My mini essay “Sometimes You Need to Trust a Stranger” appears in the February issue of Northern Wilds Magazine as part of their “Winter Mishaps” theme pages.
To read my short essay, click here! Scroll down until you get to the fourth story. Enjoy the rest of the “Winter Mishaps” stories by Erin Altemus, Joe Shead, Naomi Yaeger, and Chris Pascone.
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.
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.
“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?
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.
“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.
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 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.
Naomi Helen Yaeger, in a delightfully engaging biography, tells the story of her mother Janette Yaeger (née Minehart) who grew up in Avoca, Minnesota. Yaeger spent hours interviewing her mother before her mother died. In her book, Yaeger lovingly recounts the stories of Janette and her siblings, parents, and extended family. Most of the book concentrates on Janette’s life from toddlerhood through young adulthood. However, toward the end of the book, Yaeger summarizes the key highlights of Janette’s and her family’s lives as they moved through adulthood. I’m glad Yaeger did this because after reading about the early lives of Janette and her family, I wanted to know what happened to them as adults.
Yaeger’s book invites readers into a bygone era. We learn about the history, culture, and lives of ordinary people who lived through the depression, WWII, and the Korean War. We read about their daily joys, disappointments, and sorrows. Usually, the history we are taught in school focuses on major events and well-known people. But I find the daily lives of people and how they lived while major historical events happened around them fascinating. And I learned a few things that I didn’t know before reading the book.
As I read Blooming Hollyhocks, I laughed and I cried. I felt connected to my own relatives who grew up in the same era as Yaeger’s. And I remembered the stories they had told me, often similar to the stories Janette Yaeger shared with her daughter Naomi. As I finished Yaeger’s book and closed it for the last time, I was already missing the Mineharts, their relatives, and their friends.
[When I attended Naomi Yaeger’s book launch, someone mentioned that Yaeger’s book would make a great present. After finishing her book, I wholeheartedly agree. If you know someone who lived through this time or grew up listening to the stories of relatives who lived through this time, I believe they would enjoy Yaeger’s book as much as I did.]
On Sunday I took my fourteen-year-old grandchild to see a play based on the children’s novel Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery.
Montgomery’s novel about a determined, outspoken, red-headed orphan is one of my favorites. I’ve read it twice.
I went to see the play for two reasons: first, to meet up with my old fictional friend Anne Shirley of Avonlea, Prince Edward Island, and, second to introduce my grandchild to Anne’s story. Judging by the large crowd of people at the play, who ranged from senior citizens to young children, Anne Shirley is still loved by old friends and still being introduced to new friends.
Montgomery wrote Anne of Green Gables in 1905. At first her book was rejected by publishers. Montgomery set her novel aside for a while, but in 1907 she sent it to L.C. Page in Boston. It was accepted and published in 1908. Within five months she sold over 19,000 copies, and it was reprinted numerous times in its first year. Since its publication over fifty million copies have been sold, and it has been translated into over thirty-six languages.
What makes the novel so popular and timeless? Most definitely, it’s the main character, Anne Shirley, who wins our hearts. Set in the late 1800s, we meet Anne when she is eleven years old. She is an orphan who has lived in both foster homes and the orphanage. Her life changes when Marilla Cuthbert and her brother Matthew Cuthbert decide they need someone to help the aging Matthew with his farm chores. Marilla writes to the orphanage to request a boy be sent to them, but there is a mix up, and Anne is sent instead.
Anne has been an orphan since she was a baby. She longs for a family and a home to call her own. She has red hair and freckles, and she believes this makes her ugly. She is outspoken, talkative, and a daydreamer. In a time when girls were to be ladylike and sweet, her candid manner is labeled impertinent and disgraceful. At first Marilla is adamant that Anne should be returned to the orphanage, but Matthew doesn’t agree. Anne’s spirit touches him, and he convinces Marilla to give Anne a chance.
