THE WORLD & ME: Once in a while, I feel in need of a political diatribe.
First thing up in the morning, I prod my ancient limbs into movement, check with my brain to ensure I’m body, mind, and world-aware, and make my way to heat the milk for coffee, drink a pill down, and settle on the couch with my device—the whole world to be surveyed from the palm of my hand. How strange it all is….
I approach the day with The Guardian, the only legacy news source I still almost-wholly trust. My response to a scroll-with-stops is different each morning. Sometimes big sorrow and anger about the situation for defenseless human beings in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, West Africa, Central America, and on and on. There’s danger everywhere but only mass murder some places. So far.
Often though, like this morning, I’m enraged and utterly without hope at the same time. We humans are killing the planet, or rather our planet’s natural life, from the very soil we walk on and the air we breathe to wolves and birds and insects and trees and grass and flowers and apricots. We are so bloody destructive.
Sometimes, I’m so bored with it all, I scrub the floor and watch YouTube videos.
Today, I’m all of the above. My news source isn’t news. It’s all a black comedy. Okay okay okay…nothing I or probably anyone else will say today or next week or month is really new is it? So usually, I just read on, have another coffee, fume yell laugh, and get dressed for another day in my pleasant-enough life.
***
Once in awhile though, I must yell longer. And I’m doing it here—to post on my blog—which I will then print for posterity. Maybe a record for great-granddaughter Leila to read if words are still used. So, she’ll know that I cared. Did I do anything much about anything? Well no. But I did care. Yes, I did.
What triggered this morning’s fierceness, was reading about yet another Israeli bloodying of Lebanon, which triggered a memory from 2009, of entering Lebanon, headed for Beirut, in a long-distance taxi. How beautiful the countryside. How I keep saying to myself, ‘I am in Lebanon. Me…from Northome, Minnesota…in Lebanon. It seems a fine and peaceful place as we roll along toward the city of Beirut and the art festival I will attend.
Amman, Jordan had been a fascinating experience in that city of stark white structures and friendly people. In Palestine, the Jewish-Zionist settlers were stomping around with their kids and guns and “good intentions” as usual. On a ride to Ramallah (with a stop at Yasser Arafat’s tomb), I actually saw a settler compound on the hillside (think Mexicans or Canadians simply invading the US and setting up gated communities on our hillsides). In Syria, Bashar al-Assad hadn’t begun chemical weapons attacks against his people yet, although his autocratic and ruthless rule was in full swing. Nevertheless, at least the outward appearance of peace and plenty was all around on the drive from Amman through Syria with a Damascus stopover. And then the excitement of entering Lebanon and soon Beirut, formerly known as the Paris of the Middle East, a label already faded by then.
That was seventeen years ago. This morning everything’s worse in every way, except for an apparent end to the civil war in Syria—with no firm knowledge of how that will play out in the long run. Only now it’s even bloodier. Lebanon is being destroyed by Israel but also by the utter loathsomeness of the “leaders” within and their lust for power. Palestinian Gaza is sort of an Israeli abattoir. The settlers are having success after success in colonizing Palestinian land. And Hamas is as vicious as ever. What an effing mess.
I scroll on, particularly pissed off about how the word’s boys and their dangerous toys are destroying the lands I have found so gorgeous and interesting to pass through or visit over the years; I pause for a headline, an article, a statement about the next political or environmental catastrophe. Nothing makes me feel better. In fact, as I read, every political inanity uttered regarding harm to the natural or peopled world further infuriates me. But, it hardly matters what they, our political “leaders” think or say anyway, does it? There’s been this tune stuck in my head all morning…something about ‘pawns in their game…! What? Whose game. Would that be the arms manufacturers; money-changers of Wall Street; newly powerful tech coterie; remaining oil and gas barons; dealers in cobalt, lithium, and other rare earth minerals—the autocrats, the billion/trillionaires, the 1%? Well yes Virginia, it would. They have purchased all of the politicians, all of our elected representatives they need. We, in turn—their pawns. It has always been thus. We ‘huddled masses’ pay taxes and fight wars and worry about money and cook spaghetti and watch Netflix. The serfs, sort of yearning to be free.
“But he can’t be blamed/He’s only a pawn in their game.”
***
It’s afternoon now. I’m not even mad anymore. It’s too exhausting. And not a single thing I’ve said hasn’t been said so much better before. Even on Facebook (speaking of greed) … so many quotes about greed and power uttered by the major philosophers and thinkers and poets of the world since the beginning of recorded time.
But they don’t leave a running refrain in my head that lasts all day.
“But when the shadowy sun sets on the one/That fired the gun/He’ll see by his grave/On the stone that remains/Carved next to his name/His epitaph plain/Only a pawn in their game”
(Bob Dylan: “Only a Pawn in Their Game” lyrics used)
A sunny (of course) May morning in Albuquerque, New Mexico. New carpeting has just been installed in my living room. In the process of putting furniture, books, and tchotchkes back in their assigned places, I notice there’s just enough changes to make me feel happily renewed. From my desk, I see a chair that has a new throw, a few art and poetry books in a different bookcase where they insist I don’t forget them, and even a lamp or two has shifted location—the thrift shop buys of Marsha and Robert deserved new table tops for their purple, red, and brown weirdness to be fully appreciated. It’s a feel-good state of affairs.
