Friendless Skies

Can't shake this feeling of despair and remembered how I felt on this flight.  I think how we treat and connect with each other individually directly affects how we act as a society treating individuals.  We have to do better.  This sky feels like crying to me.

.

Friendless Skies

Oh dear. Flying cross country from Los Angeles to Minneapolis, I have realized that we are all living in some bizarre Orwellian Sci-Fi horror movie and it has nothing to do with the airline, flight attendants or weather. It has to do with us, the passengers. The passengers who no longer choose to connect with our own species. All around ( me included as I finish one movie and a smattering of Ted Talks) are humans who no longer choose to engage.  Instead we are pacified by staring into individual boxes in front of us.  We carry our devices on with us, use the ones offered us and myopically never look left or right.

I think of the heyday of travel. When people chose to dress for their journeys…pill box hats, gloves, jackets, ties…all with respectful purpose and with the intention to engage. Travel was part of the joy. Even if everyone’s future was totally compromised by the clouded blue smoky fog of endless cigarettes, long hours of travel were filled with conversation and connection. With the understanding…we are on this path together.

We now have individual channels, headsets, and even walls in certain seats, to ensure 

in every way we immerse in a singular experience. We will never discover our six or seven degrees of separation at this point. An entire future of disconnect perfectly planned for our travel comfort.  Happy friggin' trails. 

Swamp Boy

Today my son Rob turns 25.  Each year at Christmas, instead of giving loved ones presents, I give each person a word.  And then write a comment accompanying that word explaining the reason why. This past year, the word 'tenacity' spoke to me for Rob. I've never seen a goal that he has not doggedly pursued. And his hard work pays off.

My birthday present to him is a memory that he stars in and  also speaks of tenaciousness. Here's to you Rob...and for everyone else, a sneak vignette of my next 'pleasurable pause' book reflecting life on Pleasant Lake--

Swamp Boy

My son Rob once informed us when we picked him up from a YMCA summer camp renowned for its outdoor adventure programs, “You know, I am not really that fond of Nature”.  And I believe I know the moment in his life when he had this revelation.  And in some ways, I can’t blame him. The day he decided Nature wasn’t his friend is also the day I declared him my hero.

For several years, the Larson family checked into the Shelter as our guests.  The first year, Robby, who was twelve, met Alison, who was eleven, he offered to show the Larsons the lake. And all 72 pounds of him insisted on commanding Matthew’s granddaddy kayak as he led an entourage of canoes, kayaks and one paddle boat off on their great explore. Imagine my surprise when the contingency all returned minus one large green kayak and one fearless leader.  I could not get in my kayak fast enough when I heard the reason why.                                                                                                       

We have a ‘nursery’ at the lake….an inner sanctum bay that one arrives to by going through the ‘secret passage’.  It’s where the Sand Hill cranes, Great Northern herons, assorted turtles and hundreds of other species of both fauna and wildlife congregate to raise their young, feed, and find sanctuary.  It becomes almost jungle-like, teaming with percolating boggy clumps and thick-as-carpet water lilies by the time August arrives. Paddling through the dense pads and tunnels of towering cat tails and marsh grasses reminds me of some far Asian growing field—definitely ‘other worldly'.

It was August when the Larson’s arrived.  When Rob, in his bravado offered to escort the group through the secret passage, they assessed the situation and determined the boggy path impassable and turned back. My tenacious twelve year-old, determined to impress a certain little someone, sallied forth into the swamp. “He’s where? And you left him?” I asked with my voice rising as I scrambled into my kayak and took off for the back bay. 

Half-way there, in the middle of the lake, I see a small bobbing head swimming towards me.  And discover a very humbled Robby making his way home.  “Where’s Dad’s kayak?” I ask, not really relishing the answer.  “In the middle of the swamp”.  Robby’s fierceness drove him into the middle of the bog, but his slight stature and fatigue did not allow him to paddle out of it.  “So”, he explained to me, “I folded my clothes and left them on the kayak so you would know that I had left the boat on purpose if you came looking for me and found the empty kayak”.  Which meant he entered a bottomless murk of spongy, pungent, mucky water (that at the highest point came up to his neck) with all sorts of slimy, creepy swamp paraphernalia attaching to him as he made his way through. “You know, we have to go fetch the kayak”, I informed him, so he draped himself over my bow and we headed to the entrance of the secret passage.

And then we stopped.  I could not paddle through the floating carpet of muck to where Matthew’s kayak waited, cradled in the gurgling bosom of the bog.  That’s when my boy became a man in front of my eyes, “I’ll go get it Mom, I left it”, and dang if he didn’t re-enter the quagmire, trudge through chest deep yuck and return with kayak towed in hand.  Only if Alison could have witnessed that feat!  And that’s when he became my hero and he decided, down to his bones perhaps, that he really wasn’t that fond of Nature.