Why have readers for over a hundred years loved Anne of Green Gables? Because Anne wants what we all want — a home, a family, and to be loved for who she is. She doesn’t want people to make fun of her red hair and freckles. She doesn’t want people to silence her outgoing personality or tell her daydreaming is frivolous. We cheer for Anne. She is our hero, not because she is always good or perfect, but because she is so human. When she makes mistakes, she learns from them while remaining true to herself. Anne’s willingness to be true to who she is as she grows up, changes the people around her, and they become more accepting and open minded.
Over a hundred years after its publication, Montgomery’s story still invites readers to be compassionate and accepting of people’s differences. Furthermore, without moralizing, her novel delivers this message with humor; tenderness; and richly drawn characters, such as the unforgettable, irrepressible Anne Shirley.
The play I saw on Sunday was wonderful. The actor who played Anne Shirley was outstanding. She captured the essence of Anne and brought her to life on stage. The supporting cast were also excellent; after all, there are no small parts. The play was creatively staged on a well-designed set, and the costumes were charming. (I found myself wishing I could wear some of them!) The play remained true to Montgomery’s story, and I loved being able to say to myself over and over, “Yes, I remember that from the book!”
Best of all, my fourteen-year-old grandchild loved the play. Teenage years can be difficult. Young people can be filled with self-doubt and feel as though everyone is judging them as they work to discover who they are and what they want out of life. The characters in Anne of Green Gables remind us that acceptance, kindness, and love are timeless and important for both the young and old. This message feels even more important today. In a world where some people want to divide us, we need to remember we are more alike than different. To forget this is to put our humanity at risk.
Two years ago I took my four grandkids to a rose garden. We smelled the roses, walked along Lake Superior, ate ice cream, and tossed rocks in the water. Then we did it again last year. So, of course, we had to do it again this year. It’s a tradition now. When my grandkids are grown up and old, they will say to each other, “Remember when Nana took us to the rose garden every summer, and we’d get ice cream then throw rocks in the lake?” Just like I recall my nana taking us to George Webb, Sherman Park, and Capital Drive, and letting us use her galvanized steel wash tubs as swimming pools on hot days.
We arrived at the rose garden, which also has other flowers. We spotted bees slurping nectar. My oldest grandchild took photos of the bees and roses. I took photos of the bees and roses. My other three grandkids watched the bees and smelled the roses. We all love the flowers and bees. I like to refer to bees as pollinators, like it’s a royal title and the bees belong to a noble class. Watching pollinators feed on flowers gives me hope for the world. If you want to help create hope, plant something pollinators like, and make sure it’s pesticide free.
As we smelled the roses, we took care to look for bees before sniffing. We didn’t want our noses stung, or egads, to inhale a bee. We visited the rose garden a couple of weeks later than we normally do, so we missed the peak bloom. But the roses that had waited for us didn’t disappoint.
My grandkids love the functioning water fountain, a focal point in the garden. I handed out pennies for wishes. They splashed their hands in the water. One of them found a small, round, flat stone painted with the message Make a Wish. I think more than one of them would have liked to climb into the fountain. Kids and water just go together. The summer I was twelve, my siblings and I spent three weeks with our grandma Olive. Every day we begged her to take us to Bluegill Lake so we could swim. The fountain in the rose garden was originally located in a different part of the city, where it supplied fresh water for horses in the days before automobiles. Everything changes.
After spending time with the roses, we headed down the Lakewalk, and enjoyed the views of Lake Superior. Later, on our way back, my youngest grandchild stopped at several of the park benches and assessed the views, commenting on each one. Perhaps, he is a budding travel writer.
On our walk from the gardens to the ice cream shop, we always stop at a large stone stage. Flanked with two stout turrets, it has a castle vibe. My grandkids ran across the stage and through the hidden passageways behind it, then suddenly appeared once again. Their laughter and excited shouts to one another rang through the air. I thought about Shakespeare’s famous line, “All the world’s a stage,” followed by his musings about the “seven ages” of life from infancy to old age. I stood on the stage with my grandkids, yet apart from them, separated by several “ages” of life.
