Something Published: “European Tour 101”

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Hardcover version
Paperback version

My essay “European Tour 101” appears in Tales of Travel, a Duluth Publishing Project. This collection of poems, creative nonfiction, and photographs center around the theme: Lessons Learned while Traveling.

The anthology was curated in early 2023 by talented University of Minnesota-Duluth students from a class taught by Professor David Beard, who gave his students the gift of a real-world project.

Participating in this project was fun right from the start. I discovered the call for submissions on a Facebook page. Right away I knew I would write about the month-long trip I took to Europe when I was seventeen years old. I had been itching to write about my European trip because I have fond memories of traveling through six cities, in five countries, in twenty-seven days. But I always wondered where I could submit the essays. My trip was too long ago to be relevant for travel articles. And my European tour wasn’t filled with angst or tragedy or mind-bending revelations that would be worthy of thought-provoking, rousing essays convincing editors to say, We’ve got to publish this!

But the theme: Lessons Learned while Traveling was perfect — proving if a writer is patient, sooner or later her submission mate will arrive. Some of my best memories from my European trip could easily be described as lessons learned.

Fortunately, memory didn’t prove to be a big problem because I have a scrapbook filled with postcards; pamphlets; ticket stubs from museums, trains, subways, and buses; my airline boarding pass; maps; menus; and receipts. Plus, I have lots of photos. I quickly came up with an idea for an essay, but I spent hours writing and revising. I wanted it to be perfect, so perfect that the editors would say, We’ve got to publish this!

I divided my essay into sections: Travel without a Hangover; Even Muscle-Bound Bulls Have Feelings; If You Don’t Know the Language, Don’t Insult Those Who Do; Patriotism is Fine, But Ditch It for the Ballet; Serenade Your Tour Guide; Be Alone with Yourself in a Place You’ve Never Been Before; and Freedom from the Threat of Violence.

I was thrilled when my essay was accepted. My fondest memories about one of the best times in my life would be in print. And out there in the world.

Making it even sweeter, Professor Beard and his students hosted a book lunch for the writers during the spring semester, even though the book wouldn’t be released until December 2023. But college classes change at the semester and the students who worked on Tales of Travel would be off to other classes or perhaps have graduated when the book came out.

Held in a university classroom, it was a wonderful book launch, and there were a couple of copies of the book that we could hold and thumb through. I’m sure each writer looked for their own piece of writing in the book. I know I did. We munched on cupcakes, cookies, and assorted chips, and sipped bottles of water.

Each writer was invited to read for about five minutes. Some of the students had pieces in the anthology, but I think only one or two of them read. When they were called upon, most turned a ghostly white, lowered their eyes, and shook their heads. They were too nervous to read in front of strangers, most of whom were old enough to be their parents or grandparents. But we older folks were nervous too. I could see it in our hesitant walks to the dais. I could hear it in our voices that trembled. I could feel it in our lungs as we reminded ourselves to just breathe. Because young or old, we shared a common wish — that someone would like what we had written.

After the reading, we all gave a collective sigh of relief. It was over, and no one had fainted. We mingled and thanked the professor and the students. When people started to leave, Professor Beard pleaded, “Please, have more food. Take some home with you.” He didn’t want to haul it back to his car.

I’d already had a cupcake, but I grabbed a bag of Fritos, my favorite salty treat. Something to savor on my ride home, along with the rest of the evening.

[Both the hardcover ($29.99) and paperback ($5.99) versions are available on Amazon. Click here: Tales of Travel, a Duluth Publishing Project.]

Chickadee Visits the Salad Bar

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Chickadee eyes the watermelon

My husband and I walked into the grocery store on Sunday morning, and while he bought his weekly lottery ticket, I walked toward the deli. I never hang around while the clerk at the service counter tells him that he hasn’t won anything. And I hope if he does win something, it will only be a small comfortable amount, enough to pad the savings account a bit, with some left over for a reasonable amount of fun, like a car trip to Maine instead of a first-class world cruise.

