Morning in my old neighborhood in Mexico City; and tamales still steam in large, shiny metal containers that look like new garbage cans. A man in a navy blue jumpsuit cuts oranges and soaks carrots, beets and celery to make juice. For a few extra pesos, he will toss in a raw egg, guaranteed to cure a hangover.
Read MoreWhen I drive alone from St. Paul to my native Lake of the Woods, I call my mother from Kelliher or Waskish. “O.K.,” I say, “I’m heading into The Bog.” Which means that if I haven’t arrived within two hours, she’ll call the sheriff and have him drive south from Baudette down Highway 72, just to make sure I haven’t been sucked up into the mysterious depths of The Bog…
Read MoreYou reflected me skating on the rink under the neighbor’s yard light, blades scratching your surface. You creaked occasionally but did not complain. You sustained my drunken friends and me, along with a quarter ton of 1960s metal driving the road plowed across the Rainy River to Canada, land of dances with live bands from Winnipeg and bars that didn’t card.
Read MoreGaby and I walk the sidewalks of this suburban city, once a small town surrounded by farms, now a bedroom community of Chicago, bristling with strip malls, Starbucks, McMansions and a gigantic Lifetime Fitness. And yet, something remains of the rural landscape: large stands of mature oaks and maples, creeks that feed the DuPage River…
Read MoreMexico City lingers on me: the dust on my dress, the grit in my hair, the spring in my step–the ache in my heart. That feeling of taking the City, walking its streets, riding its buses. More tortilla and lime and aguacate than I can eat. Flan de coco, cocoanut flan, at Bellinghausen’s, the restaurant founded by Germans during the Mexican Revolution of 1910.
Read MoreAt 10:30 PM, the twilight in this place on the northern edge of the United States has finally slipped into darkness. A cool wind chased away the humidity and–for now at least–the mosquitoes. No other night sounds yet. Later perhaps, an owl, a whippoorwill or the deer that sidle into the clearing to graze, long-legged and graceful as ballerinas.
Read MoreIn the crowded but cozy Cafe Buenos Dias–Good Morning Cafe–customers in warm sweaters and jackets sip the best coffee in town, breakfast on eggs, beans, salsa, tortillas, fresh fruit and juice and chatter in Spanish, English and French. We sit inside on well-worn leather chairs. Others remain in the patio, warmed by tall heat lamps.
Read MoreIt’s been more than 26 years since I tried my first case, but one thing never changes: the adrenaline drop afterwards. When I was a brand new public defender, the first thing I’d do after my jury went out to deliberate is head to my favorite cafe to have a triple (yes, a triple) espresso and something chocolate. Thus fortified, I could ride out the high for a long time.
Read MoreWe are all tuned to our phones, our iPads, our TVs–maybe even our radios–in advance of the Big Storm headed our way. Snow from Canada, rain from the south, all of it colliding right above our martyred Minnesota. The meteorologist says, “There’s a big swirl up there…” And we shiver.
Read MoreI want to thank Carla for letting me guest blog here. And for asking me to be a part of The Next Big Thing project. It has been an enjoyable assignment to take on, and has forced me to think about my writing in ways I usually don’t think about it. Being a poet, I tend to write a poem, send it to a few friends, see what they have to say, and forget about it.
Read MoreI want to thank Kathleen Jesme for inviting me to join this project. Kath and I grew up in the same small town on the Minnesota-Canadian border, a place that still influences, in very different ways, her work and mine. Back then we played flute duets; now we tell our stories. Kathleen’s poetry is luminous and lasting. I am honored that she has chosen me to participate in this project. Her thoughtful and irreverent blog can be found at http://kathleenjesme.blogspot.com/
Read More"Hand Me Down My Walking Cane," a novel by Carla Hagen of St. Paul, has been published by North Star Press of St. Cloud. Hagen, a Hennepin County attorney, set the book in her hometown of Baudette, Minn., during the Great Depression. It's based on stories her mother told.
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