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© Catherine Haslag

A Simple Moment

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My grandpa and I (age 2) eating lunch in the kitchen.

My grandfather died 2 months before my 13th birthday. Other family members died previously, but my grandpa’s death was the first big death I was old enough to remember in any kind of significant way. I had the wind knocked out of me in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

It started Labor Day weekend.  My mom was in D.C. on a business trip, so I stayed at my grandparent’s house that week while she was away. Grandpa started to feel ill over the weekend. He didn’t want to go to the hospital. My uncles finally convinced him to see a doctor on Tuesday if he wasn’t feeling better. He was admitted to the hospital on Tuesday and died Thursday morning before I got on the bus to school. I found out about 10a when my Uncle Willie called the school. He picked me up 20 minutes later. I can still remember the silence of the truck ride back to what just that morning had been grandma AND grandpa’s house.

That night, my grandma stayed in bed. She had just lost her husband of 47 years. My uncles were gone, probably making funeral arrangements. My job for the evening: answer the door when people came to pay their condolences, receive any food they brought, and Tetris it into one of the refrigerators in the house. (I grew up in a very small town and EVERYONE feeds you when there is a death.)

My grandpa loved to pull us behind his mower – be it on a toboggan or in a wagon.

My grandparent’s neighbor, Barb, brought over a breakfast casserole. We went into the kitchen to add the casserole to the already bulging contents of the green fridge. After closing the fridge door, I looked at her. We probably stood there for only 10 or 15 seconds, but it felt like so much longer. Neither of us spoke yet we shared volumes. We stood there in our silence, looking at each other. I felt like she knew everything I was feeling. That she got me in that moment, understood the weight of my grief, and made a space for it. It was a gift. We shared a teary hug and then she went home.

I don’t remember anything else regarding what people brought or even who visited my grandparent’s house that night, but I remember every second of that brief exchange with Barb 27 years later. I doubt Barb remembers it or has given it a second thought, but this moment touched me deeply. I felt like someone really saw me in my grief in that moment and it was everything to me. We offer these moments to people without even realizing the gift we have given them.

The gift of a simple moment too deep for time.

Floor Furnace

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In the fall of 2009, I was in the middle of a divorce.  My 4.5-year marriage had been failing for longer than it had worked. It became apparent to me that this relationship wasn’t what I needed. A friend of mine owned a small rental house that was empty. She lent me the key so I could have a place to go to get away from my soon-to-be-ex-husband and the house we owned while the legal system caught up with what my heart already knew – that the relationship was over.

This is very much like the floor furnace I describe in my blog. Unfortunately, I do not have a photo of that actual floor furnace to share. (image obtained from Pinterest)

This rental house, a small 2-bedroom, 1-bath bungalow, had a floor furnace in the dining room that heated the house. That floor furnace would become my touchstone over the next year.

It is where I sat when I called my mom and told her I was divorcing my husband.

It is where, wrapped in a blanket, I sat and cried about the loss of the life I had known and tried to figure out what I wanted to do next.

It is where I stood each winter morning in my robe to warm myself after I moved into the bungalow and finalized my divorce.

It is where I conducted many hours of conversations with my very patient girlfriends as they helped me navigate the emotional labor of ending a marriage and moving forward with my life.

Its creaks and clicks became the soundtrack of my life while I surveyed the world and planned my next steps as a single woman.

Like a light bulb to a new-born chick, it provided me with physical warmth during an emotionally trying and cold period in my life.

In January 2011, I left the floor furnace and moved out of that bungalow, headed on a northern migration. I had that furnace for just one year, but that was all I needed. I had developed a plan forward and it was time to move on, much like the chick that outgrows its need for warmth from the light bulb.

There are times when we will realize the smallest thing did so much for us – a moment of understanding silence, a book that touched us deeply, a hot cup of tea at just the right time. These are the simple things that make the hard times in life bearable. While things and moments are fleeting, their impact on us lasts a lifetime.

© Catherine Haslag

Gold Stars

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A gratitude practice became a part of my life a handful of years ago. At the time I started this practice all I could see was everything that was “wrong” in the world. I was wasting so much energy on what didn’t appear to be “right” and was looking for a way to shift that energy into something productive. Someone suggested that I cultivate a gratitude practice to shift my attitude and view of life. They challenged me to see the flowers on the wallpaper rather than focus on the cracks in the plaster.

I am a researcher, so I started this work by reading a few books on gratitude (365 Thank Yous: The Year a Simple Act of Daily Gratitude Changed My Life and The Gratitude Diaries are two books I recommend on the subject). This led me to add some basic gratitude practices to my life. I started sending thank you notes on a regular basis to my friends and family (the Dollar Store has a good selection of Thank You cards that work perfectly for this). I sent thank-you notes for gifts, phone calls, kind words, friendship, and just to let others know that I thought they were awesome. I also wrote a few things I was thankful for each day in my journal. This helped me to spend time acknowledging the good things present in my everyday life.

