Author: Laura Puckett

Standing on the wide brick steps of the State Department Store, I
scanned the crowd for Khaidavyn Chilaajav, director of the Union of
Mongolian Writers, who I was to meet for dinner. Its plaza crowded with
taxis and pedestrians, the store is still the hub of downtown, though
no longer Ulaanbaatar’s only retail center as it was during Mongolia’s
seventy years of Communism. Small children spun in circles on a
miniature fair ride, while bigger ones bounced on a four-leaf clover of
trampolines. Men and women in tattered jeans or silk deels, the
traditional ankle-length robe, sat docilely near white phones, where a
call could be made for one hundred togrog (about ten cents). Along a
boulevard lined with teenagers whispering intimately on benches, the
cerulean dome of the State Circus shone brightly against the dry, brown
Southern mountains.  

Kaidavyn arrived, suited and brusque, and we joined the throngs of
cars headed into the city’s sprawling neighborhoods of crumbling
Soviet-era apartments. Inside his flat, he disappeared momentarily
while I removed my shoes and settled on the couch. He reemerged in
pajama pants and a polo shirt, his demeanor softened, and flipped on
the TV. He teased his young daughters and was eminently patient with my
imperfect Mongolian. Despite his prestigious post organizing and
promoting Mongolia’s writers, Kaidavyn is a relatively young man of
around forty, short and portly, who trained as a veterinarian in
Russia. Enthusiastic about poetry, he showed me his extensive library
and gave me two books of his poems, a rich gift in a country where
authors pay for their own publishing and fifteen years ago the stores
didn’t have food to sell.

Chilaajav’s wife, Oyunchimeg, brought in tea and a plate of cucumbers
and khyam (a cross between pâté and Spam). When I stopped her to
introduce myself, she smiled widely, her brown eyes bright and warm;
she spoke quickly and then hurried back to the kitchen. She was busy
during the whole meal, refilling teacups, handing out napkins, and
serving khushuur (fried meat dumplings) and then buuz (steamed meat
dumplings). We drank sweet wine made from a regional berry and shots of
Chinggis vodka. We looked at family photos and paged through a
coffee-table book of landscapes called Under the Everlasting Mongolian
Sky. I told them that it was Mongolia’s marvelously huge sky and open
grasslands that brought me to this country. And, after a brief
exchange, we found ourselves putting on our shoes and heading off to
search for just these marvels.

In five minutes the family was ready: Kaidavyn handed out sweaters, the
two girls grabbed toys, and Oyunchimeg packed a backpack with food and
filled a thermos with tea. Not long after piling into their small SUV,
there we were, surrounded by dry, treeless hills and a few ramshackle
houses and yurts. Loose pink clouds dissipated as the sun set behind a
line of dark, distant mountains. Kaidavyn said to me, laughing, “That’s
the sky.”

We followed a dirt track to a hilltop. The ground was faintly green
with young grass and dotted with rotting bones and piles of horse
manure. Oyunchimeg arranged the blankets and food. Kaidavyn and his
eldest daughter played badminton, their birdie barely a speck against
the great dusky sky and sweeping plains. We heard a quiet lowing and
Oyunchimeg said it was the sound of a cow before I pointed out it was
coming from her bag. A round of giggling ensued as she answered her
vibrating cell phone. To talk to his older daughter, who had walked
over the rise, Kaidavyn used his phone to call hers, which, it turned
out, had been left in the car. In place of a ring, a pop song played
into Kaidavyn’s ear, loud and tinny in the empty night. The younger
girl snatched her father’s phone and began dancing to the music,
spinning in circles and shaking her hips, her grinning face lit by the
screen’s blue glow. Her sister eventually returned, perhaps following
the sound of Kaidavyn’s boisterous singing. We drank more vodka and
tea, and ate fruit. We watched the first star rise as Oyunchimeg told
us about naming her daughters after stars. The air grew cold and so we
moved toward the car, talking of coming back later with tents and a
grill.

We drove through the clouds of smoke that blanketed the lightless road.
We swerved around pedestrians and a man conveying a boy on the
handlebars of a bicycle. Cars coming from the city flashed their
brights as they approached and dimmed them after they passed. The first
factories appeared, followed by churches and shopping centers, and then
the endless blocks of apartments. To me, weary and smiling and lulled
by Kaidavyn’s singing, the city seemed tentative and insignificant, an
itinerant camp in that vast landscape, enveloped by everlasting sky.

