Wiggle, Scratch, Float

My Father's Evening Ritual

My toes were being wiggled back and forth while I rested with my eyes closed in our new bedroom in the house-by-the-cemetery. I lay there wondering why my husband would wiggle my toes.

In the early 1970s, my father was one of the first persons to have an extremely invasive heart surgery, spending weeks in the hospital struggling with healing, electrolyte imbalances, hallucinations, weight loss, until finally, he was "well" enough to return home. A couple things about him that struck our family was how big his eyes were in his sunken facial bones and how odd he acted at times.

Dad's new nightly ritual was to wander around the house after bedtime, wiggling toes of his seven children, beginning the never understood tradition of The Wiggling of Our Toes. Later years my siblings recalled this irritatingly sentimental and strange act my father began after his heart surgery.

Hey sweetie, I said to my husband when he returned to the bedroom. What caused you to wiggle my toes, sharing with him about my father doing this very peculiar thing. My husband denied coming into the bedroom to wiggle my toes or even knowing my father use to do this.

There began our adventure in our new country home-by-the-cemetery. This coincidental incident was only one of the curious things occurring while we lived in that house.

A skeleton clawing at the siding

The first night in our house-by-the-cemetery my husband had to leave for the evening to a planned event. A sound emanated from our bedroom outside wall ... a scratching and rubbing noise. I KNEW it was a skeleton trying to get in the house. After a long, scary night where most of it was spent holding a flashlight toward the wall, my husband returned home. I gave him an earful of what scary things happened during the night. You have to take care of this I pleaded. So, together we wandered around to the cemetery side of the house to find a leafless tree with branches touching the siding under our bedroom window. No, not a skeleton, but rest assured I had my husband tear that tree down before the dark of night.

The Indian

An Indian keeps walking down to my bedroom at night said our three-year-old daughter shortly after we moved into our house-by-the-cemetery. We questioned her - maybe it was a dream? But she was insistent what she saw, even how he was dressed - like an Indian.

Spirits in our room

One morning my husband shared that he was laying in bed when a woman - in Victorian clothes - stood over us and came right at him, melding into him as she disappeared. He NEVER woke me up after this happened, only shared it casually the next day, saying it did not scare him. It did not scare him!

Our grown daughter was recently talking about the strange occurrences in this house-by-the-cemetery and recalled a night she couldn't sleep. She came into our bedroom for comfort and to climb into bed with us. Apparently, I was in the frontroom sleeping in a lounge chair as I'd had back surgery and felt it was more comfortable. She didn't know I wasn't in bed but saw me standing at the bedside looking down at her and my husband. She reached out to touch me but her hand went through my "body". She woke her daddy who found me sleeping in the recliner.

Skeptically open-minded

Who knows what happens "on the other side" - we are skeptical and never felt unease in this house-by-the-cemetery. It was a peaceful place which made us feel welcomed and perhaps "accepted" by these spirits. Who knows?

Driven to Distraction

A Mess

My life is occasionally an unorganized mess with scattered papers and laundry, dishes rotting in the sink, journals begging for attention on the shelves, which brings me to dust, bountiful dust. But my books - my precious books … these gems are neatly posed and eagerly waiting to be read. I consider myself a bibliophile for particular non-fiction genres: women's adventures, stories written by women during "simpler" times; authors who write about writing; and, travel stories.   

Daily, I yearn to read from my pile of books, but am distracted by life's urgent pleas. I promise myself an afternoon to read …. "but first…” Something slinks around the corner whisking me away from reading. I know I choose to be distracted, but it's so hard to stay on track to what is important to me -- journaling, reading, writing, walking, planning. 

Power to change

I recall an interview that Detroit radio personality Paul W. Smith had with Kelly McGonigal, PhD, author of The Willpower Instinct. McGonigal was discussing her book and sharing how we could (possibly) improve our own willpower. She claims that if you are trying to quit …. "something" …. by performing deep breathing techniques the draw to that "something" is reduced. I don’t know if my distraction is from a lack of willpower or not, but do wonder if deep breathing would be worth a try in helping my focus.

Our routines and habits are deeply imbedded and, at times, it is much easier to play the blame game than to accept responsibility for our own choices. My distraction is in my control and pointing my finger at someone else (or guilt over a messy house) doesn’t accomplish anything internal, and may even delay the development of the (my) will to power through avoidance of things I enjoy doing.