Time to write…but I’m not ready to take my thoughts from Norway to Minnesota quite yet.As everyone who has read Window Seat or my blog over the years knows, I am somewhat obsessed with having my own history on another continent, in another country. My continent happens to be Europe and my country Norway. I would surely feel the same if my continent were Asia and my country Myanmar, or my continent Africa and my country Nigeria, although those magnificent locations could complicate one’s life more than even-keeled Norway. But, you see, I am thrilled to have history older than 500 years ago, and I have no understanding of people who say, when queried about ancestry or ethnicity, ‘Well, I’m an American. Period. End of story.’ Yes, that is your nationality, your citizenship but not your ancestry, unless of course you are from any one of the multitudes of indigenous civilizations, cultures, tribes that have been on this continent since around the beginning of history! The rest of us started elsewhere. Do you not want to know about that? About your great and glorious and/or mean and misery-making heritage?
I am a Norwegian and an American in my mind, not a Norwegian American. Being a Norwegian and an American have always felt like two separate identities; you know—ancestry versus nationality. And a nearly lifelong highlight has been exploring my Norwegian heritage and getting to know Norwegian cousins.
History 101: (Sharing/over-sharing, whatever…) Norway is that long skinny mountainous waterfront of great beauty in northern Europe. Small population. Big oil reserves. The first Norwegians had fascinating origins. The usual suspects arrived from the south: Denmark, Sweden; from the east: Finland, Russia; and from the southwest: Doggerland. Yes, really, Doggerland. (Maybe.) Picked that info up in a Norwegian history book, verified it with Wikipedia and its lengthy reference list, and watched a YouTube video. Doggerland was a large chunk of land in the North Sea which disappeared under rising seas 7-10,000 or so years ago. My skimpy reading of this particular bit of history only refers to the possibility that the Sami, the indigenous people of far northern Scandinavia, may have partly descended from hunter-gatherers reaching the mainland as Doggerland disappeared underwater. That’s good enough for me. It’s like discovering distant relatives from Atlantis!
My Norwegian ancestry demands a few sentences of Viking lore also (in addition to the previously mentioned Grandma Gudrid). Here it is. The Vikings were a group of Scandinavians roaming far and wide (for their day, generally said to be 800 to 1050), engaged in plenty of raiding and plundering, but also establishing farms, communities, even kingdoms. Although there is not a strict breakdown of which Vikings (Norwegians, Swedes, or Danes) conducted which raids and battles, or founded which settlements, one has only to look at a map to understand why each country’s sailors usually headed in which directions. In general, the Swedes, sometimes called ‘men of the rivers’ headed southeast, all the way to Constantinople, while also becoming the Rus who initially settled Kiev (Ukraine) and locations in Russia and Belarus. Both the Swedes and the Danes were more aware of and connected to the rest of Europe’s history, population, and wealth than the Norwegians who were sitting on the very edge of the European landmass. Consequently, their raids were more focused on the continent, with the Norwegians looking more westward across the seas.
(My Viking heroine) Gudrid’s travels are a good representation of major pathways/seaways of the Norwegian Vikings: Iceland, Greenland, and Newfoundland. While their early stays in Greenland and Newfoundland were not long in the context of history, the blood of the Icelanders remains pure Norwegian—and Irish, the latter another story of where Norwegian Vikings directed many of their travels. There are enough Norwegian place names and strands of DNA in both Ireland and the UK to ensure inclusion in their histories. Although the Vikings weren’t quite done with conquering or occupying activities, their power was radically diminished in 1066 when the English army of King Harold Godwinson defeated the invading Norwegians of King Harald Hardrada.
Such is history… which is why I will now skip from 1066 to 1712 with the briefest of accounts of my family’s origins in southern Norway’s Setesdal Valley. Based on Gudrid’s life and my confirmed family history, I’m going to assume the intervening 600+ years include a number of farmers and no small number of travelers, most of whose adventures were likely on a modest scale compared to your average Viking.
***
Cousin Arne Neset has pieced together the story of the Neset family begats through the decades to the 1700s and Knut Jorundson Haugen, married to Jorunn Guttormsdotter Vassesn, and the father of at least one surviving child, Gunnar, born 1705. The family apparently owned their small farm called Haugen. Gunnar in turn, married and had at least four children, the eldest, Knut, was our ancestor. The only information we have regarding Knut is that he had two wives and one child (that we know of) and that he drowned when attempting to cross the river Otra. The child, another Gunnar, was born in 1753 and his son, another Knut, was born in 1778.
This last Knut had several children, the youngest, Sven, was great-grandfather to Arne and me. According to Arne, Sven was 17 years younger than his brother who was the inheritor of the Haugen farm. Sven probably received his share of a small inheritance when his father died in 1847. He was then 22 years old and working as a farm hand at Haugen. The way he chose to earn a living was to rent the croft (small piece of land) …Nesodden, situated on the north side of the farm NESET (hence the family name change), situated on the lake of Byglandsfjord, between the villages of Byglandsfjord and Grendi.
Sven (Knutson Haugen), who married Gyro Torjusdotter Smidjan, was an interesting, if not particularly appealing, character. It seems, at least initially, he was poverty-stricken, having squandered whatever small inheritance he may have received. He is said to have been a fine fiddler/violinist, who could both make and play the instruments. Sven was a drinker though, neglected his farm, and wasted his musical talents. At some point he got religion and became a strict and rather cruel person, his son Knut remembers. The only information we have about Gyro is that she was said to have been beautiful with hair long enough to sit on.
Sven and Gyro had at least six children (who took the name Neset). Sven’s eldest son, Knut, was born in 1862, and was Arne’s grandfather. Torgus, my grandfather was born in 1872. (The birth of a twin sister, Siri, was also recorded but there is no other mention of her so she must have died at or near her birth.)
Since, as crofters, there would only have been enough income to sustain one family, the children would have had to find their way elsewhere. With little farmland in mountainous Norway, there were few opportunities to earn a living. Fishing was important along the coast, but there were only so many jobs, and industry hadn’t taken hold yet as a major source of income for the population. The only solution for many was to emigrate to America.
