Ghosts of Christmas trees past

Originally published December 23, 2016

Ghosts of Christmas trees past

My son arrived for the holidays to find no Christmas tree at my new place. I’m sure it did not faze him. I put up two wreaths, decorated windows with gel clings, found a place to dangle the mistletoe, hung our stockings, and set out more holiday décor.

But I miss it.

So many of my ornaments inspire memories of Christmas trees past

I gave away my artificial Christmas tree as it was too big for the apartment. It found a new home with someone who needed a dose of Christmas cheer.

I shopped around Beaver Dam and online, but could not find a tree I both liked and could afford. I do not want a pre-lit tree, as I prefer the tradition of stringing lights while venting my spleen with colorful phrases.

I came across many of my favorite ornaments while unpacking the other holiday décor.

Nestled away are a pear, two golden hearts and tiny pandas. They represent my first Christmas 20 years ago with my son. My parents gave me an artificial tree before they moved from Michigan to Wisconsin that year. As a single mother still in college, I did not have the budget for enough ornaments to fill the top two-thirds of the tree. (My son could reach the bottom third.) So I dug through my jewelry box and secured a necklace pendant and two pairs of earrings to ornament hooks to help fill the gaps.

The gold balls I splurged on for my first Christmas tree have remained packed away for 13 years. They are not shatterproof, which is a problem with a cat who persists in tree climbing and knocking off ornaments.

Other favorites include hobbyhorse ornaments my mother made when we still lived in White Pine, Michigan. Our Christmas trees there were live, usually decorated with tinsel and C5 lights in addition to our ornaments.

Our first Christmas tree in Colorado was also a live tree, and it was the first year we lived in a house with a fireplace mantel for hanging stockings. It was a bittersweet Christmas, as it was the first year we did not travel to my grandparents’ farm for the holiday.

One year we brought home a flocked Christmas tree and decked it with blue lights and blue bulbs to recreate one of my father’s favorite childhood Christmas trees. After moving back to Michigan, we expanded to two Christmas trees – one in the living room and another in the family room. We decorated one tree with the usual ornaments, and gave my mother no end of grief for her choice to dress up the second tree with fake red apples.

After moving to Ohio and before moving back to Wisconsin again, my mother passed down many of the family ornaments to my sister and me. I have bells made out of beads, a ski jumper with my name engraved on the bottorm and several ornaments with pandas on them, as my family nickname is Amanda Panda.

Ornaments I bought for myself over the years include a candy cane made of copper which reminds me of my father, who spent much of his career working at a copper mine in the Upper Peninsula. I also have an ornament shaped like my beloved U.P.

My son and I will spend Christmas Eve and Day with my mother and stepfather, where there will be a tree to place presents under.

So while my ornaments will remain packed away until next year, my memories remain. And I’m reminded of the lesson the Grinch learned in the Dr. Seuss classic.

“What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!”

May you have a safe, healthy and happy holiday weekend.

Merry Christmas.

Original column

Help to make the season bright

Originally published December 17, 2016

Help to make the season bright

Activities last week helped me find my holiday spirit.

I volunteer as a shopper for the Gertrude Christian Children’s Trust Fund. Established in 1977 in memory of a Randolph woman who died in 1974, the fund helps buy gifts for Randolph children ages 13 and under.

Guidelines set up for the fund only allow the interest it accrues to be used to buy a toy or two and an article of essential clothing. The fund was set up with nearly $30,000, which earned more than $2,000 when interest rates were high. Current lower interest rates mean the fund needs donations to help keep it going. A generous donation of toys this year helped provide gifts for 55 children to open on Christmas.

I may need to pursue a career as a personal shopper as I excel at spending money. The lovely Leann Rahn, the deputy clerk/treasurer in Randolph, recruited me several years ago to help with the program, along with Jackie Hein, who took over as the Randolph Police Department secretary when Leann transferred to the village office. Along with Leann’s husband Dan, we set out to shop – each armed with a list of children’s names, their clothing sizes and a few suggestions on hobbies or toys and a budget.

Since my son will soon be 21, and long ago outgrew toys (and my excuse to buy them), I adore exploring the toy aisles and trying to find just the right gift for each child, and then scouring the clothing department to find something for the child to wear.

Last Saturday, I started my day by covering the Dodge County Shop with Cops program. I delighted in following law enforcement officers through the Beaver Dam Walmart as they helped children pick out gifts for their family. It’s an amazing opportunity for kids to meet police officers while learning the lesson that the best gift of all is to give.

Saturday afternoon saw me in Randolph, helping the Randolph Chamber of Commerce put on its annual Santa’s Workshop program. I get to serve as Santa’s helper during the event, made possible through funds by the chamber, volunteers and people who donate baked goods and more. Marsh View Veterinary Clinic donates the supplies and staff to run a craft-making table that children enjoy.

The volunteers included Ellie Jung, Jamie Minnema, Wendi Dykstra, Betty Eisenga and Pam Drzonek.

Suzanne Wendt brought three young helpers along with her. Four high school students: Ashley Walther, Morgan Paul, Alydia Vanderhei and Jessica Bahr volunteered, too. It was fun watching them interact with the children enjoying Santa’s Workshop.

Hutchinson Memorial Library director Peggy Potter buys books, thanks to a generous donor, and the books are raffled off during Santa’s Workshop. As an avid reader, I adored watching children win books. I hope all who helped make Santa’s Workshop possible know how very much their time and donations are appreciated. A very special thanks to Santa Claus, who made every child feel welcome- even those who weren’t so sure about the bearded man in a red suit.

My sincerest apologies if I forgot a volunteer who helped out that day. It flew by in a whirlwind.

The cookies, flyers and décor for Santa’s Workshop were once again made possible by Rita Hookstead. This year, the First Reformed Church in Randolph will host the eighth annual Christmas Day meal. While Rita will deflect any praise for the program to those who donate and volunteer as servers, delivery drivers or greeters, the meal would not be possible without her dynamic organizational skills and the giving heart of her and her family. I find it a blessing and a privilege to call her a friend.

Original story

There’s something about sisters

Originally published in October 2015

There’s something about sisters

Last week, state newspapers ran a story about a 16-year-old girl who stabbed her 14-year-old sister. The sister’s injuries were non-life-threatening, and the attacker was arrested.
What’s scary and yet funny in a macabre way is that story nearly could have been written about my sister and me. We are also two years apart, and, to use a cliché, we fought like cats and dogs while growing up. At one point, in our early teens, we faced off in the kitchen, both armed with knives from the butcher block. After a few tense moments, we came to our senses, put down the knives and backed away from each other. I’m sure we realized that if we hadn’t killed each other, Mom and Dad would have finished the job for us.
As I often said to my mother, “She’s my sister and I love her, but that doesn’t mean I always have to like her.”
Few in my family believe me, as I would have been only 27-months-old at the time, but I have a dim memory of the day my sister came into my life. I remember being at the hospital and looking through a glass window, but what I mostly remember is eating ice cream, the kind that came in a little plastic cup with a wooden stick as a spoon. We must have shared a room when we were very small, but I thankfully have no memory of it.
Other childhood memories of my sister are more vivid. Pam Brown said, “Sisters never quite forgive each other for what happened when they were five.” My sister took a tub of red clay and used it to “decorate” my Holly Hobby toy box. The clay came off, but the red stains never did. She also claimed one of my baby dolls as her own, and convinced mom of the same. Granted, I hadn’t played with that doll in a while, but once she laid claim to it, I wanted it back something fierce. She cut off her own pigtail once and knowing she would get into big trouble for it, tried to claim that I did it to her. She still actually makes that claim, but I know better. Mom does too.
My sister brought the annoyance of “I’m not touching you,” with a pointed finger held about a millimeter away from me to an art form. Mom and Dad often had to threaten to pull over when we’d get going in the backseat of the car.
She liked to needle and annoy me, and I would often barricade myself in my room, desperately wishing for a door that locked. I’d use a magazine rack and whatever else was nearby to block the door. She’d then get a yardstick and slide it underneath.
A friend of the family liked to share the story of how he came across my sister and me running around in the woods near the hunting camp he shared with my Dad. As the story goes, she was following me around, and I stopped and said “why are you always (expletive deleted) me off?”
As I must have been about 6 or 7 at the time, my use of that word was shocking, and to the family friend, hysterically funny.
My sister has always been very tough. If you hit her once, she’d hit back three times. She also had a very twisted sense of what was hers. My clothes were fair game, but to touch any of her wardrobe was to risk bloodshed.
I finally devised a system, so I’d be able to figure out what was missing from my closet. I labeled my hangers. My family still makes fun of me for that, but it was the best I could come up with to keep track of what was mine.
Margaret Mead said that the relationships between sisters is probably the most competitive in a family, but “once sisters are grown, it becomes the strongest relationship.”
After my family moved from Colorado back to Michigan, my sister and I began to get along better. We both went to the same college for a term, and even had a class together. Since she often had to miss class because of volleyball games, we worked out a deal. She’d take notes on days she could attend, and I would doze off. I would stay awake and take notes when she was gone.
People often tell us how much we look alike, something that has made us crazy over the years. We share some weird quirks, the most notable being that if a light switch plate has more than one switch, they all have to be either up or down.
Now that we are adults, we are friends. She still likes to try to needle me, calling my cat Bandit instead of Zoopie. In return, when I visit her place, I re-arrange her carefully placed knick knacks and other decorations.
My sister now lives over five hours away, in Indianapolis. I miss her.
It’s been over a year since my first and only visit to her new home. When she lived in Madison and Fall River, we got together often for shopping expeditions, dinner or a movie. Now we keep in touch with phone calls, the occasional email, and her commenting anonymously to posts I make in my blog.
Linda Sunshine said "If you don't understand how a woman could both love her sister dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child."
Though I often expressed the desire to be an only child while growing up, I’m so very glad that I’m not.