I would love to truly embrace will (inclination, wish, disposition) power (control, mastery, stamina, energy). Would this loosen the bonds of excuses and help me find time to recharge with what's important (to me)? Dunno ...

As for now, my books are neatly lined up … waiting … and deep down I know that no amount of work can rival the satisfaction of taking a book off the shelf, finding a place to nest, and spending an hour of blessed reading. 

What is taking your attention away from your enjoyable activities?

My Life in Containers

A large box was placed on the Baraga Avenue porch and became my special hiding and thinking spot. It had comfortable smooth brown sides and emitted a crispy-new wintery aroma. 

Scooching deep into my box (any box) made me feel secure and peaceful. On this occasion, I was laying in it looking up into the blue sky when large, warm and smiley eyes peeked down at me. The amused and expressive eyes were attached to an elongated face which was connected to a very tall, slender, white-haired man sporting anchor tattoos on his forearms. My hidey home was discovered making it no longer a secret cubicle on a porch, but a place that captured the chuckling interest of my Norwegian grandfather, a sailor named Emil Berger Olsen. 

I was eight years old and spending family time with my grandparents in Marquette.  A rare large purchase provided the discarded box. 

The front porch paralleled the side of the house and had a right turn porch wing which was hidden from view of the front door.  It was perfect for a small child with a fascination with containers. Perhaps because of our large family, privacy was sacred. As an adult, I believe it was my saving grace during certain times of my life. The aloneness and hidden-ness of boxes was amazing and a palpable sensation for a small quiet girl. 

A musical instrument, a recorder, which I played with abandon, created sounds that reminded me of nature. I loved my recorder, and although my bent was not toward musical talents. I played pieces with the best of the best in this cardboard box.

Time has slowly drifted but not my box love - containers, drawers, cubbyholes - all make me happy. I watched a show focusing on the underworld of street people living below a large city … the lucky ones with cardboard boxes as their home. I never want to be homeless, but have to admit that this reality forced me to muse about my own life as one after another, the homeless crawled into their very own portable dwellings. 

The show made me reminisce about my bemused grandfather. A quiet giant of a man.

Growing up in the U.P.

Taken from articles I gleaned from relatives

sharing stories about Marquette, Michigan

Written by (my aunt) Janice Olsen Summersett around 2013

As far as living in the U.P. of Michigan – I can’t imagine being anywhere else. The special beauty and peacefulness around us – and we always felt safe. We could go outside and play from dawn to dark and no one worried about us. We just needed to check in at mealtime and then we could go out again.

Thank God I grew up being able to enjoy active sports and also be able to take off and ride my bike all day long, wherever I wanted to go – just so I was home for bedtime. I made my own fun and had lots of great friends. Actually, I was more or less solitary and at times enjoyed the peacefulness of the woods West of our house. I would take a lunch, sometimes cooking hot dogs over a fire (mom would have had a fit if she had known) and especially one time I wrapped a raw egg in foil and put it into the fire. Don’t ever do that!  It exploded and I wore most of it. It sounded like a shotgun going off. Scared the devil out of me.

As a pre-teen we made our own fun – baseball, kick the can, red rover and best of all climbing the corner tree at the corner of 7^th street and scaring people who passed under the tree. We also spent countless hours swimming at the quarry in South Marquette and also at Picnic Rocks bordering Lake Superior. BEAUTIFUL!

Living hyperactively 

I sure managed to get into a lot of trouble just being too active. I really couldn’t help it, but no one understood that in those days – I didn’t do really bad things – just stuff a super hyper kid does. I sure gave Mom and Dad a hard time being so hyper and I suffered BIG time for it – I think I wore out Dad’s razor strap. I usually got a good whipping at least once a week. I always blamed myself for being bad, but I loved Mom and Dad very much. Poor things just didn’t know how to handle me.

Fruit and Pies

It was so great growing up in Marquette and even though we were very poor we did okay. Mom managed nicely because she was an amazing cook. She could stretch food and sure made some wonderful meals.

We all spent lots of time at our camp out on Big Creek Road. It was very solitary and beautiful and we picked lots of wild strawberries, blueberries and raspberries which were turned into the most wonderful pies and jams you ever tasted. We also had a Wolf River apple tree on family land across the road. I would climb the tree and pick the huge apples and bring them back for Mom. She could make a pie out of one apple they were so big. It was so incredibly beautiful at camp – and so peaceful. Eric, I hope you have forgiven me for burying your stuffed animal on the hillside by that tree. I was probably four at the time.