***
The only information I have about Torgus’ life between 1872 and his journey to America around 1908 when he would have been 36, is that he married Asborg Eilifsdotter and fathered four children (including my father). There are family rumors that at one time he deserted my Grandmother Asborg and ran away to sea and that he spent time in the merchant marine.
When I remember Grandpa Neset, he seemed awfully old (mid-sixties) and was bedridden with rheumatism (probably rheumatoid arthritis). He had been and apparently still was a heavy drinker, but as he couldn’t get around anyway, I would not have noticed that as a kid. I remember him looking like Heidi’s grandfather (there was always a book about Heidi around our house), and he passed out corn candy to us kids. That’s it. End of memories of grandpa.
Grandma Asborg Neset is another story. A short one, I’m afraid. Cousin Arne did his best to track down some information about Asborg but there was very little to be found. There’s also been some ancestry help from friends Dave and Ann Lewis in Minnesota, but only a glimpse of Grandma Asborg there. What does seem clear is that she was born in southern Norway, either in or near the Setesdal Valley. There is an Asborg Eilivdatter, farm worker, born 1876 in Evje. There is also an Asborg Eilifsdotter born in 1867 in Lauvdal. The difference in spelling of the last names likely reflect the locations in which source records originated. The difference in birthdates is unclear. Whether the references are for two different people, as these were all common names, or whether simply errors in recording is impossible to know. What is most interesting is that the records from the ship’s manifest of Grandma and the children’s voyage to the US is that Asborg’s age in 1910 is listed as 40, right between the other two recorded dates. It seems clear either way that she was a farm girl from a family of farmers and/or pulp mill workers.
I spent more time with Grandma Asborg than Grandpa Torgus since she lived substantially longer, but I feel quite sad about my memories considering the realities of her life. To me, she was a sour-faced cranky old lady, deeply wrinkled, little hair, bad cook. My mother’s confidences and my observations concerning mom’s difficult relationship with Grandma weren’t entirely clear back then. However, I do know Grandma was consistently mean to my mother who always and forever refused to accept the rough standards of Northwoods life (my mother, the teetotaler, in the land of beer joints on every corner!). Now though, looking at the lives of immigrants with a deeper understanding of and great admiration for the strength that kind of uprooting requires, I understand how dreadful pieces of Grandma Asborg’s life must have been as well. I owe her a bit of love and apology.
Perhaps it’s (slightly) humorous to note that I do seem to have inherited a couple of the less desirable old-age realities of the Neset grandparents: rheumatoid arthritis and way too many wrinkles and unpretty hair. Oh yeah…and cooking become most bad. But I don’t drink and I’m not nearly as cranky as Grandma. Right?
Ahhh…family.
‘Biting off more than we can chew’ surely must be among the most common of life’s conundrums. And it is absolutely one of the things I do best. Too many goals and projects to accomplish before ability kills possibility.
I’m sitting here surrounded by my books and papers, everything I need for the second post of Decades to emerge. So why this feeling of existential weariness instead of that of the eager writer? Not that kicking off a morning’s writing (or almost any other activity) is necessarily easy in the best of times…but, as I discover anew every single day, this kind of soul-sucking apathy that comes and goes does seem a not uncommon symptom of old age, and that’s not going away whatever I imbibe, read, or ponder.
An age-inspired lament is bound to appear here now and then. Be patient…someday it will be you….
Decades essays will usually be divided between the goings-on of the world around me and how that is affecting me and mine. Allow me to mostly skip world affairs this time, since I’m initially describing a life from a thousand plus years ago.
Let me introduce Grandma-to-the-nth-degree, Gudrid, living back in Viking times. Although I’m not sure that even my full-blooded Scandinavian self can link back to an amazing woman named Gudrid who lived somewhere around the turn of first to the second millennium (980-1050, give or take….). She was born in Iceland, traveled to Greenland, lived for some time in Vinland (Newfoundland), traveled back and forth to Norway (whence originated the settlers of Iceland, Greenland, and Vinland), married more than once, bore two sons, one of whom, Snorri, lived to be a founder of Christianity in Iceland. To top it all off, after Snorri was grown, Gudrid traveled to Rome, and perhaps met the pope (it is said… with absolutely no proof). While she was away, Snorri built a church on their property and, when Gudrid returned, she moved into it and lived out her years there as a hermit nun.
Fairy tale, myth, fake news, you say. Well, actually Gudrid is mentioned in two of the Icelandic sagas, and substantial research, archeological and otherwise, has been conducted to verify the outlines of much of her story. My bona fides for sharing Gudrid’ s story come from reading a number of fine Viking histories, and in the process coming upon The Far Traveler: Voyages of a Viking Woman by Nancy Marie Brown. I read Gudrid’s story twice back then, and am scanning it again now for the sheer pleasure of a story well told. It is the best of books for someone like me, who’s primary reading interests are history, travel literature, and Nordic Noir murder mysteries—and, Odin knows, there is a plentiful amount of all of the above in the sagas. Brown takes us on a good tramp through the history and over land where Gudrid and her friends and relatives surely played out good chunks of their lives. I am proud to be able to say I did just enough tramping about myself on these Viking sites to claim that thrill of ‘been there, done that’.
Perhaps, right now, before I even begin the real ‘decades’ stories of my family and me in the dramas of the twentieth and twenty-first century, is a good time to say something about who I think I am. At this moment in time. Everything I’ll write about as long as I writing essays for Decades will be about the world and me, but here’s an intro to just this one part of me, I especially like. The “Girl from the North Country” part—Dylan likely did not write that song for me, but who can say for sure! By ancestry, birth, travel, and desire, I declare her to be me. One of the mantras of modern times says we get to choose our personas, right? Well, I choose to be a ‘girl from the north country’, a Northerner (never mind that half of my long life has been in New Mexico). It all stems from being born and growing up in far north Koochiching County, Minnesota in a family of Norskis. I may as well attribute my restlessness, my obsession with travel to being descended from Vikings (okay, so I know that’s silly/my dad, coming to this country on a ship across the ocean and being one generation closer to Vikingness, hated travel!).
