When is Enough Enough?

(Or, How Many Headlights Does One Vehicle Actually Need?) I swear that this is a picture of the exact same vehicle that was following me to work on Monday morning from Marquette to Munising at 6 AM on snow covered & slippery roads, often times with extremely reduced visibility. This is the first leg of my weekly commute from Marquette to Brimley for work - the last one this year. I was the third vehicle behind a semi-tractor trailor that was behind approximately two vehicles going a maximum of speed of 40 miles per hour. The conditions were not ideal, but I am sure that in front of that semi-truck, visibility was much better than what we were experiencing behind it. And I am sure that the vehicle behind me was either this one, or one very similar.

And every single one of those lights was on: I swear it to be so! The driver of this vehicle was sure to be able to see if a 'winter ant' happened to be crossing M-28 within five miles of the highway in front of him, or at the very least he could see the Atlantic Ocean from the Upper Peninsula State highway we were traveling east on yesterday morning. Honestly, at one point I turned my vehicle headlights OFF (yes, in blowing snow), and I could see the shadow of my vehicle on the back of the car in front of me - including the outline of myself in the drivers seat. Is more really necessary? I can't even imagine any condition that you would actually require this many headlights to be ALL on, or what would be so important or necessary that you would have to leave the quiet, warm & comfortable confinds of your home for anything that important in conditions that would require such illumination!

Consideration. What has happened to consideration in today's world, that we consider only our own needs and fullfill them to the utmost possiblities so that we ourselves are so well taken care of by ourselves, with total lack of concern for anyone else but ourselves. Without consideration, we as a species are doomed. And deservingly so. Perhaps this blog doesn't do much for my rant to rave ratio, reducing somewhat from a mostly positive perspective of raving over ranting, but at the moment I certainly feel better about the guy who followed me the 75 miles from Marquette to Seney yesterday morning on my weekly commute. And I myself will remember to be more considerate of other drivers in every possible way: respectful driving rather than agressive driving. If you see this guy approaching your vehicle from behind, or worse yet driving toward you: just calmly pull to the right of the highway, close your eyes & let him pass.

A Few of My Favorite Things

I thought it time again to think about, list, review and note a few of my favorite things. Like my granddaughter Maxine, a great place to start my list! When I am overwhelmed with work, things to do, things I should have done or be doing, depressing news which can be personal













or local or world news, or frustrated with work, life, people, things, or something said or done without regard, it helps me to realign my thinking toward a more positive note, to think about, identify or make a list of my favorite things. This little exercise helps me to move to a more positive perspective, and get my 'mojo back!' So here is a second list of things I love, things that make me feel good about everything and keep a positive perspective. Here we go again:

** The first and most obvious one on my list is my granddaughter Maxine.

** Add to that my children: Ana, Nevin and Elyse. And of course, let's not forget to mention Ana's husband, Maxine's father: Jason. I am so blessed by my children. We can also add Alex and Michele.

** Let's not overlook the 'sense of family.' This has become even more clear and more prominent in my life as I age. Connecting, accepting, interacting, sharing, understanding and loving family. Near and far, old and young, happy or sad; they grow on you, reflect you and compliment you.

** Crisp, cool air. Wind on my face. A fresh breeze of air in an otherwise stagnate room or place. It is in the top ten of the most refreshing things that comes to mind. Clear the air!

** Lately, I like to sleep. Well, that is to say I like my bed. It is very comfortable. A down feather bed between the mattress and the sheets. A great pair of high-thread count sheets (well worth the expense), and a deluxe down comforter - I mean DELUXE down comforter. Goose down fill of 850 "something or other;" you know the addage: 'the bigger the better!' Add some equally high-end down pillows. And it's dream away!

** Vibrant colors, indoors and out. Vibrant colored paint - and if you have been to mi casa, you know what I mean! Which has put color in my life. Color on the walls. Color in nature. Color in my friends. Color everywhere! While the absence of color - black and white - has it's merits; I enjoy the rich hues of color, off-beat but complimentary color combinations and, what it adds to my everyday life, well-being, my mood and outlook.

** Morning sun. Cracking the sky at dawn. Dimming the day at night. Warming your body, your heart and even your soul.

** The first of the crisp, clear Autumn days. When you can just begin to see your breath.

** When a plan comes together. Not just at work, but in my life. Nothing else needs to be said.

** My new Sony digital camera (reclaimed actually - was lost on July 4th, but now is found). And knowing how to use it to take pictures of my life. As well as, knowing how to download the pictures, crop, title, arrange and otherwise manipulate them, and then post them. Sharing my life with friends and family through pictures which tell the story from my perspective.

** My sister Joann. My nieces Barbara and Cindy. My grand-niece Rebekah. My friend Faye. And certainly, my friends Lou Lundquist and Heidi Hoemeister. ALL my friends actually!

** The many wonderful, helpful and very tolerant people that I work with at Bay Mills.

** Memories. The good, the great, the precious, the bittersweet, the hilarious, and even the sad, painful and downright ugly. They comprise our lives. They contribute to who we are.

** Friends who can cook. Friends who make deserts. Friends who make jewerly. I have a few friends who do these things - they are all so very talented!

** The sense of accomplishment in my life. Although fleeting at times.

** Pay day. Wish it came more often.

** Peggy Griefer. Peggy's one earring. Her sense of style. Her stories. Especially the ones about Cuba, Central and South America. And a life in a time before I can remember. Peggy is a treasure. She is so amazing!

** Connecting and re-connecting with friends new, old and slightly used. And the memories we share. For this, I must mention Facebook. Which has put me in touch with childhood friends, helped to make acquaintances become friends and, all the memories that have come flooding back because of the connections FB has generated for me.

** Going to the market: the Farmer's Market on Saturdays in downtown Marquette. It reminds me of home, of my childhood, and going to Central Market in downtown York with my mother.

