I'm happy to report there are several new, BEAUTIFUL songs on my iPod from Jessica Gall's new CD, Little Big Soul. There's an overall, jazzy upbeat rhythm to many, a deep, tonal quality to all, and two I simply can't get out of my head!
Without question, my favorite song is track 4: "Beautiful Girls."
"When we were little girls,
Happy and small,
We'd always catch each other,
Long before we'd fall . . ."
It was President's weekend--better known as Rodeo Weekend in Tucson--when my family went on a ski trip and afforded me the uninterrupted time to finish writing my latest novel, Irish Twins. People often ask how long it takes to write a novel, and it's a difficult question to answer.
Pope Joan by Donna Woolfolk Cross
We also said goodbye today to two sets of personal houseguests—my nephew (a former whipping boy) and his girlfriend, and our dear, dear friends, The Rumbles. Johnny Rumble, aka John Pecunia, and his beautiful wife, Melissa, come each summer along with their adorable sons, Andrew and Nick. They couldn’t be more courteous, enjoyable guests and are helpful around resort. Johnny is like an ambassador—always getting to know all the guests on property. A noted professional disc golfer, this week he even took time to give lessons to a family from Madison. Imagine their THRILL when he drilled an ACE on hole 22!
Meanwhile, Johnny—who never ceased to entertain us by promising (among other things) to dance after dark—installed two ceiling fans and shared his tools with me all morning. Mike has always said Johnny is his hero, but no one is a bigger fan of Juan Carlos than I. Well, perhaps my admiration falls in line some place after Mel‘s and the boys’ (!)
In our eighteen years of owning and operating Sandy Point Resort, this year—2010—has been the most challenging. It started out posing a problem because my daughters and I didn’t get here until the Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend. We flew from Tucson to Minneapolis to Rhinelander, and it may as well have been a flight from the earth to the moon because of the polarized climates and lifestyles.
Mike was here waiting for us and Stu, our caretaker, had the grounds in tip-top shape. Together these two capable, hard-working men had already weathered a full house and a full turnover. But I—mama bear—had a hard time adjusting overnight.
I went from being a single parent getting her kids through finals and school-yearend activities—to preparing our beast of a house for all our summer caretakers—to packing for three months—to getting our 50-pound bags to the airport. And then it felt like we were literally dropped from the sky into a completely different world with completely different demands.
My kids ran off in one direction (away from me) and the resort guests then entered the scene and pummeled me with their expected and typical questions and needs.
Meanwhile, we’ve been here for just shy of three weeks and I haven’t seen the sun in nearly two of those weeks. And while I LOVE running in the cooler temps, the humidity has made my lungs heavy and my hair so thick, I can’t get a brush through it.
This is our first week with “regulars” here—the people whom we ALWAYS look forward to having on property. They’re like family. I have workout dates and our girls have make-out dates. Whoops! Scratch that. Make that movie dates in the recreation house.
They’re having fun—as teenagers should—however, this year I have to toil harder to reel them in and make them understand that they also WORK here. And all that spending money that comes their way is NOT an entitlement, but rather, it’s hard earned. (Read: SUMMER JOB).
This mom-n-pop operation finally has the benefit of kids on staff, and yet it also has the taxing job of teaching our kids the meaning of family business and “work ethic.” After eighteen years and just when I thought I had the guests trained, damn it, I have to once again, deal with another stage of parenting children.
I have yet to determine which is my most difficult job.
As far as T-P-ing acts go, this one was pretty pathetic. I didn’t even see it when I opened the front door this morning to fetch the Sunday paper. All I had on my mind at that early, pre-latte minute was when I was going to find time today to complete the NY Times crossword puzzle.
I greeted the mama dove, on her nest for the third round, and then opened the courtyard door. No paper. WTF? And then I saw a white mass in the driveway that looked like either a plastic grocery bag or a pile of paper towels. I walked toward it, and reminisced about the last time I approached a perplexing object near that point of our drive only to find my neighbor’s dead dog.
Thank God it wasn’t another murdered-by-coyote canine. It was only a mass of toilet paper clinging to an empty roll. Then I looked around and saw the stuff strewn from the mesquites and wrapped around the century plants and prickly pears.
I hope the pricks who did it got themselves a few thorns and pokes.
Meanwhile, we were only mildly amused. My girls, whom I sure were the targets of this age-old prank, thought it was “stupid.” They immediately sprung into action—without being asked—and cleaned it up before getting ready for church. And I located my Sunday paper at the end of the drive at the gate. Apparently our delivery person found the streamers too forbidding to venture through our circular drive.
