Gregory Ormson

Writer, musician, yoga-loving motorcyclist.

Gregory Ormson - Midwest articles

It’s a place of ice and steel, and the Midwest is in me even if I am not in the Midwest. Carl Sandburg dramatized what I experience in the thick of middle America with his 1918 work, Cornhuskers.

Lay me on an anvil, O God
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar
Let me pry loose old walls
Let me lift and loosen old foundationsLay me on an anvil, O God
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper togetherTake red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through the blue nights into
White stars

The aesthetic of tools grounding skyscrapers is what I love about the Midwest. It’s rootedness and wings, foundations and visions, bears and eagles. I attempt to find the tension of those contrasts and put them down on paper, hoping that once in a while I drive a nail that will hold a story together and help me embody stories that bend and shovel, reach and soar.

Currently working on a essays reaching back to the days of early railroading and rustic living.

Tavelpictalogue May 17 – Sept 23

Going: Arizona, New Mexico, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, Wisconsin, Michigan. Returning: Wisconsin, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Texas, NM, and AZ.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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UME Studio and Gallery hosting breath-brain-body workshop Sept. 8 in Eau Claire, Wis.

Get your EVENTBRITE tickets here for Breath, Body and Brain (B3) workshop with Yoga Song author Dr. Gregory Ormson.  Ume is pleased to welcome Dr. Gregory Ormson to our new studio space located at 407 Wisconsin St, Eau Claire, WI. The Wisconsin native, author, educator, musician and celebrated motorcycle yogi is visiting Eau Claire and will be offering a unique 90-minute breath centered practice.

link here:    https://www.eventbrite.com/e/b3-workshop-with-dr-gregory-ormson-tickets-408824835087?aff=ebdssbdestsearch

This integative workshop/clinic will focus on the clear mind/body/spirit connection that draws many of us to yoga, meditation, music and other mindful activities. Yoga’s big idea is that everything is connected, and this four-part workshop will exercise mind/body/spirit activities by:

Part 1, Brief readings from Gregory’s book, Yoga Song

Part 2, Breath practice including techniques, breath holds, and benefits working with breath

Part 3, Movement with basic asana integrating part 2

Part 4, Music and mindfulness

Please bring your own yoga (mantra) mat (BYOM) and water bottle if you like. Additional blocks and props will be provided.

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Our world is in need . . . people are distracted, fractured, and busy.

Our world is in need. People are distracted, fractured, busy, angry and vulnerable to emotional hijacking. When this happens, its hard to experience the joy of being alive because we lose touch with ourselves and others.

Yoga meets this need by offering time for the busy to rest for a few moments, connect to our battered selves, and learn to breathe again which brings us into wholeness and gives us permission to focus in on the moment and the experience.

In yoga, we put-away the agenda for just a few minutes to remember who we are as people imbued with a divine spark that need not be named, claimed, or tamed.

Tune in at 7:05 pm tonight when I read sections from Yoga Song. Live Facebook feed from Salt Motion and Meditation in Wausau, Wisconsin.  Here’s the link:  https://www.facebook.com/events/1382068342295624/… read more...

Yoga and Leather by Keith Uhlig, Wausau Daily Herald

Thank you Keith Uhlig at the Wausau Daily Herald for this story; and also to Pookie, Scott, and all the folks at Bull Falls Harley Davidson for allowing me to offer this important class. Come out Saturday, 10:00 am to Bull Falls HD, Yoga for Bikers happening to keep you in the saddle long-term. #bullfallshd, @bigcheese107.9, @UligK #wausaudailyherald, #superstitionhd, #motorcyclingyogig, #randyanagnostis, #bribri1119, #randyanagnostis

Yoga Class Poster (2)

https://www.wausaudailyherald.com/story/news/2021/08/18/motorcycling-yogi-teach-yoga-moves-bull-falls-harley-davidson/5416236001/?fbclid=IwAR2pLbVrdx5DzvWU_-jLYCSTnHXiLswxaOTH70nn6rYUSlT4_Zvh9wzBc0E… read more...

Playing Catch: A Simple Magic Endures

Days up in the trees are coming to a close for Debbie and I. We’ve done zero to 61 in about 30 days. That’s not a measure of speed but a marker of age for the people we hold dear. To be exact, it goes from six months to 61 years.

Here, a short video with my friend Chris King in Wisconsin, as we play catch and speak of our mutual love for baseball. For both of us, it was the passion of our youth. We loved playing then, and had similar paths as ballplayers; but now in these years, the magic and mystery of baseball takes on even more meaning to both of us as we throw and remember all our wins and all our losses. It’s the stuff of life and a pastoral shot in the arm on green fields of hopes and dreams.… read more...

