Planning for the Holidays

When the winter holidays approach – Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Day – a mild flutter of anticipation grows in the depths of my gut. After all, Santa Claus IS coming to town.

I am a born planner and organizer, avoid Pinterest design ideas, preferring to create - attempt to anyway - outside of the online box.

My husband and children would agree that holidays are exciting to me with their many events, family gatherings, decorating, smells, and creative thinking in choosing the perfect gifts. I am an idealist and truly believe each year that the holidays will be joyful, plans will run smoothly, and there will be peace and love with all. I’m my mom’s child and she was an optimist – how could she be so upbeat when in reality holidays are so exhausting and imperfect.

Fatigue is of my own making as I struggle with an auto immune disease but still have plans in place to:

·       Hosting Thanksgiving dinner for approximately 30-35 family members to include three turkeys and a duck, seriously.

·       Decorating with snowmen (no Santa figures until the day is over).

·       Clearing the backroom after the meal for people to decorate gingerbread houses with the blessed and total leadership of my girls.

·       Continue my walking with an average goal of 3.01 miles daily.

·       A soup meal with friends at my house in early December, when the house will be fully decorated with two trees, snowmen and Santa figurines.

·       Attending a cookie decorating party, making select cookies to add to the treats.

·       Jumping into a weekly book study about the holidays and how to create a peaceful time for everyone (don’t I wish). If only my thoughts and actions would align with the authors of this book. But, I try…

·       Organizing a special dinner at a local restaurant with friends.

·       Holding a girl-only (first time doing this) family Christmas gift exchange.

·       Having a Christmas time with our children a week before Christmas so all can attend.

·       Mulling over having a field trip to the Zoo to see the lights and animals on Christmas Eve.

·       More walking and thinking of what needs to be purchased, wrapped, fixed, cleaned, cooked, for all the above festivities.

·       Trying to remain cheerful this year while also remembering and grieving the loss of a sister.

·       Feeling blessed.

I want to assure you, dear reader, that, for me, these holiday gatherings, are fun to anticipate, and done with an attempt to share the spirit of the season – but, as a fallible human, tiring. I do acknowledge the secular along with the religious and spiritual aspects of Christmas.

As most planners know, activities and events come with many “cons” and “pros” which I leave to your imaginations and experiences. 

I wish for you a peaceful, joy-filled, relaxing Christmas. As for me, I’m collecting some good reading materials for the time between Christmas and through New Year’s Day.

My Ankles are Showing

I turned on the radio the moment a well-known “fashion guru” stated that Capri pants are essentially an abomination. What? A quick judgement of these pants worn by literally everyone I know. Perhaps he never wore these gifts of god, their cooling comfort embracing of the calf – I could live in them, and do during warm weather. Does this mean I am a little off in my fashion sense? Well, yes, and no.

Reminiscing about my (many) faux pas … which in one case was an embarrassing, fashion wise, social situation. It began with an active day out in public oblivious to the length of my pants. No one said a thing –  not even those near and dear friends who joined me on this fun day.

When festivities were over I went home, still oblivious, and glanced in the hallway mirror, my focus immediately gravitated to my pants, which were easily two inches above my shoe tops. I groaned as recounting the numerous gatherings I participated in and could only hope (and pray) that observers enjoyed a chuckle over me and my goofy pants.

Capri pants would have solved the day.

Seriously, to be so pre-occupied over high-water pants is sad, of so little value and importance in the scheme of life. So what if I wore high-waters - they were comfortable. 

Running over finish line with cousins

On a hiking trip, I saw an older woman walking the trail wearing even higher high-water pants.  Smiling, I thought how cute she was and felt a kinship.  Why I focused so much time in how fashion-challenged I had been … and yet found high-waters charming on another … is a mystery. Seeing her and experiencing a comradery made me feel better.  Not cool - but better.

I suppose I have learned to embrace my nerdiness and loudly protest the “expert” fashion guru as he so arrogantly maligned Capri’s. For me, they are perfect to wear for a rainy, windy day along the shores of Lake Superior … or anywhere for that matter. So there!

I am an Olympian

I deeply believe, to a point, that hidden memories can sometimes be crucial to good mental health. Perhaps the brain shuts down to protect you from the good, bad and ugly. Or, maybe not. 

When a memory erupts through our consciousness - a period of quiet focus follows with either pain, delight, tears or a smile.

As a child, my dream was to be an Olympian – I ran barefoot through the school yard … fast. I entered races, ran the track at the local community college, and was tireless. But, alas, a “true” Olympic caliber runner would be able to circle me at least twice and still easily beat my time, but I could dream. No one could take away my dream, except for me.

Years passed with an occasional heart tug at how quickly my goal of the Olympics was extinguished, perhaps through lack of support, environmental or monetary issues, or my own abilities. But, I did think about what my life would have been like as an Olympian and figuratively kicked myself for not working more diligently toward that goal. In reality, it was unattainable as my body was not of the lucky "fast twitch" type, but in my heart I was on the starting line.

One day I shared this regret with one of my daughters. I'm sure I admonished her to grab hold of life and she could do anything she set her heart on, yada yada yada. She blurted out, rather defensively if I remember, that I had been an Olympian.

Huh?

In the flash of a nano-second, the memory surfaced - sharp, clear, real - I had been an Olympian.

For my entire tomboy life, I was deeply in love with fast-pitch softball, living and breathing the sport, even having the honor of being voted the "Most Valuable Player" multiple times.

One day I arrived home to a mailed invitation - I was selected to compete on a softball team in the Mid-Michigan Olympics. Of course, I did compete, played shortstop - my favorite position - and don't remember if we won or lost ... another deep memory hidden. Nevertheless, I was an Olympian, not in running as I thought but achieved my dream. 

It is a mystery to me exactly why my memory shut down on that particularly exciting achievement, and not just for a short time but for years. Memory sure is a puzzle, isn't it? What memories could you be hiding?

