Birdman of Small Acres Lane

As I review the "trees" of my childhood, I find myself ruminating about my maternal grandparents who lived in a farm-y home at the end of a short dirt road. These memories light up this tired ol' soul. 

Please take the journey with me. 

Turning south off a busy road, you are immediately met with a tall hill lined with tombstones. To me it was a place of quiet and time with grandpa. The cemetery was a sacred place my grandfather, known and written about as The Birdman of Small Acres Lane. Grandpa sported a goatee, always wore bib overalls with a one piece "union suit", and a weathered wide brim "farming" hat. He would sit with his back against a gnarly tree tenderly petting his beloved dog, thinking or reading, while I wandered around reading the stones. Next to the cemetery was the Red Cedar River, which he told me to view but admonished me about getting too close.

Following this dusty road toward their home, we pass Sadie's woody and partially hidden home on the left and Lilah's small cottages on the right. Rumor back then was that grandpa and Lilah were good friends and that Sadie was peculiar and exotic.

Continuing down the road you would walk over a small bridge above a creek with the Red Cedar River to the left. To get to the river you had to walk down a steep hill, through beds of nettles, and find the muddy bank where I found hours of delight bamboo pole fishing. Along the bank, away from Sadie's house, there was a small wooden dock, where I would lay holding a worm in the water inevitably attracting a hungry sunfish.

About an acre of thick "magical" woods was on the opposite side of the road. Our family and the neighbors played there for hours. At one point and only for a short while someone strung a long rope from a tree near the edge - long enough to swing on as we played Tarzan and Jane. To the right of the woods was the Hagerman home ... alongside their outbuilding was an unplugged freezer filled with yummy worms where I'd get my fill for fishing in the river.

Onto the road again and 25 feet more was a white house on the left filled with my childhood friends. Evenings would find us sitting in their multi-window back room, which overlooked the river and woods, playing hours of card and board games. Then we'd go to my grandparent's house and play aggravation on the red metal table that overlooked the gardens and chicken coop.

My grandparent's rustic brown and yellow home was filled with bird houses built by grandpa. Perched on poles, trees, in the gardens, on the lawn, these houses attracted a multitude of birds. 

 

Grandpa and I sat on chairs in the front yard as he taught me the practice of twiddling our thumbs -- entwine your fingers together leaving the thumbs to fend for themselves as you focus on circling your thumbs back and forward. Quite a calming activity he was found to enjoy as the silence brought out nature sounds. Grandpa was a successful gardener and loved eating warm tomatoes with salt fresh off the vine, roasting sunflower seeds, eating grapes, and tending his chickens in the little coop along the side of the garden. He was also quite a musician playing accordion, violin, harmonica among some of his instruments. We were told he wanted to attend a music school but was denied by his parents because he had to help on their potato farm in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

Behind my grandparent's house was a long garden bordered by a huge hill, a place where my siblings and I spent hours. A piece of cardboard served as our sleds. The steep hill was scaled over and over as sliding down was fast and exciting. Occasionally, the sharp grass would slice into a finger but didn't seem to bother anyone. I'm sure my mom tried and tried to scrub the grass stains and smell of grass off our blue jeans in her ringer washer but to no avail.

At the end of the road  - the railroad tracks. When I spent the night I'd sleep with my grandmother under bed sheets that were cool and clean and fresh smelling from the clothes line. Every night grandma would lean over and wind up the round alarm clock which would jangle us awake in the morning. But during the night the haunting sound of trains passing by and rattling the windows soothed me as they raced to destinations I couldn't ever fathom.

I spent weeks with my grandparents, every minute I could, and know they helped form the hopeful and good part of me.

 

In the Arms of Mother Nature

I believe, I believe, I believe in the healing power of Mother Nature and spend as much time with Her as possible. She helps me sort through emotions, feelings, thoughts – even revealing hidden gems to explore on my path in this life.