YOGA 4 BIKERS at Bull Falls HD

https://www.wausaudailyherald.com/story/news/2021/08/18/motorcycling-yogi-teach-yoga-moves-bull-falls-harley-davidson/5416236001/?fbclid=IwAR07msLeXONfmeVRqaIXKbJZACQNn1V6WN9erv05pc5SS-xCWbP-itnf1vk

The ‘Motorcycling Yogi’ brings his calming yoga methods to Bull Falls Harley-Davidson

Keith Uhlig

Wausau Daily Herald

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https://www.wausaudailyherald.com/story/news/2021/08/18/motorcycling-yogi-teach-yoga-moves-bull-falls-harley-davidson/5416236001/?fbclid=IwAR07msLeXONfmeVRqaIXKbJZACQNn1V6WN9erv05pc5SS-xCWbP-itnf1vk… read more...

ON WISCONSIN: This is for bikers at Bull Falls Harley-Davidson August 21

Learn how to extend your riding life and improve overall well-being through a FREE 90-minute yoga workshop at on Saturday, Aug. 21, where Gregory Ormson #motorcyclingyogig will lead “Yoga for Bikers” from 10 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. at Bull Falls Harley-Davidson, located on 1570 County Road XX in Rothschild.

“Ultimately,” Ormson said, “both motorcycle riding and life are enhanced when riders continue applying the key lesson of yoga . . . and that is being at ease in the midst of stress.”

ALL ARE WELCOME to attend this workshop; no yoga experience or special clothing is necessary. The active movements are beginner level and focused on bikers’ needs: backs, necks, hips, hands, and wrists. Passive movements and a continuation on breath management will be part of this workshop.

Ormson is a former certified Motorcycle Safety Foundation rider/coach for the state of Hawaii, a long time Harley-Davidson rider, and a certified yoga teacher. He started YOGA & LEATHER: yoga for bikers, at Superstition Harley-Davidson in Apache Junction, Ariz., in 2017, and has led yoga and breath workshops in Queen Creek, Ariz.; Marquette, Mich.; and at D.C. Everest Fieldhouse in Schofield.

Ormson first saw yoga in India and started practicing in Hawaii where his injured back had forced him to temporarily suspend motorcycling. “Healthy spine, healthy life they say in yoga; and after I started yoga, I could bike again and do many other activities I had to quit for a while,” he said.

Story and poster by Scott Steuck, courtesy Bull Falls Harley-Davidson

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THE LANTERN from UW La Crosse, on yoga and leather

This isn’t your ordinary biker gang.

Technically, it’s not a gang at all — just a community of denim-clad Harley enthusiasts who love to roar down an open road, and then unwind with some deep breathing and meditative poses.

“Learning to breathe, be calm, work on your body — these are all things that you practice in yoga and that can translate into motorcycling,” explains Greg Ormson, ’77, founder of the Yoga and Leather: Yoga for Bikers program at Superstition Harley-Davidson in Apache Junction, Arizona. “It’s all predicated on the notion that, if you’re at ease in the saddle, you’re going to feel better and be a much better motorcyclist.”

Greg Ormson, ’77

Ormson is a true renaissance man — a biker, a yogi, a writer, a musician, a world traveler and a student of several religions. He is a shining example of someone who doesn’t just defy stereotypes, but disproves them.

After retiring from his marketing and communications job at Northcentral Technical College in Wausau in  2012, Ormson and his partner moved to Hawaii.

But in paradise, Ormson felt mostly pain.

I saw all these signs on the street corners: yoga, yoga, yoga, I decided to try it.

He had long struggled with back issues — the result of falling off a trampoline as a child and tumbling off a roof as an adult. Years of motorcycling only made it worse.

Then, walking around the streets of Hawaii, Ormson had an epiphany.

“I saw all these signs on the street corners: yoga, yoga, yoga,” he remembers.

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THE DIAMOND SPEAKS IN RUNES, in The Twin Bill December, 2020

A baseball story from a North Menomonie Oriole, 1966 and beyond.
“The Diamond Speaks in Runes,” my story in The Twin Bill a literary baseball publication from New York. Thank you Scott Bolohan for suggestions and to Russell Thorburn who helped me turn a final phrase to its 9th inning close. I’ve learned the best stories are community affairs and it takes good writers and editors to hit the ball. For baseball stories that take you out to the park – any park, like my big Michigan back yard many years ago, check out The Twin Bill at https://thetwinbill.com for poetry, essay, fiction on all things baseball and an interview with Darryl Strawberry. See

If my friends could get out of their summer houses, we met at the diamond to sharpen the angles of our wild fastballs. The guts of our dirty brown ball unraveled like a tongue, wagging at the glove skipping by, hurling past the catcher in angry air like an exclamation point.

The neighborhood boys and I played in Little League as the North Menomonie Orioles. We met on green fields and became friends stitched together by bonds of wood and leather.

We tried—and failed—to throw a curveball, cursing the cowhide and dreaming of the day we’d be big and twist a ball that skipped away from trouble. To be young and play ball allowed me to dream big.

