MAYBE IN JUNE . . .

Lately I've been giving some thought to leaving Minnesota, at least in my dreams.  You see, last night I dreamed that we were about to be bombarded with another 21 inches of snow.  I woke up in a

 
panic.  Even my favorite meteorologist had called this "a horrific winter."  How could we possibly get another two feet of snow, on top of the 70 inches we had already, I wondered. It seemed ridiculous, but yet so real.  I called my friend Angela, who was in disbelief.  We had often commiserated on the test of a Minnesota winter, but I assured her, that however real it seemed, IT WAS ONLY A DREAM--we would be spared this time around!

Ah yes, winter--the season of endurance, frustration, natural beauty beyond compare, and squealing delight, as one witnesses children

 
rollicking in snow, totally oblivious to the subzero temperatures.  After 65 years of living in snow and cold, I shake my head, but admire their love of what many children think is the most wonderful season of all.  My granddaughter takes great pride in being one of those kids.

In summing up my varied feelings about winter, I discovered others who expressed their thoughts much more eloquently, and often with good humor.  Mae West was one of those:  "I used to be Snow White, but I drifted." Carl Reiner said it another way, "A lot of people like snow.  I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water."

And then there were those who wrote about snow and cold in a much more serious vein.  Samuel Taylor Coleridge was one of those:  "Advice is like snow--the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind."  Langston Hughes put it another way--"Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go, Life is a barren field Frozen with snow."

Tonight as I walked gingerly across treacherous patches of ice, I thought of Yoko Ono's words about the seasons, and winter in particular: 

     "Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.
     Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.
     Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence.
     Winter passes and one remembers one's PERSEVERENCE."

Realizing that another six weeks of snow and cold may yet be part of our landscape, I'm challenged to remember the words of Stephen Cosgrove: 

     "So when you're cold from the inside out
     And don't know what to do
     Remember love and friendship
     And warmth will come to you."
    

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER!

     Sometimes an unexpected whirlwind adventure comes knocking at your door in the form of an intriguing new friend, and you jump at the opportunity to meet.  Rarely do people look at me and expect bold initiatives.  I seem to have that "settled in, accept what life has to offer look."  But looks are deceiving.  The truth is often, that although I can do routine things as well as anyone, I yearn for a whole lot more.  So, when the opportunity presented itself to spend six days hanging out with a new friend I'd only met months before, I jumped at it.  As crazy as some of my friends might have thought me to be, although never expressed, I knew intuitively that it would be a wise and wonderful choice, and it was.  The laughs were never ending and the chats were priceless.  The poignant and humorous book shared and read out loud late at night and early in the morning was a new and gratifying experience.  It brought up thought-provoking discussions about life and choices we make. We read the last chapter on the morning of my friend's departure.
    
     From trips to the Mall of America, Minnehaha Falls, the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, nature centers and beautiful parks, thrift stores, a boat ride on the St. Croix River, and a stroll down main street of a historic Minnesota town, it was one of the most treasured weeks of my life.  Of course I shouldn't forget to mention the "lost" factor.  At times I know my friend Sandy thought I was perpetually lost, and not just in direction--sometimes in focus as well.  Otherwise how could I explain a trip to a professional baseball game that never existed?  I had talked the week before about the Minnesota Twins playing Cleveland at Target Field during Sandy's visit.  Not even close!  Not only did the Twins game at Target Field not exist, but they were playing against the Yankees in New York.  How could that be?  I had even checked the paper for the time.  So sure I was!  So we ventured to downtown Minneapolis and found ourselves wondering how it could be so quiet if there was a Twins game.  Sandy figured it out, but I came around slowly, and a little too stubbornly.  They wouldn't postpone the game, I said.  It was a perfectly beautiful day.  Pulling into the ramp parking lot told a different story.  We could have parked anywhere we wanted since there were only three other cars visible. I was still in disbelief.  As we walked the short distance to the stadium, we couldn't stop laughing, wondering how this was truly happening.  But Sandy had already figured out that I was more than a little quirky, and definitely not as organized as she had once thought.  Real life meetings tell far more than online stories.  But there was more . . . As we looked at the empty stadium seats and former Twins stars, we spotted two ticket windows.  The one gentleman we noticed confirmed the obvious--there was no Twins game; they were in New York.  He must have thought we'd been drinking heavily because our laughter had reached a fever pitch, and all that time both of us were desperately in need of a bathroom.  Thankfully there was one still open on the premises.  Saved in one respect, at least.  On the way back to the car, Sandy found a bright red hat just lying aimlessly on the grass.  It matched her colorful shirt perfectly.  A nice, unexpected memento from an unexpectedly non-existent game.  The statues on the plaza of famous former Twins made inviting poses for the zany, mischievous friend from North Carolina.  Even Calvin Griffith, the former Twins owner, was pose-worthy.  At one point, Sandy, fully joking, said to me, "Lynda, you're going to owe me all day for this."  Knowing I could never live down the embarrassment, I decided to embrace that part of me that's sometimes hard to explain.  Luckily, Sandy took it all in stride and had plenty to tell when she returned home.  That story merits countless retelling.  We filled up the afternoon with trips to thrift stores and a fine Italian restaurant.  It was almost comforting to see that our waiter was also in the midst of an error-prone day, for which he offered numerous apologies.  He completely forgot my entrée and never bothered to check back with us after taking our order.  I didn't complain much, knowing that I had screwed up more than anyone that day. 

