Boats

I love seeing water, even boats. But I prefer to see both from land. With my feet planted solidly on terra firma.

My Aunt Helen had a canoe and told my parents they should get one. They put a fiber glass canoe on lay-a-way at K-Mart. To bring it home, my Dad tied it upside-down to the top of his car. It was bright yellow and lived in the garage on wooden brackets my Dad built just for this purpose. I can’t count how many times Dad and Luke bumped their heads on it.

I hated canoeing with my family. I wasn’t allowed to bring a library book and I easily get motion sick. Same reasons I hate car rides. Let me stay home and read please.

But I was forced to go canoeing with my family.

Mom sat in the front. Luke sat on the floor of the canoe in front of her. He loved being outside. And wet. And dirty. Dad sat in the back and steered. I sat on the floor of the canoe in front of him. He would paddle a stroke or two on one side and then switch. Back and forth. When he changed sides, the paddle swung over my head, splattering droplets of water on my glasses. And Dad thought it was hysterical to drop a piece of seaweed on me. Every time. Gross! Slimy wet vegetation. I was not like Luke. I did not enjoy being outside. Or wet. Or dirty.

Also, did I mention the drops? I had a lazy eye. One of the treatments were daily drops of atropine. The drops you get to dilate your eyes at the eye doctor. Except I had them from my Mom daily.

My eyes were dilated. There is no shade in the middle of Lake Monona. I get motion sick. I couldn’t bring a book. And my Dad loved dripping seaweed on me.

I was never a fan of the canoe.

I am a fan of Chicago’s many boat tours. My eyes are no longer dilated on a daily basis. There is shade. And my Dad can’t torture me with seaweed.

We love Chicago. We’ve taken many vacations there. We have been on many boat tours.

One year Eric and I were there with all five kids and my parents. The baby, Joe, was two and a half. We spent the morning at the Shedd Aquarium and feasted on Chicago hot dogs for lunch while watching the Tall Ships on Lake Michigan.

After watching the ships, we all went on a boat tour. It was Joe’s naptime. But instead of sleeping he decided to scream “I hate boats” for thirty-eight minutes. At minute thirty-nine he finally konked out. His sweaty face and plastered blonde curls peered at me from the bear hug where I was holding him, preventing his attempts to launch his overtired toddler self overboard. My husband received my glare when he offered to take the slumbering sweaty child from me. I was barely breathing. No way was I moving the cherubic sleeping tyrant.

On our Chicago vacation last summer it was just Eric, me and six foot teenage Joe. I took glee in reminding him of that strenuous boat tour as the three of us relaxed yet again on a Chicago river boat.

The day after my college graduation I flew to Boston to spend a week with my beloved Aunt Carol. She and her dear friends showed me all of Boston including the Swan Boats in the public garden. We kept our feet dry as we walked the gangway from the paved garden path and took our seats on the comfy benches. The tour guide talked as two huge majestic swan statues on the back of each boat oversaw the tours.

When I read about Swan Boats coming to Madison, I wanted to relive the magical memories of my decades ago trip. My dear husband researched Madison Swan Boats. He arranged a babysitter. After sharing an anniversary anchovy pizza on the Paisan’s terrace overlooking Lake Monona, he surprised me at Vilas Park with a Swan Boat rental.

Except these were not the Boston Swan Boats. They were paddle boats with a goofy swan on the back.

Instead of keeping our feet dry, we rolled up our pant legs and waded through the muck to get in a tiny tippy paddle boat. Memories of my Dad dropping seaweed on me and the sulphur smell of the yuck on the beach gagged me. Eric tried to pedal us into open water as I fretted and complained. Ten feet from shore we were still mired in seaweed and muck and I lost it.

Eric pedaled us back, helped me get to shore and went to return the life preservers to the young man working in the rental booth.

“Dude. You paid for an hour and you were gone for like twelve minutes.”

Eric shook his head, accepted his deposit and said, “She’s had enough.”

Every year I tell him I DO NOT want to almost drown for our anniversary again. Every year Eric says, “YOU wanted to go on the Swan Boats and we were never even in water up to our knees.”

(Every time I post a new column on Substack, Eric threatens to create his own column where he tells his side of my stories. So this time I included his side right here. Yes, Honey, I threw a fit when you did exactly what I asked.)

Someday we’ll go to Boston and I’ll show him what I really meant when I said I wanted to go on the Swan Boats.

My daughter and son-in-law just celebrated their first anniversary. My husband and I just celebrated our 31st. On land. And this column marks one year of pushing words uphill on Substack.

Happy Anniversaries!

Luke and I joke
that we “speak Dad”.
My mother
corrected him
constantly
and apologized to others
saying “he’s first generation”.
His father Ake Kristensson
became Okee Christenson
at Ellis Island
when he arrived from Sweden
carrying less than $50.
Told to wait before becoming a citizen
so he wouldn’t be forced to fight
in the impending war.
But Okee wanted to fight for his new home.
He helped his fellow soldiers
write home in English
his second language,
their first.
Dad and his siblings
were called half-breeds
because of a Norwegian blue-eyed mother
and a Swedish blue-eyed father.
How different could they be?
How different are any of us?
The adults spoke
a mixture of Nordic tongues
my Dad and his siblings
never learned.
A multilingual house for one generation,
but not the next.
My Dad’s English
was never “corrected”
or “refined”
as my mother’s was.
Many words
and pronunciations
are his own.
Often my Dad says, 
“I’m going to do thing.”
Luke and I usually just know
what he means
because we speak Dad.

If you gave me a list of 100 sentences to put in order of which ones I could possibly hear my retired Teamster Dad utter, this one would be below the list:

“Did I tell you about my pen pal at Lowell?”

My Dad didn’t even like to leave us a note and only signed the cards after my Mom’s stroke.

One time my postmaster uncle teased my Dad. “You’ve really never written Shelley a love letter?” My mother confirmed that truth.

The next day on the grocery pad in the kitchen she found

Shelley,

Hi.

This is your letter.

Love,

Dave

She showed everyone.

So while visiting the nursing home today I was flabbergasted to learn he has a pen pal at his elementary alma mater.

I write you a letter every week Dad. You don’t answer them.

He just laughed and said, “Well, a lady comes in and does the writing. I just tell her something to say.”

I asked if he told his pen pal that he went to Lowell.

