Peace and Quiet

This was our year for all the kids and grandkids to be with us for Thanksgiving: our three daughters, son-in-law, grandkids Will, Catie, Jack, Autumn and Ada, plus friends Paul and Nancy. In all, thirteen for dinner, but only nine spending the night. And only seven spending the weekend.

I love this truism about the joy of hosting your grown children and their kids: The sweetest sight in the world is their car turning into the driveway, and the second sweetest is the same car backing out when the visit is over.

Post Thanksgiving, I can appreciate that wisdom. Sure, the toys are back in the toy closet; the dishwasher has been run and emptied one more time; four loads of sheets and towels are laundered; the craft paint spots have been eradicated from the kitchen table and tile. On the other hand, I don’t have anyone with whom to read a bedtime story. Or delight in the immense depth of the bath water in the spa tub. Or sing me a song about ballerinas. (Don’t tell me Curt can fill in; he had to catch a plane for Canada this afternoon. And while he likes deep bathtubs, he knows diddly squat about ballerinas.)

In the midst of all the “I’m hungry,” and “Can we make a gingerbread house,” and “Where’s the kitty?” and “I want to play with that!” and “Come and watch me,” interspersed with shrieks and laughter and mittens and shoelaces and toilet needs, it’s apparent from this vantage point why nature has determined that human beings have their offspring while the parents are still relatively young. I’m amazed to realize that Curt and I also once handled all the tumult of a young family with such aplomb, and I have new admiration for grandparents who are called upon to raise their grandchildren.

Still, I already miss the wild enthusiasm of Will, age 6, whose favorite expression is “Who doesn’t love (fill in the blank)!” As in, “Who doesn’t love Thanksgiving dinner!” even though he doesn’t really love most of what was served at Thanksgiving dinner. His favorites were the grape tomatoes on the appetizer platter, the sparkling juice, and the dinner rolls. His assessment of the star attraction as it was prepared to go into the oven: “That’s a live turkey!” His sister Catie, age 3, decided in that one look that she no longer likes turkey. Can’t say I blame them; that’s basically why I’m vegetarian myself. Even so, at the dinner table Will marveled, “Grandma, you made all of this!”

And I love the way they make me laugh. Catie’s dad Dave remarked, “When you get older, Catie, you’ll be able to get me coffee.” Catie’s response: “I’m free and free-quarters, and I can get all the drinks I want for myself.” Let Daddy get his own damn coffee.

But then again, I have only myself to please at dinner tonight. I’ll go for slightly past-its-prime leftover pasta, Chex mix and Ghirardelli 60% dark chocolate chips. I can’t look at stuffing or sweet potato casserole right now. Please. Though they’re still buried in the fridge somewhere.

So, let me see. Tonight:

Gramps the cat dozing blissfully, check.

Everything in its rightful place, check.

Me with my feet up and a good book, check.

Troll books and ballerinas, no check.

Conclusion: Peace and quiet is both marvelous and overrated. At least I have some new Christmas ornaments—snowmen and stars freshly painted in muddy blue and gray tones because too many colors were applied, all signed illegibly on the back. I’m sure they’ll look great hanging on the tree next to the ones their mom and aunts painted 25 years ago.

Besides, the whole clan will be back in four weeks for Christmas. Life is good.

Viva Las Vegas

As an Iowa schoolgirl, I and my schoolmates were treated to annual assemblies featuring the world travels of Al Bell. In outlandish costumes, bringing artifacts and animals and showing films from places like Newfoundland and Egypt, Mr. Bell introduced a generation of landlocked middle-American children to the reality of a vast world.

But did this impressionable pre-adolescent girl get bit with the Indonesia bug? No, it was that great philosopher of the Twentieth Century, Elvis Presley, who first stirred my travel dreams. His melodic extolling of the beckoning allure of Las Vegas just sounded so upbeat and happenin’:

Bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire,
… turnin’ day into nighttime, turnin’ night into daytime…
If you see it once you’ll never be the same again.

Not being the kind of place I wanted to vacation with my parents, I quietly added it to my bucket list under the heading “Someday.” As a churchgoing young mother of three, I hid that list under a pile of laundry, schoolwork and choir practices. At various times over the years, I’d drop hints to friends, sisters and/or daughters that we might plan a trip together. (My husband wasn’t interested, so I needed a traveling partner.) But I soon found that, like Curt, not everyone shared my dream of visiting Sin City, even with the tales of drinks flowing freely and cheaply; 99-cent prime rib buffets stretching endlessly; and hotels practically giving away their rooms in return for our coins in their slot machines.

Me, Juli and Mary in front of Caesar's Palace

So I bided my time, and my patience was rewarded this past summer when I met two new friends who eagerly agreed to join me in checking this item off my bucket list. Mary and Juli had both been to Vegas before and were game to give it another go. Since our acquaintance was based on four hours together while under the influence of a couple of martinis apiece, as we traded emails planning the trip I reasonably began to question the wisdom of committing a weekend to traveling with them. They had known each other for years; would I be the odd man out? Were they regretting that they’d agreed to include me? On the fun-loving spectrum, would they turn out to be rowdy, devil-may-care hedonists, or prim, early-to-bed schoolmarms? I know which end of that spectrum I fall on, much as I like to pretend it were the other.