A special “bubble gum”

When we were kids during the summer the tar on the road by the house would melt and bubble up at the edges. We all chewed it like bubble gum – it was very gritty and tasted weird – but we were poor and I guess couldn’t afford gum. We found out later that this type of tar was chewed by lots of people and didn’t hurt you. DON’T TRY IT TODAY – you’d probably die!

Well that’s my life story of life in the U.P. I could have written a book – I have left a lot out.

LIFE IS GOOD!

(first published in The Olsen Chronicles, Fall 2013)

Bound for the Upper Peninsula

Squished with three to four siblings in the back "box" of our 1960s era white station wagon, the middle seat carrying the younger ones, and parents leading us in the front, trips to our other home in Marquette, commenced. The cherished seating was in the car's "box" - no bench, only a nice square floor space in which to arrange our pillows and blankets, books and toys. Elbows flew in our face or sides, grumblings of "he touched me" "she's looking at me" - just a part of the road trips with nine people.

The morning of our trip the excitement was palpable as we would wiggle with anticipation of a trip over The Bridge. "A quarter to who sees The Bridge first" my dad would shout out … causing us to jockey for the best position to see the farthest and win this treasured coin. 

Mom made bologna, mayonnaise and butter sandwiches to eat at a picnic table on the west side of the Cutwater Bridge on U.S. 2.  I Spy games made the time slowly fly. 

A sibling prone to car sickness broke the monotony with her occasional venture outside of the car to deposit remnants of meals. This sibling wrote:

One time after I threw up in a paper bag, dad stopped the car and put it on the porch of a house on the way somewhere north. Must be he was feeling a little devilish that time. We used to take the ferry and I only remember the railing with mom holding my hair out of the way while I puked over the side. Also, we got to eat cold beans out of a can and sometimes got some cherry Nehi pop.

Mom and dad would be unsympathetic with our constant outbursts as we jockeyed to get the best spot in which to view Lake Michigan's waves. They eagerly continued driving the slow 55 miles per hour speed limit, occasionally pushing the vehicle to 60 in the eagerness to reach our U.P. family, or to pass a truck around a curve causing mom to shout "Donald" as we all grabbed hold of the back of the seat and scream. Once "in a blue moon" our father would pull the car to the side of the beach sand covered road along U.S. 2 allowing us to run out and put our toes in the sand and water of Lake Michigan. Most time though, we flew past these beaches as dad was missile-propelled to reach our destination.

The l-o-n-g Seney Stretch was interminably straight for 25 horrifically l-o-n-g miles. We all shouted with joy when we saw the curve in the road indicating the end of the stretch. Shingleton, Munising, Christmas, Au Train, were next, bringing us closer to Marquette, where we would eat a supper of pasties piled high with ketchup and blueberry pie, made fresh by our dad's sister, Janice. 

Eight hours of driving had to be hard on my parents, more so with seven vocal kids, but we were all bewitched into quiet when our station wagon finally rounded a curve on Highway 28 and we saw the peninsula jutting out into Lake Superior with Marquette's sparkling lights reaching out as if to welcome us back. 

Family, comfort, routines, familiar smells, cowboy coffee, acceptance, laughter with our cousins, and talking were all special joys of this homecoming. Click your heels together … truly, there IS no place like home!

The Death of my Living Bra

The 1960s and THE living bra! - an uplifting and heartily received creative design for ladies. The cotton bras were only two-dollars yet still priced beyond my means. But, curious and with desperate intent to understand what the hype was - and, did they "work" - had to try on some of these "amazing" inventions ... magic for fashion conscious girls. Oh yes, truly meant for me.  

For years, I secretly searched for the most perfect of bras - a venture I kept to myself due to the sensitive nature {of my boobies}. Spoiler alert - I was one of those well-endowed women, who were rarely allowed in the naughtily suggestive commercials of that decade. 

The Living Bra

Excitedly armed with my Playtex Living Bra, I headed toward the fitting room at our Sears and Roebuck to try it on. The entrance was manned by judgmental women turning their noses down at my outfit of cut off blue jeans, t-shirt, scuffy PF Flyers with dirt-worn bobby socks (TomBoy dress code). Their inspective attitude made it difficult for an already self-conscious me to enter the realm of almost nakedness without the heart-thumping worry that the worker would yank open the flimsy curtain of my dressing cubicle with obvious distrust, trying to bust me for stealing their precious living bras. After all, they were two-dollars apiece! Udderly insulting.