** The guy with the crystal blue eyes that sells his vegetables at Marquette's Saturday Market.

** Bostock. I think I have mentioned it before. So I might add the blog I found and now follow that has the recipe for bostock, so I can make myself!

Life is good. Ever changing, ever evolving, ever fascinating! There are so many more things to be gratful for in so many ways. These are just a few of my favorite things!

My Personal Mecca

This is Chapel Rock, located on Chapel Beach, in the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, along the southern shore of Lake Superior, in Michigan's beautiful Upper Peninsula. The inspiration for North Shore Woman, a pen name I have used off and on throughout my writing career (I use that term career in conjunction with writing loosely!). I first discovered Chapel Beach in the late Summer or early Fall of 1971, when I was living in a reclaimed log cabin on the Petral Grade, a dirt road that runs north of the Seney Stretch portion of M-28, just east of Shingleton (recently renamed by a street sign as Star Siding Road). The old log cabin, a former logging camp kitchen and bunk house with parque flooring, was situated in the back of the second clearing on the west side of the road after you crossed Star Creek (approximately 4 miles north of M-28), nearly invisible to the dirt road as it winds its way northward to Melstrand. Just past the Melstrand store was another winding dirt road that went further north toward the south shore of Lake Superior. Nearly impassable by most vehicles, I shifted into four-wheel drive, and drove the two-toned green Willy's Jeep down the rutted road, as it got narrower and more challenging to navigate. I was sure the Lake Superior shoreline was near, and kept edging on that late September day, at a slow but steady pace through the thick hardwood forest. Around a curve I came to a large posted sign, emblazed (but faded) with the words 'Private Property' across the top. The bottom third of that sign declared Chaple Beach, followed by these words: "Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints," in fading script. I could see that the trees were thinning beyond, and hints of the blue waters of Lake Superior beckoned me forward. When I realized if I went any further, that only I would be coming back and not my vehicle; I began walking instead of driving. I stopped the vehicle, climbed out and continued down the worsening road to a trail that led to Chapel Beach. As I stepped from the thinning forest onto the edges of a sandy clift, the view took my breath away. Not particularly a long or wide beach, the 'end' of the sandstone cliffs of Pictured Rocks framed the beach to the west, and to the east of the small, footprint-less white sands was Chapel Rock. Proudly holding its own, surrounded by shallow waters and lapping gentle waves, with its tree roots attaching like heavy ropes: its only hold onto the mainland rocky cliffs of copper colored sandstone. I thought I had found paradise that day. I spent the better part of the afternoon exploring the footprint-less white sand beach, gathering sun bleached driftwood, swimming in the clear, clean and crispy cold waters of Lake Superior, reveling in my treasure that I had found. That day is as clear in my mind as if it just happened yesterday - all of it rushing back from wherever it has been held when Austin posted this picture a few days ago. I wanted to record the memory, and share it with you.

The Doctor Made House Calls

Dr. Herold made house calls. His doctor's office was actually in his house, or the parlor portion of his house on the side. It had a seperate entrance from the home entrance. My sister, JoAnn, and her husband Pat (Patrick) had six kids: Patrick, Michael, Cynthia, Jennifer, Barbara and Ronald. And then there was me. Jesse. Patrick was only three years younger than me. And my parents lived about 3 blocks away from my sister and her family. I recall dividing my time between the two homes; sometimes in my sister's house for days, sleeping one place or the other - not always by my own choice but often enough being where I wanted to be at the time. Both houses were in Manchester, on one side of the valley. Mt. Wolf, and equally small town, was on the other side of the valley. The railroad tracks that ran through the valley split the two small villages of houses, which were otherwise more like one, nestled in the rolling hills on the eastern side of the Appalachain Mountains in southeastern Pennsylvania; not far from the Mason Dixon Line that seperated Pennsylvania from Maryland.

I remember spending most of my time at my sister's house. Eating. Playing. Swimming. Going to visit my Aunt Eddie and Uncle Toady's farm with my sister and her family. Or to the drive-in movies in the Summer in the big station wagon with the wooden panels on the sides (remember how you took the speaker off the post and hooked it on your window?). Or to "town," that is: to York - the city. Usually on Saturday mornings to the Farmer's Market; that is downtown (and is still there and open on Saturdays - it is something we still do when I go home to visit). That was technically the grocery store. Although there were two general stores in Manchester: Stough's was the biggest one, a large store in the center of town at the only stop sign (later a stop light), and across the street from the post office, which included not only groceries and a butcher (meat) counter, but household items, fabric, notions, and just about anything else that you would need in the 50s and 60s. (And I might add, the best penny candy selection in the entire world at that time!) Both of the corner stores, and a third "news stand" store that was open on Sundays, are no longer in existence in Manchester. Only the big box grocery store remains, out on the highway as you drive into town from the City of York to the south.

Six kids at home were alot of kids even in the 50s and 60s. And when one kid got sick, it was bound to spread to the rest of the kids. And me as well. Which brings me back to Dr. Herold. A country doctor. A family doctor. A doctor who made house calls. A doctor who had his office in his home. He delivered babies. He had office hours on Saturday. He was always available when someone was sick, or hurt, or being born, or dying. Dr. Herold was the go to guy; the one who knew every child, every parent, every grand parent and family in the valley. The doctor who administered 'gray grip pills' for every possible ailment you could manage to get, suffer from, contract, come down with or just plain have.

And we didn't follow up our visit to his office, even if it was a Saturday, with a trip to the pharmacy. Not when I was younger, although we had a pharmacy by the time I was in high school in the 60s. We just got our gray grip pills from Dr. Herold at his office, after our appointment with the Doctor or when he came to the house for a 'house call.' Often he gave my sister a good supply of 'gray grip pills,' as there were so many of us and so many reasons to need them. They cured all kinds of childhood ills: fevers, stomach aches, pains, headaches, coughs, sneezes, and whatever else we could catch and give to one another. The 'little gray grip pills' were kept on the second shelf in the kitchen, in the cupboard next to the refridgerator, above the plastic water glasses. The glass water glasses were kept on a higher shelf, to keep us kids from using them and probably breaking them. My sister was the keeper and the administrator of those little gray wonders that fixed everything.

