connievkuntz

Don’t run in the halls

Fern and Angelo started track this week. It’s still too cold to run outside and the gymnasium wasn’t available so the coaches had the kids run in the hallways of West Middle School for practice.

When I was in school, running in the hallways was strictly forbidden. Even walking quickly was viewed as suspicious activity. We were expected to walk from classroom to classroom in a calm, Catholic way. We had six minutes to complete this task.

There was a “sweet spot” a few seconds before the bell would ring and the next period could begin. Just before it rang, the entire school would settle into a lovely hush. I savored that moment of quiet. But every once in a while, as the school settled into that stillness, I would hear some pathetic loser running down the hallway.

These were not the skillful strides of a trained athlete. They were the manic, desperate steps of someone who believed that running in the halls was a sin and that the only thing worse than running in the halls was being late.

Inevitably, the bell would ring, and I would hear their footsteps stop. The poor, hellbound sap would turn around and walk with utter defeat to the main office where they had to get a permission slip to go into class. Their frustration was palpable.

I’d wonder who it was. I’d wonder how much trouble they were in. I’d feel sorry for them. I’d wonder what their punishment would be. I’d wonder–

“Let this be an example,” a teacher would say, interrupting my thoughts. Of course I can’t remember exactly what my teachers said, but they all reacted the same way. They’d gesture in the direction of the footsteps and say, “Don’t be late and don’t run in the halls.”

Sometimes the teacher would show remarkable compassion for the tardy student.

“I’m just relieved they didn’t get hurt. Or worse: hurt someone else! Because running in the halls is dangerous!”

The teacher would then shake off their disgust and offer pragmatic wisdom.

“If you’re going to be late, don’t run. Just walk calmly to the main office and get your demerits.”

I never ran in the hallways but one day I wasn’t feeling well, so I stayed in the bathroom during a class until I felt better. I was nervous, but I did as instructed: I walked to the main office to get my tardy slip. As I walked, I wondered if I’d have to see the dean and what kind of detention I would get. I wondered how I was going to tell my parents. I wondered if I hurt the teacher’s feelings by not being in their class. I wondered–

“What’s the matter?” the secretary asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“Hi, I wasn’t feeling well, so I stayed in the bathroom for a few minutes after lunch?”

“What class are you missing?” she asked.

“Study hall,” I told her.

“They won’t even notice. Just have a seat and wait to go to your next class.”

I couldn’t believe it was that simple. No tardy slip, no detention and I never had to tell my parents. Had I run in the halls, I probably wouldn’t be the person I am today.

Thanks for reading my blog. Gotta run! -Connie

Thanks but no thanks

Hi. I’m Ronald the Raccoon and I like rabbit heads.

Good morning from Rockford. It’s the kind of cold and sunny day that feels like neither spring nor winter. It’s just “March” and I like March.

I received a rejection email this morning. It was a “thanks but no thanks” for a short play I submitted to a theatre festival. Rejections are common occurrences for me and for many writers I know. Though I’d rather my plays get accepted, there is something comforting about rejection. Rejection means you’re trying. Rejection means you still have things to learn. Rejection means you aren’t afraid to be challenged.

Shortly after I read my email, it was time to walk the dogs. Barbara pulled on the leash and aggressively sniffed through a pile of old mildewy leaves. Before I could stop her, she immediately chomped down on something the size and shape of a flattened loaf of bread.

“Barbara, drop it.”

She didn’t. She never does. Usually it’s just a piece of bread that somebody threw out for the birds and she’ll swallow it before I can retrieve it from her mouth.

This time it wasn’t a little crust of bread. Barbara’s “treat” was sticking out both sides of her mouth. I “bagged” my hand and worked to unlock it from her jaws. It was a stiff, decapitated rabbit.

“God, Barbara,” I said. “So gross.”

I managed to wriggle the dead animal from her mouth and we walked home in utter shame and disappointment. I properly discarded the remains and as I capped the garbage can, I wondered why so many people think dog-walking is pleasant when it’s actually disgusting. And that’s when I remembered the first time I laid eyes on a decapitated rabbit.

