Athena Kildegaard

Poet & Teacher

The Writer as Escape Artist

Tie me up, I’m going to write! Thoughts on the writing life . . . my current post at Lake Region Writers Network.

Worshipping False Idols

I had coffee with Lila the other day. I stopped by to see if she needed help with snow management, but as it turned out her neighbor had cleared her driveway and sidewalks, so she was sitting pretty. Her son had given her a smart phone for Christmas and Lila held it out to me as if it were the shriveled corpse of a mouse she’d swept out from under the couch.

“I don’t know about this technology business,” she said. “I miss the old days of hand-written letters and party lines. And now here’s the post office about to end Saturday delivery. Now, it’s true, a lot of what fills my mailbox on a Saturday is junk, and sometimes, I hate to admit it, that includes the local paper. But from time to time there’s a letter from a grandbaby or an old friend and that just makes my weekend.

“What’s happening, I guess, is that people don’t write letters any more. They’re using things like this,” she said, waving the smart phone at me, “to stay in touch. Ha! Let me just say this. Technology is not all it was cut out to be. I hold this to my ear, but the sound is not as good as my old Ma Bell phone, and then the connection gets dropped because whoever is calling me is driving to hell and gone, and half the time I push a button I don’t mean to and the next thing I know this thing is making a movie of my ear. My ear is not all that interesting. So what’s so great about this thing? What’s so smart about it? The only reason they call it a smart phone is because if they’d called it a dumb phone it wouldn’t sell. But the truth is, this phone is like those Dummies books – this phone is for dummies.

“Speaking of dummies, listen to this: the Pentagon is now giving special medals to drone pilots. Don’t that beat all?”

I admitted that it did.

“So you spend your childhood playing video games, killing perfect strangers, and then you join the military so you can sit in a comfy chair in an air-conditioned room and kill perfect strangers.”

She paused for effect, took a drink of her coffee, blew her nose.

“I don’t see what’s so valiant about that. Perfect strangers who are flesh and blood, who have families and hobbies and favorite birthday meals. Some of them completely innocent. But you, the drone pilot, don’t know innocent from guilty, not in your comfy air-conditioned room somewhere thousands of miles away from those people, strangers yes, but people, you are killing. This is worthy of a medal?

“Now if you look up the word drone you’ll find words associated with it like monotonous, boring, indolent. That last word, indolent, that means “lazy.” If you ask me, a lazy pilot does not deserve a special medal.

“Where have we gone wrong? Could a mother truly be proud of her son or daughter for receiving this Distinguished Warfare Medal? I should say not. All this is is technology worship. A false idol if ever there were one.

“Well, that’s my rant for today. Can you show me how to make the ring tone on this thing louder?”

St. Valentine, Muse?

Here‘s a little piece I wrote for Minnesota Women’s Press. Take a look around, it’s a sweet monthly!

New Poems

Here, at the beautiful Mezzo Cammin, you can read four of my poems. But don’t stop there!

On Metaphor

Here‘s a little piece I wrote for the Lake Region Writers Network. What a delight it was to think about Wright’s “The Blessing,” a poem that delivers its blossom every time.

Election Season

I had coffee with Lila yesterday. It was too cold to sit out on her porch so we sat in her living room, a cozy room with a modest chrysanthemum-print couch, a couple narrow arms chairs, and one glider rocker with a matching footrest. This rocker is where Lila sat. Behind her, in the archway between her living room and her dining room, stood a small baby grand piano with framed photographs arranged on the top.

“Do you see that photograph on the right, the one with the plain black frame?” Lila began. “That’s my great grandson. I’ve been thinking about him today and how he never met George McGovern, though I think Tom would have liked McGovern. Why would that be? I don’t rightly know, but that’s the feeling I had. Anyhow, I heard on the radio this morning that young people just aren’t interested in politics these days. Don’t that beat all?”

I admitted that it did.

“I took Tom’s mother campaigning for McGovern. Those were heady days, do you know what I mean by that? We just felt that anything was possible, that the world’s wounds could be healed. That nothing was beyond us.

“Do you think that’s why young people today don’t get involved in politics? Maybe they don’t feel that way, they don’t feel the righteousness that we felt. Of course I wasn’t young then, when McGovern ran for president, but I remember thinking then that everywhere I looked, there was a young person. Someone with a gleam in their eye. Idealists. People who believed that if you stuffed enough envelopes, knocked on enough doors, marched down main street enough times, well then things would change.

“Today I don’t even feel that. Here’s what I was thinking when I was studying Tom’s photograph. If I’ve given up, if I’ve decided there’s no damn use, then why should Tom there stand up and speak out? He’s handsome isn’t he? And he does have a gleam in his eye, I’ll say that for him.

“Did you see that almost two billion dollars have been spent on this campaign? There. That’s why I’ve given up. There’s no you or me in that two billion dollars. Our mailman, he’s a nice enough fellow, stops sometimes to chat when I’m outside, well he can’t even name our Senate candidate. When I asked him why he didn’t know he just said he didn’t care, he didn’t see what the difference was. Money was buying the government anyway.

“And money, is it conservative or liberal?

