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.

The Fright before Christmas

Traditionally, as many families do, we gathered on Christmas Eve in our parent's home to celebrate. This particular year, talk of Y2K* was ever present in the media, in stores, and wherever you happened to be, warnings were issued and people stockpiled items to "survive". We were ready to celebrate Christmas Eve at mom and dad's when the bottom fell out from below my family. I wrote this poem during that sleepless night and had as many as I could track down write what their first thoughts were. Their stories are written, following the poem, exactly as penned that Christmas of 1999.

The Fright Before Christmas – 1999 (The year of Y2K)

On a freezing Christmas Eve in the year ‘99

Thirty-four Olsen’s were gathered and all lookin’ fine.

The food was prepared at Mom Olsen’s with care,

The table was filled for this festive affair.

We crowded the back room for a right solemn prayer

As the aroma of food lightened the air.

When what to our wondering ears did we hear?

But the cracking of floorboards so loud and so clear!

The scrambling, the screaming, the rushing to exit

Gave peace a good-bye as the floor fell just a bit.

My God! What is happening? Is this how we end?

Our separate thoughts shaking, the floor continued to descend.

Out Marcus, out Zhenya, find Elyse, where’s the baby?

Grab Alaina, Rebecka, Sam, Claire, Ksusha and Addie.

All out of the room we scrambled with a clatter

As none of us knew just what was the matter.

Mom’s heart it did flutter and flip with fast beats

As an assembly line rescued the lit candles, and good eats.

Dust settled, screams ceased, and the men they did check

The back room for problems. Was the house still erect?

The floor did give way – two feet in some places!

And left a good hole … and some awe-stricken faces.

No one hurt, no one lost, just nerves jangled and blind.

On this strangest of nights, the year of Y2K on our mind.

Even though this dreadful event gave such a fright

We still wish all a Merry Christmas, and to all a safe night.

 

Notes written in my journal by family, verbatim,  after the floor fell in

“We were just about to eat supper. Lester said a prayer and we started to sit down around the table when we heard a loud bang – floor began to sink and furniture sliding. Connie called insurance company, expecting them in for estimate.” Mom Olsen

“I can’t explain exactly what I thought. I know I thought it might be the end of the world. When I got a chance to think, I had to figure out where my son Marcus was. Someone told me Alainamae had him and then I was okay. I think Terreal grabbed my hand and we ran into the kitchen and to the hallway. I still didn’t know what was actually happening. It was crazy – that’s how I would explain it!" Monica Miller

“Well, I had a splitting headache and all of the sudden the table & china cabinet is moving. I thought for a minute that a car ran into the back of the house and that the entire room was going to colaps. Then I couldn’t find Sammy so I was into the kitchen. Everyone was shooken up for a few, but then it was calm again.” Kim Franco

“I was in a different room and heard what sounded like gun shots.” Judy Ly

“I was sitting next to my brother Corey talking. All of the sudden I felt a rumble. I thought it was a large object falling or like Uncle Jim fell. Then I realized it was the floor. I didn’t run into the kitchen. I just stood there.” Tony Franco

“We just got done saying prayer and was about to eat when all of a sudden we heard a cracking sound. I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I looked down at the floor and realized we were sinking. Everybody started screaming and running into the kitchen. After we realized that the floor didn’t go far, we all ate and ended up having a good time.” Kacee Franco

“I did not know what to think. My mind was going in so many directions. At first I thought it was an earthquake, then I thought Y2K came a little early.” Corey Franco

“At first I thought it was an earthquake, but there could not be an earthquake in Michigan, because nothing was shaking. Then I did not know what it was. So I just ran.” Addie Geissel

“At first I thought that was a earthquake was in Michigan bot then vremgmbr the earthquake was not earthquake the hause prokt down it was the flore. it skerod me I run to the kichene.” Zhenya Geissel, written as Zhenya wrote the comment

