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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.

When Martha turned around, she nearly dropped the glass of water she was about to deliver to her last customer.

“No!  It can’t be!” she said.  “Is that Daniel Sunder?”  No one but the bartender was around to answer, and he was too busy to pay attention.  “My favorite writer!  I’ve worked here for twenty-five years and never run into anyone nearly this famous.”  On top of the excitement, Martha felt anxiety descend like a rock.  Sunder was not known for his…shall we say, friendly personality.  But it was her table, and she had to serve him or lose her job.

Reaching the table, she set down a trio of cocktail napkins, stacked to absorb the moisture.  Before she even had a chance to add the water glass, Sunder—if it was Sunder, whisked out two of the napkins.  He never even looked up when she handed him the menu.

Martha was a little surprised.  She knew Sunder was about her age, but here he looked it, unlike those glossy photos of him on the back of his books.  At the server station, Martha took a napkin and penned a message: You look like Daniel Sunder.  Are you him?  Your server, Martha.  She couldn’t help herself.  She had to know.  She set the napkin down where he couldn’t miss it, and waited to take his order.

He took up a pen and added to her message:  Are you he, server Martha.  Food recommendation?”  He handed the napkin to her without looking up.

“Oh, yeah.  ‘Are you he.’  Sorry.”  She screeched to a halt for a moment.  “Um…Well?  I myself had a Reuben for lunch and…So.  Um.  They’re really good.”  She squeezed her pen so hard her fingers turned white.  She told herself to just shut up and take his order.

Fine.  Written on another napkin.

She chuckled.  “Comin’ right up, sir,” she said, her voice warm as butter.  She flashed him a smile, though she was sure he didn’t see it.

He caught her arm and handed off his last napkin.

Mr. Sunder, not sir, she read as she hustled away to put in his order.  “Ha!  Mr. Sunder!  It really is him!”

Before she delivered his order, she wrote on another napkin: May I have your autograph?  This time, she used her best grammar.

When she set down his sandwich and chips, she added a stack of napkins, with hers on top.  “If we’re going to correspond on napkins,” she said, “you need a fresh supply.  Enjoy your Reuben.”

As Martha turned away, Sunder grabbed her wrist with one hand and held up a single finger: Wait.  He pulled a napkin off the stack and set to writing another message.  He actually looked up at her as he handed her this one, the corners of his mouth rising upward.

A smile?  A smile!  Will wonders never cease?

Martha read the message and laughed out loud.  Daniel Sunder doesn’t do autographs, server Martha.  Sorry.

Sunder cleared his throat and actually used his voice.  “What’s for dessert?”

Okay, Martha, take a chance!  “Well, the German chocolate cake is pretty good.  But pecan pie is even better.”

Sunder nodded.  “Pie it is, then.”

“Well,” Martha cleared her throat, “we actually don’t have pie here.”  She stepped aside and tilted her head toward the front window.  Across the street stood a small shop: Patricia’s Perfect Pies.

Sunder’s smile blossomed.  The “wait” finger again.

When do you get off work?

“You’re my last customer, Mr. Sunder,” Martha said.

Another napkin.  Daniel. 

Still another, accompanied by a wink.  Pat’s in 20 minutes?

Martha nodded and returned his wink.  “Thanks for stopping in, Mr. Sunder.  Let me get your check.”

The End…or maybe just The Beginning.

I love shoes.  I used to love them more, but my feet offered their own opinion a few short years ago, and I was forced to listen.  Let me explain.

When I was young and…well, stupid…I wore high heels and pointy toes, because that was the fashion.  Oh, yes, they looked great.  Made my calves look defined and muscular.  Made me taller too.  I was 5’3” then, and I could add four inches to my height and still be the shortest one in the room.  But I felt taller, didn’t I?  Sure did!  The tradeoff was that my toes were squished down into those pointy-toes shoes.  But that meant that the pounds per square inch on those stilettos was equivalent to a 6,000 pound elephant! That was the first loud commentary to be heard from my feet.  “You’re killing me down here!  You know, of course, the Chinese outlawed foot binding in 1912.  1912!  You hear me up there?” Now, if you’ve ever Googled foot binding in Images, you know my feet were not that broken.  I mean, literally, broken.  It was a cruel custom.  But it had a long history.  Funny thing, the men never got to see the naked feet, only the lovingly embroidered silk slipper (too small to be called shoes, actually) that were supposed to make the woman’s foot look like a lotus blossom, to attract men.  Yikes!  Not even close.

But I diverge.  My toes weren’t punished that much.  But they did get a bit deformed, pushed out of being straight.  No toe agony though.  No elephant.  Whew!

Once I started jogging in college, I needed more support.  My feel congratulated me on my good decision on that one.  So, many years later, I still take a lot of time finding just the right shoes for walking.  (I no longer jog.)  It’s Skechers for my money.  Great arch support for my high-as-the-sky arches, comfy support, and good-looking styles besides.  I am far from being an athlete, but poor support when walking even a couple of miles every morning is a no-brainer.  If you’re gonna do anything faster than sitting in a recliner, you need good support for your feet.

Which brings up sandals.  Some folks swear by them.  As for me…well, as long as I’m away from sand or debris, and have good arch support, they’re great for the summer.  Some folks can hike in sandals.  Miles and miles.  Concrete or beach, it doesn’t matter to them.  Not me!  The minute I get a grain of sand under my foot, I’m a goner.  So irritating!  People get mad at me because I simply have to sit down and get that irritant out.  Slows everyone down.  And they’re not happy with me.  I’m very careful when I wear sandals.  And no high-heeled sandals for sure!

Boots are a whole ‘nother case.  I finally bought myself a pair of those big clunkers for winter walking.  Boy, are they ugly!  They make me look like a lumberjack.  But you know what?  I don’t care.  They encase my lower calves, lace up with those bright orange laces, and have a collar of fur around the top.  Can I walk in them?  Picture the Creature from Frankenstein.  I usually don’t do my morning constitutional in them, but I do break them out when I need to fire up the Big Growler (read: snowblower).  With the wind plastering me with snow, those boots are a Godsend.  I may look like I’m ready to fell some trees, and I know I won’t win any fashion points, but my machine and I are in harmony.  After all, no one would wear ballet slippers to snowblow now, would they?

Barefoot used to be de rigeur for summer wear when I was a kid.  No concern about what was lurking in the bare soil, just waiting to drill into the bottom of my foot.  Apparently, there was nothing, because I never had problems.  If I were traveling in the backcountry of some areas, foreign or domestic, I’d wear shoes, but not outside around my home.  Once I was married, and had my own garden, I often worked barefoot out there.  That was when my husband picked up the grass when he mowed.  I could mulch my garden paths a half-foot deep with grass clippings.  Oh, what a wonderful cushion!  The aroma of cut and drying grass was perfume.  Of course, once it started to ferment…  Well, that was another story.  I don’t go barefoot much anymore.  Too sensitive now.  I stick to summer bare feet in the house.

As we walked to my mother’s wake, my daughter and I passed a shoe store.  We stopped, exchanged a meaningful glance, and, without a single word, pivoted and pulled open the door.  It was as if my mom, who also loved shoes, leaned down from heaven and said, “Psst!  You need to go in there and buy some new shoes for my funeral.  You know how good they’ll make your feet feel.  And if your feet feel cherished with new shoes, you’ll feel cherished too.”  How could we ignore those direct instructions?  She was right.  We did feel better.

Support your feet!  After all, they’ve supported you for years!