I have been asked if I have a place where people can find my past columns. Until now I didn't. So here's what I threw together on the Friday night of my son's 9th birthday. That's the way I do things.
Each month I write a little ditty about whatever excitement or drama is happening in Coshunland that month and I zip it off to the State Journal and they publish it in their Neighbor's Section on the first Friday of every month. It's about nothing and everything. It's essentially my selfish way of journaling the lives of my two sons and all the little things that I'm sure I will forget if I don't put them in writing.
So thanks for checking it out. I sure enjoy writing it.
Pam
The Crew
Exploring Bright Lights Big City Life
Friday, August 20, 2010
Planet John Aug. 2010
From the moment his feet touched down on this planet, our youngest son Jake has been drawn by one gravitational pull only. His entire world spins on the axis of one taller older mirror image of himself, his older brother.
It is exactly what I had dreamed of 10 years ago when we decided to see if a second child would become a part of our future. I remember the exact moment I knew for sure I wanted to try for a second baby. I was watching out the kitchen window as our first born sat alone in the sandbox in the back yard digging in the sand quietly. He was a happy contented child, but I knew the moment his brother appeared in the hospital room and, just a few hours old, turned his head toward the first sound of John’s voice, that my wish had been granted. John would never again be alone. No matter what happened to me and his dad, he would always have this little blond headed spitfire dashing about his world to be his friend, his team mate, his confidant, his brother.
This fall Jake is finally able to join John in the time honored tradition of wearing shoulder pads and a helmet and for the first time, playing the sport he seems born to play alongside his older more seasoned brother. He’s watched from the sidelines for the last two years, eagerly longing to strut about, padded from head to toe, but mostly just longing to be with John.
But now for the first time in 9 years something else is happening this fall. John is going off on his own adventure to experience a new phase of his life. He’s become a Middle Schooler. For every way he’s been building up to this new change, his brother has watched and anticipated by his side as he checked out his new locker, the new hallways, the new school.
What Jake didn’t anticipate is how his world would start spinning a little differently. For the first time he is just Jake, not Jake and John. At church when it came time last week for the kids to go to Sunday school, the Middle School students sat tight. They have their own time and space now away from the younger kids. Jake, who normally bounces off without even a glance back at me, turns his head in a steady even stare and says, “I’m not going.”
What he means is, “I’m not going without John.”
He would not be convinced. That’s when I realized, the world as he knows it is stopping on a dime, and no one could have prepared him for it. The walk to and from school is without the pal to tell stories to and confide secrets to along the way. Lunch time won’t include the traditional bump or high five from the cool 5th grade friends of his older brother.
In fact, the very way he looks at himself is changing. As much as he wants to fight it, Jake is learning to be Jake without John. A completely foreign and uncomfortable adventure he would rather not be on. And as patient and tolerant as his brother has been all these years of having this little shadow tag along through life, now, Jake is neither.
It isn’t easy to see him struggle through these days, but in the end I know he must become his own man and that only comes from times like these. I know that not every family has siblings that are this tuned-in to one another with so many similar interests and a real mutual desire to be together. I am certain that the planets must have been in line the day Jake was born and I remain grateful that the gravitational pull of his brother is no less strong today than it was the day Jake searched the room for that familiar voice that would become the center of his universe.
It is exactly what I had dreamed of 10 years ago when we decided to see if a second child would become a part of our future. I remember the exact moment I knew for sure I wanted to try for a second baby. I was watching out the kitchen window as our first born sat alone in the sandbox in the back yard digging in the sand quietly. He was a happy contented child, but I knew the moment his brother appeared in the hospital room and, just a few hours old, turned his head toward the first sound of John’s voice, that my wish had been granted. John would never again be alone. No matter what happened to me and his dad, he would always have this little blond headed spitfire dashing about his world to be his friend, his team mate, his confidant, his brother.
This fall Jake is finally able to join John in the time honored tradition of wearing shoulder pads and a helmet and for the first time, playing the sport he seems born to play alongside his older more seasoned brother. He’s watched from the sidelines for the last two years, eagerly longing to strut about, padded from head to toe, but mostly just longing to be with John.
But now for the first time in 9 years something else is happening this fall. John is going off on his own adventure to experience a new phase of his life. He’s become a Middle Schooler. For every way he’s been building up to this new change, his brother has watched and anticipated by his side as he checked out his new locker, the new hallways, the new school.
What Jake didn’t anticipate is how his world would start spinning a little differently. For the first time he is just Jake, not Jake and John. At church when it came time last week for the kids to go to Sunday school, the Middle School students sat tight. They have their own time and space now away from the younger kids. Jake, who normally bounces off without even a glance back at me, turns his head in a steady even stare and says, “I’m not going.”
What he means is, “I’m not going without John.”
He would not be convinced. That’s when I realized, the world as he knows it is stopping on a dime, and no one could have prepared him for it. The walk to and from school is without the pal to tell stories to and confide secrets to along the way. Lunch time won’t include the traditional bump or high five from the cool 5th grade friends of his older brother.
In fact, the very way he looks at himself is changing. As much as he wants to fight it, Jake is learning to be Jake without John. A completely foreign and uncomfortable adventure he would rather not be on. And as patient and tolerant as his brother has been all these years of having this little shadow tag along through life, now, Jake is neither.
It isn’t easy to see him struggle through these days, but in the end I know he must become his own man and that only comes from times like these. I know that not every family has siblings that are this tuned-in to one another with so many similar interests and a real mutual desire to be together. I am certain that the planets must have been in line the day Jake was born and I remain grateful that the gravitational pull of his brother is no less strong today than it was the day Jake searched the room for that familiar voice that would become the center of his universe.
Clear as Mud July 2010
About a year ago I got bifocal contacts. The concept seems impossible. One eye corrects for near vision and the other eye corrects for distance. Then it all gets straightened out in your brain somehow. I don’t understand it, but what happens for me is that I actually have to concentrate on what I want to see and let my brain know what to focus in on. It’s crazy but it does work. It’s just that things are not always in focus right away.
Maybe it doesn’t bother me that much because it is actually a lot like the way I see my kids growing up right before my eyes. No matter how closely you watch you can’t really get a good focus on how they’re changing every day. And then suddenly one day, you dial in a crisp clear picture and see these two young men sharing my world.
Sometimes I am shocked at how they’ve changed because of a growth spurt. But other times it’s a conversation or something they say that stops me and makes me marvel at the way their brains and bodies are maturing so invisibly and yet so drastically.
The other day it happened after a baseball game. Walking to the car I was chatting with John about his game. He had snagged a fly ball in left field running full speed and sliding as it dropped in his mitt. I told him I thought he’d done a good job catching that one. Then I said, “Out of curiosity, John, why did you slide when you caught that?”
After a brief pause he shrugged and said, “Oh, I don’t know, I think it was for dramatic effect.”
It worked.
I am determined that Jake is still little enough to be carried, but the last time I tried we both ended up bursting into laughter at the struggle to lug him through the house from the car. That’s when it happened. He’s counting the days until his 9th birthday but I really hadn’t seen that much change in him since his 8th milestone until now, laughing, I really saw him smiling back at me. That’s when I realized those dimpled cheeks are sitting atop a much longer neck than they used to. His amazing blue eyes smile out from a longer, maturing face that is suddenly much farther away from a toddler and much closer to a young man. And worst of all, the dimples that I love to stare at on his hands have actually given way to knuckles. When did that happen, I wonder.
Now, on the rare occasion when life does come into such sharp focus, I want to freeze time. Each one of them is so perfect just the way they are on this very day. At almost 9 and 11 I would just like to stop time and frame up this picture perfect scene…or to somehow figure out how to slow the speeding freight train from racing quite so fast downhill toward more birthdays, and school years and milestones. But, of course, the days will instead race by in a blur as I struggle to remind myself to enjoy every minute of the crazy ride whether it’s in full focus or not.
Maybe it doesn’t bother me that much because it is actually a lot like the way I see my kids growing up right before my eyes. No matter how closely you watch you can’t really get a good focus on how they’re changing every day. And then suddenly one day, you dial in a crisp clear picture and see these two young men sharing my world.
Sometimes I am shocked at how they’ve changed because of a growth spurt. But other times it’s a conversation or something they say that stops me and makes me marvel at the way their brains and bodies are maturing so invisibly and yet so drastically.
The other day it happened after a baseball game. Walking to the car I was chatting with John about his game. He had snagged a fly ball in left field running full speed and sliding as it dropped in his mitt. I told him I thought he’d done a good job catching that one. Then I said, “Out of curiosity, John, why did you slide when you caught that?”
