Archive for year: 2021
© Catherine Haslag
What the Wind Told
Cover of What the Wind Told by Betty Boegehold.
One of my favorite books of all time came into my life on a Halloween night. A neighbor lady worked at Scholastics and gave out candy and books to trick-or-treaters. I was the last kid to come to her house one year so I was the lucky recipient of half a crystal punch bowl of candy and a stack of books. A jackpot of massive proportions to someone who could still count their age and not use all their fingers to do so. One of the books in my acquisition was titled What the Wind Told.
The story of the Old Woman’s Window.
Published in 1974 and written by Betty Boegehold, this book tells the story of Tossy, a little girl who is homesick and bored out of her mind. She eventually asks the Wind to tell her stories about the windows across the way to help her pass the time. The Wind tells Tossy stories of a woman whose kitchen floor turns into a pond during the day, a family of plants who keep their children on the window sill, and a dog who sits typing names for things all day long.
The story of the Old Dog’s Window.
What the Wind Told opened my child-mind to the idea that each window contains a story. I wanted to learn those stories. To this day, I enjoy touring other’s homes and looking at their houses as I walk down the street. Each window tells a story about the people who live there. The widower who hasn’t changed anything in the living room since his wife died. The family of 6 who lives in a 2-bedroom house. Bunk beds stacked in one bedroom with sheets in the windows for curtains. The retired neighbor who loves to sit on his 3-season porch and wave at passers-by. The immigrant family who purchased their first home and is chasing their American Dream.
Drool and Gool hiding in the middle of their apartment, terrified.
More than 30 years later this book still inspires my imagination. A home a few doors down from where I live has captivated me for years. It reminds me of the Scary window described by the Wind. The windows are dark and the curtains are always drawn. I never see anyone come and go from the house. There is no car in the driveway or garage. There are never any tire tracks in the snow come winter and the sidewalk is never shoveled. Sometimes I see a cat in the window, staring back in boredom. There are decorations by the door and someone does live there, but there is no evidence of this other than the bored window cat and dumpster and recycling found weekly at the curb. Every time I walk by this house, I imagine that Drool and Gool are hunkered down in a pile of furniture in the living room, hoping no one calls or knocks.
Unfortunately, What the Wind Told is out of print and copies of it are very expensive. I am so thankful for the neighbor who gave me this book when I was a child. It sparked my imagination and taught me that windows are glimpses into others’ lives. The stories our windows tell about us are beautiful and incomplete. A glance at the private lives contained in our homes and hearts.
PLEASE NOTE: All photos used in this blog were taken from my copy of What the Wind Told and are not my personal work or of my creative labor. They were used in this blog to help communicate the essence of the book and provide an illustration of the stories the author was telling.
A VERY SPECIAL THANK YOU to Alvina Jaegers for the Halloween candy and books. Your house was my favorite to visit on Halloween night.
© Catherine HaslagMemorex
When I was 12, I was given a boom box for Christmas. I had always loved music and this was a tool to access the musical world. The boombox had an AM/FM radio, cassette tape deck, and a CD player component on it. My favorite feature of this gift was the ability to record songs from the radio onto a blank cassette tape. At that time, the only way to listen to music on demand was to own a recording of it on cassette or CD. The cheapest, but by far not the easiest, way to possess a recording of your favorite song was to record it off the radio. I had many mixtapes of my favorite songs for my efforts.
One of the blank cassette tapes I used to collect my favorite songs from the radio.
The quest to capture my favorite music from the radio took time and planning. I ALWAYS had a blank tape cued up in my cassette deck when I listened to the radio so I was prepared to press record when the latest Counting Crows or Bush song came on. I might spend weeks trying to get a song. Sometimes I couldn’t get to the record button fast enough to catch the start of the music. Other times I turned on my boom box only to find that a song I had been trying to record for weeks was in progress and I was just moments too late to capture it. I hunted for songs like a lepidopterist chases butterflies. DJs would sometimes talk through the intro or end of a song, so many of my radio recordings have the sound of DJ sprinkled in. I think DJs did this just to torture those of us trying to record from the radio.
When a cassette was full, I would listen to the songs over and over. I could rewind, pause, stop, and start at any point in the music I wanted. It was an amazing feeling to have built my own mixtape of sounds I loved. It was equally incredible that those cassettes survived the constant use of a teenage girl.
