PART I
MIDDLENESS
Chapter 1: Middle Space
Once upon a midnight in the land of Wannaska, a boy of 12 very old-feeling years dangled his legs from the open door of his tree house built high above the ground. Otto sat in a moment between the two worst days of his life, having just lost his lifelong friend - also 12, or 84 - depending on how you count dog years. Otto stared up into a moonless, star-filled sky filled with memories of Wink. Twelve years of memories cannot be contained by the 12-year-old mind, especially because those Wink memories were grounded in joy - except for the last one. Just before he left, right in the moment of saving Otto's life, Wink and Otto eyes locked and said everything to each other. Then everything ended; but more on that later.
Otto had passed the two hours before midnight stringing together a long chain of wishes, but the wish-chain became so long with so many wishes that the midnight-wish snapped under the weight. Otto fell inside out, and just then - in that moment before the one day could become the next - the stars all vanished as an immense, deafening silence climbed out of the ground and noiselessly sat right down on the ground over Otto's tree, spreading dark cheeks from horizon to horizon across the midsummer countryside. In that tiny, thin rift between those cheeks of dark emptiness sitting over and around his world, Otto heard two sounds - the bark of a dog and the voice of a girl.
MIDDLENESS
There has never been a first beginning;
all new beginnings arise from a myriad of middles.
Habbiah the Elder
Chapter 1: Middle Space
Once upon a midnight in the land of Wannaska, a boy of 12 very old-feeling years dangled his legs from the open door of his tree house built high above the ground. Otto sat in a moment between the two worst days of his life, having just lost his lifelong friend - also 12, or 84 - depending on how you count dog years. Otto stared up into a moonless, star-filled sky filled with memories of Wink. Twelve years of memories cannot be contained by the 12-year-old mind, especially because those Wink memories were grounded in joy - except for the last one. Just before he left, right in the moment of saving Otto's life, Wink and Otto eyes locked and said everything to each other. Then everything ended; but more on that later.
Otto had passed the two hours before midnight stringing together a long chain of wishes, but the wish-chain became so long with so many wishes that the midnight-wish snapped under the weight. Otto fell inside out, and just then - in that moment before the one day could become the next - the stars all vanished as an immense, deafening silence climbed out of the ground and noiselessly sat right down on the ground over Otto's tree, spreading dark cheeks from horizon to horizon across the midsummer countryside. In that tiny, thin rift between those cheeks of dark emptiness sitting over and around his world, Otto heard two sounds - the bark of a dog and the voice of a girl.
Otto snuggled deep into the edgy comfort of all the old worn out dirty magazines his mother told him he shouldn't look at that he had squirreled away in his tree house, thinking of when he and Wink used to hunt rats down along the railroad tracks in Wannaska.
[2018.08.01 Woe]
They'd get up early on Saturday mornings and sneak out of the house before anyone was truly awake. Otto would have to carry Wink because of the click-click noise her claws made on the linoleum that would be sure to wake Otto's mom who always slept with one ear and one eye open for anything amiss in her house, even though Otto's dad, a man's man, slept in his own little bed opposite her ready to spring out of it at a moment's notice. Otto's dad was more than one woman's hero. But more on that later.
Closing the door silently, Wink and Otto would steal from the house and, giving it a wide berth (because of his mom's bionic hearing abilities), they would slip under the backyard fence, being careful not to tear Otto's clothes nor gouge out one of Wink's eyes, into the dead end alley, whose shallow ruts were impregnated with layers of coal cinders thrown there over the back fences of the other neighbors for many years, and make their way four doors down (i.e., four houses) to the Winnipeg, Wannaska, & Warroad Rail Road tracks, where, on either side of it for miles, lived t'ousands of monstrous rats that fed on the stuff that fell out of passing boxcars whether it was engine block leakage from crushed salvaged cars on their way to Winnipeg, or eelpout juice oozing out from the towering titillating tons of dead eelpouts dredged up under duress from the far-flung fathoms of the Lake of The Woods by the commercial eelpout fishing industry in Warroad, or the clippings from strange foul-smelling floor sweepings that were bagged and baled every night then loaded up through the overhead door of the Wannaska Convenience store along the river's edge by the railroad trestle.
Wink knew what was up.
[2018.08.02. WannaskaWriter]
[2018.08.01 Woe]
They'd get up early on Saturday mornings and sneak out of the house before anyone was truly awake. Otto would have to carry Wink because of the click-click noise her claws made on the linoleum that would be sure to wake Otto's mom who always slept with one ear and one eye open for anything amiss in her house, even though Otto's dad, a man's man, slept in his own little bed opposite her ready to spring out of it at a moment's notice. Otto's dad was more than one woman's hero. But more on that later.
Closing the door silently, Wink and Otto would steal from the house and, giving it a wide berth (because of his mom's bionic hearing abilities), they would slip under the backyard fence, being careful not to tear Otto's clothes nor gouge out one of Wink's eyes, into the dead end alley, whose shallow ruts were impregnated with layers of coal cinders thrown there over the back fences of the other neighbors for many years, and make their way four doors down (i.e., four houses) to the Winnipeg, Wannaska, & Warroad Rail Road tracks, where, on either side of it for miles, lived t'ousands of monstrous rats that fed on the stuff that fell out of passing boxcars whether it was engine block leakage from crushed salvaged cars on their way to Winnipeg, or eelpout juice oozing out from the towering titillating tons of dead eelpouts dredged up under duress from the far-flung fathoms of the Lake of The Woods by the commercial eelpout fishing industry in Warroad, or the clippings from strange foul-smelling floor sweepings that were bagged and baled every night then loaded up through the overhead door of the Wannaska Convenience store along the river's edge by the railroad trestle.
Wink knew what was up.
[2018.08.02. WannaskaWriter]
Otto let all these memories, far and near, flood his brain’s memory pathways, because he did not want to think about that bark and that voice. One was eerily familiar. The other more than a little scary. Then, when he had run through his twelve years of memories, he became curious and turned his attention to the broken silence and allowed himself – this time voluntarily – to settle into the rift between the cheeks of dark emptiness. Once he focused his awareness on that emptiness, that silence, again the deep emptiness broke, interrupted by an enormous wind rushing into his face, blowing back his dark-brown hair, and making his eyes sting. Then, again, this time borne on the rising wind: one bark and one syllable spoken in a girl’s voice: “Aught.”
If Wink had been there, Otto thought, she would know what to do: bark and growl doing her protection job even if she was mightily alarmed. Nothing would keep her from her duty. The bark expanded into repetitive yaps, snarls, and yips. Strangely, no dog appeared. Then Otto knew: he would recognize Wink’s vocalizations anywhere. “Wink! Oh, Wink! Is it really you?” Otto felt just a little silly, but that feeling was greatly overshadowed by his eagerness to continue the experience.
“Wink, Wink, come here girl.”
Silence once again pounded on Otto’s ears. No answer. The wind faded away. Otto’s tears welled up, as he decided these tricks of the late hour and the wind fooled him into thinking this breaking morning might be the best day of his life. He bent his knees hugging them to his chest, and let his head sink onto his arms.
“Otto, is that you?”
Again, the girl’s voice.
If Wink had been there, Otto thought, she would know what to do: bark and growl doing her protection job even if she was mightily alarmed. Nothing would keep her from her duty. The bark expanded into repetitive yaps, snarls, and yips. Strangely, no dog appeared. Then Otto knew: he would recognize Wink’s vocalizations anywhere. “Wink! Oh, Wink! Is it really you?” Otto felt just a little silly, but that feeling was greatly overshadowed by his eagerness to continue the experience.
“Wink, Wink, come here girl.”
Silence once again pounded on Otto’s ears. No answer. The wind faded away. Otto’s tears welled up, as he decided these tricks of the late hour and the wind fooled him into thinking this breaking morning might be the best day of his life. He bent his knees hugging them to his chest, and let his head sink onto his arms.
“Otto, is that you?”
Again, the girl’s voice.
[2018.08.03 JackPineSavage]
"Y'aught be a bit more quiet afore y'all get used to bein' in the fold. M'name's Izzi. Whoer you?"
"Wink? You out there?"
"M'name's Izzi, an' Ah's here to help y'all, hayseed. Whooz Wink?"
"Wink is...was...my dog..."
"Yer dawg. That splains everthin'. Pleaz tell me yer name, an' whar y'all live - State of the Yoonyon an'all - lest yer a farner - soz I kin tell ya what's hapnin."
"My name is Otto, and I live just outside Wannaska, in Minnesota. Where do you live?"
"Otto...mind if I call y'all 'Aught'?"
"Wink? You out there?"
"M'name's Izzi, an' Ah's here to help y'all, hayseed. Whooz Wink?"
"Wink is...was...my dog..."
"Yer dawg. That splains everthin'. Pleaz tell me yer name, an' whar y'all live - State of the Yoonyon an'all - lest yer a farner - soz I kin tell ya what's hapnin."
"My name is Otto, and I live just outside Wannaska, in Minnesota. Where do you live?"
"Otto...mind if I call y'all 'Aught'?"
Izzi explained that she lived on a ranch just outside Oologah, Oklahoma, that she was also 12 years old, that she also had a mother with bionic surveillance sensory capacities, and that she also "had a dawg and a heap more critters who'er m'best friends." Then, she fell silent. Without saying so, Otto and Izzi each felt relief learning that the other didn't live in the city and that they had a lot in common. All the same, as a true Son of Wannaska, Otto trusted - in order of priority - his reason, his senses, his intuitions, and near the end of the list, what others told him. So he pulled his phone from his pocket, and pressed all the buttons; to no avail. E v e r y t h i n g remained b l a c k.
"Izzi, what's happening? HOW is this happening?"
"Good fer you, Aught! Y'all kin only git yer smarts about the fold by askin'. This here's a differnt wrinkle from yer day ta day, whar time and place don' really measure up the way it's generally reckoned - no pun intended."
Izzi suggested that Otto get on a computer some time soon and learn about latitude, longitude, meridians, the day/night terminator, and Einstein's theories of general and special relativity, "For yer basics." According to Izzi, almost all humans - I.S. for "Invasive Species" as she calls them - can experience time in one of two ways. Izzi elaborated:
"Yer average I.S. lives in a time of personal history, more place than time, whar everthin' iz either 'bout the past or 'bout the future. Nairy one-in-a-million I.S. spend mor'n a total sixty seconds o their'n 'tire lifetime in the other kind'a time - the moment. But sum us'r differnt. We kin larn to 'bide a good piece of our time in the moment. That's what yer doin' right now with me."
"But Izzi, HOW does this work?"
"Whell, Aught, this is whar it gits t'be sumpin' of a study. Like the rest of us in the fold, y'all have a gift for 'bidin' in moment-time, and the more time y'all spend in moment-time, the more thin's open up. Thar's only so much y'all can thank about moment-time to larn it. Mostly yer gonna have to larn with us just bein' rye-cheer an' now, but Ah kin tell y'all this much..."
Izzi then told Otto about the ways that space and time bend and curve in the very smaller and very larger sizes of the universe - the sizes that most I.S. cannot directly know for more than an instant without their "gadgets" or before their instants of moment-time collapses back down to dull, ponderous march of past-to-future-to-past-to-future - step by step by tedious step. Izzi told Otto that she and Otto were communicating through a tight, temporary fold in space and time, a fold only available to two people who can dwell steadfastly in moment-time, and who are far enough apart for large space-time to fold those places together.
The Son of Wannaska felt both elated and conflicted. In addition to her bionic surveillance capacities, Otto's mother lived to speak truth to power. She taught her son to be wary of claims to authority - especially religious authority - and fold sounded a lot like flock. Being his mother's son, Otto voiced these proclivities to Izzi.