Before shoppers can reach the deli counter, they are tempted by a large oval salad bar, filled with leafy greens, hot and mild peppers, shredded cheeses, tomatoes, sliced eggs, julienned carrots, olives, and loads of other assorted toppings. I never buy anything from the salad bar. It’s expensive, so I slice and dice my own salad goods. Also, while I’m not too worried about germs, I draw the line at eating food that has been sitting in the open, and crammed with serving utensils that have been handled by lots of other people. But I always look at the salad bar because it’s big and strategically placed.

As I neared the salad bar, I spotted a gleeful chickadee pecking at some salad fixings. I thought about the chickadees in my yard who visited the bird feeder and had to eat ordinary black sunflower seeds. I stood and watched the audacious little bird who had invaded the grocery store. I should have been grossed out, but I was amused. Humans take so much wildlife habitat that I had to admire the plucky little fellow who had somehow found his way into a large grocery store and was helping himself to the salad bar without using tongs.

I wasn’t the only human who noticed the black-capped bird enjoying a spread so big he must have felt he had won the lottery. A deli clerk hustled up to the salad bar and tried to shoo the bird away, but chickadees aren’t that intimidated by humans, and he refused to move. The food was too good. The clerk reached for him with both of her hands, and I think she could have managed to cup the feasting bird in her palms. But just as she was about to try, she hesitated and pulled her hands back. She went to the deli and came back with two plastic containers. She tried to capture the bird between the two containers, but at the last moment the bird zipped to the other end of the salad bar and kept eating, after all it was a smorgasbord.

The clerk rounded the counter. “Get away from my salad bar,” she said, waving her hands at the bird who took flight and landed among a gathering of grapes. The grapes were all packaged, so he headed to the tomato stand. When the clerk approached, he decided to check out the watermelon. She followed him, and he took off again. He flew to the meat department and landed at the back of a shelf filled with trays of chicken. Two more clerks arrived and the three of them stood in front of the meat section, discussing how to catch the chickadee. But the little Houdini escaped again. This time he soared to the ceiling, where he could evade capture and have a bird’s-eye view of the store while waiting for a second chance at the salad bar.

My husband and I finished our shopping without seeing the chickadee again. After we paid for our groceries, I turned to head back to the deli. I wanted to ask if they had caught the chickadee. But I stopped. If they had hurt or killed it while trying to catch it, I didn’t want to know. I had been tickled by the little bird who had invaded the grocery store and grazed at the birdfeeder of his dreams. And, I worried the little fellow’s bold adventure would end badly. I felt guilty that I had taken joy from a situation that had put the wee bird in peril.

Coloring with Kindergarteners

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My artwork in progress

This past week I had the pleasure to sit and color with some five- and six-year-old children. We sat in small chairs at a short-legged table. Scattered along the table were boldly colored plastic travel containers meant to hold bars of soap, but which instead held crayons, both broken and whole.

Our coloring sheets were all winter themed. Snowmen, mittens, penguins in stocking caps, penguins ice skating, a snow globe filled with miniature log cabins.

We chose our colors carefully and kept our eyes on our papers because we each had a vision for our piece. But, of course, we talked — we were, after all, a community of coloring companions.

Inspired by the picture of mittens, we talked about gloves and mittens. They’re the same thing, said one child. Actually, I said, with mittens all your fingers stay together, and with gloves each finger goes in a separate finger. The child kept coloring her mittens, and said, Yes, but they’re the same thing. I let it go. She will learn about the differences between gloves and mittens soon enough. No need to rush these things.

We talked about our artwork. Do you like my rainbow mittens? Look at my penguin’s hat, isn’t it pretty? Do you like my picture? The children weren’t shy about crowing or asking for compliments. At five and six, they’re so unabashed — Look what I made, don’t you love it? I answered each one of them — Yes, so colorful! Such a pretty green hat! So lovely!

It won’t stay that way. Soon they’ll learn: Don’t boast, don’t brag, don’t fish for compliments. And for a moment, as I looked at their proud, happy faces, I wondered if there couldn’t be something in-between.

It’s Fun to Discover that Someone Has Discovered You’ve Been Actively Writing

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Guide to Duluth-related Blogs in 2022
The editor of Perfect Duluth Day puts out a list every two years or so.

The “Guide to Duluth-related Blogs” was published in 2022 by Perfect Duluth Day, which is itself a blog, along with an events calendar and a section called “Saturday Essay,” where I’ve had three essays featured over the last couple years. But until yesterday, I hadn’t known that I’d been recognized as an active area blogger. This isn’t a prize or a big coup, but it made me smile like a red-carpet celebrity anyway.