When I’m in the far north, it feels right. Whether the fermented shark and old guy playing the accordion in a Reykjavik restaurant; sheep herding border collies and the iceberg standing guard in a harbor in Greenland; the cousins and farikal and fjords of Norway; the summer markets of Helsinki with stall upon stall of blueberries, gooseberries, cloudberries, lingonberries, cranberries; reindeer feasts and meatballs in Sweden; too many Danish pastries and Isak Dinesen (way out of Africa )in Denmark; pickled herring and reindeer in Alaska; good government in Canada; old babushkas, headscarves tied under their chins, in the Russian woods. Here’s to calm hospitality, icebergs, so much beer and pizza (!), even more bread and butter, green and blue/forest and water, socialism—almost all over the north. I wonder what would Gudrid make of how many hot dogs people eat in modern Norway? But she’d feel at home with seal dishes in Greenland and skyr in Iceland.
I planned to write a little more about my times in Iceland and Greenland. Instead, you can have some words and multitudes of colorful photos by going to a couple of my long-ago blog posts at Time and Place (mneset.me). I’m afraid I did not set it up at the time to make scrolling the archives simple. You could scroll to 2012 and 2014 but it’s cumbersome without easily accessible date. Sorry for that. What would be easy is googling the posts by copying and pasting the following addresses: “Viking Greenland” (https://mneset.me/2016/07/19/the-greenland-download-from-mind-heart-and-camera-continues/) and “Iceland…Go Vikings” (https://mneset.me/2012/08/10/iceland-go-vikings/).
Actually, the photos on these sites will make the effort all worthwhile!
Alternately, you can also read something about the trips in Window Seat (my book), but without so many words and pictures. That would plug you into all of my travel tales…should you be into that sort of thing.
I could not resist beginning the small stories of Decades with Gudrid. Identifying right away with a long-ago woman called ‘far traveler.’ So, you’ll think of me that way as you read. So, I’ll think of me that way as I write.
STORIES
We all have our stories. If we’re among the fortunate, they are long stories, both personal and global.
I am always the main character of my story. Except when I’m not. If my story takes place in the midst of wars earthquakes floods and/or any other cultural and political upheavals, then where is attention focused? Certainly not on me. In fact, my presence is dwarfed in the swirl of life.
As we age and witness ever more history, understanding our personal stories in relation to all of the other characters in all of the other tales has become both more complicated and more important to me.
But, the older I get, and the more chaotic and threatening the present, the more I want to see how my personal story began and has played out in relation to world events. Will I have any wisdom whatsoever to pass on…or for that matter, any happy, sad, humorous bits to share? Perhaps?
Just in case, I have made a project—of course I have! It is called Decades, and it has now moved past the idea stage, to the gathering of every scrap of paper upon which old documents, letters, diaries, and news articles are written; to relevant books; and to an assortment of pictures.
The intention is to review my life story decade by decade against the historical background of its time and place. Decades will be presented as a series of short essays/posts in my Time and Place blog.
The stories will commence with a quick look back at the earliest of places and people to which I have any connection, paying homage to my Norwegian origins. Details will be added as we approach the first decade of the 20th century, the decade my father (1903) and mother (1907) were born in Setesdal Valley, Norway and South Dakota USA. The earliest and ongoing influences on my parents obviously played a huge role in my childhood so I find them worth spending words on.
BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS
Let me explain an emphasis you will note on the first and last decades of my life. The first decade forms us all in the most profound of ways; the last gives us the opportunity to review and to share what’s gone before. And to comment on it all with ramblings infused with both humor and alarm if I so choose!
My brand-new great granddaughter, Leila, is only a few months old, beginning the most important years of her life. The number of daily discoveries this small human is already making is nothing short of miraculous, and this time of exponential learning won’t slow down for a long while.
At the other end of the spectrum, also on an almost daily basis, the small, sometimes nearly imperceptible, increments of language and skills I am losing is not quiet exponential, but nevertheless most alarming. Leila’s first decade; my last. Expansion and contraction of life. The greatest dramas we ever encounter, although we’re usually unaware of the momentous nature of the passages as we live them.
“Give me the child until he is 7 and I will give you the man” is a quote usually attributed to Aristotle. Used in numerous studies and writings as a starting point for childhood development, and in a brilliant British tv series called 7 Up, the point is that humans are formed for good and for ill by the time they’re seven years old. Whether the age of seven is the key year or not, we do know that our early years are formative, extremely so based on my own experience.
So, Leila is even now deep into the process of becoming the Leila her family, friends, and peers will come to know throughout all of the decades of her life.
On the other hand, I am busily reviewing all those decades when I became and was and am the Marjorie you know. Thinking about my mom and dad, born into a big world about to experience its first world war and about their great-great granddaughter Leila born into a seemingly much smaller world rife with many of the same kinds of battles that led to that earlier conflagration.
In any case, welcome to Decades. And here’s to Leila, beginning her journey with all of the love and best wishes her family can offer. She is a grand addition to our world. And here is to me, grateful for the times and places that comprised my world…and intending to share them for a while.