  

Into the Woods

County, state and local parks provide a healthy way to explore life and to engage with family and friends. Mother Nature soothes concerns, problems; accentuates action plans, goals; allows for mind-half or mind-full-thinking.  Find rejuvenation on the plethora of paths throughout Michigan. 

Mother Nature makes my complicated and sometimes painful life appear simpler and more stimulating. Communing with the animals, birds, leaves, water, mud, snakes, and even walking through the swarms of freshly hatched bugs, gives me nourishment for the multitude items on my invisible schedule – my life blood is enriched.

I am a verbal processor, or, storyteller – embellisher of life -- it IS who I AM. My feelings, thoughts and memories are verbalized or put on paper allowing me to look at the words, ruminate, categorize, act or dispose of them. Maybe you are like me? Or perhaps you like to keep your words snuggled in your brain with the ability to search through your thoughts and make sense of life and pain and trials in a quieter manner.

Either way of communicating is acceptable.

Why would you want to fool Mother Nature or ignore Her? She understands why you seek Her and will embrace you with peaceful clarity. She accepts me … just the way I am! Give Her a chance.

This year think about parks you can visit, lakes you can toss up a lawn chair to be close to the lapping of the waves, perhaps a picnic? But, pick up your litter when you leave. Mother Nature loves those who care about Her.

I choose the road less traveled.

Time and Art During Covid-19

Staying Safe at Home

I appreciate, even adore, a quiet day where naps are there for the taking, books fingered and page marked, design shows on the DVR, a fresh journal begging for my attention. A quiet day is a gift to cherish. But (always a but in there somewhere) with "enforced" quietude - these "free" days seem different, perhaps more of a challenge, but also magical. COVID-19 quarantine and its horrid and lasting effects acknowledged, we are staying safe at home, Zoom and FaceTime visiting, and distancing ourselves on walking trails or engaged in other outdoor activities. I'm seeing more families walking together, dogs are getting good workouts and trot by with their tails curled up in happiness.

Quiet and inaction are not words in my vocabulary. I'm more of a go-go person. Always doing suits me fine and is more to my liking. When we were given the mandate to stay-safe-at-home, my heart literally skipped some beats - what, no coffeeshop writing, bookstore haunting, family gatherings? I wondered how to meet this challenge with grace. 

Reaching Out

I began posting on FB what we were doing and our challenges, and asked my FB friends how things were going and could they share ideas for activities within the state guidelines. Responses poured in - lot going on with these friends - but over time, felt a staleness in my posts, so am on a break. 

Thinking -- how can I/we reach out? I began sending cards, some homemade, to family and friends; dropped a meal or two off at a neighbor's house; supported mask-makers, one of whom was a daughter; and began buying lunch once a month for the ICU staff at a local hospital. My husband and daughter planned their gardens and spent hours preparing, digging in the earth - the smells musty and full - now are planting.

Art Journaling -- why not?

I am not classically artistic, but found my art journaling project not only challenging but strangely liberating. Taking a poem I wrote a couple years ago, I pasted, wrote, painted, cried, smiled, and drank coffee as I worked the art journal around its theme.

This project totally absorbed me, made me think, took my mind off the world pandemic, and allowed me to reflect on what is important inn my life and why do I gravitate toward the urgent. I've discovered a volunteer opportunity which I think will speak to my spirit and talents - all from quieting my busy, busy brain.

Start to Finish, my process

My art journal is not professional, nor do I expect it to be -- I rather like its many flaws as each one is now a part of the final project, a warm memory. The journal is an accomplishment and has kick started me on other "artistic" endeavors. 

What I did was--

• Pulled an old, unused multi-media notebook from my um, craft closet.
• Gathered my rubber glue, Elmer's glue, Gesso, colored pens and pencils, and old coffee cards to use in smoothing glued pictures to the page.
• Cut pictures, quotes and words from old magazines and added them to my collection (of hundreds of previously clipped pictures). 
• Scoured my poems and chose which poem spoke the loudest to me. 
• Painted some pages with water color, acrylic streaks, chalk or added a full page graphics to the page and worked pictures and quotes and my poem around the page.
• Wrote, pasted, created, listened to music, and found my missing MOJO.