This goes back several years when I was an editor for a local literary magazine. The judges had just selected ten winners out of probably a hundred entries for a poetry contest. There were always more rejections than winners and it was my job to send out the dreaded “thanks but no thanks” email.

I’d like to tell you that most poets handled these rejections with grace, but they didn’t. Whenever I sent those emails, my inbox would fill up with ridiculous requests for feedback, assurance and ego-stroking. I could always count on at least one full-blown temper tantrum email and countless passive-aggressive emails, all longer than the poems they submitted.

That evening, I received a particularly scathing email from a disgruntled poet:

“You’re a fucking idiot! You wouldn’t know a good poem if it hit you in the head!”

He expressed so much anger and profanity that I was actually frightened he was going to come harm me. I found it hard to sleep that night.

After tossing and turning, I got up earlier than usual and took my dog for a walk. We had barely made it out the front door when I saw a freshly decapitated rabbit in our front yard. I had never seen such a thing before and felt actual terror. I immediately thought it was the disgruntled poet’s way of sending me a message:

“Publish my poem or you’re next.”

I was legitimately afraid he was in the bushes with a machete. I ran back inside with my dog.

Even though I Googled “decapitated rabbits” and quickly learned that a number of animals in the food chain prey on rabbit heads, I was scared for days. It seems silly now, but I wasn’t sure if the dead rabbit was the work of the poet or nature.

Since then I have lost count of how many times I’ve spotted rabbit remains in the neighborhood. I’ve also lost count of how many rejections I’ve received. And I’ve lost count of how many nasty emails I’ve received. What can I say? I’ll continue to receive these “messages” for the rest of my life, but I promise not to lose my head over them.

Thanks for reading. -Connie

Be interspecific! The fine art of polite conversation

I saw my first robin of the spring this morning when I was walking Barbara. I usually start seeing them in February.

“Well hello,” I said to the male robin. “Why are you so late this year?”

“What’s it to you?” he retorted. He bounced around the ground a couple times and then flew away.

Barbara and I watched the bird land in the neighbor’s tree and then looked at each other.

“Some birds,” Barbara said, “never learn to master the fine art of polite conversation.”

“I’m afraid you’re quite right,” I said back to my dog.

As my dog and I continued walking in the morning sun, I pondered how many human-to-animal conversations I have enjoyed and observed. Most people I know regularly engage with their pets and wildlife.

I see these interspecific conversations in the homes of my loved ones and in the yards of my neighbors. I see them in public when people walk their dogs. I’ve seen grown men wave and talk to the animals at the zoo. And I remember when Jesse and I were dating, we saw a deer and he said, “Hello Pretty” to it in a very gentle way.

Occasionally I’ll meet someone who clearly has no ability or desire to commune with nature or the precious animals within its realms.

One such person was “Charlie,” a young man who lived in the apartment above us in southwest Minneapolis in 2005. Every once in awhile, I’d be in the backyard with my dog Woody at the same time he got home from work. He’d unlatch the gate and walk through the yard.

“Hi Charlie.”

“Hey Connie, how are you?”

“Fine, yourself?”

We’d talk for a minute before he’d excuse himself. The last thing he would do before he went inside was look at Woody and say one word.

“Dog.”

I’d wonder why Charlie didn’t worship my dog. Woody was a saint, an angel and the reason I subscribed to a higher power. Surely everyone else felt this way. Even Charlie’s roommates were kind to Woody. They’d greet him, bend down to pet him and say things like, “I should get a dog, too” or “You’re a good boy.” Cute things.

But never Charlie and I really wanted to know why. It didn’t seem right to ask him outright why he was so aloof so I decided to take up grilling. This was no easy task for I was a vegetarian and had a six-month-old baby but I was determined to find out why he didn’t adore my perfect dog.

My grilling scheme lasted about a month. I learned how to make a little pile of charcoals, douse them with fluid and efficiently grill chicken, hamburgers, hotdogs and corn on the cob. Every evening, I’d be in the backyard with my daughter and dog, grilling up dinner. I’d either hold my daughter or she’d be in a bouncy seat. Woody would usually be lying in “his spot” underneath the picnic table. It was always a peaceful scene when Charlie would enter through the gate.