”Yes! I told her I went there in the ‘50s.”

My mostly mute teenager finally spoke. “We’re studying the ‘50s in history Boompa.”

My Dad laughed and continued. “Did you know before Lowell was built in the 1920s it was called Circus Hill? I told my pen pal that too.”

I hope Lowell realizes and archives the history their letter writing lessons are unearthing. My Dad knows what most businesses, buildings and roads on Madison’s east side were two, three, four versions ago. I have to often remind him that I do not remember when that restaurant was a gas station because it was before I was born.

But I do remember the stories you tell me, Dad.

I don’t like direct sun
I want sunshine
I just don’t want it
shining on my
pasty Nordic skin
burning blistering
and making me hot
so I am a huge fan
of trees
I’ve been known
to move my lawn chair
chasing the shade
as the sun moves.
The new owners
of my childhood home
cut down
the giant oak
in the front yard.
I didn’t want
to tell my Dad

his distress was palpable.
My brother and I
both cut down
the apple trees
that came with
our first houses.
Memories
of picking up
rotten
worm-infested
mealy apples
before Dad mowed
haunted us.
I spend too much
protecting my maples
that shade my porch.
Dozens of children
and a few adults
have played 
in their branches.
My husband shakes his head,
sighs
and agrees
when I show him the estimate
to trim and protect
the majestic maples.

I was never a barefoot kid. I was, but I never enjoyed it. The oak tree in our yard shed acorns. There was probably a season to it, but it felt like it happened always. And stepping on an acorn in bare feet? Hoooooooweeeeeee!!! You might as well dance barefoot on a floor made of upside down thumb tacks. Was it the pointy top that caused such distress? More likely the fact that the squirrels had eaten the meaty nut inside sending the shards of the shell into the yard below to torture tender feet.

I was sad the day I drove by to see the new owners had cut down that oak tree. It shaded the porch causing lazy summer afternoons of reading a novel cover to cover lying on the porch swing with your knees bent so your legs did not suction cup to the vinyl cushion.

As grandparents, Mom and Dad hung a swing in the oak tree. We were there the day Eric helped his father-in-law throw a weighted rope over the branch and affix a swing. I’ve since learned that when Grandma was outside there were rules about not pushing the littles too high and swinging straight so you didn’t hit the trunk. Alone with Grandpa though…well, he was old school and figured if you twisted the swing and slammed into the trunk you wouldn’t make that mistake twice. And if you did, you probably had it coming.

Grandpa did feel awful the day he carried Michael in. Grandma and I couldn’t figure out who was bleeding because they were both dripping crimson. Mike pulled the swing back and let it go, unoccupied. The three year old learned firsthand the physics of a pendulum and that he should have ducked, but didn’t.

Over the years the tree witnessed hundreds of guests moving their chairs around the yard to chase sun or shade as desired. After the Memorial Day parade friends and family came laden with too much food and drink including Mom’s overly potent jell-o shots. When I was young, around 9:15 on Memorial Day morning, the East Lakeview Avenue families trooped by saying, “Are we going to the parade?” We’d grab a picnic blanket and walk to our spot in front of the Dean House gaining more parade viewers along the way. By the time I had kids of my own, the 10am parade was so popular and one of the last around. You had to put out a blanket and chairs before the sun came up. Always after, the gathering spot was under Mom and Dad’s oak tree on Major Avenue.

The summer the tornado took out our power for four days, our whole neighborhood gathered under our oak tree after dinner. This is long before the internet gave you more content than anyone could possibly consume. Ray miraculously hooked a television to the cigarette lighter in his van and we watched in dismay as Beth Zurbachen said all power has been restored to the city. NO! Joanne looked up the phone number in her phone book and every household sent a representative into their hot houses to call MG&E on our landlines to remind them we were still without power.

The oak tree shaded us in the pre-central air days when the entire neighborhood was outside searching for a breath of fresh air. The adults would make their way to my parents’ picnic table under the oak tree and talk while we kids rode bikes and played tag. My Dad worked second shift so my mother was delighted for the conversation of other adults.

One day as we kids were playing tag one of us got the bright idea to tag an adult. I will never forget all of those adults playing tag, laughing and running around. What did the oak tree think then?

Now it is gone. How many of its millions of acorns have sprouted new trees somewhere? New acorns to slice up tender feet. New branches to give people shade. New memories made under a glorious giant.

SHY HAIKU

Who ever heard of
a shy extrovert? Someone
who is energized

by being around 
masses of people. People
keep her soul thriving.

Losing her father
at nine years old did not give
self-confidence.

She never felt good
enough or worthy enough
to really matter.

So when I was young
she told me I was outgoing
and forced me to talk

for her so she could
be around people and thrive.
And I did, for her.

In my fifties I 
discovered I am not an
extrovert, but pushed

to be one even
though I am an introvert.
Someone who prefers

solitude, quiet.
Her insistence probably
afforded me more

opportunities
and chances than I deserve
so I am grateful

to my very shy
extroverted and loving
mother. My dear Mom.

I am homesick for my mother. I see her every week. And my goal is to make her laugh that silent laugh where she grins and shakes and her eyes crinkle. Most weeks I succeed unless she is too sound asleep to realize I’m even there.

My mother is one of the greatest conversationalists of all time. She loved talking with friends and family. In person or on the phone back when the curly white phone cord allowed her to traverse the entire house, folding laundry, ironing, doing dishes and cooking a meal all while the receiver was caught between her ear and her shrugged shoulder. I hate that position and never accomplished it the way my Mom did.

Her mother would say, “We love to gab, don’t we Shelley?”

Mom would say she came from a long line of conversationalists. Her brother John complained of people who don’t know how to carry on a conversation.

My cousins and I inherited our parents’ love of banter. The topic doesn’t seem to matter: sports, politics, the weather. Funny stories of the past seem to be everyone’s favorite.

When he married into this loquacious family, my husband noticed as soon as someone began a tale, others joined in taking turns, even jousting to say the next line.

My daughter-in-law said we do bits more than spin yarns. When I shared this with my cousin she said, “Why yes! We do!”

Like the time Timmy vacuumed the burning log, or Carol pulled the “balls” off the neighbors about to blossom peony plant and delivered them to Grandma, or the fact that Tral and Grandma wouldn’t allow the girls to sing while doing the dishes because it might disturb the neighbors.