As time went on, I started to see all the things there are to be thankful for, even on the crappiest of days. The hot cup of tea in the morning, the car that starts without issue, a clear, star-filled night sky, indoor plumbing on the coldest days during the Minnesota winter. I discovered that there is ALWAYS something to be thankful for and nothing was too small for gratitude. Over time, I realized it was the little things that could get me through the hardest of days.

My gratitude practice has grown over time. Early in the pandemic, a good friend of mine and I started ending our conversations by sharing “good things” in our lives. Hearing what she is thankful for has helped expand my view of all the things available to be grateful for in the world.

About halfway through lockdown in 2020, I decided to add something else tangible to my gratitude practice, so I brought the gold star back into my life. This was a simple, visible, and slightly quirky way for me to show gratitude to myself and those around me. It was also a way to spread a little childhood joy in the grind of adulthood.

Many of us may be most familiar with the use of gold stars in the classroom. Gold stars would come to us on the top of an assignment we completed well, on a chart posted in the front of the classroom for good behavior, or in a loose form so we could put it on the front of our notebook or wear it on our shirt and show everyone how awesome we are. As a child, we loved to get those gold stars. It told us we had done something good and someone noticed our efforts and work. It was gratitude in a tangible form.

The gold star provided me with something visible to brighten up the day and restore some innocence to the challenges of 2020. I started sending gold star emojis and animations to friends via text for a job well done. I found some puffy gold stars at JoAnn’s and used them to decorate the inside of thank you cards. I ordered gold star stickers to share and included a sheet of them for each person in every family to whom I sent Christmas cards. It was fun sharing this simple joy. I wanted others to know that I saw them, I saw the good they were doing, and I thought they were awesome. Some of my family and friends commented on how the gold stars made their day. They too were taken back to the joys of receiving a gold star from their teacher for a job well done. I hope they shared their gold stars with others and kept spreading the gratitude. I have decided to keep a supply of gold stars on hand and bestow them to people on a regular basis as a way to say “thank you.”

There is an old story told by many indigenous tribes in North America that talks of a grandfather telling his grandson that there are two wolves fighting inside each of us. One wolf is evil and one wolf is good. The grandson asked his grandfather which wolf will win this battle. The grandfather said, “The one that you feed.”

I chose to feed the good wolf with gratitude and it was so simple to do. It can be shared through a symbol like a gold star or a thank you note, but it can also appear in less tangible forms: a pat on the back, saying thank you, or a kind smile to a stranger while shopping. There is no limit to gratitude. It never runs out and it costs us nothing to share.

© Catherine Haslag

Fool’s Spring

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This past week, we experienced several days of temperatures in the upper 40s to low 60s. The snow is mostly melted, leaving behind enough sand to build our own beach along the Cedar River and some very, very brown grass. People are out walking in shorts, some green things are starting to peek out from the ground in the flower bed along my house, and a few trees have buds swelling in expectation. I even saw a few bugs buzzing about, much to my dismay. The smell of spring is in the air…until Tuesday when winter returns with a rain/snow mix and temperatures start to drop into the 30s again.

This week of warm and melty weather is what many refer to as “Fool’s Spring,” a time of the year that feels like spring is just around the corner, but in reality, it’s just Mother Nature and Old Man Winter playing a joke on all of us. A few days of sun, a little warmth, and the phase-change of water lull us into a false sense that spring is nearly here…then winter returns and we are back to snow boots and icy roads.

View of the Coyote Point Trail at Whitewater State Park.

While Fool’s Spring is fleeting, it is especially necessary and celebrated by me this year. Winters in Minnesota are always hard. They can be brutally cold, grey, and snowy. Every time I leave my house I do my best impersonation of the little brother from A Christmas Story.

The very long climb to the look-out point.

People tend to hunker down in the winter months. Social circles contract because people aren’t out and about as much. It takes energy to bundle up, dig the car out, scrape it off, and drive somewhere in the winter, so people do it less.  Because of the pandemic, people did it even less this year, at least this is true for me and those in my social circle. No lunch with friends on a Friday to catch up, no bull sessions over drinks at the B&J on Thursday afternoons, no working at a coffee shop for a few hours just to be around people. If you live alone, this winter has probably sucked the big one more so than usual.

I took the opportunity Fool’s Spring provided to get out and hike a bit. I visited a very soggy Whitewater State Park. Despite the muddy, icy, and snowy trails (in some places all of these at the same time) it felt so good to get out, move my body, and breathe in the fresh air. I hiked up a set of stairs that extended approximately 0.2 miles to a lookout point. I sat at the very wisely-placed bench at the top of these stairs and enjoyed the view, felt my heart pound, and drank some water. It felt so good to feel my heart pushing blood through my body and fresh breath in my lungs. It was like this winter was starting to melt inside of me as well as on the land around me.

