Category: Letter

Unfortunately we live in a time of intolerance and incivility fueled by a bullying, divisive, and fear-mongering administration that increases our collective xenophobia daily. Thank you to Peter Schilling [“Postcards from Saudi Arabia”] for bringing some of us just a bit closer together by sharing his personal experiences and reflections. I am sure he made a better ambassador than many of our “leaders.”

Tom Bartel [“Paying for Crime,” January], please lead us out of this mess. It’s time for the community to take back its government. If our tax dollar can’t support our libraries, we need a Plan B. I suggest we contract with the American Association of Retired Persons. There is plenty of talent to staff these smaller libraries. Being retired, I’m receiving a generous pension, and I have health coverage and more vacation time than I can use. Let’s just say we are prepaid. All we would need is some corporate support for light and heat.

Kudos to The Rake’s editorial staff for having the balls to publish the “Closed Doors” letter in the January issue. You are probably the only bleeding-heart-liberal publication that attempts to keep your mind partially open to someone outside of your Democrat-loving, communist-leaning readership. Keep up the good work!

Christy DeSmith sets up a wonderful environment for a tale [“Sippin’ Suds at the Single-Wide,” January]. I loved the snapshot, but I’m left wanting to see the whole movie … even if she has to make it up.

Your comments in “Sippin’ Suds at the Single-Wide” hurt the three men who own Kappus Bud’s Place. Here are people who pay their own bills, don’t live on welfare, and provide a service to the area. Yes, Bud’s Place is unique and maybe the bartender didn’t look you in the eye, but maybe he sensed the mirth in your body language or the glint in your eye as you thought, “Ah, here’s a good story.” If you want someone to watch over your cabin, to plow snow, or to mow your lawn you can’t find better men. And—where can you find a beer for a dollar nowadays? These men are paying their way in this world even after being dealt a raw hand in life.

It’s dark outside and I feel a tad morbid. I’m chatting with a friend who is probably secretly depressed because he’s too serious when he’s not smiling and he sighs a lot for a guy. I’m Kao Kalia Yang and I am only four feet ten inches tall and I am moody over the rains in December, the rejection letter I got from an agent today via email, and the dismal circumstances that keep my mom still at work as night falls and falls and falls on all of us, and same with my dad. And I feel that it should be colder outside and my jacket thinner so that I can feel more alive in the season. I’m reading The Rake because it is quality distraction. I can enter a world of polished writing that I probably won’t ever do very well at. No jealousy or yearning for that, just a certain appreciation and a sense of humor in the matter. I like it very well because it reminds me of what other people can do—talented and young, and probably feeling the same weight on their days and their dreams.

George Ruth on a kayaking trip in Greenland in August 2006. He left The Rake in a rack with other publications in the lobby of the airport at Uummannaq. George writes: Paddling in the fiords and around icebergs was fun and very educational. At one point Bris Bandy (Ely, MN) and I were within 60 feet of two adult bowfin whales and one calf—they were feeding and we observed them for about 20 minutes.

Keep up the great work on the magazine. I read it faithfully after collecting it at the MGM liquor store on Larpenteur and Lexington in Roseville.

Pat writes: We are at the beach down off Pelican Bay in Naples on our morning beach outing- and kids were starving for lunch – and they just kept drooling over the back cover- not the front cover.

This group of friends brought The Rake along to Europe not only because they “could not stand the thought of missing a single issue” but also because they wanted to share their love of Peter Schilling’s work with the world. They took The Rake racing on the autobahn, hiking in the Alps, sampling wine in Italy and eating one cheese covered meal after another. They had a great time taking plenty of Red Handed photos as well.

They also said: Thanks for “raising the bar” for local papers and keeping us entertained, informed and amused.

