My short essay “Christmas Break Snowstorms Were the Best” appears in the March issue of Northern Wilds, where I’m a contributing writer. I love writing for the magazine and reading it.
You can view it in blog form here: https://northernwilds.com/snow-day-memories-part-two/ You will need to scroll down. My essay is the second one,
Or you can view it in the magazine format here: https://northernwilds.com/current-issue/ There is an option to view it in full screen. My essay appears on page 18.
I lost a mitten on February 10. And it made me very sad. I hadn’t lost a mitten since 2017, when I actually lost a pair of them.
This Christmas my mother bought me a pair of very pretty mittens. The colors are cheery and subdued, all at the same time. The red flower on the top of each mitten, along with the red buds along the cuffs have just the right touch of whimsy for me. She also bought the knit beanie hat that matched the mittens. When I opened her gift, I wasn’t sure about the beanie. I’m kind of fussy about hats. But later when I tried it on, I found it fit well and looked nice on my head. My mother has a knack for buying me things I wouldn’t buy for myself, yet I end up loving them. She seems to know if something will suit me. Maybe that’s because she sees me differently than I see myself.
After I unwrapped the mittens, oohed and aahed over them, and slipped them on my hands, my mother said, “I bought those at Ciao Bella’s. They were expensive.”
And my mother has a knack for that too — pointing out that something was expensive or sharing exactly how much she paid for it. I think this has to do with how poor she was as a child. I had no doubt they were expensive. They were fancy, they were lined, and they felt like small warm hugs on my hands. I loved them. I thought, “I’ll have to take extra care not to lose them.” And that made me afraid to wear them.
Until my daughter-in-law took me to dinner and a play to celebrate my book of short stories being accepted by a publisher. It was a special night, and I wanted to wear my pretty hat and mittens. Dinner was wonderful, and the play, What the Constitution Means to Me, was funny and thought-provoking, and I didn’t lose my hat or mittens.
Emboldened, I started to wear my Christmas mittens to other places, including a coffee shop on February 10. I met a friend for lunch, and we visited for two hours. When I got up to leave and put on my mittens, I discovered I had only one mitten in my purse. I was certain that I’d had both of them when I’d gotten out of my car. My heart sank. In the morning when I’d put on the mittens, I remembered thinking, “I love these, and I sure hope I don’t ever lose them.” I felt like I’d cursed my mittens.
My friend and I looked everywhere for the mitten: all over the coffee shop, in the parking lot, in my car. Then we looked in all of those places again and again. (It’s nice to have a friend who will stay and help you look for a lost mitten.) We even went next door to the bookstore just in case someone found the mitten and turned it in there. No one had seen my mitten, and no one had turned it in at either shop. In the bitter cold, I drove home with only one hand snuggled in warmth. Mother Goose’s nursery rhyme about naughty kittens losing their mittens played in my head.
I’d decided to try and replace the mittens. After I arrived home, I called the store where my mother had bought them and left a message. But I was too impatient to wait for someone to call me back. While I was waiting, someone, somewhere, might buy the last pair of mittens like mine.
I found a tag inside my remaining mitten. They were made by a company called Lost Horizons. Now that’s irony. I looked up the company online. They still had my mittens for sale. The name of the pattern was Chloe. I decided not to wait to hear back from the store where I’d left a message. (They have never returned my call.) I ordered a pair of Chloe mittens. My mother was right — they are expensive. And I had to pay shipping. But it was worth it to me because the mittens had been a gift from her. The older my mother gets, the more sentimental I get about her.
In the meantime, I took a photo of my remaining mitten and made a poster, writing on it: “Have you seen this mitten? They were a Christmas gift from my mother. If found please return to the coffee shop or the bookstore.” I asked the managers of each establishment if they could put up my poster. I needed to do everything I could to find my lost mitten. After all, when I lost the pair of mittens in 2017, I searched for them like a treasure hunter on the trail of a buried treasure. I never did find those mittens, and they weren’t replaceable.
Four or five days later my new mittens arrived. They were exactly the same! They looked just like the mitten I hadn’t lost. I put the right one on first because that was the one I’d lost. Same great hugging-the-hand feeling. Then I slipped on the left mitten. Not good. It felt like an overly-firm handshake. The lining of the mitten had been twisted during assembly and sewn in the wrong place.
On one hand, I still had the original left mitten that fit well, so that would leave me with a good pair of mittens that fit. On the other hand, I’d paid for two mittens that were supposed to fit properly. I wanted what I’d paid for, so I emailed the company, and explained the problem. It was Saturday and their offices were closed until Monday.