Solar Eclipse and Moon Bubbles

The Solar Eclipse 2017 was yesterday and although we were not located in its direct path, excitement over this event was extreme throughout Michigan and in our house. Two of my brothers and a good friend live on opposite sides of the United States and were in the "Path of Totality" - how wonderful is that? I planned to walk during the eclipse and convinced my daughter that it would help her remember the moment of the eclipse if she joined me - which she was more than happy to do. Sans NASA approved glasses, we assured each other we'd not look directly at the sun.

Waiting for the Eclipse

I shared with her my thoughts that when an event as pure as an eclipse occurs it is as if a new beginning for each of us has occurred. We have a clean slate from that day forward to: make changes, start a new path, try something different.  As in New Years where we make resolutions/goals, or a birthday when you might reevaluate your path - we can view these events as a start to change or an embracing of  current life choices. I shared that I felt a newness or adventure in myself and hope she will be open to ruminate what these events mean for her.

I've been exploring Art Journaling and purchased two notebooks for this purpose the evening before. Eclipse Morning I met at a favorite coffee shop with two friends, one of whom is an artist, who told me about a class being held at her gallery this Saturday on, wait for it ... creating an ART JOURNAL! - and in the timeline of the Eclipse. I signed up immediately. Although art is not, most definitely not, my gift or talent, I've always carried a predilection or desire to be an artist of sorts. So, trying something new, different, challenging seemed the ticket to post-Eclipse direction. I look forward to learning about this method of expression and also have some ideas of my own.

• using quotes which I've collected from movies, books, other media
• adding pictures cut from magazines or old photos
• embellishing the pages by writing short thoughts about it
• discovering techniques for adding color
• exploring my abilities as an art journal-er

I shot this picture with my iPhone 7 on our 2017 Eclipse walk after my daughter showed me the unique shadows from the sun/moon effect - and explained why they occurred. The scattered and numerous moon beam shadows were everywhere ... surreal. I call them moon bubbles ... what a celestial gift.

 

Blogger's Block

I'm at a bump in the road with Blogger’s Block – an uncomfortable condition where ideas, thoughts, and even words are struggling to be placed on “paper”. I researched Writer’s Block and learned that a change of environment might help - so am visiting a new coffee shop where my large white cup is holding a bold, black brew, and am listening to contemporary folk music … my large table (a great find) is clean and free of distractions. Two professors are sharing the other end talking about their upcoming classes but find this as white noise in the background. A Garmin can passively lead us to our destination – but I’m now in the writing driver’s seat with no GPS, on my own, literally. So am brainstorming various thoughts to help loosen up my grey matter and my fingers to see if that breaks the chains of this oppressive block.

I take every possible opportunity to drive the roads less traveled. Often great adventure is around corners: hidden gems, undiscovered shops, stunning scenery. To balance out the good, occasionally we have found ourselves hopelessly lost. My husband and I would calmly chat as if we knew exactly where we were and try to end this little adventure of the lost, attempting to distract our brood by telling stories or sharing, what my husband and I think are leg-slapper jokes.

I own nice cameras but prefer to take pictures with my iPhone 7. I’ve taken photography classes, belong to two photo clubs, and yet, my realm of comfort lies with my mobile phone. Having “experts” share how they photograph scenery, sports, flowers, nature, landscapes … the hours spent looking for a perfect shot … the F-stop, aperture, shutter speed, sun and moon conditions …. blah blah blah! I have spent countless wasted hours silently comparing my (lack of) expertise to these photographers. My level of interest went down as I knew I’d never measure up or to be taken seriously as a photographer/blogger. Not being a passive woman and to distance myself from comparisons, I plan to leave these clubs and begin a comfort with myself taking “good enough” shots with my iPhone, occasionally shooting with a camera. All are synced to my iPad for easy editing, posting, and developing. For my emotional health - the right choice.

I read books about people who love books, bibliophiles, women's true adventure stories, and the stories behind recipes in cookbooks. My collection of these genres is ever-expanding. Give me a comfy chair, coffee, and allow me to vicariously live another's life for an hour in the comfort of my home, bookstore, or coffee shop. Through my reading adventures, I discovered a town in England where bookstores are around every corner. Sixpence House by Paul Collins takes place in the Welsh countryside in the village of Hay-on-Wye, a Town of Books, boasting forty bookstores. In Deep Water Passage: A Spiritual Journey at Midlife by Ann Linnea, I kayak around Lake Superior with her during a summer of cold, wind, rain and sleet. I sit transfixed on the edge of my figurative kayak imagining her battle with heavy winds while safe shore is unreachable in this frigid, people eating lake. A Year By the Sea by Joan Anderson is inspirational in a strange way as she takes a year away from family living by herself in Cape Cod. Although I’m not planning to take a year away from my husband, I love reading about the insights and freedom she experiences in this daring move.

Cooking is not (yet) my gift. Owning a plethora of cookbooks and food magazines, I think like a cook but without the expertise or desire to create these recipes. I’d like to train myself to take a chance and am inspired to when finishing my “Where Women Create” magazine. In my head, my kitchen is magical and I find myself planning new designs for this very tiny, galley room. I’m blocked by previous cooking experiences with crockpot liver stew, putting orange juice on All Bran for breakfast, mushy meats … but, there is always hope. One of my favorite movies, Julie & Julia, has Julie Powell cooking each and every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year’s time. Julie began documenting this experience in a blog, which led me to begin blogging. So, in a way, I am a cook.

I save fun words and unique sentences. I enjoy the spiciness of what others have written to me over the years … and I save these gems – and clip your unique way of speaking and writing. Yes, I am a plagiarist of you as you are blindly creative, and your word treasures feed my muse … are at times fun and blog worthy.