What To Do With Clownie?

January equals purge month.  We seem to push the reset buttons starting around January 2nd and I am no exception.  Reset exercise. Reset consumption. Reset accumulation.  It's the last one that burdens me. After the grand purge of emptying my parents home, I cannot bear the weight of  my cluttered life collection.

 A convenient January blizzard blowing outside and a house-bound husband recovering from surgery, has me moving full throttle in tossing and reshuffling the endless mounds of paperwork and stuff.  What to do with my descriptive essay from Mrs. Iglar's 7th grade class?  And how about all the written proof that I once held Very Important Jobs in the corporate world?  And in reducing my wardrobe by half, what vintage piece isn't going to be the next best thing?  And then there is Clownie. What to do with Clownie?

Few people know that as a young child I was practically raised by a Sisterhood of Nuns. Real nuns.
Not the ruler-bearing, hand-rapping, pinching type of nuns.  But ones who devoted their lives to providing nurturing, loving care to infirm elderly people.  As in past vernacular, 'Old Folks Home' elderly people.  When my parents first moved to Wisconsin with five children from ages nine to two, they rented a large Queen Anne rambler from the Sisters of the St. Elizabeth Nursing Home.  Right next door.

During the early part of  my Wonder-bread formative years (between the ages of two and six), my mother, once all my older siblings were in school, sprung herself from the singular world of house work and became a committed community volunteer and a competitive golfer.  Her attention span towards me, her youngest, had been released of the Dr. Spock grip that had kept her razor-focused starting with my sister, my eldest sibling.  Raising three sons in between us wore her out in the vigilance department. So basically, much of the time, I was on my own.  I knew the rules...a big swat followed if I ventured down the driveway towards the street.  But going across the driveway, through the hedge to St. Elizabeth's was okay and often encouraged.

It was entering a portal into another world.  Kind of like Oz from the black and white of Kansas City.
My memory is of a Halcion pastoral setting. The Sisters toiled in their over-run vegetable garden always bursting with some sort of bounty for their kitchen.  I would mosey between them, often enveloped in their long black skirts, encouraged to help in all their tasks.  They clucked happily to each other in German.  My favorite was Sister Valeria.  She was a cook in the kitchen and I trailed her endlessly.

Learning to cook with love started for me in that huge, cheery, sun-filled room.  I was mesmerized by what seemed like vats of  fruited batters whipped up in commercial-sized Kitchen Aids. To this day, I cannot use a spatula to empty a bowl without thinking of Sister Valeria and being intent on getting every last bit. I learned also about thriftiness and cleverness as I witnessed their culinary creations.

Thriftiness and cleverness were part of the Sisters' creed throughout their community.  Nothing went to waste.  Bins of broad satin ribbons (saved from the endless delivery of formal floral arrangements) collected with bags of discarded cotton underthings and hosiery, that although were deemed unwearable, were still perfectly usable for their handiwork as they produced endless items for their gift shop.  I was five years old when I received, Clownie, a colorful striped satin-clad sock clown
with a hooked nose and embroidered face.  My mostly companion who still sits in my boudoir chair today.  He has not aged well and would frighten a child at this point.  And I am flummoxed. I should have parted with him years ago.

Every time I focus on him, or find him beneath a pile, I think of the Sisters who in their busy, task-
driven lives welcomed whole heartedly this young girl set adrift and who left a core of indelible life lessons with their gentle teachings and love. I wish there was a St. Elizabeth's home for our stuffed friends.  In the meantime, the verdict is in, Clownie stays.  Besides, he knows every last one of my secrets.

Party Time

There were two things I could count on from my mother when she chose to entertain in our home.  Her Party Feet and her Party Steak. Party Feet sounds happy but in reality this phenom spread dread in our family ranks.  Invariably, it began early in the morning while my four siblings and I were happily sleeping off whatever mischief we encountered the night prior.  We would wake to the 'slap, slap, slap' of my mother's bare feet marching down the long hall that led her to each of our respective slumbers.  The word 'Achtung!' comes to mind as we all jumped to attention to receive our marching orders for the day. Being a guest in our house was memorable.

Now Party Steak was the 'carrot' we all followed with hopes to enjoy after the last guest departed.  A classic 'Never In The Kitchen When Company Arrives' (The Zen bible in early sixties cooking), no-fail recipe, for a Sirloin Roast with Piquante sauce (I have brought the recipe forward and substituted portabellas for my non-steak eating friends) that one can Do Ahead and Serves A Crowd.  We were the left-over crowd. And it was tasty.  Really tasty.

