Good-Bye November

Though the temperatures are mild and there isn’t a trace of snow left on the ground, it won’t be long until  winter is here. Tomorrow is the first of December.

Today is a little bit of a celebration for me.

This is the first full day I’ve been able to be at home, since I left the island twelve days ago. I had a long list that I’ve been plugging away at, but it has still felt good just to be here. I woke up without the alarm. I balanced my checkbook, paid bills and went through my big stack of mail. I did a little bit of laundry. I picked up all the fallen branches in the yard. Rosa Parks and I took a long walk.

This, being the last day of November, is the last day of my daily blogging commitment this year. It’s been fun. It’s been challenging. There were a couple days when I just gave a quick run-down of activities, “here I am…that’s all you get,” and a few days that were my usual “list-of-complaints-and-things-to-do” blogs. One night I didn’t actually finish writing until after midnight, so I technically missed one day. Most of the month, though, I feel like I pushed myself to improve…and did. I count it as an almost complete success.

What next? I’ll continue to write, of course, though I won’t try to post a blog every day. There are plenty of other areas in my life that could use a devoted commitment!

Struggling over computer issues today, I was so frustrated I couldn’t stand it any more. I put the bright pink harness and a leash on Rosa Parks, threw on sweats and a warm jacket, and headed out the door.

We have been pretty slack in our walks for a while now. First Clover went lame; she couldn’t walk, and I couldn’t bear to go without her. When she died, it seemed like all the fun went out of a walk for Rosa Parks. Then summer came, with mosquitoes enough to keep us off the trails…before I knew it, we had completely lost the habit. Lately, a walk around the yard each morning was the most we managed.

Until today.

Rosa had to be coaxed along…she’s a stubborn little dog…but once we got to Cotter’s trail, she became more interested in the sights and smells. We surprised some partridge…and they surprised us, with their loud flurry of wings. There were two deer grazing in the field of clover behind Bob Hoopfer’s pole barns; they looked up as we walked past, but didn’t bolt. We made note of the new addition to the old cabin in the woods, and then retraced our path home.

Not quite one hour out in the fresh air, but it did me a world of good. It was good exercise for my little dog, too. For the month of December, I’m going to walk every day. Right now, heady with the success of my writing commitment, is a good time to start another. I’m hoping that by the time the new year rolls around, it will be a fully formed habit.

After that, who knows!

 

 

 

 

Books I Don’t Like

I am reading Child 44 by Tom Rob Smith. As I was browsing the bookstore in Petoskey last weekend, the owner walked by just as I picked it up. “That’s a great book,” he gushed, “I didn’t like the movie, and the next two in the series aren’t nearly as good, but that book is fantastic.”

I took it directly to the counter, with one other selection, based solely on that recommendation. I didn’t read the back cover, the reviews on the inside flap, or  even the first few sentences of text. That’s how much I trust the opinion of a book store owner.

That was a mistake.

It is a well-written book. It has grabbed and held my attention. If I walk away from it, I will be haunted by questions of how it all works out. I may do just that, anyway.

I do not like books that disturb my rest.

I don’t like to think of our human race as evil.

I like redeeming characters, and I expect a happy ending.

There seems to be a trend, lately, for books – movies, too – that place humans in awful situations, forced to do unthinkable things to survive.

It’s not altogether new. I am still haunted by books like The Grapes of Wrath, Sister Carrie and As I Lay Dying, all classics by revered authors. I still remember a couple short stories that were required reading in high school. The first was To Start a Fire, perhaps by Jack London, about a man dying in the frozen wilderness. The second was about a hive of bees, as it was attacked and destroyed by ants. I’m sure the writing was wonderful and the message strong, but they each left me horrified.

I have two books partially read that I had to put down just because I couldn’t take it anymore.

The Dog Stars by Peter Heller is a science fiction book set in this country, in the near future, after a flu epidemic wiped out most of the population and some kind of nuclear incident poisoned the water. Roving bands of pillagers are a constant threat. It is filled with one heart-breakingly beautiful sentence after another. It is still not worth it. Not to me.

Slammerkin by Emma Donaghue is set in 18th century London. A young girl is accosted on the street, becomes pregnant from the encounter, is kicked out onto the street by her mother, is gang-raped, contracts gonorrhea, is taken in by a prostitute who gets her started in the business…there is no way this is going to have a happy ending. Donaghue is a good writer with a strong feminist perspective. I have read and enjoyed many of her books. I could not finish this one.