Panic Around My Birth

Looking up from my bassinet into the mask-covered faces of white-clothed people I saw concern blanketing their eyes as my bed was moved into a lone room where I would gurgle at the sickly green walls and single lit bulb most of the day. The door opened to crying noises as a person with a funny hat entered my solitary room holding up a long skinny shiny “toy”. She fooled me as it caused a sharp pain in my thigh making me wet myself. A masked woman with kind but worried eyes would visit me frequently. She seemed to know who I was, picked me up with her soft and gentle hands, and sat carefully in a moving chair. The lady would pull a couple of bottles from her shirt and offer them to me. Eagerly sucking away the hungry tummy pain I tasted the fear-laced nourishment while searching this kind person's eyes for an explanation.

July 18, 1953 was a day of comfortable temperatures ranging from 60-82 degrees in Marquette, Michigan, and was a day of panic in the community. A celebration of a new baby coincided with a massive polio epidemic.

("Poliomyelitis is an acute infectious disease caused by the poliovirus and characterized by fever, motor paralysis, and atrophy of skeletal muscles often with permanent disability and deformity and marked by inflammation of nerve cells in the anterior gray matter in each lateral half of the spinal cord - called also infantile paralysis." Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

"Paralytic poliomyelitis, or polio, held a reign of terror over this nation for decades. But unless you were born before 1955, polio may seem to be just another ephemeral disease that has been nonexistent for years. Those born before 1955 remember having a great fear of this horrible disease which crippled thousands of once-active and healthy persons. This disease had no cure and no identified causes, which made it all the more terrifying." (Fear of Polio in the 1950s © 1997, Beth Sokol)

Beth Sokol continues and references Jane Smith's, Patenting the Sun: Polio and the Salk Vaccine (New York: William Morrow and Co., Inc, 1990, p. 34) "When polio struck, movie theaters were shut, camps and schools were closed, drinking fountains were abandoned, draft inductions suspended, and nonessential meetings were canceled until the epidemic appeared to be over for the time being."

Over the years I grew into a tomboy who delighted in the creepy crawly, presenting my slimy treasures to mom - the kind lady with the bottles. She had an abject fear of anything wiggly and especially rodents. I often wondered if she looked back to the terror of my birth and did it cross her mind that she wanted to put me back. 

But, I am thankful our family can celebrate birthdays relatively healthy because of the sacrifices of countless people. Medical research needs to continue, funding is crucial in a plethora of diseases and conditions.

I’ve fairly recently been diagnosed with Sjögren’s Syndrome (“SHOW-grins”), “a systemic autoimmune disease affecting the entire body. Along with symptoms of extensive dryness, other serious complications include profound fatigue, chronic pain, major organ involvement, neuropathies and lymphomas.” (Sjögren’s Syndrome Foundation)

It can take over 3 years to diagnose Sjögren’s which affects mainly women. It took 10 years for my diagnosis – I had two doctors who dismissed my symptoms … but was lucky to “flare” in front of my new primary doctor who sent me to the University of Michigan Hospital where a diagnosis of this autoimmune disease was confirmed. Unlike polio, many people have never heard of Sjögren’s, which may affect over 4 million Americans.

My rheumatologist tells me that I am one of the lucky ones – so far. I’ll hold this close and be comforted in her assessment. And as everything … so it goes!

Adventure Board Workshop

An evening set aside to create adventure (vision) boards - I looked forward to this activity, my third annual one, and spent a couple hours shopping for the perfect color board (poster vs thicker), placing one in my basket only to go back to the selection and replace it with another, more than once. Finally choosing a gray/blue slightly thick board. Satisfying because feel color matters in the long run to my end goal.

Arriving in the intimate office space I claimed my seat, one in which I didn't have to turn my head often, and looked around at this new meeting place. A plethora of magazines were scattered on all available surfaces, glue sticks and scissors stuck out of a plastic box on the work space; treats and wine were enticingly set out in a smaller office across the hall.

The leader began our experience with an exercise of guided imagery, having us close our eyes, breathe, and visualize comfort places. Soft music played in the background during this portion of our evening.

I'd spent hours clipping quotes, pictures and anything that grabbed my attention from my own reading materials and had them neatly secured in a plastic binder. I also journal my goals each year and check off what I was able to complete or accomplish ... a little OCD but fun to look at on future occasions. 

Fighting my being the oldest in the room

I was the oldest woman by a good ten years but settled into the activity fairly comfortable in that we were all working toward the same end. I had taken a picture of my current goals and looked at it for a bit before sorting my clippings into use or not use piles. This technique works for me and after completing the process a clear idea was formulated. Grabbing a glue stick I worked effortlessly and with direction while sipping on sweet wine. Unfamiliar rock-type music played in the background with some women singing the lyrics, accentuating our age difference, others silently focused, sharing intimate thoughts, with an occasional bout of laughter filling the air. It was a good night. 

An explanation of the boards

If you are not familiar with dream (vision) boards they are:

• Created with magazine pictures, sayings, quotes, anything that speaks to you.
• You can either paste or use double-sided tape to secure these clippings onto small, medium or large poster boards. 
• The goal of these workshops is to create a dream scape of what you either intend to accomplish or wish to do for the year, or longer if you wish.
• At the end of the workshop, each person is asked to share their board and what in them was significant to them.
• More often than not, what is created surprises the "artist" and is usually an encouragement.
• These boards ideally, when completed, should be set up in an area of your home to view and keep you on task.
• Also, in my experience with dream (vision) board workshops, treats, wine, and music are integral parts to make you feel relaxed and cared for.

I am pleased with my board - and recommend this creative process for those stuck in a rut, wanting a little more direction, or plainly for the fun of a small gathering with similar-minded people.

Peek-a-boo

My girlfriend's eyes widened as she leaned forward on the table when I sat across from her and her husband at a local eatery during a lunch break from work.  My husband arrived and sat beside me.  Karen said, "did you know you can see through your blouse?"  Then she smiled and her husband chuckled, while I looked down at my shirt.

Story of my life in fashion - I have no life in fashion, never had, most assuredly never will.  From an early age of being a Tomboy, blue jeans and a t-shirt were my chosen clothing.  PF Flyers or Keds wrapped my feet protectively - I adored how my "outfit" made me feel: like a cowboy, Indian, explorer, hunter, athlete.