But in the tale of my lost mitten — a story with its ups and downs — another upswing came my way. I heard back from Lost Horizons. Their representative emailed me that while their offices were closed on the weekend, they wanted me to know that they’d received my email, they were sorry I’d had a problem with the mittens, and they’d be contacting me on Monday to help me with either a new pair of mittens or a refund.
On Monday I opted for new mittens. I received another email with a return label and an assurance that they’d reserve a pair of the Chloe mittens for me. (I liked how they made sure they didn’t sell the last pair of Chloe mittens while waiting for my returned mittens. A company that thinks like me!)
So, the pair of mittens with a defective left are on their way to the East Coast. And I’m waiting in the Midwest. It was bad luck to lose one of my mittens, especially during a subzero cold snap. It was good luck to find I could buy another pair. It was bad luck to get a defective mitten. It was good luck to have done business with a company that values customer service.
I’m hoping the good luck holds and my mittens arrive soon. I hope they fit well. I’m not superstitious, but maybe I’ll only wear them to the theater and not to coffee shops.
On October 10, my grand-dog Nellie, whom I like to refer to as Nellie “Bly,” went on assignment with me. I was working on an article for Northern Wilds magazine. Our mission was to interview one bookstore owner in Two Harbors, Minnesota, and one bookstore manager in Grand Marais, Minnesota, and to take photos. Nellie Bly was game. (Although, if she had been given a choice, she would have rather chased small game instead of facts.)
Going on a reporting job with a dog is fun, but it requires more time. We were gone for over six hours. In addition to doing interviews and snapping photos, our assignment included four walks, a lunch break, and a supper break.
Nellie waited in the van while I did the hard-boiled investigative work inside the bookstores, asking the managers about the history of each bookstore and which books they anticipated would be hot for the holidays. Good investigative journalism means I had to ask the tough questions too, such as “What is your favorite holiday book? and “Do you have any holiday traditions involving books?” Of course, in the name of gathering evidence, I bought some books at each store.
Nellie got paid in food and treats. However, when I ate my Happy Meal for lunch, she made it clear that she wanted to exchange her bowl of dried kibble for my cheeseburger. And when I had my six-inch sub for supper, she again made it clear she wanted to swap her bowl of kibble for my sandwich. There were no trades. I told her life in the field as a reporter is filled with sacrifices.
Perhaps, if this article goes over well, it will lead to a TV series, where I travel the country, reporting on independent bookstores, asking probing questions about each bookstore’s origins and what’s selling well, all while spending my writing paycheck on books. Maybe Nellie Bly would like to be my assistant. We could travel in a RV with a driver so I could read and she could look out the window. I can hear Nellie now — trying to negotiate a better meal deal and asking for top billing in the credits. With her good looks, she would be the star of the show in no time anyway.
[To read my article click here: Northern Wilds, pages 14-15.]
My grandkids didn’t have school today, and they don’t have school tomorrow, so they came to my house. I was hoping for nice weather because I planned to take them on a hike to Lost Falls in Cornucopia, Wisconsin, today, and to Cascade Falls near Grand Marais, Minnesota, tomorrow. But rain, cold, and winds up to 30 mph said differently.
Instead we went to the mall. Our first stop was the bookstore, where I bought each grandkid two books for Halloween. Then we hiked to the indoor playground. While they played, I took out my book — A Samuel Pepys Mystery: The Brampton Witch Murders by Ellis Blackwood — and I began to read.
About fifteen minutes later, my first grandchild came for her book — Dipper’s & Mabel’s Guide to Mystery and Nonstop Fun! — and she began to read.
A few minutes after that, my third grandchild came for his book — The Wild Robot by Peter Brown — and he began to read.
Not to be left out, my second grandchild came for his book — Demon Slayer Kimetsu No Yaiba #1 by Koyoharu Gotouge — and he began to read.
My fourth grandchild ignored the trend and kept playing on an interactive screen. He enjoys its puzzles, games, and coloring app. He read his book — Creepy Carrots! by Aaron Reynolds — on the way home.
I didn’t give my grandkids candy for Halloween. They’ll get a stash of it tonight when they trick or treat in the rain and cold and wind. I gave them candy for the imagination.
As a writer, I love that they love books.
Below is a slideshow of our books.
