Author: Mary Ann Noe

As I write this, I’m seeing the vibrant colors of the season here in Wisconsin:  brilliant yellow and blue and green and gold.  No, those are not the colors of the trees.  Due to high winds and a touch of rain, those colors are almost gone, leaving the trees waving only partly-dressed branches.

I’m talking about recent events on the sports venues.  The Brewers just took the World Series!  Done out of town and with a Brew Crew that is full of really nice guys, not just a professional group of baseball players.  They are so evenly matched, with a depth in the bullpen full of pitchers that can really keep the cap on the opposing team.  Of course, if you have a pitcher that stands 6’7”, is built like a willow whip, and reaches halfway to homeplate when he plants that front foot as he delivers…  Well, what can I say?  At age 24, and humble to boot, he’s got a lot of good years ahead of him.

It sounds strange to applaud the catcher and the left fielder, both of whom are from Venezuela, for speaking Spanish during interviews, rather than the English they both can speak very well.  But it makes sense when you hear their reason:  neither wants anyone to misinterpret their remarks because they still haven’t mastered the nuances of English vocabulary.  Their interpreter knows them well enough to know when they mean “extraordinary effort” rather than “hard work.”  There may be a shade of difference between the two, and they don’t want to offend or give the wrong impression.  How many people speaking a foreign language think about the fine tuning of the words they’re using?  I know I’ve pulled some bloopers in speaking German to natives.  Luckily, I’m not quoted in the media.

And the manager!  Pat Murphy.  Here’s a man who asked the team’s rehab trainer to ask the pitcher he worked so hard on if he, the trainer, would please ask his pitcher if he wanted, and felt ready to, work a couple of innings.  Who better to know if he was ready than the pitcher and his trainer?  A small, but kind, gesture.  I loved Murphy’s comment that “the others may have Hall of Famers, but we’ve got gamers.”  A gentle generous man who knows how to treat his team to get the best out of them.  Loyalty pays off.

The city is going nuts, of course, as it’s the first World Series since 1957, and that was with a completely different franchise.  Truly something to celebrate as the country and the world is struggling under some heavy weights.

But now…

Now, we strip off the blue and yellow Brewer t-shirts, caps, and jackets, and put on the green and gold of the Green Bay Packers.  Football season has begun.  (American football, that is, for those of you in other environs.  We can call soccer “fusbol” and align with the rest of the world.  That’s clear enough!)  The day after the World Series, the Brewers appeared before the football game, marching out on the field in fine fashion, holding that brand new trophy aloft.  What a great melding of two sports teams!  Not rivals by a long shot, but a mutual admiration society.

I am far from a sports fanatic, but I love cheering for teams who can mesh the gears and give it their all.  It’s even better when they can have a stellar season.  That’s the cherry on the top.

My wish, as we go forward with some new politicos, be they local, state, or federal, is that we can take a lesson from those sports teams who give it their all on the field, and can set aside their battle rivalry once they’re off the field.  Work hard, support your teammates with your whole heart, and then…step away when the game is on timeout or finished.  Take a page from the good guys who manage this already.

Go, teams!

A few days ago, I was doing a book presentation when a lady came up to me and said, “I don’t think you remember me, do you?”  What could I say?  She looked so familiar, and I told her so, but I couldn’t pull her name out of my mental file cabinet.  When she said her name, the whole of her came rushing back!  Years ago…and I mean years! (How many?  Well, maybe 20?  30?  See what I mean?)  Anyway, years.  She is an artist still and that is my fondest memory of her.  We actually met working out at the same gym, and she asked if I could sit for her so she could paint my portrait.  Wow!  She liked the structure of my face.  Imagine that!  Of course I said yes, and I went to the studio in her home for two sittings, if I remember correctly.  As you know by now, don’t trust a thing I say when it comes to how-long!  I do remember that I took a pink scarf with me, in case the black scoop-neck top was too bland.  Yes, she said, that’s perfect.

The best part of this memory is that at the recent book talk, not only was she there, but she brought the painting.  I can’t tell you how thrilled I was!  There simply aren’t enough words that can express that.  And, sure enough, there was the pink scarf.  She keeps several of her realistic portraits, as she also does abstracts works, to prove she can paint “real.”  I asked her–well, okay– begged her to will the work to me!  Pretty brazen, eh?  It’s not even that I covet it.  No, but I do hold tight to the memory of sitting still for a couple of hours, which I spent writing fiction in my head.  A blessing for both of us!  An uninterrupted stretch of time for both of us to do what we love.  I am eternally grateful for those few hours with her, hearing the brush move on the canvas as she created something out of nothing while I drifted into the world I was creating out of nothing in my head.

What was the chance of running into her again after all those years?  Practically nil.

