Running with an iPod

If I had started running with an iPod sooner, I’d be in much better shape right now. 

I’ve always been an athlete and have spent a good portion of my life working out to various degrees, but shortly after the birth of our second child and my retirement from professional disc golf and competitive volleyball, working out became more of a chore than something to enjoy. (And I’ve got twenty pounds on me to prove it.)

But the chore of working out has once again become a source of enjoyment. And it’s all because of the music.


The girls and I got Mike an iPod for Father’s Day, which was about the time when he doubled the length of his daily run. First he ran with me, where we discussed and solved all the family and business problems facing us. We used this time to chat and enjoy one another’s company. But soon he needed more of that runner’s high, and as I hit the shower, he veered off for several more miles. An iPod seemed in order.

On the first day of iPod running, he had the memory filled with ten thousand Grateful Dead tunes and shaked his way all the way down the street, getting off on that special high. Six weeks later, when he couldn’t join me for our morning workout because of a project at the resort, I borrowed his iPod. A week later, he and the girls bought one for me.

And it wasn’t even Mother’s Day.


I do have a few Grateful Dead favorites on my play list, and even a few of Willow’s hip-hop and/or rap tunes; but my iPod overwhelmingly carries songs that make my daily running in this hot flippin’ desert not about the work out, but instead, about the music. To name a few artists, I’ve got Neil Young, Eric Clapton, The Band, Bonnie Raitt, Joni Mitchell, Phoebe Snow, Chris Isaak, Sting, and perhaps the most uplifting, Gloria Estefan, who covers a lot of standards on her album, “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me.” These songs make me want to throw out my arms and sing while I run. And sometimes I do. But only when I believe no one is watching.

So if you happen to see what appears to be a nutty old lady running down the road, or heaven forbid hear her singing “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me!” please don’t call for the men in the white coats. She may be a little carried away with that so-called runner’s high, but really, she’s just enjoying the music playing in her head.

Homework

“What’s the homework situation?” 

This is the first question I ask my girls everyday after school.

Is it just my kids or has the second half of the first quarter led all teachers to pile on the homework? During the past week, both our seventh grader and our freshman have spent every “free” moment at home stationed at their desks.

The freshman has about two hours of algebra per night, which is most likely because it’s a class with the lofty title, Honors Algebra II. She also has lots of work for her GATE classes, but I think she knew what she was getting into when she chose that program. That she runs x-country and plays club soccer, her lack of actual free time makes me amazed that she finds time to update all her Facebook friends on nearly every move she makes. BTW: since I inevitably reach REM sleep before she calls it a night, it’s fun to wake up in the morning and check out what she was up to the night before. It’s become more interesting than my email.

The seventh grader has had abundant homework in nearly every class but PE. After volleyball she heads straight to her desk and has been up past 10pm for the past several nights diligently working through her assignments. And this is a kid that almost always turns into a pumpkin at eight o’clock. Welcome to junior high.

Thankfully neither has had a meltdown yet, and both have been rewarded with good grades, along with praise and congratulations from their dad and me. I can say with absolute certainty that my parents weren’t even one-tenth as interested in my progress in school as I am in what’s happening with our girls’ education.

And yet I turned out okay.

So, I wonder, is my involvement with my kids’ progress in school a good thing? What’s more important—that they self-motivate to learn and please themselves or that they know I’m looking over their shoulders—both at their desks and by way of the Internet daily grade books?

Boy-oh-boy, it’s only the first quarter and I’ve already had enough of my recurring class in Mommy Micromanagement. Perhaps it’s time to get back to my own work. (If only I could remember how to self-motivate !) I seem to recall having written eight chapters of a new novel, which I had to set aside in May to help run the family business. Well, I’m away from the business now, having left it in the hands of a capable employee. So WTF am I doing?

Note to my own managers—you know who you are—I think I need a “mommy.”

Boob Sweat and a Bowl of Rice

The other day, Beaver and I met for our morning work out. We usually switch between neighborhoods, hers’ being the groomed and mine being the rustic. Either way, according to her pedometer it’s a four- mile stretch. And at this time of year when the mercury climbs to 90° by eight am, it’s a sweaty adventure.

Anyway, last Friday when we closed the front door behind us, I noticed the Beaver had stored her cell phone in her sports bra and thought it a convenient pocket. I don’t usually carry my phone at this time of day, and because my iPod has a snappy little clip, I never even considered that my running shorts and shirts are pocket free. Nevertheless, when we again met on Monday, I was expecting two important phone calls: one from my husband on the road and the other from one of my oldest and dearest friends, whose daughter had just been hit by a car while on her bike.* (The driver was talking on her cell phone.) Because I didn't want to miss these calls, I used Beaver’s method and tucked my phone in my sports bra.

