Author Archives: Kathleen Fox

We are facing a crisis at our house, and I’m not sure how we’re going to get through it. Apparently, we’re about to lose all contact with the outside world. Television is going digital, and we haven’t gotten around to buying a converter box yet.

I know Congress has been busy these last couple of weeks. It must be exhausting to pass a borrowing-and-spending bill with so many zeros (by “zeros,” of course, I am referring to the billions of dollars in the package, not our esteemed representatives who voted for it) that not even the IRS has calculators that can count that high.

Still, our elected representatives took a few moments out of their busy schedules to take care of the little people. They voted to extend the deadline for switching to digital television. Some people—including, perhaps, some people so deprived that they have only one television set for an entire household—might not be ready. Maybe, even with the governmental coupon for $40 off a converter box, they might not be able to afford one. Or maybe they hadn’t heard about the February 17 deadline.

I watch about two hours of television a week, mostly PBS. And even I have heard so much about converter boxes and digital television deadlines and the need to be ready for the big technology conversion that I’m sick of it. Even I know that, despite the extension, South Dakota Public Television is going ahead with its conversion according to the original schedule.

If I know all this, any regular television watcher has to know it, too. Anyone who hasn't heard about the conversion by now must have been living in such remote isolation that they don’t have television, anyway. They probably spend all their time either hunting and fishing or raising chickens and goats and preserving the organic vegetables they grow in their own gardens, so they’ve been too busy to notice or care that Barney the purple dinosaur is going digital.

Just imagine what might happen if the digital conversion went ahead as originally scheduled and some people, deprived of what is apparently their Constitutional right to television, weren’t ready for it. Suddenly, their TV sets would sit silent and blank in their living rooms. They wouldn’t know exactly what was driving the housewives to desperation this week. They would have to look outside to check the weather. They wouldn’t know about the latest crises in the love lives of the various Britneys and Jessicas and Jennifers. They might be lost without “Lost.”

These poor suffering people might have to resort to extreme measures—like reading books, for God’s sake. Or talking to each other. Or going for walks. Or even, no matter how horribly last century it might be, Or even, no matter how horribly last century it might be, employing a different form of digital entertainment—knitting, for example. Or playing board games or cards or dominoes. They might have to endure evening after quiet evening, forced to find ways to keep themselves occupied.

Come to think of it, that sound a lot like what we do at our house all the time. Is anyone up for a trip to the library?

It’s finally happened. I’ve begun hugging trees.

It was inevitable, I suppose. I’ve always admired trees, after all. If I were the painter that my attempt at a college art major persuaded me I wasn’t, I would paint trees. There something infinitely satisfying about them, whether it’s the graceful symmetry of a young elm, the fascinating gnarl of a venerable willow, or the stark elegance of bare cottonwood branches against a winter sky.

Much as I like trees, though, I’ve never actually gone around hugging them. Smelling them, yes. There’s nothing quite like the enticing clean odor of fresh-cut wood. An apple tree or plum thicket in bloom in the spring smells better than a whole hothouse full of roses.

Trees have more subtle smells, too. On a warm summer day, the bark of a Ponderosa pine smells like vanilla. Put your face close to the trunk and inhale, and you’d swear you were in your grandmother’s kitchen helping to mix up a batch of cookies. And at certain times of the year in the Black Hills, the air even in town smells deliciously of turpentine.

So I admit to being a tree-watcher and a tree-sniffer. Not a tree-hugger, though, until this week.

We went for a hike on the first day of February, a sunny day with unseasonably warm temperatures but a brisk wind. Our route took us across a meadow and up to the top of a high ridge. The last part was a scramble rather than a hike, over steep rock ledges where juniper bushes and young pine trees clung on by their toenails. In between layers of exposed rock, the surface was a loose mix of soil and pine needles, made even more slippery by a dusting of fresh snow. Getting to the top meant anchoring ourselves carefully, one boot at a time, and pulling ourselves up by grabbing whatever plants were within reach.

About half way up, it occurred to me to wonder what in the name of common sense we were doing this for. By then, of course, it was a little late to change our minds.

The reward at the top was a level hike along the ridge top, with a spectacular view of the Black Hills to the west and the prairies to the east. Then came the hard part—going back down.

I’m not proud. I did most of it crouching or sitting, snow or not, wet jeans being preferable to sprained ankles or broken legs. I clutched at bushes. I crab-crawled down rocks. And I hugged trees—every one I could get close to. When you’re making your way down a slippery slope that you wish you hadn’t begun in the first place, there’s nothing like wrapping your arms around a good, solid tree while you negotiate that next treacherous step.

