Update on My Resolution to Behave Like a Child More Often

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Some of you may remember that after I went sledding with my two youngest grandkids a few weeks ago, I made a New Year’s resolution to behave like a child more often. I’m still working on it, unlike resolutions of the past, which I’d have tossed into the trash bin by now.

On January 20, I went roller skating with all four of my grandkids. I was sixteen years old the first time I went — still a child then — so this counts as behaving like a child now. The last time I went I was in college, and probably about twenty-three.

I fell a lot the first time I went roller skating. I’m sure the seat of my blue jeans kept a good part of the roller rink floor buffed and shiny. But despite all the falling, I loved it, so I went skating once or twice a week. My skills improved, and I rarely fell.

Before my skate date with my grandkids, I made the mistake of telling someone, “Yes, I’m going to skate too,” while my husband was in earshot. Afterward, he asked, “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“I used to roller skate a lot in high school and college,” I said. (A lot is a relative phrase.)

“That was decades ago,” he said. (Ouch!)

“It’ll all come back, like riding a bicycle,” I assured him. (It didn’t all come back, unless I compare it to the first time I went roller skating.)

“You’re going to fall and get hurt, maybe break something,” he said.

“I’m not going to fall. I passed that stage years ago,” I said. (I fell seven times. Five of the falls were gentle with soft landings; the other two smarted and then some, one left a respectable bruise on my forearm. Good man that he is, my husband never asked how many times I fell.)

Walking into the roller rink was kind of like a trip back in time. It’s the same rink where I skated with my college friends, but the inside has been refurbished and updated. The walls and ceiling surrounding the rink feature bold graphic art scenes painted in vibrant colors that glow under black lights. The old bumpy greenish-blue floor was recently replaced with a beautiful, smooth wooden surface. There are new booths, benches, and carpeting, but the layout is still the same. I have no idea if the roller rink I frequented in Milwaukee County when I was in high school still exists, and I don’t remember its name.

“Are you going to skate with us?” This question was repeatedly asked by my two youngest grandkids, even as I paid for five skaters, picked up my skates at the counter, then laced them up while seated on the bench with my grandkids. I don’t know if they worried about me being too old, or if they kept thinking I’d change my mind. I like to think they were amazed Nana could skate. Well, sort of — after watching me fall.

The moment I stepped on the rink, I realized my return to roller skating wasn’t going to be smooth. At first, I spent all of my time concentrating on maintaining my balance, waiting for the memory in my leg muscles to wake up and recall how to skate. When I didn’t stay upright, getting off the floor was a challenge. Trying to stand on a slick floor while wearing wheels on your feet is the stuff slapstick comedy is made of. Once I fell too far away from the wall and struggled to stand, so I began crawling toward the wall. My oldest grandchild skated up and gave me a hand.

I’d forgotten how heavy roller skates are. Lifting my leg up to do a crossover or to push off, felt like pumping iron. Resistance training. Good for the bones. My doctor wants me to do more resistance exercises because while my bone density test wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great. She’d be proud of me, I thought — skating around the rink with the equivalent of ankle weights laced to my feet. Then again, she might have something to say about me breaking a bone. She’d probably be Team Husband.

After twenty minutes, I felt more confident, and as I slowly, cautiously, precariously skated around the rink, my mind wandered back to my high school skating days and a boy named Mark, who I had a crush on through most of my junior year.

School crushes are funny things. Some of my infatuations were all consuming. I daydreamed about those boys from the moment I slid out of bed in the morning, until sleep swept away my romantic fancies at night. Like Randy in seventh grade, whom I never worked up the nerve to speak to, but whose name filled the pages of my diary, and whose image occupied my nearly every waking moment. Sometimes I had crushes on boys at the same time: one at school, one in my neighborhood, and one at work. Some crushes expired faster than an egg salad sandwich left out in the summer sun. My crush on Mark started in our American literature class during our junior year and carried over to the roller rink, but I didn’t particularly pine after him when he was out of sight. He was funny and talkative. We were school and skating friends.

I was out of Mark’s league. He was handsome, tall, and muscular. He had thick blond hair nearly touching his shoulders and cut like a rock star’s. I don’t remember the color of his eyes, but they were often filled with mirth. His sense of humor ranged from puns to bawdy, from slapstick to stand-up. He smiled constantly and laughed easily. In a category for “Student Most Likely to Become a Comedian,” Mark would’ve won.

I’m not sure how I started roller skating, but I never had a date at the roller rink. Instead, lots of kids from my high school and surrounding schools would show up on the evenings designated for teenagers. It was one big group date. Mark never came with a date either, but on almost every teenage skate night, he was there. Sometimes during the day at school, he would ask me if I was going to the rink that night.

We often skated side by side, making small talk. Rock ‘n’ roll from the 1960s and 70s pulsated through the air. The mirrored disco ball tossed flashes of color across the rink. Sometimes there was a couples’ skate, and he would take my hand. For the length of a slow song, I’d imagine we were boyfriend and girlfriend. Other times, he’d ask another girl he happened to be skating next to when the DJ called for a couples’ skate. Mark was kind to everyone. Of course, I was disappointed when he didn’t ask me every time because it meant he didn’t have a crush on me.

During the summer, after my junior year, I went to Europe for a month, and my family moved. When I returned home, I settled into a new home, a new school, and a new town. I developed two crushes, one on a boy across the street and one on a boy at school. I never saw Mark again.

In the late 1990s, I learned Mark had died of cancer in 1995 at the age of thirty-six. One of my high school classmates, who’d become a dental hygienist, told my sister, whose teeth she was cleaning, to let me know. She knew that Mark and I’d been buddies. Did she know that I’d had a crush on him? Did she think he had one on me? I’d rarely thought about Mark after I moved, but I was sad when I heard he’d died. He’d been so full of life. He’d married and had children.

Over the years, I’d occasionally think about Mark. Something would spark a memory that reminded me of my junior American lit class or the roller rink. For example, I can’t hear or read about A Raisin in the Sun without thinking about Mark and a play he wrote for a class assignment, which featured me and some of our classmates. Of course, Mark being Mark, the play was humorous, but in a kind way, a gentle satire that kept us all in stitches.

