1,000 Words

As part of my 1,365th attempt to become a real writer, I've joined a club in Wausau that has been formed under the leadership of University of Wisconsin Marathon County English assistant professor Jill Stukenberg.

It's called 1,000 Words Wausau, and each week Jill emails a bunch of people a set of words and phrases and they try to write 250 words using them. It can be anything, poetry, a letter, fiction, etc. I picked up the little booklet from December's work at Janke Book Store, and I really liked it.

So, I've completed my first week's assignment. It actually fun. And because I'm all about repurposing and using one thing to help bolster another, here it is (the words Jill assigned are in bold):

The Coop

Grandpa would bring the cards out later in the evening, well after supper. Out in the barn, the cows would have been fed and watered, stalls cleaned and the straw put down. In the house, in the kitchen, Grandma would have put supper leftovers in the fridge and the dishes would be done.

 We’d all sit at the table, and Grandpa would deal the cards, first to Grandma, then to me. The game was King’s Corners, and I would do everything I could to beat Grandpa but I never could.

 Grandma would tell stories, weaving out in words the tableau of her childhood. “There never was any money,” she said. “But we didn’t lack for nothing. We had music, and singing, and Saturday nights we would dance. Oh, we’d have some parties.”

There were some pretty sad versions of her childhood. Grandma’s younger sister died at childbirth and “Mama became a ghost,” she said. “Just sitting at the window in a greedy silence. It was almost as if she died herself, but kept on breathing.”

 I loved the way those stories would dig into the past. My favorite was how Dad was conceived. “We had been going together for about a year,” Grandma said. “And Emil would come over and help me with the chores. It was winter, and cold. The coop was warm, and his hands were so soft.”

 “In the coop?” I asked, imagining the smell of birds.

 Grandpa smiled. “Nobody had a car,” he said.

Note: I just had Kris read this, and I wish I had done that before I sent the version off to Jill. "There are a lot of woulds and coulds in here," she said. Also, she suggested that I set the story in the present.

"Grandpa brings the cards out later in the evening, well after supper."

"I think that would be a lot more powerful," she said.

My science-oriented wife is a hell of a good editor.

'Whenever my hypos get such an upper hand...'

In my latest self-improvement plan, Version 329, I am taking a writing course.

This class is offered through "The Great Courses," a company that offers classes on DVDs, and is sort of the modern version of the mail-order college class. The company advertises in magazines such as Smithsonian and The New Yorker, so of course I was suckered in by the idea. Kris bought me the class for Christmas. Its title is "Analysis and Critique: How to Engage and Write About Anything."

It's taught by Professor Dorsey Armstrong, an associate professor of English at Purdue University.

This all doesn't sound that appealing does it? I must admit that I was pretty excited about getting the course, even while I was pretty dubious about it at the same time.

Turns out that the class is actually kind of interesting, although I've only watched two half hour lessons.

I was kind of hoping that it would be a video of an actual class, but instead it's produced especially for the DVD viewer. Professor Armstrong stands in a kind of cheesy set, with pillars and some drapes, and she uses her arms emphatically, but again, this isn't about production values or acting ability, but what she has to say. And I like it.

So far she's talking about reading critically, looking for key words that identify mood, time, place, etc. Nothing earth shattering. But...

Professor Armstrong asked me to examine the first couple of paragraphs of "Moby Dick."

The second paragraph:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off -- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

That passage sets the tone of the book, Armstrong said. It shows the time period in which the book is set -- "coffin warehouses" -- and lets the reader know that it will not be without humor.

I found it to be an incredible piece of writing, because (holy shit!) Hawthorne was describing me! Replace sea with "going for a bike ride" or "taking a long run," and you've got a pretty dead on description of my feelings. I might be living in 2013, and far away from any adventure that involves a sailing ship and great white whale, but I still get the "hypos" that makes me want to knock people's hats off. Or grab their ties, or push them into a puddle.

Next on my reading list: "Moby Dick," and maybe it's high time for me to get to my own sea, somehow, someway.

Neighbor Dan

My neighbor Dan broke his collarbone a couple of months ago, while taking a nasty fall on a patch of ice.

We are friendly neighbors, but not overly so.  We talk in snippets here and there as we're both coming or going.

He's a Packers and Brewers fan, like we all are, and he likes to go out and have a few drinks, like most of us do. I like the fact that he's a responsible drinker, like too few us are, which I found out last summer when I noticed his truck wasn't parked in his driveway.

"Where's the truck?" I asked him. "Is it in the shop?"

"No," he said. "I might have had a couple too many last night. It's still at the bar."

