Category Archives: nostalgia

On the smell of burning leaves

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This is a nostalgia piece, and normally I hate nostalgia because it conjures a false image of the past that never existed, but this topic might be a little different because it has to do the master of memories, a strong evocative smell. When I was a kid, we had huge trees around our house, so we also had a lot of leaves on the ground in October and November. We raked the brown and yellow and red leaves into enormous piles which at some point we would burn. Today, of course, you can’t burn your leaves without the police and fire department showing up to raise hell with you, and to be honest, it is air pollution. Having an open fire on your property or in the street is totally illegal. Back in the day, if my memory serves me right, back in the sixties, we would burn our leaves each fall, and an almost magic smoke would fill the air. Both acrid and sweet, the smoke had an incredibly rich smell which evokes for me other times and other places, people, seasons, short days, crisp nights, bare trees, incipient winter. The fallen leaves, the burning leaves, were announcing the changing season. I was so much younger then, younger than anyone really has a right to be. When I accidentally smell that smell today, the memories just wash over me like a huge unexpected wave. That nostalgia plumbs the depths of innocence as you warm your cold hands over the flames of memory. Sparks fly up and away in the darkness, children smile and watch the flames, chatting about nothing, but the bonds of those times are strong even though all of that–the burning leaves–is gone, up in smoke, a mirage lost in the past of another lifetime, another country. They say the past is a place to which we will never return, but the memories conjured by those potent and pungent smells assail us in ways we cannot ignore. The burning leaves of our pasts are still there, still burning, and the poetry that we wrote then, inspired by those people, places and events, will always return us to the past when we catch just the slightest wisp of smoke.

On the smell of burning leaves

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This is a nostalgia piece, and normally I hate nostalgia because it conjures a false image of the past that never existed, but this topic might be a little different because it has to do the master of memories, a strong evocative smell. When I was a kid, we had huge trees around our house, so we also had a lot of leaves on the ground in October and November. We raked the brown and yellow and red leaves into enormous piles which at some point we would burn. Today, of course, you can’t burn your leaves without the police and fire department showing up to raise hell with you, and to be honest, it is air pollution. Having an open fire on your property or in the street is totally illegal. Back in the day, if my memory serves me right, back in the sixties, we would burn our leaves each fall, and an almost magic smoke would fill the air. Both acrid and sweet, the smoke had an incredibly rich smell which evokes for me other times and other places, people, seasons, short days, crisp nights, bare trees, incipient winter. The fallen leaves, the burning leaves, were announcing the changing season. I was so much younger then, younger than anyone really has a right to be. When I accidentally smell that smell today, the memories just wash over me like a huge unexpected wave. That nostalgia plumbs the depths of innocence as you warm your cold hands over the flames of memory. Sparks fly up and away in the darkness, children smile and watch the flames, chatting about nothing, but the bonds of those times are strong even though all of that–the burning leaves–is gone, up in smoke, a mirage lost in the past of another lifetime, another country. They say the past is a place to which we will never return, but the memories conjured by those potent and pungent smells assail us in ways we cannot ignore. The burning leaves of our pasts are still there, still burning, and the poetry that we wrote then, inspired by those people, places and events, will always return us to the past when we catch just the slightest wisp of smoke.

On a frosty morning

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It happens so seldom in central Texas that a frost is worth noting. As a child in Minnesota, frosty nights were an everyday occurrence from September to May, but in the central Texas usually you can count them on one hand. A frosty night is a sign that time is passing, that the seasons are moving on, that another year is passing. Alone with one’s existential thoughts revolving around the nature of human purpose, a frosty night dashes reason and shreds any hope that one actually controls their own destiny. One is assailed by nostalgia and wistfulness for other times and other people when things seemed simpler. All of that is, of course, an illusion that keeps one from living more fully in the here and the now. One just tends to push all of the bad things into the back of the memory closet and leave them there. Frosty nights were made for warm jackets, maybe a hat, gloves. The problem being, of course, that more than eight months have gone by since I needed any of those things, and now I have no idea where they might be. One gets used to the heat, at least a little bit, and when it’s gone we complain bitterly. I don’t mind the cold, and I also find the cold a nice change from the monotony of the daily heat which is so common here during the year’s middle months. It is November, however, and if there is frost on the grass in the morning, I will be surprised. The heat seems like it will always be with me. On a frosty night you can see a million stars if you dare venture out, your breath condensing in the cold air as if it were so much strange smoke. The clouds are gone for a moment, and the heat of the day is drifting off into space. The stars, in their frosty heights, foreshadow the million tiny glittering ice crystals, ephemera, that will cover the lawn in the morning, shining coldly and brightly as we all go off to work, unable to stop and admire Nature’s handiwork. Grandes estrellas de escarcha vienen con el pez de sombra que abre el camino del alba.–Lorca

