Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: On Making America Great Again.

May 22, 2016 / boo king / 2 Comments

I grew up in a border town, which meant that in a mere half-hour we could be in Minnesota. Taking a drive to “The States” was something we did on a regular basis. The Old Man, Ma and I would take many a Sunday afternoon drive down to the US border just to wander around the Border Store with it’s creaky wooden floors, endless aisles of trinkets ‘n trash, and all kinds of cheap crap made of plastic.

There was also all the absolutely stupendous candy that you could only get in America. It wasn’t like today where you can get anything from anywhere no matter how far out in the boonies you live. Back then, you had to travel 40 miles south on highway 61 and cross the Pigeon River Bridge to sink you teeth into a wondrous and unforgettable Sugar Daddy, Chocolate BB Bat, Big Cherry Bar, Turkish Taffy, and the oh-so exotic wax bottle mini drinks. Good God they were good.

By the time I was a teenager we had many trips to Duluth, or even as far south as Minneapolis. Most trips were shopping excursions, which often included my older sister and at least one of her ubiquitous girlfriends. I have fond memories of the lions and tigers at the Duluth Zoo. Once the Dag Hammarskjold High School Band did a disastrous tour of Duluth High Schools. I played second clarinet. Enough said. I also made at least one trip to Duluth with my girlfriends Terry and Suzy, where we stayed in a cheap old hotel that stank of stale cigarettes and fried onions, and met two man-boys, one of which wore a toupee. I still blush when I think of it.

I loved American small towns, American boys, American music, American movie stars, American baseball, American shoes, American clothes, American potato chips, American candy and even the American flag because it had stars, which I also loved. Yes, I grew up coveting all things American. Everything about it seemed just a little bit better than what we had. I was proud to be a Canadian girl who loved America.

I remember where I was the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Mr. Ward made the announcement that fateful Friday afternoon just before our class was dismissed for the weekend. I remember how stunned and sad I was walking home from school that miserable overcast November day. I remember the excitement of Neil Armstrong walking on the moon in the sultry summer of 1969. Decades later I would fictionalize the memory in my first novel, Summer in a Red Mustang with Cookies. I remember where I was the morning of September 11 when the twin towers were brought down. The Today Show’s Katie Couric delivered the devastating news in real-time as we watched in horror as they crumbled to the ground in a cloud of smoke and ash. But like the Phoenix rising, I remember how deliriously happy I was when Barack Obama became President. The Americans had a great leader again, one worthy of our respect and admiration, like Kennedy.

And then I remember how bewildered I was almost a year ago when Donald Trump announced that he was officially running for president of the United States and that he was going to make America great again. How was that even possible? First of all, I thought America was already pretty great. I thought this had to be some kind of joke, another publicity stunt, and that he didn’t stand a chance. But now, like most of us, I know that this isn’t a joke. This is seriously scary shit. Come November, it is quite possible that we could all be saying President Trump. I choke on the words.

When I look back on the America of my youth, the America I loved to visit, the America I admired, and the America I thought would be such a cool place to live, I’m sad and overwhelmed with grief by what is unfolding on the other side of the border. Over the past few months, I’ve found myself angry, frustrated, dismayed, disturbed, troubled, worried, offended, frightened and quite frankly, disappointed, ashamed and embarrassed by all the bad behavior and empty rhetoric taking place in a country I so admired. It’s like finding out your favorite uncle wasn’t at all what you thought he was, that he actually deserved to be behind bars and not held in your high esteem.

But I haven’t lost all hope. There’s still a part of me that has faith in the wisdom and intelligence of the American people; that there are more who are good, kind and equitable than ignorant, hateful and prejudiced. There is still a part of me that believes that when the rubber hits the road, the America that I loved as a young Canadian girl is still there; that these great Americans will show the world that they are too smart to listen to the reprehensible rants of a carnival barker, to be influenced by fear mongering, and most importantly, to be duped by a spoiled charlatan with deep pockets, bad hair and a shallow devious mind.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Depression.

November 10, 2013January 29, 2015 / boo king / 4 Comments

This morning I woke up. Thank God. As I was making the bed I thought about my plans for the day. Making a cup of cinnamon coffee. Writing my blog. Banking with E. Shoe shopping with M. The first two items on the list made me happy. The third, not so much. The fourth delighted me.