A few months ago, I was looking through my junior yearbook — nothing to do with Mark — and I came across a long entry penned by him. I was stunned by what I read both on the page and between the lines. His words were an unabashed admission of affection and love, but at the end of his heartfelt reveal, he’d sandwiched the word lies in parentheses as if shrugging off the whole letter as a joke, giving himself enough plausible deniability to save face if I didn’t return his feelings. Why had I missed his declaration of romantic affection? Probably because I was convinced that he’d never be interested in dating me. Turns out he felt I’d never be interested in dating him. Why had I thought he was joking? Probably because he never flirted with me, and he was always joking. What about his writing “I love you” and “I’ll miss you if you move”? Lots of my yearbook entries were filled with words of love and miss-you-over-the-summer sentiments, from both my male and female friends. I have several yearbooks filled with gushy prose to prove how sappy my classmates got when signing yearbooks. Some things are easier to write than say.

I kept skating, mostly upright now. “Y.M.C.A.” played, fast-paced and upbeat, the kind of music that would’ve sent me zipping around the rink when I was a teenager, but not anymore. I skated as if I were keeping time with Perry Como’s rendition of “Moon River.” When we left the rink, I told my grandkids, who had a blast, that we would come back in February and March on their school breaks. I plan to skate again, so I hope my legs won’t develop amnesia. I don’t know what my husband will say, but I know what my father would’ve said, “Old enough to know better, but young enough to do it anyway.” Hopefully, I’ll stay off the floor.

I will think about Mark again, and his life cut short by illness. I will smile at the thought that he had an unrequited crush on me too, but Mark and I were never destined to be together. We weren’t each other’s one that got away. If we had dated during our junior year, we most likely would’ve spoiled a fun friendship. School crushes are funny things. They’re often ignited by a physical trait: a dimpled cheek, sky-blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across a nose, luxurious wavy hair, a lopsided melt-your-heart grin. They consume our lives for a moment, but like a match, once struck, they often burn out quickly.

I remember Mark fondly because we were friends who laughed, and talked, and roller skated together. He’d be pleased to know that I still think about him now and then. How I sometimes tell the story about a boy from my American lit class who climbed out of a classroom window on a warm spring day, joyfully followed by me and most of the class. (No, we didn’t get into trouble. Teachers were also charmed by Mark.)

It’s what we want when we’re gone, that people will remember us and tell our stories.

Thirteen Months to Publication

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Working copy of my book. I made the quilt too.

In the fall of 2024, I sent Silent Negotiations, my collection of short stories, to Cornerstone Press at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. In December of the same year, the editors at Cornerstone notified me they wanted to publish my book, and the publication date would be February 2027. It was the best Christmas present! And for a few weeks, I walked around in a euphoric bubble. But the publication date was over two years away, so I settled into a calmer mode of waiting. At times I’d forget about my upcoming book for a couple of days. With a publication date in a faraway galaxy, there wasn’t much for me to do. Then suddenly, because objects are closer than they appear, I’d fret about the book and think, “Will anyone want to read my stories? Is there something I should be doing right now? Where will I have my book launch, and will anyone come?” Then sometimes I’d get excited all over again, thrilled that my stories, which took me five years to write, will have a home together in a book.

On January 23, after I’d spent several days reading my stories one more time, I emailed my manuscript to Cornerstone Press. Don’t worry. I didn’t fiddle with them. I’ve heard other writers warn against overworking one’s stories. Besides, I’m happy with them. Instead, I looked for typos and questioned commas. I read out loud, listening for the awkward sentence, a word choice that wasn’t working, an ambiguous pronoun. I double checked stories to make sure they were coherent with correct timelines. I changed very little, but I’m glad I read them one more time.

At this point in time, I’ve made the stories the best I can make them. I think I’ve found all the errors that can escape an author’s eye, even after many readings. Because I know what my stories are about and what my sentences are supposed to say, I often read past mistakes — reading what I believe is on the page and not what is actually there. Of course, to help with this, I’ve had numerous people read my stories. It’s always a good idea to have someone read your story, essay, poem, article, or book before sending it out into the world.

I want to thank all the people who read my works in progress. Your input made my writing better. Each of you brought a unique perspective to my stories, and often found problems other readers didn’t. Now, I’m looking forward to working with the wonderful editors at Cornerstone. And I’m excited to see what the graphic design team puts together for the book’s cover!

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Below, in alphabetical order by authors’ last names, is a list of short story collections published by Cornerstone that I’ve read and enjoyed! To check out these books and other short story, poetry, and memoir books published by Cornerstone, click here.

  1. Colleen Alles, Close to a Flame
  2. Jeff Esterholm, The Effects of Urban Renewal on Mid-Century America and Other Crimes
  3. Steve Fox, Sometimes Creek
  4. Nikki Kallio, Finding the Bones
  5. Kim Suhr, Nothing to Lose
  6. Kim Suhr, Close Call
  7. Marie Zhuikov, The Path of Totality
Author photo for my book: Ziva and Me! I sent my final manuscript to Cornerstone on Ziva’s fifteenth birthday. Photo credit: Max Youngquist

My Shetland Yarn Becoming a Scarf

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My Shetland yarn, 80% acrylic and 20% wool, is soft, warm, and gorgeous. I’m using the knit stitch for every row, which gives a simple knit, purl design that allows the beauty of the yarn’s color gradations to steal the show.

Last September when I traveled to Shetland, I bought some yarn at Loose Ends and Anderson & Co., both shops in Lerwick.

Shetland is known for its yarn shops, knitted goods, and expert knitters. I was in Shetland September 15 – 20. If I’d gone eight days later, I could’ve taken part in Shetland Wool Week, an annual event, which runs in late September/early October. But having never been to Shetland before, I went to experience its natural beauty, so I spent lots of time outdoors. According to the guide books, the month of September is a quieter part of Shetland’s tourist season. The weather is more unpredictable, and the puffins, a popular attraction, have flown to warmer climates for the winter. But fewer tourists mean less congestion, and that appeals to me.