Dan is a fisherman. That's not his job -- he works as a customer service rep at a health insurance administration company -- but it's who he is. He's particularly passionate about ice fishing, which I find intriguing. He can't exactly describe why he loves sitting on frozen water waiting for a walleye or whatever come by and bite his line, but he does. He's got all sort of interesting equipment and clothes, which he is constantly loading and unloading in his two-wheel drive Chevy S10.

But what I love most about Dan is his talent for understatement.

I found out about the collarbone in typical Dan fashion.

"Hey Dan, how's it going?" I called out as he was coming out of his house one evening.

"Hey Keith, not too bad," Dan said. "Broke my collarbone, though. Fell on the ice."

I knew that he didn't fall which ice fishing, because this was very early in our winter, and water was still open. We had had one snowfall, and the subsequent melt left little patches of ice scattered here and there: Mother Nature's booby traps.

Dan and I talked about the injury a bit. He was off of work for a while, he said. I told him I would do whatever I could to help, and that at least I could shovel his drive when needed. "If you need anything else," I told him, just ring the bell. "Kris and I will do what we can. Except I won't help you get dressed. You'll have to figure that out on your own."

In a subsequent conversation, he went into more detail about the injury. He had to keep his arm in a sling, because there's no cast for a broken collarbone.

"It's taking longer than normal for it to heal," Dan said. "I must have turned or something when I fell. There are fragments in there. The doctors call it a corkscrew break. I saw the x-rays, the bone is twisted. I'm not gonna lie, it's been pretty painful."

This was weeks ago. Dan's thanked me profusely for clearing his driveway, and even gave me a gas card to show his gratitude. I told him he didn't have to do that, I kind of like shoveling, and if the snow is deep, I have a snowblower. "Still, I really appreciate it," Dan said.

I talked to him this morning. He's back at work, and he's got an appointment with his doctor today.

"This should be the last one," he said.

"Wow," I said. "It's a cautionary tale."

"Yep," he said, nodding slowly. "It's been an experience."

Writing

So I've had this love/hate relationship with writing, and this blog was supposed tip the balance to the love side. It's had mixed results.

I'd love to say that I've just simply been too busy to write. But I haven't been too busy to keep up with "How I Met Your Mother," a television show that I'm ashamed to admit that I watch.

I'd like to say that it's all about work, that it consumes my energy, creativity, and by the time I get home, I am sapped of any will at all to look at a computer, much less sit and think of something profound to say.  That's not true either. I get tired, but there always can be some words. 

Maybe if I were to go all confessional, I might say that it's classic laziness that keeps me away from here. But that ain't quite right either.

If I want to look the truth right in the eyes, I guess I would have to say that I haven't written because I don't like to write. Well, it goes a little deeper than that. The reason I don't like to write is because I don't really like my writing. 

This is a self-confidence, self-esteem thing, and I guess that it's been with me for all my life. I don't like my writing because I think it's crap, just like it almost hurts to look at a picture of myself because I feel so homely when I do. When I read my own words, I cringe. 

Here's the thing, I've decided not to care about any of that anymore. So once again I've made this little promise to myself to start blogging steadily, for what, the umpteenth time? I started out this blog in an effort to write about my exercise misadventures, and I've done some of that.

If you like that stuff (and I'm pretending that someone is reading this), please check out my blog at Wisconsin Outdoor Fun. That's a work-related blog, and I'm making a special effort there. It's located here: http://blogs.wisconsinoutdoorfun.com/blogs/wof/wofuhligblog/.

You should know, dear imaginary audience, that although I am making a special effort to update this blog, I'm also making an extra special effort to keep that one updated. Why? I've got a secret plan.

You should also know that in the past I've used this personal blog as rough draft for that blog, and that will likely continue. And sometimes, I will take posts from that blog and throw them in here. So if you read them both, you might notice overlap, and get sick of me, and who can blame you? I'm sorry about that, imaginary reader. It's not that I don't care about you, I do. But I can't afford to care so much so that I don't do anything anymore. Does that make sense?

If you're going to read only one blog. Read that one. You'll help with my special plan.

Anyway, this blog also should be different from that blog. That one is work work, and it will have somewhat of a more professional tone. Not that this is going to vastly unprofessional or anything like that. Can't afford to go all the way there. But this will be fun work, I hope, and it will be more personal, and I'm envisioning that it will be more about the struggles for creativity, trying to stave off depression, and trying to become a real writer. There might be some swearing, too. No nudity though.

What does all this mean?

Damned if I know.

Running away from death (or towards it)

I've been obsessing over a minute for a three days now.

