Grandma in the flower bed

As I was walking back to my house after taking my last final on Friday morning I saw something that made me smile. On the St.Paul campus of the University of Minnesota there is beautiful landscaping. Every day I walk down concrete steps from the street and into a perfectly design green space with trees, lush grass, and blooming flowers in the warm months. Friday morning when I walked my usual route I noticed an elderly lady, dressed in a crisp camel colored pantsuit, crawling in the flower beds. Her tan sweater lay across her arm as she held up her camera lens, crouching low with her knees in the dirt to capture the beauty of that day in white tulip petals. I didn't want to stop and stare at her, but as I was walking by I slowed my pace just so I could observe her. Slowly moving from one spot to the next, she calculated the exact shot she wanted.  As I continued walking past I kept glancing back to see her make her way through the flowers. Maybe her hobby is flower photography, maybe she will put the pictures in wooden frames to remember the late spring day, or she will add them to her bathroom decor.

Like a child in a candy store admiring the vibrant sugary delights, her tender gaze caressed the tulips. Even though she was old in years she still hadn't lost that fresh fascination with the world, when everything is new, waiting to be discovered, when you still have the humility to admit that this world is so wonderful and you're only a small part of it. 

A few times this semester my roommates and I have run about the house yelling "Ice cream! Ice cream!" usually late in the evening, and on a Friday. (Well by late I mean 9:45pm) Our ice cream run consist of driving to Cub foods where we all select our flavor we are craving at the moment. Deciding on an ice cream flavor is a complicated process, chunks of stuff? no chunks? chocolate? strawberry? caramel swirls? One particular evening I was thoroughly involved in the ice cream selection process and reading about what wonders the ice cream containers held. It was not until I said, quietly to myself, "double fudge" that I realized my face was only an inch away from glass door that separated me from the creamy delights. Both my hands were also pressed onto the cold door, like how a small child looks at the monkey in the zoo behind the glass. I glanced to my right and noticed my roommates looking at me and laughing at my child-like behavior. Ice cream flavors fascinate me, the colors, the chunks of stuff they add like cookie dough and sprinkles, and the end result when you finally get to open and taste your perfectly selected treat. In that moments when I was totally engrossed in my ice cream selection I begin to act like that small unashamedly fascinated kid in the candy store without even noticing. I never want to lose that amazement for even the small things in life. 

I hope to grow up and be a grandma who crawls in the flower beds in my camel colored pantsuit.

North Side

*Gasp!* What's this? Two blogs two days in a row? This is actually a repost of a note my sister Elisabeth posted on Facebook, and it was so wonderfully well written and to the point that I had to repost it here. She blogs over here about teacher art, a blog she hopes can be a resource for homeschooling parents, and other parents wanting to teach their children art. Anyway, this blog describes something that I have had to deal with as well, people looking down on me just because of where I've grown up.

Minneapolis = the ghetto?

I live in North Minneapolis. I have resided here for the majority of my life (20 years and counting). My family has a nice house with a yard filled with flower and vegetable gardens. We're about ten minutes from downtown, conveniently located near several major highways, shopping centers, art museums, great restaurants, etc. I like where I live. And yet...some people insist on telling me (or inferring) I live in a horrible place. That somehow, because I live in an urban area, I'm less well off or lacking in some way. Some people seem to believe and act like that as soon as you cross the boundary into Minneapolis, you will be mugged, raped and murdered. You will be pulled from your car at gunpoint, they'll steal your shoes and leave you dead in the river. Or something to that effect. Ummm.....yeah. Let me set a few things straight, friends. Yes, it's the city. Not the countryside or suburbia, where you leave your doors unlocked and your purse sitting on the seat of your car with the windows rolled down. Yes, drug dealers do conduct their business on some street corners...whereas in other areas that's behind closed doors, so it's easier to pretend it's not going on. Yes, there is more crime...but there's also more community. How often do you see, let alone talk to, your neighbors in suburbia? One of my neighbors is like another grandfather to me, we've lived by each other so long. You see your neighbors on good days and bad, they're there and you can't really ignore them. Your back doors are closer together, their apple tree drops fruit into your yard, you can hear a back door slam and the conversation held outside. (and I'm not saying there's zero community in the suburbs, you're just forced to interact with the people around you in a different way here)

Yes, it's the city--where sirens and train horns and traffic on the highway are part of the background noise of everyday life. People drive by playing their music too loud, and some person lets their dog crap in your front yard.