At the same time, another former workout and book club friend appeared at the same event, filling me in on what some of the others were doing.  Again, many, many years ago.  To complete the triple whammy, a former student came with her mother.  More many, many years!  I do run into her occasionally, and it’s always a delight to see any of my students.  This girl/woman is platinum, as she was gracious enough, a long time ago, to nominate me for a presidential award after she herself received one.  What a delightful afternoon!

How many times do we let go of something or someone, sure that we will never see them again?  Sometimes the universe aligns and our paths cross again, usually for a pleasant moment.

At a high school reunion years ago, I ran into a fellow Girl Scout from those years.  She was pleasant enough, though not very warm, which is to be expected when so many years have passed.  I bring it up only to chuckle, because I got the last laugh, thank God.  On a camping trip with the troop, I spent the night tied up in a stump field in the river.  Two canoes were tied together, so there was no chance of capsizing.  The sky was clear, and we watched the Milky Way spiral slowly above us.  Magical.  The next morning, the girl from the reunion was so solicitous in welcoming us back to the campsite.  Why?  Well, she put a frog in my sleeping bag before we cast off the night before!  All I could think of was struggling to escape some wiggly creature in my sleeping bag, only to either get trapped under the thwart or to tumble overboard in a panic.  Either one would not have a happy ending.  However, that enterprising frog escaped somehow.  From the sleeping bag and from the canoe.  What a disappointment for the perpetrator.  What a lucky escape for me!  At least, it cemented my suspicion that she really didn’t like me.  Time didn’t seem to change that.  Ah, well, it is still a good memory for me.

One encounter turned out more humorous than embarrassing.  Years ago, teachers were required to complete an annual tuberculosis test, so in I went.  Those were the days when I had to hug a wall-hung screen while the technician manipulated shoulders and posture to get the optimum X-ray of the lungs.  All done without clothing on top, of course.  And there’s where the embarrassment could have come in.  Once my test was done and I pulled the robe shut, the male technician in charge of me said, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”  Nope.  “I’m…”  The minute he said his name, the years fell away, and of course I remembered him: my seventh-grade student from way back.  Luckily, nudity doesn’t bother me, nor did it bother him.  He was, after all, a qualified health professional.  We had a good laugh.  But that wasn’t the end of it.  Years later I was undergoing radiation treatment for breast cancer.  (Totally successful, I’m happy to report.)  Walking into the treatment area meant also disrobing, and I always just dropped my robe on the nearest chair and sauntered over to the table.  I called it going to the topless beach.  Lo and behold!  Who was my technician?  You guessed it!  The same former student.  I would’ve given him a hug, but… Naked hug?  Nope.  Another good laugh.

Finding a lost earring way down deep between the driver’s seat and the car’s console is another instance of the universe aligning.  Although that seems to happen more often than not, once I’ve decided that five years is long enough to hold onto the single earring in the hopes the matching one will appear.  And it usually does…within a day or two of discarding the remaining one…and after the garbage truck has just driven away.

From major to minor, serendipitous intersections can give us a chance to stop, reminisce, maybe reset, maybe chuckle.  For me, they are one of the many unexpected delights of having fun with life.  Hope they work the same for you.

No, not at horror movies.  Not at spiders dangling in front of your nose.  This is that old saying: I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!  

Here it is, August, and the livin’ is e-e-e-easy.  Well, that’s what the Gershwin song “Summertime” claims.  By the way, did you know that George wrote the music, but DuBose Heyward wrote the lyrics?  Well, after all, he wrote the 1925 novel Porgy and Bess, and then his playwright wife, Dorothy, adapted it as a play.  They worked with Gershwin to turn it into the 1935 opera, which went on to become a film in 1959.  (All white authors, which is remarkable, as they did capture the world of Blacks of Catfish Row in the ‘30s.)

But I diverge…    (How often does that happen?  A lot, as you probably well know by now!  I can go down myriad rabbit holes when something catches my eye.  Good thing I love to research.)

Before I go off on yet another tangent…

This started out as a paeon to ice cream, so let’s get back on track.

Summer is the ideal time to ferret out the favorite spots to get ice cream and related treats.  Here in Wisconsin, we’ve been blessed with not only ice cream from our cooperative and contented cows, but we have the substance that is higher up on any connoisseur’s list:  Frozen Custard.  I capitalize those words out of respect and gratitude.  Don’t laugh.  It’s a holy mission around here to frequent the temples of frozen custard.

Milwaukee claims the origin of frozen custard…though there’s an ongoing friendly dispute over which locale was actually first.  My contention is that it doesn’t really matter.  We are very very lucky to have several custard stands.

