glad he and Carlene finally got to meet. I'm pretty sure, judging by the tears in his eyes, that he was glad to meet her, too. For in her eyes, you see Bruce.

Just a Good Ol' Girl, Never Meanin' No Harm

The weekend started out strange enough. I pulled into the driveway of my cousin’s farm a few miles out of Jasper, and two women were sitting in a car. Thinking they were Haraldson’s in town for the goat races and all-class reunion (yes, I said goat races), I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Lynn Haraldson. Don Haraldson’s daughter,” I said as I shook one of the women’s hands.

She looked at me funny and said, “I’m looking for Dean.”

“Oh,” I said. “He’s in Pipestone with his son and will be home in an hour.”

“Well, we’re burying my brother tomorrow and I need to drop him off with Dean,” she said.

Um….OK.

“We have his urn in the trunk,” she continued. Dean is the custodian of the Rose Dell Cemetery across the road from his farm. My mother’s family and the Haraldsons went to church there, when there was a church, and many of our relatives are buried there. I knew Dean and his sons mowed the lawn and kept up the place, but I had no idea he was a grave digger, too.

“Well, I guess you should bring him in the house, then,” I said and I led her up the back steps. She set the urn down on the kitchen floor, said thank you, and left.

I stood there for a moment looking at the dead guy in a box and thought, ‘Welcome home, Lynn.’

I’m a redneck, literally and figuratively. Literally in that I have a sunburn on my neck, compliments of the hot Minnesota sun and a t-shirt. Figuratively in that I am friends with good-time people who have fun riding in a small town parade on a flatbed with picnic tables on top and drinking Bud Light, throwing candy to children, and hootin’ and hollerin’ at their aunts and uncles, mothers and fathers, and grandmas and grandpas lining the streets. While I had pinot grigio poured into a water bottle, I also drank a Bud Light. And I’ve got the photo to prove it. The woman next to me? She’s a doctor in Florida. We were the flute section in junior high band. Good to know we’ve grown up, isn’t it?

I’ll be on a plane for Pittsburgh in a few hours. I’ll disect the week into smaller blogs as soon as I wrap my head around all that happened, but for now I thought I’d share a few photos from my week in Minnesota.

Robin, Lisa and Bryce. I have no idea what I said, but it must've been good.

Boy, did Jeanine and I get in trouble when we tried to climb in the kiddy cars. Some woman read us the riot act. I haven't been yelled at like that since the last time I hung out with Jeanine.

BFF Lisa, who was my maid of honor when I married Carlene's father, Bruce; Terry; James (a groomsman at our wedding); me; and Carlene, who is still recovering from riding on the float with the class of '81. She knows her mother (and her father) in a whole new light now. Not sure that's such a good thing!

 

Finding Buddha Nature in a Dodge Caliber

I’m usually pretty practical; I’m the girl with a plan. But put me in a car with a sunroof and I turn into a freewheeling blond without an agenda.

I flew into Minneapolis at the butt-crack of dawn on Sunday. After wandering the underbelly of the airport in search of the rental car company, I found myself behind the wheel of a red Dodge Caliber loaded with Sirius satellite radio and a sunroof. It’s like I’d hit the lottery.

I assumed driving would be merely utilitarian on this trip – a way to get from point A to point B – but now it’s a mini vacation in and of itself. As the sun beats down on my head, I crank up Classic Rewind on channel 15 and let my hair blow straight up in the air. It’s summer in Minnesota and it’s stinky hot and humid and I like it.

It’s the sunroof’s fault that I’m writing this from Lake Edward in central Minnesota. My plan last night was to lock myself in my hotel room, all alone, and write and be serious. But my girls, granddaughter, son-in-law, parents, niece and younger brother had all gone to the lake in the morning and I was feeling homesick for them by 6:00. So I called my daughter, told her I was packing up the Caliber and heading up north. I checked out of the hotel, put on my shades and hit the highway.

I haven’t seen a decent sunset since the last time I was in Minnesota. Sunset in Pennsylvania, while pretty, is brief. The sun disappears behind the hills and trees long before it sets. Here on the prairie, you watch it slowly sink into the western sky like a pancake absorbs thick syrup. As I watched the long lazy sunset while driving north on Hwy. 10 between Big Lake and St. Cloud, I knew I’d made the right decision to leave my work unwritten and head up to the lake.

It was dark when I got here and Claire was already in bed. The rest of us sat out on the deck and laughed and talked. Carlene looked a little like Eminem sitting curled up in her dark sweat pants and a dark hoodie pulled over her head. Mosquitoes are on that girl like flies on stink. I don’t know if it’s her neon white skin or if she has better blood than the rest of us, but there isn’t a mosquito within two miles that doesn’t know Carlene’s in town. It’s like the mosquitoes have walkie-talkies or something. “But the stars are amazing,” said Michaela. And they were. And so we sacrificed Carlene to the mosquitoes for the view.