"Nope. Ain't nothin' like that; nothin' atall."
"But who's in charge?!"
"Y'all are cowboy."
"What's your dog's name, Izzi?"
"Jinx."
At that very moment, the stars appeared in the sky above Otto's treehouse, and he checked his phone. <12:01AM>
Otto dropped the rope to the ground and walked the long way home along the meandering waters of Mikinaak Creek, feeling imperceptibly, unquantifiably less alone that he had only just a moment ago - once upon a midnight.
[2018.08.15 Woe]
________________
Otto awoke the next morning to the smell of fresh bacon and the sizzle of butter-fried eggs rising up the stairs to his bedroom from the kitchen. Paula Peppenhorst prepared every single Sunday breakfast since her wedding to Peter 23 years, 3 months, and 14 days ago - even when she began working for Mantoy Industries in the plastic plant on the swing shift while pregnant with Otto, still nursing Gretchen, and hobbled by a broken foot from a forklift incident; but more on that later. Preternaturally attentive and ambitiously compulsive, Paula - known as Pep - embraced the symbiotic twin Teutonic virtues of self-discipline and structure above all others. Mrs. Peppenhorst was on board with the notion of unconditional love, as long as everyone understood her conditions. "Eggs up in 2, Otto."
"How does she do that!?" Otto had only just opened his eyes to the new day, but his mother had not only timed his breakfast perfectly; she announced its near readiness the moment he awoke, sight unseen. Otto's family moved into the old family farm house years before Otto was born. Small but sprawling, the two-story, third-generation farm home featured furnishings acquired in terms of legacy, functionality, comfort, price, style, and color - in that order of priority. The kitchen sat in the physical and psychological center of the home, where all were welcome, and where Paula had the last word. In the center of the center sat Paula's green, wall-mount, rotary dial Southern Bell equipped with a tangled 25-foot receiver cord and receiver shoulder rest. Paula personally mounted it to the blank end of the "kitchen table" - two tall back-to-back old style kitchen wall cabinets topped with the homestead's original front door and a plate of tempered glass surrounded by set of National Office Furniture metal industrial barstools with backrests (salvaged from the '88 VFW fire). Pep had the reputation as a do-it-yourself kind of gal.
Paula posted two household rules on the fridge, which she applied to any sentient being who set foot in the house: 1. Be kind. 2. Tell the truth. As such, Otto performed the most elemental basics of his physical (pee) and obligatory (brush teeth) bathroom ablutions before taking his place at the table just as Paula finished transferring his bacon and eggs to Otto's blue plate - a plate from which Otto had eaten since his third birthday, because Paula said he was special. "Thanks, Mom."
Otto felt his eyes wanting to look over and check the sufficiency of Wink's food dish and water bowl contents, but his heart resisted the habit. "Would you like me to put Wink's things up on the shelf in the garage?"
"No, I'll do it after breakfast."
"Did you spend time with the Beebbs last night?"
Paula referred to Otto's best friend, Bobby Bartholomew Bagendski, Wannaska's lone Jewish child, whose name lends itself to customized nicknames for any acquaintance who wishes to do so: Paula listens to the BBC, hence her approximation; Peter, ever the minimalist, calls him B; Gretchen expresses her disdain by calling him either Bobo or Boo Boo, depending on her pH. Otto calls Bobby B&BB, just B&B, or any other creative riff on the letter B, because they were fun to say and because that's what Bobby told Otto to call him.
"No, I'll see him today, though - with Coon Man - down by the bridge."
Otto now knew that his mother knew that he snuck out last night, and Otto heaved an inner sigh of relieve knowing that she was going to let it go. With each passing year Otto became more and more grateful for being more lightly mothered.
"I just sat in the treehouse hoping to avoid some of Gretchen's Saturday night drama."
"Thought so. Please leave me a note when you need to go out late like that, dear."
After breakfast, Otto walked back up to his bedroom and turned on his phone to check in with B&BB, scanning Snapchat, Instagram, and Facebook for any updates. That's when he saw it: the Facebook friend request from Izzi. Otto put his phone in his pocket, picked up Wink's dish and bowl on his way out the door, deposited yet another absence-reminder of Wink on the garage shelf, and walked to the Beito-McDonnell Memorial Bridge, taking in as much riverside as he could on the way.
[2018.08.15 Woe]
The ol' Number 5... Otto enjoyed jokes and riddles every bit as much as the next guy, except he never saw himself as much of a joke teller. He envied real jokers, like Coon Man, in that they could tell one joke after another all day long, and as for riddles, he only liked the laugh aloud ones, that were hard because they were so simple.
Otto had his one joke that he could tell in front of his family and loved to pester Gretchen with it whenever she got too uppity. She couldn't explain it away no matter how she tried. Otto's wielded his secret weapon as Gretchen's Kryptonite, sending her running angrily back to her bedroom and slamming her door.
"Hooyah!" he'd snicker.
Not that he didn't love his sister. He hoped to mature into that knowledge later, but for now, as a kid, he was going to use whatever devices there were at hand to his advantage, realizing big sisters always tried to have the upper hand in all things familial.
So this was Otto's joke: He'd say to Gretchen, or any suitable victim, "How many digits at the end of your arms do you have?" and they'd likely answer, "Ten." Then he'd say, "I can prove you have eleven, wanna bet?"
Since gambling was forboden in the Peppenhorst household, Otto's "bet'"was just that he could prove it without a shred of doubt, and of course, everybody knew he could not, as probably 101% of humans the world over have ten digits, including their thumbs. This was a sure thing the victims knew. Otto would be humiliated.
"Sure, kid. Prove it," they'd all say.
Except Gretchen. She knew the answer but wouldn't accept it.
"Okay den," Otto would say, tryin' on a little phony scandahoovian accent.
"Hold yur 'ands out, like dis 'ere."
And he'd demonstrate with his own because not all his victims were the sharpest knives in the drawer, if you know what I'm sayin'.
Then, he'd start counting down their fingers and thumbs on one hand:
"Ten"
"Nine"
"Eight"
"Seven"
"Six"
And going to the other hand, Otto'd point and say,
"And five, makes eleven."
"Hooyah!"
The ol' Number 5... Otto enjoyed jokes and riddles every bit as much as the next guy, except he never saw himself as much of a joke teller. He envied real jokers, like Coon Man, in that they could tell one joke after another all day long, and as for riddles, he only liked the laugh aloud ones, that were hard because they were so simple.
Otto had his one joke that he could tell in front of his family and loved to pester Gretchen with it whenever she got too uppity. She couldn't explain it away no matter how she tried. Otto's wielded his secret weapon as Gretchen's Kryptonite, sending her running angrily back to her bedroom and slamming her door.
"Hooyah!" he'd snicker.
Not that he didn't love his sister. He hoped to mature into that knowledge later, but for now, as a kid, he was going to use whatever devices there were at hand to his advantage, realizing big sisters always tried to have the upper hand in all things familial.
So this was Otto's joke: He'd say to Gretchen, or any suitable victim, "How many digits at the end of your arms do you have?" and they'd likely answer, "Ten." Then he'd say, "I can prove you have eleven, wanna bet?"
Since gambling was forboden in the Peppenhorst household, Otto's "bet'"was just that he could prove it without a shred of doubt, and of course, everybody knew he could not, as probably 101% of humans the world over have ten digits, including their thumbs. This was a sure thing the victims knew. Otto would be humiliated.
"Sure, kid. Prove it," they'd all say.
Except Gretchen. She knew the answer but wouldn't accept it.
"Okay den," Otto would say, tryin' on a little phony scandahoovian accent.
"Hold yur 'ands out, like dis 'ere."
And he'd demonstrate with his own because not all his victims were the sharpest knives in the drawer, if you know what I'm sayin'.
Then, he'd start counting down their fingers and thumbs on one hand:
"Ten"
"Nine"
"Eight"
"Seven"
"Six"
And going to the other hand, Otto'd point and say,
"And five, makes eleven."
"Hooyah!"
[2018.08.18 WannaskaWriter]
________________
As Otto made his way to the Beito-McDonnell Memorial Bridge*, enjoying the slow flow of the river making its way quietly through its banks, he considered the friend request from Izzi. Actually, he wasn’t at all sure that the request might not be someone’s prank – probably the B&B’s handiwork, he thought. But how could B&B possibly know about Izzi, the pseudoscientist of the cosmos? No, couldn’t be him. Then, some incarnation of Wink? Even more unlikely, Otto decided. Only wishful thinking, since Otto had never heard Wink speak – not really.
Two river rats scurried along under the brush, as Otto percolated on Izzi’s genesis. If she actually existed, where did she come from, if not Oklahoma, and how did she acquire her cosmic knowledge, true or not? That most certainly qualified as half hoax and half wild imagination, but he needed more information before he decided. “Holy buckets!” Otto exclaimed under his breath. “I’m starting to believe she’s real!” Then he let go of all thought of Izzi’s origins and corporeality, as he arrived at the bridge.
Otto always felt a waft of warmth and wellbeing come over him at the bridge. Being a railway bridge and still in use, a person had to be careful to listen for the train’s whistle, and sometimes (the bridge being such an insignificant overpass) the engineer forgot to blow his horn. In that case, only the sound of approaching wheels on rails warned the bridge-crosser of impending death.
Anyway, Otto immediately recognized the source of the warmth – his absent father, Paul Pepperhorst - whose last name his mother continued to cling to, just as she still counted the days since their marriage. Otto counted the years since his father’s disappearance, five in a row now, when Otto’s age had barely topped seven. He had only fine, clean memories of his dad, fat with long afternoons of fishing from this bridge and long walks through local fields and forests. But today, Otto brushed those memories aside as he hadn’t brought his rod and lures, and he didn’t feel like walking any farther.
It occurred to Otto that his father’s presence existed no more in reality than did Izzi’s, and now Wink’s, but a person might imagine anyway. His dad and Wink, yes, but Izzi? Her existence defied common sense. Otto brushed thoughts of her aside as well, his attention now on what he certainly heard behind him – the sound of panting.
[2018.08.20 JackPineSavage]
________________
As Otto made his way to the Beito-McDonnell Memorial Bridge*, enjoying the slow flow of the river making its way quietly through its banks, he considered the friend request from Izzi. Actually, he wasn’t at all sure that the request might not be someone’s prank – probably the B&B’s handiwork, he thought. But how could B&B possibly know about Izzi, the pseudoscientist of the cosmos? No, couldn’t be him. Then, some incarnation of Wink? Even more unlikely, Otto decided. Only wishful thinking, since Otto had never heard Wink speak – not really.
Two river rats scurried along under the brush, as Otto percolated on Izzi’s genesis. If she actually existed, where did she come from, if not Oklahoma, and how did she acquire her cosmic knowledge, true or not? That most certainly qualified as half hoax and half wild imagination, but he needed more information before he decided. “Holy buckets!” Otto exclaimed under his breath. “I’m starting to believe she’s real!” Then he let go of all thought of Izzi’s origins and corporeality, as he arrived at the bridge.
Otto always felt a waft of warmth and wellbeing come over him at the bridge. Being a railway bridge and still in use, a person had to be careful to listen for the train’s whistle, and sometimes (the bridge being such an insignificant overpass) the engineer forgot to blow his horn. In that case, only the sound of approaching wheels on rails warned the bridge-crosser of impending death.