Positive Parenting

Originally published in 2008

Positive parenting

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of attending an event hosted by Cambria-Friesland High School. The school district hosted Bill Collar, a speaker, author and educator.

Collar spoke to teachers and students during the day, and a special seminar was held in the evening for parents. Although I went there as a reporter, Collar’s message about the importance of positive parenting appealed to me as a mother, too.

Collar was introduced by Jim Bylsma, who told the crowd about how much he admired and respected Collar. When a person you respect talks about someone they respect, you should pay close attention.
Collar shares Bylsma’s regard, and told the audience what a treasure they have in Bylsma.
“Coaching is teaching...teaching is coaching,” Collar said. “I’m proud to call Jim one of my friends.”
Collar, who has been honored as a “Wisconsin Coach of the Year,” “Wisconsin Social Studies Teacher of the Year” and “Wisconsin Teacher of the Year,” spoke about his background as a parent raising three daughters and his experiences as a teacher and coach in Seymour.
He said that no one in his family had ever gone to college. His father and grandfather owned a tavern. Collar shared a story about h a teacher who encouraged him to go to college and another teacher who told him it would be a miracle if he ever graduated from college. He set out to prove the second teacher wrong and attended UW-LaCrosse.
“I had a 4.0 in my first year,” Collar said. “A 1.8 the first semester and a 2.2 the second.”
He also said that he graduated in two terms - “Kennedy’s and Johnson’s.” Collar graduated after six years and went on to teach and coach.
Collar advised parents to “Keep one blind eye and one deaf ear” when it comes to what is going on in their kids’ lives, but that the most important thing when dealing with teenagers is communication.
“You must keep the lines of communication open,” Collar said.
Collar said that it is important to let your kids know you are proud of them, perhaps just as important as knowing that you love them. He also said that people learn from setbacks, and parents should not work too hard to shield children from failure.
“It’s OK for young people to fail at something. In fact, perhaps they will learn more from it.”
Collar talked about the importance of believing in yourself, and shared tips on how to be a champion in whatever you do, from school, sports and more and the value of preparation, self-discipline, commitment, loyalty, courage, respecting others and hard work.
Collar said that it was important to be a parent to your children, and not a grown-up friend, and used examples from raising his daughters to emphasize his point.
“I never needed friends, I needed daughters who respected me and knew I loved them.”
He also said that instead of focusing on “No” messages to your children like “don’t do drugs” and “don’t drink” to talk to them about making good decisions, and that you trust and believe in them.
After the session, Collar autographed copies of a book he wrote and offered parents copies of a workbook he put together for a student success seminar.
“Attitudes are contagious,” Collar said. “Be sure yours is worth catching.”

Be a parent, not a friend

Two of Bill Collar’s tips on positive parenting and helping your children succeed in school and extra-curricular ativities really resonated with me — his advice about focusing on being a parent to children and not a grown-up friend and that parents should help their kids explore financial aid options for college rather than having their child work too many hours at a part time job to earn money.
I sometimes fear that I am guilty of trying to be more of a friend to my son than a parent. I love to hear him laugh and we share a lot of the same taste in music. He’s pretty well-behaved in public, but with me he can be quite the smart aleck. It’s not entirely his fault, he comes from a long line of smart alecks. I just don’t think he has the healthy balance of fear and respect for me that I had for my parents.
My parents shared Collar’s no job for teens philosophy. They made sure my sister and I had what we needed, plus a small monthly allowance. The occasional babysitting job provided some extra cash. Other than that it was our “job” to be students, giving us plenty of time to focus on learning, sports and other activities and time with our friends. When it came time to pay for college, my parents split the cost of tuition and books 50-50 with me. 

National Treasures

Originally published in August 2008

Appreciating National Treasures

Earlier this month, Wall Arch collapsed in Arches National Park in Utah. Fortunately, no one was hurt in the collapse. Wall Arch was located along the popular Devils Garden Trail. The longest natural arch in the world, Landscape Arch, is located not far from Wall Arch. A portion of Landscape Arch collapsed in 1991. 
My family first visited Arches National Park in 1984, shortly after we moved to Western Colorado, and visited it several times during our eight years living in Colorado. Our last visit to Arches National Park was in 1991, shortly before we moved back to the Upper Peninsula.  The forces of nature, gravity and erosion, have caught up with several natural wonders in the last five years. New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain, a series of granite cliffs that looked like the profile of a craggy-faced man, collapsed in May 2003. An image of Old Man of the Mountain can be found on the New Hampshire state quarter.  Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, located on the South Shore of Lake Superior near Munising, Mich. lost part of one of its most photographed landmarks two years ago. The right tower of Miners Castle broke off in April 2006 and fell 90 feet into Lake Superior.  I’ve long been dumfounded by how many people who are native to an area have not visited nearby national or state parks or landmarks. The National Park Service manages 58 national parks, 44 national memorials, 89 historic site, national monuments and more. Wisconsin has 66 state park and recreation areas, and over 471,000 acres of state forest. These are a great and affordable resource for camping, hiking and other recreational activities, or just a nice place to visit for a day trip with a picnic lunch.  My family took a lot of day and weekend trips when I was growing up. My father was an avid photographer who preferred landscape shots to taking pictures of people. When I was 8, we drove down from the U.P. to meet friends and camp near Devil’s Lake, a trip made memorable because I left behind my winter coat in a park bathroom. We visited a lot of parks in Upper Michigan and did a lot of traveling while living in Colorado. In addition to Arches National Park, my family and I have visited Bryce Canyon, Canyonlands, Capital Reef and Zion national parks in Utah, Mesa Verde, Black Canyon of the Gunnison and Rocky Mountain national parks and Colorado National Monument in Colorado, the Grand Canyon and Canyon de Chelly in Arizona, Yosemite in California and more.  The collapse of Wall Arch, Miners Castle and Old Man of the Mountain remind us that we should not put off visiting the natural wonders of our country, because they won’t be there forever.  Visit www.nps.gov for more information on national parks.


UPDATE- Another arch collapsed in Utah recently. Read about it here.

Some Assembly Required

Originally published August 2005

Some Assembly Required

With the summer heat, the air conditioning unit in my house can’t seem to keep the second floor cool enough for sleeping. I own one 20-inch box fan, but my son and I have been squabbling over who gets to have it in their room at night. So, on Tuesday evening, I bought two tower fans on clearance, one for each of us. I opened the box for one fan just before my son’s bedtime, expecting to just put it in his room and plug it in.