“Floor Collapses due to multiple Grand Kids at Grandmas. Due to the love and affection at the Olsen family Christmas Eve Party we all pulled through a disaster of sinking proportion. Everyone survived a drop in holiday spirits at Christmas by pulling together and heading to the living room.” Mark Miller

“My fist thought that it was an earthquake. But there was no earthquake this is Michigan. And plus there is no earthquakes in Michigan. I was realy scared because I was sitting by the part where it was a big hole. It was scary.” 12/31/99 10:37 pm   Ксюша (Ksusha) Geissel, written as Ksusha wrote the comment

*“The Year 2000 problem, also known as the Y2K problem, the Millennium bug, the Y2K bug, or Y2K, is a class of computer-bugs related to the formatting and storage of calendar data for dates beginning in the year 2000. Problems were anticipated, and arose, because twentieth-century software often represented the four-digit year with only the final two digits—making the year 2000 indistinguishable from 1900. The assumption of a twentieth-century date in such programs caused various errors, such as the incorrect display of dates and the inaccurate ordering of automated dated records or real-time events.” (from online Wikipedia)

Think I'll Go Eat Worms

I am a great cook, in my dreams, but not what you’d refer to as a good cook in reality. I take license to create a variety of interesting recipes: crock pot liver stew, Tiger’s Milk smoothie with lecithin, brewer’s yeast, powdered milk, and ice cubes. I was especially creative with my specialty food – which I would feed my nephews and nieces when we’d camp. Bran cereal with orange juice poured over the top was a “favorite” for them. Cowboy coffee, for me, thick with grounds, a random leaf or twig in the mix … amazing flavor, a wake-me-up concoction.

One camping trip ended differently than others as it had been raining all night. Can you imagine, rain, three kids and me in a small pup tent? One of the boys woke up having to go, unzipped the tent, and used the side of it to relieve himself. Granted, he was not completely awake, but still… Fastest time ever in packing our wet bags and tent, climbing in my Volkswagen “Thing” and going to a restaurant for a dry and warm meal. I often wondered if the kids were in agreement that bran cereal for breakfast was deplorable and they set up the peeing on the side of the tent as a distraction.

Marriage and children required a variety of meals that would appeal to them and become a staple in a memory-stacked life. One evening, I prepared a delicious, aromatic squash soup for supper but I could not locate my brood. Calling and wandering the house I finally discovered all the kids huddled together on the bedroom floor eating a Taco Bell meal as my homemade soup sounded “too weird” to eat. 

The soup is often a topic of conversation among my children as they warmly remember the memories of their attempts to be polite while occasionally not eating what was prepared. Come on, squash soup is warm, tasty, and filling. I'm all about creating memories and believe that when my children reflect on this particular meal, they have to accept that the soup was actually not that bad.

I was an exemplary cook - if my family could forget the time I made couscous. It offered a lovely presentation and a sweet-ish taste. Not too bad, even from the kid’s reporting. Packing away the leftovers after supper I noticed that the grain was filled with worm bodies, lots of them, throughout the pot. Of course, I shared my discovery with them to moans of disgust and threats that they would never trust me again.  

I tried to defend myself reporting that worms supply so much by keeping the food chain nutrient-rich, are tasty to the early bird, aerate the soil making it rich for crops, among other things. I shared with them that I ate oatmeal cookies made from “clean” worms full of healthy protein – tasted oat-mealy, were soft and sweet … but they didn’t want to hear this, remaining in the kitchen rinsing their mouths out. It was NOT human food.

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,

Guess I'll go eat worms,

Long, thin, slimy ones; Short, fat, juicy ones,

Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy wuzzy worms.

Down goes the first one, down goes the second one,

Oh how they wiggle and squirm.

Up comes the first one, up comes the second one,

Oh how they wiggle and squirm.

(author unknown)

So, I ask that you remember me (and my family) during the upcoming holidays as I have a couple recipes in mind to try.

What will you be serving?

Bon appétit! 

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)