I’ve heard these and more so many times, I can no longer distinguish between witnessing the actual event or just knowing the lore.

But a stroke robbed my mother of her expert conversation skills. Now I have to be content with her crinkled eyes, silent laughter and occasional phrases.

So I’m trying to soothe my homesickness for my mother by writing her stories down to keep the future generations telling the stories, doing the bits and laughing.

From the title and disclaimer you will assume this is only about a child’s woozy tummy, but in a house with multiple kids, there is never just one thing happening.

Following are the true events of a typical day raising children. This particular morning my five kids were aged between fifteen and two years old.

***

Am I dreaming or do I actually hear voices arguing over someone “rolling over too loudly”? Nope. Not a dream. Knock it off. Two, go take a shower. Four, go have your sisters help you find something to eat.

Everyone in the car. We have an appointment and then we’re taking Grandpa to breakfast. He and Grandma are sick of being home after his elbow surgery.

Four looks a little paler than usual and says he feels weak. He just finished antibiotics for an ear infection. He probably just doesn’t have his stamina back yet.

Leave some kids with grandparents while I take Two to clinic. Staples are removed from head and antibiotics are prescribed for sinus infection. Drop One off at her first Behind The Wheel class, and pray.

Load grandparents and Two through Five in Suburban to go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast.

While unloading at Cracker Barrel I notice Four’s pallor has a green tint. I ask if he’s okay.

”Just a minute.” He proceeds to puke, then straightens up and says, “Okay, I feel better.”

I open the trunk to get a plastic bag and wipes as he is puking. The diaper bag rolls out and lands zipper side down in his mess.

Grandpa is standing next to me giggling. Grandma is almost to the door of the restaurant with Two, Three and Five. I yell at them to come back.

Four says, “I’m fine! I can go to breakfast!”

Nope! Everyone back in the car.

Take kids home. Make a bed on the couch for Four complete with a bucket and blankets. As he snuggles Elmo he says, “What’s for dinner?”

Take grandparents back to their own puke-free house. They practically leap out of the moving car to get away.

Go through McDonald’s drive-through since I had planned to feed the kids at Cracker Barrel. And stop to get Two’s antibiotics.

Go home to One sobbing on couch next to Four. She knocked the mirror off the drivers ed car. I call the teacher who assures me he has a whole box of mirrors and I shouldn’t worry. He says he’s never had a student drive so slow that the automatic door locks did not engage for over ten minutes.

Settle and calm everyone with food, medicine and popsicles. Go to garage to decide what to do about puke encrusted diaper bag zipper. Debate possibilities for ten minutes before deciding to just throw the whole thing away.

It’s 11am. I should defrost something for supper.

Chatting with the neighbors is a fabulous welcome home from our Spring Break in Phoenix. A record-breaking week of 100-105 degrees. The meteorologists alarmed everyone with alerts. The residents stayed inside. We flew across the country to be outside.

So we drank lots of water and ignored the alerts. There is a reason my Swedish and Irish ancestors settled in the Midwest. Our pasty skin sucked up sunscreen like greedy parched camels. And we still had to find a pharmacy to buy aloe.

My 17 year old rejected my offer of Noxzema, my life-long cure all for all skin ailments. His google search told him Noxzema is just abrasive chemicals and aloe is the smarter sunburn choice.

We explored animatronic dinosaurs, Scottsdale’s Western Museum and the Musical Instrument Museum. We found new favorites at Cupbop, Waffle House and Biscuits Cafe. We got good at savoring our daily ice cream quickly to keep it from dripping on our shirts and shoes.

My favorite place was the shade of the hotel patio. I drank my morning coffee there relishing the humidless 77 degrees versus home where it was 35 degrees. Every chance I got I took a book out there to read or a notebook to write. After our evening swims we played cards there under the twinkle lights.

Reading, sunshine and ice cream. My perfect Spring Break.

Now it is April. National Poetry Month. I get to participate in my sixth 30 Day Poetry Challenge at Madison College. A class I first took to get my middle-aged self writing again. A class I thought was merely a good exercise. A class that has given me new friends who pointed out my true voice and have given me invaluable encouragement. A class that turned me into a poet. Celebrate with me by reading and writing a poem or two.

Pages Bound Into Serenity
I can be content anywhere
with a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
I love Arizona in March.
I can spend all day outside
in short sleeves
reading
writing.
I am content
in the shade
with a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
I have a cellphone
and an ipad,
but I am old school and prefer
a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
As Eric and Joe race gokarts

I am content watching
with a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
I can while away hours
with a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
While waiting for anything
I don’t care to scroll on my phone
I prefer
a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
Eric and Joe find me boring.
But I am content
with a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
If I were home
there are so many
shoulds.
I should be paying bills and updating paperwork.
I should be doing laundry, dishes, cleaning.
I should be preparing for Easter.
But I am on vacation.
While Joe and Eric play at the Sporting Complex
I am content
on the patio
with a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
Everyone worries
when they leave me alone.
Don’t you see my book? My pen? My notebook?
I’m good.
You can leave me alone. 
I am content 
with a book
and a pen
and a notebook.
I am a dreamer.
I live entire lives in my head no one realizes
until I use my pen
to write them down.
Some hit the page
immediately.
Some need to percolate
and age.
So feel free
to let me be 
content in the shade
with my book
and a pen
and a notebook.

It began with a quilt retreat. A couple dozen women bonding over batting sandwiched between fabric we cut and sew until they are works of art given to our friends and family for warmth and decoration.

After having my first two babies 13 months apart, my mother told me to take a class. Any class. Something that forced me to get out of my house. The only class that fit my husband’s schedule and our budget was a four week quilting class offered through UW’s Memorial Union mini courses. I hadn’t touched a sewing machine since 6th grade.

Twenty nine years and two machines later I’ve lost track of how many quilts and friends I’ve made.

Many of us only find time to sew at quilt retreat twice a year. We make the most of our minutes. Others sew all year long and could fill a gallery with their creations.

I only see most of these women at quilt retreat, but once our sewing machines are plugged in, the conversations and laughter pick up where we left off. Quilt blocks lying on the ping pong table seeking the best arrangement, draw admiration, friendly advice, which can be taken or not, and always more laughter. I feel so lucky to be included in these weekends.

But coming home meant dental work followed by a nasty cold.