Big Mistake. After the workout when I pulled my phone from my sweaty bra pocket, the screen was black.

 

You’d think I’d know by now how sensitive electronics are to moisture. This past summer I witnessed both my sister’s and my daughter’s phones plunge from their pockets into the lake and immediately go dead. “Put it in the oven,” was one piece of advice. “Use the compressor to dry it out,” was another. After twenty-four hours of drying out, the good news is that both of their phones came back to life.

Upon learning of the murder by boob sweat attempt on the life of my phone, both Beaver and our friend, Julie, a cyclist, suggested the best ICU was to lay it in a bowl of rice. Since I’ve seen many a saltshaker in tropical climates filled with grains of rice mixed with the salt (in order to prevent coagulation), this suggestion made sense to me. So, I gave it a shot.

This morning, when I removed the phone from the rice and put it back together, it appeared to be back in working condition. The screen came up and the contacts were not lost. Then I plugged it into the charger, grabbed my iPod and went for another run.

When I came back, sure to wipe away the sweat pouring off my body before touching the phone, I found the screen had once again gone black. I can make and receive calls, but it appears the boob sweat has caused some serious brain damage. 

Damn! Why did I store that phone in my bra? I wondered, how could it not be a problem for the Beaver but be a BIG one for me? Perhaps it’s because of our difference in size. 

Perhaps.

"The moral of the story," said the Beaver to her big-breasted friend, "is that when it comes to anything to do with bras, never take advice from an A-cup.”

* My friend’s nine-year-old daughter is still in the hospital with two fractured ribs, a lacerated liver, scratches to the face and one pupil remains larger than the other, causing some blurred vision. Five days after the accident her prognosis is good, and she will most likely be released by tomorrow. Unfortunately, it’ll be quite a while before she—and especially her mother—recover from the trauma.

Bottom line: DON’T RUN, WALK, or especially DRIVE and use your cell phone.

So, Do You Think They’ll Let Us See It?

The front page of this morning’s Arizona Daily Star has a headline reading, “Obama school speech apolitical, text shows.” I read the brief article to my daughter, which is essentially a review of the President’s address to school children slated for 9:00am this morning.

The White House published a transcript of the speech with the intent (and hope) of neutralizing critics fearing his attempt to indoctrinate our children with his political agenda. The transcript confirms that Obama “will do what American Presidents have done before—urge students to work hard, stay in school and follow their dreams.”

After hearing the article, my 12-year old innocently asked, “So, do you think they’ll let us see it?”

I’m afraid not. And if her teachers don’t even discuss it—if it’s NOT a part of their curriculum—than it will be another missed opportunity.

I’m going to hope for the best, and out of respect, give them a chance to do their jobs the best way they see fit. Meanwhile, I think we, as American citizens, should have as much respect for our elected President.

Let him do his job.

To Any Parent Who Phoned the School or Wrote to a Teacher Protesting Obama’s Upcoming Speech to School Children:

Do you truly believe our President has the ability or the agenda to “brainwash” American students through an Internet broadcast on the topic of education? Do you know he is not the first President to speak specifically to school-aged children? Did you (or your parents) protest when Ronald Reagan or Bush 41 did it?

Your complaints about our elected President trying to involve our children in the democratic process and encourage them to value education are alarmingly ignorant, culturally biased, and insulting. Because of your numbers and your threats to teachers and administrators, all you’ve managed to do is teach MY children about the unproductive and hateful nature of partisan politics. We had ENOUGH of that during the Clinton administration.

There needs to be a new War in this country and that is a War on Partisan Politics. STOP THE MADNESS!

I wonder, is it the conservative talk show hosts that prompted your actions or seeded your opinions? Talk about propaganda! (Have your child look up the word “propaganda” in the dictionary because clearly, YOU don’t know the meaning.)


According to Education Secretary Arne Duncan, in the September 8 speech “the President will challenge students to work hard, set educational goals, and take responsibility for their learning. He will also call for a shared responsibility and commitment on the part of students, parents and educators to ensure that every child in every school receives the best education possible so they can compete in the global economy for good jobs and live rewarding and productive lives as American citizens.”

Scary stuff, eh? Good God!

Because of the controversy and the number of calls (on both sides of the issue) our school district (TVUSD) has stated on its website that it will remain “apolitical” and therefore has made no directive to stop teachers from broadcasting the speech. “If there would be reason to have this event be a legitimate part of a classroom curriculum, teachers will notify their principals no later than 9 a.m. Friday, September 4 and parents will be notified on Friday if their teacher will be using the address as part of their curriculum on Tuesday.” An Opt-Out form will also be available for parents who don’t want their children to participate, and these students will not suffer any academic of behavioral consequences.