In late September/early October, Shetland’s weather begins to turn, and it becomes a place of cold temperatures, gale-force winds, sideways rains, and thick gray skies, so sight-seeing tourists shy away. It’s a great time of year to have a knitting conference filled with indoor gatherings. Of course, stormy weather can show up anytime in Shetland, but it becomes more prevalent as September runs into October and winter settles in. Shetland winters are perfect for knitting, as demonstrated by the large quantities of knitted goods to be found in shops, museums, and heritage centers throughout Shetland. After all, I bought four skeins of yarn with the idea that I would knit scarves during northern Wisconsin’s upcoming winter. I also bought three wool sweaters in Scotland because I’m never going to knit a sweater.

Home textiles display in Scalloway Museum, Shetland. As a cottage industry, woolen goods have been and still are an important source of extra income for many Shetlanders.

I knit beautiful scarves, as long as the pattern is simple and repetitive, and there are no cables involved. Or lacy-like patterns. Or miniature figures or graphic designs prancing across the scarf. Also, no increasing and decreasing stitches. But otherwise, I make nice scarves because I select pretty yarn.

I don’t knit sweaters, slippers, or hats. Only scarves. Although, in the past I have knitted a few dishcloths. But that’s like knitting a miniature square scarf.

Long ago, I tried to knit something more complicated. When I was a senior in high school, I signed up for a community ed class so I could learn how to knit something other than scarves. I selected a pattern for a simple pair of slippers. Because the class was in the fall, I decided I would give the slippers as a Christmas gift to some lucky family member. I went to class and learned how to read a knitting pattern, how to increase and decrease, and how to gauge stitches — in theory. By the end of the class, I had two forest-green slippers — in two different sizes. Since none of my family members have mismatched feet, I couldn’t give the slippers to anyone. Eventually, I threw them away.

Unst Heritage Center, Shetland. Some woolen goods, like these scarves, are still made on a handloom and can be found for sale in shops throughout Shetland. I bought a rose-colored lambswool tartan scarf in Edinburgh. Mine was made on a factory loom by Lochcarron in Scotland.

I never again tried to knit anything that required I gauge my stitches so the left side of something would match the right side of something. I gave up after one try. I’m like that with some things: I’ll quickly throw in the “mismatched slippers” and call it a day.

I took one year of high school math. I studied hard, but I struggled and I hated it. Thankfully, at that time the state and my high school only required one year of math. As sophomore I took German instead of geometry. I did the same with downhill skiing. I tried it once. I fell every time I went down the slope, and I nearly broke my arm while using the tow rope. I never went downhill skiing again. My attempts at cake decorating, shorthand, sewing clothes, woodworking, and agility training with my dog Ziva met the same fate.

But I can be tenacious. My younger sister learned how to ride a bicycle before I did. I couldn’t get the feel for balancing my body on the bike. But I wanted freedom from training wheels, so I spent hours practicing in our driveway. The first time I went roller skating, I fell again and again. But during the moments I managed to remain upright, I loved it. So, I kept going. The same for cross-country skiing. I kept falling and getting up, wondering if I’d ever maintain my balance on the skinny skis, but I loved it. So, I kept getting up. For years bicycling, roller skating, and cross-country skiing were some of my favorite pastimes.

There are almost 300,000 sheep in Shetland, and about 23,000 people! We saw sheep everywhere. This guide to sheep markings is displayed in the Unst Heritage Center.

I took three years of Spanish in high school. Although I sometimes struggled with pronunciation and didn’t grasp the verb tenses, I took Spanish in college because I loved learning a language. I still remember the day, when the Spanish verb-tense thing clicked for me. Professor Stevenson stood in front of an antiquated blackboard in Old Main delivering a lesson about verb tenses. He wore a pair of dress trousers, a white shirt, and a bow tie. I sat in a modern desk, taking notes. I wore a pair of faded, patched blue jeans and a pale-yellow T-shirt with the rainbow-colored word Adidas printed on the front. I’m sure my face lit up like a light bulb. At the same time, I realized that was how verb tenses worked in English. I was giddy with Spanish and English grammar knowledge for the rest of the day. I enrolled in Spanish II the following year.

Unst Heritage Center. While some of the woolen goods in the museum are for display only, the Unst Heritage Center does sell pieces that are handmade by local crafters. The woman working in the museum on the day we visited was busy knitting.

So, what makes the difference between something I’m willing to keep working at and something I give up on? It depends on the amount of joy I experience in between my feelings of frustration and inadequacy. If there is something I love about the new activity I’m learning, I keep going, even if I look foolish while others are quickly grasping the skills. I don’t care about becoming an expert. I just enjoy my level of competence. I never learned to roller skate backwards or do spins. I never became a fast cross-country skier. I’m not fluent in Spanish. I’ve never again attempted to knit anything other than a scarf, but I love knitting them. I’ve made them for my grandmothers, mother and mother-in-law, sisters, nephews, nieces, grandkids, and friends. I love the meditative, mindless, repetitive movements of combining purl and knit stitches as I watch the colors and patterns meld together.

My scarf: I’ve never seen yarn with a gradation like this. It’s stunning. I love how the colors change — not all at once, but rather slowly and as if they can’t quite make up their minds.

I’ve never regretted giving up on high school math classes or advanced knitting or downhill skiing or any of the other endeavors I tried briefly then ditched. But we’re taught to try and try again. If at first you don’t succeed, try again. The only failure is giving up. Give 110%. If you’re not failing, you’re not trying. Fall down eight times, get up nine.

But sometimes failure teaches us when it’s time to cut bait and walk away. To stop banging our head against the wall. To stop throwing good money after bad. To stop turning the other check, only to have that one slapped too.

Failure is normal, and sometimes we have to keep at it, and in the end, we’re glad we persevered. But failure can be a way of telling us that maybe we aren’t suited to something. That sometimes it’s okay to give up, and knit scarves.

[The pieces below are knitted with a very fine wool. They take a crazy amount of hours to complete. The delicate scarves, shawls, and baby garments are used for life’s special occasions, such as weddings and baptisms. Whether made by a family member or purchased in a shop, these pieces are treasured and passed down through generations. I saw some exquisite lacy shawls and baptism gowns for sale in local shops in Shetland. They cost two to three times more than wool Shetland sweaters, reflecting the time and skill needed to produce them. And I’d bet the artisans are still woefully underpaid.]