After a brief pause he shrugged and said, “Oh, I don’t know, I think it was for dramatic effect.”
It worked.
I am determined that Jake is still little enough to be carried, but the last time I tried we both ended up bursting into laughter at the struggle to lug him through the house from the car. That’s when it happened. He’s counting the days until his 9th birthday but I really hadn’t seen that much change in him since his 8th milestone until now, laughing, I really saw him smiling back at me. That’s when I realized those dimpled cheeks are sitting atop a much longer neck than they used to. His amazing blue eyes smile out from a longer, maturing face that is suddenly much farther away from a toddler and much closer to a young man. And worst of all, the dimples that I love to stare at on his hands have actually given way to knuckles. When did that happen, I wonder.
Now, on the rare occasion when life does come into such sharp focus, I want to freeze time. Each one of them is so perfect just the way they are on this very day. At almost 9 and 11 I would just like to stop time and frame up this picture perfect scene…or to somehow figure out how to slow the speeding freight train from racing quite so fast downhill toward more birthdays, and school years and milestones. But, of course, the days will instead race by in a blur as I struggle to remind myself to enjoy every minute of the crazy ride whether it’s in full focus or not.
I'm With The Band June 2010
I often say my middle school band director is the reason I am where I am today. It’s true. Mr. Hamilton taught me everything I know about breathing properly—from the diaphragm; but also about things like sitting up straight, improving through practice and the value of being a part of something bigger than myself.
It’s amazing really to think about. Walking into band for the first time carrying a briefcase that housed parts of an instrument I didn’t even know how to put together, let alone make a sound on. And yet, he walked me and each student in our little band through every step. Putting each corked piece of my oh so foreign looking clarinet into its proper position, placing my hands in the right spots, positioning my mouth onto the mouth piece and finally blowing into it to produce the most amazing squeaky first notes. It must have been torture to his ears to be in a room filled with loud, but enthusiastic beginning band students. I just remember feeling so amazed that I could produce a sound at all. And then suddenly I shocked myself that I could play one, two even three notes on a scale. And I was even more surprised when I learned how to string them together into actual – music.
That’s why, in the end, being a part of the band was so much more than anything I’d ever expected. I had taken piano lessons but this was different. This was the beginning of the realization that alone one instrument was simple and beautiful in its way. But together, all of us, playing at the same time, it became rich and complex and fascinating to learn to hear each instrument adding its part-- the whole not complete without all the pieces. We grew something from nothing –performing our first concert for an audience of appreciative parents and grandparents. It was something entirely different than anything we’d ever experienced. And all the while Mr. Hamilton, standing before us, baton in hand, carried what became a familiar calm and patient grin that we came to appreciate as reward for a job well done.
And now, a shiny trombone sits packed in its case in a quiet middle school band room waiting to be discovered by my middle school son. He will soon walk into his band room for the first time, and take it out of its case and run his fingers over it for a first inspection, just as I did all those years ago. He will hear that skinny baton tapping on the metal music stand. He will begin to learn the very first steps of playing. Soon he will be able to discern the difference between noise and notes. He will learn, as I did, the feeling of being a small part of a larger instrument.
I realize he can’t possibly anticipate what he is about to encounter. But I believe he is so lucky to have the chance to go through the amazing transformation from middle school kid to musician. The launching pad for so much more and what for me turned out to be one of the great treasures of my life—the gift of saying, “ I’m with the band.”
It’s amazing really to think about. Walking into band for the first time carrying a briefcase that housed parts of an instrument I didn’t even know how to put together, let alone make a sound on. And yet, he walked me and each student in our little band through every step. Putting each corked piece of my oh so foreign looking clarinet into its proper position, placing my hands in the right spots, positioning my mouth onto the mouth piece and finally blowing into it to produce the most amazing squeaky first notes. It must have been torture to his ears to be in a room filled with loud, but enthusiastic beginning band students. I just remember feeling so amazed that I could produce a sound at all. And then suddenly I shocked myself that I could play one, two even three notes on a scale. And I was even more surprised when I learned how to string them together into actual – music.
That’s why, in the end, being a part of the band was so much more than anything I’d ever expected. I had taken piano lessons but this was different. This was the beginning of the realization that alone one instrument was simple and beautiful in its way. But together, all of us, playing at the same time, it became rich and complex and fascinating to learn to hear each instrument adding its part-- the whole not complete without all the pieces. We grew something from nothing –performing our first concert for an audience of appreciative parents and grandparents. It was something entirely different than anything we’d ever experienced. And all the while Mr. Hamilton, standing before us, baton in hand, carried what became a familiar calm and patient grin that we came to appreciate as reward for a job well done.
And now, a shiny trombone sits packed in its case in a quiet middle school band room waiting to be discovered by my middle school son. He will soon walk into his band room for the first time, and take it out of its case and run his fingers over it for a first inspection, just as I did all those years ago. He will hear that skinny baton tapping on the metal music stand. He will begin to learn the very first steps of playing. Soon he will be able to discern the difference between noise and notes. He will learn, as I did, the feeling of being a small part of a larger instrument.
I realize he can’t possibly anticipate what he is about to encounter. But I believe he is so lucky to have the chance to go through the amazing transformation from middle school kid to musician. The launching pad for so much more and what for me turned out to be one of the great treasures of my life—the gift of saying, “ I’m with the band.”
The Other Futbol June 2010
“Those are my soccer socks!” Jake is shouting back in the bedrooms. “Take them off!”
“You already wore mine!” John shouts back. “All the rest are too small!”
It seems black socks are an elusive thing in our house on this day, and so the battle is on for the remaining uniform requirement that both of them need but no one wants to change.
I try to broker a trade but it appears neither side is willing to budge although both are willing to wear yesterday’s dirty socks again without blinking an eye!
We’re wrapping up the end of a marathon weekend that included four baseball games, and three soccer games and a lot of black socks. Clean clothes are at a minimum, although I do find an extra sock that isn’t ours, oddly enough, in the laundry.
While this likely won’t be the last whirlwind weekend like this, it may be one of the last to include soccer socks…at least for awhile.
Like so many boys entering 4th grade, Jake is wildly excited about playing tackle football for the first time. But to do so, he will be leaving behind, at least for the fall season, a game he’s been playing since he was a toddler, the other futbol. Soccer has been a game Jake mastered early and excelled at because of his natural hunger to compete and score, along with his gift of speed.
While our older son needed years of encouragement before he was comfortable playing soccer in attack mode, it seems Jake came pre-programmed to automatically take on the game like everything else he does, in a sprint.
This weekend he told me he wanted to win his MAYSA Cup games so bad, he was sure they couldn’t lose. Naturally, I encouraged him to play his best but to be happy with a good performance whether that came with a win or not. But an even more determined Jake showed up on the field than we’ve ever seen before. It was as though he wanted to leave his mark here and, at age 8, knew how he wanted to walk off the soccer field, maybe for the last time. It was a performance to remember.
Now I’m looking back at his pictures from soccer with mixed emotions. He’s put in a lot of time to learn this game and become good at it. But he’s been waiting it seems his whole life to play this other sport and I can sense his competitive drive revving up every time there is talk of running backs, interceptions and scoring touchdowns.
And so, we reach another milestone with Jake, turning the page to a new adventure that he can’t wait to rush into. Perhaps we will be back at soccer and perhaps not. Either way, I know he will pour his heart and soul into his sport of choice and we will be all the richer for having the chance to watch and cheer along the way. And chances are he’ll play it wearing black socks.
“You already wore mine!” John shouts back. “All the rest are too small!”
It seems black socks are an elusive thing in our house on this day, and so the battle is on for the remaining uniform requirement that both of them need but no one wants to change.
I try to broker a trade but it appears neither side is willing to budge although both are willing to wear yesterday’s dirty socks again without blinking an eye!
We’re wrapping up the end of a marathon weekend that included four baseball games, and three soccer games and a lot of black socks. Clean clothes are at a minimum, although I do find an extra sock that isn’t ours, oddly enough, in the laundry.
While this likely won’t be the last whirlwind weekend like this, it may be one of the last to include soccer socks…at least for awhile.
Like so many boys entering 4th grade, Jake is wildly excited about playing tackle football for the first time. But to do so, he will be leaving behind, at least for the fall season, a game he’s been playing since he was a toddler, the other futbol. Soccer has been a game Jake mastered early and excelled at because of his natural hunger to compete and score, along with his gift of speed.