Anyway, Otto immediately recognized the source of the warmth – his absent father, Paul Pepperhorst - whose last name his mother continued to cling to, just as she still counted the days since their marriage. Otto counted the years since his father’s disappearance, five in a row now, when Otto’s age had barely topped seven. He had only fine, clean memories of his dad, fat with long afternoons of fishing from this bridge and long walks through local fields and forests. But today, Otto brushed those memories aside as he hadn’t brought his rod and lures, and he didn’t feel like walking any farther.
It occurred to Otto that his father’s presence existed no more in reality than did Izzi’s, and now Wink’s, but a person might imagine anyway. His dad and Wink, yes, but Izzi? Her existence defied common sense. Otto brushed thoughts of her aside as well, his attention now on what he certainly heard behind him – the sound of panting.
[2018.08.20 JackPineSavage]
*Historical note on the Beito-McDonnell Memorial Bridge
Sigrid Beito and Tumany McDonnell were star-crossed lovers who grew up among the third generation of the original Palmville Township inhabitants, back when the intersections of rivers and railroads determined where folks settled - that and wherever the wagon wheel axle happened to snap.
In addition to the usual mixed-marriage concerns of that era - Norwegian/Irish, Protestant/Catholic, tradesman/farmer - and unbeknownst to either family, Sigrid and Tumany each carried a rare, recessive, genetic disorder unique to their homelands. These genetic conditions are similar to the inheritance of Tay-Sachs disease typically found in Eastern European Jews, but with very different symptoms. In fact, subsequent modern laboratory testing in descendants of Sigrid and Tumany lead forensic experts to believe that these disorders directly contributed to their demise. Hence, the memorial.
Sigrid suffered from full penetrance of Flavis-Capillis disease, in which persons so afflicted demonstrate impaired, rapidly fluctuating changes of cognitive judgment, in direct proportion to serum oxytocin levels. Think, love hurts so good. As for Tumany, in addition to being afflicted with an extreme preoccupation for obtaining and consuming alcohol, he suffered from the most shameful, culturally reprehensible of Irish genetic afflictions - Sine-Ironia - the constitutional inability to perceive irony or avoid ironic circumstances, thought to originate in County Kerry, peculiarly, in residents of Dingle.
As their relationship became public, Sigrid's parents forbade her any further contact with the Papist; Tumany's long-suffering Irish mother - unable to accept the thought of another woman in Tumany's life - filled her son's head with an unending, sobering list of the trials and tribulations of fatherhood. To no avail. So it was on that fateful New Year's Eve evening when Tumany asked Sigrid to meet him at the bridge - an evening after Sigrid had spent the entire day dreaming of a new home filled with babies of her own with Tumany, and an evening after Tumany had already enjoyed a few too many visits with the holiday spirits.
Huddled together under the trestle for warmth, Tumany told Sigrid of his plan - an idea for a permanent commitment ritual to demonstrate their abiding love to all:
"We'll each give up a digit for one another."
"A what?!"
"A digit. I'll give up my ring finger for you, and you only have to give up a baby toe."
Overwhelmed by a surge of oxytocin at Tumany's proposal of eternal love, Sigrid agreed to his plan.
"But how, my love?"
"We do it tonight. The 7:45 will be here in minutes. You go to the west side of the tracks and lay your baby toe on the rail; I'll stay here on the east side and stretch my ring finger on this rail. It'll be over before you know it."
And so, it was.
Of further historical note related to Tumany's genetic affliction with respect to Sigrid's ancestry, Beito is a Norwegian habitational name from a river flowing across a farm in Valdres, derived from an element meaning "freezing cold" in Norwegian, which it surely was under that trestle on that fateful New Year's Eve night.
Otto turned in the direction of the panting, faster than a
jackrabbit's heartbeat, each breath moving thimble-fulls of the syrupy
summer air. An old snag reached out into the river, upturned roots
fanning the edge of the water. Must be behind that tree, thought
Otto, stepping softly toward the river. "S'up?" Otto spun back around to
see Bobby. The panting, now behind him once again, give way to a swish
of underbrush as the animal took flight along the overgrown riverbank.
Otto pivoted to watch the sound recede into silence.
"Did you see what it was?"
"No,
but I got a pretty good idea. Word around Palmville it's a stray dog or
coyote pup who's been stealing food and chasing chickens at night.
Nobody's gotten a good look at it yet."
Bobby could see right into Otto's mind and changed the subject. "Where's your stuff?"
"Already out at the trestle."
"You left your Johnson out for the taking on the trestle!?"
"Nope, just the Zebco, and it's unfindable."
A
natural comedian known for his uncanny impersonations, Bobby slipped
into one of his classics - Old Man Tofferson spazzing out in a flipping
philippic: "JUST the Zebco... UNfindable... Food or fishing tackle, you
K-N-O-W that Coon Man can find ANYthing and will eat or steal ANYthing!"
Otto joined the routine: "At LEAST it wasn't the JOHNSON!"
And
so they continued the mock argument all way to the trestle for fishing,
where the whole idea was to otherwise choose words carefully and speak
only when necessary once the rods were deployed. Otto and Bobby eschewed
many of the habits of their indoors, online friends, sharing a mutual
passion for fishing and collecting fishing equipment. Social challenges
aside, Old Man [Gander] Tofferson was their fishing guru, who as legend has it, even married a woman who had her own boat and who had divorced her first husband because he didn’t go fishing enough.
Two
lines kissed the flowing water, and silence ensued. Bobby knew Otto
well enough to remain silent. Entirely intent on his line, Otto's mind
slowly quieted into a calm, cool, undisturbed tranquility where each
wisp of new thought or feeling drifted away as quickly as it arose. The
line became the water, and the flowing water encompassed the riverbank,
and the plants and animals sounded through the wind into the blue,
cloudless sky. Otto peacefully, imperturbably brushed away the few
mosquitoes and bull flies entering his moment.
"Ah'm as real as y'all are."
[2018.08.22 Woe]
________________
Maybe it's a matter of being the only male in the family. Maybe it's also the complex combination of being male, the youngest, and second born - especially the part about being the peacemaker. Maybe it's also being a 12-year-old living in a big farm house 1.9 miles from your best friend, 5.6 miles from the nearest store (Wannaska), 20 miles from your school (Roseau), 53 miles from the nearest town with more than one stoplight (Thief River Falls), 112 miles from the nearest mall (Grand Forks), and 334 miles from a major metropolitan area (Minneapolis/St. Paul). Maybe it's also being at the age when the dawn of cognition begins to develop deep roots in rules, roles, and logic, while an equally deep warmth begins to awaken in one's nether region - a dark and private land of unlogic. Otto understood why Eve listened to the Serpent and why Adam listened to Eve. Maybe, maybe not, but nature and nurture bestowed Otto with a prodigious work ethic and sense of personal responsibility. As such, Otto felt intellectually and emotionally compelled to get to the bottom of Izzi.
Maybe it's a matter of being the only male in the family. Maybe it's also the complex combination of being male, the youngest, and second born - especially the part about being the peacemaker. Maybe it's also being a 12-year-old living in a big farm house 1.9 miles from your best friend, 5.6 miles from the nearest store (Wannaska), 20 miles from your school (Roseau), 53 miles from the nearest town with more than one stoplight (Thief River Falls), 112 miles from the nearest mall (Grand Forks), and 334 miles from a major metropolitan area (Minneapolis/St. Paul). Maybe it's also being at the age when the dawn of cognition begins to develop deep roots in rules, roles, and logic, while an equally deep warmth begins to awaken in one's nether region - a dark and private land of unlogic. Otto understood why Eve listened to the Serpent and why Adam listened to Eve. Maybe, maybe not, but nature and nurture bestowed Otto with a prodigious work ethic and sense of personal responsibility. As such, Otto felt intellectually and emotionally compelled to get to the bottom of Izzi.
In Otto's world, the outdoors is for
fun and games, the phone is for communications, and the computer is for
homework and research, so he got busy up in his room as soon as he
returned from the bridge. He found Oologah, Oklahoma, which just
happened to fall on the same W95°54' longitude line as Wannaska, where
there are about half as many people as Roseau. Moving quickly through
the primary social platforms - Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook - Otto
found startling evidence of a real person: part Cherokee; rode horses
better than most boys her age; wrote dark poetry that she posted on
Facebook and read aloud on Instagram; humiliated race and gender trolls
with her intelligence; and yes, pretty.
Otto clicked Confirm on Izzi's Facebook friend request and went for a walk along Mikinaak Crick.
[2018.08.29 Woe]
Immediately after Otto clicked on “confirm” for Izzi’s Facebook friend request, he regretted it. Friending someone meant that an expectation of writing to each other existed. Otto found himself wanting to immerse himself in some of the games he had found on the internet, but the temptations of technology paled beside what he had just done: he had friended a girl. Among all the other boys his age, he had never heard of any of them who had done such a thing. “Well,” he thought, “she does ride horses.” He chastised himself for falling for the horses. “But she’s awful pretty,” Otto ruminated for a Nano-second. He decided he would have to ask Bobby his opinion on the subject. Otto dashed off an email to Bobby, and without waiting for a reply, hurried off to the BMM bridge.
When Otto arrived, sure enough, Bobby leaned against the base of the bridge chewing on a long weed.
“S’up?” Bobby asked casually.
Otto remained silent, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his tennis shoe. Bobby waited for him to work himself up to whatever he wanted to say. After a bit, Otto asked, “What d’ya think of bein’ friends with a girl?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!” Bobby scoffed. “Why would you wanna do that?”
“I’m not sayin’ I would – jus’ wondrin’ whatya’ thought.” At this, the image of Izzi’s face swirled up Otto’s emotional circuitry, and he felt that warmth again – that pull right down there in his pants. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar, but this time, he felt he needed to do something about it.
“I jus’ don’t see any reason to have a girl as a friend. For example, you ‘n me been friends for a long time, and there’s the other guys, too. Jus’ don’t see anything in it for girls when ya’ got such great guys to hang with.”
“Never mind.” Otto brushed off the topic, but Bobby would not let it go.
“So, any particular girl yer thinkin’ of?”
“Kinda.” Otto couldn’t lie to Bobby if he tried.
“Well, dang! Who’s this girl?” Bobby insisted with a tone of disdain in his voice.
“Never mind, I said!” Otto started to walk away, up the bank beside the bridge.
“Hold up!” But Otto continued up toward the tracks. Bobby hurried after him continuing his inquiries.
“Jus’ leave it!” Otto said. And Bobby did.
[2018.09.03 JackPineSavage]
With abundant room for several parallel universes, including the universes of Bobby and Izzi, the remaining weeks of the summer in Palmville Township were extremely interesting for our Son of Wannaska, so time passed quickly. When not fishing with Bobby, Otto spent time in the treehouse or in his bedroom - and oh, what a room it was. Disposed harmoniously with a compulsion for collecting and a gift for imaginative design, one of Otto's greatest design challenges was to create space for organizing and storing the raw materials that he gathered for his projects until such time as he became ready to use them. Think Escher - a beautiful, interconnected array of boxes, jars, shelves, drawers, nooks, folders, cabinets, racks, sacks, bureaus, spools, cases, bags, stands, closets, dispensers, hangers, files, bulletin boards, cups, bins, baskets, pans, bottles, secret compartments, and other various depositories, to name but a few.