In Marnita Schroedl and Carl Goldstein’s Kenwood home it can be hard to decide where to sit. The living room contains a plush couch, a large oak dining table lined with a bench and six solid chairs, and a low table encircled by five squat stools. The sunroom in back has another couch, while still more chairs are tucked into every corner. More amazing than the abundance of seating is that Marnita and Carl actually need the surplus for the twenty to a hundred guests who visit their home thirty times a year. They are the founders of Marnita’s Table, a non-profit whose mission is to “ignite enduring cross cultural connections,” which they strive to accomplish by having people over for dinner.

Marnita and Carl believe that diversity is not about simple racial, religious, or economic demographics, but about individuals whose differences may not be based on appearance. One man may seem like a dapper gad-about, yet devote himself to philanthropy; a young woman who looks like a college student might spend her days working as a liaison for the Mexican consulate in St. Paul. Marnita and Carl realize most of us “live such segregated existences,” easily staying within familiar networks of people similar to us. So they create a forum, pick a theme (as varied as “Democracy: Here and There” and “Light Bulb: What Turns You On”), and invite an eclectic group for dialogue.

Walking into their crowded house for a recent dinner, it seemed like the chatty guests already knew each other, but it was quickly apparent few were acquainted—they were simply in the process of introducing themselves. This rapid meet-and-greet continued until Marnita emerged from the kitchen to begin the meal. A short woman with a shaved head, Marnita’s considerable presence owes much to the exuberance with which she speaks; she is, as her business card says, the catalyst. Her welcome was expansive, her hands and arms accompanying the words with vigorous, all-encompassing gestures.

Although Marnita’s Table officially began in 2002 in conjunction with Social Venture Partners, a philanthropic organization working with at-risk youth, Marnita has been hosting her whole life. From her first Thanksgiving living on her own in the Bay Area to dinners for her black and white friends who survived the Los Angeles riots in 1992, Marnita has honed her natural generosity with a serious intent: to make a place where everyone is welcome. Trans-racially adopted by a family in Washington, Marnita was the youngest of eight and the only adopted child. Not white enough for the white kids or black enough for the black kids, she says, the community never accepted her. At sixteen she’d had enough and transplanted herself to California, where she worked in offices and took community college classes until she could attend UCLA. Upon graduation she began work on a PhD in philosophy, but soon decided she was better suited to living life than analyzing it.

During a recent meeting, Carl sat calmly at the table while Marnita was rarely still, constantly getting up to make tea, type at her computer, hunt down a memento—all the while contributing to the conversation. Carl’s deliberate, modulated words contrast starkly with Marnita’s effervescent speech. He does not gesture as she does, but his eyes sparkle, surrounded by smile lines. As the couple speaks it’s clear they occupy common ground. They have spent their lives examining communication, he as a journalist in Asia for nearly fifteen years, she working for a PR firm in California and Words on Fire, her consulting business that provides communications, marketing, and research services. Each has experienced what it is to be the other, Carl in Asia, Marnita in the Pacific Northwest. Having lived in some of the largest, most diverse cities in the world, today they strive to infuse Minnesota with some of that cosmopolitan flavor. Shortly after moving here in the late ’90s they met at an event for their sons’ kindergarten, and over the next couple of years, Marnita says, they realized they “wanted to walk through the world the same way.” They married, established Words on Fire, and began Marnita’s Table as a way to “live what they believe.”

“The work comes naturally,” Marnita says, speaking for the couple; enjoying the impact takes more practice. Guests leave the table nourished and stimulated, with a sense of “not just gratitude, but liberation,” she says, sifting through the pile of thank-you notes they have received over the years. Marnita says guests are “charged by the mixing and mingling” and “smitten by the connection and humanity” displayed at each event. It’s the basic recipe, really, for any good party: Bring interesting people together in a warm place, give them food and drink, provide a topic of conversation, and stir.

Around these parts—north of the Mason-Dixon and east of the Mississippi—rodeo seems like a romantic and quaintly exotic pastime, like bull-running in Spain or céilí dancing in Ireland. “Cowboy” is a costume you wore for Halloween or the role a Hollywood stud pursues to establish his hotness. Yet on a recent autumn afternoon, the University of Wisconsin–River Falls Rodeo Club was keeping alive a tradition it’s maintained for forty-two years.