Then I had this thought. My two daughters are my best friends. Then I had this thought. I wonder if they’d find that pathetic. I know I’m not theirs. Nor should I be at their ages. Then I had this thought. My mother was my best friend. Then I had this thought. When she died I not only lost my mother, I lost my best friend. Then I had this thought. That blows.

Then I started to cry. Bawled my fucking brains out as I was making the bed. The whole nine yards. Messy tears and snot all over my face, the pillows, sheets and my new shabby chic comforter. Which by the way, was incapable of providing neither the degree, nor the depth, of comfort required to stop this sorrowful eruption of muck and mournfulness.

Then I had this thought. I’m sad. Probably even depressed.

I come by this melancholy honestly. Not that he talked about it. Not ever. But I think The Old Man was depressed, most of his adult life. Maybe it was because he was Finnish. Their suicide rates are high, especially in the winter, which is long, cold and dark. Much like Northwestern Ontario, where he lived his entire life. I got out when I was twenty-four. It was too dreary for me. On so many levels I can’t even begin to describe.

What caused his depression? Who knows. I can only speculate. One part environment. One part DNA. One party magical mystery tour.

The Old Man sought refuge and relief from his misery in alcohol, watching sports on TV, buying new shoes, eating anything laced with sugar, swearing at inanimate objects, going to church on Sundays, shoveling snow in the winter and digging in his garden in the summer, umpiring little league games, taking long Sunday drives, scratching our dog’s belly, and sleeping. The older he got the more he slept. He was often antisocial, spending long hours alone in the spare room, behind closed doors watching TV or reading the daily newspaper. There was a Hammond Organ in that room that he tinkered with but never really learned to play. (However, he was an accomplished spoon percussionist.) The memory of that room, and his self-imposed exile and isolation, makes me sad.

People didn’t talk about their feelings back then. Men especially, kept things under wraps. Stiff upper lips and pulled up boot straps. The Old Man stuffed his sadness inside a profusion of plaid flannel shirts, only to unleash it every three months like clockwork, after a long night at the neighborhood saloon. The Crest on Red River Road. Instead of manifesting in tears, his hurt took a far darker, menacing form. He’d come home seething with anger. Uncontrollable rage. He never hit anyone because he was like a small yapping dog. All bark and no bite. But he ranted relentlessly and bullied the shit out of Ma and her kids. He was an unholy terror. It was one hell of a time.

During those dark nights of the soul, I hated him. Wished him dead. Prayed to God to strike him down with a bolt of lightening. A precise and explicit message from heaven. But that didn’t happen. Thankfully. Because the truth is, The Old Man was a good man when he wasn’t drinking. He had a kind, tender and sensitive heart, and he loved his family fiercely.

And he was ill.

An alcoholic. But the alcohol was merely self-medication. The deeper illness was depression. It makes me sad now to think that we didn’t know that. I mean, we knew intimately the subject matter of his rum and coke induced rages. The things that angered and tormented him. But we never understood why. Our family knew very little about the pathology of alcoholism as a disease. And even less about depression. Back then depressed people were crazy. Plain and simple. It was far better to be a self-pitying miserable alcoholic.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered if while I was praying to God to strike him dead, if he was doing the same thing. He went to church every Sunday. What were his prayers? Did he pray for help? Beg for healing? Did he seek forgiveness? Did he find comfort there? Did it any of it help? I hope so.

So here I sit. Years and miles away from Northwestern Ontario. Daylight is breaking. How do I deal with my sadness? This depression? The tears that stain my cheeks and cover my shabby chic comforter? I do this. I write. I run. I do yoga. I take long walks along quiet country roads. I take photographs. I play with my dogs. I love my family fiercely. I eat well. I take vitamins. I talk to my wise girlfriends about deep dark feelings. I pour my heart out to my husband. I listen to my children and look for clues on how to live a joyful life. I laugh my guts out. I pray. I meditate. I write letters to God. I count my blessings. I get up, go to work and give it my very best shot. I play my guitar and my clarinet. I read books. Listen to music. I dream. I hang out. I waste time. I watch TV.

