Vaca is nearly over. This has been an authentic vacation—as in doing as little as possible and then only the most pleasant of activities. I’ve started sleeping again which was a touch-and-go proposition for awhile before leaving Albuquerque. I’ve read and read and read. Visited—as in sitting around talking to people you haven’t seen for awhile—and if in Minnesota, drinking coffee and eating cake. In other words, slothing (an act of just lazying around, an act of indolence , moving around clumsily or lazily.-says Urban Dictionary) So here’s a small slothing album.

The Food Section: Part of ‘vacationing’ is eating food other people have cooked and/or eating things you ordinarily wouldn’t. I’ve been totally meat free (working toward vegetarianism, seafood- free as well…but not yet) all year. Made my only 2019 exception by taking Dried Beef sandwiches up to the Old Place for our day of reminiscences. Mom always made them for excursions because they tasted the same on Day #3 as on the first day! Maybe not a recommendation but never mind that…I will always love them.



The house I grew up in and I are disintegrating at about the same rate. Actually the old house may be even more wrecked than me but its dilapidation is far more interesting to behold.



To me it is beautiful here, where I grew up, just as it is: overgrown, collapsing, old timber and stucco buildings reverting to woods. The welcome wagon meets us on the road and then we just walk around and listen to our young voices echoing through the treetops.



Marsha’s toe became calcified—or something like that. Doctor said ‘it must go.’ So it was chopped off. It’s a bit more complicated than that but there’s apparently nothing life- or even gait-threatening so we all feel free to poke fun at Marsha’s Toe Story. I thought it should enter cyberspace for the sake of posterity.

Here then….


I made a list of projects for Minnesota. Including a rather momentous one—to review and then burn most of my old journals. I thought long and hard about the hundreds of angst-filled pages that would go up in smoke, nevermore to be seen by human eye. Then I happily—and only a little regretfully—loaded the books in my bag and boarded the plane for Minnesota. Preparing to end my relationship with that young…then less-young…then older…then middle-age…woman who had pushed my inner child into some deep cranial crevice and taken over ‘me’ with worries and chaos and longings and…nonsense.

For anyone reading this and wondering if I won’t live to regret such an action—I can say pretty definitely ‘no.’ The journals begin June 9, 1975, forty-four years ago. I had been divorced two years; Scott was fifteen, Steven twelve; money, jobs and lovers were all problematic. And that’s what the first two volumes are all about; they’ve been examined before and again this week in a search of profound thoughts, meaningful actions, something…anything I could retain for posterity. Nothing. I was in my 30s, bright enough, pretty enough, ambitious enough I suppose—but not exactly practical or thoughtful or wise. I’ve ripped a few pages out of that fat journal that may contain a line or two for a future book or blog. That’s all. One’s a vision of my young son washing the car with the sparkle and splash of water spraying in the sun; one pays plaintive homage to a love affair ending….and…maybe there are only two pages worth saving?

The drama continued (with a gradual reduction of money problems and lovers) until 1984 when I took my first big trip abroad—Sue and me and the world. By then I had a fulfilling job and my kids were doing well, having survived the somewhat careless mothering they received for awhile. I had room for an inner ‘traveling’ child to emerge.

I brought scraps and pages and 1998 and 1999 journals with me to Minnesota as well on this ‘peruse and destroy’ mission—the goal being to focus on this century when back at my Albuquerque desk. Fortunately, after those early-days ramblings the books become far more mundane, drowning in daily details that I’m sure were healthy for me to record at the time but now, twenty years later, are quite possibly as boring as had I just written ‘all good men must come to the aid of their country’ a few thousand times.


So glad I wrote this post and took the photos included herein as I was feeling slightly hesitant about something as final as consigning years of words to absolute oblivion. Turns out, as I’d hoped, to be a positive move…Marie Kondo-ing a whole lot of blather might be the best way to describe the action now that it’s done. I can say thank you with heartfelt appreciation to those hardbound black and red journals that moved apartments, towns, even states, with me all of these years…you have been my therapists and best friends. Now, however, I’ve matured enough to go on without you…and, because Al Gore invented the internet, I can have blogs instead.

Join me now out at the Old Place for the burning of the books—a phrase I never thought to utter.

Love these fire photos…maybe it’s all about my inner pyromaniac?


Family really is what it’s all about isn’t it?

But now for the ROAD TRIP.