Now, we have almost any song we desire at our fingertips in an instant. When I was a teenager, I listened to the radio for hours a day. Now, I rarely listen to the radio. Spotify, Amazon, and my collection of MP3 music files are my go-to when I need to hear a beat. My boom box no longer has a blank cassette ready to record. Mixtapes have been replaced by playlists.
I still vividly remember most of the songs I captured from the radio on my mixtapes. I have created a 90’s Mix Tape Spotify Playlist so that I can reminisce about those times whenever I want.
When you listen to it, I hope you also hear a teenage girl lunge across her bedroom to hit record.
© Catherine HaslagWhat I Didn’t Know
May 25, 2020
I didn’t watch the full video. 8 minutes and 46 seconds. I saw parts of it, but not the whole tape. I can’t watch the video of George Floyd dying, of anyone dying.
I had the privilege of sitting with my feelings on this for a while. To learn more. To take it all in. I began reading. Looking. Researching for anything I could find.
I found a mountain of information. Podcasts. Books. Videos. Theses. Documentaries. Journal articles. Newspaper pieces. Magazine reports. Websites. There was no end to the documentation. What I could read, view, and listen to. New information to learn, to shatter my old misunderstanding, and develop a new, more accurate picture.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by the deluge of resources I found, but I was. It was eye-opening. Once I started looking, learned so much about US history. More than in any class I took. Our history spells out the impact of racism and how far its tentacles stretched. Education, healthcare, housing, travel, restaurants, the GI Bill, voting rights, religion, policing, marriage, redistricting. There isn’t an area of life that isn’t affected by systemic racism. Every person in the United States has either benefited from or been disadvantaged by this disease.
There are many perspectives to history. The white perspective is the primary one told in this country because white is the dominant race, the dominant caste. There is a vast amount of US history that isn’t taught because it doesn’t paint white people in a positive light. This creates an incomplete and unfair narrative of our country, its history, and its people.
Redlining. Gerrymandering. Jim Crow. Segregation. Racial profiling. Stop and frisk. Voter ID. Poll taxes. Travel bans. Internment camps. Reservations. The war on drugs. All forms of racism make it harder for people of color to live their American dream. All efforts to keep the privilege in the hands of white people. White privilege. White power. White supremacy.
Equal rights have not been established. All lives don’t matter until all lives are treated like they matter. Black and brown lives don’t matter in the United States. Four hundred years of history demonstrates this. The evidence is there for anyone to see if one is open to seeing it.
I believe that the United States of America is a great country. I believe in the quest to form a more perfect union…more perfect union for ALL those who call the United States home. I also know that quest is a messy one. We are not a country of saints. Far, far from it. To paint this country as such is a lie and dooms us to repeat our sins of the past.
If you are open to learning about how systemic racism permeates our society, I encourage you to access the Google Docs link below. It is a file that contains the list of resources I found in my research on systemic racism. As I continue collecting resources, I will continue to update this document.
#SystemicRacism Resources Google Docs Link
These resources tell another side of US history, it’s not a pretty one but it’s true. My hope is that the research I have done will help open more eyes to the reality of our nation and those who are mistreated in it because of the color of their skin. My dream is that as we know the fuller story of US history we will break the ongoing cycle of systemic racism.
© Catherine Haslag
© Catherine HaslagReflections from a 2020 Election Judge
I chose to serve as an election judge during the 2020 election. I decided to do this for three reasons: 1) to learn more about the rules that keep our elections fair, 2) to contribute and participate more in the election process, and 3) to learn more about the election process. At the time, some politicians were spreading false information about the election process, so I decided to do my own research and draw conclusions from what I learned. Becoming an election judge was part of my research.
I completed the paperwork to be an election judge, participated in training on how to check-in and register voters, how to count and keep account of all ballots, and in general how to keep the election fair by following the rules. Additional information on how polling places are organized for Minnesota can be found at https://www.sos.state.mn.us/elections-voting/election-day-voting/. A lot of what I describe below regarding my experience and the rules I needed to follow to be an election judge is provided on the page linked above.
This selfie was taken just after I cast my ballot during the early-voting period in Minnesota, October 2020.
Election day started at 6am. We set up the poll pads (iPads loaded with the voter registration software) that are used to register and log in voters, prepared ballots for the voters to use (this included counting the ballots in each pack and recording how many were there), ensured the ballot-counting machines were correctly programmed and ready for the day, and set up signs, arrows, and other equipment to help guide voters through the line and the poll area.