First, let’s clarify, for those of you who don’t live around here.  Ice cream and custard both have milk, cream, and sugar, but custard adds egg yolks.  These make custard, richer, more velvety…

(Excuse me a minute while I try to control my salivating…)

We have Gilles (1938), Leon’s (1942), Kopp’s (1950), Culver’s (1984).  There are a handful of others, but these are the royals.  For full disclosure, custard really began at Coney Island in 1919, but in 1933, it wowed everyone at the Chicago World’s Fair.  From there, it grew in the Midwest like Topsy, until Milwaukee earned the unofficial title of Custard Capital of the World.

That list could engender an hour or two of research delving into each of those spots, or the history of frozen custard, or…  But no, I’d rather, actually, be jumping in the car to head over to Culver’s (the closest).  I am refraining only because I’d never get back to this, especially if the special tonight would be Butter Pecan.  Maybe butter pecan isn’t your favorite flavor, but that’s fine, because that means there’s more for me!

Each emporium has the standard vanilla and chocolate, but they also add either a daily, weekly, or monthly special flavor.  Culver publishes its flavors for the entire month so one can plan on a light supper and incorporate a frozen custard for dessert.  On a hot summer night, there’s nothing like it.  Because it’s a thicker delight, frozen custard doesn’t melt as quickly as airy ice cream.  Still, one of the pleasures is, as my husband says, “giving your tongue a sleigh ride,” which includes rotating a waffle cone so as not to allow any of that delicious treat to run over the edges.

When a California friend visited for a week, we took her to Culver’s.  We took her early in the week, which could be considered either a blessing or a curse.  Well, not a curse, really.  That week, we made three–or was it four?–trips to Culver’s for frozen custard.  She just couldn’t get enough.  We perused the list, made our plans for meals, and executed the invasion.  (That resulted in watching food intake for the entire following week…  But it was worth it!)

If you’re not from the Midwest, you haven’t tasted our local treat.  Luckily, while some of the establishments are content with one or two locations around Milwaukee, Culver’s is expanding, slowly put surely, beyond.  Wisconsin has the most, naturally, as it started here, but Illinois and, believe it or not, Florida aren’t far behind.  Something tells me the snowbirds from Wisconsin lobbied enough to get Culver’s down there.  Right now, they are in 26 states, including a few in the Southwest.

Whether you indulge in ice cream or frozen custard, summer is the absolute perfect time to do so.  Sitting outside on a picnic table with a cone or dish, and a pile of napkins, feeling that smooth velvety treat and watching the sunset is the ultimate way to finish off an easy summer day.

I’m leaving now, so I can make sure to get inside before the onslaught of mosquitoes…  B’bye!  

Zoomania!

Every Saturday morning, a fine group of eight to ten perambulators make our way across the street to the Zoo.  That’s capital-Z, because the Milwaukee County Zoo is, according to our son-in-law, the best zoo in the country.  That kind of thing is always up for debate, but it certainly is one of the best.  Zoos nowadays are not at all like they were in the past, with animals in cramped quarters and simply on display.

Some folks don’t realize that most animals come from zoo breeding programs, and are not captured and brought into foreign surroundings from the wild.  To prevent genetic stagnation, there is a global data bank so zoos have a ready resource to draw upon to trade genetic material.  (Isn’t that a cute euphemism for eggs and sperm?)  Sometimes zoos trade animals for a period of time to breed a strong genetic match.  That often means complicated negotiations, sometimes equivalent to ending a small war!  Animals that are rescued and cannot be returned to the wild, or are being sold illegally, are another source for zoos.  More genetic diversity.  

Once in a zoo, animals are treated with compassion and respect, with attention paid to the environs they would have in the wild.  It’s fun to see the tigers lounging in an area appearing to be directly connected to an area housing wild boars, one of their prey animals!  A closer look shows that theirs a deep ravine between the two habitats, pretty well hidden from those of us on the outside looking in.  Orangutans and most of the monkeys have access to the outdoors, where peacocks wander free.  (The zoo here keeps their peacock population to about 30, sending the overflow to other zoos who want them.  Apparently, peacocks are enthusiastic breeders!)

So, Saturday morning rolls around and we set off for an hour’s walk.  Though I was warned “We walk fast,” I discovered it to be more of a comfortable amble, which is perfect.  I often stop for animal photos, which means I have to accelerate to catch up to the veterans who do this every week, and don’t take time to lift the cameras.

This has become one of my “wilderness fixes.”  Having come from a wooded lot a bit out in the country, I thought I’d have to forego the deer, the thick copses of trees, the plethora of birds.  “Oh well,” I thought.  “It has to be done.  We’re not getting younger, and it’s best to move when we ourselves make the best decision.”

Well.  I don’t have to give up much of anything.  Two days ago, two does strolled down the sidewalk along the zoo perimeter, then disappeared down a drive going into the zoo itself.  Nope, these were not zoo deer, but simply part of the local fauna.  I know there are coyotes around, because coyotes are everywhere in urban environments, and locals have heard or spotted them.