Photo 1: Mary Beth Lardizabal, Kristin Dean, Heidi Thorson in Venice, Italy. Photo 2: Heidi Thorson and Alex Marie in Venice, Italy. May 2006

The setting couldn’t have been more spectacular: a tiny resort along the Riviera Maya on the edge of the Mexican jungle, turquoise water as far as the eye could see. It took a train, an airplane, a car, a boat, and a wheelbarrow to get there. The resort, which amounted to a small stone restaurant, a storage building tiled with solar panels, and four cabanas, had the capacity for a mere eight guests. Immediately, things got pretty familiar.
My husband and I were greeted by the owners, a gregarious Jewish man pushing sixty-five and his wife, both from California. George was friendly, and relentless with the kind of jokes you’re not sure you should laugh at: “One of my relatives died in the Holocaust,” he said. “He fell out of a watchtower.” Wife Martha was more standoffish, very thin and very tan, wearing tight pants and dark sunglasses.
It was during the first evening meal, served family style, when we saw what had become of George and Martha’s love affair. Decades earlier, the two had met in the mountains somewhere, fallen hard, married, and then driven in a camper practically to the end of the earth in order to forge a new life. Fifteen years among the iguanas and palm trees, however, with the closest grocery store hours up an impossibly rutted road, had created … well, let’s say, resentments.
George worked in a primitive kitchen, the axis of which was a large pizza oven that kept conking out. The consummate host, he could stir a pot of seafood with one hand and mix a fresh lime margarita with the other. What he couldn’t manage, he delegated to his Mexican assistant. The resort employed a small staff of locals, including a fishing guide who had recently found a duct-tape-wrapped block of cocaine on the beach and “retired,” only to return a month later.
Just as dinner was ready, Martha showed up. She poured a glass of straight white rum and downed it partway. “I’m going to sit with you guys,” she announced and pulled up a chair. George gave her the eye. Martha took another hit from her glass.
It came out that Martha believed herself to be a reincarnated Navajo Indian, though there were no bloodlines. Also, she dearly wanted to leave the state of Quintana Roo, with its birds of paradise and aquarium fish, and move to the Four Corners, the new-age haven where Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico meet. “Our marriage was over a long time ago,” Martha said, the waves lapping against the shore. “We haven’t slept in the same bed for years.”
I imagined that Martha longed for the American Southwest in the same way that she must have, at one time, desired Mexico. Not so. She informed us that the adventure had been George’s idea from the start. He’d found this place. He’d been the force behind every standing wall, every handmade chair, every stone patio. Somewhere along the way, George had transformed from the romantic soul mate she’d fallen for back into the salesman he’d always been. When money grew tight, he’d moved himself and his wife from a cabana into the storage shed, where they slept—separately—next to the freezer, a real sore spot for Martha.
“I’m just waiting for a developer to come along and buy me out,” she slurred. “I figure my stake is worth a million dollars.” A gecko chirped. Martha informed us that whatever was said just before a gecko chirps is the truth. She stared at me for what felt like a very long time. There was another chirp from the gecko. Then she got up to refill her glass, noting that she would “get yelled at.” At another table, talking with other guests, George described a ceremony involving his and Martha’s wedding rings. “Sure, we bicker,” he said, “but we couldn’t live without each other.”
In Mexico they have a phrase, cara mala, which means, literally, “bad face.” Martha definitely had bad face. She had the look of a person trapped under the weight of someone else’s ambition. She’d followed George with an optimism she’d attributed to fate, but their grand plan had come down to a lot of dirt scratching and hard work. She wasn’t about to walk away without some kind of compensation.
On our last night, we found the dining table set with just enough plates for the guests. Apparently Martha had received a stern talking to. She hustled about, inquiring whether we had an adequate supply of napkins and beer. There was no mention of crumbling marriages.
At meal’s end, George approached with two drinks in enormous goblets. Called Lalas, the concoctions had, he said, caused a previous guest to “dance with the purified water dispenser.” They were creamy and sugary and strong, with the potential to sweeten the bitterest thought. When I got to the bottom, I glanced up at Martha, marching angrily about the kitchen. I wondered how many Lalas George had mixed for her over the years.