While our older son needed years of encouragement before he was comfortable playing soccer in attack mode, it seems Jake came pre-programmed to automatically take on the game like everything else he does, in a sprint.
This weekend he told me he wanted to win his MAYSA Cup games so bad, he was sure they couldn’t lose. Naturally, I encouraged him to play his best but to be happy with a good performance whether that came with a win or not. But an even more determined Jake showed up on the field than we’ve ever seen before. It was as though he wanted to leave his mark here and, at age 8, knew how he wanted to walk off the soccer field, maybe for the last time. It was a performance to remember.
Now I’m looking back at his pictures from soccer with mixed emotions. He’s put in a lot of time to learn this game and become good at it. But he’s been waiting it seems his whole life to play this other sport and I can sense his competitive drive revving up every time there is talk of running backs, interceptions and scoring touchdowns.
And so, we reach another milestone with Jake, turning the page to a new adventure that he can’t wait to rush into. Perhaps we will be back at soccer and perhaps not. Either way, I know he will pour his heart and soul into his sport of choice and we will be all the richer for having the chance to watch and cheer along the way. And chances are he’ll play it wearing black socks.
Middle School Worthy May 2010
Last night at dinner Jake discovered he had a small bit of cottage cheese stuck to his elbow. We told him to grab his napkin and wipe it off. But instead he said, “I’ll just lick that off.” What ensued was a hilarious ten minute display of sheer will and determination, to prove, against all odds and advice to the contrary, that it is indeed possible to lick one’s own elbow.
His outstretched tongue, wagging oh so close to the prized bit of cheese curd, but not quite touching it is the way I feel my oldest son and I are approaching his immanent graduation from elementary school and first dipping of his toe into the waters of Middle School. We’ve had meetings and talks and will soon have a tour and official orientation. But it’s just out of our reach to really grasp that it’s about to happen to us.
All the experiences that are waiting for him in that new life are an exciting milestone to be looked forward to for sure. But of course, leaving behind the school where one started one’s lifetime of learning is a milestone with its own set of emotions, especially for his parents.
John’s last teacher conference in elementary school is the perfect example. His 5th grade teacher is apparently fully aware of the turning point and its emotional pitfalls for parents and of course took full advantage of allowing us to appreciate the moment of his last conference to its fullest. John worked hard to prepare a power point presentation which he presented standing before us at a music stand turned podium to present his accomplishments in his year of learning to date.
Craig and I both noticed how tall he’s grown. John loved rising to the occasion to run the show before us with no help, as a grown up would, explaining to us all the finer nuances of life as big man on campus in the 5th grade. But I also noticed that this man child still has a shy way of tilting his chin down and looking at us with upturned eyes, an old familiar trait we’ve seen since he was a toddler, and flashes of that charming, natural smile that could light my world on its darkest day.
Then, the two of them, he and his teacher, pulled the rug out from under our feet. John took a seat at the table before us and said, “Mom and Dad, I’d like to finish by reading you this letter I wrote to you.”
My heart began racing and I could feel my heart pounding in my temples. I could feel it coming.
His letter began, “Dear Mom and Dad, It’s almost the end of the year! Can you believe it? I can’t. The last 11 years have been awesome! You guys are the reason why they have been awesome so I want to say thank you.”
I could not stop the tears, and I glanced to my left to witness the same from John’s dad. His letter went on to note things like, “Thanks for supporting me at all of my sports games cheering me on whether we win or lose. When I am sick you are always there to take care of me.”
“Thanks for teaching me about sports. You taught me to play baseball, football, basketball and more!”
Their coup worked and their little victory provided me with a moment I will always remember. Now, with that letter tucked away, we have one summer to go before we walk right into the next chapter of our lives and finally reach that bit of cottage cheese stuck there on our elbow.
His outstretched tongue, wagging oh so close to the prized bit of cheese curd, but not quite touching it is the way I feel my oldest son and I are approaching his immanent graduation from elementary school and first dipping of his toe into the waters of Middle School. We’ve had meetings and talks and will soon have a tour and official orientation. But it’s just out of our reach to really grasp that it’s about to happen to us.
All the experiences that are waiting for him in that new life are an exciting milestone to be looked forward to for sure. But of course, leaving behind the school where one started one’s lifetime of learning is a milestone with its own set of emotions, especially for his parents.
John’s last teacher conference in elementary school is the perfect example. His 5th grade teacher is apparently fully aware of the turning point and its emotional pitfalls for parents and of course took full advantage of allowing us to appreciate the moment of his last conference to its fullest. John worked hard to prepare a power point presentation which he presented standing before us at a music stand turned podium to present his accomplishments in his year of learning to date.
Craig and I both noticed how tall he’s grown. John loved rising to the occasion to run the show before us with no help, as a grown up would, explaining to us all the finer nuances of life as big man on campus in the 5th grade. But I also noticed that this man child still has a shy way of tilting his chin down and looking at us with upturned eyes, an old familiar trait we’ve seen since he was a toddler, and flashes of that charming, natural smile that could light my world on its darkest day.
Then, the two of them, he and his teacher, pulled the rug out from under our feet. John took a seat at the table before us and said, “Mom and Dad, I’d like to finish by reading you this letter I wrote to you.”
My heart began racing and I could feel my heart pounding in my temples. I could feel it coming.
His letter began, “Dear Mom and Dad, It’s almost the end of the year! Can you believe it? I can’t. The last 11 years have been awesome! You guys are the reason why they have been awesome so I want to say thank you.”
I could not stop the tears, and I glanced to my left to witness the same from John’s dad. His letter went on to note things like, “Thanks for supporting me at all of my sports games cheering me on whether we win or lose. When I am sick you are always there to take care of me.”
“Thanks for teaching me about sports. You taught me to play baseball, football, basketball and more!”
Their coup worked and their little victory provided me with a moment I will always remember. Now, with that letter tucked away, we have one summer to go before we walk right into the next chapter of our lives and finally reach that bit of cottage cheese stuck there on our elbow.
Door County Escape April 2010
We thought about Florida and Mexico, but in the end, we decided on Door County. Craig and I had several days for a spring break get away long before spring showed signs of arriving. We dreamed of a warm sandy beach and drinks with umbrellas, and maybe a round of golf or two. But instead, circumstances led us back to our roots in Door County. We knew it would be a far cry from the beach we longed for. But it holds a history special enough for us, to warm up even the stubborn Wisconsin spring.
We worried a little about what we would find, but we booked a room with a fireplace and decided to make a leap of faith. It couldn’t have been any more perfect if we had flown to an exotic location many more hours and dollars away.
It’s the quiet season here. Quiet because most tourists don’t venture this direction this time of year, and because so much of the natural beauty of the area is quiet right now too. Frozen actually.
But it turned out we were here at exactly the right time to witness the area waking up. A literal yawning and stretching along the frozen Green Bay shores where ice just days ago locked solid, but today was letting go. Ducks and geese and other birds were enjoying a swim on the tiny inlets of open water, chatting contentedly, and following one another beak to tail through long mysterious pathways of open water between solid sheets of ice.
The outside air warmed to an unusual 60 odd degrees and we felt the sun on our skin while standing beside frigid waters that lowered the temperatures as we walked closer.
We’ve come to Door County dozens of times. It was love at first site from our first visit 20 years ago. We’ve soaked in the amazing beauty of the fall colors, we’ve joined the bustle of summertime tourist jaunts to all the famous spots. John tasted his first sweet sample of ice cream at Wilson’s in Ephram. Both boys learned to skip rocks along the shores here. We remember watching a fawn and it’s mother for half an hour in Peninsula state park.
But we’ve never seen anything like this. Maybe one has to age some to truly appreciate this kind thing. Quiet season here may have been boring if we were younger. But now, this time, it held new awe and wonder in ways hard to explain. But, I like to think we have evolved over time to a place where we feel comfortable to come back north this early in the spring and are in fact, just like the ducks we watched from our rocky shoreline perch; happy to be a pair still together after all these years, happy to feel simple pleasures like the sun on our feathers, happy to be able to turn tail and fish in familiar waters, and happy to see signs of another spring returning drip by drip to our familiar paradise. You don’t need a beach chair to appreciate that.
We worried a little about what we would find, but we booked a room with a fireplace and decided to make a leap of faith. It couldn’t have been any more perfect if we had flown to an exotic location many more hours and dollars away.
It’s the quiet season here. Quiet because most tourists don’t venture this direction this time of year, and because so much of the natural beauty of the area is quiet right now too. Frozen actually.