As for birds, we have a resident hawk.  Perhaps not strictly speaking resident.  Occasionally, he floats around, hunting, then swoops up to perch on the top of one of our buildings to survey his domain.  Because trees abound on the campus here, as well as the adjacent neighborhoods on either side of us, we do have birds.  No birdfeeders allowed on our balconies, as you can imagine the mess that could be!  Be hummingbird feeders?  Yes.  And we do have a little hummer who zooms in and partakes of our sugar water.  Robins, starlings, sparrows, and various other avian friends use our fifth-floor flyway on a regular basis.  True, we don’t have wild turkeys or foxes.  But then, we don’t have burrowing woodchucks or chipmunks either!  Nor do we have those pesky anthills that, once they’ve been zapped, just seem to move over six inches and start over.  No killing weeds in the driveway cracks or cutting back grass that’s encroaching on the sidewalks.  I could go on, but I have, after all, left all that behind.  And without regret too!

But back to the zoo…

If I need a lift, I go down to watch the otters cavorting in their pool.  “Cavorting” is the only word to describe these delightful critters, who need only water and a slide to create their own personal waterpark.  For pure patience, I take time to visit the hippo, whose pool is faced on one side with glass so we voyeurs can see him up close.  The only problem?  The rear end of a hippo ain’t exactly gorgeous…  Only once have I seen him turned around with those little wiggly ears and the two nostrils above the surface.  Of course, with a name like Happy, maybe it really doesn’t take much to satisfy him.  Again, a lot of water to keep his non-perspiring skin moist and cool.

Those crazy peacocks are always fun, with the males sometimes–but only sometimes–displaying that gorgeous tail for the females, who often turn their back and strut away.  At least, at this time of year, as soon are trailed by these tiny balls of fluff that are–oh look!– actually peacock chicks.  The male calls seem more like screams for attention than come-hither beckonings.

Giraffes stretching for the branches blowing in the breeze just out of reach, even from those mile-long tongues.  Baby impalas, stoic vultures, big cats, tiny monkeys, and an orangutan who covers herself with a sheet when she’s had enough of people ooing and ahing over her.  The Zoo has it all, and more.

No zoo walk on Saturday, the Fourth of July, so I just contented myself with observing the wildlife lounging in our own living room.  Husband, adult children…and oh, don’t forget the dog! 

So.  We’ve moved.  Yes, after 42 years of rooted living in a house we designed, we moved.

Actually, no regrets there.  We’re back to college living…sort of.  No lawn to mow, no winter snowblowing, no trees needing trimming, or that fall over in the middle of a storm, risking taking the roof, or worse, with it.  No more worries about the power going out and the sump pump out of service, and the basement…well, flooding.  Oh, yes!  Lots of “no mores.”

We gave up country living, where the houses are an acre apart and the deer and turkeys cruise through the backyard.  Will I miss that?  Maybe a little.  I do miss the birds.  Although, being up on the fifth floor now means we’re at the level of the cruising hawks and geese.  And there are plenty of trees around, so there are birds indeed.  And, a real bonus yesterday as I was walking.  I came upon a fawn all curled up and waiting for mom!  Right next to a relatively busy road and out in the open.  I haven’t told anyone, as I don’t want folks ohing and ahing and getting too close.  Or thinking it’s been abandoned.  We’ll see if it’s back this morning.  I’d bet not.

As for gardening now, it’s a pleasure to plant some pots of impatiens and one patio tomato, and not have to worry about rototilling and weeding.  To say nothing of losing beans, tulips, and hosta to rabbits and deer.  At least, I hope we don’t have critters that can lift themselves up this high.  One never knows…

I’m having a good time exploring.  I’m used to walking every morning, so I’ve been setting my phone to 50-60 minutes and picking a route here too.  There’s a lovely little pocket neighborhood tucked between some pretty busy streets.  Lots of trees and flowers, along with a smattering of strollers, toddlers taking mom and the dog for a walk.  Go the other direction, cross a street, and I’m in the wilderness.  Relatively speaking.  A nice winding trail, out of sight and sound (pretty much) of the bustling crowd.  Trees, squirrels, insects, ponds with ducks (and 7 little ducklings behind two mallard mothers) and frogs.  The frogs I can hear, and the ripples from fish–or maybe turtles–prove that there can be harmonious living between humans and animals.

The road back to Waukesha is quick and easy, so I can get to book club, visit the stores (until I’ve grounded myself here), and zip back home here without any trouble.

It’s funny how we can adapt to so many situations as life rollicks along.  Off to college and sharing floors and rooms with others.  Cramped quarters that didn’t seem cramped because of the friends and the exciting new experiences.  Life on our own terms whether working or going to school, as we became less and less dependent on parents.  Then another shift into the fulltime work world.  For me, that was a joyful move.  I loved teaching and found my life’s work, which sustained me through ups and downs.  Great affirmation.  Not everyone finds that, but one shouldn’t give up looking!