“Hi Charlie.”

“Hey Connie.” He’d say hi to my baby and check out what I was grilling. “Looks good.”

Sometimes he’d ask me to keep the coals going so he could throw some salmon on.

“Sure,” I’d tell him. “I’ll holler up when I’m done.”

“Thanks.”

Then he’d look at Woody and say:

“Dog.”

And then he went through the door.

He was a tough nut to crack, that’s for sure. A couple weeks into my scheme, I started to get decidedly more aggressive, Minnesota style.

“Anything interesting happen at work today?”

Charlie, like so many, worked at the University of Minnesota. I didn’t actually know what he did there and it was too soon for me to ask such a personal question.

“Not much,” he’d say. “Went over some more protocols, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds interesting,” I’d say. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” he’d say and then look at Woody.

“Dog.”

On the fourth week in, I was thinking about giving up. Jesse and I were so sick of barbecued food. But then Charlie came home and this time Woody got up and greeted him.

“Woody!” I said, “Get back here.”

“Hi dog.” Charlie said.

My heart warmed to hear him say “hi” to my dog but I noticed that he didn’t pet or pat Woody. He stood erect and kept his distance. Woody went back to his spot and I apologized.

“I’m sorry about that,” I told him, and meant it. Woody never did more than just look at Charlie.

“It’s fine,” Charlie said. “He probably smells the other dogs on me.”

“What other dogs?” I asked. “Weren’t you at work?”

“Yes. We had more dogs than usual come in.”

“I don’t understand,” I told him. “I don’t know what you do.”

I asked him to tell me more and he explained that he worked in the biomedical department and part of his research meant examining dogs that were dead and alive. Apparently there was a freezer filled with dead dogs. Then he looked at Woody.

“I see a lot of dogs that look like you.”

He said good night and went inside.

I immediately lost my appetite and felt instant remorse for my curiosity. But at least the mystery was solved and I could finally start cooking inside again, on a stove. The public nature of barbecuing is exhausting. All that smiling and “Smells good” and “How are you doing?” and “Want a burger?” is too much, even for this extrovert.

I don’t think I talked to Charlie in the backyard ever again and now that I think about it, that was probably what the poor guy wanted all along. He probably just craved some peace and quiet.

I feel a little guilty and foolish about my barbecue scheme, but I am still suspicious of people who don’t regularly engage with animals, or even take a moment to wonder what they may be thinking.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy talking with your first robin of the spring! -Connie

Be the mushroom you want to see in the world

Good morning from Rockford. It’s snowing. It’s March and the earth is warming up so the “downy flake” won’t stick around long. But it’ll be here long enough to brighten up the brown.

Spring snow always brings a pale blue light with it and I must warn you: I’m dangerously close to writing a nature poem. But I won’t do that to you because it would be too literal.

Morning, Noon & Night

Snow is falling         
yeast is rising
laundry's tumbling

Neighbor's shoveling
dough is balling
oven's heating


Ice is forming
pizza’s baking
clothes are folding

Wind is shifting
Kids are eating
Dog is waiting


Clouds are moving
Heads are resting
Stars are glowing

Night is covering
Morning's hovering
Peace.

-me 03-07-2022

Instead, I’ll just tell you I’m serving homemade mushroom pizzas for dinner. We love mushrooms over here.

But yesterday I was reading A Promised Land by Barack Obama and he referred to a time he was treated like a mushroom. He wrote that he was “fed shit and kept in the dark.”

Boy, I hate when somebody I admire makes disparaging remarks about something I love. I have enormous respect for Barack Obama and feel a strong sense of loyalty to him but am I supposed to dislike mushrooms now? Because that’s asking too much. I’m dangerously close to writing a poem about feeling conflicted. But I won’t do that because it would be too sad.

However, I will tell you I find it oddly comforting and reassuring that even the former president has been “fed shit and kept in the dark.” I thought that only happened to me. I’m dangerously close to writing a poem about how Barack and I are soulmates.

Instead of that, since I have poetry on my mind, I think I’ll leave you with a poem about women’s rights by Sylvia Plath. You’ll never guess the title.

Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam
Acquire the air
Nobody sees us
Stops us, betrays us
The small grains make room
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles
The leafy bedding
Even the paving
Our hammers, our rams
Earless and eyeless
Perfectly voiceless
Widen the crannies
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water
On crumbs of shadow
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek
We are edible
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves
Our kind multiplies
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth
Our foot's in the door

-Sylvia Plath

Thanks for reading my blog and, more importantly, the poem by Sylvia Plath. Now if you’ll excuse me, I better get back to the kitchen. Those mushrooms aren’t going to cook themselves. -Connie

Calm the duck

Lately, I’ve been on a quest to find out why I’m so basic. I’m still not entirely sure what my deal is, but today I thought about the word “basic” and what it means to me.

Years ago, I worked at a bagel bakery. A “basic” was a bagel with plain cream cheese. To prepare one, you simply grabbed a bagel, sliced it, smeared it with cream cheese, wrapped it up and marked it with a “1” so the cashier knew how to ring it up.

Simple, yes? But for a time, I worked with a power-hungry cashier who would complicate the order.

“Is this a ‘one’ or an ‘l’?” she would ask.

“It’s a ‘one,'” I would answer. “A basic.”

“Well, you need to write neater.”

Um, hi. My handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it certainly wasn’t sloppy. And a capital L meant hummus. Nobody marked the packaging with lowercase letters!

Furthermore, when I prepped a hummus bagel, I would write the L in cursive because I wanted my L to look like Laverne’s iconic L from the sitcom Laverne & Shirley. It was a moment of cursive that brought me joy.

One more thing: Any idiot could tell by the weight and look of the wrapped bagel if it had been smeared with hummus or cream cheese.

But this particular cashier did not like me or my handwriting. She would frequently squint at my writing, sigh and loudly question what I wrote.

“Is this supposed to be a T?” she’d ask, holding the bagel upside down.

“It’s a T,” I’d say. “It’s a turkey bagel.”

“Because I thought it was an underlined ‘one.'”

I’m going to tell you something. Every time she questioned my handwriting, it would send me into a private rage. My peaceful heart would instantly transform into Donald Duck when he gets mad. I could feel him jumping up and down in my chest cavity.

Eventually, I learned to calm the duck. I funneled my rage into labeling the bagel sandwiches with extravagant curlicues, loops and elaborate flourish. This is something I continued to do long after she quit.

I still add a little flair when signing my name or even just initialing something. It’s a private moment of joy for me to give basic things a little extra because it turns out I like being basic and extra. Thanks for reading. -Connie

Deep Purple on a grey day

It’s a gloomy, grey day but the temperature is expected to reach into the 60s. I don’t know how to behave when the weather is like this. Should I celebrate the warmth? Mope because it’s murky?

One thing I’ll say is it’s good “reading weather” so I read a little this morning from Barack Obama’s book A Promised Land, including the chapter where he visited Dmitry Medvedev, the Russian president after and before Vladimir Putin. At their dinner, Medvedev revealed his appreciation for the hard rock band Deep Purple.

Most everyone’s familiar with the song “Smoke on the Water.” The riff is instantly recognizable. My conservative high school band used to play it at pep rallies so even erstwhile Catholic girls such as myself know it. But I never knew the lyrics until today.

We were at the best place around
But some stupid with a flare gun
Burned the place to the ground
Smoke on the water
A fire in the sky
-Deep Purple

The song is about a fire that happened at a casino where Frank Zappa was performing. During the concert, a fan shot a flare gun and it caught the wooden roof on fire. The flames quickly spread throughout the venue. Everyone, including the members of Deep Purple, were forced out of the building. The band was moved across the lake where they watched the casino burn, hence the lyrics “smoke on the water, a fire in the sky.”

I find the lyrics to “Smoke on the Water” chilling and relevant today as Russian forces continue to invade Ukraine.

And I wonder: How many fires has Medvedev observed…or started? Now the former president and prime minister serves Russia as the deputy chairman of security council. I’m not sure the Purple fan is the original firestarter, but I doubt he’s put many out.

Medvedev has been referred to as “Putin’s puppet” by Reuters and “the Robin to Putin’s Batman” in The Guardian. In Obama’s book, the former U.S. President said Medvedev seemed like a man who didn’t say what he meant.