My parents had seven children and, even though mom always dressed beautifully, she most likely did not have the time or patience to teach me how to dress.  Our family struggled financially and money for clothes were doled out carefully.  I was not only not interested, but also rather clueless about clothing and was not going to ask my mother for new outfits when mine were nice and worn in.  I also knew we were poor and hated asking for something when it was obviously, to me, a burden to their pocketbook.

One year, though, junior high to be exact, I had one outfit to wear for the full year.  It was a lime greenish skirt and sweater, which I wore almost every day as my clothing choices were pitiful.  I became increasingly uncomfortable with wearing the same thing as peer pressure to be cool was a "thing".  Thinking about this difficult year of school - I have no clear understanding of why my parents did not intercede or show concern and take me shopping for a new outfit - but know they were overloaded with responsibilities themselves ... and I was number three of seven.

There have been since junior high school embarrassing times where my choice of clothing was, well, less than glamorous.  I had adopted a carefree attitude toward dressing and learned to have no fashion sense, but also did not seek assistance.

Two less than ideal experiences that stick out, among many, were:  my husband and I were invited to our good friend's home - we thought to visit as we often did - but when we arrived it was a somewhat formal party, and I was dressed very very casually.  I could have climbed into a corner and died of humiliation - but smiled my way through the evening, even through some shaded looks from the revelers.   Then, I was at work when my long skirt (my Bohemian wanna be moment) got caught in the wheels of my chair and could not extract myself - so had to call my boss into my office to help.  I've never worn a long skirt again as feel the "chair gods" were giggling.  My boss and I did have a good laugh over this event, and for that I will always be grateful to him.

Back to the day of the see through blouse.  I was working full time in a psychiatry department and had no opportunity to change this shirt, or go home due to the work expectations.  So, after laughing with my friends and husband and eating lunch, I returned to work knowing without a doubt, that my body was exposed to these psychiatrists ... u n c o m f o r t a b l e.  Imagine what they could have said about me behind their closed door.  I was well-liked in the office, a bundle of energy effectively and successfully working on special projects I was assigned to, but again, clueless.  If they knew my back story, would it have made any difference?

So, if you see me walking about town or see me on Facebook and I'm wearing my striped shirt with flowered pants, pink socks with yellow and white shoes, smile.  I'm still and always will be Connie - my mother's unique child - I love me ... and isn't that what life is all about?

Sliding UP a Sand Mountain

The breeze was almost wicked as my husband, daughter and I rounded the top of the sandy trail in the Leelanau Peninsula. Leaning over the bluff I looked into the cold arms of Lake Michigan – grabbing my daughter's arm, said: "Let's go, it's not that far down."

We laughed on our descent – hop, skip, and sliding down the dune. My delight in the adventure turned quickly to concern as the top of the hill was receding with each sandy step. The bluff was at a 60-degree angle and presented a 400 foot drop. But we continued to the bottom with Lake Michigan lapping at our toes.

The top of the dune where my husband was waiting was hidden due to a large sandy protrusion – “Crap” I sighed loudly to my daughter. What had I gotten us into? Wandering worriedly as the waves lapped our feet, crap seemed like a good word to use, again, as I envisioned an embarrassing helicopter rescue.

I was a couple decades older than my last successful trip down the Log Slide in Grand Marais, Michigan, where I flew down the dune and easily climbed back up to my mother’s smiling face. But now, the 60s taunted me, yet thought I was in pretty decent shape. So with my pride on the line and desperately aching to prove this climb would not defeat my daughter and I, up we went.

Step by agonizing step.

My energy gave out after only about ten minutes into the climb forcing me to stop, a lot. The bluff was at such a steep angle that to sit or stand would surely cause a tumble onto the rocks below. I rested and breathed delicate pieces of sand into my flared nostrils, my pounding heart ripping at my chest.

Up a few steps, down some, up again and sliding backwards. The climb was the most extreme exercise of any I have ever engaged in and I was frankly scared and thinking about how my daughter was doing, my husband at the top, and that helicopter rescue.

My daughter was obviously concerned as she carefully followed my sunken steps and took charge of the sand-wheel, if you will. "Breathe from deep in your lungs mom, and let it out; walk in my footsteps."

She took the lead and leapfrogged me up the brown sugar sand dune as my energy resources continually were exhausted. We had no choice but to continue - she positioned herself next to me and pushed my butt to keep me going. Butt push, steps, descending some, upward momentum, butt push, progress.

The summit was visible. My worried husband was standing next to a man and woman shouted words of encouragement, which were difficult to hear due to the wind, the beating pulse in our ears, and our one focus to finish. As we reached the final agonizing leg of this intense upward climb, the stranger kindly lowered his backpack as a handhold as there was nothing in our paths to grasp. I ungracefully lunged over the lip of the dune … crawling on my stomach I grabbed his foot and held on with gratitude. This stranger did not pull away but stood patiently – all three of them appeared proud – my husband smiled, “I knew you could do it.”

As a group we descended to the parking lot. My legs wobbled and were spent but found myself beaming with pride of my daughter and the manner in which she took charge, fully giving of herself to get me to the top of this sand dune. I was touched by the support of these beautiful people.

The couple, who were in their 60s, had shared with my husband, as we were struggling up the dune, that I was an inspiration to them. The husband and wife told him that my taking on this dune challenge helped them realize that they, too, could also take on adventures. It was absolutely humbling to realize that my not so smart decision would affect this couple in a positive way – to get them to think beyond their age and see that some of their own limitations were in their minds.

Was the climb worth it? The jury is out on that one. (We found out later that if we had only walked around the bottom of the dune a short distance there was a firm path leading back to the top. What can I say?)