For some, marriage was another major shift.  Back to sharing living spaces, with a whole other dimension.  Kids, or not.  Apartments/houses/condos, or not.  Different and greater responsibilities…or not!  Still, as we grew and expanded in all sorts of way, we learned coping skills, with relatives, neighbors, partners…all sorts of folks.

Now, as we–I, I should say–see my eighth decade on the horizon, I chose to embark on yet another adventure.  Some people see it as slowing down; giving up things, people, responsibilities.  I don’t buy into that.  I’m sure that will come to me as well.  None of us live forever, and most of us must, for a variety of reasons, take our foot off the accelerator and coast into the last parking space.

However, from the vantage point of now, rather than projecting too much into the future, I see a vibrant community of new faces who smile and introduce themselves and invite me to sit down and chat awhile.  There are three grand pianos around, so I can keep up tickling the ivories.  (Believe me, that’s about all my playing amounts to: tickling!)  The food is really good, considering we have a chef from Sicily who brings out new delicious concoctions on a regular basis.  I haven’t tried the pool yet, but there is that…along with a hot tub.  Yay!

But it’s really the people who live and work here that are the bonus.  So many interesting stories, and so many opportunities to mingle.  Walk the zoo, stroll the nearby neighborhood, knock on a couple of doors just to see who answers, watch the gardeners at their raised beds (notice, I said “watch,” not “help”).  It’s the interaction that has drawn me through the years, and I’m not about to give that up yet.

Let the few others stay in their apartments; instead, look for me out on the road, waving frantically at everyone (just to throw them off:  “Who is that crazy lady?  Do we know her?”).  Someday, I’ll be a mere whisper on the breeze.  But not today.

Remember the old television show “The Jeffersons”?  The song crowed that the family was “movin’ on up to the east side / To a deluxe apartment in the sky.”  Well, we’re movin’ to an apartment in the sky too.  Fifth floor with a glorious view and a fine balcony from which to enjoy it.

However…if you’ve ever moved, you know the work involved!  We’ve been culling “stuff” for the past two years, which turned out to be a blessing, in more ways than one.

Who drinks coffee or tea from a china cup anymore?  So, I offered a cup and saucer of our best china to anyone who wanted one, perhaps to remember me by, and offered to mail it anywhere.  Voila!  Twelve of them gone within a few days.  How gratifying to hear from former students whose children had tea parties with parents, or who wanted to remember the good times we had together.  No one wants Hummels these days either, so I found homes for them, one by one:  the two children with backpacks ready for the first day of school went to the local grade school, where they sit on the reception desk, greeting everyone who enters.  The Wanderer, tricked out with rucksack, walking stick, and a feather in his cap, went to a friend who loves to travel.  The little Chimney Sweep went to grace the desk of the receptionist at the local chimney cleaning/restoring company.  The Hummels found new homes with folks who were happy to have them.  Some of the Christmas decorations were gifted to descendants at the holidays.

On it went.  Small pieces of furniture that were not quite worn out or no longer useful to us went to help out Habitat for Humanity.  All those paint cans–dried up, after years–went off to paint can heaven.  Multiple replicas of tools found themselves back at work in new locales, or donated.  I even managed to clean out my closet!  By the time we thinned out over a couple of years, what we have left now can move with us.

Oh no! you say, you’ll miss all those wonderful things you collected over the years!  Yes and no.  The real issue is what we’re taking with us.  All those wonderful things that were Things have been distributed to people we love and admire.  All those other wonderful things aren’t really Things at all.  They are all the thoughts, memories, conversations, sounds that we carry in our minds.  All told, those things are far more important to me than the objects I’ve surrounded myself with over the years.  Objects deteriorate, fade, get lost or left behind.  Mind Treasures, for lack of a better term, don’t suffer as much from any of those.  Especially if we are attentive to them over time.

I carry the memories of my dad and me staining all the woodwork in this house, chatting as we went.  The chaos of friends carrying full dresser drawers as we moved from one house to another, hoping my underwear was covered.  My mother at the kitchen table, laughing over some shared moment.  Our daughter, five years old, standing between the 2X4s of what was to be her room, looking out the framework of the window, saying, “This is really gonna be my room?  Really?”  Lying in bed with my husband, hearing the sump pump go on and off, reassuring us that the gully-washer going on outside won’t flood the basement.  Looking out the patio door to see a flock of turkeys marching across the yard, picking at the insects in the grass.  Or the deer staring back at me as she munches on the birdseed in the feeder three feet away, saying, “What?  This is my yard too, ya know.”