My teeth never hurt. Until that biannual appointment misnomered a cleaning. They poke and prod as if trying to find fortune, but only send zings down my spine.

”Do your teeth hurt? Any problems?”

They carry on a full conversation pretending you are participating in the dialogue. Meanwhile, gloved fingers and pickaxes are treating your mouth as the next frontier. Searching for treasure, but the only treasure you can find is when you are told you don’t have to return for six months.

The more likely scenario is they tell you to return next week, and again two weeks later.

Not wanting to be paralyzed by the fear of the return visit I pretend it doesn’t exist. Until the day arrives and I can no longer pretend.

After hanging up my coat I sit with my book. A good book. One I wouldn’t mind reading cover to cover in the moderately comfortable chair. But there is a reason they call this crown temporary and time is up. It needs to be replaced with the permanent one. More poking, jabbing and the blast of air on my tooth nub so it is clean and dry when the permanent crown is cemented in place. That puff of air hits my tooth, shoots down my spine making my hair stand on edge. The happiest place to leave is the dentist office carrying the little card that says I don’t need to return until late summer, months and months away.

Everyone in town is sick or just got over being sick. My voodoo of four vitamin C tablets every morning and night is no match for this virus. You know that feeling when you are hot and cold all at once and sleep is your only desire? Yeah, that one.

When Joe was in elementary school he described it like this: my blankets made me hot and mad so I threw them across the room. But then I was freezing and too weak to go get them. Consuming his wisdom I kept a pile of quilts and sweaters within reach to put them on and shed them as necessary.

My fever finally broke and I woke up to this poem from my son Mike on his 23rd birthday:

March
A Poem by Mikey Rottier 

Basketball in the morning 
Basketball at night 

Basketball all day 
Until I lose my sight 

One possession at a time 
All march long 

My heart is happy 
When I hear that song 

Dananananananana nananana nanananananananananana

It all begins right around my Birthday
And ends just a few weeks before Earthday 

Enjoy your March 
I know I will 

Cheers will be heard 
Sauces may spill 

But one things for sure
March is a thrill

As soon as he could write, Mike started keeping stats on any and all sporting events: Packers and Brewers he watched with his Dad, his sister’s soccer games, Badger basketball we watched as a family. At a Brewer game a stranger asked, “What is that little fellow doing with the big binder?”

For years we went to Aunt Pat and Uncle Dick’s for Thanksgiving where a football game was always on TV. Shy, little Mike would stand mute in front of Uncle Dick offering his binder. Uncle Dick, an interested fan, would flip through, but all of his comments and questions were met with Mike nodding and not saying a word.

Now Mike’s living his dream covering high school sports for a small town that still prints a weekly newspaper. And he actually talks while interviewing coaches and athletes.

To celebrate his birthday Mike wanted to gather with his siblings and in-laws to fill out NCAA brackets. My husband started having our five kids fill out brackets in an effort to get them to watch sports with him. The tradition continues. The actuary analyzes the statistics. Those who don’t follow basketball choose alphabetically. My basketball loving kids use a combination of knowledge and favorite players.

Me. I’m all heart. Every year the Wisconsin Badgers will be my pick for winning the whole thing. My final four will be made up of Big Ten teams. OG Big Ten. None of the west coast teams with their beautiful weather. The Big Ten should be the states ignored by the coasts. The ones who endure blizzards and tornadoes while hoping for an early spring and long fall.

Just this week we had seventy degrees one day, thunderstorms and tornado watches the next and an actual blizzard over the weekend.

We live the madness.

*****

I get lots of rejection letters, but March 15th I got a yes instead of a no. Look for my poem in Wisconsin Writers Association’s latest edition of Creative Wisconsin Magazine available on amazon: https://a.co/d/05Apqd6U

She was given to me for one of my eye surgeries. The one when I was in Mrs. Mackey’s kindergarten class. Dad tucked me in the night before I returned to school after my surgery. He told me when I got to school Mrs. Mackey was going to jump on her desk and cheer, “Amy’s back. Amy’s back. U rah rah!” I giggled and told him old Mrs. Mackey was not able to jump on anything. Or smile. Or cheer.

Mom said Dr. France told them to bring my favorite doll or blanket, but I didn’t have a favorite anymore so they bought me something new. My favorite Baby Beans flew away from the top of our car after we stopped on the way to Green Bay because I was carsick. Every car ride made me carsick. My parents’ favorite pastime was going for a ride.

I was surprised to receive Baby Yawnee who I had seen in television commercials. Mom and Dad weren’t the type to buy things we saw in commercials. The hospital put a sticker on her with my name and address because I was allowed to hold her when they took me to the operating room. I don’t remember her after the surgery. She was not my favorite.

I remember I had a sticker book while waiting for my eye surgery. This was the olden days and the stickers were not the glossy sticky stickers of today. They were perforated papers that I had to punch out of the book. There was glue on the back that needed to be moistened to be activated, like the stamps of yore. What is the easiest way to moisten a paper sticker? Lick it. But every time I licked one Mom freaked out and told me to stop. Why did she give me this activity book if she wasn’t going to allow me to lick the stickers?

Now that I am an adult I realize you cannot eat or drink before surgery. She was worried I would get too thirsty and she would not be able to give me anything to drink.

When my Mike was 18 months old and had tubes put in his ears, he held the nurse’s hand and padded down the hallway in Mickey Mouse snap jammies holding Elmo. The feeties on his jammies were too long and flap flap flapped as he ambled away. As he grew he always wore his socks that way. Too long at the toes and flapping. It drove me crazy and I wondered why the mass of fabric didn’t hurt his toes inside his shoes.

Elmo had a tag Mike loved to rub between his fingers when he needed soothing. Years later in tears he brought me Elmo. Clutched in Mike’s always dirty hand was the crumpled, frayed tag, more thread than fabric. “Can you sew it?” I replaced it with a ribbon. Twice. The third time he asked, he was was applying to college and I said no. When reminiscing with his siblings he likes to say, “Mom wouldn’t fix Elmo.”

I remember my Gramma Helen sewing a new stomach and mouth on my brother Luke’s favorite Tigger. The Tigger my Dad would hold and say, “Tigger, do you like me?” Vigorously nodding the toy’s head he would use his Tigger voice to say, “Yeah yeah yeah!” Then my Dad would ask, “Tigger do you like Luke?” Shaking his head Tigger would answer, “No no no!” My brother would squeal and reach for his favorite toy as my Dad held it just out of reach and laughed.