Wind Runner to Woods Walker

As a child I would take my shoes and socks off and run the perimeter of a local school yard over and over, fast. Never was there a fear of stepping on glass or other junk - I loved running or doing anything outdoors. The early morning dew felt decadent between my bare toes while I imagined I was my favorite Disney character running fast and free, or perhaps an Indian with my feather flying back due to my speed. When I ran, there were no cares, and allowed my tomboy self to have imagination moments.

Today, I love nothing more than to be in the woods with my husband and/or children. Age has robbed my ability to run, but after a rather difficult adjustment period, discovered that walking and the smell of fresh ground speaks deliciously to my soul.

Yesterday was a day from my youth. My husband and I visited a wonderful, hilly, and thick woods near Howell, Michigan, near where our youngest daughter and her friend were competing in an orienteering venture deep in the "forest". The crunch of this long autumn under our feet was lucious, palatable, seeming to create a vibration which spoke directly to my heart. The hills were insane, covered in leaves, rocks and fallen limbs. Climbing up the first time, we were huffing and puffing but trying to talk normal as if in competition and to ignore that we have aged a wee bit. Little critter and bird noises were all we heard, along with, of course, our feet crunching, shuffling and breathing. Next hill and next hill, until we reached the top. A sense of accomplishment, almost a peak experience, only to turn around and look at the steep downhill slope. The hill was so slippery with dried leaves and presented with an abrupt decline. To proceed safely, we needed to take tiny steps, stick our butts out, and claim only the attention of the ground, lest we tumble down.

It was exhilarating - we reached the bottom, wandered around a bit and decided to climb again. Funny, the second time up, our breathing was normalized as our legs, lungs and heart were prepared for the engagement with the hill. Reaching the top felt wonderful - we were proud of our physical abilities and ready to de-climb easily and confidently. What a perfect day of imagination moments.

Rainy Days with Meryl Streep

I sprawled out in our orange room on a rainy afternoon, my body half on and half off the white IKEA sofa, a pillow behind my back and one on my lap for my opportunist cat who jumps on and presents his royal ear for a good scratching.

A delicious mug of Kona coffee is a treat in itself and keeps me company as I watch Julie and Julia for the fourth time. This is one of my most favorite movies … portraying a melancholic woman, Julie, who works in New York fielding insurance calls after 911 - and is an unpublished writer. Julie feels less accomplished than all her socialite 30-year-old friends, one of whom “even blogs”. She whines about this to her husband as they watch Julia Child’s The French Chef. Her husband, distractedly annoyed with her mood, gently encourages her to start her own blog. She sits straight up on the couch and after some excited discussion wonders what she could blog about. Julie loves cooking, adores Julia Child, and decides that the blog will be daily posts focused on a year of cooking through her book Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Julie’s husband helps her select a blog site and assists with set-up, she chooses the blog’s name, writes her introductory entry, clicks the post button, then waits.

Julie and Julia arrived in theaters in 2009 - I was first in line. A large bag of popcorn in my hand, a hot cup of coffee, of course; my seat secured … stage center. I was captured, enraptured and became Julie’s silent and secret apprentice. I laughed and became weepy when, after all these years, it hit me that Julia Child was dead, not realizing until that movie moment how much I missed her. Meryl Streep melded into Julia and was amazing – becoming Julia to me and I held that close to my heart to bring me out of a threatening sob.

Julia and her husband, Paul, had moved to France for his work and the couple ate often at French restaurants. She loses the ability to communicate with words but rather happily moaned when she ate food – cooked in real butter, a lot of butter. “I feel I am French” she exclaims brightly when walking through town with her husband. Paul proudly proclaims to friends, “Julia brings out the best in a pole cat” acknowledging her zest for life, love of the French - and the food.

Julia is me in that when I eat an exquisite meal, I moan and exclaim through the whole meal how wonderful it is, that “it’s the best meal I’ve ever eaten”!

Julie is me, was me, seeming to parallel my journey. I thought of myself as a writer … wrote the family periodical The Olsen Chronicles, penned stories, kept diaries and journals - but felt a void in my life’s direction. I was close to tears for most of the movie in 2009 as I morphed into these women and embraced the love and support they received from friends and family.

As the movie progressed thoughts were formulating and terminated in a decision to begin my own blog. I love watching cooking shows, and, in particular, The Barefoot Contessa … so because of my own tomboy existence chose The Barefoot Norwegian as my blog’s name. It would be a blog of positivity and would be about my experiences traveling through Michigan and my coffee shop musings. I virtually hugged Julia, Julie, and Meryl, for reigniting my writing spark.

Tears again pricked at my eyes as I sat on the couch finally allowing the grief of Julia Child’s death go, feeling comforted in knowing I still had Meryl Streep who helped redirect my life, giving me purpose during a period of my life when I needed it.

Under the Tuscan Sun is another most favorite movie … um, does this mean an Italian Villa in my future?

And, so it goes, spontaneously and unpredictably exciting…

Creating a Book from Social Media

Floods in our parent's basement was a regular and messy occurrence during heavy storms. The water would easily reach calf level always resulting in damage. The family cedar chest held pictures and videos which we frantically laid around the house to dry and perhaps to save. A hard back book was found in the midst of the cedar chest treasures after my father's death in 1980 ... it was a previously unknown diary written by my maternal grandmother in 1938 during a period of her life when she lived with four of her children and husband in the woods in a cabin in Marquette, Michigan. This was a winter to be remembered with the heavy snow and rain around the country throughout the year. New England was hit by a category 3 hurricane, one of the worst since 1869, on September 21, 1938, destroying the home of Katharine Hepburn. Edna Olsen wrote about her experience with the winter blizzard of 1938 - equally hard and violent - in this book.  

I played with the idea of creating something lasting out of this diary: a children's book; printing out pages from the diary and sending to family; allowing it to rest and be forgotten. I kept these ideas in my heart and thoughts for many years, never forgetting.  