Although I admit I took part in too many T-P-ing adventures to count, I’m not sure I get the point anymore. When I was in high school, we had a tradition of midnight toilet paper festivities each homecoming eve before the big game. We targeted the senior football players. I’m pretty sure the boys (and their families) considered it a badge of honor to be targeted.
But now it’s just a random act of juvenile and anonymous vandalism . . . and one more mess to clean up.
The state of Arizona has captured the attention of the country due to the passage of SB1070, a new law meant to curb illegal immigration. What the rest of the country may not know--particularly because they've got problems of their own--is public education in the state of Arizona has hit rock bottom.
On the ballot tomorrow is Prop. 100. It proposes a temporary one percent sales tax increase (or one cent on the dollar) for the next three years. If Arizona voters pass this proposition, it will decrease the budget shortfall by $1 billion, and two-thirds of the sales tax revenue is slated to go toward K-12 public education. The remaining one-third will go toward health and human services and public safety.
Our doves have done it again. I'm not sure whether or not it was a case of "been-there-done-that" but this time around, the whole process seemed to go a lot faster.
The second time I went to Kenya, I had the unforgettable experience of escorting my septuagenarian parents there. The trip was a gift for their fiftieth wedding anniversary, which they celebrated in 1993. Mike and I first accompanied them to Paris and then we all went on a series of safaris in East Africa.
My sister, Gayle, lived just outside of Nairobi at the time and one of the highlights was our excursion into a Masai village that she had arranged. She’d done business there, buying tribal artifacts for the new African exhibit at Brookfield Zoo, her on-again, off-again employer. Gayle’s relationship with the warriors and the women and her ability to speak fluent Swahili (the tribe's second language) enabled us a full-service welcome into the circular village of mud and dung huts behind thorny, protective walls.
As the handsome, tall, red-clad warriors stood guard outside, the women grabbed their babies, lined up and broke into song. Recognizing our mother as the “elder” of our female clan, they pulled her into their line and encouraged her to clap with their rhythm. At one point, she was even handed handed a baby.
The Masai are a tall, semi-nomadic tribe and their signature color is red. The women wear a lot of beaded jewelry around their necks and wrists and in their pierced, elongated ears. Their identities within the tribe are often articulated by their jewelry.
Women do the beadwork and make beads from raw materials such as shells, ivory, bones, twigs and seeds. Of course, glass beads from Europe are now used just as often. I purchased the piece (photo at right) in this village and it’s made from shells, twigs, glass beads and cow or goat hide.
The red, four-strand Dream Life Designs piece, (photo below/left), was inspired by the Masai and my trips to their villages. It consists of bright red Venetian White Heart trade beads, along with copper and a colorful array of 4mm Swarovski crystals.
Venetian White Hearts originated in Venice, Italy during the late 1800s to early 1900s, and were found in Africa. During this period, the Venetians dominated the African trade bead market and produced the majority of the beads sold or traded.
These beads are exceptional in that they’ve lasted over 100 years and have traveled through at least three continents. Venetian trade beads are said to appreciate 10% in value each year.
This necklace, “Masai Maiden” is available for $95, which includes tax and shipping. Visit the Dream Life Designs website today. http://www.sandypointproshop.com. Or, you can call our toll free phone number, 888-588-3233, for more information. Thank you and . . .
Kwaheri!
Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Broken Lives Pieced Back Together
This was a book club selection that received a luke warm review from our group of ten. I, however, was one of the few who truly enjoyed reading Broken For You by Stephanie Kallos.
While many felt elements of the plot were too contrived—and they were—for me it didn’t take away from my enjoyment of the story, and particularly from the entertaining and well-developed characters.
This is a unique story. It made me laugh. It made me cry. It made me angry. Anything that can evoke this much emotion is, to me, WORTH the read.
Broken For You is about Margaret, a woman near the end of her life in Seattle, Washington, who comes to terms with the circumstances that enabled her to inherit a fortune and preside over a precarious collection of artifacts. When she is diagnosed with a brain tumor, she finds a way to solve her personal puzzles and her lifelong dilemma of housing glass/ceramic/porcelain objects that were confiscated from European Jews during the Nazi regime.
The first thing Margaret does is take-in a boarder, a young woman named Wanda. They are both in a sense, “broken,” and together they find a way to resolve their personal issues. Through art and the creation of a surrogate family, they bond and their stories unfold.
That’s just a brief summation . . . but it’s worth reading every page to understand how they get to resolution—the unusual and even aggravating way they do it—and to meet the unique characters that play a role along the way.
Well written, original and I highly recommend.