In the photo to the right, I’m the blogger in the middle, standing in front of Lake Superior in Two Harbors, Minnesota, wearing my favorite raincoat, a raspberry red, flannel-lined Pendleton that I bought while shopping with my favorite aunt. My granddaughter took the photo.

I’ve been blogging since fall 2020. One Hundred and ninety-five people follow my blog. But out of those 195 followers, a certain percentage are hustling products. For example, I write about my dogs a lot, so occasionally companies who use blogs to market canine merchandise will “like” and “follow” my blog. Most likely an algorithm does this for them. And while I don’t write about makeup, skin care, or fashion, I have some followers who sell beauty products. Again, probably an algorithm, however misguided because I don’t wear makeup or use skincare products.

I don’t want to know how many of my 195 followers are companies trying to hawk products. Instead, I enjoy the people who interact with me via likes and comments. It’s heartwarming to know that something I wrote resonated with someone out there. So, thank you to all my readers. And thank you to Perfect Duluth Day for recognizing that I’m an active blogger in their area. As someone who knows she should get more exercise, it was nice to be labeled as active.

In an effort to hit 200 followers, I’m posting this picture of my standard poodle, Ziva. She had a bath and a haircut today at the doggie spa. She’s wearing a crystal and faux leather collar my mother bought for my first standard poodle, Bailey. As you can see Ziva is a reluctant, humble diva (but only when I take her picture). So, if there are any companies out there selling glamorous dog merch, turn on your algorithms. Ziva might be in the market for a glitzy coat, fur-lined booties, or specially formulated dog shampoo.

Ziva, the humble diva

Book Review: Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford

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[Published in 2009 by Random House Publishing Group, Ford’s novel was a New York Times Bestseller.]

Why did I read this book?

First, the catchy title and the cover art intrigued me. Then, I read the synopsis on the back cover, and learned the novel was historical fiction, another plus. Next, I read the first page of the book, and I liked what I read. Finally, the cost of the book sealed the deal. It was $3.00. I was in a local hospital gift shop where they sell used books. Any time I go to either one of the local hospitals where I live, I stop in their gift stores. They have the loveliest gifts, and they sell used books, where I’ve purchased some wonderful books over the years. Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet is one of them.

What is this book about?

The story, set in Seattle, opens in 1986 in front of the Panama Hotel, a place that holds both bitter and sweet memories for Henry Lee, a Chinese American citizen, who is in his mid-fifties and has recently lost his wife, Ethel, to cancer. Since his wife’s death, Henry’s relationship with his adult son, Marty, has become even more strained because Ethel played go-between for the father and son. The story switches back and forth between 1986 and 1942. The chapters set in 1942 reveal twelve-year-old Henry’s childhood difficulties with his father; his friendships with Sheldon, an African-American jazz-playing saxophonist, and Mrs. Beatty, a cranky school cook; and his love for Keiko Okabe, a Japanese American girl who attends school with him.

An entrepreneur who recently bought the Panama Hotel has discovered suitcases and boxes of stashed possessions stored there for safekeeping by Japanese Americans in 1942 before they were transported to internment camps. But over the last forty-some years, no one has ever returned to claim their belongings. As Henry stands in front of the Panama Hotel, memories of his childhood sweetheart, Keiko, who was rounded up with her family in 1942 and sent to an internment camp, bubble to the surface. He decides to find an item that had special meaning to both of them, a symbol of their love for one another and their shared passion for jazz. He believes the item is somewhere among the hordes of forgotten objects in the basement of the hotel. Alone the search would overwhelm him, so he enlists the help of his son and his son’s girlfriend.

What makes this book memorable?

Jamie Ford’s novel has richly drawn characters and a finely crafted storyline that is, in turns, compelling, suspenseful, heartbreaking, and hopeful. This coming-of-age story about first love and forging one’s own way in the world, even against a parent’s wishes, is set against a backdrop of prejudice and misguided patriotism that rises to a crescendo after the bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1942. It’s also the story of immigrants who come to the United States, hoping for a better life for themselves and their children. But the parents and their children often clash as the older generation clings to the ways of the old country and their children adapt to the ways of the new country. The universal themes in Ford’s novel, told in a fresh way and set during a reprehensible episode in American history, are as relevant today as they were in 1942.