Otto collected everything that seemed like it might be useful, including ideas. Had he been born in ancient Greece, Otto would have hobnobbed with the Skeptics, denying that knowledge or rational belief is possible and suspending his judgment on many, if not all controversial matters - particularly with regard to certainty about human emotions. As it turns out, Izzi would have belonged to the Stoics, particularly with regard to those very emotional experiences. Through hours of online research and messaging with Izzi, Otto learned that she used her emotions as tools to evaluate and appraise everything outside her control that might have any impact on her sense of wellbeing and what she loved, which was pretty much everything. As Izzi explained it, since she cannot help but love, and since love for family, friends, and the world tend to make her feel timid with fears of loss, she must therefore learn to master her fears, disgusts, anger, and other emotions that dilute her capacity to put her loves first. In other words, Izzi became the hot current bestirring Otto's cool, deep waters - intellectually, emotionally, and otherwise; and Otto became the asker of unending questions as he challenged weaknesses in the logic of Izzi's structured exuberance.
Otto researched the history of the Cherokee, and Izzi told him about her experiences as a smart, outspoken, athletic brown girl in otherwise white Oologah. Otto learned that Izzi has no siblings, lives with her mother, is friends with more boys that girls, started riding horses when she was 3 years old, works as a stable hand with several ranches and volunteers at the Will Rogers Animal Clinic, likes Polish poets best, and has two best friends - her dog, Jinx, and her horse, Nay.
Otto and Izzi re-began their relationship with each new day. As with all feelings of disgust - an emotion unique to humans - they came to learn that their gender aversion was learned. In the world of 12-year-old cognition, emotion, and socialization, like all such pre-adolescent, gender-linked aversions, their disgust slowly eroded against the unrelenting onslaught of the incremental changes in factual knowledge about one another, reinforced by slowly rising serum testosterone, estrogen, and progesterone levels. Otto also learned as much as he could about how he and Izzi first met. Izzi told Otto that the most important lessons about folding come from the practice of folding. While no one knows how the folding started, because "No one can fold alone" (the first condition), Izzi told Otto that she had so far met 13 different folders - both boys and girls - where Otto was her first first-contact connection. Izzi noted that folding happens according to a few additional basic conditions:
The bright side of the planet moves toward the darkness
And the cities are falling asleep, each in its hour,
And for me, now as then, it is too much.
There is too much world. Czeslaw Milosz, The Separate Notebooks
and
View with a Grain of Sand, by Wislawa Szymborska.
As the first day of middle school drew closer and closer, Otto and Izzi practiced folding, mostly at night, but twice during the day. At the end of the last fold on the last midnight before the first day of school, Otto asked when he would meet a new folder. "Justas soon as y'all're ready, Aught. S'not really up ta me. We'll just be joined by a new'n when it's time." Otto walked home under the just risen crescent moon along Mikinaak Crick, when he heard panting just off the path ahead. He pulled out his phone, activated the flashlight, stepped cautiously toward the sound, and there she was, left hind paw caught in an offset leghold trap.
[2018.09.05 Woe]
When Otto arrived, sure enough, Bobby leaned against the base of the bridge chewing on a long weed.
“S’up?” Bobby asked casually.
Otto remained silent, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his tennis shoe. Bobby waited for him to work himself up to whatever he wanted to say. After a bit, Otto asked, “What d’ya think of bein’ friends with a girl?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!” Bobby scoffed. “Why would you wanna do that?”
“I’m not sayin’ I would – jus’ wondrin’ whatya’ thought.” At this, the image of Izzi’s face swirled up Otto’s emotional circuitry, and he felt that warmth again – that pull right down there in his pants. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar, but this time, he felt he needed to do something about it.
“I jus’ don’t see any reason to have a girl as a friend. For example, you ‘n me been friends for a long time, and there’s the other guys, too. Jus’ don’t see anything in it for girls when ya’ got such great guys to hang with.”
“Never mind.” Otto brushed off the topic, but Bobby would not let it go.
“So, any particular girl yer thinkin’ of?”
“Kinda.” Otto couldn’t lie to Bobby if he tried.
“Well, dang! Who’s this girl?” Bobby insisted with a tone of disdain in his voice.
“Never mind, I said!” Otto started to walk away, up the bank beside the bridge.
“Hold up!” But Otto continued up toward the tracks. Bobby hurried after him continuing his inquiries.
“Jus’ leave it!” Otto said. And Bobby did.
[2018.09.03 JackPineSavage]
With abundant room for several parallel universes, including the universes of Bobby and Izzi, the remaining weeks of the summer in Palmville Township were extremely interesting for our Son of Wannaska, so time passed quickly. When not fishing with Bobby, Otto spent time in the treehouse or in his bedroom - and oh, what a room it was. Disposed harmoniously with a compulsion for collecting and a gift for imaginative design, one of Otto's greatest design challenges was to create space for organizing and storing the raw materials that he gathered for his projects until such time as he became ready to use them. Think Escher - a beautiful, interconnected array of boxes, jars, shelves, drawers, nooks, folders, cabinets, racks, sacks, bureaus, spools, cases, bags, stands, closets, dispensers, hangers, files, bulletin boards, cups, bins, baskets, pans, bottles, secret compartments, and other various depositories, to name but a few.
Otto collected everything that seemed like it might be useful, including ideas. Had he been born in ancient Greece, Otto would have hobnobbed with the Skeptics, denying that knowledge or rational belief is possible and suspending his judgment on many, if not all controversial matters - particularly with regard to certainty about human emotions. As it turns out, Izzi would have belonged to the Stoics, particularly with regard to those very emotional experiences. Through hours of online research and messaging with Izzi, Otto learned that she used her emotions as tools to evaluate and appraise everything outside her control that might have any impact on her sense of wellbeing and what she loved, which was pretty much everything. As Izzi explained it, since she cannot help but love, and since love for family, friends, and the world tend to make her feel timid with fears of loss, she must therefore learn to master her fears, disgusts, anger, and other emotions that dilute her capacity to put her loves first. In other words, Izzi became the hot current bestirring Otto's cool, deep waters - intellectually, emotionally, and otherwise; and Otto became the asker of unending questions as he challenged weaknesses in the logic of Izzi's structured exuberance.
Otto researched the history of the Cherokee, and Izzi told him about her experiences as a smart, outspoken, athletic brown girl in otherwise white Oologah. Otto learned that Izzi has no siblings, lives with her mother, is friends with more boys that girls, started riding horses when she was 3 years old, works as a stable hand with several ranches and volunteers at the Will Rogers Animal Clinic, likes Polish poets best, and has two best friends - her dog, Jinx, and her horse, Nay.
Otto and Izzi re-began their relationship with each new day. As with all feelings of disgust - an emotion unique to humans - they came to learn that their gender aversion was learned. In the world of 12-year-old cognition, emotion, and socialization, like all such pre-adolescent, gender-linked aversions, their disgust slowly eroded against the unrelenting onslaught of the incremental changes in factual knowledge about one another, reinforced by slowly rising serum testosterone, estrogen, and progesterone levels. Otto also learned as much as he could about how he and Izzi first met. Izzi told Otto that the most important lessons about folding come from the practice of folding. While no one knows how the folding started, because "No one can fold alone" (the first condition), Izzi told Otto that she had so far met 13 different folders - both boys and girls - where Otto was her first first-contact connection. Izzi noted that folding happens according to a few additional basic conditions:
- Folders connect only in a quiet, distracted frame of mind.
- Folding takes practice for beginning and maintaining connections.
- Folders learn from their first companion until they become ready for multiple connections.
- Folders learn to connect and acquire the necessary skills with folder teams before becoming a solo companion to new folders.
The bright side of the planet moves toward the darkness
And the cities are falling asleep, each in its hour,
And for me, now as then, it is too much.
There is too much world. Czeslaw Milosz, The Separate Notebooks
and
View with a Grain of Sand, by Wislawa Szymborska.
As the first day of middle school drew closer and closer, Otto and Izzi practiced folding, mostly at night, but twice during the day. At the end of the last fold on the last midnight before the first day of school, Otto asked when he would meet a new folder. "Justas soon as y'all're ready, Aught. S'not really up ta me. We'll just be joined by a new'n when it's time." Otto walked home under the just risen crescent moon along Mikinaak Crick, when he heard panting just off the path ahead. He pulled out his phone, activated the flashlight, stepped cautiously toward the sound, and there she was, left hind paw caught in an offset leghold trap.
[2018.09.05 Woe]
Paula Pepperhorst stood at the kitchen sink, sipping a cup of hot, Celestial Seasons® Sleepy Time tea. The clock read a few minutes after midnight. She kept the Sleepy Time stored in the spice cupboard, way at the back; she almost never had trouble sleeping. Tonight, she was wide awake and alert. Otto wasn’t in his room where he belonged. “Where is he?” Paula worried. She mentally scanned the past few days to see if she could find any clues as to what would take Otto out of the house so late. “I could ask the Beebs,” she thought tentatively. “No,” she decided, “he would only protect Otto’s secrets.” She would have to ask Otto herself, she realized. Then she had a better idea, and she wondered why this line of thinking hadn’t come to her before. The answer had more than one advantage: Otto needed another dog.
“Holy buckets,” Paula said out loud. “That’s it!” She considered the details: Otto obviously missed Wink, and he was obviously very dejected every time he came across one of Wink’s possessions – an old chew bone, a rubber ball, the food bowl, even dust bunnies containing Wink’s fur. “Hmmm . . .” Paula considered whether or not Otto’s absence had something to do with Wink’s absence from Otto’s room every night, where in doglike fashion Wink hopped up on the bed, spread out all four limbs pushing firmly into Otto’s back. Yes, that had to be the reason Otto went out at this time of night. He must have wakened and felt Wink’s absence. Perfectly reasonable. Paula suspected that Otto and Wink had made midnight excursions before. In fact, a few times, in groggy consciousness, she thought she had heard Wink’s nails clicking on the kitchen floor, followed by the click of a latch. Because Wink accompanied Otto, Paula rested easy, and chalked up the nocturnal excursions to “boys and their dogs will be boys and their dogs.”
On a roll, suddenly, Paula remembered that she had heard that a litter of puppies had been born on the Olson farm, oh, maybe six weeks ago or so. That couldn’t be a coincidence, what with Otto needing another dog after his affection – no love – for Wink. Paula thought the puppies were probably a blend of the Olsons’ gentle Golden Retriever, and a burly German Shepherd from another farm about a mile away who was, uncharacteristically prone to wonder, especially when a bitch was in heat anywhere within a ten-mile radius. Yes, this might just work! Maybe the Olsons were even trying to give the puppies away. She would call them first thing in the morning.
Just then, Paula heard the kitchen door squeak open. Otto took two tip-toe steps, then stopped in his tracks.
“Where have you been?!” Paula questioned none too harshly. “And where did that animal come from?!”
[2018.09.10 JackPineSavage]
Chapter 2: Middle School
Otto sat watching Mrs. Nelson's lips move. He was not surprised that an English teacher spoke with such precision, but the sheer physicality of her lips mesmerized Otto. Mrs. Nelson's upper lip gathered into a gentle, tapered point just in the middle of her mouth. Both upper and lower lips each produced delicate secondary lips on demand along the midpoint where each lip met another lip or row of teeth in a ballet of pronunciation. For an hour each day, her smooth, steady voice calmed Otto's induction into a new world of extremes. At an age where boys still giggle together, Otto entered the physically, cognitively, emotionally, socially, and in all other ways alien world of middle school.
Although he entered the same sprawling school complex as previous years, the middle school portion was an alternate universe from the moment he got off the bus and walked through the different doors than he used as an elementary school student. Otto felt smallness in a gigantic space of swirling colors and swarming movements; he felt deafened and disoriented by a chaos of sound without playfulness; he felt enveloped by stiff, scratchy new clothes, reactively withdrawing from chance contact with the currents of bodies flowing around him; he felt alternately attracted or repulsed by waves of natural and artificial body aromas washing over him like uninvited, invisible, ill-mannered interlopers; and he felt the aching glacial movement of time tying all these sensations together from bus ride to bus ride.