The Christmases around the dining room table, squeezing in just one or two more last minute guests.  The scent of cookies and the mess of frosting as we all decorate our own cookies on Christmas Eve.  The kids’ friends laughing over card games in the basement…and then throwing toilet paper on our trees in the age-old Homecoming tradition of teepeeing the trees.  (And seeing them come over the next morning to clear it out.)  The day the gerbil died.  The day the wild chipmunk ran across the living room.  The day the stinkbugs invaded the fireplace.  The day the children graduated…

I could go on and on, as each of us could, while looking back over the house we occupy.  So, I can easily leave Things behind.  They’ve either found another home, or will be absorbed by the new owners.

I, on the other hand, will take all my Mind Treasures with me to that de-e-luxe apartment in the sky on the east side.  Welcome home!

Late last fall I was still harvesting tons of tomatoes.  Those little cherry thingies.  What was I going to do with all of them?  Too small to cook down into sauce.  Too many to eat alone.  Even too many to cut in half on a salad, or on a piece of toast with mozzarella cheese and basil.  Of course, I could give them to friends!  I had more than enough.

Eerily, I had the same feeling not too long ago, far gone from tomato season, that feeling of plenty.  The flow of goodies from a cornucopia.

It hit me rather suddenly that my allotted days are more than enough now.  What a strange feeling!  It emerged after a week of wild rushing happenings, all beyond my control.  How can I explain?  Maybe you’ve had this happen to you too.  The stars line up, the dominoes fall just so, unrelated situations become an unbroken chain.

My chain went from a bout with vertigo, well over a year ago, which sent me–wrongly, it turned out–to a cardiologist, when my family doc thought it was heart related.  It was not.  A bit of physical therapy fixed that problem.

My dermatologist removed a bothersome mole from my back–totally benign–causing me to lose more than three weeks’ worth of swimming until the scab fell off.  A one-day-a-week swim could easily be replaced with my usual daily walk.  That fixed that problem.

Incidents started to accumulate when I got back to swimming.  That resulted in an accelerated heart rate and a “floating” feeling, which sent me to…wait for it…my cardiologist.  Yes, remember I had one, mistakenly.  She set me up for an EKG that same day, which ultimately sent me directly to the hospital, where I was wired up enough that I could’ve talked to the space station.  Long story short: my heart was pausing far too much, which set me up for a pacemaker.  Two days later, I was the proud owner of Paula Pacemaker, who now goes everywhere with me, and reports back every night, wirelessly, to my formerly unneeded cardiologist.  That fixed that problem.

As we sat in the hospital, we had to cancel a cruise we were set to leave on in four days.  Luckily, a wonderful travel agent and an early purchase of travel insurance got us a full refund of costs.  That fixed that problem.

The flowchart for that whole thing would astound any nonbeliever.  The seemingly unrelated dominoes tilted perfectly in a line, and the things I thought unimportant turned out to be enough.  More than enough, actually.

A final cherry appeared atop this mountain of happenstances.  My collection of poetry was accepted for publication as a book.  This within a day or so of my hospital escapade.  What a gift!

I bring all this up because I feel doubly blessed.  I’ve always felt watched over and lucky, but all of this takes me beyond this.  My life has always been full of “enoughs.”  Enough parental nurturing, enough friends’ love and companionship, enough husband’s support.  Enough.

What I have now, I realized just a short time ago, is more than enough.  If all of those things had been missing one step, I might not be here.  The bottom line is that I had a cardiologist who recognized I needed quick answers and got the help I needed.  Based on how quickly my heart was getting lazier and lazier, f I had decided to tough it out–which all of us do far too often–and go on that Caribbean cruise, I undoubtedly would’ve had more and stronger episodes of feeling that I was coming untethered from my body.  One of those times, I would have floated off, never to return, and I would’ve come home in an urn.

So, now I have more than enough.  More than enough time to enjoy this “second life” I’ve been awarded.  I hope I deserve it.  I’m certainly more aware of my own mortality, but more than that, I’m keenly aware of the need to actively work on deserving that second chance.  I must try to be a more tolerant person, a better listener.  More a rejoicer than a complainer.  With the world in such turmoil, as it is, I must remember that I’m here to help others lift up, not wallow down in the darkness.  On an individual level, on a family level, I can do that by awareness and thankfulness.  I realize I don’t have to say much, if anything, really.  my life should be an example of joy and gratitude.

St. Francis said, “Preach often; use words when necessary.”  Too often, we think of preaching as, at the very least, talking out loud.  But our simple existence in interacting with others can lift those around us, if we keep in mind that we have more than enough.  More than enough smiles.  More than enough gentle words.  More than enough compassionate silence.  Maybe even more than enough tomatoes!

Can I actually do it?  I’m only human, so maybe not as often as I should.  But that second chance should be acknowledged.  I’ve got more than enough time.

February is one of those oddball months.  Only 28 days.  Except!  Every four years we get another full day to leap ahead to what the calendar “really” should be.