[To learn more about Jamie Ford and his other novels, click here. To learn more about the Panama Hotel, which was a real place and still exists, click here. To buy a copy of Ford’s novel, click here.]

A Conversation between Two Old Dogs

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Bogey is the tall, fluffy poodle. Ziva, my poodle, stands in front of him.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Ziva says. She is smaller than Bogey, four years older than Bogey, and a guest in his house. And he could easily knock her to the floor. But none of that stops her from putting her four paws down when he tries to play with a toy at night.

“Don’t touch that ball. Definitely, don’t squeak that ball,” Ziva says. “I tell you this every time I come to visit.” And she does. For the last eight years or so, Ziva has accompanied my husband and me to Petoskey, Michigan, whenever we visit my mother.

A moment before this photo was snapped, Bogey asked my mother to open the closet door. (If you look to the right in the photo, you can see his box of toys in the closet.) His yellow duck rested on the top, but Bogey selected the white ball because it has a delicious squeak, and because my mother will toss it in the living room for him. This is his nightly routine when we aren’t visiting Mom, and he sees no reason to give it up just because there’s company.

This bothers Ziva. And it bothers me too. Everyone has settled in on a couch or a chair. The humans are talking and watching TV. It’s hard to hear anything over the noise of Bogey’s squealing ball and stomping feet.

Tonight, Ziva rebukes Bogey as soon as she hears the first shriek from the ball. She springs from the couch where a second ago she seemed to be in a deep sleep and barks as she approaches him. Bogey drops the ball before she reaches him.

“Go ahead. I double dare you!” Ziva says, watching Bogey while she looks askance at the ball. They stand close together, frozen, for at least a minute. She doesn’t make a move for the ball because she doesn’t want it. She never wants his toys. At eight o’clock at night, she wants peace and quiet. Bogey has turned his head away, and refuses to make eye contact. He waits for her to go away, but she doesn’t. Not another word passes between them. Like a pair of disgruntled lovers, they’ve had this conversation so many times over the years that it has now become a wordless exchange, each side knowing what the other side would say if they did speak.

Ziva, asleep, yet completely tuned in

Ziva refuses to retreat. Finally, Bogey gives up and leaves the ball. He crawls under the long skinny table behind his favorite couch and sulks and waits. Ziva returns to her favorite couch.

Ten minutes later Bogey emerges from under the table and silently shuffles to the closet. He roots through his box of toys and pulls out a multi-colored stuffed caterpillar. He slinks into the den with his toy. He knows if he enters the living room with it, he won’t be allowed to have it. The ball Bogey had wanted to play with still lays on the living room floor. If Ziva heard him, she ignored him, allowing him a small victory.

Even tucked out of sight in the den, Bogey knows not to make the caterpillar squeal. He’s a very smart dog, and he has never won this argument.

Christmases at the Old Farmhouse

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One of mom’s trees before she started putting them in front of the mirrored wall in the living room. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of the later Christmas trees.

At Christmas time when I was a child, my mother transformed our old farmhouse into a magical place. Fresh boughs of evergreen, sprayed with canned snow and trimmed with white twinkle lights, nestled on the mid-shelf of the corner hutch in the dining room. The soft glow of pastel-colored icicle lights outlined the large picture window in the living room. A tall, portly Christmas tree festooned with old fashioned ornaments and C7 lights stood in front of a mirrored wall, which made it appear as if we had two trees. Mom always bought a real tree. She would ask the attendant to hold tree after tree, while she walked around each one. The tree had to look good from all sides, and the trunk had to be straight. Once she sent my father to pick out the tree, but only once. Father’s tree spurred a loud conversation and a few tears.

Mom baked loads of homemade cookies, filling round tins with Mexican wedding cakes, sugar cookies, peppermint meringues, gingerbread men, and spritz cookies. In the days before Christmas, I skimmed cookies, sneaking one now and then from a tin then rearranging the remaining ones to fill the empty space.