In 2016, I was in a class led by a life coach ... my "take" from this was a decision to have focused goals for the next year - ones that would take my full attention until completion. I played with an idea of putting Edna's diary on Facebook, page by page, date corresponding to the date in the book, and to post to all my Facebook family, including "friends". My biggest concern was: would my "friends" enjoy seeing these personal posts from an era so long removed from our memories? I thought - yes, maybe.  

My steps in preparation for this endeavor began at the end of 2016, and included:

• Typing Edna's written words, verbatim and including her punctuation, in a Word document.
• Deciding to put on social media's Facebook - believing this was one of the best ways to reach people, family and friends.
• Receiving permission to "post" diary from Edna's daughter.
• Searching my photo library for pictures to use to compliment the writing of the day.
• Editing these pictures for clarity and presentation.
• Inserting selected pictures into the diary entry.
• Posted author’s poem the eve of New Year’s in preparation for the diary.
• Began Facebook with a short synopsis on the first of January, 2017 as written in the diary.
• Daily posts coinciding with day of month author wrote in diary. 
• Allowed for all to see these posts. 
• At the end of each of Edna's entry, wrote a little explanation, idea, or posed a question.
• As time progressed, I collected comments and drew more by asking for memories.
• Continued daily posts making sure they were written in the morning for continuity of those who followed and posted.
• Near the conclusion of the diary began cutting and pasting posts, including friend and family comments, and inserted that day’s photo into a Word document. 
• Made decision to center all pictures in document to give it an aesthetic appearance. 
• Edited comments for redundancy, deleting a few, tightening up the person’s punctuation for readability trying to preserve the essence of who this Facebook person is.

Continued editing and sharpening project.The idea of creating a book out of this Facebook document occurred to me around this time. Previously, I was considering sending family the link to the Word document - but a book would give friends and family a hands-on experience and memory of Edna Olsen's diary and posts from many people. My next steps when this decision was set in

stone were:

• Contacted the Michigan State University library for information on self publishing: formatting, size, font, cover art.
• Saved full document on 3 sites (computer, thumb drive, passport). 
• Met with MSU Espresso Book Machine Coordinator to share intent and set up appointment with cover designer. 
• Brought thumb drive to appointment. 
• Worked on-site with coordinator to format for 6 x 9 book, spacing, setting up font, paragraph breaks, picture sizes and pagination. 
• With the coordinator's expertise designed and prepared a cover for book – front, binder, back; selected pictures to include on cover and wrote a synopsis of book. 
• Included my logo "Barefoot Norwegian Publishing" on back cover. 
• Selected the number of books to start with by estimating those who I thought would be interested in receiving a copy. 
• Signed copyright page for 100 copies. 
• Coordinator created one copy of the book for me to review, edit and/or change. 
• Took this prototype home and scoured for any errors and submitted to coordinator. 
• Received corrected book and cover documents from coordinator via email. 
• Reviewed and approved. 
• Printing of books begun and completed.
• To make mailing less expensive purchased book mailing envelopes and invoice book from an office store rather than the Post Office.
• Took envelope with book to Post Office for mailing amount.
• Contacted family for interest in receiving book, wrote out invoice, included within pages of book to receive book rate
• As orders came in, each book was mailed. 

A Melancholy Mood

A fog was hanging in the air today which encouraged me to walk to town in order to organize my thoughts - almost tripping on the thick murky ground. One thing about wandering in a literal fog is the quiet, which made me feel as if I was in my own little private bubble. I entered the local coffee shop where Christmas music was being piped in, which felt, surprisingly, lonely.

Exchange daughter, Mei Moriguchi &
daughter, Addie Geissel

Today is the anniversary of when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and I am feeling melancholy thinking about World War II and all the physical and emotional lives lost. Generations passing has allowed healing, thankfully. The Japanese people I have come to know and have sponsored for study abroad are respectful, gentle, and gracious. All the current tension between nations and peoples breaks hearts and families apart, and am wondering how to make a difference. 

I'm not a bra-burning crusader, feel insecure in joining protest marches - but do thank people who do. My predilection is to be kind to one person at a time, showing respect, even to dirty and smelly people. This fills my soul ... beyond words.

My family and I traveled to shop at a Detroit area mall. The media constantly roars on about being prepared for an attack, to keep a watchful eye, to be a little paranoid and distrustful of those from other countries. We refuse to look at others as potential threats and were surrounded by a plethora of individuals and families from all parts of the world dressed in brilliant colors, stunning religious garb, speaking beautiful languages we could only guess at, and yet, we felt comfortable and safe. 

A large Muslim family was standing at the mall rail on the second floor with one of their daughters taking the family picture with a beautiful Christmas tree in the background. I quickly extricated myself from the escalator and approaching the family, asked if they would like their picture taken.* They smiled and appeared happy with my offer, freely handing me their cell phone - obviously without fear I would steal it - they posed and I snapped away. The family was beaming and thanked me profusely for taking their picture and wished us a "happy Thanksgiving and many many blessings".  It felt right and good. My youngest daughter was not embarrassed over this spontaneous move on my part. Isn't life suppose to include making the path more pleasant for our neighbors? 

*My husband and children have witnessed me, on many occasions, stopping our car to hand someone a cup of coffee, cookie, or a few dollars. In particular, to watch for opportunities to take people's pictures. This time around it felt absolutely the right thing to do. I only hope my children have learned to do the same.

Out of Focus

Dorothy had it easy - follow the yellow brick road and watch out for the witch. Now, I don't envy Dorothy her journey in the dark woods with three men/creatures she had just met (what was she thinking), but in the end they all had their heart desires met by looking into themselves. Easy peasy.

My journey is similar - follow the instructions, trust the instructor, learn the equipment. I'm talking photography class with its special words, that at the moment, mean nothing to me except that my brain has to work hard. ISO speed, exposure, light and white balance, F-stops, shutter speed, aperture, DSLR and SLR camera, manual vs. automatic focusing - oh my.