What did people do before there was such a need for millisecond timings of things?  Well, they watched the sun, they tested the temperature, they kept an eye on the sky for returning migrating birds, they paid attention to when the robins started to pull worms like lengths of elastic out of the cold, but no longer frozen, earth.  The rhythms of outdoors set the rhythms of indoors.  Farmers rose with the sun, or even before it’s breached the horizon, and then went to bed at the same time the sun took the last of the daylight with it.

Now, we set our own rhythms, sometimes at our peril.  I used to get up at 4:30 a.m. so I could eat breakfast and work out at the gym before going to work.  Of course, I compensated by going to bed at 8:30 or 9 p.m. to make sure I got in the right number of hours of sleep.  Crazy, right?  But it worked for me.  I didn’t fall asleep at my desk…well, almost never. That is one of the luxuries of retirement.  I can sleep until 7 a.m., or even later.  What a slugabed!  After 18 years of retirement, I still like getting up relatively early, but it’s so nice in the winter, when it’s still dark a while into the morning, to be able to check the time, groan, and turn over to go back to sleep.  Or just lollygag in bed, cocooned in a nice warm blanket.

But sometimes our own self-imposed rhythms are disturbed with a ripple, or sometimes even with a total tsunami.  How we deal with those “blurps” in our well-structured lives can really make a difference.  I remember the turkey on our first Thanksgiving, when we had a houseful of company.  We bought one of those aluminum one-use roasting pans.  When I took it out of the oven, it folded right over on itself and–you guessed it–hit the floor, stock splashing everywhere.  The five-second rule immediately went into effect as we scooped up the turkey and plopped it in another pan.  But there went the gravy fixings.  I, being a young and inexperienced cook, panicked.  Thank God for the brother-in-law who cooked in the military.  He went into action while I cried.

Having children calls for often and instantaneous reconfiguring.  When is that batch of cookies going to school with the kid?  Today?  Today!  When it happens once, it’s disaster.  By the second time, we know where the 24-hour grocery stores are.  Child’s first projectile vomiting/broken bone/car accident?  It’s amazing how quickly we can pivot.  Just remember to make sure the stove is turned off and the doors are locked when you leave for the doctor/hospital/police station.

Aging presents more and more instances to practice making abrupt turns, some 90º, some 180º.  Either way, with the practice of our younger lives, we can make those changes.  Some turns are graceful, like deciding on our own to give up driving, for safety’s sake, our own and others.  Other turns are wrenching, such as adapting to health issues that can’t be fixed with a bandaid.  By that time, we adapt because we have to.  We’ve done it before, we can do it again.

But let’s not go there.  Try this on for size:

We can handle many disruptions to our chosen rhythms.  Then why can’t we handle the time change in the spring and fall?  Don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve gone beyond needing such machinations.  The farmers know what they’re doing.  They don’t need an artificial system.  The cows tell them when they need to be milked, the chickens know when to lay eggs and cackle about it.

Well, that’s human nature.  To complain, that is.  I guess it could be a lot worse.  Even the human body adapts to the sun out longer in the spring.  It’s our minds that resist.

The next leap year is 2028, so we’re right in the middle of the march from the last one in 2024.  Here’s an opportunity to realign ourselves with the earth’s orbit around the moon.  There’s no going back to the times when everything slowly set itself, without need for human-built clocks able to detect the resonance frequency of atoms.  (I had to look that one up!)  Life has become more complex, richer, varied, and challenging.  When 2028 comes around, set aside that extra day to pick a personal rhythm tuned in to you, personally, and enjoy every minute of it.  Do that even now, if you can!

Who out there remembers the 1937 movie Lost Horizon?  Yeah, I know, nobody.  There was another one made in 1973, but it was not a very good rendition of James Hilton’s book of the same name.  I remember seeing the earlier version on television when I was a kid, and being entranced.  To remind you: After a plane crash in the Himalayas, the Western passengers are rescued and taken to Shangri-la where it never snows, people age very slowly (if at all), and all is harmonious.  Of course, it’s raging winter outside the valley, and one of them wants to leave.  Does this sound like Wisconsin in the winter?

Well, okay, people don’t necessarily age very slowly here.  Although maybe the cold has frozen enough of us solid that outsiders think we’re just well-preserved.  Preserved?  Maybe.  

But I digress.

This was headed toward reveling in the snowy Shangri-la that Wisconsin becomes in winter.  Shangri-la implies utopia, where all is perfection in action.  Okay, I give you that one.  No place is that good.  But sometimes here, it feels close to Shangri-la, especially in winter.  Now, you may not be a cold lover, so I’ll bow to you on that detail.  I, on the other hand, don’t mind the cold, as I can pile on the extra clothes to keep warm.  Can’t do the opposite in the summer.  One can only peel off so much to counteract the heat before the censors appear.  No, this is not the voice of experience.