The weekend before Christmas Mom took us to the American Soda Water Company, a place filled with bottles of the tastiest soda in so many delicious flavors, such as grapefruit, grape, strawberry, cherry, orange, root beer, cream, lime, cherry cola, black cherry, and more. She pushed the cart in which she had placed a wooden case that held twenty-four bottles. My siblings and I buzzed around the aisles plucking our favorite flavors and some of our father’s favorites. After we filled the case, mother placed another empty case on top of the full one. We would leave the store with four cases of soda, enough to see us well into the New Year because we weren’t allowed more than two or three a week. But we pilfered the occasional bottle of soda. Eventually, only empty bottles remained in the wooden cases, and Mom returned them to the soda company and collected her deposit, a nickel a bottle.

Winter at the farmhouse. The only animals we ever owned were dogs and cats. But it had been a working farm at one time. The buildings in the background belonged to neighbors.

On Christmas eve, my siblings and I nestled under our covers and tried to sleep. And when I couldn’t, I peered out the small window at the side of my bed and searched the starry sky, hoping to spot Rudolph’s red nose. However, by the time I was six, thanks to a know-it-all neighbor boy who was three years older than me, I knew there was no Santa Claus. Still, wanting to believe, I looked for Santa’s sleigh in the sky, and when I spotted red lights on a commercial jet heading to Billy Mitchell Airport, I would pretend it was Jolly Old St. Nick with Dasher and Dancer, Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid, and Donner and Blitzen, all led by Rudolph and his shiny nose.

Eventually all was quiet in the house, my siblings and I softly snoring and dreaming of Christmas morning. At this time, my mother’s shift as Santa’s elf would begin. It took her hours to wrap presents for her four children. She couldn’t do this ahead of time because she needed her Christmas bonus from Marc’s Big Boy where she worked as a waitress, which she received just a few days before Christmas. Bonus money in hand, she drove to the store and paid off the layaway balance on our gifts, which she hid in the trunk of her car until Christmas Eve when her children were all fast asleep. Each package she wrapped with bright cheerful paper and tied up with ribbons or decorated with bows. She artfully arranged them under the tree as if she were staging a scene for the Gimbels storefront window in downtown Milwaukee. Then in the wee hours before dawn she slipped into bed for a few hours’ sleep.

We had strict orders not to wake my parents too early. This meant we weren’t to get out of bed until about eight o’clock. But sometimes before dawn, we might tiptoe down the stairs and into the living room to see the presents under the tree. We kept our distance, not wanting to break the mystical spell of the Christmas tree tending to our gifts tucked under its boughs. And we didn’t want to get into trouble with our parents. We tiptoed back up the stairs and climbed back into our beds. Waiting.

Christmas morning, circa 1969

Christmas morning never disappointed. We opened our presents one at a time because my parents wanted to see us enjoy each of our gifts. Mom was a wonderful Santa. There were always some toys from our lists, but each year she surprised us with wonderful presents we hadn’t even known we would want. Puzzles, games, art supplies, books, pajamas, and clothes spread across the floor as we unwrapped our gifts.

Once the wrapping paper was cleaned up and breakfast had been eaten, our job was to stay out of the kitchen and out of Mom’s way as she began to cook Christmas dinner, a feast of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green bean casserole, all cooked to perfection. Later we would be asked to set the dining room table, and after dinner we helped wash and dry the dishes. But Christmas morning and afternoon belonged to us, a time to play with our new toys and games.

In mid-afternoon Uncle Freddy and Auntie Pat arrived with our three cousins (Brian, Dee Dee, and Lisa) and Nana Kitty. We ate at an elegant, second-hand burl wood dining table covered with a crocheted cloth my mother bought at an antique store. Before we filled our plates, someone said grace, giving thanks for our feast. Then began the passing of the dishes and the filling of the plates. With twelve people seated around the table, this took some time. It was fair game to interrupt any conversation with “Could you please pass me the . . . ?”

Christmas dinner. From the left and clockwise: Auntie Pat, me, Steve, Nana, Mom, Uncle Fred, Kimberly, Dee Dee, Suzanne, Grandpa Howard (who had recently married Nana) Brian, and Lisa. My father took the photo, circa 1972.