Good lord willing and with safe travels, tomorrow, the five of us gather, most likely, one last time in our family home to dismantle sixty-three years of our collective life crafted by our parents who are now gone.  Ugh....its 'the stuff' part. It's time.  Its good. And I am excited about the weekend.  Not so much for the inevitable roller coaster of laughter and tears but because I get to spend two nights with my three brothers and sister under one roof! And so many I know are no longer able to say that. And we like each other.  We are the gift that our parents left us.  Anything else can be found on EBay.  My mantra this past weekend has been to repeat out loud "I am so happy for you to have that....".

In hopes that we all behave as we were raised, I am dangling the 'carrot'.  Yes we will be sitting together to enjoy Steak Piquante.  Although the dining room table has already moved on, we will find places to perch and hopefully savor collectively the tastes of our childhood.  And it will taste happy.   Perhaps we will all do the Party Feet dance on the bare wood floors.  This is my hope.

I am so happy for you to have that.......


(Secret weapon #2.....56oz bag of Peanut M&Ms... a party in your mouth).

                                                        (Our street addresses growing up.)

Choose to Connect.

It seems each summer, life on Pleasant Lake offers me an opportunity to make an unusual connection.
One year I hung out with a group of owls canopied in a willow room; we eyed each other almost daily with tilted heads. Another summer, a pair of Sandhill Cranes allowed me into their marshy inner-bog sanctum, a perfect evening cocktail cruise destination in my kayak.  Some years, Great Blue Herons play a non-stop game of  'I Am Ahead of You' as they fly from limb to shoreline to limb all around the lake. And if I happen to take the lead....'Squawk, squawk, squawk'.

 This year's connection however, is proving to be elusive. Typically each spring, we are pleased to receive a visiting Loon who pauses for about a week as he or she heads up to Northern Wisconsin.  This summer, perhaps due to our extreme winter, the Loon chose to stay on Pleasant Lake.  And better yet, somehow found a mate!  Loons are intriguing and not so interested in connecting. They quietly swim  along and the minute I get a tiny bit close, they turn butt-up, dive deep and swim underwater popping back up clear across the lake.  Their lyrical call is plaintive and yes, just a little bit crazy sounding. I love the call of the loon.  Our pair didn't have much to say on Pleasant Lake most likely because they were mated.  I remember a line from a favorite camp song titled, 'The Voyageur', that talks about  'the call of the lonely Loon'.  Although I missed hearing the calls, I was happy for their contentment.  And then things changed.  Now there is only one Loon again swimming alone at sunset.  Nature can be so heartbreaking.

Enter the Girl Scouts.  Last night, the girls at Camp Pottawatomie were having a big time.  The lake echoed with the peals of their laughter, singing and chanting.  Girls unabashedly being girls.  As I happily listened to their squeals ringing from shore to shore, I heard another sound.  Our lonely Loon...trebling along to their joyful noise.  Girls then loon. Girls then loon. Ahh...connection!

Post Script

Nature did not break any hearts here....She was just being very, very patient and very busy.   We now have baby loons on Pleasant Lake!    In true loon fashion though, they are not interested in a photo op.

Fresh Water Fun

Many have asked if I have another book in me.  I think the answer is finally, yes!  This
idea, documenting our life spent on Pleasant Lake (yes, it truly lives up to its name) was going to
be my first foray into publishing until 'Stay For Lunch' bubbled up and demanded to be heard.

So there... I have said it which means I must do it.  Here is an inkling of what's to come:


Kayak Waltz

A slow sunset dance
in the middle of the lake,
our kayaks spin
as the light changes.

First a brilliant glow
on the far shore,
illuminating the last row of cottages
edged with dusky blue
and deep green reflections.

The sun melts golden
into the horizon
as the light shifts to the west
and transforms into blood red orange
highlighted by smoky streaks of gray
sketched across the sky.

Billowy puffs turn into
medallions of magenta
outlined with pools of shimmering silver.

Sky meets lake, reflects sky,
only the kayak edge separates the two.
Night after night, spin after spin,
we do the sunset waltz
and remain wonder struck.
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It Was Nothing!

Years ago in Ireland, we were house guests of unknown 'friends of family' for two nights.  It was an exquisite experience due to our host Sarah's impeccable finesse in making one feel royal in a special 'make yourself at home' combination of grace and attention to detail.

I was in awe.  Dinner party for twelve in our honor? And there is Sarah, 6pm, feet up, perusing the newspaper...the epitome of calm and happiness.  And Prepared.  Later, sitting at her hearth table she produced platters--first a whole chilled trout surrounded by a lacy collar of cucumber and herbs and then from her toasty Aga ---a combination of roasted lamb and vegetables that I secretly wished would come around 'just once more' repeatedly.