Rosemary Clooney Look-Alike, an Old Photo Captures My Imagination

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Rosemary Clooney look-alike, circa 1950s

During the holidays I was sifting through old family photos when I came across a picture of a young woman in an elegant tea-length dress, the kind she might have worn to a prom. If you look closely at the picture, you can see the whisper of sheer filmy material wrapped around her shoulders and trailing down her back. From her classic pearl jewelry to her satin-sheen shoes, she’s ready for the red carpet.

She looks like Rosemary Clooney: the hair, the face, the dress. If I hadn’t watched White Christmas a few days before, I might not have noticed the resemblance. But because I had, I found the similarity uncanny. Was the young woman in the photo trying to look like Miss Clooney or some other movie star of the time? Adoring fans often copy the fashions and hairstyles of their favorite celebrities. In 1976, after figure skater Dorothy Hamill won an Olympic gold medal, many fans rushed to their hairdressers, asking for the Dorothy Hamill haircut. The graceful movement of Hamill’s hair as she skated across the ice was nearly as beautiful as her figure skating. Five years later Prince Charles would become engaged to Lady Diana, who also had gorgeous haircuts throughout the years. Once again women rushed to their hairdressers, this time with photos of Diana’s most recent hairstyle.

I hadn’t seen White Christmas in years, but when my sisters and I were kids, we loved the movie. We made sure to watch it every Christmas season, along with Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. We had one chance to see these specials during the holidays. If we missed it, we had to wait until the next year. I hate to sound like an old person whining about how tough it was when I was young, but we didn’t have anything on demand. There were no streaming services, no VCRs or DVDs, and no marathon runs of shows playing over and over. If we missed one of our favorite Christmas shows, we had to wait until the next year to see it. We had four channels: ABC, CBS, NBC, and PBS. Our neighbors had the same four channels, but they had a bigger antenna than ours, so they picked up a channel out of Chicago which ran old TV shows. My sisters and I were Grinch-green envious, and we often spent time at their house watching reruns of old sitcoms and westerns.

I don’t recognize the Rosemary Clooney look-alike in this photo. I sent a copy of it to my two aunts, but neither of them remembered her. She might’ve been the child of one of my grandmother’s friends or relatives. She could’ve been one of my dad’s girlfriends, but the photo was taken at Rainbo Studios in St. Louis, Missouri, and my father grew up in northern Wisconsin. Still, there were lots of families who came from faraway places to spend all or part of the summer on the lakes in the north woods of Wisconsin. Many of the local teens had summer romances with the vacationing teens. I did some research on Rainbo Studios and learned that it operated during the 1950s.

All I’ve learned about the girl is that she put on a pretty dress and had her picture taken at a now defunct studio in St. Louis, Missouri.

Studio photo of Rosemary Clooney, 1954, the year White Christmas was released

“I wish someone would’ve written a name and year on the back of this photo,” I said to my husband. Then added, “I should write the names of people I recognize on the backs of the photos that aren’t labeled.”

“Who’s going to care after you?” he asked. He has a point. When I’m gone, what will become of these old photos? Pictures of grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles, cousins and shirt-tail cousins, not to mention the friends and neighbors who appear in some of the photos. I don’t know most of them, but I do know some of them.

These photos will eventually end up in the garbage. I hate writing that sentence, but unless someone in my family develops an interest in family history that will probably be the case. I’ve worked on some family history. I wrote a book with my mother-in-law about her life, and I re-typed and updated a family history that my grandpa George’s cousin wrote. I’ve written about some of the family history on my mother’s side too. But I’m a short story and essay writer, so I spend most of my spare time writing fiction and essays.

I won’t be the one to throw the old photos away. I love them, and occasionally, I look at the people in the pictures and imagine their stories. What happened in the days before and after their pictures were snapped? What were their dreams and hopes? How did their lives play out? I know the answers to some of these questions, but mostly I don’t. Sometimes one of my aunts can tell me about the people in a photo and may also remember something about the day the photo was taken. But often they can’t because they either weren’t born yet, or they were small children at the time.

I’ll never know the name of the Rosemary Clooney look-alike, but on the back of her photo I wrote, 1950s. It’s all I have to offer her. Somewhere, someone knows who she is. She could still be alive. For now, I’m keeping the photo on my writing desk. Now and then, I hold it in my hand and wonder, “Was she a Rosemary Clooney fan? Where was she going? What was the rest of her life like? How did her picture end up in my grandparents’ box of photos?” Perhaps I’ll hit upon an idea and be inspired to write a short story about her. Of course, the answers to my questions will be fiction, leaving the real young woman a mystery.

I’ve taken great care to write names and dates on the backsides of the photos I’ve snapped over the years and put into albums, but eventually, the photos of my family and friends will end up in boxes, becoming memories without stories. Ultimately, they will end up in a landfill.

And what about the photos on our phones?

Sledding on a Cold Day with Two Happy Grandchildren

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Evan coming up the hill and Charlie going down the hill. Because the weather was about 15 degrees colder than the day before, we had the hill to ourselves.

On Monday and Tuesday, both warm winter days, my grandkids and I drove by Central Park numerous times while running errands. Not the famous 843-acre Central Park in New York City, but the Central Park in my hometown, around ten acres in size. Each time we drove by, we saw children sledding down the hills at the western side of the park.

“Can we go sledding there?” Evan, the nine-year-old, asked each time we passed it.

“If you bring your snow pants with you tomorrow, I’ll take you sledding,” I said. “But it’s supposed to be below zero in the morning.”

On Wednesday, the grandkids came with their snow pants, and the morning temperature was actually fourteen degrees, so after breakfast we stowed the sleds in my van and went sledding. I wore long underwear under my jeans, thick wool socks inside my boots, and a wool sweater under my down coat. To complete my winter ensemble, I donned a thick stocking cap, slipped my hands into a pair of lined mittens, and wrapped a scarf around my neck. But I knew it wouldn’t be enough, and that I would be cold while standing on the hill in the park as the wind circled around me.

“What if they have sleds there we can use?” Evan asked as we drove to the park.

The parks & rec department in my town does a wonderful job.

“I don’t think so,” I said. I didn’t believe the city would spend money to provide sleds, only to worry about them being pilfered or broken. But when we arrived at the hill, there was a rack filled with sleds and topped with a tiny poem: “Use a Sled, Return it When You’re Done and Everyone Can Have a Little Fun!”