I’m with my mother, who said, when she turned eighty, “I can finally admit that I love winter.  They’ll say, ‘Oh, it’s just that crazy old lady again.’”  I’m not waiting until I turn eighty.  I do love winter too.  (Though as I age, I am sometimes more concerned about possibly falling on the ice than I am about the beauty all around me.)

At any rate, loving the outdoors as I do, I went out to capture some everyday winter scenes around here.  You can see the results of my expedition in the Photos section.  Here’s your chance to do some armchair ramblings without having to bundle up, feel the cold, or try and warm up when you come in.  Maybe that’s one of the fun parts, coming in to warm up.  Think fingers gradually getting full feeling back.  Think feet no longer encumbered by boots that make you feel like Frankenstein’s monster.  Think unpeeling one piece of outerwear at a time, then making a dash for the fireplace crackling and wafting heat for you to enjoy.  Think cocoa—no marshmallows, please.  Oh, man!  I’ll be back in a minute…  Yum!

Go back and fast-forward through arming up for the foray into the snowy Shagri-la.  Long sleeved top, thick socks, and jeans, or maybe even snowpants.  Then the good stuff: snowboots that have to go on first or you won’t be able to bend over to lace ‘em up.  Scarf around the neck, wrapped at least once, maybe more.  Then, one of those thick puffer jackets, one that covers the bum, at the very least.  (Commonly called stadium jackets, just to make them sound more posh.)  Hat.  The best ones make you look like one of those old-timey loggers from the North Woods.  Because they must cover the ears, of course.  Before the mittens–note: mittens, not gloves–go on, stick the cell phone in the pocket, because if you fall, you need to be able to call for help to hoist you up, with all that outerwear restricting movements.  Mittens get tucked into cuffs.  I myself have mastered the maneuver that squishes the cuff of the second mitten and pulls it into the cuff of the jacket.  Gently slide the hand down into the captured mitten and Ta-da! the mitten is secured from any snow sneaking into the wrists.

We’re ready. Let’s go!

Um…wait.  I feel like a toddler.  You know what I’m about to say?  Yup.  Gotta go potty…

The Roman god Janus had two faces, one facing back, one facing forward.  Thus, he was worshipped as the god of beginnings and endings, transitions and time.  Much like our personifications of the old year as an old man, and the new year as a baby, Janus presided over anything moving from one state to another:  birth to death, war to peace, old year to new year, and more.  The month of January is named after him.  Fitting, seeing as how this month is the beginning of something new again.  We’re kissing 2025 goodbye and stepping over the threshold into 2026, moving from the past into the future, where nothing is set it stone yet.

As with many thresholds, we can easily look over our shoulders and see what’s been accomplished, or what’s we’re leaving behind.  Until I wandered through my photos, I didn’t think I had a ton of bright lights to reflect on.  I was wrong!

A Caribbean cruise where we spent some fun time searching out hidden rubber ducks.  Magnolia trees exploding with pink, or the special yellow one by the library.  Lions basking in the sun at a Chicago zoo.  The crazy squirrel that found out a way to clamber up a fragile bush to balance on the hummingbird feeder.  (I think it’s the same one who’s scrambling up the patio door’s screen door…without making a single hole!)  The Fourth of July in Door County, including indulging in smoke lake trout.  A lunch with Pat Martino, a former student traveling the world working at various embassies and soaking up local culture and food.  The Holy Hill fun outdoor art fair with my extraordinary bonus sister (read, sister-in-law).  Apple picking with the grandkids and their parents…and the pies that reside in my freezer, soon to be baked in the middle of winter.  Meeting the new archbishop.

The sparkling crown of the summer: our entire family flew to explore my father’s German hometown.  That was probably my last chance to see the last cousin, whom I hadn’t seen since 1956, when we were both children.  He’s 80, so how much time is left?  I was so pleased and proud to share my heritage to our children and grandchildren.

And now?  Now, Janus stands at the threshold, gazing forward into the new year.

What’s in store?!  Another cruise, and this time we’re taking our own rubber ducks to hide around the ship, hopefully where children will find them.  Some book promoting events, of course.  I love meeting new readers, as well as return readers.  I continue to have fun both writing and sharing.  I went back to poetry and short stories, just for a little variety, and both are lots of fun…and challenging!  I look forward to fun with the grandkids, and our adult children as well. Beyond that, I’m happy simply watching the days unroll into weeks and months, as the weather warms and then shifts again.

As I turn another year older, I’m tying myself to the rhythms of Mother Nature.  Slow, sure, and often surprising.  Just like these buds on the magnolia–closed up tight and ready to burst into brilliant blossom–2026 is ready to give us plenty of wonderful experiences, if we simply pay attention.