Mucking In The Woods

Today is Groundhog Day.  I don’t know whether the groundhog saw his shadow or not; why would I trust a groundhog in Pennslyvania to know what will happen in St. Louis anyway?  Just looking around locally, I’m calling for an early spring.

                Today’s wanderings were reminiscent of my first few months in St. Louis, where I could turn right on a random street and not know where I might end up.  I started out at a frame store in Chesterfield, and turned right.  Even when I came to streets I that I knew would take me home, I kept going on the road I was on.  In the end, I came to Castlewood State Park.  The park is a beautiful area, with lots of picnic benches, woods, a few fields, and access to the river. 

                I abandoned my car in the parking lot, grabbed my camera and headed down to the river where there were some people launching canoes.  Four lunatics were headed out in canoes in February.  I should mention that it was in the mid 40’s and they were smart enough to be wearing life jackets.  So they weren’t completely bonkers, but I’m happy to leave that particular bit of fun to them.

                For myself, I promptly discovered that mud in Missouri is nearly as slick as ice in Alaska, but provides a much softer landing.  However, being covered in mud at the beginning of my tramping in the woods just meant that I was more willing to tramp in the woods. 

                The trail was busy with people jogging, walking their dogs, biking, and otherwise enjoying a beautiful clear day in winter.  Given how many people were out today, I can only imagine that the park is overrun with people in the summer time.

                For your viewing pleasure, here are a few of my favorite pictures from my adventure.

Castlewood State Park: http://mostateparks.com/park/castlewood-state-park

Anxiety About the White Stuff

Having spent ten years in a place where I actually saw snow in July, Halloween costumes were typically covered by winter coats, and my eyebrows would frost from my own breath, I have to say that I do not miss a single degree of cold, a single crystal of frost or a single flake of snow.

                But, I find that winter in St. Louis does have its adjustments.

                Our first “snow storm” came right before New Year’s.

It was awesome.  About 10 in the morning, the snow started coming down fast in great big flakes.  A constant swirl of white danced outside my office window, and the longer it came down, the more stressed I got.

Why?  Because I don’t have studded tires on my car.

Instead of enjoying the beauty of snow falling, I was worried about my drive home.  Nobody in St. Louis has studs – and it was snowing.  Lots of beautiful fat flakes were falling to the pavement and I was convinced that any minute they would start accumulating and make my drive home a nightmare.

I thanked my lucky stars that I had had the foresight to get a room for the night after the New Year’s Party since I didn’t want to be driving home on a snow-covered road with a bunch of drunks turning their cars into toboggans. 

Anxiously, I checked the pavement out of the windows every hour or so.  I watched as the grass (which was still green) was slowly blanketed in cottony whiteness.  As the day progressed, a bit of snow encroached on the shady area of sidewalks.  Any minute, any minute, I just knew it would start to accumulate on the roads.

Right?

No, this is St. Louis.  In November, the roses were still in bloom.  Early in December, I was still wearing flip-flops.  And when it snows, even the first good snow of the year, it doesn’t mean that you have to break out the boots, wonder how long the line at the tire place will be, or leave the office 45 minutes early so that hopefully you’ll beat all of the people who decided to leave 30 minutes early. 

Yes, I know that St. Louis does actually have snow accumulate on the streets. On occasion.  And then it melts, quickly, into memory.  

Dancing in the New Year

 

Having survived the Mayan Apocalypse, celebrated the holidays with my family and friends, and packed away all trace of Christmas with the energetic, if somewhat unhelpful, assistance of my cat, the only thing left to do in 2012 was to greet 2013.  For the first time since I was in college, I celebrated with friends, both old and new; Auld Lang Syne took on new meaning.

                I spent the New Year’s Eve at the Midwest Dance Federation’s annual bash; I was one of the first people on the dance floor when the music started about 6pm, and one of the last to leave it when the hotel finally kicked us off the dance floor around 3am. 