But I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t do drugs, except for the occasional ibuprofen. I do my best to stay away from sugar, especially white. I don’t give myself pep talks. They don’t work. I also don’t scold. Engage in self-pity, self-loathing or self-flagellation. I watch my inner dialogue. I try not to spend too much time alone in this room. Although that’s challenging because one of the things I love to do most requires that I spend long stretches of time in isolation.

Over the years I have found solace in motivational books and tapes, teachers, preachers, the wise and the enlightened. I’ve learned acceptance. Of what was. And what is.

Will I ever be completely free from depression and sadness? No. The truth is, I don’t want to be fully extricated. It’s part of who I am. Like my hazel eyes and crooked smile. It’s the fuel that fires some of my richest writing. The fountainhead of a few of my best ideas. My literary wellspring. It’s what allows me to feel things deeply. Not just my suffering. But yours. And yours. And yours. I shed tears for all living creatures. Even the dead rats I come across on the country road I walk. I like that about me.

Depression reminds me of my humanness. My weaknesses and strengths. It dictates that, in order to stay healthy, I must stay connected. It opens the eyes of my heart. And unleashes love, kindness, compassion, forgiveness, hope. And above all. Empathy.

I get it Dad. I get your pain.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Everything I Know About Fashion I Learned from my Father.

June 17, 2012 / boo king / 4 Comments

Looking handsome in his army uniform.

I like fashion. Part of me blushes with embarrassment at confessing such a thing. For three reasons. One. It seems superficial and frivolous, especially when there are so many serious and tragic things going on in the world. Two. I thought that by now I’d be past caring about what I wore, much less if my butt looked good in skinny jeans. Three. I’ve never been much of a girly girl so having a passion for fashion and being a tracker of tony trends, that includes knowing the hottest color of lipstick, seems out of character. This is one of those loves I’ve kept in the closet. Under wraps. Shawls. Sweaters and other lovely things. Until now.

All dressed up to pull a sleigh through the neighborhood.

Here’s the paradox. In actuality, I don’t like shopping. I just like clothes and shoes and accessories and make-up. If I was rich I’d have them brought to me. Like the Queen. Although I must admit I’ve been known to engage in a little retail therapy with my youngest daughter, from time to time. Truth is, it feels wonderful, especially doing it with her. She is my fashion consultant and barometer. She has a keen eye for all things fashionably hip yet balanced by age appropriateness. It’s absolutely fabulous Darling. I highly recommend it. In small doses of course.

Every now and then, I wonder if this trivial pursuit is really necessary. The Old Man would say an emphatic YES. So it is he who sowed the sartorial seed, and in this case, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Summer time and the living is easy. So are the fashions.

Ma was a natural Italian beauty. She always looked lovely when she went out, even if it was just to the grocery store. A splash of lipstick was all she needed and she was good to go. Her personal style was a combination of things that were fittingly fashionably for the time and casually comfortable. She preferred slacks and long-sleeved bright colored tops that coordinated. Her fav top was a hot pink check. When it came to shoes, hers were always made for walking. Grace and natural beauty aside, Ma would never have made it to the cover of any of the ladies’ magazines she so enjoyed reading.

His flair for fashion started young.

The Old Man on the other hand was the sharp dresser. This was something I stumbled upon while curating hundreds of family photos. It was in the faded pages of old family albums and in the musty cardboard boxes stuffed with cracked and gnarled black and white images that I discovered this other side to my father. He was a Beau Brummell. A Dapper Dan. Snazzy and spiffy. A downright trendy dude. Where Ma’s fashion sense leaned towards the conservative and a touch predictable, The Old Man was stylish and clearly hip to current trends. His polish and flair could be seen across the decades. It was there in every precious detail. Topdown. Hats to shoes. Everything in between. This was all the more extraordinary given the geographic distance between our unsophisticated northwestern town and the fashion meccas. When I was young there weren’t many places to shop for clothes. Nor did we have the financial resources to do so. We were a family of modest means. Yet like Ma, he made much from little. Where he got this flair for fashion I’ll never know.

The kilt-wearing band of brothers.