Life in Minnesota moves along just as it should. Sleeping again, visiting cousins, stocking up on moose and walleye sweatshirts and enough new shoes for all the abs classes and walking marathons of next year. And a road trip. Granted it was not of the fifteen-hundred-miles-plus kind I enjoyed so much in the past—still it did stir some slumbering  road-trip genes awake. This is good since Scott, Teresa and I are road tripping across Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan in the near future.

My Minnesota road trip took me west on US 2 (in times past the main east-west routed in the northern US) from Grand Rapids to Deer River, up Highways 46 to Northome, 1 and 72 to Baudette, 11 to Roseau, 89 to Red Lake and on down to Bemidji and finally US 2 back to Grand Rapids. About 400 miles. It’s not the most spectacular route—no mountains, oceans, grand cities or historical monuments but there are enough aspen, spruce, balsam, and birch for my annual/biannual tree fix. Between Roseau and Bemidji the grand sweep of Red Lake keeps me occupied and the first visit in 20+ years to Lake Bemidji and Paul Bunyan and his loyal companion, Babe the Blue Ox makes me happy. Mom and Dad were married 81 years ago on the shores of Lake Bemidji.

I’ve made road trips of over 4,000 miles in the past, often by myself, and loved every dusty or rainy or ragged or scenic mile and almost every second-rate motel. The Albuquerque to Grand Rapids trip of a couple of years ago finished off that lifelong passion and, while it makes me a little sad and a little nostalgic to say that…it’s time I suppose. My first long trip was when my family moved briefly to Portland, Oregon when I was sixteen and I wound up driving much of the way, especially through anything resembling an urban area. My dad had never driven in a bigger metropolis than Bemidji and he wasn’t about to start then. The car was a maroon 47 Chevy (Robert remembered) and since the trip was in ‘55 it was a newer model than we usually owned. I lost the car in (to me) a huge Portland parking lot our first week or so there and my mom and I had to take a bus downtown and spend most of a day searching for it. Northome (300 pop.) had not prepared us well for city life.

Back to yesterday.


Terri and Brian’s land is probably about 2/3 open field and 1/3 fairly dense woods. Brian is with Polaris so he gets a new vehicle  or two to drive and evaluate every year. This year it’s a large ATV Ranger, first time I’ve ever seen one of those noisy toys I liked! Terri took us for a ride in their woods and I wanted one…to go to the three blocks to the grocery store in Albuquerque perhaps…but I don’t think they’re legal in towns are they?


Terri’s been a horsewoman her whole life, roping and barrel racing and like events on quarter horses and now trail riding with Dandy, her Tennessee Walker, a most gorgeous animal. Her grandchildren eager to hang out and become the next generation of riders. It’s encouraging to see kids and horses so happy with each other. Photos aren’t great but they’ll do what photos do best…take one back to a moment in time…one summer day in Minnesota.

One should only eat walleye in Minnesota at a cousin’s house. Oh sure, some number of restaurants serve walleye but, even though good-enough, it won’t taste like it does at Terri and Brian’s.

The Walleye catchers, cooks, and helpers. Niki, Terri and Brian.

Made it back to Grand Rapids with a couple of pieces left to share with Robert.

  • Truth About Walleye And Their Taste (

The walleye has white flesh. It has a less murky taste than bass. Fish fillets which are fine and flaked have a sweet, thick, succulent and mild flavour. These terms basically describe the taste of the walleye. This means that if prepared following a great recipe it would turn out to be quite a delicacy. Actually, most culinary communities highly regard it for its flavour and delicate flake.

fish walleye

Walleye is one quite an excellent fish to eat. I find its taste to be better than that of the trout, finer taste and the creek fish.

Who would enjoy eating a bonny fish which puts one at the risk of chocking any minute? Who would want to concentrate on getting rid of the bones other than enjoying a delicacy? I bet every other angler would want to dig his or her teeth deep into some flesh without any worry of injuries or worse fatalities and enjoy the meal as a reward for their hard work during the fishing spree. The walleye has very few bones, and this makes it quite appealing for consumption.


You’ve heard the story. Marsha gives me a gift certificate for Bender’s in Grand Rapids every birthday and every Christmas. So, if I miss coming home a year (four certificates!) there’s a shoe binge on the horizon and Bender’s has great shoes, kind of like a mini-Dillards. Travel is a indeed enlightening, enriching, good for one’s soul…sole…whatever.

Insomnia not quite gone yet…but leaving. Up to Roseau on the border tomorrow for cousin time and walleye.