Posted on May 28, 2004
Today Earl and I went for a walk along the Lake Michigan beachfront in St. Joe. As we parked our car on the sidestreet and walked over the bridge that spans the railroad tracks, we heard the roar of waves racing to shore.
For the twenty-eighth of May, it was cold as we went down the ramp that leads from the bridge to the path beside the beach. The sound was amazing, as if Mother Nature were reminding us that she had stormed in last weekend and was considering doing it again.
The water was brackish, rather than its signature blue, as the wind whipped through it stirring up the bottom’s debris. And the path along the beach was deserted, save for one older woman we passed going in the opposite direction. It’s customary here to nod one’s head or wiggle one’s hand or even say “Hello” when passing a stranger; and she did her part, although it was brief and terse. Perhaps the cold had gotten to her, as the temperature was fifty at best.
When we lived in Chicago, Earl and I would often drive to a different neighborhood and go for a long walk. Then we’d go out to breakfast. It was a wonderful way to spend the morning.
But for the past two years, Earl has gone to breakfast alone, skipping the walk completely, while I worked at my computer on various projects for my freelance clients or on the Project from Hell, also called River Walk at the Box Factory.
But over the past six months I have closed my freelance business and resigned from the P from H. It’s taken some time to catch up on all the other things that had languished as I worked more than I cared to and fretted even more than that. But as I approach my sixtieth birthday, I’ve promised myself a “sabbatical,” a year off to do whatever I want.
The walk and breakfast this morning was a spontaneous thing, and it reminded me of what fun we used to have when Earl and I made it part of our daily routine. I don’t even like breakfast that much, but served up how it was today could change my mind. Here’s to my year of fun and may spontaneity make more frequent visits.
See more 10 Minutes in category Changing Scene, Small Town Life
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Posted on May 26, 2004
These past few days have shown the power of electricity versus the power of trees, and the trees did not win.
A terrible storm roared through St. Joseph and Benton Harbor last Friday, ripping trees from the ground as if they had already been made into toothpicks and matchsticks. And, as the trees fell, so did the power lines that supply electricity to the communities.
The newspaper headlines said over 200,000 people across the state were affected. I don’t know about the other 199,998; but Earl and I were without power for about 30 hours, long enough to begin to appreciate how our lives are governed by wall switches, clickers, and computer mice. Since we are on a well and a septic tank, no power also meant no water, as the pump on the well is run by . . . you guessed it . . . electricity. The thought of a hot shower began to be an ongoing dream of ours.
Others fared worse, and some of our neighbors were without power for five days. One neighbor had a tree fall on his house; another had his camper flattened, and yet another saw his boat take a beating.
But all this wasn’t how the trees lost the battle between themselves and the electric company. When the storm passed and the crews began to repair the wires, they implemented a rule that says no trees can be within 15 feet of any overhead wires. Which means the people who waited the longest for power also felt the wrath of the electric gods. While they lost trees to Mother Nature, they lost many more to the electric crews who cut a swath 30 feet wide, leaving trees in their path for the homeowners to dispose of.
I certainly don’t want to go back to living without electricity, but it saddened me to see how many trees lost their lives to deliver it to us.
See more 10 Minutes in category Changing Scene, Flora/Fauna, Technology
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Posted on May 20, 2004
Voices are like barometers. They indicate if everything is normal, if pressure is mounting, or if decline has settled in.
I just called my son in New York City and Chris answered the telephone: “Hello, Fred Flare” came the usual greeting at their place of business. But within that standard greeting was an undercurrent of frustration, exhaustion, something that told me the barometric pressure was about to burst.
It was a small question that prompted my mid-day call. Was there an error in the upcoming flight reservations for Keith and Chris to visit me? Being nit-picky, I thought there might be when I received the email with their flight numbers and times. So I called to check, and that’s how I knew the business weather in NYC wasn’t sunny and warm. I talked with both Keith and Chris, although the entire conversation took less than a minute. Both of their answers were terse and short. It didn’t seem like the time to inquire what the problem was, although I know I will wonder about it until we talk again.
That’s how it is when you are the mother. You are always taking a temperature, checking a pulse, looking for signs of stress in your offspring — even when those offspring are in their thirties, as mine are. And because my sons live far away, I listen closely on the telephone for signs. It’s the only measure I have to go by. I know Keith will call on the weekend and bring me up to date. But I hope in the meantime, the storm passes and when we talk his voice is filled with warmth and sunshine.
See more 10 Minutes in category Me/Family, Things to Ponder
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