The view from my room at night

The three of us met up at the Paris hotel, where we checked into lovely rooms on the 30th floor overlooking the Eiffel Tower and the Bellagio fountains. With temperatures in the low 80’s, we ambled along the Strip, having lunch outdoors and shopping at Caesar's Palace. A seafood dinner at Aquaknox was followed by a show at The Mirage, Cirque du Soleil’s Love, with seats in the seventh row. I don’t want to review the show here, but let me just say that this Beatles extravaganza was probably the most amazing live performance I’ve ever attended, barring even the Bavarian accordionist on the riverboat last month.

The three of us with the backdrop
of the water wall at SW

The next day we got a tour of the fabulous Wynn and Encore casino resorts, with dinner at SW overlooking a manmade lake featuring a colorfully lit water wall. That night we saw another Cirque-type show, Le Reve, featuring diving, feats of strength and special effects over a million-gallon water setting. This one was Mary’s favorite, while I had become a bit blasé from the sensory overload by this time.


Speaking of sensory overload, that’s a pretty fair two-word summary of the Vegas experience. Street performers—one of which scared the pants off me when the “statue” moved—and huge themed hotels with sculptures and structures and waterfalls and fountains, and Elvis’s lights and the ubiquitous hum of the casinos, incomparable people-watching for those who enjoy that sport, the free-flowing food and drink. However, from those early days Las Vegas has evolved into an expensive, upscale destination with nary a 99-cent buffet in sight, and drinks running $13 a pop. Lucky for us that Mary provided lots of perks, compliments of her connections in the travel industry.

Now that I’ve covered the niceties, the reader might be left to wonder about the parts I’ve left out—those in-between-dinners-and-shows times. What about the debauchery? What about the gambling? What about the SIN, for crying out loud?

As it turns out, the very best way to visit Las Vegas is with someone who has no prior expectations of how you’ll behave. I highly recommend it. Next year, maybe Newfoundland.

Curt, Me, and Hugh: A Travelogue



Hugh? Or maybe his unknown
brother, Herb?

Hugh Hefner was among the passengers on our Danube River cruise.

OK, not really, but this guy certainly was a reasonable facsimile. If he’d been sporting a bathrobe and had 20-year-old hotties hanging off him, it would have sealed the deal.

While Hugh was certainly a bit on the elderly side, it was apparent that the average age range skewed toward over-50 on this trip. One of Curt’s first observations at our welcome session: “We may be the youngest people on the boat.” This actually reveals more about the sorry state of our age-denial than about the age of the other passengers, because it didn’t take long to realize that a considerable percentage of those “old people” were about our age. That should have come as no surprise, as it’s not the sort of trip most people would take with young families. No, it’s the sort of trip that appeals to Curt and me: plenty of amazing sightseeing in foreign countries with all our creature comforts attended to by English-speaking crew members. Comfortable lodging, minimal packing and unpacking, great food and drink, and never having to worry about how much a liter of petrol costs.



Looking down at the village of Melk from the abbey

Though that doesn’t mean our trip was stress-free. Au contraire! Get this: We had to wake early so that we could breakfast on chocolate croissants (me) and sausages (Curt) before catching our scheduled tours of cathedrals and palaces (sorry to say I didn’t note what Hugh ate for breakfast). When shopping in the historic cities and villages, we had to cipher the dollar equivalent of euros. The weather was unseasonably cold and cloudy for October, requiring us to pile on unattractive, chub-inflating layers. And one time at dinner, the parmesan atop my tomato soufflé didn’t foam properly. Life can be cruel, can it not?

  

Our feet and legs were definitely tired at the end of each day, having roamed cobblestoned streets, climbed steps to monasteries perched atop cliffs, ambled through palace gardens, and gawked at castles. Having been bored by reading about these things in the history books—the wars, the invasions, the influence of the Church—it’s amazing how being there makes it all come alive and infinitely more interesting. So at the risk of boring my readers in kind, I’ll just skim over the highlights.


 

Inside the Melk Abbey Cathedral

 


Vista along the picturesque Danube Wachau Valley

 

Curt and me at St. Matthias Church, Budapest

Each day began with a tour of a different city. We began in Budapest, the city split in two by the Danube—modern Pest with its picturesque Parliament complex and Old City Buda with its massive hilltop castle complex. The next day we docked outside Vienna, where after the city tour (and a purchase of some Viennese chocolates) we toured Schönbrunn Palace, the ruling Habsburg family’s summer residence that employed 4,000 servants in its time. We cruised through scenic Wachau Valley, lined with villages, spires, ruined castles, vineyards, and ended up the next day at Melk, Austria, home to a 900-year-old abbey with a library of medieval manuscripts and a baroque cathedral. We then entered Germany, with our first stop in Passau, the City on Three Rivers, where we attended an organ concert in rococo-style St. Stephan’s Cathedral featuring a 17,000-pipe organ. Next was Regensburg, a fabulously well-preserved medieval city that escaped World War II bombing with its 12^th-century stone bridge and stained glass cathedral. Regensburg is also where Curt purchased his most prized souvenir, a rabbit-hair fedora, from Europe’s finest hatmaker (which also made a hat for the Pope for his 80^th birthday).

That afternoon the sun finally made an appearance, and we had an excursion to a seventh-century monastery, Weltenburg Abbey, with stunning views of the Danube River Gorge. After a tour of its ornate cathedral we enjoyed beer and pretzels from the on-site brewery, founded in 1050. Back on the ship, we entered the canal system and made our way upriver through 20-some locks to Nuremberg, where we ended our trip. This city is famous for its WWII Nazi rallies and was heavily bombed; it was rebuilt with every effort at maintaining 13^th-century authenticity. There we shared a table in a lively biergarten with two elderly German ladies who spoke no English.