I remember clearly the visits to his office. The smells, the leather chairs in the waiting area. His crisp white medical coat, with his dress shirt and tie peaking out at the neckline. His shiney black dress shoes, and his stethoscope around his neck. His pockets were filled with his other tools, to look into your ears, your eyes and down your throat. He always said, "Hmmm.... un-huh. Hmmmmm." At least that is all he said to us kids. He primarily spoke to my sister Joann, or on the occassions when I went to the doctor's with my mother, Dr. Herold spoke to her. And then, always, ALWAYS, there was a lollipop at the end of the visit. The best lollipops ever, that lasted a long time. Along with the little bottle of 'gray grip pills.' Followed by a bit of conversation about the other members of the family and how they were doing. And a warm and friendly good bye. I don't ever remember seeing money change hands, although I am sure it did in some way.

And I remember well, that gray grip pills cured everything. So there was no need to worry. You would be well soon. When ever you were feeling sick, or feverish, or just plain 'under the weather,' you would get a blanket on the counch in the living room, a glass (plastic) of ice water (or sometimes some warm Plitt's ginergale), and a little gray grip pill. If you were really under the weather, this special treatment could go on for as many days as needed. The lights were dimed so you could rest comfortably, and everyone else had to be quiet until you felt better. They seem to fix everything that ailed you. Some things real and some imagined (no doubt). They worked every time. Every single time. Oh, how I long for a those little 'gray grip pills' to fix what ails me. And the warm comfort of my sister, attending to me because I was feeling poorly. Actually, there are many times in my life since then, I could have use a little gray grip pill to fix what ailed me. Or possibly, a pair of ruby red slippers might have worked as well.

Becoming Thelma Louise

I think I am becoming my mother. Thelma Louise. Honest, that is (was) her name. And she was both of them to some degree, the women in the movie Thelma & Louise, played by Susan Sarandon (Louise) and Geena Davis (Thelma). Many of you may only remember Brad Pitt as J.D. in the movie, in his first significant role in a major Hollywood film. Or maybe you recall the ending scene in the movie, when they drove their light blue 1966 Thunderbird convertible off the cliff to escape their troubled, caged lives, and floated downward (fade to black). I love that part of the movie. Probably the best all-time chick flick ever. Honestly, my mother was a bit of both of them: both confident and not; logical but not. She was a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction. At least, that is how I saw her and how I remember her in my life.

I really beleive I am becoming my mother, at least part of me is in some degree or form. Just little things, habits, ways of doing things and even sometimes a perspective or two. In addition to the approximatly nine months we spent in a very close relationship, we only influenced one another for another 17 years and 8 or nine months (give or take a month). I admit that during that first nine months I had little or no control over my life and the situation, and was completely dependent and relatively obedient to my mothers wishes for the most part. I actually had little contact with my father during those nine months. I no doubt only responded to such things as diet, space concerns and energy levels. My rants and raves were limited.

In the outside world, I am told, I quickly learned to exercise my control of my world and all situations, even prior to finding the words to define my thoughts, wants and needs. Being a relatively cute baby (of course!) and adorable small child of "older" parents, I apparently learned quickly to exercise my control of situations with stellar results. My sister JoAnn, can certainly confirm this to be true. I pretty much got what I wanted and did anything I wanted all through my childhood and throughout my school years; sometimes with only the stomp of the foot, a frowny face, or shedding a few tears. As time progressed through those next 17 years, I honned my skills and apparently I became quite an expert at getting what I wanted when I wanted it. I thought that was the way life was for everyone. My world was very small.

And then I was gone. More than a thousand miles away, with no cell phones, or email, or text messaging or video conferencing to tie us together. All that passed was an occasional phone call (when I had a phone or access to one), mostly when I needed something like money. Or an occassional letter or card with a ranting or two between us - my mother and I. My mother's anger at me was always evident, whether it was a phone call or a letter. Thelma could convey an angry and disappointed voice loud and clear on the phone as well as in her letters and cards. And the feelings were mutual - my anger and disappointment was directed back at her. I only ever initiated the contact when I wanted something. I grew up that way - in the shadow of all that anger and frustration and disappointment. I thought that was the way it was for everyone. It is all that I knew. Once I left, I quickly learned that wasn't so: Life didn't hand you WHAT your wanted, WHEN you wanted it.

It was Thelma Louise who taught me to rant. She ranted, and sometimes raved. I am pretty sure that is true - although it was not referred to ranting at that time in my life. Thelma Louise's rants and ranting more resembled the concepts associated with criticisim, admonishment, accusation and condemnation. At least in the later years of our cohabitation, after I began to exercise my own form of ranting, i.e., that I found my voice, or better said that I connected my voice to my thoughts and began to form opinions of my own. So as this thing called the aging process advances - and it is advancing quickly - I have learned to become congnizant to minimize the negatives of life, aging and the things that life constantly hurls at you. I am really just talking about life's everyday challenges, and how we address them as individuals: what we let 'roll off our back, what bothers us, what we beleive in and not, and what we take up as a cause or purpose or belief. And what we teach our children.

Full Moon Rise 9.4.2009

The moon rise over Lake Superior tonight couldn't have been more beautiful. A perfect full moon ascend into the night sky! After a full day of good hard work outside in the sun with friends both old and new, fabulous food and full-energy, balls out rock-a-billy live music by the Twistin' Taranchalas. I couldn't dream up a better scenerio of a 'perfect storm' day. And it is only the begining of what should be one of the best weekends to end the not-so-very-warm Summer of 2009. Even with the weather as cool and wet as it was, this was a fun-filled, busy, exicting and surprising Summer. With paths crossing with many long lost and nearly forgotten old friends, as well as some chance encounters with new and interesting souls along the trail. I am more than gratful for the never ending stream of surpises in my life - with each day bringing something new and interesting!

