Originally posted May 29, 2004

I am becoming obsessed with the deck that covers the entire back of our house. I was told it is the equivalent of 900 square feet, which is larger than the apartment we had when I was first married. But its size isn’t what controls me. Rather, it’s cleaning the surface.

I have learned that decks need to be washed and sealed to preserve not only their wood but also their beauty. But since I have worked two jobs for the past two years, our deck has been neglected on both the washing and sealing fronts.

This year is different. Being a lady of relative leisure, I decided that I would hand-wash our deck before setting out the summer furniture. I began in early May, thinking this was a job for one day or two. But today is May 29, and I am still at it. There are several reasons for this.

First, the weather has been uncooperative, sending rain that has caused power outages, muddy fields, and lost opportunities for spring deck cleaning.

Second, never having cleaned a deck before, I used the wrong solution, actually the wrong proportion of bleach to water solution, so that I had to retrace my swabbing steps and redo the part that I had considered finished early in the month.

What can I say, except that most household things take longer, are more expensive, and require more knowledge than I have at any given moment. Which is to say I’ll keep trying, but I’ll also not put myself on a deadline that is unrealistic, given the ineptitude of the deck cleaner person.

Originally published June 9, 2004

It’s Wednesday morning. The last two guests from the weekend birthday bash left about an hour ago, and the house seems eerily quiet. In a few minutes, I’ll start stripping beds and washing towels, picking up things that have moved from their usual places, and slowly resume my normal routine. By tomorrow, one would never guess we have been partying for the past four days.

I’m not particularly a party person. Rather I prefer small gatherings, even just getting together with one other friend. But I would not have traded these past few days with friends and family all piled in together, roaming the house and sharing company.

Our refrigerator has the last vestiges of the various meals we ate: lasagna, egg casserole, baked beans, sausages, English muffins, watermelon, chicken, chocolate dessert. I hasten to add we didn’t eat all these things at the same meal, although Earl and I probably will this evening. And as I enjoy the leftovers, I’ll be thinking of how special it was to take time to party, party, party.

Originally posted on May 31, 2004

Willie Mc Cord was a private from Arkansas who fought for the North in the Civil War. Somehow, when the war was over, he ended up in Michigan. Maybe he met someone and fell in love; perhaps he wanted a more northern climate; or possibly work led him here.

Regardless, when he died in 1917, Willie was buried in Crystal Springs Cemetery in Benton Harbor, Michigan.

Fast forward to the year 2004, Memorial Day. I doubt any of Willie’s descendants still visit his grave at Crystal Springs. Even worse, perhaps he is not remembered any more anywhere. Except that Earl and I chose to remember him this Memorial Day.

Why? The reason is simple. Memorial Day was originally created to remember fallen comrades from those wars that enabled us to maintain our democratic freedom. And, about eight years ago, Earl and I decided to create a new tradition (if there ever was such an oxymoron) of visiting cemeteries and spending a few moments at the grave of some soldier who had served his (or her) country well.

Today, families are far flung, with parents, children, siblings, cousins, etc. living in different parts of the United States. The tradition of visiting graves on Memorial Day causes great expense and time, if family members take it seriously and gather at the local cemetery.

But why couldn’t others, like Earl and me, represent such families by visiting graves of those who served in the armed forces and spending a few minutes thinking about their lives, as unknowable as they may be?

Willie Mc Cord, I wlll never know more about you than what is on your tombstone, but you enhanced my life with the brief description of your own. I hope you had joy more than sorrow, laughter more than tears, success more than failure. But if not, know that one person in the twenty-first century still stopped by your grave to say ‘Hello.’ And thanks.

Originally published May 30, 2004

Today, for the first Sunday in many weeks, I read the Herald Palladium from front to back, with the exception of the classifieds and the advertising inserts. Neither Earl nor I ventured forth from the house to buy the Chicago Tribune, our usual Sunday fare; so I settled for what passes as news in southwestern Michigan.

The lead story on the front page was about the prevalence of methamphetamines in this area. It featured a sidebar on a woman who became addicted to meth and spent time in jail, drying out while doing time.

Given that there was extensive news of terrorist activities on the radio and television these past 24 hours, I was surprised that the lead was so localized. I realize the Herald Palladium is a local newspaper, but wouldn’t it want its readers to have a sense of the world beyond their doors?

I scoured the paper for national and international news, and finally found it in other sections. I read the editorial, which excoriated Amnesty International for chastising America and its war on terror. Obviously, the editorial was written by a conservative who feels that we have a monopoly on being victimized and nobody, but nobody, should criticize us.

It wasn’t news to me that I’ve chosen to live in a very conservative part of our country. And, to give the paper its due, the political cartoons were more to my liberal liking. But, reading the local newspaper so closely made me wonder if other Michiganders view it as the gospel truth. If so, I’m sorry.

Places like southwestern Michigan are important for maintaining a semblance of stability across the fabric of American life. At the same time, changes that occur that benefit minorities of any kind do not occur here. Equal pay for women, gay marriage, sex outside of wedlock, living together without being married, you name it. It starts elsewhere before the Herald Palladium ever learns of it.

After thinking about it, the meth story as lead article was pretty revolutionary.

Originally posted 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.