Each evening we enjoyed a cocktail hour back on board, followed by a wonderful multi-course dinner accompanied by fine wines, and then music and dancing. With just 150 passengers, we met some wonderful people who enhanced the whole experience. In the “small world” department, we met a couple from Wheaton, Illinois, the city in which I work and is just down the road from our home; and a woman who taught elementary school in Ankeny, Iowa, back when Curt and I were both in high school, and who knew many of our teachers.



Fortunately, all was quiet on the terrorist and toxic sludge fronts. We fell a little short of my goal for the trip of getting in plenty of QAT*, but we did make it to the hot tub once. Considering we came home with vastly broadened horizons, an extra pound around the middle, and a pope hat, I’m calling it a winner. 

*Quality Ass Time; see October 14 post 



The Sky’s the Limit

I’m just your average, everyday, born-and-bred Midwesterner. Meaning, when you look up “mainstream” in the dictionary, there’s a picture of me. To top it off, my Dutch heritage seems to have imparted a genetic tendency toward thriftiness. As Curt so elegantly puts it, I “squeeze a nickel until the buffalo farts.” (I apologize for my crudeness, but that’s a direct quote.)

So when it comes time to plan a trip, I look for deals. Usually our destinations are chosen on the basis of how good a deal I can get. And it generally goes without saying that we’ll be flying economy class. Until our recent trip to Europe, that is. At Curt’s insistence we cashed in some of his frequent flyer miles to go business class for each nine-hour flight (plus one connection) from Chicago to Budapest, Hungary, and then back from Nuremberg, Germany.

Having scant experience traveling in this exalted fashion, I can’t say whether Lufthansa’s accommodations exceed industry standards, but baby, I can tell you it’s sa-weeeet. 

Tasting the good life in the business-
class lounge in Munich (yes, that's
a bloody Mary, not a beer)



Waiting in the special spacious, quiet, comfy-seated lounges before boarding, we were plied with wine, espresso drinks and extensive snack options (including sausage, beer and pretzels in Munich). Upon boarding the plane through our separate jetways, we were directed to our 150-degree-reclining seats with lumbar massage at the press of a button, full-size blankets and pillows at each seat. The German-accented, perfectly made up, elegantly bunned flight attendants brought us champagne to sip as we waited for takeoff. Once in the air, steaming towels were distributed that we might cleanse ourselves of the filth encountered rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi in the airport. (I was reminded of the only time previously that we were upgraded to first class when all three of our girls were young. When asked “Would you like a hot towel?” by the attendant, daughter Kim asked her “What for?”) After the white tablecloths were draped over our tray tables, chef-inspired meals such as sesame-crusted tuna pastrami with glass noodles, accompanied by a choice of fine wines, were delivered from carts bedecked with vases of gerbera daisies. 

The return flight west was daylight all the way, since we left at 4:00 p.m. and arrived in Chicago about 6:00 p.m. (seven-hour time difference). In our own little business-class restroom, decorated with its own gerbera daisy, I mooned Iceland through the window positioned directly over the toilet.

That we might not suffer boredom, each seat featured its own screen with a wide choice of on-demand movies, TV shows, and even video games. (I tried Tetris but couldn’t really get the hang of the remote.) On the trip east I mostly slept, but coming home I watched part of Eclipse (decided it wasn’t doing it for me), Zoolander (very funny), Sex in the City II (great clothes), Toy Story 3 (grandson Will had warned me it was very scary), and a documentary on Bora Bora.

Having embarrassed myself with my wide-eyed wonder over flying business class, can you imagine what I’d be like if we’d been in first class? As far as I could tell by craning my neck trying to look past the curtains dividing the cabins, the main difference was that first class got red roses instead of daisies. But for all I know, they may have been served rock lobster tail by George Clooney and entertained with a live performance by Paul McCartney.

So … where to next? I think I’ll check out deals for Bora Bora. Though, Honey, if you’re reading this: you’ll have to work extra hard to accumulate the miles we’re going to need now that I’ve tasted the ways of the privileged.





Wherever the Water Takes Me

What makes for a fabulous vacation? Different things for different people, undoubtedly.

Growing up in Iowa in the ’50s and ’60s, my idea of a fabulous vacation was my family’s annual trek to Ideal Beach Resort on Lake Miltona in central Minnesota. Dad was an avid fisherman who spent dawn to dusk trolling the lake for walleye and northern pike while Mom held down the cabin, sweeping away the prodigious amounts of sand we kids dragged in and then frying each day’s catch for supper. God knows why she considered this a vacation for herself; for one 18-year period during which she often had babies in diapers, she had to boil the diapers on the stove after hauling water to the cabin, which lacked indoor plumbing until about 1960. Mom, always a meticulous housekeeper, cooked three meals a day for two weeks for five or six people in that rustic kitchen. I’m not sure whether a restaurant even existed within 20 miles of the place.