A little back story...We first met in our host's driveway as we unfolded ourselves from a rented Nissan 'Micra', weary and a little nervy at the end of a chipper-filled road trip across Ireland. Sarah and husband Raymond greeted us and led us to their endless kitchen table adorned with a tapestry of home-made pates, breads, preserves, cheeses and desserts.  Two nights seemed hardly enough.

Sarah and I shared comfortable chats.  Towards the end of our visit I asked about her passions and her answer changed my life.  She stated simply, "I like to feed people".  I used to say ' I love the creative process' (from concept, to 'aha' moments to nth degree implementation), I now say 'I love the creative process and I love to feed people'.  And I especially enjoy melding these passions while hosting guests in our home. And cooking for them. While hopefully experiencing that 'Sarah-kind-of ease'.

Another dear friend Holly, who left our world way too soon, was noted beautifully in her obituary as..."Holly was known for her dinner parties'.   Although she and I were geographically mismatched and did not grace each others' tables , I now imagine Holly, eyes twinkling, bright smile, surrounded by warmth, light, love and tasty creations. A dinner party heaven.

This week we hosted a welcome dinner for new friends choosing to move from the UK to Beloit.  As I was
in 'multiple lists' mode I thought of my Mother whose love for home entertaining I absorbed through osmosis, and Sarah and Holly and my cadre of friends who get the 'it' of  the work involved to make it all seem effortless ...this one is for you.  Welcome to our table.

                                                      'Welcome to Beloit' Dinner
                                                       Platter Dinner for Twelve
                                                             Chez Goodwin

                For any foodies interested in details----

                                                       The Menu
                               
             Vidalia Onion Baby Swiss Bake with Crackers (ala Ruth French)
              Fresh Medly Miniature Sweet Tomatoes with Carrots and Dip
              Steamed Artichokes with Mama Russo's Cooked Chunky Vinaigrette
              Grilled Pork Tenderloin/Port Currant Sauce
              Orzo with roasted peppers, onions, fresh moz, basil and Parmesan
              Roasted Butternut Squash with Roasted Sweet Corn
              Fresh Wilted Spinach
              French-cut Aparagus
              Coconut Cream Pie
               Assorted cookies

Happy Dance

9 September 2013



Happy Birthday Nancy!

I miss you mom. Your ready smile, your hugs, your voice...with its low, long, deep cadences.
'Yeeesssss...Deeeelightful....Marrrrvelous....these are the words you surrounded yourself with
when all others had left the room.  Your pin point awareness never left your side thankfully.
Those sparkling blues knew what time it was always.
Until you were ready to say good bye.  To move beyond the body that served you well for
so long and then so utterly let you down.  Your grace through that process remains unmatched.
And was such a gift to all of us who muddled through your discomfort.  You eased our pain
as we hurt for you.  The ultimate mom gift.  Now as time distances us and you are truly free,
I feel your spirit live strong.  Marvelous!  Delightful!  Yes!

Divine Pie

Years ago I had the privilege of lunching at Miss Belle’s tea room in Cameron, North Carolina.  For those of you who have not had the pleasure of visiting Cameron, picture a small blink of a southern town in the image of To Kill A Mocking Bird.  Sand sidewalks wrap around gingerbread houses turned into antique/treasure shops and Miss Belles, a rambling Victorian, held court over them all.  My lunch buddy and I looked over the daily specials…corn chowder, yes please! tomato pie, yes please! curried Rice-a-Roni salad, sure why not! and homemade coconut cream pie, but of course!  We were so enthralled with every bite that after a little cajoling, we left Miss Belle’s with the coveted recipes of all four items. 

Flash forward to the present.  For years now, I have paved my way towards good will and friendship with care givers and administrative staff at my parent’s retirement community by regularly sharing pieces of Miss Belle’s coconut cream pie.  I even go so far as giving whole pies away when extra gratitude is merited.  Fellow residents of my mother’s skilled nursing floor also enjoy my pie.  About eight months ago, a new resident (a victim of Alzheimer’s) was having difficulty settling in to her new (unasked for) living accommodations.  Her name is Isabelle and although she may be confused about her surroundings, she is spot on with her piano playing.  She fills the dining room daily with beautiful hymns and folk classics brightening everyone’s day and has become instantly beloved.  I always make it a point to compliment and thank her for the gift she shares with us. One afternoon, she was extremely agitated and begged for me to take her home and I considered giving her a piece of pie to soothe her, but not knowing her dietary restrictions thought best not.

