The Ides of February

Though the skies have been gray, and the weather strangely warmish and out of season, it's been one riotous festival after another. Shall I number them?

1) February 7. It's the first day of spring, at least according to Cato the Elder. In his book on farm management (c.a. 160 BCE), he identifies that specific date, and even gives a reason for choosing it. The wind changes on February 7. (Which way it changes he doesn't say. Probably from North to South. I guess weather patterns were more consistent in his day.)

2) February 10. It's the lunar New Year!

3) February 12. It's Fasching! A two-day festival when Germans get drunk, run wild, and so on, prior to the onset of Lent.

4) February 14. Valentine's Day.

What am I doing about it all? Very little.

But that's not entirely true.

On the afternoon of February 7, I was sitting out on the deck after work watching the sun go down. The skies were blue that day, with a pale white band of thin clouds drifting by overhead. I'd gotten a pot of yellow-pea soup going on the stove. The recipe called for 1/2 cup of sherry, which isn't very specific. Oloroso? Fino? Almontillado? Well, all I could find in the cabinet above the stove was an old bottle of Marsala. Once I'd added the quantity specified there was only an inch left in the bottom, a bit muddy. I made short work of it, as a service to the household. Now we can get a fresh bottle of something similar.

As I sat on the deck, I took a peak at an essay about Johann Gottfried Herder from Arthur Lovejoy's Essays in the History of Ideas—a nice way to start the new year—but then I noticed that the buds on the branches of the silver maple above my head, those spiky little red clusters, seemed to have grown larger. Already? A red squirrel started chattering and the sun dipped behind a bank of clouds near the horizon. Four mallards raced by at tremendous speed, high overhead, traveling north. Why?

I could hear a CD of the Polish trumpeter Tomas Stanko on the stereo inside. I'd forgotten how good this CD is. But it's a moody thing. And the smell of peas wafting my way from the half-open door reminded me that it was time to stir the soup.

The following afternoon Hilary and I drove down to the Mississippi and along River Road downstream past the Guthrie and the Ted Mann Concert Hall to the Northern Clay Center on Franklin Avenue. It's always fun to see what the local potters are doing, but we were surprised to come upon a retrospective show of Warren McKenzie's work. McKenzie, who died a few years ago, is the long-standing local superstar of the Mengei tradition. It's an Asian tradition, in fact, appropriate to the lunar new year. 

These classic rustic vessels, exhibiting a wide variety of shapes and surface decorations, did not disappoint. If they had slipped a few pots by Guillermo Ceullar or Will Swanson into the show, would we have noticed? It doesn't matter, and such quibbles degrade the integrity and depth of the tradition.

I also have my doubts about the value of the price list, though its presence was unavoidable; the show was a fundraiser, after all, and all but a few of the pots had sold. But it's a little disconcerting to know that Hilary and I eat our breakfast every morning out of $400 cereal bowls. Better not drop them!

From Northern Clay we drove a few blocks to the West Bank campus of the U of M, where an exhibit of indigenous art was on display in the Katherine Nash Gallery. If I imagined that I was somewhat jaded by the seemingly endless influx of Native American stuff recently, this show was a pleasantly rude awakening. 

White walls, bright colors, exotic and familiar imagery. The incandescent purples and pinks of George Morrison's Lake Superior landscapes are always a treat. But I was no less taken by such large-scale works as Michelle Defoe's immense The Stars Remember: We are the caretakers of the land and our ancestors reborn. And Rabbett Before Horses Strictland's carefully rendered mythological scenes from Anishinaabe lore brought the works of Poussin to mind. Bright colors predominate; it's the age of acrylics. But Patrick DesJarlait's watercolors have that pleasantly old-fashioned WPA look and feel.

A few days later, on the spur of the moment almost, we decided to take a spin down to New Ulm, where we hadn't been in many years. Though hardly a tourist Mecca, the town is well-known for its German heritage. In a few hours you could visit the historical museum and Turner Hall, have a meal in the basement rathskeller or at the Kaiserhof downtown, then drive by the oversized statue of Herman the German at the top of the hill and the more modest statue of Bohemian immigrants down in the city park, before heading to the Shell Brewery or upstream along the Minnesota River to see the historical sites associated with the Dakota War of 1862.

But our plan was simply to see how the town was doing, then take a hike at nearby Flandreau State Park. 

We had a pleasant lunch at a place called Lola's, then walked down Minnesota Street to a fine brick building called the Grand that's been converted to an art center, with a beer hall next door. Along the way we stopped in at low-lit place called Sweethaven Tonics that had a few comfortable chairs and enough open space to host a pop-up bookstore. 

I noticed later on their website that the bar also hosts musical events, including a recent show by a group called Uccellino, two women who sing and play the ukulele and Melodica. Evidently Sweet Haven makes and distributes a variety of concentrated non-alcoholic  "tonics," including Lemon Basil Lavender and Ginder Lime Peppercorn. Just add some booze and you're all set.

While we were perusing the books a woman appeared from the shadows wearing a floral print dress and a big smile. I don't remember her name but she told us she'll be opening a bookstore soon across the street. I hope it goes well.

We also enjoyed chatting with the young woman at the nearby Grand Art Center. I asked her whether anything special was in the works for the weekend. "Do you know about Flasching?" she asked. "It's like Mardi Gras, but not so grand. Do you know what Narren are?"

"Are those the people wearing the grotesque wooden masks?"

"Yes. They gave me the creeps when I was a kid."   

"We haven't seen any on the street this morning."

"It's probably too early. I'm not sure what the schedule is. You can find more information online."

She gave us a tour of the cabaret next door, which had oversized images on the walls of Wanda Gag, Tippi Hedrin, and a famous local accordion player whose name neither of us couldn't remember. "That's not really my kind of music," she said.

"But you do know how to polka?"

"Kind of. You shuffle back and forth...."

A few storefronts down we went into a fair-trade shop stocked with fabrics, gifts, and doodahs from around the world. The proprietor, a retired kindergarten teacher, gave us a bit more information about how the town was changing. Someone was retrofitting one or two of the handsome brick buildings across the street. "And we've got a bookstore opening soon, too."

"We met the owner a few minutes ago."

"Isn't she a breath of fresh air!"

I asked her about Fasching and she said, "Did you see the rags hanging from the lamp posts. That's part of the festival. Spring cleaning. Out with the old." But not very festive, really; I hadn't noticed them.

Rags dangling in front of the Grand Art Center

I asked her about the Shell's brewery. "The last time we were down there, you couldn't sample the beer unless you took the tour."

"That was a long time ago. People didn't like that. Now they have a big beer garden. And one of the Marti sons has opened a distillery. You should come down here during Octoberfest." Indeed.

She and her husband are cross-country skiers, and we commiserated briefly about the lack of snow.

On our way back to the car we passed the Kaiserhof Restaurant—I could see a long line inside through the darkened window. And though we'd already had lunch, something in the air gave me the strong desire to sample a few sausages and some hot potato salad, with a pile of sauerkraut on the side.  

Next time.