She sought me out at the end of the soccer game—a first round State Cup duel our girls won 2-1. I knew she was pissed about something—it showed all over her face, particularly during the second half of the game. Did I think she was pissed at me? Well, yes. She’s been pissed at me for about a year. I can’t tell you why other than to relate that she’s a teenager. And what teenage girl isn’t just a little bit pissed off at her mother?
But something else was clearly bothering her and my guess is that it was just a stressful situation. Regardless, she did voice what was bothering her about me:
“Please don’t talk to me from the sidelines,” she said while standing one inch from the sideline chalk. “It doesn’t help. It’s just a distraction.”
“Okay,” I said. “Gotcha.”
My 15-year-old was right. Usually I’m not a sideline screamer. For the most part, I’m either taking photos or saying things like “Ooh! Good pass!” or “Get a goal!” But during this game I did bark once: “Willow! Wake up!” She definitely heard me.
Even though they ultimately won, after the game I didn’t sense a feeling of pride or victory coming from the team—from the parents or the players. The other team had stepped it up a notch and came to play, while our girls played nervously. They were actually a little lucky to have pulled off the win. I think to make it a real victory, however, next week in round two, the girls should remember to bring their positive attitudes to the field . . . and so should the parents. And by parents, I mean me.
I vow to never bark again. Sorry, Willow.
A dove is born!
Yesterday I was in mourning over the loss of one of two dove eggs, which I’d been carefully watching for weeks. Today, however, a baby has emerged. I believed it was hiding under its parent all day yesterday as the sitting bird was propped a bit higher in the nest.
This morning, however, I saw what looked like feathers. And when I called Camille to come have a look, her keen eyes spotted a beak. Then nearly an hour after my little chick started her school day, this little chick emerged.
I don’t know whether it’s a boy or a girl, but I’m going to name it “Anna.” Does anyone what to know what I named the other one before my husband disposed of it?
Three weeks ago I wrote about the Doves on our Doorstep, a pair of mourning doves taking turns sitting atop two eggs. They’ve been good, calm neighbors and have appeared oblivious to all our comings and goings. We check on the nest several times a day and have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of their chicks.
This morning, however, when I opened the front door at six a.m. and stepped outside to retrieve the newspaper, instead of simply finding doves on our doorstep, I found death on our doorstep. There at my feet was a fallen egg. The precious white shell was splattered and sitting amid a small puddle of yellow. Partial remains of the unborn baby were clearly evident.
My heart nearly broke.
I can’t say what happened overnight. Had the egg simply fallen from the nest during the mother and father shift change? Had the parent doves deemed the egg unviable and tossed it out? Had there been some kind of scuffle? A predator invasion? Whatever the cause, this is a permanent loss.
I’m not sure what to do with the egg. It was difficult enough photographing it in front of the parent. How would he/she feel or react if I were to scoop it up and dispose of it . . . where? In the trash? Bury it?
I’m not sure what to do. As I mourn the loss of this unborn mourning dove, I'm hoping someone out there has a suggestion.
When my mother died I was lucky to receive a lot of support from those who knew her and those who knew how important this relationship was to me. I’m not saying our mother-daughter bond was anything special or extraordinary. On the contrary, it was quite normal. And my definition of “normal” in this case is that it was the most important relationship in my life. I truly loved her and for all of my life, never doubted that she was my biggest fan.
The condolence cards and calls were all pretty normal, too. But I noticed there was a common thread and consistent message from those who were already living their lives in the motherless-child category.
In addition to writing, “I’m sorry for your loss,” they also wrote: “My mother’s been dead for (5 or 10 or 15 or 20 or . . .) years and I still miss her terribly.”
At the time, this statement expressed and justified the power of the loss. And to learn that for many, it went on for years, allowed me to accept my grief for the big punch-in-the-gut that it was. I knew I wasn’t alone. I knew my pain was understood. But did I truly understand the concept of the pain being as acute years and years later?
No.
Well, I do now. It’s been nearly 11 years that my mother’s been gone. And it turns out, all those condolence statements were absolutely correct.
Since the day she died, I have not stopped missing my mother.
It’s been particularly difficult for me in the past few weeks because of the novel I just finished writing. I wrote a story called “Irish Twins,” and opted to tell it from my dead mother’s perspective.
It was a fictionalized version of her—which allowed me the liberties I needed to take due to what I didn’t know about her life or her thoughts. In my heart, however, I felt as though she were sitting with me as I wrote each word. Sometimes she came to me in my dreams and I believe she guided me through the work. Throughout the process, she continued being my biggest fan.