     And now it's all a wonderful, treasured memory of six delightful days with a newfound friend.  And that special friend sometimes reminds me that "life is an ever changing canvas."  We proved it that week.
    

THROUGH THE MAIL. . .

"Lynda, can you see the red in my face?" Those were the opening words in a letter from my longtime friend and pen pal Ellen. She went on to say, "I found your letter of April 2 that I thought I had answered. See, the mind does go first!"  Although I didn't write nearly as often as I would have liked, I truly looked forward to her letters, and she responded much more quickly than I did.  To this day, I have real regrets about that.

I was thinking about Ellen recently because it was near the time of her sudden death three years ago. I was on my way to a library with my grandchildren for a fun summer event, and picked up the mail as we were about to leave.  I saw that it came from Connecticut, but noticed that the handwriting was different from hers, which confused me.  When I opened it, I was heartbroken, and so was the person who wrote to me.  It was her husband of over four decades, telling me that she'd had a massive stroke and died a few weeks earlier.  I just stared at the letter and cried for several long minutes. She had always seemed very healthy and full of life, and then suddenly everything changed.  I couldn't believe that I would never hear from her again.  How quickly life sometimes changes, and how cruel and difficult it is to adapt.  I had a hard time focusing on my grandchildren's activity, but somehow I needed to.  I told them about the loss of my friend and they understood as well as they could. 

Now I want to share some thoughts about Ellen and what made her unique and memorable.  I saved all her letters over the last twenty plus years and re-read them once again.  How I wish I could go back and respond quicker and more fully to her letters, but I can't, so this is my tribute to her. 

Several years after we first started writing, my oldest son attended college in New Hampshire.  During that time my

former husband and I drove through Connecticut on our way to visit our son.  Twice we stopped at Ellen's home in Milford, Connecticut, which was right near Long Island Sound.  She loved showing us around, and when we were back home, she wrote to me:  "I'm so glad that we met, even if it was for just a little while.  I just felt as if I'd known you for years.  And we have--through the mail.  So pen pals really are valuable friendships.  I'm looking forward to hearing from you again.  Take care." Those kind words mean even more to me now.

Ellen was a quiet, reserved person with a wonderful sense of humor.  She was also incredibly kind, and always seemed to find the right words as I was going through my divorce.  She was always full of questions and curious about how I was getting through life, and I appreciated that. She was very curious about life in general.  And boy, did we 
share common interests!  She lived near New Haven, Ct., where my ancestors had first arrived in 1636.  She was very interested in genealogy, as was I, and offered to go to New Haven to gather more information about my family.  She loved history, and we often talked about famous people and places that fascinated us.  We also loved sending postcards back and forth, and I still have many beautiful ones of Connecticut.  I once sent her a postcard from 1926, and she was thrilled!

Ellen was an avid reader, and did something quite amazing to share her love of books.  She started the first and only volunteer library in Connecticut.  It still uses the old card catalogue system.  I can remember how she loved talking about the children's books and activities that the library had added. Although she had no children of her own, she enjoyed sharing her love of reading with the children at the library.  One day I'm going to go there, take some photos, and pay tribute to Ellen in my own way.  That small, wonderful library has now been named after her.  I cried when I read that, because somehow I knew that Ellen was smiling somewhere.

Ellen also had a passion for history, and was proud of being a member of the local historical society.  She often wrote about it and spent many hours helping organize different events.  She once told me about an incredible experience that she'd had at a historic home nearby, which had been empty since the 18th century.  It was owned by the local historical society.

Although she had no prior beliefs in ghosts or spirits, Ellen, following a day of cleaning on the second floor of that historic house, told me that one day she heard her name called, and there was no one around.  She also wrote that several times something brushed her hand when she started to close doors.  She said, "I looked all over for who it might be, but there was nobody in the house."  Other members of the historical society spoke of unusual experiences at that house as well. Ellen mentioned the experience several times in subsequent letters and was quite curious and perplexed.

I loved telling Ellen things about Minnesota since she had never been here.  And of course she shared many things about the state she loved--Connecticut.  In one letter she wrote, "Gee, is everyone in Minnesota "happy go lucky?  Send some of those people to Connecticut."  Perhaps I'd spoken a little too much about "Minnesota Nice," which isn't always true anymore.

In looking back over the letters Ellen wrote, she talked about someday wanting to give me a private tour of the houses in the area from the 17th and 18th century.  How I would have loved that, especially knowing that my ancestors, (the Tuttles), had lived in that area nearly four centuries ago.

