Originally published November 16, 2007

Years ago — about twenty-five, I believe — I embarked on the study of Yoga. It was a time in my life fraught with children of all ages, and I needed something relaxing for myself two nights a week. So off I went to the local high school and spent a wonderful hour each time with Mrs. Hornberger, our instructor.

I learned there is a breathing facet to Yoga; and I found it difficult to master. “The breathing will come,” Mrs. Hornberger would say. “Just focus on the postures.” I did. But the breathing never came.

The children grew up and left home. I moved and joined a health club where I took swimming lessons. I had learned all the appropriate strokes as a child, but needed a refresher course. For instance, what was called the Australian Crawl in my younger day was now named the front crawl, but often referred to as freestyle swimming. No matter its name, there is a breathing component to it. One I still hadn’t mastered.

Then Earl and I moved to Michigan and gutted our bathrooms, which meant we needed a place to shower. We joined the local health club two years ago so that we wouldn’t be offensive in public, and I’ve been going there ever since. Today I do weight resistance training, swimming, and walking. In the first two of the three, breathing is as important as it was back in my Yoga days.

And the good news is, I’ve figured out how to do it. Basically, you exhale on the exertion and inhale on the rest portion of the exercise. It doesn’t matter whether you’re doing weight training or swimming. It’s the same rhythm. Of course, this is health club jargon to anybody who hasn’t been searching for the key to breathing. But I’ve been searching twenty-five years, and I only wish I knew where Mrs. Hornberger was now. She was right all along.

Originally published April 4, 2006

I was rooting around in Earl’s car’s glove compartment looking for a particular map, and it struck me that the contents of the compartment provided a history of our road trips together. I smiled in remembrance.

We bought the map for Arkansas when my Mother died and we went to her home in Conway, AR, together to empty her house and bring back those few things I wanted. Among them were two bedraggled trunks that I had refinished and now display proudly in my home. That map helped us drag the U-haul home through the small towns of the Arkansas and Missouri Ozark Mountains without getting off the path.

The map for San Francisco came in handy when we flew there, rented a car, and met my father who lived in the valley. I returned a couple times on my own and used the same map for handy reference.

The New York State map represents two car trips Earl and I took back East to my own origins in upper New York State. I don’t think Earl had ever heard of Lowville until I came into his life. But Lowville is where most of my ancestors are buried, my mother and step-father, my grandparents, and great grandparents among them. It’s my version of his Spring City; and we plan to visit again this summer. We’ll need that map.

Then there are maps for Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana, mostly because those are the states close at hand where we travel back and forth. There’s also a local one of the county where we live; it is among the most worn because it took us a while to get our bearings when we moved here.

The trouble with roadmaps is that they become outdated within a few years, what with new construction of highways and detours. But we rarely bother to purchase a new map; rather we rely on the old ones, the ones with memories of previous trips, their creases and cracks embedded in our consciousness.

For updated information, we depend on signs along the highway. But for reminiscing we rely on the outdated maps in the glove compartment. I suggest you check yours and see what you recall.

Originally published August 31, 2007

I’ve gone back on my word not to visit Starbuck’s. I’d kissed the coffee chain good-bye a while back when I stood in line over fifteen minutes to get my specially made latte and wondered if any coffee was worth that waste of time.

I was good for a while, finding substitute beverages and saving money. But over the summer I’ve slipped back into the old Starbuck’s routine. The latte is a carrot and I’m the donkey in question. Which means I tell myself if I work out at the health club, then I’ll treat myself to a Starbuck’s as a reward. It’s worked really well. I’m getting pretty buff and Starbuck’s is getting three fifty-five a day.

This morning was no exception. I did my aerobic routine and then headed for my latte. There were several other customers milling around the coffee bar and the pace was fast, one hundred eighty degrees different from the morning I swore off lattes. I finally got my beverage and headed to Baroda to have my tires rotated. Zipping down Cleveland Avenue I sipped my extra hot, nonfat, decaf latte — which is about as fake a coffee drink as one can order . . . but that’s another issue.

I took the first sip, making sure I didn’t burn my tongue. It was certainly frothy. I took another, waiting for that coffee taste to rise above the milk, so I could enjoy it. Funny, it didn’t taste coffee-like at all. But Cleveland Avenue isn’t the place to whip off the top and investigate.

While my tires were being rotated, I sat in the waiting room and removed the lid. The contents were a creamy white, rather than the pale tan I expected. Just to be sure the essential ingredient — coffee — was really missing, I searched the bottom of my purse to find something with which to stir the liquid. The only thing available was my steel crochet hook, which I promptly wiped off and stuck in the cardboard cup. Swirling it around, all I found was milk.

So, with tires ready to go, I retraced my mileage to the Starbuck’s and brought my coffe-less latte back. The barista made me another, and this time I watched to make sure she added the two shots of decaf espresso. She laughed about the crochet hook. Fortunately, I wasn’t on a strict schedule today, so I could take the slip-up in stride. But who knows; had it been a different day, I might have sworn off Starbuck’s again.