Art Journaling is relatively cheap. You can use tea bags, coffee or berries to stain pages, old pens and pencils to draw, and pieces of literally anything to adhere to your artful expression,

Everyone has a story to tell, a poem penned on a slip of paper – do you have one you might want to work into an Art Journal? 

The Monster of the Hawaiian Islands

I grew into a love of writing and had my mother, Fritz, as my unofficial, and at times unsolicited, editor. But boy, did she love to edit and I allowed this pleasure as it felt right. 

Memories surrounding my first story are both painful and warm, and for me an unfortunate change in my dreams of being an author. 

My 10-year-old self, wrote The Monster of the Hawaiian Islands while on a family visit with my grandmother in Marquette while sitting on the cool, soft feather bed in the front bedroom along the long porch which surrounded two sides of her house. I had a new sharp pencil and lined paper … which smelled heavenly.

My story was centered around a monster on the islands and a ship named "The Olivia" - my grandmother's middle name. Clever and fun to write I gave my "final" draft to my grandmother to read … she was ecstatic, "ye gads" this needs to be published! 

As my grandmother was a person of action, walked my story down to the local paper, The Mining Journal, on Washington and Third. I remember a feeling of dread and even fear that she would have my story put in the paper. 

That's it! The end of my memory -- I never saw the story again. 

My *father did not encourage my writing and seemed to think it a lazy person's activity. In my later years I wondered if it were he who might have tossed my story. As a young person with this passion, which was not exactly allowed, I think my soul for writing was crushed ... it took a number of years before I wrote again. 

Until I was in a college creative writing class. This "secret class" I kept from my father, yet mom knew and approved. My teachers, my adored teachers, wrote wonderful things at the end of my writing - in red! I've kept the little bits of stories for my memoirs. "Ye gads!"

Writing has been a positive outlet for my feelings, projects and thoughts. My mother, may she rest in peace, encouraged me, would carefully read the sentences, advise, and hoot with laughter, as only a mom is allowed to do, at my word choices. Her absolute favorite thing was finding gems of misspelled words, a tasty morsel for her (which occasionally I'd place to please her). 

Fritz was raised in Michigan's Upper Peninsula where schools awarded students for good penmanship … my mom received many awards. She also took Latin, and became an exceptional crossword puzzler and Scrabble player. I valued her and the significance of her abiding encouragement and attention to detail in making me a better writer.

Happy Mother's Day, moms. You make such a difference.

*Dad, may he rest in peace, died young from heart disease and left seven children and a wife. Going through his memorabilia, it was discovered that he developed "Shell Shock" (PTSD) following the war. He was a soldier in many battles, including Normandy's Battle of the Bulge. 

His sister shared that before the war, dad was a peaceful, sweet man. In my heart-of-hearts, I have a greater understanding and have respect for my father and the horrid situations he encountered in the war. I thank him deeply for his service to our country, keeping us safe and free. He was a great man!

Pandemic, Porches and Hope

The lazy days of warmer weather brought almost every neighbor outside; the adults would settle down on their stoop, or porch, as we called it. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a neighborhood of porch-sitters. The Dyer, Simmet, Ungren, Manino, King, and Sumner families along with my parents, would holler across the street - Hi there, how are the kids? - Do you have a cup of sugar I can borrow? - Did you read The Onlooker this morning? Tommy can’t come out to play, he has a tummy ache.

Us kids would congregate on the porch and plan our evening fun of outdoor games such as One O’clock, No Ghost, Hide 'n Seek, Red Rover. A countdown would begin as we surrounded the porch: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 – as we frantically took off to hide in any of the neighbor's yards. This was allowed back then. Parents would sit and visit on the porch while the kids played. Hours passed when the dreaded street lights came on--shortly followed by porch lights flicking on and off--calling us to our homes and signaling the end of our outdoor fun.