This past week I was standing near the nurse’s station on my mother’s floor and someone mentioned my pie.  I explained the recipe came from Miss Belle’s Tea Room in Cameron (which closed several years ago) and an Aide pointed out to me,‘Well you know, Isabelle used to be the mayor of Cameron!'  I looked at Isabelle….Isabelle…Miss Belle…and discovered yes, she was the proprietor of the Tea Room and it was her recipe I had been passing out all around her these past months.   Needles to say, the next day I invited Isabelle to my mother’s room for pie.

I held my breath as she took her first bite.  She looked at me very seriously, shook her head and said ‘now that’s reeaaal good’ in her low southern drawl.  I was elated.  As I walked her back to her room we chatted about the Tea Room.  I asked her if she remembered making corn chowder and she said ‘Yes’.  Tomato Pie?  Her response a little more pensive, ‘Maybe a long time ago’. Curried Rice-A-Roni  Salad?  She looked at me as if I was absolutely batty…perhaps a fellow kitchen worker had snuck that in.

Little did I know how drastically my world would change after our visit to Miss Belles’.  My vibrant mother would become a prisoner in her body due to the cruel twists of Parkinson’s shortly thereafter and the Tea Room would close due to Miss Belle’s failing mind.  And now we find ourselves literally and figuratively miles away from our former lives brought together as strangers, but leaving as friends through the simple pleasure of sharing a piece of pie. 

Do Something.

Sometimes glum is the order of the day.  Today was one of those days.  Glum. Glum. Glum. Strange word that oddly, phonetically, nails the emotion it portrays.  And I am choosing to wallow in it.  I know all the platitudes...what real reason do I have to be heavy of heart?  Well, maybe a couple.  The recent, unexpected and unfathomable loss of a very dear friend at a relatively young age is one.  But compared to his wife (a treasured BFF) , who is doing her best to sally forth and muddle through, my sadness is grief lite.  I hurt for her hurt and it hurts.  And then there's my recent visit with my Mother, who at 87 exists in her prison of a body with atypical Parkinsons.  For some unknown reason she has decided to quit talking to us.  I spent my first day of my visit trying to ascertain why...did her throat hurt from a recent endoscopic procedure, was she angry about something, was she too sad to talk, or had she lost her 'mind to voice' connection?  I did not press though and wanted to be accepting of her new choice.  Imagine my surprise and yes, disappointment, when during the evening hours a caregiver walked by us, stopped and greeted my mom and asked her how she was doing and all of a sudden my mom responded with a booming "I am doing very well, thank you".  Hmmm, thanks Mom.
Back home and facing my newly established 'empty nest' status, I was happy to learn my son, whose a  senior in college, planned an unexpected visit home this weekend.  He's a philosophy major though facing the daunting prospects of graduate school admission and was full of pragmatic comments.  He was astute enough to notice my demeanor, and questioned why I was emitting big sighs. "Oh, honey, sigh, it's nothing, sigh, except this big bad world out there might not be ready for one more philosopher, long sigh."  The Glum Anne just wanted to crawl into bed, covers pulled up, pillow over face and stay put until the first signs of spring.  But the phone rang and it was my other son, my freshman in college who we will see tomorrow as he performs in the marching band at UW-Madison.  His immediate response to my quiet hello was 'whats wrong?'  "Nothing Sweetie, what's up?"   "No, Mom, what's wrong, I can tell, is it something bad?"  "Everything, is fine, why are you calling?"  "I was wondering if you would make me some chocolate chip cookies?"  After a quick perusal of my cupboard, I found myself hauling out the Kitchen Aid and the next thing I know the butter is creaming with the sugar and I am starting to feel a tiny, little bit better. As the dough stiffened and I greased the baking sheets I actually found myself smiling.  And once the baked chocolate aroma filled the air, I realized the platitudes of good health, loved ones and being grateful for the here and now are realities to keep front and center.  If anything, the loss of a friend or a parent teaches us that, once we can get past our pain.  And it's good to pick ourselves up and do something.   Small or large, for others or for ourselves, do something.  Wallowing isn't all that it is cracked up to be.

Book Buddies

Sometimes in the midst of life's bleakest, most challenging moments we are given little pearls that brighten our way.  Dealing with aging parent issues is not easy.  I had the luxury of spending two weeks with mine, (mother, 87, severe Parkinsons, and my father, 89, severe age denial), and spent my time bouncing from one to another addressing their needs.  The bleak part set in when my Dad's pharmacist misfilled his pain medication and he ended up in the ICU (15mgs Oxy, instead of 5mgs, suggested geriatric dose is 2.5 mgs and he is tiny! Dear God.) . That was on a Sunday. By Tuesday he heard the words 'skilled nursing facility' and he put his denial in full drive, checked out of the hospital, and was home walking around, albeit a bit unsteadily by Wednesday.

