Regis and I spent a few days at Cragun's in northern Minnesota. I tried to tell him what it was like...not exactly the lavish resort they try to make it look like in the pictures. More like the resort in Dirty Dancing, if you remember. A little long in the tooth, a little past its prime. And that's exactly how we found it. We got there Wednesday night about 10:00, expecting to have a frozen pizza in the bar for dinner. No such luck. A cranky bar tender who must have thought the season was over, was not helpful. We discovered, on our own, the deli in the lobby with gas station food, so we had a beer and a bag of popcorn for dinner.
The next night, tired of resort buffets, we went down the road to Madden's, a much more lavish and friendly atmosphere. We had dinner in the Classic Grill, right on the edge of their golf course where they have a bag piper to start and end the golf season. They must vacuum the leaves because there wasn't a leaf on the ground anywhere, even back in the woods. The building was a beautiful log cabin, there was a fire pit on the patio, and the delicious food was served by a fellow named Chris in a long black apron who doted on us. It was lovely.
We limped home last night, leaving suitcases and bags strewn all over the house. This is a short week for me so it will get picked up eventually.
Today we went up and spent the afternoon with Betty and Tom, enjoying one of the last days of autumn. Betty is getting all geared up for Halloween...she had a witches crystal for me, a black velvet mourning robe, and a great wig. I'm sure there will be pictures.
I went to a very sweet baby shower for Annie Grimmius today. Their baby is due the end of November. I had to bring cards with messages for the new baby and for Annie. Here's a pome I chose for one of my cards. It made me cry the first time I read it and it still makes me cry:
There was a time her door was never closed.
Her music box played "Fur Elise" in plinks.
Her crib new-bought--I drew her sleeping there.
The little drawing sits beside my chair.
These days, she ornaments her hands with rings.
She's seventeen. Her door is one I knock.
There was a time I daily brushed her hair
By window light--I bathed her, in the sink
In sunny water, in the kitchen, there.
I've bought her several thousand things to wear,
And now this boy buys her silver rings.
He goes inside her room and shuts the door.
Those days, to rock her was a form of prayer.
She'd gaze at me, and blink, and I would sing
Of bees and horses, in the pasture, there.
The drawing sits as still as nap-time air-
Her curled up hand--the precious line, her cheek...
Next year her door will stand, again, ajar
But she herself will not be living there.