The Junior High Principal followed with a message reading “no Emily Gray teachers will show the address on Tuesday, September 8. After the initial broadcast and after viewing the material, should teachers determine the broadcast to be of educational value in their curriculum, they will notify parents of their plan to show the broadcast.”

Well, I, as my daughters’ most important and consistent teacher, am going to view it and record it, and show it to them. Anyone, particularly an extremely intelligent and successful person—the product of the finest education America has to offer—who is willing and able to talk to my girls about the importance of their education, is welcome in our home. And he should be in our schools as well.

Volunteer Fingerprinting

Volunteering in the Tanque Verde Unified School District isn’t as simple as it used to be. For the past ten years, I’ve held volunteer roles ranging from kindergarten “Mom Helper,” to reading instructor, to field day obstacle course director, to volleyball coach and soccer coach.  All I ever had to do was show up, sign-in, put a Volunteer lanyard around my neck and make my way to the kids.

This year, however, my desire to volunteer required six pages of paperwork, including my professional resume, four references, a notarized criminal investigation release and . . . fingerprinting.

This additional screening for persons coming in contact with district children may or may not be because of last June’s arrest of the district’s superintendent, Tom Rogers. The target of an FBI investigation since January, 2009, he was indicted on suspicion of engaging in sexual acts with a juvenile boy.

Rogers, hired as the Superintendent in April, 2007, also served as associate principal at Emily Gray Junior High and taught a seventh grade class. I had met and conversed with him many times, and my husband served with him on the calendar committee. Never did we suspect him capable of this type of criminal behavior. But how can one tell?

Currently, Rogers remains in Federal custody and his trial is scheduled to begin December 1. He faces up to 30 years in prison.

Rogers’ arrest has had an enormous impact on the community. Several are outraged that the investigation had been underway since January, and yet the Board of Supervisors wasn’t notified, and his arrest didn’t occur until June. Clearly the authorities needed concrete evidence against him prior to making an arrest. Most of us, I think, are overcome with the creepiness of all of it and have learned the need to place extra scrutiny on candidates applying for positions to have influence over our children.

Even volunteer volleyball coaches.

This year, the junior high school volleyball teams clearly needed some help. Coaches were not in place for either the tryout/placement procedure or the first game. Because of this, they didn’t cut any of the girls who came out for the teams and the result has been a gym-load of players eager to learn and play the game.

My seventh grade daughter is one of them.

So, the minute I returned to Tucson, I threw my ball in the court. I’ve been playing and/or coaching volleyball for about 40 years. I love the game and know most of the girls. And I like them, and want them to have a fabulous experience as members of their volleyball team. I’ve worked with them for two days and today, while they traveled to a far away game, I drove to the district office to get my fingerprints on file for them.

Even though my delightful fingerprint artist made the process fun, and she was as gentle as a manicurist, because this was my first fingerprinting experience, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit like a criminal. I had to sign a few more forms and she thanked me for being a volunteer. Then, she happily took a photo of my ink-stained fingers with my phone.

Thank God she didn’t ask me for a mug shot. It may have been a good fingerprint day, but it was definitely a bad hair day.

Does Anyone Out There Read Mandarin?

Several months ago I learned my first novel, A Line Between Friends, would soon be available in Taiwan and Mainland China. Optioned twice, by both The Commercial Press in Taiwan and the Shanghai Wanyu Culture and Art Company in China, the translated version was scheduled for distribution this summer. I haven’t yet received the new product, but I have seen the new cover:

Today I think I received my first review, but it’s hard to tell. The problem? I can’t read Mandarin. Google Translation, which I now offer as a blog gadget, helped a little bit, but I’m afraid the expression, “lost in translation” comes into play. If anyone is interested in reading the blog entry by Fran Wu, it can be found at http://blog.roodo.com/franwu/


When I heard Taiwan and China were interested in this novel, I couldn’t help but wonder if the story and/or the characters’ motivations would translate. Noelle and Joel, the main characters in A Line Between Friends, sprung from a 1970s coming-of-age, and are 100% Western in culture and nature. Their Chinese counterparts grew up during the Cultural Revolution, (under Mao from 1966-1976), where students were sent to the country to be “reeducated.” All books, except for Chairman Mao’s “Little Red Book,” his quotations/instructions on life, were banned.

Today, however, it looks like the Chinese can read anything. Even my little novel. I wish I knew the Mandarin word for “unbelievable.”