Child 44 is set in the Soviet Union at the end of Stalin’s regime. Crime is “non-existent” except for crimes against the state. Everyone is afraid. Anyone could be the next one accused of disloyalty. Children turn in their parents, neighbors report neighbors, family  members turn on each other  to save themselves. It appears that there is a real killer out there, murdering children. To say it out loud, certainly to investigate, would be seen as treason. I’m learning a great deal. It is holding my interest. Still, it disturbs my sleep. I may have to set it aside as well.

I don’t mind strong subject matter. I can stand tension; I can handle a little fear. What I need, along with that, is a thread of humanity, a hero or two, the promise of something better…

Without something to save it, a well-written book is just not good enough.

 

 

Failing at Bingo

When I was a child, Bingo was not legal. Fraternal organizations and church groups would covertly host Bingo games as fund raisers.

Every now and then, an article would hit the papers about a raid on a Bingo game, complete with photos of priests in their Roman collars being detained and prim ladies in Saturday dress-up, looking stunned. The accompanying article – and the dinner time conversation in my house – leaned strongly toward the attitude of “don’t they  (meaning the vice squad, I guess) have anything better to do with their time?” They’d back that up with stories of a robbery or murder (“a real crime!”) that happened just around the corner, while the police were busy finger-printing good church-going people.

Mostly, when it came to Bingo, I think law enforcement personnel just tried to look the other way.

When Bingo was illegal, there were no laws dictating how old you had to be before you could play. When we were on Beaver Island for summer vacation, my Grandma Florence would regularly take us to Bingo at the Holy Cross Hall.

Back home in Lapeer, the Fraternal Order of Eagles held a big Bingo game every fall. The prizes were donated from local markets. Dad was a member of the Eagles, and happy to support them. He’d take any of us kids that were old enough to read numbers, and set us up with one Bingo card each. He’d stand behind us, beer in hand, chatting with his buddies while keeping an eye on our cards. “You missed one there,” he’d say, or, “Get ready to yell Bingo!” One year, with one card only, I Bingo-ed three times, winning a turkey each time. Dad was grinning ear to ear when he told Mom I’d “filled the freezer.”

When Bingo became a legal game, it gained several new rules and regulations to go with it. There were specifications on record-keeping, admissions, payouts, and manner of dispersing winnings. When Bingo became legal, children were no longer allowed to play.

When I was a young pregnant woman with very little disposable income, my husband and I always “splurged” on Saturday night Bingo. It was a cheap night out, with the possibility of a payoff. The poorer we were, the more it seemed we had to go, for the chance to win big.

After my daughter was born, Bingo was no longer cheap: the cost of child care had to be factored in. It became a rare excursion: eight or ten times a year instead of weekly. Around that same time, I quit winning…completely.

Now, I enjoy gambling in many forms. I like euchre better if there’s a “dime a game, nickel a set” rule in place, just to make it interesting. Cribbage is always “penny a point, double on skunk.” I don’t play high stakes poker, but “penny ante, three cent limit” is fun. I don’t have to win. I’m okay if I don’t  break even. However, if I never, ever, ever win – even a fraction of my investment, just to give me hope – it quits being fun. That’s what happened with me and Bingo. So, I quit going.

My point is, though, that I have a long history with the game. I thought I knew how to play. I was confident of it.

Last Wednesday, my nephew Bob was working Bingo at the V.F.W. in North Branch. Bob’s Mom, Cheryl, invited her sisters to go. Brenda, Amy and I took her up on it.

We were all lucky. That wasn’t an issue.

The problem was with the technicalities.

When I called “Bingo,” I hadn’t raised my hand ahead of the call, when the number showed on the TV screen. I didn’t yell loud enough. I was so late it yelling it out, he was calling the next number at the same time. There was a little bit of grumbling from the professional players around the room, and a little lecture from the caller at the podium, but they paid me my $10.00 and we moved on.

Brenda was next. She didn’t call out loud enough. She didn’t keep her had in the air.

More grumbling from the crowd. Another lecture from the caller.

I wondered if Bob was less than thrilled at his row of aunts, all causing so much trouble.

Amy – looking pretty much like a professional player herself, with her own pink Bingo chips and magnetic pick-up wand – had to split her winnings with one or two others who Bingo-ed at the same time. She was coming close enough on many of the specials to make us all hold our breath.

Cheryl won next, without major incident.