Milford, the city where Ellen resided in Connecticut, is known as "The Small City with the Big Heart." That must be why Ellen lived there.  She had a huge heart and a curious mind, and I will always think of her, whether I'm passing through Connecticut or entering a library that she would have loved.  What a gift she was to many, and how fortunate I am to have known her!

LOOKING BACK, MOVING FORWARD!

This winter's often bitterly cold and snowy weather hasn't exactly inspired me to get out and go on long walks, or test my endurance levels, but yesterday (Super Bowl Sunday) was an unusually bright and beautiful day. So, bucking my own recent tradition of laying

 

low on weekends, I opted to check out some regional parks and trails.  What I discovered was a blend of unique and different and thoroughly enjoyable experiences.  Fish Lake Regional Park in Maple Grove, Minnesota is beautiful any time of year, but the recent seven inches of snow showed the splendor and elegance of winter that I often forget about.  It was also an important time to spend by myself, at my own pace, and think about the direction of my life.  I think of myself as an introvert, but I'm also one who believes in the value of solitude.  Thoreau once said, "I never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude."  Words that speak to my heart!

After I left Fish Lake Park, I wanted to continue my little adventure, so I headed to West Medicine Lake Park.  I had myself psyched up to follow the trail near the lake and beyond, but there was one minor problem.  The trail that I searched for didn't exist, because of huge snow drifts.  I would have been testing my leg strength and jumping ability, but my balance isn't quite what it used to be, so I imagined that I'd spend more time lying in snow banks, rather than walking alongside them.  I found plenty of humor in that thought, but left it at that.  Ironically, the large lake had plenty of paths, but these "roadways" were for cars and trucks traveling about on their way to fishing splendor.  And of course there were plenty of cross country skiers who seemed thrilled at the new batch of snow.  Reluctantly I left that area and moved on to French Park.

French Park had several hundred people who appeared to be euphoric about the recent and substantial new snow.  When I got out of the car, I discovered skiers everywhere.  I couldn't take my usual trail to the lake because it didn't exist, except for those who'd waited a long time for a superb skiing day like this. I felt a little left out, but if I'd truly been in shape, there were plenty of long trails that led to the lake.  As I said, MOVING FORWARD. . .that's my goal--to get in better shape and make that trek easily, instead of whimpering about it. 

What brought back memories for me was discovering a giant hill nearby, which was perfect for anyone who loves sledding.  That included children and adults on this day.  The joyful squeals could

 

 

be heard from hundreds of yards away.  It reminded me of my own childhood and how much fun it was growing up near a skating rink and going on sledding adventures with my friends and family.  I realize more than ever what treasured times those were.  Looking back, I'm grateful--for a glorious day like I'd just experienced, for rich memories of magical times over 50 years ago, and for LIFE itself. Gabrielle Roth once wrote, "It's really not that hard to stop and luxuriate in the joy and wonder of being.  Children do it all the time.  It's a natural human gift that should be at the heart of our lives."  Well said!

 

Me (on left), skating with my friends over 50 years ago--

IT WAS SO COLD THAT . . .

I often hear stories about "age," starting out saying, "Because people are living longer and taking better care of themselves, 60 has become the new 40."  Well, I don't quite subscribe to that, but it did make me think about redefining my ideas about weather and recent temperatures.  I used to rationalize more often about winter in the Midwest, but lately I just feel like screaming a little.  Of course to no one in particular, but no doubt I'd feel like I have control over something, and it would prove that my vocal cords are still functioning.  There have been times lately when I wasn't sure that I could make a coherent sentence.  Maybe that should have been a comforting thought, but it was actually quite scary.

So here's to hearty Minnesotans and Wisconsinites, who've endured one of the coldest winters on record, at time more than 30 degrees below normal.  The next couple of days reflect that once again, with actual temperatures hovering around -20 F. and wind chills at -40 to -50.  That's how it actually feels on our bodies.  Some of us are experts at that kind of talk.  Those brutal temperatures seem unimaginable, but it's reality, and the winds can be brutal, as they are today.  Hail to school closings and a good sense of humor! And then when it's all over, we can declare stories like this:

     It was so cold that. . . my favorite DJ on a local radio station reported that he'd gotten a call from his local school district announcing that schools would be closed the next day, which he thought was quite humorous since his child was nearly four years away from attending her first day.

     It was so cold that I was mad at the sun for playing a deceiving

 

trick on me.  It looked warm and enticing inside, but once outside, I wondered if I could make it to the mailbox at the bottom of the driveway.  It was painful just to breathe and an instant head throb. 

     It was so cold that I only saw one person wandering around in shorts outdoors.  Often when it reaches 20 degrees Fahrenheit in the Twin Cities, some people declare on their own that Spring has definitely arrived and Summer is on the horizon.

No wonder that Sinclair Lewis, a well-known Minnesota author once said, "Winter is not a season; it's an occupation."  This year that's truer than ever. 