Taking a break one afternoon, I walked the picturesque village where my parents live and decided to check up on my book in the village library.  I like to look at it on the shelf and check out it's check out status.  They still use 'the card catalog and index card pasted in the the back cover of the book system' , which I love. It feels like home. I must back up though to explain the pearl.  While I was writing my book, I had the distinct honor and true pleasure of attending a writing conference where both Maya Angelou and Anne Lamott were featured speakers.  Both have been favorite authors of mine and each of them blew me away.  Laughing, crying, and then laughing again, I was beyond inspired.  I used Anne's book Bird By Bird as gospel as I tried to fill the imagined one inch picture frame writing my own story.  And when my book was published I sent each a copy thanking them for their inspiration.  Maya sent a lovely note back, I never heard from Anne. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the bookshelf in the library, and there was 'Stay For Lunch' nestled up snugly against it's neighbor, Anne Lamotts' Grace (Eventually).  Seriously, in the Given Memorial Library in Pinehurst, North Carolina there is nothing between Goodwin and Lamott in the inspirational memoir section.
Why that feels so good to me, I don't know.  It just does.

Still A Little Work to do....

I am not a huge fan of the 'launch your son into the world' era that I am currently entered into with my youngest, and senior in high school, Ben.  I remember acutely my 'not so proudest moment' as a mother when his older brother Rob, who had requested my help at the computer with 'The Common App' website ( things were obviously not going well at all, my son asking me for help on the Internet?), and I exchanged some tense words.  I  looked at him after the situation had struck my very last nerve, and matter-of-factly stated, "You know, I wasn't even sure I wanted to have children, so you are on your own." and left the room.  Before I stood up, Rob turned to me with surprise and disbelief and replied, "You can't say that to me, Mom" as if I had broken all rules of fair conduct. And shamefully,  I had.

Anyway,  back to Ben. He is one of those guys where in grade school we, as parents, shook our heads in bewilderment at conferences and said,  "We want to be just like him, when we grow up."  Seriously, an all-around stellar guy.  And I could not be more proud of him in all aspects of his life. One especially is his natural tendency to be a good friend. 'Empathetic, caring and kind' are words that describe Ben.  Jump forward to the launching process and this is where things get a little sticky.  I feel like I have a few short months to teach him so many important, big and little, random things  ( like stepping back for people to exit an elevator, or when and if you choose to drink, make sure it is not a punch made with grain alcohol).  I liken it to the fabulous songwriter Ellis Paul who while travelling through O'Hare, learned from  his wife that they were pregnant. He sat down and wrote the song " Nine Months to Fix The World".  There is a sense of urgency to this.  Here's how my son Rob reacted to his experiencing my ultra attention, "You know Mom, not everything is a life lesson".  I beg to differ.   I experienced one such opportunity with Ben yesterday morning.

[A little aside...my friend Jeanne whom you've met in my book, asked both my boys if they would be there for her as she grows old since not having her own children, she is 'another mother' to mine.  They both solemnly assured her, 'yes, yes'.  I think she also mentioned something about knowing how to craft a Perfect Manhattan and being able to deliver it extremely well chilled....]

Earlier this week I developed a glitch under my shoulder blade that was painful and irksome.  Yesterday morning Ben entered our room (6:30 AM) to discuss what tie he should wear for his Rotary Student of the Week honorary lunch.  I turned quickly to get up and set that little glitch into full nerve overdrive where it slammed me on my back and when I tried to raise my head I couldn't even breathe through the pain.  As I lay writhing and panting on my bed , Ben stood looking at himself in the mirror.  Without turning around, he looked in the mirror behind him and said,  "Are you OK, Mom?" I answered with a big Noooo groan and then he said "Do you need to go the hospital" and even though I felt like the exorcist contorting  to find relief, I gasped out ,"No." and then he said "Which one, yellow or red?".  "Oh, red ,Honey," I mustered, after which he left the room.  Next, as I tried to find comfort in the 'Child Pose' with my face buried in the blankets and crouched back on my heels, I could feel Ben reenter my room.  "Hey Mom, which shoes, boat or dress?" and I replied as I lifted my, by then, perspiration drenched face, "Oh the dress, sweetie" and thought to myself as I put my head back down, "What the hell is going on here???".  Where did the empathy chip go?  Where was my compassionate Ben?  I thought I had covered this ground the time I was sick in bed when my guys were young and my husband was immersed in our new small business tunnel and no one fed or watered me for five straight days.   Life lesson: take care of the fallen in front of you. Even if they are that invisible person you know as Mom.  Life lesson:  lay your hand on someone in pain, a nice gentle pat just to show you care.  And now somehow I have to break it to Jeanne not to age any time soon, we have a little work to do.

