Stain-glass Eyes

Words limit my ability to describe the essence of my mom. I wonder what she’d say about her ninety years.  I know she’s said that many years of rearing the kids were a blur.  But I wonder if family, national and world events stand apart from her other memories? What did she see, hear, feel and experience in the years of her life, from 1926 to 2016?   She started out in MacMillan, Michigan as a child. Her family, the Neys, lived on a farm.  No electricity, no television, no car.  Twelve siblings and Mom’s mom raising basically alone.  Mom’s father was off working port to port on the Great Lakes ships.   The Era of the Great Depression The Great Depression     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NH20lpFu_3Q Mom was raised in the Baptist religion.  The weeks revolved around the chores, school and church.  It didn’t sound like there was a lack of fun, music and adventures, though. When she was five years old Mom ...

Entering the YMCA locker room this week, I heard a conversation between two young women.  I had to walked past them to get to a locker with a bench, so I wasn’t actually making an effort to listen.   They were doing a lot of preening and couldn’t possibly have noticed I had to turn my body sideways to get by them as they flitted their feathers and checked beneath their wings for anything that might make them less desirable than the rest of the flock. They stood by the large mirror with a counter where the hairdryers are located.   “Does my butt look fat in these pants?  I want your honest answer. Do they?” This dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful, young woman had a frown on her face questioning her friend.  The young woman who was no less than two feet taller than her, blond hair and thin as a soda straw,  said, “Yes, they do”.  (Well, I spoke too soon on the “Friend” label)   There was silence.  Not a shower was...

My Son, Holden Coping styles vary with each person.  As different as individual designs on butterfly wings. Trial and error coping at times.  Other times planned and plotted like a strategy in a chess game. I use to believe an ability to cope was a matter of luck.  I thought the more fortunate a person was, the better they were able to cope .  I don’t believe that any more.  It could be in the past I was hoping it was just luck.  Because coping isn’t easy.  I think I hung on to my belief in luck or providence otherwise I would have had to admit it was hard, hard work.  Believing it’s luck is an easy way out. Well, actually, it’s not an easy way out.  Not coping is one of the most painful routes I’ve ever taken.  It’s like a long, long stumble through a maze that dead ends and when you get to the dead end you realize you have to back-track all the way, to start a new direction. My son recently wrote a guest blog for T...

Cranes stretching over mountains of building materials, like praying mantises ready to eat.  People in their cars stretching their necks, (beyond what is normal) to find a parking space near Main Street.  Bumper to bumper traffic, due to city street closures and another downtown festival. Temperatures in the upper-eighties making sharing the humid air more difficult.  University of Michigan students moving back in for the new school year… — I left Ann Arbor. Even after I got out of Ann Arbor, I still had to go through traffic stops on 23 North.  60 MPH then 45 MPH then 70 MPH.  Back and forth until I set myself back in my seat and relaxed.  I started focusing more on the scenery than the time I was spending on the road.  Once I decided  to head for the “Thumb” area of Michigan, I figured being prepared was crucial.  I knew the towns were small, in-between each, large, span of farmland.   jugs of drinking water spray bot...

I don’t live in St. Ignace.  It’s my hometown.  But….it’s not my home.  I haven’t lived there since I graduated from high school, in 1975.  I’m more of a visitor.  St. Ignace-When There Was a Local Theater Many years of my adult life, I lived in Gaylord, Michigan.  But, I never felt I was “From” there.  I felt like it was where my children grew up.  It was their “Hometown”, not mine.   Sometimes I still consider myself a Yooper. (a person from the U.P.)  A term of almost mythical qualities.   I was raised in a small town in the Upper Peninsula, a subculture far, far from any sizeable city.  I identify with the colloquial language I learned to speak as a child.  My illusion of being a Yooper, explains a sample-piece of who I believe I am.  I really don’t need to reference being a Yooper for someone to understand who I am, do I?  What does it really say about me?  I’m much m...