RRR 1:9

I Read Obituaries

I admit it. I read obituaries. I am a habitual about reading obituaries. There, I said it. I admitted it publically. Go ahead, judge me. Or not, and read on.

Obituaries provide comentary as well as archival information. They are in essence, the last testament of a life. They are not only a person's record of living and dying but can be a tribute, a celebration of life, one's essence of being, living and dying. Often times, an obituary is also a geneology, and tells the story of one's life. A short history of record, birth, living, one's accomplishments and finally, dying; the passing of a human being and the spirit of their life. A once living, breathing person who was a child, young adult, man, woman, brother, sister, cousin, aunt(y), uncle, mother, father, grand-mother, grand-father, neighbor, friend, rival (enemy), mate, co-worker, teacher, student, acquaintance, stranger in someone's (your) life. Often mutiple things on this list, and other "somethings" as well, that I may have missed.

I don't just read the obituaries of people I know, but of the last record of ordinary, everyday people that I've never even met. And famous people, too. Famous people and well-known, people on the local and regional level, as well as national and international arenas. People from just down the street, the next town or state, from around the world who may be well-known people or just the garden variety of every day unknown people. Weird, huh? But then again not - I think. Obituaries are history, a human being's story of their path in life: a "freeze dried" summary for print, for public record. History at its most personal level. No one should go un-noticed or unrecorded. No one. And for some, the only public recognition for most of us, the only public acclaim for living is the obituary. And they should be read - their last chance to be noticed, appreciated or recognized. The last record of existance on earth.

I read the obits in the local paper(s) where I live, and when I am out of town or traveling, I read my local obituaries on-line. I sometimes puruse the regional papers, just out of plain curiosity. My favorite, obviously for some who understand this habit, are the obituaries in the New York Times newspaper. The Rolls Royce of obituary aclaim. I have been know to pursue the obits in the York Daily Record (my hometown paper), Chicago Tribune and the Seattle Times, as well and frequently I might add. For example, from NYT Obituaries, on March 4, 2009:














Update 5:20 p.m. Horton Foote, who chronicled America’s wistful odyssey through the 20th century in plays and films mostly set in a small town in Texas and left a literary legacy as one of the country’s foremost storytellers, died in Hartford, Conn., on Wednesday. He was 92, said his daughter, Hallie Foote. (Who knew? How else would ordinary people know?)

The Society of Professional Obituary Writers (SPOW), is the professional organization created for folks who "write about the dead for a living." Most members are journalists, who work for news organizations. From their website: "We want those who write articles about the recently deceased to regard obituaries as once-in-a-lifetime stories that should be researched, reported and penned with as much care and attention as any other newsroom assignment." They are a fledgling organization in development, by self admission, with membership, development activities, an on-line forum, and an annual conference (April 2010). And awards, inlcuding the Lifetime Achievement Award (2008) to Jim Nicholson from the Philadelphia Daily News. There are a few examples of his obits provided. The Best Celebrity Obituary (Long) in 2007, was awarded to Sandra Martin from the Globe and Mail, for her obit on The Honest Ed Story - Mr. Toronto dies at 92. There is also the Best Average Joe Obituary (Long), awarded to Tom Hawthorne in 2007, also from the Globe and Mail, for his story on "the tattoed king of the midway," and the Best Celebrity Obituary (Long) awarded to co-winners Tim Bullamore and Sandram Martin of the Daily Telegraph of London in 2007, for their obit on Natalia Karp. Not one but two professional obituary writers to produce an award-winning, final narrative for a celebrity. So that's how it is at the top of stardom! I could go on with the awards presented at the annual SPOW conference, but . . . I won't. I may add the Globe and Mail, a Canadian paper, to my list of favorites on my browser.

The hardest part is reading an obituary of someone you knew and loved. Someone who was a part of your life, in whatever way, big or small. Those or the ones I have saved, for more than 40 years. I clip them neatly, and keep them in the pages of a book - The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. Family, friends, people who touched my life in one way or another over the span of time. A record. A record of the path I have travelled. Strange? Probably. Unhealthy? Maybe. Just one way of holding on to where you have travelled, what has influenced your life and where you are going. Holding a memory that speaks to your heart and your mind. Remembering.

RRR: 1:8

Delightful Things

Maxine Nadal

On this last day in August, I continue my focus to have less rants and more raves in my life. I thought with this day, sort of a passage from Summer to Autumn (even though that doesn't officially happen until September 21st), it would be a good day to count the blessings in my life this month. That is those things that truely delight me. So today is a list. However simple or complicated I end of making it, what follows are the "delightful things."

** My friend Tim's operation on Friday went well. And today already, the reports from his wife Laurie of his progress in recovery are very encouraging.

** My lovely grand-daughter Maxine will turn four months tomorrow. She definately is a delight in my life! These first two delights on my list are the two primary things on my mind these past months. I have given each of them considerable thought and prayer. My concerns for their health and well-being, a new life and a life well-lived; also brings a sense of balance to my own life at this time.

** Unexpected visitors!

** It didn't snow in August. This is a delight, as the weather was a frequent topic of conversation, concern and disappointment. Too cold a summer for most of us; missing the sunny days on Lake Superior and warm nights of the long days above the 45th parallel. So, my delight here is from the perspective of the glass is half full. (I am trying really hard!)

** Waking up every morning feeling refreshed.

** August was full of connects and re-connections. My interactions with family, old friends and new friends were plentiful this past month. New friends and old, some lost and nearly forgotten, as well as my circle of support of everyday friends surrounded me all month. Becky (Patrick & Sue's daughter) shared pictures and stories of her missionary work in Panama; while a steady stream of thoughts, stories and pictures from Barbara (& Larid) of Redit, Abel and Helen, their newly adopted children, are adorable and endlessly entertaining. Good conversations with Bruce & Cindy, and with my sister Joann. Connections across the peninsula from Sault Ste. Marie to Grand Marais to Marquette over good wine, great food, amazing music and entertaining conversation. Sharing music, meals and conversation, playing cards and watching the weather change, come and go. A good time with an old friend, turned new friendship. And a chance encounter, with a new friend with a new perspective, on his cross-country journey.