Here are a few pertinent and uplifting quotes about weather, and winter in particular.

     "Whether the weather be fine,

     Whether the weather be not,

     Whether the weather be cold,

     Whether the weather be not,

     We'll weather the weather,

     Whatever the weather,

     Whether we like it or not."  (unknown author)


     "Wherever you go, no matter what the weather, always bring your own sunshine.  (Anthony J. D'Angelo)

     And one question to ponder--"Where does the white go when the snow melts?"

 

 

 

 

Perhaps one day I'll move to a warmer climate, but the memories of the winter shuffle and the beauty of a fresh snowfall will forever stay with me.

LITTLE LAMBEAU and MILLIE MAY!

Nearly a century ago my mother, a very kind and caring woman, who had plenty of spunk and feistiness, entered the world via small town Wisconsin.  Despite having multiple childhood illnesses and spending months in various hospitals, she became an avid sports fan.  My family might scoff at that and say WHAT A MAJOR

 

UNDERSTATEMENT! Above all, she lived and breathed everything about the Green Bay Packers.  She wouldn’t miss a Packers game for anything, which brings me to the Ice Bowl NFL championship game in Green Bay against the Dallas Cowboys in 1967. My mom was there to the bitter, freezing end and went home ecstatic as the Packers pulled off an incredible win, moments before the final seconds ticked away. Game time temperature was -13 and the wind chill was -48. My mother talked about it endlessly.  I’m especially thinking about her today because tomorrow, January 5, the Packers play in another Ice Bowl game, rivaling and perhaps surpassing the original one. San Francisco can only imagine what they’re in for.  My mother could tell the 49ers stories! 

But that simply delightful lady who would turn one hundred on January 15, was much more than an unusual woman who loved sports and her team.  She taught me about

 

treasuring the simple joys of life, showing kindness, and making a difference, in whatever meaningful way possible.

Her high school classmate, George, once wrote about her in the 1931 yearbook I still have, “When you get to be a senator or something like that, sometime I’ll come and listen to you debate.”  And debate she could, very convincingly.  She taught me well!

So here’s to you Millie May.  I’m sure you’ll be counting on a Packers victory tomorrow, wherever you are!  Thank you for the rich memories!

FOR THE LOVE OF THE GAME--and FAMILY!

I’ve been watching American football games for decades, but until I came to visit my son and his wife in Alabama recently, I had no clue about the intensity of college sports rivalries.  I learned QUICKLY!  Auburn University and the University of Alabama play against each other at the end of the football season every year, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t think they like each other very much.  This year the game was of historic proportions because Alabama was rated number one in the country and Auburn number four.  Yesterday’s game was played in Auburn.  The pageantry and interest in the game was “off the charts.”  Even the New York Times featured it.  Because my son teaches at Auburn, I became an instant fan.  I felt like they had been “my team” forever.  The game started out well, with Auburn scoring the first touchdown.  But Alabama, the perennial power and winner of the last two national championships, didn’t wait long to even the score.  And before halftime they had a

 

 

 

two-touchdown lead.  But Auburn, fresh from recent cardiac finishes, and still remembering the 49-0 drubbing they received from Alabama the previous year, were not about to fold.  The constant roar of the crowd, more than 80,000 of them, kept them energized and focused.  By halftime they had cut the lead to seven points.  The second half of the game was a mixture of exciting runs, phenomenal passes, and comedic errors.  In the end, Auburn prevailed, turning a near last second loss into a win unequalled in Auburn history.  It will be forever remembered by its wild finish, a 100-yard race to the end zone by Auburn return man Chris Davis, following a failed field goal attempt by Alabama with one second left on the clock.  There was jubilation everywhere in Auburn land.  My son and I were laughing and running through the house doing high 5’s.  My hand is still sore from one of them.  Phone calls came in from around the country.  Shouts were heard from the outside deck, including my son’s.  Normally subdued streets were packed.  Auburn was overjoyed, and so were we!

Soon I’ll be heading home, back to the land of Minnesota Nice, but I’ll remember fondly Auburn, Alabama, where the Tigers play with passion and zeal, and on one November 30 in 2013, they stemmed the tide of history and overcame the Crimson Tide of the University of Alabama.  I’m now a believer—forever locked in Auburn folklore and the joy of college football.  GO TIGERS!!

DOG ON A LEDGE!

Recently I missed my turn for a favorite breakfast spot, and wound up in a completely different area, which is nothing new for me.  Something tells me that I thrive on detours, whether through roadway construction or my own ineptitude.  Funny though, those excursions often lead to interesting discoveries and new learning experiences, as well as some good laughs.  My latest adventure was just such an example!

