Grandma’s Creek

North Two River, Morrison County, Minnesota

Many a childhood hour here spent neat,
In a cool escape from the summer’s heat.
Over the wide world the creeks do wander,
A child's eye takes in the wonder.

Barefoot splashes, toes in water cool,
Nature's playground, a sparkling jewel.
Sunbeams dance on the water's face,
Skipping stones in a joyful place.

Dragonflies hover, wings agleam,
Like dreams, floating above the lazy stream.
By the creek, on a summer’s day,
Time stands still, in its endless way.

20 Years Ago on FITK

Salome’s Dance



If one were to be standing on Öskjuhlíðar, the hill in Reykjavík with Perlan at its top, and proceed in a southerly direction you would end up at the beach at Nauthólsvík. In the summer this is a lively place with a geothermally heated lagoon for swimmers, in late winter it can be somewhat desolate.

This is where I found myself last April, after having eaten a light dinner at the Kaffi Nauthóll, a delightful turf-covered hideaway situated in this forlorn landscape. I was headed to the beach, to enjoy a vista of city lights across the bay, when I came upon a small boathouse. As I strode past a short fence, I saw three women leaving the building, and as they exited, one was in contortions, possibly adjusting her bra. My appearance must have struck them as somewhat amusing, for as soon as they saw me they burst into laughter.

   “Er-excuse me... ” I stammered.

The fact hat this timid stranger on a deserted beach was an American tourist was a situation they found hilarious. Smiling, they fearlessly strode over and I found myself surrounded!

There is something about the initial moments of contact with strangers, when you realize that you will speak and interact with these people you don’t know. I suppose the subconscious “flight or fight” instinct is there, but this was a little different. Lots of eyeing each other, with the women glancing at each other as if saying to each other, “Is this guy OK, or not, or just a waste of time?”

   “Hvaðan ertu?”

   “Minnesota,” I couldn’t bring myself to say America or The U.S.A.

   “Have you been in Ísland long?”

   “Since Monday... ”

   “You come with us to the Kaffí, we will talk there.”

   “Um, OK, I would like that a lot.”

   “You can have a drink with three weird Icelandic women.” They all laughed.

   “Yes, I will, with three beautiful Icelandic women.” They redoubled their laughter.

I had passed the first test...

Settling in, the women ordered while I sat and wondered: “What have I gotten myself into?” I had heard that Icelanders were a fiercely independent people, and that the women did not tolerate fools. As they chatted with me and amongst themselves in English and Icelandic, I started to feel woefully under-educated. Suddenly, the woman who had done most of the talking, and who I thought was the leader, reached over and grasped my forearm. “What do you think about the situation in Iraq?” see asked, with a piercing stare. I thought for a second, and said, “It makes me ashamed to be an American... ”

Talk turned to Icelandic film (101 Reykjavík, The Seagull's Laughter) and Literature. Being a big fan of Halldór Laxness, I found a topic that we could share. Halldór Laxness’ novel  Íslandsklukkan (Iceland's Bell) had recently been translated into English and I had read it just before my trip. It was a heady moment for me, discussing Snæfríður’s speech to the Danish authority, making my case that it was a universal plea for human dignity for all oppressed people. I had made contact, and I felt the ice was broken as our awareness of each each other grew along with our smiles…

We talked into the night; about children, grandparents, social customs, even card games! By now it was quite dark, we went outside, the wind had died down, a fine mist filled the air. While we waited for their ride, one of the women, the one who I had earlier caught ‘adjusting herself’, walked a few feet away and, spreading her jacket wide, did a little dance to the night sky. Salome in all her glory could not surpass the joy she expressed. Their driver pulled up, the spell was broken and, when I returned to my guesthouse, my head was reeling.

Only in a small way, and only for a few minutes, my world had become a better place…

UPDATE: The bistro in this post has been replaced by an upscale restaurant. It is in the same location, but is now simply named Nauthóll.

Decorah by Night

Nocturnal impressions of Decorah, Iowa, October, 2023.

A hip combo rocks out at The Corner Bar:

The Whippy Dip has closed for the season, its iconic plaster cones are covered:

Faaceless Mannequins strut their stuff in J. Tupy’s window:

And all is quiet on College Drive:

Ohh, My Aching Back!

I've had a couple of incidents of lower back spasms this year.

No discernible cause (other that sitting without lumbar support), but give me an ibuprofen and an hour on the heating pad and I am ‘right as rain,’ again, as if nothing had never happened.

While I felt a great sense of relief using my heating pad, I’m thinking the one that the young woman pictured above used may have had a vibrating option.

20 Years Ago on FITK

The Little Box

I was helping a dear friend (and her sister) sort out their late father’s mementos the other day—going through photos, tapes, scrapbooks—looking for items that I could make copies of for them. It was a bittersweet party, each of us has good memories of him, and seeing pictures of him as he changed through the years was, by turns, funny, poignant, and sad.

There was a small box in with these mementos, perhaps it held a set of earrings or a ring at one time. His name was scrawled on the bottom of it along with that of this boyhood hometown. As I opened it I saw a tiny velvet bag inside. I overturned the bag into my palm and a small glass marble rolled out. I was struck with a realization that this object was the distilled essence of his childhood: one marble, in a velvet bag, in a little box.

