Mr. Boonjie’s Origin Story
The inspiration for Mr. Boonjie & the Moondust Quest took many forms. The genesis came in 2015 when this incredible photo of me and my cat, Winky, was created by my daughter, Cara. I loved the photo so much I used it for my Christmas card, and the story for Mr. Boonjie’s moondust quest took shape.
Cara was experimenting with PicMonkey® — an app for editing and designing personal photos. In October 2015 she created a Halloween scene in a fairy garden bowl which sat on her front step. Being a creative techie, she was able to place a fairy size image of herself amongst the tiny ghosts and pumpkins in the garden bowl.
She suggested we create something similar using my cat, Winky, and shrinking me to appear riding on his back. Easy to get a photo of me pretending to ride an animal; getting the cat to pose in a leap was another thing. After hours of taking pics of him and numerous kitty treats, Cara finally had the right pose. And voila! My Christmas card evolved! I loved it and was inspired to write this poem to go with it:
Me and my Cat
This is a tale about
Me and my cat.
You’re probably thinking
What’s new about that?
But did I mention
My cat can fly
With me on his back
Riding high in the sky?
It’s a matter of shrinking
’til I’m just small enough.
He’ll be able to carry me.
My cat’s pretty tough.
And then who knows where we will go
My cat and I.
Or what grand places we will see
Soaring up so high.
Maybe due north
To the tippy top pole
Where Santa hangs out
Making toys for below.
Yes, that will be our very first stop
To tell him we love him and still believe
In goodness and kindness
And earthly reprieve.
My cat, Winky, went to kitty heaven a couple years later. No, it wasn’t from flying too high in the sky. It was just his time to go. But thoughts of flying cats kept swirling in my brain. I would sit and think and visualize and wonder what kind of adventure a flying cat would have. Could he fly? How would he fly? Why would he fly? Well, magic would have to be involved, of course. It wouldn’t be a documentary. It had to be a fairytale. After almost 3 years of writing, deleting, rewriting and rewriting, Mr. Boonjie & the Moondust Quest is ready for readers.
Inspiration photo for Me and my Cat. My daughter, Cara, in her Halloween fairy garden in 2015.
Order your copy today!
A whimsical story of courage, adventure and change for the young and the wise.
Only $10.00.
Short stories and essays by Pam
*
Short stories and essays by Pam *
Wind Chill
Winter 2012/13 — Our Minnesota winters can be brutal with actual temperatures below zero and wind chill temps even lower. Like a day one winter when the actual temp was minus 15 but it felt like minus 40. That’s the wind chill temp.
I was a grown married woman before I understood what the wind chill temperature was. For many years, I thought the weather guy was saying windshield and I wondered why the temperature of a windshield was important. Finally, one day, I asked my husband “How do they test the temperature of windshield?” He looked at me blankly for the longest time and finally said, “What?”
I said, “Do the weather guys lay a thermometer on a car windshield and then look at it a minute later to see what the temperature is? Why do they do that?” He continued to look at me blankly and then he started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. Between chuckles, he said, “Sweetheart, it’s not windshield. It’s wind chill. Two words. Wind. Chill. Then he proceeded to give me a meteorological lesson defining wind chill. I now know it has nothing to do with the windshield of a car, and it happens in winter and means it’s really, really cold outside.
My husband loved the weather channel. The older he got, the more obsessed he became with the weather. I’d ask him why the weather channel was so important to him. I’d say, “You want to know what the weather is, just look outside, stick your hand out the door. You’ll get a pretty good idea of what’s going on.”
I didn’t realize that he was fulfilling his duty as he saw it, as man of the family, to know and prepare for what the weather might bring. He was the driver of the vehicle; he was the protector of the family. Armed with knowledge of the weather for the day, it was he who decided if we should leave the cave or put off the hunting/gathering until the morrow.
He’s gone now and I finally understand that need to know. Now, I’m my own protector and I too have become obsessed with the weather. Every morning, especially in winter, I listen to Sven Sungaard’s weather report to know how to dress for work and my six-block trek to the bus stop.
Winter in Minnesota means layers upon layers upon more layers upon long undies. Add the purse and carryall and out the door I go. To waddle to the bus stop, where we riders stand close together, each breath visible in the frozen air. We’re muffled, silent, all facing in the same direction, like a herd of animals pointed toward the barn, waiting for the bus to come.