The cooing sounds of pigeons who nest in the nooks of a stone wall along the railroad tracks captured the attention of my grandkids. One grandchild was impressed by the range of their colors and the variety of their markings. And the other three started a cooing conversation with the pigeons. I have to say, the cooing sounds my grandkids made were impressive, but finally I said, “What if the pigeons hear your coos as a battle cry and attack?” Yes, you got it, I was thinking about Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I saw the movie once, years ago, and I’m still miffed Hitchcock killed off Suzanne Pleshette’s character in the movie! She was one of my favorite actors.
If you asked my grandkids what they liked best about our adventure, they would probably say the ice cream. It’s what I would have said when I was their age. The picnic tables at the ice cream shop were new and so was the chocolate mint ice cream used to make my malt. For thirty years I’ve been ordering chocolate mint malts, made with the same minty ice cream filled with thin, flat pieces of dark chocolate. This year the ice cream was a little too minty and the thin, flat pieces of chocolate were replaced by mini chocolate chips. It was good, but not as good as it used to be. Next year I’m going to order a different flavored malt. Maybe I will find a new favorite. The clerk at the shop said they could no longer get the same kind of chocolate mint ice cream. All things change. But don’t ask me to say change is good when it comes to my ice cream. Some wasps hung out with us while we ate our treats. None of us panicked, but neither did we share our ice cream with them.
Our next stop was the lakeshore filled with rocks waiting for my grandkids to toss them back into the water. Now that they are older, they try to skip the rocks across the water instead of just throwing them. I planned to let them stay ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but they were having so much fun with each other. I watched them toss rocks, look for agates and beach glass, and play with driftwood, and suddenly I could see my siblings and myself on the sandy shores of Bluegill Lake seining for minnows, building sand castles, and floating on inner tubes in the water. I marveled at how long ago that was and yet how quickly the years had passed — in the snap of a finger. We stayed for more than a half hour. This was the best part of my day. Because while my grandkids on the beach had no idea how quickly time would slip by, I did.
I write for Northern Wilds, a local magazine based in Grand Marais, Minnesota. A couple of months ago, the editor put out a call for the magazine’s contributing writers to submit mini essays about camping traditions. I wrote one about my backyard camping trips, the only kind I ever took as a kid.
My essay was published in the August issue of Northern Wilds. To read my essay in the web format, click here and scroll down. To read it in the magazine format, click here, and click to pages 20-21.
And whichever way you choose to read it, I hope you enjoy the camping essays written by my fellow writers.
On the first day of my grandkids’ summer break, I took them to a local coffee shop. I ordered them fancy fizzy soda concoctions and let them each pick out a piece of bakery. I ordered myself a small latte and no bakery. The time with my grandkids — priceless. The cost of the trip to the coffeehouse — more than five happy meals at McDonald’s. I had sticker shock when the clerk gave me the total, but I acted like I spent that much in coffee shops all the time.
I handed the clerk my credit card and refused to think about the cost. Afterall, the soda concoctions were works of performance art served in 16-ounce glasses, mixed with fun flavors like watermelon, pineapple, cherry, coconut, and strawberry and topped with whipped foam. I almost wished I had ordered a fancy fizzy soda. As the clerk handed the first soda to one of my grandkids, she said, “Stir the soda very gently with the straw a few times. If you stir it too fast, it will overflow the glass. Then drink a little bit of the soda, and mix it some more.”
We were five minutes into sipping, noshing, and gabbing when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a slightly built, older man walk into the shop. Dressed from head to toe in dark colors, he carried a small black grip, which he placed on a chair. He picked up a large dinner-plate-sized planter filled with succulents and moved it to a table where a younger man sat eating a bowl of food. This didn’t bother the younger man, who wore headphones and watched his computer screen.