No such luck. I’d overlooked the microscopic printing on the box, with the phrase so many dread. The three foulest words in the English language...“Some assembly required.”
Now, I spent over six years as a technical writer. I wrote instructions for a variety of products, from a drying tumbler that holds 170 pounds of laundry to a commercial lawn mower, and all the bells and whistles that go with those products. I should be able to follow a set of instructions, right?
Wrong.
At home, having to deal with something that requires assembly instantly puts me into a bad mood. It is possible that steam comes out of my ears, and I have to confess that overly-colorful words often spill out of my mouth.
Why? Having worked as a technical writer, I have a certain expectation level for the quality of the instructions. (My work in the food service industry has likewise ruined me for fast food restaurants.)
A recipe is an excellent example of good tech writing. There is a list of ingredients and step-by-step instructions on how to turn them into something tasty.
Good instructions should have a parts list, so the victim, er, person assembling the product, can make sure they have everything they need before they start. A list of tools required for the job is also helpful. Illustrations make it easier to identify the parts, and should be well oriented so you know what you are looking at. A picture may be worth 1,000 words, but a good illustration is priceless. The text should be simple and is best in a numbered list, not a jumbled paragraph where it is easy to lose track of where you are.
Most of the things I’ve purchased that required assembly have had missing parts, unclear graphics (if any at all), and incoherent instructions. Sometimes the instructions are something that started out in another language and was then translated into English. In other circumstances, those can be humorous to read.
I’ve put together a desk, shelves for the closet, a CD rack, a bookshelf and a pantry cupboard. The cupboard bears witness to why one needs good instructions and illustrations. To access the middle shelf, you have to open all four doors. It wasn’t my fault, it was the poor graphics.
When I started out as a tech writer, I went from not knowing what a monkey wrench was to dreaming of a shopping spree through the tool department at Sears. I’m slowly building up a decent set of tools. Having good tools makes a world of difference.
Perhaps the problem is me, and not just the instructions. During the holiday season, I have to send my son from the room when I put together the artificial tree, so as not to spoil his Christmas spirit with my grumbling.
Before I started dealing with the fan assembly, I warned my son “You might want to leave the room, Mom’s about to get mental.”
He watched from a distance as I wrestled with the parts and tools. Finally, the tower fan was standing, and we plugged it in to see if it was operational.
It was.
My son asked “Can I do the second fan?”
He settled down with the instructions and tools, and with a little help from me, had the second fan put together pretty quickly.
“What was so hard about that?” he asked.
Maybe it is me. “Doesn’t follow directions well” was often one of the negatives on my report cards.
It seems that all his years of assembling Legos products have paid off, to my benefit. He can assemble future projects.
I’ll stick to following recipes.

Blast from the pasty

As originally published in a 6/23/07 edition 

Blast from the pasty

There are times when you need a taste of home, a comfort food that takes you back to your childhood. Many comfort foods are regional, like fried chicken or chicken fried steak in the South. For Yoopers, a good pasty might just be the ultimate in comfort food. A pasty is made of meat and vegetables baked into a thick crust. It’s by no means health food, the crust is made with equal parts lard and shortening, though some use oleo. If you’re a meat and potatoes kind of person, you’ll like the pasty. 

Growing up in the UP, pasties were a staple at family gatherings and trips to my grandparents’ cottage on Beatons Lake. The pasties were either homemade or picked up from one of many local pasty shops. Pasties can be found on the menu of many diners and cafes up north, and the shops that specialize them offer half-baked frozen pasties for people to finish cooking at home. My cooler was purchased on a trip to the UP because I wanted something to transport pasties home in.
The origin of pasties can be traced to Cornwall, England, where it evolved as a meal for Cornish tin miners. The thick crust kept the filling warm, and was carried by the miners as their lunch. Mining was once one of the major industries in the UP, and people from other cultures, particularly Finns, made pasties too. Since I can trace my ancestry back to both Finland and Cornwall, the pasty is part of my heritage. Other cultures have foods similar to pasties, like empanadas, knishes, samosas, panzarottis, and pierogis. The Italian calzone, or pizza pasty, is another favorite of mine.
I made pasties this week for the first time, following a recipe in a cookbook member of my mother’s family compiled more than 20 years ago. My family still gives my oldest aunt, whose recipe it is, grief for the time she made pasties and forgot to wash the parsley - the gritty results had to be trashed and people had to scramble to put together a meal for a hungry mob.
The crust is made first and cutting a cup each of lard and shortening into seven cups of flour is a workout. After the dough was made, I set it aside to chill and began preparing the filling.
Traditionally, pasties are more vegetable than meat, since meat was a luxury. At today’s grocery prices, meat may again become a luxury. I cut three pounds of chuck steak into cubes, then peeled and chopped up five large potatoes and a large onion. Then I washed and minced about a third of a cup of fresh parsley that I grew myself. Salt and pepper were the only seasonings. Some recipes use rutabaga, but I’ve never been a fan. The use of ground beef or carrot is often considered the mark of an inferior pasty.
The pasty recipe said the dough made about eight to 10 crusts. I made nine small balls of dough, rolling each one out to be slightly larger than a pie tin. I added about two cups of filling, then folded over the crust and crimped the edges. I could have taken the time to make smaller pasties, but it was getting late and I wanted to get them in the oven. Some pasty shops make a product that is almost sandwich sized and can be easily picked up and eaten.
Six of the pasties went into the oven for 75 minutes at 375 degrees, and I wrapped up the other three and froze them. The pasties smelled so good as they baked that my son and I opted to split one as soon as I pulled the pans from the oven. Some people like ketchup or a gravy on their pasty, others think that’s a sacrilege. The remaining pasties saved me from having to cook on hot days, as the pasties reheat nicely in the microwave. The best part is my son didn’t complain about eating leftovers and was eager to tuck in to another pasty meal.
The pasties were good, but with room for improvement. They were rather dry, and I’d like to have a flakier crust, with more evenly sliced meat and taters. I may apprentice myself to my aunt and grandmother on my next trip north, as there are always things good cooks do instinctively that they sometimes leave out of the recipe. My mom said she puts a pat of butter inside the crust of her pasties to help the meat and potato juices form a gravy inside as the pasties cook.
If you want to learn more about pasties, Wikipedia has a good entry on them. To order pasties, visit https://ilovepasties.com/. To order them properly on a visit North, remember that it is pronounced “pass-tee.” 

Honoring the Silent Service

My November 17, 2007 column

Honoring the Silent Service

An impromptu family road trip helped me observe Veterans Day last weekend with a glimpse into the conditions veterans who served on submarines worked in during World War II. 

My mother called Saturday before my coffee had kicked in to tell me that my father wanted to get out of the house and go for a drive. Did my son and I want to tag along?
I had planned spending Saturday catching up on household chores but jumped at the excuse to avoid them. We left before noon, heading towards Fond du Lac with the intention of driving to Sheboygan. My father had printed out a list of parks along the shore. 
My mom and son looked over maps in the back seat, and my son suggested Manitowoc as an alternative. 
Once again fulfilling my role as family navigator, I found a new route for us to take, which had us driving past the Johnsonville Sausage plant, Lakeland College and Whistling Straits. 
We stopped at a small park and walked down to the shore of Lake Michigan. The lake was calm and cold. 
After our hike, we headed north to Manitowoc, staying close to the lakeshore. We turned a corner and came in along the Manitowoc River, where something out-of-place in freshwater caught our eyes. 
"That's a submarine," my father said.
The sub was docked at the Wisconsin Maritime Museum, and our leisurely family drive now had a destination. Banners along the riverfront named the 28 submarines made in Manitowoc during WWII, including four labeled as being “on eternal patrol.”
Our timing was perfect, as the next tour of the submarine started in five minutes. Our tour group included a man who served on a nuclear sub in the 1980s. 
A World War II submarine, the USS COBIA (SS-245) is a GATO-class fleet submarine built in Groton, Conn., that is similar to the 28 built in Manitowoc. It has been modified with stairs built into shafts that once were used to lower torpedoes into the sub, so there was no climbing down a hatch to get in. 
There were over 20 of us on the tour, and the atmosphere was not a good one for those who suffer from claustrophobia. I can’t begin to imagine what conditions were like when the USS Cobia was on patrol during
WWII with 80 men on board. 
The USS Cobia was launched in November 1943 and went on six patrols, sinking 13 Japanese vessels, including two bound for Iwo Jima. The Cobia had only one casualty of war. Ralph Clark Houston, a gun loader, died during a running gun duel with Japanese sea trucks. 
The COBIA was considered obsolete by 1959 and was transferred to the Milwaukee Naval Reserve Center for use as a training platform. It was de-commissioned in 1970 and towed to Manitowoc to serve as an international memorial to submariners. It was declared a National Historic Landmark and placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1986. It has been restored to its original 1945 configuration so that tour groups
can see its torpedo rooms, wardroom, crew's quarters, and engine rooms. I've only ever seen one kitchen smaller than the galley on board the sub, and my college apartment kitchen served two, not 80. 
After the tour, we watched a short video that included footage of the side-launching of a sub, and the route used to get subs from Manitowoc to the Pacific. The highlight of the video was listening to veterans talking about their service on board. We explored the museum which has some fun interactive displays for kids of all ages. 
I’m not sure who had more fun using water to show how locks and dams worked, my father or my son. 
The closest look I’ve had at a submarine prior to our tour had been watching movies like “Operation Petticoat,” “Down Periscope” and “The Hunt for Red October.”
Known as the Silent Service, those who volunteered to serve on submarines represented less than two percent of the Navy during the war but accounted for over 55 percent of Japanese ships sunk. Success came at a high cost, the Navy lost 52 boats and over 3,500 men. 
Visit www.wisconsinmaritime.org to learn more about the museum in Manitowoc. 