That two-week interlude each July was Shangri-La to us kids. For us, and apparently for Mom, too, what the resort lacked in amenities was amply compensated for by its location on a wonderful natural beach with an enormous, shallow, sandy-bottomed swimming area. Our days consisted of donning and doffing swimsuits hung out back on the clothesline between wearings, never quite dry because of the humidity. Running down the dock and hurling ourselves into a big tractor-tire inner tube. Shrieking in the rolling waves on a windy Fourth of July. Lolling lazily on a big beach blanket in the sand, transistor radio tuned to the Top 40. Catching minnows, building sand castles and collecting shells. Mining the treasures at the resort store, like Black Cows and Sugar Daddies and candy necklaces and those six-packs of miniature wax Coke bottles (what IS that stuff, anyway?). Roasting marshmallows at a beach bonfire, all the while reeking of the mosquito repellent which would never be strong enough to deter the blood-sucking hordes of those summer nights.

Somewhere in the nostalgic recesses of my mind lurks that carefree child splashing in the waves. Until the last few years, though, the sorry state of our finances allowed little more than an annual family pool pass to assuage my grown-up aquatic yearnings.

Finally in middle age, the kids out of college and Curt and I both gainfully employed, we began a serious pursuit of vacations combining my favorite water-based activities with plenty of QAT (the family acronym for Quality Ass Time, which itself is shorthand for Activities Best Pursued While Sitting on Your Ass). These have tended toward beach-bumming and ocean-gazing, with a few snorkeling excursions thrown in if we were feeling particularly energetic.

This weekend, though, we leave on a different kind of vacation, one that we expect will educate and illuminate. Destination: the beautiful blue Danube, starting in Budapest, Hungary, and ending in Nuremburg, Germany. One week being guided through ancient monasteries, castles and cathedrals, accompanied by on-board lectures and strudel-making demonstrations, fueled by hefty doses of Viennese coffee, German brewskis and a glass or two of European wine. We’re a little worried about the potential for rain, and yes, we heard about the toxic sludge making its way toward the Danube from a tributary. And yes, the U.S. State Department has issued a travel alert warning citizens traveling to Europe to be cautious of the threat of attacks. But we’ve had this trip planned and paid for way too long to let sludge or vague references to terrorists deter us.

And did I mention we’ll be traveling on the river? We will not only broaden our horizons, but we get to do it mostly on the water. Hopefully all that on-shore culturizing will allow plenty of time for QAT. After spending days trudging along quaint and historic cobblestoned paths, I’m envisioning our sore muscles soothed in the riverboat’s hot tub as we gaze in awe at the passing scenery reflected in the tranquil hues of the river. Is that asking too much?

I'll let you know.

Nine Things I’m (Probably) Not Writing About

This blogging business is harder than it looks.

Especially for someone like me: a procrastinator, a perfectionist with a mile-wide lazy streak. I used to wonder why I had such trouble making decisions; a rare flash of insight tells me it’s because I’m afraid to make the wrong one. So I don’t make one at all. Which in itself, of course, is a decision not to do ANYTHING. Like when nothing seems like a good topic for a blog post.

I started off writing I Run in Jeans with some optimism. I’ll post something three times a week! No, that’s too aggressive, twice a week is sufficient. Wait … I don’t want to wear my readers out. I think three times in two weeks is enough. But no, once a week is really plenty. It’s not for the readers—it’s for myself! After all, it’s just for fun! I enjoy writing! So what if I don’t post for a whole month? It’s not like I’m getting graded or anything. And I don’t care whether anyone else reads it anyway! Wait, who am I kidding? I thrive on the feedback!

My modus operandi is generally this: Take a germ of an idea and just start writing about it until I see where it takes me. The approach will reveal itself in the process. (Or maybe it will be a blog about nothing! Just like my all-time favorite sitcom Seinfeld.) Knowing that it might take me some time to make sense of my germ, and that I'll undoubtedly change directions several times, I procrastinate.

In the past couple of weeks, during which I haven’t posted a new entry, I have been obsessing about what I could be posting. It’s not for lack of inspiration that I’ve not written anything; it’s more for lack of conviction that the concepts have any entertainment value. Because above all—OK, make that in second place right after good food—humor is what makes the world go ’round. What about love, you ask? Well, duh, food and humor ARE love. That’s the truth as practiced in my family, anyway.

Parked at my Dell desktop with a bloody Mary (containing blue-cheese-stuffed olives on a toothpick), I briefly reconsidered a few of my recently discarded blog topics:

1) My birthday. I turned 57. Big whoop. Everyone has a birthday every single year. The aging thing has been done to death.
2) Thoughts on my husband’s five-month unemployment, and how that affects aspects of our relationship. Except he reads this blog. And it’s not really funny. And I really do care about his feelings.

3) The five-mile Walk for Women’s Wellness I did with my granddaughter Autumn last weekend. And how my hips ached afterward. Again, big whoop. 

4) Being a vegetarian and eating beef stew the other night, and how delicious it was. Hmm … maybe I CAN get some mileage out of that one. But I’ll have to be careful of the soapbox.

5) Couples’ book club last Saturday. Enjoyable, but nothing inspired me.

6) Losing Sarah, one of the people on my staff at work, whom I greatly valued as an exceptional employee and as a quality human being. She’s getting married and moving away. SO not funny. Ob-la-di, ob-la-dah, life goes on.



Gramps, so named because of the long gray hair
protruding from his ears.

7) Our gigantic, incredibly furry Maine coon cat, Gramps. Cats in general appeal to a rather narrow audience. He’s kind of funny, but he’s also kind of a bad cat. Like, he claws the furniture and pees on shoes. But here’s a picture of him, since I’m probably never going to write about him in depth.