Summer passed quickly in Wisconsin, and every game was a life event I couldn’t miss. I lived to swing a bat, and if a bus filled with ballplayers drove by my house, I raced to Wakanda Park to compete against other kids for foul balls during games.

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Alumnus Leads ‘Yoga and Leather’ Class for Bikers

Ormson with his Harley (photo by Randy Anagnostis)
After falling from a roof and injuring his back, NMU alumnus Greg Ormson (’99 MA) found that yoga delivered both pain relief and a new vocation. He became a certified instructor in the practice, just as he had with another avid interest: motorcycling. Ormson has found a unique way to blend both passions. He leads “Yoga and Leather: Yoga for Bikers,” the first—and, to his knowledge, only—specialized class of its kind in the nation to be held in a Harley-Davidson dealership.

It may not seem a logical pairing, but to H.O.G. (Harley Owners Group) member Ormson, the two effectively complement each other and share some similarities. He said beginners in either activity benefit from the guidance of a qualified trainer.

“With motorcycle instruction, the emphasis is on developing riding skills and environmental awareness,” said Ormson, also known as Motorcycling Yogi G. “But spending several hours in the saddle and handling unexpected situations that may arise requires mental focus, strength, flexibility and stamina. That’s where yoga comes in. It is increasingly viewed as the ideal exercise to improve overall mind-body performance.

“When riders are faced with executing a challenging move like a tight U-turn on a heavy bike, breathing shallows and the body tenses, affecting performance. Yoga training can lower stress levels through controlled breathing and meditation. The stretching and strengthening poses reduce the risk of injury by keeping the joints and muscles bikers rely on—hips, back, neck, shoulders, elbows and wrists—flexible and strong.”

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NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: a poetry/song series for the last 8 days of April. Number 8, “Hour of the Wolf – Pilot Me.”

All those yellow lines we cross over in our sleep. This is how we are driving through the pandemic head on with the night and winter’s disguise. Here is Greg singing a Jesus song. Picture the musician with his guitar riding a bus across the Upper Peninsula and using a handheld mike to record the Jesus song. He departs from Jesus to read a poem entitled “Hour of the Wolf,” a homage to Ingmar Bergman and his vampire film he made with his former love Liv Ullman, who happened to be pregnant with his child. But always return to the “pilot” and those late-night scenes moving through winter on a bus. R. Thorburn

I read Thorburn’s “Hour of the Wolf,” from one of his poetry books, The Drunken Piano, shortly after its publication in 2009. I knew what it was to see my reflection in a bus window at 3:00 am, and I could hear the bus driver singing a blues song, late at night, driving his life away. I felt what it was to be mid-twenties and anxious; I knew the pinch of wire-rim glasses.

I wanted the wolfing hour to have a melody, maybe a divinity to accompany that grainy ride, and I came up with the song below – borrowing from Edward Hopper’s Hymn, “Jesus Savior Pilot Me” as a floating refrain from the incessant and noisy wheels of the bus. I saw Thorburn and the bus passengers related by anxiety to disciples in a boat on a stormy sea, and as I see many people these days, anxious about something they can’t see.… read more...

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: a poetry/song series for the last 8 days of April. Number 7, “Lightning and Scars”

It all began on a rainy afternoon at a window inside Peter Gummerson’s house. Looking out the window, my fingers wrapped around chords on his Nord keyboard. I was recording a song entitled “8 Track.“ The original lyrics were taken from two poems and two different parts to my life—one was a runaway nineteen year old and the other a twenty-three year old in love with an older woman. Derrell Syria visited gummersound and laid down guitar throughout the three separate suites in the song. R. Thorburn

My words explore a soul’s stretch toward a white star emerging from lightning; a blending of  Michigan & Wisconsin land and water into a memoir piece I have been writing – on and off – for 15 years. Thorburn gave me advice for selecting edits from two long stories, here melted down to this four minute word/music offering. G. Ormson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: a poetry/song series for the last 8 days of April. Number 6, “I Was Afraid to Lose Her Face.”

This song is art and love, a clarinet melody from a friend; Greg’s vocals ride above these moonstruck notes tinged with nostalgia, haunted by regrets. His Taylor guitar booms as the words I wrote for an old flame keep pace with the big chords and star-saturated runs of clarinet. We kissed in that borrowed car, our nights sliding under the tires like a Chagall, the violin tuned to a blue we painted inside out.

Then the goat floating from under our bed, its horns pricking a shined-up moon, in that lower harbor room. Driving out of town in a borrowed car, there were always ghosts crossing the road, like a Marc Chagall drawing of a peasant couple walking hand in hand, or a farmhouse with glowing windows. She said keep to the left as if the white line were a child. R. Thorburn

Gregory Ormson, music, guitar, and vocal; Russell Thorburn, words; Mike Bjella, clarinet. Mixed @ Gummersound, Marquette, Michigan… read more...