Bayfield, Wisconsin, has two wonderful bookstores: Apostle Island Booksellers and Honest Dog Books. Every time I visit Bayfield, I visit both places. I will talk about Apostle Island Booksellers in this blog, and Honest Dog Books in an upcoming blog.
Apostle Island Booksellers is small but gorgeous, and stocked with a wonderful selection of books. Walking through the front door, transports me back in time, into a warm and cozy and other-worldly space. A creamy-white tin ceiling with old-fashioned lights — the kind that bring old schoolhouses and libraries to mind — hangs over the natural-colored wood floors. Windows trimmed in decorative molding, wooden shelves, brick accents, and an old area rug catch my eye. But it’s the colorful covers of books that win over, and I look for something to take home with me.
I walk around the front part of the bookstore, then head for the small back room tucked away like a treasure. As I go, my eyes scan titles and cover art. Along the hallway and in the back room, more books are displayed, making use of every available place to shelve a book. I’m happy to see the room around the corner is unchanged. It has what every bookstore should have: a place for a reader to sit and read a few pages of a book, to see if it’s a good fit.
I think I’ve made up my mind about which book I will buy, but I finish looking around the store before I pluck Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut from its spot on the shelf. My nephew suggested I read it, and I’ve also read that it’s one of Vonnegut’s best.
I discover another book, The Shipping News by Annie Proulx, and snap a picture of its cover. The synopsis intrigues me, but I will think about this book. I might borrow it from the library, or buy it at another bookstore, or buy it from Apostle Island Booksellers the next time I’m in town. Like other book lovers, I wish I could buy all the books that catch my fancy, but I’m limited by the coins in my purse and the space in my home. And my mind becomes uneasy if my To-Be-Read piles mushroom too quickly on the flat surfaces in my home.
While I pay for my book, the clerk and I strike up a conversation about British literature. We are both huge fans and discover that in our early years, we read almost nothing else but British literature. Her love of British authors started with Shakespeare when she was in ninth grade. My love started with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories when I was in seventh grade.
I slip my new book into my large purse, and head to Honest Bog Books. I have one more book to buy.
MY TOWN HAS A NEW BOOKSTORE! And I’m shouting with joy. Maria Lockwood opened Foxes and Fireflies Booksellers on August 31. For the time being, her bookstore will be open on Saturdays and Sundays from 10:00 to 5:00, and some occasional evenings. During the week Maria works as a journalist for the Superior Telegram. That’s a lot of dedication to the printed word.
Since visiting the store this morning, I’ve been walking around in a state of happiness. The last bookstore in Superior closed down seventeen years ago. It was a well-loved, successful bookstore, but the owners wanted to retire. And when they locked their doors for the last time, they left behind many bereft bibliophiles.
But now we have a new bookstore. Foxes and Fireflies is currently located in the old post office building in Superior. It’s in a business incubator space — a place where Lockwood’s bookstore can grow and gain a clientele before she relocates to another, larger space.
Lockwood’s bookstore has several places to sit, where a reader can peruse the first pages of a book, trying on a story to see if it will be a good fit. There are kid-friendly spaces with puzzles, some games, and children’s books. I have two grandchildren with birthdays in September and October. They love books, and I plan to take them to the bookstore. They will find the store as magical as I do.
Lockwood has created a warm, inviting space that makes me feel at home while I hang out with books waiting to become my new friends. While most of the books are new, customers can also find some gently loved used books for sale. Besides books, she stocks some beautiful journals, coffee cups, and dish towels, among some other fun objects like stickers.
Today I bought two journals, one decorated with sea creatures and the other with owls; a dish towel scrawled with Shakespearean insults; and the novel North Woods by Daniel Mason.
I’m thankful to have a bookstore in my town. In a couple of years, one of the two bridges connecting Superior and Duluth will close down while the bridge is being rebuilt. It’s hard to know how that will impact travel to Duluth, but I’m guessing it will be a challenge. There are three independent bookstores and one big-box bookstore in Duluth, but when that bridge closes down, driving to them won’t be convenient.
I would rather buy books than clothes or jewelry or dinners out. I would rather read than watch TV. At the end of every day, I ask myself, “Shall I watch something on Netflix or BritBox or shall I read?” Ninety-six percent of the time I choose to read and let the stories play in my head.
When I travel, I love to visit small independent bookstores. Perhaps I’ve been to a bookstore in your town or will visit one in the future. If you come through my town on a weekend, visit Foxes and Fireflies at 1401 Tower Avenue, Superior, Wisconsin. There is plenty of parking on the side street or behind the building.
