Happy new year, Everyone!
A New Year's Haiku from the North Woods
Icicles sparkle,
deer leave telltale tracks, and wild
turkeys peck for bugs.
Snow and cold layer
the land, the forest. A boon
to snowplow drivers,
a bane for twenty-
year-old furnaces. Pipes freeze,
thaw, split, spew liquid
like Vesuvius
belching, flooding floors not with
fire but ice water.
But come tomorrow
2020 promises
to send postcard days.
So, from all of us
at the cabin, the plumbers,
the insurance guy,
the furnace men and
me, "Happy New Year!" and may
it pass by claim free.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
December Gatherings
Happy Holidays, Everyone!
December Gatherings
As for the jays up north,
the chickadees and woodpeckers,
another wintry day dawns
partly-cloudy and cold.
Not for them
a mad dash to the airport,
the fuss of preparing a feast,
a whirlwind of progeny and presents,
and torn wrapping paper stuck
on stockinged feet.
Sipping my wake-up mug of coffee,
how I envy these unpretentious friends,
but by day's end, how much richer
my life, and how hum-drum for them.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
December Gatherings
As for the jays up north,
the chickadees and woodpeckers,
another wintry day dawns
partly-cloudy and cold.
Not for them
a mad dash to the airport,
the fuss of preparing a feast,
a whirlwind of progeny and presents,
and torn wrapping paper stuck
on stockinged feet.
Sipping my wake-up mug of coffee,
how I envy these unpretentious friends,
but by day's end, how much richer
my life, and how hum-drum for them.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater
I started this piece a year ago, and it just kept growing. Bear with me and read it through. Also, apologies to my Scandinavian friends.
Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater
The lye had leached everything from the poor fish: flavor, flakiness, and form. A wintertime staple of Scandinavians before the invention of supermarkets. Proof positive that people will eat anything to stay alive, and brag about it. I will admit my pale complexion and blonde hair suggest tom-foolery at some point with a Norseman, but any lutefisk-loving gene eluded me.
Over the years I managed to go missing among shelves of Nordic sweaters or disappear in a stand of Christmas trees at the mere hint of this Yule feast. And when exposed, my excuses to sidestep invitations ranged from the ever popular "Sorry, prior commitment" to "I think I'm coming down with the plague." But last December, after one too many glasses of aquavit, I wisecracked an assent, and soon found myself in a crowd of church basement diners. Each of us "anticipating" a meal of cod marinated in caustic chemicals.
The servers filed in, flourishing potatoes, coleslaw, and stacks of warm lefse. A respectable opening act followed by the piece de resistance in a splendor of unrestrained blandness: a shapeless blob quivering on separate platters for each lucky table. Appealing as an anemic aspic and just as tasteless. Neither bowls of cream sauce nor ladles of melted butter helped redeem it. Untouched by anyone but me, the salt and pepper looked embarrassed to be there, and couldn't pull their own weight.
Why had I been so worried about a mouthful of stings? I have known all along that denizens of the North have an affinity for bland food. Fierce Viking blood may run in their veins, but their tastebuds back away from all things spicy. Thank goodness these people also like meatballs.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Confessions of a Reluctant Lutefisk Eater
The lye had leached everything from the poor fish: flavor, flakiness, and form. A wintertime staple of Scandinavians before the invention of supermarkets. Proof positive that people will eat anything to stay alive, and brag about it. I will admit my pale complexion and blonde hair suggest tom-foolery at some point with a Norseman, but any lutefisk-loving gene eluded me.
Over the years I managed to go missing among shelves of Nordic sweaters or disappear in a stand of Christmas trees at the mere hint of this Yule feast. And when exposed, my excuses to sidestep invitations ranged from the ever popular "Sorry, prior commitment" to "I think I'm coming down with the plague." But last December, after one too many glasses of aquavit, I wisecracked an assent, and soon found myself in a crowd of church basement diners. Each of us "anticipating" a meal of cod marinated in caustic chemicals.
The servers filed in, flourishing potatoes, coleslaw, and stacks of warm lefse. A respectable opening act followed by the piece de resistance in a splendor of unrestrained blandness: a shapeless blob quivering on separate platters for each lucky table. Appealing as an anemic aspic and just as tasteless. Neither bowls of cream sauce nor ladles of melted butter helped redeem it. Untouched by anyone but me, the salt and pepper looked embarrassed to be there, and couldn't pull their own weight.
Why had I been so worried about a mouthful of stings? I have known all along that denizens of the North have an affinity for bland food. Fierce Viking blood may run in their veins, but their tastebuds back away from all things spicy. Thank goodness these people also like meatballs.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
Stress
Two items of note in this week's news: 1) US officials hid evidence that the Afghan War had become unwinnable long ago 2) The ice sheet in Greenland is melting seven times faster than predicted. And a poem written two summers ago becomes more than apropos.
Stress
The cottonwoods struggle
hunkered down in dull camouflage,
sentries without water
balding from clumps of fallen leaves.
From Afghanistan:
GIs bunkered behind rocks, faces
sweaty, assault weapons gripped,
dealing death flashes of gunfire.
Back home, Texas-like heat expands
up North into July and August,
turning the foliage that remains
to anemic lemonade or paper-sack brown.
The high desert sun pounds on helmets
like a headache laced with mistrust
of the local forces,
mouths dry as hillside caves.
And in the forecast, scant relief.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Stress
The cottonwoods struggle
hunkered down in dull camouflage,
sentries without water
balding from clumps of fallen leaves.
From Afghanistan:
GIs bunkered behind rocks, faces
sweaty, assault weapons gripped,
dealing death flashes of gunfire.
Back home, Texas-like heat expands
up North into July and August,
turning the foliage that remains
to anemic lemonade or paper-sack brown.
The high desert sun pounds on helmets
like a headache laced with mistrust
of the local forces,
mouths dry as hillside caves.
And in the forecast, scant relief.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Tuesday, December 3, 2019
Evaluations
It is deer hunting season in the north woods. And seeing a buck close up, hanging from a rack, brought me back to another time and place years ago.
Evaluations
The freshly arrowed buck,
beheaded and skinned,
hangs slick with north woods pride.
Only the forelocks remain furred,
anchoring the rope against slipping.
Glistening fascia covers ruddy muscles
not unlike cadaver torsos
that first semester of medical school.
Every Saturday morning a quiz
on newly dissected sections:
bodies draped except for the organ,
muscle or nerve demanding
identification. Occasionally, a clue:
nail polish on fingers fallen
from under the sheet
reinforcing ovary as an answer.
But a doe's horned hooves
won't hold a manicure
and the only points that count
for a hunter
are those on the rack of antlers.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
Evaluations
The freshly arrowed buck,
beheaded and skinned,
hangs slick with north woods pride.
Only the forelocks remain furred,
anchoring the rope against slipping.
Glistening fascia covers ruddy muscles
not unlike cadaver torsos
that first semester of medical school.
Every Saturday morning a quiz
on newly dissected sections:
bodies draped except for the organ,
muscle or nerve demanding
identification. Occasionally, a clue:
nail polish on fingers fallen
from under the sheet
reinforcing ovary as an answer.
But a doe's horned hooves
won't hold a manicure
and the only points that count
for a hunter
are those on the rack of antlers.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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