I’d been the one with the jaded heart, but my city’s parks & rec department had faith in its young citizens. “Look, Evan,” I said, pointing at the sign, “you were right.” My grandsons mostly used their own sleds, but occasionally borrowed one of the saucer sleds from the rack.

Peals of laughter and shouts of joy filled the air as they sped down the hill. I pulled my phone from my pocket to take some pictures and to look at the time — only five minutes had passed and I was already freezing. At that moment, as if to mock me, Old Man Winter exhaled a powerful gust of frigid air. I huddled next to a pine tree, but the narrow trunk did nothing to protect me from the wind’s icy breath. I wanted to go home, but anything less than a solid thirty minutes on the hill, and my grandkids would be disappointed. They were having a great time.

My chariot of fun!

I decided I had two choices. I could stand on the hill and freeze, or I could hit the slopes. I placed a blue sled at the top of the hill and looked down at it.

“Nana, are you going to sled down the hill?” one of the grandkids asked.

“Yes,” I answered. I gazed at the sled and remembered how much I loved sledding when I was young. Plus, there were no adults around (like my husband) to ask, “Do you think that’s a good idea at your age?”

With grins on their faces and anticipation in their hearts, my grandsons waited to see Nana “bomb” down the hill. They knew I could do it.

Successfully, but not too gracefully, I lowered myself into the sled. I pushed off with my hands and raced down the hill, bobbing up and down on the slightly uneven terrain. By the time I used my feet as brakes to stop the sled before reaching a line of trees along a frozen creek, I felt much warmer.

Was it the thrill of the ride that pumped blood through my veins and warmed my body? Or was it the memory of getting a toboggan for Christmas as a girl and using it to sled at Whitnall Park throughout my childhood and teenage years? Either way I was ecstatic as I walked back up the hill with my sled in tow. I wasn’t cold anymore. The key to being outside in winter is to keep moving and have fun.

I went down the hill many times. I felt ageless, still capable of doing something I did when I was young. Dopamine filled my brain, and I was over-the-moon happy.

We stayed for forty minutes. On our way back to the car, Evan asked if we could come back in the afternoon.

“Sure,” I said, and I meant it. I wasn’t just saying it in the moment, figuring I’d find a way to back out later on. Sometimes we do that as adults. But like my grandkids, I wanted to go sledding again, even if it meant the dishes didn’t get done or supper would be late.

I fed the boys lunch then took them to the library for a kids’ craft hour. I went to the grocery store for ingredients so I could make chicken enchiladas after our second round of sledding.

We returned to Central Park just before three o’clock, and stayed for more than a half hour. This time I didn’t wait to get cold. I grabbed a sled immediately and began zooming down the hill, loving the speed and the winter’s air that filled my lungs, caressed my face, and returned me to my youth.

Sledding with my grandkids was the most fun I’d had in a very long time.

I made a New Year’s resolution to behave like a child more often.

The Women of Lockerbie, a Play by Deborah Brevoort

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Playbill for the Women of Lockerbie

If you get a chance to see the play The Women of Lockerbie by Deborah Brevoort, by all means go.

I went to see The Women of Lockerbie because I remember when Pan Am 103 exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland, on December 21, 1988, killing 259 people on the plane and eleven people on the ground.

And I went to see The Women of Lockerbie because the advertisement said the play was styled after a Greek tragedy with a Greek-like chorus. I loved my ancient Greek theater class in college.

As we entered the small experimental theater, a sign alerted us there would be no intermission, and if we left the theater during the 75-minute play, we would not be allowed to return. The play needs to be seen without interruption.

The set for The Women of Lockerbie at University of Minnesota-Duluth

The stark stage washed in a pale-blue light held two props, four painted panels, and a fabric river dividing everything in two: the land, people, emotions, needs.

When the play starts, it’s seven years after the tragic bombing of Pan Am 103, and many loved ones of the victims have come to participate in the dedication of a memorial.

We meet a married couple who lost their only child in the bombing: a wife overwhelmed by grief and a husband who hides from it. We meet a callous American official who is to oversee the destruction of the personal property that once belonged to the people on Pan Am Flight 103. We meet the women of Lockerbie who witnessed the tragedy, suffered their own losses, and struggle to heal. The women of Lockerbie who want to wash, iron, and fold the clothes of the bombing victims and return them to their surviving families.

Grief in all its forms: raw, stuffed, converted, unacknowledged, motionless, haunted, and rage-filled, permeates the story. But so do love, compassion, and forgiveness.

At one point in the play, the set goes black. Not a whisper, not a sigh, not a breath is heard. In the darkness. The audience is moved to absolute silence. Tears spill from my eyes. I make no move to dig for a tissue in my purse. I cannot break the moment with sound.

No one from the audience left the theater during the play. And for 75 minutes in a small intimate theater, a group of outstanding college actors held us spellbound by the depth of their performance.

If you ever have a chance to see the play, by all means go.

Book Review: Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey by Fiona Aitken, the 8th Countess of Carnarvon (Hadder & Sloughton, London, 2013)

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Why did I read this book?

I was in Edinburgh when I started reading Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey. My sister and I stayed at a hotel called The Resident in Edinburgh’s lovely West End. The hotel has a good-sized lobby with a fireplace, comfortable chairs, and several shelves of books along the back wall. Whether fiction or nonfiction, prose or poetry, the books all seemed to have a connection to the United Kingdom. Set a bookshelf in front of me and I can’t help it: I start perusing spines. Because I loved the Masterpiece series Downton Abbey, the title of Fiona Aitken’s book caught my attention. Aitken, married to the 8th Earl of Carnarvon, is the 8th Countess of Carnarvon.

What is this book about?

Aitken’s book covers the lives of Catherine Wendell, an American beauty, and Henry Herbert Porchester, the 6th Earl of Carnarvon, from the early 1920s through the end of WWII. Readers first meet Catherine and Henry, called Porchey by his friends and family, in 1923 in India where he is stationed with his regiment. Married in 1922, they are still honeymooners and very much in love. Unlike many British lords of the era, who have expensive-to-maintain manor houses with expansive grounds, Lord Porchester has married for love, not for a cash infusion to prop up his estate. Although, shortly after becoming the 6th Earl of Carnarvon, Porchey discovers the finances of his estate are in disarray.