As I walked through the first door to the restaurant, I spotted a very sweet and

 

 

beautiful dog just sitting comfortably on the ledge.  He seemed quite happy and deep in his own “dog thoughts.”  I just stood and observed him for a little while, and let myself wonder who his rightful owner was and if he came there often.  Instead of bemoaning my detour experience, I just enjoyed the moment.  I found the owner nearby.  He was also resting comfortably and within clear sight of his delightful dog.  I asked him if I could take a picture of his special pal, and he was happy to oblige.  I learned that CALVIN came with him to the restaurant quite often and enjoyed seeing people come and go.  Often they stopped to pet him, and he was happy to get the attention.  But as his owner said proudly, people seemed to get excited to see Calvin and also quite surprised to see a dog on a ledge inside a restaurant.  I noticed that nearly everyone who walked past him had to stop and talk to him, and it made them smile almost instantly.  That included restaurant employees. Calvin was a special dog with a real gift.  His owner, I learned, was hopeful that Calvin might become a regular at nursing homes, where he could entertain and delight the residents.  The elderly owner had spent many hours observing how Calvin related with people of all ages.  Calvin’s job was to make people happy.  And indeed he did!

FROSTING ON THE LANDSCAPE!

As many of us in Minnesota know, drastic weather changes can happen overnight.  The unexpected is often the norm, and we never get too comfortable, considering all the possibilities, especially in winter.  Yesterday was a calm, sunny day and I relished my solitary trek through the autumn woods of Camelot Park. But as the day went on, the snow arrived and the atmosphere changed.  This morning I was reminded that after a fresh snowfall, and with the absence of snow plows and treatments on the roadways, the brakes on the car are not quite as reliable as usual. Despite that, I decided to embrace winter, at least for today, and headed out to a unique wooded park in Golden Valley, a suburb of Minneapolis.  I encountered no one, but I felt energized and elated as I walked along the trail and experienced the first burst of winter.  Sure feels a lot better at the beginning of November than in May.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here are a few photos from this gem of a morning and my newfound interest in

 

SNOW—unimaginable just a few months ago!!!

ONE LAST AUTUMN FLING, WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO A DEAR FRIEND!

With predictions of a possible 3-5 inches of snow in the Twin Cities tomorrow, I’m thinking AARGH—HERE WE GO AGAIN, and savoring the last delightful days of autumn.  I heard on the news a few days ago that the leaf color has lasted two weeks longer than usual in Minnesota.  After hearing that, I coaxed myself into taking one last long autumn walk through the woods of one of my favorite parks, which just happens to be named CAMELOT.  It fits the name perfectly.  I couldn’t believe that I was the only person following the trail my first time around.  It was just gorgeous, and such an invigorating romp through the woods.  I savored the moment, as well as the memories of many times my friend Leanne shared that walk with me.  Because of a serious injury sustained by her, that has rarely been possible anymore.  I truly miss that, but think of her often, and her love of nature.  She’s taught me a great deal through the years about savoring those special moments and appreciating the beauty of nature, including the little animals that surround us. 

 

 

 

 

 

Here are some simple photos I took that remind me of my friend and the natural joys that we find everywhere.

ARE YOU THERE, ELOISE?

It’s me, Lynda.  I guess you would remember me as Linda with an i, living on Butternut Street in our little Wisconsin town.  I remember the fun times we had in second grade.  I loved riding my bike over to your house in the summer, and hanging out in your little outdoor pool.  You were a good friend and I liked playing with you often.  So I don’t know why we got into an argument at school recess one day.  It wasn’t even just me—our good friend Kandyce got in on the action too.  We picked a fight with you, and nothing justifies that, not even in second grade.  Kandyce and I spent an hour after school writing on the blackboard and paying for our misdeeds.  Our second grade teacher was a real “gem” too, which made it all a hundred times worse. I hated disappointing her!

When my granddaughter entered second grade four years ago, I told her what a “tomboy” I was at her age, and how I had gotten into trouble decades before as a second grader.  So I teasingly said to her, “Don’t follow your grandmother’s example.”  And of course she sensibly replied, “I can’t believe you did that, Grandma.”

And yet I think she’s always known about my occasional mischievous deeds; they still pop up in different ways, although now it’s more often about doing unconventional things, just because that’s a strong part of who I am.  From that day on, we established the name Eloise as our secret password as Morgan headed out the door to school.  A wink from Grandma, a smile and a kiss from Morgan, and our shared password started our day off in a unique, silly way.

Occasionally I’ve told Morgan that I still wish I could apologize to Eloise, even after 58 years.  So here goes-- Wherever you are, my second grade friend, I’m sorry for being the bully that day.  I’ve grown up a lot since then, and my granddaughter can finally be proud of me for making amends.

 

** “That is what learning is.  You suddenly understand something you’ve understood all your life, but in a new way.”  (Doris Lessing)

THE PASSIONATE PONDERER!

Some time ago a friend referred to me as “the passionate ponderer” because ideas would often come to me unexpectedly.  I’d say, “ooh, ooh, I’ve got to jot that down.”  It quickly became a running joke.  I have notebooks filled with little tidbits of wisdom, random thoughts that lay dormant for years.  I’ve often heaped judgment on myself, as I’ve revisited those pages, wondering why I could generate promising, creative ideas, but not possess any follow-through.  Years ago when I loved golf and played it passionately, I often reminded myself to keep my head down and follow through with my swing.  If I did that, the ball would occasionally soar and land approximately where I hoped it would. 