Originally published May 15, 2007

We have a variety of bird feeders that hang from tree limbs and dot the perimeter of our home, and we are in constant warfare with the squirrels who think we set this food out for them. For the record, we do not. But squirrels are a clever and tenacious species, and they are determined to prove us wrong.

They can frequently be found hanging upside down from a tree branch, hanging on by their hind claws while their front claws are grabbing seeds left and right from a feeder.
This past weekend they found the mother lode with no problem at all. Here’s how.

One of Earl’s pricier feeders was clogged, so that neither bird nor beast was getting any food. So we decided to return it to the store where we’d bought it and take advantage of the product’s lifetime guarantee. But first Earl emptied the contents onto our deck.

Enter Porky the Squirrel.

There was probably a pint of good bird food on our deck, and it wasn’t long before a brown squirrel arrived to sample it. Not only did he sample, but he stayed. He stayed for two days eating every little seed and nut while fending off other squirrels who might want a bite of the buffet. Hence, we named him Porky and were sure we saw him grow fatter in real time. We wondered if he’d explode.

The interesting thing was that, while Porky refused to allow other squirrels to partake in the birdseed buffet, he shrank when approached by two bluebirds who wanted their due. It was fascinating to watch bird and beast accommodate each other, dancing around the food feast and keeping a wary eye.

Today, however, Earl blew the deck clear of debris in anticipation of our houseguest who arrives tomorrow. In essence, the buffet was closed. Gone were the seeds and nuts, as they were blown into the grass. Gone too was Porky, although I suspect we’ll see him rummaging in the green blades for more food. It makes me wonder if squirrels are more like humans at Thanksgiving than we acknowledge.

Originally published June 14, 2007

Ten years ago I moved into an industrial loft in Chicago’s Fulton Market District. My unit faced north, and I spent many evenings on my balcony admiring the sunset to my west. That area was an industrial corridor unobstructed by high rises; so the sun fell onto railroad tracks and warehouses and falling-down buildings, bathing them in gold in its wake. I never tired of it.

Eight years ago Earl and I moved together to another loft, only this time it faced east. You would think we would revel in sunrises, but that was not the case. Our unit faced the Chicago River, across from which was a tall office building completely encased in glass. The redeeming factor was that the sun, which actually set behind us, reflected in the glass each evening. So we enjoyed the sunset as much as I had in my previous home.

Now we’re almost six years in this St. Joseph location. And, last night, as I finished watching the night’s fading rays, I thought to myself, “I must be getting complacent, for I don’t plan my evening around sunsets anymore.”

Maybe I’ve come to take them for granted, which isn’t a good thing. A sunset is a wonderful way to finish the day, to gear down, to quit work of all kinds. It’s nature’s version of “Taps.” Having gently chided myself, I plan to sit on our deck more often during the rest of the summer and watch the sun disappear behind the trees that line the river bank behind our house.

Because a decade of sunset memories is hardly enough.

Originally published January 25, 2007

Years ago television ads promoted the taking of pictures to preserve memories. As the Kodak Company made its pitch, singer Paul Anka provided the musical background by crooning that the photos captured “the times of our lives.” I was always a sucker for that commercial.

It meant that people took photos with a camera that required a roll of undeveloped film which, when fully exposed, one took to Walgreen’s for processing. The result was a bevy of photos that were held in the hands and elicited strong memories of the particular event that had been recorded.

Digital fans don’t seem to see it that way. They take photos and move them to their computers’ hard drives. From there, perhaps they crop and size and improve and adjust. This function alone alters reality. Hopefully, in the process, they take time to recall the memory.

But what I have noticed most about people who are into digital photography is that you never get a photo via snail mail from them. In fact, it’s rare that you get to see what they’ve taken at all, in spite of such Internet venues as flickr.

My cousin, Steve, is a case in point. Every Thanksgiving he seems to take copious photos of our annual gathering; but I have yet to see one of them. He does it all digitally, then returns home to review them, and most likely files them on his computer. I grant it’s a great space saving device — as I have about 2000 photos in various boxes on shelves screaming for attention and organization — but I don’t think it is more human. I mean, aren’t memories to be shared?

When I die, my two sons will be left the task of sorting the one hundred years of family photos I have. If they were all on my computer, they could be gone in the blink of a delete’s eye. But in my case, someone will have to go through them. I hope they enjoy some Kodak moments along the way.

Originally published July 27, 2006

For the past few weeks the families who live on my road probably felt like pioneers when they ventured out in their automobiles. I know I did, and it was because the only road leading to where we live was torn up and removed, leaving only uneven paths of gravel and dirt behind.

Granted, pioneers didn’t drive cars, nor were they the recipients of a shiny black new road to replace the old one. But for those couple weeks when the road was gone, it was a challenge tantamount to crossing the plains years ago. My little Neon struggled at times to keep itself out of ruts, especially when we had a couple torrential rains. By the time I pulled into my garage, it looked as if I’d been in a mud wrestling contest.

When the weather was hot and dry, my car created a cloud of dust, even if I drove at a speed I could probably walk. From the door handles down, a film of earthen-colored dirt covered everything: the bumpers, lights, wheel rims, tires, and my little accessory that helps deer avoid a head-on collision.