Last Saturday I ran the Weston Fest 5k, and let me say at the start that it was a great race. It was cheap — $10 with T-shirt, $5 without. (I took the shirt; it says "Village of Weston" on the back, and I'm starting to collect items of clothing that have a sense of place with them). It had a great course that included the Birch Street bike/pedestrian bridge over Highway 29. (All bike/ped bridges are just cool and a car honked encouragingly when my fellow competitors were crossing it.) And it had a nice field of runners, about 200 or so, I reckon, athletes of all ages. (Including most of the members of the  D.C. Everest High School cross country team, who trounced everybody, I think. Shouldn't the WIAA do something about that?)

The race started and ended at Kennedy Park, and I knew the course had a good, long hill, the one going south on Birch Street heading toward Ministry Saint Clare's Hospital. So my plan was to run even and steady up the hill, then push hard on the downhill stretch past Everest High to the finish.

It was good plan, and it worked great. I ran the first mile in nine minutes and felt good about that. (I realize that nine-minute miles are a very pedestrian pace for most runners. But it's brisk for me, and besides the numbers really don't matter. It's all about the spirit behind the numbers.)

I felt strong throughout the race, especially going up the hill. Strong and steady, just like I had planned. I got a bit gassed on the downhill, but hey, I thought it's OK. With about a half mile to go, and the finish in sight, I looked at my watch. It said 27 minutes.

What?!  How could that be? I knew the race was over. My goal was to beat 27:30, my time from the last 5k I ran, a few weeks ago in Moorhead, MN. I had biked about 60 miles before that race, and it was hot and humid. I struggled throughout the whole three miles, and the only thing that saved me was that Moorhead is not as flat as a pancake, but flatter.

So everything about the Weston race pointed to a good time. Not a top three time, not a winning time, but a good time for me, who I am, what I am and where I am in my life and fitness level. So when I saw that 27 minutes, everything just deflated and while I pushed to the end, my heart wasn't in it. A girl, she looked like she was about 12, and her dad both outsprinted me at the finish.

I ended up with a time of 28:32. I know it's only 20 seconds per mile or so slower than the Moorhead race. So what's the big deal?

The big deal is that I had birthday between the races. The big deal is that I still believe I can run a 5k in 21 minutes or so, like I used to when I was in high school. I know, I know. It doesn't really make any sense, but it's there anyway. I'm 46 years old now, and I'm facing the inevitability that I won't be able to improve my times at all, that I'll just have to accept the reality of aging and humanity and life, and know that my times will decline.

So it's not just about the 20 seconds per mile. It's about being 46 years old and realizing that life is finite, and that there are many more things to come that will be slower, or the last or whatever.

My running career -- yeah, I'm calling it that -- isn't anywhere near over. It's been punctuated by a lot more losses than victories, and always, always, I toe another starting line and keep on running. This won't be any different.  I hope to run until I'm 90. I'll find new ways to find meaning and joy from running and biking and competing in races.

And maybe I'll run a 5k in 21 minutes again, sometime.

Fargo

I love the Coen Brothers, but the movie "Fargo" certainly does not do justice to the real town. "Fargo", of course, is about a bunch of slow talking Minnesotans who pepper their conversations with a "Ya sure" a lot.

The real Fargo is in North Dakota, and the people there talk nothing like Twin City suburbanites. They sound more like the cowboys from "Lonesome Dove" than they do the characters of the Coen Brothers movie.

OK. So they took some artistic license with the naming of the movie. After all, would a movie called "Eden Prairie" have the same cache?

But my real problem is that the movie leaves the impression that the real city is a boring, middle-of-nowhere place. Fargo IS a middle of nowhere place, and that's what makes it cool. But after two long weekends of visiting the town, I think it's everything but boring.

The fact that is is surrounded by a flat-as-a-pancake prairie, with no other major city to be found within 100 miles, naturally makes Fargo interesting. There is a great minor league baseball team, some terrific stores, a nifty little museum devoted to baseball great Roger Maris, who grew up in Fargo.

Really, Fargo is the northern gateway to the west, and that in itself makes it cool. The guys wear cowboys shirts, the girls walk around downtown in flowing dresses. There are pickup trucks and motorcycles and hot sports cars. Oh, and there are a lot of trains running through there.

Moorhead, Fargo's little Minnesota sister, has a great Scandinavian heritage center, the Hjemkomst Center. I had my first (and last) meal of lutefisk there. Hjemkomst, by the way, means homecoming in Norwegian.

But the best surprise for me is how great Fargo is its bicycling. There are bike lanes everywhere, and the street systems made up of a numbered streets and avenues make it easy to find your way around. There are great paved biking paths weaving through a bunch of nice parks, and the Red River running its meandering way north makes it all interesting.