But it turned out we were here at exactly the right time to witness the area waking up. A literal yawning and stretching along the frozen Green Bay shores where ice just days ago locked solid, but today was letting go. Ducks and geese and other birds were enjoying a swim on the tiny inlets of open water, chatting contentedly, and following one another beak to tail through long mysterious pathways of open water between solid sheets of ice.
The outside air warmed to an unusual 60 odd degrees and we felt the sun on our skin while standing beside frigid waters that lowered the temperatures as we walked closer.
We’ve come to Door County dozens of times. It was love at first site from our first visit 20 years ago. We’ve soaked in the amazing beauty of the fall colors, we’ve joined the bustle of summertime tourist jaunts to all the famous spots. John tasted his first sweet sample of ice cream at Wilson’s in Ephram. Both boys learned to skip rocks along the shores here. We remember watching a fawn and it’s mother for half an hour in Peninsula state park.
But we’ve never seen anything like this. Maybe one has to age some to truly appreciate this kind thing. Quiet season here may have been boring if we were younger. But now, this time, it held new awe and wonder in ways hard to explain. But, I like to think we have evolved over time to a place where we feel comfortable to come back north this early in the spring and are in fact, just like the ducks we watched from our rocky shoreline perch; happy to be a pair still together after all these years, happy to feel simple pleasures like the sun on our feathers, happy to be able to turn tail and fish in familiar waters, and happy to see signs of another spring returning drip by drip to our familiar paradise. You don’t need a beach chair to appreciate that.
Patience is a Virtue March 2010
Jake is plinking out a song on the piano and I can tell it’s not flowing the way he expects. I ask if I can help and I am greeted by frustrated tears squeezing through his determined eye lashes. He fully expects to play every song perfectly the first time through and anything less than perfection is, to him, failure.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, I am doing my best to explain how to get to the lowest common denominator when I see John pinching his eyebrows together and shaking his head and knowing it’s already too late to stop the hot tears of frustration over another math conundrum.
I’m afraid it’s probably my fault since their father has this gentle gift of patience. Not me. I have walked in these shoes. I also wanted to play the song perfectly on first crack. I also cried at jumbled math problems. I am not patient and am usually feeling impatient when I am explaining to the boys why they need to have more patience! I have come to the conclusion that I cannot lead by example in this regard, and since dad can’t always put on his cape and come to the rescue, I have no choice but to ask the boys to follow the example of someone else at our home: our pets.
It’s true. My kids would be better off studying the virtues offered by our animals than their own mother when it comes to reacting to roadblocks, setbacks or life’s little disappointments.
Kitty Miley has a round black ink spot on her nose and you can usually find it pressed firmly against the side of our fish tank. She is addicted to what we call fish TV. It’s the same channel-- same show hour after hour after hour. But each morning she faithfully tunes in with the same chipper meow and sets about her work of trying to paw her way into the tank. She digs and watches, digs and watches. She seems undaunted by her lack of success. I admire her ability to retain her cheery disposition while remaining fish free.
But if ever there was a lesson to be learned from an animal it was from our old dog Bob. He was a feisty red head who barked incessantly but was loyal and good natured. His habit was to run top speed each morning to the huge trees in the front yard sending the squirrels chattering to safety. Each morning, I believe, he thought he would catch one. Each morning he came back to the house un-phased by his apparent failure. Until one day fate intervened. I wouldn’t believe this unless my husband hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. The squirrels were apparently arguing in the tree tops as Bob arrived for his morning visit. Just as Bob looked up, panting, as he did every day of his life, one came tumbling from the sky and landed squarely in Bob’s mouth! Bob gave that squirrel a firm head shake and left his long sought after reward at the base of the tree. His symbol of success did manage to recover from the shock and return to the tree tops, but I don’t think Bob ever dashed quite as fast to the trees after that perfect day.
It may not always be possible to remain patient when I’m struggling. But I am hopeful I can learn from these gentle brown eyes and perky white whiskers just how I might be a better example when life isn’t perfect but I want to be.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, I am doing my best to explain how to get to the lowest common denominator when I see John pinching his eyebrows together and shaking his head and knowing it’s already too late to stop the hot tears of frustration over another math conundrum.
I’m afraid it’s probably my fault since their father has this gentle gift of patience. Not me. I have walked in these shoes. I also wanted to play the song perfectly on first crack. I also cried at jumbled math problems. I am not patient and am usually feeling impatient when I am explaining to the boys why they need to have more patience! I have come to the conclusion that I cannot lead by example in this regard, and since dad can’t always put on his cape and come to the rescue, I have no choice but to ask the boys to follow the example of someone else at our home: our pets.
It’s true. My kids would be better off studying the virtues offered by our animals than their own mother when it comes to reacting to roadblocks, setbacks or life’s little disappointments.
Kitty Miley has a round black ink spot on her nose and you can usually find it pressed firmly against the side of our fish tank. She is addicted to what we call fish TV. It’s the same channel-- same show hour after hour after hour. But each morning she faithfully tunes in with the same chipper meow and sets about her work of trying to paw her way into the tank. She digs and watches, digs and watches. She seems undaunted by her lack of success. I admire her ability to retain her cheery disposition while remaining fish free.
But if ever there was a lesson to be learned from an animal it was from our old dog Bob. He was a feisty red head who barked incessantly but was loyal and good natured. His habit was to run top speed each morning to the huge trees in the front yard sending the squirrels chattering to safety. Each morning, I believe, he thought he would catch one. Each morning he came back to the house un-phased by his apparent failure. Until one day fate intervened. I wouldn’t believe this unless my husband hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. The squirrels were apparently arguing in the tree tops as Bob arrived for his morning visit. Just as Bob looked up, panting, as he did every day of his life, one came tumbling from the sky and landed squarely in Bob’s mouth! Bob gave that squirrel a firm head shake and left his long sought after reward at the base of the tree. His symbol of success did manage to recover from the shock and return to the tree tops, but I don’t think Bob ever dashed quite as fast to the trees after that perfect day.
It may not always be possible to remain patient when I’m struggling. But I am hopeful I can learn from these gentle brown eyes and perky white whiskers just how I might be a better example when life isn’t perfect but I want to be.
Talk To Me Feb 2010
From their earliest efforts to talk I have been fascinated by my children’s ability to communicate. I remember watching them as babies intently concentrate on my mouth when I was talking to them, knowing that their little brains were working to process the movement and sounds and getting ready to do the same. We still call our cats “tah-kah” because that was baby John’s first effort to mimic “kitty” and I thought it was so incredible—a little miracle really--how their speech develops.
Then, Jake came along and we had to pull every sound we could out of him because he had the older brother to jabber away for him. His words were little gifts he doled out sparingly. Begging and pleading for him to say things resulted in a patented cold hard silent stare in return. We were so delighted when he did start speaking that we called his brother “la-la” for at least a year because that’s the baby speak Jake used to refer to his brother. “Where la-la?”
But if their earliest words started as a trickle, I’m now struck by the feeling that, we are experiencing a virtual fire hose of communication. It’s coming at us full blast, pummeling us with daily insights and relentless inquiries.
The other night reading at bedtime, Jake stopped mid-sentence. “Mom, did you ever wonder why people started calling people chicken. Why do you think they used a chicken? Instead of saying you’re chicken why didn’t they say, ‘you’re cow?’ That would be cool.”
Or this from the backseat: “I think sumo wrestlers must be really brave.”
Me: “Why?”
Jake: “Cause they have to wear those….things. I bet those are uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want to walk around like that.”
Or this during a snack after school; “Mom, I want to be a scientist and blow things up.”
Me: “Jake, scientists don’t really blow things up so much at least not on purpose.”
“Oh, well then I want to be a race car driver or a spy.”
“Mom, we should conserve water by flushing the toilet only once a day.”
“Mom, isn’t everyone just a different shade of brown.”
“Mom, why don’t we have leg pits?”
But at 11, I see the process slowing down for my older son. His shared thoughts are becoming much more selective and I’m learning that when your tween chooses to speak you better be ready to listen.
Like one Friday morning we were running late for school and John volunteered this message as randomly as he would ask where his boots were.
“Mom, I had to stay in for recess all week.”
“Why?”
“Because we got in trouble at recess for tackling people.”
“Why did you wait til now to tell me?”
“I was afraid you’d get mad.”
Or this: “Is it true that cheez-its have acid in them that will kill you?”
Or this: “I just texted my friend and we were both pooping at the same time!”