Friendships used to be a matter of asking a simple question: "Do you want to be friends?" In only two weeks, Otto had already learned that middle school friendships were complicated and based on a growing list of unfamiliar rules:
Was it any wonder, then, that Otto found solace in the gentle, firm precision of Mrs. Nelson's mouth and calming voice? A middle school teacher of 40 years, Mrs. Nelson guided her students through their introduction to middle school with attentive wisdom. During each of her fourth hour classes, Otto's eyes alternated from Mrs. Nelson's mouth to her eyes - flashing eyes that grew wide with astonishment and crinkled with joy at the stories she taught - dancing eyes that moved from student to student for brief visits of attention. Mrs. Nelson believed in immersive study, where each student got to choose a subject for a semester-long study and writing project. Students could choose personal interests or choose from Mrs. Nelson's impressive list. Otto chose Norse mythology. It seemed like a good place for learning about middle school.
[2018.09.12 Woe]
________________
[2018.09.10 JackPineSavage]
Chapter 2: Middle School
Otto sat watching Mrs. Nelson's lips move. He was not surprised that an English teacher spoke with such precision, but the sheer physicality of her lips mesmerized Otto. Mrs. Nelson's upper lip gathered into a gentle, tapered point just in the middle of her mouth. Both upper and lower lips each produced delicate secondary lips on demand along the midpoint where each lip met another lip or row of teeth in a ballet of pronunciation. For an hour each day, her smooth, steady voice calmed Otto's induction into a new world of extremes. At an age where boys still giggle together, Otto entered the physically, cognitively, emotionally, socially, and in all other ways alien world of middle school.
Although he entered the same sprawling school complex as previous years, the middle school portion was an alternate universe from the moment he got off the bus and walked through the different doors than he used as an elementary school student. Otto felt smallness in a gigantic space of swirling colors and swarming movements; he felt deafened and disoriented by a chaos of sound without playfulness; he felt enveloped by stiff, scratchy new clothes, reactively withdrawing from chance contact with the currents of bodies flowing around him; he felt alternately attracted or repulsed by waves of natural and artificial body aromas washing over him like uninvited, invisible, ill-mannered interlopers; and he felt the aching glacial movement of time tying all these sensations together from bus ride to bus ride.
Friendships used to be a matter of asking a simple question: "Do you want to be friends?" In only two weeks, Otto had already learned that middle school friendships were complicated and based on a growing list of unfamiliar rules:
- Most friendships require some form of group certification.
- Group friend membership certification often involves relatively superficial membership criteria such as clothes, hair cuts, word use, athleticism, intelligence, allegiance, and no major associations with any person who did not otherwise uniformly meet the set of group membership criteria.
- Group memberships overlap, as do their membership criteria, which are often mutually exclusive.
- Exclusion from one group tends to increase exclusion from other group memberships.
- There does not appear to be an appeal process.
- Group-based friendships are not very friendly.
- Picking and keeping friends was a cross between science experiment and a spy game.
Was it any wonder, then, that Otto found solace in the gentle, firm precision of Mrs. Nelson's mouth and calming voice? A middle school teacher of 40 years, Mrs. Nelson guided her students through their introduction to middle school with attentive wisdom. During each of her fourth hour classes, Otto's eyes alternated from Mrs. Nelson's mouth to her eyes - flashing eyes that grew wide with astonishment and crinkled with joy at the stories she taught - dancing eyes that moved from student to student for brief visits of attention. Mrs. Nelson believed in immersive study, where each student got to choose a subject for a semester-long study and writing project. Students could choose personal interests or choose from Mrs. Nelson's impressive list. Otto chose Norse mythology. It seemed like a good place for learning about middle school.
[2018.09.12 Woe]
________________
Otto had already begun his assigned reading about Norse mythology in the school library, starting with Odin, the all-father, highest ranking of the Asgard gods. (Every library in the region where Otto lived had a healthy supply of books on Nordic legends [sagas], and mythology.) The book he had chosen looked pretty new, but the introduction said it came from the thirteenth century’s Prose Edda written by someone named Snorri Sturluson. Otto sat back stunned in the library chair when he saw a black-and-white drawing of Odin in the book he had chosen, for on either side of the god, a wolf sat, half looking at Odin, half looking out on the world. The two ravens perched on Odin’s shoulders, named Huginn (thought) and Muninn (memory) also intrigued Otto, but the wolves really grabbed his attention. Reading on, Otto discovered that their names were Geri and Freki which in Old Norse both meant “the ravenous one.”
After school, Otto rushed home to see how his new friend had survived the day. As Otto hurried home, he decided to name his new friend Freki. Freki didn’t exactly look like a wolf, but Otto decided she was close enough with her stand-up ears and pointy snout. Besides, Geri sounded too much like the common name, “Jerry.” Otto had seen a wolf a few times loping through a farmer’s field, but more often darting across a forest road into the trees.
No, even though Freki looked somewhat like a wolf, she was much smaller and her light tan coat didn’t match the gray-black fur of wolves. He really didn’t care what kind of dog Freki was – probably a mutt, he thought. A vision of Wink suddenly floated up in Otto’s memory, and a deep well of sadness burrowed into his heart. He would for sure rather have Wink back instead of this new dog, but then Otto again became cautiously excited by the thought of the newly named Freki. He broke into a run up the Pepperhorst’s long, winding gravel drive just off County Road 8. He had sequestered Freki in an abandoned chicken coop, and without going into the house, he went straight to the coop, unlatched the door, and in a flash, Freki leaped out and was gone, chicken feathers floating from her mouth. Otto ran after her, as Paula Pepperhorst called loudly from the front steps of the house, “Where are you going, young man!”
[2018.09.17 Jack Pine Savage]
10:10pm, and the darkness inside Otto's north-facing bedroom eclipsed
even the astronomical twilight of the clear, moonless night outside his
window. Grounded. Big time. No screens. Not even radio. He remembered
his panic as Freki ran away across the field. He remembered the anger in
his mother's voice, calling after him as he chased Freki. Most of all,
Otto remembered his fear, frustration, and disappointment that Freki
wasn't...that Freki wouldn't be...easy.
The house was silent. Otto was tired of chasing the day's thoughts, feelings, and memories, but he could not sleep. So Otto climbed out his window and laid back against the cold grit of the asphalt shingles and stared up at Alnilam, the central star in Orion's belt. Without losing his focus, Otto played a game of mental ping pong, swatting away each arising thought, feeling, and memory the instant each arose. Before long, there was only Alnilam.
"I'm Renner. Izzi said you have a lot of questions."
Otto felt a twinge of irritation at the interruption, but he enjoyed the sound of Renner's voice and felt welcome.
"And you live...?
"In Scotland."
"And you're...?
"14."
"Oh! An Elder." Otto said sarcastically.
"No' yet, boo I'm gettin awlderrr. Bad day?"
"How'd you know?"
"I played the odds."
"What'd Izzi tell you?"
"Tha yae were a wee bi' grrray on the whys an' whereforrres of what we dae when we fold."
"Yes. Like what's the point?"
"So, can yae give me the square rrrooot of pi to 100 digi's?"
"Nope. I was never good at that sort of thing."
"Me netherrr. Boo' we can both fold."
"No offense, Renner. You seem like a nice guy. But what's the point of talking like this?"
"It's no' so much aboot wha' yae can dae as aboot how yae can see. The maths wiz can see the warrrld as harrrmoonies ov noomberrrs an' share those harrrmoonies with otherrr tha' can see the same way. We see the warrld an' its beings as a single se' of overlapping possibili'ies - kind ov like a rrreel-life, three-dimensional chess barrrd. We canno' see wha' will defini'ly happen, bu' we can conneck with people (an' dugs and the like) tae see more ov wha' could happen."
"And?"
"We also have a talen' fur seeing the guid in people an' the possibili'ies fur guid tha' each perrrson carrries inside."
"And?"
"We trrain each ootherrr tae help make the warrld a be'er place."
"How?"
"By larrrnin' tae see marrr and conneck the guidness in marrr and marrr people a' any given momen' - the mar we larrrn, the marrr guidness we can see an' conneck in an' farrr the people aroond us."
"And the point?"
"Woodn't yae perferrr tae live in a warrrld where people air their bes' wi' one anootherrr?"
"But HOW?"
"By larrrnin' new ways tae see wha' yae alrrready know, O'o. Tae see tha' yae air all those conneckshuns, guid an' bad, like it or no'. Do the warrrld (an' yaeself) a favorrr an try no' tae over-think this. Yae'rre 12; yae've jist starrrted. Jus' keep connec'in. We larrrn tae lead from the middle of thin's. Thons were life happens - the be'ween tha' connecks. See?"
"I'm starting to. Thanks, Renner. It's not easy, though."
[2018.09.19 Woe]The house was silent. Otto was tired of chasing the day's thoughts, feelings, and memories, but he could not sleep. So Otto climbed out his window and laid back against the cold grit of the asphalt shingles and stared up at Alnilam, the central star in Orion's belt. Without losing his focus, Otto played a game of mental ping pong, swatting away each arising thought, feeling, and memory the instant each arose. Before long, there was only Alnilam.
"I'm Renner. Izzi said you have a lot of questions."
Otto felt a twinge of irritation at the interruption, but he enjoyed the sound of Renner's voice and felt welcome.
"And you live...?
"In Scotland."
"And you're...?
"14."
"Oh! An Elder." Otto said sarcastically.
"No' yet, boo I'm gettin awlderrr. Bad day?"
"How'd you know?"
"I played the odds."
"What'd Izzi tell you?"
"Tha yae were a wee bi' grrray on the whys an' whereforrres of what we dae when we fold."
"Yes. Like what's the point?"
"So, can yae give me the square rrrooot of pi to 100 digi's?"
"Nope. I was never good at that sort of thing."
"Me netherrr. Boo' we can both fold."
"No offense, Renner. You seem like a nice guy. But what's the point of talking like this?"
"It's no' so much aboot wha' yae can dae as aboot how yae can see. The maths wiz can see the warrrld as harrrmoonies ov noomberrrs an' share those harrrmoonies with otherrr tha' can see the same way. We see the warrld an' its beings as a single se' of overlapping possibili'ies - kind ov like a rrreel-life, three-dimensional chess barrrd. We canno' see wha' will defini'ly happen, bu' we can conneck with people (an' dugs and the like) tae see more ov wha' could happen."
"And?"
"We also have a talen' fur seeing the guid in people an' the possibili'ies fur guid tha' each perrrson carrries inside."
"And?"
"We trrain each ootherrr tae help make the warrld a be'er place."
"How?"
"By larrrnin' tae see marrr and conneck the guidness in marrr and marrr people a' any given momen' - the mar we larrrn, the marrr guidness we can see an' conneck in an' farrr the people aroond us."
"And the point?"
"Woodn't yae perferrr tae live in a warrrld where people air their bes' wi' one anootherrr?"
"But HOW?"
"By larrrnin' new ways tae see wha' yae alrrready know, O'o. Tae see tha' yae air all those conneckshuns, guid an' bad, like it or no'. Do the warrrld (an' yaeself) a favorrr an try no' tae over-think this. Yae'rre 12; yae've jist starrrted. Jus' keep connec'in. We larrrn tae lead from the middle of thin's. Thons were life happens - the be'ween tha' connecks. See?"
"I'm starting to. Thanks, Renner. It's not easy, though."
With that observation lingering on his
lips, Otto sensed Renner fading away, folding elsewhere, yet remaining
present. “Maybe things really were connected. Why not?” Otto thought.
