Duluth: A scene from youth

To Duluth

by Chris Pelletier

copyright 2009

Approaching the mid-sized port northbound on highway I-35, Duluth reveals itself spread out on a steep slope. It reminds me of pictures of San Francisco. I wonder how fun it would be to take a sled down those hills in the winter. I worry about my aunt and uncle who have to drive down those hills when they are iced up.

After reaching the city center, parking is easy to find for my dad. There are plenty of spaces for visitors’ cars. I notice a big drop in temperature compared to Minneapolis. Even though it’s the middle of July, it feels like late October.

Duluth Harbor’s buildings are made from old dark brick. Many souvenir shops full of my favorite nautical curios are on the main street. I can see the maritime museum which is located next to the concrete canal leading to the harbor. My parents said we would go there later. Stretching across the canal is a gigantic lift bridge, which looks like it was built from a huge Erector Set.

Noisy seagulls squawk; the chorus of birds makes me feel like I am near the ocean. I approach a street vendor who works from an antique-looking red wagon and get a box of popcorn. I use only some of the money that my dad gave me. Soon a handful of white delights fill my cheeks. They are salty, but a bit dry. With another handful, I feed the hovering gulls by pitching the popcorn into the air. The greedy gulls swoop and dive for the morsels.

As I stroll along the shore of Lake Superior, it smells slightly of fish. Millions of smaller rocks make up the beach. Every step I take grinds them with a crunch. A flat pink rock looks inviting, so I pick it up and rub my hand on its smooth surface. It feels as if someone ground it down for me. With careful aim, I skip it across the water. The rock bounces about five times before it finally plunges into the lake with a plop.

I head to the canal which extends and turns into a pier. A gentle lake breeze brushes my skin as I walk out to a black and white lighthouse on the pier. I imagine that I’m some old bearded lighthouse keeper from 150 years ago trudging to work.

A horn blast from the water startles me. A huge iron ore ship is coming into port after visiting far away places. Tourists go to the wall of the canal and wave at the passing ship. Sailors line the rails of the ship and return the waves, as if they are heroes coming back from some glorious adventure.

The ship passes under the bridge and the ringing of a warning bell on the bridge tells people below that it is descending. I dream of being one of those sailors some day and have people wave to me as I return home.

Shall we dance?

It is the fourth day into my vacation, and I must say that my highlight had to be Sunday.

I have occasionally visited a place in Japan called Cstle Tintagel http://castletintagel.com/ for dressing up in armor and fighting. This Sunday had more peaceful pursuits.

I participated in a practice of 19th century waltz and and traditional folk dance. The waltz was different from the 1-2-3 that everyone has come to know. It was far easier than anything seen on So You Think You Can Dance? Actually with the country dances, I thought I could dance those rather well. One called the Count de ... was an interesting one which brought me back to my younger years.

When I was in elementary school, in gym class we learned square dancing. Of course, to most boys at the age of 10, they were squeamish. But I relished the fact that I could be dancing with some girls (my interest in the fair gender started in second grade, while most of my peers would dread the notion of contact for fear of getting girl germs from contact, like some form of the plague). We formed our squares and swung around arm in arm and do-see-doed, all to the tunes of some blue grass fiddle.

Well, time repeated itself years (and years) later. It was a British dance, but obviously the style had been incorporated by Americans and made their own. When I was doing the dance, it came natural. My moves fit the beat and tempo, I could remember all of the steps quickly. It was fun. Though I don't understand how some of the people did not get the dance and struggled to remember. Maybe square dancing was not in their DNA.

Another thing that was a bit funny about the experience. Most of the participants were Japanese women, and perhaps etiquette and protocol required them to say how tired they were after a dance. Now, I am not in the best shape, but I was hardly winded and did not crack a sweat after the dancing. I mean, most of the dance was waiting for a minute or two for your turn. It was not like dancing the foxtrot or anything. I could not understand how they could be so tired.

Anyhow, I look forward to the rest of my vacation. I plan to finish up my short story Trouble With T-Rex and get it out. I also plan to see fireworks at a zoo.

Carpe diem.

Vacation begins

I am starting my summer vacation. Huzzah!

The Chinese calendar suggests that today is the first day of autumn, though. I wonder how long the tradition can edure with the global climate changes that punch us in the nose every year challenging the claim of autumn begins August 7. I mean, it is a hot swamp in the Kanto plain of Japan now.

Well, my thoughts shall not be on the weather.

My vacation will be for a week. Somewhat long, but busy, I am sure, and that will make it fly by. Why will I fill my vacation with busy things? I should relax and let things pass by for a week. I guess plenty of time for rest in the grave.

My students would say it is O-bon (pronounced "oh-bone") vacation. O-bon is the Japanese equivalent of Halloween (minus the costumes and candy [and fun?]). The tradition is to mark a time when the living pay respects to the dead. People visit ancestral graves which contain bones and ashes (they usually burn their dead in Japan as per Buddhist tradition [and there isn't a whole lot of space on the island]). Some incence gets burned, the grave gets cleaned, silent prayers are offered, and the traditionalists invite the spirits to come to their house.

The spirits of the departed stay at the family domicile for a week. Some families provide a mini house for the stay (about the size of a large Barbie house, sans the furniture and trappings) and get fed some treats (healthy things; no mini-Snickers bars). After the stay, the spirits are coaxed to go back to the grave and life of shopping for Louis Vuitton bags, playing Nintendo DS, crooning out ballads at karaoke and piling into trains to fill them to 150% capacity to head to work for their twelve hours of labor.

Halloween is so much simpler.

So I have my break now and will be finishing up my short story called The Trouble with T-Rex. I worked on it for about three hours yesterday and I like where it's going.

Another question comes to mind. I sometimes argue with my British colleagues that the English made the language but Americans perfected it. I know, it is a bold claim. But look at the word vacation. It comes from middle French meaning freedom from something. That is what the people of the Stars and Bars say. Across the puddle, the British say holiday. Now holiday is a derivative of "holy day."

Which makes more sense? I have a vacation (i.e. freedom from work, school, whatever). I have a holiday (a day of a religious nature which brings me closer to the almighty).

The Brits argue that for them, the time off is religious and spiritual. I smugly grin and think, "Yeah, nice try."



Whether it is a vacation or holiday, I am relishing the fact that I don't have to work and can focus on writing.