Things were improving. I had learned to watch the screens for the numbers, rather than just wait for them to be called out. I was getting faster at placing the chips on the cards, and clearing them before the next game. The professional player sitting at the next table was helpful in explaining some of the intricacies of the game: what a “roving T” was, why we could ignore any “N”s called when going for “the letter X” and the same for “B”s and “O”s when trying for the little “around the free.” At intermission, I even had a friendly exchange with the grouchy caller, who was then working the concession stand. I said, “I’d like two hot dogs, please.” He said, “We only have polish dogs left.” I said “Okay.”

It was looking like we might get through the evening without humiliating ourselves further.

Then Brenda got another Bingo.

She nudged me and pointed it out. I didn’t realize the last number – though it was showing on the TV screen – had not yet been called.

What was she doing, trying to get us in trouble??

I grabbed Brenda’s arm and flung it into the air. “BINGO,” I yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear! So there would be no confusion this time, I jumped up out of my seat, and pointed at her!

Brenda tried to get her arm down. I held it up. The caller stopped calling. The guy checking the cards rushed over to check her card.

Her number had not yet been called.

Oh.

I sat back down.

I let Brenda put her arm down.

We all paused, then, waiting for him to call the number. We had it down now; we had just rehearsed it.

The caller gave me a long scowl first.

He called the number.

Brenda called “Bingo!”

The checker called out her numbers.

It was a good Bingo.

$25.00.

So, I don’t know…I may not be up on all the new technological advances in the game of Bingo; I may be a little slow on marking the cards, a little confused by all the new acceptable patterns and a bit over-enthusiastic when it comes to a win…but the Ricksgers sisters walked away from the table with combined winnings of seventy-one dollars and seventy-five cents. Can it really be said that we’re not good at Bingo?

 

 

 

Home

Every good-bye was a sad one yesterday. Every hug was heartfelt. The love and laughter and camaraderie we shared would have to  hold me for a while. Study closely the babies and children; they will have grown and changed by the time I see them again.

This morning I was going home.

Keith helped me load my bags in the car. Brenda and I chatted about what a nice holiday we had, as we sipped coffee together. My flight back to Beaver Island was scheduled, and I had a four-hour drive to catch the plane. It was  raining. I had no idea what traffic I’d run into, headed north on the day after Thanksgiving. I couldn’t linger.

It’s always hard to leave my hometown. My roots are there, memories abound. Most of my family is there. No matter how long I stay, no matter how anxious I am to be home, it’s always sad to leave. I miss too much, living so far away, not just of the holidays, but of the every-day.

I was thinking melancholy thoughts like that as I stopped to fill the car with gas, and started onto the freeway.

By the time I got to Davison, heavy traffic and pouring rain  had wiped any other thoughts from my mind. I pulled off at Irish Road. I got a cup of coffee to go, and had a good talk to myself. The rain might continue, but the car handled well in those conditions. The traffic would surely remain heavy through Flint, but would probably abate after that. If I turned back, I’d have to do this all over again tomorrow…after a dozen calls to readjust plans. I had one other flight option, two hours later. I told myself, “Just get out there, be cautious, get through Flint. Then if you have to stop to get your nerves under control, you can opt for the later flight.”

Good advice!

Both the rain and the traffic slowed after the city; by the time I got past Birch Run, with all of its outlet stores, it was easy going. Hard to believe all those cars were on the road to take advantage of Black Friday sales!

I drove straight through. Through intermittent rain, most of the way, then hard pellets of ice for a short time near St. Helen. It was snowing in Gaylord, and the sky was so heavy with clouds, I wondered if they’d be cancelling flights. It cleared, though, as I neared Charlevoix.

The planes were running as scheduled, and I was on time for the earlier flight. No scary plane ride today, it was clear and calm all the way. Looking down, first it’s the runway and the fields around the airport, then the neat patterns of houses and yards, the gravel mounds at the Medusa cement plant, then water.

Lake Michigan.

Few vessels on the big lake this time of year, so the view is just the sky and water. Whitecaps and wave patterns provide subtle variety.

Then suddenly, land.

Going into winter, Beaver Island is a study of grays, tans and greens. The sand forms a border of white. The bright blue comma at the southern end is Lake Genasereth. The plane then follows the water along the east side of the island. Houses present their best faces to the view, with little regard to lining up with their neighbors. They appear to be scattered randomly along the meandering shoreline. The plane tilts around to line up with the landing strip, and gradually descends until wheels touch the ground.

Home.