None of it makes me mad. Most of it makes me smile. And it all makes me shake my head in wonder as I am continually amazed and delighted and always thankful for each little gift they share by simply opening their mouths but in turn sharing their thoughts and minds with the world.
Then, Jake came along and we had to pull every sound we could out of him because he had the older brother to jabber away for him. His words were little gifts he doled out sparingly. Begging and pleading for him to say things resulted in a patented cold hard silent stare in return. We were so delighted when he did start speaking that we called his brother “la-la” for at least a year because that’s the baby speak Jake used to refer to his brother. “Where la-la?”
But if their earliest words started as a trickle, I’m now struck by the feeling that, we are experiencing a virtual fire hose of communication. It’s coming at us full blast, pummeling us with daily insights and relentless inquiries.
The other night reading at bedtime, Jake stopped mid-sentence. “Mom, did you ever wonder why people started calling people chicken. Why do you think they used a chicken? Instead of saying you’re chicken why didn’t they say, ‘you’re cow?’ That would be cool.”
Or this from the backseat: “I think sumo wrestlers must be really brave.”
Me: “Why?”
Jake: “Cause they have to wear those….things. I bet those are uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want to walk around like that.”
Or this during a snack after school; “Mom, I want to be a scientist and blow things up.”
Me: “Jake, scientists don’t really blow things up so much at least not on purpose.”
“Oh, well then I want to be a race car driver or a spy.”
“Mom, we should conserve water by flushing the toilet only once a day.”
“Mom, isn’t everyone just a different shade of brown.”
“Mom, why don’t we have leg pits?”
But at 11, I see the process slowing down for my older son. His shared thoughts are becoming much more selective and I’m learning that when your tween chooses to speak you better be ready to listen.
Like one Friday morning we were running late for school and John volunteered this message as randomly as he would ask where his boots were.
“Mom, I had to stay in for recess all week.”
“Why?”
“Because we got in trouble at recess for tackling people.”
“Why did you wait til now to tell me?”
“I was afraid you’d get mad.”
Or this: “Is it true that cheez-its have acid in them that will kill you?”
Or this: “I just texted my friend and we were both pooping at the same time!”
None of it makes me mad. Most of it makes me smile. And it all makes me shake my head in wonder as I am continually amazed and delighted and always thankful for each little gift they share by simply opening their mouths but in turn sharing their thoughts and minds with the world.
Breaking News Jan 2010
We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this breaking news update.
“Mom, my tummy hurts.”
It’s the breaking news of parenthood. Never predictable, never convenient, and never avoidable, the announcement coming into the nerve center of the family like a police scanner at the assignment desk of the newsroom: we are about to embark on an adventure together that will not be fun. Adrenaline rush start now.
Jake arrived home from school last week with the news that his tummy hurt. A snack didn’t help and waiting out his brother’s music lesson in the back seat of the car only made things worse. By the trip home he was holding a bag and whimpering, “How much longer till we get there?”
Moments after we were home, the real impact of the illness hit, as we revisited the day’s meals emptying the contents of his stomach into the bathroom by the back door. It’s high alert time for everyone. As per usual, it happens when only one parent is at home. The other sibling has plans, lots of homework and is starving.
It is times like this that you earn your parenting stripes, manage to handle situations you are not at all sure you know how to handle, and climb the ladder of shared experience that only other parents can fully appreciate and understand. Somehow, amazingly, you grow through the experience in ways you never expect.
My son, feeling as horrible as a human can feel battling a nasty stomach virus, humbly says to me, “Mom, I’m sorry you have to clean that up.”
Over the course of the next 15 hours, my son would bravely battle nausea that would strike every half hour or 45 minutes. While trying to eek out little bits of sleep between urgent calls for “MAMA!!” I have just a minute to find a feeling of peace come over my body that says; this is a gift you are giving your son that he will remember his entire life. It’s a shared bonding that is like no other and neither of us will ever forget. Don’t you remember that night you were so sick and your mom stayed with you all night, wiping your brow, holding your hand, saying it would be ok? Don’t you miss that now?
Sometime around 4 a.m. both of us exhausted, Jake gazed into my eyes in his darkened room and said, “I’m so glad you’re here with me Mommy. I love you so much.”
Parents may not get paid in overtime like you do when there is breaking news in the newsroom, but that 4 a.m. paycheck is gold to me and is automatically deposited where it needs to go to get us through the rest of the breaking news story developing down the hall. Update at 10.
“Mom, my tummy hurts.”
It’s the breaking news of parenthood. Never predictable, never convenient, and never avoidable, the announcement coming into the nerve center of the family like a police scanner at the assignment desk of the newsroom: we are about to embark on an adventure together that will not be fun. Adrenaline rush start now.
Jake arrived home from school last week with the news that his tummy hurt. A snack didn’t help and waiting out his brother’s music lesson in the back seat of the car only made things worse. By the trip home he was holding a bag and whimpering, “How much longer till we get there?”
Moments after we were home, the real impact of the illness hit, as we revisited the day’s meals emptying the contents of his stomach into the bathroom by the back door. It’s high alert time for everyone. As per usual, it happens when only one parent is at home. The other sibling has plans, lots of homework and is starving.
It is times like this that you earn your parenting stripes, manage to handle situations you are not at all sure you know how to handle, and climb the ladder of shared experience that only other parents can fully appreciate and understand. Somehow, amazingly, you grow through the experience in ways you never expect.
My son, feeling as horrible as a human can feel battling a nasty stomach virus, humbly says to me, “Mom, I’m sorry you have to clean that up.”
Over the course of the next 15 hours, my son would bravely battle nausea that would strike every half hour or 45 minutes. While trying to eek out little bits of sleep between urgent calls for “MAMA!!” I have just a minute to find a feeling of peace come over my body that says; this is a gift you are giving your son that he will remember his entire life. It’s a shared bonding that is like no other and neither of us will ever forget. Don’t you remember that night you were so sick and your mom stayed with you all night, wiping your brow, holding your hand, saying it would be ok? Don’t you miss that now?
Sometime around 4 a.m. both of us exhausted, Jake gazed into my eyes in his darkened room and said, “I’m so glad you’re here with me Mommy. I love you so much.”
Parents may not get paid in overtime like you do when there is breaking news in the newsroom, but that 4 a.m. paycheck is gold to me and is automatically deposited where it needs to go to get us through the rest of the breaking news story developing down the hall. Update at 10.
Christmas Spirit Nov. 2009
Each week my 5th grader brings home a hand written report detailing events of the past days at school. His accounts are brief and chock full of misspellings. But what they lack in flourish and perfection, they often make up for in thought and spirit. “What I Did This Week” generally involves a list of the sports he played at recess. Followed by the “What I’m Proud of This Week” which is frequently tied to some success at the sports at recess. It’s all rounded out with the “What I’ll Work on Next Week” section which almost always involves a variation on the theme, “I will try not to talk while the teacher is talking.”
But these little reports also contain tiny little glimpses into my 10 year olds’ psyche. Like the day he wrote that he was proud he tried a new food at lunch—but didn’t like it. The day he wrote that he was proud he finished a book and followed that with the enthusiastic report that it was the best book he’d ever read. But occasionally there is a little gem of a story, scrawled in heavy hand that I tuck away as a little Christmas Present no matter what time of year it is. Like the day he wrote, “I’m proud I worked with the new kid at school today.”
When I asked for details, he shrugged and said, “Oh, yea, no one wanted to be his partner so I said I wanted to be his partner.”
“Wow, John, that was really cool of you,” I said.
“Yea, and mom, he is really nice and funny and I want to have him come over and play sometime.”
With Christmas just weeks away our conversations frequently turn to buying gifts and writing wish lists and getting it all done by the big day. But we also chat about generosity, and giving, and the real meaning of Christmas. The thing is, I believe it’s a year round lesson and that growing a generous spirit can’t be cultivated in just a few weeks before Christmas.
Among the dozens of collections contained in my youngest son’s room is an ever expanding rock collection. At bedtime he will frequently tell me he’s given away his favorite rock or fossil because a friend didn’t have one. Most times his action is completely without thought of what he is giving up and that is occasionally followed by second thoughts at bedtime. But, in the end, we usually agree, it feels pretty good to give someone a special thing that has meaning to us and he falls asleep happy.
Each night I search these blue eyes that stare back at me at bedtime, for the little daily Christmas Presents of a spontaneous kind heart, and generous nature. I squeeze my eyes shut tight when they wrap their arms around my neck. I think how much I love their kind little souls and feel proud that this week we nurtured their generosity beyond the Christmas spirit--the best Christmas gifts they could ever give me.