At the end of the day, when the dishes were done, when the company was gone, except for Nana who stayed to babysit us, my parents would meet up with friends at a local theater to see a movie. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. My siblings and I would fold up the crocheted tablecloth, exposing the thick pad that protected the dining table, and set up our new art supplies. We painted or sketched or wove hot pads while Nana visited with us. We snacked on cookies and soda. At bedtime we put on our new Christmas jammies. As we drifted off to sleep, we knew before we could do it all again, we had to wait 365 days. A lifetime to a child. A snap of the fingers to an adult.

Christmas Past and Present and Future

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Christmas gives me the blues. I miss the magic of childhood Christmases spent with my siblings, and I miss the magic of Christmas mornings I spent with my young children. I miss family and friends who have passed away, and the special Christmas traditions we had. Because nothing stays the same, nostalgia can be heart-wrenching.

So, I’m weaving some new traditions into some old ones.

When I was in my twenties, my mother-in-law took me to my first ballet, along with my two sisters-in-law. It was December, so of course, we went to The Nutcracker. I loved it. For two hours enchanting music, graceful dancing, sparkling costumes, and magical sets swept me away to another world. Attending The Nutcracker with my mother-in-law became a tradition for a handful of years.

This year I took my twelve-year-old granddaughter, Clara, to see The Nutcracker, her first ballet. My mother-in-law would be happy to know I’m reviving her tradition.

Clara and I were dressed in the past and present. I wore a pair of old garnet earrings given to me by a friend, a black-and-red plaid sweater given to me by another friend, and a string of pearls given to me by my mother. I carried a black purse my sister had sent me. Clara wore a black skirt I’d bought her, black leggings, and a cream-colored sweater with a brown geometric design that her grandmother had worn when she was young. We were wrapped in the beauty of the present and the comfort of the past.

The ballet started at two o’clock, so we left the house at one o’clock. Because it’s a short drive to Symphony Hall, we arrived early. Happily, we discovered a foosball table in the lobby. This might be an odd place for a game table, but Symphony Hall is next to a college hockey arena. (An air hockey game would’ve been more appropriate, but they are noisy, like the ear-splitting clack-clack of a pickleball game.) There was no foosball table when I went to the ballet with my mother-in-law. But she would have approved. She liked quiet adventures. In her seventies she painted her nails with canary-yellow and key-lime-pie-green nail polish. She changed the spelling of her first name. She asked me to take her to see Willie Nelson. She went to see The Pirates of the Caribbean with me.

My granddaughter reached the foosball table first. She dropped the ball down the side chute and pushed and pulled on the handles. “Want to play?” I asked. “Sure,” she said. A small smile tickled the corners of her mouth.

Dressed in our semi-elegant, mostly black clothes and coats, we stood opposite one another. We cranked handles and spun our foosball players. Trash talking was minimal. We focused, each of us giving 110% to our plastic, featureless foosball athletes. The game went back and forth with the lead changing many times, but in the end, I prevailed by one goal. I wanted to do a Chariots of Fire victory stride, but well . . . I was wearing pearls.

The lights reflected in the window make it appear as if the sky has lights that illuminate the Aerial Lift Bridge.

It was after 1:30, but the ushers still weren’t taking tickets. I wondered why there were so few people in the lobby. But then a ship came through the canal, and the staff, Clara, and I walked out onto a balcony to watch it glide into the harbor. No matter how many vessels we locals see enter the canal, we never tire of watching them chug under the lift bridge and into the harbor to take on a load of cargo. After the ship passed by, the staff, Clara, and I returned to the warmth of the lobby.

The ushers still weren’t taking tickets, and I got a strange feeling. After I talked to one of the staff, I found out the ballet actually started at three o’clock. Clara and I had been an hour early. We had time to whittle away, so we explored the lower level of the building. We sat in lobby chairs and watched people walk by. We checked out The Nutcracker merchandise. I bought Clara a light-up wand made of optical fibers and myself a pair of socks decorated with nutcrackers.

Finally, the auditorium doors opened, ushers handed us programs, and we found our seats.