I stayed at the Super 8 on the south end of Moorhead, and used my bike to get just about everywhere. But I also took a couple of long bike rides out into the country, and the prairie roads make riding interesting. On a 60-mile loop, I found the flatness and the fields and loneliness awesome. For the first hour. Then I realized that nothing much was changing. I was tapping out a decent tempo, never shifting up or down, never having to think about much of anything at all. It was at once cool and disconcerting at the same time -- there was a distinct sensation that despite all the work being put in, I wasn't moving at all. I found myself looking at my computer a lot, just to make sure I was making headway.

I also went for a nice 6-mile out-and-back run, heading south out of Moorhead. I ended up on a gravel road that ran between a cornfield on one side, soybeans on another. No cars, no people, just me and plants and an occasional blackbird. The vistas were amazing, and sky was everywhere. Such a cool sensation of the open spaces, so different from running and biking in hilly, green and woodsy Marathon County.

What happened to Father Rene Menard?

(Note: I wrote this column back in 2003 for the Wausau Daily Herald. I liked it, so I'm posting it here.)

What happened to Father Rene Menard?

Only God knows for sure.

Menard was a French priest, one of the first Europeans to walk and explore the wild land that would become Wisconsin. He spent his days in the middle 1600s doggedly spreading the word of his God to the native people of North America. But the end of his story is shrouded in fog.

Some historians from Lincoln County think the pioneering priest may have gone missing somewhere north of Merrill in July 1661. In 1923, the Merrill Council of the Knights of Columbus erected a monument to Menard at the top of Nine Mile Hill on Highway 107 between Merrill and Tomahawk, using a granite obelisk to forever claim the explorer as their own.

The memorial's brief and tantalizing inscription, carved in simple block letters, reads: "In honor of Pere Rene Menard. Born at Paris Sept. 7th, 1605. Entered the Jesuit order Nov. 7th, 1624. Sailed for Quebec in March 1640. Lost hereabouts in July 1661, while en route to Huron village to baptize Indian refugees."

Not to be critical of the good folks of the 1923 Merrill Council of the Knights of Columbus, but this inscription raises more questions than it answers.

Lost? How? Why? Did he forget his compass? And "hereabouts" simply isn't specific enough for me. I've stopped at the monument numerous times, and on each visit, I am tempted to take a hike in the woods to look for a skeleton or an ancient cross.

It just so happened that the last time I stopped at the monument (along with my wife on the way back from a sojourn in Minocqua, because she goes nuts over roadside monuments), I happened to have a book in my truck entitled "Wisconsin River of History," by William F. Stark.

This is a 354-page tome, but it devoted just three midsize paragraphs to the beloved Father Menard. Unfortunately, those three paragraphs just deepened the mystery.

Stark writes that Menard was "not in the best of health," and traveled to Wisconsin to "minister to some of his former converts who had been residing in the eastern part of Canada but had been forced west by the fierce Iroquois and were now located on the south shore of Lake Superior."

Menard was near some rapids at the headwaters of the Black River when he stepped ashore to lighten the canoe, Stark maintains. He never returned to the river, and several years later Menard's cassock was discovered in the possession of some Sioux Indians.

That just begs the question: The Black River? That's really not anywhere "hereabouts" of the monument, unless you draw a wide circle on the map.

Because of the incongruity of the monument and Stark's account, I turned to another resource, a book simply and elegantly entitled "Wisconsin," which I found in the back corner of the Wausau Daily Herald library. This five-volume resource, edited by Fred L. Holmes, and published by The Lewis Publishing Co. of Chicago in 1946, dedicated nearly a page to Menard.

"Though broken and infirm from twenty years of labor in the Canadian wilderness, he welcomed the opportunity to go as a missionary to the distant tribesmen," the book said.

Menard traveled from Quebec, said Holmes, with seven French fur traders. They weren't kind men.
"Menard, according to the Jesuit chronicle, suffered neglect and abuse from his traveling companions," Holmes mentions.

He made it to what is now Ashland, Holmes said, where he devoted himself to preaching to Indians.
During the summer of 1661, he set out inland with one French guide to find a band of Hurons who were starving. On his return, the guide said he became separated from the wilderness priest. Holmes conjectures that Menard disappeared on the Jump or Yellow River in what is now Taylor County.
Did Menard simply keel over while relieving himself in the woods? Or was he set upon and murdered? Was he on the Wisconsin, Jump, Yellow or Black River?

We'll probably never know, said Alice F. Krueger, 74, a vice president of the Merrill Historical Society. But Krueger said there are many who are convinced that Menard walked on Lincoln County soil. A rock with a cross carved in it was found in northeast Lincoln County, and that sent intrepid historians out with metal detectors to find some Menard artifact. Nothing was ever found.

OK, so maybe Menard didn't disappear near the monument on Highway 107. But standing there, on top of the hill, looking at the green forests to the north, it's easy to imagine a man of God walking along, listening to the wind in the trees, preparing to meet his maker.