But these little reports also contain tiny little glimpses into my 10 year olds’ psyche. Like the day he wrote that he was proud he tried a new food at lunch—but didn’t like it. The day he wrote that he was proud he finished a book and followed that with the enthusiastic report that it was the best book he’d ever read. But occasionally there is a little gem of a story, scrawled in heavy hand that I tuck away as a little Christmas Present no matter what time of year it is. Like the day he wrote, “I’m proud I worked with the new kid at school today.”
When I asked for details, he shrugged and said, “Oh, yea, no one wanted to be his partner so I said I wanted to be his partner.”
“Wow, John, that was really cool of you,” I said.
“Yea, and mom, he is really nice and funny and I want to have him come over and play sometime.”
With Christmas just weeks away our conversations frequently turn to buying gifts and writing wish lists and getting it all done by the big day. But we also chat about generosity, and giving, and the real meaning of Christmas. The thing is, I believe it’s a year round lesson and that growing a generous spirit can’t be cultivated in just a few weeks before Christmas.
Among the dozens of collections contained in my youngest son’s room is an ever expanding rock collection. At bedtime he will frequently tell me he’s given away his favorite rock or fossil because a friend didn’t have one. Most times his action is completely without thought of what he is giving up and that is occasionally followed by second thoughts at bedtime. But, in the end, we usually agree, it feels pretty good to give someone a special thing that has meaning to us and he falls asleep happy.
Each night I search these blue eyes that stare back at me at bedtime, for the little daily Christmas Presents of a spontaneous kind heart, and generous nature. I squeeze my eyes shut tight when they wrap their arms around my neck. I think how much I love their kind little souls and feel proud that this week we nurtured their generosity beyond the Christmas spirit--the best Christmas gifts they could ever give me.
Say Cheese October 2009
For the last 19 years I have called the Madison area home. But it took my flatlander uncle and my tornado alley parents roaming the back roads of this delightful dairy land to uncover a little slice of true Wisconsin heritage right under my nose.
The goldmine they discovered isn’t a mine—but it is almost underground. The Silver Lewis Cheese Co-op is in rural Monticello in Green County. It’s built into the side of a hilltop where it’s been producing cheese with milk from local farms since 1897.
Silver Lewis is known for its Brick and Muenster cheese. But this little operation can also be noted for quietly bridging a generation gap.
Even though I have sampled a number of their cheeses, it was only recently I planned my first trip to the factory store. That’s when I discovered that while I share a love of Silver Lewis Cheese with my parents, my ability to navigate my way to their hilltop was challenged by a distinct difference between my generation and my parents’. Somewhere between the two there have appeared Swiss-cheese-sized holes in my generation’s ability to travel this globe using the north and south poles as landmarks.
When I called my dad for directions he rattled them off without even pausing to think. “You head South and go through New Glarus on 69. You turn East onto County Road “F” and head into Monticello. Now there will be a pond over on the South side of the road so you go past that and through a couple of stop signs and the road curves around to the South again and then right after it turns back East “F” curves off to the South and “EE” goes on to the East so keep going East on EE. After a few miles you will see a junction sign for D. It goes north but the factory is right there on the south side of the road. Right over the crest of a hill, you can’t miss it.”
WHAT??!! Where do I turn right and left? I had to slowly translate each direction into terms I could manage to navigate at driving speeds.
I will tell you right now, I have never in my life given directions using north, south, east or west. How did my GPS generation become so directionally challenged while those before us apparently have some kind of built-in compass?
After a beautiful drive, I found myself sitting on the south side of the road in the tiny parking lot of Silver Lewis Cheese Coop feeling pretty proud of myself. It is just as they described. A no frills factory below an apparent home, with a hand painted “open” sign perched outside the swinging screen door leading to a loading dock and tiny retail counter. Workers were loading boxes on a pallet to be shipped to New York, while another worker handled huge blocks of bright yellow cheese for packaging. Another white cloaked worker took time to sell me my favorite Basil Muenster and a few chunks of the most delicious cheese you ever want to sample. The same cheese they’ve been making for a hundred years, long before GPS and satellite, right here on the south side of the road just south of Monticello.
The goldmine they discovered isn’t a mine—but it is almost underground. The Silver Lewis Cheese Co-op is in rural Monticello in Green County. It’s built into the side of a hilltop where it’s been producing cheese with milk from local farms since 1897.
Silver Lewis is known for its Brick and Muenster cheese. But this little operation can also be noted for quietly bridging a generation gap.
Even though I have sampled a number of their cheeses, it was only recently I planned my first trip to the factory store. That’s when I discovered that while I share a love of Silver Lewis Cheese with my parents, my ability to navigate my way to their hilltop was challenged by a distinct difference between my generation and my parents’. Somewhere between the two there have appeared Swiss-cheese-sized holes in my generation’s ability to travel this globe using the north and south poles as landmarks.
When I called my dad for directions he rattled them off without even pausing to think. “You head South and go through New Glarus on 69. You turn East onto County Road “F” and head into Monticello. Now there will be a pond over on the South side of the road so you go past that and through a couple of stop signs and the road curves around to the South again and then right after it turns back East “F” curves off to the South and “EE” goes on to the East so keep going East on EE. After a few miles you will see a junction sign for D. It goes north but the factory is right there on the south side of the road. Right over the crest of a hill, you can’t miss it.”
WHAT??!! Where do I turn right and left? I had to slowly translate each direction into terms I could manage to navigate at driving speeds.
I will tell you right now, I have never in my life given directions using north, south, east or west. How did my GPS generation become so directionally challenged while those before us apparently have some kind of built-in compass?
After a beautiful drive, I found myself sitting on the south side of the road in the tiny parking lot of Silver Lewis Cheese Coop feeling pretty proud of myself. It is just as they described. A no frills factory below an apparent home, with a hand painted “open” sign perched outside the swinging screen door leading to a loading dock and tiny retail counter. Workers were loading boxes on a pallet to be shipped to New York, while another worker handled huge blocks of bright yellow cheese for packaging. Another white cloaked worker took time to sell me my favorite Basil Muenster and a few chunks of the most delicious cheese you ever want to sample. The same cheese they’ve been making for a hundred years, long before GPS and satellite, right here on the south side of the road just south of Monticello.
Photographic Memory Aug. 2009
This summer we celebrated our 16th anniversary. As part of our celebration, I learned how to use the movie maker function on my computer and put together a video retrospective of our life together. Nothing complicated at all for the millions of computer literate people who can make their electronic devices do back flips while mine stares at me and laughs.
Most of our lives are recorded in actual old style photo albums—so turning them to video involves a process of scanning and editing that—once I figured it out proved to be quite enjoyable. It was a stroll down memory lane that made me laugh out loud, cry for people gone from our lives now, and stop in my tracks at photos of events I’d completely forgotten. I was amazed at how much I DIDN’T remember! How can that be?
When I look back, I find it interesting I can remember each moment of some of our crazier days. But not a single second of some of the days I thought at the time would be monumental. I remember hardly anything about closing on our first house, but I remember in living color the day in the back yard at that house when we watched a woodchuck emerge from hibernating all winter about 10 feet in front of us.
I can remember some of the exact gymnastic maneuvers our two kitten siblings performed on our kitchen floor. I can remember the first time we learned our adopted dog Bob was afraid of thunderstorms and nearly came through our back door without opening it.
I think it’s the funny, spontaneous moments that never land in a scrap book or photo album that you never forget…and the others you need pictures to remember.
For my parents, one of their most famous hilarious stories is as vivid as a video in all of our minds, but not a picture exists to attest to the truth of it. It goes like this: Dad spilled a can of stain on himself and their brand new porch. He quickly stripped out of the stain covered pants … but when he went to go in the house he discovered mom had locked the doors when she left for the store. So, he had to run to another door without pants! Inside he threw on the first thing he found on the floor and hurried back to the porch to clean the stain off the floor, but when he bent over, the pants he threw on split wide open front to back. In the next few moments my mother burst onto the porch announcing their friends had come to see the new room! We can hardly breathe as dad re-tells how he had to keep standing with his back to the wall behind furniture to chat in his air conditioned shorts.
I could never stop taking pictures, but my little summer project reminded me that some of the best pictures only live in our memories.
Most of our lives are recorded in actual old style photo albums—so turning them to video involves a process of scanning and editing that—once I figured it out proved to be quite enjoyable. It was a stroll down memory lane that made me laugh out loud, cry for people gone from our lives now, and stop in my tracks at photos of events I’d completely forgotten. I was amazed at how much I DIDN’T remember! How can that be?