** Lake Superior at night: like black velvet waving in the wind, as it swells and rolls to shore.

** The "Devine Miss Peggy," she never ceases to amaze me! Her insight, wit and perspectives of life are equally encouraging, entertaining and cherished. Even those ordinary everyday things: "Up by the roots!" I am so fortunate to have her as my 'house-mate' for all these years.

** Sadie & Gus (and ultimately Heidi & Lou too!)

** A walk on Saturday morning to the Marquette Farmer's Market at the Commons in downtown Marquette, followed by a trip to the new bakery, the Marquette Food Co-Op and Dead River Coffee Shop. And then, a walk home along the shores of Lake Superior. See, meet & talk with friends - old & new - at the Saturday Market.

** Tres Pecos wine: Sharing a whole bottle with a friend!

** Roasted asparagus - the thin baby ones, with olive oil, cracked black pepper & garlic.

** Freshly washed sheets dryed on the line. Crisp and fragrant to sleep on.

** Talking with all three of my children in the same day. I should clarify that to say communicating. Talking with Ana in the morning, while Maxine coos in the background, about her day and how Maxine is changing and growing. A surprise visit from my son on his way home from the bike shop. And a text message (a start) from Elyse & Alex (enjoying the bottle of wine I gave them at Christmas in their new apartment - Tres Pecos). We shared a few text messages and her new address.

** Winning at cribbage. Winning big!! S-K-U-N-K! Double S-K-U-N-K!!

** Safe travels on the highway on my weekly commute to/from my home in Marquette and my job in Brimley. My commute is 155 miles, door to door, one way.

** Beet salad from the Rubyiat restaurant in Marquette.

** Live music outside in the afternoon sun, or under the evening sky in Grand Marais. Live music at a Dave & Ellen's going away party. Live music in celebration of a long time friend, with old friends and friendships renewed. Live music with friends on the deck at my house.

** Opened windows.

** A random act of kindness from an unexpected source. Long lost pictures from times nearly forgotten returned.

** Bostock. If you haven't tried it, you must! It is sinfully delicious & a rare find. Eaten with fresh raspberries, it has to be a sin!

** My friend Faye. A never ending source of postive energy.

** Tres Pecos. Did I mention that already? All things Spanish wine!

** Morning walks. Morning walks from Wetmore's Landing to Little Presque Isle. Morning walks around Presque Isle. Morning walks to the coffee shop, with a lazy walk along the lakeshore home in the early afternoon. Morning walks to the lake to see the sunrise. Morning walks to 'top-of-the-world.' Morning walks. Afternoon walks. Evening walks. Late night walks. Living in a walkable location.

** Sunrise. Sunset. Lake breezes.

RRR 1:7

I Love This Photo

This photo speaks volumes to me: about where I've been, what I have done, what I think and how I think it. The photo was taken by Dennis Stock at the Venice Beach Rock Festival in 1968.

In the late 1960s, Dennis Stock was photographing the Woodstock Generation, but he was also one of its free-spirited, anarchistic exemplars. You can find archives of his photos on line, and hear him this discuss this photo and how it happened to be taken that day at:

Dennis Stock's Woodstock Generation - The Picture Show Blog : NPR

All the publicity about Woodstock lately, the release of the movie; it has stirred some long time memories from that time in my life. Take the time, check out the link. Give the audio a listen, it is quite interesting. It just might bring back some long forgotten memories of yours.

RRR: 1:6

A Girl Grows Up in Seattle

Crowded Corners





by Elyse Brownell



A woman wearing pink socks,
her toes wedged between her one size too small flip flops,
Shorts in February, bruised legs, matted hair, her hands
holding onto something that wasn't there,
said today,

"I'm not a parade"

I wanted to follow her around, to join in on her "not parade,"
raise her up like an award or throw tootsie rolls at her feet.
I wanted to carve a float out of the side of the building,
Use chewed bubble gum as glitter,
Stoplights as wheels, a crown out of graffiti.

I could hear the band, the honking horns, the wind started to pick up
And blew her hair, lifted the scent off her, like a floating dragon.

I wondered if anyone else heard her say it,
If anyone else was as affected by this as I was,
Or if the pink lady and I,
on crowded corners,
shared a moment together.

2.22.2008

Personal note: Elyse is my youngest daughter. A graduate of GVSU, with a double major in Legal Studies and Creative Writing. Elyse currently lives & works in Seattle, Washington. As a Legal Assistant at a well -known & respected law firm downtown, I understand that she expects to return to law school to acquire a law degree. Elyse has become the woman I always wanted to be. I am truely in awe of her accomplishments. Of all my children, she is the most like me.

RRR: 1:5

Chutes & Ladders: The Game of Life

Chutes & Ladders "This delightful game is simple and easy to play, even for children who can't read. Players spin the spinner and move their pawns, square by square, the number shown. If the pawn lands on a picture square at the bottom of a ladder, children climb up with a good deed! Naughty deeds slide you back when you land on a picture square at the top of a chute!" (Ages 3-6 for 2-4 Players). The game was sold as Snakes and ladders in England before Milton Bradley introduced the basic concept in the United States as Chutes and Ladders in 1952, an "improved new version of England's famous indoor sport." Its simplicity and the see-sawing nature of the contest made it popular with young children. (Wikipedia)

In a conversation this morning while getting a manicure and pedicure, Kate compared life to a game of chutes and ladders. It didn't take more than a couple of seconds for me to realize how true that was in my own life. You come to that upward, loftier, haughty, elevating "ladder in life," and up you go! You're a winner, world-class and more often than not you are uppity over your accomplishments. A bit full of yourself at times. Likewise, when there is a chute at your feet, and it can just be by chance, down you go and backwards in your progress along life's path to the future and old age. Often we are demeaned and defeated by our mistakes and backwards slides in life, you become just another old sod scratching your way along and back up in the world. You slide down the slippery slope of life's chutes to slink about beneath it all, and start all over again in the game of life and living. Friends and family often view and treat your differently. Maybe not always, but some do and it is often enough to add to the misery of mistakes and failure. I beleive that we all are guilty of basking in the ladders of life, as well as experiencing the slippery slope of life's chutes. And even guilty to some degree of casting a downward glance or comment about someone who has stumbled or fallen and slid down a chute in life's path.