At the rodeo grounds, the aroma of manure wafted through the air, and Rascal Flatts blasted from the loudspeakers. Children shrieked, a horse whinnied, and a sparse crowd gathered to watch the show. A couple cowgirls were in charge of wrangling cars into parking spots, and what immediately stood out were their scuffed and dusty boots, peeking from beneath the flare of their jeans. Young men and women of all shapes and sizes adhered to the old boots/ jeans/plaid shirt/hat standard.

What seemed like a spaghetti western trope was, here, real and elemental—its timelessness making many of the spectators and participants appear ageless. On closer inspection, however, some were clearly quite young, with baby faces smiling beneath the wide brims of their hats. Others had a grave, premature, John Wayne quality, the skin around their eyes creased from many an hour spent in the sun. Most sported solid-color vests with their college insignias embroidered on the back—the “jersey” they would wear to identify them during the competition. For the time being, though, they simply milled about with their horses.

The rodeo began when the announcer, Jesse Knudsen, entered the ring on his strutting horse. The reaches of his thick twang defined the limits of the arena and set the tone for the day: sincere, but sort of lackluster. While he rhapsodized about freedom and cowboys, the competitors started suiting up in their protective vests and mouth guards. Horses were outfitted with the flank strap—a tight belt that cinches the horse’s haunches and incites them to buck. The buzzer sounded, a metal gate crashed open, and the first horse let fly.
There was something mesmerizing about the way the horse and cowboy moved together; how the rider tried to keep one hand high in the air, his feet thrashing back and forth in rhythm with the horse’s leaps and spins. The whole day was full of such images: clichés of rodeos and cowboys—the myths of the American West that are imbedded in our collective memory from films and television. As the day wore on, what was even more surprising than these living, riding archetypes was how unassuming and ordinary the actual people were. Their boots were meant for barnyards, not dance floors. Their jeans were scarred by the dirt and sun. They were there for the rodeo, not for the show.

The participants came from the Dakotas, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Nebraska—cowboys and cowgirls representing ten college rodeo clubs. Some had earned their first rhinestone belt buckles by the time they were three years old, but in River Falls, most would garner little more than dirt in their jeans and half-hearted applause. Yet weekend after weekend, they drive all over the Midwest to face off against animals that are supposed to be angry. Jessica Painter—the women’s all-around winner and former state high school champion from Buffalo, South Dakota—talked about the satisfaction of belonging to a “community you can trust,” noting, “the people are the same wherever you go.” Pretty and diminutive, with heavily mascaraed eyes, Jessica didn’t seem like a girl who would excel at jumping off speeding horses and wrestling animals in the dirt, but her poise and eloquence were evidence of the confidence her impressive record has given her.

In contrast, a handful of cowboys relaxing in the bleachers after their events were nearly impossible to understand. Clearly pleased by the attention, but bashful, they mostly joked with each other in an indecipherable, accented slang. They were utility-line and irrigation majors from Nebraska: boys who had grown up on ranches, for whom hard outdoor work—including rodeo—was a fact of life. They placed their hopes in rodeo and betrayed their bitter disappointment in snide comments and grimaces, though most acknowledged matter-of-factly that they would probably never win. Yet they persisted all the same, said Dirk Dailey, a fair steer wrestler who spoke only when he had something to say, “for that one perfect ride”—those eight seconds (or less) when horse and human are bound, when “time stands still, and then everything just explodes.”

Seliga, splitting the water, slipping over its surface. Se-li-ga. Three syllables sliding off the tongue: Se—sibilant and schwa; Lee—light-hearted, quick, cascading into the primitive finale of Ga. That would be Joe Seliga, specifically, a maker of canoes—of craft—for the water.

A wood-canvas canoe, generically. The shape familiar: the sides rising from the water, seventeen feet long, tapering at the ends, a subtle arch from tip to tail. The inside surprises: With its glowing cedar planks and ribs, the wood-canvas canoe’s exposed skeleton distinguishes it from cheap variations. Fifty-four curved ribs set the form; then the planks, their grain running perpendicular to the ribs, solidify the hull. Outside of that, the taut canvas, painted smooth, makes it seaworthy. Perched above the hull are two seats of oak and cane, two mahogany thwarts, and a yoke, framed by gunwales of spruce and mahogany. Sleek and radiant, my Seliga.