The pilot exits first, then each of the passengers. Off across the field to retrieve island cars, then back to the airport to pick up the luggage. My first stop, then, was Aunt Katie’s farmhouse, to return her keys and her cell phone, to extend holiday greetings from the rest of the family and give her all the news. Next, to the kennel to pick up Rosa Parks, who greeted me with kisses and a wildly wagging tail.

Then home.

First a walk through, just because. Then the luggage in from the car. Perishables had to be put away, then clothes sorted out and dealt with. Rosa’s food dish placed back on her pink surfboard rug, where she has her dinner. Every activity can be halted by a little dog smile, or cocked ear, or tail wag as I stop to give her more attention.

I heated water in my new kettle and made tea. I made soup for a cozy meal. Rosa Parks is on her cushion beside me.

I am home.

 

 

Almost Midnight; Happy Thanksgiving

The clock is ticking. It’s almost midnight.

I didn’t get a blog written this morning; I was busy helping stuff the turkey, baste the ham, arrange the desserts and greet the company.

From 2PM until 11:30PM, we’ve had a house full of people – about thirty-six, I think – ranging in age from seventy years old to six months old. We ate, we talked, we laughed…we hated to say good-bye.

Tonight, no time for details, let me just say I hope everyone enjoyed their day as much as I enjoyed mine.

My day was wonderful!

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

This Good Day

I didn’t sleep at all last night. Or maybe I did, but didn’t know it. It felt like my brain was always working, though I lay dutifully in bed, with eyes closed, waiting for and hoping for sleep.

Maybe my travels are catching up with me. This is more stimulation than I’m used to on a daily basis, with traffic and stores and lights and droves of people. Though my room here is quiet and comfortable, there are still sounds I’m not accustomed to. Last night I heard a train in the distance! Visits with family and friends give me lots of pleasant thoughts and good conversations, but are not a part of my usual routine on Beaver Island.

I could have been reacting to medicine I took for a sinus infection. Sometimes those over-the-counter tablets that say they “may cause drowsiness” have the opposite effect. Maybe the mug of hot apple cider that I had before bed spiked my sugar. It seemed a more sensible choice than anything with caffeine in it, and much safer than wine, with the medicine.

It could be that my list of unfinished work kept me from sleep. I certainly had time to go through every single item, while laying in bed. I’d bring up one thing, toss it around in my mind, worry over it, process several different possible solutions and put it back on the shelf, to make time for the next item. Several things that seemed like  problems without solutions at 3AM appear much more manageable in the light of day. On the other hand, many of the solutions that I worked out in my half-asleep state make no sense at all today.

With the holiday dinner coming right up, the list of things to be done is still long. Yesterday, we managed to get some things finished, ready for putting out or reheating on Thursday. Today we’re going to finish an appetizer plate, and bake pies, thaw the turkey, set up tables and plan the arrangement of platters and bowls for serving.

Everything is going to be just fine.

In the middle of a sleepless night, everything seems more troublesome.

In the middle of a sleepless night, I am frustrated by the knowledge that everything would be easier to handle if I could just get some sleep!

 

Slow

When faced with projects of intimidating immensity, I slow down.

I think.

I plot strategies and means.

I wait.

When deadlines loom hugely in front of me…when panic is right under the surface… then I think, “better get moving!”

I came downstate with specific goals: to spend time with family, re-connect, relax…but I also brought down quite a bit of work.

First, this writing commitment. I was late one day, writing my daily blog after an evening with my sisters. As the clock was ticking down to midnight, I was feeling a little harried, but I pushed it away. I published the post at 12:05AM, throwing it onto the next day’s statistics…and it was okay.

I have two or three articles to edit, and notes and photos to put together into a large story. One birth announcement and at least three obituaries to ready for publication. Four other submissions that just need introductions. I’m squeezing it in around visits and appointments…and it will be fine.

I had to consult with a few people about my malfunctioning computer, get it repaired if possible, replace it if not. It turns out replacement is necessary, so…that means more phone calls and paperwork to retrieve the software. It will work out.

Through it all, I have been calm. I have rare opportunities each year to spend time with my family. If I squander this time being frantic and stressed…that time is wasted. “I can only do what I can do,” I tell myself. “There are only so many hours in each day.”

Deadlines are getting closer: work is piling up.