                When I arrived, I was disappointed to discover that my table was as far from the dance floor as it gets.  This turned out to be a blessing in disguise however since I spent a large portion of the evening avoiding my table mates.  The table’s location gave me a perfect excuse to never be sitting there, except to eat.  (Note for next year: try to get a table together so you don’t get stuck with the luck of the draw.)  While most of my table mates were nice people, I definitely got some of the odd balls of the dancing community. 

There was the lady who alternately wanted to talk politics and give me her testimony as a Christian.  I got her life’s story, twice, maybe three times; I lost count.  Let’s simply say that my Meema’s advice about saying “hmm, isn’t that nice” when you really just need to bite your tongue came in very handy. 

                Then there was the drunk guy.  He was cute and interesting while he was working on the first glass of wine, but became progressively less so with each subsequent glass.  I felt sorry for his date; he said she was just a friend, but just because it’s a friend, you still should observe some social proprieties- like dance with her, not follow some other woman around the room like a lost puppy.  According to one of my friends, I did a pretty good job of avoiding him, but I guess I didn’t do as good a job of keeping my avoidance from being obvious to the rest of the world.

                But on a happy note, I met some awesome new dance partners.  Some of them were from out of town- Detroit, Chicago, and Jefferson City.  Others were local, but we just don’t cross paths frequently at the dances.  We danced East Coast Swing, West Coast Swing, some slow dances, and a few line dances.  One of the guys, who I was dancing with at 3am, teaches West Coast Swing at the Rebels.  I was really glad that I had gone to the Rebels a few nights ago because every dance that I had with him at the Rebels gave me practice for the dance partners that I encountered last night who assumed that I knew West Coast.  A week ago, I could have stumbled through it, but last night, it almost felt like I was competent. 

At the stroke of midnight, I raised a glass of champagne and toasted the evening with my friends, old and new, and a warm fuzzy contentment made my evening complete.

Resources:

Midwest Swing Dance Federation:  http://www.midwestswingdance.com/

St. Louis Rebels:  http://www.stlrebels.com/

Southside Imperial Dance Club (my home club): http://www.southsidedance.org/ 

A Tale of Two Parties

                This last weekend, I enjoyed my evenings with friends from two very different part of my life at two very different parties.  The common factor between both (which is really a common factor to all events in St. Louis) was alcohol.  The other common factor was that both parties were celebrating new beginnings.

                Saturday, I went to a colleague’s home for a baby shower.  Thankfully, it was a couples’ baby shower, so while there was a lot of talk about fussy babies and sleepless nights, there were not any pregnancy horror stories.  It was a delightful evening with friends.  We oohed and ahhed over my friend’s newly renovated home almost as much as we did over the baby gifts; since the happy couple is having a girl, there were plenty of pink ruffle filled opportunities for cooing.  The house was fabulous; there was a small porch off of the living room for warm evenings with a book and lemonade.  The kitchen was made over with walnut cabinets and granite counter tops; the look was contemporary but fit well into traditional atmosphere of the house.

                Sunday, I went to a different friend’s new apartment for what I will describe as a housewarming party, but which he characterized as “an excuse to get the last box unpacked” party.  He just moved into a fabulous loft in on Washington.  In size, it reminded me disturbingly of my old apartment in Anchorage, but that is where the resemblance ended.  The building was open and airy with wood floors throughout, high ceilings and exposed beams.  Dinner was jambalaya and chorizo bean soup – both made from scratch. 

The company was great, with music, beer-fueled arm wrestling contests, and salsa dancing.  Figuring out the music was a trip.  The crowd was a Salsa loving group, but my friend didn’t have any Salsa music.  We ended up spinning across the floor to the tinny emanations of an IPhone.  I danced with every guy at the party, which was sweet.  However, I have to say that I have a long way to go to be comfortable dancing in a small space- I kept getting distracted thinking I would run into a wall.

When the party broke- or perhaps I should say “transitioned”- from the apartment to the Atomic Cowboy- I made good my exit.  I don’t know how late they stayed out, but I am pretty sure I was already up well past my bedtime.