Funny how I can now see a correlation between current anxieties about taking up golf again and tackling those once-important ideas still languishing in old, outdated notebooks.  I don’t view the golf game as critical anymore; it’s just the thought that it was one area long ago where I felt confident and proud; that wasn’t often the case in other areas of my life as I was growing up. 

And now I need to embrace those “random notebooks” from the past and appreciate their very existence.  Maybe it’s enough to know that those simple, random thoughts excited me at one point!  They don’t always have to have a destination.

 

Footnote—in a quote—“The more I wonder . . . the more I love.”  (Alice Walker)

REPLENISHING ONE'S SPIRIT!

 

A prolific American writer named Gladys Taber once said, “We need time to dream, time to remember, and time to reach the infinite.  Time to be.”  During the past week, because of the incredible generosity of a friend of thirty-six years, I’ve been granted that time.  I just returned to Minneapolis from a delightful week along the North Shore of Lake Superior.  Listening to the endless waves outside our cabin was mesmerizing and meditative.  Sitting amongst the trees with an enchanting new book or chatting with my friend reminded me of how simple and joyous our lives can be when we’re granted the opportunity to slow down.  Now the challenge is to integrate those simple joys into everyday city life.  No easy task!  As I approach the age of 65, I’ve become more reflective in my own life, but less tolerant of those in the frantic, “hurry, scurry world,” especially when it jeopardizes the safety of others, including children. 

 

For me it’s the age old question of finding the balance in life.  But for now, I’ll just stay

 

 

 

 

in the moment and visualize the majestic grandeur of my favorite waterway in the world—Lake Superior!

A SECRET LIFE

At the end of the 1994 high school year the staff of Brooklyn Junior High had a farewell luncheon for departing teachers.  I was new to the school that year and didn’t know what to expect.  Being more of an introvert, I would gladly have foregone the whole ordeal.  I had made several friends on the staff—Ann, the English teacher who graciously shared her room with me, and Pat, the warm-hearted social studies teacher across the hall.  They were the only ones who’d really gotten to know me.  I was a part-time teacher working with ninth grade German students during the last hour of the day, so there wasn’t much time for social interaction.

During orientation the previous fall, the Spanish teacher John didn’t endear himself to me by “sharing” that I wouldn’t be around BJ for more than a year.  German, he assured me, was definitely going to be cut the following year.  I didn’t like his condescending attitude and was a little shocked and miffed.  It dampened my excitement about finding a teaching job.  My student loan bill hadn’t even arrived yet.  In the end he was right and probably had prior knowledge about the language study plans, but I didn’t have to like it or him.

I felt increasingly nervous and anxious at the luncheon and my mind started to wander as departing teachers were introduced.  Where would I be in a year?  Were my student loans a waste?  Had I been crazy to return to school after 25 years to get a teaching degree in German?  How would our family make it financially?  I’d felt so good returning to my old college campus, proving that I could get good grades and make new friends.  I’d made it through nine nervous weeks of intern teaching and then landed a job.  Even if it was part-time, I was ecstatic.

Then I heard Pat, in a slightly mischievous tone, call my name.  Not the introduction I’d expected.

                “Now Lynda Richter, our German teacher, you’d just never guess.  She’s lived a real secret life this year.”

Oh my god, what’s she going to say, I wondered.  Maybe I shouldn’t have shared some of my thoughts and feelings with her.  I felt a second swirl of emotions.  And then to have to conjure up a smile one last time!  “What are you doing to me, Pat?”  I questioned her intentions.  But then I realized that she was just relaying to others, in a humorous way, what a difficult year it had been for me.  We had gone on a memorable day trip along the Mississippi River earlier in the year and gotten to know one another on a more personal level.  I really enjoyed her company.

She continued on:  “None of you is aware that once Lynda left BJ when the school day ended, another part of her work life was just beginning.  She’d race home, change into her uniform, drive 45 minutes to Mystic Lake Casino, and work until 4 a.m. making change for customers.  While pushing her little cart around, she’d dream up lesson plans that could interest ninth graders in learning German.  No small task!  Then she’d drive home, sleep a few hours, finish her lesson plans, and head back to school the next day for another go round in seventh period.  She did this the whole year.”