Helen’s favorite was Fuzzy, an afghan made by my friend Dawn for the first baby born to our friend group. Fuzzy is no longer fuzzy. The fringe is gone. The once perfectly pale squares carefully knit are now gray. And well loved.

My second kid John had a Cookie Monster that Aunt Rhonda brought when Mary Alice was born. When asked the new baby’s name, John told everyone “Rhonda.” I think Cookie now lives in a box called “John’s Past.”

Mary was my kid most like me. No favorite. She had a pink Baby Beans that spent a few months at a Green Bay Microtel. I honestly didn’t even realize she was gone because Mary didn’t say anything. I had four kids under the age of nine so I wasn’t taking inventory of toys, just kids. Eric returned from a business trip to Green Bay and handed me the doll asking, “Did you know she was gone?” The trip must have alienated the two because Mary didn’t seem as fond afterwards.

Kid number five and the baby of our family, Joe, had many favorites. A Tigger he called Baby. Baby did not get replaced by a soft stuffed Incredible Hulk. The day after receiving Hulk Joe told us at breakfast, “Hulk kept me up all night asking questions.” You have never seen such a disgusted toddler. Baby was eventually replaced. Joe’s all-time favorite was Penguey. My friend Allyson’s daughter babysat for Joe and brought a Babysitter Bag. When I got home she told me, “I gave Joe a penguin I had because he really liked it.” It was a soft, fluffy, black and white Webkinz penguin. Penguey went

on family vacations with us, played cards with us, even joined us for our covid vaccinations. He was truly a member of the family. One day while at Grandma and Boompa’s, Cousin Henry said to Joe, “John and Mike broke your penguin.” The two were playing tug of war and Penguey’s wing was separated from his body. Trying to avoid tears, Grandma frantically sewed the wing back on with the first thread she could find - brown. The tears still came. And when we got home Joe asked if I could use black string to fix Penguey. I sewed Penguey a few times and even added stuffing, but he is flat and gray now. One day in late middle school Joe said, “If I don’t want Penguey anymore, should I throw him away?” Penguey lives on a bookshelf in my bedroom for the day Joe wants to reminisce.

Why do some of us imprint and love objects so much we carry them into adulthood and others let them fly away?

Rumi’s Love Window
inspired by Some Kiss We Want by Rumi

too much darkness
love window slammed shut
shaking the glass
blocking the moonbeams
it must be opened
to the sunshine
blind the grouch
I become without light
luminosity kisses the grouch away
the feelings of anger
sorrow for myself
at real or imagined slights
slip into the dark
not wanting to be seen
I face the 
Window of Love
and allow the sunlight to shine
fully
brightly
unafraid
illuminating the language of love
and gratitude
the one that counts
my blessings
instead of prickles
searching
wanting
all the love
all the kindness
all the truth
storms inevitably return
clouds will cover the sun
but I must keep
the Window of Love
open
so the grouch can flee
while love hovers
waiting to pounce
on a glimmer

ANATOMY OF A LAUGH

smiling eyes reach down
their crinkly corners
bringing lips
to a happy crest
clamoring to release
amusement from deep
within the soul
echo of delight
reverberates
multiplying
joyous din

The holidays were filled with love and laughter, yummy treats and fun, and a stomach bug. My house is a mess. The new year is upon us.

As I recovered I only had energy for intermittent scrolling and naps. Social media is full of people recapping the wonder of their 2025 triumphs and making resolutions for 2026.

I’ve never been successful with new year resolutions so I stopped making them.

Between napping and scrolling I had some time to ponder. Three words kept coming back to me:

CHAOS
		PAUSE

				CONTINUE

I realized my resolutions have never worked because I always assumed I would start

 <fill in your choice of resolutions here:
			losing weight
			exercising regularly
			daily writing
			eliminating all sugar forever>

and when I started the chaos would subside.

HA!

Recently my daughter told me her home was a mess and she was trying to contain the holidays and pack for a trip and she is out of routine and her current life events would prevent her routine from returning for awhile…

I told her to embrace it. She sent me a text that lit a lightbulb in my brain:

”And live in chaos?”

YES!!!
Live in the chaos.
Because if you WAIT for the chaos to subside, you will spend your life waiting. 
Life IS chaos.
Embrace the chaos.

But don’t stop there. 

My system can’t handle continuous, consistent chaos. So I’ve learned to pause…and then continue.

I need the PAUSE. My days are full of tasks, appointments and jobs. The to-do list is eternal. But I need to pause.

I fall into a spiral overwhelmed by the tasks ahead of me. I forget to pause and rewind. Yesterday, last week, last year. Those to-do lists are gone. Finished. Without pause I don’t have gratitude for solutions already found.

Realizing yesterday’s impossible task is resolved, helps me believe that yes, I will accomplish this one too.

Pause. 

Reflect. Prepare to keep going by realizing how far I’ve already come.

Pause.

Rest. I am not a machine that operates at full throttle nonstop. I need rest. It allows me to develop the strength and ideas necessary to keep moving forward.

Pause.

Connect. Spend time finding joy in nature. With your community. Renew the energy you expend ticking boxes culture requires to make you feel accomplished, productive.

Pause.

And then CONTINUE.

In 2026 I’m going to CONTINUE.

Continue writing.
Continue praying
Continue loving.
Continue trying.

And when the CHAOS overwhelms me and I feel like I am failing, I will PAUSE, and then CONTINUE again.

But there is a second reason for this story. I raised five kids and in some ways they are scarily similar and in some ways they are oh, so different. An example of the differences is the way they approached the childhood fairy tales we use to infuse magic into their lives. Some kids pester, don’t believe and demand evidence. Some sit back and watch and wonder quietly. To my kids, you know who you are. To the rest of my readers, you probably recognize these characters. Maybe you are one of them. I hope your holidays are magical.

Adam’s tongue stuck out of his mouth on the left side. Lyddie knew this meant he was concentrating on something his brain had cooked up. It was usually something their parents would not permit. Lyddie learned long ago not to bother telling Adam it was a bad idea.

Blocks tumbled to the ground causing Adam to say one of the words that always resulted in punishment. But still Lyddie held her tongue and observed from behind her book.