April 2026. I am most content with life when regularly writing about its past, present and future. Yet, for three months now, words have failed me; the page or screen before me remains blank. I find something, anything, to otherwise occupy my time. Today, this must change…right? Even in my increasingly circumscribed (by age, energy, desire) life, there’s so much to think and say and share about this time and place. My home, family, and friends, constant sources of activity and pleasure. Books and stories, real or imagined, told in many forms, enrich my life every day. A trip here, a visit there, an entire planet of geography and history and literature to be shared… I am so fortunate.
First things first…speaking of the pleasure of sharing! I have a fine new great-granddaughter named Leila. She’s healthy and amazing and, her father says, quite loud. I was thrilled by the advent of this new person in the family, and filled with happiness for parents and grandparents and other immediate family members. But it didn’t feel particularly up close and personal to my life. Too many years removed, too doubtful of the time to know her well, too far away with travel increasingly awkward. So, I was relatively satisfied with a distanced joy concerning the big event.
But now. As I see the photos of her morphing into her own self before my very eyes, I’m feeling the pride and excitement and eagerness to know her that I felt way back then with Leila’s mom. And she’s definitely her mother’s daughter, so like her… It’s nice. Anyway, I’ll see her before too long and, even though I am more than a little awkward with small babies, I’m sure we’ll come to be friends.
Let me cautiously approach blogging in general before my often-stated love of writing proves as elusive as it’s been these past months. No expectations of myself for any topic worthy of an audience. Simply some words to record life being lived, this overcast day in Albuquerque, feeling, well, droopy… probably as good a descriptor as any. I’m watching Ken Burn’s Civil War, after finishing The American Revolution. Having spent way too much of my reading time since dt’s inauguration on the great wars of the 20th century, their casts of characters, causes, bloodshed, and desperate aftermaths—I thought it an interesting idea to return to the 18th and 19th centuries and our very own continental wars and bloodshed and desperation. Damn men and their never-ending greed and violence.
What else? New living room carpeting. That’s exciting. I’m told old ladies trip over area rugs. Not me I say. That’s why I’m a treadmill-regular at the gym…so I can walk properly. It’s amusing in its own way, all of the things that stop working ‘properly’, as birthdays come and go.
Travel blogging will resume on a Denver trip for a Paul Simon concert with friend Bob. And there may be serious Minnesota time this summer. And climbing Kilimanjaro in the fall. Feeble joke attempted!
I herein state my intention to resume blogging.
The focus will be, at least to begin, a project called Decades. More next post.
Just when I vow to step back, take a deep breath, for a few hours view politics from afar, knowing (and not exactly forgetting) the horrors of so many lives: the refugees and other homeless humans, those mired in death and starvation in countless deadly military/gang/thug actions around the world—it gets personal in various ways. For starters, personally terrifying in the way fascism, communism, capitalism, all creep up and into, if not my life directly right now, it’s in the next field or village or city or country over.
I do try sometimes to pull away from the words and pictures, just a ways, not completely. Can’t think about the UK or EU or NATO; Iran or India, and please god, let me not see an image of joker-in-charge on page or screen for a day or two.
But then I conduct my quick morning scan just to make sure New Mexico is not in a shooting war with Texas (that’s meant to be a joke! Still today…a joke). And while the world-danger is not as close as Texico, it feels ever more personal to me. It’s guns ablaze in places I’ve lived and visited…and loved and enjoyed. Seriously…if there’s one tool that literally cries out for use it is guns. And if you have too many unemployed and, in many cases, otherwise unemployable men (mostly men) and you give them a gun, things will go bang in the night.
For a moment of enjoyment: “From Ghoulies and Ghoosties, long-leggety Beasties, and Things that go bump in the Night, Good Lord, deliver us.” (source may be a British prayer, quoted by Alfred Noyes in a 1909 anthology, The Magic Casement—origin of ‘bang in the night’ possibly).
Here’s what I want to say before continuing: I am terrified and heart-broken about what’s taking place in the U.S. and in much of the rest of the world. But like most of us, not directly in the line of fire, my days are a mixture of despair and going to the grocery store; of loathing of ‘my’ president and his minions and watering the plants; of a deep and visceral anger and of watching a Britbox murder mystery. When there’s a big march against our ruling fascist, I march. I subscribe to a few trustworthy news sources (even though I try to avoid reading anything from time to time, if journalism leaves the room, we are truly goners). I do read ever more history—gives me perspective I say. I rant and rave to myself, to friends…and then I even remove myself from the source of the furious rants for a few days. No media, I say. Take a breath. Smell the roses! Which is what I intended for this week.
But now it’s become personal: Minnesota. Not the next state over. But home. Where I grew up and still consider myself a citizen thereof. Minneapolis. Where I lived and worked. ‘My’ government has sent, and is paying, masked and armed thugs to patrol and murder on the streets of Minneapolis! Seriously. Oh yeah, that’s right. Minnesota is a blue state. Well-off blue state. The Minnesota state governor, during the campaign dared call dt and minions “just plain creepy and weird as hell.” The truth’s a bitch, isn’t it? And, Minnesota’s biggest urban area has a lot of brown people. Good looking, smart, relatively well-off, recently-foreign, Muslim, brown people—the worst kind.
And, yes indeed, there are probably some crooks among them. Likely nothing to compare to the crook-in-chief and his happy grifters. And have you noticed how hard it is to find a race, ethnicity, culture, religion, gender, occupation without a crook of two? Give it a think, I dare you. Name one. Not saying that’s all fine, but I’ll guarantee if you look into the facts of the Somali fraud scandal, you’ll find both truth and lies about the extent of it…and I’ll also guarantee you’ll never find anything to match the level of corruption rife in the administration currently occupying Washington DC.
Since I’m not physically traveling so much anymore, please bear with me as I revisit places dear to me—being trampled all over by MAGA goons. I’d use the R-word, but every now and then a Republican has a lucid and oh-so-brave half-minute and makes a stumbling little move in the right direction. So rare though, let me just go ahead and say Republican Goons. Any emergence by any one of them above sewer-level has been so brief as to be hardly noticeable.