I could hear the laughter and wondered what people thought.  Was I being undignified as a teacher?  Pat obviously didn’t think so.  She knew how I’d struggled to make ends meet that year.  A part-time teaching job for a first year teacher didn’t contribute much to the family income.  A second job was essential and the casino job fit well with my time frame.  The trouble was my body didn’t react well to chasing the clock and getting three or four hours of sleep a night.  I was a wreck, emotionally and physically.  It took me a long time to realize it.  On the drive home I’d roll down the windows, blast the radio, and slap my face to stay awake.  It barely worked, and one morning at 4:30 a.m. I drove past Golden Valley, where I lived, on my way to downtown Minneapolis and the nearby Institute of Arts.  I had no idea how I got there.  It was frightening!  I’d obviously dozed off, but woke up enough to steer myself in the opposite direction towards home.  Fifteen minutes later I headed up the hill to our house, hit the side of the road, and put a bubble in the left front tire, which remained there for nearly a year.  It was a scary episode.  What I’d done was just as bad as if I’d been driving drunk and I doubt that any police officer would have had much sympathy.  I got lucky in many ways, above all that I hadn’t injured others.

I learned a lot about my needs that year, including the importance of getting a minimum of six hours of sleep a night, doing my lesson plans a week in advance, not taking myself and others so seriously, and trusting those who want to reveal your secret life—IT’S ALL GOOD!

 

*A postscript—I went on to do substitute teaching for another four years, in German, English, social studies, history, and ironically, Spanish.

"AND IT WAS GOOD TO BE A LITTLE ISLAND."

Margaret Wise Brown, the children’s author I’ve idolized for decades, once wrote a

 

 

fascinating and delightful book for children called The Little Island.  The book was about Maine and the coastal islands, which she loved.  As Leonard Marcus expressed in his book, Awakened By the Moon, “The Little Island

 

points to a sense of the world as a vast and various place in which one needs never feel dwarfed or over-shadowed.  And it was good to be a little island.  A part of the world and a world of its own all surrounded by the bright blue sea.”

Margaret easily made friends with the fishermen of Maine, who admired her physical strength and tenacity.  The only home she ever owned she called The Only House.  It was an abandoned quarry master’s house on an island. 

Born in the spring of 1910 in Brooklyn, New York, Margaret was always a daydreamer.  She loved animals and had many pets as a child—rabbits, squirrels, guinea pigs, goldfish, cats, and dogs.  She and her siblings once buried a small animal they found.  In her early children’s book, The Dead Bird, Margaret wrote, “And every day, until they forgot, the children went and sang to their little dead bird and put fresh flowers on his grave.” 

One of the unique things about Margaret Wise Brown is that she told stories about the child’s world from the child’s point of view.  Her words were often like poetry—simple, emotional, meaningful and tender with some added mystery and intrigue.  In her brief life of 42 years, she wrote over 100 books.  She was unique, whimsical, extremely creative, and original—an individualist who wasn’t afraid to test the “norms” of children’s literature at the time.  She understood young children and was an imaginative storyteller, even at the age of six.  She once wrote, “There is a loving way with words and an unloving way, and it is only with the loving way that the simplicity of language becomes beautiful.”

In a December 1946 Life magazine article Margaret revealed that she often wrote drafts of stories on shopping lists and scraps of paper.  I could definitely relate to that, and it’s often easier to write on those small scraps; the difficulty is finding where you put them.  Still, I try to cut myself a little slack, knowing that a brilliant children’s author frequently did the same.

Margaret was sometimes restless and impatient and felt like she was wasting time if she waited to write a book.  She was often not predictable and was known to use many different illustrators, but she used Clement Hurd often.  He understood the needs of children for safety and security.  If you read her classic children’s books, Goodnight Moon and Runaway Bunny, you can’t help but fall in love with the wonderful illustrations.

Margaret Wise Brown died in 1952 at the age of 42.  Leonard Marcus, in his biography of her, wrote:  “Nearly everyone spoke of her in heartfelt superlatives, as an “irreplaceable” friend and the most creative person they had ever met.”  She was charming and a one-of-a-kind author.  She could be complicated and even complex, but as one who’s spent hundreds of hours reading stories to young children, I find her absolutely fascinating and a child’s best friend.  Her stories are full of simple wisdom and playfulness, as well as an understanding of the way children view the world.  They’re valued reading on their own, even if you don’t have young children in your life.  They’re absolute joy and pure magic.  What a fascinating author and woman; how I wish I could have met her!

LAUGH, EVEN WHEN IT HURTS!

 In my profile description on this blog I mentioned that I’ve learned to laugh at myself a lot more as I’ve gotten older.  Those words were put to the test about a week ago and to be honest, it’s a lot funnier now than it was on that Monday.