Voters were lined up nearly 30 minutes before we opened at 7am. I spent the first 3 hours sanitizing voting booths between voters and directing voters to the booths and then to the ballot-counting machines to deposit their ballot. We were very busy for the first 3 hours of the day. The energy was upbeat and uplifting. Most everyone was polite, patient, and just interested in casting their ballot, having their say in our government, and then going on with their day. Since where I live is a relatively small town (~25,000 people) I knew many of the people coming in to cast their ballot. Seeing familiar faces made the morning even better.
I spent the middle part of the day working the poll pads, logging in voters, verifying their information, and directing them where to pick-up a ballot. I registered about 20 voters during this time as well, many of them first-time voters. The process to register a voter was defined in the poll pad. The person had to provide proof of their identity and residency. We had to note the documentation they used to prove this information when we registered them. Everything was documented, regimented, and governed by rules. There was a paper trail as well. Every voter signed a slip of paper before they were given a ballot. Another slip of paper indicating they were given a ballot was also kept. At the end of the day, the number of ballots issued had to match the number of voters who were logged into the poll pads and the number of ballots issued. If a ballot was “spoiled,” meaning a voter made a mistake when filling it out, it was also noted, tracked, and kept in specially marked envelopes to prevent them from being mixed with the valid ballots submitted. Voters were NOT allowed to have their vote counted twice. The poll pad noted if someone had already voted absentee and would not allow another ballot to be issued for that voter. The poll pads also noted if a voter needed to be “challenged.” To be challenged means that a question or other piece of information needs to be clarified/proven regarding the voter’s eligibility. The poll pad tells the poll worker what question to ask/information to collect from the voter. This challenge must be addressed and in a specific manner with proper documentation before the voter is allowed to complete their ballot.
Over the course of the day, we handled between 3,500 and 4,000 voters. Since I spent the last hour of my 14+ hour day sanitizing voting booths, I didn’t check the information on the poll pads to get a final count. The polls closed at 8pm. Once we collected the paperwork from the day, secured the ballots in boxes that were zip-tied shut to prevent tampering, and broke down the voting booths and poll pads, my day as an election judge was complete.
What I witnessed on election day was 40-50 election judges who just wanted to make election day safe and fair. They wanted to do their best so people could come in and fairly cast their vote. They wanted the results to reflect the voice of the voters, not any particular candidate. There were election judges from multiple political parties, working together to help Americans vote and keep the process fair so the voices of the voters could be heard. No voter was allowed to submit multiple ballots, no ballots were magically created to favor a candidate. Ensuring that all ballots are counted is not fraudulent. Democracy takes time and verifying and counting all ballots is one of those tasks to ensure that the people get to have their voice heard fairly. Some states accept mail-in ballots up to a week after the election as long as they are postmarked by election day. These ballots are not “late” simply because they arrived after election day. As long as they are received in the time frame outlined by the voting laws of that state, they can be counted.
It is a modern idea that we should know the results of our elections on election day. The reality is that we have never had the final election results on election day. The results provided to us on election day are mostly mathematical predictions of who is most likely to win. The final vote counting has always stretched on weeks after election day. Just because we don’t “know” who won the election on election day isn’t a sign of voter fraud. It’s a sign that a lot of people voted and that election officials are being very careful to verify and count every vote to ensure a fair election. This is the foundation of our democracy.
What my research told me was that there are many checks and balances in place to ensure our elections are fair. While I can’t speak to specifics in other states, the votes cast in Minnesota were done so fairly based on the rules in place and my observations as an election judge. Rather than listen to others who have their own agenda, I had experience and information that I gathered myself to tell me the truth.
I encourage you to learn more about the voting regulations for your state and serve as an election judge at least once to see how the process works first hand. It is an amazing way to support our democracy, keep our elections fair, and educate yourself on how our elections laws are structured and the votes of the people are counted and protected from fraud.
© Catherine HaslagWhen Does My Life Course Catalog Arrive?
Photo of at my Master’s Degree Ceremony in 2005.
When I was in college, way back when Napster was king, Blockbuster was the go-to for movies, and AOL still mailed CDs, there was this thing called a course catalog. It was a book that colleges printed each year that contained every degree program and course the university offered. It was my bible for figuring out what classes to take each semester so I would finish my degree. It gave me direction through the maze of college. Each year I would pick up a new one from Carrington Hall and pour over it to determine which classes I needed to take not just for the next semester, but for my entire college career. I wanted to make sure I was taking the right classes this semester to set me up to take the right courses every following semester until graduation. It was my guide for 6 years for both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees.