The sound of blocks crashing drew Mother from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishtowel but leaving the smudge of flour where she pushed her hair off her forehead.

In their bedroom Adam paced and complained that Mother ruined his plan. Then he worked on rigging his periscope to his toy camera. “I just HAVE to get his picture!” he told Lyddie who nodded silently.

Daddy came upstairs to tuck in the four year old twins and hear their prayers. He agreed to leave the rigged periscope camera in place as long as Adam went to bed.

Just moments after Daddy kissed the twins and turned out the light, Adam’s yawns and restlessness quieted to slumber. Lyddie sat up when she heard a tap at her window.

She rose and pulled her little pink robe around her as the icy air rushed at her when she opened the window letting the portly gentleman in. He sat on her bed and quietly murmured answers to all of Lyddie’s questions.

After tucking her into her bed and promising to evade her brother’s camera, he left the way he came.

Lyddie fell asleep listening to sleigh bells on the roof and her twin lightly snoring next to his camera which never did catch evidence of the real Santa.

As I sit on Mary Weston Frautschi’s bench writing for a solstice class the air is palpable. Summer has finally arrived fogging up my glasses. I reminisce.

Mom and Dad took us to all the parks in and around the city. They sat on benches while Luke and I played on jungle gyms and swings making up stories and games with kids we only knew in the park.

A little lady walking unsteadily in a kittywampus hat grins at me and says, “Hi!” I return her smile and greeting. “Are you going to the concert?” she asks. I tell her I’m doing homework. Her already large eyes grow unbelievably bigger as she asks “Why?”

I am unable to respond before her father grabs her hand to pull her along.

I remember grabbing my children’s hands in an effort to herd my unruly flock, never wanting to bother anyone. Why do I always assume people are bothered by my children’s presence? By my own?

My cousin and I decry these genes we inherited that make us feel guilty just for taking up space.

The flowers don’t worry about who they bother. Surrounding me are purple bell flowers hanging among green elongated leaves. Some even touch my hair.

The hot breeze that neither cools me nor defogs my spectacles, brings the sweet scent of flowers I cannot name along with the tuning notes of the musicians preparing for little lady’s concert. I hope she dances with abandon today, and her whole life, never worrying about taking up space.

Someone wanted Mary Weston Frautschi to take up space so they put her name on a bench.

When the signal came to end our games with the other kids, I teased my parents that someday I would put their name on a bench in a park. My Mom said, “Fool’s names and fool’s faces always appear in public places.”

No wonder I try not to take up space.

I resolve to be more like these purple flowers who reach for more space as their vines invade the walkway causing us to step aside.

But I forget. And the seasons change.

Like my mother I wear a non-descript black winter coat. Warm. Functional. Unobtrusive. Moving through life like a shadow, a ghost, never taking up too much space, not being in the way or noticed.

Then I see a white and black houndstooth coat on sale. A sale too good to pass up. I’m an adult. I can wear a white coat. I’ve never seen anyone else wearing a coat like this.

I do it.

I buy a houndstooth coat online.

And I immediately have buyer’s remorse.

Until it arrives.

Alone in my bedroom I try it on and love it. It fits. I feel good.

Until I wear it to pick up a to-go order. From across the restaurant a server says, “Oh, my gawd! I LOVE your houndstooth coat!”

My posture changes. I try to dissolve into the floor. I suck in my stomach, slump my shoulders and weakly mutter, “Thank you. I”m here for a to-go order.”

”I’ll get it for you,” the server chirps.

I am mortified. I hate my coat. What was I thinking when I bought it???

What am I thinking right now? This kind young person is being sweet and fulsome. I decide to accept the comment as a compliment instead of a reason to shrink and disappear. Why do I think they mean anything other than the face value of the plaudit?

My new coat that I loved in my bedroom just received praise. A compliment. When I decide to view it as such, I relax, straighten my posture and smile. (I still try to suck in my stomach. I did have five kids after all.)

The server brings my order. I tip generously and walk outside loving my houndstooth coat and trying to remember the flowers taking up space by Mary Weston Frautschi’s bench.

The chairs are all taken by the adults and older cousins who bring girlfriends and boyfriends. People you meet when you are so young that when you become an adult, you need to stop and think about who is your actual bloodline cousin and who married into this chaotic group we call family.

So you sit on the floor by your Dad’s big feet and lean on his strong legs wishing Mom would have let you bring a book. Dad pats your head but continues watching the game and kibbitzing with your uncles.

At the kid table you fight your cousins for food and the boys hog all the rolls. That’s okay. Auntie’s gravy makes a perfect pond in your mountain of mashed potatoes. Finally your stomach is soothed and your thirst is quenched. When the meal is finished, the men take the boys outside to play football to use up their excessive energy. The aunts wrap up the leftovers and gab. The girl cousins get assigned dish duty because the aunts did the cooking and are ready to sit with their wineglasses and chat and smoke.

You get to take off the scratchy sweater so you can plunge your hands into the hot suds.

Ninety minutes later the last dish is put away and the boys and uncles come back inside. With her cigarette dangling in the corner of her mouth your aunt asks you to take orders and deliver slices of pie to the uncles, then the aunts. But the cousins are rowdy and wrestling next to the pie table so auntie hands them their plates directly before shooing them away.

The pie is served on paper plates so no one has to do more dishes.

To the groans and jibes of the adults, uncle has set up his slide projector and now you get to sit by him and hold the clicker which advances the pictures projected on the wall. You love seeing your relatives young and listening to the stories. Stories that you will feverishly try to recall when you are an adult and the subjects are gone or their memories can no longer find the words.

Late and cold it is now time to go home. Dad is carrying your sleeping brother and you slip your sweater back over your head. Only now, instead of it being hot and scratchy it feels warm and snuggly as you drift off to sleep on the car ride home feeling comforted by the love of family.

I don’t like scary. Or gross. Halloween is the obstacle to the good holidays. I would trade all the jack-o-lanterns and skeletons for turkeys. The pumpkins can stay. They match the Thanksgiving color palette. Gold and russet leaves. Brown turkeys with red waddles hanging down. Those are the decorations I prefer mid-October.

Lazy Saturday mornings are for perusing the paper and watching Food Network. Not in October. They show you how to make a cheesecake that looks like an eyeball. Who wants to eat an eye?