Eating lots of Walleye makes for good politics.
Well, I was going to move on to Greenland and Colombia and Canada from the morning’s ‘quick’ news scan, but I’m already exhausted and it’s only 9am.
And the last things I plan to say or show about that benighted year follows…and it’s almost all pictures. Holidays with family. Period.
I’ve already talked about Thanksgiving in Austin and the brand-new family addition: AT as I like to refer to her/him (short for AsborgTorgus which is how I’m forced to refer to The Kid since parents refuse to divulge any hints whatsoever of potential names).
In addition to meeting AT, the pure pleasure to me of hanging around my brilliant and beautiful grandchildren…all six in one place and even on their best behavior, at least until I retired for the evening after which they laughed really loudly at words and actions I probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
Steven and I made it to a favorite cultural highlight of any trip on the first day–IKEA.
They actually are a lovely bunch…of whom I am ever so proud…one and all.
There’s a bonus to visiting Austin: it’s travel-buddy Celia’s home. And as my blog-readers know, granddaughters Teresa and Sara have been on Greenland and African journeys with Celia also. So here we are, happily remembering our adventures.
I did have just the smallest of pangs when remembering that for a few Thanksgivings I’ve had the combination of Teresa and travel all to myself and that’s now a thing of the past. But we ended that so perfectly in 2024 by combining the two for a week in Paris for a sort of grand finale of Adventures with Lace. Just the right time for me too, I suppose, since I’ve noticed myself scanning world maps with a touch less enthusiasm!
Can’t imagine any future Thanksgivings topping this this all-grandchildren-to-myself one. Thanks, nice humans.
Which leads me to Christmas. Which I’m really bad at. I’ve never gotten it even close to just right since my sons left home…and even before that I wasn’t so great at it. You know, the food all delicious, the gifts just what everyone wanted, the loving spirit of the holidays intact throughout. And Snow on The Ground…
Actually, Christmas 2025 was just fine. Steve made excellent biscuits and gravy for breakfast and gave me a fancy knife set. I’m now able to slice those big rustic loaves from Costco without having to rest between slices. There were plentiful photo ops with the three main gift recipients barking and mangling their presents with great abandon. We enjoyed each other’s pleasant company, and I happily declared my three hours of joyous winter holidays over.
You did the best you could, 2025 and I’m too old to regret times past. So, thanks and au revoir. Let’s don’t stay in touch. Well, wait. At this point, I don’t really want to remove any years from my projected lifespan. Maybe a postcard now and then would suffice to keep you in my life?
Be gone with you 2025. You oversaw the inauguration of a fascist clown—bad idea. And allowed him to harass the entire planet all year long. You should be ashamed.
Not only that, but you forced me to come to terms with the fact that I am old-old and will exit said planet in the next few years. What else…or is that enough to hold against you for now?
To do the final final-wrap then (so I can hurry on to the pleasures of 2026; let’s see…celebrating Mamdani=pleasure/invading another country=feels a little like pain).
Anyway, in my world, the year, 2025, began with me being puny at a glorious wedding on tropical island. But I licked my physical and psychological wounds, so to speak, while traveling about SE Asia with a son—during which, most nights, I read The Dark Valley, an almost too-thorough history of our world during the decade when worldwide fascism took hold and World War 2 began. I obsessively journaled my fear night after night.
Then I returned home and cozily pondered world affairs and my ever-more rapidly approaching demise from my very own couch! Our friendly psychologist at UNM’s Senior Health soon hinted that I was perhaps reaching acceptance…the final stage of grief, right? Grief that the country I thought I knew was disappearing and the universal grief experienced as death approaches.
It turns out the year was passing in a relatively non-threatening way though, at least in my world. Not so true for non-white persons of ‘difference’ in the US, or if one is trying to stay alive in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Congo-Kinshasa, Yemen, Afghanistan, and so many more places.
Me. I was safe. I am safe. Almost ashamedly so.
Autumn 2025. Good times. As already announced, Teresa and Jon will be parents in a couple of months, making me a great-great-grandmother (and I hope, however briefly, to actually be great at the position). Although since I am afraid of babies, this is challenging. Since I have too many pictures of all these good things to share…because that’s what I do, “Last Year,” the post will be divided into two: first friends and family and a lovely cluster of late fall visits. Then, Thanksgiving and end of year holidays.
Although by tomorrow we’ll probably have invaded Greenland and Panama…aren’t they next on the list? At war with Denmark. Doesn’t that sound silly? Well…? Not totally. Not even a good joke is it?
Let my good times roll. During early days at VSA/North Fourth Art Center, I had the good fortune to have three smart and accomplished young women show up for a years’ AmeriCorps service: there were many such young people over the years but these three would become among my most treasured friends. Now, close to 20 years later, they still are. Here in Albuquerque, May (mental health counselor, also married to AmeriCorps staff guy Nils, a physical therapist); there, in Colombia at the moment, Val (consultant, married to a nice guy in the diplomatic service); and elsewhere in Pennsylvania, Jess (theater artist/manager/instructor). I am truly excited when we can visit. They’re still among the smartest, kindest, and funniest people I know.
Val dropped in this fall for a few days which gave us an excuse to talk profound stuff and nonsense with May and Nils. We missed Jess mightily, but made plans to hang out with her sometime in 2026.
More good times with the early October Balloon Fiesta, everyone’s favorite time to visit Albuquerque…even if sometimes the weather turns bad and those magical creations never leave the ground! Like this year for example. Grandchildren, Steven and Ashley were here, hardly noticing the grounded balloons for the pleasure of hanging out with family.