A large part of The Old Man’s adult life was spent in a uniform. First there was the kaki colored army uniform that he wore in the early forties. He is dashing in his official portrait. His side cap tilted towards his right ear with brass buttons front and centre. Black tie smartly snapped to attention. Regulation trousers. Two of the ancient photographs reveal an homage to the Canadian Scottish Regiment that he was part of. The tartan kilt. This provocative and valiant man-skirt showcased his strong legs adorned with traditional woolen knee-high hose. Head gear was a Scottish beret with a fetching pompom on top. A leather sporran hung on a strap around his waist. And sturdy leather brogues were issued with marching orders.

The working man’s uniform.

He wore a uniform to work every day. Blue twill pants and matching jacket complete with embroidered company name badge. Shaw’s Holusm. A basic ballpoint pen clipped into the single-button pocket always in the ready. His name Bill embroidered in simple readable script across the lapel of the other pocket. He dressed this up with a crisply ironed shirt in pale blue or white and minimalist dark tie in navy or black. Comfortable solid leather walking shoes were a must-have. Easy smile and eager-to-please attitude complemented this working man’s ensemble.

Mr Cool with his family.

His summer attire was casual, designed for comfort and easy living. Basic cotton or polyester trousers in neutral colors. Beige, gray, navy or white. With or without cuffs, side pockets and always belted. Golf shirts were an essential. Stripes, both horizontal and vertical, abstract patterns or plain versions in fashionable colors that coordinated with his pants. This particular proclivity had nothing to do with the sport because he never golfed. It was all about fashion. Pure and simple. In the spring, or for breezy summer evenings, he layered this look with beautifully lined windbreakers that zippered to a close. My personal favorite was from the early sixties. This little number was a cream colored short jacket cut from a toothy fabric with a wide ribbed elastic waistband that hugged the top of his hips. The easy-going turned down color revealed a bolo tie anchored to a pale colored buttoned up shirt. A study in contrasts. Aviator sunglasses and ever-present cigarette were the definition of Rat Pack cool.

Mad for plaid and his new baby girl.

On cold wintery days in the fifties and sixties, he sported a knee-length dark wool overcoat with matching fedora. No matter where he went. Even if it was a mere stroll through the neighborhood pulling me on a sleigh. He also owned a smashing mid-thigh single-breasted charcoal gray car coat with big roomy pockets. And parkas with zip-out linings that extended their wear. Sometimes function did take precedence over form. He was also mad for plaid in winter. Especially when it came to soft flannel shirts. Either tucked tidily into his trousers or worn over like a jacket. Still always buttoned to the top. He wore this lumberjack garb on the weekends or in the evenings. To hockey games with one of his brothers or while making a backyard rink for me. If there is such a thing as primal memory than somewhere deep inside my soul is the comforting feeling of the flannel shirt he wore in our very first photograph together. The one he carried in his wallet from my infancy to his death. I can’t think of a better fashion statement than that.

He loved suits and music.

He loved suits. And dressing up from head to toe. He had many over the years. Always stylish. Not Brooks Brothers nor European hand-stitched expensive jobs. Yet always the perfect cut and fit. Sometimes he donned a natty vest that came with the suit. Other times it was a v-necked knitted vest or sweater. He went to church every Sunday dressed to the nines. Shirt crisp and snappy. Cuff links in place. Tie full Windsor knot. Shoes polished to a spit-shine. Sunday mornings aside, The Old Man welcomed opportunities to put on a suit and tie. Weddings. Funerals. Graduations. Union conferences. Any function with even a dash of formality would do.

Cool and casual.

He also had a collection of sport coats for more casual outings. He relaxed his attire when wearing one of these. Loosened his shirt at the neck leaving one button undone and the collar on the outside of the jacket. No tie. While I loved his rogue edition from the sixties my absolute favorite was classic eighties. Deep burgundy velvet. He wore it proudly to an Awards Ceremony in 1984. It went beautifully with the striped Community Service medal draped around his neck that evening. I also loved his navy blazer with the gold buttons and the extra wide white tie he wore with it. A classic.

To say The Old Man loved shoes would be an understatement. He called them “kicks” and there was always a reason to buy a new pair. The name was apt since he got such a big kick out of them. His collection covered the cobbler’s gamut. Pristine white sneakers. Heavy black brogues. Brown penny loafers. White patten leather loafers. Simple unembellished slip-ons. Leather dress boots with zippers or laces. Rubber galoshes. And rubber slip-ons that covered the soles of his dress shoes to protect them from the harsh northern winters. He loved them all. He loved shopping for them. Caring for them. And most importantly, wearing them.