Bringing in the mail in October can also be frightening. Even Good Housekeeping tries to evoke creepy holiday feelings. A cake shaped like a skull served next to hot dog witch fingers is not appealing to me.

In November my brain can easily conjure the smell of the perfectly roasted bird pulled from the oven on the cooking shows and in the magazine photos. I marvel at how easily professionals roll out the dough and create perfect lattice crusts. Eyeball cake does not make me salivate the way turkeys and pies do.

December brings more cooking shows and glossy magazines that are truly masterpieces. Special homemade meals and the most gorgeous treats. Watching cookie decorators is like being in the presence of the great masters. My dabbling will never make anything so gorgeous, but my family does devour my fudge.

Who needs goblin decor when you could be enjoying turkeys, pies, stars, glitter, trees and cookies?

I serve Thanksgiving dinner by the light of my twinkling tree.

I’m accused of rushing the seasons and holidays, but the reality is I am extending the feel good ones by eliminating the frightening one.

Turkeys surround my Christmas tree in November. Valentine hearts match the tree well in January. Until the dusty ornaments force me to see the new year progress without twinkle lights.

*****

Before you attack me, I buy snickers and kit kats and twix bars for the bowl by the door when I illuminate my entryway on October 31st. I throw handfuls of treats into waiting pillowcases and pumpkin buckets as I openly marvel at their costumes whether cute or creepy. I do not begrudge the gangly ones who grew fast and seem older than they are or the teenagers who just want to traipse around with their pals. They all get treats and wishes for a Happy Halloween.

Then I return to planning my Thanksgiving menu and addressing my Christmas cards.

I’m ready for an empty nest.

My high school junior is incensed every time I say this. His older siblings shut him down by bemoaning how mean and strict I was for them vs. the laissez-faire attitude they claim I have adopted in my old age.

My mother always said the only thing you can count on is change. Life has changed.

The grandparents changed. Shifted from helping watch kids and pick them up from school and practice to needing my husband and I to accompany them to appointments and handle their banking and paperwork.

My household changed. It shrank from seven to three. I used to spend every afternoon in my house as littles napped affording me time to plan and prepare nutritious meals. Now sometimes I’m the only one here for a dinner of Cheerios.

These days when I get home from a morning dress fitting for a daughter bride followed by an afternoon doctor appointment for an elderly parent, Uber Eats is way more appealing than opening my refrigerator and taxing my overwhelmed brain. In addition to the physical presence these new tasks take is the emotional toll (and whiplash) it gives me.

The youngest got his first iphone in sixth grade against his parents’ better judgement. But covid was attacking the world and he spent two years never seeing a peer. Our house was extra cautious because we included vulnerable elderly in our visiting bubble and did not want to be the cause of any detriment. When we offered our landline phone to our sixth grader to connect with other eleven year olds we were met with the notorious eye roll. NO ONE talks on the phone. They text. So we caved in an effort to give him connection.

The older kids were stupefied. “No fair! He’s so spoiled.” Hey! When you were in sixth grade no one had an iphone. Your Dad felt pretty spiffy with his work-issued Blackberry back then.

Times change.

Lives change.

It doesn’t mean we love any one kid more than the others. In fact, every kid has had their own moments of being the most irritating. But they’re all loved beyond measure.

I love them so much I want every single one to grow up and forge their own life with their own home.

They can still visit. Or even better, invite me over!

The baby just turned 17. In his words a year that is WEiRD because at 16 you drive and 18 you are an adult, but seventeen is just…nothing.

We used it as an opportunity to open our nest and gather. The birthday lunch we planned became an entire weekend of games and laughter and retelling the family stories.

Saturday evening my daughter and son-in-law hosted the siblings for complicated games I have neither the patience nor stamina to learn.

Sunday’s birthday lunch included spike ball, euchre, cornhole, code names and flip seven featuring teams of chaos and our own version of Wink Martindale providing a running commentary on game play. Noon lunch lasted past 8pm when the older kids decided it was time to return to their own nests to get ready for a new week.

My husband and I collapsed and breathed in the quiet as the birthday boy packed his backpack for a new week of school and volleyball.

I stand by my statement. I yearn for an empty nest. I’m a writer. I wrote zero words over the weekend of laughter and happy pandemonium. I need some quiet to find the words to fill my pages.

But I’ll open my nest to keep getting new fodder to write about, plus the hugs they all bring home.

And now a trick…

My daughter gave me a stationery gift and challenged me to write a poem shaped like candy corn. She called it a “prank.” I call it a prompt.

and one last treat!

Wisconsin Writers Association publishes Creative Wisconsin Magazine three times a year. You can find my essay Lachrymous Balloons on page 67! You can purchase a copy here

Creative Wisconsin Magazine

Or join Wisconsin Writers Association and receive all publications with your membership!

But the next family. I knew them well. Five of them moved into the house in November and a few months later there were six, then seven. One of the big ones would sit in her lawn chair while the little ones rode bikes on the driveway and sidewalk and ran around the yard and climbed into my branches. The big one would caution to be careful, but she always let them climb as long as they could do it themselves.

Sometimes there would be one reclining in the crook of my limbs and sometimes many of them would compete to see who could climb highest.

One liked to tie ropes to my limbs and then play Tarzan while wearing their bike helmet. Until the other big stormed out and put an end to that. I wish he would have let them swing. We could have had so much fun.

The bigs liked to have the littles stand in front of me when they were all dressed up so she could take pictures. She didn’t let them recline in my branches then. Probably worried they would mess up their fancy outfits. But I was still there witnessing their life events. Like the first Halloween after the last baby was born.

He was the only fall baby but did well filling out the pumpkin costume all of those spring babies wore.

And the day the big gave three of them buzzcuts with a noisy clipper letting their soft puffs of blond hair blow throughout the yard as the birds scrambled and fought to collect it to make silky nests for their eggs. The littles were hot and sweaty and showed off their soft white Kermit the frog muscles and felt each others’ new haircuts. They were only wearing shorts as they climbed into my embrace and she took their picture.

Some days it was just the family and some days there were other people there. Sometimes it was just other littles and sometimes it was both bigs and littles.