To explain, I am a new un-young student at a local college enrolled in photography class. It has been years since I've attended school, and will admit that it was "far out" standing in the hallway with other students, me being the oldest, waiting for the previous class to exit. I had my cameras, book "A Short Course in Photography, Digital", four pens, marker, notebook, and a breath mint. I had been at the school for a couple hours as I wanted a good seat and didn't want to be late for my first class. I breathed excitement - even engaged a cute young man standing next to me, or more honestly, he engaged me!

Class was seated and the teacher walked in handing out packets of material while talking about his policy of no cell phones allowed, projects were not accepted late. Projects? What did he say? Then he announced when our exams would be...exams? What did he say? In my naive thinking, it never occurred to me that I'd be having homework, let alone projects and exams. I glanced at the seated students and didn't notice squirming, so they must have known there would be work in the class to complete. Well, I held steady in my seat and breathed deeply so as to not attract any attention to my red face.

After completing all his instructions, the teacher, Brian (do I call him professor or Mister), took out a few of his cameras and began show and tell using words like: DSLR, SLR, mirror less cameras, the correct ISO for particular circumstances. I placed my breath mint in my mouth - faking a soft cough so not to be so obvious, as a distraction, and sat transfixed as a new language was introduced to me.

In my previous life, I knew medical terminology, a little Russian, some Spanish, administrative lingo, I speak fluent Yooper - so do believe I can pick up on a new way of talking - photography. So this new adventure begins. Oh, note cards! Yes, must get note cards!

Comforting Sanctuaries

A place of my "own" is where I am sitting this minute: a building with warm colors, a glowing fireplace, music full of zen-fullness, where my mind tends to clear, thoughts are positive - I recharge. Think Cheers and you understand what I'm saying. Do you have a place to call your own? A location on the map that, no matter how you feel, cheers you up, catapults you into a realm of peace? I sure hope so. I have a few such places; and feel very blessed.

I want to share with you some of my most cherished spots - places where, if mentioned, bring up an ahhh in me. Refuges in this harsh world. No order to this list.

• Uptown Coffee in Howell, Michigan. I can write to my heart's content, feel safe and comforted and nurtured.
• Hawk Island in Lansing, Michigan. Walk and talk place - one and a half miles around a large pond, which use to be a gravel pit. As a child, I'd go to this area and explore the woods, water and wildlife. Being there conjures good memories from my childhood, and creates new moments of insight during long walks with friends.
• Any of the multitude of state parks in Michigan, with a variety of terrains from very very sandy, to rocky, to uneven and leafy, soft and mushy. These are places my husband and children love to explore, take pictures, and just be. They create a sense of how small we are, and depending which state park, a sense of how vulnerable with bear, wolf and other "dangerous" creatures surrounding us, probably licking their lips in anticipation of a good bite. 
• In the movie, Mama Mia, the steps leading down to the water while the actors sing "Dancing Queen". I can see myself there, walking down the steps, standing on the dock, jumping in the water, feeling like a queen in my children's eyes. Sigh!
• Kerry Town in Ann Arbor, in particular, Sweetwater, a coffee shop. We can spend hours there sipping Midnight Blend as we read and talk away the minutes.
• The Mackinac Bridge! I was born in Marquette and take frequent trips back "home" from lower Michigan. The moment the bridge is in sight, my mind is cleared of any negative thought or concern. When we were younger traveling with our parents, the first one to sight this Bridge got a quarter - they were never paid to us - but the excitement was evident. Driving across it is another matter. It typically doesn't bother me to drive but once it did and I grew faint about a third of the way across. I opened the window and the feeling passed; told my husband at the other side. From that day forward, he always asks if I want to drive over or have him. 
• Marquette, Michigan! For those who have been up in this beautiful beautiful town, no more explanation is necessary. It is a place where I am truly at home anywhere we wander. It is family, nature, water, hills. It is comfort, history, love.
• Old cemeteries are a wonder. I grew up loving these as my grandfather and I would walk to a local one in Okemos - he would sit supported by a tree and I would play. They were never morbid, wonderfully peaceful to walk around, and a special place to reflect on life.

I could go on as more locations come to mind, but want to encourage you to consider the places in which you feel your "best" and healthiest - a place you can also call "home" and where all there, even the inanimate, know your name.

Truck'a'Poo

My father had a dry sense of humor and a love of food.  One day, he decided to eat healthier so was training to be a representative for a national health-food company.  At dad's first distributor’s conference, he took a taste of a grape-flavored protein drink and fell to the ground mid-sip, instant death.

This was very sad for our family for many years, but now that time has healed the grief, and thinking in retrospect, dying in such an ironic way would have made him chuckle.  To know that he went to the other side of life by experimenting with healthy eating - I have to guess that he would be smirking. 

I almost died a real stinky death myself.  A large truck ran a red light at the exact moment I was driving through the green signal.  It could have been quite a tragic ending, as the truck had an extended bed with full porta potties - knew they were well-used as it was an extremely hot and muggy night and my windows were down.  A thick sloshing noise emanated from the truck which balanced on two wheels during a screeching turn.  Words escaped as I said oh sh..!  If indeed I was smashed by this vehicle, I certainly would have been covered in a layer of sticky poo.  A poopy end to a life well lived. 

So, walking in my father's figurative foot steps, I kind of like the idea of an eccentric end and the truck'a'poo certainly would have fit the bill.  Headlines would announce that I'd been fertilized to death, proclaiming, "She had occasionally been dumped on in life, but was now truly dumped on in death.  She went out with a smile and a chuckle."  This is a stinky blog post, but since I enjoy storytelling, and find poo good fodder for a saga.  A little spiciness in my journey.  