A disaster, death, illness, wedding, baptism - any and all events - would bring the adults to their porches hollering congratulations or to call out sympathies – publicly and without embarrassment. Mornings would find the adults sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee and toast, in our family it was Hardtack or Trenary Toast with peanut butter, and the local newspaper. Simple elegance and a familiar connection to each other. Neighbors caring for neighbors … united.

As an adult, I can’t help but reminisce as I wander around looking at our town’s porches. Over these years, sadly, have noticed a difference in neighborhoods with parents too busy to sit outside, few if any kids playing in the yards, and goodness gracious if you called out a greeting to a new homeowner – expect the look. It felt as if we had we lost our sense of unity and caring for each other.

Then, THE PANDEMIC COVID-19 hit – the Coronavirus struck the world. 

We were told to “shelter in place” – stay home, you can walk but keep 6 feet from others, wash any groceries; toilet paper became a commodity along with hand sanitizer. Now we are admonished to wear masks when outside. An extreme sense of dread has visited the planet – we’re all scared, cautious, and, in many cases, pulling together. 

As we sit on our porches or stoops, walkers’ wave, smile; neighbors are calling out to each other – Hi, there, is everything okay? Do you need anything? How are the kids doing? Where’d you get that mask – it’s cute. I hear families playing in the alleyway and in backyards. Community members are spending time in their yards, on their porches, kicking a ball around. People are sending cards and calling neighbors and families to check on them, doing puzzles and playing board games. The warmer days are bringing families walking past our house – waving toward our window if we are inside. Stories of people parked in their cars clapping in thanks as our health care workers enter and leave the workplace. Individuals and groups are gathering around tables making masks for doctors, nurses, firemen, policemen, and now for each other. People are calling restaurants to deliver meals to our essential medical and emergency personnel.

Planet Earth’s residents are uniting through this horrible, terrible, rotten pandemic. I guess we do need each other. Neighbors caring for neighbors … united.

Playing with words - A Unicycle and a Nightclub Escapade

The Callers

Emil was good at balancing on tracks, rocks, the boats - solid and strong - he was known to be a fairly good acrobat in his time. His extended family, excluding his wife, would laugh as he climbed down the stairs or walked the rail of his brown, wooden porch on only two hands. But over time he had to leave these antics at the door as he had a family to care for during the depression's economy.

A phone call he received in the early morning revived a sense of adventure into his work-a-day-week, yet also rattled him. Sitting down after slowly putting the phone back in its cradle a smile finally came to the surface. He was very familiar with the mysterious callers, spent hours in their company, and had no hesitation in knowing what he’d do.

Taking his hat off the hook by the door, Emil told his wife perhaps the first fib of his very long marriage. He told Olivia he was going to walk to The Lake in order to think, which he never really did as his wife was fully capable of thinking for him.

The north wind blew strongly as he forced his body to lean into the November gale working his way down Baraga to the Queen City Bicycle Shop. The flimsy door flew open as the wind whipped up from The Lake. This didn’t faze Kevin, the shop owner, as they were used to the winds fighting against their door.

Emil explained that he was looking for a unicycle and wanted to have a lesson in riding the one-wheeled contraption. Kevin stifled a laugh, after all, even though Emil was 70 something, he was a paying customer, so promised to teach him the basics in the alley behind the shop.

Surprisingly, the lesson was successful as Emil was a quick learner; he bought the unicycle and headed home up Baraga where he would hide the new bike from his ever-present wife, as he knew the consequences of her tongue.

Evening came and so did another lie ... he told Olivia he felt like going to the pub to have a beer with his friends. So again donned his cap while she sputtered on. Sneaking down to the lower porch he picked up the hidden unicycle then continued fighting north through the wild wind.