To double the pleasure of no-balloons with plenty of fascinating people (!), two friends from Minnesota came rolling by in their ever-so-slightly unusual camper, sleeping in the driveway but joining us inside for various and sundry pleasures like the fancy bread and butter I serve and showers.
Mary, the mistress of camping and kayaking has written a charming book, The Kayak Lady, a best possible glimpse of life on and around a thousand or so of Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes.
A No Kings march gave us a chance to join our fellow radical-left wing-scum in a show of displeasure with the horror-in-chief.
At the sad end of things, one of my favorite people in the world and a friend of 50 plus year moved away. How is that possible? Friends of that duration should not be allowed to leave the city limits for more than a few weeks at a time, should they?
The good news is it seems we have enough stamina left for a trip or two…oh yeah, and I did inherit some great bookcases. Me and Pollyanna…always looking at the bright side.
Finally, on Last Year #1. A very special event for me. During my years traveling to and in South Africa to see, meet, and invite African artists to North Fourth Art Center, I met a theater artist at the Harare International Festival in Zimbabwe, originally from there, but at the time residing in Cape Town, named Jonathan K. His friend, support, guide, agent, and tour manager, a South African theater artist named Bo, was with him. I found his piece to be well written/acted and presented and we met briefly to talk about the possibility of Jonathan coming to New Mexico. We planned to meet later that year in Cape Town which we did. I had the chance to get to know them both and hear their separate and absolutely fascinating stories. First fast forward, they were part of Global DanceFest in 2010. And Bo was just here in Albuquerque to present her piece…at the famous theater of Teresa & Laurie.
Fast forward again, because the rest of the story will be told in a separate post. While a small part of that will be Jonathan’s, it is Bo’s story I want to dwell on. It’s a tale of South African life, families, politics, and race that could only happen there. Not because it’s worse than everyplace else, but it is story in layers and levels that perhaps are unique to South Africa.
And since South Africa is one of my three favorite countries on the planet, I cannot resist the chance to say more about it.
‘Last Year’ is winding down. When I return tomorrow, I’ll describe holiday time 2025 and then … Fini!
Sorry, can’t resist a few more words about the current state of American politics. Wish us luck during another night in the land of trump. As the slime ball and his military wreak havoc on the world, and congress cowers in its warren of dank cellars, and the supremes giggle all the way to whatever retreats keep them overfed, drunk, and/or fondling their pretties, we rest secure in the knowledge that the tech-bro world has even more grisly plans for our futures. Gotta love our fine leaders…right? I feel so much better that we’ve moved on to 2026. Ugh…
But to hell with faux-leaders. Here’s Scott and Sandra at the end of 2025 on a boat on the Mekong River (or a tributary thereof) going from Laos to Thailand. They’re doing what we all should be doing. Being out there in the world where and when we can. It’s a spectacular planet along with some of the built environment and some of the people.
New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day. Best holiday of the year coming up. A chance to thoughtfully ponder one passage of time and eagerly anticipate the next with all of the possibilities therein. A time to recognize one’s fears of bad actors all across the planet and repent of personal failures, both big and small; a time to fashion a future to the best of one’s ability that looks with hope and determination and even joy at a year ahead.
I acknowledge that a substantial portion of my personal pleasure is that New Year’s Eve and Day are when I make endless lists (a top-five favorite activity for me) and open brand-new journals/diaries/calendar books and enter first words with new pens, sometimes on an also brand-new or newly-placed desk or table. A far better time than can be had with firecrackers, balloons, turkey, or gift-giving (unless including journals or pens). Most people do not agree.
November and December 2025 have been eventful with family, friends, small travel, and even a few home improvements.
I even have plans for next year to share so this “wrap” may take a few episodes to conclude. It is now December 24rd.
First up…the biggest event of the year. A new kid in the family. “Kid” is my loving but ever so slightly annoyed label for Teresa and Jon’s soon (February) to appear baby. Since no one is allowed to know the gender or potential girl/boy name for the new human and since ‘baby’ doesn’t come with much personality attached, I’m choosing Kid…Kid S. Has a nice ring. And leaves all sorts of imagery open: 8-yr-old genius graduates college; 11-yr-old successor to Greta Thunberg saves the world; 14-yr-old reform school inhabitant, but only because the kid stole Bezos’ biggest yacht and donated it to Doctors Without Borders; 16-yr-old cyclist makes it all the way around the globe—grandpa is so proud; Great grandma’s favorite gg-kid, age 18, owns a flat in Paris where ggma’s ghost happily haunts forever and ever. Is this a great kid or what!
Here’s an interesting thing. When this big event was announced, I was happy for the excited parents since this was exactly how the plan was supposed to work, but it didn’t feel very personal to me. I know, first great-grandchild and all that, but babies are a little scary to me, a lot scary actually, and I didn’t envision getting to know her/him very well since our lives will overlap somewhat briefly. Which is sad for many reasons, one of which is we might have become great travel buddies.
Also, it was hard to grasp that my slim and graceful young granddaughter was planning to grow another human being in her body.
On a lovely Thanksgiving visit, it all became real. Teresa is indeed fitting that kid in her belly. Amazing. She is rounder, and even seems taller, although I know that’s not true. Although Jon hasn’t changed size, they both seem somehow magically prepared for their biggest roles in life—parenthood.
OR NOT?
The big revelation to me is about how this baby/kid/person/human/individual suddenly became real to me. It’s quite astounding how an unidentified small human has become real and special and how I am anxious to know her/him.