Today, I’m going to water aerobics with one sister and one friend. Tomorrow, I’m baking pies. I may get a chance to visit with another friend who is in the area for a few days. Thursday, the day will be filled with family and friends. Friday, I’ll drive back to Charlevoix to get on a plane to go home…and there will be no more opportunities for spending time with my family and friends down here, no more time for sharing hugs and making memories.

The deadlines will still be there. The work will still be waiting. I can kind of feel the pressure…the underlying panicky feeling…but I will treasure this time with family, and that will carry me through the stress later.

It’s a slow-moving panic.

Out and About

My sister Brenda and her husband Keith have a lovely, comfortable house. They live on a little lake and enjoy stunning views year ’round. Last summer we watched an eagle, perched on top of a pole with wings half spread, as he watched over the water. This time of year, we see geese gathering on the lake. Deer wander though the yard almost every day. Beautiful!

The photo I snapped, from the warmth and safety of the kitchen, is not a good illustration of any of that. It does, however, show the amount of snowfall we got, in one day. Lots!

Lots of snow on the roads, turning to dirty slush  as cars made their way through it.

Lots of snow in the driveway, as Keith rightly figured he’d might as well wait until the road was cleared, before he cleared the drive.

Lots of heavy snow on the van I drove, parked in the turn-around space where it had been sitting since I’d arrived Friday evening.

Most days I’d be content to just stay inside, pour another cup of coffee, read a book, chat with my sister.

Yesterday, I had different plans.

My daughter, Kate, has recently moved back to Michigan, from South Carolina. She and her husband bought a house (with some land, a garage, a beautiful stone-bordered pond, a red barn, mature trees, fenced garden, perennial beds…)and have been working intensely on it. Old wiring had to be upgraded; some walls had to be removed; floors and fixtures needed to be replaced. They worked at it while staying elsewhere until it was at a stage where they could move in. They still have plenty to do, but are getting settled, and are happy to be home.

Kate and Jeremy are both artists in a wide range of media. Both have good, creative ideas for home improvements; both are hard-working and capable enough to implement their plans themselves. I was anxious to see what they’d accomplished.

Beaver Island is pretty remote, expensive to travel to and from. Even when my daughters are both in Michigan, I’m fortunate if I see them two or three times a year. When Kate and her family were in South Carolina, it was even harder to get together. I hadn’t seen them since last summer, and wasn’t going to let an opportunity go by – to catch up with the adults, to hug my grandchildren – now that they are so much closer.

The first thing I did was to dig out the van. I started with a long-handled shop broom, finished with ice scrapers and windshield wipers.

Though I over-packed, not knowing what I’d want for various holidays and activities, I under-packed when it came to the weather. No rain gear. No winter coat. No boots. In November! What was I thinking?

I managed it though, and got out on the road.

Next, I took a short drive, to see if the roads were slippery, and if they were being cleared.

Then, when a drive seemed possible, I contacted Kate, to make sure she’d be home and to get directions.

I was on my way!

It was a pretty drive, north on M24 toward Caro, then east on Clifford Road. I had forgotten how beautiful that area of lower Michigan is, with rolling hills and farm fields bordered by evergreens. The roads were clear the whole way. Kate’s directions were perfect, and I found them with no problems.

I could write pages about how wonderful it was to see them all. They  welcomed me warmly. Kate and Jeremy generously shared their art and handiwork, the processes and inspiration.  Madeline and Tommy continue to amaze me with their kindness and humor.

I could devote several more pages to the beautiful views outside their home, and all of the inspiring, creative ideas they’ve employed inside.

I will, maybe, another day. Today, I’m happy simply to report that I did get out, in this wintry weather, for a wonderful visit with my daughter and her family.

 

After the Party

After days of covert travel and secretive blogging, I arrived at my sister Brenda’s house in Lapeer on Friday evening. She was surprised to see me.

“Your blog said you were going to Jen’s first!”

True. I told Brenda – on the phone – that I was coming to her house. In my blog, I said I was going to meet up with my daughter, to work on the news-magazine.

That’s because my sister Amy also reads my blog. If I had said I was coming to Lapeer, Amy’s suspicions – that her daughters were going to throw a surprise birthday party for her – would have been confirmed.

Actually, Amy’s surprise 50th birthday party was my sole reason for extending my travel beyond Aunt Katie’s doctor visits.

Since I’m here, I will get together with my daughter Jen to do some work on the Beacon. I’ll get out to see my daughter Kate’s new house in Clifford. I will stay for Thanksgiving. I thought I’d even get into North Branch yesterday, for my mother-in-law Pat’s surprise 80th birthday party…but weather got in the way of that.