8) Getting my hair cut and not liking it. I TOLD Michelle I want to grow it out! She said she was barely trimming it! Why is it so short? Really, that’s about all there is to say about the matter.

9) Lighting our fireplace for the first time this season. Reading the Sunday paper and drinking coffee in our pajamas until noon. As lovely a picture as that paints, let’s face it: booooooorrring.



Unfortunately, none of these brilliant topics has taken hold and expanded itself into post-worthiness. But you never know; if I grow desperate somewhere down the road my readers may find themselves being regaled with details of the lame discussion from book club, or my latest aches and pains. Or maybe I’ll just keep posting about what I didn’t post about. And I hope you think my cat is cute.



Back to the Future

My parents weathered the destruction by tornado of two different homes in the same town—Ankeny, Iowa—17 years apart. After the second tornado in 1990, with us kids all moved away and Dad in failing health, they packed it in and moved back to their hometown of Sibley, Iowa, attracted not only by the prospect of living near one of their children (my oldest sister Lois and her husband John) but by the slower pace of life. Sibley is a county seat town of about 3,000 in the far northwest corner of the state near the Minnesota border. All four Wissink kids—Lois, Jay, me (Bonnie), and Pam—were born there, and the town has changed little over the years. Dad died about five years after they moved back.

The Wissink sisters--Bonnie, Lois, Pam--enjoy a laugh with Mom
(September 2010)

My now nearly-88-year-old mother, fondly known to her descendants as Grandma Neva, lives in relative independence a few blocks from Lois and John, but though she still drives her ’91 Buick Park Avenue (only 80,000 miles on the odometer) for groceries and bridge, it takes a lot to entice her to leave town these days. Such as Skippy peanut butter being on sale for 99 cents at the Hy-Vee in Sheldon, or getting a hankering for a Perkins breakfast (in neighboring Worthington, Minnesota). Though she’s no longer up for the 500-mile trip to visit me in the Chicago area, I get to experience a little slice of vanishing rural America whenever I visit her.

Mom’s rented duplex is well-located with views of the municipal golf course, but even more conveniently sits just around the corner from the First Reformed Church. As we pulled into her driveway at precisely 3:00 p.m. on a recent Saturday afternoon, the church bells were chiming a hymn: “I Love to Tell the Story.”

“My goodness, Mom, that’s loud! How often does the church play the chimes? Doesn’t that bother anyone?” I asked her.

“Oh, no, we just got the chimes fixed and they play different hymns every hour,” she boasted. “I hardly even hear them.”

Mom has a big old radio tuned to the local station, where each morning she blasts the news report consisting of births, deaths, and hospital admissions and releases. On Wednesdays she plays Five Hundred at the Senior Center, where, she dispassionately reports, it’s harder and harder to get two tables together, what with various seniors’ ailments and some recent deaths.

But Mom’s great passion is playing bridge; she’s convinced that game alone is responsible for keeping her mind sharp. One of her two bridge groups recently acquired a new member, who is apparently having a little trouble gaining acceptance—especially with 92-year-old bridge whiz Zeda Thely—because “she’s not a very good player.” If someone leads the wrong suit or trumps inappropriately, Zeda leads the charge in pointing out their error, but Mom retorts with her still-sharp tongue, “Everyone makes mistakes—even you, Zeda!” They serve one another tried-and-true recipes from the church cookbook: peanut butter bars, rhubarb dessert, or that always-popular delicacy, Jell-o cake with Cool Whip. They play for pennies and nickels, and when I call Mom after one of her five-hour sessions, she gleefully reports what her take for the afternoon was: “I made 85 cents today!”

Each Tuesday morning Mom’s sewing group made up of her elderly cronies, the Chickadees—a moniker the group apparently relishes as it was affectionately bestowed by the church’s pastor—gathers at the church to sew quilts for the homeless, gossip, eat donuts and drink weak Folger's coffee. On Friday mornings, many members of the group reassemble to fold and compile the church’s Sunday bulletin with all its various inserts.

I hope that if and when I get to my ninth decade of life, I can enjoy a similar happy, healthy and peaceful lifestyle, with plenty of friends and family nearby. But hymns chimed every hour, world without end? I suppose if my hearing gets as bad as Mom’s, I could even tolerate that.

Over the Bounding Main

May 2010: A Groupon offer came to my email in-box for a 2½-hour chartered sail on Lake Michigan before mid-September, half price. Ten-day advance reservations required.

Picture in my head: A breathtaking Saturday morning, light winds, skimming along in the sunshine as we admire the view of the Chicago skyline sipping bloody Marys.

Call to my good friend Pat: Yes, yes, let’s the four of us do that! Purchase completed. In mid-August we finally decided we’d better get our outing on the calendar, and found that luckily, we were able to get reservations just under the wire.

Reality, The Short Story: We sailed in a drenching downpour with poor visibility and mildly pitching waves as I dry heaved first over the boat rail, then below in the marine head, sick as a dog.

Reality, The Long Story:
All week prior to our sail we watched the weather forecast. Saturday didn’t look promising, with cool temperatures and scattered thunderstorms predicted. We’d been told that we’d get a phone call if the weather precluded sailing, but that probably wouldn’t be decided until just before our scheduled departure. Curt and I held out high hopes that the Heine Effect would once again save the day.