Behind the lens

My October 1, 2005 column...

One thing I love about my job is that taking so many pictures each week has improved my photography skills.
I bought my first camera, decimating my childhood savings account, in 1983. I bought it at a camera shop in Chicago while my family was visiting relatives there as we made the move from the Upper Peninsula to Colorado. Photography was a hobby of my father’s that he turned into an art, and I wanted to be just like Dad. I documented each leg of that trip using my new camera, taking photos of the friends and family we visited as we traveled to our new home.
That camera was a Yashika, with auto-focus and a built-in flash. With it I took pictures of my family and places I visited. I have pictures of Yosemite National Park and the Grand Canyon. The Yashika now belongs to my son.
My second camera was another point and shoot, it was dropped about a year after I got it, and it never worked right after that. I’ve only ever used point and shoot cameras. I’ve never taken the time to learn to use cameras that have F-stop settings or that require me to do the focusing.
I started using digital cameras while working as a tech writer for John Deere, documenting steps in how to install something. My first camera at this job was a beast that ate up the juice in rechargeable batteries.
When I got ready for the trip to Colorado with my sister this summer, I finally bought my own digital camera. I love it.
Since I want to learn more about how to take a good photo, I asked to borrow some of my dad’s books on the subject. As he dug some out for me, he paid me a lovely compliment.
“You take better people pictures than I do,” he said.
What have I learned so far about taking a better picture?
If you are taking pictures of kids, get down to their level. Kneel, crouch, or lay down rather than shooting down at them.
Natural light is best, and overcast days offer the ideal lighting for photographs. Don’t only use the flash for indoor photography. Use the flash outside too.
Read the camera manual. I’m not saying that just as a former technical writer. Cameras today have a lot of great settings that can help you take better pictures. Experiment with them.
If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that they hated getting their picture taken, or that they will break my camera, I’d be rolling in the dough. Remember that I don’t like getting my picture taken either, and I’m willing to shoot a few until we have one you like.
With group photos, it is hard to avoid what looks like a line-up of the usual suspects. I always welcome suggestions for how to take a more interesting picture.
When taking pictures of people, get close. Photograph them from the waist up, or just the head and shoulders. Make sure you’re not cropping off the top of their head and that the background is neutral. You don’t want it to look like a tree limb or wire is sprouting from their heads.
Four years ago, I attended a technical writing conference, and the keynote speaker was a well-known National Geographic photographer.
He talked about where his job had taken him and how much film he used to get that one perfect shot. While he spoke, a slide show of his work played behind him. His advice was to be patient and keep clicking away.
On the job, I always take the camera with me. I’m starting to carry a camera around with me on my own time. I’d much rather try and fail to take a good picture than not be able to take one at all.

2019 update - Working as a technical writer again, and taking my own photos for manuals. Sometimes with a camera, often with my phone. I have my father's digital camera, and use it for special events. I prepped it last month, hoping to use it for photos of the Northern Lights. Turns out I could not stay up late enough to take photographs. 

And now it has been 31 years...

Here is my column from the June 7, 2008 edition of the paper.

Twenty years fly by

Yesterday, a new crop of freshmen was unleashed on the world, as the Class of 2012 was promoted from eighth grade to high school students at Randolph and Cambria-Friesland.
It doesn’t seem possible, but 20 years ago I was enjoying the summer before my freshmen year of high school. Having a son two years away from high school himself is my reality check.
There are a lot of similarities between 1988 and 2008.

In 1988, the Writer’s Guild ended a six-month strike in August, which played as much havoc with television show schedules as this year’s Writer’s Guild strike did. An Asian country was the host of the Summer Olympics, with the 1988 games held in Seoul, South Korea. I remember Flo-Jo’s flashy outfits and outrageous fingernails and watching Greg Louganis hit his head on a diving platform. Ben Johnson was stripped of his gold medal after failing a drug test. He ran the 100M in 9.79 seconds, but the world record went to Carl Lewis, who ran it in 9.92 seconds. The presidential race was underway in 1988, with Bush-Quayle picked as the Republican candidates.
Some things are very different. A gallon of gas cost about $1.08 in 1988, and a first class stamp cost a quarter. Milk was about $2.30 a gallon, and eggs were 89 cents for a dozen.
In sports, the Lakers beat the Pistons for the 1988 NBA championship. That winter, the Milwaukee Bucks won their 1,000th NBA game.
Los Angeles Dodger Orel Herschiser was breaking records in the summer of 1988.
“The Cosby Show” and “Roseanne” were the top shows on TV. Mike Myers began his first season on Saturday Night Live that fall.
Radio stations played “Love Bites” by Def Leopard and “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa. I still can’t get Kylie Minogue’s remake of “The Loco-Motion” out of my head, or worse, Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy.”
“DieHard” first hit screens in 1988. So did “Cocktail,” “Rain Man,” “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?,” “Coming to America” and “Big.” The governator of California starred in “Twins.” Miss Minnesota Gretchen Carlson was crowned Miss America 1989.
My first day as a high school freshman is still very vivid for me. The members of the senior class seemed so much older. My best friend and I watched the boys in our class get hazed by upperclassmen, who made them push quarters across the gym floor with their noses.
There were about 25 people in my freshmen class. My class schedule included ninth grade English, Spanish I, algebra, art, P.E., physical science and choir.
The English teacher often let us play a hybrid of charades and Pictionary on the chalkboard after our weekly spelling test on Fridays.
My first embarrassing moment came at lunch on the first day, when I couldn’t open the combination lock on my locker and the janitor had to come by with bolt cutters so I could retrieve my lunch. I spent the rest of the lunch break at my best friend’s house. She lived a block from the school, and I spent many of my lunch breaks with her. The school had a semi-open campus. Students could leave school grounds on foot, but no one was allowed to drive.
I borrowed a pink dress to wear to my first Homecoming dance, and was tickled when a cute junior asked me to dance. My mom allowed me to get contact lenses when I was a freshman, but I still had braces. I went out for basketball and track, and got to attend the state track tournament as a relay alternate. I was in Knowledge Bowl and the Foreign Language Club. The school skiing trip in late February marked the last time I went downhill skiing in Colorado.
My advice to the Class of 2012 is not to get too nervous for the first day of high school. Get involved and make some great memories. It will be over before you know it.

Don't let a generation fade away

Originally published on August 6, 2016

Don't let a generation fade away

Tuesday brought unwelcome news to my family.

My great-aunt Patricia passed away after a long illness. She turned 88 on July 13.

Her death marks the end of an era. She was the last of her generation on either side of my family. She will be deeply missed.

Her older sister Jacqueline was my dad’s mother. We lost Grandma Jackie in 1982, just after Thanksgiving. Aunt Pat often shared stories of both her sister and her niece, my dad’s sister Kim. Kim took her own life the year before I was born, and my father found it difficult to talk about her. So stories shared by Aunt Pat, her sons and my father’s youngest sister, Jackie, helped me feel connected to my late grandmother and aunt. After my father died, they also shared stories of him.

Pat and her second husband, Dr. Jim, worked together in his podiatry clinic. My grandmother worked there before she died, and Pat and Grandma Jackie’s mother, my great-grandmother Blanche, lived in an apartment above the clinic. My fond memories of them include visiting the clinic, Great-grandma’s apartment and Grandma Jackie’s apartment, located in a building across the alley from the clinic.