When I look back, I find it interesting I can remember each moment of some of our crazier days. But not a single second of some of the days I thought at the time would be monumental. I remember hardly anything about closing on our first house, but I remember in living color the day in the back yard at that house when we watched a woodchuck emerge from hibernating all winter about 10 feet in front of us.
I can remember some of the exact gymnastic maneuvers our two kitten siblings performed on our kitchen floor. I can remember the first time we learned our adopted dog Bob was afraid of thunderstorms and nearly came through our back door without opening it.
I think it’s the funny, spontaneous moments that never land in a scrap book or photo album that you never forget…and the others you need pictures to remember.
For my parents, one of their most famous hilarious stories is as vivid as a video in all of our minds, but not a picture exists to attest to the truth of it. It goes like this: Dad spilled a can of stain on himself and their brand new porch. He quickly stripped out of the stain covered pants … but when he went to go in the house he discovered mom had locked the doors when she left for the store. So, he had to run to another door without pants! Inside he threw on the first thing he found on the floor and hurried back to the porch to clean the stain off the floor, but when he bent over, the pants he threw on split wide open front to back. In the next few moments my mother burst onto the porch announcing their friends had come to see the new room! We can hardly breathe as dad re-tells how he had to keep standing with his back to the wall behind furniture to chat in his air conditioned shorts.
I could never stop taking pictures, but my little summer project reminded me that some of the best pictures only live in our memories.
Eagle River Daze July 2009
“I got one! I got one!” Jake is yelling. “I got one!”
Indeed it’s true. Dangling from the end of his fishing pole is a beautiful four-inch long fish!
“Let me see!” his brother crowds in to get a look. Even though it’s smaller than the goldfish in our pond, it is the catch of the day and the thrill of a lifetime for our soon to be 8 year old. Standing barefoot on a dock of a pristine lake in Eagle River, our fisherman beams with excitement and pride and poses for pictures with this fish that’s barely bigger than the hook that snagged it. He examines each inch of it, feeling it in his hand and begging to keep it before finally letting go. He is a living breathing tourism commercial, scrambling to get his bobber back on top of the lake, poised to reel in another, and then another and then another and his brother at his side doing the same.
All the while the waves are gently rocking the old swimming deck next to them, the sun is sliding lower in the afternoon sky and there is even a breeze pushing up the front of Jake’s hair like a high five.
Every now and then you get lucky enough to realize that something really big is happening right before your eyes and if your lucky you take time to soak it in so you can remember every angle of it and not forget any tiny detail because it’s perfect.
That’s what happened to us this year when we got the chance to spend a few days together up north.
We watched from beaches, and kayaks and jet skis, as a Norman Rockwell painting of two boys unleashed in nature’s grand beauty appeared before us each day. And we became a part of the canvas in this place where time passes as you please. It’s the kind of time you hope every kid can experience while he’s still a kid.
What we discovered is nothing astonishing to anyone who’s been there. It’s about the simple enjoyment of summertime the way it has been enjoyed for generations and generations because it just doesn’t get any better than this: barefoot, sun kissed, in a swim suit sun up to sundown, whiling away the hours lounging in a swing, eating when you remember your hungry, and marveling at the amazing beauty all around you.
We all pointed and craned our necks to watch a bald eagle soar overhead then dip down to catch breakfast. Our whole family was together in a boat that passed by so close to a loon we could see his beautiful stripes and long beak. Together, with the help of our aptly named fishing guide “Tadpole” we hauled in a 28-inch pike, watched him shine in the sun for a moment and then waved him back to the deep water where he came from. And to celebrate we had root beers and lunch at Soda Pop’s in town and finished up our meal with the giant Eagle Tower ice cream sundae (two scoops of every flavor topped with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and a cherry!)
The entire experience, though only four days long, gave us memories to last a lifetime.
Indeed it’s true. Dangling from the end of his fishing pole is a beautiful four-inch long fish!
“Let me see!” his brother crowds in to get a look. Even though it’s smaller than the goldfish in our pond, it is the catch of the day and the thrill of a lifetime for our soon to be 8 year old. Standing barefoot on a dock of a pristine lake in Eagle River, our fisherman beams with excitement and pride and poses for pictures with this fish that’s barely bigger than the hook that snagged it. He examines each inch of it, feeling it in his hand and begging to keep it before finally letting go. He is a living breathing tourism commercial, scrambling to get his bobber back on top of the lake, poised to reel in another, and then another and then another and his brother at his side doing the same.
All the while the waves are gently rocking the old swimming deck next to them, the sun is sliding lower in the afternoon sky and there is even a breeze pushing up the front of Jake’s hair like a high five.
Every now and then you get lucky enough to realize that something really big is happening right before your eyes and if your lucky you take time to soak it in so you can remember every angle of it and not forget any tiny detail because it’s perfect.
That’s what happened to us this year when we got the chance to spend a few days together up north.
We watched from beaches, and kayaks and jet skis, as a Norman Rockwell painting of two boys unleashed in nature’s grand beauty appeared before us each day. And we became a part of the canvas in this place where time passes as you please. It’s the kind of time you hope every kid can experience while he’s still a kid.
What we discovered is nothing astonishing to anyone who’s been there. It’s about the simple enjoyment of summertime the way it has been enjoyed for generations and generations because it just doesn’t get any better than this: barefoot, sun kissed, in a swim suit sun up to sundown, whiling away the hours lounging in a swing, eating when you remember your hungry, and marveling at the amazing beauty all around you.
We all pointed and craned our necks to watch a bald eagle soar overhead then dip down to catch breakfast. Our whole family was together in a boat that passed by so close to a loon we could see his beautiful stripes and long beak. Together, with the help of our aptly named fishing guide “Tadpole” we hauled in a 28-inch pike, watched him shine in the sun for a moment and then waved him back to the deep water where he came from. And to celebrate we had root beers and lunch at Soda Pop’s in town and finished up our meal with the giant Eagle Tower ice cream sundae (two scoops of every flavor topped with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and a cherry!)
The entire experience, though only four days long, gave us memories to last a lifetime.
Butterflies
I’m watching from the front porch as my boys walk up the street from school. Every day this week Jake has walked home with one or both arms outstretched in front of him—transporting caterpillars he’s found along the way.
“Look, Mom, two more!” He shouts from the street. He’s certain that each is going to go through it’s metamorphosis in his bedroom.
This is our first experience trying to nurture butterflies out of these fuzzy caterpillars.
But our experience with butterflies takes a happy journey back long before Jake can even remember. The summer John was only about 4 and Jake was just a toddler, John grew an insatiable fascination with monarch butterflies during a trip to my parent’s home. They have a huge bush that attracts the beautiful butterflies by the dozens. John got it in his head that he was going to catch one. Long butterfly net in one hand and butterfly house in the other, he marched safari style out to the yard to begin his quest. What ensued was one of the more delightful summer memories I have of him as a carefree pre-schooler. He would eye up the bush, pick out a pair of wings usually perched many feet above his head and then make a swing at the butterfly sending it skyward. The chase was on. I remember watching as he ran full speed, head to the sky, net outstretched and swinging wildly, his chubby legs cutting this way and jagging that way in hot pursuit of the impossible. He would give chase through the neighbor’s yard and down the street before finally returning home, red faced and breathless. Even though we told him a patient watchful method might work better than running them down, he was undeterred. Returning to the butterfly bush time and again to wildly chase down one of the elusive beauties.
And then, to our amazement, it happened. His little net swinging high in the sky actually contained orange and black when he looked inside. “I got one! I got one!” He screamed.
For the next day we admired the beautiful prize, feeding it sugar water and posing for trophy pictures. And then, we set him free, back at the bush where it all began.
In the back yard I now have a metal sculpture of a boy running with a butterfly net high above his head. It makes me smile every day as I watch my two adventurous little men stretch out their own wings and run headstrong into another carefree summer of caterpillars, cocoons and butterflies.
“Look, Mom, two more!” He shouts from the street. He’s certain that each is going to go through it’s metamorphosis in his bedroom.
This is our first experience trying to nurture butterflies out of these fuzzy caterpillars.