Book Review: Dreams From My Father by Barack Obama

Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Getting to Know Obama, the Man
There is no way around expressing that this is a remarkably well-written memoir. Per the title, the author, Barack “Barry” Obama, tells not only his life story, but also focuses on the subject of race in America. He tells his personal history as well as the history of American’s race relations and understanding through the eyes of a biracial boy-turned man, coming of age in the late 20th Century.

Throughout his life, it’s apparent Obama has commanded attention through his intelligence, good nature, handsome being, and strong family background. This tale is as much about his Midwestern-born white mother and grandparents, “Gramps” and “Toot,” as it is about his biological Kenyan-born father. It’s still remarkable to comprehend that this narrator, given his roots, eventually becomes the elected 44th President of the United States.

I enjoyed listening to the narration of this story by the author. He unabashedly recalls both events and conversations of his youth, and without fear or tiresome, guarded political motivations. He expresses true accounts of his coming of age and the understanding of his heritage. And I particularly enjoyed Obama’s recollection of his journey to “Home Squared,” when he visited Kenya for the first time and related my own first visit to this fascinating country. Every American, black or white, can’t help but learn about the role of race plays in a community when traveling the streets of Nairobi or the red dirt roads of the Western Provence.

Please read (or listen to) this book. Love him or loathe him, at least get to know him. This book commands great respect and I give it my highest recommendation.

View all my reviews >>

Why I'm No Longer a Disc Golf Tournament Director

Mike is a fantastic tournament director. He’s been running disc golf tournaments for some 25 years and they’ve ranged in size from a few people to hundreds. His ability to run a smooth, fun event is one of the reasons why the Northwoods Open is arguably the most popular disc golf event in the state of Wisconsin. He credits all the support he gets from the disc golf community, which includes a staff of experienced tournament directors and statisticians; however, I happen to know his success comes not only from his experience, but also from his personality.

First of all, he’s a golfer and has been since 1974. He loves the sport, loves the discs, and loves most of the people who play. He’s got a strong voice, with stock-market-trained diaphragm projection, and he has created an amazing 27-hole course, literally carved out of the forest. Maintaining it is a top priority. It’s impossible not to notice all the thought and care that goes into the course at Sandy Point Disc Golf Ranch.

Also, he gives everyone who participates in the Northwoods Open a player package, Pros and Ams alike.

 

THE SUBJECT OF PRO PLAYERS vs. Amateur players came up today in a phone conversation I had with a person who called to ask about the tournament. He wanted to participate, but hasn’t had any tournament experience—even though he insisted he and “his partner” were phenomenal players. I suggest he enter the “Intermediate” Division for men, as it’s the competitive division for players just getting started with PDGA competition. The entry fee for this division is $35, which is $70 less than the Open Pro Division. Also, because this is a PDGA-sanctioned event and players must be current dues-paying members to participate (or in the case of amateur and recreational divisions, pay a PDGA tax of $10), his total fee would be $45 for two days of competition.

After asking several questions about the format, scoring, the check-in procedure (which would be “impossible” for him because he works two jobs—blah-blah-blah—) he wanted to know about payout.

“Now, I don’t mean to be modest (?), dear, but I noticed there’s nothing on your website about payout,” he said.

“Well that’s because we have no way of knowing what the payout will be until we have a final figure on the number of competitors. But the payout will be in line for the requirements of a PDGA A-tier event for the pros and B-tier event for the amateurs.”

“What kind of cash are we talking?”

“Amateurs don’t receive cash awards in PDGA events. It would compromise their amateur status. Instead they receive merchandise vouchers that are redeemable in our pro shop.”



“Well, that’s not right,” he said.


 

What came out of his mouth next was a combination of an incredulous reaction to this ridiculous practice, and a lecture of how it wasn’t right to contribute $45 to an event and expect to get no cash in return.  “Let me put it to you this way, dear, how would you like to go to a competition, pay for it, win it and get nothing but a voucher in return?”


Sigh. I looked at the clock and remained calm. “If you want to play for money," I said, “then you should play in the Open Pro Division.” I wanted to add: “But it’ll cost you even more, DEAR!” But I didn't.

As he blathered on with his complaints and his lecture, my cell phone rang with my husband’s personalized urgent-sounding ring, and I knew I had to end my call with the incredulous lecturer disguising himself as a disc golfer. I had already spent far too much time explaining things like foursomes, saying your score out loud after each hole, turning in your card and being responsible for the math. . . . 

I’m happy to take entry fees over the phone and give lodging and local campground information, but I can’t conduct a player’s meeting on my dime when my other phone is ringing and I have a list of five other calls to return.



“I can’t have this conversation,” I said. “I have to go.” CLICK.