New Year’s Eve 1989 - An Evening in Old Vienna
He looked so handsome in his dark 3-piece suit, white shirt and striped tie, his black dress shoes spit shined to soldier perfection. She wore a black cocktail dress, sheer long sleeves, fitted bodice with a tiered ruffled skirt ending just above the knee. The eye-catching rhinestone buckle on the matching fabric belt was the only accessory needed besides sparkly earrings. Finish the look with sheer black hose and black pumps. They looked good. They looked good together.
They were excited as they stepped out of the car and up the steps into the turreted castle-like building of St. Paul’s Landmark Center for ‘An Evening in Old Vienna.’ They entered the Cortile, the center’s indoor courtyard, to the strains of St. Paul Civic Symphony playing Strauss waltzes. It was the symphony’s tenth New Year’s Eve Ball. They made their way to friends sitting at a table across the courtyard.
They were both romantics, he more so than she. Tonight, they both let the romance of the evening envelop them like an expensive perfume. Remembering their thespian roots, they were each fantasizing they were aristocrats of the Austro-Hungarian nobility when they joined the Grand Marche at 9:00 p.m. as the orchestra struck up another Strauss Waltz. As the Marche ended, couples broke away to dance. She noted that many of the women wore long formal gowns, their men in tuxedoes. But she felt confident in the attire she’d chosen, as many others had, of a cocktail dress, her man in a 3-piece suit.
They sat briefly with their friends, who then got up to join the dancers. The friends had taken dance lessons and practiced the waltz at home. They had not. And so - they winged it - as some would say - faking that they knew the steps. No one noticed the Austro-Hungarian prince and his princess bobbing around the dance floor. They had fun.
A Grand Buffet of the Old Austrian Empire, as it was listed in the program, began at 9:45 p.m. - plenty of time before the next dance set to enjoy the sumptuous array of food in silver serve ware set out on white linen cloths: Roast pork stuffed with apricots and prunes, braised sauerkraut, 12 complementary side dishes from which to choose, and capped by Apple Walnut Strudel, assorted Viennese tortes and coffee - or more champagne.
At 11:55 p.m., the Midnight Countdown began. All couples were on the dance floor, well fed, well primed, cheeks pink from champagne, singing ‘Auld Lange Syne.’ The lights had dimmed, the glittering ball above sending sparkles around them. She looked up at him with something in her eyes that said, ‘I feel tonight the same way as when you first kissed me 23 years ago.’ She didn’t need to say it aloud - he understood and let her know with the same shine in his own eyes that he felt the same. As they leaned in to softly kiss, the clock struck midnight and they were surrounded by silver streamers, and blue and silver balloons - hundreds of balloons - the music swelling as the orchestra played a reprieve of ‘Auld Lange Syne.’ They laughed with delight and kissed again, pretended to waltz one more time and then found their carriage to take them home.
The magic of that ‘Evening in Old Vienna’ with him has stayed in her heart to this very day.
Christmas in Frederic
Christmas was a magical time in the little village of Frederic, Wisconsin during the mid 1950’s. Main streets were thriving in towns across America without the competition of yet to come powerful enterprises like Walmart and Target, whose goal was to be the only store for miles around, shutting down main streets left and right. In the 1950’s, there was still room for small family businesses and family farms to flourish - where you could not only survive but grow and actually make a profit.
Friday nights during Christmas season - the day after Thanksgiving through Christmas Eve - the local Frederic businesses extended their hours to accommodate holiday shoppers. Normally, all the businesses closed at 5:30 p.m., Monday through Saturday. No one was open on Sundays. That was the day for rest, church, pot roast dinners and leisurely drives through the countryside. But on Friday nights at Christmas time, the little main street of Frederic glowed from the streetlamps and bright lights of the Frederic businesses: Arrow Building Center, Petersen’s Ben Franklin Store, Olsen Drug, Hagberg’s clothing store, Route’s Super Market, Carlson Hardware, Tromberg’s Bakery. Just down the street from the Ben Franklin, the lights of the Frederic Theatre blinked, the marquee announcing show times for ‘The Ten Commandments’ starring Charlton Heston and a cast of hundreds. The Pioneer Bar and Skol Bar were expecting more business than usual too. Everyone was in a holiday spirit.