On a frosty morning

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It happens so seldom in central Texas that a frost is worth noting. As a child in Minnesota, frosty nights were an everyday occurrence from September to May, but in the central Texas usually you can count them on one hand. A frosty night is a sign that time is passing, that the seasons are moving on, that another year is passing. Alone with one’s existential thoughts revolving around the nature of human purpose, a frosty night dashes reason and shreds any hope that one actually controls their own destiny. One is assailed by nostalgia and wistfulness for other times and other people when things seemed simpler. All of that is, of course, an illusion that keeps one from living more fully in the here and the now. One just tends to push all of the bad things into the back of the memory closet and leave them there. Frosty nights were made for warm jackets, maybe a hat, gloves. The problem being, of course, that more than eight months have gone by since I needed any of those things, and now I have no idea where they might be. One gets used to the heat, at least a little bit, and when it’s gone we complain bitterly. I don’t mind the cold, and I also find the cold a nice change from the monotony of the daily heat which is so common here during the year’s middle months. It is November, however, and if there is frost on the grass in the morning, I will be surprised. The heat seems like it will always be with me. On a frosty night you can see a million stars if you dare venture out, your breath condensing in the cold air as if it were so much strange smoke. The clouds are gone for a moment, and the heat of the day is drifting off into space. The stars, in their frosty heights, foreshadow the million tiny glittering ice crystals, ephemera, that will cover the lawn in the morning, shining coldly and brightly as we all go off to work, unable to stop and admire Nature’s handiwork. Grandes estrellas de escarcha vienen con el pez de sombra que abre el camino del alba.–Lorca

On a bandage

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I had to put a bandage on my finger tonight because I accidentally hurt myself while preparing food. I don’t know about you, but I have sliced and diced my left hand until it has bled. Though I would not say I am particularly clumsy, I am not particularly deft and my hands bear the scars of years. My new bandage covers a small wound that only gave up a few drops of blood, so I don’t need stitches, but I wasn’t happy that I hurt myself either. It will heal, no doubt. I’ve put the requisite anti-bacterial products on my wound, a little peroxide. I put pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood, albeit a trickle. The bandage is holding in the rest. The bandage is flesh-colored except that my flesh is not that particular color of pink, but it does keep new germs from getting into the wound and infecting me with who knows what deadly horrors from the bacterial world. It turns out that if I cut myself, I bleed, that even on the macro-level, my blood is dark red, and I am not immortal. That is what the flimsy plastic bandage on my left finger tells me.

On a bandage

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I had to put a bandage on my finger tonight because I accidentally hurt myself while preparing food. I don’t know about you, but I have sliced and diced my left hand until it has bled. Though I would not say I am particularly clumsy, I am not particularly deft and my hands bear the scars of years. My new bandage covers a small wound that only gave up a few drops of blood, so I don’t need stitches, but I wasn’t happy that I hurt myself either. It will heal, no doubt. I’ve put the requisite anti-bacterial products on my wound, a little peroxide. I put pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood, albeit a trickle. The bandage is holding in the rest. The bandage is flesh-colored except that my flesh is not that particular color of pink, but it does keep new germs from getting into the wound and infecting me with who knows what deadly horrors from the bacterial world. It turns out that if I cut myself, I bleed, that even on the macro-level, my blood is dark red, and I am not immortal. That is what the flimsy plastic bandage on my left finger tells me.

On homecoming

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Tonight, the St. Peter Saints will play the Luverne Cardinals at 7 p.m. in St. Peter. St. Peter is celebrating its homecoming week and football game tonight, which means parades, homecoming queens and kings, getting out of class early, and an exciting football game to which alumni are invited once a year. Nostalgia is fun, but it doesn’t pay the mortgage. I have always thought that Thomas Wolfe was correct when he said you can’t go back home. Personally, I haven’t really lived in my hometown for over thirty years, so although I recognize the last names, a couple of generations of children have gone through the high school. I have more in common with the football players’ and cheerleaders’ grandparents than I do their parents. As the decades have dropped by, my hometown has changed a bit, but it has also stayed the same. Living in the past is a dead end. Homecoming is more fun for the high school kids than it is for the old alumni, and that is the way it should be. Kick-off is scheduled in about an hour, and the band will play, the cheerleaders will jump and scream, the young men will strap on their gear, and the students will file into the stadium to cheer on their team as they always have. Perhaps homecoming is there to remind us all that we have grown up, Peter Pan. I will not be there, just as I have never been there for the past thirty-six years. It’s always time to move on.