 

ANY SEASONED TOURNAMENT DIRECTOR will tell you that there can be 200 wonderful people participating in a tournament, who help make the experience fun and exciting. But he’ll also tell you that there’s ALWAYS one a$$hole, who threatens to mar your positive efforts.

The trick is to not let him get to you. 

Mike learned that a long time ago. I, on the other hand, crave an a$$hole-free existence and simply won’t tolerate a bully on any front. (Especially one that calls me “Dear” in every sentence he utters). This is why I’ll be back in Tucson during the 15th Annual Northwoods Open and Mike will be here, running what I’m sure will be another highly successful disc golf tournament.

Best of luck to all the great players who grace our Northwoods home each year. Have fun, and remember to LOOK UP!

The Family That Skis Together . . .

I grew up in a waterskiing family. For two weeks every summer, we left behind the concrete western suburbs of Chicago and headed to Michigan, to a magical place called "Corey Lake." They were the best two weeks of the year.

We had a wooden Milocraft boat with first a 35 then a 40 horse Johnson, strong enough to pull us all out of the water. Pictured in the photo along with the boat, the "VO-5," are (from left to right) Debra, Mary Beth, Tommy, Gayle (who is peeking out from behind my shoulder as I perch on the stern), Dad and, of course, Mom in a stylin' 1960s swimsuit. Mom always got the first ski.

In our family, skiing was a rite of passage. I started at age three--yes, when I was three year-old. The photo of me at right is from the summer of 1964. We used a device known as a "Flexiboard," a set of skies connected at the top. It was handmade by a local man named Mr. Bowers, who lived next door to the cottage we always rented. As evident in the photo, my parents made sure I was safe, dressing me in both an orange life jacket and a ski belt.

One summer on the Flexiboard, led to two skis, then to dropping one ski, and finally, graduating to the slalom level. I have fond memories of my Aunt Eddy bribing me each summer with candy rewards:

"If you get up today and go all the way around the bay, I'll give you a Bubs Daddy Bubblegum," she said. Such sweet incentive worked every time. I soon became an accomplished skier, leaning so far back my ponytail hit the water. I haven't skied that hard since I had kids, but every now and again, I'm tempted.

My husband came from a sailing family, so it was I who introduced him to the powerboat and the exciting activity of waterskiing. It didn't take him long to learn. It never takes anyone I teach long to learn. I've lost count of the number of people to whom I've supplied the basics, including things like, "let the boat do the work."

I wanted our girls to start at the age of three, like me; however, neither was all that interested. But they are now. Willow's been dropping one for a couple summers and then this summer, she decided to try getting up in the deep on one. She did it the first time she tried. And Camille, who suffered a broken arm all last summer and couldn't ski at all, popped right up her very first time out. "That was fun!" she said. By the end of the summer, she even tried venturing outside the wake.

Fun indeed. Here's a little video of all four of us enjoying Camille's last day at Sandy Point earlier this week:

A Sprained Ankle Waiting to Happen?

When they first brought home this new-style skateboard, the Ripstik, it had sprained ankles written all over it. I, who spent a good portion of my high school years on crutches, didn't want to see the same thing happen to my kids. But I don't think either one of them has ankles as skinny as mine. (Mine are like wrists).

I'm happy to report that within just a few days, both Willow and Camille learned how to work these two-wheeled contraptions and they've had a lot of fun with them. Even better, no sprains!

When’s The Last Time You Were Carded?

“May I see some identification, please?” asked the Super Wally World cashier.

“Excuse me?” (I genuinely didn’t hear what she had asked).

She held up the bottle of chardonnay. “Your I.D. I need to see it.”

I’m not sure if I smiled or smirked, but I did say “sure” and fished my Wisconsin driver’s license from my wallet. It took the middle-aged blonde in the blue smock a moment to locate my birth date and then key it in, but soon she fumbled with the computer keys and handed back the license. “I bet I just made your day, huh?”

Truly, she did. My guess is that we were about the same age.

I’m fairly certain I haven’t been carded in over 20 years. I forgot anyone ever got carded for buying alcohol.  And I certainly haven’t been mistaken for a girl under the age of 21, particularly since I’ve given birth. Did I mention my 12-year old daughter was with me at the time?

Which reminds me, the other night when accompanied by both our 12 and 14-year-olds, we were out to dinner at a local restaurant. Willow, 14, ordered a piña colada, which she found on the specialty drink menu. To this request, the waitress asked whether or not she wanted it with alcohol.

“She’s fourteen,” I said.

“Don’t you know that minors are allowed to order alcoholic beverages with their parents’ approval?”

HUH?