On one of those Friday nights, a slightly chubby little girl in her blue storm coat trudged up the street from Arrow Building Center, dragging a large rectangular package. It contained the Christmas present she and her brother were giving their parents - a 4 -piece set of metal TV trays. She’d convinced her eight-year-old brother that they should pool the money they’d saved from allowances to buy this perfect gift. There were only a few TV shows they were allowed to watch while eating - one was Perry Mason because their Mom liked it and it came on during their family supper time. Her brother had agreed to sharing his savings but didn’t help in getting the package home. He was waiting in the house they rented up the hill where the little girl was headed. She’d chosen Friday night to make the purchase knowing her parents would both be at the store working. They owned the Ben Franklin Store. Being 11, she was supposed to watch over her brother until they got home - and she intended to do just that once she got the bulky present up the hill. As she passed busy main street, it grew quieter and began snowing softly - big gentle flakes falling on her as if she were inside a snow globe. She shushed through the snow up the hill, finally pulling the box up the steps and into the house. She and her brother wrapped and hid the package, and after turning on the multicolored tree lights, they settled on the sofa, switching on the TV - safe, cozy and warm - to wait for their Mom and Dad to come home after closing up.
They knew their Dad would be overseeing everything, especially his pride and joy, the glass fronted candy case at the front of the store, making sure he didn’t have to bring up a few more cases of Brach’s bulk chocolates to fill in. The case had 10 maybe 12 niches for assorted bulk candy like chocolate covered peanuts, chocolate stars, bridge mix, peanut clusters, turtle clusters, butter finger filled triangles, Christmas mix mellowcremes, haystacks, Christmas hard candy mix, chocolate covered raisins, Christmas Jots in red and green. You could buy a 1/4 lb. or a 1/2 lb. or several pounds - measured out on the scale on top of the case. Just opening a case, the intoxicating smell of fresh chocolate wafting up your nose could give you a sugar high. The churches in town would buy a mix of mellowcremes, hard candy and haystacks (at a discount) to pack with a handful of peanuts in the shell in small brown paper bags for all the children after the Church Christmas Pageants.
The candy case stood next to check out with their trusted employee, Eleanor at the till and at this time of year, an extra employee at all times ready to assist with bagging purchases and weighing candy. Eleanor, pleasant, likeable, was an expert at ringing up without errors and making the correct change. No credit cards then - all cash and nothing was computerized - you had to know math and how to count when the till drawer opened and you needed to give the customer change. The Ben Franklin store also sold pre-packaged Brach candy, which hung on pegs in the candy aisle. Eleanor wasn’t above telling a customer he couldn’t return 4 bags of the same packaged candy - all opened because he’d tried a piece from each bag before deciding he didn’t like the taste - ‘You shouldn’t have opened all them bags,’ she told him. She couldn’t take those bags back now that they’d all been opened. ’You shouldn’t have opened all them bags,’ and she wasn’t about to give him a refund. He finally understood his error in opening all the bags, being they were all the same kind of candy, and he finally understood he wasn’t getting a refund and he went away sheepishly. Sometimes you just have to be pleasantly firm and Eleanor knew how. On the bottom shelf below the pegged candy, were piled boxes of Brach’s fine chocolates in 1 lb., 2 lb. and 5 lb. sizes. All would be gone by the end of the season - the last 5 lb. box sold to the inevitable procrastinating husband coming in from the Pioneer Bar just before closing on Christmas Eve. Besides candy, the Ben Franklin overflowed with a variety of merchandise, the toy aisle bursting with every kid’s delights, Christmas specials in every department and all the staples shoppers in Frederic had come to expect.
The little girl and her brother knew their Mom would be in her perch up a few stairs in the office with an open window from which she could peek to see if she was needed anywhere. But mainly, their Mom was in charge of the bookkeeping and payroll and the generous annual bonuses for all the employees given out on Christmas Eve with a 2 lb. box of Brach’s fine chocolates - which their Mom had carefully wrapped and topped with a red or green bow. If Christmas Eve fell on a Friday, all employees could go home at 5:30 to enjoy their own family celebrations. Their Mom and Dad manned the store for the few shoppers that still came, finally locking the front doors, emptying the till, turning off the lights and going home to their children and a quiet traditional Christmas Eve supper of oyster stew with oyster crackers, sliced, buttered Stollen bread and a plate full of Spritz cookies their Mom had found the time to bake. The children were already excited for Christmas morning to come, not just for what Santa might bring, but for their parents to open the splendid present of 4 brand new TV trays they’d bought with their own money.