Get thee to an indie bookstore, or as Shakespeare said, “Fie on thee, jolt-head.” (I’m going to have fun with my new dish towel.)
After fifty-three years, I believe I’m finally ready to get up on a stage and play the Wizard in The Wizard of Oz. When I performed the role in seventh grade, I developed severe stage fright. My voice, which was supposed to roar from behind a curtained booth, stuttered and whimpered instead, barely audible.
Saturday night I went to see Liberace & Liza, A Tribute at the Depot Theater in Duluth. David Saffert and Jillian Snow, two excellent entertainers, became Liberace and Liza for the evening. The show was a wonderful ninety-minute escape into a bygone era from my youth. My sisters and I grew up watching TV variety shows starring Liberace, Dean Martin, Carol Burnett, Sonny & Cher, and Flip Wilson.
Near the end of their act, Liberace and Liza performed a skit called “Liberace OR Liza.” They explained they would read scenarios, and two volunteers from the audience would take turns guessing if the statement was about Liberace or Liza. However, when they asked for two volunteers to come up on stage, the audience went silent. Finally, Liberace and Liza encouraged a young man from the second row to join them. The man, named Kevin, wore a black T-shirt and a pair of gold sequined pants. I had seen him forty minutes before the show started. I had admired his outfit, figuring it was a nod to Liberace and Liza, who both loved sequins. But I had also wondered if he would be part of the show.
No one else raised a hand.
I waited. I mulled it over: a chance to perform with Liberace and Liza, who kept pleading for a second volunteer. All I would have to do was smile big and answer questions in a cheerful, audible voice. I thought some more. I had a chance to be part of a variety show, even if it wasn’t televised. I could smile big and have some fun. After all, I reasoned, the real Liberace was a hometown boy from Milwaukee, so I should help him and Liza. I, too, was born in Milwaukee, and lived there until I was five, when we moved to Franklin, which is still in Milwaukee County.
I stuck my hand high in the air and volunteered.
I was sitting near the back of the theater, so I had a long walk to the stage. Pushing aside the memory of my seventh-grade acting failure, I strode forward, feeling confident and fearless — I became Quiz-Show Contestant on her way to win jubilantly or lose gracefully.
When my sisters and I watched the real Liberace on TV, he performed in flashy colorful sequined outfits. His fingers, festooned with diamond-and-gold jewelry, flew up and down the keys on a golden piano that sparkled with mirrors and rhinestones. The combination of his fast-paced piano playing and his never-ending glitz mesmerized us. If he had played a plain piano while wearing a black tuxedo and using bare fingers, my sisters and I would never have noticed him, even if he had kept the same frenetic playing style. Liberace was an excellent showman who understood how to sell an image.
Before I went to the tribute show, I looked up Liberace and learned that from the 1950s to the 1970s, he was the highest paid performer in the world. I also learned that serious music critics panned his piano-playing skills, to which he responded, “I’m crying — all the way to the bank.”
Once on the stage, Liberace and Liza explained the rules of the quiz to Kevin and me. I smiled. I had no sense of dread or wishing they would get on with it, so I could go back to my seat. I was having fun. Liberace wore a sequined red-white-and-blue, stars-and-stripes themed jacket with long red fringe dangling from its sleeves; a pair of matching sequined hot pants; red-white-and-blue knee highs; and sparkling shoes. Liza wore a red-sequined top and pants, loosely covered by a flowing, floor-length black gauzy garment. Under the stage lights, the gold sequins on Kevin’s pants lit up like fireflies. I wore mostly black, sans sequins. My only bling was a pair of subdued silver earrings and two small rings.
Kevin’s personality matched the sparkle of his pants, and he embraced his role. I didn’t try to upstage him. I became the calm, composed character next to Kevin’s funny-guy schtick. I smiled, made a few restrained theatrical gestures, and answered three questions, earning one point. Using grand theatrical gestures and hammy facial expressions, Kevin answered all three of his questions correctly, so he won the big prize. I received a consolation prize, a very cool Liberace & Liza tribute sticker. Liberace and Liza shook hands with me and thanked me. I shook Kevin’s hand and congratulated him. I had become Quiz-Show Contestant Losing Gracefully. But I smiled because I was triumphant in defeat — not once did I experience stage fright, and I had a great time. I even wished there had been someone to take a picture of me up on the stage.