We went to bed too late and woke up too early, but I don’t want to sleep my vacation away. Baby Claire is awake and rummaging through my suitcase. My parents are talking on the deck. My brother is making eggs and bacon and will soon get the boat ready for a morning of fishing with Dad and Matt. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the lake is sparkling. Moments like this don’t happen holed up in a hotel room. They come compliments of a pimped out rental car and that little inner voice that said, “Just go.”

On The Road Again

I’m pretty sure the garbage man saw me naked today.

I was in the first-floor bathroom standing in front of the vanity. The window on the opposite wall faces the north side of my neighbor’s house where her garbage cans are. Outside the window are lilac bushes, which in summer provide a fair amount of privacy. Sunshine is a rare commodity here in western PA so I hate keeping the shades drawn when the sun is out. Since no one’s ever around my bathroom window at 7 a.m., I throw open the shade first thing every morning before changing into my workout clothes. We’ve lived in our house for more than two years and I’ve never had an audience. 

Not so today. Just as I whipped off my pajama top and reached for my bra, I looked in the mirror and saw the garbage man about 15 feet away. Our eyes met for a split second. Because my back was to the window and no boobage was showing in the mirror, I’m sure all he saw was the dolphin tattoo on my right shoulder blade and maybe the length of my back to just above my *ahem* torso. I’m kind of proud of my back, but still, how embarrassing. It’s one thing if I’m in a bathing suit or low-cut dress. To be surprised at 7 a.m. and sporting a bad case of bed head is another.

Will I keep the shade down from now on? Probably not. I need natural light more than I feel embarrassed by some guy seeing my naked back end. (Of course that wouldn’t have been the case 170 pounds ago. But I digress.)

I’m also not worrying about what the garbage man may or may not have seen because I’ve got bigger things on my mind. This weekend kicks off the big Minnesota Trip. I technically leave at the ass-crack of dawn on Sunday, but I’ll be in Pittsburgh tomorrow so I don’t have to leave Podunkville at sunset to get to the airport on time.

I’m lost in thought, making lists. As you know, planning an 8-day sojourn “home” takes more than just precise timing. I must coordinate outfits (god forbid I wear the same thing twice), shave my legs, plug phone numbers into the Blackberry, add photos to Grammy’s Brag Book, charge the iPod…It’s all very similar to last year’s preparation, only this time I’m flying, not driving, and so I have to be a more prudent packer. (See last year’s blog Let The Road Trip Begin to read how imprudent I am when I travel by car.)

This year’s trip is a lot like last year’s with one very fun exception - Baby Claire is going along, too! She’ll meet her great-grandparents for the first time, and her great-uncle Matthew, great-aunt Tracy, cousin Michaela, and great-uncle Marty. My dad is the master of silly songs and I can’t wait to hear my old favorites as he sings them to Claire: “Dear Old Daddy’s Whiskers,” “The Poor Old Slave” (a completely politically correct song), “She’s Got Freckles On Her, But She’s Nice” (gotta love the double entendre), and assorted other songs that are half real and half made up. When I was a kid, I went to sleep every night with a song of his in my head. Now that we have video capability on our phones and cameras, we’ll finally get to record Dad in concert. Good times.

I’ll see my old friends Pam, Pam and Val again, and this year I have the time to see a few others as well. I’m having lunch with my dear friend Lois who, despite all the things I’ve done in my life – good and ill –has always been a source of gentle support. She always reminds me that I have a higher power looking over me. To me, she is God at work on earth.

I’m also reuniting with someone I consider one of the most important influences in my life: my former pastor, David Mohn. David was pastor of the Jasper American Lutheran Church when I was 18. He married Bruce and me, buried Bruce, and baptized Carlene. He and Bruce sang in a barbershop quartet (along with my former algebra teacher and choir director). When Bruce died, David was the first one at my door. He is witness to the most painful moment of my life. Although he and a few others made the decision to not allow me to see Bruce dead (a decision David grew to regret and later apologized to me for), I know he only did it out of concern for me. David was the one who told me how Bruce died when I was ready to hear the story. David is the one who told me that time doesn’t heal a damn thing, it merely gives us perspective. David’s friendship and support kept me alive those first weeks after Bruce died. After 25 years, I finally get to tell him, face to face, thank you.

Next Friday, I’ll travel to Jasper for the big All-School Reunion and stay out on my cousin’s farm like I did last year. He’s having a party on Friday night, then there’s the parade, goat race and street dance in town on Saturday. Sunday is breakfast at the town hall and church in the park before the Haraldson Family Reunion at noon. My parents will be in town, too, but I doubt I’ll see them much until the reunion. I doubt I’ll get much sleep, either.

For another perspective of this trip, head over to my other blog, Lynn’s Weigh, and read Staying Real in Minnesota. While I’m looking forward to seeing family and old friends, I still have issues to work out. Don’t we all? I’m just glad one of them isn’t feeling I owe the garbage man an apology for my nakedness. There was a time when I would have felt ashamed and guilty. Glad I shed that skin.