All in all, a good weekend.  I hope I can finagle some more of that jambalaya someday – it was the best meal I’ve had in a long time.

Dancing Full Circle

                Back in May, I stumbled across a local Swing dance group, Southside Imperial Dance Club.  It quickly became a regular part of my routine to wander over to Kirkwood on a Sunday evening with my perfectly ugly dance shoes (really, they’re ugly) and spend a few hours twirling around the dance floor with my new friends. 

                Now, as my friends know (apparently both new and old), I’m a sucker who has difficulty with using that two letter word that all two-year-olds instinctively know, “No.”  A few weeks ago, I was asked to join Southside’s board.  This is what happens when you show up regularly, occasionally help pick up decorations, and generally make friends with the people who get things done in a group.  Of course, I said yes; this group is my group.

                This brings me to last Saturday when we and 175 of our closest dance friends celebrated the club's anniversary.  In order to accommodate our local dance family, we rented the gymnasium at the community center in Whitecliff Park in Crestwood.  With plenty of blue and silver balloons, candles, and garland, we transformed the basketball court into a dance hall.  Add a DJ, some food, and you have a party.

                The highlight of the evening was the interclub championship.  Every year, Southside invites local clubs to send their best dancers to show off their stuff.  There were five couples on the floor showing off their best footwork.  Anytime I have the pleasure of watching the gal from the winning couple, I am reminded of a quote from the movie Take the Lead:  “I'd kill to dance like that. It's like sex on hardwood.”  No, I was not surprised that she won; as one of my partners once observed, she has joints in places people aren’t supposed to have joints.

                And of course, I got to dance.  I danced fast songs and slow songs, with my favorite partners, and with new friends.  Since it was a special evening, I dressed up and spent the evening twirling in a swishy skirt.  If you don’t spend much time twirling in a swishy skirt, rest assured, it is the best way to spin. 

At the end of the evening, the crowd slowly dwindled, until there were only thirty or so of us left to boogie to the Cupid Shuffle.  As the last of the couples enjoyed the final song, we cleared the tables, unplugged the twinkle lights and pulled down the decorations.  A bit of team work, and we left the room as we found it – ready for a game of basketball.

Mud and Chocolate

While I will admit that I have not looked too very hard for a new coffee place, the loss of Middle Way Café from my life when I left Alaska is mentionable.  From the smooth coffee without a hint of bitterness to the chic décor to the friendly baristas who knew me by name and how I took my mochas, hot chocolates and lattes.  Occasionally, I have tried a new coffee place here and there in St. Louis, but have rejected more coffee than I have enjoyed.

                Yesterday, I finally found an analogous coffee place to Middle Way.  Surprisingly, my Mom called it.  Let’s step back for a moment.

                Yesterday, Mom and I decided to go check out Cherokee Row, which is a revitalized neighborhood in the Benton Park area which is known for its antique shops.  I had been down the street once severalmonths ago, but not for shopping.  All I really knew was that it had a book store that looked interesting. 

                We started our afternoon with a stop at The Mud House, a place that I only vaguely knew by reputation.  At eleven o’clock on a Saturday Morning, the place was already busy.  The crowd was relatively young and hip, but refreshingly, they weren’t parked at tables with laptops glaring up in their faces.  Most people were there for a morning with friends and conversation. 

                Mom and I both ordered hot chocolate, and she snuck in a piece of gooey butter cake while I wasn’t watching.  While Mom waited for our drinks, I found us a table near the window so we could watch the street.  Frankly, the eccentric collection of antique games and other memorabilia on the walls was more interesting than the bundled up shoppers scurrying down the chilly streets.

                When Mom came over with the hot chocolate, I knew we were in for a treat.  The heavy ceramic mugs were brimming with the fine foam that only a skilled barista can make.  No whipped cream – who needs that when your hot cocoa is already a creation of perfection?  The conversation between Mom and I went something like this:

                Mom:  “I watched the gal make these.”