On homecoming

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Tonight, the St. Peter Saints will play the Luverne Cardinals at 7 p.m. in St. Peter. St. Peter is celebrating its homecoming week and football game tonight, which means parades, homecoming queens and kings, getting out of class early, and an exciting football game to which alumni are invited once a year. Nostalgia is fun, but it doesn’t pay the mortgage. I have always thought that Thomas Wolfe was correct when he said you can’t go back home. Personally, I haven’t really lived in my hometown for over thirty years, so although I recognize the last names, a couple of generations of children have gone through the high school. I have more in common with the football players’ and cheerleaders’ grandparents than I do their parents. As the decades have dropped by, my hometown has changed a bit, but it has also stayed the same. Living in the past is a dead end. Homecoming is more fun for the high school kids than it is for the old alumni, and that is the way it should be. Kick-off is scheduled in about an hour, and the band will play, the cheerleaders will jump and scream, the young men will strap on their gear, and the students will file into the stadium to cheer on their team as they always have. Perhaps homecoming is there to remind us all that we have grown up, Peter Pan. I will not be there, just as I have never been there for the past thirty-six years. It’s always time to move on.

On complicated coffee

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I think that coffee is already a flavor that needs no changing or improving. It doesn’t need any pumpkin or spice, no caramel or cinnamon, no vanilla or hazel nut. There is no reason anyone needs a quadruple trifecta macchiato with extra cinammon, caramel, and whipped cream with sprinkles. Perhaps a little milk, maybe a little sugar to bring up the flavors, but I don’t need other flavors to make my coffee experience a good one. This time of year, when it’s still hot, I like my coffee cold and bitter like a nasty January day on the Midwestern plains. Some folks like to dress up their coffee with strange Italian syrups, mountains of whipped cream, extra sprinkles, but isn’t that like putting a sweater on a dog? Dogs already come with the sweater attached last time I checked. All I want is a couple of shots of espresso and a little peace and quiet–maybe a quiet conversation with some friends, maybe a rowdy discussion of manners by Minnesotans. I think those ladies in the basement of the Lutheran church in which I grew up knew something about black bitter coffee as they continually brewed a pot to be served with the doughnuts on Sunday morning. Those wise women knew that coffee was a flavor all by itself and needed no improvement or variations. They often scoffed if you put cream in your cup, or at least looked on in disapproval. Coffee is simple, so why do we insist on screwing it up? Coffee, for better or worse, is an experience unto itself, love it or hate it. So the next time you go for coffee, think about how you can simplify your order. Think about coffee as if it were a metaphor for the life well-lived, simple, strong, and uncomplicated.

On complicated coffee

Posted on by

I think that coffee is already a flavor that needs no changing or improving. It doesn’t need any pumpkin or spice, no caramel or cinnamon, no vanilla or hazel nut. There is no reason anyone needs a quadruple trifecta macchiato with extra cinammon, caramel, and whipped cream with sprinkles. Perhaps a little milk, maybe a little sugar to bring up the flavors, but I don’t need other flavors to make my coffee experience a good one. This time of year, when it’s still hot, I like my coffee cold and bitter like a nasty January day on the Midwestern plains. Some folks like to dress up their coffee with strange Italian syrups, mountains of whipped cream, extra sprinkles, but isn’t that like putting a sweater on a dog? Dogs already come with the sweater attached last time I checked. All I want is a couple of shots of espresso and a little peace and quiet–maybe a quiet conversation with some friends, maybe a rowdy discussion of manners by Minnesotans. I think those ladies in the basement of the Lutheran church in which I grew up knew something about black bitter coffee as they continually brewed a pot to be served with the doughnuts on Sunday morning. Those wise women knew that coffee was a flavor all by itself and needed no improvement or variations. They often scoffed if you put cream in your cup, or at least looked on in disapproval. Coffee is simple, so why do we insist on screwing it up? Coffee, for better or worse, is an experience unto itself, love it or hate it. So the next time you go for coffee, think about how you can simplify your order. Think about coffee as if it were a metaphor for the life well-lived, simple, strong, and uncomplicated.