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: a poetry/song series for the last 8 days of April. Number 5, “When I Get Back to Marquette”

For 12 years I lived close to Lake Superior in Marquette, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Two of my children were born there and all three spent their early years there. But my will to survive its brutal winters faded as the economic pinch turned mean and took a bite from my hide. I had to move.

While living in the U.P., I learned of the Finnish people in the late Nineteenth Century, sailed across the Atlantic to establish a new life. Many of them moved to the U.P., and had been there long before I was in 1998; so were the French Voyagers, and the Anishinaabe before them. They brought little, but their most important resource was sisu, or guts. They also brought their 1000 year old family-bonding mantra: sauna on kuma! Sauna is hot!

I grew to love my sauna and associate the best of my life’s hot times in the coldest of places. I built a sauna from  scraps and tin roof panels I scavenged from a junkyard. Somehow, I found $173, to buy windows, a door, a stove and stove pipe. Preparing my sauna the first time, the roof caught fire. A friend was there and we managed to put it out with buckets of water. In time, I made it work.

It was a gathering place for poets and writers. We’d steam together, and afterwards, I’d concoct white Russians in big blenders and pour them into glasses held by writers, musicians, filmmakers, and friends. I’d watch them melt into their chairs as poems oozed from boiled bodies.… read more...

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: a poetry/song series for the last 8 days of April. Number 4, “Silver Beatle.”

“Silver Beatle” came from a series of poems written with John Lennon in mind—and working with Gregory Ormson, I saw the potential for a song. We all want John Lennon to visit us in our back yard these days. To have him sing for us and tell us in his usual sardonic method we just might make it through this pandemic.  R. Thorburn

In 1970, after my senior year of high school, I hitchhiked out to Berkeley and was at Winterland in October when it was announced during Quicksilver Messenger Service’s set that Janis Joplin had died in Hollywood. That night was October 4. I had spent my last three dollars for that concert which opened with Jefferson Airplane and Grateful Dead followed. When I returned to the Detroit area I formed a garage band, worked odd jobs and barely escaped the draft.

We are all creating new markers to anchor these days—in the hopefulness of rebirth and artful ways to live. R. Thorburn, Marquette, Michigan

“There were no flies on Frank that morning—after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn’t he? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the barthroom onto the scales.  To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall than heavy. He couldn’t believe it and his blood raised to his head causing mighty red colourings.” John Lennon, from In His Own Write

Gregory Ormson, music, guitar, vocal; and Russell Thorburn, words; recorded & mixed at Gummersound, Marquette, Michigan… read more...

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: a poetry/song series for the last 8 days of April. Number 3, “Radio On” Anchors of Constancy

“I embrace the certain hurt of this path. At a cabin in the Midwest, I do not feel assaulted by noise; I seek justice for myself and creation. I enter the stillness, listen, and index the anchors of constancy.” Gregory Ormson


Russell Thorburn, piano; Gregory Ormson, words and voice. “Radio On,” composed by Thorburn, and a memoir by Ormson; mixed @ Gummersound, Marquette, Michigan.

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NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: a poetry/song series the last 8 days of April. Number 2, “Mescalero Territory.”


Russell Thorburn and Gregory Ormson have worked together for over a decade writing original poems, prose, and music. Much of it happens in spite of distance and isolation. The seven songs/poems, posted for NATIONAL POETRY MONTH during April, are Ormson/Thorburn’s word/song series for the pandemic.

Isolated in an Upper Midwest studio, musicians record their work for “Mescalero Territory.” A sitar introduces the fever of an injured and isolated outlaw, holed up in a barn where Billy the Kid fights off rats and nightmares. The poet reads this story of “Mescalero Territory” to original sitar accompaniment.

 

 

Poem/song notes for number 2, “Mescalero Territory. ” Writer and reader, Russell Thorburn. Sitar, Gregory Ormson, Mixed Peter Gummerson @ Gummersound, Marquette, Michigan.… read more...

Revisiting a Classic: ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE

Author D. H. Hickman, in a Brevity Blog, writes about Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, first published in 1974. She admits that she doesn’t like motorcycles – and calls them “an annoying piece of thunderous metal.” But when she  re-read the book, in silence and slow time, she captured a sense of what the author, Robert M Pirsig, was getting at as he rode west from Minneapolis toward California with his 11 year old son through the haunting and wide-open lands of South Dakota.

She notes how Pirsig depicted “The psychic impact of space and empty roads, noting he felt ‘lulled’ by tranquil thoughts of ‘wind sweeping . . . across open fields of the prairie.”

The process of slow reading, like slow, deep-breathing yoga, or long meditative rides on a bike, are “a creative, surprisingly effective, way to row against the fierce current of trends, the monotonous rush to get somewhere, and the exhausting promotion of _______ . . . ” You and I can fill in the blank.

We worship speed only to become frayed. We strive for efficiency only to become inhuman(e).

Bikers looking to engage the brain might check out this book. Hickman describes that she read it a few pages at a time. Maybe that’s something that will work for you and work for me. Motorcycling at ease, moving and breathing at ease, how about Zen and the art of life maintenance. It’s about being at ease.