No, we didn’t know that. But according to an article in the New York Times, “Minors can drink alcohol in a bar or restaurant in Wisconsin if they are accompanied by a parent or legal guardian who gives consent. While there is no state law setting a minimum age, bartenders can use their discretion in deciding whom to serve.”

I’m sorry, but I think that’s just wrong. Card me any day of the week and that’s fine; however, don’t offer my children alcohol—even when they’re 27 years beyond the legal drinking age.

Hollywood Spoils Little Bohemia

We saw Public Enemies last week, our one venture to the movies all summer. It was the 7:00 show and the theater was packed. It was also filthy. Spilled popcorn and snack wrappers littered the floor and clearly, the high traffic for this show had taken its smelly toll.

This made me wonder: Can the Northwoods handle Hollywood success?

Public Enemies, starring Johhny Depp, was not a winner for me. I had hoped it would be more of an inside look at the life of the notorious gangster, John Dillinger—particularly because of the talents of the man portraying him. But no. It wasn’t much more than two hours of machine guns blasting. And because all the trench coats and “Cagney” hats looked the same, I had a hard time distinguishing which characters were the public enemies and which were the public servants.

In my uncomfortable seat, I spent most of my viewing time waiting for the scenes shot at Little Bohemia, a restaurant located in Manitowish Waters. I had eaten there many times prior to the release of the film on July 1, 2009, viewed the preserved bullet holes in the windows, and read the yellowed newspaper articles about the shootout there in 1934. Last spring, “Little Bo’s” menu got an overhaul and I made the 45-minute drive there twice, just to eat the best walleye I’ve ever had in the Northwoods.

Being a resort owner, I am asked daily by our guests where they should go out to dinner. This year, without reservation, I have suggested they make the drive up to Little Bohemia, to experience the atmosphere and the fantastic food. I make the recommendation with such passion, that almost EVERYONE goes.

Last night, we took a visiting friend there, expecting a wonderful evening out. Unfortunately, Little Bohemia fell far short of our expectations.

First of all, our table wasn’t ready at our reservation time. And then, the surly hostess seated us right next to the constant swinging doors of the kitchen and the waiter’s station. We asked to be moved and it was as if we had asked for a free meal. She reluctantly moved us to a table across the room and then we were ignored. Wait and bus staff folded napkins and set tables all around us, but no waiter or waitress would even look in our direction. All the indifferent hostess had to say was, “Someone will be right with you,” and it would have been fine. But she couldn’t have cared less.

Finally, our waitress, who failed to give us her name OR smile, was highly unpleasant. The Coke’s were flat. Twice. My salad tasted like Styrofoam and I was brought the wrong dressing. The appetizer of sour creamed egg whites was inedible. My daughter’s ‘medium rare’ steak was still “mooing” and had to be sent back.

The good news is that the walleye was still delicious. It was the best part of the experience—similar to Johnny Depp being the best part of Public Enemies.

My guess is Little Bohemia is experiencing mid-season burnout. The wait staff seems to resent their success more than they appreciate it. Clearly, they’re tired of the onslaught of tourists, and even though it wasn’t particularly crowded when we got there, they had no desire to act the role of accommodating public servants.

In spite of how much business we’ve sent them week after week, we didn’t mention it, nor did we expect any special treatment. Regardless, we certainly didn’t expect to be treated like public enemies. We were just hoping to have a nice evening out and ended up doing research for the concierge portion of our job.

So, this morning when asked where to go out to dinner, I recommended the families staying in two of our cabins skip the drive up to Manitowish Waters tonight, and instead go to Mama’s Supper Club. It’s close by and ALWAYS a winner.

Piper in the Pro Shop

Musician, Dave Graham, Illinois resident and Sandy Point guest for the past seven summers, treated the resort today with his bagpipe show. Decked in a jaunty Scottish tam, this year he left the kilt behind and first played at the beach, where it was a bit windy. He brought the pipes up to the cabin area and when he played, a large group of disc golfers stopped in their tracks, held onto their discs for a moment and listened. Soon, putting practice took on a ceremonial feel.

Friday is always a busy day on the course and today was no exception. So, Dave brought his pipes into the pro shop and gave me a personal performance. "It's going to be a lot louder in here than it is outside," he warned as he stepped inside and filled his lungs with air and his pipes with music.

It was a true treat from one of the nicest guests we are lucky enough to see each summer at Sandy Point. Dave is also known as Dave "Catfish" Graham. He is a member of The Salt Creek Boys, probably best described as a folk rock band, and regularly performs in venues around the Chicago area. He not only plays the bagpipes, but also guitar and dulcimer. For more information about the Salt Creek Boys, visit their website at: www.saltcreekboys.com. Meanwhile, check out the Pro Shop Performance:

Sushi in the Northwoods? Moo!