After two years of work, typing “THE END” on the last page initially gave me a feeling of relief and accomplishment. But now that a few weeks have gone by and my mom is no longer inside my head guiding my words . . . DAMN! It’s like losing her all over again. And my grief is palpable. If you didn’t know me and I told you my mother died, you might think it had happened yesterday.
Motherhood is, by far, the most challenging experience of my life. I’m grateful for my sisters and my friends who are mothers, who listen and offer support and advice. They constantly remind me that I’m not alone.
But what I wouldn’t give to have the ability to actually talk with or share with my own mother all the things I’m going through on this demanding and perplexing path!
My mom wasn’t perfect—who is?—but she was very good. She was good for me. We didn’t fight and I never doubted her love and support. I want so much to be a good mother and I’m giving it my all. I also want to teach my daughters what it means to be a “good” mother by example, and I want them to believe that I am indeed, their biggest fan and NOT their enemy.
Most of all, I want us to appreciate one another RIGHT NOW . . . Now while it’s all happening and not when it’s too late to feel the warmth of an actual hug and kiss.
I found a couple photos of my mom and me and I can’t stop looking at her. There are no words to express how much I miss her. I believe with all my heart that she knows this.
But even that still leaves me with the sense of loss.
The other day during a casual conversation, a friend admired my ability to multi-task. I’m not sure she used the word “multi-task” but I’m pretty sure it’s what she meant.
I immediately thought of a typical Michele workday, and my head started spinning. Yes, I multi-task. Who doesn’t? But do I do it well? Hmmm.
It may appear that way to the outside world; however, if you were to step into my office and stumble upon the multiple PILES of tasks that await attention, I’m afraid you’d only see a mess.
I have been self-employed since the day I quit my job as a newspaper editor back in 1989. The first task I tackled was to plan my wedding. And because it was my single focus, boy was it a success! After that is when the multi-tasking began.
With a ring on my finger and a smile on my face, I pursued a business in publishing. I offered skills in writing, editing and graphic design, and my husband came up with a clever DBA for my sole-proprietorship: “Michelaneous.”
Since I could successfully accomplish every miscellaneous task involved in getting a publication from start to finish, I thought it was the perfect name. My biggest client was a large newspaper group, and I handled all the special sections—bridal guides, real estate features, sports and fitness, etc. I wrote the copy, designed the layouts and the ads, and sometimes even modeled for the photographers. Eventually they also gave me the job of writing a weekly column, and I tackled everything with joy and ease.
I’m sure this degree of success and ensuing confidence are partially responsible for our next big step in the business world, which was to create the world’s first disc golf resort. We’ve now owned and operated Sandy Point Resort in northern Wisconsin for 18 years.
Being the sole proprietors of this business has me multi-tasking all over the place. One minute I’m the bookkeeper, the next the housekeeper, the next the reservations manager, the next the webmaster, the next the customer service director, and on and on.
Add to the mix my career as an author (four books published and a fifth in the works) and a jewelry designer (Dream Life Designs), some mornings I get and up and don’t know which hat to put on. Usually it’s the one I trip over when I walk into my office.
So, I do indeed wear many hats. And sometimes I feel like I do a good job—usually it’s when I sell a necklace or make a booking—and yesterday I did both. So, if success is measured in income then yesterday I was successful. Most days, however, I feel constantly interrupted and have to make a concerted, taxing effort to focus on just one task at a time.
Oh, and one more thing? I’m a mother. And most people know that this job provides the mother load of multi-tasking opportunities.
What I’m trying to say here is that without question, I am a multi-tasker. I appreciated my friend’s comment because I know she meant to compliment me. And I realize my abilities might look like something to admire; however, what it feels like is a great big, Michelaneous mess.
I spoke with a former California coworker over the weekend. When I was in my late 20s and she was in her early 30s, we worked together at a trade publication in San Francisco. I was managing editor and she was the director of advertising sales. We were quite a team. We were young, hot, ambitious and successful.
But do you have to throw your butts out the car window too? I realize the only “legal” place to smoke these days is in one’s car; however, aren’t these cars equipped with ashtrays? Do you have to litter our streets—or worse—cause you’re fiery, smoking butt to hit my car as it drives behind you?
According to the anti-litter group Keep America Beautiful, smokers in the United States generate 4.5 trillion butts each year. And it’s obvious that a great many of them are not going into ashtrays.
The smoker/driver was a woman clad in big, Jackie-O sunglasses and a stylish cap, and she was too preoccupied with her phone conversation to even glance in the direction of the Tahoe next to her with four sets of eyes looking at her in judgment. I imagine that within another mile or so, once she clicked the OFF button on her cell phone, she lit up again, sucked in some more tar and nicotine, and then rolled down her darkened window and butt-tossed again.