This concept of connection took Otto one step further: “Otto. Odin,” he
whispered to himself. “Maybe if Odin kept wolves, he could help me find
Freki, sees as I named my new dog after one of his wolves.” As Otto
ruminated about such things, he heard a distant Aw-roooooh float over
the fields. Then three-tone yips, followed by a second “singer”
answering in like language.
“Gosh,” Otto worried, “Maybe they’ve gotten Freki and eaten her. Well, that does it,” he resolved speaking more loudly to himself. He might be grounded, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t roam around the homestead. Otto scrambled back to the window and pulled himself in.
Without making any attempt to move quietly, he trundled down the stairs and descended farther into the basement where his mother stored all manner of things. That’s where Wink’s bowl would be. Otto pulled the cord of the overhead light bulb and examined the shelving. Almost immediately, he spotted the bowl. On tiptoe, he pulled it off the shelf, tucked it under his arm, yanked the light cord, and headed upstairs. Another ragged fragment of sadness pierced through his determination as memories of Wink wafted through his imagination. “Sure wish she could ‘fold’ right now,” yearned Otto. He headed straight for the refrigerator and opened the door.
Paula Pepperhorst sat in her rocker, watching a movie and knitting something or other. “Otto?”
“Yea, Ma,” answered Otto flatly.
“How can you be hungry after that big casserole we had for supper?”
“I’m a growin’ boy, Ma,” he said sarcastically.
“There’s some sliced ham from Sunday,” Paula offered.
“Okay.”
“And Otto, I’m sorry you brought this grounding on yourself, but you can’t go gallivanting in the fields and woods ‘til all hours. I was worried sick about you.”
“Aw, Ma.”
“Then there was that animal you brought home. I’m certainly glad that one’s gone. It looked pretty uncivilized to me. Why don’t you go down to the Olsons and have a look at those mixed-breed pups? I hear they’re really cute.”
“Yea, maybe,” Otto mumbled.
He took out three slices of ham, laid them in Wink’s dish, and covered the slices with tuna casserole. He topped the concoction with torn-up bits of sliced American cheese, and as quietly as he could, slipped out the kitchen door.”
“If I can’t find her, maybe I can lure her with food and make friends like,” Otto thought hopefully.
He strode to the chicken coop and placed Wink’s dish on the windward side, then covered the dish with a light layer of weeds. He found himself thinking of Odin and his two wolves, and without intention, Otto sent out something like a prayer to Odin, for no reason other than he had a canine named Freki. His bait laid out, Otto hurried back to the house, quietly approached the refrigerator, took out a carton of milk, poured some in a glass, and along with some store-bought cookies, gulped loudly, just in case his mother was listening for sounds of eating.
“Night, Ma,” Otto said as he ascended the stairs.
“Good night, Otto,” Paula returned. “Don’t sulk. Okay?”
Otto, already in his room, headed back out the window to lie again under Orion’s stars. “Orion, Odin, Otto,” he mused. “No coingkydinky, that’s for sure,” he concluded, followed by his commitment to himself to watch all night. He could see the side of the coop facing the house, but not the side where he had hidden Wink’s dish. A yard light burned brightly over the lawn around the house, and the outbuildings. “She’ll come back,” Otto let himself believe. And for most of the night, Otto kept watch for Freki. Only when he almost rolled off the asphalt roof did he consider turning in.
Fighting off sleep, he steeled himself for the long, night’s watch, feeling like he teetered on the brink of a thousand-foot cliff. About thirty minutes later, he stared off through dry, foggy eyes when he saw two figures in the distance out near the line dividing field from forest. The smaller one sure looked like Izzi, but what the heck would she be doing out here at this time of night – ‘er morning. Sure looked like her shape. His eyes fogged over even more. “Who’s that!?” Otto exclaimed out loud, as he sighted a very large, male figure striding in huge steps beside Izzi who was practically running to keep up. The male seemed to be carrying an unusually large sledgehammer.
In the morning, Otto went immediately to the coop. The empty dish nestled in the tall grass.
“Gosh,” Otto worried, “Maybe they’ve gotten Freki and eaten her. Well, that does it,” he resolved speaking more loudly to himself. He might be grounded, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t roam around the homestead. Otto scrambled back to the window and pulled himself in.
Without making any attempt to move quietly, he trundled down the stairs and descended farther into the basement where his mother stored all manner of things. That’s where Wink’s bowl would be. Otto pulled the cord of the overhead light bulb and examined the shelving. Almost immediately, he spotted the bowl. On tiptoe, he pulled it off the shelf, tucked it under his arm, yanked the light cord, and headed upstairs. Another ragged fragment of sadness pierced through his determination as memories of Wink wafted through his imagination. “Sure wish she could ‘fold’ right now,” yearned Otto. He headed straight for the refrigerator and opened the door.
Paula Pepperhorst sat in her rocker, watching a movie and knitting something or other. “Otto?”
“Yea, Ma,” answered Otto flatly.
“How can you be hungry after that big casserole we had for supper?”
“I’m a growin’ boy, Ma,” he said sarcastically.
“There’s some sliced ham from Sunday,” Paula offered.
“Okay.”
“And Otto, I’m sorry you brought this grounding on yourself, but you can’t go gallivanting in the fields and woods ‘til all hours. I was worried sick about you.”
“Aw, Ma.”
“Then there was that animal you brought home. I’m certainly glad that one’s gone. It looked pretty uncivilized to me. Why don’t you go down to the Olsons and have a look at those mixed-breed pups? I hear they’re really cute.”
“Yea, maybe,” Otto mumbled.
He took out three slices of ham, laid them in Wink’s dish, and covered the slices with tuna casserole. He topped the concoction with torn-up bits of sliced American cheese, and as quietly as he could, slipped out the kitchen door.”
“If I can’t find her, maybe I can lure her with food and make friends like,” Otto thought hopefully.
He strode to the chicken coop and placed Wink’s dish on the windward side, then covered the dish with a light layer of weeds. He found himself thinking of Odin and his two wolves, and without intention, Otto sent out something like a prayer to Odin, for no reason other than he had a canine named Freki. His bait laid out, Otto hurried back to the house, quietly approached the refrigerator, took out a carton of milk, poured some in a glass, and along with some store-bought cookies, gulped loudly, just in case his mother was listening for sounds of eating.
“Night, Ma,” Otto said as he ascended the stairs.
“Good night, Otto,” Paula returned. “Don’t sulk. Okay?”
Otto, already in his room, headed back out the window to lie again under Orion’s stars. “Orion, Odin, Otto,” he mused. “No coingkydinky, that’s for sure,” he concluded, followed by his commitment to himself to watch all night. He could see the side of the coop facing the house, but not the side where he had hidden Wink’s dish. A yard light burned brightly over the lawn around the house, and the outbuildings. “She’ll come back,” Otto let himself believe. And for most of the night, Otto kept watch for Freki. Only when he almost rolled off the asphalt roof did he consider turning in.
Fighting off sleep, he steeled himself for the long, night’s watch, feeling like he teetered on the brink of a thousand-foot cliff. About thirty minutes later, he stared off through dry, foggy eyes when he saw two figures in the distance out near the line dividing field from forest. The smaller one sure looked like Izzi, but what the heck would she be doing out here at this time of night – ‘er morning. Sure looked like her shape. His eyes fogged over even more. “Who’s that!?” Otto exclaimed out loud, as he sighted a very large, male figure striding in huge steps beside Izzi who was practically running to keep up. The male seemed to be carrying an unusually large sledgehammer.
In the morning, Otto went immediately to the coop. The empty dish nestled in the tall grass.
[2018.09.24 Jack Pine Savage]
________________
________________
Otto's fingers traced across the cold brown waters of Hayes Lake from
the stern of Old Man Tofferson's Town and Country canoe, as he fished
with his other hand while listening to Bobby opinionate. Though the sky
was cold and cloudy, though the canoe weighed a ton, though the fish
weren't biting, it wasn't school. It was a good day. Otto liked Bobby
for all the ways that Bobby was comfortable being different: Bobby was
constantly asking questions of adults; Bobby had a reputation with
students, teachers, and the principals as an anti-bully; Bobby seldom
knew what he wanted to do, but he always knew how he wanted to do
things; Otto had never known Bobby to be lonely, even when Bobby was
alone, even in Wannaska.
Otto listened on as Bobby continued his summary of the first three weeks of middle school. "It's like, the same bunch of kids come back from summer to the same school, but now they're a hoard of swarming Mini-Me adults - whacking out on stupid dramas about who did what and who said what. It's like they forgot how to have fun! It's like, the most important thing is to have the most friends."
Bobby had always liked science and social studies - not in a nerdy way, but because those were two of the most important ways that he actually saw the world. Bobby was an expert noticer. Bobby seemed to notice what other people didn't see, and Otto always felt grateful for the larger world that he lived in whenever Bobby shared his noticing talents with Otto - which was often.
"Here's my biggest problem with school so far this year: Have you noticed that the teachers expect us to memorize stuff instead of learning how to think? Have you noticed that like no one dares to raise your hand and ask a question because you might look like a dolt? What are we really supposed to be learning? How to be cool? How to be like everybody else?" Bobby was on a role. Otto once asked Bobby if he wanted to be a lawyer; Bobby said no way. Bobby said he just wanted to learn how to be Bobby. Bobby said that being Bobby wasn't about feeling safe. Bobby said that being Bobby was a bottom-up process that would never stop, not top-down - as in parents, schools, jobs ending up as Bobby-in-a-Box. Bobby didn't have a lot of friends.
But Bobby's few friends were as close as family - to Bobby and to one another - were as different from one another as family members, were not embarrassed to talk about personal problems with one another. Bobby somehow seemed to be the organizing principle and energy for his small, odd-ball family of friends, as if he was the DNA that structured their healthy responses, where his "tribe" was about the care and comfort of its members, and importantly, otherwise unaffiliated. But Bobby was clearly worried about his friends and the pressures of becoming a popular nobody in middle school.
[2018.09.26 Woe]
Luckily Bobby could write poetry, although he didn't know the power he wielded putting pen to paper until he wrote this poem in English Composition class and read it aloud. Then, he had their attention ...
Ode To Wannaska, by Bobby Bartholomew Bagendski
They can toast to Lord Strathcona
Scottish he may be
They can work a day in Falun
‘way across the sea
They can salute Admiral Dewey
Of the Spanish-American War
Or visit the village of Pelan
Guess the other names it bore
They can drive to North Dakota
And visit John Grimstad’s grave
Or drive through Enstrom Township
And count the people who wave
Roseau has King Sjoberg’s Castle
Roosevelt has President Ted
Deer Township has deer all over
Moose has moose instead
They can speed through Swift
To race a train
Think long and hard ‘bout
Ross name fame
They can count the trees
In Poplar Grove
Mmmmm! Where them Duxby
On the stove?
But tell us what town
In Roseau C
Can claim both a King K
And a Queen B?
King Agassiz Kraig Lee and Queen Agassiz Bonnnie Lee of Wannaska, circa 1994
[2018.09.27 WannaskaWriter]
Otto listened on as Bobby continued his summary of the first three weeks of middle school. "It's like, the same bunch of kids come back from summer to the same school, but now they're a hoard of swarming Mini-Me adults - whacking out on stupid dramas about who did what and who said what. It's like they forgot how to have fun! It's like, the most important thing is to have the most friends."
Bobby had always liked science and social studies - not in a nerdy way, but because those were two of the most important ways that he actually saw the world. Bobby was an expert noticer. Bobby seemed to notice what other people didn't see, and Otto always felt grateful for the larger world that he lived in whenever Bobby shared his noticing talents with Otto - which was often.