Readers follow Catherine and Porchey throughout their marriage, divorce, and post-divorce years against the backdrop of the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, the rise of fascism and Hitler, King Edward VIII’s abdication, and WWII. The “Epilogue” summarizes what happened to the key people in this book after WWII.

Why did I like this book?

Fiona Aitken’s book is well written. She tells the story of Catherine and Porchey in a narrative form, combing biography and history in a manner that makes it interesting to read. The book is also well researched because living at Highclere Castle as the 8th Countess of Carnarvon gave Aitken access to the archives at Highclere. Also, her title, family connections, and social status meant she was able to interview people who might not otherwise talk to writers.

While I was in Edinburgh, I only read the first seven chapters. I was busy sightseeing during the day, and because I walked miles everyday, I would fall asleep shortly after crawling into bed. Once I returned to the United States, I checked the book out from the library so I could finish it. I liked Aitken’s book so much that I plan to read her first book, Lady Almina and the Real Downton Abbey: The Lost Legacy of Highclere Castle (2011). Lady Almina was married to the 5th Earl of Carnarvon who financed archaeology digs in Egypt, which lead to Howard Carter’s discovery of King Tut’s tomb.

Some concluding thoughts . . .

If you’re a Downton Abbey fan, don’t pick up this book expecting a drama like the TV series; although, a lot of dramatic events happen in the book. However, if you’re a history fan, or an Anglophile, or you like learning about how the wealthy lived in a bygone era, especially during those Downton Abbey years, you’ll enjoy Fiona Aitken’s book.

Connections to the royal family —

Having met as teenagers, the 7th Earl of Carnarvon and Queen Elizabeth II were great friends. He served as her racing manager for years until his death in 2001. Queen Elizabeth was godmother to his son, currently the 8th Earl of Carnarvon. When Queen Elizabeth died, the 8th Earl and Countess made the short list and were invited to the private committal service for the Queen. But they didn’t receive an invitation to the coronation of King Charles in 2023. Charles trimmed the guest list from just over 8,000 who had attended his mother’s coronation to just over 2,000. In my lifetime I’ve seen the popularity of the royal family wax and wane. One of the criticisms people have about the royal family is the amount of money it takes to maintain all that pomp and circumstance. I imagine King Charles shortened the guest list for his coronation because he wants his subjects to know that he too can budget his expenses.

If you want to read the 8th Earl’s comments about not receiving an invite, click on the following article that appeared in Tatler, a British magazine: “Earl of Carnarvon, Queen Elizabeth II’s Godson, Praises ‘Excellent’ King Charles Despite Lack of Coronation Invitation.” It’s all very civilized and polite.

Final Approach, Home from Scotland, September 23, 2025

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Final Approach into Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, September 23, 2025

The pilot’s voice comes over the PA, asking passengers and flight attendants to prepare for the final approach.

If I’m reading, I close my book. If I’m resting, I open my eyes. If the window shade is down, I raise it. From the moment of the pilot’s announcement until the wheels touch the runway, and the force from the plane’s thrust-reverse system pushes me back against my seat, I will keep watch out the window.

Out the window I’m met by thick, irregular shaped clouds spattered through the Midwestern skies over Minneapolis-St. Paul and its suburbs. I have a window seat. I always try to have a window seat. Considering I don’t like to be boxed into a space, this is unusual for me. But instead of feeling claustrophobic and trapped, I’m comforted by the world outside the window, even if I’m thousands of feet above the earth. The pilot asks passengers to fasten their seatbelts, stow their trays, and return their seats to an upright position. Flight attendants make their final walks up and down the aisle.

My love of the window seat on a plane began as a young child. I would fly with my father, who had a private pilot’s license. Over the years he owned a series of mostly single-engine airplanes, so every seat had a window. If my mother wasn’t on the plane, and she rarely was, I rode in the front passenger seat. Views surrounded me. Flying north and south across Wisconsin, I was mesmerized by patchworked parcels of land seamed together with ribbons of road. Rivers meandered and lakes nestled in the landscape. Houses and buildings, cows and horses looked like toys left behind by children. And I liked to imagine the cars and trucks had been wound by hand and set upon the roads. Every time I flew with my father and he landed the plane and shut it down, he’d declare, “Cheated death again.”

Our approach into Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport is a series of wide turns creating the illusion we are flying in slow motion as we descend through billowy clouds. The plane banks, then banks again. Each turn provides a view of the earth below then a view of the clouds above. I’m transcended. I’m fearless. I don’t worry about the plane falling from the sky. I’m not watching out the window in a hope to divert disaster. I’m watching out the window because I’m enchanted by the most beautiful final approach I think I’ve ever experienced. I’m not worried about the landing. If something goes wrong, I’ve had a seat to a stunning view after a lovely trip to Scotland.

As a child, I knew planes crashed, but I never worried when my father flew his small plane. I took my first commercial flight when I was seventeen, a trip to Europe with other students and chaperones. I don’t remember being afraid. But by the time I was in my early twenties, commercial flying scared me. There was a spate of commercial crashes from the 1970s through the 1980s. And there was the echo of my father’s words, “Cheated death again.”

On one of the plane’s banks, I see a shimmering steel-colored river reflecting the sun and clouds. I wonder if it’s the Mississippi or the Minnesota. In a final crescendo, the sky has become a cobalt blue, and shades of industrial gray dance across the land and river.

In my 20s, 30s, and 40s, I avoided commercial flying. I rarely traveled to see my family because it meant getting on a jet. When I did agree to fly to see my parents or siblings, dread stalked me. In the weeks and days before my flight, I’d wake in the middle of the night certain my plane would crash. My dread inflated like a balloon until I thought it would burst. Then my departure date would arrive, and I’d head to the airport. Caught up in waves of people coming and going, I, too, would become excited to be going somewhere. My fear would dissipate. I’d board the plane, buckle my seatbelt, open a book, and read. When the plane started moving, I’d look out the window. (Most crashes happen on takeoffs and landings.) I’d watch the plane roll down the runway, lift off the ground, and clear its controlled airspace. Then, and only then, I’d return to my book.