I think it is safe to say that most everyone played Chutes & Ladders as a child. At least in my generation, the "fifty-somethings." And the generation before and the one after. I am also sure that I played the game with Ana, who is part of the "thirty-something" generation born in the 1970s. Which reminds me, I need to get two sets of this game now that I am a grandmother (here-to-fore always referred to as "Nan-na" - please make note). One game for my granddaughter Maxine - who lives in Seattle, for her to play and us to play when I visit. And another game for me at my house for two reasons. First, so that we can play when she comes to visit, and second so I can practice for when she comes to visit. That way, I hope to avoid completely embarassing myself once she becomes smarter than me. I am beginning to realize that I am getting older, and may be more likely not always keeping my wits and smarts about me (I suspect).

No doubt as children we all practiced the art of winning and loosing in life without even realizing it. Who knew? As life has unfolded, some of us were winners and some of us were not; and sometimes we win and sometimes we loose throughout life. Everyone has ups and downs along the road of life. Perhaps in addition to euchre, spades and hearts, even a friendly game of poker, we should continue with chutes & ladders just as reminder of what could be or could have been or might yet to be in our life. I know that I will look at the game differently once I begin to play it again with Maxine. Actually, I can't wait for us to play games! This Nan-na thing is going to be fun! At four months old, it might be a little early for her to start. Maybe just the gameboard on the wall behind her changing table for a start. What do you think?

I so look forward to playing with Maxine and watching her grow. I am anxious to see what parts of her are Ana and what parts of her are Jason and how that combination contributes to person she becomes. Being a Nan-na is definately a ladder in my game of life! Order your own Chutes and Ladders board game at www.boardgames.com/chutandlad.htm

RRR Quotient: 1:4

Barefoot & Windy

“And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” Kahlil Gibran

Putting my life in terms of Rants & Raves, has put an interesting spin on my morning already. From the moment I wake, to the last thought before sleep. I want to look at my life more in terms of my Raves. You know: ‘the glass is half full not half empty,’ and therefore I need more Raves than Rants on my blog (and in my life).

My current blog score is 1:2/Rants to Raves (and oh what a Rant the one Rant was!). I am focused on looking to up my ‘Rant to Rave Ratio today – heretofore known as RRR or Rx3 (for texting purposes). Which brought me to barefoot or bare feet (my mind works in mysterious ways even I don’t understand). Barefoot, the exact opposite of shoes, boots, socks, ski boots, snowshoes, skates & the like. Hot sand squeezed between your toes, summer sandals, flip flops and barefoot in the park. And the wind in your hair: on a bicycle, on the beach, at the helm, on the backyard deck, in a hot red convertible (1969 MGB w/tantem top, preferably), or a mountaintop. Who doesn’t love that, wouldn’t embrace that feeling. Nothing feels more free or open. Well, perhaps completely naked in the rising sun, but naked is for another blog.

I am looking to affect my outlook on life, my attitude toward myself, my family, toward you and others, and toward life in general. Positive thinking is a more productive way to approach to the negative, unpleasant and depressing side of your life. Positive thinking, and/or one’s RRR, as most of you already know, is effective stress management. In an earlier blog (8.25.2009), I talked about the conversation in my head that has always been there. I wasn’t referring to voices, but to my self-talk. Self-talk is the endless stream of thoughts that run through your head every day. These automatic thoughts can be positive or negative. Some of your self-talk comes from logic and reason, life’s experience, the people and places in your life. Other self-talk may arise from misconceptions that one creates on their own, because of lack of information, rationalization, untruths and negativity in your life, abuse, etc. If the thoughts that run through your head are mostly negative, your outlook on life is more likely pessimistic - it stands to reason. If your thoughts are mostly positive, you're likely an optimist: you are someone who practices positive thinking. Basic stuff here.

Researchers continue to explore the effects of positive thinking and optimism on health. Health benefits that positive thinking may provide include: increasing your own life span; lessen distress level; lower rates of depression; support better psychological and physical well-being, and; reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease. Positive thinking and optimism can also improve your resistance to common illnesses like colds and flu, your coping skill for stress, your psychological and physical well-being, and reduce your risk of cardiovascular disease. It's unclear why people who engage in positive thinking experience these health benefits. One theory is that having a positive outlook enables you to cope better with stressful situations, which reduces the harmful health effects of stress on your body. It's also thought that positive and optimistic people live healthier lifestyles because they get more physical activity, follow a healthier diet, and have reduced rates of smoking and alcohol consumption. You exercise positive thinking and the power of it, your life is better, healthier and longer. Lecture over. Now to the good stuff!

It brings me to my friend Tim. Tim was always 'that guy.' You know, that guy. The one everyone knows & likes: a guy's guy and even a woman's man. The guy who is friend to everyone, great at any sport, walks & talks with confidence, looks good and everyone wants to be his friend. And Tim is that guy, and more, so very much more. More because, on top of it all, he has a breath and depth of personality that goes with it. That positive attitude, outlook and perspective that not only attracts people but inspires them as well. He is cool, calm, collect to us all, yet down-to-earth, realistic, humble and personable. Has a wonderful family, long time friends and a positive outlook. And he has cancer. After three years of treatments, operations and recovery, it is still cancer. Invading not only his body but his life and his family. Tim is set for a laryngectomy, the removal of his voice box.