Though big wintery clouds were constant, the weather was clear for my drive down-state. Yesterday morning there was just a dusting of snow. I planned to drive to Clifford, then to North Branch (the surprise was scheduled for 3PM there), then back to Lapeer to be at Amy’s party by six. We had visitors, so I didn’t get out of the house as early as planned. Then the snow started seriously piling up, accompanied by winds that kept the roads slick and the visibility low.

First I delayed going, then I decided not to try it at all. The first snow is always the worst for accidents, before we remember how to navigate through winter weather. I’d been on the road seven hours the day before, and wasn’t up for more, especially fighting through a snowstorm. I would have loved to give Pat my good wishes, but wasn’t crazy about being stranded with my ex-husband’s relatives. Finally, I couldn’t chance missing Amy’s party.

My other sisters – Robin and Cheryl – had arrived at Brenda’s shortly after I did on Friday. Cheryl thought we should do a “production number” to honor Amy. She had several ideas in the works, that we tossed around. We finally decided on “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town,” re-written to say “Aaamyyy…Don’t Let Age Get You Down,” with lyrics pertaining to her legendary forgetfulness (can’t blame that on age!) and the fact that all of us are older than she is. My grandson Brandon found the background music for us (“Make it really loud,” I told him…to drown out our poor singing voices and help to keep us on track). My brother-in-law Keith did a mid-night shopping run for poster board, glitter, ribbon and markers. We made a giant four-part birthday card, that we’d wear for our “performance.” As Cheryl left, she suggested we all arrive a little early, “for rehearsal.”

With snow piling up, we received phone calls throughout the day from cousins and friends that weren’t going to be able to make it. Keith came in shaking his head about the bad roads. Brenda accidentally exploded a whole spaghetti squash in the microwave oven: clean-up was necessary. Still, we all managed to be showered and dressed in reasonable time. The party was less than four miles away…no problem. Well, in Keith’s little hybrid car…on un-plowed roads…with snowfall of close to a foot, plus drifts…in a blinding snowstorm…that was a long four miles…ending with getting firmly stuck at the end of the driveway!

We made it though, and the party was wonderful. Amy seemed surprised and pleased by all of it. Our little production number went without a hitch except for our bright blushing faces.

Today, the storm is over. The snow has transformed the landscape into a beautiful winter wonderland, and I’m happy to be here with my family.

 

 

Travels

Travel offers a new outlook, if only temporarily. Different scenery alone can change perspective. Travel companions, weather, deadlines, appointments and expectations play a role in the total experience. I wrote about my long list of things to do, to prepare to leave; I wrote about my plane ride, and my “night of little sleep.” In every trip, there are moments to remember. Here are a few:

• Aunt Katie sat beside me on the little airplane, as the wind tossed it around. I had a firm grip on her shoulder; the other hand clutched the window frame. She calmly tried to explain the grocery list, “Bob is cooking, and he wants a Butterball. If it were up to me, I’d just get a Spartan brand turkey for half the price, but he’s doing the cooking…” I told her sorry, but I couldn’t listen right now, “It’s taking all my concentration just to keep this  plane in the air!” (Not that I was actually at the controls or anything)A big grin spread across her face.
• Trying to use my computer from the motel room, I got to know the desk clerk very well. After giving me over-the-counter advise three times, she finally followed me down to the room to look at it in person. With her mere presence, the instructions she had given me now worked perfectly. I should have invited her back before I accidentally posted my blog a dozen times to Facebook!
• Telling me about her health issues, as reported to her by the several doctors she saw, Aunt Katie said, “…well, I still find it interesting.” In answer to my puzzled expression, she said, “you know, watching my body fall apart at the speed of light.”
• Traveling across the state, I pulled in to the Big Boy restaurant in Gaylord. As I got out of the car, I heard a crash. An accident had just happened a few yards up the road. If I hadn’t turned off the highway, it might have been me in the middle of that crash! The restaurant staff, all intent on watching the progress of police cars and tow trucks on the corner, forgot all about restaurant service.
• Driving at night has never been my strong suit. Wet roads, reflecting   lights and freeway speeds add to my discomfort. Whenever I arrive at my destination intact, see the faces of people I know and get that first hug, there is reason to be thankful.

That’s all for today. Before I get back to Beaver Island, to retrieve my little dog and go back to life-as-usual, I’m sure I’ll have another adventure or two to share.