Yes, it's the city--where recent immigrants struggle to acclimate, boys strut by with their pants too low, and the girls mince past in jeans too tight. As a white person, you're not always in the majority. Black, White, Asian, African, Indian, mixed. Diversity is a fact of life, not something weird or unusual, it just is.

Our houses don't match, the grass isn't perfectly green, and someone's garage definitely needs a paint job. But I do not live in the ghetto. Don't look down on me because of my zip code.

If I were to list all the awesome things about my city, it would be far too long for a note on facebook. Suffice to say, I like where I live.

On Writing

I've always been a writer I guess.

I am never one to freely grab at labels and apply them to myself. Some labels such as daughter, sister, Minnesotan, and Preble apply to me, I was born with them. But some are what you make of yourself: student, lifeguard, Christian, or friend. I've had labels attached to me by others, and politely declined them. At what point do I really become an artist, designer, writer, poet, etc?

My favorite things, including one of my past journals

Anyway, I've been writing my whole life. I am a very visual person, but at the same time I think in  words. Often when I see something I will construct a perfect way to describe it, in a sentence or two. I've been a chronic journaler since I was 12, but a few scrawled entries date back to 7 and 8 years old. Capturing memories has always been my hope. Journaling, composing poetry/prose, essays on random subjects, or just silly stories about teddy bears and trees have all been produced at one time or another. Not for other people, but for myself. Often times it doesn't even feel like a choice, I am compelled. I must write, and commit word to paper. 

Okay, enough musing... but my actual point for writing today was to share some of my writing with you. Here and there I write poetry (more like prose), I consistently write in my journal, and also find various other outlets (such as this blog). While tinkering around with writing, I realized what a rich resource my childhood is. I tend to write simple memories from my childhood when I can't find anything else to write. My childhood is such a source of inspiration. In my tween years I wrote terrible 'poetry', ugh. But many things I jotted down about my childhood became seeds to return to and cultivated into a more complete thought. At my previous school I took a reading poetry class, and a writing poetry class. I always gravitated toward writing prose about my childhood. It’s interesting that my writing style tends to be more whimsical than anything else. I just try to capture a memory, sum up a moment. Basically it’s those moments that are so pivotal when you are a kid. The moment when you realized gravity existed, or realized how bad you were, or jealous you could get. The moments where you learned that you and others were not invincible...

Here's one of my favorites:

The Day I Learned How to Fly

The day I learned how to fly

I first discovered gravity

Tiny white fingers gripping each metal step

I ascended to the top of a mountain

Pulling my weight up to the summit

Though no more than four feet high

On top of that swing set slide

I could reach out and touch the clouds

I surveyed the land below, my backyard, prepared to jump

My parachute was harnessed and ready

Little tennis-shoed feet lifted off the metal

Leaping into the unknown

Unexpected, hands broke my fall in the grass

The halting flight ended in a crinkle of plastic

I didn’t fly! My trusty parachute!

Glancing at my shoulders I inspected the straps

The thin plastic bag was in working order

Rather than risk bruised knees a second time

I took flight with my feet firmly on the ground

The grass cushioning my steps as I took off running

The day I learned how to fly

I first discovered gravity

Cabinet of Curiosities

This semester I have to design a coffee shop for my Interior Design Studio class and I think I will base my concept for the project off one of my favorite things: a cabinet of curiosities.

I have always been fascinated by the idea of a cabinet of curiosities (Also known as a cabinet of wonder, Kunstkammer or Wunderkammer in German). It may spring from all the nature center visits of my childhood, tapping on the glass pane separating me and snakes, picking up pine cones on nature walks, or simply being enthralled by even the simplest natural object.

I visited the Bell Museum of Natural History right here on the U of MN campus after my last class for the week. I cannot believe that I have not explored the wonders held within that building until now. Having a lecture in the large auditorium connected to the museum this spring and last, I have been mere steps away from a whole world of  wonderful objects without even knowing it. 

A cabinet of curiosities is literally a window to the world, a visual delight, and sometimes a visual overload. Basically they came about during the Renaissance period from rich guys who had time and money on their hands to collect cool stuff, though humans have been collecting intriguing objects throughout the ages. They bring to mind great adventurers and explorers who went to the ends of the earth and decided to pick up a few things along the way, or the anthropology professor who has filled his old creaky office shelves with peculiar things. They are a delight the eyes and the imagination.

I am particularly interested in the cabinets because they house such a variety of not only objects, but stories. Being an aspiring collector of curious objects myself, with every object there is a story and a history. The rocks on my bookshelf were picked up on the shore of Lake Superior last fall, the piggy bank a gift from my parents, and the feathers from a collection of my grandfathers.