On August 24th, he wrote: "One way or another I will become a neck breather. That will be a permanent reminder of my third battle with vocal cord cancer. The level of physical pain should be controlled with medication. The emotional pain and the recovery is still in question." His friends and family responded with love, kindness and support. Today, Tim wrote on his blog: "I am ready to go into Friday's surgery, I plan on coming out of the surgery with my dignity intact. I am ready to fight the battle." His surgery is tomorrow. The process of his self-talk, the power in his positive thinking was evident in his blog: from the first post after finding out the laryngectomy was necessary (loss of hope, dispair, defeat) to the this most recent post before his operation (positive, forward, confident). I have no doubt that the power of his postive thinking will contribute to a positive outcome with his surgery.

Please keep him and his family in your thoughts and prayers. He has many years left to enjoy barefeet and wind in his hair (at his back, on his face - whatever the case may be). He remains the most amazing person I know.

My Dear Sweet Jenny

This is a rant, in a pure and simple form. It actually supports my earlier blog of today.

A little background is in order before you read on. Jenny is one of my (only) sister's six children, fourth in the birth line. Which makes her approximately eight years younger than me. She was roughly nine when I left home at 17 (and rarely looked back). Her parents - my sister and her husband - were more parents to me than my own parents were, in reality. I have always considered her six children: Patrick Jr., Michael, Cindy, Jenny, Barbara and Ron as my siblings. The better part of my growing up involves my sister & her family. In my later years, I feel that I have formed close bonds with Michael, Cindy, Barbara and each of their families, as well as a close relationship with Patrick, his wife Sue and his family. Ron was a baby when I left, and although I barely know him, Ron is as much family as each of the six are to me including Jenny. However, Jenny and I are like polar opposites, I have come to realize.

The following is a response I posted to Jenny's blog post that was specifically directed at/to me - which she ultimately censored (deleted). Life isn't always the way we: 1) remember it to be and, 2) the way we want it to be. While her comments regarding me stand, I want my reponse to stand as well. What she said in her blog, completely blindsided me. After more than 40 years have passed, it came out of nowhere. We obviously both share the 'pig-headed' gene - which I believe comes from my mother's side of the family.

I believe in the freedom of speech. Regardless of its point of view, we all are entittled to our own perspective. Her blog, her thoughts, her exercise of the freedom of speech, which we hold so dear in this country, stand just as she writes and as she decides who comments. Here is my response to her blog on me. Her blog, if you would like to read the words that prompted this (censored) rant can be found at: http://sandparty.blogspot.com/ The comments directed to me are listed under "What you have taught me" posted January 31, 2009. I am #5 under the list of people.

My censored response - in its COMPLETE, UNCENSORED AND UNCHANGED form - follows:

My dear sweet Jenny:

Wow! Some 35+ years later. Sorry I didn’t make it home more often – I never had any idea that anyone noticed or even cared. You need to understand that, first of all, you grew up a generation behind me, in a strong family environment that placed value on family & children. I didn’t. I grew up in the shadow of alcoholism and mental illness, with older parents who no longer had the interest or the patience for a child; particularly one that was strong willed and independent in the tumultuous 60s.

Although, years later I came to realize that your parents were more parents to me than my own, and all six of you were the brothers & sisters I never had (like my friends did). It was different having a sister that was old enough to be your mother. The person I became then and am today was molded in the ‘60s, diversely opposite of the ‘50s; and I was strongly influenced by the civil rights movement & the Vietnam war era; peppered with the 'age of Aquarius' movement that created tye-dye, the peace sign, hippy beads & psychedelic music.

And those two things: war and civil rights strongly affected the person I am today. From my graduating class, there were 23 soldiers killed in Vietnam - most of whom I went through my entire school years with. Of those who returned – another 10 or so whom I knew well – many of them were so screwed up in the head, dying of drugs or alcohol or coming home so completely screwed up in the head that communication was impossible. Let's add to that racial prejudice that was acceptable and primarily the norm in good ole' York County. Moving to the remote corner of Michigan where I have been for most of the last 39 years of my life was my way of saying 'no mas!' (no more). Understanding the remote region that I have called home for nearly 40 years might help.

While I didn’t visit often, my parents never visited me & my only sister and her family (including you) only once that I remember in the 70s. And then once when I married Garrett, your dad & mom were here. When I graduated from NMU at the top of my class, summa cum laude, valedictorian & keynote speaker at commencement - no one seemed to notice. That was 1978: a pinnacle in my life. Few of my family even know that I also have a Masters degree (1981), also summa cum laude. So I believe I do understand your disappointment in me not coming home.

This is probably more than you wanted in reply. My only point my dear niece, is that we all have disappointments in life. And like the good things in life, they all contribute to the person we are/become. I have come to realize they – my disappointments & my triumphs – are mine (they are each of ours; our own & of our own doing, and contribute significantly to each us as individuals), and generally of no fault of the ones we quietly hold accountable. That is life. And that is what makes us who we are.

So I am sorry I didn’t/couldn’t come home through the years – it was in no way personal or anyone’s fault. I say that honestly. I really am sorry. And I never knew or even suspected that anyone in my family cared one way or the other about me.

The short 18 years I spent growing up in PA was more painful than pleasant for me. And that kept me away. That kept me from my own father’s funeral – who I loved dearly regardless of all the pain that separated us. I am sorry you that you were caught up in that – my own pain and inability to cope with that portion of my life. Because we are blood, it shouldn’t matter to either of us, and neither of us should let it stand between family.

I remain Jesse.