Aunt Pat and Dr. Jim once owned an amazing lakeside estate in Northern Wisconsin and hosted so many incredible dinner parties there and at their home in Ironwood. Their lake estate included a guest cottage, a game room with a pool table, pinball game and more, a commercial-quality buffet table for dinner parties, a Monopoly game board painted on the floor of the lowest level of the main house and a bathroom with a fish tank built in next to the toilet.

My sister and I loved visiting my father’s side of the family — it offered a different family dynamic than my mother’s side (she was one of 13 children). Spending time with them helped me understand and appreciate the unique sense of humor I share with my father and his side of the family.

The obituary for Aunt Pat did a marvelous job of sharing the story of her life and those who loved her. And the photo accompanying the obituary captures Aunt Pat as a glamorous and gorgeous woman in her prime. Too often, obituary photos seem to be the most recent taken of the deceased before they died. I far prefer obit photos that show the person in their youth, or obits that share both a photo of the person as a young adult and a flattering, more recent photo of them.

I treasure the stories shared by Aunt Pat, and am grateful that I took notes on many of them.

I recommend this practice for all families. Interview grandparents and great-aunts and uncles. Ask questions about their childhood, how they met their spouse, their education, their careers and memories of members of previous generations. Record or write their stories and share them, passing them down to future generations.

Photographs may fade, the writing on a tombstone may wear away and ashes scatter in the wind.

While many have faith in a life after death, we will not truly know the destination of souls until we join those who pass before us. But I find comfort in believing people are never truly gone if we carry them with us in our hearts and memories. And by sharing their stories.

As printed in the Beaver Dam Daily Lifestyles section

Revenge of the Pink Bunny

Originally published April 15, 2006

Revenge of the Pink Bunny

It was a chilly but lovely day for the annual Cambria Kiwanis egg hunt at Tarrant Park last Saturday. Watching the kids scamper about scooping up eggs and prizes reminded me of egg hunts I participated in while living in Colorado.
My father worked at an oil shale facility. It was owned by Unocal, who hosted an annual egg hunt for the children of employees. The first one I remember was held at a wayside park on the Colorado River in Debeque Canyon. The egg hunt was moved to Cottonwood Park, just a few blocks from our apartment complex. It was also on the Colorado River, and had both a roller slide and tire swing. I loved to be spun until I was dizzy on the tire swing.
When I grew too old to join the egg hunt, my father “volunteered” my services to help hide eggs for younger kids to find.
Before we moved to Colorado, my family often spent Easter at my aunt’s house in Lansing, Ill. There were always a lot of cousins there, and we’d have fun riding around the block with them. Easter baskets in those years were filled with treats from Fannie May. I over-indulged one year and made myself sick.
My family planned a visit to the Milwaukee Zoo on our return trip to the UP. They had to rent a chair for me, still feeling a bit weak from my Easter binge.
I brought the Easter baskets out of storage this week and boiled eggs for my son and I to color. I love hard-boiled eggs, and am not sure why I don’t make them more often. I guess it’s not as much fun if you’re not going to dye them. Each year, my son and I vie for the coveted “ugly egg” title. We each get one egg and the object is to dye it the ugliest color possible. They stick out like sore thumbs among the rest of the vibrant eggs we color.
This year’s contest was a stand-off. His egg was left in the dye bath for so long it is practically black and my egg is a vile green-brown.
My favorite Easter memory was the year my family spent the holiday at my grandparents’ farmhouse. My sister beat me out of bed and down the stairs to check our Easter baskets. My basket was full of candy and a yellow stuffed bunny toy. My sister had a pink bunny in her basket
I knew, I JUST knew that the pink bunny was supposed to have been mine.
Pink was my favorite color. I had a pink bike and when my mom had a friend of hers make dolls for my sister and me, hers wore yellow and mine wore pink.
The gleam of fiendish delight in my sister’s eyes and her smug smile as she held the pink bunny convinced me that I was right.
I wasn’t going to take this affront lying down. When mom and dad came down the stairs, I pleaded my case.
They confirmed that the pink bunny had been placed in my basket, not hers, and I claimed my prize from my sister’s clutches.
My family has a picture taken of us that morning, in matching pale blue nightgowns with a dark blue trim. My sister was about five and I would have been about 7. We’re holding our Easter goodies. It’s been a few years since I’ve come across the picture, and I can’t remember if it was taken before or after the bunny verdict came in. All I know is that one of us is grinning and holding up the pink bunny in triumph while the other one looked on, pouting.
I still have that pink bunny. It’s tucked away with a few other childhood stuffed animals that I can’t bear to part with.
Have a safe, happy and healthy Easter.

A Windy City Adventure...

Originally published on August 9, 2008

A Windy City adventure

The summer I was 12 going on 13, my parents sent my sister and me from Colorado to Chicago to visit our great aunt and uncle in Evanston, followed by a visit with our aunt and her family at their summer cottage in Lower Michigan.
It was a great trip. Our great aunt and uncle worked as volunteers at the Field Museum, and allowed my sister and I to explore both the museum and the Shedd Aquarium on our own. My sister and I shopped downtown Evanston by ourselves, and probably bought a few pounds of bulk candy during our stay. My mother’s cousin took us to a Lake Michigan beach and then out for deep dish pizza and a visit to Sear’s Tower.
While viewing downtown Chicago from the 103rd floor, we used the phone card our parents had given us to call home and ask “Guess where we are?”
This became a bit of a running family joke, and my father pulled the same stunt on a business trip to Los Angeles, calling from a Dodgers game.

Now that I’m a parent, I can’t fathom turning my 12-year-old son loose to run around a Chicago museum or suburb by himself. He and I had a chance to experience Chicago last weekend when we visited my good friend Lynn, who was my college roommate and is one of my son’s godmothers.
On the drive down we stopped at a toll oasis and I invested in an I-pass, which made the rest of the drive a lot easier.
Lynn and her family recently moved to a new house. Their new home was nearly as simple to find as the old one, and it was nice to spend time with them. Their daughter is nearly 3, and it was lovely to get to know her better once she warmed up to us.
They treated us to deep dish pizza and accompanied us to downtown Chicago. We took the El and visited Chinatown for some shopping and lunch. My son was brave and tried dim sum, and I tried a fruit smoothie with tapioca pearls.
After Chinatown, we rode the El again and went to Sears Tower. The view was just as incredible as it was more than 20 years ago, and I had to call my parents and sister to say “Guess where we are?”

Great educators inspire students

Originally published on August 13, 2016

Great educators inspire students

I started college while still in high school.

While many students wisely take advantage of this opportunity now, few students knew their rights when I was in high school. 

My family moved from Colorado back to Michigan during my senior year, and my new school’s graduation requirements were less demanding than those of my Colorado high school. I only needed one credit to graduate but was expected to be a full-time student.

Unfortunately, while a much larger school (I went from a class of 25 to a class of 136), Luther L. Wright High School did not offer many of the classes I had been taking in Colorado. No psychology, no A.P. literature and no journalism. So, my day started with the required course for graduation — government and economics — followed by an enlightening sociology class during second hour, and then padded with choir, serving as a library aide, study hall, and an English class identical to one I’d taken my junior year.

My mother went to bat for me.

She fought the school administration and school board until I was allowed to enroll in a few classes at Gogebic Community College. The school district paid the tuition but would not provide any transportation.

During the second semester of my senior year, I left the high school after lunch and walked a mile to college, unless my parents had allowed me to take a car to school that day. There may have been a few times when I bummed a ride/hitchhiked. (Sorry, Mom. What can I say? One is not wise at 17.)

On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I took Freshman Composition 101, and Tuesdays and Thursdays offered desktop publishing.

Why am I sharing this?

My very first college professor, Kenneth Bowman, taught the freshman comp class. He passed away this week at the age of 80.

I learned so much from Mr. Bowman. I still have the textbooks from that class, and many of the papers I wrote. I aced his first test and found myself both mortified and pleased when he announced to the rest of the class that a student still in high school earned the top grade.

I continued as a student at GCC for two years after high school. Mr. Bowman served as my advisor and as my director. As a secondary education major with an English emphasis, I took several of his English literature courses, public speaking and his philosophy classes. In addition to his teaching and advisor duties, he also played an active role in the college’s drama department. He served as the director of GCC’s 1994 production of “Pride and Prejudice.”