As we near the runway cleared for our landing, I know the plane is traveling at speeds faster than I ever drive, but that’s not how it feels from the air. I’m suspended in time and space. I realize I’m not in a hurry to land. I’d like to ask the pilot to go around one more time. I have just returned from Scotland, home to some of the world’s most beautiful scenery. But the views on this final approach rival the scenes of Scotland, not because they are similar, but because they are so different. I’m home. In my Midwestern part of the United States. A land with its own innate and man-made beauty.

By the time I was in my late twenties, my fear of flying spread to small planes like my father flew. After I married and had children, my father would fly his small plane from Arizona to Wisconsin every summer. He’d attend the Experimental Aircraft Association show in Oshkosh, visit friends in southern Wisconsin, then fly into the Bong Airport in Superior. He’d call me from the air, and I’d load my children and dogs into the car and meet him at the airport. I’d help him tie down his plane, a ritual we completed many times when I was young. At some point during his visit, he’d take my boys and me for a flight. At first, I was okay with this, but as each year passed, my fear of flying in a small plane surpassed my fear of flying in commercial jets. I knew the statistics. Small private planes were more dangerous. At least, with my children in the plane, he didn’t say, “Cheated death again.”

The flight attendants have all taken their seats. Our Delta Flight 1127 levels, ready for landing. I don’t experience a moment of panic.

Last February Delta Flight 4819 landed upside down on a runway in Toronto. No one died. My mother, who knew I’d be flying Delta to Scotland, lost no time in phoning to tell me about the inverted landing. “It’s comforting to know, “I replied, “that I’ve chosen an airline whose pilots know how to land a jet upside down.”

Up until our final descent, the jet engines droned quietly. But now just before we land, pilots adjust flaps and slats to increase drag in order to slow the plane even more. A loud rumble fills my ears. The wheels of the plane hit the ground and the spell is broken. The pilots reverse thrust and a deafening roar assaults my ears, and I’m pressed into the back of my seat.

One year, before my father came to visit, I asked my sister to tell him that I didn’t want to go up in his plane anymore. That I couldn’t handle the weeks of anxiety before the flight. My father came and went and never mentioned a plane ride. Later, on another one of his visits, he told me about a friend of his who had flown for years for work and for recreation. “Gary,” Dad said. “can no longer get on a plane, private or commercial.” I stood at my kitchen sink washing dishes, my back to my father. I didn’t turn around. He continued, “Gary said he’s flown for decades without an accident, and he feels he’s used up all his luck.” (Gary felt his time for “cheating death once again” had run out.) I said nothing, and my father said nothing else. I believe he told me this story because he knew I had a fear of flying, and this was his way of saying he understood. One of his occasional moments of empathy.

I still won’t get on a private plane, but I don’t worry about flying commercially, or take offs, or landings any more. My father’s refrain, “cheated death again,” doesn’t play through my head. Perhaps because I’m of a certain age, I’ve come to realize it’s a waste of energy, worrying about something I can’t control. Sometimes the only way to get somewhere is to fly. My mother can’t fly anymore but there are places she’d like to go. Her world has shrunk. Perhaps one day, I won’t be able to fly anymore either, so I’ll go while I can. And instead, I’ll fret about getting stranded in an airport or worse, getting stranded in a plane on the tarmac.

We taxi up to the gate, our plane is an hour late getting in (some mechanical thing in Boston), but I still have plenty of time to catch the airport shuttle for home.

Book Review: Ellie’s Pursuit of the Mighty Fitz by Mckenzie Lee Williams and illustrated by Alayna Maria

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Published in hard cover, Williams’s book is durable and easy to wipe clean, making it perfect for young hands.

What is this book about?

It’s the day before spring break at Great Lakes Grade School. All of Ellie’s fifth grade classmates have travel plans. Her best friend, Mike, is going to London with his family to see Big Ben. Ellie worries her friends will return after spring break with wonderful objects and stories for their last fifth-grade show-and-tell, and she will have nothing to share because she isn’t going anywhere. She hopes her father will surprise her with a last-minute trip. But, Ellie’s only surprise is that Grandma Gigi is spending the week because her father has to go on a business trip.

While riding home after school with her father, Ellie hears Gordon Lightfoot’s song “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” for the first time. After listening to the song, she has lots of questions about the Fitzgerald. Later she talks to Grandma Gigi about the Fitz and her recently deceased Grandpa Loren, who also sailed the Great Lakes, and even knew some of the sailors from the Fitzgerald. Ellie and her grandma decide to drive from Superior, Wisconsin, to the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum on Whitefish Point in Michigan. They want to see the bronze bell from the Fitzgerald and to learn more about the ship and its sinking. Perhaps Ellie will have something special to share at her last show-and-tell as a fifth grader.

What makes this book special?

Delightfully written by Mckenzie Lee Williams and beautifully illustrated by Alayna Maria, this chapter book will appeal to children ages eight to twelve years old. I really enjoyed this story, and I read it in one evening. Ellie, the main character and narrator, captured my heart. She is enthusiastic, adventurous, curious, and kind. She loves learning and writing in her journal, and if you’re a writer, you’ve got to love a journal-toting character. Told with tenderness and gentle humor, this chapter book explores themes of disappointment, grief, remembrance, and resilience. Young readers will enjoy taking a road trip with Ellie and Grandma Gigi. Along the way they will learn about the Edmund Fitzgerald, the Great Lakes, and the enduring power of love. Now, I want to visit the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum on Whitefish Point.

A special note about the author, Mckenzie Lee Williams . . .

Mckenzie Lee Williams died in a motorcycle accident in June 2024. She was twenty-three years old, a recent college graduate, and a writer. She was inspired to write Ellie’s Pursuit of the Mighty Fitzgerald when she worked at a bookstore. Customers would inquire about books regarding the Fitz for children, but there was little available. So, Williams decided to write a chapter book. After her death, her mother discovered Williams’s draft of Ellie’s Pursuit. With love and dedication, Williams’s family and friends edited and illustrated her manuscript. Like the bronze bell from the Fitzgerald, Williams’s book is a symbol of spirit, dedication, and love.

I never met Williams but she and I both had work published in the 2024 Nemadji Review at the University of Wisconsin-Superior. I was saddened when I heard about her death. Ellie’s Pursuit of the Mighty Fitzgerald is a lasting tribute to Williams and her talents as a writer.