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ANCHORS: For Kristen and Greg on their 25th anniversary

One good thing about Facebook is that every now and then someone reaches from the past and makes contact with us in the present. This is the case from someone that contacted me yesterday and I’m glad he did.

Today (Aug. 13) is Kristen and Greg’s 25th wedding anniversary. Back then, I was the officiant for their wedding when I was working as a clergy for the Lutheran church and my assignment was to Northern Michigan University. Marquette was my home for 12 years, and two of my children were born there. Except for the cold – which I can’t stand – it was the best place I ever lived.

Along with his Facebook note, Greg sent one photo from his and Kristen’s wedding ceremony. I had never seen it, and it brought back many good memories of my time as a YOOPER in Upper Michigan.

Greg reminded me that I played my ceremonial wood duck drum as part of their wedding. Playing a drum wasn’t that far out of bounds -since I started drumming with a set at 14 – but I made the drum I used in their wedding and have used it in many ceremonies. The oak body for the drum came from a large tree that had been struck by lightning. The deer skin on top was from the last deer my dad had shot in Indian-head Country of Northwest Wisconsin.

Text below is from “Anchors,” a piece about drumming.

ANCHORS

From early on, I heard text and sub-text in drums and memorized tom-strike patterns, rim hits on snare, and foot work for the high hat.… read more...

WRITING, LEADING, INSPIRING, March 7 podcast episode w/writer and yoga teacher motorcyclingyogiG

In this episode of Here You Are Wausau (click link) Dino Corvino and I discuss writing and yoga, breath, ego, truth, ayurveda, teaching, and journaling along with people and places of Wausau.

https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/leading-inspiring/id1078823496?i=1000431335481&mt=2

I’ll forever see you (Dino) as the weird kid eating chickpeas from a can in the UW Milwaukee student union. Click link and listen to get the full story. WARNING: Some adult AF language.

SHOUT OUTS TO: Basil Restaurant, Limericks Pub, Malarkeys Pub, NTC, Everest HS, Superstition Harley Davidson, Buffalo Springfield, Community Soul Yoga, Croix Croga Yoga, Lightbody Yoga, Gilbert Yoga, The Magees, sitar, satyagraha, Yoga and Leather,  kids yoga, prana, agni, vayu, healing, and shout outs to: Debbie Iozzo, Robyn Bretl, Jim Daly, Kirsten Holmsen, Cory Holm, Blake  Opal-Wahoske, Tyler Vogt, Nick Hoen, Jon Shea, Soumya Parthasarathy, Cassandra Wallick, Dan Meyer,  kids yoga, Everest Family Fitness Fest, Asana Journal, slow down and breathe, freediving, hawaii, India, Ted Roe and freediving Hawaii,  Mysore, India and the Calcutta sitar.

Thanks Eric Sorensen and Dino for @hereYouAreWausau… read more...

From: Yoga Script for Health and Joy. Link below

Much writing in the field of spirituality has to do with this notion of intentionality, focus and bringing a new vision to life. Wayne Dyer wrote often of ‘changing our script,’ and Sam Keen passionately noted that all of us are responsible for replacing iatrogenic (sickening) stories with healthy stories.

These writers are on to something important, and the wall provided me a chance to cast my motto, write my script, to form my new creation then and there. When it comes to yoga for health and joy, there are as many ways to write that motto and embody that script as there are people do it.

Mary Karr, author of The Liars’ Club, leaves no doubt that the work is worth it: “It doesn’t matter how bleak our lives are, we still fight for the light. I think that’s our divinity. We lean into love, even in the most hideous circumstances. We manage to hope.”

The truth we’ve come to know is that yoga opens the heart which allows for a reordering of life priorities and practices. By writing the new script, fighting for the light, happiness will take up residence in the “deep heart’s core” and therefore change the yogi. Happiness cannot settle in a heart filled with bitterness, but neither can it stay away from a true heart strumming the chords of gratitude.

 

Yoga-Script Into Health And Joy

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https://gregoryormson.com/writing-on-yoga-motorcycling-music-misc/yoga-motorcyclingyogig/2109/

EASTER 2017, Apache Junction, AZ.

I had a house in Marquette, Michigan. Beautiful trees populated the five acre plot, and in time I named some of them. I found shade and solace near Ulysses, Chief, and Christmas. But my favorite was Easter.

Easter was a large maple, exploding with red leaves each fall. In Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, that meant late August and September. Easter grew next to my driveway. I remember pounding a shovel through rocky ground when I buried my first dog next to Easter. Each time I passed Easter, I noticed a small mound of dirt that covered Buster’s grave.

In winter, like me, Easter was cold. Every February I thought the trees would die. On bitterly cold days and nights, Easter and the other hardwoods popped and cracked with sounds like gunshots.

In spring, with snow on the ground, I noticed tiny buds at the end of long branches.

Easter lived.… read more...