I auditioned hoping to play Elizabeth Bennet.

He cast me as her mother.

After Liz and Darcy, Mrs. Bennet had the most lines in the play. I value the faith he showed in offering me a lead role, and how he helped me gain confidence in myself.

GCC’s new student orientation included presentations of all the college had to offer, and in 1993, Bowman spoke about the drama opportunities. He recruited several of his drama students to “heckle” him during his presentation to help showcase the program. We loved filling that role.

Teaching was his second career. He served in the U.S. Air Force from 1955 to 1977 with a focus on communications. He served as the non-commissioned officer in charge of the White House Communications Center in Washington D.C. and accompanied the president, vice-president and secretary of state on trips around the world.

After leaving the Air Force, he followed the same education path my maternal grandmother did, attending Gogebic, Northland College in Ashland, Wis., and Northern Michigan University. He taught English in the Ironwood Area School District before beginning his career at GCC.

My father often called GCC the gem of Ironwood, and he was right. GCC offered a great education at an affordable price and its English department included three instructors who remain among my favorites: Mr. Bowman, Patrick O’Neill* and Jeannie Milakovich.

William Arthur Ward, known for his inspirational maxims, wrote, “The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.”

Ken Bowman inspired and challenged me in my writing, speaking and leadership skills, and self-confidence. He helped me find my voice as a writer.

Friends and former students shared links to his obituary on Facebook, and the comments mourning his loss made his legacy as an educator apparent.

As students return to school this month, I hope they share my good fortune and meet a teacher like Ken Bowman.

Thank you, Mr. Bowman. For everything.

*Mr. O'Neill passed away in 2017. He challenged me to think critically, helped improve my writing skills, and taught some great classes. I especially liked his Saturday morning classes, even if I often turned up still a bit tipsy or hungover. Mr. O'Neill had his quirks, and could wax eloquently about the many ways to use the word "Fuck". Grateful that I ran into him about 10 years ago,  to thank him for what he taught me.

And so it begins

Originally published March 2, 2006

And so it begins

I am now the mother of a 10-year-old.
How this happened is one of life’s mysteries. It seems like only yesterday that he was born, and yet so much has changed.
I now understand what people meant when they told me “Don’t be in a hurry for him to grow up.”
I couldn’t wait for him to reach milestones like his first step. I so looked forward to his first words, but once he started talking, it has been impossible to make him stop. I miss the small voice that would say “peas” when he wanted something, followed by a tilt of his head. It was nearly impossible to say “no” to that.
The little tyke who would race to greet me when I picked him up from daycare has been replaced with a disgruntled young man who would rather stay and have fun with his peers than go home.
The little guy who would cling to my legs and look up now only has about six inches to go before he passes me in height, and his feet are already longer than mine.
He has his own ideas about the clothes he wears and how his hair should be cut. Instead of listening to Disney and Sesame Street music, he likes rock and punk. He wants to learn to play the guitar, and wishes I had given him a brother or sister so he could have someone to back him up on the drums.
He is too much like me in many ways, and not at all like me in others. He still has the same vivid imagination he had at 3, along with an unwillingness to go to sleep at a reasonable time. I can still see a hint of the little guy he was when he sleeps.
Where did the 10 years go?
Although it may seem like he was just born, we have moved five times and lived in four different communities. I’ve graduated from college, paid off my student loans and now would love to go back to school.
This is the third job I’ve had in that time. We’ve celebrated birthdays, gone to family reunions and weddings, and haven’t taken nearly enough vacations. Over a dozen new members of our extended family have been born. There have been cuts and bruises, laughter and tears.
I remember being 10, celebrating my birthday with my family, grandparents and an aunt in Grand Junction, Colo. Starting at a new school, the third in a year, and how my pink Huffy bike was replaced with a “big girl’s” bike, a red 10-speed. I met my best friend on the first day of fifth grade.
Here I am now, three years from having a teenager, and less than six from having him behind the wheel of a car. Middle school, high school and beyond are just around the corner.
When you’re a kid, a year feels like such a long time. At 10, it’s only a tenth of your life. I don’t want to get into the math of what fraction a year is to someone over 30.
My son is now the one in a hurry to grow up, and the lesson that he should just enjoy being a kid isn’t one he’ll understand until he’s an adult.
All I can do is enjoy each moment while it lasts and treasure each memory. 

Mourning those I never met

Originally published January 24, 2016

Mourning those I never met

This January seems crueler than most, and I am not referencing the bitter cold temperatures. Instead, I mourn the loss of three artists whose work inspires, entertains and consoles me.

David Bowie died Jan. 10 at the age of 69 after battling cancer. His music influenced so many in a career that included 26 studio albums and 22 films.

Want to witness a glimmer of his talent? Search online for a video sharing Bowie and Freddie Mercury’s performance of “Under Pressure” stripped down to just their vocal tracks. The power of their voices absolutely mesmerizes me, especially when so many performers now rely on software that perfects and polishes their work.

Bowie wrote his own elegy in his final album, Blackstar, released just days before he died. His song, “Lazarus,” opens with “Look up here, I’m in heaven” and closes with “Oh, I’ll be free. Ain’t that just like me.”

In another song from that album, “I Can’t Give Everything Away,” Bowie sings,

“Seeing more and feeling less

Saying no but meaning yes

This is all I ever meant

That’s the message that I sent.”

Another blow came when stage actor, film star and director Alan Rickman died on Jan. 14, also at the age of 69 and after treatment for cancer.

Rickman, who met his wife, Rima, at 19, first pursued a career in graphic arts before following his passion for acting in his 20s. He performed on stage to hone his craft, joining the Royal Shakespeare Company at the age of 32. Rickman, while respected as a stage thespian, did not break into Hollywood until he was in his 40s, playing villain Hans Gruber in the movie DieHard, and offering the first of so many memorable screen deaths. He perfectly embodied the role of Professor Severus Snape in the Harry Potter series and appeared in more than 60 roles on television or film.

British scientists declared his rich and deep voice as “perfect” in 2008, with standards that measured tone, speed, frequency, intonation, words per minute and pauses. He played the archangel Metatron, who serves as the voice of God, rather brilliant casting in the movie “Dogma” by Kevin Smith.

In a fantastic article in The Washington Post, Michael Cavna wrote that Bowie and Rickman shared a “profoundly simple gift” – their generosity. Not just their money, but also the far more valuable commodity of their talent and time by offering those gifts to other performers and artists.

Glenn Frey, a founding member of the 1970s rock band, the Eagles, died at the age of 67 on Jan. 18 due to complications from rheumatoid arthritis and other ailments. In an interview, Frey told Piers Morgan that he considered “One of These Nights” to be his defining song. The song speaks to those trying to find,

“Someone to be kind to

In between the dark and the light.”

A singer, songwriter, guitarist and actor, Frey also played the piano. Between his solo career and songs with the Eagles, Frey released 24 Top 40 singles in his career.

While it may seem weird to mourn the death of celebrities — people I never met — sociologists can explain this grief.

Feeling a sense of loss and sadness for well-known figures is part of a parasocial relationship, a term coined in the 1950s to describe the feelings of closeness with someone you’ve never met.

We identify with public figures, and though the relationship is one-sided, that is part of the appeal — it offers us acceptance without the complications of real world interactions.

When we mourn a personal loss, funerals help us process our grief and express our emotions. But when a celebrity dies, attending the funeral is not an option, unless it is televised or recorded and shared. I woke up early to watch the funeral of Princess Diana, and watching the memorial service for Jim Henson made me smile and cry.

Social media allows fans to mourn together. Dean Aarón Podestá (@JeSuisDean) tweeted this on Jan. 10. “If you’re ever sad, just remember the world is 4.543 billion years old and you somehow managed to exist at the same time as David Bowie.”

People who knew Bowie, Rickman and Frey shared stories of them, and offered condolences to those who knew and loved them.

These deaths also remind us of our own losses. When Jimmy Stewart passed away, my tears were not just for him, but a release valve for the loss of my paternal grandfather.

While I strive to leave my biases out of my news writing, I confess that I selected the news stories published in the Daily Citizen announcing the loss of these three artists. Consider it one of the ways I paid homage to them for sharing their talents with the world, and one of the ways I coped with losing them.