[Ellie’s Pursuit of the Might Fitz, Mckenzie’s Mommy Publishing, October 2025, is available through Amazon and the National Museum of the Great Lakes.]

Book Reviews from My To-Be-Read Pile

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Haunted by my staggering To-Be-Read pile of books, I’ve been on a bigger reading kick than usual, so I’ve read lots of enjoyable books lately. As I finished each of the books that I review here, I would tell myself I should write a book review. But as soon as I had free time, I hooked up with another book from my T-B-R pile. So, I’m going to write some quick reviews of my recent reads.

Close to a Flame by Colleen Alles (Cornerstone Press, 2025) Colleen Alles is a Michigan writer, which is fitting since I read many of her short stories while visiting my mother in Petoskey, Michigan. Alles’s stories capture the ordinary lives of women as they move through life’s ups and downs. Her stories are often a nod to the importance, strength, and lasting endurance of friendships between women. Six of the stories in her collection follow two characters named Miriam and Jamie. I love how these M & J stories are interspersed throughout the collection. We meet M & J in Alles’s first story “Restoring Notre-Dame” while they are in college. They remain life-long friends. We are treated to their stories as they date, marry, have children, and move into middle age. In Alles’s final story “Christ at Heart’s Door,” Jamie has gone to stay with her aging mother for a week. Miriam is back home, but she’s only a phone call away. Alles’s six M & J stories create a wonderful story arc of their own. Besides the M & J stories, my other favorites were “Loggerhead,” “Cusping,” “Whisper Moment,” and “In Tandem.” These stories connected with me, three of them for their subtle humor and one for its undercurrent of horror. Even though I finished her book over a month ago, many of Alles’s stories have followed me around, especially “Christ at Heart’s Door.” Alles’s book was a well-deserved NIEA Finalist (National Indie Excellence Awards).

The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald by John U. Bacon (Liveright Publishing Corporation, a division of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. 2025) John U. Bacon’s nonfiction book The Gales of November, released in 2025, coincides with the fiftieth anniversary of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Even though I was sixteen when the Fitzgerald sank, and I waited with thousands of people hoping there would be survivors, I’d never read a book about the Fitzgerald‘s sinking until I read The Gales of November. When it sank, I was living in Milwaukee, where the Northwestern Mutual Life Insurance Company, owners of the Fitz, is still located. Two years later I moved near Superior where the Fitz had taken on her last load of taconite a day before her sinking. In the early 1980s, I worked at President’s bar, mentioned several times in Bacon’s book. Over the years, I heard many stories about what might have happened to the Fitz. Some from my great-uncle, others from sailors who sailed the Great Lakes, including a couple of sailors who were on the Arthur M. Anderson the night the Fitz sunk. There were no survivors or captain’s logs to corroborate any of the stories. And while I’d read some articles about the Fitz over the years, I’d never read a book about its sinking. Then I read Cait Z’s blog review about Bacon’s book that stated,“This is excellent! What it isn’t is an exploitation of a disaster.” (Click on the quote to read Cait Z’s review.) I went to my local bookstore that day and bought the book. The Gales of November is everything Cait Z. said it would be. Readers learn about the Great Lakes, shipbuilding, the taconite industry, the life of sailors, the weather, a few other shipwrecks, and the families left behind after the Fitz‘s sinking. Bacon’s book is written with care and respect. I waited fifty years to read a book about the Edmund Fitzgerald and I’m glad I did. First, after fifty years and some underwater exploration, experts have more information about the Fitz‘s sinking. Second, I learned so much about the Great Lakes and the shipping industry. Finally, Bacon’s book — well written and well researched — is excellent. And everyone I’ve talked to who has read it agrees.

Montana Matrimonial News by Candace Simar (North Star Press, 2025) Candace Simar’s most recent novel is a group of connected stories about men and women who have come to live in the Dakota Territory as homesteaders in the 1880s. Simar paints a realistic picture of the harsh and lonely lives homesteaders lead as they farm their homesteads for the five years needed to claim the land as their own. Men and sometimes women advertise in the Montana Matrimonial News for a bride or groom. The novel starts with Digger and his brother George, who have been homesteading their claims for four long years, and they wonder if they have the fortitude to make it through their fifth year. They are desperately lonely and wish to marry. In other chapters we meet widowers and widows, some with children. We meet an unwed mother. We meet a pair of sisters who are homesteading separate claims. We meet two Civil War veterans who drink to quash the horrors of the war. And we meet Dr. Gamla, the thread who ties the stories together. She has a way of knowing who needs her medical services without being told. She offers cures for both the physically and emotionally wounded with her well-known catch phrase, “My cures work if you can stand them.” Candace Simar has written a richly detailed historical novel with vibrant, well-developed, distinctive characters who nearly walk off the pages. Her descriptive writing talents took me back to the 1880s in the Dakota Territory to the days of sod houses, prairie thunderstorms and blizzards, and waving oceans of prairie grasses. Her stories came to life in my head. [Note: I read most of Simar’s novel after receiving my COVID shot, which always makes me feel awful for a couple of days. Having her book to read was a soothing balm, making me forget about my discomfort.]

Beginnings: The Homeward Journey of Donovan Manypenny by Thomas D. Peacock (Holy Cow! Press, 2018) Donovan Manypenny, an Ojibwe from Red Cliff, Wisconsin, has had some tragedy and some joy in his life. He’s had some bad luck and some good luck. Left an orphan by his mother’s death, his grandparents have taken him into their home. They are kind and loving, but when Donovan is ten, first his grandmother dies, then his grandfather. Bad luck and good luck continue to follow Donovan for a brief time, with good luck and joy winning out. But Donovan ends up living over a thousand miles away from his Ojibwe people of Red Cliff. With the first sentence of his story, he tells us, “For over forty years I forgot I was native, Anishinaabe Ojibwe . . . .” In Massachusetts he has been content with his life as a teacher, happy in his marriage, and proud of his daughter. Then his daughter pleads with him to attend a Native American event combining Native storytelling and crafts. Something awakens in Donovan and he begins his homeward journey, taking his time along the way to visit places important to his Ojibwe people. Beautifully written, Thomas Peacock’s slender novel is a quiet, contemplative meditation on the meaning of belonging and family and of coming home to the place you were eventually meant to be.