MIDWEST INTIMATIONS

Port Yonder Press / Eastern Iowa University will be publishing its third volume of lyric essays this summer. Work by two writers is now online, including my essay, “Midwest Intimations.” The other essay online, link included is, “You Will Have a Son,” by Cindy Lamothe, an expat living in Antigua. Thank you Port Yonder Press.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eastern Iowa Review

MIDWEST INTIMATIONS

Let me pry loose old walls.                                                              
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.   

 Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.                                                             
 Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.  

  Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.      
   Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through the blue nights 
   into white stars.              

 –Carl Sandburg, 1918        

The American Midwest is a great nail in my body. Its rusty gestalt formed me, and my heart pumps iron history through my arteries and veins. The Midwest broke me and made me strong. It formed my hard-edged will and chastised me with ice.
I’ve lived in Hawaii, Ohio, Michigan, Minnesota, and Washington. I’ve traveled to 43 of the Continental United States and motored through Spain, Korea, India, Argentina, Haiti, Germany, England, and Mexico. I’ve rubbed elbows with people in the sovereign nations. Their names drip from my tongue: Navajo, Potawatomi, Lakota, Menominee, and Ojibwa.
I’ve embraced Midwest geography; most of it is not beautiful, however, some sites rival the rugged, purple Andes of Northwest Argentina, the coast of Barcelona, and the tumbling waterfalls hidden deep in Molokai’s rainforests.
The friendliest people don’t live in the Midwest, except once in a while we are the friendliest.… read more...

The hallways of Menomonie High School were another kind of boundary.

From Greg Ormson, now living in Apache Junction, Arizona.  Excerpt from my nonfiction piece, “Drums: Voice of Wooing”

 

When Colt 4 broke up, I joined a second band. We were disorganized and talentless, but our singer had access to his grandmother’s remote cabin in the woods. After high school basketball games, our classmates trudged through the woods with plans to party.

They grabbed drinks from the snow and stepped inside. The freezing cabin warmed, and as ice melted from boots, some classmates danced in stocking hats and sweaters. Pounding drums, I heated up and removed layers down to my T-shirt. Steam rose from my sweaty back, and I kept an eye on my Buckhorn Beer, watching golden liquid thaw and bubble up from the brown bottle then dripping down the sides onto the wood-burning stove. The loud hiiiisssssss of steaming beer meant the party was on.

And when the cabin started rocking on its pine log foundations, I worried that we’d tip it over and slide downhill like a wayward toboggan into the river. I imagined a headline on Saturday’s front page of The Eau Claire Leader Telegram, “20 Menomonie High School Seniors drown in the Red Cedar River.”

I’d apologize to my bandmates today, and I would tell them it wasn’t their fault I was a boiling volcano. I lived to smash cymbal and snare. Their loud retorts distracted me from self-recrimination. Secretly, I prepped to burn-down my house or any house. I didn’t have a match. I did have a conscience, and it kept me from turning everything into lava.… read more...

The Bridge Within

This article (yogainspirational #46) from September is not yet online, but in the print version of Asana Journal, available at http://www.asanajournal.com. To read it, click on each photo. Articles in the magazine are excellent and informative for beginner or advanced practitioner. I took photos of these two bridges on my travels through Upper Michigan this summer. The first one made of concrete connects US 550 and crosses the Dead River as it flows into Lake Superior Marquette, Michigan. The second bridge is wood, and it allows a walker to get a nice view of Tioga Creek at the Tioga Creek Roadside Park off US 41 west of Nestoria, Michigan.

asana-p-20-septasana-p-21-septasana-sept… read more...

A Walk to Lake Superior

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8     This summer of nostalgia and reunions has left me dizzy with memories. The two roads of which Frost wrote have never been relevant to me. I’ve always seen only one road, the one in which I was all in. I don’t care if the glass is half full or half empty; speculating on this is a waste of time. What are ya gonna show me today? What are ya gonna be now? What am I going to be? This is all that’s important; all the other stuff is exterior stuff and it’s not really stuff; to describe it, I often use another S word minus one letter

Recently, I walked a path dark and green; the pony trail in Michigan. When they were young, I held the reins and led my daughters on their ponies Billy and Midnight. It’s a trail that always led to the not trending and to the deep blue sea of Lake Superior. Sometimes on this trail, I’d see the passing of a shadow and remember the words of Chief Seattle, delivered 100 years before I was born:

“And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children’s children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone.”

At that place, on the shores of gitche gumee, today I prayed on the wall where for many years I sought the counsel of silence.… read more...

The WRITING Cabin, August 14, 2016

Decompression in a short video. https://goo.gl/photos/pdBb7KKt2JtGT268A

 It’s been called The Old Style Place for 42-years, four months. I like to call it Oz. But at this Oz, there is no wizard behind the curtain. Not one is capable of changing the weather or bringing dreams to fruition.