With that, I’ll just say what I mean: I think Medvedev is disgusting. Ditto for Putin.

With the news updating news every minute with information about cease-fires, evacuations, humanitarian corridors, convoys, train stations filling up with refugees, attacks on nuclear plants and broadcast towers, I remain consistent in my message which comes from a song I learned at the same school that introduced me to Deep Purple:

Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

Thanks for reading. -Connie

Up to no good

We bought a used car a few years ago and it’s a hunk of junk. The heating is sporadic, it has broken speakers, the windows fog up “just cuz” and when it’s cold, I regularly throw out my back when I try to open the frozen sliding doors.

But it’s not completely terrible. I will say I feel safe driving my family around in it, so I don’t actually hate the quirky old thing.

Today, I was picking up Jesse from O’Hare and I hit a small bump and “that velcro thing” detached and landed on my shin. I reached down and re-attached it for at least the 500th time.

I don’t actually know what “that velcro thing” is. It’s located in the hard-to-see area below the steering column, above the pedals. It’s in such a strange spot that I can’t see it without getting on my hands and knees, and you and I both know I’m never going to do that.

However, I had a moment of inspiration today as I was grinding the velcro pieces together.

“I’ll stick my phone down there and take a couple pictures!”

After I parked, I did just that and learned that it’s a Draw-Tite Activator II. That means the van has “timed brake controls for light duty towing.” Supposedly this little mechanism will indicate whether or not my brakes will work if I’m pulling a trailer. If my load is too heavy to safely pull, the “Activator” will lock my brakes.

That’s cool, but I have no plans to pull a trailer. Furthermore, I had my brakes replaced a few months ago so I’m not worried about them inexplicably locking on me.

But who the heck used to drive this thing? And why did they need a trailer for a six-passenger van? Were they, as my grandmother would say, “up to no good?”

I have never bought a car that wasn’t “pre-owned.” For that matter, I’ve never adopted an animal that wasn’t “pre-owned.” Our 100-year-old house was pre-owned and so is most of our furniture. Even most of the food we eat is pre-owned.

About that. I’ve gained weight the last few years and finally talked to my doctor about it a couple days ago.

“I’m such a pig,” I told her.

“Don’t say that,” she said.

“But it’s true,” I countered. “I’m hungry all the time.”

She recommended I read up on “mindful eating.” In doing so, I learned that involves imagining my food growing or roaming in its natural environment before it made its way to my plate. So now before I take that first bite, I must imagine the journey my ham sandwich made to get to my mouth.

See the hummus. See it being beans. Ommmm.

It’s only been a couple days but I must say this new way of thinking has curbed my appetite. It’s made me see past being hungry all the time. It’s made me see nature and animals instead.

Do not worry: This blog isn’t going to turn into me documenting my weight loss journey or some path to veganism. I just want to say that today, thinking about the past lives of my automobile, my dog and my hummus has been far more enjoyable and useful than thinking about what I used to be.

Thanks for reading! -Connie

Mr. Gorbachev, (don’t) tear down this wall!

I have loved this silly, crumbling wall since I was six. I used to walk past it on my way to and from school. It was like a condominium for snails. Every afternoon on my way home, I would inspect each “condo” until I found a snail. It always brought me absurd joy to see a little snail chillaxin’ in their bachelor pad.

The old wall is still there, but I haven’t seen a snail since I was a child and, yes, I still look.

One of the reasons we moved to Rockford is because I wanted my kids to experience the fascination of spying snails in their natural habitat. Sadly, we’ve only found slugs in our pursuit. I realize slugs are snails without the shells and that they serve a purpose in the life cycle, but OMG* they are so nasty. But snails? Snails are adorable and charming.

I don’t want to say we moved to Rockford solely based on what I perceived to be a robust snail population but our decision boiled down to oddly specific reasons like that. Reasons, like snails, are funny, mysterious and elusive. Strangely, most of my reasons for doing things (grand or small) are honest and well-intentioned but reflect a completely inaccurate assumption. Case in point: snails!