Be Open.

Greetings... a common word and I've found a maybe not so common action.  That's why I love my community, Beloit, Wisconsin.  We are a city of greeters.  And I am not talking about the ones Walmart hires to man their front doors.  I am speaking of our every day lives. We make a point to greet each other on a regular basis.  Walking down the street, in store aisles, strangers passing... actually lock eyes and acknowledge each other.  As I travel, I make it a point to test other places' 'greetability pulses' and am often surprisingly disappointed.  Cities and towns that I love to visit and explore, amaze me with their singularly focused citizens passing each other by.  One of my little  ' Francina's Calling!'  life lessons bookmarks states 'Be open. Choose To Connect'.  And Beloit is a place where we choose to connect.  Thank God.  Maybe it translates to a Wisconsin tradition, where else can we gather 80,000plus people in four square blocks, coexist passionately and civilly without one recorded  incident of  true disconnect?  Sometimes I am hopelessly naive about the willingness of strangers to choose to connect.  I was so pleasantly surprised one fine, sun-shiny May day in Manhattan. I was just plain happy strolling down 38th street and about fell over when a man sitting on a stoop said aloud to me 'Hey, how ya doin'!.' Just as I smiled back at him and started to reply, I heard him say next 'What time are you comin'?" which is when I noticed the  Blue Tooth in his ear and realized he was not greeting me after all.  Ever hopeful, I smiled at him and moved on.  And continue to greet, in true Beloit fashion, one and all.

And Moonglow Magnolia was her name....

Thank God I am beyond child naming years.  If  I had a daughter,  I might have had to name her Moonglow.
Sitting under an old, twisty magnolia...every branch unfolding with plate-size creamy, dreamy blossoms.  And it is evening. The sun sets and the scents rise.  I'm a lucky girl.


PS.  I just realized this is another post about a tree.  Yikes.

It's a Tree Thing

I think I've always had a thing for trees. (See post below). As children, my friend Miki and I were late for school one day because we performed a marriage ceremony between two trees...one had a protruding 'pregnant' bump so we thought they should be joined in matrimony in case any unexpected saplings arrived.  And I've already talked about the Tall Pines.  What I haven't mentioned is my morning bath shared with a tree.  I am a bath taker, really do not like showers at all. There have been studies regarding the differences between bathers and shower takers....but I digress.
So every morning I sit in my soaking tub and look out my window at a huge maple that fills the entire frame.  Living in Wisconsin, my backyard tree changes with each season dramatically. And this is how I measure and see the passing of time.  During Autumn, I treasure the blazing reds and oranges that greet my day.  Throughout the long Winter, I see the huge squirrels' nest perched between the stark, black limbs blowing in the gray gusts and feel if that squirrel family can hold on and make it through what seems to be an endless parade of cold, dark days than I can as well.  Then slowly but surely, the green fuzzy glow begins to appear with the budding of Spring and before I know it, the tree is fully dressed in bright green leaves and I have no clue what the squirrels are up to.  It's officially Summer.  Somehow, I am comforted by this visual daily record that confirms that today is different than yesterday, again and again.
PS.  Nobody has ever commented on this blog site, which makes me think these really are Notes to Myself.
If anything strikes you, please share so that I know I am not chatting with a cyber black hole.  Thanks!

Happy Anniversary Darlin'!

Today Matthew and I celebrate our twenty-eighth year together...this is the anniversary of our first date, which we celebrate more enthusiastically than our wedding anniversary.  The photo accompanying this note (one of my favorite shots of all time) is a picture of Francina with her husband Wib taken shortly before his unexpected passing.  I think we are about the same age as they were at the time of this photograph.  What vitality and joy and sense of adventure we see shared between the two of them.  Made all the more poignant knowing how fleeting it was for them.  So, looking at this picture makes me aware and incredibly grateful for the here and now, our good health and the laughter we continually share as we trip through life together. I picked a good one.

Sixteen Candles, No Cake

We had the pleasure of celebrating our youngest sons', Ben's, sixteenth birthday this past weekend.
 One apple cobbler, two coconut cream pies later, and the fete was complete. What a guy!

'Stab 'em in the toe, Punch 'em in the chin! (Or how to successfully run a mogul field, one bump at a time.)