Here, it is still. It is quiet. One is left alone in the heavy gravity of time and its discontents.cabin julyI keep coming back to Oz for those rare moments when the jagged edges of my psyche melt into the infinite now. A breath in and a breath out in gratitude is the best that I am.

I live for this one breath, and revel in the harmony of one biosphere and one ecosphere, where each waving branch is a small sun and its wild music is mine.

lake july… read more...

COMMEMORATION

Allen Keith Ormson

MONKEY

Uncle Al (Allen) graduated from Barron High School in 1957, and then went to college at The University of Wisconsin, River Falls, where he earned a bachelor’s degree graduating in 1963.

Like many boys growing up with brothers, my father Dean, and his brothers Al and Duane engaged in sibling rivalry. At family gatherings, I heard stories about the time Uncle Al climbed up into the garage rafters, and by the use of secret sauce or brotherly incantation, lured my pops into the garage.

As my father walked underneath, Al dropped darts onto his head. Dad’s revenge was to put nasty stuff in Al’s chocolate milk. These are Wisconsin small-town stories that cement family bonds and create mythologies on whose reverberations family-members ride into the future. My pop and Al became close in later years, something that often happens when siblings grasp the depth of blood and jettison youthful rivalries.

In later years, inflated memories of Canadian fish stories and fantastic recitals of success in conquering Wisconsin buck fever took on Gaudian forms; and while uncle and pop were men of flesh, their noses grew longer at each telling.

Uncle began his career as a teacher, eventually earning his master’s degree from Winona State University and serving as superintendent of schools for 27 years in Rusk and Polk counties. But Al is memorable to me for his great success as a basketball coach. He took the small school Durand Panthers to the Wisconsin State (WIAA) basketball tournament finals twice during his coaching career, before the days when schools competed in separate divisions based on enrollment.… read more...

The Land of OZ in Wisconsin’s North Woods

Paragraph from an essay in progress, “Oz: Emerging Truth.”

yogi b   OZ sits me down where we’re accompanied by the parting grip of Old Man Winter. His dying is not pretty, he’s peeping around the corner in prurient self-interest, wanting to mess with Easter. But he can’t, so Old Man Winter becomes a disgruntled wizard, holding on to his wish for relevance. The curtain is pulled back and he’s busted as a fake. He’s not the all-powerful controller. I try to ignore the cold bearded man behind the curtain as I sit with him, the snow, and the wood stove. Outside, I hear him weep at his parting.

 … read more...

Midwest

My arm was sore, but over and over I pulled the rope. The Evinrude sputtered and coughed. After a few minutes, it kicked into idle and spewed out blue clouds of exhaust near the water. The old boat motor had an ornery sound, like the voice of someone when their car doesn’t start in winter.

Finally, I rested and caught my breath while the engine warmed. I carefully cut back the motor’s choke, hoping it wouldn’t stall. After a minute, I reached down and pulled forward and into gear a small lever sticking out from the upper left portion of the propeller stem. I motored around the the 3.2 miles of shoreline on Big Casey Lake turning the rubber handle clockwise with my left hand on the steering lever, then cut the engine near the lily pads on the south shore not far from the Bald Eagles nesting in a tall jack pine.

I’m starting an old motor and riding around the lake in a metal boat in order to engage with the concrete and physical, to balance my life of academic work: teaching, grading, writing and going to meetings. That’s why a manual-start motor is the perfect remedy. It starts not with a button, but only by work of arm and hand, shoulder and elbow, and it reminds me of a time when life had more physical work and less mental clutter.

I go to the Old Style Place for exactly that… less clutter. In the cabin’s main room, there are three chairs, one kitchen table, one small metal stand for a toaster, one wooden seating bench, a few magazines and a radio — radio with a cassette player — and a small box near the wood stove filled with kindling.… read more...

Midwest – from the Old Style Place. Cabin Writing

Notes from The Old Style Place                                            

Everything at The Old Style Place
remains upright, anchored in stubbornness. Its steadfast preachment to tenacity
has denied gravity its victory. This stubbornness was earned by hammer and saw,
shovel and plane, elements of willful ambition. Having endured tornado-force
winds, the yearly push and pull of cold and hot, nearby forest-fires and
electrical wiring that’s older than the oldest goat, somehow it’s still
standing.
It’s also resisted
“updates.” There is no indoor plumbing or bathroom. To leave it all
behind, I walk outside to a small outdoor toilet where I encroach upon the
world of bugs.
Spider webs hang over the
doorframe. On a narrow window sill facing north, dead flies pile up forming a
grizzly pyramid to mortality.
First built in 1945 as a simple
framed hunting cabin, it remains a testament to quality. The two by four framing
boards really are 2 x 4, not the cheap sticks sold now that have been shaved
over time until what we call 2 x 4 is really more like 1 5/8 x 3 5/8.
Here, work finds me and tattoos
its truth upon my bones, and I unmask the lessons to absorb what I need to
learn. I sit at the metal table in the cabin’s main room and I’m reminded of
the hours my brothers and I sat here. We argued and competed. I cheated by
moving game pieces or hiding cards.
For hours,  we challenged one another in Stratego, Clue,
Battleship, Five Straight, Password or Jeopardy.
… read more...