                Me:  “She steamed the milk, didn’t she?”

                Mom:  “Yes, and put in lots of chocolate.”

                The hot chocolate was everything you could hope for:  Warm, foamy, and wonderfully chocolately.  When Mom got to the bottom of her mug she kept trying to get the last of the foam out.  Finally I told her to use her fork.  She gave me an incredulous look, kind of laughed, and picked up the fork.  Needless to say, there was no foam left in either cup by the time we finished. 

                The Mud House is worth the trip to Cherokee Street all by itself.  While I didn’t try out the coffee, I can tell you (because we actually went twice) that the gooey butter cake, brownies, smoothies, and sandwiches are all delicious.  Additionally, they have vegetarian options and locally source their coffee beans.  I’ll definitely be going back.

Resources:

Cherokee Antique Row:  http://antiquerow.org/

The Mud House: http://www.themudhousestl.com/

Middle Way Café (Alaska): http://www.middlewaycafe.com/

For the Book Lovers in the audience, Hammonds Books: http://www.hammondsbooks.net/

A Literary Sanctuary

Every now and then, you find a place that feeds your soul; a place where time stops, the stresses of the day melt away, and you can immerse yourself in oblivion.  The time you spend there is cathartic, a walking meditation on life, or an exploration of newly discovered interests. 

For everyone, this place might be different- a cathedral where the light streams in red, blue and green through the stained glass windows; a hike in the mountains where your shouts and laughter will only be heard by the marmots; a dance club where the music thrumbs through your body to the time of your own heartbeat.

For me, it is a book store.  Not just any book store, it is a book lover’s store.  This kind of book store is generally (though not always) a used book store.  Whether it is tidy or cramped, fastidiously organized or a natural disaster, there is a certain feel to it.  You want to run your fingers across the spines of books lined up as if you were in a fabric store playing with the reams of silk and velvet.  There is often a certain scent in the air, from the accumulation of so much paper and the dust and mold that come along with it. 

That first visit to a new store is like an exploration of the wilderness and a spiritual retreat rolled into one.  You wander the aisles learning where the different sections are and remember books that you want to read from areas that you won’t typically peruse once you are familiar with the store. 

Today, I finally made it to the Book House in Rock Hill.  I had been meaning to go for several months, but I wanted to go when I knew I would have a couple of hours to just wander through the stacks.  In some ways, I should never have waited, in others, I think that the trip would always have been emotionally draining for me.

From the street, you can tell that the Book House has great potential to be an awesome book store.  It is in a small old house that is set back off of Manchester.  But when you step inside, it hits you; this is book lover’s paradise.  There are shelves of books from floor to ceiling along every wall and in every nook and cranny that a few pages of bound paper can be made to fit. Walking up and down the stairs between floors, you have to stop to see what books are along the wall, or on the bookcase in front of you. 

Hand lettered signs hang throughout the store pointing the way to different section of books, including a very helpful sign saying that if you are looking for books on the History of the South, try the bottom shelf on the left.  (I would note that to get to that shelf, you will need to move the piles of books out from in front of it, and probably have to figure out where to put the piles that you just moved.)

In many ways, though I had never set foot in the store, it was a trip down memory lane for me.  Many of my old friends were there (offhand, Harry Potter, Isabelle Allende, Jim Butcher, Ray Bradbury, and Starhawk).  The hoard of books brought to mind the scene in Fahrenheit 451 where the woman lights her own house on fire with herself in it rather than be parted from her books.  Most wrenching perhaps, was thinking how much one of my old friends would have enjoyed exploring the store with me, and the laughter we would have shared as we both spent way too much money on books to add to our already over flowing shelves. 

So, I picked up a book on solitude (Thoreau’s Walden) and a reminder of humanity’s foibles (C. S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters), added The Book House to my list of personal retreats, and stopped for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.

The Book House: http://www.bookhousestl.com/