Here’s where it all started.  I was having a routine day after dropping my grandchildren off at school—errands, reading, writing, laundry—you know, rather mundane stuff.  By mid-afternoon I was about to head out the door and drive to their school to pick them up.  I went to my usual place in the house to retrieve the car keys, but they weren’t there.  I checked my jeans pockets, my fleece jacket, the counters, the porch, the top of the washing machine, and any other obscure place I could think of.  NO KEYS!  And then the dreaded thought—could I have left them in the car ignition?  I was feeling what I might otherwise have thought were menopausal symptoms—serious hot flashes! I was in a mid-afternoon state of panic on a normal weekday.  Except, it wasn’t normal!!!  The keys were definitely in the ignition, turned to the “on” position.  No engine running, but a dead battery nonetheless.  The car wouldn’t even pretend to start. My first thought was to put it in neutral and try to slide far enough down the driveway so I could get the other vehicle—the BEAST-- out of the garage.  There was only one problem with that--the dead battery car had a normal shifting lever that would not budge unless the engine was running. Just this one time, I longed for one of my car relics of the past. These new-fangled vehicles sometimes just did not comply. So then I obviously needed to ‘fess up,’ call my son at work, and admit that I couldn’t resolve this problem on my own.  He listened, offered suggestions, asked questions, and then realized that this needed quick action.  Call the school and get at least one child home on the bus.  I, the normally reliable one, had failed—in my mind, not his.  But leaving the keys in the ignition for six hours?   I’d never done that before.  However, it does bring up another odd thing.  Now and then it’s just my nature to get distracted, but that may have been doubly so because my driver’s door has required some concentration lately to get it open.  For some strange reason, and for a number of days, it had refused to open the normal, customary way.  Each time I wanted to get out of the car and go somewhere, I had to turn the ignition on, push the metal lever that makes the window go down, hit the unlock button, and reach my arm outside the car to grab the handle and unlock the door.  Plenty of thought processes involved, and I kept telling myself that it was good for me at my age.  But on that day I seemed more obsessed with the door than with remembering to take the key out, even though I had been doing that very thing for days.

My next step, as I told my son, was to try to angle the SUV past the big boat in the garage and at least manage to pick up my grandson at school at 6, after my granddaughter arrived home on the bus. I can’t even begin to say how valiantly I tried to get the BEAST out of the garage.  I kept getting out of it every few feet because I was worried about hitting the car behind it. I didn’t have sense enough to realize that I could move a small part of the boat to make more room for the BEAST—maybe just the space I needed. I finally got the vehicle partly out of the garage, only to be confronted with a bush that was not offering to budge.  In the meantime I had knocked over something, but didn’t think that it was a big deal.  Oh, but it was!  However, I’ll offer more about that later. Still continuing on that illogical theme, I thought maybe I could angle the beast through the small garage door on the other side.  I finally decided that I didn’t want to chance taking the top of the vehicle off.  Good choice!  Then I thought of moving the large basketball stand to angle the SUV around on the other side.  Thankfully it didn’t want to cooperate.  My son later told me that it wasn’t meant to be moved and I could really have hurt myself.  At times my stubbornness and determination is incomprehensible, I realize, and agonizing too!  It was time to admit that I couldn’t resolve this alone.  A call to my son was necessary again.  He called his dad to ask if he could pick up our grandson at the community center parking lot, where the bus would now drop him off after chess.  Thankfully, he obliged, but the time told to him by my son was 5, not 6, which was too early.  Enter another family member’s involvement.  My daughter-in-law Z called the community center receptionist to ask if someone could go out to the far end of the parking lot to tell her father-in-law that his grandson would not be there until 6, not 5. My son had tried to call him and tell him the correct time, but the battery went dead on the phone right in the middle of the conversation.  So naturally Z had to get involved; it seemed every family member needed to be involved in my crazy escapade. She explained that her father-in-law was driving a white VW.  The receptionist must have thought she was talking to someone from another planet.  Dead silence at her end for a while, and then an emphatic NO.  The receptionist did not even realize that a school bus was arriving in the lot every day about 6 to drop kids off after school activities.

As you might guess, it all got resolved—eventually. The kids made it home safely, the battery got recharged, and the car functioned again.  Never have I appreciated that simple fact so much.

But one last thing I alluded to—that thing I knocked over while trying to get the SUV out just happened to be something belonging to my son. So when he came home from work, I thanked him for his understanding and patience earlier in the day.  However, I told him I had one more embarrassing admission.  I have something to show you, I said.  Gulp, gulp!  I explained that as I was attempting to back the SUV out, something fell, but I was so nervous and involved in trying to get the big beast out that I only focused on that end of things.  I also didn’t think that anything major had fallen. Boy, was I wrong!  I discovered that it was my son’s nice, somewhat expensive bike, which was parked right inside the garage door.  When I first looked at it, I thought maybe it had been damaged before.  No such luck—I was the culprit!  Amazingly though, when I showed my son his bike and explained how badly I felt, this was his response:

“So, you trashed my bike, Mom, and you had a bad day, but tomorrow will be a better day. No big deal!  Don’t worry about it.” 

I felt a little emotional after all that, but with those kind words, he put everything in perspective.  And guess what?  The next day WAS a much better day, and when coming back home from school with the kids, I checked my e-mails and learned that I had won $100 in a sweepstakes.  I offered to pay my son back for his bike, but he never considered it. 

The next day as we were driving to school I told my grandchildren how understanding and kind their dad had been.  Rather than showing anger or disgust, I said that he had made me feel at ease after a day when I had screwed up royally.  And at long last I could laugh about it and remember that I needed to practice what I sometimes preached—LAUGH AT YOURSELF EVEN WHEN IT HURTS!