Last week and for the past 20 years, anytime anyone mentioned “sushi” in the Northwoods, the word that most frequently followed was “bait.” It was similar to the asking the question, “Farms in Berkeley?” (the place from which we came) and hearing the answer, “Moo!” *

Being major sushi aficionados when we first moved here from Northern California, it wasn’t unusual for us to travel as far as Appleton or Madison with a cooler full of ice in order to transport a to-go package to fulfill our constant cravings for this raw fish, Japanese delicacy.

But that has changed. In the year 2009, sushi has finally found its way to the Island City of Minocqua, Wisconsin. We went there for the first time last Sunday and three days later, tonight, we went back. Yes, it’s a regular hamachi, unagi, maguro, caterpillar roll, dragon roll, white tuna, salmon, miso soup and edamame dinner. And, it’s fabulous.

The first time we were there it was odd eating something other than fried food, steak or grilled walleye here in the Northwoods. But not tonight. Tonight we sat right next to the Main Street window and watched the tourist show walk by. Meanwhile, every 10 minutes we saw someone we knew either dining at or passing by the restaurant—disc golf season pass holders, resort guests, even fans of my books.

So, when sushi hits a small town it tastes even more familiar.

Dōmo arigatō to the proprietors of Kobe Sushi, 519 Oneida Street, Minocqua, WI • 715-358-7983. We highly recommend it.

* Berkeley Farms, a dairy company based in Northern California once used the slogan: “Farms in Berkeley? Moo!”

The Cost of Good Clean Family Fun

Yesterday was Camille’s birthday—a family holiday to be sure. Each July 15 we all do minimum tasks at Sandy Point Resort and put the pro shop in the very capable hands of our man Stu, so we can spend the day celebrating our youngest member.

After watching her annual renewed membership in the Northwoods Birthday Club on NBC Channel 12, she opened her gifts and plastered a smile across her beautiful face that lasted the entire day. It doesn’t take much to please Camille. She could have opened a box of rubber bands and it would have made her happy. So, the iPod touch sent her soaring.

In years past, we’ve gone to an indoor waterslide facility, a place called The Waters; however, last year her broken arm prevented that. This year she was looking for something “new.” I’m not sure who had the idea to go Go-Karting, but it was certainly in-line with all our thinking (particularly because we’ve seen the movie “The Great Outdoors” about a thousand times) that it’s a great—even classic— Northwoods family activity.

And it was.

The kids went on all three tracks, dad on two, I on one. The kart was a little kramped for me, but I accelerated around those curves and loved the feel of the wind in my face. It was a fun-filled five minutes of burning fossil fuels.

Total cost for 15 minutes of activity (45 if you add up all our individual five minute runs): $54 . . . plus six bucks for the ice cream, bringing us to $60. This means that while we were out gallivanting, our own business that tries to attract the family-activity crowd, needed to take in 12 green fees to pay for our expenses.

We might have had half that number.

Something is wrong with this picture. Sandy Point Resort and Disc Golf Ranch offers a great family activity that costs five bucks a head and kids under 12 are FREE. Further, as compared to a Go-Kart run that lasts five minutes, a disc golf green fee is good for the entire day. With 25-27 holes on the course, an average round takes 1-1/2 to 2 hours; but you can play it twice, even three times. You can even leave and come back, and like some of our die-hard fanatics, play night golf til 3 AM.

Even if you don’t care for the game, no one can deny that the grounds are gorgeous, and walking with your friends or family while they play is a great outdoor exercise. There’s a picnic area and a lovely, clean public bathroom. 

So if you’re looking for an inexpensive way to spend time with your family this summer OR if you want to bring out the kids for a birthday party, head out Hwy. 70, 20 minutes West of Minocqua. It's worth the drive and we’re open during the road construction. 

We've got a fabulous, unique shop too, and frankly, we could use the business. For one reason, we have to find a way to pay for that iPod.

The Beyotch at Sandy Point Resort

What a nightmare. I have been the crabbiest beyotch on the planet for the past six weeks due to the Internet project put before me at a time of year when I hardly have time to go to the bathroom without interruption.

The problem: Our original webmaster, who could never get the shopping cart to function on our online store, gave up. Yes, he threw up his hands, pushed aside the keyboard and said, "I quit." He doesn't feel good about it and has offered to make some kind of restitution; however, this cost us A LOT of money and even more time photographing and uploading products to said site. 

So, we hired a new guy, who promised us a working site in 12 days. He agreed to match the cost of the original but failed to mention we'd have to duplicate the number of hours (and we're talking hundreds of hours) to upload the some 200 products we had in the store.