But I will always enjoy searching for snails and reasons. My kids have never seen a snail at “the wall” but have lost count of how many turkeys, bald eagles, hawks, opossums, raccoons and owls they have found in their own backyard. Much like them, I look for one thing and often find something better.

Thank you for reading! -Connie

*Oh My Gastropod.

The loser who hates nature

“Is it dead?” I asked. “Why is it just sitting there?”

Barbara didn’t answer me, so I gently tugged her leash and we walked closer to it.

“It” was a house finch that was sitting in the middle of the street. It wasn’t dead but it was definitely stressed. The bird had avian conjunctivitis, also known as pink eye for birds. This infection makes it very difficult, if not impossible, for the infected bird to see, fly, eat or survive.

You can identify the conjunctivitis by looking at the bird’s eyes. They will appear crusty, swollen or runny. If you live near a wildlife rehabilitation center, you might be able to take the injured bird to them and they’ll treat the infection with a saline solution. Call first.

Most of the time you have to let nature take its course. The infection will spread to both eyes and the vulnerable bird will starve to death, get eaten by a cat, fly into a building or something else. It’s never easy to see wildlife struggle, even if it’s just a small bird. But there is something you can do.

Conjunctivitis is a bacterial infection that spreads easily and quickly at bird feeders and other places birds gather. It’s not a guarantee, but to help stop the spread of infection, scrub your bird feeders at least once a month. Let them completely air dry before refilling them.

If you fill the feeders before they are dry, the bird seed will get moldy. The seeds will clump together and clog the feeder. Moreover, you’ll feel like a failure. The birds will judge you and so will your neighbors. You’ll be known as the loser who hates nature and it’s really hard to come back from that.

It starts with that nagging feeling of guilt. You notice that your bird feeder looks dusty and mildewy. You’ll remember you haven’t filled it in awhile.

“Gee,” you’ll think. “Even the squirrels are leaving the feeder alone.”

That’s when you’ll notice a bird wearing a leather jacket walk by. That’s Arthur, the neighborhood catbird. He’s a bully. He takes zero crap from anyone and when he passes by, you won’t feel safe.

“What…what’s happening to me?”

You’ll quickly descend into madness and before long, you’ll be dead. And it’s all because you wouldn’t let your bird feeder air dry before you refill it.

I’m not here to tell you how to live your life. I’m not judgmental like Arthur. However, if it behooves you to clean and fill your bird feeders every once in awhile, you’ll have my eternal respect. Thanks for reading! -Connie

Signs of spring

When I was walking my dog, I saw a Ukrainian flag flying in a yard a few blocks from our house. It pleased me to see it so I kept walking in that direction. I find it heartening to see signs of solidarity for Ukraine so I walked closer to the house that promotes peace.

“Come on, Barbara,” I said. “This way.”

Upon closer inspection, I noticed their yard sign. It said This Is Me Virtue Signaling. I went from feeling warm-hearted to annoyed. Who put that sign there, and why?

If it’s a longstanding sign and is an expression of the homeowner’s sense of irony and humor, fine. I have never noticed the sign before, but it’s entirely possible it’s been there for months or longer.

The sign could mean any number of things and I should probably just let it go. But what if vandals placed the sign there as a way to mock the folks who are flying the Ukrainian flag?

Virtue signaling, according to cynics, is when a person publicly aligns with a (usually progressive) cause not because they believe in said cause, but because they want to be seen as righteous. Virtue signalers, they say, use the hashtags but don’t do any of the real work.

Barbara pretends she’s about to pee but only sniffs and stares. #virtuesniffing

I find the term judgmental, divisive and obnoxious. If someone wants to align with a cause, even if it’s just with a hashtag, great! I don’t think it’s fair or healthy to undermine the efforts of people who are finding or expressing their voice, including folks who align with different political ideologies.

It’s the first day of March which means I’ll start seeing signs of spring, natural and political, pop up all over the neighborhood. Maybe I’ll see the Ukrainian flag-wavers in their yard one of these days. If they seem approachable, I’ll ask them about their sign. Until then, if you want to interpret the coupling of the flag and yard sign, please let me know what you think it could mean.

Thank you for reading my blog. Hope to see you tomorrow. -Connie

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