It's Time for A Change

I remember, like many long-time friends, exactly where I was and what I was doing when John Kennedy was shot. I was twelve and in 8th grade, in Home Economics class – a freshman at Northeastern High School. We were making English muffin pizzas that day in class; something I had never even seen let alone eaten at that time in my life. The intercom on the wall crackled, and the National Anthem began to play through its tiny round speaker over the teacher’s desk in the front of the room. We were about to sit down to eat, but were required to all stand up at our chairs, face the flag and place our hands over our hearts, as was the custom of the time. Looking down at that English muffin pizza as it cooled, everything moved to slow motion from that point forward that day. Everything loomed in uncertainty and confusion. A voice came over the crackling intercom speaker that said, “The President of the United States is dead.” Our teacher burst into tears, while panic ensued among the twenty some odd Home Economics students and the English muffin pizzas cooled to cold. I recall being confused and scared.

The intercom crackled once again, and it was our school Principal – Mr. Sutton, I think – we were dismissed from class to go directly to our lockers, gather our things & go straight home. School would be closed until the following Monday. The halls were hushed as they filled with students, many in tears and frightened. As I walked, nearly ran home, the fire sirens were ringing in both of the two small towns nestled in the valley where I grew up in southeastern Pennsylvania, on the outskirts of the City of York. The streets were unusually busy with cars.

By the time I got home the TV was on and continued on throughout the rest of the week into the weekend, and throughout the funeral ceremonies. My mother was glued to that TV set. Many of the images of that time are still clear and I can recall clearly as if they just happened today. It was a frightening and confusing time, filled with the unknown and uncertainty. My father paced in the background, Camel straight in hand, rocking back and forth on his feet as he always did when something upset him. Panic loomed with the round the clock news commentary. Everything else stood still. My mother was near catatonic, never moving far from the newscast.

The decade began with the turmoil of the civil rights movement. There were marches and protests throughout the country: some peaceful, many not. Record crowds gathering in DC in August 1963 for Martin Luther King's I have a dream speech. Followed by the beginning of the series of assassinations to occur throughout the tumultuous 1960s in our country. JFK in November of 1963. Martin Luther King in April of 1968, followed closely by the assassination of Bobby Kennedy in June of 1968. With each event, the panic of my normal everyday life rocked me further from my childhood reality. If you grew up in that time – the sixties – you understand the overwhelming feeling of fear, unsettled and unsure times.

The mundane, predictable and automatic life of the 1950s grew into a world of uncertainty and constant change. With the assassinations closely followed by thousands upon thousands of young soldiers who went off to the war in Vietnam (a country I had never heard of before or had any idea where in the world it actually was), and the many who didn’t come home. So many who never came home, and the ones who did were vacant and forever changed. And the turmoil of the anti-war movement further created an increasingly unstable world. More fear, more uncertainty filled our everyday lives.

As young teen, from a small farming town in the rolling foothills on the eastern edge of the Appalachian Mountains, the uncertainty and fear of it all formed not only my perspectives and beliefs, but an underlying adjustment to insecurity and a familiarity with a constantly changing world. Everything that we grew up knowing and accepting came into question. And so, partly as a survival response (I have come to believe), I embraced change in everything; and I rejected that which was predictable, known and expected. For me, out of these changing times, uncertainty and panic grew the questioning of everything. I embraced the change in every form, to avoid that uncertainty and panic of growing up in the sixties. And I haven’t yet – curse or blessing – left that perspective behind. It is who I am, and who I will remain.

Today, I mourn the loss of Ted Kennedy. For better or worse, he dedicated his life’s work to making a difference. For better or worse in his successes and failures in life, he dedicated his life to a purpose of making this nation a better place. Ted Kennedy actually accomplished more of a difference in his 40+ years in congress through legislation than either of his brothers were able to do in their short careers/lives. Senator Ted Kennedy strongly believed in the right for everyone to have access to quality healthcare. And to that legacy, I believe that some form of universal healthcare should be passed into law. It's time for change.

Taking the plunge

For as long as I can remember, I have had a conversation going on in my head. With whom I am not sure; it's not like it's me and another me. It's just a conversation of pros and cons, thoughts, advice, encouragement, opinions, criticism, observations and the like. I have always thought that it occurs in everyone. Recently, I am not so sure about that. Regardless, it is there. Always there in my head.

Which brought me to a diary, when I was younger. The kind with the little lock and key, and a matching pen with a loop to hold it. And you mostly wrote about things in school, on the playground or boys you liked or didn't like or who said what to whom about whomever. By college, I began journaling in notebooks and on envelopes , napkins and odd scraps of paper with blank space, that I kept in the notebooks. Seasonally, I would say: I was more committed to it during the winter months, less in the summer when the outdoors and the beach called. I have kept these diaries and journals, and envelopes full of words, and sometimes, privately, I go back to them. Reading & re-reading them, grounds me sometimes. Journals became less and less as life became more full. College, graduate school, research, jobs, kids, husbands, alcohol, drugs, all of it. And there was less and less time in my life to record my thoughts and observations. Each year always starts out more frequent in the early months, and then weeks without comments, followed by a more dedicated approach as the year end nears to a close. Altho intermittent, there is a spattering of those journals, envelops and scraps of paper writings, enough to keep a thread to my life. So, now it seems natural to come to blogs.

My work puts me at a keyboard more often than is probably good or even necessary. But blogging seems a good fit now that my life is slowing down - somewhat. My work is still bustling along, always writing, researching, following directions, researching, creating, editing, submitting, waiting. Waiting. For triumph or setback, failure. And then again, and again. It's an annual calendar, with a rythmn; made easier by a system. So I have become a system at work, making it mundane on some level; bringing rythmn on another. Allowing for an expectation, a preparation and more time for such things as this. Blogging.

So all I want to accomplish is a place for my comments. A place of record. For that conversation, never-ending conversation, within me. A place to leave my thoughts, and what/who I am. Which is that conversation inside my head. My rantings. And my ravings. Those rants and raves of a woman who has lived an interesting, and sometimes challenging, but never boring life. So, welcome to anyone who might want follow along, as it all unravels in a blog. Yes, welcome to my rants and raves.