But our experience with butterflies takes a happy journey back long before Jake can even remember. The summer John was only about 4 and Jake was just a toddler, John grew an insatiable fascination with monarch butterflies during a trip to my parent’s home. They have a huge bush that attracts the beautiful butterflies by the dozens. John got it in his head that he was going to catch one. Long butterfly net in one hand and butterfly house in the other, he marched safari style out to the yard to begin his quest. What ensued was one of the more delightful summer memories I have of him as a carefree pre-schooler. He would eye up the bush, pick out a pair of wings usually perched many feet above his head and then make a swing at the butterfly sending it skyward. The chase was on. I remember watching as he ran full speed, head to the sky, net outstretched and swinging wildly, his chubby legs cutting this way and jagging that way in hot pursuit of the impossible. He would give chase through the neighbor’s yard and down the street before finally returning home, red faced and breathless. Even though we told him a patient watchful method might work better than running them down, he was undeterred. Returning to the butterfly bush time and again to wildly chase down one of the elusive beauties.
And then, to our amazement, it happened. His little net swinging high in the sky actually contained orange and black when he looked inside. “I got one! I got one!” He screamed.
For the next day we admired the beautiful prize, feeding it sugar water and posing for trophy pictures. And then, we set him free, back at the bush where it all began.
In the back yard I now have a metal sculpture of a boy running with a butterfly net high above his head. It makes me smile every day as I watch my two adventurous little men stretch out their own wings and run headstrong into another carefree summer of caterpillars, cocoons and butterflies.
Battle Zone May 2009
Our house is under attack. It started a week or two ago with a friendly little tapping at our window. We all thought it was quaint. A bright-red pointy-crested cardinal was tapping his beak on our front picture window. Amazed, we all gathered round to watch, and sure enough he returned to land on the closest branch of the tree out front, and then flutter right up to the window and give it a tap, tap, tap with his beak.
But it didn’t stop at breakfast. In fact, he continued to gather momentum and as the day progressed, his tapping became more of a head banging and his wing flutters more of a thrashing against the window. I realized he was seeing himself in the window and I felt bad for him spending all that energy on his own reflection. So I put the fall scarecrow decoration against the front picture window to scare him away.
It worked for a day or two. But then, his little rapping noises came back. Blatantly ignoring the scarecrow, he moved just one window over. So I hung a shiny metallic-blue streamer next to the scarecrow.
The next morning my son called in from watching TV and said, “Mom, that cardinal is tapping on the sliding door out back!”
From there he discovered the upstairs windows in the front and back of the house.
For weeks now he’s been at it, banging his head on every window of our home from dawn til dusk, relentless. The bird experts say he’s likely to continue this behavior during nesting season and even until the young leave the nest because he’s feeling territorial.
Then it occurs to me, maybe these won’t be his first eggs. Maybe he and his cardinal bride raised a family last year too, laboring to build a home, carefully nurturing the chicks out of infancy, working day and night to keep them fed and dry and warm, building their confidence to stretch their own wings and eventually leave the nest.
Just think if we humans had to go through this parenting process annually. Doesn’t the very thought make you instinctively raise your hands to your head to massage your temples? Doesn’t parenthood make all of us crazy enough from time to time to bang our heads against our own reflection in the futile attempt to make sense of it all.
It seems I have more in common with my accidental comrade than I thought. Now, in the morning I drink my coffee by the window where he’s flinging himself. I’ve given up trying to discourage him. Instead, I encourage him to have patience, that this too will pass, and I try to accept and absorb a tiny bit of the mental fortitude and resolve I see in this delicate little warrior headed down life’s journey through parenthood, just doing the best he can.
But it didn’t stop at breakfast. In fact, he continued to gather momentum and as the day progressed, his tapping became more of a head banging and his wing flutters more of a thrashing against the window. I realized he was seeing himself in the window and I felt bad for him spending all that energy on his own reflection. So I put the fall scarecrow decoration against the front picture window to scare him away.
It worked for a day or two. But then, his little rapping noises came back. Blatantly ignoring the scarecrow, he moved just one window over. So I hung a shiny metallic-blue streamer next to the scarecrow.
The next morning my son called in from watching TV and said, “Mom, that cardinal is tapping on the sliding door out back!”
From there he discovered the upstairs windows in the front and back of the house.
For weeks now he’s been at it, banging his head on every window of our home from dawn til dusk, relentless. The bird experts say he’s likely to continue this behavior during nesting season and even until the young leave the nest because he’s feeling territorial.
Then it occurs to me, maybe these won’t be his first eggs. Maybe he and his cardinal bride raised a family last year too, laboring to build a home, carefully nurturing the chicks out of infancy, working day and night to keep them fed and dry and warm, building their confidence to stretch their own wings and eventually leave the nest.
Just think if we humans had to go through this parenting process annually. Doesn’t the very thought make you instinctively raise your hands to your head to massage your temples? Doesn’t parenthood make all of us crazy enough from time to time to bang our heads against our own reflection in the futile attempt to make sense of it all.
It seems I have more in common with my accidental comrade than I thought. Now, in the morning I drink my coffee by the window where he’s flinging himself. I’ve given up trying to discourage him. Instead, I encourage him to have patience, that this too will pass, and I try to accept and absorb a tiny bit of the mental fortitude and resolve I see in this delicate little warrior headed down life’s journey through parenthood, just doing the best he can.
Music To My Ears April 2009
The big dead tree that’s been waiting to topple over in our back yard finally did it’s deed the night of those big 50-mile-an-hour winds, taking part of the fence and deck railing with it. What we saw when we woke up was the hot mess it made of the back yard, but that’s not what the kids saw. They saw adventure. All afternoon they climbed all over the massive trunk, balancing with arms outstretched as they walked, and grabbing the splintered sticks created from the crumbled branches as their props. It’s a performance I can’t take my eyes off of as I watch their stage from the back window, wondering what the details of the game might be but not daring to get too close for fear of ruining the moment.
I appreciate their chance for creativity. With the tight schedules kids these days keep, and the temptation of video games, TV and computers, these chances to make it up as you go along are not as frequent as they used to be. That’s why I was so excited a few weeks ago when John came home from school and announced that every fourth grader was getting a recorder. I thought immediately of his father, Craig, at the same age, given a tape recorder by his principal at school, on which he recorded his little 10-year-old voice calling the play by play action of his older brother playing basketball in their driveway, and in the process creating a priceless family treasure.
But that was not to be. These recorders aren’t for recording anything. They are intended, apparently, to be musical instruments. But during the early days of recorder practice they are actually instruments of torture. The sounds that come from these little flute like devices would shock you and, I’m fairly certain, if placed in the right hands, could be used to make a spy divulge international secrets to escape the sounds attacking their eardrums.
But through clenched teeth, I encouraged more practice, patience, and excitement at each milestone. Finally, the shrill squealing started to resemble notes, one followed by another and then the formation of Hot Cross Buns, a monumental triumph celebrated in our kitchen with cheers and applause! Now, I’m happy to report, I’m enjoying listening to very sweet little songs followed by a proud grin for each new creation.
It’s a small price to pay, I see now, for my son to have the opportunity to experience the accomplishment of creating music and the self esteem that comes with it. I guess the clean up of the tree, although a bigger pricetag, will also be worth the family memories it created as we remember the time the tree fell in the back yard and out of chaos came a day of creativity.
I appreciate their chance for creativity. With the tight schedules kids these days keep, and the temptation of video games, TV and computers, these chances to make it up as you go along are not as frequent as they used to be. That’s why I was so excited a few weeks ago when John came home from school and announced that every fourth grader was getting a recorder. I thought immediately of his father, Craig, at the same age, given a tape recorder by his principal at school, on which he recorded his little 10-year-old voice calling the play by play action of his older brother playing basketball in their driveway, and in the process creating a priceless family treasure.
But that was not to be. These recorders aren’t for recording anything. They are intended, apparently, to be musical instruments. But during the early days of recorder practice they are actually instruments of torture. The sounds that come from these little flute like devices would shock you and, I’m fairly certain, if placed in the right hands, could be used to make a spy divulge international secrets to escape the sounds attacking their eardrums.
But through clenched teeth, I encouraged more practice, patience, and excitement at each milestone. Finally, the shrill squealing started to resemble notes, one followed by another and then the formation of Hot Cross Buns, a monumental triumph celebrated in our kitchen with cheers and applause! Now, I’m happy to report, I’m enjoying listening to very sweet little songs followed by a proud grin for each new creation.
It’s a small price to pay, I see now, for my son to have the opportunity to experience the accomplishment of creating music and the self esteem that comes with it. I guess the clean up of the tree, although a bigger pricetag, will also be worth the family memories it created as we remember the time the tree fell in the back yard and out of chaos came a day of creativity.
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