"Here's my biggest problem with school so far this year: Have you noticed that the teachers expect us to memorize stuff instead of learning how to think? Have you noticed that like no one dares to raise your hand and ask a question because you might look like a dolt? What are we really supposed to be learning? How to be cool? How to be like everybody else?" Bobby was on a role. Otto once asked Bobby if he wanted to be a lawyer; Bobby said no way. Bobby said he just wanted to learn how to be Bobby. Bobby said that being Bobby wasn't about feeling safe. Bobby said that being Bobby was a bottom-up process that would never stop, not top-down - as in parents, schools, jobs ending up as Bobby-in-a-Box. Bobby didn't have a lot of friends.
But Bobby's few friends were as close as family - to Bobby and to one another - were as different from one another as family members, were not embarrassed to talk about personal problems with one another. Bobby somehow seemed to be the organizing principle and energy for his small, odd-ball family of friends, as if he was the DNA that structured their healthy responses, where his "tribe" was about the care and comfort of its members, and importantly, otherwise unaffiliated. But Bobby was clearly worried about his friends and the pressures of becoming a popular nobody in middle school.
[2018.09.26 Woe]
Luckily Bobby could write poetry, although he didn't know the power he wielded putting pen to paper until he wrote this poem in English Composition class and read it aloud. Then, he had their attention ...
Ode To Wannaska, by Bobby Bartholomew Bagendski
They can toast to Lord Strathcona
Scottish he may be
They can work a day in Falun
‘way across the sea
They can salute Admiral Dewey
Of the Spanish-American War
Or visit the village of Pelan
Guess the other names it bore
They can drive to North Dakota
And visit John Grimstad’s grave
Or drive through Enstrom Township
And count the people who wave
Roseau has King Sjoberg’s Castle
Roosevelt has President Ted
Deer Township has deer all over
Moose has moose instead
They can speed through Swift
To race a train
Think long and hard ‘bout
Ross name fame
They can count the trees
In Poplar Grove
Mmmmm! Where them Duxby
On the stove?
But tell us what town
In Roseau C
Can claim both a King K
And a Queen B?
King Agassiz Kraig Lee and Queen Agassiz Bonnnie Lee of Wannaska, circa 1994
[2018.09.27 WannaskaWriter]
In the morning, Otto went immediately to the coop. The empty dish nestled in the tall grass. . . .
“Holy buckets!” Otto exclaimed to himself. “She was here!”
Before he went off to school, Otto stuffed some packaged chicken in his backpack, anticipating how excited he would be telling Bobby about Freki. Otto was certain that he could capture her again, especially with that injured hind paw. She wouldn’t be able to hunt very well, except for pouncing on the abundant field mice, and that was iffy.
Otto took the long way to school, and consequently was tardy for his first class, Civics. Along the way, he continued to scan the edges of the woods and forests, as well as the fence lines on farmers’ fields. Once, he thought he saw a doggish shape dart into the trees, but it wasn’t visible long enough to identify. He had stuffed Wink’s collar and leash into his bag with hopes of attracting Freki with the chicken. As he trundled along, the image of Izzi and the large man with the sledgehammer intruded on his search focus. “Did I really see them,” he wondered to himself. “I suppose it’s that dang folding again. Man, it’s hard enough to keep things straight without the folding. Sometimes, I wish I’d never met Izzi. It’s all too much!”
When he arrived at school, Otto snuck into his Civics class with Mr. Horston as quietly as he could.
“Nice that you could join us Mr. Pepperhorst,” said Mr. Horston. “Won’t you please take your seat?”
Otto shuffled up to the middle of the center aisle and sat down at his assigned seat. With everything that was going on, he couldn’t keep his mind on Civics, or his next class, American History, or the next, Algebra 1, and so on until it was lunch hour. Otto hurried to the lunchroom and earnestly looked for Bobby.
When he found him, Otto’s agitated demeanor mildly annoyed his friend. Otto excitedly filled in Bobby with the details of the last twenty-four hours.
“Jeepers, Aught,” (Otto had shared the name Izzi had bestowed on him.) anybody’d think you were going nuts with all this talk about strange dogs eating out of Wink’s dish, sighting Izzi with the hulking man carrying the hammer, and the rest. Are you feeling all right, buddy?”
“Course I am,” said Otto, almost indignant.
“Well, you don’t seem like it.”
After school, Bobby and Otto walked the fields, lugging their backpacks. No sign of Freki, but once, Otto was sure – even though Bobby wasn’t – that he heard a distant “Aw-roooh.” Shortly, Bobby peeled off toward his house, and Otto continued home. With more than a little dejection, he opened the screen door and stepped inside.
“Well, if it isn’t my guy,” said Peter Peppenhorst, striding toward Otto and giving him a substantial hug.
“Hi Dad,” Otto said with less than enthusiasm.
Peter Peppenhorst returned from the oil fields of Williston, North Dakota about every two months for a week. For the first couple of years, Otto had mightily looked forward to his father’s returns, but after five years, Otto felt as if he didn’t even know the man, as much as he would have liked to.
“Hey, why so glum?” asked Peter.
“I’dunno.” Otto answered with the enthusiasm of a cat napping on a window ledge.
“Want to practice some free throws?” Peter asked, not giving up on arousing some positive reaction from his son.
“Sure,” Otto responded, with slumped shoulders.
“All righty, then,” Peter clapped his hands. And they headed out the door to retrieve the basketball, and to compete at the hoop above the garage door.
[2018.10.01 Jack Pine Savage]
Every morning was an emotional adventure of pubertal discovery - the excitement of new lip or chin hairs that needed shaving, or not; the hope to see more muscles and less tummy fat; the intrigue of things growing under his arms and between his legs. Otto felt a little grossed out at the person staring back through the bathroom mirror this morning as he brushed his teeth. He sighed at the three volcanic pimples on the archipelago of freckles scattered across his face, and he quickly expedited their eruption. He combed out a few flakes of dandruff from his shock of curly, red hair. And yes, his Adam's Apple cast a long shadow. Shaving his upper lip and scanning his pubic hairs were more satisfying, but the underarm deodorant his mom purchased smelled almost as bad as his BO. It was only 6:00am. It was dark outside. The bathroom was cold this morning. Gretchen used up all the hot water. It was raining. It was only Wednesday.
For as long as Otto could remember, he had used this time to plan out his entire day - identifying his hopes for the day and layering those hopes with all variety of imaginary options. It used to be fun. In the few days since school began, his morning time in front of the bathroom mirror had become an inquisition of worry and frustration. Otto was worried that this might be the new normal; Otto was frustrated that Bobby was right about middle school. But our Son of Wannaska is also stubborn, independent, and an optimist. A master of imaginary worlds, Otto was learning the hard lessons in the world of rules and roles. With so little under his control, Otto was learning about those few, small things over which he might occasionally have some measure of influence. Otto's own honking, squeaking, cracking voice mocked him whenever he attempted to speak up or out, but he persisted.
The best thing about Wednesdays was Art. Art was different with Mrs. Vatnsdal in all the ways that Otto needed to calm his worries and frustrations while providing an alternative form of expression for his unreliable vocal cords. Mrs. Vatnsdal seemed to understand that Otto's bedroom could be a form of art. Mrs. Vatnsdal said that drawing isn't the only form of art. Mrs. Vatnsdal was excited about her class every day. Mrs. Vatnsdal talked about beauty and how things are beautiful in ways that Otto had always seen, but also in new ways that he hadn't seen before. Otto actually took notes in art class and read them later at home.
"Most things are more beautiful in the company of another beautiful thing. Please do your best to see and combine complementary beautiful things in your own art."
"The best artist is one who knows one's own gifts and who works to constantly see more through those gifts."
The rain stopped just after breakfast, and the sun started to rise while Otto waited with 7-year-old Betty Barb Billberg for their 7:30 school bus. Otto watched the sun light up red and purple clouds as Tiffany alternated between video games and text messaging on her phone. Otto felt the day open up before him as he looked forward to art class and a long walk along Mikinnak Crick to the tree house after school.
[2018.10.03 Woe]
Otto did, indeed, take a leisurely walk on the banks of the Mikinnak Crick, and headed toward the tree house. He needed to think. A lot was going on: Izzi, Freki, his dad’s surprise coming home, Renner, his classes – the ones he liked, and the ones he loathed – his sadness about Wink’s absence, and the physical changes that he could see every time he looked in the mirror or took a shower. Yes, a lot – more than Otto could remember ever having before. Was this what growing up was about? He couldn’t possibly know. He picked a dry weed, placed it the corner of his mouth, and lightly chewed, noticing the earthy taste. Ticking off and prioritizing his concerns, Otto concluded that at the top of his list rested his intense grief over Wink combined with his hope that Freki would “come home” soon to replace what he had lost with Wink. No, above canine considerations sat his dad because of his proximity, almost a stranger; certainly not someone he could confide in, but a large presence in the house. Usually, Bobby would be Otto’s confidant; however, Otto judged Bobby to know nothing more than he did, so he would be of little, or no, help. At that moment, Otto felt a great loneliness well up in him, and he wiped escaping tears from the corners of his eyes.
Arriving at the tree house, Otto leaned his backpack against the large, supporting tree, and climbed up to a quietness where a guy could think. He let his thoughts drift freely in and out, turning the images and feelings that arose over and over, and eventually making him quite anxious. “Breathe, buddy. Breathe.” Otto whispered under his breath. He stared out the rudimentary tree house door, hoping something in the way of a solution or two would arise out of the mists of his consciousness. Finally, his worries began to coalesce and focus on his dad and Freki. The solution was singular.
Now that Otto had a plan, he slipped down out of the tree house and headed home.
“Well, there you are, champ!” his father said cheerily, as Otto stepped in the house, banging the screen door. Peter stood at the kitchen counter slicing onions, green peppers, and fresh mushrooms. Paula Pepperhorst, stationed at the counter perpendicular to Peter’s sliced raw chicken into thin strips.
“Stir fry tonight,” she said in a matter of fact tone. “If we add a few potatoes and some coconut, I can make a curry. How does that sound to you both?”
“Great,” Peter responded.
“Okay,” Otto said without enthusiasm.
“Well that’s what it will be then,” she said with finality.
Otto scuffed his feet around the kitchen. His mother asked him to get two cups of rice from the pantry, handing him a measuring cup. Otto slowly headed for the rice.
“Why so glum, chum?” his dad chirped.
Otto decided to be out with it. “Oh, I’m missing Wink, and wishing Freki would stay here.”
“Who’s Freki?” Peter inquired.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. About a week ago, Otto came home with a dog with a wounded paw, apparently caught in a trap.”
"What kind of dog?” Peter directed this question to Otto.
“Don’t really know. Definitely a girl; looks kinda like a German Shepherd, but smaller with bigger ears.”
“What color was it?” Peter now took a more serious interest.
Paula interjected, “Kind of yellow-brown with white underneath. Looked suspicious to me.”
“What do you mean, suspicious?”
“Like wild, but yet like the German Shepherds down the road got mixed up with the Olsen’s Golden Retrievers.”
“I put out some food for her after she bolted the next morning, and I think she ate it all,” Otto piped up. “I named her Freki.”
“What kind of name is that?” Peter asked.
“It’s the name of one of Odin’s wolves,” Otto revealed with obvious pride that he knew something his dad did not.
“Whoa! I’m impressed! Did you learn that in school?”
“Yea, but I studied up some, too.”
“Well, Otto, you should have studied up on this Freki, too.”
“How come?”