Those who create share a bit of their souls in their work. And they breathe a bit of life into those creations and set them free for others to experience. Their work helps connect us – the emotions invoked by music, poetry, performances and other forms of art remind us of our own feelings of love, heartache, anger, loneliness, joy, sadness and more.

Pay homage to them by listening to their music or watching their movies. What they created carries on, offering humans something close to achieving immortality.

Original column

Trying to curb an appetite

Originally published November 19, 2016

Trying to curb an appetite

I tend to eat my feelings.

I eat in celebration.

Birthdays and weddings mean cake and sometimes ice cream, pie or other treats. My sister celebrated her birthday this week, and although I could not celebrate in person with her, I opted to eat ice cream in her honor. She is two years younger than I, and I remember her birth because someone at the hospital gave me an ice cream cup with a wooden spoon. I found that far more memorable than peeking through a window at my new sister.

I also seek comfort food when feeling down—mac and cheese, warm and creamy soups, something sweet, something salty (or both.) Foods that stick to the ribs and leave you feeling sated and sleepy.

My willpower disappears around certain foods, including potato chips and French onion dip, cheese puffs, garlic bread and pints of premium ice cream. The nutrition label on ice cream pints tells us it has four servings. I consider it a win if I manage two. My solution is to rarely buy those foods, but sometimes a craving for them cannot be denied. Or I make the mistake of shopping for groceries while hungry.

I fully acknowledge my addiction to cheese and chocolate. I do best when I allow myself one serving of chocolate a day—almost always dark chocolate (antioxidants for the win!) and confess to being a chocolate snob. (There is drawer dedicated to chocolate in my refrigerator, which may qualify me as a chocoholic.)

Many of my bad eating habits started in middle school. I disliked the lunches served at school, so I would barely eat. By the time I arrived home after school or after basketball or track practice, I both ate too much and ate far too fast.

I’ve been physically active for more than three years now, and exercise at least 4 to 5 times a week. I’m stronger than I have ever been in my life, but my weight still places me in the obese category when figuring my body mass index. I know the problem is food – from portion control, not enough vegetable servings, eating on the run and too often only drinking coffee instead of a complete breakfast.

When I make the time to track my food intake, it opens my eyes to the importance of portions, finding a good balance of carbs, fat and protein and limiting my sugar and salt intake.

I quit regular soda consumption nearly four years ago, which helps, but still need to work on drinking enough water each day. I find it easier to drink water during the summer when hot weather reminds me to find ways to cool down.

While I love to cook (and really need to learn to use my baking skills for good and not evil), I need to learn to make smaller meals now that I live on my own, and need to take the time to better plan them. I am no longer the picky child who would only eat peas, corn and potatoes as my vegetable options. Roasted brussels sprouts, broccoli and cauliflower taste amazing, but I confess to being lazy in the kitchen when it comes to veggies. If someone else does the work I’m more than happy to eat a salad.

Magazines, TV shows and the Internet inundate us with nutrition tips and advice, which can feel overwhelming. Starting small helps. Make one change until it becomes a habit, and then trying something else. Allow yourself one cheat meal a month where you don’t count calories.

I swapped out sugar in my coffee for stevia, but still require cream or milk in it. I use less butter and bacon fat while cooking in favor of healthier oils. I make salad dressing from scratch so I know what I am eating.

What works for you?

 Original story

Strive to celebrate differences

Originally published November 11, 2016

Strive to celebrate differences

Why do people fear and reject differences? In a time when we are so connected through the internet, how do we justify holding on to biases, stereotypes and prejudices?

For many years, I admit I carried a bias against people with tattoos.

I’m unsure of the root of my bias. Perhaps I bought into the common stereotype that those with tattoos were criminals or belong to gangs. Or that those with tattoos like pain, live unconventional lives or seek attention. A lower back tattoo has the unfortunate bias of a “tramp stamp.”

I used to say I would never get a tattoo, both because of my bias, but also because of my dislike of needles and knowing people who got a tattoo on a whim and came to regret it.

While human civilization has a mixed view of tattoos, the practice of tattooing dates back to at least the fourth millennium BC. Some are tribal and serve as a rite of passage. Sailors often got a tattoo to signify their first crossing of the equator. And World War II found tattoos used in one of the worst ways possible- to identify people held prisoner at the Auschwitz concentration camp.

I met someone with many visible tattoos and confess she intimidated me at first.

Then I got to know her, and I found her to be one of the sweetest souls I have ever met. I learned the stories behind her tattoos and now consider her a dear friend.

So, I began to change my mind and accept tattoos as a form of art and self-expression. After losing my father, I found myself considering a tattoo as a memorial to him.

A friend of the family sent my mother a dragonfly charm and a lovely story with the message that any time you see a dragonfly, it is your loved one checking in with you. So I considered getting a dragonfly tattoo. But it did not feel right, or say anything to me about my father. I donated a toy last December to Ultimate Arts’ Tats 4 Tots, which gave me a gift certificate toward a tattoo. And I finally found the inspiration for a memorial to my father in his photographs. He loved visiting Maroon Bells in Colorado and photographed them in every season. And he signed one of his photos when he framed it.

The staff at Ultimate Arts, after reviewing my idea for a tattoo, suggested Jim as the tattoo artist who could make my vision a reality.

While the tattoo would be bigger than I first expected, I chose my left shoulder as the canvas for it. Not only was it above my heart, but I cherish the memory of Dad’s hand on my shoulder as he taught me to ride a bike.

My tattoo session took nearly four hours, and while it was uncomfortable, it was not unbearable. The result turned out even more beautiful than I expected, rich in detail. While it is not always visible to others, I know it is there.

Unfortunately, some may judge me for the tattoo. Justin Douglas, who used to serve as the pastor of Living Hope Community Church in Fox Lake recently wrote an amazing blog post, “You Know God Hates Tattoos, Right?” that can be found on his web page and does a far better job than I could do of confronting the issue of that judgment.

We all have biases, find ourselves falling back on stereotypes and hold on to prejudices.

But we can be better.

We can do better.

We can question ourselves about why we fear differences, and hopefully change our minds and open our hearts. H. Jackson Brown wrote, “Remember that everyone you meet is afraid of something, loves something and has lost something.”

I hope we can seek that which connects us to others and learn to embrace differences, not fear them.

Online:

To read Justin Douglas' blog post, “You Know God Hates Tattoos Right?!” visit:

http://pastorjustindouglas.com/2016/08/30/you-know-god-hates-tattoos-right/

Night Shift

Originally published in 2008

The Chief of Police congratulated me on taking a "boring night and turning it into an interesting story." So here is the story from my night riding along with a police officer on Friday, June 13, 2008.

Night Shift

Sgt. Craig Freitag helps keep the peace in Randolph 

RANDOLPH, Wis. - The streets of Randolph are typically quiet at night, and the Randolph Police Department works hard to keep it that way. Sergeant Craig Freitag, who has worked for the police department for two and a half years, usually works the late shift, patrolling village streets on foot or in his squad car. Although Freitag has an office at the police department, he doesn't spend much time there. 