Shortly after three o’clock, the lights in the auditorium dimmed, the orchestra began to play, and the curtain rose. My Christmas blues were chased away by pirouettes and leaps, jumps and high kicks all performed by dancers in colorful costumes. Some of the old tradition of the ballet I’d seen with my mother-in-law remained, but it was given a new twist. Instead of being set in the Victorian-style home where Clara’s family and Drosselmeyer gather on Christmas Eve, the set had been transformed into a train station. The ballet was still set in the early 1900s, but the dancers, other than the lead ballet performers, were dressed as street vendors, travelers, lumberjacks, and gingerbread cookies. I have to admit that at first I missed the version I’d seen with my mother-in-law. But the ballet was so good. And clinging to the past too tightly brings a sense of melancholy. Nothing stays the same. So, I let it go and wove the night’s new traditions in with the old.

If life were A Christmas Carol, my mother-in-law would have been Fred, the ever-cheerful nephew of Ebenezer Scrooge. She knew how to keep the spirit of Christmas in her heart all year long and how to rise above characters like Scrooge. (Circa 1935, I chose this photo for the cover of the book I helped my mother-in-law write about her life because it captured her personality so well.)

After rounds of curtain calls and clapping until our palms hurt, Clara and I exited the auditorium. We left the bright lights of the lobby behind and walked out into the dark, cold night. We stuffed our chilled hands into our mittens. Beneath our stylish coats, our hearts were warm.

And for a while my Christmas blues were banished. Maybe next year we will go to the symphony or a Christmas play, then the following year back to The Nutcracker. It’s good to look to the future.

Book Reviews for December

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During December you can shop or you can read books. Or better yet, you can shop for books! Recently, I learned about a delightful Icelandic tradition called Jolabokaflod, which loosely translates into Christmas book flood. Every November the Icelandic book trade publishes a catalog of new releases, which is mailed to every household in Iceland. People buy books for their family and friends as Christmas gifts. On Christmas Eve after gifts are opened, everyone is encouraged to start reading their books right away. Imagine the peace and quiet and magic as each person slips into the pages of a book and into another time and place. Perhaps, one of these books will help you start your own family Jolabokaflod.

A Highland Christmas by M. C. Beaton (Mysterious Press by Warner Books, Inc., 1999)

Hamish Macbeth, the usually unflappable town constable of Lochdubh, a small village located in the Highlands of Scotland, is out of sorts. Christmas is fast approaching, and Hamish is disappointed because he cannot spend the holidays with his mother, father, and six siblings, who have gone to Florida for the holidays. Hamish must tend to his beat in Lochdubh and to another constable’s beat in nearby Cnothan.

Author M. C. Beaton (1936-2019) wrote a series of cozy mysteries featuring Hamish Macbeth who uses his intelligence, keen observation, and intuition to solve murders, showing up his superior officers. But it’s Christmas and in the spirit of peace and goodwill, Beaton’s A Highland Christmas is a very, very cozy mystery — skipping the murder.

However, Hamish’s pre-Christmas days are filled with small mysteries. Mrs. Gallagher, a detested, ill-willed spinster, rings up the police station to report her cat is missing and demands that Hamish find it. He also wants to discover why Mrs. Gallagher is a nasty-tempered old woman who bars and bolts her door and seldom leaves her home. Meanwhile, in Cnothan someone has stolen the town’s Christmas lights and tree, and Hamish is called to solve the Grinch-like crime. Hamish also wonders how he can convince a little girl’s Calvinist parents, who view Christmas as a heathen celebration, that their daughter should have gifts for Christmas, like the other children in her school.

A Highland Christmas is a warm-hearted novella filled with interesting characters who discover kindness is the best Christmas gift of all.

[If you wish to read this book, you will need to buy a used copy, make a visit to your local library, or listen to a digital copy because it’s out of print. I have listened to it twice as an audio book. It’s become part of my Christmas tradition, like watching A Christmas Carol. This year I bought a used hardcover version and was delighted to find that it has charming illustrations. I don’t know if the paperback version is illustrated.]

Beware of Cat and Other Encounters of a Letter Carrier by Vincent Wyckoff (Borealis Books, imprint of the Minnesota Historical Society Press, 2007)

Most of us are familiar with the letter carrier’s motto: “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” We know letter carriers sizzle under the hot summer sun, get wet in the rain, trudge through snow, and freeze on sub-zero winter days. But we don’t necessarily know about the rest of “their appointed rounds.