Liberace took my hand and escorted me off the stage. For a moment, as I made my way back to my seat, I wished that I could have felt fearless and confident in seventh grade while playing the Wizard. But my self-assured debut with Liberace and Liza made up for my seventh-grade acting debacle.
Kevin’s big prize was to be serenaded by Liza while he sat on a stool upon the stage. He embraced this with delightfully comic acting, even singing along with Liza near the end of the song. And, although he sang off key and seemed unsure of the words to the song, something about Kevin and Liza’s bit made me think he may have been a plant in the audience. I had even thought about this when he was encouraged to volunteer. On the one hand, Liberace’s and Liza’s interactions with Kevin seemed so spontaneous, but on the other hand, could they really leave finding the perfect contestant to chance? One who would be able to ham it up with Liza as she sang to him? Even Kevin’s outfit made two arguments. Had he dressed to be part of the act or had he just been an enthusiastic audience member? Either way, his glittering gold pants sure looked good on stage, making him the perfect accessory to Liberace and Liza.
The intrigue around Kevin’s role made it even more fun for me. I know someone I could ask, who would probably tell me if Kevin was a plant or not, but I don’t want to spoil the magic and mystery of the moment. Besides, Kevin was perfect up there. I would not have been as entertaining if Liza had had to sing her heart out to me.
Liberace, Liza, and Kevin didn’t realize it, but I did win the bigger prize. I had zero stage fright, and I didn’t worry if I was going to look silly. Something else that Liberace and Liza didn’t know, but the warmth and good humor they had exuded throughout their show, let me know I would be in kind hands if I went up on the stage
Wisdom doesn’t belong to seventh graders playing the Wizard. But thankfully, I have gained some as I have aged: Smile big, have some fun, and don’t be afraid to be silly. That’s what I did. And that’s what Liberace, Liza, and Kevin did.
My article “From the Duluth Rose Garden to the PortLand Malt Shoppe” appeared today in the August 2024 edition of Northern Wilds. The article details a fun adventure I had with my four grandchildren when we visited the Duluth Rose Garden in Minnesota. We loved all the roses and the flowers. But we also enjoyed our trek down the Lakewalk to the PortLand Malt Shoppe where we slurped delicious ice cream.
Other than this blog, I mostly write short stories and essays, but I had so much fun writing this article. I also took the photos and wrote the captions. One of the highlights of writing this article was interviewing Carol, the co-president of the Lake Superior Rose Society, who was more than generous with her time. She is so knowledgeable about the Rose Garden and its history, plus she knows so much about roses and their history. I learned more from her than I could possibly include in my article, but her willingness to share her knowledge gave me the confidence to write about roses, which I knew so little about.
Our community is lucky to have a publication like Northern Wilds. The articles are well written and cover a variety of topics, such as outdoor activities, artist profiles, nature, ecology, tourist venues, community celebrations, and local restaurants.
Last week I took my four grandkids to the Sax-Zim Bog in Toivola, Minnesota, appropriately located on Owl Avenue. (It’s a good place to see northern owls.) The drive from my house was one hour and four minutes. (Thank you, GPS.) The grandkids brought library books and their adventure bags, which are filled with postcards, maps, compasses, binoculars, auto bingo, bird books, and other adventuresome stuff. We weren’t one minute from my house when the three youngest grandkids took up an intense game of auto bingo, searching for cows, horses, ambulances, no parking signs, and billboards. However, by the time we were far enough out of the city to see cows and horses, the bingo game had blown over.
Of course, there is always one grandkid who wants to know: How far? How many more miles? Are we halfway there yet? Have you ever been here before?
We arrived at the bog’s parking lot about eleven o’clock. It was 52 degrees and sunny, with a slight breeze — perfect weather for walking through an old bog. But we were glad we’d worn sweatshirts over our T-shirts.
The Sax-Zim Welcome Center was closed, but we met a volunteer coming out of the building who looked like part of an illustration from a Jan Brett book. He kindly answered my questions about the trails because we wanted to walk on the new Taiga Boardwalk built last autumn.
Shortly after we started down the trail, a loud clattering commenced. I wondered, “What kind of bird is that?” Then I discovered two chattering squirrels chasing each other up and down tree trunks and across fallen logs at breakneck speeds like a pair of NASCAR racers. “Those are fox squirrels,” Michael, 10, said. “My grandma has them at her house.” His other grandparents live in rural central Minnesota. But, according to a post on the Friends of Sax-Zim Bog Facebook page, we most likely saw Red Squirrels. They are highly territorial, and one of them probably invaded the other’s space, which would explain their loud scolding sounds and serious chasing behavior. Whether fox squirrels or red squirrels, they were fun to watch.