Allow me to explain. Our friends Pat and Carl Heine are the quintessential optimists. Not only do they maintain a positive outlook, but good things seem to come to them. We went on a cruise with them once, and apparently legions of whales were jumping out of the water performing a ballet for Pat and Carl, as Curt and I lollygagged in chaise lounges on the other side of the boat. I believe that’s the same trip that they witnessed a spectacular Aurora Borealis display the night Curt and I turned in early. The year Pat and Carl went canoeing in the Boundary Waters, northern Minnesota logged a record warm and sunny fall—and apparently all the mosquitoes had already died. It’s little wonder that Curt and I are delighted to plan outings with them.

Saturday morning dawned cold, cloudy and rainy, just as predicted, but according to the weather tracker app on Carl’s Droid, the front was passing. We dressed in layers, and Pat had brought heavy-duty raincoats. After a stop at Starbucks we got ourselves to the harbor where we crowded under trees in a downpour waiting for our captain.

“Look how beautiful these acorns look dripping with rain,” Pat observed. “My new shoes are so comfortable,” Carl offered. “Aren’t all these boats magnificent?”

Captain Mike appeared, greeted us and reported that after quite some discussion with the charter company’s owner, the sail was still a go. We soddenly trod down the pier and boarded, but found the seats all drenched; undaunted, we went belowdecks to wait it out a bit longer. As Mike went up to towel off the seats, Curt popped the cork on the champagne (no bloody Marys allowed because of the potentially staining tomato juice) and the four of us sat dripping and shivering in our rain gear as we raised our glasses: “Here’s to sailing in the rain!”

Just before disembarking--don't we look as though we had the time of our lives?

Before long it seemed to let up so we hit the deck and set off. Choppy water threw us around a bit before passing through the breakwater, but Captain Mike assured us that was always the worst part. As he raised the sails, the rain started down again in buckets. Out we sailed, no other boats in sight. Soon we even lost sight of the Chicago skyline in the mist. The lake remained choppy and the boat rolled in the waves. I could feel water running down my abdomen, despite my hooded raincoat. We chatted about Mike’s years as a sailor, other trips we’d taken, and life in general as we adjusted and readjusted our hoods. We sat on plastic and covered our legs with more plastic, dumping off the water as it puddled around us.

I started to think I felt a little “off,” because I had only had coffee (and champagne) for breakfast. Before long I was at the rail, dry heaving with seasickness. Curt had had enough of being thoroughly drenched (he wasn’t wearing one of Pat’s raincoats), so he went inside; on wobbly legs I pitched myself down the stairs, too, making for the marine head for some follow-up retching. Pat and Carl stayed above with the captain, and I’m pretty sure I heard them remark about how the wonderful rain moisturizes and replenishes one’s complexion.

Not soon enough for me, Captain Mike pulled in the sails and turned on the motor, and as my life passed before my eyes, every ounce of my being wished the trip to be over. As soon as we pulled up to the dock, my equilibrium returned and like magic, I felt just fine.

And guess what? All things considered, we really did have a great time. I guess the Heine Effect was at work after all, but it’s not that everything is always perfect wherever they go. It’s that it’s always enjoyable to be around positive people. There’s still a ways to go before we can call it the Welsh Effect, but we’re working on it.

Return to the Scene

Labor Day weekends the past few years have offered the opportunity to visit my mom in Sibley, Iowa, due to generally agreeable weather and an extra day for the 1,000-mile round trip. Curt and I just returned from this year’s pleasant and uneventful trip to the town where I was born and lived my first nine years.

Flash back to Labor Day Weekend, 2009: My daughters and grandkids drove with me for the visit to Grandma Neva and Aunt Lois and Uncle John. The women decided to take the kids to the Sibley City Park, where to my delight the two imposing metal slides from my childhood are still providing thrills. There’s the big slide—the two-humper—and its little sister, the one-humper.

As we sat on a park bench watching the kids play, my daughter questioned the wisdom of leaving these slides in place to endanger life and limb, especially in view of the fact that most of the other unsafe equipment had been removed: the big metal jungle gym and monkey bars, where I chipped my new front tooth at age 6; the trapeze bars with the benches you could push as far apart as you dared leap; the whirling merry-go-round that rose high and low as you ran along beside it. I sniffed that I had grown up playing in this park, and did not recall a single incident of anyone being injured.

Right about then, my grandson Will called to me to remove a suspicious mass at the top of the little slide (which, I might add, is “little” only in relation to the giant towering next to it). After climbing to the top and wiping off what turned out to be bird poop, I observed that indeed, the slide did appear wide enough to accommodate a posterior of roughly my dimensions, and sliding on down just seemed like the right thing to do.

Let me just say I knew I was in trouble the moment I started down, because I was FLYING and I knew I had to land on my feet at the bottom and run. But there was loose gravel at the bottom; my feet flew out in front of me and I reached down to brace myself. Then I was on my butt, looking up sheepishly at my “empathetic” elderly mother and big sister and daughters, all with tears of laughter streaming down their faces. I wanted to laugh, too, because I was pretty sure I’d made an ass of myself, but I really wanted to cry. Dear Mom suggested a sign should be placed nearby: “No one over 12 admitted.”

An hour later I was in the emergency room of the county hospital. I had to wear the cast for six long weeks. At least, though, when asked what happened, I didn’t have to say something lame like “carpal tunnel surgery.” No one expected a woman in her mid-50s to answer: “I broke my wrist going down a playground slide.”