Imagine my surprise when I graduated and entered the real world only to realize there is no course catalog for life. Nothing that explains what the next “right” thing to do is. No outline of the next 4 to 6 years. No clear description of prerequisites, options to choose from, or clear path of A to B will get me to C.
I am a planner. I have used many different planners to organize my life over the years, but none of them tell me what to do next. Do I stay with my current job or start looking for other options? How long do I stay in a relationship I am unsatisfied with before it’s time to end it? Is it still taboo to wear white shoes after Labor Day or can I keep wearing those cute white slingbacks until it snows?
Life is improvisation, learning as you go, and working with the information you have at the moment. Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we don’t. Each piece of life is a class with no syllabus, course description, or even a set semester. It took me a long time to realize that we don’t get a course catalog for life. Rather, we get to develop our own as we go.
© Catherine HaslagThe Seat of Our Democracy
Washington D.C. has a special place in my heart. I have visited this city 4 times in my life. The first was in 1992. I was 11. My grandpa paid for my plane ticket and I accompanied my mom on a business trip. He thought it was important for me to see the nation’s capitol. We visited the Smithsonian, the National Zoo, walked the mall, and rode the Metro. I love the DC Metro. The smell of the underground stations hasn’t changed since I first inhaled it nearly 30 years ago. Underground must, stone, urban vibe, with long notes of history.
Photo of a DC Metro Station in 2017.
I can feel that history when I walk the town. Retracing Lincoln’s steps from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to Capitol Hill. Running my fingers through the carved stone that lists those who died in the Vietnam war. Enjoying a drink at the Hawk and Dove where Bobby Kennedy supposedly decided to run for president (according to my mom’s friend Phil. I have found no documentation for this, but it’s a good story.) Watching July 4th fireworks from a grassy area near the Capitol Building and picturing the bombs and rocket’s red glare that the song describes.
The Lincoln Memorial in 2017.
I have stood in statuary hall and in the galleries of the house and senate. I met Senator Claire McCaskill of Missouri in the cafeteria of one of the Senate buildings (I can’t remember which one), had a photo taken with Senator Al Franken of Minnesota when I was in DC for AAUW Lobby Day, and met Representative Ike Skelton of Missouri when I was 17. He was my US House Representative then and took the time to step out of a committee meeting to speak with me and other youth who were visiting from his district. Kit Bond and John Ashcroft sent their college interns to talk to us, not having time to get to know people who weren’t old enough to vote for them. The energy of the Capitol Building and all the office buildings around it is intoxicating and magical and I was lucky enough to experience it.
The United States Capitol Building in 2017.
When I was in DC for the 4th of July in 2009, I was shocked to see how different the city was after 9-11. It was harder to tour the White House, Capitol Building, and Library of Congress. There was more security everywhere, and not just because of the upcoming holiday. It was obvious that most of the new fencing and other security measures had been in place for more than just a week or two. It was shocking to see a city at the center of our democracy so closed up.
This city is the seat of US history and democracy for me. The place that holds the rooms where it all happens in our democracy. The center of our work towards forming a more perfect union. When the Capitol Building was stormed on January 6, I was angry at the desecration. This anger gave way to deep sadness as I realized yet another level of openness would be lost from the insurrection. That while our democracy is still standing and the flag is still there, some of our innocence was also lost. That we are a divided, not United States of America.
© Catherine HaslagOne Word
At the start of the year, I choose one word to focus on for the entire year. Well, I don’t choose the word so much as it chooses me. This isn’t a New Year’s resolution. This isn’t my pledge to exercise more, eat right, and read those 10 books everyone said I need to read before I die. This is simply choosing one word to focus on for the year, see where it pops up in life, and follow where it goes. It is SO much easier and also much harder than a New Year’s resolution. My resolutions are usually dead by January 30; however, I have never had trouble sticking with my one word until year’s end.
It’s important to make your One Word visible in your life as a reminder. I wear a bracelet with my word on it to remind me of my focus.
I started doing this in 2017 when the spirituality center I attend offered a One Word Retreat just after New Year’s. The idea for this event was inspired by Jon Gordon, an author, and speaker on leadership and teamwork. That year, my word was Choice. It hit me like a bolt of lightning when I touched the knob on the door into the kitchen. I knew that moment that was my word and I wasn’t happy about it. This word unsettled and scared me. I wanted a different word.