He also loved hats. In his later years, he had a collection of baseball caps with various logos. Teams. Companies. Places. It didn’t matter. He always wore them peak forward to shield his face. They were often embellished with a quirky lapel pin or two from his collection of hundreds. These caps were his standard summer headgear and he rarely went outdoors without one. In winter practicality reined, especially as he aged. The fedoras were put aside for more sensible woolen toques pulled snuggly over his ears. Aside from the fedoras, which were so irresistibly dashing, I loved him best hatless. Until the day he died he had a magnificent head of hair. He was an original Mop Top.

On the steps at 204 with his youngest grand daughter and Big Bird.

The Old Man cared about the way he looked even when he was elderly and walking was a struggle. One of my favorite pictures of him was taken on the front steps at 204. He’s sitting with my youngest daughter and her Big Bird knapsack. A faint shadow of Ma can be seen standing behind the screen door bearing witness to the scene. I was behind the camera. It’s summer and true to form he’s dressed in his summer casuals. Short-sleeved button-down plaid shirt, soft grey trousers, grey and black tweed socks, polished white leather sneakers and a red and black Reno baseball cap, peak forward. He and Ma would be gone a few short years after that picture was taken. Our time together had slipped away in a heartbeat. In a fashionable New York minute.

My father taught me many things over the years. Everything from riding a bike to driving a car. Yet it wasn’t until this past year that I realized he also taught me everything I know about fashion. Imagine that.

I love you Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Spring Traditions, New Shoes and the Easter Bunny.

April 8, 2012April 5, 2015 / boo king / 2 Comments

Boo in her shiny new shoes and Easter best.

I love shoes. There’s nothing like a new pair to hearten the soul. And the soles. Snazzy sneakers for Saturday morning strolls with the dogs. Dependable running shoes for weekday jogs. High heels with pointy toes for strutting or stumbling depending on the height. Cute comfy flats engineered for walking at lunch. Freedom flip flops in every color under the sun that just make me so happy. Summer sandals to show off my red painted toes. Butt-kicking black boots with straps across the ankle and shiny silver buckles. Cowboy boots. Doc Martens. Converse. Leather, canvas, suede or rubber. My love affair with shoes began early. And came honestly.

Little back story. When I was a kid, way back in the day, the arrival of Spring was a long time coming. Much anticipated and welcomed. Weary winter arms wide open. Some years there were a few false starts. Hiccups along the transitional path. Others years felt like it was never going to come. We were taunted and teased by Mother Nature. Occasionally, it seemed as though the season was by-passed completely. We were catapulted right into summer like a rock from a slingshot.

But when Spring finally did arrive, there were a few things that I could count on. The Easter Bunny. Chocolate eggs. Hot cross buns. And new shoes.

In northern climates, the mere thought of Spring is reason enough to rejoice. Celebrate. Skip to my Lou. Do a little Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah dance. You were happy to surrender your snowballs in favor of cats-eye marbles, skipping ropes and red rubber balls. You could smell the balmy potential for knock out ginger, dodgeball and red rover. Your bike was waiting for fresh air to be breathed into its tires. Peddle pushers and other cotton casuals, that had been hanging around all winter, were raring to go. You could smell change in the air the second you stepped out the door. Palpable. Expectant. Buoyant. There were chirpy hints of green everywhere. The possibilities were breathtaking.

In the midst of all this climatic commotion and hullabaloo, there was Easter. I’ve always found this particular holiday to be a bit emotionally and intellectually confusing. And perhaps that’s the point. To Christians, this is both a sad and happy occasion. Sad because of what happened on Good Friday. Joyous because of the awe-inspiring event that occurred the following Sunday. An entire religion was built around this belief. Despite the fact that we were Lutherans, this foundational theological presumption eluded me. It was only years later that I understood this core tenet. Doctrine aside, weather-wise I recall Good Fridays as being bleak. Grey. Cold. Depressing. And Easter Sundays were just the opposite. Bright. Warm. Optimistic. To add to all this dogmatic perplexity and emotional bewilderment, there was the Easter Bunny. It was a head-scratcher for a church-going kid.