A return to the scene: more deadly than it looks

On this year’s trip to the Sibley Park, no one expected me to be daring enough (or dumb enough) to chance a re-enactment of last year’s escapade. I warned my sister Pam that it was dangerous but she actually chanced the two-humper, while I stared down my nemesis, the killer one-humper. Oh, well, there were still no warning signs posted.

Pam on the two-humper (much the more impressive of the two, I admit)

Culture Infusion

The author in front of the museum

There must have been a small pile of parts left over the day I was created. That’s the only way I’ve ever been able to explain the glaring lack of an artist’s bone in my body. It’s long been apparent to me that some other lucky person on the September 1953 baby production line got mine, and I was stuck with a double measure of pragmatist bones.

Please understand, anyone who got the extra artist’s bone: I know that art appreciation can be learned. I took a class or two in college and enjoyed them. The information just didn’t stick. So while I fear being branded an artistic dimwit, I confess that I like my art to look like what it is supposed to represent. And I like it done with finesse and attention to detail, please.

A Picasso (yes, I got in trouble for using a flash)

Such were my musings today as Curt and I strolled the galleries of the Art Institute of Chicago. We started with the easier stuff: the great masters of the 18th century. I marveled at the attention to detail, the realistic portrayals. In my gradebook, nothing earns a painting an A+ faster than intricately painted lace cuffs and perfectly rendered coils of hair. I could be heard musing admiringly, “It looks almost like a photograph!” Realism does have its drawbacks, however. It was difficult for me to imagine a practical way to display, for example, a finely and intricately wrought painting of a guillotined head by Gèricault. My best guess is that a true artist doesn’t worry about such mundanities as where it will look best in the living room.

Then we moved on to the Impressionists. Things started going a little haywire for me here, because while Monet and his ilk are widely admired for their pioneering methods, Monet’s works failed to excite in me a fervor for the nuances of finely stacked hay in various lighting situations. The subject is realistic enough for someone of my mindset; it’s just the lack of details in the execution that puts me off. 

The Lipchitzes: Is this how you'd want to be memorialized for all time?

We finally made our way to the highly lauded new modern wing of the museum, housing contemporary art, which opened just over a year ago. We could appreciate the merits of many of the pieces, though others completely befuddled us. The Picassos are interesting for their bizarre composition; other pieces simply caused me to scratch my head. One enormous piece, probably 10 by 16 feet, was all black with some plaster texturing in places on the canvas. And there was Modigliani’s portrait of a Mr. and Mrs. Lipchitz (pictured). How P-O'd would you be when the artist showed you this finished portrait and handed you his bill for services rendered?

"Venus de Milo with Drawers" by Salvador Dali

While I don’t have a framed poster of dogs playing poker in my home, I actually kind of get why people are drawn to that type of art. But lest my readers think me a hopeless reverse art snob, let the record show that right this minute I am looking at an abstract Picasso print on my office wall, which I like very much. It complements the stickers-on-construction-paper composition of moons, planets and spaceships created especially for Grandpa by our grandson Will, hanging on the opposite wall. I know which of the two speaks to me more.

But I know you’d love our black velvet Jimi Hendrix portrait. Now that’s great art.

Making Memories: Family Vacation

Three days stretched interminably when I was ill at home with Curt out of town a couple of years ago. Perversely, three days pass awfully quickly when you’re having a great time.

The Welsh Waterpark Wingding 2010 may, by popular acclaim, become an annual affair. Sure, the Wisconsin Dells have a certain reputation for middle-American cheesiness, but it’s hard to imagine a better combination of attractions to appeal to all ages.

Cousins Will and Autumn with the Wilderness Moose

Our first day, Angie and Christina and I agreed that people who don’t like waterparks are just plain nuts. What’s not to like? Kids large and small being entertained for hours with plenty of energy-exhausting activity and no complaints of boredom. Riding the waves on tubes. Mini-golfing. Underwater breath-holding contests. Grandma Bonnie’s accidental mooning of unwitting Lazy River patrons (note to self: wear one-piece swimsuit next time). And no, we didn't get a picture of that. Margaritas and rum punches and virgin piña coladas sipped under a giant umbrella. Reading magazines in the sunshine. Adults acting like kids, going down slides and jumping in pools and floating.

Christina, Angie and Catie waiting for the waves

I had to explain to Jack and Autumn that my enthusiastic screaming on my way down the slides was not coming from fear, but exuberance and excitement. Christina is about as bad as I am in that department. Our three-year-old Catie, though, didn’t emit a peep, other than afterward: “That was SO MUCH FUN! I didn’t scream.”

Due to a seating shortage, Jack made himself a couch out of barstools

And then there were the small, unanticipated things we got to enjoy just because we were spending time together. Sitting around in our pj’s sipping coffee in the mornings, discussing topics great and small. Curt cooking his famous cheesy eggs and frying up the pig meat. Placing bets on which U.S. city’s population is fourth largest, and which is the largest city in the world. Dominoes tournaments. The kids drinking milk through chocolate straws. The whoopee cushion Jack and Autumn “won” at the arcade. Uncle Dave’s teasing of 11-year-old Autumn about potential marriage to a Jonas brother, and of 13-year-old Jack about his secret admiration of Garth Brooks.

The mini-golf course is a fearsome place

Five-year-old Will had a little trouble saying goodbye on the morning of our departure: “Dad, can we please just stay one more day?” Then, “Please just two more hours?” and “How about one more hour?” When that didn’t work, “Can we go to Grandpa and Grandma’s house?”