I liken skiing down the mountain to my son's trumpet solos or my husbands guitar riffs. It's something singular I do and it thrills me.   My ski of choice, K2 'Burnin' Luv's', act as one fine tuned instrument, like a race horse ready to charge so they keep me On My Toes the minute I head downhill.   For years, I have spent the majority of my time skiing the groomers, runs that have been groomed  into congenial surfaces, to accommodate my husband's skiing style.  When I turned 50 last year something changed inside of me, the Burnin Luvs and I were ready to come out and play.  Part of that fun, was spending time on the black diamond mogul fields with my two teenage sons and kidful older brother.  Reacquainting my self with huge nonforgiving  hardpacked snow 'bumps'  on large vertical slopes almost did me in until my youngest son gave me a strange but surprisingly helpful tip.  As I hesitantly kept swinging upward with my body (a deadly no-no in the bumps) Ben, my 16 yr. old, said, "Mom, when you face the fall line and plant your pole, pretend there is a dwarf in front of you, stab him in the toe and then punch him in the chin."  The next thing I knew, I was headed down the slope, chanting the 'stab/punch'  mantra and it worked!  The most unnatural tendencies, to face downhill on fast moving surfaces and to throw yourself forward punching something in front of you in the middle of a vertical obstacle course,  were actually what I needed to do to gain control of my run.

 This year I was back on the Burnin' Luv's and found myself thinking of Francina and some of our shared life lessons in the most unusual circumstance.  It was after lunch (the hardest time to move, ski and breath due to the lack of diaphragm space and high altitude) and I chose to ski with Ben, and my intrepid brother, known as Uncle Robbie.   As we all three took off in a blaze of cruising speed, I followed where they led and then questioned my sanity when I heard my brother say to my son, "Let's go do Lovers Leap and Ollie's run."   Hmmm.."Lover's Leap?" I repeated, with trepidation out loud, "Oh don't worry, you don't have to leap,  you can just ski off the ledge" assured my brother.  And then we got to the ledge and I made the mistake of looking down.  "Nope, this doesn't feel like me." I declared, shaking my head.  The longer I looked the surer I became.  But then I thought about all the little lessons on my 'Francina's Calling!' bookmarks like saying 'yes', and 'choosing to participate', and 'choosing faith over fear', and then I made the 'leap', which meant for me sliding off the ledge and holding my breath as I headed down a bump field situated in between signs warning 'cliffs ahead' posted along my right and left.  I was not handling things well until that little mantra came back to my head, and I started 'stabbing and punching' my way down the mountain.  By the end of the run, I felt at one with my skis and incredibly thrilled with my accomplishment.  I ruefully smiled and thanked my brother for the extra push and faith in me, and my son for skiing behind me as the 'pick up the possible Mom pieces' guy and we moved on.   I discovered a new life lesson along the way... if we choose to 'act with purpose as oppose to react with fear' facing life's twists, we might actually find our way through them and emerge stronger on the other side.
 Burning Luv Mama signing off.

Tree Hugging Time

Noted Thanksgiving, Pinehurst NC:

I hugged a tree tonight. It was a great hug. I felt a little strange at first, but it was just me, and the Tall Pines.  Need I say more?
What strength.  What straightness.  What warmth.  I remember one of my most favorite people on this whole planet, Greg Samata, once hugged my vintage refrigerator. He wrapped his arms around it and squeezed.  This place of the Tall Pines is sacred.  I am thrilled to be here.  And I love that tree. Enough to hug it to pieces.

Another Lovely Lunch!

I had the great pleasure of reconnecting with Francina's son Bill, and his lovely wife Nancy (both are featured in Stay For Lunch) after not seeing them for over eighteen years.   I was struck how much Bill favored his mother, it was almost as if I were looking across the table into my friend's bright eyes. I was amazed how neither seemed to have aged a bit.  I guess grand parenting and living life large agrees with them.  We shared many laughs, Francina stories, and caught up on all the young ones in our lives who have aged along with us.  Nancy regaled the table with tales of her daughter-in-law, who is expecting her seventh child this month. She recently visited their mountainside home and found the mom camping (for the adventure of it!) by the side of their creek with her six other children all bent on getting water boiling, in order to cook breakfast. They are a colorful family.  Even though I've met few personally, they feel familiar to me since Francina shared many of their escapades during our visits.  I hope to meet more along the way and definitely will not wait another eighteen years before I see dear Nancy and Bill again. An added bonus to the visit was their son Clarke, who chose to join us.   Francina was a major beacon in his life and I look forward to sharing thoughts about her influences and inspirations with him.  Towards the end of our visit, I commented on how Francina would have loved our lunch, and we all agreed that we felt her smiling with us.  Next update, Francina and Anne hit the streets of Manhattan.  Stay tuned.