We are accustomed now to searching out the latest YouTube sensation, the next big musician, or the up and  coming artist or designer on the internet, yet we are still taping into the age old search for something that fascinates us. I think we need to remember that there are curious things all around us everyday if we just step out our door. 

In the Bell Museum Touch and See room, it's like a cabinet of curiosities was strewn over the entire room. There are animal bones, antlers, rocks, seashells, animal pelts, live snakes and turtles, and many more objects that you can pick up and investigate closely. I felt like a kid again as I knelt on the floor and stared into the red eyes of a turtle, or when I lifted the various antlers to test their weight. In the room there are also cabinets full of various natural history objects, and I could spend hours gazing at the wonders within. For me, looking at the various treasures is more aesthetic than scientific because I could not tell you the difference and names of one bird or another, or identify what animal skull graces the shelf, but it does not diminish their intrigue.

I drool over books such as the 636 page volume of Albertus Seba's Cabinet of Natural Curiosities. I spend hours perusing photos of fellow curiosity hunters, such as Curious Expeditions Flickr page. I long to have an array of objects like ones you can buy here from a store in New York. I could spend hours in the Touch and See room at the Bell Museum. Some people collect the same object when they travel such as mugs, t-shirts, or snow globes, I buy something that is unique and will add variety to my collection. I cannot help but be curious about the world around me, I guess I still am that little kid who thinks they found a great treasure when I pick up a perfectly shaped rock, a piece of driftwood, or a fascinating seashell.

Penny Walks

As I write this, snow is swirling outside, yet again covering everything in sight. I meant to write this a few days ago because I think it would have been more timely, but no matter... 

The recent thaw brought to mind penny walks, an important part of my childhood. I have come to the realization that I actually AM quite weird. Yes, I know, you're thinking it's about time that I have understood this...but more than that, my childhood was quite abnormal in the best way possible. I used to think I was rather 'normal' up until very recently, but when you start talking about 'normal' things that you did when you were a child and people stare at you like you're from another planet...well then you know something is up. Apparently I did many strange and abnormal things as a child. Penny walks being one of them.

A typical street in Minneapolis

I think of penny walks and realize that they are very specific to my upbringing. Growing up in the city in Minnesota, where there's lots of snow, where people actually walk outside in the winter, and where people carry spare change for the bus all play a part in penny walks. When I was young, my mother would try many different things to get me out of doors. I would go on walks at the nature center with my siblings, and play outside in the snow all the time, but penny walks originally were another ploy to get us in the fresh air in late winter when the snow is just starting to melt. 

During the winter, the greedy claws of snowbanks will snatch away anything you drop in them, spare change included and when the weather finally warms up they are forced to release their icy grip on the treasures held within. And that's where penny walks come in. I would go on walks with my mom, and my siblings  and we would have a competition to see how much spare change we could find. At the end of our jaunt, whoever had the most money would gain bragging rights until the next time we ventured out. 

The bent and broken street pennies

We found more than just pennies, such as dimes, nickels, and the ever sought after quarters. Once I found a $20 winning already scratched off lottery ticket, and at another time a $20 bill frozen in the ice. Through all those walks over the years my eyes have been keenly trained to spot the small metal disks. At one point I even gained the nickname of Eagle Eyes, because I could spot a penny like a bird of prey finds a mouse. As time went on I would jump at the chance to go on a penny walk, and it ended up usually only being my mom and I walking. 

We would swing by penny street, not it's actual name but the one it gained because you were always guaranteed to find some spare change on it. My mother and I probably looked quite strange as we walked placidly down the sidewalk, only to suddenly burst into screams of "PENNY PENNY!!" and "I SAW IT FIRST" while pointed madly at a spot in the road or on the sidewalk, the rule being whoever sees it first gets it. At other times we would suddenly lunge towards the pavement to snatch up the copper disks. The curb was also a coveted position because it gave you a perfect view of the street and the sidewalk, I would walk along it like a balancing gymnast ready to leap off at a penny's notice. We always tried to walk side by side, because whoever was in front had an unfair advantage, and if someone started walking ahead the other would walk even faster, and soon we would be sprinting and sweeping our gaze back and forth rapidly searching.

Being away here at college I've been able to experience the wonders of penny walks. I haven't been counting....but I think I've found 37 cents this thaw. My friends laugh at me as I suddenly stop in mid stride to pick up a penny, nickel, or dime on the pavement, but I don't think they understand that...

...To this day I can't pass a humble penny on the sidewalk.