The dressing room was dirty and cluttered with unwanted clothing tossed on the floor or carelessly hung on a hook, as if the previous occupant was hurrying with fear that they would also be intruded upon. 

The living bra died and was a flat disappointment; it seemed to make my already hidden chest more pointy and obvious. I tossed it in the pile of disappointments and slithered out of the dressing room, sensing the attendant's eyes looking at my t-shirted self, hopeful of another dressing room bust.

Fast forward into the 2000s - when I was eventually successful in my search. The found-bra is a wonder to be-hold. It proved to be a comfortable, yet, confusing contraption [with instructions] finding me fairly dancing just to combine the ends into a perfect and comfortable fit. 

I was further hysterical with glee when I made a discovery before a walk that my pants had no pockets in which to store the many and important items a woman carries. My new bra "of much fabric"! I stuffed it with: my car keys, cell phone, tissue, mints and gum, an extra pair of socks, and three spoons [long story] and a small water bottle in the middle. Being the dancer I am, I figuratively and hands-free danced on the trail, having the walk of my year with the embracement of my new yet non-living bra.

If your living bra dies and you want to know where my secret company is, I'm sorry but have forgotten. After years of ponderous thought, I went for a breast reduction and have an even more horrid time finding a comfortable fit. But am lifted beyond belief and only my steps have bounce in them. 

A friend wrote “I want to hear the rest of the story behind the 3 spoons and what kind of bra this is that has made you dance with glee! I loved this entry and the smile that you put on my face as I envisioned you tucking all those things into your ‘lady purse’ and dancing down the river walk!

A family member wrote “Girl, share the name of that bra!! Yes, we girls that are well endowed have a difficult time finding just the right fit - so bring on the store name, website or however you found it.  Share the good news with the rest of us!”

An Intervention

My fifth day into my forced technology-free week at camp, I woke up in a grouchy, wrong side of the bed, mood. I slumped on the deck and drank in my coffee along with the scents of the lake. Watching the antics of birds on the water below, which normally is calming, only decreased my spirits. My restless fingers silently typed out words in the breezy wind … itching for an online connection: Facebook, e-mail, Pinterest, anything. I felt so insanely disconnected to what I thought was a necessary part of life.

Feeling defeated by my obsession, I curled up on the cool Naugahyde covered couch to escape my attitude and put finishing touches on my sleep. An hour later, woke in a stormy hypnogogic state – I needed a fix.

Vowing, out loud to the room, I swore to never again make a computer-free “pact” with my family. I wasn’t remotely prepared for this intervention and didn’t even bring a notepad! I was struggling, and knew it, but also willing to work through this horrible fixation on technology.

The Search

The “interventionists” were out on the lake, so, I drove alone to a local market to seek out the perfect notebook, so at least I could feel in some control of my habit and have a tactile moment with paper and pen.

Hidden in a pile of notebooks was a lovely, faux brown leather pad with a yellow and brown plaid interior – rather funky. Smelling the paper was an out-of-body experience. Also discovered not one but three extra fine point multi-colored pens, which I snapped up, as new words needed new pens, and would satisfy and calm my addiction. People who like pens are particular, for the most part. I’m into the extra-fine because my words needed to be thinly written to flow smoothly and effortlessly from brain to paper. My family would not dare argue with my purchase.

Morsels and Coffee

I discovered a new to me coffee shop called Morsels, sat in a comfortable chair with my homemade lapboard, ordered strong coffee (and some morsels) – words flowed out.

Amazingly, the distraction of using pen to paper for two hours lessened my desire for being online. 

On the way back to camp, I stopped to see a friend with whom I shared my technology free attempt for the week. She warmly welcomed me into rehabilitation - her beautiful store - where she smothered me with a counselor’s understanding and compassion, generously giving me the resolve needed to make it through my commitment. Is this what friends are for? Absolutely!

What I Learned

I knew I didn’t have to take on the “advice” of my family but think they were right to request I give phone calls and writing on the computer a break. The week ended with an abundance of special and peaceful memories … very likely due to not being tethered to my devices. I participated more in discussions, game playing, kayaking. I learned a lot about myself during the week and believe that the tactile writing from pen to paper used a different part of my brain. The lack of connection provided a quiet “not knowing” what was going on in the world. This was needed and highly refreshing.

I’ll never fully give up having online connections, as my special group activities from various sites help plan my days and adds interest to my calendar. But, an occasional vacation from technology, absolutely, as doing so adds embellishments along with unexpected ideas and activities.