The older man removed his black jacket and slipped on a whitecoat, the type doctors wear. I stopped paying attention to him because the grandkids and I were tasting each other’s sodas. Thankfully, they didn’t ask to try my latte; although, I would have been a good sport about it.
A short while later, the man in the white coat appeared at our table. The name Dr. Twist was stitched above his left pocket. In his hand he held a purple dog made of balloons. He gave the balloon dog to my six-year-old grandson. He twisted up more balloons, making a green crown with an alien’s face, a yellow crown with a funny face, and a brown monkey, which he gave to my other three grandkids. He made a balloon flower for me, which I took home and put in a crystal vase. Besides being good with balloons, Dr. Twist had a great table-side manner, cracking deadpan jokes and making us laugh.
I don’t think Dr. Twist was a planned event at the coffee shop. I got the impression the balloon doctor was a free spirit, showing up on a whim, twisting up fun, then leaving smiles and laughter in his wake.
After we finished our treats, we bussed our table, and balloons in hand, we thanked Dr. Twist again.
It was a windy, blustery Winnie-the-Pooh day, so as we left the coffee shop, I warned the grandkids, “Hang on tight to your balloons or the wind will take them.” We’d made it to the van and were almost inside — when a sudden gust of wind snatched the yellow crown balloon with the funny face from my eight-year-old grandson’s hand.
As one, and without a spoken plan, we secured the rest of the balloons in the van and gave chase. The untethered balloon swirled up and down alongside the building in the wind. A couple of times we came close to catching it, but at the last second, the wind, in a game of keep away, would lift it high into the air. Finally, the wind carried it into the busy street.
Released from the updrafts surrounding the building, the balloon dropped to the pavement. We watched as a semi-truck approached, sure the balloon would burst beneath its large tires. Miraculously, the yellow crown with the funny face survived. The wind gently ushered it onto a quiet side street, where it came to rest against a curb.
When the balloon stopped moving, I ran across the busy street, hoping to grab it. Don’t worry, I exercised plenty of caution. I understood it would not be a good look to be hit by a vehicle while rescuing a balloon. I thought about the online news articles reporting on a dim-witted nana who was run over by a car while trying to catch her grandson’s balloon. I imagined being trolled by online commentators, who would all come to the same consensus: “Yeah, that lady was stupid” and “Darwin’s theory in action.”
So, I waited for traffic to clear, then I ran across the street. In that moment I suffered a pang of vanity, and I wondered just how strange I looked while dashing madly through the crosswalk. But I assured myself that anyone who may have taken notice of me had surely seen stranger things than someone’s nana chasing a balloon. Then, I wondered if anyone was taking a video of me to post on TikTok, perhaps titling it “How Not to Cross the Street.”
The balloon had waited for me on the side street, and as I reached for it, I hoped the wind wouldn’t snatch it away again. But the wind had finished messing with me. I grabbed the yellow crown, and when it was safe, I strode back across the street, all while singing in my head, My superpower is chasing balloons.
I handed the balloon back to my grandson. I thought he’d smile or tell me I was amazing. But he just looked at me — like he was trying to figure something out. I didn’t ask him what he was thinking. But I was thinking.
We all got back into the van.
“Hey,” I asked my grandkids, “Nana didn’t look funny running across the street after a balloon, did she?”
From the third-row seat came the voice of clarity. It was my oldest grandkid who reassured me, “Actually, Nana, you looked really funny.”
We all laughed.
I was glad I hadn’t let the cost of the sodas, and latte, and baked goods upset me. Because in the end, the amount of money I spent on the one-time visit to the coffeehouse wasn’t going to impact my financial security. There are plenty of disasters in life that could possibly do that, and I try not to dwell on those either.
Instead we have a happy memory, which will remain long after the air seeps out of the balloons.
Writing Near the Lake 