Midwest BLOOD TRACKS

I’ve been traveling for two days and I’m tired of being treated like a number. I’m finally at my destination, a cabin in northern Wisconsin. I’ve come a long way to be here, and I know my journey from Hawaii was worth it.

Opening the door, I grope to find a light switch. In a few moments, I’m listening to the crackle of a wood fire in the stove. A sustained loon wail rises from the lake. Mystical and high-pitched, it’s a sound that could be interpreted as pain.

The loon speaks in four calls: wail, yodel, tremolo and hoot. Tonight they wail. But the loon’s elegy is music to me. They’ve recently flown back from the Gulf of Mexico, a nearly 3,000 mile journey. Their call in the dark is half mariachi. It’s an eerie sound over water, something like mourning and something like a high note from a Mexican trumpet.

The Ojibwa of this area once spoke of the loon as mang, which meant, “the most handsome of birds.” It’s also the most ancient of birds, existing long before humans. North American field guides list the loon first.

The wail keeps echoing over Big Casey Lake and it’s loud, much louder than summer calls when leafy trees mute the decibels and their haunting. The loon sound abates; I step outside to see new snow. I haven’t formed a snowball in years, so I make one about the size of a baseball and fire it at a tree.

I miss wide right, and it surprises me. My right arm has grown stubborn, like everything here.… read more...

Midwest Old Style Place (Am Writing)

I tune to WOJB for an in-breaking from another world. The indigenous
people speak in even tones, softly on the microphone, nearly a chant. Their
idiom camouflages a humor I sometimes get. 

Dead air, then a night-time jock speaks with refreshing lack of pretense, clear and simple. She says, “Good evening everyone. It’s Tuesday and I hope you’re having a good night. It’s Tuesday isn’t it? Wait a minute, let me check…. Oh, it’s Thursday. Ok then, I hope you’re having a good Thursday.”


I’m here to listen and to put my hands on all the stubborn things: the old Evinrude motor, the long-handled red pump, the Dixie stove, the Gibson refrigerator, the cast iron frying pans and then fish filet knives. “


I lift the pan and feel its weight, I
swing the knife from side to side
and feel its balance. I smell
leather casing for the J. Marttini
Rapala filet knife; I will test the
blade against a hair on my
forearm. Is it sharp enough to
slice arm hair? If not, I will whet the sharpening stone and slide that knife in one direction, over and over, making an arc like a roller coaster. The Rapala will resist at first, but metal will yield and raise its edge.

WOJB turns its broadcast menu to music with Mountain Stage, and I love the songs. I wait for the next program and the dry unmistakable voice of
Garrison Keillor as he spins tales of life on The Prairie Home Companion.  I listen for his opening line, “It’s been a quiet week in Lake Woebegon.”


He speaks of Norwegians in a cold land, sharpened
by hard work and manners.

… read more...

Midwest

Paging through the album, I stop at a photo of a dark-haired, bespectacled 50-year old
wearing an orange hat and brown flannel shirt, suspenders resting off his
shoulders and to the side. His blaze-orange pants are unbuttoned at the waist
and stained with blood.

He stands with two other hunters and they smile in front of
three deer hanging from a tall oak tree, brown leaves covering their November
hunting ground. Deer tongues are sticking out and their necks are stretched
upward like a branch. His trophy 8-pointer hangs by a rope tied over the
antlers. I walk to that tree and remember, dare I say portal those soggy boots,
that unshaven chin, that stern visage, that wry smile.  
… read more...

Midwest (Old Style Place)

But this message reverberates in the fabric of the
pine-wood cabin. It’s the soul inhabiting each inch on the property. Feeding
off stubbornness alone, The Old Style place continues to stand against the
encroachment of modernity and change. Its motto could be, “Fight Gravity.”
… read more...

Midwest This is how Illusion Works (Bear in the woods of Wisconsin)

Up here, a bear comes and goes as it will, so even a faint resemblance near the woodpile can trick one into thinking its real. My parent’s scare tactics worked, and the wooden carving of a black bear head tricked my brothers too because the chance of actually seeing a bear was lodged in the back of our minds. This is how illusion works: You believe through suggestion that you see what you don’t see but believe you have seen.

That bear was here. It walked past the pump next to the front door, and a photo proves it. Its tacked on the old Gibson
refrigerator with a sales magnet that says, “Patty Berkes, Edina Realty.” The Realtor’s photo on the card expresses dreams people have for lake front property
in the north woods: foreground birch trees and a winding trail with tall grass
leading to a log cabin, its dark wood corners joined in dovetail notches. This isn’t Edina, but the brokers are
here and they’re busy selling a dream. 

This is how illusion works (Bear in the woods)… read more...

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