So it’s official. I’m now a tree-hugger. I just hope  my new arboreal best friends never find out about all the firewood I’ve helped cut this winter.

It’s all my sister’s fault.

When my daughter was a toddler, my sister made her a bunny towel. There are several ways to construct one of these critters, but essentially you get a bath towel and a hand towel. You make a hood out of part of the hand towel, add ears (made out of the rest of the hand towel) to it, and sew it to one long edge of the bath towel. The result is a cute hooded wrap that’s great for drying a shivering, fresh-from-the-bath little kid.

My daughter loved her bunny towel. She used it for years, until the ears tore off and the hood had holes in it and towel itself was so thin you could almost see through it. One day, helping me paint a bedroom, she realized that one of the rags we were using was the last remaining piece of her bunny towel. She was indignant. She was 26 at the time.

When the first grandkid came along, then, I had the bright idea of making him a bunny towel for his first Christmas. It was a hit, so naturally I also made one a couple of years later for his younger brother. By now a tradition had been started. When twin sisters showed up a few years later, of course they needed bunny towels as well.

This past Christmas, about the middle of December, it suddenly dawned on me that I had two new grandsons—grandsons whose mothers might well be expecting bunny towels.

I wasn’t enthusiastic. I don’t like to sew. It was too last-minute. I didn’t have time. The babies wouldn’t care. Maybe their mothers wouldn’t care. Maybe nobody really appreciated the towels anyway. Maybe I could do towels for their first birthdays instead.

Despite all this inner foot-dragging, somehow, when I was out finishing my Christmas shopping, a couple sets of towels found their way into my cart.

The next day, I hauled out the sewing machine. I laid out a hand towel on the dining room table and muttered to myself while I figured out how to come up with ears and how to shape the hood. No doubt this would have been easier with a pattern—but hey, anybody can follow directions. We true artistic, creative types prefer to start from scratch each time and make it up as we go, even if it takes us twice as long.

So I figured, and I measured, and I pinned, and I cut, and I sewed. An hour and a half later, I had two hooded towels. Each hood had a pair of terry-cloth ears that were more or less the same size and shape. They didn’t exactly look like bunnies. Puppies, maybe? Or kittens? Actually, they looked mostly like lopsided sheep.

But little guys not quite a year old probably don’t know a lopsided sheep from a bunny, anyway. And at least I upheld the tradition that I had inadvertently started.

Besides, getting started on the project made me forget that I didn’t have time and didn’t like to sew and didn’t want to make the towels in the first place. I had fun. And when the next grandkid comes along, I hope I can remember how I did it.

Some 70 or 80 students are ranged across a polished wood floor, divided by gender. Three uneven rows of guys on one side face three crooked rows of girls on the other. A physical education teacher stands in the middle, issuing instructions.

“One, two, three, start. Step, together, step, touch; step, together, step, touch.”

The rows move in awkward unison, this way, then that way. Some of the students are serious and focused, some are stiff and self-conscious, some are obviously enjoying themselves, and some are chattering to their neighbors instead of paying attention.

“Okay, at an angle. Step, together, step, touch.”

Some of the students move forward and to the right, others move backward and to the left, and others, having missed the instruction altogether, keep going from side to side. There are a few minor collisions and several near-misses.

No, this isn’t junior high basketball practice, drill team tryouts, or marching band. It’s dance class. The students are adults who are here by choice (in some cases, admittedly, their partner’s choice). They’re learning the foxtrot.

The instructor has been teaching people in Rapid City to dance for more than 25 years. His day job, teaching physical education to elementary students, has given him plenty of practice at getting large groups with short attention spans to line up and listen. He focuses on the basics, having students practice the step over and over and over, until even the most nervous beginners can do it without thinking.

Well, most of them, anyway. I danced with one man, an hour into the class, for whom the foxtrot was still a complete mystery. Maybe he’ll get it next week when we review.

All this drilling might sound incredibly boring for anyone who already knows how to dance. Yet it isn’t. I’ve known how to foxtrot ever since I learned it from my father, practicing in the dining room, when I was 12 or 13. I could do “step, together, step, touch” in my sleep—and for all I know, maybe I do. But dance lessons are still fun. Think low-impact aerobics class, only with music by George Strait and the chance to hold hands with a couple of dozen members of the opposite sex.

Obviously, I’m not the only one who feels this way. I’ve taken this dance class twice before, at least 12 years ago. Last night, I recognized probably a dozen people who were in the classes then. They’re smooth, skilled dancers, but they keep showing up—to help the beginners, to spend time with friends, to get some exercise, and to have fun. Their hair might be grayer, and a few of them move a little more slowly. Not one of them, though, is overweight.