After 12 days, we weren't even close to having a working site. Every day there was a new glitch, snafu or problem. The misspellings and grammar errors alone made the editor in me ROAR (and I've never been much of a copy editor). I lost count after day 45 of correspondence that usually began with a morning email from me asking: "When is our site going live?"

That was at least a week ago.

Well, it looks like we finally have an operating online store. I can't be sure because we haven't had any REAL customers yet, and I suppose that means I'm going to be spending whatever minutes of time I can find during the remainder of the season to promote this thing . . . hence this blog.

The Shop at Sandy Point Resort

Christmas in July

This Thursday, July 9, 2009, the annual Christmas in July Arts and Crafts fair will take place in St. Germain, Wisconsin. This will be one of only two juried shows I will be participating in this summer. I will bring with me my traveling jewelry boards, showing off all the latest creations from Dream Life Designs.

This fair, St. Germain’s largest of the season, takes place between 9am and 3pm at St. Germain Community Park, just off Hwy. 70 East. For the first time I’m not bringing my tent with the colorful waving flags. They wanted me to set up on a dirt road and I didn’t want the jewelry to get dusty. Why I can’t manage to get the same tent site each year after doing this show for about seven or eight years is always puzzling; however, I’m happy to try out a site under the pavilion.

Hopefully I’ll see many of my regular customers who always help make this show a success, and meet some new people as well. Of course, for those of you who can’t make it, the shop at Sandy Point is open every day between now and September and you may also want to check out our NEW online store: www.sandypointproshop.com

And by the way, the weather forecast is for 78° temperatures with a chance of late thunder storms. That's far better than the 53° highs we had last week, when it truly felt like Christmas in July.

Birch Trees Strip Tease

Some of you may remember our valiant effort to save the birch trees at our shoreline last summer after a momentary microburst tore apart about 400 ft. of our lakefront. Most of the trees uprooted or snapped in half by the sudden wind gust could not be saved, nor could the boat house they smashed. But the stand of four birch trees at the east end of the property were pulled back into position by our “muscle boat.”

Here is a link to a video documenting the birch tree rescue.

Seventeen years ago when we moved to the Northwoods, the previous owner of Sandy Point told us “all of the birch trees would be gone in ten years.” Given we still have hundreds of them on property, happily his prophecy didn’t come true. We have, however, lost several hundred to both a birch blight and a birch bore. Evidence of dying birch trees is around every corner in the Northwoods.

Because they tend to die from the top down and regularly drop branches and large sections of trunk, they can be a hazard. Twice now, we’ve had our friends, The Good Family, (who are Sandy Point regulars and happen to be lumberjacks) come in the fall and take down all the dead birches in the common areas of the grounds.

When we returned to Sandy Point in the spring, we were happy to see our rescued lakefront stand had re-rooted and survived a particularly harsh winter.

But it was a sad sight to see the holocaust pile of dead birch logs piled just off of Sandy Point Lane, on the fairway of long-hole 9.

Because I couldn’t bear see these trees go to rot, I found a way to preserve their beautiful paper white bark. Armed with plenty of mosquito repellant and a utility knife, I stripped many of these beauties bare and opened the birch bark factory.

So far my creations have been canoe ornaments and switch plate covers. Unfortunately I just ran out of sewing sinew.

More is on the way, though, and I’ve got these beautiful pieces of classic Northwoods beauty for sale in The Shop at Sandy Point.

I don’t know how much longer nature will supply my materials, so don’t hesitate to get your hands on these items. They make great gifts, and even better reminders of Northwoods’ beauty.

When Your Sister Hates Your Photo

For months I believed—and more importantly—my husband believed my Facebook profile photo was a good one. After all, he’s the one who snapped it.

We were on the deck of our oceanfront room at the Some Like It Hot Hotel in Coronado, California, while celebrating our wedding anniversary. Apparently he thought I looked nice enough to photograph.

Last night, however, I found out that my sister thinks it’s a horrible photo.

“Why would you use that photo?” she asked. “It’ not a photo of my pretty sister.” These were her kindest comments.

I think it’s a good photo. And yet, my sister Gayle (and apparently our other sister, Mary Beth, with whom she discussed it) thinks it looks nothing like me. Huh? I swear, it’s most definitely my FACE in that photo.

Maybe they didn’t recognize the me I am when I actually get four days off to spend alone with my husband. Or me with my hair down, a little bit of make-up and nice clothes. Me . . . actually happy?

Perhaps my sisters can’t help but still think of the kid with the face full of freckles and the mouth full of braces they once knew. 

It’s amazing how thirty-something years can change a girl.