Those Incredible Drivers (from My Bus Stories collection)
I have the greatest respect for Metropolitan Transit drivers. A good bus driver is worth his weight in gold. To paraphrase the unofficial postal creed, he delivers his passengers to their destinations and ‘neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’ Not to mention safely maneuvering a 35 foot long vehicle in and out of traffic all the while putting up with bus babble and the inevitable nut job or two that come aboard.
But, I imagine the route must be a bit boring. The MT driver goes from point A to point B and back to point A, to start all over until he’s done with his shift. Like being on a treadmill or a giant gerbil wheel, back and forth and round and round, the ending becoming the beginning over and over, reminiscent of ‘Groundhog Day’ or an existential novel. We passengers can at least get off the treadmill and take a sharp left or right, convincing ourselves that we have varied the daily trip.
Bus drivers come in all sizes and genders. One I know, always wears white gloves, and I can’t help but think of Mickey Mouse when I see him. One wears a short sleeve shirt even in winter, perhaps to show off those impressive tattoos on both forearms and I keep picturing him in a sailor suit. One is roundy and smiley with kind eyes and has that peculiar beard stubble some men adopt. How do they keep stubble that length? Either you shave or you don’t shave and if you don’t shave, it grows. Not stubble. It just remains stubbly. How do they do that? He has a time share in Hawaii where he and Mrs. Stubbly vacation twice a year. He probably endures the tedium and babble stress by silently repeating his mantra of Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!
One driver has an upswept hairdo, dangly earrings and perfectly applied makeup with long false eyelashes. She doesn’t take crap from anybody. I picture her growing up in a large family of older brothers and having to fend for herself at an early age. She’s the proverbial tough cookie with the heart of gold.
There were just a few of us left on the bus as we neared the end of the route one evening. As we came to the second to last stop, she quietly presented a big jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread to one of her regular homeless riders advising him of all the protein in peanut butter and that he needed to keep up his strength. He left the bus thanking her over and over and calling her ‘sweet angel, sweet angel.’
Good bus drivers recognize the regulars, but treat all passengers with the same courtesy. Good bus drivers wait for that patron running, running to make this stop. Good bus drivers let you ride today without paying because you’ve somehow lost your pass and don’t have the right fare. Good bus drivers trust you when you say you’ll pay twice tomorrow. And the exceptional bus driver buys peanut butter and bread for a person in need.
My Mother’s Fur Coat
My mother’s mink coat smelled of her perfume, cold winter air and glamour as she bent down to kiss me goodnight before leaving with my dad for an evening out. They were going to Murray’s Steak House in downtown Minneapolis for filet mignon and brandy Manhattans straight up with a cherry.
Having a fur coat in the 1940s was the ultimate in elegance while serving the practical purpose of keeping you incredibly warm. This was before PETA, when a fur coat was a status symbol. It said you were a woman of substance.
My mother wore hers on those exciting nights out and on winter days taking the streetcar for shopping. In the 1940s, you dressed up to go shopping. I went on the shopping excursions and would have worn my best winter outfit of a red wool coat, matching wool leggings and a red bonnet. I clearly remember the streetcar tokens: about the size of a dime with a square in the middle and half-circle cutouts around the square. I loved the sound they made as they whirled and clicked to the bottom of the fare box.
Maybe we were going shopping when the picture of me and my mother was taken in 1947. I would have been two. We would have walked to the streetcar stop. On the way home, I was understandably tired from trailing after my mother all afternoon. I did what any reasonable two-year-old would do. I turned to her imploring, “Uppy Mommy, uppy.” I wanted to be carried. But her arms were full of packages. New clothes? Household necessities? Food? “I can’t carry you, Pammie. You’re going to have to walk.” And I did. I had to. I don’t remember crying. It’s just the way things were.
I’m not sure if I remember the actual incident or if I remember my mother telling me about it. In any case, that story immediately came to mind after I heard my grown daughter’s practically identical tale. Her own daughter was at the time about two. Bundled in winter snow gear, mittens and scarves, traveling from the back door of the house to the detached garage, my daughter’s arms were full of the daily necessities for daycare drop-off and work. My little granddaughter turned around to her mother reaching up her arms as if to say, ‘pick me up.’ “I can’t carry you, Claudia. You’re mobile. You have to walk.” And she did. You do what you have to do.