"It's kind of like our office," Freitag said of the squad car.
He worked from 7:30 p.m. on Friday, June 13, to the early morning hours of Saturday. Freitag's shift began with him checking the accuracy of the radar used to apprehend speeders and making sure the squad car is safe to drive. He said that Friday nights in the summer are busy, with a lot of north bound traffic on Highway 73 heading for lake homes. Before five minutes had passed in his shift, he had pulled over a vehicle for traveling 14 miles over the speed limit.****

"Radar detectors are worthless," said Freitag. He said that by the time a detector goes off, police radar has already captured a vehicle's speed.
Freitag also said that police departments don't have quotas to meet.
"I don't care if I write one ticket, zero or 20," said Freitag. "I get paid the same."
Freitag said that what is important is his presence, reminding drivers of the need to slow down and pay attention. He said he sees too many people drive by talking on cell phones.
"You can tell when they are not paying attention," Freitag.
Within 10 minutes, he pulled over another vehicle for speeding 14 miles over the limit. By the end of his shift, he has pulled over two vehicles for speeding 16 miles over the limit, and a third for speeding 21 miles over the limit.
"I wish I would have started from day one of being a cop, just writing the excuses down. They never get old." Freitag said that the excuse from one of the drivers caught going 16 over was "I just want to get home."
The person going 21 mph over the limit used the excuse that they were lost.
"Going 16 (and 21) over in a residential area is excessive," said Freitag.
The fines for speeding 16 and 21 over in Randolph are $109 and $159. Working for a small police department requires officers to wear a lot of different hats, from working an animal control call to investigating a crime.
"One day you're a detective, the next you are a patrol officer. In a bigger department, you're taking calls - that's it," said Freitag. "One night you may go from call to call...the next night you may be trying to find something and work on reports or do a foot patrol."
Freitag also serves as the Drug Abuse Resistance Education (DARE) officer for the police department, going into schools to talk to students about how to resist peer pressure and live productive drug and violence-free lives.
"At work and on patrol you see a lot of negativity, people being rude or intoxicated," said Freitag, who enjoys going into the schools. "It breaks up the week by going in there, it's all positive. I enjoy that."
"Tomorrow will be a different day," said Freitag. "That's why I like going to work - I don't know what to expect. Things were quiet for Freitag on his Friday the 13th shift. Other than the traffic stops, he answered one call for a noise complaint and secured an open door at the high school at 1 a.m. Freitag, originally from Barneveld, said that he has a way of coping with the negativity he sees on the job.
"You leave it at work and forget about it," Freitag said.


****My apologies to friends and family in Illinois, but anyone who drives to Northern Wisconsin on a weekend or holiday will appreciate the source of my attitude. The first car pulled over was a Lincoln Navigator. I was asked if the driver should receive a warning or a ticket. The driver was clocked going 14 over, and he had plates from the state to the south.
"He's from Illinois," I told the sergeant. "Let's give him a ticket."

Kitchen Chemistry

Originally published in April 2005

 Kitchen chemistry

“Has trouble following directions” was a comment found on some of my earliest report cards. I blame my overactive imagination and tendency to daydream more than the my sometimes-contrary nature. When the situation calls for it, I can follow directions, though I don’t like being told what to do and tend to dig in my heels in certain situations. 

When it comes to cooking, it is very rare for me to follow recipe directions to a “T.” If I’m cooking something new, I look up recipes for it in multiple cookbooks or on the Internet, and then cobble together a recipe of my own. I’m the kitchen equivalent of a mad scientist testing a new formula, but instead of a lab coat, I sport an apron. Some experiments yield success, and others are abject failures.
The only recipes I don’t fiddle with are ones that I already know produce excellent results, like the caramel brownies recipe from the mother of my childhood best friend, or any recipe from my grandmother.
While I love to cook and try new things, the hustle and bustle of everyday life doesn’t leave a lot of time to experiment, and the limited counter space in my kitchen doesn’t give me a lot of room to maneuver.
In December, I first tried an Italian Cream Cake made by The Cheesecake Factory for a warehouse store. The combination of delicate cake and rich marscapone cheese filling was divine. I sampled the cake again in late January and was inspired to try to make it on my own.
My cookbook shelf in the kitchen overflows with books and recipes I’ve snipped out over the years that I wanted to try. Most have yet to be tested or tampered with, but I recently came across a recipe for “Lemon Tiramisu Cake” that looked similar to the Italian Cream Cake. I decided to whip it up.
It was a great opportunity to use my copper mixing bowl, a birthday gift from my parents after I watched “Good Eats” on the Food Network. Alton Brown is a fun source for cooking advice, and copper bowls are supposed to great for beating egg whites. As the daughter of a former copper mining engineer, I tend to favor anything made of copper.
Following Brown’s advice to use three bowls to separate eggs, I soon had cracked the six eggs the recipe called for. After allowing the eggs to come to room temperature, I poured the whites into the copper bowl with a pinch of salt and a bit of cream of tartar and broke out the hand mixer. Gradually adding sugar, I soon had a bowl full of glossy peaks that reminded me of winter snowdrifts in my backyard on a sunny day.
The yolks, vanilla extract and flour were folded into the meringue. The recipe also called for lemon extract, but I don’t keep any in the house, as my inner food snob turns up her nose at artificial flavors. My springform pan, greased and lined with greased wax paper, was soon filled up with a light and luscious batter.
The cake rose beautifully, and I soon had it cooling on my wire rack while I worked on the filling, making it with marscapone cheese and lemon curd. The recipe also called for whipped cream and ricotta cheese, but I substituted light cream cheese instead. It also called for a lot more powdered sugar than I was willing to use.
My parents raised me to appreciate the natural flavor of things, especially when it comes to whipped cream. We use sugar sparingly, preferring to taste the cream, not have it be something so sweet it makes your teeth hurt.
When the cake was cool, I cut it in half and slathered on the filling. The remaining lemon curd was used as a glaze for the top of the cake, and then I dusted the cake with powdered sugar.
The results were delicious, if not quite right just yet. Next time I’ll obey the recipe and use cake flour instead of just sifting all-purpose flour, and I’ll add some lemon zest to the batter. I think I’ll also reduce by half the number of yolks the recipe calls for. Perhaps instead I can use the yolks while trying to make lemon curd from scratch.
My usual preference for cake is chocolate, though I have made banana cake and love my mother’s oatmeal cake. Still, there is something delightful about this recipe with its cheesecake-like filling. It fits the season, the perfect cake for spring, light and delicate with a rich, lemony filling. 

I closed my column with information about some upcoming brat fries and bake sales that the Randolph Chamber of Commerce is holding as fundraisers, with the promise that I'll make the cake for a few of them. I'll be whipping together the cake again tonight, as I'm working all day at a brat fry/bake sale tomorrow.

In the crease

Originally Published on  November 10, 2007

In the crease

My favorite college mascot will always be the Michigan Tech Husky. My parents took me to Michigan Tech hockey games before I was walking on my own, so I was delighted when my aunt called last month and offered me first dibs on her season hockey tickets for the match-up between the Badgers and Huskies. 

I gleefully accepted, and then invited my friend Jenny, who graduated from UW. When my son learned that I was going to a Tech hockey game without him, he was upset, so I wound up calling the MTU ticket office and buying tickets for the Friday game too. I neglected to check the calendar first, and the Husky/Badger games in Madison fell on a weekend he would be with his father.
The other male Husky hockey fan in my family, my father, was more than happy to use the extra ticket. We met on Friday on the east side of Madison, and drove downtown to the Kohl Center together. Our seats were three rows back from the team bench, so by the end of the first period we were using four of our senses to take in the game: the chill of the air in the ice arena, the sounds of skates on ice and the puck hitting sticks, the sight of the hockey players checking each other into the glass...and the smell.
After many seasons of being in the bottom of the pack in the Western Collegiate Hockey Association, the Huskies were the top team in the WCHA going into Friday’s game. It was very satisfying to be there for the win.
There was just a small group of Tech fans clustered behind the team, easy targets for the sometimes humorous but too often unsportsmanlike conduct of Badger hockey fans (particularly the student section.)
Walking down State Street before the Saturday game, I spotted members of the MTU pep band, sporting their distinctive black and gold overalls.
I couldn’t resist shouting “Go Tech” to them. They stood out again in the Kohl Center, prompting the student Badger fans to point them out while chanting a word that is a euphemism for a body part.
In a break between periods, a sweet motorcycle was rolled onto the ice as the finale to a contest. Three contestants were given keys to try, and the one who started the bike would win. In the row ahead of us were two couples. The female halves of the couples were both at least three points higher on a 1-10 scale than their boyfriends. They were having an animated conversation about the bikes, and turned around and included Jenny and I in it.
"Hockey and motorcycles," said the cuter of the two guys. "What else is there to talk about?"
"Food and sex," I said.
He nodded sagely and asked his girlfriend if she wanted to switch topics.
When the second period started, MTU scored in the first 30 seconds. I jumped to my feet and cheered, the only person on my feet in that corner and level of the Kohl Center.
The guy I'd talked to turned around and said "What the f@&k?"
I told him I went to MTU, and he replied, "I don't give a shit."
It was amusing, but he turned out to be a pretty decent guy, though he gave me crap when the Badgers scored. At the end, when it was obvious the Badgers would win, he turned around and said it was a good game, shook my hand, telling me that Tech was a much better team now than it had been in previous years.
Though MTU lost to the Badgers on Saturday, it was still an exciting game to watch, even if my aunt and uncle’s tickets had me deep in Badger territory.