I felt exactly the same, Buddy. Next year, maybe we can make it a whole week.

It’s No Tropical Island, But ...

... when your adult children invite you to go on vacation with them, it doesn't need to be anywhere exotic.

Where to go, then? When our middle daughter Angie proposed the idea earlier this summer, we spent a couple of weeks trying to decide. She and her family live in Des Moines, Iowa; the rest of the family live in and around Chicago. Our top five priorities were:
1) inexpensive,
2) sun,
3) water,
4) family fun, and
5) inexpensive.

Various destinations were considered and rejected: Orlando, been there; Mexico, no passports for the kids; a lake resort in the Midwest within driving distance for everyone, all sold out; everything else, too expensive. Taking another look at numbers 1 and 5 on our Top Five list, the Wisconsin Dells came under consideration, chiefly because of the drivability. Tightwad that I am, I checked eBay. Bingo! A four-day, three-night vacation at a great price, waterpark passes included.

I’ve long been a fan of waterslides, wave pools and such. Put me in a tube (not a tube TOP, thanks anyway) and plop me on the Lazy River ride on a sunny summer day, and I’m good for hours. By all appearances, our daughters and grandchildren have inherited this affinity. Waterparks offer the perfect combination of frenzied activity and inertia—a definite winner for kids, energetic adults and those of the lazier persuasion.

We leave tomorrow, and the nine of us—Curt and I, youngest daughter Christina, 13- and 11-year-old grandkids Jack and Autumn (they belong to oldest daughter Kim, who can’t join us), Angie with husband Dave and their 5- and 3-year-olds Will and Catie—will all be sharing a 3-bedroom condo with full kitchen. Angie and Christina are in charge of meals and snacks, no easy task as there are vegetarians, a gluten-free eater, some picky eaters as well as some unabashed carnivores among us. Angie’s already prepared the monster bars, brownies, trail mix, and by popular request, purchased the Anderson-Erickson French Onion Dip. (If you’re not from Iowa, you must add this to your bucket list. Trust me.) So far, Christina (the single, city girl) is signed up for bringing the Truvia (non-caloric sweetener) packets.

As intelligent as our offspring are (no prejudice there at all), I suspect they exploit their knowledge of our eagerness to spend time with them to their financial advantage. The fact is, I don’t even care. I know we’ll be rewarded with endless laughter (I’m telling you, these kids crack us up), hours of great conversation, and (warning: sappy sentiment approaching) memories to last a lifetime. How can one put a price on that? Dominoes, hikes around the lake, snacking, maybe a movie or two, and undoubtedly some popping of wine corks after the grandkids are in bed will round out our activities.

I’m just hoping that my eBay purchase proves to be all it was represented to be. If there’s any trouble, I’ll have to up the ante or the kids might decide to vacation without Mom and Dad next year. St. Louis? Cleveland? Peoria? Somehow I don’t think those options will pass muster. Better tell them to get their passports in order, just in case. Priorities Number 1 and 5 be damned.

Life Management 101

Who’s to say when a person’s behavior crosses the line between normal and peculiar? It’s a very thin line, in my book. Label others’ methods of dealing with life’s irksome little challenges “quirky,” if you will, but I prefer the term “resourceful.”

Some people, I’m told, perform their daily grooming routine in a particular, inflexible order, allowing the peace of mind that comes from knowing they never leave the house (unless interrupted mid-ritual) without flossing or deodorizing. Others hang their underclothes on doorknobs and chair backs throughout the house to air-dry after removal from the washing machine, saving the trouble of buying and setting up a drying rack. Still others count the number of steps it takes to walk from a remote parking lot to a building, so that they can accurately estimate the distance they’ve covered (just let me know if you want more details about how that works).

So why would anyone find my Clothing Management System to be peculiar? I myself find it remarkable that most people don’t even have a Clothing Management System. For the past, oh, 20 years or so, I’ve kept a log of what I wear to work each day. And I find it to be quite logical, reasonable and advantageous, thank you very much.

My extremely low-tech but effective method requires only a yellow legal pad and a pencil with an eraser, kept handy in the nightstand drawer. Each season I transfer the previous year’s list of options to a fresh sheet, omitting those I no longer want to wear. After each shopping trip I fill additional lines on the sheet. Every night before bed I look over the list and choose the next day’s outfit, marking a date next to it. If I change my mind, no problem—that’s what erasers are for. I’m freed from: a) standing in my closet each morning blankly staring at rows of clothes; b) running the risk of repeating an outfit I’ve recently worn; and c) leaving a perfectly good article of clothing languishing forgotten at the back of the closet.

“Someone’s cheese has slid off her cracker,” I see emanating from a thought bubble out of the tops of my friends’ heads when I’ve attempted to convey the many merits of my system. They shake their heads pityingly, smile uncomfortably and change the subject. Despite the system’s obvious advantages, I’m not aware of a single convert over these many years. I’m left to conclude that, on the list of problems to be solved, apparel management is way down there for most people.

But just think about it: If ever a crime were committed in which the eyewitnesses described the perpetrator as a tall, middle-aged, brown-haired woman wearing a light blue blouse and black skirt, could you whip out your Clothing Management System and prove incontrovertibly to the investigators that, AHA! You were wearing the taupe cable cardigan that day? No, YOU could not. But I could!

And of course, one could always buy a pedometer instead of counting one’s steps from the parking lot, but how resourceful would that be? It wouldn’t be, that’s how.