For more information about the litter hotline and efforts to keep Arizona clean, please visit the following websites:
Facebook Fairytales: Modern-Day Miracles to Inspire the Human Spirit by Emily LiebertEmily Liebert had a brilliant concept for a book, and Facebook Fairytales doesn't disappoint. As a fan of this phenomenal social networking website and because I have personal experience with both finding long-lost friends and also being found, I was eager to read her collection of "Modern Day Miracles to Inspire the Human Spirit."
From the first page, I couldn't put it down. It's well-researched, well-written, relatable and highly entertaining. The reader is guaranteed to meet individuals he or she will immediately want to "friend."
Liebert's collection includes some stories that might border on "miraculous," however, I felt they were actually more mundane--and more relatable to all of us who use the site. The stories do, however, range from the poignant tales of a son finding his biological father and a woman finding a kidney donor, to something as simple as one person finding a lost, six-toed cat named "Bob."
Reading the book definitely inspired me to use the site (even more) to locate other long-lost friends and acquaintances from my past. I should note I initially joined just to keep an eye on my kids . . . and yet, I've become hooked.
Very well done. A great read and I highly recommend this book. View all my reviews >>
The first book I ordered and subsequently downloaded from Audible.com was Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, a 1200-page epic novel that I started reading in hardback version far too late to finish for our October meeting. Never mind that I’d had the book on my shelf for 15 years, before our club selected it. I couldn’t seem to find the time to devote to reading this tome. And then once I got into it, I realized I didn’t have the hours it would take to finish it by simply sitting in a chair and reading.
I’m one of those avid readers who won’t go anywhere without a book. Now that I’m not writing a novel, I’m back to satisfying my voracious appetite for reading novels. Right now, I’m reading one and listening to another. I realize I’d come across as a complete nerd if I listed how many I’ve tackled since sending in my manuscript for editing during the last week of February. . . so, I won’t. But I will disclose the way it works:
It’s important to note that audible books owe a great deal to their recorded narrators. Sometimes authors read and it’s awful and detached. Other times, authors like Barbara Kingsolver read (High Tide in Tucson and The Lacuna) and it’s impossible not to marvel at their talents for both writing and performing. I listened to six of the seven Harry Potter books on CD (while cleaning my cabins at Sandy Point Resort), read by the amazing Jim Dale. This was a reader so gifted that I never had to wait for a “said Harry” or “said Hermione” to know which character was speaking.
Poor kid. She insists on running hurdles because she says “it’s fun.” I’m sure it is. Her forte, however—even though she refuses to believe it—is distance. I know this to be true because I’ve run with her. Never fail, within the first five minutes of our run, she’s half a mile ahead of me. And quite frankly, I’m no slouch.
Also, the only days she doesn’t run distance are the days she has soccer practice. And if she goes for a few days without a long run, she misses it the way any addict misses her fix. I understand they call it a runner’s high. (I have yet to experience a runner’s high . . . I only have runner’s remorse when I go too long without this beneficial workout).
Unfortunately, my daughter’s enthusiasm to run the 100 hurdles in the afternoon track meet was thwarted in warm-up by an early jump and a crash. Her calf hit the hurdle and then she somehow landed a relatively bony butt cheek on top of it, which resulted in a substantial bruise. The injury rendered her ineligible for the hurdles, of course, and the high jump, an event in which she planned to compete for the first time.
We brought her home, iced her up, gave her Advil and cookies, and let her rest for two hours before soccer practice. Yes, soccer practice.
My daughter is setting her physical activity priorities. When it comes to sports, she’s a soccer girl. For those of you in other climates, you may not realize that down here in the desert, soccer season never ends. Club workouts and competition happen year-round, only breaking for three-months while the school season takes place during the winter.
In the fall she added the cross-country team to her schedule and truly enjoyed it. After a long school soccer season, she wasn’t as enthusiastic about spring track until she heard it was a coed team. We realize she doesn’t feel extremely competitive in her events and uses the opportunity as a track team member to stay in shape and have something to do after school other than homework and being with us.
She’s decent at the hurdles and, I feel, with a little training/coaching, could be an outstanding high-jumper. At five-foot nine with legs til next Tuesday, she’s certainly built for it.
This girl can do anything she wants and we’ll always support her decisions. But holding my breath through the potential injuries and icing the (so-far minor) injuries that do occur, make my hair go gray.
Ultimately I believe that for now, one more bruise to the butt doesn’t seem so bad. Ask any parent who has faced something like ACL surgery—an all too common injury for young female soccer players—it could be a lot worse.