Instead of a left turn on 3^rd toward the pub he turned right down the hill where the nightclub's brazen lights enticed him. He was more than aware that Olivia felt the devil lived in the club and she would never allow her husband to grace its doors. But surprisingly, this only increased the thrill he had on this secret mission, oddly reminiscent of boarding a Norwegian ship in similar weather on that dangerous November night in 1914.

Emil on the stolen tricycle

Feeling like a young man again, Emil was getting excited about the prospect of being a celebrity and began visualizing the headlines in The Mining Journal. He also imagined the tongue-lashing his wife would give him on its publication. These thoughts ran through his mind as he neared the nightclub when a blast of wind grabbed the unicycle, which he was holding gently, and sent it flying down the hill toward Lake Superior. It was too far for him to run and retrieve it as he had to be at the nightclub in five short minutes.

“Dang it” he blurted and started thinking of a solution on what to do. Holding his head in turmoil, he happened to spot Peepee Pants Peter’s tricycle sitting on the wind-protected porch on 3^rd. Letting the pent up tension from his cheeks, he snuck up to the porch, reached over the creaky rail, grabbed the small tricycle and let his long legs carry him quickly to the club.

I hoped you enjoyed the beginning of this partially true uncompleted story.

I invite you to fill in the ending. "It will be fun" they said!

I had a friend

My friend and I go back to the early 70s, but I knew of her for much longer through chance meetings with both her and her husband. An articulate woman, she elevated me with her attention and interest in me, my family and writing goals. She always had a smile and a kind word, a hug, an encouraging nod.

She was older by a generation, married with children, an author and an active writer. The couple frequently drove to my office - "just stopped by to chat", they would say. 

My friend and I attended writing workshops together, and once, she invited me to a party held at the home of a local writing legend - a tall Victorian house expansively decorated for Christmas, even the scents announced the holiday. Bookshelves lined the dark wood walls and were filled with leather-bound tomes. The atmosphere was scholarly and quiet with occasional bursts of laughter, the striking of a match to light pipes - no cigarettes there - and men with corduroy jackets with, yes, leather patches on the elbows. People milled around visiting, not sitting and relaxing in the leather chairs which filled the rooms of the home. She openly and happily introduced me to her friends: published authors, photographers, the hostess - a well-known teacher. My friend shared with these "celebrities" my writing goals ... while I stood feeling inadequate yet pleased with her praise, confidence, and love.

I once confided to her that I wanted to write a book about my experience and musings. She encouraged me to set up my own publishing company, which I did, and even had a graphic artist create a logo - free. The book completed and self-published led to a desire to write another one - a story from the diary of my grandmother living in the woods in Marquette in 1938 during an intense series of winter storms. Eager to share this second book with my friend, and, as it had been over a year since we had contact, I discovered that she had been placed in an Alzheimer's unit in a local nursing facility.

Seeing my friend in the realm of dementia

I was let into her unit by her nurse who led me to my friend's room where she cheerfully announced my presence. She was sitting in a chair looking out the window and slowly turned around and stood up. Her face was blank as she seemed to be reaching into her memories for who I was - then it seemed to click and she lit up. "Connie, it is so good of you to visit," she excitedly exclaimed as we hugged. I experienced denial, big time, but had to finally realize that my good and dear friend had dementia. She talked, disjointedly, with an occasional recognition of who I was. I held out my second book for her and she stood and held me telling me how proud she was of me. Then spent time in desperate disappointment that she had not written a book about her dear mother – something she had talked about for years, collected notes to use, but ran out of time. She retreated into the jumbled recollections of her disease. 

I felt shock and the betrayal of dementia - the memory robber. Our old familiar and warm relationship ended that day, or perhaps changed as I continued visiting and holding her hand, talking to her of old times and friends. I'll always hold my dear friend closely in my heart and cherish memories of our times together. I hold onto her words about how proud she was of me, and I of her. I continue to feel awe in that she enveloped me as an important part of her life – a big sister. I miss her. You would have liked her.