View from the look-out point.

This first Fool’s Spring provided a break from the cold, grey days. It gave me the chance to shed my winter shell and thaw a bit from the past few months. I not only needed to warm my body, but also tend to my heart. Emotions have been high for me for a lot of reasons over the past year. I know I am not the only one on this either. The fresh air, the sun on my face, and the feel of sneakers on my feet rather than snow boots is a boost to my morale. The opportunity to recharge a bit before finishing out the winter season. A shimmer of hope that this winter won’t last forever, that spring will be here soon.

Fool’s Spring is a promise to us all. Better times are ahead. We just have to be patient and wait a little bit longer.

© Catherine Haslag

Aunt Jo’s German Chocolate Cake

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My Aunt Jo holding baby me circa 1980.

My Aunt Jo made a three-layer German Chocolate Cake from scratch. About 9 years ago, I obtained her recipe from my mom because I wanted a way to connect with Aunt Jo. I wanted to create something she once did. I didn’t like her cake when she was alive to make it because I was too young to appreciate coconut and chocolate cake. Thankfully, my dessert appreciation has matured since I was 7. I loved my Aunt Jo. She always had those yellow Brach butterscotch candies in a dish and she let me play on her organ and piano when I came over. All the stops on the organ fascinated me and I loved to flip them in different combinations and see what sounds I could make. I must have made all kinds of horrible noises during my musical experiments, but I don’t ever remember her telling me to stop.

Mostly, I remember how much I loved her. The kind of pure, endless love only a little kid shows. The kind of love that hasn’t been damaged by hurt, disappointment, and time. When I bake her cake, I am reminded of that love, of her, of her carpet on my feet, and the noises I made on her organ. It’s a way to connect with someone I love and barely know. A way to keep her alive. When I share that cake with others, I share her and the love I have for my Aunt Jo.

Below is the recipe my Aunt Jo used. It was straight off the box of Baker’s German chocolate (which I didn’t know until I wrote this post). It is best made as a 3-layer cake but can be made in a 9×13 pan, which is much easier to transport. May you bake this treat and share it with those you love.

GERMAN’S SWEET CHOCOLATE CAKE

Used by Aunt Josephine Samson

Aunt Jo’s three-layer German Chocolate cake.

Ingredients:

1 pkg.  (4 oz.) BAKER’S GERMAN Sweet Chocolate

½ cup  water

4 eggs, separated

2 cups  flour

1 tsp.  baking soda

¼ tsp.  salt

1 cup  butter, softened

2 cups  sugar

1 tsp.  vanilla

1 cup  buttermilk

Procedure:

HEAT oven to 350°F.

COVER bottoms of 3 (9-inch) round pans with waxed paper; spray sides with cooking spray. Microwave chocolate and water in a large microwaveable bowl on HIGH 1 ½ to 2 min. or until chocolate is almost melted, stirring after 1 min. Stir until chocolate is completely melted.

BEAT egg whites in a small bowl with mixer on high speed until stiff peaks form; set aside. Mix flour, baking soda, and salt. Beat butter and sugar in a large bowl with a mixer until light and fluffy. Add egg yolks, 1 at a time, beating well after each. Blend in melted chocolate and vanilla. Add flour mixture alternately with buttermilk, beating until well blended after each addition.

ADD egg whites; stir gently until well blended. Pour into prepared pans.

BAKE 30 min. or until a toothpick inserted in centers comes out clean. Immediately run small spatula around cakes in pans. Cool cakes in pans 15 min.; remove from pans to wire racks. Cool completely. Spread Coconut-Pecan Filling and Frosting between cake layers and onto the top of the cake.

COCONUT-PECAN FILLING AND FROSTING

Time prep:  20 min

Total Servings:  About 4-1/2 cups or 36 servings, 2 Tbsp. each

Ingredients:

4 egg yolks

1 can (12 oz.) evaporated milk

1 ½ tsp.  vanilla

1 ½ cups  sugar

¾ cup  butter or margarine

1 pkg.  (7 oz.) Baker’s Flake Coconut (2 2/3 cups)

1 ½ cups chopped Fischer’s Pecans

Procedure:

BEAT egg yolks, milk, and vanilla in a large saucepan with whisk until well blended. Add sugar and butter; cook on medium heat for 12 min. or until thickened and golden brown, stirring constantly. Remove from heat.

ADD coconut and nuts; mix well. Cool to desired spreading consistency.  This is mix is also used between the layers of the cake.

© Catherine Haslag

A Traveling Legacy

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What the Wind Told

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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 Haslag

Memorex

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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 Haslag

What I Didn’t Know

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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

When Does My Life Course Catalog Arrive?

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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.