It isn’t exactly “Dancing With the Stars.” No one is doing elaborate routines, and the costumes run more to cowboy boots and blue jeans than skimpy silk gowns and tuxes. But it’s great exercise and great fun.

Next week, the waltz.

It’s a quiet Christmas Day here at home. We had nothing planned for a holiday dinner. We had no plans for visitors. We had no gifts. We had no decorations. We had nothing particularly in mind at all, except for the minor detail that we planned to celebrate Christmas 1000 miles from here.

Our two-day driving trip to New Mexico, planned to begin early Tuesday, was interrupted before it began. My partner in crime woke up that morning so dizzy he could hardly stand up—and no, before you ask, overindulgence in eggnog or hot buttered rum or some other holiday beverage was not involved.

It was apparently an inner ear problem, possibly caused by a virus or possibly not. Or maybe it was some sort of flu. Aside from pills to help reduce the dizziness, 21st century medicine didn’t have much to offer. The doctor said it should get better in a few days. In the meantime, traveling was not a reasonable option.

This caused some disappointment and inconvenience, especially for those who were expecting us for Christmas Day. It also caused us to stop and pay attention to the things we could be thankful for. Like the bug showing up before we left instead of making its presence known somewhere along the way. Or the fact that we had already enjoyed our major Christmas celebration with relatives. Or the blessing of flexible self-employment, so moving a trip back a few days isn’t a problem.

He’s feeling much better, and we will probably set out on our trip tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. Or possibly the day after that. In the meantime, there were the two friends who came over this afternoon. They brought gifts of conversation, laughter, and wonderful leftovers from their family dinner on Christmas Eve.

No gifts? No tree? No big celebration? No problem. It’s been a good day.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Since we live at the opposite ends of two adjoining but wide states, I missed it, but last week was my grandkids’ school Christmas concert. The oldest is in band for the first time this year. His mother told me, “They played ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Hot Cross Buns.’”

We both laughed, remembering other elementary school band concerts, including her own. The newest students always industriously sawed and blew their way, note by careful note, through “Jingle Bells,” “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and “Hot Cross Buns.”

Not exactly the New York Philharmonic, or even the Black Hills Symphony. Still, playing recognizable songs, in unison, was a noteworthy (if you’ll pardon the expression) accomplishment for a bunch of fourth-graders just starting to learn their instruments. Besides, even Al Hirt, Yo Yo Ma, and Charlie Daniels had to start somewhere.

I always enjoyed my kids’ school programs. I wish the grandkids lived closer, so I could go to theirs. It’s great fun to watch the budding “American Idol” contestants who wave at Mom and Dad with gusto, sing with such enthusiasm that you can see their tonsils from the fifth row, and obviously love every minute on stage.

Then there are the other kids. The ones who look down at their shoes, twist their dresses or shirts in sweaty little fingers, and may or may not remember most of the words to “Jingle Bells.” Yes, it can be funny. But most of the humor disappears if you can remember how scary it can be to stand up in front of an audience when you’re a shy little kid.

My first public performance came when I was four years old. Along with several other unsuspecting preschoolers, I was given a poem—two whole lines—to memorize and recite at the school Christmas program.

As I remember it, there was a supper of some sort before the program. I remember looking up at the stage in the old Dixon town hall (an actual stage, with a curtain and everything), knowing I was going to have to get up there in front of all those people, and being absolutely petrified.

One of my fellow sufferers—er, speakers—trotted up onto the stage and rattled off his poem two or three times before the program started. Then, when it was his turn to speak during the program, he refused to budge from his safe spot in the audience. Maybe he was as scared as I was. Or maybe he figured, with some logic, that he had already done his oratorical duty for the evening.

I was amazed that he had the guts to defy the authorities and exercise his right to remain silent. It hadn’t occurred to me that non-participation was an option.

What I remember most vividly about being on stage was being shocked to hear one of the other little kids recite my poem. Here I had gone to all the trouble of memorizing my two lines, not to mention the agony of standing up to recite them—and I wasn’t even given the courtesy of being unique. I was affronted.

What I don’t remember at all is reciting my own poem. I must have done it—probably twisting my skirt in my hands and looking down at my feet, almost certainly inaudible to anyone past the first row. Or possibly I spoke up reasonably well and was audible as far back as the third row.

Either way, I suppose people in the audience thought it was cute.

To this day, I find Christmas programs more enjoyable when the littlest kids don’t have solo speaking parts, but stick with group singing. When you’re so small and the audience is so large, it feels a lot safer to be just one anonymous little voice in the chorus.