As we walked through the bog’s forest, I thought about The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, a book I recently finished reading. I learned a lot about trees and forests. True forests are diverse and interconnected in an amazing cycle of life and death, filled with competitiveness and cooperation, and home to a large variety of insects, animals, and other plants. Forests grown for harvesting are nothing of the sort.
Walking along the trails of the bog, we saw different species of trees. New trees, only inches tall, grew under the branches of old trees. Unless the old tree dies, most, or perhaps all, of the baby trees we saw won’t make it to adulthood. Some standing trees looked nearly dead, waiting for their turn to fall to the forest floor. Tree trunks that had already fallen lay on the ground in different stages of decay, providing habitat for other creatures.
Steeped in tranquility, the breathless silence of the bog held no traffic or city noise. No planes droned overhead. Occasionally, the peaceful quiet was accompanied by the chirps and calls of birds and squirrels, which like the silence, belonged to the forest.
The Taiga Boardwalk loop is short, but it’s not meant for serious hiking. It’s a trail where visitors take their time, stopping to look for birds and animals who are masters at blending into the forest. When we finished the Taiga trail, we weren’t ready to leave the bog, so we walked a different, smaller loop. We still didn’t wanted to leave, so we walked the Taiga again.
On our second trip around the Taiga trail, Evan, 7, got down on his hands and knees, peered through the slats on the boardwalk, and said, “I see why they built this. There is water down there.” I’d told them the boardwalk was built to help keep people’s feet dry.
We didn’t see any owls, but in addition to the red (or fox) squirrels, we saw chickadees, and Clara,12, spotted a black-back woodpecker.
After we finished walking the trails, my youngest grandson Charlie, 5, gave me a hug. “Do you know why I gave you a hug?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I gave you a hug because you brought me to this bog.” I think Charlie felt what I felt: a pervasive peacefulness. As I walked through the bog, I felt a sense of increasing serenity. In The Hidden Life of Trees, the author mentions studies that show people have reduced stress levels after walking through old-growth forests. I have no data to prove that is what happened to me, but I certainly felt calmer than when I’d arrived.
Holding our trail maps, Sax-Zim Bog calendars, and warm memories, we got in the van and buckled up. I was about to start the engine when Clara pointed out her window and said, “There’s a butterfly in the parking lot.”
Having recently finished reading Bicycling with Butterflies by Sara Dykman, I had to get out of the van and have a look. As I was snapping pictures of the butterfly, which wasn’t moving much, a red pickup truck pulled into the lot. The only open space for the truck to park happened to be where the butterfly was resting, and the driver wouldn’t have been able to see it. Squashed butterfly, I thought. I walked toward it, and it fluttered a few feet, but in the wrong direction. Coming from another angle, I walked toward it again, and it flew another few feet, but this time it landed out of harm’s way.
The red truck parked without crushing the butterfly. Perhaps it wouldn’t have needed me to save it. Maybe it wouldn’t have been run over, and it would have flown away from the truck instead of into it. But I’m glad I didn’t leave the butterfly’s destiny to fate.
The grandkids and I left the bog and headed back to the city. As I drove down the county roads, they flipped through their calendars, enjoying pictures of the beautiful wildlife who make their homes, for at least part of the year, at the Sax-Zim Bog.
On the shore of Lake Superior, there is a small independent bookstore in Grand Marais, Minnesota, called Drury Lane Books. It’s my happy place. When I feel tired, sad, angry, or bored, I conjure up an image of the charming store, then I walk inside and sit in the window seat lined with a bright-blue cushion. In my hands I hold the perfect book, pulled from a glossy-white shelf. And I fall hopelessly in love with the characters and their stories. It’s Zen.
Last October my sister and I actually visited Drury Lane three times in one weekend. (I bought a collection of short stories and two novels.) During our first visit, the churning waves on Lake Superior roared so loudly that conversation outside the bookstore was difficult, unless we wanted to shout. And while we could have sat in the wooden chairs on the beach and read our new books, the cold, strong-fisted winds would have ripped pages from our hands. The next day the winds abated, but it was still chilly. So, we read our books in a local coffeehouse while sipping hot mugs of tea and coffee.
Drury Lane dreaming puts a smile on my face.
Writing Near the Lake 