One rainy day they had so many big and little people in the garage. When the sun came out they moved their chairs to the driveway and the kids ran around and climbed. Then one little dropped his drawers and decided to water me himself. I can’t say I loved that. It wasn’t refreshing like the morning’s rain drops. Thankfully his bigs quickly put an end to it. They were mortified, but the other bigs just chuckled. I didn’t find it funny at all.

The birds liked me too much. They perched and nested and pooped all over me. But I got my revenge.

In the spring my branches flowered and bloomed and made everyone sneeze. The blooms were soft and gentle like tissue which looked like fallen snow when they hit the grass. But that was just the beginning.

Throughout the summer, I soaked up the sun and rain and grew my fruit. An intoxicating fruit that the birds adored and gobbled up as fast as they could, making them poop more which made me okay with what happened next.

BANG! THUD! They flew right into the window of the house. Idiots. The rest of the year they rarely flew into it, but that window was like a magnet after they ate my fruit. I chuckled to myself as I saw them lying feet up, on the pavement under the window.

At first the bigs and littles would all run to the window or outside to see what was happening. But they must have gotten used to it because that didn’t last long. Unless there were new people at the house. Then the boom made them jump. That was fun.

One of the bigs would collect the feet up birds with a shovel and go behind the house. Probably to dig their graves. Ha! Take that greedy poopers.

One day the littles were stomping through the dry leaves and making piles to jump in. The big was sweeping the leaves off the walk under the window when a bird who had been lying feet up under the leaves, came to, and flew away. The big let out a screech and gathered everyone into the house until the other big got home. I missed my friends lounging in my branches that sunny afternoon.

There was much commotion when the other big returned. He was worried that he buried birds who weren’t quite ready for the earthly tomb yet. Oh, well. Teach those warblers to take advantage of me.

Sometimes one of the bigs would be gone for many days. The other big NEVER EVER took care of the feet up birds. One of the littles would come out and set a paper bag on the driveway. Then he took a shovel that was taller than him and scooped up the bird, but not until he examined it closely. She would holler at him from the doorway not to touch it. Then he would sigh, scoop it up and put it in the bag. She would come out then with a plastic garbage bag to enshrine the paper bag tomb and tie it very tightly.

The littles grew and climbed my branches less and less. But I still sent the tipsy birds into the window. Until one day many bigs came with trucks and chainsaws and decimated my body. The family said it was because I barely had any leaves the last few summers, but I blame the birds.

Now my roots are below a patch of ground where grass won’t grow. They mow over me as though I were never here. And without my fermented fruit to feast on, the birds rarely hit the window anymore. And the big no longer sits in the driveway watching the littles play. Don’t they miss me?

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Still snickering and giggling when we arrived, I had to remind my family to use their church manners as we walked into 4:30 Mass. Being reprimanded as they were decades ago, they dissolved into muffled chortles. I knew I should make eye contact with no one or I would also succumb to revelry and mirth.

Father entered, said the opening prayers, blessed us with holy water and sat indicating the congregation should all take their seats. Except me. I was the lector and this was my cue. I had placed the lectionary, found my page and adjusted the microphone before Mass started. I was calm. Years of high school debate and forensics had more than prepared me to speak in front of people. Decades of faithful Mass attendance caused me no fear of the Bible. Besides, I don’t need to try to pronounce S-h-i-n-a-r or b-i-t-u-m-e-n.

But eye contact. I was not going to make eye contact with anyone. Even seeing my daughter Helen would make me lose my composure.

”A reading from the book of Ezekiel…”

Yep. Just keep my eye on the words and I would sail through this as a calm, articulate adult.

”Then he said to me:”

P-R-O-P-H-E-S-Y

Prophe-SIGH? My brain didn’t think that could be correct. It must be prophe-SEEE. Right? Ugh! THIS is why you do this at home. Without enough time to reason it out, I proceeded.

”Prophe-SEEE over these bones…”

Someone in the congregation proclaimed “PropheSIGH!”

Unable to stop I continued reading aloud while my face got hot and my brain wondered if my ears actually heard something.

”I, Ezekiel,”

Are you kidding me? Again? But in past tense?

”propheSEED as I had been told,”

Again from the congregation, and louder, “PropheSIGHED.”

Was there a heckler in the congregation? There was no time to ponder mid-sentence.

”and even as I was propheSEEING”

Well, that can’t possibly be ri-

Louder and becoming audibly exasperated he said, “PROPHESIGHING!”

Who is that? I think he’s right. But I’m mid-reading. What do I do? Have I ever had to read one single reading that spanned two pages? When I get home I need to look up this stupid word. Is the flame on the Easter candle next to me making me hot? Or is it menopause? Or shame and embarrassment at being the first person in the 2000 year history of the Mass to be heckled.

”PropheSEEE to the spirit”

Now he just yelled, “PropheSIGH”

The words swam on the page. I blinked back my tears of humiliation and decided to try his way.

”PropheSIGH, son of man”

Silence.

That’s how the congregation is supposed to react. Quietly listening, praying, snoozing, daydreaming.

”I propheSIGHED”

Or was it SEEE? Which way had I been saying it? Which way did he yell at me? How many times is this word in this reading? It’s Pentecost. C’mon Holy Spirit. I need a hand. Without consciously knowing what was happening, my brain decided to alternate between propheSIGH and propheSEEE the rest of the reading. If my heckler was still active, I couldn’t hear him over the sound of tornadic wind blowing through my ears. Wind. Like the Holy Spirit descending on the apostles.

“The word of the Lord.”

I was finally done. With the first reading. I don’t know how I made my way to the chair I was required to use while the cantor led the responsorial psalm. I stared at the floor and willed myself not to throw up, to breathe and to finish.

The cantor turned off the mic and took her seat.

My turn again. This time the Holy Spirit gave me the grace to finish uninterrupted.

At home, surrounded by my family, Helen profusely apologized for pre-heckling my reading. “John! Before Mass we teased Mom about being the reader and our thoughts came true. In Mass!”

My husband and son Mike wanted to know WHO they could confront to defend my honor.

I was truly perplexed and after consulting dictionary.com I learned “prophecy” is a noun while “prophesy” is a verb. And the heckler’s pronunciation was correct. Peace be with you.

And if you do see him in the parking lot, ask him how to pronounce S-h-i-n-a-r and b-i-t-u-m-e-n.

*****

PropheSEEE

is really prophecy, a noun

and

PropheSIGH

is really prophesy, a verb

*****

Ezekiel 37:1-14