Why I Take Pictures

My childhood home was located at the bottom of a hill and when it rained heavily our greatest fear was what happened in the basement. Horrified gasps and exclamations spewed when we cracked the door open to a flooded basement – at times to mid-calf. A particularly deep water flood damaged my parent’s photo-filled cedar chest. Family pictures were barely salvageable from this soaked trunk, but placing photos individually on every available flat surface around the house saved some memories. Being a self-proclaimed family historian, I want to share the 8 reasons I take pictures. From experiences of loss from floods and fires, this is what I know for sure…

1. A Soulful Purpose. My father took up photography in his 50s when medical issues ravaged his body, but not his spirit. He dove wholeheartedly into this new hobby - it kept him focused, with a purpose, and he plain had fun shooting. Every aspect of photography pulled him out of a very scary and dreary time. Today, we benefit from the photo-memories left behind. For me, seeing an image of what I took the time to click, process, print is fulfilling – even the “bad” photos spur me to learn more. Sharing on social media allows others to enjoy special moments and gives me tremendous satisfaction and a semblance of pride and accomplishment.
2. Pictures of Memorable Moments. Dad insisted on taking a picture of my sibling the day after his father died – she had been crying and refused. My father was wise and told her that a photographic record of family is important and her reaction to our grandfather’s death would be part of her history. Pictures of war, poverty, plenty, disgust, trials, indicate to me that we are human and move us into action, or possibly to tears. I am constantly on the lookout for experiences (memories) deserving to be preserved. Even when not carrying my camera, my cell phone is ready to capture history, humor, a memory, an event.
3. Videos. Sauntering, or waddling, side to side was my father’s gait. We have an 8 mm record of his unique ambulation, learned as a toddler learning to walk while being raised on a boat. A treasure which would have been lost without video-photography.
4. Chance Photo Opportunities. A perfect photo moment brought such emotion, including tears and smiles. My mother was resting on the sofa, chatting on the phone, when my nephew climbed on her hip. Mom smoothed his very thick black hair with loving strokes. He died young …  so this photo became even more precious as a tangible way to visualize this tender memory. Take every chance you can to click away – cell phones work well, too; be sure to download and print the timely and historical ones, before the photos are deleted and lost to history.
   
5. Proof is in the Photo. I’m a storyteller. An “adopted” forthright and frank matriarch refused to believe my life-stories and would insist that they were not true. One in particular, was that I was selected to a special softball team to play against some local celebrities – she did not believe me and intimated that I was “pulling her leg” – which she could not abide. But, I had pictures! The proof that I indeed played softball on this select team … against Magic Johnson, Jay Vincent and Greg Kelser. My integrity was reclaimed (and my hand mortally wounded; another story) – but only after her death.
   
6. Pictures of Emotions. Following my mother’s death, countless people shared that mom was the most positive woman they knew. Recounting memories of mom … her humor, laughter, and bursting out with a smile when company came calling … is difficult to portray if not backed up with photographs. Taking shots of her laughing are priceless and authenticate her life, even in the midst of trials and illness.
7. Diaries and Photos. A hard-covered burgundy diary materialized in the half-flooded cedar chest in my childhood basement. Written in a leaky pen by my grandmother, Edna Olsen, from January through February, 1938, she brought us into her “cabin in the woods” of Marquette. This particular
   
   winter saw one of the worst blizzards in Upper Peninsula history – and she documented living through that winter, a challenging time of blizzards, illness, near starvation, hardships, and her delightful humor. Pictures of family during the 30s and 40s and of those whom she wrote about are vital to the continuation of family… and to our receptiveness and acknowledgement of where we came from and our historical strength and vulnerabilities - as seen through the eyes of a written diary and a camera lens.
8. Traveling. Travels to Russia to adopt an 11-year-old girl with her 13-year-old brother without pictures to document this tremendous adventure would
   
   have been more than tragic. The meeting of our daughter with her new sister – no words can speak to this treasure. These photos are the only ones our new children would have of their home country, of the orphanage they lived in, and of their friends who lived there. Visiting new places, people and attending special events should have a visual record for all generations. The photos do not have to be perfect with the right ISO or aperture or lighting – only a documentation of the event, even imperfectly.
   

Eating Roads in Hometown USA

In the beginning there were roads, and they were good.

As a family historian and story-sharer, if you will, eating roads had been a story etched into our lore and a fun one to share.  No one as of yet has come close to believing me, thinking I am as full of hot air as Garrison Keillor is in his elaborate tales of his beloved home in Minnesota.  As a child of a storytelling family, separating fact from fiction has been my pursuit, and, knowing how children adopt memories from stories, a thrilling search for the truth.  It is true that our family ate roads in our hometown of Marquette in the 1950's.

Marquette road in background Donald
and his sister, Janice Olsen

I have enchanting recollections of eating the road in front of our home on Baraga Avenue.  This memory includes the tarry smell, the gooey pebbly consistency as a piece was picked up and rolled in a ball, along with the rubbery warm taste in my mouth.  My older siblings and several relatives, being of a more advanced age, obviously ate more roads than I chewed up.  A relative shared her memory of roads that would bubble up in the summertime heat, picking that substance up, chewing it because it was like bubble gum with rocks.  She contacted Marquette's retired road commissioner, Johnny Depetro, asking if he knew anything about the composition of the roads in Marquette during the 1950's.

Depetro wrote back, saying, "The street and block on West Baraga Avenue you are talking about was made of a macadam material named after a Scottish engineer J.L. McAdam (1756-1836).  The material consisted of small broken stones used in making roads, especially such stones mixed with tar or asphalt.  Some of the streets paved in the late 1940's and 1950's in Marquette that have not been reconstructed still have macadam material in them and have held together for many years or far longer than expected.  But is no longer being produced, due to the expense.  So, as the older streets are reconstructed, they are repaved by a new asphalt material that is much cheaper to make, but does not have the life span that macadam had.  This is called progress.  It was not uncommon for kids seeing that warm loose gooey tar on the top of the road to make a little tar ball to chew.  Not eaten or swallowed, but usually done because of an 'I double dare you to make a tar ball' and that is how we get to remember some of the fun things we would do, as young kids."

So, as confirmed above by Johnny Depetro, in the beginning there were roads, and they were good.

What kind of materials did you find to eat in your younger days that evokes a wary eye when you talk about it?