Leaving Las Vegas…

… Las Vegas, New Mexico, that is. Pictures from 2023:

Victory Lap

Helena Hernmarck in her studio, circa 1975

I got a triple dose of Scandinavian culture last weekend at the American Swedish Institute in Minneapolis.

The main exhibit was centered on Karin Larssen, wife and muse of the Swedish artist Carl Larssen, noted for his idyllic watercolors of family life—a world largely defined by Karin. Her textile work was featured, both original and reproductions of work seen in vintage photographs.

There was also a ‘grazing table’ in the courtyard, laden with yummy Scandinavian treats, as well as a cash bar (with Scandinavian prices to match!)

But the real star of the show was Helena Hernmarck, a Swedish-born weaver/textile artist and a pioneer in modern photo-realistic tapestry technique. After we were shown a film about her work she gave a talk featuring highlights of her 60+ year career. The ASI has one of her major pieces, as do numerous museums, businesses and institutions around the world. Helena’s vivid descriptions of the art scene in the 1960s and humorous asides (when asked if being married had affected her work she said that it was true ‘for some of my husbands’) was a complete delight.

This appearance is a ‘victory lap’ of sorts for Helena, her assistants have all retired and she no longer does the large-scale work that made her famous. Her work does come up for sale from time to time, $$$,$$$.

20 Years Ago on FITK

I saw his picture in the paper.

He is now about sixty and looks about ninety. But he is still playing that poly-rhythmic piano, with Monk and Professor Longhair threads interwoven into his own unique style. The occasion was a premiere of a documentary about him, and he was to play beforehand. I went, and as it was, so it remained. A lot of long nights in smoke-filled rooms were etched into his craggy visage, and an atlas of musical back roads was outlined in his playing.

And the voice. A wail from the prehistoric past, with all the cares of the modern world overlaid upon it. As I left, one of his older songs crept into my consciousness, and it seemed to be a warning, not of a tragic love affair, but of a difficult yet rewarding life as a troubadour with a keyboard:

… I thought I was the king of thieves,
but you touched me so softly
you picked my pockets clean
I need a watch dog
to keep you from
stealing my heart…

~John Beach, Watchdog

Tale of Burning Love

Living near a middle school, I often discover trash left behind by the young scholars.

Recently, I found a partially charred note was left on the sidewalk. Much of it had been consumed by fire but what remained was the chronicle of the end of an affair, but evidently not the end of passion’s fire:

I miss how he used to treat (me)
To the kisses the flowers …
We just sat there an(d) …
All night. When you le(ft) …
I lost a part of me id l(ost) …
memories and I wish we were on a …
more. But yeen* love me no more.
Yu cheated on me and when I
found out you said you did it to
not stress out. nigga go to the gym.
… … … … I wish I could
… … … … I just stood
… … … … walked
… … … … (an)ything
… … … … (ca)lled me
… … … … he
… … … … doing
… … … … …ed.

* slang for “you ain’t”

Eastlake

Charles Locke Eastlake was a 19th century English architect and designer.

His seminal and influential book Hints on Household Taste in Furniture, Upholstery and Other Details led to the ‘Eastlake Movement’ in the United States where this style furniture was mass produced for the middle-class. It even became a style in architecture, most notably in San Francisco, where dozens of Eastlake-inspired ‘painted ladies’ are still enjoyed by tourists.

Because the furniture made in this style was quite sturdy, even after 140 years it remains fairly common; there are almost endless versions. Some pieces are quite coarse but most are competent. Some, like the graceful table shown above that I found at a garage sale ($25!) are very fine. The top of this example was stained (and had split), but those flaws were easily repaired and it now graces the bay window of Flippist World Headquarters. Made of walnut with burl veneer accents it made for an elegant addition to my domicile:

A little classier than this old library table (which does have charms of its own):

20 Years Ago on FITK

I Ain’t Blue

What is the opposite of passion? Dispassion? When affairs of the heart are raging, aren’t the highs and lows in opposition? Or is it that the middle state, calm, is actually the flip slide. Maybe some peace and quiet is just as important as emotional fireworks, perhaps it is the shifts between the states that make life whole.

Still, the promise of passion is a driving force. Serenity is a state of grace to be accepted, not to strive for.

“I ain't blue…
I'm just a little bit lonesome
for some lover gal.
Everything is fine…
I just don't want to be
All by my self.” ~ John Koerner, 1938-2024

Cosmic Apple

One of my ‘Bubbleworld’ series, not to be confused with the ‘Cosmic Crisp’ varietal.

This is a ‘straight’ photograph, shot with a modified lens and with the saturation tweaked a bit in post.

20 Years of FITK!

On June 2nd, 2004, the very first entry of Flippism is the Key was posted.

FITK began as a vehicle for my literary efforts but has evolved since then with novels, memoirs, reviews, poetry, and even travelogs.

Each Wednesday I’ll be publishing a post from those early efforts. Few of my current readers* will remember them but I think they still have value. My hope is that those of you who have recently arrived here will find these vintage posts timeless, if not priceless**. There will even be a smattering of posts from early collaborators (Little Miss Loopy, Comica, Reshma.)

While some may say it is impossible to revisit the past, reliving the ‘glorious’ early years of the ‘blog explosion’ of the early aughts gives me some strange feeling of satisfaction.

*For some unknown reason I have been getting a lot of Facebook™ referrals in my sitemeter.

**Just joking!