As a girl barely old enough to babysit I set out for YMCA Camp Widjiwagan near the Boundary Waters, into the woods for a weeklong canoe trip. The well-mannered middle child of Southern parents, I knew guilt and care-taking well, so I quickly absorbed the camp’s doctrine: Canoe before self. Widjiwagan has more than a hundred wood-canvas canoes, and bears the responsibility for them proudly. Paddling these beautiful wood-canvas artifacts was a privilege, and we took great care never to allow their bellies to touch (let alone scrape) the unhallowed ground. Hands, fine. Water, perfect! But if contact with anything harder was imminent, we used our life jackets and even our bodies to intervene. Years later, in a mishap, I would throw myself under a falling canoe as a buffer—the lessons inculcated early on bearing plump, bruised fruit.

Despite the epiphany that my ribs might be more important than the canoe’s, my veneration for these vessels has gone far beyond the simple camp ethic. The wood-canvas canoe is so perfect because it is the blending of form and function, an embodiment of history and craftsmanship that is most beautiful when in use. Se—smooth on the water, a slender wake cascading from either side of the hull, straight in the wind, steadied by the keel. Lee—the wood gleaming, sunlight encapsulated, warm, rich, and earthy, sweeping me away from the busy world into serenity. Ga—merging with the environment, the happy juncture where sky settles into wood sitting on water, and myself, a part of it, embraced by its gentle rocking.

Joe Seliga is but one maker of these masterpieces. He spent more than sixty-five years building them in Ely, Minnesota, until his death last December. Now collectors’ items, they sold even before he died for thousands of dollars—a price I could never afford. But as an heir of the Widjiwagan tradition, I have access to their Seligas; so for a slip of time each summer, one becomes my own.

The wood-canvas canoe took shape in the 1700s when French fur traders used sailors’ materials to transform the Native Americans’ delicate birch bark vessels into sturdy war-horses of international trade. Until the 1960s, companies like Penobscot and Chestnut were manufacturing recreational wood-canvas canoes, but today they are always built by hand, primarily by individuals like Joe.

Other paddlers, tossing about their Kevlar We-no-nahs and hauling their Royalex Mad Rivers on land, scoff at my antiquated Seliga. They ask derisively why I paddle such a beast, and more to the point, why I portage it. Old and waterlogged, it easily weighs 120 pounds. These travelers, I see, are too lazy and ignorant to appreciate the splendor of my Seliga. In fact, I like it old and heavy, just to keep out their kind of riff-raff. I am content to leave them prancing about with their garish boats, far away from my loyal companion.

Because companionship is really what the wood-canvas canoe provides. Traveling with me, accompanying every paddle stroke, it supports me effortlessly and brings me joy. It tells its own stories: Here are the scratches from paddling the river in low water; these are the new gunwales, which had to be replaced after spending ten summers’ worth of nights on the wet ground. Unlike synthetic factory boats, wood-canvas canoes bear these scars proudly, a testament to the value of creating and tending equipment by hand. It may be heavy and out-of-date, but I know that before me and after me the wood-canvas canoe has and will endure, beautiful and familiar, a slim streak on the lake as it glides ever onward.

The bathroom has long been a solitary place in which to hide out from family holiday gatherings and awkward dates. But only recently has it been elevated to the lofty status of “I-room” by high-end interior designers—a sanctuary where quotidian tasks become rituals and ablutions, where relieving oneself has metaphysical ramifications. No such shrine is complete without throne and font, and the latter has recently become an inspired installation for chic bathrooms the city over. Freestanding vessels are particularly popular these days. Gathering pools of water, these sinks invite bathroom-goers to linger over the water, like Narcissus. Those that are perched atop the vanity or countertop like some sculpture even facilitate the plunging of one’s visage directly into the H20. Designer cloisonné and carved onyx versions can run between one and five grand. But a few industrious ceramicists and glass artists are catching on, producing vessels that are equally beautiful but surprisingly less expensive—ranging between just two hundred and one thousand dollars.