There is a downside though—I’m worried at a whole new level about the survival of our fine and fragile planet on this new kid’s behalf. It was feeling like the adults I know, including my children and grandchildren, were in this messy dangerous world with me and we’d either survive together, resembling who we are, or in the form of one exotic monster or the other, or not at all. We adults talk about the demise of our world…watch shows about it, read books about it…perhaps laughing weakly or dreaming badly. But poor Kid S…didn’t have one thing to say about any of this. How to work harder and give the kid a chance should be our big question, shouldn’t it?
Well anyway, I’m excited. A great grandchild. I guess, for now, I’ll call her ‘her’ sometimes and him ‘him’ sometimes. Or Asborg or Torgus after her/his great great great grandparents? After all, this kid is 1/8 Viking.
We won’t know each other well probably. Born almost 87 years apart. But perhaps I can make sure Asborg or Torgus knows about forests and snow and lefse and trolls. I was thinking about the expression ‘ships passing in the night’, but then, given my theater management years, one ‘enters stage left’ while the other ‘exits stage right’ seemed more appropriate. That made me a bit sad though because I’m hoping we’ll have at least a few scenes together!
Leaving you with possibly the best description ever of a lived life. So here we are Kid S. and me, entering and leaving. (Be nice to have the girl’s version, yes?)
All the world’s a stage
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
“All the World’s a Stage” By William Shakespeare
Merriest and Happiest of all holidays now and in the future. (Except Presidents’ Day…I’ve cancelled that)
It is so hard to write about regular stuff anymore. I want to, most of my life is still comprised of that regular stuff. But if my country is increasingly unrecognizable, shouldn’t I be screaming danger over and over and over, until someone listens, instead of blathering on about everyday life? But, you know what? The majority of human beings through all human time have experienced great changes, just as, or even more, dire than our own somewhat dramatic descent into fascism. I imagine they’ve experienced the same emotions—despair, resolve, fear, hope, disgust, pleasure—that we are going through on a daily basis (until one day, it’s all bad…?).
In the meantime, let me share a pleasant-enough story about a road trip my friend, Marge, and I just made to Taos, New Mexico. First photo up, my ear backgrounded by the glorious big blue skies of the high desert!
Marge, also known as Minnesota Marge, since I am New Mexico Marj, loves New Mexico (she once lived here) and usually visits every year. She has a timeshare so books into Santa Fe and/or another picturesque location, visits friends, and gorges on New Mexican food. This time, we agreed I would meet her in Santa Fe, we’d go up to Taos together and tourist for a few days.
Marge wanted to visit a few of her favorite sites, and wallow in the charms of art and enchiladas and personal history. I wanted to see if I still loved road trips and was as adaptable to different beds and food and simply hanging out as in the past.
For me, it turns out the road part was pretty much as pleasurable as ever. Except for being lost in Santa Fe for nearly an hour. But even google maps footnotes Santa Fe with a disclaimer about their information being correct! For Marge, the food was as fine as ever. Those giant plates of corn and meat and chiles called one thing or the other, including chili with an i.
Our first treat was a drive out to Rio Grande Gorge, probably more special for me than for Marge—because I remember twelve years ago visiting that grand site and sight with the Stifani Brothers, artistic twins originally from Italy, visiting us to perform the most charming of dance/theater pieces, Twin Pleasures, choreographed by Philippe Blanchard and appearing at Global DanceFest. I missed them and dance and North Fourth Art Center a lot this time, but I took the above brilliant selfie of my ear in the great blue sky of northern New Mexico in remembrance of that day. And there’s a picture of the art crew 12 years ago (see granddaughter Teresa, the traveling art girl, on the left) and just the tiniest of shots of ‘old me’ below for comparison sake.
We managed a few perfect Taos hours. The small but impressive Taos Art Museum and Fechin House, the latter fascinating at several levels: The artist, Russian Nicolai Fechin is, in my always humble art opinion, a brilliant painter of portraits; his story of life in Russia and the U.S. is the stuff of world history: and the house itself worth a long imagination-filled wander, thinking of me back there and then and what might different lives have been like.
Not to be diminished as an experience was lunch at La Luna in the old La Fonda Hotel. I was so happy…not being a fan of the Great New Mexican Dining Experience in its usual heavy, greasy (and in my opinion, boring) version. I wasn’t expecting much since Taos Plaza is slightly run-down appearing and the sidewalk in front of the hotel had that unsurprising, but always disappointing, pee perfumery. Marge ignored me mumbling ‘let’s go someplace else.’ And good for her. The food was honestly as good as anything I’ve eaten anywhere. The owner/manager/chief chef/inventor has labeled the style Indigenous World Cuisine: At La Luna at La Fonda, we proudly present an indigenous World Cuisine that honors the ancestral foodways of North, Central and South America. Our menu is rooted in the traditions of the land, highlighting ingredients that have sustained Indigenous peoples for millennia – from heirloom corn, wild game, and native beans to seasonal fruits, herbs, and spices.
I had Albondigas Vegan: Mushroom and pine nut meatballs served with zoodle squash and butternut sauce, topped with pumpkin seeds. And for dessert: Sweet Corn Crème Brulee: Fresh corn modified with sugarcane, served with dairy-free custard. May I just say…OMG, it was perfect.
End of story…almost.
Turns out Marge really cannot breathe at high altitudes anymore. And I no longer can sleep well on murphy beds. A bit of a struggle was had by both of us. Marge at some point said sadly, “I guess I won’t be coming to New Mexico anymore.” I said, at various points, also sadly, “I may be mostly through traveling anywhere for the sheer pleasure of traveling.” Yes, I said that. And meant it. And still do, a week later.I have imagined this moment, with its sense of something so big in my life being over, for a while now. And here it is. All good things and all that… After all I’ve been traveling since what you see below was what hotel rooms offered in the way of cleansing and grooming.