“So what would it take to get my Tom to stuff envelopes, that’s what I want to know.”

Winter Coming On

I had coffee with Lila the other day. Leaves whispered down in red and gold and because it was just past breakfast, a white moon stood high in the sky. There was a sharpness to the air, a hint of winter heading our way.

“Did I ever tell you about my mother?” Lila asked. “My mother canned anything. Beans, jam, tomato sauce, creamed corn. Once she tried pickled eggs, though I wouldn’t recommend them. About this time very year she’d take a visitor to the basement, to the cold storage, and show off her work: a whole wall, floor to ceiling, of jars lined up on gray pine boards, a whole wall, farther from side to side than a full-grown man could stretch his arms. Don’t that beat all?”

I admitted that it did.

“I guess people are coming around to canning again. It’s about time, is all I have to say. I remember my mother standing over a steaming pot of water, lifting in the jars and then lifting them out again. She used a bent hanger for that. She’d never think of buying something you could just fashion for yourself. And then she’d lean against the counter listening for the ping of the lids when the pressure would let off. I think she took a great deal of pleasure from that sound.

“All summer long she’d gather information about food. If someone said they’d seen wild grapes somewhere, say out on a county road or along a golf course, she’d make a mental note. And then a day or two later she’d gather up whoever was around and off we’d go with buckets to collect the fruit. Wild grapes, elderberries, crabapples. And on the way, if we passed a farm stand where they were selling green beans or corn, she’d buy up a load. I think she must have been up many a late night putting away fruits and vegetables.

“She always grew tomatoes, those Italian kind, that make such juicy, thick sauce. And cucumbers of course, so she could put up pickles and relish. One year she planted a few watermelon. Ooh, they were sweet. And she turned the rind into pickles. Nothing went to waste in my mother’s house. The following February we all joked about the watermelons and how we went two weeks eating watermelon breakfast, lunch, and dinner the summer before. And there we were in February, eating watermelons for lunch and dinner all over again.

“They say you are what you eat. I don’t know what they mean by that, but what I think of is my mother’s cooking. I ate Franklin County: beans, grapes, corn, tomatoes, apples. That makes me Franklin County, doesn’t it?

“Let me tell you: Franklin County is good.

“I’m not saying I’m good, nothing like that. But maybe I’m delicious!”

Thinking about cold weather

My poem “Having Chosen the Near Bank” is in the current issue of Talking Writing. Have fun looking around at this elegant and inspiring webzine!

Keeping Stinginess at Bay

Lila and I had coffee yesterday on her front porch. She talked about the wind, it was blowing hard, as it often does on the prairie, and she was worried about her hollyhocks. And then she told about how the evening before she’d been sitting in just the same place, reading the Minneapolis paper, when a couple walked past holding hands. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could tell they were having a good time, looking at one another earnestly.

“They were in love—you could see that a mile away,” she said. “And then yesterday morning I ran into my neighbor, Ann, I don’t think you’ve met her. At the post office. I was mailing a pair of pillowcases I’d embroidered to my niece in Wisconsin. Anyway, Ann stopped me and wanted to talk about that couple. She’d seen them too. She was all in a tizzy because they were two men. Holding hands. All in a tizzy over such a little thing. Don’t that beat all?”

I admitted that it did.

“She said, ‘Now that’s just nasty.’ And I asked her, What’s nasty about love? Well, you’d think I was from Mars or something, the way she looked at me. ‘Two men, holding hands? You know what that means, don’t you?’ What does that mean, I asked her. ‘I’m not going to stand here in public and tell you if you don’t know.’

“Isn’t that the silliest thing? So I said to her that I thought there wasn’t enough love in this world and that if any two people wanted to love one another, well what of it? She went on to talk about sanctity, and grown-ups being role models, and how two men in love was some kind of threat to marriage. All that. So I asked her, well goodness, are you saying to me that someone else’s marriage is going to affect your own, make yours worse or better in some way. Is that how it was with you and Al, I asked her? ‘I don’t know what you mean’ she said.

“I said, Ann, you and I have been neighbors for what, thirty years? You and Al in your house, me and George in mine. Neighbors. Did my marriage have anything to do with your marriage? That’s what I asked her.

“And of course she had to say no, really, it didn’t. Not at all, she said.

“No, of course not. And yet, I went on to say, those two men who walked down our street yesterday, let’s just imagine they were married. Are you saying that would rub off on you and Al somehow? Make your marriage something different?

“She had nothing to say to that for a minute. Then she said, ‘It’s just nasty, that’s all.’

“Here’s what I think,” Lila said, and she was getting a little worked up and had to stand and look straight at me, “I think what’s nasty is when somebody badmouths the behavior in someone who’s different, behavior that is generally considered good and right and beautiful. Nasty is when you’re stingy with love. Thinking it’s some kind of scarce resource that only some folks, folks like you, get to enjoy. That’s what’s nasty,” Lila said, and then sat down and drank the last of her coffee.


Here‘s a little blog I wrote for the Lake Region Writers Network. Thanks to my friend Jess Larson for putting me on to the great Chuck Close quote!