That is one thing that has become clear to me about the one word: part of me needs to be scared of the word. If I am not on some level scared of the word, then it’s not my one word. I have been scared of every one of my words. Typically when they come to me, I want to give them back. When I feel this way, I know I have found the right word for me. A word that will challenge me.
In 2018, Connection was my one word. That year, I also biked the Paul Bunyan Trail from start to finish in September 2018. The Paul Bunyan Trail is a 120-mile paved trail that starts in Crow Wing State Park south of Brainard, MN and stretches to Bemidji State Park. I spent the year preparing, practicing and training for this trip. This led me to my 2019 word: Unfolding. This trip turned out to be a master class in Unfolding.
In 2020, Explore was my one word. This one also caught me by surprise. It found me in a coffee shop in St. Paul as I looked at my travel mug. I had purchased a sticker on my Paul Bunyan Trail trip with the word “explore” on it and stuck it on the side of this mug. I had literally been carrying my word with me for over a year and didn’t know it. Ironically, 2020 was the year I wanted to bike more, travel, and explore the world. Then COVID hit and all those plans vaporized. Instead, Explore turned inward. This blog is the culmination of Explore: I was compelled to explore and develop my voice.
My word for 2021 is Open and yes, it scares the crap out of me. I feel resistance to it. Already, it has started teaching me, breaking me open. You don’t choose where the word takes you, not if you are really into this process. The word takes you where you need to go. It molds, shapes, and prunes you for your growth. This blog feeds nicely into my 2021 word. A wonderful continuation of Explore as well.
Having picked a One Word for the past 5 years, I see how each word leads you to the next. Each word preparing you for the next. Your words never go away when the year ends. They still pop up over the years and you still continue to learn from them. They
are friends and teachers who guide you and help you learn. They are always there for your growth. Mentors in the classroom of life.
I look forward to where Open takes me in 2021.
© Catherine HaslagPiney
She started as a foster kitten. My boyfriend’s foster kitten three years before he was my boyfriend. Rather than being adopted by another family, he kept her, loved her, made her part of his. He was happy to turn his apartment into a kitty play place for her, for all of the kittens he fostered. He has a heart bigger than any space can hold.
I met Piney for the first time in Spring 2020. She is a skittish cat. She typically runs when someone walks her way. She hides from guests. She is scared of the loud, the unfamiliar, the new. She took to me quickly. Let me rub her belly. Slept on my feet. The next time I saw her weeks later she came running to me, begging in her cat way to have her head and neck scratched. This was unusual for her and her humans noticed.
When my boyfriend needed to be away from home for weeks to handle a family matter, I offered to take her so he didn’t need to worry about her. So she didn’t need to be alone. She spent the first day hiding in the covers on the floor at the foot of my bed. She snuck around the house, afraid of everything. All the sounds were new, the smells were different, and her male human was nowhere around. It was just us girls and she was uncertain.
It took some time, but she started to venture out. She didn’t run when I walked past her or bent to scratch behind her ears. She snuggled at my feet in the evening when I read and slept between my legs at night. She found the squirrels that live in the tree on my patio and tracked the birds that perch in the front bush. She climbed to the top of her cat tree and watched the cars pass on the street. She made this her home and picked me as her human. She became a different feline. My boyfriend was amazed at the change in Piney and decided she had picked her forever home. She stayed with me.
Piney has become my 4-legged furry teacher. Slowly wedging herself into my life. Between the covers of my bed. Balancing like a gymnast on my headboard and dismounting onto my nightstand. Our relationship expanded from sleepover buddy to roommate.
I am very particular about my home, yet she has charmed me into buying a cat tree for the office, a small hidey-hole for her in the living room, and rearrange my kitchen to allow space for a litter box. I love having her here, but living alone for the past 5 years has caused me to atrophy. I am not as malleable as I once was. Piney has made this clear to me. Loving her is easy but making physical space in my home for her has been a challenge.
I have become rigid in my middle-age. My adult life has been guided by routines, plans, and Google Calendar. Piney doesn’t fit in any of those. She can’t be scheduled and her needs are different than mine. She is teaching me to make space for the unscheduleable, for the belly rubs on the carpet at 6:13a and the catnap at my feet at 7:42p. She has left her paw marks on my heart, her fur on my couch, and kitty litter everywhere.
She is slowly prying me open to her, open to life. Reminding me that the best things in life aren’t planned. That there is time in the morning to sit and stretch for a minute. That your perspective can change with a purr and a good neck scratch. That change can bring good things into your life.