I imagine the family Conestoga Wagon started its trip West with clean wheels, clean sides, and clean interiors. And I imagine the terrain those people crossed was more primitive than our temporary dirt road. Nevertheless, I felt a kinship to those people in my Conestoga Neon. The road is back, but my door locks are still sticky, the exterior needs a good wash, and the inside has a souvenir film of dust. I’d admonish anybody who tried to lean against the hood, just as I suppose more than one pioneer mom was heard to say, “Josiah, don’t lean against the wagon; you have to wear those clothes to Kansas.”

Originally published May 27, 2006

I love the scent of lilacs in bloom, and this spring I’ve loved them close at hand.

When we first moved into this house, we planted some unassuming lilac bushes that struggled a while but have now come into their own. Three nest outside the bedroom that is my office, and on nights like tonight when my windows are open their scent fills the room and swells my memories.

Lilacs grew wild on the farm I lived on for a year or so in upstate New York in my youth. My Aunt Cel and Uncle Frank took me in when they had to; and, when I smell that lavender scent today I think of that magical time when getting dirty in the name of growing potatoes or corn was a wonderful thing. They are both long gone, but not forgotten.

After leaving that farm, I morphed into city folk as I lived in Syracuse, St. Louis, Little Rock, Chicago, Indianapolis, and Detroit by the time I’d hit the quarter century mark. Yet, I remember lilacs in some of those places.

Syracuse, for instance. We lived in the upstairs of a house and the neighbor next door had wonderful, though overgrown, lilac bushes. Once I gathered some clothes of mine that no longer fit — I was about ten — and hid the collection under such a bush for a friend of mine who had less than I. When my mother discovered the disappearance of part of my wardrobe she was annoyed, but I like to think the scent of lilacs made her understand.

For some reason, lilacs make me think of poetry too. Walt Whitman wrote “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed” in the nineteenth century, but the line “Yet the lilac with mastering odour hold me” could be said of my feelings today. That’s the thing about the scent of lilacs. It’s stimulating and it’s tranquilizing at the same time.

Originally posted February 22, 2006

They are stacked in their own neat little corner, almost like children who have been given a time out. And what these ten books have in common is that I’ve read approximately two/thirds of each and then set the work aside.

Some of the books are fiction; others offer advice on the writing life. Some were recommended by friends and family who know my interests, while others called to me in bookstores. All remain unfinished, even though none is boring or uninteresting.

The truth is I have chronic reader’s block, a malady that’s had me in its thrall for about a year now, maybe longer. I’ve never seen it defined in a dictionary, so I’ll give the problem credence by defining it as “that condition where a previously avid reader begins a new book, eagerly moves through enough of it to determine if she wants to finish it, decides it’s worthy, but then becomes derailed as she gets closer to the end.”

Reader’s block doesn’t prevent me from starting another new book; it just keeps me from finishing any. So, in the past year, I’ve read only one book, a novel, from start to finish. The others sit waiting patiently for me to return, while I’ve run out of bookmarks and have taken to reading only the daily newspaper and contemporary magazines whose articles don’t require lengthy periods of concentration.

I suspect some of my closer acquaintances might say, “Yes, Anne, but you always read the last page of a book first.” And I would have to admit it is true. “Ah,” they’d probably nod, “doesn’t that ruin it for you? Doesn’t it make the book less interesting?”

I’ve done this all my reading life. It does change the perspective from which I read a book, but I was always capable of then going back to the beginning and reading to the last page in the usual fashion. So I don’t think reading the last page first is the root of my problem, but I don’t know what is. If anyone else out there has experienced reader’s block, I would appreciate hearing from them. Perhaps we could form a support group.

I sense my little stack of unfinished books is nodding its communal approval.

Originally published February 1, 2006

Both Earl and my spellchecker shake their respective heads when I purchase broccoflower at the supermarket. Earl winces because he can’t imagine a vegetable that combines the tastes of broccoli and cauliflower when he abhors both. The spellchecker is simply confused.

But I love broccoflower, and it is hard to come by. So whenever I see it in the produce department, I snatch it up, take it home, and smell up the house with its cooking odor. If we owned one, Earl would wear a clothespin to the dinner table.

Which leads me to wonder what other combo-veggies might be on the horizon.

What about asparasprouts? They would be the green of their two parents, asparagus and Brussels sprouts, and have the strong taste of both. I see them served cold with a mild vinaigrette dressing and sesame seed. Or rutamatoes, a derivative of rutabaga and tomatoes. It would be pale pink, have no seeds, and be easy to peel. You would mash it, as you do potatoes, and then serve it as an accompaniment for pork.

Or maybe eggini, an offspring of eggplant and zucchini. Served a la parmesan, it would be delicious. . . and healthy. And what about parsnipoli? You guessed it; parsnips and broccoli. Or lima corn as a replacement for succotash?

The ideas are endless and don’t even have to stop with pairing two vegetables. We could combine a vegetable that doesn’t have broad appeal with a cookie recipe that does. Or a vegetable with a pie or a cake. So in the future, I look forward to tasting broccoleach pie or avocado chip cookies.