Wyckoff’s collection of stories about his job as a letter carrier made me smile, laugh, cringe, and cry. For over fifteen years, Wyckoff delivered mail in a neighborhood in South Minneapolis. He came to know the people on his route, most of whom were kind, although some could be difficult. Wyckoff is a wonderful storyteller and a very good writer. His stories entertain, enlighten, and educate. He encounters an attack cat, biting dogs, cranky customers, lost pets, and on one particular day, a young child waiting for his mother who isn’t showing up. He writes about people on his route who became his friends, sometimes inviting him to be part of their family milestones. Ever wonder how a letter carrier’s day starts or what happens when he has to deliver a registered letter? Wyckoff offers up a well-rounded, well-written, informative, and heart-warming collection of stories about his career as a letter carrier. As a bonus, readers come away with a better understanding of what it takes to deliver the mail.

I liked this book so much that when I couldn’t find any other way to let Vincent Wyckoff know, I mailed a letter to him in care of his publisher. [Vincent Wyckoff also writes mysteries. For more information, click here.]

Mr. Chartwell by Rebecca Hunt (The Dial Press, imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, 2010)

After my mother-in-law died, my father-in-law invited me to look through her books and take what I wanted. I found Mr. Chartwell on her bookshelf. The cover caught my attention. I turned the book over and one of the blurbs mentioned Winston Churchill and his “black dog of melancholy.” I knew Churchill suffered from bouts of depression. Intrigued, I placed Mr. Chartwell on the pile of books I wanted.

Mr. Chartwell, Rebecca Hunt’s debut novel, deals with depression — a heavy subject. (The cover art, which caught my eye, belies the book’s seriousness.) However, Hunt combines sardonic wit with verbal and situational irony, creating moments of comic relief that are at turns dry, surreal, and dark, but which also lighten the story’s somber mood.

Hunt’s story is set in England and takes place in 1964, from July 22 through July 27. Winston Churchill will soon retire from public service, and he isn’t happy about it. Mr. Chartwell, a large black dog, who has spent a lot of time with Churchill throughout his life, returns to keep him company. Churchill isn’t happy about that either because Chartwell is the black dog of depression. Hunt personifies depression through Chartwell who is a very large, intrusive black dog and who alternates between beating around the bush or cruel bluntness when speaking. Esther Hammerhans, a young widow of two years, advertises for a boarder, and Chartwell answers her ad. She is shocked when she meets Chartwell at her door because the big black dog speaks to her while extending his huge paw for a shake. Chartwell convinces Esther to let him move in, so he splits his time between Churchill’s estate and Esther’s house.

Hunt’s use of figurative language is often quirky and elbows a reader’s sensibilities off kilter, which mimics what depression can do to a person. Her use of unusual metaphors made me groan a few times, but overall, I admired and enjoyed her fearless approach to creating a unique narrator’s voice. Her striking prose invites readers to slow down, read each sentence carefully, and absorb the intricate range of emotions Churchill and Esther experience when confronted by Chartwell. Hunt deftly juxtaposes Churchill’s long-standing battle with Mr. Chartwell against Esther’s beginning struggles with the black dog.

Exciting News to Share

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Today the 2023 Hal Prize winners were announced. I’m so excited and honored to have won 1st place for my short story “Newlyweds Standing in Front of a Lilac Bush” and 3rd place for my short story “New Boy.”

A list of all the winners in all the categories can be found here: https://doorcountypulse.com/2023-hal-prize-winners/

The winning short stories, nonfiction, poetry, and photos will be published in the 2023 8142 Review, which I believe will happen in January 2024. Here is a link to the 8142 Review: https://www.thehalprize.com/issues/. The 2023 edition isn’t for sale yet, but back issues can be purchased. My second-place story “Maginot Line” is in the 2022 journal and my second-place story “Silent Negotiations” is in the 2020 edition.

I was inspired to write “Newlyweds in Front of a Lilac Bush” after taking a historical flash fiction class with Rebecca Meachem. She is an excellent teacher. The class with Rebecca was offered through Write On, Door County.

Both of my short stories were workshopped through Red Oak Writing, which was so helpful! To learn more about Red Oak Writing and its wonderful offerings, such as roundtable writing critique groups, workshops, and literary services, click here.