I have to admit, that as a child I was much more interested in the big EB than JC. The Easter Bunny was something real. Fun. Exciting. Santa Claus’s good buddy. They were in cahoots. I loved them both. I looked forward to their annual visits. And the gifts they came bearing. In particular, I loved Easter Bunny’s sense of adventure and cleverness. Unlike Santa, who just deposited his gifts under the Christmas tree, Easter Bunny hid his all over the house. Chocolate covered marshmallow eggs tucked beneath the cushions of the couch. Bright colored sugary eggs nestle behind the clock on the mantel. Jelly bean eggs scattered hither and yon throughout the kitchen and living room.

Like Christmas Eve, I spent the night before the Easter Bunny visit imagining all the sweet treats that would be delivered to our house. Just for me. It was a night of salivation and sleeplessness. The next morning I would hop out of bed (in honor of my long-eared hero), anxious to begin the annual hunt. Ma would have a brightly colored woven basket ready for me to collect my hidden treasures. Around the house I scurried. Like a saintly little Jack Rabbit. Crouching and crawling to retrieve treats concealed under various pieces of furniture. Standing on tiptoes to peer over the top of the taller things. Carefully reaching behind Ma’s nicknacks and ornaments to gather these sweet rare gems. A special delivery made once a year by a giant white rabbit with enormous ears and a dapper pink bow tie around his neck. It was like I had died and gone to Sugar Heaven. It was exalted. Majestic. Downright divine. I suppose in my young mind this was somehow the connection to God. Only a Supreme Being could send someone so wonderful. So magical. So marvelous. And so imaginative.

After the hunt was complete, and Ma assured me that I had discovered every treasure hidden, we had breakfast. I never questioned her psychic ability to know this. It was all part of the fantasy. The wonder. The make-believe. After breakfast of eggs, bacon and hot cross buns, we got ready for church. This involved a new wardrobe. In particular, new shoes.

Back then it was tradition to get a new pair of shoes every spring. It officially marked a farewell, not only to winter but to sloshing around in big heavy pile-lined galoshes. I looked forward to the annual shoe shopping trip with Ma. I would try on various footwear options but in the end it was usually the black patent leather shiny ones that seduced me. With or without bows. Usually with round toes, straps across the ankle and gold buckles. They were magnificent. And I wore them proudly to church Easter morning. Along with the new dress Ma made for me, white gloves, my spring coat, an Easter bonnet and white cotton gloves. I was a vision of sartorial splendor.

Although Ma and I were the annual Spring shoe shoppers, my love for shoes actually originated with The Old Man. Next to sports, sweets, and Vodka, he loved shoes. He called them kicks. Even as he grew older – when his stride became a shuffle – and the compulsive hunger for a new pair struck, he’d declare that it was “time for some new kicks.” I suspect it was an urge as irrepressible as that for alcohol or orange filled wafer cookies. It doesn’t take a psychologist to understand the motivation behind The Old Man’s obsession with shoes. It was simple. As a child, he never had much of anything that was new, little alone a pair of shoes. Everything was either second or third used. Hand me downs. Patched, stitched, re-patched and repeat. Worn with holes in the soles. Broken laces. Flapping toed humiliation.

The Old Man had shoes for every occasion. And for no occasion at all. He needed no rhyme nor reason for acquiring new shoes. It was equal parts compulsion, exhilaration, triumph and satisfaction. And once purchased, he lovingly and happily cared for them. Polished. Buffed. And shined. Lined up in a tidy orderly row. Contained and coveted. Something he could control. They were his to admire and enjoy all the days of his life. It seems with each new pair, he was given a temporary lease on life.

It’s also not surprising, nor coincidental, that The Old Man not only named his horse Tootsie but one of our dogs as well. So great was his affection for his tender ones.

This Easter my grand daughter will hunt for chocolate bunnies and rainbow colored eggs, that the big EB will sprinkle about our house in all the usual places. But before that happens, we’ll go shoe shopping. This is not the time to break with tradition. And as the Paolo Nutini lyrics express so fittingly, “hey I put some new shoes on and suddenly everything is right.”

My Thing About God