“What you’ve got there is a coydog.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s pretty rare, but it’s a coyote that comes from one mating with a dog. Your German Shepherd is the probable culprit because he’s big enough that the coyote probably wouldn’t take him on in a fight, and he’s a wanderer. Yes, Otto, a fight. A coyote is a lot more likely to eat a dog than mate with it.”
“Gosh! I never thought about that!” Paula jumped in. “That’s why it was in the trap, right? Out near the Black Angus place, Somebody tried to kill Freki.” She seemed moderately upset.
“Come on, Otto,” Peter said suddenly. “Let’s go see if we can find Freki.” As Peter pulled on his denim jacket, he took his 20-gauge Remington from its rack on the kitchen wall, opened a cupboard drawer, and pocketed a fist full of shells. “I’m afraid you’ve got some of your mom’s city-girl blood.”
“Peter!”
“No, dad! Don’t kill Freki!”
“It’s only a precaution, son.” But Peter’s bubbly demeanor had turned dead serious.
[2018.10.08 – JP Savage]
Then the phone rang. Smoothly, seamlessly, and without a word, Paula locked eyes with Peter, extended her right arm and pointed right between Peter's eyes, transformed her point into a palmed STOP, all while drifting across the kitchen floor to her green Southern Bell and holding Peter motionless as she lifted the receiver with her left hand. "Yes? Please hold." Paula dropped her right hand as she extended the phone to Peter. "It's for you."
Eyes lowered, Peter walked toward Paula and took the phone; he knew better than to stretch Paula's cord. "What. What? HOW? When? But... I'm not happy about this. Yes. Yes. Yes. Bye." Peter handed the receiver back to Paula.
"When are you leaving?"
"Now."
[2018.10.10 Woe]
Peter left the kitchen to begin packing; Paula returned to her place at the table and picked up her copy of THE RAVEN, Northwest Minnesota's Original Art, History & Humor Journal, where she found the following poem by Iclic Vermer to relieve her dark thoughts about Peter.
[2018.11.19 WannaskaWriter and Woe]
Every morning was an emotional adventure of pubertal discovery - the excitement of new lip or chin hairs that needed shaving, or not; the hope to see more muscles and less tummy fat; the intrigue of things growing under his arms and between his legs. Otto felt a little grossed out at the person staring back through the bathroom mirror this morning as he brushed his teeth. He sighed at the three volcanic pimples on the archipelago of freckles scattered across his face, and he quickly expedited their eruption. He combed out a few flakes of dandruff from his shock of curly, red hair. And yes, his Adam's Apple cast a long shadow. Shaving his upper lip and scanning his pubic hairs were more satisfying, but the underarm deodorant his mom purchased smelled almost as bad as his BO. It was only 6:00am. It was dark outside. The bathroom was cold this morning. Gretchen used up all the hot water. It was raining. It was only Wednesday.
For as long as Otto could remember, he had used this time to plan out his entire day - identifying his hopes for the day and layering those hopes with all variety of imaginary options. It used to be fun. In the few days since school began, his morning time in front of the bathroom mirror had become an inquisition of worry and frustration. Otto was worried that this might be the new normal; Otto was frustrated that Bobby was right about middle school. But our Son of Wannaska is also stubborn, independent, and an optimist. A master of imaginary worlds, Otto was learning the hard lessons in the world of rules and roles. With so little under his control, Otto was learning about those few, small things over which he might occasionally have some measure of influence. Otto's own honking, squeaking, cracking voice mocked him whenever he attempted to speak up or out, but he persisted.
The best thing about Wednesdays was Art. Art was different with Mrs. Vatnsdal in all the ways that Otto needed to calm his worries and frustrations while providing an alternative form of expression for his unreliable vocal cords. Mrs. Vatnsdal seemed to understand that Otto's bedroom could be a form of art. Mrs. Vatnsdal said that drawing isn't the only form of art. Mrs. Vatnsdal was excited about her class every day. Mrs. Vatnsdal talked about beauty and how things are beautiful in ways that Otto had always seen, but also in new ways that he hadn't seen before. Otto actually took notes in art class and read them later at home.
"Most things are more beautiful in the company of another beautiful thing. Please do your best to see and combine complementary beautiful things in your own art."
"The best artist is one who knows one's own gifts and who works to constantly see more through those gifts."
The rain stopped just after breakfast, and the sun started to rise while Otto waited with 7-year-old Betty Barb Billberg for their 7:30 school bus. Otto watched the sun light up red and purple clouds as Tiffany alternated between video games and text messaging on her phone. Otto felt the day open up before him as he looked forward to art class and a long walk along Mikinnak Crick to the tree house after school.
[2018.10.03 Woe]
Otto did, indeed, take a leisurely walk on the banks of the Mikinnak Crick, and headed toward the tree house. He needed to think. A lot was going on: Izzi, Freki, his dad’s surprise coming home, Renner, his classes – the ones he liked, and the ones he loathed – his sadness about Wink’s absence, and the physical changes that he could see every time he looked in the mirror or took a shower. Yes, a lot – more than Otto could remember ever having before. Was this what growing up was about? He couldn’t possibly know. He picked a dry weed, placed it the corner of his mouth, and lightly chewed, noticing the earthy taste. Ticking off and prioritizing his concerns, Otto concluded that at the top of his list rested his intense grief over Wink combined with his hope that Freki would “come home” soon to replace what he had lost with Wink. No, above canine considerations sat his dad because of his proximity, almost a stranger; certainly not someone he could confide in, but a large presence in the house. Usually, Bobby would be Otto’s confidant; however, Otto judged Bobby to know nothing more than he did, so he would be of little, or no, help. At that moment, Otto felt a great loneliness well up in him, and he wiped escaping tears from the corners of his eyes.
Arriving at the tree house, Otto leaned his backpack against the large, supporting tree, and climbed up to a quietness where a guy could think. He let his thoughts drift freely in and out, turning the images and feelings that arose over and over, and eventually making him quite anxious. “Breathe, buddy. Breathe.” Otto whispered under his breath. He stared out the rudimentary tree house door, hoping something in the way of a solution or two would arise out of the mists of his consciousness. Finally, his worries began to coalesce and focus on his dad and Freki. The solution was singular.
Now that Otto had a plan, he slipped down out of the tree house and headed home.
“Well, there you are, champ!” his father said cheerily, as Otto stepped in the house, banging the screen door. Peter stood at the kitchen counter slicing onions, green peppers, and fresh mushrooms. Paula Pepperhorst, stationed at the counter perpendicular to Peter’s sliced raw chicken into thin strips.
“Stir fry tonight,” she said in a matter of fact tone. “If we add a few potatoes and some coconut, I can make a curry. How does that sound to you both?”
“Great,” Peter responded.
“Okay,” Otto said without enthusiasm.
“Well that’s what it will be then,” she said with finality.
Otto scuffed his feet around the kitchen. His mother asked him to get two cups of rice from the pantry, handing him a measuring cup. Otto slowly headed for the rice.
“Why so glum, chum?” his dad chirped.
Otto decided to be out with it. “Oh, I’m missing Wink, and wishing Freki would stay here.”
“Who’s Freki?” Peter inquired.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. About a week ago, Otto came home with a dog with a wounded paw, apparently caught in a trap.”
"What kind of dog?” Peter directed this question to Otto.
“Don’t really know. Definitely a girl; looks kinda like a German Shepherd, but smaller with bigger ears.”
“What color was it?” Peter now took a more serious interest.
Paula interjected, “Kind of yellow-brown with white underneath. Looked suspicious to me.”
“What do you mean, suspicious?”
“Like wild, but yet like the German Shepherds down the road got mixed up with the Olsen’s Golden Retrievers.”
“I put out some food for her after she bolted the next morning, and I think she ate it all,” Otto piped up. “I named her Freki.”
“What kind of name is that?” Peter asked.
“It’s the name of one of Odin’s wolves,” Otto revealed with obvious pride that he knew something his dad did not.
“Whoa! I’m impressed! Did you learn that in school?”
“Yea, but I studied up some, too.”
“Well, Otto, you should have studied up on this Freki, too.”
“How come?”
“What you’ve got there is a coydog.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s pretty rare, but it’s a coyote that comes from one mating with a dog. Your German Shepherd is the probable culprit because he’s big enough that the coyote probably wouldn’t take him on in a fight, and he’s a wanderer. Yes, Otto, a fight. A coyote is a lot more likely to eat a dog than mate with it.”
“Gosh! I never thought about that!” Paula jumped in. “That’s why it was in the trap, right? Out near the Black Angus place, Somebody tried to kill Freki.” She seemed moderately upset.
“Come on, Otto,” Peter said suddenly. “Let’s go see if we can find Freki.” As Peter pulled on his denim jacket, he took his 20-gauge Remington from its rack on the kitchen wall, opened a cupboard drawer, and pocketed a fist full of shells. “I’m afraid you’ve got some of your mom’s city-girl blood.”
“Peter!”
“No, dad! Don’t kill Freki!”
“It’s only a precaution, son.” But Peter’s bubbly demeanor had turned dead serious.
[2018.10.08 – JP Savage]
Then the phone rang. Smoothly, seamlessly, and without a word, Paula locked eyes with Peter, extended her right arm and pointed right between Peter's eyes, transformed her point into a palmed STOP, all while drifting across the kitchen floor to her green Southern Bell and holding Peter motionless as she lifted the receiver with her left hand. "Yes? Please hold." Paula dropped her right hand as she extended the phone to Peter. "It's for you."
Eyes lowered, Peter walked toward Paula and took the phone; he knew better than to stretch Paula's cord. "What. What? HOW? When? But... I'm not happy about this. Yes. Yes. Yes. Bye." Peter handed the receiver back to Paula.
"When are you leaving?"
"Now."
[2018.10.10 Woe]
Peter left the kitchen to begin packing; Paula returned to her place at the table and picked up her copy of THE RAVEN, Northwest Minnesota's Original Art, History & Humor Journal, where she found the following poem by Iclic Vermer to relieve her dark thoughts about Peter.
West of the White Walls of
Palm-Brateng
North of the Royal Fork and Knife
Home of the Ham of Notting
Hear ye, Hear ye all ye barbarians
arise in the United Kingdom of
Grimstad and the cottages of
Wannaska town, bow down, bow down.
Across the main moat, in the morning
at eight. From my Lady 'n Lordship
Grey Castle's main gate.
The Queen in her glory carries the
flag to the east. The coffee's not
tasted, not a spoon dares to tinkle
before the Queen's flag flapped out a wrinkle.
Her march to the west is not to be
missed, the swing of her arm, the
twist of her wrist.
Her serfdom awaits beyond the Fork 'n
Knife's wll, she stops at the gate
Life begins for us all.
They can toast to Lord StrathconaPaula smiled, and Otto breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Scottish he may be
they can work a day in Falun
‘way across the sea.
They can salute Admiral Dewey
of the Spanish-American War
or visit the village of Pelan
guess the other names it bore.
They can drive to North Dakota
and visit John Grimstad’s grave
or drive through Enstrom Township
and count the people who wave.
Roseau has King Sjoberg’s Castle
Roosevelt has President Ted
Deer Township has deer all over
Moose has moose instead.
They can speed through Swift
to race a train,
think long and hard ‘bout
Ross name fame.
They can count the trees
in Poplar Grove.
Mmmmm! Where them Duxby
on the stove?
But tell us what town
in Roseau C
can claim both a King K
and a Queen B?
King Agassiz Kraig Lee and Queen Agassiz Bonnnie Lee of Wannaska
[2018.11.19 WannaskaWriter and Woe]
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