WannaskaWriter

A wife questioning her husband, for some reason suspecting me. “Who is all going to be there and what kind of ‘Editorial Meeting’ is this going to be?” she asked of her husband, while she looked me in the eyes, scrutinizing my every facial expression and hand gesture for any one of the FBI’s Twelve Signs of Truth Omission: 1.) Darting eyes 2.) Rapid blinking 3.) How long my eyes are closed. 4.) Looking up to the right 5.) Eye shift from left to right. 6.) Looking down to the right. 7.) Eye movement when smiling 8.) Face touching. 9.) Pursed lip actions 10.) Excessive sweating. 11.) Blushing 12.) Head shaking  (All of which are why I’ve learned to always wear sunglasses and an ear bud to such interrogations to counteract suspicion.)  She stepped away from the kitchen counter that she had been leaning against to close the gap between them, and lowered her head to catch hubby’s gaze toward the floor. Funny how your childhood comes back to a person d...

I sat on the picnic table one evening, unassailed by flies or mosquitoes, listening to mourning doves ‘coo-cooing’ beyond my line of sight; the distant water-thrashing territorial disputes between opposing pairs of Canadian geese along Mikinaak Creek; the melodic trills of redwing blackbirds from the tops of the trees; and robins, here and there, singing happily from the woods. To me, it’s pure heaven. The breeze arises in the treetops, then descends. Between gusts, I can hear water rushing through an upstream beaver dam. I hear one bluejay talking to another. I watch a handful of goldfinches hunt for sunflower seeds  below the birdfeeder that my wife insists on using even though natural food abounds now, just so she can see them in all their variety. “Do you know purple finches poop is purple?” Bullfrogs sing-song from the water; tree frogs peep from the trees. The branches of the dozen or so bur oaks that once bordered the Martin and Irene Davidson home, reverberate behind me i...

Traditions weren’t a tradition with me, originally. My family did little in the way of them that I recall. In fact, thinking here, now, I can remember only one significant childhood tradition, and that was the serving of lutefisk at Christmas and Thanksgiving. Neither my sisters nor I carried it on in our families. Although, at the Solom’s annual Christmas Eve dinner, not so long ago, I had several helpings of Marion’s excellent lutefisk, if only to honor my mother’s love for it and, surprisingly, acknowledge its strange allure now upon me at my late age. A North Dakota friend of mine is fond of saying, "Lutefisk can also be enjoyed in all the months other than those ending in 'r'." Yet, I've noticed,  the majority of first-timer lutefisk eaters either don't finish their samples or don't ask for second helpings. Why is that?  About five years ago, my wife and I started the tradition of gathering our family in St. Cloud, for an Easter buffet. This year’s ...

My friend Joe and I actually owned and almost operated a wood pallet business in 1992 or 1993 here in northwest Minnesota that we named, "McDonnell-Reynolds Wood Products Limited"/MRWP. At the time, we were indecisive about what we should be when we grew up, me being 42 and him being 46, and with the help of a more senior friend of 48--a successful businessman in his own right--decided to buy a fledgling wood pallet business that had initiated operation at a rural residence six miles from where Joe and I, respectively, reside. Our more senior friend--we'll call him Jerry, had met this up and coming entrepreneur recently from Maine, named 'Seth,' at Jerry's steel fabrication business where he had repaired something for him. At length, he learned about Seth's ambitious foray into the world of wood pallet building and supply. Through his various church contacts, Seth had rented a farmhome and acreage from a fellow churchgoer as well as acquiring a beautiful s...

 “Just  of Scientific Mind: The Chicken Coop Revisited.” by Steven G. Reynolds Gramma Eff was not deaf, not dumb, nor was she blind. She was not daft this Gramma Eff, just of scientific mind. She wore knee boots, a long white coat, goggles, special gloves, and entered in, a study of, chickens, and their loves. “Chickens, and their loves?” you ask, incredulously, with one raised brow, as if of what she studied hence made a mockery of you now. Gramma kept her chickens clean and altho you might think it mean she washed their feet, their beak, their bod --the neighbors thought it very odd. That no one out should enter in Gramma’s little chicken pen For Gramma too, removed her clothes her boots, her coat, her goggles--those gloves, that Gramma always wore whenever she opened that very door of all her chicken coops there we’ve learned strangers there, their presence spurned Gramma found these chickens smart, they liked color, music, art. Gramma learned their innate needs went far b...

Excerpt from 2010 trip to Maine and the L.L. Bean Adventure      In 2010, I flew to Boston with friend Joe,for a family reunion to be held in Stonington, Maine. Joe’s wife was unable to attend and he invites me along as I know the family well. Although our trip ends very dramatically, all is well in the end. This is a short excerpt from our trip.       As we leave Hull and surrounding communities, Joe and his mother, Mary, offer play-by-plays of various neighborhoods, families, businesses. “There’s a lovely hibiscus up in that ugly place,” Mary remarks, as we pass a walled-in fortress-like residence among signs reading:‘SwordMaster Martial Arts: Unleash Your inner Tiger,’ 'Jolienne McDonnell Square,’ ‘Neponset Bridge,’ 'Quincy Bay.’      Looking at me through the rear view mirror, Joe says, “There’s the Long Island Bridge we passed under yesterday.”   I recognize it, sort of.   ...

December 7, 2018  Dear Pen Pal,            You were always the daring sort of guy. Not exactly the most intelligent, but always ready to prove me wrong when I said you shouldn’t do something because you might get hurt--and then fervently deny it did.         “So what?? What’s one finger joint when you have ten of them?” you said cockily, holding your hand up to me and displaying the loss to the middle finger of your left hand.       “Shit, it was nothing!”        Yeah, I’ll bet that’s what your dad said after vaulting the 12 steps to your upstairs bedroom, in one leap, on Des Moines Street where you sat with your ears ringing, the room filled with acrid blue smoke, and your left hand minus a fingertip. I remember you calling me from the hospital and saying,       “Guess where I am, or You’ll never guess where I am,” someth...